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rogue-durin-16 · 4 years ago

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THINGS NEVER GO AS PLANNED (Part II/VII)

"candy floss"

Summary: After Fred's death, George and Y/n lean on each other to carry on. This wasn't the most brilliant idea, though; George was pretty much in love with the girl, and Y/n— well, she had been dating Fred prior to the Battle of Hogwarts.

Pairing: George Weasley x Reader

Genre: angst

Tags:

Suggested by: @crispykittywitch

Things never go as planned: @sarcasticallywitty15 @beautyschoo1dropout @s1ut4georgeweasley @leovaldez37 @missmulti @weasleywh0r3s

Permanent taglist: @elia-the-bibliophile @randomparanoid @karlthecat15722 @thebutchersdaughtersblog

Warnings: grief, feels, brief mention of Fred x Reader ig?

A/N: I decided to name the parts bc why the fuck not so keep an eye on the titles 👀. This story is based off this convo and these headcanons. If you wanna be tagged in the next parts tell me, and enjoy <3

Prologue :the aftermath

Part I : sleepless nights

Part III: shock therapy

Part IV: wrong name

Part V: the perfect excuse

Part VI: the downfall

Part VII: apart

Epilogue: I still love you

Rogue-durin-16 masterlist

The moment the last group of customers decided it was time to call it a day and exited the shop, I left the till counter and grabbed my wand from my pocket, instantly turning the sign in the door so it could be read from outside 'closed'.

A sigh escaped my lips as I leaned against the multicolored wooden rail.

I was drained.

The shop helped our minds to get distracted and stray from the grief, yes, but it was also exhausting.

We had been subconsciously overworking ourselves to the point where it was borderline self-destructive.

It didn't help that I was throwing myself into comforting George, either. I could not be blamed for doing that, though; he was broken.

A part of me, the rational one, knew he would pick up the pieces and build himself up again, it would just take a lot of time.

There was another part of me, though, that depressed, drained part, that was beginning to think he would never heal by himself —maybe he wouldn't heal at all— but still held onto the hope that, if I tried hard enough, I would be able to mend what had been broken in him.

A terrible idea, really, because I started to dismiss in its entirety my own miserable, damaged state.

And George, ever the caring, sensible one, would have noticed that; he would have made me realize I was not doing nearly as well as I thought, he would have talked some sense into me, but he wouldn't— he couldn't, because George was lost in an ocean of grief, trying so hard not to drown that he wasn't able to notice I was trying to aid him from my very own sinking boat.

It also seemed to be working; he was more animated, slept more soundly, and his smile was a bit brighter even —at least the one he had for me.

"Rough day?" My eyes, which I didn't know I had closed, fluttered open at George's voice.

"Very."

He walked to me with a tinge of guilt in his face. "You know we can switch places, right?" I had been working as the public face of the shop since we had reopened, and George had taken on the task of doing the paperwork and shippings instead, showing up from time to time to help me and to let people know there was still a Weasley running the business.

I had been the one to suggest this, since I knew George had compromised with reopening only because of me, and he was clearly not ready to put up a sociable, positive attitude for dozens of people every day.

"Nah, it's fine like this." I assured him with a reassuring smile.

He measured me with his eyes for a second; I couldn't really tell if he saw through me or not. "So I was preparing the today's shippings," he rocked a tiny purple basket I quickly recognised in front of me. "I found this in the back of the stockroom."

"Are those—?"

"Candy floss cupcakes, yes." A year and a half ago we had bought five baskets of candy floss cupcakes from Honeydukes per George's request in order to unsuccessfully try and implement them.

"Are they even edible anymore?" I couldn't help but laugh.

"I hope so?" He chuckled too, tearing the film covering the sweets. "Thought we might as well finish them."

My eyes travelled from the basket to him and viceversa before stating, "well I'm hungry so..."

"Same here." He was the first one to pull out a pastel colored cupcake, though he handed it to me. "Wanna get food poisoning together?" Laughing, I gave him a nod as he grabbed his own cupcake. "At the count of three?"

"One"

"Two"

"Three." We said in unison right before taking a bite of our respective madeleines.

I frowned at its surprisingly good flavour. "Am I delirious or are they actually edible?"

"Dunno," he shoved the rest of his cupcake into his mouth with a shrug. "maybe we're just starving."

"Go big or go home, I guess." I finished my cupcake before leaning on the basket to pick another one. My head snapped up with my brow quirked when I heard a soft chuckle. "What?"

"Nothing." George shook his head, motioning at the stairs. "Shall we sit down?" I followed his lead, sitting on the stairs and waiting for him, who had stepped towards the drinks aisle to grab a couple of juice bottles, to do the same.

We stayed there, eating and drinking in a comfortable silence until the basket was empty and our eyelids threatened to shut.

"I think we should head back to the flat." He spoke, leaving the half empty juice aside so he could stretch.

"I'm gonna learn how to cook." I stated, getting up. "We can't get by based on most likely expired sweets and whatever is in the Leaky Cauldron menu."

"Aight." He mimicked my actions, picking up the stuff we left on the stairs. "We will learn the basics tomorrow." He got behind me and began to gently push in the flat's direction. "But now we're gonna get some sleep, miss."

I would be lying if I said my heartbeat didn't pick up when his hands landed on my shoulder blades and made their way to rub both my arms reassuringly.

I would be lying if I denied I leaned back when he did that, letting myself get closer to his chest.

And I would definitely be lying if I said I didn't crave going back to my room so I could cuddle him all night.

One Week Later

"—right in the cauldron, love." I pointed at the cauldron besides me, giving a sweet smile to the kid in front of me, visibly going to be sick thanks to the free sample of Skiving Snackboxes.

"Y/n!" I spun around at the loud calling of my name above the shop's racket. I was able to discern a long, red mane flowing fast towards my position right on time for the owner to wrap her arms around me.

"Glad to see you too, Ginny." I laughed, trying not to lose balance due to her enthusiasm. "How come you're here?" I questioned, pulling away.

"We heard you were open." Harry walked up to me, appearing from behind the girl, "And thought we'd pay a visit to our friends, right?" Ginny nodded, looking around while Harry gave me a quick, yet comforting hug. "Where's George?"

I motioned up to the small office, redirecting the couple's eyes to the second floor. "Doing paperwork—AH!" I jolted when a pair of hands tickled my sides, my head snapping to see the towering ginger standing behind me. "Speaking of the devil."

"I thought I saw Gin through the window," George explained, his hands lingering on my waist for long enough to his sister to stare, before pulling Ginny into a tight hug. "And came down to check if she was distracting my employee."

"You got her all bored here, mate." Harry pointed out, a light joking tone in his voice.

"And you're the one supposed to help with that?" George rolled his eyes dramatically. "Pfft... What a world we live in." With the said, he gave the boy a side hug. I heard Harry murmur an 'We missed you' before they pulled away with a pat on the shoulder.

My gaze landed on the youngest Weasley, whose welled up eyes were trained on her older brother's half smile. I only averted my eyes and waited for her to discreetly wipe away the unspilled tears while Harry and George catched up.

By the letters she had sent me, I reckoned the last time she had been near George, he had been lifeless; seeing a glimpse of who was once one of the most cheerful, funny and charismatic people in her life, was probably poignant to Ginny.

I hadn't realized she had moved closer until I didn't hear her soft voice. "Thank you." I offered her a confused smile, though deep down I knew what she meant.

Two Days Later

George was having one of those days.

We both knew it was coming soon; it had to happen sooner rather than later, since he had been in a surprisingly good mood for almost a week. I suspected seeing Harry and Ginny had brought back the events of the Second of May.

I suggested to close the shop for the day, since he was unable to move out of bed; he refused to do so, but I convinced him to stay in the flat and rest —it was Tuesday, anyway; I wouldn't have to handle many customers.

Due to that, when I saw Hermione, Ron, Bill and Fleur entered the shop, it was understandable that I hadn't become the happiest person in the world.

I greeted them, there were hugs, kisses, and even a joke or two, and when Bill asked about George, I excused him without giving much detail.

They understood.

Fleur was the one to restart the conversation, lightening a bit before requesting a tour for the shop, since she had not yet been there.

It was when we reached the love potions that Hermione, using the fact that Fleur was very much interested in the product, held my hand and pulled me aside.

"So... how are you doing?" The frown in her face, the fact that she was whispering, the squeeze her hand gave mine, let me know she had read me the moment her eyes met mines.

I sighed with a shrug.

"You can tell me." Could I? "No one's asking you to put on a happy face, Y/n." The girl assured me, her eyes digging into mines. "It's not just George, we all lost—" she shook her head at her own words before correcting herself. "you lost him too."

I lost him too.

I bit my lower lip to stop it from quivering.

The memory of Fred's broken smile as his corpse laid on the stretcher, that memory that haunted my dreams, appeared vividly before my eyes.

My lips started to burn with the ghost of that kiss he gave me before we split up, him with Percy and me with George; it hadn't been meant to be a goodbye kiss. It was meant to be a good luck kiss.

I covered my mouth to muffle a sob, and Hermione's arms were quick to be wrapped around me, reassuringly rubbing my back.

GEORGE'S P. O. V.

I saw them entering from Y/n's balcony; I wasn't emotionally ready to face them all at the same time, but when I didn't see them exit, I figured Y/n hadn't been able to dismiss them.

I decided I owed to them all to bite the bullet, so I threw on a shirt and the first trousers I grabbed, cleaned up a bit and left the flat.

With a deep breath, I made it to the second floor and mentally prepared myself to go down to the first one.

As I began to climb down, though, I noticed Hermione and Y/n talking in private, closer than the others to the stairs.

I didn't mean to eavesdrop, but all my senses were automatically focused on Y/n whenever we were in the same room; she just stole me away from reality.

"You lost him too."

Hermione's words visibly triggered something on Y/n.

'Something', as if I didn't know what they had triggered, as if I didn't know what— who was on her mind.

I guess he was always on her mind, though.

What was left of my heart shattered in a million pieces when she broke down to tears —for several reasons—. "I miss him." She whispered in Hermione's shoulder. "I miss him so much."

If I had any tears left, I would have cried my eyes out right there. Had I been so selfish that I had disregarded how she was feeling? So blinded by the light and love and warmth she was constantly giving me that I had forgotten about her grief? Was I that bad of a person, that I would have rather live in the illusion that she had not lost the boy she was dating?

My mind told me I didn't want any of those questions answered.

"George!" As Ron yelled my name in surprise, Hermione and Y/n pulled away, the latter rubbing her eyes while both of my brothers jogged upstairs to hug me. "Ginny told us you're open—"

"But Y/n said you weren't feeling well." Bill finished, squeezing my shoulder. "We only stayed a little longer for Fleur to see the shop."

"Yeah, we'll come back tomorrow," Ron assured me. "So you can rest and..."

My brother's voice sounded further and further with each word; I felt myself drifting off, getting lost in my own mind and gravitating towards the same thought over and over.

She deserves better.

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lady-o-ren · 4 years ago

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Hunger of My Heart

//PROLOGUE// //PART ONE//

A/N:The new chapter for this fic is uploaded on ao3 but its not showing up on the main page. I have no idea why. But you can read it HERE for easier reading.

PART TWO

On that nameless street, in what was once an empty, rundown lot, appeared gates draped in ivy from nowhere - elsewhere, before Jamie's very eyes.

"Must be magic," Claire had grinned, and tugged him past the gates that opened without a touch, gracing him in silvery birdsong as they stepped into a world from centuries long forgotten.

Jamie spoke not a word, too dumbstruck and tongue-tied, as they walked down a dirt cobbled path that cut through a grove of root twisted trees. Ahead in a clearing, he saw a large cottage fit for the Queen's Hamlet in Versailles, patched with ivy and honeysuckle and puffing smoke from its chimney. But they veered off to traverse further into the forest where the trees grew more and more monstrous, towering high to meet the clouds, chase the birds, while their red and green leaves and bright budding flowers scattered below on the sweetest perfumed breeze.

Claire called this wild wood her garden.

But how could this all be?

"We're still in London - though not exactly," she explained to his awed upturned face. "Best not to dwell on it though we're almost where we need to be - Watch your step, lad!"

At her warning, Jamie stumbled and hopped over a bushel of pink muhly grass groping at his legs, only to step on a skittering, nameless thing hidden beneath the bracken that hissed at his heavy-footed clumsiness.

"I'm beginning to feel more and more like Hansel being led to the slaughter," he said, blue eyes darting around his surroundings more carefully though still bright with curiosity.

Claire caught the laughter on her lips between her teeth.

"I'm a healer not a witch. You'll see none of that cauldron nonsense from me," she said, just when a patch of roving sunlight ignited her eyes like a candle wick's flame and gilded her curls like a cloud of burnished gold, hypnotising Jamie like a lovesick moth.

"Besides, my house of sweets is back that way."

"So ye say," Jamie murmured warmly, ears heating pink, when she threaded her arm through his, bringing him close like a dear old friend as they continued on their trek, while he felt something entirely more intimate, steadily growing, enveloping him whole like a tidal wave.

He grasped for even breath. She wondered if he had swallowed a bug. "But where exactly are we headed then in the middle of the forest primeval?"

She patted his arm. "A place where the fresh air along the way will do you some good. You look like a man born to the sun and earth. Am I wrong?"

"No," said Jamie, wondering if she could indeed see the generations of highland farmers and Laird's stamped on his face, flowing proudly in his blood. "Are ye ever?"

The question was left to drift like dustlight in the air when they come upon a grand old yew tree. It's craggy bruised trunk was knobbed with gem colored toadstools and had been hollowed out to fit a rounded bench carved deep into its heartwood, glinting eerily with faint sparks of light.

"I did say I would take you to a bench."

"One made for the faerie folk?" His mouth twitched and she laughed in quickly growing fondness and wrapped her fingers around his pulling the red man inside.

Together, they sat in the arched hollow with their knees bent towards one another, making the old wood seat creak and groan in protest, while above them fireflies dotted the inner wood, twinkling like stars, the source of the eerie glow, Jamie noted, breathing in the quiet serenity.

Then the small hand in his, warm as the blood that pumped life to his veins, gave a gentle squeeze.

"Now start from the beginning, Jamie, if you can. . ."

So he told her. Told her everything. Of the chorus that had once been a lullaby as a child, that grew maddening as he got older. Had him living a heartbeat from squalor as he followed it's command, it's every damnable whim, until finally he found Her, the only one to silence it.

Then with cheeks blooming a shade of deep adoration, he said with halting breath,

"I think it was you calling for me all these years somehow. . . .Like magic," he finished with a crooked awkward smile, one that compelled Claire to raise a tender hand to cradle the dearness of the lads face and thumb the lines of haunted nights that bruised the skin around his eyes.

"I told you before that I'm a healer. People come to me when they can no longer bear their emotions. Their grief and pain, their love. . ." She uttered the last with little reverence, entirely of indifference. "And I do my best to tend to them, to ease their torment. But it's them that come to me, I never beckon anyone to do so yet you. . ."

She trailed off, losing herself in contemplation even though the answer was staring back at her in the most beautiful shade of blue she had ever seen.

If only she were capable to see, to know, the face of his heart.

"Maybe we're meant to do some good for one another," said Claire, making Jamie's heart leap higher than the boughs of the forest trees.

"I am in dire need of friends, at least that's what my Elias tells me."

Then it plummeted like a corbie, an arrow pierced through his breast.

"Who is he, may I ask?" He choked, eyes rooted to the leafy ground.

"My apprentice, but he's dear to me as blood. You should meet him, Jamie. "

"Now?"

"Of course," she grinned, and brushed a wandering ginger lock back behind his ear. " Fate has brought me a gift and I plan to spoil him with whatever Elias has roasting."

She then softly bopped his nose, a tad too long, and ushered him out from the blissful shadows of the old yew tree.

They walked back to the dirt cobbled path beneath the dwindling evening light sparked now with dancing fireflies, and Claire twined her arm once more with his, as if she had done so for a thousand lifetimes.

At least it felt that way to Jamie and may she do so always, he prayed.

For he could feel this woman engraved in the blood and marrow of his bones, kindle something fragile and marvelous and everlasting in his soul.

It wasn't just destiny that brought him to her.

Jamie knew it was love.

#sorry for all the bad dumb things and mistakes #jamie x claire #Outlander #outlander fic #outlander fanfiction

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sincerelyravens · 4 years ago

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the things i love about wtfock season 5 without seeing og season 4: catch-up addition because i was busy yesterday

dinsdag 08:27:

I've seen the post about a white guy putting up his hood as yasmina is about to take off her hijab and I'm just so sad—

fuck this law, I'm so fucking glad that they're touching on this.

yasmina looking at the other girls but also looking into the camera breaks my heart

seeing the shift in yasmina as she's taking off her hijab is brilliant and beautiful and so heartbreaking (see wtfock, this is what happens when you have a main that can—)

the boy squad!! (and no one elseeeee)

luca calling out amber on copying people (and really seeing more of luca. i want to know more of luca)

yasmina sounds so upset that aaron got into a fight with elias as she should be good for her.

amber calling over aaron and then going over to him lol. love that for her. call out your boyfriend for his idiotic takes girl GET IT.

also i really like the songs at the beginning and end of this clip. i knew i was going to love this soundtrack but oh my god (i got a lot to live up to with noor's season i guess too bad I'm shitty with picking music sorry guys)

dinsdag 12:21:

LAWYER YASMINA.

"Yasmina, you were meant to be a lawyer." YES ZOË TELL HER. "If you want this, you should go for it." YESSS.

but i also understand why yasmina is unsure. it would suck for the one place that she KNOWS and works her ass off for so the government can take away her choice to wear a hijab. fuck the law and the people who think it's a good idea.

but it happening in Brussels definitely makes sense why Yasmina is thinking about this.

yo, i would love for yasmina to become a politician (i am american, i obv don't know how belgium government works) and fight to take down the laws that tell her that she can't wear a hijab at school or as a lawyer. or fight against those laws as a lawyer. sue the country. do itttt.

also, love that they're giving all the ignorance to kato instead of amber. it's totally in character. also i love yasmina just looking done and exchanging a look with luca. need more of their friendship pls.

oh great aaron, fantastic. i love you bro. but you fucked the fuck up.

oh Aaron knows he fucked up, he's trying to get away from them so they don't overhear. boy just SAY it.

omfg i love this confrontation with aaron. he's trying to beat around the bush and not say the fact that he just assumed that he thought elias had weed and yasmina's having zero shit about it. get him baby girl. GET HIM.

"amber will kill me." bro, apologize because you're genuinely sorry and you seem like you are but don't use it as an excuse for why you're apologizing. you know you fucked up and it's okay to apologize in that regard, but saying "amber will kill me" only makes it seem like you're doing it because she told you to. not because you're genuinely sorry.

i better see this boy apologize TO elias by the end of this season or I'm going to riot.

"that boy is lucky it's ramdan"

zoë leaning against yasmina mY LOVES

dinsdag 17:08:

okay so I've already seen this one but not with the translation so to I'm going to get this out of the way now YOUNESSSSSSSS

ngl i originally thought the text was from yasmina/elias not younes/elias so ooops.

i love that elias said the same thing that yasmina says in the previous clip about how aaron should give his apologizes to elias directly.

seriously tho

love this sibling dynamic it's *chef's kiss*

ooop not done YOUNESSSSSSSSSSSSSSS

subtle, yasmina, subtle

younes looking at yasmina when she's not looking

younes asking her to join and yasmina looking like she's going to accept or say maybe before elias calls him over and he just says "next time"

I'm ready for the scene between them where they play basketball. I've seen enough gifs to know that it's a thing okay.

yasmina just looks so smitten already I'm just AHHHH

omg the SOUNDTRACK

woensdag 08:28

yess a whole day and a minute apart but now yasmina has a crushhhhhhh

why is kato wearing purple get OUT of my color

I've already made my whole ass rant about how i hate that yasmina gets excluded from things so often and yeah, we'll continue on. though i am glad that kato mentions that whatever "it" is starts after sunset.

i love that they're going gender-neutral names with the people luca is seeing because she seems to have that bi/pan feel (whichever label she decides to choose) but i definitely hope that they'll speak more about it as the season goes on especially since yasmina is going to have feelings for younes and that's going to come to a head. they should do better, of course, but it just feels like a hint right now that MIGHT come up later?

either way she's still getting a girlfriend at some point in my noor season

luca getting very philosophical on a woensdag morning

the way you can just see the moment she starts thinking of younes

you can just see it in her eyes and how she drifts off as britt/amber come over.

and then luca walks away and she just stays zoned out until she realizes they've left and then she follows after.

oh my god guys, I've been loving this season so far. wtfock pls give me a good season again. this feels like wtfock again.

#wtfock #s05e01 takes #brennarambles #i have an older brother who isn't in my life anymore #and i'm living through elias/yasmina because we never had a good relationship #long post

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squeeneyart · 4 years ago

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Breathe in the Salt - Chapter 19

AO3

Beta reader is @thesnadger!

Social interaction has its pros and cons.

Martin considers a way to pass the time.

Technically, there was no call that night.

Martin had had months to familiarize himself with the strange predawn that added a little color to the sky each morning. His home was on the western coast, so of course he didn’t see much of it until he’d made the trek uphill. With some cloud cover and dense fog, though, the light would scatter and cast a cold blanket of grey light over his corner of the world.

Early on he found it sort of nice, seeing the world ‘wake up’. He’d even started to get up earlier than necessary, just to make himself some tea and look out the window for signs of birds or other creatures who made their lives at dawn and dusk. There were some lines of poetry about it somewhere in his notebook, something about the magic of a quiet morning in solitude.

He’d lasted about a week with that. Turned out his life was already quiet and full enough of contemplative solitude, and warm blankets were much better than cold kitchen tile against his feet.

It was during this little sliver of morning when his mobile, vibrating against the wood of his bedside table, dragged him back to consciousness.

“No…” he groaned, nuzzling into his pillow. It could only be one person. “Don’t make me come in early. Don’t make me come in early, you prick-”

He reached over (god it was cold) and grabbed the offending object, keeping as much of himself under the blankets as possible and slipping the mobile back under with him. The screen was bright and painful in his cozy darkness. His eyes adjusted, and on his lockscreen the time read 4:06 a.m.

Before he could convince himself to let the damned thing ring itself out, he glanced at the caller ID. If anything it should’ve given him even more reason to let the call go, but Martin’s finger was already pressing the answer button.

Attempting to whisper, his voice came out rough and croaky. “Jon?”

“Martin. Glad you’re still up,” Jon said in that distant way of someone paying attention to another task entirely. Keyboard clicks could be heard in the background. “How are you doing?”

Still up? Bleary and confused, Martin replied as if he’d just run into Jon at the store, “Fine, I guess? How are you?”

“I’ve successfully whittled down my assignments enough to have personal research opportunities.” There was a weary but nevertheless triumphant edge to his words. “If this is some sort of test of my abilities, I’d say I deserve a raise.”

“Impressive,” Martin yawned. “Does that mean anything for me, or…”

“No, not yet.” He could feel Jon deflate on the other end. “I’ve only just started looking, and Elias is still acting rather blasé about what we found. I hadn’t pegged him as the type to put business relations over the mission statement, but if that’s the case then-”

“Why send you out here?”

“Precisely.” Jon clicked his tongue. “So I’m going to pry in that direction while digging through old reports. I assume the others will do the same once they’re caught up.”

Well, progress was as good as anything to wake up to. He reluctantly pulled the blankets from over his head and peeked out at his window. The frost was just visible at the edges, its frigid hands creeping across the glass. Perhaps a little while longer under the covers.

“Anyway, I’m glad I caught you,” Jon continued, filling the space Martin had left empty. The keyboard taps had ceased. “I’d decided to give you some breathing room, but you were quiet during the call with everyone and I thought- well, I wanted to make sure you were okay. As much as can be expected.”

A small, halfhearted smile found its way onto Martin’s face. “Thanks. I appreciate it.”

“So… are you okay? I know you said you were, but it sounded like you were being polite.”

Martin looked up at his ceiling. “I mean I was being polite, but… Yeah, I’m okay. As much as can be expected, like you said, but okay.”

“Hm.”

“Hm?”

“What? Nothing, it’s good. I’m gl- I’m happy that you’re… doing okay.” Midway between this thought, Jon seemed to switch the mobile from one ear to the other. “If you aren’t, I just hope you know that you can tell me if something is going on. Sometimes there are emotional aspects that contribute to an event-”

As Jon spoke at length, Martin noticed a distinct tumbling feel in the way Jon spoke, like his thoughts were coming faster than his mouth could follow. Not alcohol, surely? No, a different idea had been bothering Martin since Jon had first called.

“-can’t speak for Tim or Sasha about hours, and if you’d rather just talk one-on-one, I’m sure-”

“Right, hours. Jon, I don’t mean to pry, but have you slept at all?”

The stream of consciousness halted in its tracks. “What?”

“You seem a bit… out of it? Have you checked the time recently?”

A moment passed. Then another. Then- “That can’t be right.”

Weakly, Martin replied, “Good morning to you, too.”

“I-” Jon began. He then made a small, irritated noise. “I woke you up.”

Martin ran a hand over his face and pressed it to his upturned mouth. Into it he mumbled, “You really need to sleep.”

As if the hours had finally come crashing down upon him, Jon’s voice dropped low and soft and properly tired. “I could’ve sworn it was earlier.”

“I mean, in a sense-”

“You know what I mean.” A yawn finally broke through, but he fought it back down. “I hope it wasn’t too much earlier than your normal wake-up time?”

“Nah. You’ve seen how early my day starts. Besides, my alarm isn’t the most pleasant thing to wake up to, and you could’ve been Peter calling me in early.” It was like getting up to enjoy the morning, but he was still in bed and someone else was there (sort of). As far as he was concerned, the pros outweighed the cons.

“Then I’ll hold my apology for a later date, if you don’t mind.” He spoke bluntly, but possibly in a way that was meant to be funny. Martin was still working out when Jon was being blunt in a rude way or in a friendly way, and his gut pushed him toward the latter. “I also won’t apologize for my work ethic. I work better at night, without distractions or other people.”

Rubbing the bridge of his nose, Martin asked, “Okay, I can play along with that, but when do you sleep?”

“We have a cot.”

Martin scoffed. “What, at work?” An image of the three researchers finding different corners in some dark back room to snooze on company time was almost too much.

“Working after-hours is implied in the description of any academic job. If we didn’t steal some of the day back to sleep, we’d all have dropped dead by now.” For a moment his voice strained as if he was stretching, dipping into the background before returning to normal. “Though this past week has been a bit more extreme due to circumstances. I’m not always up until dawn, calling people in a stupor.”

“First time for everything?” Martin said helpfully, pushing down weakly against the rising guilt. “I know it’s a bad situation, but I’m sorry you all have to work so hard.”

“No need for that. I can choose to sacrifice a few nights for something important.”

Slowly, very slowly, Martin pressed his burning face into his pillow. Maybe it was too early for him after all, to handle anything approaching concern. The heat was surely enough to melt the ice right off the window. Ignoring the ridiculous reaction happening in his cheeks, he turned his face back upwards and mumbled, “Thanks.”

There was a small rustling of papers. With the same damned softness, Jon continued, “I’m sure Tim and Sasha would say the same.”

A quiet thing clung deep in Martin’s throat, and in his nose, and he imagined a version of himself from the night before, scared and powerless and ready to dump any and all his feelings on the first person who would speak with him. Would that have been something Jon was prepared for, if he’d called at a sensible hour? Or if Martin had called first? But it was nearly morning, and he was well rested, and eventually the thought fell away in his wakefulness.

Without a response to go on, Jon said, "I’m not going to be as… outwardly optimistic as before, but…”

“You’re making progress,” Martin finished, coughing lightly. “I know. I’ll be patient, and careful. It’s hard after the weird stuff we did last week, though.”

“I’d like to say it was all due to extreme circumstances, but we are just like this.”

“There go my hopes of you all getting proper rest when this is over.”

“S’not impossible, but terribly unlikely.”

Martin sighed, checking his screen clock again. Still some time left. “Is it safe to assume you won’t be sleeping at this point?”

“Won’t be long until I can go to the archives. I’ll wait until then and avoid being groggy on public transit.” A pause. “Also my last energy drink is still working.”

“Mm.” Letting his forearm fall across his eyes, Martin gave up that particular battle. “Anything new set off your ‘fake’ alarms recently?”

“You’re in luck. Just yesterday a man came in to tell me about his experience with ‘spy birds’ that even you can’t devil’s-advocate your way through.”

“I’ll be the judge.”

It was a tough sell, even for Martin whose own situation made a lot of things seem possible. Midway through he even began to resent the person for wasting time better spent solving Martin’s problems, but that was an emotional rabbit hole for another time. By the end he had to concede that it was more of a conspiracy than a supernatural encounter, if they were going to get into the semantics of it. Still, Jon made it easy to be contrarian.

“When we’re not busy with all this,” Jon said, accepting that Martin wasn’t yet ready to forgo the benefit of the doubt, “I’ll be happy to sit outside and film birds all day for the sake of science, but the man finds perfectly normal birds unsettling.”

With a silly kind of bullheadedness, Martin replied, “Plenty of seabirds around here. Maybe that’s what I’ll do while I wait for something to happen.”

Jon snorted. “I expect a full report by Monday.”

Before Martin could respond, his phone made an all too familiar and dreadful noise. He really should’ve picked a song or something, he thought as he dismissed his alarm. “Well, it’s that time.”

“Yes, I should be getting along with my morning as well. Good luck with your birdwatching,” he said with joking scorn.

“Have fun sleeping on the bus.”

“Ha ha. Goodbye, Martin.”

“Bye.”

Dropping his arm onto the bed, mobile in hand, Martin ignored the numbness in his fingers and considered how invested he was in writing a fake report about birds just to see the reaction it would get. Maybe he would text Tim about it.

The idea sat in the back of his mind as he got dressed, as he made breakfast, as he put on his shoes and coat and hat. When he opened the door to meet the cold that had settled in overnight, he couldn’t help but wince at the extra bit of sting the wind delivered, but he clung to his fanciful little idea all the way up the hills and through town.

Creative writing had never been his strong suit. It was debatable if poetry was, but he’d reached a point where it was more of a comforting activity than a skill. Still, as he got to work in the blessedly empty lighthouse, he thought of the little notebook he’d stashed into his bag. If it all came to nothing, he could end up with scraps of text to rearrange into poetry someday.

It was a mess of a book. Technically bound, it was still cheap with some pages starting to come loose from his handling. He’d long ago given up on the idea of a nice looking notebook, especially as it had become personal enough to count as horribly embarrassing. It was inevitable for any poetry notebook of his to become more akin to a scattered, flowery journal of sorts, and this one was no different.

It was also a step up from previous ones in that it wasn’t some spiral-bound school notebook he’d found in the discount section of the general store. No, he had found it in a bookstore discount section. The stiff cover even had sort of a nice texture before he’d beaten it up by shoving it into a drawer a million times.

The day crawled by with no interruptions, leaving Martin on edge. Peter hadn’t come by once. Perhaps he’d assumed Martin had had any boldness scared out of him, an aggravating thought. He had the will to act. He also had some amount of self preservation left in him, that was all.

By lunchtime he was itching to talk to anyone, but texting the others was off limits and it was so dreary outside that going out to eat was a non-starter. He supposed he could stop by the grocery store. He knew some of the people from when he’d worked there. Most of the ones he’d worked with had also left, but maybe…

No, that was a stupid idea. He wasn’t seeing anyone unless they came to him.

No one did.

So in his time off the clock, he stared at his little notebook and hoped his brain would think of anything to say.

The weather had taken a more miserable turn by the time he’d left work in the evening. He only saw a few birds struggling in the gales, none of them particularly watchful. If he had to guess, they didn’t care much about what anyone was doing. Not great material for a report, but maybe for a poem when the feeling hit.

The streets were largely empty as people avoided the high winds and mist that sprayed against Martin’s glasses, making it a challenge to see anything around him. He had half a mind to just stow them away, but there was going to be water in his eyes no matter what he chose to do. Just another little thing to make his day worse that he couldn’t change.

Part of him considered that the weather often matched his mood, but it wasn’t hard for bad weather to pair with sour thoughts. Nearly all weather was bad and nearly all moods were sour. Correlation, etcetera.

As much as he’d wanted to check his phone as soon as work was over, the others could wait until he’d stopped feeling so damned sorry for himself.

And he did feel awful, though there was no inciting incident. It had been a long, tedious day where the words wouldn’t flow, the world was grey, and any residual happiness from his conversation with Jon had been slowly eaten away by the loneliness of the present. Why was it so hard to hold onto those good things? A good start was supposed to make the day better, not make the rest of the day look worse.

It had to be everything at the lighthouse. He’d always been moody as a person, but the stress had to be getting to him. His head shouldn’t have been hurting from holding back tears when nothing had happened.

God, the squinting wasn’t helping, either. He knew where he was going, of course, but the streetlights were barely helping. The sky had decided to paint itself over everything, a dark, grey blob of water and concrete and fog. The walk down the hill was going to be a slippery pain, even in his grippy boots.

Had he passed by the florist? He probably should have by now, but the main road hadn’t ended yet.

And even when he got home, oh joy, it would be to sit at a table and eat with his mother, and based on her tastes she would love to stand outside in the misery of it all even though it would be terrible for her health. What was the point of trying when another person wouldn’t even listen-

He’d been walking for too long.

The road continued on, no longer heading into the surrounding trees but stretching itself past the point of impossibility. And at the end, in a place where it should not have been visible through the colorless mist, was a large, familiar house.

Ah, Martin thought. Someone had decided to talk to him today.

Looking behind him, the lighthouse was just barely visible. Looking to either side was a fool’s errand, as everything had been consumed by the grey.

He slipped the mobile phone out of his pocket and bent over to shield it from the rain. The screen lit up at his touch, but as expected any and all communication was blocked. Nevertheless, he opened the group chat and began to type.

Martin: i think simon wants to talk. everything is fog and i cant go anywhere else. hoping my phone makes it out so this makes it

He pressed send, then mustered up whatever hope he had and added:

Martin: talk to you soon

#tma #the magnus archives #breathe in the salt #martin blackwood #jonathan sims #sasha james #tim stoker #peter lukas #jonmartin #fanfic #au fanfic #selkie au

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first-of-her-nxme · 4 years ago

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It looks like one of my answers doesn’t show up in the tags so I’ll copy it here, just in case. It might be interesting for the asoiaf fans, Jaqen’s and Arya’s fans in particular;)

So, the question I received was:

Where is the coherent foreshadowing for Jaqen and Arya? It all seems taken out of fucking nowhere

And here we go:

It starts in the very first book when Arya names her direwolf after the queen who married a Dornishman, and it never stops because Arya and Jaqen are repeating Lyanna’s and Rhaegar’s story. Of course, in ASOIAF, the story is never exactly the same. Which by the way gives me hope that at least they will have their happy ending. Or the closest thing to a happy ending, which in George Martin’s world means less heartbreaking than the others’s endings;d

Trouble with Jaqarya foreshadowing is that George Martin started writing the story with a five year gap in mind between Arya’s arrival in Braavos and A Dance with Dragons. So, when he first envisioned the story he already had a 15 year old Arya in mind. It means that Arya and Jaqen would have reunited in A Dance with Dragons already and she would have been old enough for a romance. It also means that Jaqen’s identity would have been revealed in A Dance with Dragons.

But, since GRRM abandoned the idea, we have to wait for the reveal till The Winds of Winter. As a consequence the whole build-up is made of hints, symbols, clues, metaphors, parallels to R/L and so on. Nothing is said explicitly because it would ruin the big reveal of who Jaqen is and what’s ahead of them.

So, from the top:

1. Arya names her direwolf after Nymeria, a queen who found home far from her own country and who married a Dornishman. Jaqen is half Dornish, he is Elia’s and Rhaegar’s son, Aegon VI. I already pinned the answer about his true identity to my profile so please read it if you need further explanation.

Thanks to the Game of Thrones finale we know that Arya will sail across the sunset sea. I searched through the books after s8 and of course I found information that they both, J&A, will leave. I guess I need to thank D&D for Arya’s ending, otherwise I would have overlooked the clues completely.

So, either they will find home far away, somewhere in the sea, or in Braavos or in Dorne or they will return to Jaqen’s castle ( the Red Keep or Dragonstone ). Wherever they will stay, it’s going to be far from Arya’s birth place, Winterfell.

2. Nymeria has golden eyes, Arya thinks that they shine like golden coins - it’s another connection to Jaqen ( Aegon ) who switches his iron coin for a golden dragon in A Feast for Crows. The coin is poisoned and kills Pate but it’s also a symbol of courtship. Pate needed it to claim his beloved Rosey.

3. On the way to King’s Landing, Arya is picking up flowers in the Neck, perhaps in the same area where the flowers for Lyanna’s crown had been picked. Ned is deeply moved when he sees Arya with the flowers because she reminds him of Lya. The flowers are purple - purple is the symbol of royal birth, of the rightful heir to the throne whom Jaqen ( Aegon ) is. They are called poisoned kisses and burn Arya’s hands - Jaqen is using poisons and represents fire. He is a Targ, a future dragon rider. Arya will also burn her hands and lips in the House of Black and White while learning to make poisons.”Poisoned kisses” is a bad name, it implies doomed love which reminds us of R/L. For Arya it means a love for the murderer. Hopefully with a happier ending than Lya’s love.

4. Ned tells Arya that she will marry a king and rule his castle and they will have sons. Like I said before, Jaqen is the rightful king. In A Clash of Kings, Arya even reveals his identity though it is very cleverly concealed in the scene when she gives him his own name. To be brief: it's a play on words; he asks her if the name of the king she wants dead is Joffrey and she answers the name ( of the king ) is Jaqen H’ghar. So Joffrey is not the king, he’s impostor, the true king is Jaqen.

5. In King’s Landing, Arya has dreams of Rhaenys though she doesn’t realize it. She also catches Rhaenys’s cat, her “little dragon”, and kisses its forehead. In Harrenhal, Jaqen kisses her forehead as if to return the kiss;)

6. Arya ruins Sansa’s silk dress and offers to make her a new one. Sansa tells her she could make a dress good enough only to clean the pigsty.

That pigsty is kind of a big deal.

In fairytales, princes disguise themselves as swineherds to hide their true identity, like in H.C Andersen’s story “The Swineherd”.

George Martin used this motif in his books too. In AFFC Jaqen wears the face of Pate “the Pig Boy”. Arya, on the other hand, lives in Braavos in his house, makes dresses and sweeps the floors. She lives in the Pig Boy’s house, in the pigsty, and cleans it - just like Sansa has said. Only the pigsty is the prince’s house like Ned has foretold.

7. In Harrenhal, Jaqen wakes Arya from her wolf dream and kisses her. This motif comes from the Sleeping Beauty fairytale - only the prince can awake the sleeping beauty.

8. Also in Harrenhal, Jaqen and Arya make their “weasel soup”. They pour hot broth on the guards to free the Northmen. Jaqen gives Arya a pair of padded gloves and he is wearing the identical gloves himself, while they struggle the pot of soup between them - it’s a metaphor for sharing power. Gloves are symbol of power and noble birth.

The cooking pot is another motif borrowed from “The Swineherd” - the prince has a magic pot that plays a song. Jaqen ( Aegon ) has a song too, a song of Ice and Fire.

9. Jaqen gives Arya his coin ( we already know it’s a symbol of courtship ) and she pays with it for a passage across the narrow sea. She crosses the sea to get to the House of Black and White, the house of darkness.

In Greek mythology, the souls of dead people pay with a coin to cross the river and get to the Underworld. Arya, like Persephone, is first shown while picking up flowers and then she descends into the Underworld seduced by GRRM’s version of Hades. Hades has a three-headed dog, Jaqen has a prophecy ( and the coin ) of a three-headed dragon.

10. When Arya meets the Ghost of High Heart, the witch compares her to Jenny, a girl with flowers in her hair who fell in love with a Targaryen prince.

11. In ASOS, Arya listens to Tom Sevenstrings playing My Featherbed song. The song was written by Rhaegar for Lyanna. It tells the story of Jenny and Duncan Targaryen but Rhaegar concealed his own feelings for Lya in the text. The lyrics refer to Arya and Jaqen as well - they repeat J/D and R/L story of a Targaryen prince and a girl from the North.

Of course Rhaegar didn’t know about his son and Lya’s niece when he wrote the song:))

The song is not about Gendrya, like people think. I already mentioned it in one of my answers. It’s very important because it helps to understand what had happened in Harrenhal and what will happen to Arya and Jaqen.

Arya hears My Featherbed after Gendry invited her to the smithy. He knocked her over and they wrestled. Her dress was torn and she looked as if someone had tried to hurt her. Right after Tom plays Rhaegar’s song. Gendry obviously didn’t want to hurt Arya but that scene explains what Robert did in Harrenhal after Rhaegar left - he was furious that Rhaegar crowned Lya so he demanded “his rights”. That’s why Lyanna ran off. Rhaegar was her rescue.

12. In the House of Black and White Arya sleeps under the red blanket which reminds her of her favorite blanket from Winterfell. I’m sure it’s Jaqen’s blanket, and perhaps his bed too, because red is his color: red hair, red poison, red war, red god, red comet over Harrenhal, red dragon (?) - red accompanies him throughout his journey. Of course black is his color too, it’s the color of the Stranger. Red and black are the colors of House...

13. In Arya’s Braavosi chapters GRRM concealed the story of the beginning of Rhaegar’s and Lyanna’s love in Harrenhal. But that’s a massive story to tell so I will write a separate post about it.

14. Finally, in Mercy chapter Arya hears the story of the first Black Pearl of Braavos, the pirate queen, and her affair with King Aegon IV. She sighs wistfully and says that she would love to see a dragon too. Dragon here means more than an animal, GRRM once again hints at her future romance with the Dragon.

15. “Mercy” chapter parallels the prologue to A Feast for Crows. Originally it was meant to be in AFFC but GRRM eventually moved it to TWOW.

Perhaps GRRM wanted Jaqen’s chapter to start AFFC and Arya’s chapter to end the book. The prologue is a chapter with two main motifs: dragons and love. “Mercy” is a chapter of revenge and love for a dragon. The prologue starts at night when Pate’s beloved is sleeping naked in her room. “Mercy” starts at dawn when Arya wakes up naked in her room and sees a dragon boat passing beneath her window.

But those two chapters are so rich in parallels that they deserve a separate post as well:)

16. While Jaqen and Arya are having their adventures in Oldtown and Braavos respectively, in the North Mance is infiltrating Winterfell. Mance is posing as a bard. He sings a song of a Dornishman’s wife in turn with the Northman’s daughter. It’s another delightful hint that the Northman’s daughter, Ned’s daughter is ( well, will be ) the Dornishman’s wife.

As you can see it’s a pretty massive foreshadowing. I probably still omitted something because there are really tons of those clues.

I hope you’ve enjoyed the read.

Thanks for the ask :)

#Jaqen H'ghar #Arya Stark #asoiaf #asoiaf meta #jaqen h'ghar is aegon targaryen

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that-one-girl-behind-you · 4 years ago

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Illicio 19/?

Part 18

CWs for this chapter: -Depression -Parental neglect -Past implied suicidal ideation (These are present in the very first POV, and are related to Martin's past. Please feel free to skip it if the topics make you uncomfortable) -Canon character death

----

Gerry's never been to the Lonely before, though he's felt its grip on him many times in his life.

It has loomed over him ever since he was a child, alone and confused and fearing and craving his mother's hugs in equal measure. Back when he first started learning about the fears he did wonder why it never struck, why it never pulled him in to devour him whole. It was only later that he understood what made him so resistant to this particular fear.

You defeat the Lonely with love, and Gerry has never been short of that.

XIX

Martin is seven years old the first time he realizes how utterly and completely alone he is. Back then he still goes by a name that isn't his, and he doesn't yet have the words to describe why it feels wrong.

He looks around at all the children in his classroom; their clothes look clean and smell good, and their mothers not only pick them up from school, but they look happy when doing so. He asks mum once why she never smiles, does something hurt? Maybe the doctor can give her more pills?

Mum doesn't respond. She merely gives Martin that long, serious look that always makes Martin think he said something dumb, and goes to her room, leaving Martin alone with his cold supper and a slow gathering fog that he can't see.

Martin is fourteen years old when he first understands he's unwanted. He's begun to figure out who he is, and his clothes are ill-fitting, just like he himself is, bouncing around between groups of people that aren't really his peers, and merely accept his presence like one would any other part of the scenery.

Mum is no longer subtle, and the look isn't serious as much as it is distasteful, no matter how hard Martin tries. He would like to tell someone about this, but when he thinks of reaching out he remembers the only messages in his old school notebooks are those of well-meaning teachers, wishing him luck and praising a potential that Martin knows isn't there.

He's sixteen years old, when Martin comes to the conclusion that he's perhaps meant to be alone forever. Mum's illness has gotten so bad that Martin has to drop off school to work and care for her. She doesn't look at him anymore, not even when Martin finally shows up looking like he's always wanted to. He doesn't know exactly how to feel about this, because as much as he didn't want a fight, it's yet another proof that his existence is irrelevant in her life.

He tries to tell himself this is just his poor self esteem. Of course his mother loves him, she's his mother. She kept him alive, she cared for him, she's just... ill. And she's always been strong-willed. To a child it might've looked like irritation, but Martin is an adult now and he's learned life is not at all like in Hallmark movies, and if he sat down to cry every time mum didn't say 'I love you' back, he'd seldom have time to do anything else.

Martin is twenty two when he accepts he's exhausted. Of this life, of his mother, of himself. He wants to do something about it, but the pill bottles behind the bathroom mirror scare him just as much as the University pamphlets he hides under his pillow.

He strides up to the imposing looking building by the river with his forged CV in hand because he doesn't know what else to do. He gets the job, but as the Head of the Institute shakes his hand to dismiss him, Martin looks at Elias Bouchard's bright green eyes, and knows that he knows. That somehow this man has realized he's an impostor, that he's gotten this far only by convincing people he's far more capable than he actually is.

But he needs the money, and this job is far less demanding than anything else he could've gotten with his lack of credentials. He signs the contract, and he doesn't notice the jealous cling of the fog around him, as the Eye turns its gaze on him.

------------------------------------------

"What is this place?" Tim asks when they come into the cavernous chamber.

Basira looks around, nailed in place by the unsettling feeling of relief she's experiencing. The cells are empty behind their rusted bars, but Basira can See the outlines of the prisoners where they died when they were Known by a power they couldn't even begin to understand.

"It's- it's a place of Beholding," she mutters. She hates it here, hates how comfortable she feels in this place that's so permeated with death. It's another reminder of what she is, of all the shit she let pass; it's a bit of a bad joke, that after looking the other way for so long she's now become something that can't look away. "Jon's up there. And Martin too."

"What about Gerry?" Tim asks.

"I dropped him there. Not sure where he went after." They whip around at the new voice, and sure enough the entrance to the passageway they came through is now a very large version of Helen's door, with the Distortion herself swinging too-long legs as she sits on an enlarged doorknob. "He was in quite a fit about Martin, though."

"Well, better late than never, I guess." Tim grunts.

Basira rolls her eyes, because of course Tim has been so lost on his personal drama of whether or not he wants to forgive Jon that he hasn't noticed anything else. Still, her mouth twitches; it's a good distraction from the constant wondering about Daisy. She cups her hands around her mouth, taking a tentative step forward.

"Jon? Did you find them?" she calls out. No one responds, and Basira gets a muted pang of surprise at the way her stomach drops with worry. Maybe she did care after all. "Get ready. Elias was here. And Lukas too."

"That's comforting," she hears Tim grumble behind her as he follows her lead. It feels... it's different.

It's not Daisy. It will probably never be Daisy again, but it feels good to have a team at her back.

------------------------------------------

The Lonely smells like tears.

It's a deceptively simple smell, building up like bad memories and a knot at the back of your throat.

Much like in the Dark, there's no colors here. Unlike the Dark, there is nothing here, not even fear, or the certainty that there is something waiting for you to give up and consume you.

The Lonely doesn't care about you.

No one does, or you wouldn't have ended here. Do you care about this? You have always cared so much. It was exhausting, and it did nothing but cause trouble to you and the ones you thought you loved.

Isn't this a lot easier? You don't have to feel anything, here. You can't hurt anyone here.

"-on? Can you hear me?"

The scent of lavender hits softly like a memory, and Jon blinks until he can distinguish between the cold inside him and the cold around him.

"Gerry?" he asks, but his hand closes around nothing.

"-m here." Gerry's voice reaches him from far away, even though Jon is sure they were holding on to each other when they entered.

"I- I can't see you."

"-ou feel me?"

He can, Jon finds. A thread of white-hot steel pulling at the left side of his chest, the ghastly feeling of lips on his own.

"Yes. Yes, I can." A love that is felt but not seen, just like-

"-ind Martin," Gerry says from his corner of the Lonely, which could be an inch or a mile away. "-ocus on that."

That- that makes sense. Martin is still human, he's the most at risk here. Once they find him, they can get out, and the other will follow. Should follow.

"Okay, I- be careful." Jon tries to add something else, but the words that Gerry uttered so easily on the kitchen floor that night feel impossible to push out.

"-ove you," Gerry whispers, before his presence fades away.

'Me too,' Jon thinks fiercely, desperately and futilely. 'Me too, and I will find the two of you if I have to Know every inch of the Lonely, until it can't keep you from me.'

The Beholding purrs in delight at the declaration. It doesn't care why the Archivist uses it as long as he does. Jon should probably care about that a little more than he does, but the only thing in his mind now is Martin, and the need to get him out of here before he can't distinguish between it and himself.

------------------------------------------

"Can you see the entry?" Tim asks, stepping away from the dry corpse in the center of the room.

"Not really," Basira shrugs. "I can see where their trails end, but- we can't go in, Tim."

And that's that, he supposes. She says it with such finality, with such certainty, that Tim has no choice but to accept it as fact.

Martin is gone.

Martin, the last of them, the only one untouched by all this shit. Martin who brewed them tea and pretended he wasn't making cow eyes at Jon even though he behaved like an absolute ass. Martin who found Tim at his living room with fire in his veins and offered him the same unconditional friendship they'd shared before everything began to go south.

He warned them about this. He warned both of them and the worst part is he can't even be angry at Jon about it, because Jon is gone too, and because he himself wasn't able to keep Martin here, he wasn't enough.

This is- he's the only one left. They're all gone, and they slipped through his fingers even after he got a second chance, one after the other, Danny, Sasha, J-

"I wouldn't touch him right now if I were you," Helen says somewhere in the room, and it's only when he opens them that Tim realizes he's shut his eyes; he looks in time to see Basira's hand retreating from his shoulder, as Helen speaks again. "Should I go get Melanie?"

"No," Basira says immediately. "She's out. We don't- we don't go to Melanie unless there's no other choice. We have to-"

"We have to what?" Tim snaps. He's so tired of this, of losing people- he liked it much better when he'd just woken up and all he could feel was rage. "Let's just pop your eyes out too, so I can blow the fucking place up." And himself too, if he's lucky.

"Could you stop moping around already?!" Basira whips around to face him. Her eyes are burning with intensity, and her fists are clenched and shaking by her sides. "You've seen him walk from worse, you've walked from worse. Now- now we have to- I don't know what happened here, but if Elias walked out of jail exactly today, then it's got to have something to do with Martin, or-"

"Or Jon's marks." The answer hits Tim like a slap to the face.

'You're just missing one, aren't you?'

'The Lonely, yes.'

'How convenient isn't it? Martin's sudden promotion.'

'I'm well aware it's my fault, Tim, thank you.'

What else could it be? Whatever Elias is planning-

He turns to her, and in her eyes he finds the same understanding, the same clicking of pieces he just went through. The fourteen marks were deliberate, orchestrated; Annabelle Cane's statement was nothing short of a confession.

It doesn't change anything, not really, everything that happened, everything Jon did is still there, a wound that scarred badly and that still aches when pulled at, but-

"We have to get them away," Basira says.

But at least for now, Tim has a purpose again.

------------------------------------------

Gerry's never been to the Lonely before, though he's felt its grip on him many times in his life.

You defeat the Lonely with love, and Gerry has never been short of that.

Whether or not it's been paid in kind is another matter entirely, but he loved his mother, and he loved Gertrude, and he loved every soul he helped save from a fate worse than death. It has to be enough now, and if it isn't... well, Gerry's always been good at making round pegs fit into square holes, and this won't be the exception. He won't let Martin be the exception.

He wanders across the Lonely for what feels like hours, when he spies a figure hunched on the floor. There's no heart to race in his chest, but Gerry hurries his steps when he recognizes the muted black of Martin's hair, the tired curve to his shoulders.

"Martin? Martin!" Gerry exclaims, falling to his knees across from him, and swatting away at the thick fog that lays around the man like a cloak. "Fuck, I- it's so good to see you. What the hell were you thinking?!"

Martin doesn't look at him, doesn't even look up, and when Gerry lays his hands on his shoulders there's a thin layer of cool dampness that he wipes away hurriedly.

"Huh. I didn't expect you'd be here," Martin's voice echoes oddly, like it's carrying across water. "I thought they'd stop if I let them put me here. Did they send you here too?"

"I- n- no, Martin." Gerry tries to crouch lower to enter his field of vision, before he carefully lays a hand on Martin's round cheek to softly pull his face up. "No, we- Jon brought me in. We came here for you.

"Jon." Martin's grey eyed focus on him, and Gerry feels like he's been punched in the gut. He can't taste the emotion in Martin's voice like he can with Jon's, but he doesn't need to. He's heard the kind of sorrow poured in those three letters.

"Yes, he- he's here too. Now that I got you, we just need to-"

"You should go to him."

"I mean, yes, we both need to-"

"I think it's better if I stay here, Gerry."

"...What?" Gerry scowls, then feels his eyes widening in terror when his hand starts going through Martin's cheek. "Shit- Martin no! We need-"

"I really loved him, you know?" Martin's silhouette is growing harder to see, like a mirror fogging up.

"Of course I know, you- Martin you pretty much only tolerated me because of him, I know you love him."

Martin lets out a chuckle; it's a low, sad sound that makes Gerry's stomach churn.

"At first, I suppose." He shrugs, and his contour grows a bit fainter. The only thing Gerry can see clearly is his sad little smile, like some twisted version of the Cheshire cat. "I was sad at first that you- but you turned out to be so amazing, in the end. I was happy he found you."

Fuck. Fuck, fuck- Gerry tries to grab at him again, but his hand just goes clean through.

"Martin, it's- it's not over. We're not done, he wants you, he still-"

"I think it's time to go now-"

"Martin Blackwood you're not going anywhere," Gerry snaps. This can't- this is not going to end like this. He won't let it. They were supposed to sit down and talk about the future, there was going to be a future to talk about, for fuck's sake! "I will follow you to the end of the Lonely if I have to, you're not going to shake me off this easily."

"I really liked that about you too. You made me feel wanted."

"That's because I do, you idiot!"

------------------------------------------

"They're safe, see? At least for now." The voice is insidious, frustrating. It gives off the feeling of practiced politeness, empty pleasantries that mean even less than cold, uncaring silence. "It's very heartwarming, if ultimately futile, of course."

"I take it you're the reason I can't reach them?" Jon asks coldly. He can feel the Forsaken rearranging itself as they speak, the space between his and the two silhouettes hunched over in the distance growing wider and wider, so that every step he takes towards then moves him ten steps back.

"Does it really matter?" Peter asks. "They don't need you there, and it's only a matter of time before they give up."

"I will find them first," Jon says simply; there is no other choice, no scenario where they don't come out of this together. He'll make sure of it.

Peter laughs, and the sound echoes oddly around Jon, like only the ghost of it was reaching his ears.

"I doubt so. But you're welcome to keep trying."

"Why don't you come speak face to face, Lukas?" The fog around him takes on a sickly green hue where the glow of his eyes illuminate it, and the Lonely curls more thickly around him, hiding Peter from his Sight, from his reach. "Afraid of being seen?"

"I've dealt with your kind before, Archivist."

"So that's a yes, then."

"Fooling around with that toy of yours really have you some undeserved bravado, didn't it?" He sounds a bit disgruntled now, Jon notices with a muted, dark amusement. "Since he's not human, I'm not sure if he can even be consumed here, you know? I wonder if he'll just walk around forever until he shuts down."

"I'm not his only anchor," Jon scowls. That much is true, isn't it? Melanie-

"Please. Do you really believe he'll walk away without you? Both of you? Anchors are very effective, Archivist, as long as you aren't tied to a sinking one." Peter's smirk is palpable in his voice, and Jon grits his teeth. That's- it's not entirely wrong. Gerry's far too selfless, far too dedicated to putting others before himself.

"He'll do it for Martin," Jon says with far more vigour than he feels. That was the plan, and Gerry's not stupid in the least. Out of the three of them, Jon's the one that has a highest chance of survival here. If he has a chance to at least pull Martin out-

"Oh, but Martin doesn't want to go." Peter chuckles. "You let him fly too close, Archivist. This is his place now."

Silence stretches over them for a moment, the echo of Jon's breathing the only sound for miles.

"...You brought him in here, though." That's what Gerry said, what the Eye confirmed. Martin chose to come willingly, but it was Peter who opened the door. "You can kick him out. Both of them."

Peter doesn't respond immediately, and Jon focuses on the two silhouettes that he can see, but will never reach, not as long as the Lonely keeps pushing them apart.

"I could. For a price."

------------------------------------------

It feels like his words resonate around them for an eternity, before the odd dissonance of the Lonely takes it away completely.

Martin is still there, barely visible and barely tangible under his bruising grip, the only sound between them is Gerry's agitated breathing.

"Martin?" Gerry asks carefully. While Martin has stopped fading away into the fog, he doesn't seem to be getting better either. But if his words kept him here, then- then maybe there's still a chance. "I'm- I know I'm not Jon, but- but I came here for you, alright? I wanted to come for you."

But it doesn't work that way, does it? You can be the most desired, the most loved person in the world and still be alone.

"Why?" Martin asks. His eyes fix on Gerry's, grey and empty of any and all emotion, but it has to mean something, that he hasn't left, that he still wants to know.

"We need you," Gerry answers truthfully. He doesn't know too well what it means, but it's been a while since this was just about Jon.

"You know that's a lie, Gerry." The corner of Martin's lips twitches into a humorless smile.

"It's not, it's-"

"I think I want to stay. Nothing hurts in here. It feels... quiet. We can all be happy, like this." There's a longing in his voice when he says it, a soft wistfulness that Gerry doesn't trust right now.

"Martin, I'm- listen to me," Gerry asks, nearly begs. He shouldn't have been the one to find him, he realizes with a start. It has to be someone he loves, he remembers telling Melanie so long ago. And still the fact remains that Gerry's the only one here, and if he's not enough, then he'll have to remind him of the one who might just be. "Think of why you did this, think-

"...What?"

"Martin, who is your reason?"

------------------------------------------

"You want me to stay in their place." Jon says quietly, clenching a fist in the fabric of his jumper as the realization dawns on him. "Why?"

Peter stalks around him, watching him under the cover provided by his patron. He can feel the Eye searching for him, but its intensity is growing fainter by the second, as the Archivist begins to bend under the weight of his own doubt.

"Trust me, Jon, the Eye has given me plenty of reasons. But I must admit I'm simply not too happy with Elias at the moment and I'm very curious to see what he'll do if you don't make it out of here." Bit of an understatement, honestly.

"I-"

"That's the offer," Peter interrupts. "What do you say, Archivist?"

The desolate questioning in Jon's face is an absolute delight to behold.

"Take your time. Though I feel like the choice should be easy. Or are you hesitating because your pet undead will die without you anyways? You can't have everything, Jon." Peter tuts consolingly. "Either he dies out there, or the three of you stay in here."

"You said- you know Elias is planning something. He-"

"Oh, he'll try to get you back of course." Too much invested in this one, years of orchestrating his marks and survival. Elias won't just start over, Peter isn't even sure he could start over, without the Mother's webs that drape over this one's shoulder as a blessing. "Granted, I'm not sure how much of you there'll be left by the time he works his way back into my good graces.But that's not necessarily a bad thing in your books, is it?"

"...It isn't." The thrum of the Eye in the air fades a little more, when Jon lets his head drop.

Peter isn't terribly surprised. He might not be Martin, whose entire core calls to the Forsaken like they are one and the same, bit Jonathan Sims is still am incredibly lonely man.

It's about regret, in his case. Peter can feel all the mistimed connections that haunt him, when he reached out only to find it was far too late and he'd pushed way too far. The memory of waking up alone in a hospital room, and knowing he was neither expected nor wanted back.

"I thought so. Your friends will be much safer without you, Jon. You know that." He's not sure how much more convincing Jon actually needs, but it can't hurt to double down, he decides as he stops his pacing by his side and leans in to whisper in his ear. "You can't hurt anyone here."

"I... I suppose so."

"You know so." And Peter does too. Won't it be poetic, to keep Elias' pet in here as revenge for his own sabotaged ritual? Not much he can do, if there's no one to wear the crown. "It's all up to you, Jon. What do you want?"

Peter has dealt with beholders before, far more than he should, actually. He knows how they work, how for all they preach omniscience, they home in on a purpose, and become blind to everything else. Gertrude wanted war, Elias wants power, and this sad, broken man wishes uselessly for redemption, and if he can't have it, he'll have immolation.

"So? What will it be?" he asks.

Jon's head tilts up slowly, and Peter freezes at the intense neon green of his eyes, and the downward curve of his tightly pressed lips.

"A statement, I think," he says, and all around him the Watcher's eyes burn holes through the fog, pinning Peter in place like stakes, their focus so heavy it stings.

He tries to remain calm, to keep his fear from the Eye. This is his domain, and he can't be harmed here, not even by Elias' trained dog-

"Peter Lukas, you will give me your story."

------------------------------------------

His reason.

Did he have one?

Was it saving the world, or did he just want to look good while killing himself? Was it revenge against these things that took all the ones he loved, or spite at not being taken himself?

This place makes it hard to think. All you can do is sit and feel the emptiness inside you, smell the tears and listen to the silence. Was that his reason, finding a place to escape to? Maybe he just wanted to rest, for once, forever.

He's so tired.

There's a man before him. His hands are heavy on Martin's shoulder and face, but so careful, like he's made of glass or secrets. The man's eyes are beautiful, desperate mix of greens and blues, and his lips curl around words that barely reach him, words Martin doesn't know if he wants to hear.

He did have a reason, didn't he? It had a name and a face, a lopsided smile and eyes swimming with sadness.

Didn't he hate Martin? That's what they had in common, isn't it? Before the worms, before the fear.

Where is he now?

Martin remembers him, dead in all but name, laid on a hospital bed like a broken doll. His hand is limp in Martin's own, l and every time he presses it to his lips Martin swears it's grown colder.

Was that his reason? What was he more afraid back then, the thought that he wouldn't wake up, or that he might?

The man before him speaks again, and his hands on him feel heavier, warmer.

He doesn't like him, Martin remembers. How easily he stepped into the Archives, how well they fit together. Martin looks at him, and he doesn't know if he wants to tell him to go away or ask him what took him so long, why couldn't he have come before Martin gave up on his future for a chance at saving Jon's?

Martin tries to recall the man's name; maybe it'll help him figure out why he's here. It's a good name, he's sure, because he's a good man. A simple name, the kind you say with a smile. An incredibly, absolutely, undeniably mulish and irritating name, what on Earth is he doing here?!

Martin came here to keep him safe, because even knowing this was a trap for Jon, it was the only way to get Elias to stop hurting him, why would this idiot follow him in?!

Now all the work he did will be for nothing, because Martin knows as sure as the sky is blue that Gerry won't go away, won't let him fade into the grey. He'll find Martin again and again and again, until he answers his question, or the Lonely consumes them both.

This was a gamble he took to try and protect him, and now both of them are here and Jon is lost in here too, and Martin wants to scream at the absurdity of it all.

------------------------------------------

"Did you pack-"

"I packed the first things I saw, Basira, if they don't like it they're going to have to suck it up."

"That's fair."

"Where are they going?"

"North. Daisy had- she has a place. A cottage on the countryside."

"Oh, Martin will eat that stuff right up."

------------------------------------------

"-tin come on." Gerry tries again. Martin is still there, still tangible under his hands, but he still won't talk, won't look at him, the only sign of life to him is the slight furrowing of his brow. "Think- think of him, he's coming for you, we both did. Tim would've come too if he'd been there I'm sure, he's a prick but he loves you. So many people care, Martin, but we need you to care too, we-"

It's alright, he tells himself with just the slightest edge of panic. He's got time, and he'll keep going until the Lonely steals his last breath from his lungs, they are not going to lose Martin.

"Just- you have to- Martin I know you have what you need to break it, but you need to remember it yourself. You need-"

"I need you-" Martin's voice rings out clear and firm, without the ringing of the Lonely, and Gerry freezes. Martin's eyes are bright and green and burning with righteous indignation as he scowls down at him. "-to stop being so incredibly infuriating!"

And then Martin is collapsing against him, and it's all Gerry can do to hold him steady as a wave of relief washes over him.

"I'm- sorry?" He asks, his voice tinged with confusion.

"No you're not," comes Martin's sullen voice, muffled against his shoulder.

Gerry lets out a bark of somewhat hysterical laughter, tightening his grip around Martin's frame. He feels solid, and growing warmer by the second, and Gerry feels a little like he did when Jon opened his eyes after so much begging.

"No, I'm not."

------------------------------------------

The man gasps in exhaustion and pain, as the last of his tale tumbles out of his lips.

The Archivist watches, adds the story to his archive with the same delight with which one would enjoy a feast.

It's a pathetic, hilarious joke that Peter Lukas ultimately dies protecting the Pupil's secrets, when the Archivist demands the truth.

The Eye hums in delight, and the Forsaken shies away from its unblinking gaze, from the power of its chosen, from the future this promises.

It knows with glorious certainty that when the Archive speaks next, the world will listen.

------------------------------------------

Martin feels the Lonely break around them like something being ripped from his chest.

He misses it immediately, the pungent smell of salt and humidity, and the emptiness inside him. The arms around his shoulders, the scent of lavender and ink under his nose, the warmth of another body pressed tightly against his is overwhelming.

"-'re back!" He hears Basira scream somewhere, and the sound of echoing steps coming closer.

"Hey there," Gerry whispers somewhere close to his ear. "I have someone for you."

And Martin's heart drops, because he knows who that is, and he knows what he said the last time he saw him. How could he forgive him for that? For turning him away when he came to him with a promise of freedom, of a future together? Of-

"Martin?" Jon says his name like a prayer, like he doesn't know if he's more afraid of his silence or his response, and when Martin lifts his face from Gerry's shoulder, he finds that he looks much the same, his teeth worrying nervously at his bottom lip as his dark eyes search Martin's face for... for what?

"Jon." Martin's own voice is a pitiful, exhausted thing, but the name sounds just right in his lips, like a memory, like an answer to a question he can't bear to think right now.

It's like Jon's strings have been cut, and he goes down on his knees by their side, slotting himself right under the arm Gerry lifts for him. Martin has a spare second to think of how well they fit together, before Jon buries his face in his chest and it hits Martin that he's here too, held between them like he belongs, like they were waiting for him.

"I'm sorry I didn't find you," Jon whispers into his chest. He feels nothing like Martin imagined, and is somehow much more real for that. "I'm sorry I let it get this far."

What could he possibly say to that? That it's not Jon's fault that Martin wanted to die? That he's sorry too, because now Jon has all the marks and nobody knows what that means, but it can't be good?

Objectively speaking, Martin knows it would've been much better for them -maybe even for the whole world, who knows what Elias is thinking?- if they'd let him in the Lonely.

It's tough to voice that aloud however, with Gerry's arms around him and Jon tucked so perfectly under his chin. Their presence hurts, but Martin hasn't felt this much like himself ever since Tim first came, and he knows he needs them here precisely for this reason. Without the Lonely's overbearing, suffocating presence all around him, it's all too easy to see just how close he came to losing himself.

"...I've missed you," Martin says in the end, probably long past the time they've stopped waiting for an answer. Still, it's the truth, and Martin's spent so long denying it that it feels almost like another lie. He tightens his arms around Jon, partly to check if he's allowed, but mostly to confirm he's actually real and there.

Gerry clears his throat a little. "Would you like me to leave you two alone?" he asks quietly.

'You found me,' Martin wants to say. 'You found me, and you didn't let go, why would I want you to leave?'

Words are still difficult though, especially with the fog still trying to pull at him, yelling at him from all sides that he doesn't matter, that they saved him out of some misguided sense of heroism, and not any particular interest for him. That it is he who is intruding, that they could've lost each other, and it would've been his fault.

Martin shakes his head and shifts to lean a bit more comfortably on his shoulder. His neck is already starting to smart from bending down, but even the pain is a blessing, a reminder that he's alive, that he's human and can feel things, good and bad.

The faint scent of lavender drifting up from Gerry's hair and Jon's comforting weight in his arms are grounding. Soothing.

"Martin?!" Tim's arrival is heralded by the room growing warmer, as if to chase away the remnants of the fog that clings to Martin's tired bones. "Fuck. You're- are you alright?"

"Right as rain," Martin rasps out, cracking an eye open -when did he close them?- to look up at him. Even splashed in blood and dirt, Tim's a sight for sore eyes, the concern in his gaze so simple and sincere not even the Lonely can twist it into loathing. "What are the bags for?"

"Management said you had too many vacation days saved up," Tim croaks with a laugh just this side of hysterical. "We booked you a holiday."

And Martin would like to respond to the joke, he really would, but his eyelids are growing heavy with exhaustion, and it's all he can do to aim a smile -who knew he could still do that?- his way, before he lets go.

"You have to get away before he comes back-" is the last he hears Basira say.

It's not over, he remembers, they're not done. But for the time being, they're all together and they're safe, and Martin is here because they want him to; it still feels like a lie, but nothing else makes sense and he has to allow the tentative, absurd hope that it might be true.

Martin decides that, maybe for once, the rest can wait.

#vit writes #jongerrymartin #jgm #illicio

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ollieofthebeholder · 4 years ago

Text

leaves too high to touch (roots too strong to fall): a TMA fanfic

Tumblr tag || Also on AO3.

Chapter 37: Martin Prime

It was weird hearing his fiancé arguing with someone who sounded like him but wasn’t, Martin mused idly. Like listening to a tape he didn’t remember recording.

It was also weird, and would probably always be weird, that he could tell the difference between Jon’s voice and Past Jon’s voice, at least when he was paying attention and not overly upset. Theoretically they were the same person. Practically, they were very different, just because of what they’d both been through. Jon’s voice had just the faintest rasp to it, the lightest bit of scarring on his vocal chords from both Daisy’s knife and Jane Prentiss’ worms, and Past Jon’s voice was a tad softer, less hardened by time and circumstance. The distinction in their voices was subtle, but it was enough.

“You knew about the bullet. You should have said something to her,” Jon said, for what was at least the fifteenth time in the last week. Martin could imagine him waving his arms as he did so. “If she gets shot because she didn’t know to avoid it—”

“It wasn’t like I had an opportunity in the conversation,” Past Martin protested. “I did tell her to be careful.”

“Why didn’t you say anything?” Jon demanded.

From the stress on you, Martin guessed he’d turned the argument on someone else, and it was Past Jon who answered. “What was I supposed to say? ‘Oh, don’t worry, you’ll come back alive but with a ghost’s bullet in your leg that’s going to make you irrationally angry’? I did the best I could. We were recording.”

“I’ve told you before, the recorders aren’t the Eye—”

“Uh, I need to take this back to the library before it closes for the weekend,” Tim said, but it didn’t seem to make an impression on the argument that Sasha was now chiming in to.

“He’s right, you should have told her. Should have warned her against joining the Institute, too.”

“I can do that when she gets back,” Past Martin pointed out.

“I told Basira what was going on,” Sasha said.

“But not in relation to herself,” Past Jon said. Martin could imagine that being accompanied by an accusing jab of the finger, but he wasn’t going to make assumptions. “Besides, that’s different. Basira is the type to weigh all evidence and theories against her options when making a decision. Melanie’s more the type to give in to emotion, especially anger. It’s impossible to tell which way she’d go if you gave her that kind of information first. It’s very likely to make things worse.”

“Don’t you Know at me, Jonathan Sims.”

Tim made a noise imitative of a supermarket’s tannoy crackling to life. “Manager to Mr. Kettle, manager to Mr. Kettle, there’s a Ms. Pot for you on line two.”

“Would that be the pot calling the kettle back?” Martin asked. He was rewarded with a choked-off laugh from Tim’s direction, but he was pretty sure nobody else in the room heard either one of them. With a sigh, he heaved himself out of the armchair. “Want me to come with you to take that book back? This is going to take a while.”

“Sure. We’ll be back, guys.” Tim evidently directed this at the others, but again, no reaction from anyone. He sighed. “Here, give me your arm. Bringing your cane?”

“Better not, just in case we run into someone. Get me to the stairs and I should be okay.”

The sound of the argument faded into the background as they made it to the steps; Martin let go of Tim’s arm and gripped the railing instead. By leaning forward, he could anticipate when they hit a landing. “Thanks. What’s the book on, by the way?”

“Oh, it’s one of the circus books. I—I know I’m obsessing a little about it. I know the circus itself isn’t the important bit, but…I don’t know. Forewarned is forearmed, I guess.” Tim was silent for a moment. “Unless it is something about circuses that are important.”

“No, not really. Just…an excuse, I guess.” Martin tried to put into words what even Jon had never asked his opinion on; there hadn’t been much of a chance before the Unknowing, and after it there hadn’t been much of a point. “I’ve noticed that’s one of the places the Stranger is drawn to, is the entertainment industry. Not just the circus, but the theater. I-I mean, don’t get me wrong, it’s not the only one drawn to it. You know as well as I do the damn things overlap, like the bleed on the edge of colors.”

“Mm…hang on, I have a question, but we’re hitting the main floor. I’m gonna throw my arm around your shoulders like I’m telling you a bad joke, okay?”

“Thanks. And thanks for the warning.” Martin braced himself against the railing.

Tim’s arm came down heavily over Martin’s shoulders, and he turned his face towards him, hoping anyone passing them would assume he was engrossed in Tim’s extremely skewed sense of humor. True to his word, Tim picked up in the middle of a joke as they left the stairwell. “…the Brother Superior stands up as usual and sings, ‘Good morning, broooo-theeers.’ And all the brothers sing back, ‘Good moooor-niiiiiiing,’ except for the one little brother who’s rebelling. He sings out—”

“’Night, Martin,” a sweet, young-sounding voice called.

“Night,” Martin called back. It sounded like Manal, but he didn’t want to risk saying the wrong name and drawing attention to himself.

“Oh, hey, are you heading upstairs?” The voice got closer, and Martin and Tim drew to a halt. “This came in the mail drop for Mr. Bouchard. I meant to bring it up right away, but we got slammed with students and I forgot. Must be the first paper of the term coming up due. Can you give it to Rosie, please?”

“Sure, no problem.” Martin reached out uncertainly and—fortunately—touched a cardboard packet; he was able to grab it before it became obvious that was luck. He hoped. “Have a good night, Manal.”

“You too.”

Tim got them started walking again, continuing as he did, “Anyway, so the brother who’s rebelling sings, ‘Good eeeeeeve-niiiiiiing.’ A hush falls over the whole refectory. Brother Superior stands up, looks around the room, looks each brother in the eye, and then sings, ‘Someone chanted eveniiiiiiing…’”

Martin let out a long, protracted groan. “God, Tim, how long have you been sitting on that one?”

“Years,” Tim admitted sheepishly. “You’ve got to have the right audience for it, you know? Someone who both appreciate puns and knows enough about music to catch the reference.”

“If I could see you, I would hit you.”

“Must be my lucky day. Mind the steps.”

Martin switched the cardboard packet to his other hand in favor of the railing, and was surprised when someone tugged it away from his fingers. “Hey—”

“Sorry, should’ve warned you I was doing that,” Tim said. “I just figured it’d probably be better if I hand it off to Rosie, since…” He trailed off.

Since Martin couldn’t see her, wouldn’t know where to find her, and the last time he’d been in her office it had been…somewhat different. He tried to push the image of the top of the Panopticon out of his mind. “Yeah, probably for the best. If she’s still there.”

“She will be. Always one of the last ones out the door. Not sure how much of it is Elias keeping her to the last minute and how much of it is she doesn’t want to miss anything.” Tim paused. “Speaking of being unbearably nosy, wonder what Elias is getting from one of the Lukases that can’t be delivered in person?”

“They don’t like doing anything in person if they can help it, Tim. It’s kind of their whole…deal.” That close to Elias’ office, it didn’t feel safe to mention the Lonely out loud, or any of the fears, really. “I very much doubt we’ll find out, though.”

The railing didn’t level out—it just stopped, something Martin discovered when he almost pitched forward from abruptly not having something to lean on. He caught himself against the wall with a rather loud slap and thanked his lucky stars he’d always had a (mostly undeserved, to be honest) reputation as a klutz. Assuming anyone was still around, they’d probably just think oh, Martin tripped over his own two feet again, insofar as they thought about it at all. Rosie was probably watching, though.

That was confirmed—more or less—when Tim said in a bright, jovial voice, “Rosie! Good to see you. Can you give this to Elias? Manal asked us to bring it up.”

“Of course.” Rosie’s voice sounded just like Martin remembered it, and he curled one hand into a fist to stave off the memory of her staring up at them, face perfectly blank except for her eyes, somewhere between dazed and terrified, as she blandly asked if they had an appointment…

Not for the first time, Martin wished there had been any other way of protecting him from the Eye than by destroying his vision. Setting aside the usual, mundane difficulties that came with total blindness—difficulties any person faced with complete loss of sight would have to deal with—there was the simple fact that the last thing Martin had seen, live and in person, had been a post-apocalyptic hellscape. The last time he had seen the Institute, it had been a tower of black glass and twisted steel looming up into the stratosphere; the last time he had seen London, it had been swarming with very interested cameras and monitors and paintings of eyes; the last time he had seen the sky, it had seen him back. He could remember the way things had been before, but those last impressions were awfully powerful, and it hurt.

“Was there anything else, Tim?” Rosie asked. Martin frowned slightly. Under her voice was something eager, something…hungry. She wanted something, and he wondered what it was. He remembered Jon’s unwilling statement, where he’d talked about her constant desire for secrets—she could probably give Sasha a run for her money in terms of snooping, and no wonder Gertrude had always talked to her as if she was in the know. Was that all it was? Was she prying for secrets? Or—Martin bit his lip—was it possible she’d been taken over by the Not-Them, that she was drawn to Tim because of his Stranger mark? She sounded like he remembered, but if she were replaced in this past, would it replace his memories of the future, too?

He bit back a groan. Douglas Adams was wrong about the biggest problem to time-travel being grammatical tenses; clearly, the biggest problem was making sense out of the recursive nature of body-stealing, memory-altering creatures.

“Nope, that ought to do it. Gotta get to the library before they lock it up for the night. Have a good weekend, Rosie.” Tim knocked twice on something wooden, probably her desk, then came over and touched Martin’s arm. “Let’s go, Freckles.”

“Night, Rosie,” Martin called, because he would have before and Past Martin would too and there was no sense in making Rosie—or Elias, if he was still there—suspicious. He could imagine the false, charming smile she flashed in his direction, but there was no audible response and he didn’t expect one. Instead, he simply linked arms with Tim, let him lead him down the corridor, and prayed nobody had left a door open for him to run into.

The sensation of stepping into the library was instantly a familiar one to Martin—the feeling of stepping into a soaring, open space, but an oddly safe one—odd because of the sheer number of truly dangerous and terrifying works contained there. Any book with Jurgen Leitner’s bookplate on it was destroyed long before it got this far, of course, but even before he’d gone to the Archives, Martin had wondered if someone would be able to tell one of Leitner’s books if the bookplate was papered over or removed. Once he’d learned the truth, that Leitner had been a collector rather than the author or even the commissioner, he’d wondered how many books of power were actually in the Institute’s library. On the one hand, it didn’t seem likely that Jonah Magnus would allow any genuinely powerful books to get this far; on the other hand, it would certainly explain the library’s asinine and borderline ludicrous lending procedures.

Martin hung back by the door, sliding his hands into his pockets and hoping he was sufficiently out of the way of everyone bustling to get their assigned tasks completed so they could be out the door on time. Idly, he wondered who was on the desk. He’d usually ended up working it on Friday afternoons; everybody else hated it because, as Rebecca had once complained, there was always one person who came back with an enormous stack to return with ten minutes to go before they were supposed to clock out. Every book had to be checked against three different lists, certain inspections had to be made, and the identity of the person returning the book had to be checked twice. And it all had to be done by hand; every attempt to automate and bring in a computer had been met with catastrophic failure. Martin had actually kind of enjoyed it, especially since it usually meant he was left alone at the end of the week and could take his time, lingering over shelves and experimenting with the acoustics. If he thought he could get away with it, he might creep up here some evening after the Institute was closed and throw a few more songs into the darkness. It was different in the Archives.

“Well, hello there, Martin!”

Martin almost leapt out of his skin and whirled around, his heart pounding. “Jesus!”

“Sorry, didn’t mean to sneak up on you.” The voice was coming from roughly Martin’s height, but that was about all he could tell, that and that it was female. It had no distinctive characteristics, nothing to trigger a name in his mind. And yet, whoever owned it knew his name, which meant it was someone he should know. He’d have to bluff. “Haven’t seen you up here in a while.”

“Yeah, just—been busy,” Martin said lamely. He waved in the direction of the desk. “Kind of figured you’d be glad to see the back of me, to be honest.”

“Oh, now, why would you think that?” The woman, or at least Martin presumed it was the woman, patted him on the cheek with a soft, fleshy hand; he tried not to flinch at the unexpected touch, or the unpleasantly dry feel of her palm. “You’re such a hard worker, and always so cheerful. You’ve been missed, but I’m sure Jon appreciates having you in the Archives.”

If this was a joke, Martin didn’t think it was very funny, but he managed a smile anyway. “Well, we all had a settling-in period, but that’s in the past now. I do miss it up here sometimes, but I like being down there, too.”

“And we’re very glad to have him,” Tim said, suddenly right next to Martin. “C’mon, buddy, we’ve got a weekend to catch before it slips away…have a good one.”

“You, too, Tim. And you, Martin. Don’t be such a stranger—come back and visit us more often. We’d love to see you again.”

“Sure,” Martin said softly. “’Night.”

Tim didn’t say anything the rest of the way back down to the Archives, which Martin appreciated. Going down stairs was a hell of a lot more complicated than going up; he couldn’t lean as safely, and the kick-and-drag method was a bit less effective. It took concentration to keep from pitching forward and tumbling down the entire flight, and if he tried to spare any braincells for conversation, Martin was pretty sure he’d end up missing his footing. Tim’s hand at his elbow helped, especially since the main floor was crowded with people leaving for the day. A few called greetings to Tim, but they all ignored Martin, which was fine by him.

There was a sense, when they re-entered the Archives, of an argument put on hold, something that was confirmed when the first thing Martin heard anyone say was Jon’s voice. “What do you think, Martin?”

“Gender is a social construct, Shakespeare is overrated, and paisley is horrendously tacky no matter what color it is,” Martin replied promptly. Someone hastily turned a snigger into a cough.

“I mean, about whether or not you would have told Melanie more about what to expect in India.”

Martin felt around until he located a chair. “I think my opinion doesn’t matter.”

“Of course it matters,” Past Jon protested.

“Not in this.” Martin met Jon’s hand coming towards him and squeezed it gently. “What I would have done doesn’t have a lot of relevance here. It’s not our story anymore.”

“What?” Past Martin sounded genuinely confused. “Of course it’s—”

“I mean,” Martin said quickly, “that you’re not us and we’re not you. What I was like at this point in things isn’t anywhere near where you are, and vice versa. Same with Jon and your Jon. To be honest, I don’t even know if I would have made the effort to be friends. But at this point, things are different enough that telling you how we would do it isn’t very…efficient, I guess? It’s your story, your lives. You’re the ones shaping it. Trying to do things the way we wish we’d done it…well, if the circumstances aren’t the same, it won’t have the same outcome necessarily. You’ve got to do what you think is best.”

“That’s…a good point, actually,” Jon admitted. He sighed. “I apologize for lecturing.”

“’S all right,” Past Martin said. “Gave me a chance to stand my ground and all.”

“Which you need to do more often,” Tim said cheerfully. “Anything to boost your self-esteem.”

“Ouch, Tim, really?” The effectiveness of Sasha’s reproof was lessened by the obvious smirk in her voice.

“Yeah, okay, I probably shouldn’t have said it like that, but it’s true. I’m not completely oblivious, you know. I can put the pieces together, and from the little you’ve said about working in the library, I got the impression you thought they hated you up there. Especially Diana.”

“They did,” Past Martin protested. “The only one who ever even spoke to me directly was Diana, and even that was just to give me orders. It’s hard not to know someone hates you when their method of asking you for help is to wait until you’re in earshot and then tell someone else to ‘just leave that for Martin, he’ll fumble his way through it eventually’.”

“Did they really do that?” Jon asked quietly.

“Constantly,” Martin affirmed. “Speaking of, Tim, who the hell was that who was talking to me while you were checking that book back in? I didn’t recognize the voice.”

“Wait, seriously?” Tim said with an audible frown.

Martin sighed. “Look. Down here it’s pretty easy to tell who’s talking. You’ve all got pretty distinct voices from one another. It’s hard to tell my Jon and your Jon apart if I’m not concentrating, but there’s enough of a difference and I know you well enough to be able to figure it out, usually. But out there? If it’s not someone with a distinctive pitch or accent or speech pattern or whatever, it’s hard to tell. And something like ninety percent of the people who work here speak with the exact same voice. About all I could tell was that I was talking to a woman.”

“I guess that makes sense. Just figured you’d recognize Diana’s voice when you heard it.”

“Pretty sure I would. So who was that?”

There was a half-second’s pause before Tim said, “Diana.”

“Diana?” Martin repeated incredulously.

“You’re sure you didn’t recognize her?”

“No, and it’s not just the accent. I didn’t think the ladders got that close to where I was standing.” Martin rubbed his forehead. “God, my mental map of the library is all off now.”

Jon wrapped an arm around his shoulder and pulled him close. Tim sounded bewildered. “What do ladders have to do with anything?”

“It sounded like whoever was talking to me was around my height. I mean, that could’ve been the way sound bounces in the library, but—”

“No, that’s—she is around your height. She always intimidated the hell out of me.”

Martin sighed. “Okay, I think we’re talking about two different Dianas here. Which Diana was this I was talking to?”

“Diana—what the hell is her last name? The head librarian?”

“Caxton,” Past Jon supplied.

Something cold trickled down Martin’s spine. “Describe her.”

“Uh—tall, broad-shouldered, dark hair that she usually wears piled up on top of her head, looks like a Quentin Blake illustration come to life—?”

“That’s who the artist is! I can never remember his name,” Sasha said, punctuating the remark by—from the sound of it—slamming her open hand against the desk.

“That’s not Diana Caxton,” Past Martin said decidedly. “I don’t know who you’re talking about, or why she would have told you she was, but—”

“It’s the Diana Caxton I know,” Past Jon said. “And you should, too. She was there when I took Melanie up the first time, said they missed seeing your smiling face up there.”

“Look, that’s not Diana,” Past Martin insisted. “I should know. I worked there for ten years, Jon. She’s shorter than five feet tall, her hair’s been completely silver for a while now, and she has a Korean accent. I don’t know who this woman is you’re describing, but it’s not Diana Caxton.”

Jon tensed, his arm tightening around Martin’s shoulders. Softly, he said, “I think it is now.”

There was a moment of horrible silence as that sank in. Martin had to admit that the idea of the Not-Them taking over Diana hadn’t even occurred to him. He’d just…assumed that if it was anyone, either it would be someone in Artifact Storage foolish enough to disregard the warnings or it would be Rosie. And, okay, maybe there’d been a foolish little part of him that had hoped it wouldn’t take over anyone. But somehow, the idea of it being Diana Caxton just felt wrong. It was true that she hadn’t liked him all that much when he’d worked for her, but then, he’d been unqualified and incompetent, bluffing his way along, and she’d likely had to pick up a lot of his messes. And he knew for a fact that the twice-widowed bookworm had a flock of grandchildren who adored her—he still remembered the day her youngest had come to visit, just before he’d been transferred to the Archives, and attached herself to Martin with a thousand innocent questions and bragging stories about “my Nana”. It wasn’t fair for anyone to be taken by that thing, but especially not someone like Diana.

There was a banging noise, like the Archives doors had just blown open, and Martin jumped, clutching at Jon’s arm. His first thought was that it was the Not-Diana, having realized they knew, coming to take them out. His second was that it was Elias, the jig would be up, and they would have to try and implement their plan now, and what if Jon wasn’t strong enough to do what had to be done and—

“Basira?” Sasha said, sounding somewhere between shocked and relieved. “What are you doing here?”

Oh. Martin relaxed, but not much. There was absolutely no hiding his or Jon’s presence. Past Jon sounded nervous as he said, “I can explain about—”

“Save it. I don’t care.” There was a thump and a rattle as Basira—her voice was unmistakable, too—dropped something on the desk in front of them. “Here.”

“Are those the tapes?” Past Jon asked.

“As many of them as I could get,” Basira replied.

“What happened, Basira?” Sasha’s voice was gentle, but—surprisingly—there was no static in it, even though Martin could almost feel it building in the room. It hit him, suddenly, that Sasha’s ability from the Eye didn’t enable her to ask for secrets. Only to take them. He decided to keep that particular unpleasant realization to himself for the moment. “I thought you said you were done with the Institute.”

Basira let out one of those frustrated noises Martin, unfortunately, knew all too well. “They’re covering it up. Altman’s death. Saying he was dirty. That he got stabbed in a drug deal gone wrong.”

“Wait, so the operation you went on—” Past Jon began.

“Doesn’t exist. I mean, I didn’t know Leo well, but…it’s not right. And they seemed happy enough to get me out the door.”

Someone poked at the box, if the rattle was any indication; Martin guessed it was Sasha, since she spoke again. “So why bring us the tapes?”

“Well, they’re sure as hell not going to solve Gertrude’s murder,” Basira said. “And from what you said the last time I was here, they’re probably of more use to you anyway, even if her death’s not in here. Before, I guess I had enough police in me not to steal evidence, but…”

“They’ve rather lost your loyalty,” Jon supplied softly. Martin slipped his arm around his waist and pulled him close.

“You won’t get in trouble for this, will you?” Tim asked, actually sounding concerned.

“Don’t think so. Daisy knows I’m bringing them to you. They won’t know they’re missing until they do inventory, and then only if they check the sectioned stuff.”

“Thanks, Basira,” Sasha said. “I owe you a drink or two. Just say the word.”

“Long as you promise not to talk shop,” Basira replied. “If I never hear another thing about this place…that’ll be enough for me.”

Martin heard footsteps starting to retreat across the Archives floor. Impulsively, he called out, “Basira.”

The footsteps stopped. “What?”

Martin looked in what he hoped was the right direction to look her in the eyes. “Keep her close. You’re her tether, and excuses only carry you so far.”

It was the same thing he’d said to her, once upon a time and simultaneously in a nonexistent future, loitering in the hallway of an abattoir outside an instrument room. She hadn’t wanted to listen then, and if he was honest, he hadn’t really taken his own advice all that well. He could only pray she would listen now, and that she would understand what he was talking about—and what he wasn’t saying. Don’t let your partner turn into a monster because it’s easier than saying stop.

After a moment, Basira said, her voice so soft it almost wasn’t audible, “Right.” With that, evidently, she left the Archives.

Jon pulled Martin around and wrapped him in a tight hug; Martin could feel his face pressing into his shoulder as he hugged him back. He, at least, had understood. They held each other for a moment, both hoping—despite what she’d done to them months ago—that Daisy could still be saved.

There was another rattle as someone poked at the tapes. “Where do we start?” Sasha asked.

“We go home,” Tim said firmly. “It’s Friday, and it’s past quitting time. Let’s just—let’s just go home, take the weekend to regroup, and we can come back and look through these on Monday. Maybe, um, maybe you two can go through and pick a few you think we ought to listen to.”

“Or,” Jon suggested, “we can sort them out. Gertrude labeled some but not others. If I set the blank ones aside, that might be good practice for you to sort out the color muddle. If that’s all right.”

“Either way, Tim’s right,” Past Jon said softly. “It’s late and we’re all tired. Especially…now. Let’s just go home. We’ll see you on Monday.”

Everyone wished one another goodnight, and the team departed, leaving Jon and Martin alone in the Archives. Martin waited a moment, then asked, “Do you want to start looking through them now?”

To Martin’s surprise, Jon hesitated for a minute, then said, “No. I think I want to put these in the Archivist’s office, and then I want to take a walk with my fiancé and maybe go out to dinner. What do you think of that?”

Martin smiled. He could feel himself blushing a little, but he didn’t care. “I think that sounds like an excellent idea.”

#ollie writes fanfic #leaves too high to touch (roots too strong to fall)#tma #the magnus archives #time travel fix it au #jonmartin #gaslighting tw #canon typical stranger content #arguments tw #terrible puns cw

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spookyboywhump · 4 years ago

Note

Picture this: Wren, about 6 to 8 years old, scrawny, gap-toothed, with messy hair; on a school field trip to an aquarium. He quickly slips away from the group, wandering the faintly illuminated hallways. A tour guide finds him with his face pressed against the glass, his bright eyes following the flitting tropical fish. They gently lead him by the hand back to the class, on the way complimenting his knowledge and telling him even more fish facts.

Hi Erin I Loved This So Much I Did A Lil Thing

CW: I don’t know how to properly warn for this, just, being mean to someone who’s excited

Elias had spent the ride there bouncing in his seat excitedly, not fully aware of how it bothered the girl next to him. He’d been excited for this trip ever since it had first been announced, he loved the aquarium, he’d been on edge all week just waiting for the day to get there.

“Did you know there’s over thirty- there’s over thirty thousand types of fish?” He said to the girl next to him, Isabella Bradley. They weren’t exactly friends, but their last names meant they’d been sitting next to each other from kindergarten, first grade, and now into second grade. Whether they liked it or not, they were always together- and right now, Isabella didn’t quite seem to like it, he’d been rambling the whole trip.

“You already said that.” She said with a huff, though he’d been talking so quickly he hardly remembered saying it to begin with.

“Oh! Well, you-you know jellyfish? I love jellyfish, but they aren’t actually fish! Even though “fish” is in the name!”

“Elias!” She snapped. “Do you ever shut up?” She asked, and his mouth instantly shut. He’d been asked that before, by other kids, by his mom, by teachers, he thought he would’ve learned by now. She seemed satisfied with his silence, and he told himself he’d keep his mouth closed from here on out, having to grit his teeth to do so. He was fidgeting in his seat, bouncing his leg anxiously, and he was so relieved to finally get off the bus, gathering around his teacher with the other students.

He cringed as he heard her tell them to partner up, those words always made him sick. He inched off to the side as much as he could, trying to fall behind the other kids getting into line in pairs. When he tried, he was good at going unnoticed, small and quiet. He’d rather have no partner than have one assigned to him, they never seemed to like him much anyway. He was happy to be looked over, following his class inside at the end of the line.

All of his excitement came back once they were inside, he was once again reminded just how much he loved this place. He couldn’t help but smile as they followed one of the tour guides into the first, large room, he stared up at the large tank ahead of him with wide eyes. He tried to listen to what the guide had to say on the fish, but he was quickly bored, he already knew all this. At one point he asked a question, and Elias wanted so badly to answer, but he remembered that he told himself he’d be quiet this time, forcing himself to keep his hand down.

The tour wasn’t as exciting as he was used to, rushing from exhibit to exhibit with his brother. By now he knew the things the guide was telling them, it wasn’t new information to him, and even though he knew he shouldn’t have done it, he found himself separating from his class, lagging behind until they turned a corner and he simply didn’t follow.

He waited a few moments to make sure they hadn’t noticed, before heading off on his own, feeling much better about this now. For the most part, he knew his way around the aquarium, and he first stopped by the large tank with the moon jellyfish. He loved moon jellyfish a lot, and he knew they were even safe to touch. He wanted to touch one really bad. He eventually tore himself away from the tank, wandering through the other exhibits.

At some point, he came across the tank full of tropical fish, he couldn’t help but press his face against the glass as he watched them, standing on his toes to do so. Whenever he came with Everett, they’d sit on the bench in front of the tank, and Everett would listen as he tried to count how many fish of each color there was. He was happy to be there, but he couldn’t help but think the aquarium was a lot more fun with his brother.

“One… one, two, three, four…” He murmured to himself, slowly counting the yellow ones he saw.

“Oh- Are you lost from your class?” He jumped when he heard a voice, turning around to face the girl who’d spoken. She was young, her pretty blonde hair pulled back in a ponytail, but it was clear she worked there.

“I’m-I’m not lost...” He started, though he knew he wasn’t where he should be. For a brief moment he was scared he was going to get in trouble, but she just smiled as she approached him.

“Here, let’s get you back before they start to worry.” She said, taking his hand. “What’s your name?” She asked, as she started leading him away.

“E-Elias…”

“Do you like the aquarium, Elias?” She asked.

“Mmhm! My b-brother, he brought me here for my last birthday, and the one before that! I love it here!” He said, a grin spreading across his face as he got excited again. “I-I know a lot about fish and sea animals! Like-like manta rays- those are my favorite- they can-can be more than twenty feet across!”

“Wow, you’re smart, aren’t you?” She laughed, and he was so relieved that she didn’t sound irritated like people tended to. He took that as a good sign to keep rambling as they walked, and sometimes she’d add something, telling him things he hadn’t learned yet, but was excited to know. He was almost sad when they reached his class again, sad he’d have to leave the nice lady who talked with him.

His teacher thanked the girl for bringing him back, and he was almost immediately scolded for wandering off. He tried to enjoy the rest of the field trip though, and at the end of it they were even allowed into the gift shop, having been told to bring money for it specifically. He didn’t have much, but he didn’t want much anyway, he already had his shark stuffed animal he cherished so much. He found himself poking around the keychains, he had a manta ray one already, but he was happy to find a jellyfish keychain, snatching it up and rushing to buy it. Even though it wasn’t as fun as when he was with his brother, he was still excited to have something he could add to his collection once he was home.

***

“And-and then- and then I went and saw the tropical fish, the ones with the pretty colors!” He said, sitting on the counter while Everette made them dinner. He knew he was listening as he worked, his brother always listened. “A- uh- a nice lady, she took me back to my class, and she told me more stuff, like-like goldfish can live for decades, and a decade is ten years s-so that’s a long time.”

“It sounds like you had fun.” His brother said with a smile, pausing what he was doing to reach up and ruffle his hair.

“I did! Oh- Ev! I got this!” He dug the keychain out of his pocket, holding it out for his brother to see. “It’s a-a jellyfish, I’m gonna put it on my backpack!” He said happily, kicking his legs as he spoke.

Everett let him ramble all the way through dinner, even when he repeated himself. Sometimes he’d ask questions, which would just get him going all over again, and by the end of the day he hardly even remembered being told to shut up that morning.

#not whump #my writing #my oc's #elias brax #everett brax #baby wren #he used to talk A LOT #legallylibra

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fericita-s · 5 years ago

Text

Vanished

AU where Agnarr rescues Iduna as the mist descends and she loses her memory. He takes her to Arendelle and keeps her past a secret from everyone including Iduna herself, thinking it will keep her safe. Thank you @the-spastic-fantastic for developing this with me through brainstorming, mutual all caps excitement, skillful editing, Elias’s and Mrs. Calder’s best lines, outlining help, and this amazing moodboard!

Rated M, 20K, to be posted in four parts.

Part One

“Say it.”

Agnarr looked at his friend, then back down to Iduna’s sleeping form on the overstuffed mattress tucked into the corner of a small room near the kitchen, meant for a servant. There was nothing about it that resembled the homes or beds of the Northuldra. But she wouldn’t remember that.

“I rescued her from a ship attacked by pirates, the only survivor.”

“And what will you do if she speaks Northuldra?” He brushed the hair away from Iduna’s cheek as he spoke, tracing his fingers along the bruise there that was already a deep purple. He was more worried about the hard lump on the back of her head, but didn’t want to touch what was already so tender. She had whimpered in her sleep when he had last tried to feel it for blood.

“Tell her she must speak in the tongue she hears from me.”

“Elias, you have to be sure of that. We passed bodies on the way here. The Northuldra traders who were in town, they’ve been murdered. I will calm the chaos but it will take time. She must stay safe. Burn her clothes and boots. Give her something of Linnea’s or Thea’s to wear. Please keep her safe.”

“I will. I swear, Agnarr. My father too.”

“And if she remembers anything…” Agnarr trailed off, the urgency and horror of his previous statements still heavy in the air like smoke after a battle. Like the mist around the stones.

Elias put a hand on Agnarr’s shoulder. “If she remembers anything, I’ll keep her quiet and we’ll get word to you.”

***

“The King is dead! Long live the King!”

Agnarr waved from the balcony and it was a chore to keep his face impassive and his arm steady. People were spread out in the courtyard below and he could even see sailors manning the rail on the ships in the harbor. He looked up to the sloping hill of the fjord and saw families waving from roofs and upper windows with handkerchiefs in their hands. He waved to them all, dipping his head in acknowledgement, brief prayers on his lips for courage, for wisdom, for his kingdom, for the soul of his father, but most of all, for Iduna.

***

Iduna woke with the sensation of a scream unfinished on her tongue and smoke in her lungs. She raised a hand to her tangled hair and felt a lump, pulsing with her heartbeat. She groaned and the grimace brought a tight feeling to her cheek. She put her other hand there and felt a tight knot.

“Oh! You’re awake! I’ll go run and fetch Father. Stay still, the physician said you must.”

Iduna turned her head slowly to the sound of the voice, but only saw the swishing skirts of the speaker as they disappeared around the doorway. The language was familiar, but not her own. And the bed was comfortable, but not her own. She felt the echo of shouting in her ears, and a wind whipping around her as the very earth shook and rolled beneath her. As she stared at the ceiling, waiting for whoever the young woman had promised, her heart seized with all that she couldn’t recall. Where am I? What happened to me? An even more terrifying question gripped her. Who am I?

She opened her mouth and screamed.

***

“You must get married. The coronation soothed some fears, and your speech banning reprisals against the Northuldra showed your leadership and compassion, but the people are anxious.”

Agnarr sighed and nodded to Lord Hannesel. “I understand. But alliances and diplomacy are delicate. Father had several inquiries out, and nothing ever came of them. Marriages of State take time. I can’t imagine we can do this quickly.” He tensed, waiting to see what the council would say in response to that. He didn’t say that the reason for the stagnating negotiations was his own refusal to enter into them. His heart and his hand were already bound to Iduna in a ceremony all their own in the forest on a night when the northern lights danced their approval.

“You’re already twenty-five, Your Majesty.” Captain Calder rubbed a hand over his eyes. “We could skip all that.”

Agnarr looked at him, wondering what he meant. He knew he had to provide heirs, that it was the only way to make his small kingdom feel secure again after the mist closed off the north with the better part of their Army missing in the forest. But until he could find a way to make Iduna his queen, he would not marry.

Elias said she remembered nothing but her name, and even that took two days before she could recall it with any certainty. She was still physically recovering and his sixteen-year-old sister Linnea stayed with her throughout the day. Iduna had insisted on doing housework to earn her keep but Linnea convinced her that it was an affront to the good name of Calder, and that she must recover slowly and at peace.

Agnarr was relieved that her memory was as altered as the trolls had said it would be. If she didn’t know she was Northuldra, no one else would either. She would stay safe. But selfishly, he also mourned. If she didn’t remember anything, she wouldn’t remember him.

He longed to hold her hand again as they watched a sunset from the top of a rocky cliff. The scent of cloudberries on her fingers as she pressed them to his lips, the wind softly wrapping them in a current of crisp air. To laugh over shared memories of how he had fallen into the river when they first met, how they stayed up talking by the village fire on summer nights as bright as noon.

Captain Calder cleared his throat and Agnarr realized his attention had wandered. He nodded so the captain would continue. “My daughter loves the story I learned while sailing to France, of the king there who ordered a ball be hosted for his son the prince to find a bride. All of the unmarried women in the kingdom were invited to meet the prince and his bride was selected from them.”

Lord Hannesel laughed, a short bark that startled the other council members. “It would allow us to avoid the delicate and months-long process of communicating with the other kingdoms. We can call it an act of healing for our land. We announce that to secure the line of Arendelle, the king will take a bride from our own kingdom.”

Captain Calder looked at Agnarr, asking permission. He felt the eyes of the rest of the council as well. He sighed. “Fine. Let’s proceed.”

As the council discussed plans for invitations and the proper way to communicate their intentions internationally, Agnarr stayed silent. He thought of how his father might have run this meeting, eager to stoke the violence between Northuldra and Arendelle, still angry about Northuldra’s rejection of a dam and their resistance to formal relations even after seven years of emissaries and goodwill visits. He felt a wave of relief and then one of guilt. Being free of his father was the only good that had come from the battle. And yet, it still did not allow him to be with Iduna. The chaos had robbed her of her memory and thrust him into kingship.

He thought of how trying it would be to shake so many hands and dance with so many ladies while his heart longed for Iduna. Perhaps he could find a way for her to attend, to make her his choice? He thought of sending a dress for Iduna, with a note that she was to wear it to the ball, a mystery as great as the presence of fairy godmothers on the continent. They could be introduced and dance and no one would be suspicious if he chose the beautiful woman, recently rescued by the king’s best friend. Valencia had a princess who had washed up on their shore, and no one thought worse of Prince Erik for it. The council could even frame it as a sign of Arendelle’s strength - not needing to marry their king for a military alliance or riches.

His heart soared at the thought, but then he thought of Iduna unconscious in his arms, her head bruised and the troll’s hands over her, telling him that the price for her healing was her memory. How could he seek her out but not tell her who she was? How could he tell her who she was without putting her life in danger?

She was safe at the Calder’s house. And as king, he would do all he could do ease the fear and anger his citizens had for Northuldra. He would bring the leaders of the lynch mobs to justice, he would make it known that though their troops were trapped in the mist, it wasn’t clear that anyone had been killed besides his father. He would do all he could to keep her safe. And that would have to be enough.

****

Linnea tossed dresses out of the closet, a pile of brightly colored frocks that seemed to float before they fell onto the bed.

“See? I have so many! Father always brings some home when he travels! So wherever you’re from, I bet there will be one in here that feels comfortable to you! And you simply must go to the ball. You’ve been sad and lonely for too long. A ball is just the thing to lift your spirits.”

Linnea hugged one of the dresses to herself. It was a shade of pale yellow that made her dark hair and skin look even more striking than usual. Iduna reached to touch the silk of one dress, the muslin of another. She rubbed the stiff boning of a petticoat that stood on the bed like the skirt itself was sitting down for a visit with them.

“I think…I don’t think I wore dresses.”

Linnea laughed. “What did you wear? Breeches? Pantaloons? I think your head must not be healed quite yet.”

Iduna shook her head, then gingerly touched it. “No, that’s not right either.” She sighed, frustrated.

“Time for tea then, and perhaps the krumkake I saw Mother hide away for Father. The ball isn’t for another week. That’s plenty of time to find the outfit that will make the King mad with desire.”

***

The lanterns were lit from Market Square to the Castle Courtyard. The black buntings and veils of mourning had been lifted in favor of sprays of crocuses and wheat, a reminder that Arendelle still stood, that it had a future of hope.

Agnarr kissed hands and said his greetings and danced with the ladies. He didn’t step on any toes and made sure the refreshments were well stocked and that he could guide them to the food when the affections of any particular woman became too much.

Because he didn’t plan to pick a bride tonight. He could follow the direction of the council to host a ball, and he certainly owed a lot to Captain Calder. But he could not choose a queen while Iduna breathed the same air, was in the same city, while she needed him in ways she didn’t even know and he needed her in a million ways he could name but didn’t because they had to remain strangers. If she came tonight he planned to nod, smile, and look elsewhere for a dance partner.

But then he saw her.

She was on the arm of Captain Calder, Elias behind them with his fiancée Thea, and Linnea linking arms with her mother next to them. The herald announced them all together as “The Calder Family and Guests!” The orchestra played a merry tune and he was vaguely aware of Lord Hannesel at his elbow, complaining about a missive he had received from the Southern Isles. Agnarr left him and walked toward Iduna, an unsteady feeling in him like the first time he climbed with the Earth Giants’ help. He bowed to her and ignored Elias’s eyes, certain they held warnings or judgement or both. She didn’t curtsey until Linnea whispered in her ear, and then stumbled through it, her cheeks reddening and her movements awkward. Agnarr was relieved to see that her face was no longer bruised. He held out a hand and she placed hers in his.

“Welcome to the Kingdom of Arendelle. I was so glad to hear of your rescue and recovery.”

Iduna attempted a curtsey again, this time more fluid in her motion. “Thank you, Your Highness. I’m most grateful to the Calders.”

The sounds of the orchestra swelled, or perhaps it was his own heart, but soon his hands were on her hand and waist, asking her for a dance and she placed hers on his shoulders in reply. Their eyes met and he saw her deep intake of breath. Did she remember? Was she remembering? She faltered in her steps.

“Would you mind if we sat down for a bit? I find I’m tired quite quickly these days, perhaps my injuries aren’t as healed as I had hoped.”

Agnarr apologized immediately, hating himself for not noticing her struggle. He walked them past the refreshment table and saw Elias dancing with Thea, his adoring eyes so focused on her that he didn’t see Agnarr escort Iduna away from the dancing crowds. He led her to a private garden where he ushered her to a bench by a pool of water. As she sat down, she kicked off her shoes and sighed.

“You’ve heard of me I suppose? The house guest who was rescued from pirates? I’m afraid I don’t remember the daring tale of my rescue, or anything else for that matter.” She laughed, and he was relieved that her laughter sounded like he remembered, not tinged with bitterness. “I’m probably the least interesting person to talk to here tonight. I know absolutely nothing about Arendelle or its ports or its trade or its harvest or even about the frightful sea battle I survived that would surely be a good tale. I know nothing that could intrigue you or capture your interest. I hardly know what I find interesting!”

He couldn’t help it. He reached for her hand and squeezed. “Then you’re the perfect person to talk to. Everyone else here is vying for my attention and a proposal. It’s exhausting. Perhaps we can talk for a while?”

She smiled, and it was like he could breathe again. The wind rushed around them and for a moment he thought she remembered too.

“Yes, let’s.”

He wanted to clutch her to his chest and murmur words of love, to run fingers through her hair, once wild. Instead he squeezed her hand and said “Good. Now tell me. Does Elias sneak out to meet Thea at night as much as his mother fears?”

She laughed again and he thought how wonderful it was to hear his favorite sound in the world once more.

***

When the clock struck midnight, they were still talking. She jumped at the chimes and put a hand to her cheek. “Oh! The Calders planned to leave now. I should go find them. I still don’t know the kingdom well, I would surely be lost if I left on my own.”

Agnarr reached down to where she had kicked off her shoes, bending low to pick them up. He kneeled in front of her with the shoe in his hand. “May I?”

Iduna untucked her feet from under her skirts and soon his hand was on her heel and ankle, gently placing the shoe on one foot and then the other. Iduna shivered a bit and he realized he was still holding her foot, still looking in her eyes. He stood.

“Are your shoes not comfortable, that you take them off when you sit down?”

She stood as well, taking his proffered arm. “The Calders are kind and had new shoes made for me. But they feel strange on my feet. I’m not sure where I’m from or what shoes I used to wear, but I am certain they weren’t dancing slippers made of canvas and covered in satin.”

“Perhaps you would allow me to take you to the cobbler, to have some others made. Reindeer hide boots are a specialty here, and I would like for you to see the best of Arendelle.”

Iduna smiled, ducking her head, a redness to her cheeks as she answered. “I believe I already have.”

***

Agnarr took Iduna to the cobbler the following day, on a tour of the wheat fields the next, and to examine the clock tower from the inside on the third. Elias gave him looks of warning each time he came to call on her at the house, but Agnarr was adept at using his guards or his schedule as a means to avoid the conversation that Elias clearly wanted to have with him. He knew it was a conversation he should at least have with himself – What are you doing? How can this end well? Shouldn’t you let her build a new life here, apart from you? Apart from the havoc your people have brought upon hers? But when he was with Iduna, it was like breathing the air again after suffocating. He told himself he was making sure she was acclimating well, that he had her best interests at heart. That he was fulfilling vows they had made to each other.

On the fourth day, he was prevented from calling on her because of a council meeting. He had arranged for the castle kitchens to send chocolates and farikal and arrived at the meeting late after agonizing over what kind of a note to send with the basket.

“Congratulations, Your Majesty!” Lord Hannesel greeted him with a clap on the back and a large smile. “We’re already drafting the announcements.”

Captain Calder puffed up proudly. “I’m delighted to know that my suggestion worked. And with our own houseguest as the bride! What a lovely and lucky girl. Linnea sighs all day over the romance of it all.”

Agnarr stuttered in his reply, unsure of what to say. “N – no, I haven’t…”

Lord Hannesel clapped a hand on his back again. “King Agnarr, we promised the people – we promised the world - that you would find a bride. And it seems you have. You spent the entire evening with one young woman, and have seen her every day since. If you haven’t asked her yet, you should.”

Other business was discussed, but Agnarr could hardly pay attention. He could marry Iduna! The council wanted him to marry Iduna! But just as quickly as the joy rose in his chest, a dark cloud of fear covered it and pushed it down. How could he marry her when she didn’t remember who he was? Who they had been and still were to each other?

***

Agnarr and Captain Calder went to the captain’s house as soon as the meeting ended, the words of congratulations ringing in Agnarr’s ears. He found Iduna sitting outside in the garden with Linnea, who was quickly ushered away by her father. Agnarr sat down next to Iduna and after a moment’s hesitation, took her hand. He felt braver at the touch. Iduna squeezed it and smiled at him.

“I like this house. I would like a home that feels this way. It’s so full of love and affection. I hope I had this once. And I hope to have it again.”

Agnarr gripped her hand more tightly and cleared his throat. “I would like that too. With you. If you are not yet recovered, we can wait. I will wait for you. But I want to give you that - a home with love and affection. Would you- would you marry me?” His voice caught as he said the words, remembering the Northuldra wedding they had witnessed together, how Iduna had whispered the translation to him and he had been filled with the desire to say those words to her in front of their own fathers, to promise her a warm fire and heavy furs, plentiful food in winter and a hand to hold in the summer sun. How he had asked her to marry him later that night and she had hugged him so tightly it knocked both of them over, their laughter echoing through the trees and causing a rush of ptarmigan and quail to hurry out of the brush, roused by the sound of her shouting “Yes!”.

Iduna reached for his other hand and squeezed it too. “Yes. I would like that. I would like that very much.” She leaned forward and he was amazed that the heat of her body, the scent of her, was the same even so far from the forest. He tried to erase his memory, to make it vanish like soldiers in the mist, to make this their first passionate kiss. He tried to think of this as the first time he found bliss with her lips on his, the sweetness and thrill of it so welcome after weeks of fear and terror. But he remembered being in a cave by a quiet stream, words said solemnly in handfast, his body covering hers, both eager in the pledge and the promise of it. A vow he would never break, but would renew time and time again.

***

There was so much about her identity that was uncertain. She didn’t know her favorite dessert or how to take her tea, which hymn to select for the ceremony. But this she knew. She wanted to be his wife. It was almost like remembering. The feel of his hand in hers, the press of their lips; his every touch felt both thrilling and reassuring. Sometimes when she was with him, she had half-memories of the time before her injury. The sensation of leaning into his body as they walked underneath the trees brought back a sense of comfort and peace, the wind swirling leaves around their feet brought a rush of joy and the desire to run and feel the strong gusts of it against her face. But even though those memories couldn’t have been of him or made with him, they made her feel closer to him somehow.

Linnea was enchanted by the news, clapping her hands and falling back on her bed with a sigh. “What a way to start your new life – Queen Iduna! Perhaps I should see about getting some pirates to help with my matchmaking!”

Elias hadn’t seemed pleased, but then, nothing much pleased him as he grew increasingly eager to wed his fiancée. He was probably just upset that the royal wedding was taking place so quickly while his engagement had been set at a year, a request from Thea’s parents so they could set up a new house for them as dowry.

She couldn’t explain to Linnea or Elias that she wasn’t excited to be queen, that it was a bit overwhelming to help lead a country when she still wasn’t sure which one she was even from. But the safety and attraction she felt for Agnarr defied all logic. Why was she so eager to take his hand, to talk in the moonlight until the first rays of sun reflected on the sea and he had to hurry to the castle to prepare for meetings and petitions and ceremonies? She wasn’t sure who she was, but she felt the most like herself when she was with him.

Mrs. Calder had urged her to live in the present since she couldn’t remember her past. She had encouraged her affections for Agnarr after the ball, though she told her she would always be welcome at their home as a daughter, and that she should only marry the king if she wanted to. Mrs. Calder also spoke of the good man Agnarr was, and how she had similarly trusted the kindness of her husband before she had known him very long, watching how he treated his sailors and her family while conducting trade. She talked about growing up in Trinidad, not accepted into society fully, not fully rejected. And how sailing to a completely new country was both a thrill and a terror, but one that led her to much happiness. At the end of their talk she had hugged Iduna tightly and told her to call her by her name, Elsa. Iduna thought This is a mother’s love.

***

The Calders hosted a small dinner for the royal couple the night before the kingdom-wide wedding and celebration the following day. Elias had taken Agnarr by the arm and dragged him into the shadows before letting him come into the house.

“Ag, you know this is crazy, right? You have to tell her. Tell her who she is and who you are to each other. Tell her about your secret marriage and your plan to make your father accept it.”

Agnarr shrugged him off, looking around him. “Don’t speak of that! It is still not safe for her.” He hissed in a low voice, glancing at his guard who stood nearby, hopefully out of hearing, but watching the pair with open curiosity. “What else can I do? The council demands that I wed. Is it better to marry someone I don't love while I still love Iduna? Doesn't that ruin an innocent life? Three lives?"

Elias shook his head. “I just know it’s wrong. It’s a hard way to start a marriage. Or in this case, continue one.”

Agnarr was firm. “I have to marry for the kingdom now. And she is the only one I will marry. There is no time for anything else. I can fix this. It won’t be a secret forever.”

Despite Elias’s cold welcome, the dinner was filled with laughter and joyful teasing. Mrs. Calder lamented that there was going to be one less person in the house to help her prevent Elias from sneaking out for nightly visits to Thea’s house.

“I promise you, Elias, if I have a grandchild born one minute before nine months after your wedding, the full wrath of the Arendelle navy will be dispatched upon you.”

Captain Calder choked a bit on his wine, laughing. “What’s that dear?”

Linnea tried a sip of the wine and made a face. “Oh Mother, please. We know Elias was born on a ship while you and Father sailed to Arendelle from Trinidad. You didn’t even make it to port for the wedding reception!”

Thea and Elias laughed, Agnarr and Iduna joining in with hands clasped under the table. Mrs. Calder put a hand to her chest in an exaggerated gesture of horror. "We were married on the ship! The wedding reception was just a formality to celebrate what had already happened on the ship!"

Linnea snorted. “Oh, we know what already happened on the ship!”

***

Later, when Elias walked Thea home and Agnarr walked with Iduna in the garden, he pulled at his collar, adjusted his sleeves and let go of her hand to wipe the sweat on his jacket. “I’m sure you’ve heard talk of heirs and securing the line of succession, but I want you to know that I don’t expect that, certainly not tomorrow on our wedding night. We can wait until your memory returns, or until you feel more settled. Or…uh…never.” He raised her hand to his lips and kissed it. “I am happy to continue holding your hand and remaining your friend. I’m sure this has all been so much. We have time to get to know each other and for you to get to know yourself.”

Iduna again had that half-remembering sensation, hands joined and kisses on skin, promises and the trust of a long friendship. “I don’t want to wait. I would love to start a family with you. To have children. It would make me feel less alone, like I have a place here.” Agnarr put a hand on her cheek and she nestled into it, a heavy sigh of satisfaction escaping like smoke from the hearth.

“You will always have a place with me.”

Iduna closed her eyes, enjoying the feel of his hand on her cheek, but then opened them as a thought came to her. "I don't even know if I'm a virgin. I know I’m not...with child. That has been made quite clear in this past month. But I can’t tell you about my past at all. I don’t know what’s expected of a queen, but I know purity is."

Agnarr pulled her closer, tucking his chin above her head, his hand running up and down her spine, calming her. “It doesn't matter.” His hands paused and he corrected himself. “I mean, of course it matters, your life and experiences matter. But I will cherish you no matter your past. Even if you were a pirate. I've pledged myself to you and I meant it.”

She laughed at that and they walked back inside, ready to make promises in front of the kingdom.

***

He brought a bottle of wine into their bedchamber, but she waved it off.

“My head has already been too altered. I want to know all of this, all of you, and to remember it clearly.”

She turned her back to him and when he stayed at the door, clutching the wine glasses and bottle, still and uncertain, she spoke over her shoulder. “Help me with the fastenings.” He could see the slight flush in her cheeks. It was a more enthralling red than the Bordeaux in his hands, one that was already sharpening his senses rather than dulling them.

“The maids put me in this dress; I don’t know how to get out of it.”

He set down the glasses and the wine and walked towards her slowly, deliberately, pausing at her sharp intake of breath when he put a hand on her shoulder. He kissed her there, and then began on the buttons that ran the length of her back. He moved cautiously, unfamiliar with the pearl buttons, not wanting to tear the lace fasteners, and waiting for her breath to sound even and calm. He kissed her each time a button was undone – on her shoulder, on her neck, on her ear and paused when she shuddered. He smiled faintly. That had always been her favorite spot and it comforted him to know it still pleased her. When he got to her waist he untied the strings of her petticoats, his fingers working the knots while he nuzzled his head into her neck. He whispered into her ear.

“Should I keep going?”

“I think I can step out of it now.” Her voice had a husky quality that he recalled too keenly, its effect on him immediate.

He helped her slide the dress over her hips, the yards of silk and heavy layers falling away and she shivered as it pooled on the ground. She turned to face him and shivered again, a tremble that ran the length of her body. She stood in her chemise, hugging herself tightly, and there was a moment when they were both very still and quiet, looking at one another. Agnarr was trying to control his breathing, to keep any expression of the desperate want he felt off his face, determined not to frighten her. He put out a hand and she took it and stepped out of the dress.

“Are you alright?” He swallowed.

She nodded. “Yes. Just cold. Warm me?”

He reached to cup her cheek with his hand and she turned her mouth to kiss it, then took it and placed it on her chest, holding it so he could feel her. His heartbeat quickened.

“I like when you touch me.” Her voice was soft and he was unable to tear his gaze from her mouth. To feel anything more than her heat burning through the thin cloth that separated him from her skin. “You don’t have to be so slow. I want this too.”

His intention had been to go slowly, to just sleep with her in his arms, to ease her through their transition from acquaintances to newlyweds. But the smell of her hair and the curve of her body against his all night was no longer enough. He wanted this too. He had ached for it ever since he had been told she was safe and whole, save her memory. He had missed the comfort of her warmth and the wordless, gentle love and acceptance she had communicated through their act of joining together during their Before.

He moved closer and kissed her, running his tongue along her lips and then breaking away to kiss all the places he knew would earn a shudder of pleasure, a gasp of excitement, a plea for more. He could prevent his words from betraying that he knew her, but their bodies spoke to each other in a primal way that was heady and familiar. Mouths found favorite places to kiss and nip, hands instinctively knew where to gently press or tightly grip. They turned as they kissed, rotating towards the bed and soon the back of his knees hit against it. He lifted her up and laid her down, then undid his buttons before joining her there.

Later, with her head on his bare chest and his arm around her waist, she stroked his arm and said something that made his heart remember what he had tried to forget.

“I don't think I could have done that before. I surely would have remembered.”

***

“How the fuck is she already pregnant, Agnarr?”

Agnarr looked at Elias. His friend’s mouth was in a tight line, no smile in his eyes. “The usual way.”

“Does she know? Did you tell her?”

Agnarr’s silence was the answer and Elias hit the table in frustration.

“Don’t forget, I’m your king.”

“Yes, you’re my king. And a much better man than your father, or so I thought. Is there something about the crown that makes you forget other people have feelings worth considering? Should I be impressed you waited until her injuries were healed before you took her to bed?” He scoffed, derision dripping from his voice. “Such self-restraint.”

Agnarr glared at him. “She was eager to start a family. I didn’t pressure her. She wanted this too.”

“This is wrong. And it gets worse each day you don’t tell her. The lie grows bigger and when your wife finds out, the lie will be so big between you, you won’t even be able to see each other over the chasm it created. You can’t let Iduna think you don’t know her, that she doesn’t know you.”

Agnarr’s face again took on the familiar lines Elias knew, ones of worry and self-doubt and concern. “But she doesn’t know me.”

***

On walks in the woods and the gardens he had to pretend he didn’t know which smells she’d like best or which animal she would delight in spotting the most. And it was a pang in his heart each time she had to be told the names of trees and flowers and herbs once so familiar to her that she could brew tea with them, create a poultice, play a prank with itchy nettles on her interfering brothers.

It was easier, now that she was pregnant. Everything was new to both of them. Her cravings, the way her body grew and changed, the names they discussed, the fluttering of kicks and the wonder of a life forming inside of her. A new world was opening before them and they could enter it at the same time, equally novice, equally eager, equally delighted to turn two into three.

#agduna #frozen #mama and papa arendelle #king agnarr #queen iduna #agnarr #iduna #baby elsa #amnesia AU #vanished #frozen fan fic #blame the-spastic-fantastic for the wedding night scene #I'm still blushing #and I took out a paragraph #to be made available upon request lol

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aeipcthys · 4 years ago

Text

╰ ❛ 💉 — › brenda song. cis-female. she/her. ╯ have you met margot moore yet ? this twenty nine year old virgo has been living in the seattle area for one month. she makes a living as executive assistant to the chief of surgery, which is best suited for their observant, loyal, picky, and judgmental personality. hold on by wilson phillips is one of their favorite songs.

trigger warnings: mental health, mental illness, bipolar disorder, racism, microaggressions, gambling addiction mention, addiction mention

full character page here

BASIC INFORMATION

Full Name: margot moore

Nickname(s): moore

Age: 29

Date of Birth: august 23, 1992

Hometown: lake placid, florida

Current Location: seattle, washington

Ethnicity: hmong, thai

Nationality: american

Gender: cisgender female

Pronouns: she/her/hers

Orientation: she has only ever slept with men. that being said.......how y’all doing

Status: technically in a relationship

Religion: christian

Political Affiliation: democratic socialist

Occupation: executive assistant to the chief of surgery

Living Arrangements: she wants a roommate so if someone breaks into her apartment she won’t be the only target

Language(s) Spoken: english, hmong

Accent: american

PHYSICAL APPEARANCE

Face Claim: brenda song

Hair Color: brunette

Eye Color: dark brown

Height: 5'2

Weight: 113 lbs

Build: slim

Tattoos: anchor, writing on her finger, cross on her knuckle, writing on her wrist, bee on her wrist, cross on her side, symbol on her wrist

Piercings: ears, cartilage

Clothing Style: cute, fashionable kind of thing

Usual Expression: resting bitch face probably

Distinguishing Characteristics: laugh

HEALTH

Physical Ailments: none.

Neurological Conditions: has a form of bipolar affective disorder, doesn’t talk about it much, and is strict about her medications

Allergies: none.

Sleeping Habits: sprawls out across her bed when she eventually passes out with the tv on

Eating Habits: vegetarian except when she’s not

Exercise Habits: she actually attends those soul cycle kind of classes, and is really into it, but she would definitely make fun of them to everyone else

Emotional Stability: 9.14

Sociability: chatty, definitely can be nice, often judgmental but with good intentions, will gossip with you

Body Temperature: runs cold yet often wears outfits she’ll definitely be cold in

Addictions: stupid dumb men

Drug Use: we’re not necessarily opposed, but not a regular thing

Alcohol Use: bottle of wine everyday when she gets home kinda thing

PERSONALITY

Label: tbd

Positive Traits: observant, loyal, analytical, hard-working,

Negative Traits: picky, judgmental (with love), cynical, bossy

Fears: people in mascot costumes

Hobbies: being tupperware for other people’s messes (i stole this from an astrology site but legit her okay), girl can internet stalk the HELL out of someone for you if need be

Habits: eavesdropping on conversations, accidentally cutting people off when she has a better idea, zoning out when a whole lot of boring is coming at her

FAVOURITES

Weather: if it’s not humidity, she’s cool

Colour: shades of peach

Music: anything she can dance to in her apartment or every once and a while something at her desk that would make lachlan uncomfortable

Movies: no movies, movies are long

Sport: uh

Beverage: wine

Food: too many things have been described as her favorite to keep track

Animal: no thanks

FAMILY

Father: cye moore

Mother: mai moore

Sibling(s): elias moore

Children: none.

Pet(s): n/a

Family’s Financial Status: middle class

EXTRA

Zodiac Sign: virgo

MBTI: estj

Anything Else:

BIO

Margot Moore grew up in Lake Placid, Florida...a very tiny place in the sunshine state. Lake Placid had a population of just about 2,000 people, and Margot felt the smallness of it all ever since she was young.

Her parents, Cye and Mai, were good and loving parents to Margot and her brother, Elias. Both her parents were immigrants to the United States, so they were among the many who worked tirelessly to provide a good and stable life for their children. Her father worked his way up to being a branch manager at a manufacturing company, and her mother worked at a bank. All in all, her life could be described as pretty normal.

However, growing up in Lake Placid wasn’t always a walk in the park. Lake Placid was a largely white town, and because it was small, everybody knew everybody. Which meant people talked. You never wanted to be on the wrong side of that talk. As she got older, Margot started to see that she looked different from a lot of her classmates. Her classmates noticed it too.

TW racism, microaggressions She began to experience racism and microaggressions at the hands of people who were her friends. A lot of it was unconscious, but there was a definite bias. Margot’s parents knew it too, but they didn’t want to rock the boat. They encouraged Margot to ignore it. To try and blend in as much as possible. So, that’s what Margot learned to do. She tried her best to just blend in with it all. She didn’t talk much about her family’s culture or traditions. She tried to make herself look more like her friends, even dying her hair blonde for a period of time to try and make herself into the ideal standard of beauty.

TW mental illness, mental health, bipolar disorder During this time, Margot also began to struggle with other things. Her mood swings were unpredictable. She experienced racing thoughts and an inability to focus. She started sleeping less and making some risky decisions. At first, Margot didn’t want to get help. She didn’t see a need. But when she started to fall back into a depressive episode during her junior year of high school, her parents said enough was enough. Margot started going to regular therapy appointments and met with a number of psychologists. She was diagnosed with a milder form of bipolar affective disorder, and she has been on medications ever since.

Margot has done extremely well keeping up with therapy and her medications. Therapy is the one thing she’ll never reschedule. Not even for work. Old habits die hard for Margot, though. It’s hard for her to talk about her mental illness because in her mind, this is just another thing that separates her from everyone else. And remember what her parents always said: assimilate.

Margot went on to college, and she had a strong desire to get herself out of Lake Placid. She decided to study business at the advise of her dad at the University of Central Florida, but it wasn’t something she was exactly passionate about. It was a thing to do while she enjoyed her college years. She wasn’t bad at it, she just didn’t give as much effort as she probably should have.

Out of college, Margot had little money of her own, but she was determined not to go back to Lake Placid to live with her parents. She started temping at an agency, and she would get moved around from business to business, mostly doing administrative work or bookkeeping. It wasn’t overly exciting, but it gave her some money to live off. Plus, Margot lived off of learning about each place she worked at...all of the office gossip and drama.

Somewhere in her post-grad life, Margot met Holden. Holden was, in fact, an idiot who probably had a (TW gambling addiction, addiction) gambling problem that Margot funds. Margot and Holden just kind of ended up together. It wasn’t that they were madly in love. They just kind of...stuck. Margot was the one who pretty much kept them alive. She for some reason has a soft spot for the dumb ones...it was the only thing that kept her from kicking him to the curb through the years. Their relationship isn’t solid, or even necessarily exclusive...it just kind of exists. And no one understands it.

When she was about 24 years old, Margot started temping at a private practice in Florida. This is where she soon met Lachlan Covington and Andrea Martinez. Both the doctors worked at the private practice, and Margot started actually liking her job. Of course, it was a temp job, so she had to work her magic. Sure enough, she was eventually able to persuade Lachlan into taking her on as an assistant.

Margot has been working for Lachlan ever since, and she’s built up a good friendship with Andrea. She was shocked when Andrea left for Seattle, and high key disappointed to see the couple split up. She always hoped they would be endgame. Margot stuck by Lachlan, but she often told him that he needed to get Andrea back. Because he did. Eventually, Margot watched Lachlan leave too. She initially had no intention of going with him, considering her life was all in Florida. However, after a few weeks him being gone, she realized how boring most of her other co-workers were. When he reached out to see if she’d come to Seattle, she said yes almost immediately. (She tried to be casual about it though). She assigned herself the title of executive assistant, just because she thought it sounded more important with the word executive in it.

Margot didn’t exactly break up with Holden before she left, and by the sounds of his texts, he may still think they’re still together. She’s just kind of letting that be for the time being. After all, they’ve been together for so long.

Margot is liking Seattle, but she hates living alone and is still trying to get her own lay of the land. She likes to have resources...people she can go to when she needs something, people she can squeeze information out of, the good restaurants she can order from and charge to the hospital credit card when Lachlan’s inevitably working late and she stays in solidarity...that kind of thing.

PLOTS

y’all know me open to anything

probably looking for: roommate!!! folks she always goes to for info, people to gossip with, a friend she often grabs lunch with, that one doctor she hates and always tells them that lachlan is in a meeting when really he’s completely free

#traumaintro #she was not meant to stand still ( margot moore. )#sup #( character intro. )

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azozzoni · 5 years ago

Note

I havent ready a good elippo fuc in a while, can you work your magic if you have the time 💖💖

Elia didn’t look up from his phone as the door to Filippo’s apartment opened. “Martino just sent me a text about going to some Uni party next—holy shit.”

Elia nearly dropped his phone when he finally glanced up at Filippo in the doorway, eyes immediately landing on his hair. Where yesterday it had been candy-floss pink, today it was deep chocolate brown.

“Hello to you too,” Filippo said, seemingly unsurprised by Elia’s reaction.

Elia didn’t stop himself as he reached for Filippo’s hair, pulling at the ends as if that might change the color. He’d never seen Filippo with anything but bleached or colored hair. It was a shock, to say the least, to see him so… plain.

“What did you do?” he asked when Filippo finally pulled him inside the apartment, out of the hallway so he could close the front door.

“Dyed it,” Filippo said as though Elia was an idiot. Elia knew he could be, but not about this. “You don’t like it?”

Elia shook his head quickly, kissing Filippo soundly. “You look hot no matter what. It’s just… different.”

Elia couldn’t get over the change—he’d been so used to the pink. But it was true, Filippo always looked good. He couldn’t help staring, though, as Filippo slid his hands to the small of his back as they stood in the living room. This hadn’t been why Elia had come over, but he was sufficiently distracted now by how much more serious Filippo suddenly looked.

“Good answer,” Filippo said with a little laugh, rolling his eyes.

“Why’d you do it?” Elia asked, tucking his phone away finally.

Filippo shrugged, as though he didn’t have an answer, but the way he looked away told Elia different. “You said your parents wanted to meet me.”

Staring, Elia’s eyebrow went up as Filippo’s words sunk in.

“You did this for them?”

“No,” Filippo said, but Elia didn’t quite believe him. “I did this for you.”

Frowning, Elia didn’t understand. He’d been perfectly happy with Filippo’s pink hair, had liked how easy it made him to spot, that Filippo was confident enough to do that and not care what other people thought.

“But I liked your pink hair,” he said slowly, leaning into Filippo, arms around his neck. “And I’d like it if it was bleach blond or blue or purple or whatever.”

“That’s not what I meant.” Filippo shook his head, and Elia slid back on his toes.

“What did you mean then?”

For a second, he wasn’t sure Filippo was going to explain by the way he sighed, glancing around the living room instead of at Elia. It was a quiet afternoon, and apparently Eleonora wasn’t home since she hadn’t burst in on them—she had terrible timing.

“We’ve been together almost a year,” Filippo said, and Elia raised his eyebrows. He was perfectly aware of how long they’d been dating. Was this some kind of weird anniversary thing? Because Elia would have much preferred a blow job. “When did you tell your parents about me?”

Elia paused. Filippo knew the answer, but he shrugged anyway. “Two months ago.”

He’d done it over dinner, to dead silence around the table. For a second, Elia had wondered if he’d gone deaf, but no one was moving either, all eyes on him as though he was a particularly horrifying spider. He supposed, in retrospect, he could have done it when there weren’t sharp knives in everyone’s hands.

To say they hadn’t taken it well would have been an understatement, but there had been no yelling at least, no mention of kicking Elia out. Instead, there had been lots of visits to church, to talk to the priest, give confession. When that hadn’t worked, Elia was fairly sure his dad was going to suggest sending him to some place to “fix” him, but instead, his mom had come into his room and told him she loved him and she wanted him to be happy.

That was three weeks ago and she seemed to be trying. Both of them did. They didn’t ask much about Filippo, and they did still make him go to mass a few times a week, but there was no talk of “fixing.”

The fact that they had wanted to meet Filippo had caught him off-guard the other day. Maybe they really were going to accept this. Elia tried not to think about it too much, how they felt about him now, if things had changed. Thinking about it would just send him into a spiral and he couldn’t do that.

“So you just came out to your parents, who went a little nuts,” Filippo allowed, sweeping his fingers through Elia’s hair thoughtfully. “And now you’re bringing home a boy.”

“So?” Elia asked, confused. “Filo, they know I’m bi. That’s why they want to meet you.”

“Your parents have done everything they can to change your mind,” Filippo said simply, head tilted to the side as if Elia just wasn’t getting it. “If you bring home some guy with pink hair and rainbow shirts and colorful tattoos, it might just push them over the edge.”

Elia blinked slowly as Filippo’s words sunk in. He shook his head after a minute, reaching for Filippo’s neck. “Don’t you always say it’s better to be yourself? If people don’t like the way you are, it has more to do with them? I don’t care if you meet them wearing a cut-off tank top with a giant rainbow tattooed on your forehead. If they’re going to be assholes, it won’t matter what color your hair is.”

Filippo rolled his eyes as though Elia wasn’t taking this seriously. He was. He definitely was. After all, it wasn’t every day your super Catholic parents asked to meet your boyfriend in a civil kind of way.

“I don’t want to make things harder for you,” Filippo said finally, and Elia felt his heart melting a little. He would never admit it because they weren’t that kind of couple, but he couldn’t help smiling at Filippo’s words.

“That is so cute,” he teased while Filippo scoffed. Pressing his forehead to Filippo’s, though, he sighed. “You make things so much better,” he assured him. “I’m glad you’re the first guy my parents will meet.”

Filippo’s hands tightened over his back as Elia leaned in to kiss him, slow and languid, a lazy slide of tongues. Elia hummed softly against his lips before moving back, meeting Filippo’s gaze.

“Do you think I should take out the lip ring?” Filippo asked, hands running up Elia’s spine.

“Don’t you dare,” Elia said, glaring at Filippo, tugging at his hair.

Filippo smiled, leaning around to press a kiss to Elia’s ear. “We should get you one.”

“How about a tongue piercing?” Elia asked, grinning at Filippo’s lips sliding under his ear, making his knees weak. “I hear those are great for blow jobs.”

“How about we dye your hair purple? Your parents would love that.”

“Not sure I could pull it off,” Elia admitted, pulling Filippo back to his mouth and kissing him easily.

“You definitely could,” Filippo assured him once the kiss broke, and Elia smiled.

“I’ll stick with my natural color for now,” he said, tucking his hands in Filippo’s back pockets. “But whenever you want to go back to pink, I’ll help you bleach.”

Elia laughed as Filippo hauled him in closer. Pink or brown, Elia didn’t care. He was just glad he had Filippo, that he cared enough to try to impress his parents. No matter what happened with them, he’d always have Filippo, and that was all that mattered.

#skam italia #elippo #skamit #skamit fic #my fic

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myriadimagines · 5 years ago

Photo

Characters: Reader x Takeshi Kovacs

Warnings: —

Gif credit: filmtv

Sensory Prompt: 60. Yellow halogen lights

Word Count: 492

A/N: WHERE IS S2 I JUST WANNA TALK (sensory prompts are not open!)

His face almost gets lost in the crowd, but you catch a glimpse of him before he dissolves, disappears into the ocean of people that flood the streets in a lively bustle. It’s like seeing a memory materialised, you think, a ghost from the past, fleeting apparition just out of your grasp. You must be hallucinating, you must be imagining things, because there is no way that the man you once loved can be standing before you.

Not when his stack was placed into his storage, not when his sleeve was put up for sale.

You follow him, of course, feeling an undeniable pull that won’t let you just turn away. Even if the whole thing is a vision, even if you didn’t see him at all, you have to make sure, or else his face will plague you even more than it already does.

The blinding lights from the holograms distort your vision, layering a colorful hue over everyone’s faces. You can see his back, his broad shoulders straining against a wrinkled white button up, hunched over as he ducks into quieter alley. You frown, cautiously tracing his steps as you turn down the alley, away from the crowds as everything instantly becomes quieter, as if all noise suddenly becomes swallowed up into silence within this small street. The neon lights don’t reach this darkened corner, the only light source a glowing, yellow halogen light, creating an illusion of warmth that you don’t quite feel.

His name rests on your tongue, a heavy weight resting uncomfortably in your mouth, but you can’t quite say it. Can’t quite gather the courage you need to call out to him, to say his name for the first time in years. Before you can, he suddenly turns around, eyes narrowed and full of suspicion, and you feel at loss for air as you come face to face with him for the first time since he was taken away from you. Everything about him is exactly the same as he was, but you know this is not the man you were in love with. There’s someone else behind his eyes, an emptiness that you can’t quite place, someone else’s stack in this sleeve that fate so cruelly decided to confront you with.

You can tell he’s expecting you to speak, to explain yourself, and you gulp, “What are you doing here?”

“Being followed, apparently.” he retorts, and you gulp. No, this isn’t Elias, you finally force yourself to realise. He doesn’t even look as though he recognizes you, and you can feel pains in your chest as your heart begins to splinter. Raising his eyebrows at you, he asks, “Who are you?”

You stumble back, shaking your head. Elias meant everything to you, just as you meant everything to him, but this isn’t Elias, you repeat to yourself, over and over. No, this is a stranger, you force yourself to remember, and you reply, “No one.”

#altered carbon imagine #takeshi kovacs imagine #altered carbon #altered carbon drabble #takeshi kovacs #takeshi kovacs drabble #imagine #imagines #reader insert #sensory prompt

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moon-ruled-rising · 4 years ago

Text

as the rain hides the stars | xvii

Read it on ao3... or Wattpad...

Babe, there’s something lonesome about you.

Something so wholesome about you,

get closer to me.

-Hozier, “From Eden”

The Godswood of Winterfell was always magical. Something about the overgrowth of the plants gave it a mystical quality and enhanced that it was a holy place. It was surrounded by activity and noise but remained quiet and peaceful, wholly removed from the frenetic atmosphere of the castle. Jon found himself there often, listening to the soft bubbling of the hot spring and the light birdsong. He’d spend hours there if he could but somebody always discovered him and the moment was ruined.

Now, instead of the uninterrupted nature scene, there were a hundred or so chairs arranged in front of the heart tree to form a long aisle lined with white and wine colored flowers and twinkling lights. The decorators even wove them around the tree branches, letting the strings dangle off and wave like the branches of a willow. At the beginning of each row of chairs stood an arch, laden with flowers and greenery. There wasn’t an altar or arbor, the Weirwood provided all of that, its red leaves stretched over the place they would stand.

On top of the ethereal decor, the excited energy from everyone gathered for the rehearsal ceremony created a palpable buzz. Jon hoped it was enough to cover up his apprehension. He refused to be nervous, it wasn’t any different than all the state appearances and functions he participated in. But there was still reason to be hesitant.

“I’m sorry I’m late,” Dany’s voice called from the back of the seating area, “The final fitting took longer than expected.”

The wedding planner assured her it was okay as Dany charged up the aisle. When she reached the front, a bundle of fabric was pushed into her arms and she settled into the seat next to Jon.

“Is that a bride’s cloak?” “Yes,” she sighed, “I had to make a compromise with Her majesty so I could repay a favor I owe someone.”

He assumed she meant the single photographer that prowled around the area of the Godswood, whose obnoxious camera clicks interrupted the soft bird song and whispers around them.

Dany unfolded the bundle and swept the black cloak around her shoulders, fastening the clasp with ease. Jon was a little pleased to see it was lined with fur.

“You’ll be glad to have it tomorrow,” he commented.

“Why? It feels fine right now.”

“There’s going to be a cold snap.”

The forecast didn’t predict for anything other than a rain shower over night but Jon could tell. The drizzle would turn to flurries and the snow would stick around long enough for the wedding ceremony around noon. At least it would be ice and snow instead of muddy and damp.

“Let me guess, you can feel it in your bones?”

“Something like that.”

“Doctors say that’s a sign of arthritis.”

Jon splayed his hands out in front of him and then turned them so Dany could see, “They look fine to me. Would you like to assess them, considering you have a wealth of medical knowledge?”

“Mm, I’ll pass, thank you.”

He shrugged and dropped his hands but unconsciously popped the joints. He noticed Dany doing the same thing.

“Alright everyone, let’s get started,” the wedding planner said, “We will be running through the whole ceremony so everything goes smoothly tomorrow. After the processional we will have the opening remarks and invocation from His Highness, Benjen Stark, a reading from both sets of Their Majesties, then the unity promise and changing of the bride’s cloak, then we’ll exchange vows and rings, and finally the recessional. It should be noted that the vows and rings section will only be mentioned.”

They were given the run down of the processional order and dismissed to their starting positions. Dany retreated back down the aisle with Sansa and Arya right behind her, wrangling a gaggle of high born children. A stirring, melancholy melody started from the string quartet behind the seating and his father and Catelyn started down the aisle. They were followed by Elia, escorted by Bran as her husband would be responsible for leading Dany.

As was a royal wedding custom, the bridesmaids and pageboys followed the bride down the aisle, so Dany walked before them. With her brother absent, she forged down the lengthy walkway by herself. She was far enough away that she looked small and lonely despite the bodies behind her.

That Dany reminded him of the version he’d first met, the outer shell of Daenerys that the media observed and critiqued. Jon would’ve assumed she used her solitary nature as a form of elitism. Keeping people at an arm’s length and seeming to float above them just to show she was better. But he knew her at least a little bit better than that and was starting to understand it.

Being alone was easier for Dany. He noticed that long and lengthy social events weighed on her. She still smiled and made conversation, like any good Princess was taught, but she always slipped away quietly when things settled down. It made sense then, why she skipped the gala to swim in fountains.

As she neared, Jon saw that instead of a bouquet she had a sword in her hands. It took him by surprise until he remembered that she was supposed to have it. The presentation of a weapon the groom could use to defend the bride was meant to further reinforce the idea that she was under his protection. Rheagar would carry it tomorrow but, for now, it was hers. And paired with the stoic look on her face, Dany looked like a painting of a warrior queen Jon saw at a museum opening once. A romanticized rendering of a woman standing against the backdrop of a dark, furious storm. Her dress and hair caught in the forceful gales before the skies opened up, the sword held tight against her chest.

Then the breeze picked up, tousling Dany’s hair and fluttering the white silk of her rehearsal dress. And Jon wondered if the Gods pulled that warrior out of her frame and set her walking down the path toward him.

“You picked a fine young woman, Jon,” Uncle Benjen remarked.

There weren’t priests for the old gods so the wedding committee picked the closest thing they had to a holy man. It helped that Uncle Benjen was ordained by the state too.

“We’re just lucky she hasn’t sprinted back down the aisle yet.”

Jon elbowed Robb in the ribs, “That’s because this is a rehearsal, dumbass.”

“You never know.”

But they did know and there was no chance anyone was allowed to get cold feet.

Finally, Dany was standing at his side, her stoic expression as they turned to face Uncle Benjen. As he started in on his opening remarks, Dany set the tip of the scabbard into the ground and rested her crossed wrists on the pommel.

The invocation started when Uncle Benjen started asking the Gods to watch over the ceremony and provide a number of things to the couple about to be married. It was during this that Dany leaned toward him and whispered,

“So, do you have a huge bachelor party planned for after this?”

“You mean like a stag party?”

“Yes, that.”

Jon hadn’t wanted to tell her about the custom practiced in the North so it would come as a surprise. But he figured Dany wasn’t a big fan of those, so he decided to tell her. The ceremony moved on to the readings.

“Actually, we have this… tradition-” the look she gave him was full of annoyance- “where the groom has to steal their intended from their family. Otherwise he isn’t worthy of her.”

“I think we’re far past needing to worry about ‘worthiness’ but continue.”

“And we get out of the castle for a while.”

“Just us?” she raised an eyebrow.

“And the security detail.”

“Alright, I’m in. Just one more question.”

“Yeah?”

“Am I supposed to put up a fight?” the smirk on her face…

“You can if you want to,” Jon agreed.

“I’m in.”

Uncle Benjen stated it was time for the unity promise and motioned to Dany.

“If you plan to steal me, then you’ll probably need this.”

She offered the sword to Jon, the modestly embellished scabbard glinting as he took it. A hand-and-a-half, a bastard sword. A small smile bloomed on his face, he wondered if Dany knew it was called that. The hilt was wrapped in black leather, a little worn from use, and the silver pommel contained an egg shaped fire opal that shifted between orange and green and red. He pulled the sword out of the scabbard enough to reveal the swirling texture of the blade. Valyrian steel, the technique of making it was long lost to the world. Owning one was rare as the Targaryens kept them in a private collection.

House Stark had one in their possession, the greatsword Ice. It was gifted to them by the original dragon lords of Valyria who settled on Dragonstone, before Aegon’s ambitious conquest and the doom. The greatsword was only used in the coronation ceremony of a new King of the North now but it was still considered to pass from king to king as though they still used it in battle.

It would belong to Jon, without question. But there was a time when it couldn’t be. He couldn’t remember if he really wanted the sword and he certainly didn't expect it. But what young, bastard boy doesn’t want to rise above his station by some miraculous means?

“Does it have a name? All the best swords have names.” Jon prompted, wondering if Dany knew any of the history behind the weapon.

“If it did, we don’t have any record of it. It’s one that we loan out to museums but I’ve always been fond of it so I figured it could find a home here.”

There was something wistful about her tone, as though she wasn’t really talking about the sword.

Jon handed the sword to Robb, who placed the Stark bride’s cloak in his hands. He turned back to Dany and she removed her Targaryen one. The direwolf embroidered in pearls and jet gave the cloak weight and her shoulders shifted trying to distribute it and keep the clasp from her throat.

“May you each bring your best self to the other. May you each bring commitment as well as faith to the task set before you. May you maintain enduring respect and trust. May all who follow your lives have cause often to rejoice, not only in happiness, but also in your brave and generous living,” Uncle Benjen recited.

Jon couldn’t think of a more perfect blessing for a marriage forged in politics. There was no reflection of love, merely neutral intent and factors that would make any business relationship successful.

They had to go through the recessional, Dany and Jon retreating down the aisle to the playful cheers of their family. Luckily, the wedding planner deemed the single run through acceptable but there was still one more rehearsal waiting for the happy couple.

The tables of the Great Hall were pushed to the sides, as they would be after the dinner portion of the reception, to create a dancing space. Above them hung the banners of every house in the North, from Karstark to Reed, and the decorators hadn’t spared the hall in their descent upon the castle. The same flowers and lights were strung through the heavy chandeliers, similar bunches near sconces and on window panes.

The choreographer gave them last minute reminders before the music started. An old fiddle, guitar, and pipe ballad at a walking speed, perfectly paced for two arguably amateur dancers but a tad melancholy for a wedding celebration.

“Are you ready for this?” Dany asked over the music as they circled each other.

“As ready as I can be. You?”

“We’ll see.”

The first pass of steps was easy and they stayed far enough away to avoid injury. The next part brought them closer until Jon offered his hands and Dany accepted them. They both had to focus harder to keep from making mistakes. However, their little blunders still happened.

The instructor once explained the symbolism behind the steps and their order. Something about the development of his and Dany’s relationship but also the expected camaraderie between North and South. Jon didn’t know if any of the wedding guests would pick up on it, they would be too drunk to really care, and all he could focus on was how complicated the steps were despite the slow pace of the song.

Jon second guessed his hand placement and missed the intended mark entirely, colliding with Dany’s rib cage. She stumbled but recovered.

“Sorry,” he muttered, trying to remember what piece of the overly complex choreography came next.

She chuckled and shrugged it off, “If it boosts your confidence, you’re better than a good portion of the partners I’ve danced with at court.”

She looked up at him, inclining her chin in the slightest hint of movement. Their bodies were pressed close together as they moved back and forth across the floor, allowing them to lower their voices.

“I highly doubt that.”

“Not all noblemen are light on their feet. I’ve had my fair share of toes and fingers crushed.”

“Fingers?”

“It’s a long story,” she dismissed.

“One for tonight?”

“If the conversation leads us there.”

They quieted as they came closer to the end of the dance, the series of steps and passes and small hops requiring their full attention if they wanted to get through it. Dany stepped on Jon’s foot when she was behind the music.

The apologizing started again but was cut off when Jon wrapped his arm securely around her waist for a small lift, foreheads bent close to offset the gravity. Dany’s cheeks were a deeper shade of pink when he set her down but whether that was from the dance or something else he couldn’t tell.

They entered the last section of the dance, a series of spins and twirls ending with the two facing each other, palms touching. Instead of the expected applause, they were celebrated by a groan from the choreographer.

They received a sum of all their mistakes, accented by looks of disappointment, but Jon and Dany fell into their regular fit of stifled laughter that came with the hilarious thought of broken toes and misplaced hands. They would run it two more times before they were allowed to leave the Great Hall, tired and sweating.

Jon found Robb and Theon in the smoking lounge with a large group of people fussing over a pile of foam swords. Left overs from someone’s birthday party long ago but they would serve their purpose.

“We’re going to have to split into teams, Dany doesn’t have enough family for it to be any fun,” Robb said as Jon approached.

“Sansa and I will be with her and the Southern Queen tonight,” offered Arya as she poked her sister with the soft weapon.

Sansa knocked it away but when Arya stuck her again, she gripped the foam blade and pulled it from the young troublemaker.

“And I plan to be there too,” Rhaegar Targaryen, who arrived at Winterfell only an hour ago, pitched in.

“Just don’t give Dany a sword. She’d love to knock me senseless right about now.”

“I will make no such promises,” Jon answered, not wanting to deny Dany the satisfaction taking her anger out on her brother in a relatively harmless way.

After double checking the transportation and destination arrangements and sending Sansa and Arya off to ‘guard’ Dany, Jon was able to relax into some light drinking with the men who joined him. They lounged around with their glasses and laughed at stupid jokes they had heard a millions times before. He was already feeling a little more like himself, ready to run through the halls of the ancient castle wielding a foam sword like a damned idiot. It wasn’t long before they were ready to begin that night’s fun.

Jon stood, raised his glass and said, “Alright boys, let’s go steal my bride.”

Cheers and laughter rose up as Jon drained the contents of his glass and slammed it down on the table in front of him.

#jonerys #jon snow x daenerys targaryen #jonerysfanfic #jonerysfanfiction #daenerys targaryen #jon snow #ao3 #ao3link #wattpad #wattpadlink

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mneiai · 5 years ago

Text

Under the Read More is the first part of that weird Modern Westeros AU that I can’t figure out what to do with lol I’m not sure I can give it enough of a plot to do a full standalone fic but I have like more ideas than I normally put in a drabble. Also some of my ideas are like....ASOLAD and Broken Pieces... sort of weird and I don’t know how far to push it haha

Canon typical incest, dark!Targs, Sansa/Jon, Rhaenys/Aegon, Dany/Jon. (not really Sansa friendly, she’s like beginning of AGOT kind of Sansa)

"I can't believe you grew up here! And I thought Winterfell was antiquated!"

Aemon winced at her words, catching the servants in the shadows of the corridor that she seemed to miss. He knew they would not only take offense, many of them from families who had served his for generations, but that they would also report everything that was said to his father.

"Sansa..." he didn't know what more he could say to caution her, after multiple attempts on the way over.

On the mainland, he could take her sheltered upbringing with a certain amount of fondness. Perhaps her naivete was even part of what had initially drawn her to him, so different than the disaffected attitude of his family. Now, having finally brought her to Dragonstone, he was beginning to have his doubts.

He had met her family multiple times, had spent various breaks in the North with the Starks, getting to know them and pretending like their ways were not as foreign as they were. After all, he'd gotten a lot of practice with that since starting college, spending the first few months desperately hiding how little he understood of the Andal culture of the mainland.

That, too, had been something that had drawn him to her, at first, thinking she must feel similar, until he'd realized that she may be a Stark, but she had been raised by an Andal mother. She did not truly understand what it was like for him.

She tugged his hand, dragging him along through his own home, and he finally had to put his foot down. "You don't know where we're going," he said, softly, almost wishing they'd taken the ancient entrance that led to the throne room instead of the back entrance that had an elevator, if only it meant a faster route. "Have patience, we're not missing anything."

When she'd finally started to hint at marriage, he'd known he couldn't put this off anymore. Asking her father was a quaint, somewhat sexist, tradition to her. Asking his father, the head of his family, was a necessity.

Targaryens, he'd reminded her, had killed their kin for less. But she'd just laughed, thinking he was making a joke. On the mainland his family was mostly history and legends, even though it had been only a century since their rule had dissolved into little more than ceremonial.

She'd understood he'd had an odd childhood when he confessed to her some of the things he didn't understand at school, but seemed to think it was some quirk and not the culture of his family, of the ancient Valyrians that remained.

He'd spoken nothing but Old Valyrian until he was five, at which point High Valyrian and then Common were introduced. He'd been homeschooled and had only been allowed close contact with other Valyrians for much of his life. His hair and skin color made him look less like the typical examples of his people to outsiders, but he was still considered such.

His mother had been of the First Men, a sort of concession made every few generations to appease those who thought they could not inbreed every single generation. Sansa...Sansa would be a hard sell. Their children would be looked down upon, not given, or even allowed, the sort of sheltered childhood he'd had.

Away at college, something he'd begged his father for, he'd wanted that. Children who had "normal" lives apart from his family. Who went to school and played with other children unknown to him.

Now, back on Dragonstone, breathing in the air that Sansa would only be safely able to be in for a week, maybe, and feeling the thrum of energy from the always active volcano under their feet that he knew she didn't experience, he wasn't so sure.

"It's weird," she began, as he led her deeper into the castle, "to think if history had gone a bit differently, your father would be ruling over us all."

Aemon winced. "He's very aware."

Away as he'd been, outside of his father's confidence, he couldn't knew how his plotting was going. But he'd seen little signs in the politics of the mainland, in the fraying edges of the parliament and the rise of more traditional monarchists. Rhaegar wanted nothing more than he wanted the Iron Throne to not simply be a monument school children gaped at, but a symbol of power he and Aegon would sit upon.

"Sorry, sorry, I know you said to avoid politics. And history. And...a lot of stuff."

"Please. We only need to spend a week here, you're not Arya, you can be on your best behavior," he teased, trying to take the edge off.

She pouted, but nodded. "I can, I will be."

He knew she was nervous, he also knew it was for the wrong reasons. His family would never like her, what they needed was for them to see she was tolerable. Or that they should let Aemon go.

They reached the sitting room Aemon knew some of his family would be waiting within and he braced himself. At least his father had not insisted on the throne room, he tried to reason, as while he was no King of Westeros, he was still, legally and truly, King of Dragonstone and the ruins of Old Valyria.

Entering, Sansa had the presence of mind to curtsy, as he'd warned her to do, and they waited for his father to be the first to speak.

Rhaegar mostly ignored Sansa, studying Aemon with great intensity. It had been nearly a year since they'd last seen each other, after spending nearly every day together for Aemon's life, and the scrutiny was welcome. Beside him, Mother Elia sat, thin and weak looking as she'd been all his life. Aegon, too, was there, watching him just as intently, but no one else.

-Aemon, my youngest, you have finally returned home.-

-I was always going to return, father.-

-Yes, you deserved my trust. Though we did not expect you to bring home...that.-

He squeezed Sansa's hand, knowing that while she knew a little High Valyrian, enough to keep up as a tourist in Essos, she would not follow this. "Sansa Stark, kepa, of the North."

Sansa curtsied again, giving Rhaegar a charming smile. "It is an honor to meet you, your grace."

-You bring that here and allow it to pollute our ears?- Aegon muttered, making a quick hand symbol used by superstitious Valyrians to ward off corruption.

Their father did not scold him for talking out of turn, because they all knew he was thinking the same thing.

"Welcome, Sansa, we have heard much about you," Rhaegar replied to her in slightly accented Common, playing at courtesy.

Aemon stiffened, because he hadn't been telling his family very much at all and now he was left wondering what the source his father had was. There were many among their classmates who would gladly sell information for money, he was sure, and the Targaryens had seen the end coming and squirreled away much of the royal coffers by the end, giving the impression the kingdom was near bankruptcy. Good investments after had left his father one of the richest men in the world.

Aegon and Elia were introduced, each of them pretending at being nice, charm coming easily. He was glad that for this his aunt and uncle weren't present, they were far worse at hiding their feelings. This way introductions and their dismissal went quickly.

-Does she know she's temporary?- Aegon walked beside them, ostensibly escorting them to their rooms.

-Why would she be temporary?-

His older brother gave him an incredulous look. -You can't be serious about that thing, brother. What if you accidentally bred with it?-

-If Sansa and I have children, it won't be accidentally.-

The disgust on Aegon's face made Aemon feel hesitant, again, doubtful. There had been other Targaryens who had broken from tradition, but nearly all had been banished by the family or punished by the gods, often both.

-Does Daenerys know you're cavorting with an Andal?-

Aemon hoped not, but knew his father well enough to assume that Daenerys had been invited back from Volantis to meet his girlfriend.

-If I did such to Rhaenys, she would break my legs and lock me in the dungeon,- Aegon continued, listing what was surely one of the less horrible punishments their older sister would visit upon them.

Technically, Aemon wasn't engaged to Daenerys. His father had wanted to see which of them fit together best and then Aegon and Rhaenys easily paired off. For he and Daenerys, their relationship was rockier, their only commonality that they wanted to see the world. But Daenerys was caught up in mysticism and tales of magic, convinced the way forward was not through Rhaegar's manipulation of politics and policies, but sheer, terrifying power.

She had not been happy when Aemon had chosen Andal college over a pilgrimage to Old Valyria. For three years, they hadn't said a word to each other.

But she would still think of Aemon as hers, if they went a dozen years without speaking.

"Do you live here full time or have a residence of your own, Prince Aegon?" Sansa interrupted his thoughts and Aegon's mutterings about what torments Aemon had to look forward to.

Aegon paused, then replied, "We keep homes in Volantis and other cities, but I mostly stay in our estate in Summerhall." He gave Aemon the same look of regret he always did, the one that said it should be Aemon in Summerhall, with their father in King's Landing. "When I heard of Aemon's visit, I flew back. Most of the family will be here."

"I suppose hoping for a small introduction was wishful thinking." She laughed, leaning against Aemon. "Are you aunt and uncle, and your sister, returning, too?"

"Daenerys is here, though she is recovering from jetlag and travel at the moment. Viserys will be here tomorrow. Rhaenys came in with me, but had an appointment."

"I'll be happy to meet them, Aemon's met my entire family, now, we even went to the Vale to meet my aunt and cousin there."

Aegon smiled, but his eyes were hollow and dark when they met Aemon's. "We've heard all about your trips."

She grinned back at him, squeezing Aemon's arm. "I didn't realize Aemon spoke to you so often, I'm so glad you're so close."

Again, Aemon could only wonder who was spying. If it was many, or a few.

When he'd realized what his phone could be, he'd gotten a cheap one of his own, often leaving the one his father gave him in his dorm. He'd had his computer checked by a few friends he made who were more technically minded. He'd even frequently searched his things for devices that could be bugs or trackers.

To Sansa, it might have seemed paranoid, but he still remembered the first time he and Sam had found a camera installed in the overhead light of their room. After that, he'd requested a single, not wanting to draw anyone deeper in than they were, though the loneliness of the tiny empty room had driven him to call his family more often, despite his anger.

Kepa = father

#asoiaf #house targaryen #modern westeros #jon snow

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