#autumn is fine but god winter is such a burden that feels like it lasts too long

[glitterghost]

Part of me says no iced coffee today. But what else is there to look forward to?

[dhwty-writes]

Congratulations for your follower milestone!!! Prompt if you like: Jaskier's first winter at Kaer Morhen and he finds out about the witcher cuddle pile in front of the fire every evening and is delighted to be invited to join them.

Thank youuu~ You have discovered my largest weakness. Cuddle piles! This was a wonderful prompt. I hope you like it :)

Read on AO3

There were certain things in Jaskier's life that fell prey to exceptionally high standards. His students at Oxenfurt, the wine in Toussaint, or the longevity of the colours of his doublets to name a few examples. But all of them were dwarfed by the looming shadow that was the ruin of Kaer Morhen.

But honestly, who could blame him? Everyone knew he had a soft spot for history and legends, he was a bard after all. And what was Kaer Morhen but the decaying visualisation of said stories? What were witchers but living and breathing ballads and epics?

He vividly remembered his days in Lettenhove when his tutor had first mentioned the ancient castle that was now crumbling beneath the crushing burden of centuries, still defiant even after being sacked nearly a century prior, but rotting. The waves of time lapped at its foundations and soon it would see its end, consumed by the ocean of the ages that eventually wore down everything created by humankind. That evening he had stolen the tome his tutor used to torture him and practically inhaled the section about Kaer Morhen.

And then he had met Geralt — of course he had met Geralt, of all witchers, who suffered from selective muteness whenever he tried to ask him about his childhood. The little information he had been able to glean had barely been enough to conjure up an even more grandiose image than before.

In his dreams Kaer Morhen was an enchanted fortress, frozen in time and ice and snow. It was cloaked in an eerie charm, abrasive and inviting at once. Maybe there were even some vines encapsuling it in a thorny coffin, like in that fairy tale he had been told as a child. In any case it was majestic. Monumental. Mind-blowingly magnificent, even.

He had never experienced a worse disappointment in his entire life.

Alright, maybe he wasn't quite fair to the damp old thing, but after weeks of freezing his balls off while traipsing through the late autumn Kaedwen mountains he really shouldn't be blamed.

Despite Geralt equipping him with a whole new wardrobe fit for a winter up-north both of them had arrived shivering and soggy. Never in his life had he been more thankful for a bed with scratchy furs and lumpy pillows.

Since then a week had passed, but he hadn't quite forgiven the castle of his dreams, the frankly heinous journey it preceded yet. Not only was Geralt's home in the middle of fucking nowhere, it was also icy and drafty and, on a bad day, even snowy.

Jaskier had known, of course, that Kaer Morhen was a ruin. He just hadn't imagined it quite so... ruined, if he was honest. Nor had he imagined himself being tasked with aiding in the never-ending string of repairs that appeared to fill the majority of the winter days for the four remaining witchers of the wolf school and Coen, the last of the griffins. 'Oh, that's a title for the songs,' he thought as he handed Geralt a hammer.

"Are you alright?" the witcher asked from somewhere above him, where he was fixing a broken beam of the truss.

"Who, me?" Jaskier answered and tucked his frigid fingers into his armpits. "Of course, why are you asking?"

There was an alarming creak from above followed by the CLANG CLANG CLANG of a hammer. "Because I can hear your jittering from here. Are you dressed warm enough?"

He scoffed. "Who are you? My mother?"

The hammering stopped. "Well, are you?"

Jaskier couldn't help but smile. "Yes, Geralt. I'm a good lad who's wearing his undershirt, knitted sweater and lined gloves."

"And the woollen hose Vesemir gave you?"

"And the woollen hose Vesemir gave me."

"Good. Let's go back, it's getting late." There was some shuffling that meant Geralt was packing up. Moments later he dropped out of the rafters to land before Jaskier.

"Gracious gods!" he squealed and leapt back. "Geralt, you know I hate it when you do that!"

"I know," he said with a smile and began walking down the hall, "and you know that you mustn't get sick here. There's only so much we can do about pneumonia up here."

"Hmph," he answered and hurried after him, "I'm trying. Which is why you don't see me complaining."

Geralt shot him a condescending look.

"Alright, alright," he amended generously, "I'm only complaining a little. But honestly, why didn't you tell me I'd freeze my buttocks to the benches if I sit down too long?"

He snorted a laugh. After a short pause, he added solemnly: "I thought you wouldn't want to come, then."

"Not want to come? Have you listened to a word I've said since meeting you? I mean, of course you haven't, that's a rhetorical question, darling, but still. I've wanted to come here since... forever! And even if you'd told me, do you seriously think I'd have listened? Don't be ridiculous, I never listen to your warnings."

"True," Geralt agreed. "Still, no one comes to Kaer Morhen on their own volition."

"Do I look like no one to you?"

He squinted at him to size him up. "Hmm."

Jaskier laughed and punched his shoulder. "Arsehole."

"Perhaps I am," Geralt answered with a sly smile.

"Probably you are."

"Maybe."

"Definitely!"

The witcher pouted, which, quite frankly, looked ridiculous. "Don't be mean, Jaskier. You're a guest, after all."

"Ugh," he said and rolled his eyes, "fine."

"Fine," Geralt agreed and opened the door to the Great Hall. It was the only room in the whole fucking keep that was reasonably warm, so Jaskier felt confident to remove at least one layer of clothing while Geralt put his tools away. He was in the process of folding his sweater, when he spotted Lambert and Eskel in the corner, tightly curled up against each other.

"Oh, uh, Geralt?" he whispered.

"Hmm?"

"Your, umm, your brothers. Should we better leave?"

"Bard," Lambert answered, "you know that we can fucking hear you, right?"

"Right!" he answered quickly. "Sorry. Geralt?"

But his witcher was already on his way to the two of them. Once he reached the layer of furs and carpets that blanketed the floor, he stripped his boots and sweater and flopped down unceremoniously on top of them.

Jaskier couldn't help but stare. Not for long of course, no stares could go unnoticed for long when it came to witchers, but still.

Eskel raised his head with an amused smile: "What? You won't join us?"

"So, that's how you keep warm!" the words were out of his mouth before he could stop himself. "I was already wondering how all of you survived these winters as children."

The three witchers shared an awkward gaze. "Not all of us," Eskel answered.

"Oh," Jaskier said. 'Oh shit,' he thought. "Well, uhmm, I'm leaving, then. Yup, that's me. Leaving this room. Sorry. Again. Or for the first time. Have a nice evening!"

"Jaskier," Geralt growled and lifted his head from Lambert's back, "don't be an arse."

"Oh, uhmm, I'm trying not to be," he laughed nervously. "Well, you know me. I'm always trying. Sometimes I'm even successful. Yay..." He was suddenly feeling much too warm, despite the freezing temperatures.

"Then stop fussing and get the fuck over hear," Lambert grumbled. "I won't listen to Geralt's bitchin' for another evening. Fifteen winters is more than fucking enough."

"Mhmm," Eskel agreed and yawned noisily. "Fifteen years of 'Ohh, Jaskier gives the best hugs' and 'He smells so nice'. Wouldn't shut up about you..."

"Excuse me?" he squeaked undignified. Jaskier awkwardly cleared his throat. "Excuse me?" he tried again.

"Geralt," Lambert hissed and kicked him into his stomach, "I think we broke your bard."

"Hmm?" he answered and turned his head sleepily towards him. He blinked a few times before his gaze cleared and his eyes focused on him. "Fuck," he muttered and slowly at up. "What's the matter?"

"Nothing!" Jaskier assured him too quickly. "It's, umm... it's just that this situation is a tad awkward. For me. You see, I never think before speaking, and sometimes words slip past that were never meant to see the light of day and I'm truly sorry for offending you-"

He was interrupted by bellowing laughter at that. "Oh, he's cute," Eskel said, wiping tears of laughter from his eyes.

"Fuckin' adorable," Lambert agreed. "Look, bard," he said and leaned onto his forearm, "we're witchers. It takes a whole fuckin' lot more to offend us."

"I know, I know, believe me!" He rolled his eyes. "It's one of your most infuriating qualities. And the competition is hard, just so you know. I've-"

"Jaskier," Geralt interrupted him gently. "Just come over here? Please?"

He huffed and uncrossed his arms. "Well, if you ask so nicely." Despite his prevalent discomfort he crossed over to them, sighing when Geralt wrapped his arms around his waist. "That's nice..."

"Mhmm," he agreed and dropped backwards, pulling a shrieking Jaskier with him.

"Geralt," he complained loudly, writhing in his arms, "warn me for fuck's sake! I could've crushed someone."

"Unlikely," Geralt declared and began pulling off his boots, before rearranging the surrounding limbs, until Jaskier was safely snuggled between the three witchers. For the first time since he had set foot into the Kaedwen mountains, he was finally warm again. Slowly, he felt himself drifting off to sleep.

It was almost too easy with three warm bodies curled around him, all of them intently listening to his breath evening out. He was almost asleep when they finally dared to speak up: "Fuck," Lambert whispered and cuddled closer, "he does give great hugs."

He couldn't help but smile and tighten his grip on his waist a bit.

"Yeah," Eskel agreed, "don't think I'll ever get up again."

"Don't think I'll give him back," Lambert said. Geralt growled and he laughed quietly. "What do you say, bard? Come with me in spring?"

Jaskier smiled and turned around to hug Geralt instead. "Not a fucking chance."

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[marvels-agents100]

tenant of tartarus

you were my crown, now i’m in exile, seeing you out

pairing: aaron hotchner x gender neutral ! reader

warnings: the big sad, manipulative behavior, toxic relationship

word count: 2,520

request: one shot based on ‘exile’, from taylor swift’s new album, folklore

author’s note: mr first request ! this hurt to write so prepare yourself

His hands used to feel so warm, so inviting. His skin used to be so soft and gentle. But, as time passed by in an unforgiving pace, the sunlight he shone onto you dimmed into the flicker of a candle, the winds of wasted time rolling off cold shoulders and whisking away the small amount of light emitted from the single flame. All that was left was the cold, dark wasteland of what once was.

A burdened sigh left you, your cheek resting on your fist, elbow propped on the armrest of the couch. The only light in the room was that of the television screen, its ocean hue lining your tired features. Your eyes stared nowhere in particular, looking at the screen before you but not necessarily watching it.

The click of the deadbolt did little to shock you out of your stupor, the hinges creaking as the door opened. Aaron stepped inside, his briefcase finding it home beside the door as it clicked shut. He barely spared you a glance as he shed his suit jacket.

“Hey,” you broke the silence, gaze finally flickering towards him.

His jacket was slung over his arm, the gun on his side finding it’s way into its small safe, “Hi.”

“There’s leftovers in the fridge, if you’re hungry,” you said quietly, eyes following him as he settled into the apartment. He walked behind the couch, hand coming to rest on your shoulder as his lips pressed a chaste kiss on the top of your head.

“Thank you,” he mumbled into your hair, before disappearing down the hallway leading to the bedroom.

His touch left no searing heat on your shoulder, his kiss doing little to the beating of your heart.

His love- if you could even call it that- had trouble filling a space it once occupied, and it was the most awful, terrible thing.

You could no longer decipher the complicated feelings you had towards him; all you could feel was complete and utter exhaustion.

“What happened?” Your feet carried you into the bedroom without your consent, the question that had been festering in your mind for months tumbling from your lips without reserve.

He sighed, hands coming to rest on his hips, “You know I don’t like talking about cases at home-“

“I don’t mean on the case,” you interrupted, “I mean to us. You’re distant, I’m distant, and neither of us seem to care.”

“That’s unfair,” he protested. 

“How is that unfair?” Your volume was beginning to rise, the inevitable fight creeping into the room. 

“Because you know what I do, how much time my job takes,” his voice raised with yours, “you can’t call me distant when it’s out of my control.”

“I wasn’t talking about your job, Aaron,” you were sure your yelling carried through the walls, “I was talking about how you barely acknowledge my existence when you’re home.”

“Oh,” he laughed humorlessly, holding his palms up in mock surrender, “well, I’m sorry I’m not completely fine when I come home,” he took his tie off his neck angrily, “I watch people die, and sometimes I’m the one pulling the trigger. How would you feel after that?”

“I’m not asking for you to give me the world,” tears began to burn and your eyes and you could feel your throat tighten, “but, God, I want to feel like I occupy even a fraction of your thoughts.”

He sighed, a hand running down his features. With a small, rushed glance at you, he walked into the closet, hand fumbling with the buttons on his shirt. You followed him, a tear escaping onto your cheek.

“Are you going to say anything?” You asked exasperatedly, hands out to your side, emphasizing your words.

“What do you want me to say?” His eyebrows sat low on his forehead, “I can apologize, but I have a feeling that you won’t be forgiving until I give up the thing that comes between us.”

You scoffed, “I have never asked you to quit the BAU.”

“You don’t need to ask.”

His shirt floated to the ground, landing upon the rest of his worn, wrinkled clothes, his belt buckle rattling as he removed it from his waist. You stood in the doorway of the closet, arms crossed and eyes focused on the floor, tears falling from your face onto the carpet below your feet. The silence in the air was tense, the only sound being the ruffling of fabric as Aaron untucked his shirt.

“Look,” he said, quietly, “I can try to put in more effort, but I can’t say I’m sorry for doing what I do. I won’t apologize for who I am.”

“You just don’t get it, do you?” Your eyes finally snapped up to meet his. 

“What?”

“I’m not asking for you to be a perfect partner, I’m not asking for you to be one hundred percent here, all the time,” your words were spilling over, bubbling from your chest in a way that was beyond your control, “I am just asking for you to care, to be here when you are here and there when you are there.”

“I’m trying!”

“It doesn’t feel like you are!”

“What more do you want me to do?” His arms were extended to his sides, “I can’t stop working, there are people who are dying everyday-“

“Don’t do that, Aaron,” you warned lowly, your finger pointed towards him, “don’t use the people you save as an excuse for your treatment of me. You’re a good man, and I won’t ever deny that, but you don’t have to be so damn shrewd.”

“Oh, so I’m shrewd for wanting to help others?” He countered.

“No,” you seethed, “you’re shrewd for using them to guilt me into forgiving you.”

He sighed, head shaking as he looked away from you. Ripping a pair of sweatpants from the shelf beside him, he pushed past you back into the bedroom. You turned with his movement, eyes following him as he circled to his side of the bed.

“I don’t know what to say,” he shrugged, finally meeting your gaze, “I don’t know how to fix this.”

“Do you even want to?” You choked out, arms falling limply to your sides. Every bit of you felt defeated, and the dread that had been sitting in your stomach fully consumed you. It was the tell tale sign of the end, a fight like that.

His lack of an answer was an answer within itself.

“Do you still love me?” You voice was softer for that question. His angry expression broke into one of complete sorrow.

“I always will,” he whispered, “there will never be a day that I stop loving you.”

You breathed deeply, wiping chastely at your dampened cheeks, “When did you decide to stop showing it?”

His head bowed down in shame, the great of the beating in his chest echoing through the room. There was no arguing, he knew. Any word he shouted would be countered with your own. The end had made an appearance in his life before, and the dark, stormy feelings eating away at his mind were a painful reminder of a woman he had lost long ago.

You let yourself cry, because you knew. You knew that night would be the last time you saw him, the last time you stood in that bedroom, the last time you witnessed the way he wore the moonlight like a blanket. He was a good man, and he had been good to you, but you had to worry for your own happiness before his. It’s what everyone has to do- care for themselves before they can care for anyone else.

Happiness used to live in the laughter you shared with him, in the morning sun that leaked through the curtains and onto your shared bed. The way he held you and the way he kissed you used to be the reason you rose every morning, hands soft like the breeze over a blossoming field, kisses hot with shared breath. 

But, every sun will set, and every flower will die. And just like the way the beauty of autumn falls victim to unrelenting winter every year, the rapid beating of your heart and warm feeling in your chest ran away at the sight of his fading love.

He wanted to reach out and hold you, comfort you, but he knew it would offer no help. So, he let you cry. He let you release the emotions you were holding, and he didn’t make any attempt of stopping the outpour.

However the small, sleepy voice of Jack Hotchner did.

“Dad?” He called quietly, perched nervously in the doorway. His eyes darted from Aaron to you, the upturn of his eyebrows making his soft eyes look so, incredibly sad.

You stopped your cries, wiping away the tears that stained your face and turning away from the little boy you had come to love dearly.

“Jack,” Aaron breathed, crossing the room quickly, “buddy, why are you up? It’s late.”

“I heard you yelling,” his voice was so small, so innocent, it almost broke you again.

“I’m sorry,” Aaron whispered, kneeling before his son and placing a gentle hand on his shoulder, “we were just talking, everything’s okay. Go get some rest, you have school tomorrow.”

Jack looked at you, your back still to him. Despite his father’s plea, he walked towards you, his small hand reaching to touch the back of your arm. The contact made you turn towards him eyes red and impossibly glossed over, heartbreak written in your expression. Jack smiled sadly at you, fisting the fabric of your shirt and tugging on it slightly. 

“Can you tuck me in?” He asked, and it was that question that took your already damaged heart and crushed it completely.

“Of course, baby,” your voice was watery and your smile was shaky, but the toothy grin he gave you was holding together the rickety scaffolding that you called your composure.

You followed Jack to his room, keeping your eyes away from Aaron as you passed him. The soft light of Jack’s night light gave the room a soft yellow glow, just enough for visibility, but not too much that it prevented sleep. Jack hopped into his bed, digging himself into the covers and sitting against his pillows. You found a spot by the edge of the bed, hands pulling the blanket to cover the boy a little more.

“I’m sorry we woke you up,” you apologized, your hand running through his blonde hair.

“Are you gonna leave?” He asked quietly, completely disregarding your statement.

You paused before answering, “I don’t know, baby,” you held his hands, “love can be tricky, sometimes.”

“Okay,” the sadness in his voice made you want to hold him, “I’m gonna miss you.”

“I’m sorry, love bug,” you struggled to keep yourself together, “just know that no matter what, I love you, okay?”

“I love you,” he answered, nodding slightly. You wrapped him in a hug, holding him to you like you would never see him again, because in all actuality, there was a chance you wouldn’t. With a small kiss to his forehead, he laid on his pillow before turning over and closing his eyes.

You turned to take one more look at him before leaving the room, trying to memorize the way his hugs always felt warm, the way his laughter could bring a smile to anyone’s face. He was such a good kid, and losing him from your life was something that was unfathomably painful.

Reaching the bedroom once more, you found Aaron sitting on the edge of the bed, elbows rested on his knees.

“I think I should go,” you said quietly, eyes focused on the carpet below your feet.

He looked up at you, sad eyes already glossy, “Do you mean-“

“Yeah,” you interrupted.

“Is there anything I can say?” He pleaded, voice heavy with tears.

“I don’t-,” you hesitated, “I’m just so tired, Aaron. I’m exhausted.”

He didn’t answer, just dropped his head once more, gaze trained on the ground.

You moved swiftly, packing the things you had moved to his apartment, since you stayed there so often with Jack. It was easy enough, and you were silently thankful that you hadn’t fully moved in. Of course, you would’ve said yes if he asked you- it was a normal step for people who had been together for over a year- but he never asked.

A duffel bag and a backpack was enough to carry your belongings, and you set them by the door with a soft thud. You walked to Aaron, still on the edge of the bed, and placed a soft hand on his shoulder. He looked up at you, cheeks wet and eyes rosy.

“If you need any help with Jack, I’m here,” your fingers carded through his hair, relishing in the way he felt for the last time, “goodbye, Aaron.”

“Please,” he choked out.

You leaned forward, placing a gentle kiss on his forehead, just like you had done to Jack.

“Goodbye,” you whispered onto his skin, before pulling away, gathering your bags, and walking through the door.

He stayed where he was long after he heard the front door close. There was no desire to move, no desire to chase you, no desire to profess how much he wanted you to stay. Everything he felt was numb, and the lack of any pain almost disgusted him. What did you mean to him, if he felt nothing when you were gone?

He shook his head to push that thought away, because he knew what you meant. He loved you, with everything he was, but you were right. You were right in saying that he didn’t prioritize you, he didn’t strive to show you how you were needed in his life. You leaving was simply karma balancing the mistreatment he had inflicted upon you.

He thought of Jack, of how sad he was going to be. Of how much he would miss you. Of how much he loved you. He worried that Jack felt the same feelings you did. Never in his life did he want his son to feel unloved, or unworthy, or unimportant. Did his tendency to be cold and serious carry over into his life with his son?

Everything just felt wrong, it all felt empty. The moonlight wasn’t comforting, it was a spotlight of judgment sneaking through the curtains. The stars didn’t shine, they twinkled dimly before burning out within the light pollution of the city. The sheets he used to share with you, the sheets he used to love you in, were just linens, cold and rough and uninviting. Everything was wrong, and he had no clue how he was going to fix it.

His hands scrubbed down his face, a sigh leaving him. He had seen this film before, and he didn’t like ending then, and he definitely didn’t like it now. And there was no way he would be able to change it.

“You were my crown, now I’m in exile, seeing you out.”

taglist:

@quillvine​ @winterscaptain​ @agenthotchner​ @davidrossi-ismydad​ @misskirkstark​ @good-heavens-chris-evans​ @vintagecaptainspidey​

[lacielre]

circles over circles, 2 (m)

SUMMARY  Your life has been pretty stable from any university task to your social life and love life, everything has been set perfectly like a plate to a dining table. but that changes when you encounter the one person you remember to feel indifferent the most—Jungkook.

PAIRING  jimin/reader, jungkook/reader

RATING  mature

GENRE  college au | smut, romance, heavy angst, friends to “enemies” to lovers, childhood friends, established relationship 

WARNINGS  lots of dwelling in the past (again), pining, smitten!jk, cocky taehyung, a light touch of dirty talk

WORD COUNT  8k

PARTS  1, 2

FIRST DAY OF PLAYOFFS…

Time is quick and unforgiving.

You realize this when you take a swift sweep of the sixty-person-filled room you’re in and catch the hanging wall clock. Time’s almost up. Everyone’s striving to finish the examinations that will determine the fate of the scholars in this tense chamber. For some, the exams are for the fifty-percent off scholarship grant. For you, however, you’re aiming for the month-long education in New Zealand, which based by the overheard pre-exams conversations is almost everyone else’s aim.

In a few minutes, everyone, you included, submits their papers.

All you’re thinking about is that you better fucking get in. Those dreadful hours in the quiet of the libraries and the fears of walking alone at night better pay off.

Today is also the first day of playoffs and because of the thousand-item test you had, it’s impossible for you to catch up to any game. Even the final minutes of the day’s last game, ice hockey, are not granted to you. Having arrived at the venue, you only witnessed the university’s team winning hoots and cheers, sonorously booming in the stadium from the ice rink while the audience clears up the seats.

And like every college that exists, there’s a house party and it’s only blocks away from your dorm. You’re in the middle of untying your shoelaces when your phone rings with Seulgi’s contact name flashing on your screen so you answer.

Before you could even speak, a voice beats you to it.

“Hey? I’m Yeri, Seulgi’s classmate. Um, you’re on Seulgi’s speed dial so I just figured to call you—”

“Wait—what-why? What’s going on?” you ask instead, not wasting a minute.

The other line is too loud and thank God, the girl—Yeri—you’re speaking with has gone outside to lessen the noise and actually communicate.

“Seulgi is drunk and none of us could drive her home,” she sighs then gets to the point, “she’s wasted.”

“Yeahyeahokay,” you say, tying your shoes back. “I’ll be there in five. Don’t leave her alone please.”

“Yes! Of course, of course! Thank y—oh, my God, tie—put her hair back!”

In no less than five minutes, you arrive to the house party that shows exactly what it is: a Friday night house party. You feel like even if your university didn’t win ice hockey tonight, something like this would still happen.

But hell did you miss going to parties like this.

Sadly, you aren’t here to party; you’re here to pick up your roommate who you caught puking in the last seconds of your call.

Fuck it.

You enter the vibrating house, licking your lips dried-up from the hints of winter soaking and slowly freezing the autumn air. The interior looks exactly how you expect it to from how it presents itself outside.

“Ayy! _____!”

Someone shouts your name over the blasting music and you know it’s Namjoon. You turn to find him but it’s difficult when the inebriation of people around you is also clouding your vision. There’s too many people moving around.

“On your left!”

You turn so and you see Namjoon with spread legs on a wide grey couch, balancing a red cup of what might possibly be beer on his left thigh. He eases comfortably between Seokjin and an awfully good-looking guy with a perfect side profile.

Your lips heartily form a wide smile.

“Joon!” you shout, approaching him.

“Drink?” Namjoon offers, holding the cup to you.

You’re right—beer.

You shake your head.  “No, thank you.”

“Alright.” He nods. “I didn’t expect you here tonight.”

“Just here to pick up my roommate.”

Namjoon laughs, not failing to pick up the subtle hint of frustration in your tone. “Been there,” he consoles.

“Why are you even here… drinking? Isn’t your game tomorrow morning?”

“Before lunch, yeah,” he corrects. “I’m not getting drunk by the way. Just here for a few drinks then I’ll bounce. Our coach told us to relax.” The last word hotly grazes against his throat.

“And we did,” Seokjin continues, leaning back. “Nice seeing you, _____. You look great.”

“You know I doubt that but thanks.”

“So, what, I’m just not here or…?” the guy with the perfect side profile says.

“Ignore him, _____,” Seokjin mumbles.

“So, _____.” The perfect-side-profile man catches your name. “I’m Hoseok.”

“Ignore him,” Namjoon repeats Seokjin’s sentiment.

You smile at Hoseok anyway, to be polite. Now he has a name. “I’d love to catch up with you, guys, but I gotta go look for my friend,” you say in a hurry, withdrawing in tiny steps. “Bye! Good luck tomorrow!”

“Yeah, your boyfriend won’t really approve of that,” Namjoon teases.

Instead of replying with a witty remark, you already run off to another, emptier corner of the house and you even heard Hoseok double-checking Namjoon’s statement, asking something like, “How the fuck do all girls in this party have partners?”

Your phone vibrates and lights up with a message from Seulgi or well, Yeri who’s handling her phone, telling you to go to the backyard.

When you spin, time doesn’t construct itself much from your rapid recognition of whose back is facing you right now but meters away.  

It’s Jungkook.

It’s Jungkook whose arm is leaning flatly on the wall, caging a girl with his body. It’s Jungkook in the kitchen with a girl giggling in his company and by the way his back bounces, he too must also be sharing the laughter. It annoys you that you could recognize him so easily, and worse, you could recognize him smiling from the looks of his back.

That’s Jungkook, alright.

Fuck it.

It has you reeling how you’re feeling this way but Joohyun’s words from last time ring in your head. They’ve constantly been.

This is a burden you never lifted off your shoulders.

And things like that – they come full circle.

Do they really?

You faintly shake your head.

You pass by them in speedy steps, getting a whiff of Jungkook’s cologne along the way. Some things never change.

It only takes probably half a minute for you to spot Seulgi being forced to stand up by her friends. You hear her say something to them but you couldn’t pick it up since she slurred her way through it. She lifts her head and probably sees you.

She does.

“_____!” Seulgi shouts, barely pronouncing out your name correctly.

“Oh, thank God!” Yeri groans as she follows Seulgi’s gaze.

You help Yeri and two other girls with Seulgi.

“God really is a woman,” Yeri declares in a pained whisper, squeezing her eyes shut when you take Seulgi’s arm from her shoulder.

She groans from relief, rolling her shoulders.

“My car is parked right outside,” you state, wrapping Seulgi’s arm around you instead.

“Whaaayoudyoin…” Seulgi asks, pushing her head back with closed eyes. “Donnbrimehome pleaaa! Jaacallmywoommey. I haa! A woomate!”

Now Seulgi is being a pain in the ass.

Seulgi doesn’t make it easy for you to carry her with her thrashing her body sideways at almost every step you make.

“Hey! _____! I’ll help,” Namjoon shouts from the back door, jogging lightly to your destination. “Saw you from the window,” he adds. “You didn’t tell me this was your roommate. She’s been like this for almost half an hour now.”

You shrug, passing Seulgi’s arm to Namjoon’s shoulder. “Well, that’s for her to remember in the morning.”

“She’s wasted as fuck”—Seulgi kicks and almost gets to Namjoon’s leg—“and stubborn as fuck too. Goddamn.”

“That’s my roommate, alright,” you sigh, words barely under your breath. You watch Seulgi move around and Namjoon could only back off when she turns and sways, but he tries his best to steady her, alternating holds from her shoulders, arms, and elbows. “So, can you…?”

He gives off a nervous laughter. “Yeah, fuck. I’ll just need…” he looks around, “some help.” And he catches Hoseok who’s chilling on the doorstep. “Hobi! Help me out here!”

“What, can’t carry a girl only half your size, Joon?” Hoseok provokes but comes closer.

“How ‘bout you fucking try, then?” Namjoon lets go of Seulgi and Hoseok almost backs off when your drunk friend pushes them off with her arms.

“Oh, fuck,” Hoseok says.

“Are you guys really gonna help?” you ask, frustration pent up, helping Seulgi stand on your own.

“Anything for you, princess.” Hoseok winks.

God, you are so familiar with this type of talks. The sigh drawn from your lungs is probably an adequate answer but Hoseok probably failed to catch that as you do not receive any reaction from him.

With the help of Namjoon and Hoseok, you arrive to your car in no time. The other girls have already gone back to the frat house and rekindle with whatever activities Seulgi disrupted them from. Tonight is a failure to feminism, you think.

“Drive home safe,” Hoseok reminds, tapping your scrolled-down window.

Although unaccustomed of the gesture coming from him, you slowly nod.

“Okay, between the two of us, only I get to tell her that, a’right? Move,” Namjoon interferes, pushing Hoseok aside. He nods to Seulgi who’s dead asleep on the shotgun. “You sure you can bring her up yourself?”

You could only nod. Fuck, you haven’t thought of that.

Fuck it.

You swallow.

With a determined sigh, you say, “Yep. Thanks for your help, Joon.”

He flashes his deep dimples at you. “That’s nothing,” he genuinely says. “It’s nice to see you again, though, _____. Seeing you back there felt like high school, when you were still with that shithead Yoongi—fuck, sorry.”

“I’m fine! You can call him shithead as much as you like.” You laugh and he does too. “Also, yeah, it’s really been a while, huh?”

He agrees by wiggling his brows. “You took your exams today?” he asks.

“Yep! Missed all the games for that one.”

“Sucks,” Namjoon comments, his forehead furrowing in comfort. “Did mine yesterday. See you in New Zealand, baby!”

He raises a palm up and you reciprocate the high five.

You think, right.

He’s both an athletic and academic scholar. Of-fucking-course.

“You can’t be too sure.” You shake your head.  “I’m not as smart as you.”

He scrunches his nose to brush off your comment. “Eh,” he deadpans, shrugging. “I’m sure you did well, _____. You’ll get in.” He takes a pause then he exhales, gripping onto the bottom windowpane of your car. “Jungkook also took his yesterday. Hopefully, we all get in.”

You could only nod and Namjoon must’ve seen how that made you tense for a second. He clears his throat and knocks a tin of your car. “Drive home safe. Hope to see you tomorrow.”

“Oh, you will.”

“Text me when you get home.”

“Oh, I will.”

He chuckles and repeats, “I really did miss you.”

“You too. Need to catch up with… everything.”

“And ignore Hoseok, by the way. Hasn’t gotten his dick wet for a week, excuse him.”

“I’m literally standing right next to you.”

SECOND DAY OF PLAYOFFS…

Sans the library studies from your morning routine, you take into account to visit Joohyun’s shop, Irene’s, every morning for whatever you need. It could all stem from buying sweets or drinks to reheating lunch boxes to borrowing cash.

Today is for the former.

You’ll be needing to replenish energy and the way to do that is through sugar. Loads of them.

“You getting nervous?” you ask.

Amid your morning walk, you are on line with Jimin who you swear is nervous but tells you otherwise.

“How many times do I have to tell you that I feel… alright?” Jimin sighs.

“That doesn’t sound confident,” you tease. “Where’s my cocky boyfriend?”

“When have I ever been cocky?” he scoffs.

“A few times—mostly in bed—but I’ll take that point,” you goad.  

You hear him laugh on the other line. “Can’t wait to see you.”

In that, you feel the syllables stretching with the way he smiles. Before you were with him, you found it corny how you read things like hearing someone’s smile from a call but fuck do you get it now. You get it. And it feels nice catching details like that.

You bite your bottom lip. “Me too,” you reply. “I don’t think I’ve ever been this excited in weeks. Probably months even, for something. And all I’ve ever been was… tired and annoyed. Mostly, tired.”

“Mhm,” Jimin hums. “I forgot to ask you last night about your exams. Sorry ‘bout that.”

“That’s fine and you know what, I don’t think I did that well.” You pout. “Before you yell at me, I’m not just saying this. I swear I feel this way.”

“That can’t possibly be right.” You hear a shuffle from his line, probably him shifting on his seat. “You’re the smartest person I know.”

You couldn’t help the laugh the blooms from your chest. “Okay, now you’re just lying to my face.”

“Not to your face. And no,” he emphasizes his decline, “I am not lying.”

“It’s either that or you don’t know that many people which is impossible, by the way.”

Jimin laughs again then he composes himself. “You’re getting that grant, babe. I’m sure.”

You raise your brow. “You’re ‘sure’?”

He laughs. “Okay—maybe not sure, but you get me.”

“Whatever, Park Jimin,” you sass.

It only occurs to you that you never actually told Jimin that you’re looking forward to a month-long exchange trip in New Zealand for winter, not a fifty percent off scholarship grant. You aren’t sure why you didn’t tell him in the first place. It’s probably because you applied for it just when Jimin started his training. Then weeks went on and on.

It’s difficult for you to tell him because then, after barely seeing each other for about three weeks because of his training and your preparation for exams, it’s again another month of bare absence, of almost concrete silence between the two of you. It’s again another time for uncertain developments and yearning for lingering touches on your skin.

You’re scared that he’ll think you don’t think much about spending time with him because you do. But the New Zealand trip will be a box full of opportunities too, and you cannot risk not being able to go.

But after this for sure.

Fuck it.

Inhaling sharply, you repeat previous sentiment, “Can’t wait to see you.”

“Cheesy.” His voice is flirty, its rasp sticking to the word.  

“What do you want me to say then?” It’s a challenge you don’t want to lose. “I’m ready to suck you like a champ,” you say, tone lacing in feigned seduction before spared milliseconds of bursting into laughter. “How was that? How does that sound?”

“Sexy,” he muses, grinning. “And what if I lose then?”

“Don’t say that.” You click your tongue on the roof of your mouth. “Well, I’ll make you feel like a champ then.”

“Yeah, okay. I gotta admit, that sounds kinda hot,” Jimin laughs.

You grin. “Today should be all about you, babe. Do well and I’ll text or call you when I get there. Love you.”

“Love you too.”

When the line disappears into the plainness, into thin air, it’s just on time with Joohyun noticing you from the counter through the glassed walls of the cozy shop, allowing the central color of brown in different schemes to the exit, displaying itself for people to see orange-turning furies from the islands to the select bricked walls and to the waxed wooden floors. She does her usual routine every time she sees you: untie her apron, leave the counter, and pull her phone from her pocket.

You enter, rolling your eyes at her.

“Good morning to you too, _____,” Joohyun exclaims with a wide smile.

“Get back to the counter,” you say.

“What?” She frowns. “But I just got out.”

“Your shop opened literally fifteen minutes ago.”

“I know. I opened,” she says, mocking you with her tone. Barely. “Contrary to what you think sometimes, I do work here.”

“Exactly,” you say sharply. “I’m gonna order something.”

She rolls her eyes, reties the ribbon of her apron, and slip her phone back into her pocket. “What do you want?”

Your eyes land on the untouched blueberry cheesecake caged in glasses as an answer. Joohyun is quick to her senses, crouching down to have herself almost face-to-face with your dessert.

“How many of this do you want?”

“Four slices, please,” you declare, excitement evident in your phrasing.

She straightens her back once all the slices are neatly placed in a small paper box for you.  “Aren’t these too much for a morning?”

“Don’t shame me. Also, I have a roommate to feed.”

Her eyes widen at your response then she presents you a tight smile. “Okay.” Then she announces the price of your order. “Will you tip your cashier?”

“No. When can I get like a friend discount in here?”

“You won’t,” she says curtly, processing your order and payment into the slim machine. “Look at you getting all sugar-high for the game later.”

“Well,” you shrug, “I need all the help I need. I barely slept last night. I had to pick up Seulgi from a party then I had to bring her up to the room—it’s all such a mess last night. She almost puked in my car too.”

“You went to a party and you never told me?”

“Joohyun,” you say through gritted teeth. You point your fingers to your ears for emphasis. “Listen. I said I had to pick Seulgi up.”

“Sorry. All I heard was… party,” she says, whispering the last word into a short-lived outbreath. “So, saw anything interesting? Flaring testosterone levels? See any of my ex making out with someone? Or maybe your ex?”

“I saw Namjoon and Seokjin,” you interrupt. “Jungkook was there too.”

“You two talk?”

You shake your head. “You know what, I feel like you messed with my head, Joohyun. Because last night, I honestly felt like there was this part of me—just a small, small, small, tiny part of me—that was just ready to call his name and talk to him.”

She pushes the box with an attached receipt to you before raising her hands, admitting a defeat you never declared her to do so. “Hey, don’t blame this one on me. I was just saying.”

You look away and you could feel your forehead scrunching up to a concerned look. Without feeling the need to, you sigh.

“Well, you saying it,” you bite your lip, “just did something. Opened wounds.”

Joohyun shakes her head, not entirely getting your point. “Can I just ask? Am I okay here? Like, you’re not mad at me or anything, right, for telling you something that I’m sure you already know?”

“I’m not.”

“Okay, good. Because you don’t sound good. That didn’t sound good.”

“Is it bad that I feel this way?” You swallow and continue, “About him?”

“It’s not a crime to miss someone, _____.”

“I never said I miss him.”

“You didn’t have to, though,” she counters, not bothering to pause a little. “I think you’ll only know whether it’s a good thing or if it’s a bad thing once you start talking to him. For now, I don’t think it’s… you know, something—or anything, but you know, don’t miss the chance to turn into something.”

You nod slowly. “You’re right. Not sure about that last part though. I feel like you’re just planting stuff in my head again.” A beat for how ludicrous it sounds and you continue, “Fuck. I don’t know. I don’t know what to think. In fact, I don’t want to. Maybe I’m just missing high school in general.”

Her brow raises and you’re already so well-aware of what she’s about to say. She really has a way of making you want to eat back the words you just spat to avoid being embarrassed by her teases.

“Oh, you miss high school, huh,” she starts. “Is it because of Jungkook or… maybe Yoongi? Aw, shit. It’s been a while since I even said his name.”

“Fuck you.”

“Are you still in contact with him?” she asks, genuinely curious.

“Of course, not, Joohyun. Do I look like I don’t respect myself?” You don’t wait for her answer and beat her into speaking by saying, “Okay. Don’t answer that.”

“Do you wanna know some classified information?” she asks, shifting the topic. On her note, at the control of the conversation, she says, before you could even answer, “Jungkook and you must have pretty similar tastes—andandand before you yell at me, I can say so because he frequents here ever since he started ordering here. Thanks to you.”

“Again, fuck you,” you hiss. “I didn’t want to know that.”

She scoffs, ignoring your statement. “Whatever. Enjoy your stuff and see you later.”

The venue is already packed with people when you arrive, many of them are students. The student division of the two universities can be clearly seen from afar. Outsiders are even dressed up to support whoever they’re supporting and it, without doubt, shows. The cheering squads are already up on their feet, performing their bone-breaking choreographies, shouting on top of their lungs to make out their cheers for the players.

You text Jimin about your arrival and where you’re seated. You’re sure he’ll easily spot you later. He does it every time you attend his games.

Instead of proceeding to a crowded spot among the seats, you go to where Seulgi is and she’s sitting beside Jennie, a mutual friend, chilling at a rather bald spot in the seats, but still only a few seats far from others. Between you and Seulgi, you’ve known Jennie longer although you two weren’t that close in high school.

College really couldn’t pull you from high school.

“Finally, you’re here,” Jennie squeals. “I barely see you around anymore. Park Jimin’s really taking all your time, huh?”

“Girl, I wish. Was busy with the scholarship stuff,” you correct, yawning.

“And girl, you better get it,” Jennie proclaims before biting onto her chip. “Seulgi told me about her drunk night. I salute! Thank you for saving our fallen soldier.”

“You owe me. You owe me big time,” you sternly hiss at Seulgi and she nods adamantly. “So what you two been up to?” you ask, shifting comfortably on your seat.

“What have you been up to, huh?” Seulgi teases. “I didn’t know you were friends with most of the guys in the baseball teams! What the fuck, _____? You never gave me this information!”

Jennie faces you with a mischievous smile. “Ooh, looks like Seulgi wants an introduction with the boys. You’re freshman year ‘bout to get spicy, Seulgi! You don’t know the land of opportunities _____ is going to show you.”

“Jennie, stop planting ideas in her head!” You glare, shaking your head. “I’m not introducing anyone to anyone. And Seulgi, c’mon, now,” you say, a bit disappointed. “Them, really?”

“What? You’re friends with them! Why can’t I be?”

“Okay, fine! Whatever. I’m not your mom. But Jennie will do that for you.” You turn to Jennie. “Right, Jennie? Since this is your bright idea anyway.”  

Jennie’s smile fades but she blurts a “yes,” anyway after long negotiations with Seulgi.

Soon, the teams arrive in their team jerseys and whatever gears they need, and the volume of the cheers even turn up to a certain extent that has the seats vibrating a bit. The crowd follows the chants through and through. Of course, the cheers are louder from the home team aka your university.

The loudest is probably when Jungkook’s name was announced. But it’s also hard to make that decision when Seokjin, Namjoon, and Hoseok start to make their entrance one-by-one and the cheers seem to get louder and louder. It has your head reeling, that even when the stadium seats are not completely filled, the clusters of small groups have it in them to shake the plate.

“Holy fuck,” Seulgi chuckles as she covers her ears. “My ears!”

“Jungkook. Golden boy,” Jennie states.

The visiting team then makes their entrance and even if they’re the visiting ones, Taehyung gets his share of screams too.

Your friend, Jennie, on the other hand, chooses to sing-shout a romantic song about how time should go back, an homage for your past with Taehyung which was as shallow as it gets. She does that instead of doing what normal people do in a game—cheer. And you could only slap her leg to shut the hell up.

“Imagine you and Taehyung, what it could’ve been.”

“You know what, Jennie? No. And this is getting old.”

“No, I don’t but I’ll keep doing it.” She raises her brow and you could only shake your head. “Lighten up, _____. I was just kidding.”

“Taehyung’s hot,” comes a direct whisper on your ear, making your hairs stand.

“Fuck! When the hell did you get here?” you ask, startled, while Joohyun hops from the back bleachers and take the empty seat beside you.

“I was looking for you and I was contacting you but you weren’t answering your phone,” Joohyun complains, then she winks at Seulgi then Jennie. “Long time no see, girls!” She wiggles her brows. “Isn’t this exciting?”

“Oh, yeah, definitely! It gets more exciting every time one player comes out and we tease _____ about him,” Jennie says, chuckling.

“And so far, who? Just one. Taehyung. That’s right,” you say dismissively.  

“And Jungkook,” Joohyun points out.

“We were friends. We didn’t do anything.”

“Looks like you did, though,” Jennie backs.

“Yeah, definitely,” Seulgi agrees.

“You too? Really?” you moan.

“I don’t know—I just thought…” Seulgi defends without an drop of confidence.

“Sometimes, try not thinking.”

Joohyun groans. “We tease you because we lived boring lives, _____. Mundane. Dull. Humdrum. Monoto—”

“Got it, thesaurus,” you interrupt.

And Jimin finally comes out and you’re sure he winked at you, making you bite your bottom lip to suppress your smile. The crowd roars with the announcement of his name and you’re too flustered to even mingle in with the shouts.

“Aw, is _____ wet yet?” Jennie teases, making Seulgi and Joohyun snicker.

“Shut up,” you hiss but you’re smiling.

Fuck it.

“God, we get it, _____. You have a boyfriend,” Joohyun mumbles.

“Damn right, I do.”

Everyone gets to their position and the game starts with Hoseok pitching while Jimin twirls his ankles and gets ready to bat.

A competitive atmosphere envelops the stadium. Throughout the game, even with your few-minutes-spaced reminders to keep your eyes on Jimin, you couldn’t help but allow them to drift to Jungkook. He just plays so damn well. It’s no wonder this university recruited him when it had a chance.

That’s Jungkook, alright.

CUSP OF SUMMER, FOUR YEARS AGO…

“You free on Saturday?” Jungkook had to ask.

It looked like he wasn’t paying attention to you—or to anything really. He was busy fidgeting over your fled and crazed application papers on the counter, while managing an itch on his nape that never seemed to disappear. Crooking his head to the right as his fingers lightly lifted few pages of your forms, he took a peek.

“Hmm,” you hummed, stretching your hands heavenward with an eye closed, moaning at the delicious stretch. “If this is you asking me to go see you play then…”

He cleared his throat. “Then what?”

“Of course, I’m there. Are we even friends or what?”

“Good. I was starting to doubt that.”

“I don’t see you for like three days then you start saying shit like this to me.” You sneered before rolling your eyes.  “You’re the one on training, mister.”

“Okay—okay. You win this one.”

“Mhm. There’s a teeny, tiny problem though.”

Jungkook’s brow raised in concern. “What?”

“I forgot to buy tickets.”

“Luckily for you,” he slid a ticket from his back pocket next to your cup of coffee, “there’s this.”

“Aw, no,” you cooed. “You have this reserved for me?”

He nodded then he processed your facial expression. “That’s it. That’s the face of someone who thinks the world revolves around them.”

You ignored him with scoff. “You really can’t live without me around you, huh?”

You pressed your hands to your chest for emphasis while your brows drown a quarter span of your forehead. Your teeth couldn’t even release their bite from your bottom lip, doing their best to suppress your jokey beam. But what came next – you hadn’t expected.

Never.

And it will be in your head for quite some time.

“Of course I want you there. You’re my lucky charm,” Jungkook stated without hesitation, shifting his gaze from the ticket then to your eyes. His were earnest.

Yours were something else but they softened. Fuck it.

You did not expect it and it came worse to you. Because now, you were flustered. Flustered like the times he would envelope your hand in his when crossing streets without telling you beforehand. Flustered like when he had kissed the top of your head because you were crying. Flustered like this.

He flashed you a smile, one that only cared to lift the corners of his mouth, before leaving your sight, attending to the game he abandoned on your computer.

“Lucky charm,” you repeated in a small voice. “Lucky charm, huh.”

Not even your boyfriend said stuff like that to you.

As if on cue, your phone lit up with a message from your boyfriend, Yoongi, asking you if you would be free on Saturday.

You didn’t reply, did not even bother tapping your fingers on your phone screen. You didn’t even bother to draw your phone closer to you to read his message. You just wouldn’t and couldn’t.

You sighed. “Jackass.”

If asked to describe your relationship with Yoongi was like, the first word that would pop up in your head was – messy. That itself was enough to tell how problematic your relationship was with him but you couldn’t end it. Yoongi would fuck it up; miss out on significant events of your life, make you wait for hours for a date, leave you on read for days—weeks even, then contact you back – like today. But you took him over and over again in your arms.

“Heard that,” Jungkook announced, clearing the silence between the two of you.

“Don’t worry. It’s not you, Kook.”

“I know it’s not. It’s always one person when it comes to you and that word, _____.” He scoffed, followed by a short chuckle then his conclusion: “That was Yoongi for sure.”

“Damn right.”

When Jungkook’s game ended or after his team won, his time was quickly occupied by some guy you weren’t familiar with. He was dragged to the corner of the stadium, near the entrance made for the players.

Even then, you did your usual routine after every Jungkook game, wait by the doors of the guys’ locker room. As Jungkook was kept busy by some guy, practically all his teammates had exited the room and bid goodbyes to you along reminders of “party at Namjoon’s later” when they caught you leaning on the wall beside the doorstep.

Almost every one of his teammates were out and about in preparation for the party later, getting doses of alcohol in cans, glass bottles, and even those gigantic jugs, and also probably, well most likely, weed, when Jungkook finally gone to shower. Great. You’d be waiting for another set of dread minutes.

The door once again opened while you were busy formulating a reply to Yoongi, the classic type-and-delete approach over an apology for leaving him on read until Saturday—or today arrived. Actually it was the classic type-and-delete-and-curse approach. You were thinking this was all too late because Saturday was almost over anyway.

This was you giving in again and you surely wouldn’t be telling Jungkook about this.

You were doing so well.

Fuck it.

You started typing.

“Hey, _____,” was the greeting of a deep voice from beside you.

“Hey, Tae,” you greeted back, locking your phone.

Taehyung stood next to you, peeking from the small opening he made with the door. But he was close. Close enough for you smell his mint shampoo and a bit out-of-character baby soap. The scent matched well with his fresh face and sodden dark locks, however.

“There’s a seat here,” he noted.

“Great. My legs are killing me,” you said in relief and he opened the door wider for you.

You followed him to the lockers and it was only him left and of course, Jungkook in the showers inside.

Taehyung closed his locker then leaned his back on it, looking down on you as you sat on a bench across him, only a meter away.

If you were asked to describe your relationship with Taehyung, it’d be very easy to do so. It was as shallow as it could get. Things with him were the epitome of almost’s. He’d make a move then nothing happened next.

“You have plans after this?” Taehyung started.

“Is this your pick-up line?” you teased.

“I guess pick-up lines are my bottom-of-the-barrel approach to finally get it on with you then.” He chuckled, making you take note of the fact that his voice even sounded deeper when he did. “So, what are you up to?”

“To wherever Jungkook goes,” you answered. “It’s his day anyway.”

“So you’ll be at the party later then.”

You scoffed. “With or without Jungkook, I’ll be there for sure. Won’t miss it for the world.”

“Would you mind if we pick up where we’d always left off?” was his brazen request.

That made you stand up from being seated, meters closing into bare inches when you branded the floor with your footsteps.

Taunting to be as bold as him, you smirked.

“And where is that?” you asked breathily, grazing your fingers on the loose part of fabric clinging on his waist.

He smirked, aiming to tear down your dominant demeanor with how he towered over you but you contested, keeping your eyes locked with his. “Pretty,” he merely commented, clearing your face from the stands of your hair.

“Pretty?” you repeated.

Taehyung got a hold of your wrist but he kept his touch merely centimeters above your skin. He skimmed to your elbow and upwards, upwards, upwards until he reached to swipe his thumb on your bottom lip. “So pretty,” he repeated bending down his neck to whisper them in your ears.

He claimed a spot on your neck with a small peck just when you thought he’d claim you in for a kiss.

“You letting me take you home tonight?”

And fuck were you ready to just jump on his request.

His voice dripping honey didn’t help at all.

“That’s a question I can’t answer,” you swallowed when he nipped on your jaw to hide your panting, “right now.”

“Uh huh. Why is that?” He placed a hand on your back, dangerously close to your ass. His other hand cupped your cheek into his palm, making it easier for his lips to fan hot breaths over yours.

Again, you swallowed.

“You’ll have to convince me better,” you said weakly.

Fuck it.

“Later, yeah?” He leaned in and right when you hoped he would finally enclose his lips with yours, he only kissed the corner of your lips, making you yearn as if minutes of him playing with you weren’t enough.

You lifted your head, trying to catch his lips which after two quick attempts, he allowed with a smug chuckle.

It wasn’t a deep one. It was open-mouthed, wet. A trial for what comes later.

“Doesn’t look like you need much convincing though,” Taehyung teased, giving your ass a squeeze.

The only answer you could give him was a moan and another kiss which ran a few seconds before he pulled away.

“What now?” you whined in a shy voice, annoyed, making him chuckle.

“You’ve got to tell me though.”

“Tell you what?”

“What’s up with you and Jungkook? I need to know so I don’t fuck up,” Taehyung elaborated sharply. “I mean, you’re always together and shit.”

Your lips were left agape and you ran your tongue behind your teeth as you contemplated. You didn’t know what to tell Taehyung because you didn’t know the answer for that in one statement. You could say your best friends though but why couldn’t you?

“Jungkook!” you shouted instead, startling Taehyung.

“What?” Jungkook shouted back from the showers. “I’m coming out!”

“Okay! Good.” You turn back to Taehyung. “We’re friends.”

“So, I wouldn’t be fucking up anything then? Great,” Taehyung said that had your heart beating faster. “That’s what I liked to hear.”

“You’ve got to know though,” you added. “I’ve got a very complicated relationship with someone right now.”

Taehyung shook his head, laughing. “Yeah, I’m not really worried about getting in the middle of that,” he said, a finger sliding on your lips.

“Taehyung, back off, please,” Jungkook interrupted, a bit of frustration hinting in his tone. “I already told you; she’s taken.”

Taehyung untangled his hands from your waist but his smirk lingered.

You withdrew from Taehyung, walking up to Jungkook who stood at the boundary of the locker room and the shower room. You mouthed to Jungkook inaudibly with an annoyed expression, “Really now?”

He raised a brow at you as he tongued his cheek. “Yeah, _____,” he said sarcastically, nodding his head. “Anyway, let’s go. I’ve got something to tell you.”

The only thing you could do was follow him. He, who was walking in a real hurried pace with his gym bag. Before the two of you exited the locker room and left Taehyung alone, you looked back at him and he gave you a wink.

You two didn’t really move too far from the locker rooms anyway. Just by the doorstep when you waited for him earlier.

“Okay, what’s up?” you asked with a smile, hoping for some good news.

Before he opened his mouth, he gave in to a wide smile he must’ve been biting on his cheek to repress.

Alluring features of him smiling were of different earthly gifts.

“Oh, my God. It is good news! Wait—wait, let me guess! Is this about the guy outside?” You waited for his nod which he gave. “Okay, wait—no. I don’t wanna guess. I give up. What is it? Who was that?” were your shooting questions, putting him on hot seat.

“So that guy is the baseball coach of the national university,” Jungkook introduced slowly but he didn’t continue.

“Well…?”

“He’s asking me to try-out for them.” He paused to exhale. “And if I get in, which he kept telling me I’ve got a great chance in, I’ll go to college there. Free.”

As if it was your triumph to celebrate, your eyes widened as you jumped to hug him tightly. “Oh, my God! That’s so great! I’m so happy for you, Kook! Oh, my God! This is big!”

He let go of his gym bag to fully wrap his arms around your waist, almost completely burying his face to the crook of your neck and shoulder. “It’s still not sure though. Only if I get in—”

“Shh,” you hushed. “One thing at a time.”

“Okay.” He surrendered to you, into the embrace.

“Okay, maybe two things at a time,” you recounted. “First, your win. And this, second. Fuck, I really am your lucky charm, aren’t I?”

“You have a way of making things about you, _____,” he countered instead. But again, he surrendered to you. “But fuck yeah, you really are.”

“Everything’s falling into place for you, damn.” You hugged him tighter, leaving your cheek on his chest. “I’m so happy for you I could honestly cry but to save face, I will not.”

“Thank you, _____,” was his straight reply.

The vibration of his chest suddenly became the beeping alarm in your head on the proximity you two share. But no one was pulling away. Not you. You couldn’t.

Not when hugging him like this felt so good, so warm. So perfect.

You looked up to tease him about the fast beats of his heart, but as if you were caught in act, as if captured to an arrest, you stiffened when his eyes were already onto yours.

But no one was looking away. Again, it was not you. You couldn’t.

It didn’t take long ticks of seconds for you to feel the burning of your cheeks, pinks finally looming to your face. Yet still, you couldn’t, wouldn’t dare look away. And all this time, you were only thinking about how it was you who should look away, not realizing that he wasn’t moving either.

Because it couldn’t be him who would look away too.

It couldn’t be him who would unwrap his arms and pull away finally.

Despite all these thoughts, Jungkook knew that if no one let go, he could lean in. Fuck, he could. You were only a few centimeters away. He really would. He would yet he couldn’t so he stayed the same way you did.

Today was special. This was special.

Today was his.

“You guys have a ride?” Taehyung’s voice suddenly echoed from the locker room, making the both of you jump.

It was you who had to let go.

“Y-Yeah, Tae!” you shouted back.

“Alright,” Taehyung noted, exiting the room and moving past the two of you. He looked back to wink at you. “See you there, _____.”

You bit your lips.

“Really, ____?” Jungkook asked.

“He’s joking,” you defended.

“What is it you see in him anyway?” Jungkook still asked, ignoring your statement.

“Kook, you ask that about every guy I’ve been with,” you stated. “Nothing’s even happened between me and Tae. I just wanna fool around with someone. And everything I have with Yoongi is so close to coming to an end. So, I guess that one’s out the window.”

You waited for Jungkook to speak.

“For real, this time.”

“For real, this time?”

Your statements overlapped, except that Jungkook’s was a question. It was clear that he had enough of you saying the same thing over and over again.

You chuckled.

“Yes, Kook,” you assured. “And you know what? Let’s not talk about this. Today is your day!”

Jungkook chuckled at that, certain that you were only trying to move the discussion away.

“Get drunk as fuck and fuck who you wanna fuck tonight,” you kidded.

He looked down. “You’d think I would,” he mumbled under his breath so silently you barely heard something and you didn’t question it.

In bare silence, the best thing you could bring out was a wide smile on your lips you couldn’t bring to stop. It was enough for Jungkook to feel like he was on top of the world and he could only mentally curse at himself for feeling like this. It was just a smile anyway. Nothing big. Nothing big.

But his chest that barely caged his pumping heart could only do so much. He felt that even with you only a few inches away, you could feel the vibrations in the small space between the two of you.

He hoped it did.

All this over a smile which wasn’t anything big.

Nothing was ever a big deal until he felt your touch. Your fingers pulling at his fingers then upward to wrap them around his wrists quickly, gripping lightly higher and higher until you held onto his arms for balance, in order to tiptoe and kiss his cheek. You felt him tense.  

“Congratulations,” you said as you levelled with his stare, as if it was so simple.

It hadn’t been clear to Jungkook that it was you who leaned in.

“I hope you don’t mind,” you said when you figured he remained silent.

He shook his head. “Of course not.”

You bit your lower lip and indulged him into another tight hug, crossing your arms over his shoulders. And his, followed around your waist.

There were two chests hammering at that time.

No one could tell if it was their own or the other’s.

PRESENT, SECOND DAY OF PLAYOFFS…

Once the game is over, your arrival outside the visiting team’s locker room is one that could be classified as “a minute too late” but it’s the best thing you could do. The floods of college students and outsiders at all entrances and exits have made it impossible for you to get to the lockers as soon as the game ended.

You are left with an opened door, allowing you access to scan whoever’s left inside and no, Jimin’s not there anymore.

“Hey, _____.”

However, Taehyung is.

“Hey, Tae,” you greet back. “Is Jimin there?”

“I thought he left to come see you…” he trails, “but I do realize that that’s wrong now because you are here.”

“Nice,” you comment curtly.

“Hey, c’mon, now. Cut me some slack. I’m tired,” he says with a chuckle. “You don’t even look like you’re happy to see me.”

You quickly feel bad for how you responded to him. “Sorry,” you apologize.

He raises a brow then leans on the doorframe with crossed arms.

“For being rude,” you continue. “And for you know, the game.”

“Well, what can I say?” he says, ticking his head to the side. “You really are Jungkook’s lucky charm.”

You don’t answer, not really in the right state of mind to do so. Especially when Jungkook’s declaration of you as his lucky charm – that specific moment of your life –  is the one thing that’s been keeping your senses awake, having been replayed in your head for so many times amid the game until now.  

“Here I thought you could’ve been my lucky charm. Turns out, it’s just because we were on the same team back then,” he quips with a chuckle, wrapping a towel around his neck.

“Okay, Tae,” you breathe out, not knowing how to respond to him. “I gotta go look for him. Also, I am happy to see you.”

Taehyung gives you his most charming smile. “Go find him and tell him not to sulk.”

Meters at a turn of your heels, you see the doorstep for the home team’s locker room and some players are out there, loudly conversing. Before you could even pass by them, Namjoon, being apparently one of the players outside, doesn’t waste a second calling you.

“_____!” Namjoon shouts, making you turn. “Thanks for the good luck last night.”

You cringe. “Yeah, well…”

It doesn’t take him a full sentence to understand why. “Oh, yeah, fuck. I forgot. Sorry. And thank you. But also sorry ‘bout that. Sorry it turned out that way—which is a good thing for us but you know, sorry. Okay—I’ll stop.”

You shake your head. “That’s fine, I guess.” The best you could give is a small smile. “And congratulations, by the way!”

“Thank you!” is his quick response. “I’d hug you but I really haven’t… showered.”

“That’s fine,” you says, snickering a little.

The locker door opens and the players outside hoot because finally, it’d be their turn to shower. Of course, as though the universe has a way of telling you things, the locker room spews a newly-showered Jungkook. A Jungkook of red-tinted cheeks and drenched curls from the hot shower.

Suddenly, it’s quiet and Namjoon isn’t doing any saving.

So you try.

“C-Congratulations,” is your nervous congratulatory attempt.

And just as you think Jungkook would answer you, he doesn’t, not when his teammates round up to him and carry him on their arms to celebrate his successful contributions to the team. As it’s many of his runs that concluded their win.

You shift your gaze to Namjoon who’s just as dumbfounded as you. When you shake your head, he shrugs—the contributing factor to your decision to leave abruptly and find Jimin who still, hasn’t replied to any of your texts.

Fuck it.

[peacefulwriter88]

Part One: Carried Away in A Chariot

Steve Rogers X Reader WoC, Bucky X Reader WoC

Warnings: None

A/N: This will be in three parts and was inspired by Hades & Persephone Mood board. This occurs after the snap where I optimistically believing Steve survives but how he deals with the PTSD. Half of this, like always, is inspired by @geminimoonbeamx and the other has been on my mind after the Endgame trailer.

How do you kill a god?

You rob them of love and loyalty. They will be alone and unhappy, and eternity will seem like a punishment, but it is not death.

                        - Hera, Queen of the Gods

Disappointment hung over him like a cloud, followed him everywhere. Before it was just his psyche that was attacked by the darkness that loomed over him, promises of death that echoed in his subconscious when he slept; images that haunted his mind when he closed his eyes.

Now he carried it like a weight, burdened on his back as he sloppily navigated through the world. He had no desires anymore.

Life had given him the gift of death. To have to breathe it everyday, bear witness to its effect without the power to change the outcomes. He felt like a ferryman, responsible for the living souls of today with the  promised that he’d have to kiss them goodbye tomorrow. He was death on earth, walking in flesh form and he didn’t know how to console it

And yet he stayed.

No matter how much he fought, no matter whatever the evil was that he had to attack it was death that eluded him - not life. And when he had fixed all that had shifted wrong, turned dust back into bone and flesh, to rewind time and save the world from genocide he still remained.

And thus the disappointment lingered.

He was a walking god of the underworld.

“Perhaps you just need to get away?” Natasha had suggested one evening, walking down the cold narrow streets of New York that no longer held the same color. Now he only saw drab colors of black and blue that tarnished his eyesight, burdened his shoulders.

“Go where? I feel like I spent five years getting away. I’m tired of running. I’m tired.”

Natasha didn’t know the answer.

“Maybe you stop….stop being Captain America Steve. You don’t have to be the man that saves the world all the time.”

This time from Bucky who sat across from him in a coffee shop, the a cup of hot coffee cradling his vibranium and flesh arm as his eyes flickered around the cafe. Eight months after the snap and his friend was operating and functioning like nothing had ever occurred. Despite the explanations that Steve had to communicate with him and the others - how he and a few others had to watch his friend disappear in front of his own eyes - Bucky remembered nothing. Nor Sam or Tony or  T’challa or anyone. Instead, they jumped back into their roles head first, like nothing had ever been wrong.

It made Steve snap.

“Right. So I can sit her and broad more. No thank you.”

He looks out the window at the snow, blistery and wet and painting the streets with its evidence. He hated this time of year, hated when the cold weather moved from being nostalgic and romantic and just became a nuance. It was the kind of snow that was light and consistent, black residue sticking to the roads, splashing onto the concrete sidewalks and the annoyed New Yorker’s who were stuck walking to and from their destination in the wet coldness.

Bucky sighs, Steve knows he wants to tell him something but the bell in the cafe rings again, causes the super soldier to shift his eyes over to the door - to the line where you stood. Steve doesn’t have to look behind him to know that it's you - he can faintly smell your perfume of flora above the smell of milk and coffee. Can hear the soft sounds of Tchaikovsky blare from your headphones, the sound of you pulling off your mitts.

“You should just ask her out.” Steve says lowly and Bucky ducks his head, takes a sip of his coffee.

“No way Steve.”

Steve shrugs,

“Life’s too short to - “ he stops himself, chuckles. What did it matter - Bucky wasn’t going to ask you and Steve stopped caring enough to urge his friend.

“She’d never go for it.” Bucky echoes like he always does, low morose tone and all.

Steve picks up his coffee, takes a sip.

“Your loss.”

He doesn’t understand how one can love something so strongly and yet be annoyed by it. Humanity was wearing on him. Their laughter, their remorse, their desires and their laments. Sam moved out of the tower, decided to get an apartment in uptown and Steve only decided to move in after having to deal with his co-workers for a year after the snap.

They were tiresome.

Tony may have actually lost his fucking mind. Steve wouldn’t put it past the older man - isolated in space for weeks on the verge of starvation sounded like enough to make any one human break into two and Tony was always heavily affected by his emotions. Natasha stoically operated through the world like nothing had ever occurred and for some reason that annoyed him. Wanda walked around in depressive remorse - Vision was gone and gone for good. He didn’t’ know how to tell her that it was the consequence of power - to be given a gift and robbed of loved. Bucky was so love strung over you that it was the last straw for Steve - he had to get out.

Brooklyn wasn’t his Brooklyn so he claimed Astoria with Sam like his own.

It worked out nicely for the pair of them.

He still walked the 17 blocks to the coffee shop he liked to sit at, the black coffee perfectly bitter and warm - the residents not giving him any mind. The Captain America in their mind had died when he saved the world and the man that was operating was foreign to them. He was okay with that. It gave him silence, the refuge he needed.

He does this consecutively for weeks, winter changing into spring,  spring into autumn and autumn into winter. Goes through the motions, alone, a cup of coffee and pencil and pad in his possession that he never touches.

That’s before the shift.

It’s in April and it's cold outside though spring has already tried to combat the winter cold. Buds growing on trees, wind blowing dead grass away to make room for new.  He sits, like he always does in the cafe, alone. His phone lights up, a few texts from Bucky and Sam - a voicemail from Natasha but it doesn’t matter. He wants to draw again, wants the breath of inspiration that allows him to see things - people and humans beyond an ash colored lens but he’s frozen.

He looks over at the ivory paper of his sketch notebook, blank minus the charcoal pencil that laid on top of it and sighs, his hands itching to pick up the drawing device but knowing it was to no avail.

The bell of the cafe door rings, his ears pick up on it and he’s rewarded with your perfume again. Jasmine, it's intoxicating and sweet but he doesn’t turn his head, doesn’t look your way. In fact, he had no idea what you looked like. Identified you only by the sweet smell of your perfume - he hadn’t cared enough to look behind him the first time that Bucky had identified you and all the times after.

You were just background noise.

Except today your smell nears him, dangerously close, until he feels the warmth of your body emanating off of you and you hesitate before you clear your throat,

“Excuse me I don’t mean to interrupt but…..would you mind sharing the table?”

He looks up at you and is greeted with the sun.

Your smile is soft, friendly and your eyes are wide and dangerous, the dark pink tinge of your lipstick a contrast to the hue of your skin, brightens it. Your hair pulled up into a bun, hands holding a book and cup of tea safely.

“Or not. Its justs…...really crowded in here and I’d much rather share a table with you than the old man who is licking his lips at me.”

He stares at you, unable to find words but nods, shifts his notebook to make room for you.

“Thank you,” you move into the seat fluidly, delicately before you place your bag near your leg. A long sliver of pink silk slips out, a sliver of a ballet shoe that you tuck back into the bag before you open your book. “Promise I won’t bother you. Just here to read for a bit.”

And you don’t. He spends the hour watching you, probably borderline ass creepy as Bucky stares out at you and you’re none the wiser, head bent over your book as you sip your tea until it's gone. Then you gather your things, thank him for sharing the table and your gone.

Despite your absence, your smell lingers and he feels something stir in him. It's not until hours later, when he’s standing on his balcony in the safety of darkness that he realizes that its longing.

And that he wants to see you again.

You don’t show up to the cafe for three days and its three days enough that tells him to let you go. That no good come from his new interest. He was a broken man and you were life. Better not to drag you down in flames.

‘Besides, Bucky was in love with you’ he tells himself but he knows that he doesn’t care about that, not really. He had started drawing again. Vivid drawings of the events of the past, dark and treacherous and life like.

“Those are kinda freaky aren’t they Steve?” Sam had noted, looking over the large super soldiers frame one evening and drinking the vivid imagery of the death of  Thanos, noting the rest of the Avengers.

“It's what happened isn’t it?” Steve says lowly and Sam nods, walking away. The drawings were disturbing but at least his friend was drawing again. Sam was worried about Steve. He was different. Curt, abrasive, annoyed. Motivated by missions but not truly invested in the outcomes. He knew he was depressed - understood why. Sam understood that he had died - then come back none the wiser - and could understand that to experience the loss of friends where they couldn’t even remember may play a number on the psyche.

For Steve it was evolving into darkness.  

Steve is aware Sam is worried but doesn’t comment on it. Reads all the PTSD books Sam leaves around, occasionally chats with him but pretends that everything is fine. Knows it doesn’t convince Sam but honestly doesn’t care enough to put on the facade that he should. Instead, he escapes the cages of the indoors and greets spring.  The weather is bright, sunlight emerging and rain showers slowly becoming less frequent. He’s always had an infinity for Central Park but after the defeat of Thanos couldn’t stand the large, expansive area. Reminded him too much of how delicate the life balance was. Now, he liked to sit on benches for hours and watch birds emerge from their wooden sanctuaries and bunnies frolic in the budding grass - moms with babies in carriages and kids who giggle pleasantly as they run in child wonder.

When he’s done he goes to the cafe, orders his coffee, starts sketching. Shadows barely captured by light, fine details of the nightmares that haunt his mind.

“You’re drawing again,”

Your voice is sweet, your tone smooth as you ease through each syllable that slowly falls from your lips. He looks up at you, drinks in the book in hand and tea with a smile dancing on your face.

“Do you mind if I join you?”

He should say no, should leave and give you the table for yourself. But he finds himself smiling, the first time in what feels like years and it feels unfamiliar as he waves his inky hands across the table.

“Please.”

You both sit in silence,  you reading ‘A Cautionary Tale for Young Vampires’ and him drawing, sipping on your beverages pleased to be in a moment where you can step away from your day to day nuances and focus on the small pleasures.

You both order three cups each, share a large coffee cake and are asked nicely by the owner to leave before you escape back into the reality of your worlds.

“It was nice seeing you again,” you say as you walk out in the fresh night air, grabbing your phone - your headphones. “Your drawings are nice. I’m glad you’ve found your….inner-voice again. So to speak”

He nods, smiles at you once more as he drinks in your frame in the waning light. The way the orange, rose and blue blend together, highlighting your silhouette, hair pulled back as your dark eyes glisten in the light. He should pull away, take this gift for what it is and be grateful for it.

But he’s hungry for you, likes the small flame you’ve ignited in his dark heart and he finds his voice to say as you turn to walk away,

“Wait!”

It takes you both off guard and you stop, raise a brow as you look at him.

“How do you feel about zoos?”

You are the light he doesn’t realize he needs. Draws your image for five days until he sees you next.

“Who’s the girl?”  Sam asks one night, Natasha and Wanda peeping into Steve’s studio as he move onto another canvas - onto you. Sam’s happy that Steve’s moved on from the dark images of his nightmares, unable to face them in the safety of the light and Wanda and Natasha want to know who’s inspired this new mood.

“You like her,” Wanda says curiously, her psychic brain reading his betrayed thoughts and it's the first time he’s heard her be so positive. That is, until his brain betrays him and she reads the dark secret of you, tsks disappointedly. “I won’t tell him but you should care. He is your friend.”

“Tell who what?” Natasha asks, following the European redhead who walks away from him, her disappointment obvious.

She never shares.

Instead allows him to meet up with you at Central Park, to watch happy emotions play over your face. You find positivity in everything. From the zoo animals to the families who walk by, to the rain that falls on the both of you as he grabs your hand and pulls you to shelter to the nearest tree he can find as you both leave the zoo.

“This isn't safe.” you say, the dress you were wearing sticking to you. A little pink number that reminds him of a time where he was younger and weaker, the red floral design highlighting your frame. He doesn’t care that he boldly drinks in your nipples that were puckering from the cold or that he could see your panties paint your ass. .

He wants to remember how it feels to touch another human again.

“What isn’t?” he says instead.

“Hiding under a tree. We could get electrocuted. You should know this Captain America.” you laugh, exaggerating his title and though it annoys him he can’t help but give an off handed smile.

There’s a flash of lightning, followed by a dark grumble of thunder that shakes the earth and causes you to jump naturally into his arms, gripping his thick biceps as you turn and look around. He takes the moment to drink in your vulnerable features, the softness of your cheek, the length of your eyelashes as they kiss your cheek. Your arms are strong, reminds him of your dancing physique and the strength that your body carries. When the thunder  passes, rain falling heaver you turn your face up to him. Your lips are plump from you biting them in fear and raindrops fall in disarray down your face greedily and he sighs.

Angels weeped of the inception of your beauty.

“I rebuke death it would seem so if you need safety, you’ll most likely find it in my arms.”

Its meant to be a joke but he knows he fails at the delivery - humor had never been one of his stronger characteristics. You watch him curiously, tilt your head curiously before you whisper,

“Death evades us for as long as we need to learn a lesson from living.”

He’s intrigued by your thoughts but distracted by the way your face has contorted, sadness etched in your faces beauty and he wants to bend down and kiss you while he whispers against your lips that it will be okay. Instead, you break away and look off into the distance,

“I know a bit about that. When the snap happened….I lost everyone and yet I remained. And when they returned -  it was as nothing changed. My mother knew nothing that had happened to me in eight months I had learned to mourn and accept her death. She cradles me still like a child despite the fact I’ve been on my own for ten years and she still doesn’t hear the secret I whisper out into the night. That I’ve blossomed into a woman long before she left and will continue to thrive long after she’s gone.”

Your hands are warm over his arms, even through the layer of his jacket and you blink back up at him and smile,

“You didn’t need to know that. Let’s make a run for it and grab a coffee. Its three and I haven’t had my fourth cup.”

You’re gone from his embrace long before he can mourn it. He stands in wonder  as he watches the way you spritely run through the rain, turning back and smiling at him, your dress dancing along your legs.

Like morning glories that raise their petals to the rays of sunlight he’s found himself drawn to you, needing your spirit to pull out his beauty.

He’s a different man. Still dark and brooding and withdrawn, but there’s something different about him. Bucky can't put his hand on it, watches his best friend operate with the same motions but there’s just something off. He was different. Gone most of the time and even when he was around he wasn’t there. Head buried in a new book or in his sketch pad or speaking lowly on the phone. Bucky’s found leftover ticket stubs to three ballets, had no idea that the romantic in Steve still lived and took him to such shows.  

“I think he’s dating someone.” Natasha finally admits out loud as her, Sam and Bucky lay out on the living room floor one evening, high and watching constellations dance above them from the safety of the tower.

“Steve doesn’t date.” Bucky mumbles, eyes half closed and Sam pauses, hesitates,

“I’d normally agree with you Bucky but…...I don’t know. I caught him ordering flowers and he’s always gone and he’s always drawing her, the mystery woman. I swear I found a stub to the ballet but Steve denies it.”

“Holy shit,” Natasha sits up and looks at them. “So have I!”

“Me too.” Bucky agrees, intertwining his fingers together as he closes his eyes.

It’s Sam who nods and shakes his head,

“Not to mention, he comes home smelling like jasmines. Has to be a girl a woman that’s marked her scent on him.”

Bucky pauses, can’t move. His brain racks back to you -the first time that he saw you. Your scent that had caught his attention in the cafe he and Steve had learned to love. It was an autumn day and you were wearing a flowy skirt, a knit sweater covering your tank top. Ballet shoes slipping out of your bag, listening to Chopin and reading the menu of the coffee shop as the sun hit your face perfectly. You smiled at the elderly couple that asked if they could go before you, not hesitating at all as you offered your spot. You had briefly looked at him, smiled, before returning your eyes back to the menu.

“It’s Jasmine,” Steve had said underneath his breath, blue eyes temporarily meeting Bucky’s before returning out of the window, into the busy streets of New York. Voicing the question that was already on Bucky’s mind.

“She smells like Jasmine.”

Tag List:  @ssweet-empowerment@capsofwinchesters@tacohead13@harleycativy@pietrotheavenger@francezka10@papichulosebastian@obsessionsofmynerdheart@melaninmarvel@avengedqueen26@nasteaxluvgal@winterbuttmunch@nys30@buckyslongasshair@ohlumi @wellthirsted @gifsbysimplysonia @misskenni

[fanwarriorfictions]

One-

A Stranger Things 2 Fanfic

Chapter Four- Part Two

   The tears were streaming down her cheeks as she drove, her mind not completely on where she was going or the road ahead of her. It was dangerous for her to drive in this condition, but she didn't care. She didn't care if anything bad happened to her, if she drove on the wrong side of traffic and got hit, if she drove into the trees, she didn't care.

   They were well into the shorter days of the autumn and winter months, the night sky already starting to appear yet it was only five. It would be darker than midnight soon, and she didn't plan on going home because of it.

   She comes to a stop, at wherever her subconscious decided to take her. And when she saw where she was, her mind fell back into reality at a dizzying pace. Why had she come here, of all places, why here. Phina had stopped on the street in front of Steve Harrington's house. She wanted to kick herself over and over again. Yet, at the same time, she knew that she wanted this, her subconscious knew, and that's what pushed her towards the door.

   The tears were still flowing, with no end in sight as she walked towards the door. Her feet moved on their own, not listening to any protests from the rational side of her brain. She came to a stop at the front door, freezing in place. What the hell am I doing, she asked herself. Her left hand rose without her consent to the doorbell, only pausing an inch from it.

   "God damnit," she cursed herself as she pushed the bell.

   The ring echoed in her mind, regret pushing forward as an answer. She wanted to run, to hide, but her feet wouldn't move. The only thing she could do was look down at her trembling hands, so much damage could be done with them.

   The lock clicked on the door and it pulled open. She didn't even look up to see him.

   "Phina," Steve asked, confusion clear in his voice.

   Her body shook as a new wave of fear and sadness hit her, tears streamed down her cheek.  

   Steve took a tentative step towards her, "Phina? What's happening."

   "I didn't know where else to go," she whispered, her voice thick with tears.

   He took another step towards her, "are you crying?"

   She didn't answer, but her body shook with a sob that she tried to contain. He placed a hand under her chin, lifting her head, forcing her to look at him.

   His heart came to a dead stop. He had never seen her cry like this. He'd seen her cry out of anger, but, this? These tears were from sadness, from fear. It broke him, his heart, it broke for her.

He put his hand on her cheek, wiping away a few tears, "what happened?"

She doesn't pull away from him like she should, "I lost control. I-I could have hurt them Steve, I-I..."

She choked on her words.

"Shh, calm down," he whispers, "breathe Phina."

She took a deep breathe through her nose and let it out through her mouth, "Will, he was, I don't even know. He was having an episode, I touched him and I was transported to the upside down."

Steve's eyes shone with worry, "what?"

She shook her head, "not completely. My body was still here, but, it was like my soul was there. He was there too, he was being attacked by this, this thing. I wanted to save him, I used my fire, but when I came back..."

She goes quiet and Steve nods, "what happened?"

"I was alone, in a circle of destruction." She looked down again. "They were scared of me."

She lifts her hands between them, they still shook with fear, "I'm scared of me."

   Steve took her hands in his, the calming warmth of them engulfed her. They both looked down at their entwined hands.

   "I could have hurt them Steve," she whispers.

   "Yeah, you could have," he whispers back, "but you wouldn't."

   "You don't know that," she argues.

   He looks up at her, his gaze heavy on her face. She lifts her eyes to meet his.

   "Phina, I have never met anyone so protective of her friends and family that she was willing to sacrifice anything and everything to save them," he says, "you would never hurt them Phina, because, even when you're not in control, there will always be a part of you that will look out for them, because, you are incapable of letting someone go unprotected."

   A small, involuntary smile lit her face. He was right, the direct line of where her circle of destruction suggests that she had made a barrier around herself, to do what she does best, protect the ones she loves.

   Yet the smile falls again, "they were scared of me Steve."

   He sighs, "it's because they don't understand, we tend to fear the things we cannot control. And no one, no one, can control you Phina, forgive the soul who tries."

   She looks deeply into his eyes, "are you scared of me Steve?"

   He chuckles lightly, shaking his head, "no. Not at all. I may not completely understand you, not able to get past your walls, but I know that you would never hurt me, at least I would hope so."

   She chuckles as well, "you're right."

   Phina knew that he was absolutely right, she couldn't hurt him. She remembers last year, when she had punched him for insulting Jon and Nancy, she remembers the awful feeling it gave her. She knew now why it had left her in such a bad place, she did, not that she would ever admit it.

   He slowly guides her inside, away from the cold, their hands still connected. The tears had finally stopped, yet her eyes, bloodshot and swollen, remained as tribute to the fallen tears.

   His parents were supposed to come home sometime late tonight, and he didn't want them to come home to find a girl in his living room. His parents weren't unused to random girls at their house, he had brought many here before Nancy. Yet, he didn't want them to see Phina as just another girl he brought home, just another hookup. His parents were judgmental people, and once you've been labled something by them, they were incapable of seeing you differently. Which, unfortunately, meant that Nancy was labled as a hookup girl.

   So he lead her upstairs, to his room. When they get there, he sits her down on his bed.

"Did you drive here," he asks.

Phina nods slowly, "yeah. Probably not the best of decisions to drive in the state I was in."

Steve let's out a breathy laugh, "yeah, no it wasn't. If I remember correctly you wouldn't let me drive in that same condition."

"Well, what can I say," she shrugs, "I'm a bit of a hypocrite."

He stands in the middle of his room, awkwardly as if he didn't know what to do with himself. Phina noticed, and the anxiety of being here hit her again.

"You know what." She suddenly stood up. "I'm sorry, I really shouldn't have come here, you probably had plans, I-I'll go.."

Phina rushes towards the door and Steve holds out his hand, "no no, it's fine. Phina."

She doesn't stop, "no I'm sorry, I don't want to be a burden."

He grabs her arm, pulling her back towards him, "Phina, you're not a burden. I.."

She whirls around, "no Steve I..."

They both stop short. Steve had pulled her closer to him than he had thought, as they only stood mere inches apart. Her hand on his chest, to steady herself from spinning around.

He was so close to her, he could see each little freckle that ran across her nose, from afar, you could only see a few, but here, he could see them all. They looked like a galaxy had been painted on her, thousands of stars and constellations delicately placed one by one. Her hand rested on his chest, and he felt as if she could steal his heart right then and there.

She could feel his breath on her lips, warm, inviting. His hand still rested on her arm, sending a shock of warmth through her. His eyes look into hers, searching for a door to pass through her walls. He was close, to passing the first wall, the door just ahead of him. The more she was captivated by the warm chocolate brown of his eyes, the closer he came.

"Phina," he whispers, almost to quiet for her ears to catch.

And he had broken that first wall. The way he said her name, like a pray to any god he could think of, it shattered that wall. Yet, there were more. And that next wall was named Nancy.

Though Phina knew Nancy's heart had been captured by Jonathan, she knew that Nancy had truly loved Steve. What kind of sister would she be if she let this continue on, whatever this was.

Steve could see her closing up, watched her inner struggle take hold, as it always did. His hand involuntarily moved up her arm, to her shoulder, to her neck, to her cheek. He memorized the feel of her beneath his hand, because he knew she would close him out again.

"Steve," she breathed.

He broke. Any reason he could think of to stop this in its tracks, left him. Nancy left him. His thumb ran absently across her cheekbone, leaving a blissful trail of warmth.

And she came to her senses, "I can't do this to her."

He knew who she meant, no name had to be mentioned. He knew that she would always come first in Phina's mind, no matter what.

"I know," he sighed, her he made no move to let her go.

Her other hand, the one not resting above his heart, came up to cover his hand on her cheek. She gently, heartbreakingly so, pried his hand off. The coldness that came, broke both of them. She guided his hand down to his side, and let go. His heart shudders beneath her palm. Her own answers.

"Goodnight Steve," she whispered.

Her hand fell from his chest, back to her side. And, like he always did, he watched her walk away from him. Watched till he no longer could. Till the sound of her footsteps faded away. Till the sound of her bike driving away was to faint to hear.

"Goodnight Seraphina."

-1766 words-

I'm so sorry, that was to adorable not to write. The feels. I was thinking about their ship name, y'all have any ideas cause all I've got is Stina and that's kinda stupid. Let me know.

-Morgan

[erasethedarkness]

Day 1  |  Catching A Cold / “You’re cold, aren’t you?”

Summary: The first in depth meeting between Eraser Head and the new Pro Hero from America! Even though the two of you crossed paths often during nightly patrols, this was the first time you responded to an emergency together. Afterwards, a small surprise catches you off guard as the Erasure Hero ignites a subtle affection in your feelings towards him.

Reminder: I will be writing the prompts to occur chronologically! They are all going to be Aizawa x the same f!Reader established in Day 1’s prompt.

Sorry if this first post seems a little too long or dragged! I wanted to establish background information.

@mha-xmas-challenge

“Aren’t you going to be cold going out like that?” one of the sidekicks asked, accompanying you on patrol since you were still fairly new to the Tokyo area. 

“Psshhtt, nah! This feels nice. This was my ideal weather back in the States.” You waved your hand, brushing away the concern with a jovial laugh.

As an American, you were used to chilly weather. You were used to crisp autumns and frigid winters, so the fact that it was still in the 40s (fahrenheit) in Japan delighted you, despite it being early December. Just about every other hero switched into their winter costume variants, but you didn’t see the need to. It wasn’t like your costume was the most revealing thing ever; your bodysuit was flattering with a small hint of seduction, rather than seductive with a small hint of flattering, and even with bared skin, it was still entirely functional. Besides, your winter variant would just make you too warm since it was designed for temperatures at least 20 degrees cooler.

You patrolled through your designated district as the last rays of sunlight were devoured by the rising moon. Slowly but surely, you were getting more and more familiar with the various districts and neighborhoods of Tokyo, the city dwarfing the largest U.S. city by nearly double. While your patrol was just beginning, your companion’s was coming to an end, the overlap to help you familiarize yourself with the area. When they left, you took to the rooftops, preferring to maintain an aerial view of the area unless you were needed on the ground.

Tokyo’s lights illuminated the wards, and even from above, you struggled to see the stars in their full vibrance. The full moon’s brilliance joined with the light pollution, making it one of the brightest nights you’ve seen in Japan so far. Your attention sharpened to focus on the world below you, eyes scanning streets and alleyways, glimpsing at faces, discerning expressions in case something wasn’t quite right. With a slow and steady breath, you were near silent, listening to the city that never slept.

But then there was the only hero who was ever actually silent. You didn’t hear him or see him, and you just barely felt the way the air moved when he came to join you. By the time you turned your head to look for him, Eraser Head was already crouched beside you, looking where your eyes previously stared. His capture weapon was loose and somewhat flowy, and his yellow goggles still laid around his neck.

“You haven’t changed into your winter costume, Eraser?” you asked, looking back to the city. You were used to him randomly joining you during your patrols; your areas always seemed to overlap at one point or another during the night. The first time he surprised you, you actually fell off of the rooftop and he caught you with his scarf, saying that would be the only time he’d save you from falling in those circumstances. ‘You should always be aware of your immediate surroundings, even when you’re focused on the streets below,’ he chided you, like you weren’t a pro hero yourself.

With a small exhale, he turned his head to look at you, an eyebrow just barely raised to create an expression that asked you, ‘Really? Do you not see what I wear everyday?’ Seconds later, his eyes were navigated away from you. You tittered softly and just smiled to yourself, bemused by his fairly consistent presence despite his aloof demeanor.

For some time, you both remained perched on the rooftop, eyes following different lines along the ground. You stood up after a while, satisfied with the area until you’d loop back to it later in your patrol. Eraser Head’s scarf wrapped around your wrist as you turned away from him, and he guided you back down. Your breath caught in your chest, held for a moment while you wondered if this was it- was he finally making a move? You blushed and damned the moon for shining so brightly, certain he would notice it. He seemed to notice everything, so you quickly turned your head, arm raised and sneezed into your elbow.

Of course, that didn’t stop him from noticing your blush, because he certainly did. You saw the flash of his teeth as he grinned and heard the softest, amused exhale following it. He directed your eyes with a point, and while you looked, you could feel that he wasn’t looking there with you. No, his eyes were on you, taking in your profile and the silhouette you made against the moon.

“What-”

You were cut off by his bound forward, leading you where he was pointing. “God damn it,” you cursed yourself for being stunned by him, sniffled, and then chased him in eager pursuit, your quirk helping you catch up effortlessly. As you raced alongside him to the destination, you heard it.

A squeal of wheels and then a shriek pierced through the white noise of the city, followed by the sound of hard and heavy running footsteps. Right on the heels of the clamor, the blare of a car alarm started. You chanced to see that his goggles were up and his scarf flared as you both darted to the commotion; he was more than ready for this- and you were too.

Within minutes of your arrivals to the scene, everything was taken care of. God, the way Eraser Head moved was so damn fluid, and this was the first time you actually got to see him in action. You knew about his quirk, but seeing him use it was an entirely different thing. His martial combat skills were beyond impressive and you wondered why the hell he bothered joining you now and then, or why he even pointed this out to you. Was he trying to help you out? Because clearly he didn’t need any help of his own. He could have easily taken care of this without your help, but… you did have to admit it was actually kind of nice working with him. It was so effortless, and while you would have expected to get into each other’s ways, that didn’t happen at all. You two ended up with your backs towards each other more often than not, covering each other as opposed to getting in the way.

He may not have noticed it, but being so physically close to you was helping him. Your secondary quirk, Augmentation, allowed you to adjust someone else’s quirk- you could make it better or worse within the limits of your understanding their quirk. Since you knew that his quirk’s effects ended when he blinked, you made it so that they didn’t. It was a small adjustment, but it made the difference between a person noticing and taking advantage of that moment when his hair fell back to his shoulders. It was a mostly passive quirk that had a radius centered on you, and it only applied to the people who weren’t hostile towards you and whose quirks you understood. A part of it worked off of your feelings, as well; it generally helped the people you wanted to help, and burdened those you did not.

As the police drove away with their villain and minions apprehended, you shivered slightly. The small sweat you built up from the fight chilled you, and you absentmindedly pulled yourself inward, hand subconsciously rubbing your forearm.

And of course he noticed.

“You’re cold, aren’t you?” Eraser Head asked you as you both walked along the street.

“What? Pfft. No, I’m fine.” You brushed him off and boosted yourself back to the rooftops with your quirk, half running from him to avoid the topic. You sniffled once you landed, sighing afterwards and hoping he wouldn’t pursue. Without waiting for him, you began your patrol again, and were left alone.

Hours passed, and the night remained fairly quiet- save for a little bit of sniffling and sneezing here and there. It must’ve just been something in the Tokyo air. There was no way you were getting sick or anything. Right? Not when it was still so warm out. It couldn’t be.

That barely noticeable breeze picked up again, and suddenly he was behind you. You spun around and immediately took a sweater to the face, catching it in your arms reflexively. “What the hell, d-” you began, your American side showing just a little bit more than usual as you were about to confront him, holding the sweater up with a fist and looking insulted. That was before you caught a glimpse of what looked like a cat face from the moonlight. Not just one, either. No, this wasn't just a plain black sweater, it was one with a black and dark gray cat print that went fully around in adorable rows of cats. Neverending cats. Your expression softened and you brought the sweater back to yourself, a flustered blush coming to your cheeks.

“I said I was f… f.. f-” You whipped your head away and caught another sneeze in the crook of your elbow.

“Just put it on for now,” he ordered with what sounded like an annoyed sigh, looking from you to the streets below and not letting you finish your sentence. “You’ve already caught a cold, but that’s not enough reason to send you home from patrol.” His voice was different. It was softer, without that hard edge that accompanied his standoffish behavior.

“...Yeah..” You finally caved, awestruck by the pro hero. You pulled the sweater over your head, letting it cover your costume. It was slightly too big for you, and went down just past your rear so it looked like you were just wearing a sweater with leggings. There was a soft scent that lingered in the fibers- something like a soothing detergent or softener mixed with whoever last wore it. It wasn’t something he just randomly picked up. Was it his?

“Thank you, Eraser Head.”

There was a small pause before he looked up to you, the moon highlighting your cheeks and the outline of your hair. He could see the soft smile that stained your lips- and you saw one on his just before he turned his head away.

“Aizawa.”

Your smile grew and your blush calmed, but remained on your cheeks with a dull warmth that you couldn’t ignore. “Thank you, Aizawa.”

[lady-literature]

In the Sky We Fall

Made for the Sanders Sides Big Bang, @ts-storytime

Summary: Names have power or Virgil might be a little in love and a lot scared.

Pairings: platonic/pre-relationship Patton/Virgil, established Patton/Logan/Roman

Warnings: Swearing, self doubt, slight unreliable narrator, non-graphic attempted suicide (I gloss over it a bit)

Apart of the same series: All Hail the Consort of Darkness | Roman’s Daughters | Ease My Pain and Soothe My Worries | The Gods are Dead

Read on Ao3

The Sky Court is a new place. Or, well. It’s an old place, Virgil can feel the deep thrum of ancient magic, older than Time himself and that says much more in the way of the Court’s age than Virgil can express. But it’s a new place to the gods. Two in specific.

Him and Spring. Or rather, Night and Day here?

Virgil doesn’t know, but he think he likes the sound of being called ’Night’.

His duties always seemed to be the worst when he was merely a Season. He must control the harvest and the crops and make sure the humans had enough food to survive the winter and also a little extra so they could worship him so he could continue protecting them and make sure that the balance was steady and he was dropping temperatures just the right amount and a million other things. It was a tiring and taxing duty and he is eighty-five percent sure that the other seasons didn’t have nearly as much work.

Painting the leaves is nice despite the repetition, but he finds little joy in his other duties as Autumn.

But now he wished he could go back to when he had the worst job.

Corralling the night sky is not easy by any means. The stars are fire and heat and ice. They refuse to sit still and only by sheer force of will can Virgil contain them to their seats so travelers may find their way across the great Earth. The moon is heavy in his hands as he holds it up, slowly, ever so slowly, carving it’s path across the night sky. He alone, stays awake when other sleep. Spends his time in suffocating silence, only the monsters rattling through the forest below to keep him company. His Night is a lonely time with no one to speak with. Though, it’s not like anyone speaks to him when they’re awake anyway.

And for a fourth of the year he must do all of this while continuing as Autumn.

His mantel is a heavy one to bear but he would never complain about it. Would never say a word on how its too much despite how he feels he’s breaking under the weight of his duties.

Because now Spring suffers under the burden he bears and it is so much worse. Virgil would give anything to take it from him but he can’t.

Spring has become the Solar Queen, God of Daylight. He’s become a god of Many Things and now has a Name, he is now a true god.

Virgil doesn’t remember ever not having his Name. And still, the humans keep giving him more things to look over.

He is Autumn, the Protector, King of Stars, God of Night, the Ruler of Shadows. He is so many things. So many roles. He wishes the humans would stop giving him more to do. He is very tired.

Virgil has told no one what his name is. As much as he cares about the other gods, they care little for him. He does not trust them but he will protect them with his life. He protects his own. He protects what is his.

Except right now he is failing. And he wants to pull out his hair and destroy a mountain because Spring is burning and tired and the sun refuses to settle. To be controlled.

And Spring must pay the price. Spring, the kindest of gods, the god who was the most broken and yet he is so bright and kind and amazing. And now he burns because Virgil couldn’t do his job.

Spring ends the day tired. His hands blistering and skin blackened and peeling and flaking off his arms in a sickening manner. He is a god and so he heals but the pain within the mind will stay. And the scars that cover his palms are a constant reminder of his painful position in the Sky Court.

Spring never cries, the heat of the sun dries the moisture in his eyes before he could even summon the thought of tearing up. Spring doesn’t cry, but sometimes Virgil can hear him scream. He screams and whimpers and shouts until his voice is hoarse. He sobs without the mercy of tears when he thinks no one is around to hear him. They are horrible, earth shattering feelings. Sounds that should never leave the mouth of such a wonderfully light being.

But there is nothing Virgil can do about it and it grates against him like a symphony of sour notes. Screeching inside him and setting his teeth on edge.

The best he can do is pass along as much power to Spring as possible. He leaves tree branches and flowers steeped in his magic on the throne of the court. Gifts for his equal in godhood. A symbol of good grace and well wishes. Magic told him once that it was a custom performed in the human world. Perhaps not something so personal, but a gift is a gift.

He doesn’t know the scientific properties of the plants he leaves, that’s more Winter’s area. And he certainly doesn’t know what they mean because that’s Spring’s, but he leaves them all the same. They’re gone the next night when Virgil shows up to raise the moon and confine the stars, so he hopes Spring likes them. Hope they give him the boost he needs to get through the Day.

He’s not sure if their magic is compatible, but he hopes all the same.

In the beginning there was nothing. Only the darkness of universe. Only molten rocks that were not yet planets and clouds of gas that were not yet stars. Only Space.

And then, from this nothing and Space, stepped out Time.

They were the first and pushed everything into motion, no longer were things stagnant. No longer were things still.

Suddenly, everything was moving and the Beginning of Things fired off in rapid succession.

Everything tumbled and crashed and exploded into a million different beginnings. A million different things. Everything had started and it would be so very very long before they once again stopped. Before everything ended once more and began anew.

But for now, in the beginning, Time became the ruler of Light, Space grew to infinity and oversees all, Mother Earth bloomed from the dust of scattered stars and molten rock. Magic burst from the core of a dying star, and Wisdom flew into existence and granted the others with awareness and control over their violent powers.

Many others would join the ranks of the Benevolent, and many of the Benevolent would change and grow. But not until after the earth.

Not until the Humans came.

It’s one day, as Virgil leaves his customary gift of magic upon the throne, that something changes.

During the night the Court of Sky is bathed in deep blues and calming purples, black accents detailing small pieces and bio-luminescent rocks and moss lighting the walls.  It’s simple and homey. The throne was the most elaborate piece within his Court. It was silver and intricately carved with his favorite constellations and the many phases of the moon. Plush velvet the color of lilacs covered the seat and pillows of the darkest blue were nestled into the corners. The Throne was unnecessarily fancy but it was comfortable so Virgil couldn’t complain.

Virgil doesn't know what Spring’s Court looks like, but he knows it changes when Day arrives.

Virgil still doesn’t know what Spring’s court looks like. Can’t, because it’s only when Spring is alone does the Court fully shift. But what Virgil does know is what the in between looks like.

He knows this because as he sets the flower upon the seat--some sort of orchid Virgil doesn’t know the name of--in-between the space of one blink and the next, the lilac of the cushion turns to creamy pink and the silvery night sky carved into the back has shifted to the early morning sky in rose golds.

Virgil tenses and spins around, flower grasped in his left hand, miraculously uncrushed, while he calls upon his magic in the other. Calls the shadows to lengthen and curl into the palm of his hand, thick and heavy and inky black.

Before him stands The God of Daylight himself. A wide smile gracing his lips despite the surprise displayed clearly in his terribly expressive eyes.

He looks different than what Virgil remembers him to be. Spring is greens and blues and purples. Flowers tangled in his colorful hair, and laughter dancing around him. Spring is joy and wonder and growth.

Now, he is bathed in golds and white and rosy pinks like the dawn sky he’s stood against. Upon his head sits a crown of golden sunlight, spun into the shapes of flowers. His cape shimmers with magic, shifting around him despite there being no wind to move it.

Stood before Virgil is who the humans call the Solar Queen. He finds that he would like to be anywhere else right now.

The Solar Queen tilts his head to the side, smile shifting into something different but no less happy. His eyes seem too knowing with their golden glow and Virgil thinks it is entirely unfair because he certainly doesn’t know what’s happening right now.

“My King,” The Solar Queen says, curtsying, his golden tea-length dress shifting in mesmerizing ways and wow that was not what Virgil expected him to say.

“I- what the hell?” The smile falls from the Queen’s face and Virgil feels like he’s kicked a puppy and dammit look what he did this time-

“Oh no! Did I do it wrong?” The Queen worries, “Winter said that it was a customary greeting between monarchs, though we aren’t really monarchs, I guess? But we didn’t really know what you’re like. So we guessed formal would be a good start. Was it not? Did I make you uncomfortable? I’m sorry! Oh, I can’t believe I messed it up already. Summer's going to laugh at me and-”

Virgil blinked in the face of The Queen’s rambling. He was… not what he expected. Not what he remembered.

Though, it has been a century or so. And the last major interaction they had, well… it wasn’t a great to say the least. Wasn’t good for any of them really.

“No, no, no. It’s fine! I was just… surprised.” Virgil pauses before saying fuck it in his head and goes for it. He bows at the waist, as he’s seen human rulers do on occasion. He’s pretty sure he’s doing it wrong but too late now he guesses. “My Queen.”

When he straightens again, the sunshine smile is back his counterpart’s face and Virgil gives him a half smile in return because he doesn’t have the strength to deny him anything and wow again because where did that thought come from?

“Is that for me?”

Virgil is surprised by the change in topic and he must see it because he continues, albeit shyly.

“The flower? Is that for me?” the smile he now wears is small and uncertain. Virgil’s eyes widen when he realizes that yes he is still holding the flower and yes this is in fact the most awkward moment of his life and boy would it be a great time to just jump off the edge of the Court right about now.

Instead of jumping off, (because, while Virgil isn’t positive, he’s fairly certain it would be seen as rude and that is the last thing he wants or needs right now) Virgil holds the flower out to the Queen. It’s practically drowning in his magic, the flower’s colors darker than they should be but little bits shimmering out like stars.

Delicately, he takes the bloomed orchid into his hands. Gentle in a way Virgil has never seen anyone behave before. A small smile tugs on his lips as he looks at Day, who is lightly touching the petals with a glowing finger. After a moment he places the flower in between the other flowers of sunlight that make up the crown he wears.

After a moment, Virgil watches, eyes widened in amazement, as the orchid starts glowing a deep purple before a brilliant gold begins to bleed into it, brighter than the other flowers and shimmering with a life of its own. Then, it began to dim, becoming solid streaks of sunlight nestled into Day’s hair like the rest of the flowers.

Day takes in a deep breath as the last of it turns, before releasing it in a puff of sparkling air.

His eyes open and they are a brilliant golden, honey color. “Thank you.”

Numbly, Virgil replies, “My pleasure,” before disappearing in a burst of shadow because he doesn’t know what just happened and he can’t stand there anymore.

He hopes Day doesn’t hate him for leaving without so much as a goodbye.

When Time was a young god, not yet fully in control of his powers, not yet wise enough and much too kind, he fell in love for the first time.

And with a human no less!

The name of the mortal was lost to time, but it is known that he was a sailor. Born on the sea and bred with salt water in his veins, the Ocean as his first love. He was nothing special–a nose too big for his face, honey colored eyes, dark brown hair worn in braids. Nothing that should catch the attention of a god.

But the human was kind. And for Time, who sees cruelty again and again, kindness was enough. The two lived happily for many years. They had a cabin built along the shore, a boat that Time learned to sail on, and a mortal name for Time. A name Time wouldn’t change for as long as he lived.

But kindness is not enough for the Ocean and she eventually claims all who love her too much.

The loss of his first love broke Thomas, who was unused to grief, unused to sadness. The earth broke beneath his sobs, the four winds howled along with his cries, the clouds mimicked his tears and flooded the land.  Chaos rained upon the earth and no one escaped the suffering.

The pain in Thomas’ chest grew until he couldn’t handle the pain anymore, he’d rather be empty. He’d rather be gone. He’d rather be dead.

And so Thomas ripped the still beating heart from his own chest, gold dripping from his hands and a scream tearing from his already raw throat. Thomas threw it upon the ground.

His heart shattered upon impact. Splintering and scattering across the sand.

Mother Earth–who had been watching Thomas, worried and sympathetic–was horrified by what she saw. To rip out one’s own heart is to sentence oneself to emptiness. She couldn’t let him share the same fate as her sister, and so poured her life magic into the pieces. Hoping beyond hope that she could save him.

But her magic had unseen consequences. Instead of stitching the pieces together, she created something new. A garden bloomed from the smallest pieces. The gladioli, ambrosia, the snake and many other things. But from the four biggest pieces, came the Seasons. Young and new and wide eyed with knowledge they shouldn’t have. An entirely new creation. Manifestations rather than true Gods.

The four Manifestations came into the world in silence. Their faces young and childlike and exact copies of Time. Their eyes wide as they remembered memories not their own, Emotions not theirs. Pain sharp and biting and the first thing they feel.

And then came the cacophony of noise and pain. Their harsh broken sobs and choked off screams heard all across the world.

The Seasons were born from the largest parts of Thomas’ heart. They were created from the remnants of a broken heart, shattered pieces and jagged edges. Sharp and barbed and crooked in the most horrible ways.

Winter was curled into the ground hands clawing at his head trying to get rid of the images pounding against his skull. The memories and the sounds and the sights and smells and and- He lacked the feelings that went with the memories but everything was still so much. Too many details. Too many things. It was too much makeitmakeitSTOP!

(When the onslaught of information settles, Winter will promise to never fall to the emotions that join those memories. He will bury himself in logic and facts, discarding frivolous sentiment in hopes of protecting himself. Because if the sights and sounds are so painful, how could he possibly survive the emotions that go with them?)

(The answer is that he won’t.)

Summer was the only one able to stand, he was bred from fantasy. The might-have-beens and the what-if’s. Summer wasn’t sad. Summer was angry. His young-too-old eyes burned with the strength of his wrath. The future was torn from them and he was furious. He screamed his anger at the sky and the ground blacked beneath his flames. Volcanoes rose with his fury and cities were bathed in fire.

(Summer buries himself in fantasy and the beds of mortals. He hopes he can find another like his-Time-Summer’s first love. He searches for centuries.)

(He eventually stops looking.)

Autumn had curled into himself, making himself as small as possible. The quietest of the four, he hadn’t made a sound besides a whimper when it first came crashing down on him. The area around him had blackened. Turned to dust and acid and smoke. He brought death with his grief, with his guilt, with his fear. Autumn was terrified and jumped at every noise, flinched at every movement.

(When he’s able to get his wits about him, he will be too scared to let anyone near him like that ever again. He will push others away, snap and bite and claw at everyone to make sure he keeps his heart safe and untouched.)

(He will only succeed for so long.)

Spring was the worst. He was screaming and sobbing and broken. His form flickered and jumped and cracked like he wasn’t actually there. Spring was the biggest piece of Thomas’ heart. He had been created from the feelings of the lost love. The happiness, the love, the grief, the loss, everything. Spring was supposed to be the creation of new things. Beautiful things. But the things he created that day were grotesque. Twisted and horrible and aggressive. He’d created monsters in reflection of the pain he felt.

The monsters still wander the earth to this day.

(After, Spring will promise to never let himself fall that far from control again. Never feel that helplessly sorrowful. Never again create such horrible things.)

(He will not be able to keep that promise forever.)

Mother Earth was horrified that she had created creatures born from pain and she raced to help them find peace. To dull the pain, but there was little to do about mental and emotional distress. You cannot heal the heart with magic.

No one knows how long it took to calm down the young Manifestations. But eventually they grew into their positions.

Mother Earth’s plan had worked. Though she regretted the pain she caused that day, she could not bring herself to regret the creation of the new gods, to regret saving Thomas’ heart; his soul. With Thomas’ heart living on in these new gods, and woven into her very soil, Thomas could still feel joy and anger and sorrow. He would still be kind and empathetic. He would still be the shining light she knew and loved. And he would stay that way until the earth died. Until she herself shattered and splinted apart.

The Seasons are tied to Thomas by life. By emotions and personality and pain.

None of them would have it any other way.

The next time Virgil sees Day, it has been months, perhaps even years. The two are busy gods, and to not see another for that long is not unusual, at least for Virgil anyway. A decade is the blink of an eye for gods, merely a heartbeat in the grand scheme of things. But when the two cross paths again, Virgil simultaneously feels as if it has been an age and still not enough time.

Day is still there when Virgil arrives one evening, standing next to a pillar, looking out over the mortal realm below. His skirt is singed and his hands are still smoking. He looks bone weary and tired but when he turns to Virgil his face lights up.

As if Virgil is something wonderful.

As if Virgil can make someone happy just by being around.

“Night!” Day moves toward the other god before stopping halfway, a blush spreading across his darkened skin. “Oh, or would you.. Uh- My King? Or Autumn? I don’t really…” He trailed off, with a nervous laugh. He tucked a length of hair behind his ear before reaching up to fiddle with the lily nestled in his hair.

“Call me Night,” Virgil said, eyes following the movement of his hand before blinking harshly, wrapping his arms around himself protectively. “If you want to, that is. I’m not saying that you have to or anything! I just- I thought you-”

“I like Night,” Day said, cutting into his rambling before it got to out of hand. “I like Autumn too, but I think it fits here.” he waved a hand around the court, a small smile of his face. His smile grew wider, “You could be a Night in shining armor!”

Virgil blinks. Did- did Day just make a pun?

Day is stood there, eyes shining with mirth and a wide shit eating grin on his face.

Oh, dear gods he did. The Solar Queen, God of Daylight just made a gods awful pun.

About him.

Virgil chokes on his laughter, disbelief in his eyes as he raised a hand to cover his mouth. Mirth leaking into his posture as he giggled.

Day’s smile grew impossibly wide at the sight.

“That was awful,” Virgil stated when he stopped, hand still over his mouth. “I also wouldn’t call myself the type to wear armor.”

Day waved a hand, “That’s fine. Summer likes the knights more anyway. You though!” Day closed the distance between them. Walking around him, poking and examining his cloak. Virgil subtly curled in at the attention. “You remind me of the mortal magicians. Or the druids! They like wearing cloaks too. Too bad, Magic already has a claim on the magic folk. I think you’d like them a lot!”

“Thank you? But why would-”

“Oh!” Day interrupted looking down over the edge of the Court. “Sorry, Night, but I have to go. It’s been wonderful talking with you!” he grabbed his hands and all Virgil could think about was how rough and warm they were. “And thank you for the flowers, see you in the morning!” And with that he was gone and the Court melted into Nighttime.

Virgil stood there for a moment longer wondering what had happened before deciding it was best not to question the other gods. He wouldn’t understand their reasoning anyway.

Instead he decided it was better to just get the night over with, he had a job to do.

The Shifting Period.

A time between seasons, lasting a few weeks before the solstice or equinox. The Manifestations use this time to rest and organize. To spend time with their lovers whom they can only see so many times a year.

Summer arrives with heat and fire and love. He overtakes Spring with passion as temperatures rise and Spring gladly passes on the helm with a kiss so tender and loving it makes Summer melt. Giggles and spins and stories pass between the two light hearted manifestations. Summer wraps himself around Spring, rejuvenating him before filling the world with heat and sunshine and laughter.

When Autumn falls it is with hesitance, with shaking hands and harsh words softened by familiarity. With gentle kisses and clutching embraces. Hushed reassurances that all will be fine, that autumn will come as it must no matter what he does. That everything will be fine and that you will do amazing, my color. My Tree, my love. I believe in you and all your capable of.

Winter shows up abruptly, walking in late with papers under his arms or early with everything planned for the next three months. There is rarely an in-between stage for the wisest of Manifestations. Autumn shrugs off his power with relief, and winter takes it unceremoniously. Reassurances pass through pale lips and soft touches are traded as Winter ushers Autumn to rest with soft kisses to his head.

Spring returns with love and light. Rosy nicknames and sunny laughter. Flowers grow in his wake and bloom as Spring takes Winter in his hands and melts the frost from his heart and the ice in his gaze. Spring lavishes Winter with hope and color and Winter will never speak of how much he loves these moments but he holds them dearly.

Of course though, it had not always been this way.

Back in the beginning, when the gods were young and yet to truly find there places in the ranks of the Benevolent, the passing of seasons was a rocky one. Filled with hesitance and sharp turns and volatile weather patterns.

“I just don’t understand why you’re so interested in him, Patton. It’s obvious what he thinks of us. He’d rather hang around the dead.”

“Perhaps they are quieter company. The Heavens know I would enjoy some.”

Roman huffs from where he was adjusting his adjournments in the mirror, a sour look twisting his features as he looks over his shoulder. “I take personal offence to that.”

“He’s lonely,” Patton says from his place looking out the window, interrupting the squabble before it can begin. The three gods are sitting in the one of Logan’s libraries, the one that Patton doesn’t think has an end.

Behind him, Roman scoffs. Patton spins around to look at him. “He is.”

“Autumn has made little effort to befriend any of the pantheon as far as I know. If he is lonely would he not seek companionship?” Logan offers from where he is lounging, scrolls floating around him listlessly as he jumps from one to another.

“I… I don’t know. He’s different than us, it’s like he assumes the worst. Like he’s… scared.”

“Scared? We’ve hardly done anything to scare him,” Roman says, laughing incredulously as the mirror vanishes with a flick of his wrist.

Patton worries his bottom lip, eyes turning to look out the window again. Quietly, he says, “Maybe he was created scared.”

Roman and Logan stop breathing and the air in the room turns stale.

“Patton, that- We don’t know what he-”

“Exactly! We don’t know.” Patton stands and flowers sprout up from where he’d been sitting. “We act like we know everything about him but we don’t know anything! He’s hiding from us and I want him to know that he’s safe with me. With us.”

Logan and Roman share a look. The one where Patton knows they’re agreeing to humor him but they don’t really understand. And-

Ugh!

Why is he the only one that cares? Autumn is a piece of them. He’s a season, they are tied together by fate and life and thousands of other things. Patton just wants all four of them to have cuddle piles and kisses and happiness! Autumn deserves happiness. Everyone deserves happiness.

And Patton knows that he can give it to him. He knows it like he knows how to make flowers grow and push the sun across the sky. Knows it with every fiber of his being, it burns in him. How do the others not know--not feel this certainty?

Roman opens his mouth to placate Patton, to soothe him with empty promises and sweet words.

He doesn’t stay long enough to listen to him.

Virgil was one of the four Seasons, a fragment and a god in his own right. He ruled over the Void, he commanded shadows, he brewed the storms that rocked the seas. He ruled the Darkness itself and held it in his hands. The shades of the underworld called him confidant, friend, brother and he returned to them regularly.

It was no secret he was a god of unnatural things. That he didn't neatly fit into the hierarchy of the gods sacred pantheon.

Most humans believed him to be an unfavorable god. That his temper was like the storms he looked over, his heart as black as night.

But there were few, the followers he gained that worshiped him, those that loved him more than their own lives, those that had heard the stories whispered in back alleys where the desperate hide. Those that were wise enough to know that what you do is not necessarily who you are.

They knew otherwise.

Virgil housed the lonely, the forgotten, the outcast. He befriended the abused, the suicidal and the grief stricken. He took in all whom others refused and he gave them a home and friends and a family. Those who would understand their pain and hardship without looking down on them.

He helped them when others wouldn't. And because of who followed him, he would visit as much as he could. Grant as many prayers as possible.

Eventually, his followers became known as The Protectors of Meus, a nomadic cult with him as their attentive, patron god. They were a secretive cult, closely holding the identities of all members to their chests in fear of the ridicule they might face. They feared what those who didn’t understand would say about them, how they would react.

And still, they welcomed all new comers with open arms, as their god would wish them too. They were fiercely loyal to their fellow members and made sure to protect those who needed protecting. They supported each other and were more of a family than most had ever known.

Virgil gazed upon his following and thinks that this might be one of the few things he did right. That he made a home for people so different and so similar to connect and grow and support one another. He looks down on them and feels a burning in his chest, a fierce love unrivaled by any other in the pantheon. And he felt, at the base of his skull, how they loved him equally as much.

For his followers he would do anything. Even lay the burning earth at their feet if they so asked.

And it was this love, this passion that killed him. It broke and beat him down time and time again.

His cult was a loving one, but it was built on the love for others, by those who don’t know how to love themselves. His cult did not sacrifice, and still it saw the most death despite that. They were feared for the trail of burning pyres they left in their wake. Outsiders see it as a warning, but to members, it’s a reminder of sadness and pain.

He has lost so many followers. Felt their final moments like acid at the base of his skull, felt their tears burn down his cheeks and the sting of the knife in his skin.

In the beginning he’d fall to his knees sobbing and scared and alone. He’d wonder what he did wrong, how he could’ve been better, wishing he’d done more.

But then the pain would fall away and he’d know it was over, that it was too late. Always too late.

He’d stay on the ground, sobbing and shaking and gasping for breath he didn’t need. He’d stay and mourn for another one lost. Another soul he’d find among the crowds in the land of the dead. Another friend he would make too late.

Now, he carries the pain like the armor Roman wears. Wrapped around him as a reminder and a protection. The pain is always there, in the back of his mind, screaming and clawing and painful. But he has had many years to get used to the endless pain.

It never stops, but he thinks that he might have contributed to it not being so much. Thinks he might have slowed it down.

At least, that’s what he hopes.

The meetings became a pattern.

Every morning and evening they would stay a little later, or show up a bit earlier to speak with each other. It was something that Virgil found himself looking forward to. Day was the only other god besides Thomas -and occasionally Magic- that talked to him without getting upset or angry.

Their interactions couldn’t last long. A few minutes, a half hour if they pushed it. Day would greet him with a joke or pun and they would talk about what was happening in the mortal world. Or, Day would talk. Virgil preferred to listen to him speak, he found it calming.

And it’s not like Virgil had much to say anyway. He didn’t spend much time around the others or in the mortal world. If he wasn’t in the Hall or Court, he preferred the Underworld. Most stayed away, but Virgil liked the peaceful atmosphere. The cozy feeling of the blue fire torches and the glow of the spirits. The giant cavern that echoed and the stones on the ceiling glittering like stars. Stars that Virgil didn’t have to coral.

And the dead made surprisingly good company, though most didn’t seem to think so. Virgil thinks those people are stupid.

But one evening, when Day was just about to leave he suddenly stopped and turned back to Virgil. For the past week, the conversations between them had been stilted, what with Virgil having just taken on the Mantle as the Crowned Season until winter comes. He had to make sure everything on earth, as well as in the sky, flowed smoothly and was working double time as a result. Working was never something he enjoyed, but the beginning of the season was a particularly painful time for Virgil.

His relationship with Summer had never been good as far as he was concerned. Summer seemed to have this innate dislike for the nebulous god. Seeming to think him unnecessary and overly gloomy. He had even accused Virgil of not being a true Manifestation of Thomas’ heart in an argument once.

That particular declaration had killed Virgil on the inside but it’s not like he would show it. He is the protector, not the protected.

Which made his relationship with Summer so much worse. Summer who loathes to even be near Virgil, is a part of those few that Virgil must protect. It’s his purpose, the first he was given. He was born a Season, but he was chosen for this. Chosen even as he stood motionless in the garden, paralyzed by the fear and grief.

Summer was a reminder that even those he’s meant to protect, those meant to be his, don’t want him. They don’t trust him and certainly don’t like him.

But the past few months with Day had been nice, and Virgil had almost forgotten. Had almost started to hope.

But then autumn came and with it Summer, and all that hope was shattered like glass, spread out around him in shards and pieces. And Virgil was reminded of where he fit in the pantheon, in the ranks of the Benevolent.

All the way at the bottom, where no one would care if he was there or not.

He had to remember that, even though Day stood there, looking at him with such concern and sadness in his eyes. It wasn’t real, or at least not the way Virgil wanted it to be. Day became his friend out of pity or some sense of obligation or just overexposure wore him down eventually.

“Night, I-” Day started. “I know you don’t seem to like us very much-”

Virgil had to hold back a strangled noise he felt crawling up his throat. He didn’t like them?

“But I just- I want you to know that we… that I-” Day opens and closes his mouth before making a frustrated noise, unable to find the right words for what he’s trying to say.

“Spring, are you-”

“You always seem so- so scared . And I don’t know why, and you don’t have to tell me but I- You have to know that I--that we-- care and- and you may not really believe me when I say that but, it’s true. It’s true and I’m not- I don’t really know how to prove it other than…” Day takes a deep breath. “Patton.”

Virgil furrows his brows, not understanding what Day is trying to communicate and the brighter god continues. “My name is Patton.”

It happens in an instant. The power settling over him and seeping into his very bones. Wrapping itself around his own magic, into the shadows of his heart and mind, and filling the remaining spaces with light. The warmth floods out from his heart, filling him up in all the empty cracks of his being. Heat seeps into his… everything  and it feels like he’s on fire. But he is not burning.

Virgil doesn’t think he’s allowed to burn anymore.

“You don’t have to say yours.” Day-Spring- Patton’s (Patton. Patton, Patton, Patton. His name is Patton. He told Virgil his name and its Patton.) words echo within him. They fill him up with warmth and light and happiness and suddenly Virgil has to try very hard in order to not cry.

“I’m not going to force you into anything. I wouldn’t ever think of trying! I just- I want you to know that… I trust you, okay? I trust you even if you can’t trust me.” Patton smiles, wide and hopeful and happy while Virgil still stands there dumbfounded and unable to move or speak, before suddenly he’s gone. Disappeared in a flurry of sunflowers and lilies.

And Virgil is left alone in the Court. Unable to fully understand what had just happened. Unable to truly believe that Patton had just given him his Name.

But he did. He did because Virgil can feel the pulse of his magic, can feel the life tied to his now.

Oh, Earth Mother, save him, what has he gotten himself into now?

[hereticaloracles]

New Moon in Virgo- Voodoo Queen

“I don’t think that I was trying to entertain the reader more than I was trying to purge myself.” – Curtis Sittenfeld

Artemis’ Tarot Take on the New Moon in Virgo- Do you ever get the feeling that you want to scrub your soul clean?  You peel and you cut and you rip out all the tangled pieces and you still can’t seem to detach yourself from all the bullshit that surrounds you, day in and day out, wearing at your very bones like overzealous sandpaper.  It’s like you’ve been marked from birth, right on the fucking forehead, so that everyone you encounter can see your pain.  They can feel the gloom oozing off of you and the unclean feeling inside has made your skin pale and your clothes dirty and your belongings in disarray. It’s like no matter what you do, you are stuck with whatever sins have attached themselves to you…  Or are you?

Helios’ Astrological Angle on the New Moon in Virgo- Well, here we go again, ma chère- Time for the Virgo checkup. Open wide! Of course, with all the other drama going on, the normal nurse and doctor jokes don’t exactly fit. This one reeks more like an exorcism. The past Full Moon showed us as snakes, molting and shedding our old skins- Now we have to walk out into the world with brand new, but thin and sensitive skin. We are out in the world, alone, raw and vulnerable. How can we protect ourselves? Well, it is time that we take a more aggressive approach, and remove those who would cause us harm from our lives with extreme prejudice. We’ve binged for long enough, Heretics- its time to purge.

The Sun (Ace of Swords) & Moon (Knight of Cups), Venus (Queen of Pentacles), Jupiter (Justice), Uranus (Knight of Swords), and Chiron (3 of Wands)-  Under this moon, the idea of “boundaries” seems to be consistently coming up – and lo and behold, I pull the Queen of Pentacles for Venus. Without boundaries, you become too porous and you allow other people’s gritty, nasty bullshit to penetrate through your delicate skin. You’re obviously the empathic type if you are reaching out to the aid of those around you, but what you need to realize is that injured people can subconsciously behave like vampires (and they’ll make excuse after excuse for their vampiric behavior). We’re all worn the fuck out right now, and the moon is fragile in Virgo – meaning you’re going to want to huddle away and work in your own dream world right now and that is perfectly fine. The world outside is harsh, people are harsher still, and we all need a period of recharging after the intensity of Leo/Virgo season.

We’re all walking around like burnouts right now and people are at their emotional wit’s end. This is where the idea of Hermit Virgo comes in… You need to stow away, do your work in your own space surrounded by things you love in your own order, and REST. If you are pushing yourself too much, giving all you can give to your job, to your friends, to whatever bum on the street that asks you for a cigarette, then you have essentially emptied yourself into a vessel. Now it is time to set strict boundaries and do your own work, study, plan, and set shit into motion for the autumn/winter and fill your empty vessel with what you really need, because this winter is going to be a fucking hard one, folks (just looking at the astrology for it has been giving us shivers). That last Pisces full moon drained the fuck out of the majority of us, and Chaotic bullshit has been coming left and right dislodging us from our path or giving us wild opportunities – one or the other, but are we too fucking tired and drained to take those opportunities?  Rest.  Rest, recharge, and get those fucking vampires out of your life. Honestly, aren’t you sick of having the help you give being thrown back in your face? The ones you care for need to learn how to appreciate you. And you, my friend, need to learn how to appreciate yourself and see yourself as a sovereign being who extends help because they are abundant and capable of doing so. I know, because you have felt so much pain, you want to help ease the pain of others. But sometimes you need to let go for a while so that both you and they can strengthen enough to keep going on the healing path.

The Sun & Moon, Venus, Jupiter, Uranus, and Chiron– Ho boy. So starting off, you will be at an ebb emotionally- joie de vivre will be a foreign concept to you. The goal is to get back to that state, but you will need to take some extreme steps to get back there. To truly get what you want now, I am throwing all my previous advice out the window and telling you to finally hermit. Take this time right now to sequester yourself, and really lock yourself in with your demons. This Astro reminds me of when you do an Ayahuasca ceremony- you have to separate yourself from the mundane world and make a space sacred. Right now, you need to take this practice and apply it to your life- You need to remove yourself from those elements of your life that drain you, those who want to use you and your gifts for their own ends.

The problem with this, as it often is, is attachment. The people who have the potential to hurt us the most are the ones we care the most about. You must not allow them to hurt you any further. To really make this work, you have to be willing to harden your heart and become a badass to people who might think that they are acting in your best interest while their thoughtlessness hurts you- and risk hurting them with your reaction. Ironically, those who have malicious intent towards you will hardly bat an eye- they’ll shrug and move on to their next target because there is always another mark. Take no joy or guilt in severing the connections of those who you know in your heart of hearts that you cannot allow in your life, but do so dispassionately and not maliciously. It is a tough line to straddle but you need to get it right to truly master this Moon.

Even so, that just sets the stage for the work that you need to do- this is a Moon that demands diving deep into yourself, dredging up the oldest and darkest parts of who you are. If you are feeling stuck and unsatisfied with your life, take the time to be by yourself and identify what you feel you are missing or lacking in order to truly feel whole. If you are feeling enraged and irritated at everything, withdraw from your stimulus and figure out what triggers are being pushed on you and what this stems from. You have to go down into the root of the problem, and most likely it will be something so far in your past that you have completely forgotten about it- but you must exorcise these demons before you can truly move on. This moon is both a place to stop to catch your breath, and a new challenge all its own- You need to be both open to the world and ready to stab it in the throat if it comes for you.

Minor Planets: Ceres, Vesta, Eros, Black Moon Lilith, Eris, Sedna, Quaoar, Rhadamanthus, Typhon, Hekate, Achilles, Heracles, Sisyphus, Pholus, Orius

Mercury (The Fool), Mars (10 of Swords), and Neptune (Ace of Pentacles)- Ah, fuck, more indication that we are just fucking worn the fuck out. But, hey, good news. Libra season is coming and with it the element of air. Things will get moving again, and this includes ideas and projects that have been stuck. Right now you have one enemy and one enemy only – yourself. You are going to need to ground the fuck out of your being right now, and that includes killing your illusions that you are somehow not capable of holding onto your burdens anymore. As the Christians say, God only gives us what we are capable of dealing with, and honestly, this is on point. Your experiences are what is going to shape you into a powerhouse figure that can actually make a change in this world. If you only had to deal with easy breezy situations in your lifetime, you would be some rich housewife at the Cape getting trashed off of White Zinf for the second time that day because you have done about 5 minutes of soul growth your entire life. It is the hardship, the struggle, that breeds a hero. The planets are egging you on – “Take a chance, here, we have provided you with chances,” but you keep on doggedly running toward the shit you are habituated to. During this moon, you need to learn to BREAK YOUR HABITS and make new ones. You are feeling drained and run down because what you have been doing has reached its end.

It is time to die.  Create the ritual space for it. This is a perfect New Moon rite. Go home and surround yourself with symbols of all the things you want to change in your life, say goodbye to them one by one, and go bury them in the dirt under the black moon. Mourn, as mourning is nurturing the soul, and begin your new life. Don’t forget, on many levels, you chose this life. You chose this life for a reason that nags and tugs at you during the darkest hours of the night. Move toward that reason, and don’t let go. This is 2017, the year of the Star. Our hope is being decimated so that it can be tested. How far will you keep running toward your pole star before you give up and think you are never getting out of the forest?  How deep is your will to live?  How desperately do you truly want to create change in this world?  That sort of big, dramatic change doesn’t come easy. And it comes with a lot of grueling preparation… Do you think you can lift a 200 lb weight without months and months of training?  Fuck no. So what makes you feel like you can lift the weight of the world without these trials?

Mercury, Mars, and Neptune– The main concern of this Moon is that it has Mars opposite Neptune, and Mercury closely influencing. This means that no matter what you do, you will feel as though you are running into a brick wall, and the harder you try the less successful you are. This will lead to more and more mounting internal frustration, as you question whether you are doing the right thing. Take a step back, re-examine your current actions to determine if they really line up with your wants and needs. If they do not, then adjust accordingly, no matter how difficult it may seem. You may need to allow yourself to give up on something that you have sunk a lot of time and effort into, and you cant let that hold you back from moving forward. Is your effort truly being well-spent? Are you getting what you want out of this? Or is it not really worth the investment you are making? Only you can answer this, but be willing to ask the question, and seriously accept the truth of the answer even if it hurts.

Why do you persist in fighting for what no longer serves you? For what you cant admit that you truly hate? Even if you are the best in the world at it, is it truly worth doing if it hangs around your neck like a weight? Take a minute and imagine your life if you just walked away, how that would feel. Just sit with that for a second. My bet is that it feels like freedom, with a slight tinge of disappointment and regret. Stop keeping yourself prisoner when you hold the keys to your own cell! Just walk out. I promise it will not be the end of the world.

Minor Planets: Psyche, Teharonhiawako, Altjira, Orcus, Chariklo, Circe, Iris, Terpsichore, Tantalus, Asclepius, Requiem

Saturn (Queen of Cups) and Plut0 (Page of Wands)- It’s time to reach right into your psyche and become a metaphysician. What are the ghosts you have been projecting into your life?  Do you, for some reason, believe that there is no spirit in matter, that there is no healing in pain, that there is no point at all to this existence here on this plane?  My friend, you are right. You are a mere insignificant pebble on the surface of a monstrous giant, so that should assure you that you have no fucking idea what is really significant and what isn’t. You may feel that you need some sort of career to fulfill you. Trust me, some of the most successful people in the world become blubbering fools who would shit in buckets and watch movie re-runs day in and day out (just ask Howard Hughs).  Not a single soul on this planet knows how to be “happy” because there is no final state of “happiness.” You need to become acceptant of the cycles of time, of the cycles of your body, of the cycles of your emotions and listen. Happiness, like sadness, comes in waves. We can’t just respect one without respecting the other. Misery pushes creation, and loneliness pushes appreciation.

We decided to leave Eden for a reason because it was a fabrication and we wanted true knowledge. You keep seeking answers to this universe because you, too, do not want to live in a fabrication constructed by society to keep you enslaved in other people’s paradigms. Do not beat yourself up because your successes aren’t measured as such by the brain-dead zombies of general society that laugh at you while you read Nietzche and scoff at you when you talk about how our government rapes and pilages in countries so far away we need a tv screen to acknowledge it.

In short, do not live in lies, and that includes your own personal life. Do not pretend your job is worth it just because it pays well when you know it is killing you every single day. Don’t stay with someone just because you feel like you can’t do any better, and don’t keep friends around just because you don’t know what you would do without them – no matter how much time and energy you have put into them. It is time to think about yourself. It is time to draw upon your own sovereign power and to see just what you can do when you burn the blood sucking leaches off of you, and live unabashed to be yourself. You are a wolf among sheep, now start acting like it.

Saturn and Pluto– Okay so now you really need to get serious. More than anything, you WANT something out of this life, and its time to start proving that you are willing to do what it takes to do it. I know there is a ton going on for you right now, and so what? Life is tough- you have to be tougher. Especially now. Quit your bitching, moaning, and wallowing in self-pity. The planets don’t give a damn if life is hard, and nor does anyone else. They have their own problems to worry about without yours. So stop whining to any sympathetic ear that will listen and pick yourself up by the cojones. It’s high time you get back up and start kicking ass again. It will only get harder from here, so you better make damn sure that you are able to put in the work, or go back home, cry and watch Netflix til you inevitable fade away into irrelevance.

We have too much work to do, and it is too important for anyone who isn’t willing to tear this world apart to make their vision a reality. The choice is yours.

Minor Planets: Pallas Athene, Pandora, Sila-Nunam, Borasisi, Deucalion, Siwa, Damocles, Echeclus, Eurydike, Niobe

New Moon in Virgo- Voodoo Queen was originally published on Heretical Oracles

[riley1cannon]

Rules: Complete the survey & say who tagged you in the beginning. When you’re finished, tag people to do this survey. Have fun and enjoy!

I was tagged for this by anelementofsurprise. Thank you, I shall do my best. :)

1. Are you named after someone? I’m named after one of my mom’s favorite books (first name), and her favorite sister (middle name). So, yes.

2. When was the last time you cried? The other day, watching Les Miserables. 

3. Do you like your handwriting? Ehhh... It’s okay. Legible, easy to transcribe as a rule.

4. What is your favourite lunch meat? Ham, but only if I can throw a few slices in a pan and heat it up. There’s a textural quality to lunch meat that is a bit off putting unless it’s heated up first.

5. Do you have kids? Good lord, no.

6. If you were another person, would you be friends with you? I...would hope so, yes. Why not? I’m easy to be around. Few demands. Only a couple of set in stone deal breakers to earn the ‘privilege’ of my company (no smoking, no drugs, an appreciation for quiet). 

7. Do you use sarcasm? I think I’m snarky as opposed to sarcastic. Sarcasm always strikes me as more bitter and mean-spirited; humor at the expense of someone else, and purely to show how superior the sarcastic one is. 

8. Do you still have your tonsils? Yep.

9. Would you bungee jump? Nothing on God’s good earth would ever persuade me to do this. Zipline, yes; bungee, nope.

10. What is your favourite kind of cereal? Whatever’s left on the shelves that isn’t gluten-free. I realize gluten is a problem for many people but really, couldn’t there be two kinds of cereals--brands with and the same brands without? 

11. Do you untie your shoes when you take them off? Shoes, usually no; boots, yes.

12. Do you think you’re a strong person? I am. It doesn’t feel like it sometimes. Many times I’m like, “Really? You have to pile on one more thing?” to the universe. Then, somewhere, I find the strength I need to soldier on yet again. Doesn’t mean I would not appreciate a much lighter burden but you have to roll with what life hands you.

13. What is your favourite ice cream? I am one of those weirdos who actually likes vanilla. It’s quite lovely all on its own, and can be delightfully enhanced much more readily than some other flavors. That said, if there’s a pint of Chunky Monkey around, I’m going for it!

14. What is the first thing you notice about people? The vibes they give off.

15. What is the least favourite physical thing you like about yourself? My feet and hands are too big, my shoulders too broad. The first two are ridiculous, of course; the last one can be an issue, however, in getting tops that fit nice.

16. What colour pants and shoes are you wearing now?  Blue jeans and black boots.

17. What are you listening to right now? Nothing, actually; all is quiet. Whee...

18. If you were a crayon, what colour would you be? If I were a crayon... This is truly something I have never thought about. Maybe... Turquoise?

19. Favourite smell? Lilacs. Chanel No. 5, Something yummy baking in the oven. Books...

20. Who was the last person you spoke to on the phone? My brother.

21. Favourite sport to watch? American football, baseball, horse racing.

22. Hair colour? Brown w/natural copper and gold highlights (and some gray now).

23. Eye colour? Gray

24. Do you wear contacts? Nope. The idea of sticking something on my eyeballs freaks me out. Glasses are fine.

25. Favourite food to eat? Bread. Chocolate. Bread. Or anything Italian. Especially if it’s bread.

26. Scary movies or comedy? If we’re talking something like the old Cary Grant movies, then comedy would get a vote. As movies like that are hard to impossible to find these days, I have to go scary. But like, ghosts and stuff. Not slasher gore fests and zombies.

27. Last movie you watched? Ugh.... Maybe.... The Man From UNCLE? For the fifth or sixth time.

28. What colour of shirt are you wearing? A black t-shirt w/a gray-and-blue flannel shirt over it because it’s chilly. A black-and-white herringbone cardigan will join it soon.

29. Summer or winter? Spring has its charms, two weeks of mild summer is tolerable, winter has little to recommend it, so I must go with autumn.

30. Hugs or kisses? Can “neither” be an option? I suppose a hug, as long as you’re not an octopus-type.

31. What book are you currently reading? Book singular? Please. Romancing the Duke by Tessa Dare (fun, but then it got smutty), Whiskey Beach by Nora Roberts (typical Nora, which is a good thing by me), A Study in Charlotte by Brittany Cavallaro (not sure yet; different than I expected, and that can be a good thing), The Spy Who Left Me by Gina Robinson (too early to tell but it seems promising), and Lost Among the Living by Simone St. James (also too early to tell but based on her previous books I am quite hopeful of another great read.

32. Who do you miss right now? My darling, best kitty ever, Harry.

33. What is on your mouse pad? Nothing; it’s just blue.

34. What is the last TV program you watched? If we’re talking watched watched, as opposed to the TV’s just on... It was either this PBS thing, Spies in the Wild or something like that, about how they made the robots to put out to record the activities of wildlife around the world. Or that Josh Gates Expeditions show on the Travel Channel.

35. What is the best sound? Not sure of the best, but the one that cracks me up is a neighborhood parrot that whistles at me and goes through a whole repertoire of sounds. We haven’t formally met but I hope to someday.

36. Rolling stones or The Beatles? The Beatles. The Stones have maybe three or four songs I like. The Beatles have  a hundred.

37. What is the furthest you have ever traveled? Mexico

38. Do you have a special talent? A special talent? Hmm... Turning the worst things in my life upside down and finding the humor in it? :shrug:

39. Where were you born? United States; Colorado

Once again I am unable to tag. :( If there is a secret to tagging, please alert me. Anyway, if you’re reading this, consider yourself tagged.

[displacedhobbit]

Update: Greater Than Gold

AN: Oh, man, this has been an emotional journey. This part sees us through to Mirkwood.

I’m so sorry for the choppy feel of the last chapter. Rereading where I separate things (because it seemed like Rivendell was a good place to rest) I was really unhappy with how it came out. Hopefully this chapter helps to fill in some of those gaps. It also doesn’t help that I’ve written the quest over a span of about 4 years, and I can see how my writing style has changed with time.

Warnings: Violence, some swearing (I think?).

Also on FF.net and AO3

Chapter 26: Eighty-Three and Seventy-Seven - Part 2

Word Count (chapter): 10321

He tries in vain to free himself, but his vambrace is fully entertwined with Minty’s reigns. Blindly, he feels for the knife in his boot, relief washing over him once he grasps the solid wood of the handle. He stretches his other arm and begins to cut himself free, when suddenly he’s dunked into icy cold water. It rushes into his mouth and lungs, stunning him.

Minty rears up in panic, pulling his head above water and giving him a blessed moment to sputter the water from his lungs and breathe, but it is gone all too soon; he’s plunged under again. Dimly, he realizes that he’s dropped his knife, and panic seizes his chest. He prays to any god that will listen that Minty will rear up again, that he’ll be able to breathe. That she’ll cross to the other side of the stream and will be too exhausted to carry on.

His lungs burn. Desperately, he tugs at his arm. He cannot die like this - who will protect Fíli and Thorin if he dies like this? This stupid stroke of absolute misfortune.

Abruptly, he feels himself yanked away from the pony by the rushing current - his arm is freed! He tries to swim in the direction he thinks is upward. it’s so dark, everything is bathed in shadow and the water rushes too strongly for him to make out any features of the riverbed. It is a loss; the current is too strong and drags him down, down, down. His lungs burn. His arms feel heavy and leadden. No, no; not like this.

Then his head slams onto something hard and he knows no more.

Kíli wakes with a shout, sitting up so suddenly that it takes his mind a moment to process what he sees. He takes several deep breaths (Mahal, he hadn’t realized how wonderful it was just to breathe) and focuses on his surroundings. The white bedding, the soft light filtering in through the window. The solid weight of the body he’s leaned in against, the strong arms wrapped around him. The gentle voice in his ear, reminding him to breathe.

Thorin’s voice.

Kíli looks up at him, confusion plain on his features.

“I heard you shout; you were thrashing in your sleep,” he explains, before gently parting his hair to check the still-healing wound. Kíli hisses in pain when he does, but Thorin makes a satisfied noise in his throat. “It’s healing well; still swollen, but the wound has sealed.”

Then Thorin’s comforting warmth is gone, and he turns to see his uncle pouring a cup of water for him. He sluggishly pushes himself up the rest of the way to sit and takes the offered cup, grateful. Still, he avoids Thorin’s knowing, concerned stare. He doesn’t want to talk about his nightmare, doesn’t want to voice his worries aloud. Thorin has enough on his mind already, and Kíli is supposed to be here to help ease his burdens, not add to them.

“I am sorry,” Thorin says finally, reaching up to tuck Kíli’s hair behind his ear. “I have been preoccupied with planning; I hadn’t checked to see if you were well.”

Kíli shakes his head. “It’s fine,” he murmurs, finally looking up to reach Thorin’s eyes. He frowns; his uncle is a wreck. “Are you well?” he asks uncertainly, not sure if he is overstepping his bounds.

Thorin sighs and looks down at his hands. “I worry for the company,” he says simply. For you, he means, and Kíli hears it plain as day. “The journey grows harder still from here, and we’ve encountered more...misadventures already than I had anticipated.” Already, his uncle looks as though he has aged a decade - the worry lines creasing his brow and crinkling the corners of his eyes, the growing streaks of silver in his hair.

He can think of no comforting words to say, so Kíli reaches for Thorin’s hands and squeezes, mind wandering to a conversation that seemed ages ago now, after the trolls.

-

Kíli felt his anger bubbling. “Reckless?!” he parroted in a hissed whisper. Thorin had pulled him aside while the others had ventured to the troll hoard, scolding him for how he had nearly gotten the entire company killed. “What was I supposed to do; leave Bilbo to his death after they’d seen him?”

Thorin pinched the bridge of his nose. “You owe no oath to the hobbit…” he’d started.

“So unless it is Fíli, you want me to sit idly by and let others in this company die?” Kíli snapped. He didn’t understand why Thorin was so cross with him. He’d kept an eye on Bilbo while Fíli went to alert the company. He hadn’t engaged until he heard them coming, known for certain that he had backup. It wasn’t his fault that the trolls were prepared with a plan to catch them. And it was precisely because they’d saved Bilbo that the hobbit had been able to play for time and spare them all. He had been anything but reckless, and it incised him to be characterised as so.

He was fully ready to give Thorin a piece of his mind, proper for him to talk back to his uncle or not, but he’d stopped short when he saw the sheen of tears in Thorin’s eyes. His anger dissipated almost instantly. He knew how strong Thorin’s emotions had to be for them to show on his face.

When Thorin saw that his ire had calmed, he had gathered Kíli into a tight embrace. “You know that’s not what I mean,” he’d said, words muffled gently by Kíli’s hair. He could hear the thickness in his uncle’s voice. “We are barely into our journey and I’ve already almost lost you.”

He broke on the last word, and Kíli softened, twining his arms around Thorin. “You’re not gonna lose me,” he’d said, even though he himself knew it was nothing he can promise. And Thorin knew it, too; he tugged Kíli closer still, pressed his face into his neck.

“I’m sorry,” Thorin had murmured as he pulled back, pressing their foreheads together. “I was afraid.”

-

He was still afraid, and it tugged at Kíli’s heart, though he knew there was nothing he could really do to ease his uncle’s fears, short of seeing them all the way through to Erebor unharmed. For the most part he had been careful, he had thought through his actions before engaging. He was sticking to his promise, as well as he could. And he would continue to do so. There was too much at stake, and he refused to let his brother and uncle down. He squeezes Thorin’s hand again, then leans over to touch their foreheads together.

“I had half a mind to send the two of you home from here,” he admits with a soft chuckle. “Though I know you never would.”

Kíli smiles. “Of course not,” he admits. “We’re in this together, remember?”

“Yes,” Thorin agrees, reaching a hand up to squeeze the back of his neck, a silent thanks for Kíli’s comfort. “Together.”

-----

Fíli sat by the stream, eyes raking in the beautiful vistas of the elves’ valley, taking it all in, knowing they will depart soon.

Their rest at Rivendell had greatly improved the mood of the company. Even Thorin, who had never been shy about his distrust of elves, had grown fond of Lord Elrond, for he had offered them housing, and food, and supplies for their coming journey into the mountains. For his part, Fíli had been grateful for the soft bedding under his head each night, the comforting warmth of Kíli sleeping soundly next to him, the security of knowing the borders of Rivendell were well guarded.

He had pretended not to notice the growing darkness in Kíli’s eyes. He knew the quest was taking a heavy toll on his brother - that it had forced him to grow up much faster than  Fíli had even anticipated. Kíli worried far too much about fulfilling the expectations of his role as Thorin’s spare. He could see that it haunted him, followed him always; after every mishap they’d encountered the darkness grew. After he’d nearly drowned...Fíli shuddered. They were fortunate to have the hobbit with them. Oin could have been too late to get him breathing again, and then….

He feels the chill of the water seep into his bones again. He wraps his arms around himself, rubbing his arms to feel warmth, even as he sits in the bright sun.

“You alright?” Kíli asks, and he jumps, snapping out of his thoughts. “Sorry; didn’t mean to startle you,” he says, plopping down next to him, knocking their shoulders together with a tone that is anything but apologetic. It reminds him of before.

Fíli smiles, glad to see his brother in higher spirits. “What’s gotten you in such a mood?”

Kíli just smiles, eyes raking in the scenery. “It’s a good day,” he says after a moment.

Fíli reaches into his pocket for his pipe, sneaking a glance at his brother. He’s struck suddenly with a memory of their father on a similar summer day, the sun making his eyes glow a honey brown. They had been out for a walk - Fíli’s mother had been nesting, Da had called it - and she had grown tired of him being underfoot. They had been galavanting around the woods, Fíli pretending to slay his father, who amiably played along, laughing and smiling. It was one of the last warm days before autumn, before the winter that came all too fast and harsh and changed everything. It was one of the last memories he had of his father.

He smiles softly as he finishes packing his pipe and lighting it. His brother shifts beside him, and he turns to regard him, raising an eyebrow in question at the lopsided smile Kíli wears, eyes shining with something close to mischief.

“What?” he asks, puffing on his pipe. Kíli’s smile grows wider.

“Have you forgotten?” he asks.

Fíli frowns, wracking his brain. What could he have forgotten? He searches Kíli’s face for the answer, but only sees his mirthful expression. He looks so much like he did when they were children; he can’t see a trace of the darkness that had been there just this morning. He can’t for the life of him remember what he’s forgotten, but it doesn’t matter; it lightens his heart to see Kíli this way.

From his pocket, Kíli produces something wrapped in cloth and presses it into his hands. Setting his pipe down, Fíli unwraps it, grinning when he reveals the apple scone inside.

“Happy birthday,” Kíli murmurs, soft, fond smile on his face.

He had forgotten. The days on the road had started to stretch together; he truly had no idea what day it was. But Kíli must have been keeping track; of course he had been. Oh, Kíli, his sweet little brother, who remembered his birthday and had cared enough to see to it that he had his favorite treat. “Thank you,” he says quietly, breaking off a piece of the scone and taking a bite, savoring the flavors.

“I know it’s not much,” he starts.

“It’s perfect,” Fíli murmurs, knocking their foreheads together. “Thank you, nadadith.” He breaks off another piece and offers it to his brother, which Kíli happily accepts. They sit in companionable silence while Fíli munches on his treat. Eventually Kíli’s head rests on his shoulder; his brother has pilfered his pipe while he eats, but he doesn’t mind. The scent of the pipeweed makes the moment sweeter. It feels like they’re home.

He’s had many birthdays like this, lazy, just the two of them. Kíli thoughtfully gifting him with a treat or something that he’s crafted - one year it was vambraces, another a knife with an ornately carved handle that stays tucked in his overcoat, close to his heart. But he thinks, with Kíli pressed warmly against his side and his eyes roving the unfamiliar, but no less beautiful, landscape that this one might be his favorite.

It all feels so peaceful and right. He doesn’t want the moment to end; it’s the happiest he’s felt in an age. And he knows that soon, too soon, this moment will be nothing more than a memory, that they’ll be on the road once more, that the darkness will return to Kíli’s eyes. That this could very well be the last birthday he spends with a thoughtful gift and his brother pressed too close (always too close, but Fíli wouldn’t trade it for anything).

He forces his darker thoughts away, tilts his head so that his cheek is pressed against Kíli’s hair. Just breathes.

“I love you, you know,” he says finally, and he does. His brother is more precious to him than anyone or anything else in this world. He doesn’t say it often enough, he’s sure, and he knows that Kíli knows this, but he needs the words to be said, needs for Kíli to hear them. Just one more time. Just in case.

Kíli snorts out a laugh. “‘Course I know,” he says, but the affection is clear in his voice, and Fíli lets that warmth wash over him, closing his eyes to commit the moment to memory. Tucking it in next to the ones of his father, of his mother, of home.

Kíli presses just a little bit closer.

“Love you, too, nadad.”

-----

He hates thunderstorms, always has. Fíli keeps a reassuring hand on his back as they stumble their way up the mountain, rain pelting them relentlessly as strikes of lightning flash across the sky, thunder booming so loudly that it feels like the mountain itself will crumble.

His thoughts drift to his father, who still lay buried beneath a crumbled mountain, and he chokes on a sob, loses his footing and stumbles to his knees.

Fíli is there in an instant, helping pull him back to his feet. He touches their foreheads together tenderly, because he knows. Fíli knows how terrified he is, knows because for all of their life thunderstorms had sent Kíli crawling into his arms, a shaking, trembling mess.

There’s shouting from ahead of them, and he looks up to see a huge boulder flying through the air, smashing into the mountain above, sending everything violently shaking around them, raining shards that crash onto the path they're on. Kíli’s arms reach out on instinct, pressing his brother flat against the face of the mountain as the edges of the path break away and fall into the chasm below.

“It’s a thunder battle!” Balin yells, just as a massive stone giant comes into sight.

His heart leaps into his throat. Kíli suddenly can’t begin to imagine how they survive this day as another boulder careens through the air, smashing into a nearby mountain and revealing another stone giant.

“Grab my hand,” Fíli shouts as the world violently quakes around them. “Kíli!”

He reaches for him, but the ground lurches forward abruptly and his foot is no longer on solid ground. Their fingers brush for a scant second, before Fíli is pulled away from him. Or Kíli is the one being pulled. He isn’t entirely sure what is happening; it takes all of his concentration to keep his hands grasped on the wet stone as the world pitches wildly around him. He’s close to the edge and his foot keeps slipping off. They’re going higher, higher, and he finally realizes with horror that the ledge they’d just been on is really one of the stone giants, rising to join the fight.

Frantically, he looks for Fíli, feeling panic well up in his throat as he realizes that they’re on opposite legs of the giant. “Fíli!” he shouts, but the giant shifts its position, causing his foot to slide again, and he’s scrambling for purchase. Fortunately, Gloin grabs his arm and keeps him from falling over the edge.

His head spins. The unpredictability of their movements coupled with the torrential rain keeps throwing him off balance. He can’t see where Fíli is, but he hears distant shouting occasionally break through the thundering sounds of the battle. A boulder hits their giant, shaking everything horribly and sending down a shower of rock and debris that only narrowly misses them. Another great shaking, another lurch of the world, and he’s sliding, his boots failing to find traction on the stone.

Gloin grabs his arm again, pulling him forward, keeping him sliding even as Kíli tries to find traction. “Come on; jump off!” he shouts, and Kíli looks up to see Thorin and several others standing safely on a much larger ledge, so he scrambles to reach them. He slips again, losing Gloin’s hand as the warrior jumps to safety. By the time he is able to stand again, the giant’s leg is pulling back as it rights itself; the gap between him and safety grows.

“Kíli, jump!” Thorin hollers, arms outstretched, face panicked, and Kíli does.

For a terrifying second he doesn’t think he will make it, and in truth he doesn’t make it all the way. The ball of his left foot catches the ledge, but slides straight off. Thorin and Gloin are able to grab him, though his stomach and legs slam roughly into the unforgiving stone, knocking the air out of him and sending his stomach churning. He’s hoisted up to safety, heart pounding louder than the thunder around them, as his uncle gets him to his feet.

Thorin cups his face, smoothing his wet, knotted hair out of the way. “Are you alright?”

He can only nod; he’s trembling so much that he doesn’t trust himself to speak - he doesn’t even trust the ground under his feet to stay still. Thorin gently pushes him behind himself, farther onto the safety of the ledge, and Kíli turns to see the missing members of their company, still trapped on the giant’s knee. “Fíli…” he murmurs numbly.

They can do little more than watch, huddled on their ledge, as the stone giants continue to brawl. He wraps his arms around himself in a feeble attempt to stop his trembling.

Another giant joins the fray, tossing a boulder at their giant, sending it stumbling to its knees, which smash into the mountain not far from them. When the giant falls back, the space on his knee that the company occupied is empty.

Cold dread wells up within him, a chill even icier than the rain battering them.

“No!” he hears someone scream, belatedly realizing it was himself. He stays rooted to the spot, even as Thorin presses past him and ahead, calling for Fíli and Dwalin, hoping for any sign of life, that they haven’t been crushed in the collision.

He can’t move. He was supposed to protect Fíli, but how could he have protected him from this?

“We’re alright!” someone shouts. “We’re alive!” He can’t place the voice, he just knows that it’s not Fíli’s and that he needs to see if the words are true - he needs to move.

He starts shuffling forward, numbly, not believing. His boots slip on the rocks; the rumbling sounds of the thunder battle seem farther away. There’s a commotion up ahead, and he turns a corner to see Bilbo hanging from the ledge, Ori trying desperately to grab his hand to pull him up. They can’t reach him, and Kíli’s heart leaps into his throat when Thorin swoops down himself to grab him and allow the company to pull him up. His uncle slips, and he’s aware of the strangled scream that wrenches its way out of his throat, but Dwalin has him and pulls him to safety.

Across the expanse, his eyes meet Fíli’s, and suddenly, finally, nothing else matters. He’s alive.

It seems to take ages before they make it across to the ledge, ages before he is able to embrace his brother, to truly see that he is unharmed. Kíli clutches him close, something akin to a sob wrenching itself from his throat when Fíli’s arms wrap around him in return. His tears come fast, unbidden, as he presses his face into his brother's neck. Fíli keeps murmuring assurances to him, but he can’t quite make out the words over the blood rushing in his ears and the horrific thunderclaps echoing off the mountain.

Dimly, he’s aware that the company is moving again, but his hand doesn’t leave Fíli’s as they traverse the rocky terrain, eventually coming upon a cave.

It is no sooner than they step inside that Fíli whirls him around and clutches him close to his chest. “Breathe, nadadith,” Fíli’s shaking voice says in his ear. “Breathe with me.”

Kíli focuses on the rise and fall of Fíli’s chest, the feel of his breath against his cheek. It is a few moments of hitching, shuddering breaths before he is able to match them. He’s still crying, but he doesn’t care. He thought he’d lost him, just like they’d lost their da…

A second pair of arms wraps around him, around both of them. “Shh, atamanel,” Thorin’s choked voice whispers. Kíli hears him press a kiss to Fíli’s brow, then one to the crown of his own head. “We’re alright, my boys. We’re alright.” He almost sounds like he’s trying to convince himself. They stay entangled that way for a long while, drawing strength from one another, before Thorin’s arms reluctantly loosen. “Come,” he says softly, hands squeezing the napes of their necks before dropping away. “We must get you into dry clothes, keep you warm.”

Having decided that the cave was safe enough, they make camp for the night, though they skip the fire for fear of what might be lurking in other caves in the mountain. He and Fíli share a bedroll, limbs entangled with one another just as they did when they were children. For warmth, he’d say if anyone asked, but he really just needed to feel Fíli’s solid weight against him, hear the thrum of his heartbeat, the gentle rise and fall of his breathing, to know that he was alive.

Thorin sets his own bedroll up just a little too close to theirs (for space, of course; the cave is small), and Kíli is deeply comforted to feel his uncle’s arm against his back.

When Kíli eventually drifts off to sleep, all he dreams of are great chasms opening up from beneath his feet, splitting him from his brother, wrenching Fíli off to places he cannot follow.

Then he suddenly wakes and sees it is real.

-----

“Start with the youngest.”

Goblins surge forward, clawed hands grabbing at Kíli and Ori and yanking them from the group. Fíli reaches desperately for his brother (Nori does the same), but all he catches is empty air as the two youngest members of the company are thrown unceremoniously to the ground in front of the Great Goblin. The whips come out again, and he can hear them whish through the air, can hear them striking, can hear a sharp cry from Ori, but Kíli is silent. He can’t see them through the throng of goblins.

Fíli feels bile rising up in his throat. This cursed day had been too much. He needed Kíli, needed him safe at his side, just as he needed air in his lungs. He lunges forward but is quickly yanked back by Thorin.

“Enough!” his uncle shouts as he steps forward, and surprisingly all movement from the goblins stops. The Great Goblin eyes him for a moment, before an amused smile splits his face wide.

“Well, if it isn’t Thorin, son of Thrain, son of Thror; King Under the...Mountain?” the goblin mocks. “But you don’t have a mountain, do you?” Laughter from all of the goblins surrounds them, shrill and screeching.

Fíli inhales sharply in surprise. How did he know? They had been careful, hadn’t they? Had Dain ratted them out?

He sees Kíli slowly start to stand, before his brother pulls Ori back to his feet as well. With a snarl, Thorin presses the pair of them back toward the mass of dwarves, distancing them from the Great Goblin, eyes flashing with pure contempt.

“Take care how you speak,” he says, tone level. Even here, with the odds stacked against them, Thorin oozes confidence. Fíli cannot help but admire him, and hope that he could be an ounce as kingly as Thorin some day.

“I’m fine,” Kíli whispers once Fíli pulls him closer, distancing him still further from the throng of goblins, and he does look mostly unharmed, though he rolls his shoulder stiffly. But truthfully, Fíli has no idea if it’s from the goblin’s assault, or from falling through the ceiling, or from stumbling and sliding their way up an apparently living mountain. For his part, Ori is sporting a nasty red swipe across his cheek, which Dori immediately frets over.

“Send word to the pale orc,” the goblin snears to one of its subordinates. “Tell him I have found his prize.”

Thorin steps back in surprise, but keeps his unflinching glare on the goblin. “Azog was slain in battle long ago,” he spits. “By my own hand.”

The Great Goblin laughs, a deep, throaty chuckle. “Sure of that, are you?” he taunts, and Thorin takes a step forward, confidence renewed, curses on his tongue.

His words are cut off by a shriek from a nearby goblin. A flurry of activity erupts as the goblins rush forward to see what caused the scream; it forces Thorin back, closer to the company. Fíli reaches for his uncle’s forearm and squeezes; he can see the tension that lingers in him from his posture. If the pale orc really were alive...it would be devastating to their uncle. The one small consolation Thorin had taken from the horrid Battle of Azanulbizar had been Azog’s end. After everything else that had been lost...

“Biter!” the Great Goblin yells, leaping away from the commotion as he tosses Thorin’s elven blade to the ground. “Kill them!” he commands. “Kill them all! Cut off his head!” he shouts, pointing a gnarled finger at Thorin.

The whips are out again, striking haphazardly as goblins leap onto the company, slashing and biting. Kíli and Thorin are both yanked away from him, the latter pinned to the ground as a goblin straddles him and brandishes a particularly jagged looking blade, prepared to cut his throat. Fíli lunges forward, intent on knocking the goblin off to buy them some time. Their weapons aren’t far away; they just have to get to them.

Suddenly, a flash of light appears, illuminating the dark caves with all the strength of the sun, followed by a shockwave that sends him stumbling back. The goblins shriek, startled by the unnatural brightness and cowering away, while Fíli manages to stagger back to his feet.

“Take up arms,” Gandalf’s voice rings out, for the wizard is silhouetted in the brightness. “Fight!”

Fíli reaches their weapons cache first, and starts tossing them back toward the company. As Gandalf’s light begins to dim, the goblins start to come back to their senses. The Great Goblin is up first, swinging his mace wildly at Gandalf, who brandishes his own sword.

“Beater!” he wails, shrinking backwards, giving Fíli enough time to get the rest of the weapons to the company and to grab his own twin swords, readying himself to fight in just the nick of time, slashing down two goblins that lunge at him. He feels Kíli behind him, sword drawn, guarding him from any dangers that might sneak up on him.

Kíli had steadfastly watched his back from the day he took his oath. While he still feared for Kíli and what this quest would require from him, he couldn’t lie and say that he was not grateful at having him here. Having him wrenched away from him on the mountain had revealed a deep fear within him that he wasn’t ready to process just yet. The thought of not having Kíli to watch his back...he cannot fathom it.

What followed next was a mass of chaos - weapons clanging against each other, battle cries from dwarf and goblin alike, a cacophony of sounds echoing off the cavernous walls. He is operating fully on instinct; all he can focus on is following Gandalf’s staff through the maze of halls as they make their escape, trusting that the wizard would see them through, slashing away at any goblins that cross his path. It seems like it takes hours as they run, wholly exhausted, before they break through a crevice in the rock and are bathed in sweet daylight.

Gandalf keeps them running father still down the mountain, in case of archers or catapults or other defenses, and when the wizard finally deems them far enough to be safe, Fíli all but collapses into the forest clearing.

Kíli sinks to his knees beside him, gasping for breath, wide eyes meeting his. “We’re okay,” Fíli manages, reaching down to squeeze his shoulder fondly. “Right?” Kíli simply nods and reaches his hand up to grasp Fíli’s.

Thorin appears to his right, equally out of breath, franticness in his eyes. It’s a look Fíli has not seen before, and it unsettles him. He reaches forward and grabs the nape of his uncle’s neck, pressing their foreheads together. After a moment (and a few deep breaths) Thorin’s gaze clears, and he reaches for Fíli’s face, cupping his cheeks in his hands as he pulls back, scanning him for injuries.

“You alright, lad?” he asks gruffly, and Fíli nods. He is, for the most part, unharmed, though his legs and lungs burn.

Thorin turns to his brother and pulls Kíli to his feet, giving him the same treatment, embracing him before checking for injuries, shoulders relaxing slightly at the realization that they have both escaped Goblin Town unscathed.

Gandalf counts as the last of their company breaks through the clearing. The wizard frowns. “Where is Bilbo?” he asks.

Kíli’s sharp eyes anxiously scan the treeline.

“Where is our hobbit?”

-----

He’d been naive.

It didn’t matter how careful he had been, how diligently he had guarded his secrets. The word was out, that Thorin Oakenshield and company were journeying to Erebor to reclaim the mountain, and now goblins and orc alike were hunting them relentlessly. Who knew what others now sought to reach the mountain before them. They’d been fortunate enough to simply survive the day, with many thanks going to their burglar and the wizard.

And Azog! He felt the bile rise in his throat. He’d been such a fool to think that his wounds would have festered and led to his demise all those years ago. Young and overconfident; so sure that his line could not suffer any more loss that the gods must have granted them one small gift - the death of the pale orc. For all the life that had been snuffed out of his line due to that...creature...he had thought the gods would reward him.

He was wrong. How cursed was his house? What other horrors would befall him before he made his way to the undying lands?

The bounty that had been placed on his head long ago, the missive in Black Speech that Balin had uncovered...it was all due to that filth. Thorin had thought it was just an order in retaliation for killing Azog, but now he knew better. It was a grudge; personal. Azog himself wanted to snuff out his line. It was more important to him than ever to keep Fíli and Kíli’s relation to him under wraps. As it was, as long as the pale orc drew breath, they would never be safe.

And he would never, never be able to forgive himself if they suffered more for nothing other than their relation to him. He couldn’t bear it. He curses himself, not for the first time, for bringing them with him. It would be so easy to end his line...they could get ambushed on the road, they could...

“So what do we do now?” Dwalin asks, plopping unceremoniously next to his brooding friend by the fire. They had rested the full day since the eagles had carried them away from the orc and his hunting party. In the distance they could see the Lonely Mountain from the outcropping of rocks, under which they’d taken shelter for the approaching night, and Thorin had mostly recovered from his wounds thanks to Gandalf’s magic (and fortunately his armor was thick - he’d mostly just had the sense knocked out of him and some impressive bruising); it was time to move on. To continue onward. Home.

The mountain looked ethereal, bathed in the pinks and purples of twilight. Thorin feels a familiar, intense longing tug at him. So close, but still so very far. Nevermind the issue of the dragon. There were too many dangers much closer to focus on.

“Gandalf thinks we can lose them in Mirkwood - they won’t likely follow us into Elven territory,” Thorin says. “But we will need to make haste and leave at first light. They could still catch us on the road.” Dwalin nods, and Thorin sighs, “Though we may have lingered here too long, I don’t fancy leaving at this hour.”

“A decent night's sleep wouldn’t hurt with all the knocks we’ve got on us,” Dwalin agrees. It was true; he doubted any of them were ready to pack up and run again after this woeful misadventure. They hadn’t had a proper rest, even by traveling standards, since they ascended into the Misty Mountains over a week ago. Not even their hobbit would be ready to venture on just yet, even though he had turned out to be surprisingly brave. Thorin owed him his life, if he were honest with himself. All of them did.

His eyes scan the company. Most of them are lying about, some asleep, others simply regaining their wits (truly, Bombur was still regaining his breath), others tending to their wounds. His gaze first fixes on Fíli and Kíli, who are huddled together with their backs pressed against the rocks, seemingly already asleep; then to Balin, who is pouring over some maps with the wizard, trying to plot the safest path forward; then to the hobbit, who is off to the side, alone, eyes fixed far off in the distance.

Dwalin notices his gaze and smirks. “I’ll take the first watch,” he says, barely hidden amusement in his voice.

Thorin gets to his feet and plods over to the hobbit - Bilbo (Mahal, he could hear Kíli scolding him in his head) - with plenty on his mind. “Are you opposed to company, Master Baggins?” he asks gruffly, though not unkindly.

Bilbo starts and looks up at him. For all his complaining about the noise of the company, it seemed he was so caught up in his thoughts that Thorin had managed to sneak up on him. “Oh,” he says hastily. “No, not at all.” He gestures to the space beside him, scooting over a bit on his bedroll to make room.

They sit in silence for a while as Thorin tries to form his thoughts into words. Bilbo occasionally sneaks glances at him, clearly unnerved by the silence. “I underestimated you,” he finally says. “Your bravery. Your loyalty. I was wrong to say that you did not belong amongst us.”

Bilbo flushes. “Yes, you’ve mentioned that,” he says, relaxing, good humor in his voice. Thorin almost smiles.

“How are you faring?” The hobbit had been quite banged up after they escaped from the goblin cave, and no doubt from being tossed around by Azog. Oin had tended to him earlier, and at least the old dwarf had not been concerned. Though when Bilbo had gotten separated from the company, he’d taken a nasty knock to the head.

Bilbo sighs. “I’ve got a good number more bruises than I’ve ever had in my life,” he says with a chuckle. “But nothing that won’t heal in time. My head’s feeling much better, at the very least.”

“I’m still amazed you managed to find your way out of the caves,” Thorin comments, and although his tone is not accusatory, Bilbo flinches just slightly, hand slipping into his pocket, before he relaxes again.

Without a word, the hobbit sets about preparing his pipe, pulling the pouch from his pocket and packing it efficiently. “You?” he asks, gesturing toward Thorin, who fishes out his own pipe and hands it over. “Old Toby, a shire specialty,” Bilbo explains with a small smile. “My favorite pipe-weed. It just tastes like...home,” he finishes quietly. It’s almost as if he’s afraid to say the word - home - as if it’s become more of curse than a comfort.

“It’s good,” Thorin says after taking a long drag, savoring the flavor. It’s different, sweeter somehow, then the pipe-weed that grows near Ered Luin. They sit in silence for a while, blowing smoke rings into the woods as the sun sets, each lost in their own thoughts.

“I meant what I said,” Bilbo says eventually, quietly. “About helping you regain your home.” He can see that the hobbit’s eyes are fixed on the lonely mountain, bathed in the last oranges of the day as the sun slips below the horizon.

Thorin shifts a bit, a complicated mess of emotions welling up within him.

“I just...it’s a horrid thing that happened to your people. And though I haven’t known you all a long while, I know you are an honorable folk. I...I wish these tragedies had never befallen you,” he says softly. “I’ve spoken with Kíli a great deal…”

“Aye, he does seem to have grown quite fond of you,” Thorin admits.

“Hearing how you’ve done so much to care for your people, even when they didn’t deserve it...it’s kingly, indeed.” Bilbo turns his gaze to the Lonely Mountain. “I will see you returned home. I swear it.”

With a grateful sigh, Thorin quietly murmurs, “I owe you much more than your fourteenth share.”

-----

He doesn’t sleep once they get to Beorn’s.

He’d like to, and honestly, he’d do well to, but too much has happened since they fell into Goblin Town. Too much that he hasn’t been able to process. Too much fear gnaws at him constantly, distracting him from his duty. Now that he knew the pale orc had lived, Kíli was more certain than ever that his life would be forfeit. How could it not be? All of the odds were stacked against them - against him.

So he sits, wide awake, watching the company as they rest, cherishing the feel of Fíli’s head resting on his thigh, even though Gandalf had insisted that there was no need for them to be watched over this night. And that really must be true, because the wizard had dropped off to sleep with the lot of them, without anyone assigned to watch. It was only Kíli that twisted and turned uncomfortably in his makeshift bed, before he finally gave up on sleep for the night.

The embers in the hearth have grown low. He is contemplating getting up and throwing another log on, but the skin-changer’s logs are almost as big around as he is, and he doesn’t trust himself to not wake the company, so he sits, fingers idly combing through his brother’s hair as his thoughts wander. Happy memories, sad ones, fears that he has tried to ignore...they swirl into a complicated mess in his mind; gradually his temples begin to throb.

Near the fire, Dwalin shifts and rolls over, and his eyes meet Kíli’s in the dark. Kíli manages a smile in greeting, but Dwalin just frowns, rises, and quietly pads over to him.

“You been awake all night, laddie?” he asks, sitting so they are shoulder to shoulder, and Kíli only nods. Dwalin’s arm snakes around him, tugging him closer, much like when he was a child. “Ya’ need to rest,” he scolds gently.

Kíli sighs, but lets his head droop to his weapons master’s chest all the same. They sit in comfortable silence for a long while, and Kíli, tactile as he is, draws much comfort from their contact. He feels his head grow heavy, and he’s tempted to close his eyes. But he’s afraid of what his mind’s eye will paint for him, so, with effort, he keeps them open.

“You know,” Dwalin says softly, his voice a low rumble right at Kíli’s ear, “I was quite fond of your ma back in my younger days. Even asked Thorin if I could court her.”

Kíli snorts out a breath of laughter, disbelieving.

“I did!” Dwalin chuckles. “Thorin socked me straight in the jaw, told me to go sniffing after someone else’s baby sister.” His voice is fond, light. It warms Kíli to his core. He likes to hear stories about his parents, though he never feels bold enough to ask for them. “But your ma,” he continues. “She was a beauty, in and out. It’s a shame our stories give so much credit to Thorin - she’s the one who kept him standing tall after...everything.”

He hums in acknowledgement, eyes gradually slipping closed. He’d heard as much before from Uncle, that she had kept him from completely losing himself, that she’d kept him moving forward.

“You and your brother are a lucky lot. You got the best parts of both of ‘em. Your ma’s strength and courage. Your da’s kindness.” Dwalin’s voice thickens. “I miss them both,” he admits. “The world was a better place with them in it, that’s for sure, but you lads...you lads keep them with us.”

Kíli’s head droops further. “Tell me about them?” he asks softly, and he feels Dwalin give him a squeeze.

Dwalin does, and Kíli eventually drifts off to sleep, Dwalin’s stories coming to life in his dreams.

-----

Spiders. Of all the gods-forsaken creatures in the whole of Middle Earth, it had to be sodding spiders.

Fíli isn’t scared of a lot of things, honestly. He was the elder, braver brother, and out of necessity he’d ensured that only a few things really frightened him. Harm befalling any of his kin, primarily, dying in battle, too. And sure, little spiders made him squirmy and uncomfortable, but who didn’t feel that way? It was nothing he couldn’t muster up a little courage to handle. The eeriness of these woods, too, had sent shivers down his spine, but he still pressed on (mostly because pressing on was the only way to get out of this bizarre wood).

Big, gigantic, apparently dwarf-eating spiders were a completely different story altogether.

He was right terrified, but he can feel Kíli fighting at his back (as usual), and his brother’s bravery spurs him on (he is the oldest, after all, he should at least be as brave as his brother). He’s still a little woozy from whatever the beasts had bitten him with; his bitten side burns and his arms feel sluggish and weak. Kíli shouts something at him, but his ears feel full of cotton and he can’t make out the words precisely. He turns to ask, but a rather large spider rushes at him, distracting him.

With a grunt, he smashes his sword down, killing the beast quickly enough, but sees two more to his right. He braces himself, formulating his plan of attack. Suddenly, they’re taken down by an arrow each. He starts to look for his brother to thank him, but quickly realizes that the arrows aren’t his. The fletching is wrong, Kíli’s are yellow.

They’re instantly surrounded by elves on all sides as they snipe the spiders one by one. He whirls around, dismayed to see that Kíli is no longer at his back; he looks farther and still can’t find him. Thorin and the company begin to circle together, facing the elves, uncertain of their intentions. His vision seems to lag behind his movement - whatever toxin the spider had is taking its toll on him - but he needs to find his brother. Why isn’t he with them?

There’s a shout off in the distance,one that he recognizes immediately and has his stomach sinking into his boots.

“Kíli!”

He steps forward, but his vision clouds and everything goes back.

-----

When he comes to, he’s aware that he’s moving, but his feet aren’t touching the ground. Slowly, he pries his eyes open. His head is killing, and it takes a moment for him to gather enough strength to lift it and look around.

He’s still in the dark wood, and can make out Thorin’s dark hair ahead of him, flanked on either side by elves. He can feel that his arms are outstretched, and judging by the jostling he feels at his sides and what he thinks are arms snaked around his back, he’s being carried.

“You awake laddie?” Bofur’s voice asks from his right. He nods, then turns to look at him, but his vision swims and his head drops back down.

“Just hang on,” Kíli says from his left, and relief floods him. “Oin says it’ll take a bit for the antivenom to work it out of your system.”

“I’m just glad we’re not the ones carrying Bombur,” Bofur says with a light chuckle, one that is cut off when he stumbles.

“Dina!” an unfamiliar voice hisses. “Be silent, nogoth.”

He feels himself fade in and out for the rest of their journey, and the next thing he is aware of, he’s being tossed unceremoniously into a cell, his weapons stripped from him.

“Kíli?” he calls out with uncertainty. His head is still swimming, and he isn’t quite sure what’s happening. The elves had saved them and then...captured them? It didn’t make sense. Wasn’t Gandalf one of their friends?

“Took ‘im with Thorin to see the king,” Bofur explains, calling from somewhere outside his cell. “Hauty little buggers assumed he’s Thorin’s son.”

Fíli is fairly certain he is going to be sick. He must say that out loud, because Bofur says “Aye, Oin said that might happen. Could hear Nori retching earlier.”

He shakes his head to clear it, hoping the nausea will pass. “Who else got bit?” he grinds out, feeling the bile rise despite his best efforts.

“You, Nori, Dwalin, and Bombur,” he answers. “Oin had the herbs for an antidote, luckily. Elsewise we’d need to rely on the hospitality of these elves, which thus far seems...lacking.”

Fíli loses his inner battle and empties the meager contents of his stomach on the floor beside him. He digs through his overcoat to find a cloth to wipe his mouth, and he lets his head tip back against the cool stone of their cell wall. The fog in his head starts to clear, and dimly he begins to recognize other voices from the company. With a sigh, he hefts himself up, crawling to the gate of his cell to try and assess what’s going on.

“Aye, Fíli’s up,” Bofur says, and Fíli can see him in a similar looking cell across the hall. “The rest?”

“Not sure,” Balin answers from somewhere down the hall. “We’re not all in this hall,” he says, sounding rather cross. “Or, at least, if we are, no one else is up. Don’t rightly know where anyone is besides us.”

“And Kíli and Thorin,” Gloin answers. “Assuming those nasty buggers told the truth.”

“Isn’t Gandalf an elf-friend?” Fíli grinds out, and his voice sounds completely horrid. “This has to be a misunderstanding. Thorin will get it sorted.”

Balin laughs, humorlessly. “Oh, laddie. You’ve no idea of the animosity that exists between Thorin and King Thranduil.”

-----

“A quest to reclaim a homeland and slay a dragon,” the elven king muses as he stares Thorin down. Kíli watches from the side, where he is surrounded by 3 elves, one of them seemingly the son of the king. “I myself suspect a more prosaic motive,” Thranduil continues. “Attempted burglary.”

Thorin scoffs, eyes not leaving Thranduil’s as the king tries to guess his thoughts.

Thranduil smirks. “You have found a way in. You seek that which would bestow upon you the right to rule. The King’s Jewel. The Arkenstone.” He circles around Thorin, casting a glance Kíli’s way. “It is precious to you, beyond measure. I understand that.” His eyes stay locked on Kíli’s, searching, then he suddenly turns to regard Thorin again. “There are gems in the mountain that I too desire. White gems, of pure starlight.” He stands in front of Thorin again, stretching to his full height. “I offer you my help.”

“I am listening,” Thorin replies, tone carefully guarded.

“I will let you go, if only you return what is mine,” the king elaborates.

Thorin turns, eyes catching Kíli’s as he paces, considering. “A favor for a favor.” Hope blossoms in Kíli’s chest - he had been so worried that the elven king would refuse to negotiate with them, that he would refuse to let them go, but he seemed much more agreeable now.

“One king to another,” Thranduil affirms.

Thorin stops, eyes locked on Kíli’s. I’m sorry, they say, and his heart sinks.

“I would not trust Thranduil, the great king” he spits, and at the shift in Thorin’s tone the two elves flanking him grab his arms roughly, “to honor his word, should the end of all days be upon us.” He’s shouting by the end of it, whirling around and hatefully glaring at Thranduil. “You, who lack all honor! We came to you once, starving, homeless, seeking your help, but you turned your back!” Thorin is shaking with rage. “You turned away from the suffering of my people and the inferno that destroyed us! Imrid amrad ursul!”

Thranduil steps back, surprised, but quickly composes himself, glancing meaningfully at the elves who have him pinned. Not a second later a hand roughly grabs his hair, pulling his head back, and an ornately carven silver knife is at his throat. “Take care how you speak, Oakenshield. I would hate for your son to lose his head from your...irrationality.”

Thorin’s eyes meet Kíli’s again. Trust me. Kíli swallows thickly, taking a deep breath to calm himself, putting his faith in his uncle to navigate this situation with care. The knife at his throat presses closer. “I have no sons,” he says, bitterly, eyes turning back to Thranduil. “I have no kin. The dragon fire and our homelessness saw to that long ago,” he hisses. “You saw to it.”

The elven king regards Thorin with a curious expression, looking again at Kíli with narrowed eyes. After a nod of his head, the knife falls away from his throat, but his arms and hair stay in the strong grips of the elves. Kíli releases the breath he didn’t know he had been holding.

Thranduil turns, gracefully ascending back to his throne. “I warned your grandfather of what his greed would summon,” he says, casting a glance back at Thorin. “But he would not listen.” He settles into his throne, looking almost bored. “You are just like him.”

Thorin’s glare intensifies; he steps forward, more curses ready to spring from his mouth. Thranduil just waves a hand, and the guards rush forward, grabbing Thorin roughly. The hand in Kíli’s hair shoves his head forward as he’s forced to his knees.

“Stay here and rot, if you will.” The king says as Thorin is hauled from the throne room. “A hundred years is a mere blink in the life of an elf. I am patient. I can wait.”

“Ish kakhfê ai’d dur rugnu!”

-----

Thorin sees red as he is hauled down to the keep, strangled curses coming in a constant stream. He is roughly tossed into a cell, the door slammed shut behind him.

“Metun menu rukhas!” he yells after the elves, before taking deep, heaving breaths to calm his ire.

He hears a sigh from across the hall. “I take it you didn’t make a deal,” Balin says, disappointment clear in his voice.

“No,” Thorin sneers. “No, I do not trust Thranduil to honor his world. He would stab us in the back without a second thought.”

He still holds out hope that their burglar will be able to spring them. He hadn’t been captured with the rest of them, and if he must choose between Bilbo coming to his aid over Thranduil honoring his promises, he would take Bilbo a thousand times over.

He is still focusing on calming his anger when he hears Fíli’s uncertain voice.

“Where is Kíli?”

Dismayed, he realizes that he doesn’t know, and all he can think of is the elvish blade at Kíli’s neck.

-----

Thorin spits more curses as he’s escorted none too gently out of the hall, harsh Khuzdul echoing off the walls until Kíli can hear him no more. Thranduil fixes his gaze on him once more. “Bring him closer,” he says.

He’s pulled back up to his feet and shoved in front of the elven king’s throne, feeling impossibly small.

“You’re too young to be of Erebor,” Thranduil observes, sounding thoughtful. “Where do you come from, boy?”

It takes him a moment to find his voice; the king’s stare unnerves him. “Ered Luin,” he says, proud of himself for keeping the shaking out of his words.

Thranduil hums thoughtfully. “And if it is truly not Oakenshield, who is your father? What family does he hail from?”

He swallows down the sadness that abruptly lodges itself in his throat. “No family of note,” he manages to say. “He was a miner. A commoner.”

“And your mother?” the king continues, eyes searching.

“I did not know her,” he says quietly; it’s as close to the truth as he can get - he fears that Thranduil would be able to see if he lied.

Thranduil clicks his tongue. “An orphan of Thorin’s Halls,” he muses, satisfied with his answers, and Kíli’s eyes sink to the ground. “So tell me, why would you risk life and limb to follow Oakenshield to a homeland that is not yours? It is a curious choice, indeed.”

He sighs, shrugging his shoulders. “I had...I had nothing in Ered Luin,” he says, eyes still on the ground, because he knows it’s a lie; he had everything. “This was an offer of...of something. A chance for more.”

Thranduil regards him carefully. “I had half a mind to kill you, son or not, just to see Oakenshield’s face,” he admits casually, and Kíli takes a steadying breath, biting the inside of his cheek to mind his tongue. “Still, it is obvious that you care for him, though I cannot tell if the feeling is mutual or not.”

Kíli’s head snaps up, eyes narrowing.

“Did he ensure you were fed as a child? Clothe you?” Thranduil asks. “A motherless child; you would have died without his aid, I wager. You feel indebted to him, do you not? Your benevolent king.”

Dumbly, he nods, not trusting himself to speak without revealing too much. Thranduil seems to stare straight into his soul.

“Your trust and your youth make you blind,” the king says, eyes drifting down the path they had taken Thorin. “If he is ever able to come to his senses and you set foot in Erebor, you will see. Let me give you some advice.”

Kíli takes a step back, uncertain, as Thranduil leans forward on his throne, watching him intently once more.

“You should know that you are worth nothing to Oakenshield, not compared to the treasure of Erebor. To the Arkenstone. The goldsickness will take him, just as it has taken all of his kin before him.” Thranduil smirks. “If you are smart, your company will see to it that you kill him before he gets you killed. You owe him nothing.”

White anger boils up within him, and it takes all of his strength to keep his mouth shut, though he knows from Thranduil’s amused smirk that his eyes are flashing with rage.

“Tell him this,” the king continues, waving to the guards who roughly grab his arms once more. “My offer still stands. He is welcome to take it if ever he comes to his senses.” He smirks at him. “If you value your life, you’ll see to it that he does.”

With that, he is taken down the same hall that Thorin was, and shoved into a cell of his own.

“Who’s that then?” he hears Bofur call from somewhere far away.

“It’s me,” he says, voice rough. “Kíli.”

“Oh, thank the maker,” he hears from the cell next to him. Fíli. He sighs with relief, immensely grateful to hear his voice. When he’d last seen him, when the guards had yanked him away from his brother to take him with Thorin, he’d been positively ashen, and though Kíli trusted that Oin’s healing would take, he was still afraid.

He was always afraid now, it seemed. It was getting harder to hide.

“Where have you been?” Thorin shouts, not unkindly, and Kíli can tell that he’s closer than Balin, but not as close as Fíli. “Did that snake harm you?”

“No, no; I’m fine,” he replies. “He just wanted to interrogate me a bit. To make sure I wasn’t your kin,” he says quieter, not knowing if there are any prying ears about. He remembers from Balin’s teaching that elves have notoriously good hearing; he doesn’t want to give himself away.

“And?” Thorin pries, clearly anxious. Kíli knows it would not do well for Azog to hear that Oakenshield had a young, beardless, dark-haired archer son traveling with his company. The risk to his life would grow exponentially.

“He knows I’m just an orphan,” he says, choosing his words carefully. He settles himself close to the door of his cell, his back pressed against the wall that he suspects separates himself from his brother. He sighs, letting his head drop back against the stone. “And wants you to know that his offer will stand, should you change your mind.” Thorin just scoffs, cursing the elf-king under his breath once more, and Kíli feels his hope for rescue vanish.

Now that his adrenaline from the battle and his audience with the king has left him, he just feels tired, hungry, and cold. He hugs himself and closes his eyes, wondering if he could sleep here. He probably shouldn’t - what if he had another nightmare? What if he woke up thrashing and screaming? Thranduil was too cunning and calculating to let that by, and he didn’t fancy himself to be in the elf’s presence anytime soon again.

But he can’t not sleep forever. Gently, he knocks his head against the stone wall behind him.

“You still there, Kee?” Fíli calls eventually, interrupting his musings.

Kíli manages to grumble something affirmative in return. “Are you well?” he asks, genuinely worried.

Fíli chuckles. “I've been better,” he admits; Kíli can hear the grimace in his voice. “Thunderstorms and spiders; how fortunate for us.”

Kíli snorts out a laugh. “Fortunate indeed,” he agrees. He wishes he could crawl into his brother’s arms, to see the color returned to his face. He wonders if Fíli wishes for the same.

Distantly, he can hear Thorin and Balin bickering, the latter urging his uncle to accept the deal, to get them out of this wretched place. But Thorin won’t budge.

Thranduil’s words reverberate around in his head. Would Thorin really forsake them for Erebor’s treasures? He truly can’t imagine it. His uncle has always insisted that he and Fíli were worth more than all the gold in Erebor. He’d never acted in a way that had caused Kíli to truly doubt that. Would Thorin stay stubborn even if it meant that Fíli and Kíli would be killed?

He remembered the knife at his throat, the look in Thorin’s eyes. A cold thought settles into his bones. What if his uncle had been wrong? His life would have easily been snuffed out of this world. Thorin had seemed so sure...but it was still a gamble with his life as the wager. A risk. And Thorin had taken it.

He’d heard of the goldsickness, sure, but not of how it had affected all of Thorin’s kin. He always thought that Thorin would be stronger than the sickness. What if he wasn’t? Was he living in a childlike world, believing that his uncle was simply too strong to be taken by anything?

Suddenly he realizes that here he was, taking the words of an elf whom Thorin had insisted was dishonorable and untrustworthy as truth. An elf who had turned his nose up at their peoples suffering. He was letting doubt creep into his thoughts. Thranduil was probably lying, he reasoned with himself. He only wanted some of the mountain’s treasures - he would say whatever it took to get them. To him, Kíli was just a pawn. An opening to get what he wanted. Nothing more.

“Hey,” Fíli whispers, shaking him free of his spiraling thoughts. “We’re going to get out of here. I promise. I can feel it.”

“Okay,” is all he can manage in return, as, despite his best efforts,  the seed of doubt takes root in his mind.

-----

AN - Okay, so my intention was that Part 2 would get us to Erebor buuuuttt I’m adding in a lot of stuff. The barrels + Laketown + getting to Erebor was just too much to put in here, so that will come soon! I am having a super hard time writing the barrels scene because I keep debating whether or not I want to go book or movie verse. So, instead of you all waiting while I ruminate over that for another month, I wanted to post this part. I hope you enjoyed it!

[readbookywooks]

Eddard

Lord Arryn's death was a great sadness for all of us, my lord," Grand Maester Pycelle said. "I would be more than happy to tell you what I can of the manner of his passing. Do be seated. Would you care for refreshments? Some dates, perhaps? I have some very fine persimmons as well. Wine no longer agrees with my digestion, I fear, but I can offer you a cup of iced milk, sweetened with honey. I find it most refreshing in this heat." There was no denying the heat; Ned could feel the silk tunic clinging to his chest. Thick, moist air covered the city like a damp woolen blanket, and the riverside had grown unruly as the poor fled their hot, airless warrens to jostle for sleeping places near the water, where the only breath of wind was to be found. "That would be most kind," Ned said, seating himself. Pycelle lifted a tiny silver bell with thumb and forefinger and tinkled it gently. A slender young serving girl hurried into the solar. "Iced milk for the King's Hand and myself, if you would be so kind, child. Well sweetened." As the girl went to fetch their drinks, the Grand Maester knotted his fingers together and rested his hands on his stomach. "The smallfolk say that the last year of summer is always the hottest. It is not so, yet ofttimes it feels that way, does it not? On days like this, I envy you northerners your summer snows." The heavy jeweled chain around the old man's neck chinked softly as he shifted in his seat. "To be sure, King Maekar's summer was hotter than this one, and near as long. There were fools, even in the Citadel, who took that to mean that the Great Summer had come at last, the summer that never ends, but in the seventh year it broke suddenly, and we had a short autumn and a terrible long winter. Still, the heat was fierce while it lasted. Oldtown steamed and sweltered by day and came alive only by night. We would walk in the gardens by the river and argue about the gods. I remember the smells of those nights, my lord—perfume and sweat, melons ripe to bursting, peaches and pomegranates, nightshade and moonbloom. I was a young man then, still forging my chain. The heat did not exhaust me as it does now." Pycelle's eyes were so heavily lidded he looked half-asleep. "My pardons, Lord Eddard. You did not come to hear foolish meanderings of a summer forgotten before your father was born. Forgive an old man his wanderings, if you would. Minds are like swords, I do fear. The old ones go to rust. Ah, and here is our milk." The serving girl placed the tray between them, and Pycelle gave her a smile. "Sweet child." He lifted a cup, tasted, nodded. "Thank you. You may go." When the girl had taken her leave, Pycelle peered at Ned through pale, rheumy eyes. "Now where were we? Oh, yes. You asked about Lord Arryn . . . " "I did." Ned sipped politely at the iced milk. It was pleasantly cold, but oversweet to his taste. "If truth be told, the Hand had not seemed quite himself for some time," Pycelle said. "We had sat together on council many a year, he and I, and the signs were there to read, but I put them down to the great burdens he had borne so faithfully for so long. Those broad shoulders were weighed down by all the cares of the realm, and more besides. His son was ever sickly, and his lady wife so anxious that she would scarcely let the boy out of her sight. It was enough to weary even a strong man, and the Lord Jon was not young. Small wonder if he seemed melancholy and tired. Or so I thought at the time. Yet now I am less certain." He gave a ponderous shake of his head. "What can you tell me of his final illness?" The Grand Maester spread his hands in a gesture of helpless sorrow. "He came to me one day asking after a certain book, as hale and healthy as ever, though it did seem to me that something was troubling him deeply. The next morning he was twisted over in pain, too sick to rise from bed. Maester Colemon thought it was a chill on the stomach. The weather had been hot, and the Hand often iced his wine, which can upset the digestion. When Lord Jon continued to weaken, I went to him myself, but the gods did not grant me the power to save him." "I have heard that you sent Maester Colemon away." The Grand Maester's nod was as slow and deliberate as a glacier. "I did, and I fear the Lady Lysa will never forgive me that. Maybe I was wrong, but at the time I thought it best. Maester Colemon is like a son to me, and I yield to none in my esteem for his abilities, but he is young, and the young ofttimes do not comprehend the frailty of an older body. He was purging Lord Arryn with wasting potions and pepper juice, and I feared he might kill him." "Did Lord Arryn say anything to you during his final hours?" Pycelle wrinkled his brow. "In the last stage of his fever, the Hand called out the name Robert several times, but whether he was asking for his son or for the king I could not say. Lady Lysa would not permit the boy to enter the sickroom, for fear that he too might be taken ill. The king did come, and he sat beside the bed for hours, talking and joking of times long past in hopes of raising Lord Jon's spirits. His love was fierce to see." "Was there nothing else? No final words?" "When I saw that all hope had fled, I gave the Hand the milk of the poppy, so he should not suffer. Just before he closed his eyes for the last time, he whispered something to the king and his lady wife, a blessing for his son. The seed is strong, he said. At the end, his speech was too slurred to comprehend. Death did not come until the next morning, but Lord Jon was at peace after that. He never spoke again." Ned took another swallow of milk, trying not to gag on the sweetness of it. "Did it seem to you that there was anything unnatural about Lord Arryn's death?" "Unnatural?" The aged maester's voice was thin as a whisper. "No, I could not say so. Sad, for a certainty. Yet in its own way, death is the most natural thing of all, Lord Eddard. Jon Arryn rests easy now, his burdens lifted at last." "This illness that took him," said Ned. "Had you ever seen its like before, in other men?" "Near forty years I have been Grand Maester of the Seven Kingdoms," Pycelle replied. "Under our good King Robert, and Aerys Targaryen before him, and his father Jaehaerys the Second before him, and even for a few short months under Jaehaerys's father, Aegon the Fortunate, the Fifth of His Name. I have seen more of illness than I care to remember, my lord. I will tell you this: Every case is different, and every case is alike. Lord Jon's death was no stranger than any other." "His wife thought otherwise." The Grand Maester nodded. "I recall now, the widow is sister to your own noble wife. If an old man may be forgiven his blunt speech, let me say that grief can derange even the strongest and most disciplined of minds, and the Lady Lysa was never that. Since her last stillbirth, she has seen enemies in every shadow, and the death of her lord husband left her shattered and lost." "So you are quite certain that Jon Arryn died of a sudden illness?" "I am," Pycelle replied gravely. "If not illness, my good lord, what else could it be?" "Poison," Ned suggested quietly. Pycelle's sleepy eyes flicked open. The aged maester shifted uncomfortably in his seat. "A disturbing thought. We are not the Free Cities, where such things are common. Grand Maester Aethelmure wrote that all men carry murder in their hearts, yet even so, the poisoner is beneath contempt." He fell silent for a moment, his eyes lost in thought. "What you suggest is possible, my lord, yet I do not think it likely. Every hedge maester knows the common poisons, and Lord Arryn displayed none of the signs. And the Hand was loved by all. What sort of monster in man's flesh would dare to murder such a noble lord?" "I have heard it said that poison is a woman's weapon." Pycelle stroked his beard thoughtfully. "It is said. Women, cravens . . . and eunuchs." He cleared his throat and spat a thick glob of phelm onto the rushes. Above them, a raven cawed loudly in the rookery. "The Lord Varys was born a slave in Lys, did you know? Put not your trust in spiders, my lord." That was scarcely anything Ned needed to be told; there was something about Varys that made his flesh crawl. "I will remember that, Maester. And I thank you for your help. I have taken enough of your time." He stood. Grand Maester Pycelle pushed himself up from his chair slowly and escorted Ned to the door. "I hope I have helped in some small way to put your mind at ease. If there is any other service I might perform, you need only ask." "One thing," Ned told him. "I should be curious to examine the book that you lent Jon the day before he fell ill." "I fear you would find it of little interest," Pycelle said. "It was a ponderous tome by Grand Maester Malleon on the lineages of the great houses." "Still, I should like to see it." The old man opened the door. "As you wish. I have it here somewhere. When I find it, I shall have it sent to your chambers straightaway." "You have been most courteous," Ned told him. Then, almost as an afterthought, he said, "One last question, if you would be so kind. You mentioned that the king was at Lord Arryn's bedside when he died. I wonder, was the queen with him?" "Why, no," Pycelle said. "She and the children were making the journey to Casterly Rock, in company with her father. Lord Tywin had brought a retinue to the city for the tourney on Prince Joffrey's name day, no doubt hoping to see his son Jaime win the champion's crown. In that he was sadly disappointed. It fell to me to send the queen word of Lord Arryn's sudden death. Never have I sent off a bird with a heavier heart." "Dark wings, dark words," Ned murmured. It was a proverb Old Nan had taught him as a boy. "So the fishwives say," Grand Maester Pycelle agreed, "but we know it is not always so. When Maester Luwin's bird brought the word about your Bran, the message lifted every true heart in the castle, did it not?" "As you say, Maester." "The gods are merciful." Pycelle bowed his head. "Come to me as often as you like, Lord Eddard. I am here to serve." Yes, Ned thought as the door swung shut, but whom? On the way back to his chambers, he came upon his daughter Arya on the winding steps of the Tower of the Hand, windmilling her arms as she struggled to balance on one leg. The rough stone had scuffed her bare feet. Ned stopped and looked at her. "Arya, what are you doing?" "Syrio says a water dancer can stand on one toe for hours." Her hands flailed at the air to steady herself. Ned had to smile. "Which toe?" he teased. "Any toe," Arya said, exasperated with the question. She hopped from her right leg to her left, swaying dangerously before she regained her balance. "Must you do your standing here?" he asked. "It's a long hard fall down these steps." "Syrio says a water dancer never falls." She lowered her leg to stand on two feet. "Father, will Bran come and live with us now?" "Not for a long time, sweet one," he told her. "He needs to win his strength back." Arya bit her lip. "What will Bran do when he's of age?" Ned knelt beside her. "He has years to find that answer, Arya. For now, it is enough to know that he will live." The night the bird had come from Winterfell, Eddard Stark had taken the girls to the castle godswood, an acre of elm and alder and black cottonwood overlooking the river. The heart tree there was a great oak, its ancient limbs overgrown with smokeberry vines; they knelt before it to offer their thanksgiving, as if it had been a weirwood. Sansa drifted to sleep as the moon rose, Arya several hours later, curling up in the grass under Ned's cloak. All through the dark hours he kept his vigil alone. When dawn broke over the city, the dark red blooms of dragon's breath surrounded the girls where they lay. "I dreamed of Bran," Sansa had whispered to him. "I saw him smiling." "He was going to be a knight," Arya was saying now. "A knight of the Kingsguard. Can he still be a knight?" "No," Ned said. He saw no use in lying to her. "Yet someday he may be the lord of a great holdfast and sit on the king's council. He might raise castles like Brandon the Builder, or sail a ship across the SunsetSea, or enter your mother's Faith and become the High Septon." But he will never run beside his wolf again, he thought with a sadness too deep for words, or lie with a woman, or hold his own son in his arms. Arya cocked her head to one side. "Can I be a king's councillor and build castles and become the High Septon?" "You," Ned said, kissing her lightly on the brow, "will marry a king and rule his castle, and your sons will be knights and princes and lords and, yes, perhaps even a High Septon." Arya screwed up her face. "No," she said, "that's Sansa." She folded up her right leg and resumed her balancing. Ned sighed and left her there. Inside his chambers, he stripped off his sweat-stained silks and sluiced cold water over his head from the basin beside the bed. Alyn entered as he was drying his face. "My lord," he said, "Lord Baelish is without and begs audience." "Escort him to my solar," Ned said, reaching for a fresh tunic, the lightest linen he could find. "I'll see him at once." Littlefinger was perched on the window seat when Ned entered, watching the knights of the Kingsguard practice at swords in the yard below. "If only old Selmy's mind were as nimble as his blade," he said wistfully, "our council meetings would be a good deal livelier." "Ser Barristan is as valiant and honorable as any man in King's Landing." Ned had come to have a deep respect for the aged, white-haired Lord Commander of the Kingsguard. "And as tiresome," Littlefinger added, "though I daresay he should do well in the tourney. Last year he unhorsed the Hound, and it was only four years ago that he was champion." The question of who might win the tourney interested Eddard Stark not in the least. "Is there a reason for this visit, Lord Petyr, or are you here simply to enjoy the view from my window?" Littlefinger smiled. "I promised Cat I would help you in your inquiries, and so I have." That took Ned aback. Promise or no promise, he could not find it in him to trust Lord Petyr Baelish, who struck him as too clever by half. "You have something for me?" "Someone," Littlefinger corrected. "Four someones, if truth be told. Had you thought to question the Hand's servants?" Ned frowned. "Would that I could. Lady Arryn took her household back to the Eyrie." Lysa had done him no favor in that regard. All those who had stood closest to her husband had gone with her when she fled: Jon's maester, his steward, the captain of his guard, his knights and retainers. "Most of her household," Littlefinger said, "not all. A few remain. A pregnant kitchen girl hastily wed to one of Lord Renly's grooms, a stablehand who joined the City Watch, a potboy discharged from service for theft, and Lord Arryn's squire." "His squire?" Ned was pleasantly surprised. A man's squire often knew a great deal of his comings and goings. "Ser Hugh of the Vale," Littlefinger named him. "The king knighted the boy after Lord Arryn's death." "I shall send for him," Ned said. "And the others." Littlefinger winced. "My lord, step over here to the window, if you would be so kind." "Why?" "Come, and I'll show you, my lord." Frowning, Ned crossed to the window. Petyr Baelish made a casual gesture. "There, across the yard, at the door of the armory, do you see the boy squatting by the steps honing a sword with an oilstone?" "What of him?" "He reports to Varys. The Spider has taken a great interest in you and all your doings." He shifted in the window seat. "Now glance at the wall. Farther west, above the stables. The guardsman leaning on the ramparts?" Ned saw the man. "Another of the eunuch's whisperers?" "No, this one belongs to the queen. Notice that he enjoys a fine view of the door to this tower, the better to note who calls on you. There are others, many unknown even to me. The Red Keep is full of eyes. Why do you think I hid Cat in a brothel?" Eddard Stark had no taste for these intrigues. "Seven hells," he swore. It did seem as though the man on the walls was watching him. Suddenly uncomfortable, Ned moved away from the window. "Is everyone someone's informer in this cursed city?" "Scarcely," said Littlefinger. He counted on the fingers on his hand. "Why, there's me, you, the king . . . although, come to think on it, the king tells the queen much too much, and I'm less than certain about you." He stood up. "Is there a man in your service that you trust utterly and completely?" "Yes," said Ned. "In that case, I have a delightful palace in Valyria that I would dearly love to sell you," Littlefinger said with a mocking smile. "The wiser answer was no, my lord, but be that as it may. Send this paragon of yours to Ser Hugh and the others. Your own comings and goings will be noted, but even Varys the Spider cannot watch every man in your service every hour of the day." He started for the door. "Lord Petyr," Ned called after him. "I . . . am grateful for your help. Perhaps I was wrong to distrust you." Littlefinger fingered his small pointed beard. "You are slow to learn, Lord Eddard. Distrusting me was the wisest thing you've done since you climbed down off your horse."