#copper glass gift set

[copperproduct]

How to Choose the Right Copper Glass Set for Your Kitchen

In the world of kitchen essentials, the timeless allure of copper has made its mark. Beyond its aesthetic appeal, copper glasses offer numerous health benefits, making them a popular choice for both traditional and modern kitchens. If you’re on the lookout for the perfect copper glass set, here’s a guide to help you make an informed decision.

Material Matters: Opting for Pure Copper

When it comes to choosing a copper glass set, the purity of the material is paramount. Pure copper drinking glasses not only exude a classic charm but also come with health benefits. Copper is known for its antimicrobial properties, which can help keep your beverages fresher for longer.

Craftsmanship and Quality: The Art of Making Copper Glasses

Pay attention to the craftsmanship of the copper glasses. Look for sets that are handcrafted by skilled artisans. Handmade glasses often exhibit unique characteristics and attention to detail, making them stand out in terms of quality.

Size and Shape: Finding the Right Fit for Your Needs

Copper glasses come in various shapes and sizes. Consider the purpose you have in mind. If you’re a fan of cocktails, a set of smaller, stylish glasses might be ideal. For everyday use, a set of larger glasses can accommodate your daily hydration needs.

Lining Material: Addressing Concerns about Taste

Some people express concerns about the taste of water or beverages stored in copper glasses. To address this, many copper glasses have a lining made of materials like stainless steel that prevent direct contact between the liquid and the copper, ensuring a pure and unaltered taste.

Maintenance: Embracing the Patina or Preserving the Shine

Copper develops a patina over time, which can enhance its beauty. If you appreciate the natural aging process, choose a set that doesn’t have a protective coating. However, if you prefer to maintain the original shine, opt for copper glasses with a protective layer that slows down the patina development.

Price and Budget: Balancing Quality and Affordability

Like any kitchenware, the price of copper glass sets can vary. While high-quality, artisanal sets may come with a higher price tag, they often justify the investment with their durability and craftsmanship. Consider your budget and strike a balance between quality and affordability.

Reviews and Recommendations: Learning from Others

Before making a purchase, read reviews and seek recommendations from others who have experience with the copper glass set you’re interested in. This can provide valuable insights into the durability, maintenance, and overall satisfaction of the product.

Final Words

Investing in a Pure copper glass set is not just about acquiring functional kitchenware; it’s about adding a touch of elegance and tradition to your home. By considering factors like material, craftsmanship, size, lining, maintenance, price, and user reviews, you can confidently choose the right copper glass set that complements your kitchen and elevates your drinking experience. Cheers to a blend of style and health in every sip!

FAQs

Q1: Why should I choose a copper glass set for my kitchen?

A1: Copper glasses not only exude a timeless charm but also offer health benefits. The antimicrobial properties of copper can help keep your beverages fresher for longer, making it a popular choice for both aesthetic and functional reasons.

Q2: Are all copper glasses made of pure copper?

A2: No, not all copper glasses are made of pure copper. It’s essential to check the product details and ensure that the set you’re considering is made from pure copper. Pure copper drinking glasses are known for their authenticity and health benefits.

Q3: Does the taste of beverages change when stored in copper glasses?

A3: Some people may be concerned about a metallic taste in beverages stored in copper glasses. To address this, many copper glasses have a lining made of materials like stainless steel, preventing direct contact between the liquid and the copper to maintain a pure and unaltered taste.

Q4: How do I maintain the shine of copper glasses?

A4: Copper develops a natural patina over time, adding character to the glasses. If you prefer to maintain the original shine, choose copper glasses with a protective coating. Regular cleaning with a mild solution of lemon juice and salt can also help preserve the shine.

Q5: Are handmade copper glasses better than machine-made ones?

A5: Handmade copper glasses are often considered superior due to the craftsmanship and attention to detail. Each glass may have unique characteristics, making them stand out in terms of quality. However, the choice between handmade and machine-made glasses ultimately depends on personal preference.

[frostedclock-writes]

Alastor x Reader

----

Making it up (Part 1)

SFW

At first he does small things to try and appease you. You find little gifts in front of your room door. Small trinkets at first. Brooches, a container of cookies that were obviously made by Niffty, lady fingers fresh from Rosie's, songs being played on the radio in the lobby that you had a fondness for.

But you remained upset, not letting the small gestures make up for him leaving you in the dark for so long. No you wouldnt let his smile, his silly puns and his gifts worm his way back into your good graces.

You left the room when it was just you and him, you would blatantly ignore him when he would try to pull you into his conversations at times, you would use any excuse not to be near him without being truly rude -just riding the line.

Then several weeks pass before he is able to corner you like a trapped rabbit. He looms over you and looks down at you with glowing red eyes that are only enhanced by the monocle he sports.

" You will come by the my room tonight." It wasn't a question and Alastor's tone held no room for arguments. And he was gone, leaving you with the knowledge that it would be nearly impossible to skip out or avoid him anymore.

You dress nice for the evening, simple but nice. You wait outside Alastor's room door for a good thirty minutes, mainly arguing with yourself about even giving the man another chance. When you knock the door opened on its own like it had only been waiting for your touch.

A table set in the Bayou tells you what exactly the Radio Demon had up his sleeve. The dishes on the table were mouthwatering, and the whisky bottle sat between two glasses. Alastor had his overcoat off and just his usual dress casuals, but it was different when he had his coat off.

" Mon Cher, " Alastor pulled out your seat for you. " I made your favorites. "

" I know what your doing and it won't work." You tell him and you just get a 'hmm' from the elusive demon as he pushes you closer to the table.

The food was of course delicious, and had you nearly drooling when he brought out the lemon bars for dessert.

He spoke mostly, telling you about small things he had done about the hotel that day. Casual. It was nearly irritating to you.

" Are you ever going to tell me where you were?" The words come from your lips without much thought and it stopped Alastor mid-drink.

It was silent for a moment then you sigh and you were about to rise from your seat when his hand touches yours. You pause. Alastor usually didn't appreciate physical contact, it was rare and far between.

" I would tell you, but I dare not risk your safety for just a bit of knowledge. Just know that I am back now and I have no intention on leaving anytime soon. "

You were still upset, and it would take a long time to forget about the seven years thinking he was dead or might as well have been. But you always were a sucker for that soft smile he would have only in small moments. Perhaps it was a true one. You knew it gave your stomach the flips and your fingers feel like they were vibrating.

" Alastor... "

His fingers would brush your hair out of your face.

" Mon Cher"

His lips always like a mix of copper and coffee. It was bitter taste but you never minded when it came from him.

[tragedy-of-commons]

killjoy

childe x gn!reader | wc: ~1.6k

You catch your boyfriend setting up the cake.

tags/warnings: bday fun, modern & college au, based off of the American College Experience™ sorry, tooth-rotting fluff, teucer is a national treasure, comedy, possibly ooc, reader has hair

notes: for @staarri's 100 followers & bday event <3 trying to write childe was a nightmare but the wheel of doom has spoken. chosen prompt "cruel summer" :)

It has been one hell of a day.

Pop quizzes in two of your classes (that you are now tanking), getting heckled by that same group of protesters, slamming head-first into a glass panel like a pigeon, and then getting splashed by a puddle via a speeding car. 

To give credit where credit is due, you’ve suffered through every incident with class and poise. Despite how you drip with murky street water, the saving grace that is the promise of your warm bed keeps you from inventing new profanities and falling to your knees in the student parking lot.

It’s almost over with, it’s almost over with—

The splintered door of your dorm unit has never looked more welcoming. When your keycard is approved with a click, you heave the barrier between you and uninterrupted sleep wide open. However, what you don’t expect is the little spectacle unfolding in your kitchenette.

Who you belatedly realize is your lovely boyfriend is sticking candles into something - it being quickly shielded from your view as he reacts to your arrival.

“You just had to be early,” he grins, revealing those pearly whites, “Maybe I’ll start calling you ‘Killjoy’.”

“Ajax?” He’s here? Today? But he said— He must notice your sorry state, but he’s wise enough not to mention it. “You really think I’d miss celebrating your birthday in person? Seriously, what kind of partner would I be, just sending you a text? Babe, you gotta start setting some higher standards.”

“Rotten liar,” you mumble, growing smile threatening to split your face in two. 

A small flash of copper peeks around the bedroom-adjoining hallway, hyper. Teucer rushes up in front of his brother, the latter ruffling his hair. “Hey, you’re not supposed to be here yet!”

You snort, wondering if anyone else is planning to jump out of the shadows. “My sincerest apologies. I could always leave—”

“No need,” Ajax dismisses the notion with a cavalier wave. “I think we’re all ready, huh Teuce?”

He huffs in agreement, beaming up at you like you hung the moon. “One second!”

Teucer scampers off faster than you can blink, making you bellow a laugh. His energy knows no bounds, necessitating many hours of entertaining his whims. You wouldn’t have it any other way.

“Happy birthday,” Ajax says softly; wistfully.

You stalk over to him, embracing your boyfriend like he might disappear into thin air without a moment’s notice. “If you broke in, I will be calling campus security.” “You’d never turn me in! Also, we just so happen to still be on the guest card from last week.” You part from his warmth so you can kiss him. He tastes of sugar, the bastard.

“Buttercream?” you place, peering over his shoulder. The sight of a round cake on the counter confirms your suspicions, and your heart swells. He would’ve had to bake and decorate it somewhere else, given that ovens are a luxury you do not possess in college hell. You picture him in his too-nice apartment, piping frosting in the familiar loops of your name. “Yes!” Teucer rushes back in (you note that he’s hiding his hands behind his back), while Ajax pokes your nose. “Big brother spent soooo long on it!”

You snicker deviously. “Really?”

“No reason to lie,” your boyfriend pouts, “Though I’m a bit hurt that you’re both trying to embarrass me, after I went to all this trouble..”

Teucer sticks his tongue out in disgust whenever you console Ajax with another kiss, likely wanting you both to hurry up your gross couple stuff so he can show you his gift. It’s presented to you ceremoniously, and you honor the splendor by pretending not to know that it’s definitely one of his toys. 

Your acting is award-winning, perfectly ignoring the obvious ridges and appendages of a Transformer. After tearing open the paper, you’re told that his name is Mr. Cyclops and you have to take good care of him - your sworn oath.

(Of course, Mr. Cyclops will mysteriously end up back in Teucer’s bedroom if you can count on your partner in crime to help you out. You and Ajax share a Look that hints at conspiracy.)

Speaking of your boyfriend, you don’t think he is governed by even one modicum of shame. During the Happy Birthday song, he performs with his whole chest, much to your chagrin. You think that Ajax lives the most for other people; even if it shines brightest whenever he teases and flusters. His camaraderie is most genuine when he’s this comfortable - when he knows that the present moment is all he needs to focus on. 

When did he start letting his guard down? You find yourself unable to recall among past memories of trudging to the local diner at ungodly hours, cramming for finals at the library, and responsibly talking him down from any antics that would surely get him in trouble.

(Maybe it was when you first held an ice pack over his eye, swollen shut from a punch he shouldn’t have taken just for the thrill of it. Your admonishment must have been jarring, because without any teasing remarks whatsoever, he promised that he’d dial it down. You remember lacing your fingers with his - and promptly threatening to “embalm him with jet fuel” if he ever got hurt again.)

Now your relationship has progressed to the point where spending your first birthday together feels natural. It feels so natural that shitty paper plates stacked high with slices of cake is enough to make you forget that you look like that one damp owl picture. Ajax, as per his boyfriend duties, has to remind you, of course.

“Bad day, huh?” 

You rest your chin on your fist, elbow supported by the armrest of your (comically small) couch. In retrospect, the fleeting illusion of a living room probably wasn’t worth it. Squished into a corner by a dozing Teucer and an awake Ajax, you yawn. “The worst, actually.”

“Well, we can’t be having that,” he tips your chin up to meet azure hues, “Maybe my gift will make you feel better.”

You blink. “Gift? You don’t have to, you know. The little guy’s was plenty enough for me.” 

Ajax spares a fond glance at his little brother, whose head is resting in his lap, legs thrown over the opposite armrest. “Nonsense! If you’re worried about me having bought out a whole store—”

“Don’t tell me you—”

“—Then you have nothing to fret over, Killjoy,” he laughs. “It’s pretty small.”

You don’t suppress the smile that breaks out on your face. “Okay, I’ll bite.”

“Hopefully not too hard.” He’s so annoying. You want to kiss him stupid.

From what you assume is from his back pocket, he removes a black silk pouch before dropping it into your awaiting hand. He was right about it being small, that’s for sure. Toying with the material of it for a moment, you pull open the bag delicately. Ajax tenses. “So.. whaddya think?”

Inside is a brass key that fits into your palm nicely. Of course you’ll love anything he gives you, but you’re unsure of what this could mean. Is it symbolic? Literal? You thumb over the grooves, unsure of what they could possibly unlock. Your head swims with a fuzzy feeling that you don’t entirely hate.

“What’s it to?”

“Our place.”

It’s perfect. You turn the object this way and that way, swallowing. “Giving me my own copy? You realize that you’re gonna be stuck with me crashing at yours way more often, right?”

Your boyfriend wraps a sturdy arm around your shoulder. “It’s not there for you to crash, it’s there for you to stay. I want you to move in with me.”

The following awed silence from you is clearly taken as something else, because Ajax backpedals in that flippant way that belies the panic he’s actually feeling. You need to tell him that it’s okay; that it’s more than okay.

“Of course you can say no, but the rest of your birthday plans kinda hinge on the possibility that you’ll make me the happiest man in the world and say yes,” he amends.

You pay no heed to his theatrics, because all you really need is him. Gross. “Duh, idiot. As much as it kills me to say this, I’d want nothing more.” Ajax glows. “Because you’re head over heels in love with me?”

“No, because I won’t have to drag my ass to the laundromat anymore.”

The offended sound he lets out is muffled with your mouth against his once more, and the tears that roll down your cheeks are obviously not because you’re ecstatic to be so involved in his life. What a preposterous idea.

His hands cradle your face, a little awkward because of the position, but he’s so warm. 

“Killjoy, I have something to confess,” he breathes, pulling back enough so you can see the faint constellation of freckles dotting his features. “You need to start packing immediately, or else the flowers will wilt before you’re able to see them.”

You sigh, happy-sniffling. “Flowers? Is a bouquet perhaps part of these ‘birthday plans’?”

Ajax dries one of his hands stained with your tears off onto his shirt before raking it through Teucer’s curls affectionately. He stirs but does not wake. “Try thirty!”

“Ajax..” The horror in your tone barely disguises the admiration.

“I love you too, Killjoy.”

That night, when you’re both alone in his apartment, tangled in each other’s arms, your overnight bag on the floor - you tell him the same. The few tears he sheds into your hair are also definitely not because you’re finally comfortable enough to say it back. Ridiculous.

taglist: @hanyi-writes, @karagatan02, @bfajax, @aphrodict, @nomazee

[gothic-thoughts]

Date Night

(IM IN DISTRESS)

Nanami Kento x Black Fem Reader Fluff

DatingAU, DomesticAU

CW: disrespectful waiter, jealous Nanami, Nanami spoiling you(😫)

Word Count: 1043

The elevator doors open, anticlimactically releasing a few people before revealing my beautiful date. She was slightly taller now, courtesy of the blue heels that matched her knee-length dress. My lips parted slightly, knees weakening as she looked up from her watch, displaying the purple lipstick that compliments her bracelet. She grins brightly and strolls out, readjusting the purse strap on her shoulder.

"(Y/n)...you...."

"Take a picture, Kento." (Y/n) giggles, "It'll last longer."

"I was considering it," I chuckle, "I was just wondering how you manage to look so beautiful on every date we've been on."

"Black girl magic."

"Well, tonight, I have some magic of my own."

I take out a small box and open it, displaying the golden necklace I bought; my way of making our relationship more official despite it only being our 2nd date. She gasps, mouth remaining open as she gently takes the box and pulls out the chain, finding an elliptical pendant with "Darling" engraved in tiny diamonds.

"Kento, oh my god." She all but whispers, "Already? I mean, you don't think--"

"It's too soon?" I finish, gently taking the necklace to put it on her, "No, I don't."

"I mean, I'm not denying but more gifts? I feel bad, you already gave me flowers on our last date and we're at another fancy restaurant."

"Who said pretty women stop getting pretty things?" I wink, holding out my arm for her, "Shall we?"

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

After ordering, the waiter gently sets (Y/n)'s food down with a wink in her direction before setting mine down more roughly. I raise my eyebrow at him as he walks away but ultimately refocus on the beautiful woman before me, copper skin glowing in the warm light of the place when he returns with a bottle of wine. 

"More wine, beautiful?"

(Y/n) chuckles, caught off guard, "Uh, yes, thank you."

He looked her in her eyes as he slowly poured the crimson liquid into the stemmed glass, a flirtatious smirk was very much present on his lips before fading to a grimace when he reluctantly filled my glass. I'm noticing a pattern. Am I inconveniencing him? I shake my head from my thoughts again and sip my wine, watching (Y/n) as she blissfully took another bite.

I smile softly, “Seems like you're enjoying yourself."

"It's so good." She groans, throwing her head back slightly, “I heard the food was delicious here, but I never had it."

"I know, my love. I have pages and pages of texts with you gushing about it." I chuckle, "That's why I scheduled a reservation."

"But I never thought you would, much less for a 2nd date." She looks at me with awe, lowering her fork, "Thank you so much; you didn't have to do this.”

“No need to thank me, love. All you have to do is ask."

"But I didn't even ask, Ken."

"Then I guess you don't have to ask." I wink, "Maybe I would've spoiled you like this anyway."

"On our 2nd date?"

"This could be our 10th date and that wouldn't stop me from treating you like the royalty you are."

The upper portion of her cheeks pools with dark red as she plays with her necklace. She's just so....god I hope I don't get a call. After talking and laughing with her for about half an hour, our bold server returned and placed a platter of slices of various cakes in between our empty plates. Oh great. Maybe I'm just being a bit jealous. How could I already be acting like this when we met only a month ago? Maybe cuz I know I could be called away for a damn curse at any minute.

"Uh..." (Y/n) pointed to the cakes, "We didn't order this."

He winks at her yet again, "It's on the house, ma'am." 

"Oh..." She looks at me worriedly, "Are you s--?"

"No, it's fine, gorgeous. Thank you, my date and I appreciate it. We'll take the check now though."

"Sure."

And another eye-roll. I mean, it's only natural for him to stare; she's the most stunning person in here. But I don't like him flirting with her like I'm not sitting right here. I think his nickname even made her uncomfortable. I look up at her to read her face only to see her take a bite of strawberry-topped cake with a satisfied moan. I smile when noticing the frosting at the corners of her mouth, but it fades when the waiter takes out a napkin.

As he reaches for her face, I stand abruptly and delicately wipe away the frosting at the edge of her mouth and I wink at her just to see those chubby cheeks flush for me. I glare at the waiter as I set the money on the check before firmly taking my date's hand and quickly guiding her out the restaurant. In the parking lot, she tugged on my arm forcing me to stop walking and look at her.

"Ken, I'm alright."

"I'm sorry, he was going to touch you and I just...You noticed, right?"

"Yeah, at first I thought he was being sweet but then he was doing a little too much. Especially with all the winks and stuff."

"He couldn't take his eyes off you for more than a second the whole time."

"Ken--"

"And believe me, I know I've done the same but it's different. Of course, I would spend as much time as possible focusing on my date."

She steps closer, "Nanami...."

"But when I do it, I look with awe at how charming you are. The worst part about it was he was so obvious. It was like he trying to pretend I wasn't there."

(Y/n) grabs my tie, and my eyes widen as her lips softly link with mine. She makes me moan in surprise when she tugs downward, pulling me closer to her shorter stature to deepen the kiss. My hands rest on her waist before I slide up the left one up her back to hold the back of her neck before she pulled away with a smile.

"I...I'm...rambling."

"I know, that's why I shut you up."

"I'm sorry, jealousy's not something that usually consumes me like that."

"You wanna...." She walks her fingers up my chest, "Go somewhere reserved?"

I tuck a strand of hair behind her ear, "I think some alone time could clear my head."

"You think it's quieter at my place or yours?"

"Mine."

[retrospacejelly]

A Western Vendetta

Pairing: Ex-outlaw!Miguel O’Hara x Fem!Reader

Summary: A look into Miguel’s past, and why he was given the title, El ángel vengador.

Warnings: Angst, Guns, Mentions of the devil’s tango, typical cowboy things, language, death/murder, gore, alcohol

BEFORE YOU READ: This chapter is very dark! It is a huge contrast from the last two chapters so please read with caution!

Part: 2 ½ /?

Part: 1, 2, 2 ½ , 3

Not proofread

A/N: I had this idea brewing for a while, and character AI helped push the plot!  (Thank you Monstera for letting me expand on the plot!)

Reach out if you want to be on my taglist!

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

Red. Red was all he could see.

“Mamá…? Papá…?”

A young Miguel, only eighteen, had just finished work for some extended family in another town. He was delighted to be back home. 

“Mamá, Papá?!”

He runs through the house, stopping suddenly at the sight before him.

In front of his eyes, the bodies of his parents lay lifeless on the parlor floor. The stench of iron flooded his nose, and his stomach churned. He looked around. Except for a tossed chair, nothing seemed to be out of place.

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

Miguel stuck the shovel into the cold dirt, makeshift headstones staring back at him. Reciting a quiet prayer, he turns to make his way back into the house. 

He had walked throughout the house, looking for anything of value that might be missing. 

Nothing.

Money that was kept in his father’s nightstand and safe was untouched. His mother’s jewelry was still organized in her cedar jewelry box; an anniversary gift from his father. 

When he opened her jewelry box, he took her beaded rosary and a copper ring. He smiled sadly at the copper ring. Shoving them into his vest pocket along with some money, he made his way to the parlor.

Whoever had done this was going to pay. Whoever had done this would meet the wrath of Miguel O’Hara. 

Miguel snatched his father’s trusty pistol from its spot on the mantlepiece. As he made his way to the front door, he slipped on his cowboy hat and set off for the town. 

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

He first made his way to the saloon, its bright and cheery atmosphere a stark contrast from himself. He quietly made his way to the bar, ordering a whiskey. 

He needed to come up with some sort of plan. He couldn’t just go around asking people if they’d seen any suspicious folk. He didn’t even know who he was looking for.

His thoughts were cut short by the sound of loud, boisterous laughter. Moving his head to the side, he noticed two seemingly drunk men four seats down from him. He shook his head, annoyed.

“...Yea, that bitch squealed like a damn pig, I tell ya! Had it comin’ too.”

Miguel’s attention was piqued.

“Don’t ya…don’t ya think killin’ ‘er was a bit much, though, Butch?” his friend asked.

The man named Butch scowled at his friend. “Hell nah! She made a damn fool ‘outta me when she turned me down at the market. I’m fuckin’,” he hiccups, “Fuckin’ Butch Wyatt. And no one makes a fool ‘outta me!”

Butch slams his glass down. “Planned on jus’ killin’ ‘er and leavin’ the body for ‘er husband to see. But that Bottom-Feeder came home early. Had to kill ‘im too.”

His friend tries to calm Butch down, not wanting to cause a bigger scene. But Miguel had heard. Oh, he heard well. He had to set his now empty glass down so as to not shatter it with his hand.

He watched as they made their way out of the saloon, swaying drunkenly out the doors. They wouldn’t make it far. 

After a couple of minutes, he stood from his seat, placing some coins down by his glass. Nobody seemed to notice as he made his exit.

The street was silent save for the drunken laughter of the two men and Miguel’s heavy footfalls following behind them. 

He watches as they turn into an alleyway, and speeds up his pace. His blood starts to pump faster as he closes in on the two. He slips the gun from its holster and calls out to them. 

“Hey, Bastardos.”

They turn around, their eyes slowly trailing up to his own.

“Whatdya jus’ call me…?” Butch blurts out, reaching for his gun. 

“I wouldn’t do that if I were you, Senor,” Miguel answers, his dead eyes trained on Butch. Butch’s friend tugs his arm, a look of dread on his face. “C’mon, now Butch, you don’t know who he is?” he asks.

Butch looks over to his friend. “Am I supposed to know who he is, Casey?”. Casey leans in. “That’s Miguel O’Hara, I’ve seen ‘im doin’ work around town…”.

Butch lets out a laugh. “O’Hara?! Yer’ the bitch’s son?! What? Come ‘ere to seek revenge, boy? It’s two against one, ya know.”

Miguel doesn’t respond.

“Yer’ mother was a fuckin’ whore. When I pointed that gun at ‘er, boy was she-”

“Squealin’ like a pig. Yea, I got that.” 

The sound of a gunshot rings throughout the alley, Butch’s body slumping to the ground. And before he knows it, he aims at Casey and shoots.

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

The sun had risen just above the hills, and roosters crowed from their perches. 

The Mayor’s wife was taking her usual morning walk with her mutt, Captain, humming happily to herself. She always awoke before the town to get a peaceful walk in.

She sees something hanging from the square’s stone statue (the statue being her husband of course). The sun blinds her vision of the statue as she squints to get a better look.

She walks closer, bringing her hand to her forehead to shield her eyes from the sun.

And then.

“AAAAAAAH!”

Her shrill scream alerts the homes nearby. She drops Captain’s leash as she covers her mouth, sobs racking her body.

Joshua, the storekeeper’s son is the first to stand by the wife’s side. When he looks at the statue, he retches. 

As more and more townsfolk gather in the square all hell breaks loose. Shouts of fear and surprise fill the air but are soon quieted down as the Mayor makes his way through the crowd.

Looking up, he gasps, horrified.

There, hanging from the Statue’s arm were the mangled corpses of Butch Wyatt and Casey Brown. 

And as Miguel stands at the top of a hill overlooking the town, mounted on a stolen horse, he can’t help but smirk as one of the residents shouts, “El ángel vengador!”

From that day forward, Miguel O'Hara would venture from town to town seeking retribution on other outlaws. Word spread fast of an Avenging Angel making its way throughout the West.

Unfortunately, it didn’t take long for the people of Miguel’s hometown to figure out just who this Avenging Angel was. Word of El ángel vengador’s identity spread even faster and soon wanted posters of Miguel O’Hara were posted on every surface throughout every town.

Some argued that  El ángel vengador was helping towns that were being terrorized by outlaws while others argued that vigilantes had no place to go around killing people. 

As the years passed, Miguel made a realization that killing outlaws wouldn’t bring his parents back and would only make the reward for his head higher. 

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

As he sat on the small bed in Y/N’s guest room, fiddling with his mother’s rosary, he thought to himself.

It had been a decade since the end of his murders, and five years more since the death of his parents. Even after all these years, he is still considered a wanted man, although the hunt for him has simmered drastically.

He couldn’t help as a tear escaped his eye, bringing the rosary up to his lips. 

Tomorrow would mark the anniversary of his parents' deaths.

______________________________________________________________

This was a dark segment! A huge contrast from the previous chapter, I know. There might be some confusion, so here’s some clarification on age:

Miguel is around 33 when he meets Y/N. His parents were murdered 15 years ago, but he quit his murders 10 years ago.

Y/N is around 26. Her ex-husband cheated on her when they were both 21. 

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@codenameredkrystalmatrix @slushycoookie

[lailoken]

I was given this neat gift a while back, made by a metallurgist experimenting with different alloy recipes. He claimed that it was a unique amalgam of copper, silver, tin, and gold that he experimented with, but which ultimately didn't fit what he was hoping for. There's also an old glass bead set into it, though he didn't specify why.

[alicehattera03]

I want to see Cale being a black-bellied saint...

He always acts kind to the believers that come to the churches he frequents, giving out blessings and warm words freely- but when the sun sets and the stained glass windows emanate light from the moon, Cale's beautiful smile dwindles until it's no more and a dreadful scowl replaces it.

He throws away the white veil upon his head, his shining silver hair, the signature shade of holy power, dyed a bright crimson under a particular window where the hero vanquishes the demon king. He clutches the donation box, rummaging through the countless copper coins and manages to find the paltry gold that was gifted. He shoves them into his pocket.

Raking a hand through his hair, a sneer paints onto his face as he crosses his legs, and raises a glass of whiskey to the marble statue of the goddess he sat in front of. "Goddess, pray tell- until when do I have to do this shit?" and laughs hopelessly in the empty church as no answer comes.

His laughter fades and he nods as if he's heard something. "I have to grow my reputation even more? Okay." Coincidentally, he spots an entourage of cloaked people the next day and he eyes the gold that sparkles here and there. Goddess- he hides a foul grin as he approaches- you've brought my quarry to me.

[bleedingichorhearts]

𝐄𝐛𝐨𝐧𝐲 & 𝐈𝐯𝐨𝐫𝐲

𝕬𝖚𝖙𝖍𝖔𝖗: Careful on this one, was not feeling nice.

𝕿𝖆𝖌𝖌𝖊𝖉: @kit-williams, @egrets-not-regrets, @bispecsual, @gallifreyianrosearkytiorsusan, @sleepyfan-blog.

TW // Death Of Child, Death Of Spouse, Grief, Depression, Car Accident.

|°ᴛᴀɢ ʟɪꜱᴛ ᴀᴘᴘʟɪᴄᴀᴛɪᴏɴ°| |°ɪᴄʜᴏʀ’ꜱ ᴀᴏ3°| |°𝕄𝕒𝕤𝕥𝕖𝕣𝕃𝕚𝕤𝕥°|

Zadkiel carefully observes this woman viewing the settling landscape from the glass window of the human medical wing. Warm colors of the sun turning cold across the city’s rooftop’s for the moon to rise. The back of her still form turning into a black silhouette.

He worry’s the resting sun would be too bright for her to look at, but she sits still upon her chair with wheels. Her eyes never looking away from the sun, never blinking at it. It was like she wasn’t affected by it at all. He would have thought her blind if he couldn’t see how her eyes were not the white of blindness, but… dull. Not glazed with life.

Now he worries about what had happened to this woman. To make her loose such sentience on this Ancient Terra that was way better than future Terra where billions would loose their sanity the moment they step out of a Hive City. Where on this Ancient Terra it was more… free and lasting. Happy, some might say.

Why wasn’t this woman happy? Shining like the brightest star in the universe? He was sure she would look radiant with a bright smile on her face, he can envision it. How her body would glow like gold with a simple smile, or how her laugh would gracefully flow through the strings of time. Little dimples on her cheeks visible against her giggles.

Yet, here she is. Her glowing star long burnt out, exploded into dust and rock. Her smile nothing but a flatline on those soft lips of hers. Distraught by something that he wants to know. That he wants to avenge, to heal.

Such beauty should never look so dull. They should be polished, enriched for a better shine. They should be carefully cared for and cleaned with the softest cloth to be set as the finest jewelry upon the galaxies. Not that she already was; a diamond in creation. Set against the suns glow, but this one in particular had not been cared for in a long while. She had not been cherished.

Oh, how he wants to decorate her body with the finest treasures he can find: rubies, diamonds, gold and silver. She would look absolutely remarkable in them. To have them wrapped around her precious neck as a necklace, or around her petite wrists like a bracelet. Perhaps have them pierced into her skin?

Ah, but he doesn’t want to ruin the natural beauty of her. Not matter how much she is doused in his gifts, her organic beauty could never compare to any loyal material worthy of her skin. She was simply too elegant for a simple diamond to be place onto her skin. For copper to stain her skin green. Something that he makes a quick note to himself of not giving her such a low quality metal.

He then stops himself for a moment, his helmet tilting to the side. Questioning himself now. Since when did he want to know of this woman? To adore her with gifts? To make sure she was properly cared for and thriving once more? As far as he’s concerned he shouldn’t even be here at this human medical wing right now. It was way past the “visiting times,” and he has no reason to be here.

Yet, the simple thought of leaving the side of this woman chips at his heart’s like a chisel. Squeezing so unnecessarily at him for thinking about anything negative on her behalf. Which was just leaving her side and nothing harmful like some others would snide about. Almost humiliating it. Wishing they could cut them down with ease but they never could. Finding a calming solstice in their small and aging humanity.

Zadkiel then realizes this was the work of the Warp testing him. Calling out to him to be here or else he wouldn’t be here in the first place, admiring a hidden jewel behind laminated glass. A “bond” his cousins and brethren had told him about it, in more ways than one. How some were blessed with it or downright cursed, refusing that bond that sounded… very hurtful to do.

He stands there behind the woman now confused on… what to do. Should he accept this bond and cherish the woman like he wants to? Craves to do? Or hurtfully reject it? Leave the woman to continue looking out the glass window with him feeling ever more regrettable the more he walks away?

He heard stories were most tried to reject their bond naturally, only to get very “sick” when too long without them. Forcing them to become bonded if they wanted to be primed back into their original state. Some would actually kill their bonded, but suffer severe consequences after it. Having its price to pay. Not a lot come back from that one, but he doesn’t want to live in fear of a bond. It’s not what he wants. What he wants to do is admire the bond, be attentive to bond. Protect the bond with his life. He wants to adore this woman.

He knows he is younger than his older battle-brother’s, but he wasn’t that young to be a cocky scout. He definitely had his experiences and medals in war to have a will of choosing his own decisions, but this one seemed more… prominent. It was not something he could kill and forget or walk off on, no. It was… more than that. Nothing that he had experience on.

“She won’t move, no matter how long you stare.” He hears the masculine voice of the human approaching behind him. Hearing him a few, beeping floors down before making it to him. The nerves of his spine tickling to move him so he can put the male nurse a little less close to the silent woman, but he doesn’t move. Finding it… indecisive to do so. He wants to move the man away, but at the same time he thinks it’s unreasonable for him to do so. This man was barely a threat to him, nor anyone else around him. An apprentice of a human Apothecary at most.

His head tilts to his other side when he puts more thought into the apprentices’ words rather than pursuing his instincts to throw him out the window for taking another step forward into what he deems the women’s bubble. She… won’t move? Why won’t she move? He doesn’t smell anything on her that tells him she is injured? More like… nothingness.

That alarms him when he realizes he can’t smell anything on her. No natural scent, no family, no spouse, nor children, not even a shift in emotion, nothing. There was nothing on this woman for him to recognize her, and that hurts him in a way. How is he to protect her if he doesn’t recognize her? How is he supposed to keep her safe if he doesn’t know what she smells like? What made her aura and scent feel so… empty? That last thought made him straighten up his form, righting his posture.

“She used to be a mother.” The nurse talks to him in a sudden, smaller voice. Zedkiels’ black helm turning to look down at the apprentice with his red visor that turned to glow once the sun fully went over the city’s rooftops, turning the ending day to the beginning of night.

Zadkiel feels like he should get this start of the conversion from the woman herself. Not wanting to get information that maybe untruthful, but this could be a way for him to start recognizing her. He doesn’t have to recognize her by scent or kin. He can do it the more… classy way. He could learn about her to have a more better feel of the bond. To try and connect with her through her soul.

The apprentice with short, messy, brown hair glances up at him before glancing back at the woman. Unable to handle being under the red hue of his visor staring him down. His hands tucking his clipboard to his chest as Zedkiel gives him a small but questioning head tilt, wanting to learn more on this tragic woman that he has a pull to.

“She… she lost the child however, due to a car crash.” The man continues, tightening his arms around his clipboard. Clearly indicating this was a wide and saddening event that had happened here with this woman. “A son it was going to be.”

Zadkiel gets a hit of anger through his systems at that, shuffling his weight. He knows these… car crashes are quite common in this world; having it world wide count of deaths, but an unborn son involved in it? He believes that is heresy itself! Just where was the father in all of this?! Did he abandon her just because she lost a heir?!

“Her husband couldn’t be found in the process of her recovery.” The apprentice sighs heavily. “Yet, once he was found, it hurt to tell the already grieving patient that he wasn’t alive himself. Either by suicide or murder. I do not know, just started working that day, and everyone was not the same that day.”

The heatwaves of his anger cool off at that information of her… husband being in the afterlife, something that most can’t prevent, but Zedkiel can’t help but be put off by it. How could one lose a mate that wasn’t in the car crash? The mate couldn’t have known in time if he lost had lost his youngling to make a suicide attempt.

“She wasn’t the same.” The apprentice adds, gesturing his head towards the woman making his helmet turn back to her. His reflection bouncing off the dark window just as hers did. Her dull eyes never leaving her own reflection. “Never moved much unless it was necessary or when we gently push her to walk around the halls. Never stoped staring through blank walls and windows. Started eating less and less. Never responded again either; all signs of a Major Depression Disorder.”

Depression Disorder? He had heard of this… disorder before by his Apothecary. The head smaller medic giving a lecture when a few of his younger brethren questioned the older Apothecary about it while he was getting his wings preened. He learned that day, just as his brethren did. That disorder is something that could potentially cause death to a bond if not treated, nor cared for correctly. That’s when some of his bonded brethren butt in with some questions of their own if anything such comes to their bonded. Wanting to know how to treat it and prevent it from happening which the medic agreeably responds with some symptoms and how to treat it. Though, he gives on extra warning to stay close to their bonded, wherever they may go when the disorder had deeply affected the bonded.

Zadkiel instincts overboard him when he suddenly takes a cautious step forward. Not wanting to crack the floor underneath him or scare his bonded away as her eyes make contact with his visor reflection in the window, her awareness sending a surprising shiver down his spine.

She reminds him of a mute swan: a large, white, water bird he seen in a younglings book and at many bodies of water he’s flown across, or even flown with a bevy of them. Squawking at him for taking up their V formation, not afraid to take his own feathers off. Despite their…intent to get him off his own flight path, they were a beautiful creature to see; just like this grief stricken woman.

He take another and another step despite the apprentice telling him he wouldn’t be able to do much, they have already tried, but Zadkiel just won’t except that as an excuse for him not to approach who he has and is being pulled to, his little swan.

The closer that he gets to his swan the more his instincts impatiently urge him on, but he does hesitate a little when her eyes narrow a little on him in the reflection. Making him briefly think he should get closer to her at a slower rate, but his instincts flare up again. Pushing him forward to kneel in front of his swan with a thunk to the ground, cracking the flooring anyways.

His instincts tell him to get a move on and touch his swan already! Coo at her! But he doesn’t. He stays still kneeling in front of her, looking down at her, waiting for her. His Apothecary words running through his mind to keep him absolutely still. He needs to wait on his fragile swan to make a move before he does.

A long, seamless moment pass by with the apprentice threatening to call security in the background for evading a patient’s privacy. Yet he doesn’t move at the wasteful threat, gaining a reward instead when his little swans eyes finally turn away from his reflection in the window and look up at him. Getting the man to shut up about his boring threats of rules.

He waits a few moments longer as the apprentice sucks in air between his teeth, forgetting how to breathe as his swan slowly lifts up her delicate hand up to his helm. Her nails briefly, brushing up the ceramite of his helmet before resting on the cheek of it. Cooling his raging instincts at her touch.

Her hand stays there where he breaks from his own will to coo, purr and very gently nuzzle into her hand. Keeping an eye on her when he does, watching how she seemed to relax at his actions. His heart’s beating at her acception as he vows to never leave her side until the day he is slain.

Let’s get you to fly once more, little swan.

[3rdeyeblaque]

Today we venerate Hoodoo Saint Harriet Ross Tubman aka Black Moses on the 110th anniversary of her passing🕊

Whew! A legendary Freedom Fighter, Mama Moses wore many decorated crowns as a mammoth Abolitionist, chief Conductor on the Underground Railroad, an expert Hunte and Lumberjack, a Nurse, an armed scout & spy for the Union Army during the Civil War - becoming the 1st Woman to ever spearhead an armed military assault. Later, she opened her door to the elderly, sick, & disabled, and advocated for them until her death.

Born Araminta "Minty" Ross as the middle child of 9 siblings to enslaved parents on a plantation in Dorchester County, MD, she suffered a massive blow to the head that would spur a lifetime of seizures, headaches, deep slumbers, & visions. She went on to marry a "Free" man by the surname of Tubman & took on her mother's first given name, "Harriet". In 1849, her husband, parents, & siblings were set to be split up & sold off. Under the cover of darkness, she fled the plantation solo on foot and followed the North Star to escape the jaws of slavery by way of Philadelphia, PA. She'd survive13-19 rescue missions back into the Antebellum South, liberating over 300 souls, as the most infamous Conductor on the Underground Railroad who, over the span of a decade, had "never lost a single passenger", which dubbed her the nickname, "Moses". The bounty for her life maxed out at $40K. Freedom wasn't free & Mama Moses never hesitated to remind her passengers of that. She carried herbs to silence a crying baby and pulled a gun on any cowardly man who might give away their position.

"You'll be Free or Die. " - Mama Moses to her passengers on the Underground Railroad.

Venerated as a Hoodoo Saint to many, Mama Moses was a Seer, a Clairvoyant Dreamer, Dream Interpreter, a Revolutionary Conjurer Woman & Rootworker - born to parents of the same cloth. She received Divine messages & Ancestral knowledge/wisedom through prophetic visions & dreams. Mama Moses proudly attributed her unparalleled death defying success to her Divine guidance, Conjure, Rootwork, intuitive gifts & her faithful willingness to trust/follow them.

Folks have a tendency to grossly undermine, if not outright ignore, the significant pillars that Hoodoo Cosmology, Religion, & Tradition played in her life and in her fight for freedom. Recently, archeologists uncovered her "spirit cache" at her family's home in Maryland; these were some of the Blackbelt Hoodoo staples of her time including: glass bottles - for protection against evil spirits, a figurine made it iron nails - possibly a something akin to an Nkisi, a copper button, perfume bottle topper, and other red & blue items.

Mama Moses transitioned peaceful & free at her home/on her land in Auburn, NY where she is rests at the cemetery in Auburn, NY. She is still expected to be immortalized on the $20 bill USD, however that promise has yet to be met.

We pour libations & give Mama Moses her 💐 for her bravery & selfless service. May she bless the elderly, disabled, young, women, & Workers who seek/fight for freedom.

Offering suggestions: Milk, Apples, & Orange flowers

🌟 FINAL copies of The2023 Hoodoo's Calendar are available for purchase (once sold out, that's it)! Subscribe to the official e-newsletter for the latest updates & exclusive content access. https://thehoodoocalendar.square.site 🌟  

[cesqdarque]

A Montague Soirée

My contribution for Hogtober Day 16 "MCxMC" in casu "MCxOC" hosted by the lovely @yoshitsuno and @speedysart🖤 And because I felt inspired, I decided to write a one-shot for this prompt. The scene takes place in the time before Cassandra was sent to Hogwarts. Summary: Cassandra attends one of her grandmother's popular soirées and discovers that not all the invited guests have peaceful motives. With Zacharias' assistance, she sets a clear political statement against the interference in her family's affairs. Words: 4k Tags: fluff | waltzing on the political parquet | hints of a tutor-student relationship | unholy alliances And for the vibes: Every Breath You Take - The Police

She adjusted her black silk gloves one last time, lifted the hem of her evening gown slightly, and descended the winding staircase to the entrance hall. Gently, she let her hand glide over the copper handrail, carefully placing one foot in front of the other.

She felt confined, though not because the dress was too tight—it fit her perfectly, as if tailored to her exact measurements. Admittedly, she was surprised to find an evening gown adorned with rhinestones, black as night with shimmering stars woven into the fabric, laid out on her bed. Her grandmother’s usual choice of attire was much more colorful than Cassandra preferred. But Mrs. Montague insisted on her attendance at the soirée. And one did not contradict the matriarch of the house, even if one was her only granddaughter.

As she reached the bottom of the staircase, she let her gaze sweep over the gathered guests. Augustina Montague had generously invited, as it seemed. These events were not unfamiliar to Cassandra, but usually her grandmother let her decide when she felt like appearing in public. She disliked the displays of the elite magical society—excessive superficiality, gossip, and the latest rumors were not among her interests.

With a sigh, she let go of the handrail, when she heard a deep male voice to her right. “Miss Darque, you look absolutely stunning, if I may say so.”

Glancing slightly over her shoulder, she recognized the owner of the pleasantly familiar voice. Standing elegantly in black attire was Zacharias Boniface, his elbow already bent, waiting for her to take it.

“Please, let’s skip the small talk, Zacharias,” she muttered irritably under her breath, as she calmly placed her fingers around his forearm and allowed him to escort her down the last step.

“No formalities, dear. You truly do look…” he began, flashing his most charming smile.

But Cassandra shook her head in discontent, and as a reflected beam of light blinded her, she turned her gaze to the ceiling, where a chandelier adorned with colorful glass stones hung.

“What is that hideous novelty?” she remarked mockingly.

Zach, whose compliment had died on his lips, followed her gaze as she stopped to critically observe the pompously glittering piece of craftsmanship above them.

“A gift to your grandmother,” he commented, apparently amused by Cassandra’s candid rejection of the light fixture.

“For Merlin’s sake,” she snorted, rolling her eyes, “Not everyone has a sense of subtlety, huh?” she added with a sharp tongue.

A low, dark chuckle escaped her companion. “Mrs. Montague was delighted,” he assured her with a grin.

“You don’t say,” she replied sarcastically. „Maybe that’s why she decided to dress me in black tonight, so I wouldn’t outshine her new centerpiece,” she joked.

Her grandmother’s taste, whether in fashion or décor, couldn’t have been more opposed to her own. Cassandra had always refused to wear anything but black. Nothing repulsed her more than walking through the halls of her grandmother’s estate dressed like a flower girl.

Her grandmother had never approved of her penchant for gloominess. She was always trying to add some color to her granddaughter’s dark appearance. That was why it made Cassandra suspicious that, for once, tonight there had been no endless debate over the appropriateness of her somber style.

“As if some tacky light show could overshadow you,” Zacharias tried again to flatter her, only to be met with a pointed look of disdain from Cassandra.

“Seriously. What’s the occasion for this soirée?” Cassandra continued her probing. Something about this evening felt off, though she couldn’t yet put her finger on it.

With a gentle tug on her wrist, Zacharias guided them both toward a quieter corner of the room. As they walked through the hall, she scanned the attending guests carefully. She knew the usual participants at her grandmother’s soirées, but tonight, she spotted many unfamiliar faces, people she couldn’t place with any particular organization or pure-blood family. Deep in thought, she furrowed her brow.

“I don’t think your grandmother needs a reason to host a soirée. Her soirée is the reason,” her companion commented nonchalantly before releasing her to address a passing house-elf, who was draped in a purple cloth tied like a toga around his body. “Relax and just enjoy the evening,” he encouraged her, handing her a glass of champagne with an inviting smile.

She grabbed the glass filled with the sparkling liquid and raised it to her lips. If she had to endure this dull company for the evening, she would do so in the preferable state of tipsy carefreeness.

Steel-blue eyes watched as she eagerly downed a large gulp of the sparkling wine. “Don’t overdo it, Cass,” teased Zacharias, a mischievous glint in his eyes.

“Don’t worry. Just enough to make this bearable,” she replied promptly. She had no intention of getting as drunk as the last time when she’d gone overboard. Zacharias had embarrassingly had to carry her to bed after a wild round of absinthe. The memory of him gently lifting her in his arms to carry her up the stairs to her chambers caused her cheeks to flush. She would blame it on the champagne if he dared to notice.

“Hm,” Zacharias murmured, unconvinced, before taking a sip from his own glass.

“It seems my grandmother has invited half of northern Italy,” Cass remarked, casually swirling the glass in her hand so that its contents frothed and bubbled. “Or are you familiar with all these people?” she probed, raising her eyebrows at her companion with interest.

“You can’t help yourself, huh?” he teased her inquisitive nature affectionately. When she responded only with a determined, demanding gaze, he sighed. “Alright,” he began, worn down by her persistence, “What was the first thing you—quite aptly—noticed when we entered the room?”

“Do you have to turn everything into a lesson?” Cass rolled her eyes in exasperation. It was impossible to ever get a simple answer from Zach to a straightforward question. She couldn’t avoid his lecturing manner during their lessons, but the fact that he also amused himself by carrying this demeanor into their more private conversations made her frown.

He responded to her sharpness with a charming smile on his lips.

“The chandelier,” Cass replied, giving in to his game.

“And what exactly displeased you about it?” he challenged her further.

“The way that garish thing reflects the light. All that glittering nonsense. What is that?” She squinted slightly to examine the small colored objects hanging from the chandelier’s arms. “Are those glass shards?”

“Close enough. They’re stained glass stones. Very valuable. It’s an art to craft them so perfectly, to be honest,” he praised the work above their heads.

“Since when do you take an interest in glassblowing?” Cass chuckled.

“It’s not the stones that should catch your attention, dear. It’s the question of where this craftsmanship originates,” he said, now with a dark undertone in his voice.

“Venice,” she blurted out as she realized what Zach was hinting at. “Our guests aren’t possibly the…?” but she couldn’t bring herself to utter the name of that cursed clan.

Zacharias nodded silently, and her eyes widened in shock. Hastily, she emptied the rest of her glass in one gulp. She hadn’t expected this. Her family had always feuded with a rival clan based in Venice.

“She can’t be serious?!” she murmured, horrified.

“Always watchful,” Zacharias toasted her, proud that his protégé had solved the riddle he had laid out for her.

“Why in Merlin’s name would my grandmother invite her enemies? It makes no sense,” she stammered, bewildered.

“You know the saying: Keep your friends close, but your enemies closer.”

“That’s a stupid saying. It’s not a rule to live by, and certainly not meant to fill your guest list,” Cass hissed, unable to hide her anger.

What was her grandmother thinking? Inviting the family that could very well be responsible for the death of her parents into her home, her sanctuary. Allowing this scum to cross the threshold. How dare they set foot under her roof. Hot, uncontrollable rage surged within her as she gripped her empty glass so tightly that her knuckles turned white, and the glass threatened to shatter under the pressure.

Zacharias’s concerned gaze shifted from her furious expression to her hand, and he gently enveloped her fingers with his own. The softness of his touch startled her briefly, and moss green eyes met steel blue in silent understanding. Without resistance, she let him take the glass from her hand.

“Now you understand why I hesitated,” he began cautiously, “I didn’t want to upset you.”

“Upset?” she laughed coldly. “How dare they set foot in this house? Don’t they know I’m the daughter of their unfinished business?”

“They do. But I’m afraid they don’t care, Cass,” he continued gently. Yet her now-empty hand began to tremble.

“They don’t care? These people have my parents’ blood on their hands!” It was extremely difficult for her to keep her emotions in check.

“And yet we can’t prove anything. The Contarini are an ancient family, Cassandra.”

“I don’t care how far back their bloodline goes!” she spat, fists clenched in fury.

“This is how our world works. And your reaction is exactly why your grandmother didn’t tell you,” he concluded with a lowered gaze.

“To hell with her! Letting herself be lulled by wolves in haute couture with sparkling trinkets…” her voice trailed off, and her eyes fell on the rhinestone-adorned gown she was wearing.

The realization hit her like a ton of bricks. “Don’t tell me I’m dressed in enemy satin?!”

“Cass,” Zach tried to calm her, but she was beside herself. She tugged and pulled at the countless stones embedded in the fabric, but to no avail.

Only when Zacharias stepped closer and took her rage-trembling fingers firmly in his hands did she pause. The fresh scent of citrus mixed with gentle notes of valerian, emanating from his clothing, soothed her. She knew causing a scene wouldn’t help anyone. So, she closed her eyes and took deep breaths. As the unmistakable scent of safety wrapped around her, her anger ebbed away, carried off by the soft tones of the white meadow flower’s fragrance that surrounded everything Zacharias wore.

“Didn’t it occur to my brilliant grandmother that they’re probably here just to take me out? To finish her unfinished business?”

“Of course. Why do you think it was so important to her that you stand visible in the crowd?”

“I knew something was off about the whole thing! And I suppose the fact that you were there to greet me wasn’t a coincidence either?!”

Zacharias shook his head.

“And yet this cursed chandelier hangs over us like a damned sword of Damocles, just waiting for the right moment to crush us. I can’t believe it!”

“Cass. Listen to me. To reject a peace offering from the Contarinis is equivalent to a declaration of war. Don’t you understand that?”

“So we all dress up and pretend like there’s peace?! Are you serious? A peace as fragile and transparent as the shards hanging above our heads?!”

“That’s politics, Cass.”

“To hell with your politics. I’m leaving!”

Before she could storm off, Mrs. Montague approached them. She must have sensed that her granddaughter had figured out the game.

“Topolina, you look stunning,” she complimented Cassandra, but her tone felt more like a warning than praise.

“Grandmother,” Cass hissed through gritted teeth.

Zach politely bowed to his superior.

“And Mr. Boniface, how wonderful that you could make it,” she said, slightly lowering her head before raising it again solemnly.

“Cassandra, why don’t you mingle with the guests and enjoy yourself? After all, it’s a soirée. A Montague Soirée, Topolina.”

“I’m still a Darque, grandmother,” she retorted coldly, earning a dangerous glance.

“Perhaps, for now. But it’s rude to avoid society.”

“My company is right here by my side at your command, isn’t he?” she provoked further.

“Cassandra,” Augustina warned. How she managed to make her name sound like a whip crack was a mystery, but Cass could see the fire smoldering in her grandmother’s grass-green eyes. She was nearing a line she knew not to cross. “Why don’t you let Zacharias invite you to dance? Our guests would surely enjoy seeing how much fun you’re having in their gift.” Her eyes flicked to the black gown.

Cassandra bit the insides of her cheeks until she tasted blood, determined to keep the words on her tongue from escaping.

“Mr. Boniface, would you do my granddaughter the honor?” she asked Zach sweetly. But Cass knew this was no request—it was a command.

“With the greatest pleasure, Mrs. Montague,” Zacharias smiled politely, turning to Cass with a hopeful look and extending his hand for her to take.

Augustina’s hawk-like gaze was fixed on her granddaughter. This was a battle she could only lose. So, she accepted Zacharias’s outstretched hand, curtsying slightly, but not without keeping her eyes locked on her grandmother.

Zach led her to the center of the room. He placed his left hand on her waist, and his right fingers entwined with hers, wrapped in black silk. She could feel the eyes of the gathered crowd on her, and the burning sensation in her stomach threatened to reignite.

A gentle squeeze of her enclosed hand brought her back from her fury-clouded thoughts.

Zacharias set them into motion. With a grace she hadn’t expected from him, he led her smoothly. He was a man used to the rough, dirty business of her grandmother, and yet he moved with a gentleness that surprised her every time.

“Focus on me,” he whispered softly, spinning her on her axis.

The hem of her gown fluttered around her ankles before Zach gently pulled her back.

She appreciated his efforts to distract her, but she was tired of this charade.

“Look at me,” his deep, soothing voice vibrated.

And when she obeyed and met his gaze, her anger abated. Her pulse calmed, the fiery rage smothered.

They glided over the polished floor as if they were alone in the hall. Not once did they break eye contact as he swayed her elegantly to the music. There were few moments when Cass felt comfortable in her own skin, the gnawing feeling of not fitting in with this illustrious society—or even with her own family. But in his arms, she felt safe, welcomed, and at home.

A satisfied grin played on Zacharias’s lips as he regarded his protégée.

“It doesn’t matter whose clothes you’re dancing in, as long as you choose your own partner.”

“Have I really?”

“As if I had the power to force you into anything you didn’t want,” he chuckled.

He was right. What did it matter? She wouldn’t have accepted another hand for the dance. Her only ally in this hall of traitors was Zach. Her tutor, her companion, and so much more that she didn’t dare think further.

She smiled, finally.

“What do you think, how angry would my esteemed grandmother be if I made a little alteration to the dress?” she asked him mischievously, her eyes alight with fire.

“Who am I to deny you that fun?” he grinned back just as mischievously. And in silent agreement, he spun her quickly once more around her axis. The stones on her dress sparkled in the candlelight reflected from the chandelier.

In the graceful sweep of her spin, the black fabric fluttered around her silhouette. One by one, the stones on her dress seemed to fall away as if by magic, dropping like stardust around her until nothing of the once opulent decoration remained, and she stood in plain black in the middle of the hall.

With a hearty laugh, she reunited with Zach. Confused glances surrounded them. The song had ended, along with her performance on the political stage of Northern Italy. Out of the corner of her eye, she could see her grandmother’s scowling gaze, her lips pursed in displeasure. But Cassandra didn’t care. She curtsied to Zacharias, thanking him with a wink for the liberating moment, before leaving the hall without another word.

She knew she had just left Zach in hot water. Her grandmother would grill him for allowing her to cause a scene. But Zacharias would endure it. He could handle anything her grandmother threw at him.

Away from the bustle of the festivities, Cass settled into her favorite spot by the crackling fireplace in the house library. She was deeply satisfied with herself. There weren’t many opportunities to so publicly disrupt her grandmother’s schemes.

The door to the library swung open, and Zacharias joined her on the sofa.

They exchanged a knowing glance.

“As I said before, nothing outshines you,” he teased playfully.

“I hope she left you alone?” Cass asked, concerned.

“Don’t worry. It’s not in your grandmother’s nature to follow one spectacle with another,” he assured her, signaling his unharmed state.

Relieved by his words, she relaxed. She knew it was wise not to push her grandmother too far. Cassandra might enjoy certain privileges as her only heir when it came to defiance or mere provocations, but Zacharias was merely a servant of Mrs. Montague, even if he was indispensable to her.

“And yet, she sent you to me. What are you here to tell me?” Cassandra pressed.

He let out a soft sigh before looking at her intensely. “That your actions will have far-reaching consequences beyond what you realize.”

“The usual lecture, then,” Cass rolled her eyes. “If she thinks I will bow to the murderers of my parents and play the perfect ballerina for their amusement, she’s mistaken,” she affirmed her stance with unwavering determination.

“How naughty of you to ruin her soirée,” Zach teased, a mischievous glint in his eyes.

“She likes things lively and colorful. She shouldn’t complain that I added some life to her dull little event. Her guests will surely remember this evening,” Cassandra scoffed.

“I know I certainly will,” Zach chuckled.

Resting her hands in her lap, she sank deeper into the soft cushions of the sofa. “Why didn’t you warn me?”

At her question, Zach raised an eyebrow. He moved a little closer to her, letting his hand glide over the now unadorned black fabric covering her body. “I thought the dress was enough of a hint.”

His touch sent a shiver down her spine. “You overestimate my deductive abilities, Zach. That’s more your domain.”

“I don’t believe that. You little spy,” he teased further, his hand drifting down into her lap where her hands rested.

“What do you mean?” she gasped as their fingers brushed against each other.

“I saw you sneaking into your grandmother’s study last night. Did you find what you were looking for?” he whispered in her ear, now leaning in close.

His whispered words made her blush. She felt caught, and the heat in her skin rose.

“Well, I thought I had to take matters into my own hands since you haven’t delivered any information,” she whispered back, still refusing to look at him.

Zach abruptly withdrew his hand and clasped his left forearm with his right hand.

“It’s not as easy as you think, Cass,” he said, his voice filled with frustration, his expression as if the words caused him physical pain.

Cass sat up, turning her body toward Zacharias, her gaze sharp. “You’re her right hand and clearly knew all of our guests, including the Venetians. I’m no fool, Zach. You promised me.”

“And I’ll keep my promise. I just need time.” His grip on his forearm tightened, his expression growing more serious.

“Time,” Cass scoffed. “The more time passes, the more likely this scum will worm its way into our affairs.”

“Better safe than sorry. I have to work in secret, or I risk your grandmother catching wind of the whole thing,” he tried to calm her.

Now it was Cass’s turn to raise an eyebrow. “So, hanging onto my skirt and waltzing with me across the floor is subtle?”

“I only did what your grandmother asked of me. There’s nothing suspicious about that,” Zacharias replied with a charming smile.

Cass snorted. “And visiting me at night? Is that also in line with my grandmother’s wishes?” she prodded.

Zach looked at her, perplexed. “No. That’s entirely my decision,” he answered honestly.

“Mhm,” she hummed.

“I’ll stop immediately if it’s no longer your wish,” he assured her, his sincerity almost tangible.

“N-No. That’s not what I mean,” Cass huffed in frustration before rising and beginning to pace the room, continuously wringing her hands in her lap.

His eyes followed her steps with concern. “What are you trying to tell me, love?”

Cassandra stopped. She took a deep breath, letting her shoulders fall. “Every day I’m forced to remain caged here feels like a prison. My grandmother isolates me from important matters that also concern me. It frustrates me that the only things I can do to bring light into the darkness—the only things that bring me closer to avenging my parents’ murder—are attending pompous soirées or snooping through my grandmother’s documents. I don’t want pretty dresses or endless lessons in the dark arts. I want justice. Blood. Revenge.”

Rising from his seat and approaching her in long strides, he assured her, “And you’ll get it.” His steps stopped just in front of her.

Her gaze assessed his presence. As intimidating as he could appear, she could feel his submission, his support in all her plans. And yet, she was dissatisfied with how little progress they had made. “Yes, that’s what you promised me. But I see no progress,” she frowned.

“Cass,” his voice now took on a pleading tone.

She took a step closer to him. Even though he was a head taller than her, she knew her words would be enough to emphasize her point. “Maybe you need more incentive,” she provoked.

A faint, appreciative smile crossed his face as she challenged him. “You’re all the incentive I need,” he replied in a calm, deep voice.

“I hope so. Otherwise, I might have to reconsider our relationship,” she pressed, her tone playfully hard.

Zach perked up. “Our relationship?”

“Our arrangement,” Cass quickly corrected. “If you can’t keep your end of the deal, then…” Her hand trailed over the lapel of his jacket.

“Then what?” he replied, his voice husky. “You’ll tell your grandmother about our little liaison? I think not,” he chuckled softly.

She tilted her head as her fingertips stroked the fine material of his collar. “And what if I did? Hmm?” Her gaze flickered up to meet his. “Ever wondered how your handsome head would look on a stick?” she whispered dangerously.

Zacharias chuckled darkly, not retreating an inch, meeting her provocative behavior head-on. “I doubt I’d be granted such a swift end if your grandmother knew I was providing other services for her beloved, sheltered, and supposedly innocent granddaughter.”

A dark smile mirrored on Cassandra’s face. “Tell me, my loyal soldier, what would you prefer? Hanging or being burned alive? I know my grandmother cherishes and upholds the old traditions.”

She earned another deep, dark laugh from him. “For someone who earlier expressed disdain for political games, you’re playing them excellently. I’ve never been threatened more sweetly.” he purred.

“Careful. Someone might think you enjoy it,” she continued to provoke relentlessly.

“You know me—I live for the thrill,” a dark shadow passed over his steel-blue eyes, lending his face a darkness that made the blood in her veins simmer. A seductive wave of heat crept beneath her skin.

He cupped her face in his hands, brushing a strand of her hair aside before closing the remaining distance between them with an all-consuming kiss - sweet, dangerous and unholy. 

[copperproduct]

Copper Glass Set: The Perfect Gift for Health-Conscious Friends and Family 

When it comes to selecting a meaningful gift for health-conscious friends and family, a copper glass set offers a unique blend of elegance and wellness. Copper has been revered for its health benefits throughout history, and by presenting a copper glass set, you not only offer a visually appealing item but also a pathway to enhanced well-being. In this blog post, we will delve into the reasons why a copper glass set is the perfect gift for health-conscious individuals. We will explore the health advantages associated with copper, highlight the benefits of using copper glasses, and provide insights on choosing the ideal set. Whether it’s for hydration, aesthetic appeal, or harnessing the wellness properties of copper, this gift is sure to impress and contribute to the overall health of your loved ones.

Health Benefits of Copper:

Copper possesses several health benefits that have been recognized for centuries. It is known to have antimicrobial properties, assisting in killing bacteria and preventing infections. Copper is also involved in the production of collagen, promoting healthy skin and wound healing. Additionally, copper has antioxidant properties, aiding in neutralizing harmful free radicals in the body. By gifting a copper glass set, you are offering a present that can potentially contribute to their overall health and well-being.

Enhanced Drinking Experience:

Copper glasses provide a unique and enjoyable drinking experience. The metal quickly conducts temperature, offering a refreshing sensation when filled with cold beverages. Whether it’s water, juice, or a refreshing cocktail, the coolness of copper can add a delightful touch to every sip. The smooth texture of copper glasses also adds a touch of elegance and sophistication to any table setting, making them perfect for both everyday use and special occasions.

Stylish and Aesthetic Appeal:

Copper is renowned for its rich, warm hue and timeless appeal. A copper glass set is not only a functional gift but also a decorative piece that can elevate the aesthetics of any kitchen or dining area. The luxurious look of copper can complement a range of interior styles, from modern to rustic, adding a touch of elegance to their living space.

Tips for Choosing the Right Set:

When selecting a copper glass set, consider the following factors:

Quality: Opt for high-quality copper glasses that are made from 100% pure copper. Ensure they are food-grade and free from any harmful coatings or linings.

Craftsmanship: Look for well-crafted glasses with sturdy construction and smooth finishes. Pay attention to details such as the thickness of the copper and the quality of the handles, if applicable.

Size and Capacity: Consider the intended use of the glasses. Choose a set with varying sizes or capacities to accommodate different beverage preferences.

Maintenance: Keep in mind that copper requires regular maintenance to preserve its shine. Look for sets that come with care instructions and provide guidance on how to clean and maintain the glasses.

Conclusion:

When searching for a gift that combines elegance, functionality, and wellness, a copper glass set stands out as an excellent choice for health-conscious friends and family. The health benefits associated with copper, along with the enhanced drinking experience and aesthetic appeal, make it a unique and thoughtful present. By selecting a high-quality copper glass set, you are not only offering a stylish addition to their home but also a potential boost to their overall well-being.

FAQ

Q1: What are the health benefits of using copper glasses?

A: Copper glasses offer several health benefits. Copper has antimicrobial properties that can help kill bacteria and prevent infections. It also aids in the production of collagen, promoting healthy skin and wound healing. Additionally, copper has antioxidant properties, which help neutralize harmful free radicals in the body.

Q2: How do copper glasses enhance the drinking experience?

A: Copper glasses conduct temperature quickly, providing a refreshing sensation when filled with cold beverages. They can add a unique and enjoyable touch to every sip. The smooth texture and elegant appearance of copper glasses also contribute to a more pleasurable drinking experience.

Q3: Are copper glasses purely decorative, or can they be used every day?

A: Copper glasses are both functional and decorative. While they add a stylish element to any table setting, they are designed for everyday use. They are suitable for serving water, juice, cocktails, and other beverages, making them versatile for various occasions.

[greenhousethree]

Withered 🪴

April Prompt 25 for @hinnymicrofic. (606 words — sort of micro?)

It’s a housewarming gift for them both, perched on the credenza in their first flat once her rookie contract is up. Neville’s wrapped a bow around the pot, rhapsodizes over its soothing properties: It’s heralded as a rare treasure in the mountains of Ecuador. 

Two spindly stalks, reaching from dark soil like outstretched hands. Colorful, waxy leaves that move as though breathing.

Spring warms to summer amid unpacking, Euro Cup qualifiers blaring from the wireless, family stopping in to share a pint and admire their view from the balcony. The branches dance animatedly among raucous cheers and clinking bottles when England secures third rank. The hum of London presses against the windows. 

She buys a copper watering can. Most days, she remembers to check the soil’s dampness. Fills vases with flowers, burns fewer meals on the stove. Cleans to prepare for Teddy’s first stay, realizes her mistake among sticky handprints and biscuits crushed into the rug.

Ron brings in a Muggle telly amid her peals of laughter. They set it up, and the four watch Notting Hill that night. Later, she leaves the room halfway through Fight Club. The branches shudder.

The leaves tremble with excitement when an owl brings her first full-time contract: three years, better pay. She takes an interview with Quidditch Weekly from their living room while he’s at work.

July brings long days and longer nights, giggling returns from the pubs and a lopsided cake she’s made him. Their party guests file out and then he’s kissing her neck, pressing her against the wall.

The leaves along the street change color. The ones inside are unaffected. It’s quiet most days; he departs before the sun’s fully risen, she rushes off for practice with toast and coffee. A week into preseason, she takes another interview, Witch Weekly this time. He’s away six days. Arrives late, holds her close on the sofa until dawn. 

Late nights, candles burning low on the desk. He brings work home, pores over evidence, accepts mugs of tea. She kisses his forehead, hands find his shoulders. Anxiety undulates from the stem through the branches.

He falls asleep on the sofa. When she wakes him, the curse narrowly misses the plant, singes a hole in the wall.

Time together grows sparse. She travels for matches, he leads his first mission abroad. She loses, he fails. The leaves grow paler, stems yellowing in their absence.

In winter, a week on the sofa with a concussion and the clanging radiator. She grows restless, waters it plenty, buys a bigger pot.

Fireside chats with Luna over glasses of pinot noir, secrets spilled. He’s not sleeping. She’s worried this case is hitting too close. Ron’s thinking of buying a ring.

They forget to put up a tree, and Andromeda chastises them. Next morning he brings one home, wet from sleet, needles everywhere. She sips mulled wine and he lifts Teddy to add the star. Ties a bow around a toy broomstick.

It’s mid-January when they notice. She’s up 3-1 on away matches, he’s back from St. Mungo’s with a case file to close out. Crisp leaves scattered around the pot, withered stems and cracked soil. He suggests they consult Neville. She jokes that she’ll make a terrible mother, and he’s quiet.

Spring brings the chance to have a better year. Playoffs, holidays planned for the summer, an engagement party with the pop of champagne. She makes him dance in the living room one night, a song from Percy’s wedding, pulling him back to the moment, leaving the war behind. 

Outside the window, the tips of branches bud with promises of green.

🌱

[batwingsandblackcats]

Once and Formerly Haunted was an apt name for this place. Deep red mahogany and dark walnut gave the atmosphere of a curiosities shop as Imogen scanned the multitude of wooden bookshelves. Items ranged from spellbooks that lined the shelves next to the storefront window to glass jars that contained what she assumed were spell components. The jars sat higher up on the shelves and sparkled in the setting sunlight. Leather-bound books stacked nearly to the ceiling laid around in neat piles against several of the bookcases that were too packed to allow even a single sheet of parchment. Scroll cases were arranged on the highest of shelves and above the front counter that housed even more oddities within the glass display. Cobwebs clung to the corners but seemed almost decorative and intentional rather than negligent. They looked as if they were delicately spun just to fill the space. Everything appeared lovingly placed by the owner, who Imogen now realized had been the one speaking to her. — Once & Formerly Haunted, Chapter 1: copper kettle confessions

This painting has consumed every brain cell in my head for the last month, and the room in this painting has been floating around in my head for over two years, since @sageobo31 and I started playing with this AU in summer 2022.

This painting really came about because I wanted to listen to the ambiance of Once & Formerly Haunted. Not the playlist Sage and I put together, but the actual sounds of the space. I wanted to make a music and ambiance track for this little shop, and I wanted to make a youtube channel, but...I didn't know how to paint backgrounds. I didn't think I could paint backgrounds.

But thanks to a few tutorials and one guy's beautiful speedpaint of a similar scene, I stumbled my way (am still stumbling my way) through learning perspective and how to paint backgrounds. And then I made a youtube channel and made that ambient mix.

This painting and the ambient mix is a love letter to this little AU and all of you who have been following along despite our slow updates, and it's also a gift to Sage for playing in this little sandbox with me for so long.

So pour some tea and have a listen if you want to sink into Laudna's little magical bookshop. And if you prefer rain to a clear night, there's a version for that under the cut.

Happy listening, and thanks for stickin' around, y'all 💜🖤

[birgittesilverbae]

Spiders need hunting strategies. Beatrice can't get the thought out of her head. All the data laid out in front of her is telling her that she's a spider, and spiders need to hunt.

She's been sitting in her lab for hours poring over blood samples she's drawn from herself. The facility was a thirteenth birthday gift from her parents, one of the plentiful moments in which they'd replaced any show of emotion with a flagrant display of wealth. They hadn't seen her at all that day (or any birthday since her seventh, come to think of it). Instead, she'd woken up to the key beside her bed and the location entered into her phone. Apparently it had been time for her to stop almost setting the house on fire.

The test tubes in front of her are filled with blue­-green blood, oxidized copper taking the place of oxidized iron. Even the smell is different, only faintly so but different all the same. She picks up a tube that's gone through a cycle in the centrifuge and sighs, her hand grasping tight around the glass. She supposes she's lucky that she is able to sequester her scientific and personal views, because the fact that she just drew blood that so closely resembles a spider's from a human vein is interesting, but the fact that she just drew it from her own arm should probably terrify her.

Her fingers tighten on the test tube, and she tries to calm her breathing. Human vein, human vein, just a human. The glass shatters in her hand, shards piercing her palm, and that sickly­ sweet scent pervades the air. Blue­-green oozes from the punctures as she pulls pieces from her skin, the wounds knitting back together as she watches in shock.

As the cuts heal, the wall between scientific and personal is torn down. Soon all she's left with is broken glassware and bloody skin, and the knowledge that everything has changed.

[ravendruid]

Giving Gifts

Vex’ahlia has never loved the warmth of the sun more than she does as the heels of her boots clack on the sidewalk and the hem of her dress rustles the ground. It’s not rare to have bright, sunny days with light blue skies in Whitestone, but being so far north in the continent of Tal’Dorei, the cold is almost always a given, even in the summer, and the sun rays aren’t always warm enough to tinge anyone’s cheeks pink. Because Percival has spent the entire week deep in meetings to overlook the safety and development of Whitestone, Vex finds herself bored to death on several occasions since the clerics forbade her from setting foot in the meeting room with her watermelon-sized belly, lest she become too stressed and give birth too early. Instead of wasting away in the library, Vex has taken to spending the days taking short strolls through the castle gardens, admiring the beautiful flowers in bloom this time of the year and the intoxicating smell of roses in the air that, more often than not, bring back the nausea she felt during her first trimester. Some days she descends the long, winding path down to the city proper, where she peruses stores and establishments, stops to share words with her neighbors, and allows her legs to extend, always in the company of her fearless bear, Trinket.

During one of those strolls amongst the streets of Whitestone, Vex’ahlia finds herself at the window of a boutique with many pretty ballgowns on display (not that any of them would fit her current state). Something within her wills her to walk inside the small shop, so Vex asks Trinket to stay while a kind lady greets her. The shop isn’t massive—it is a smaller town, after all—but several mannequins wearing different types and colors of dresses adorn the room. Further back, just slightly past the counter, is a small section of male suits that Vex ponders over for a moment. Percy doesn’t usually shop for clothes at the boutique since the family has their own tailor, so Vex doesn’t spend too much time browsing them, but she has to admit a few of the suits would look fantastic on her husband. 

Just as Vex is turning to leave, something catches her eye at the counter. She feels herself being pulled towards a glass display case with a few pieces of jewelry inside, but what piques her curiosity is a pair of round silver cufflinks with a royal blue circle in the middle and a bear engraved. They remind her of Trinket, and Vex knows they will look perfect on the new jacket she just got Percy last week. Vex’ahlia buys the cufflinks without effort, and the lady places them in a small brown envelope that Vax keeps close to her heart—quite literally, as she somehow stuffs it in her cleavage with a wink. 

Vex’ahlia doesn’t dwell further in the city, so Trinket trots at her side as they make their way back to the castle. Excitement builds up inside her like a balloon, and she can’t wipe the smile on her face imagining Percy’s reaction to her impromptu gift. Vex won’t tell her husband how much she paid for the cufflinks, not because he would scold her for spending the money, but because she knows he will tease her until the end of the world about how she never bargains when it concerns him. As much as Vex has tried telling Percy that it feels wrong to take from people who have had so much taken away from them already, they both know she would not hesitate to bargain for something for herself. 

You are worth every copper, dear. Percy always tells her with that soft voice that drives her insane. So are you, darling. Vex always replies in the same manner. They still have a long path to walk, but she knows in her heart that they will both get there one day, together, as it is their wont.

—

Percival de Rolo is not the same man that once walked these long hallways. At this moment, he is an exhausted man whose mind swirls with thoughts, plans, and formulas for myriad contraptions and necessities to keep the city and its people safe. The back-to-back meetings have drained his resources, but he knows they are necessary since the Chamber has been discussing and planning the expansion of Whitestone. But all Percy—as his friends call him—can think about is his wife and her rounded belly that still grows larger as months go by. Percy wants to advance as much work as possible before the baby arrives because once the little one is screaming their lungs out, Percy has no intention of spending every waking moment surrounded by work. It pains him, though, not to be able to spend time with Vex’ahlia. They both know it’s for the best, but Percy’s guilt is still heavy on his conscience. 

By some miracle of a god Percy doesn’t care for, one of the town developers he was supposed to meet that morning fell ill, which means he now has a free morning with plenty of time to work on the project he has been keeping a secret from Vex. He sneaks into the basement area—not that he needs to since he knows Vex is probably out in the gardens or strolling through town like the free bird she is—and locks himself in his workshop. The project is almost done. If Percy pushes through during lunch hours, he should be able to have it finished by nightfall if no one bothers him. Just in time.

With a victorious smile on his face and anticipation in his heart, Percy sets out to work, grabbing his tools and moving the large, old sheet from where it hides his most secret possession. He pauses for a second to admire his handiwork: it’s not perfect, but he built it himself. Percy is not a carpenter by any means, preferring to work with metals and gears, but Keyleth helped him during a few of her visits to Whitestone, and Pike found him some books he could read about woodworking. 

The polished wooden crib sits in the corner, its locking mechanism laughing at Percy’s face. He never once thought that he would be bested by a mechanical part of all things, especially not after building a wooden crib with his hands, but the pesky contraption refuses to do what it is meant to do.

As he starts working on the mechanism, Percy remembers the day a solution to another crib-related problem fell at his feet, quite literally. It happened at the beginning of the pregnancy, shortly after they found out about it when Percy and Vex were out for a stroll in the center square of Whitestone. The city wasn’t fully healed yet, a few looming signs of the Briarwoods still crept around the darkest alleys, but everyone was working to repair that. The couple had paused underneath the rebirthed golden canopy of the Sun Tree, taking in the sight of its beautiful colors, when a branch fell at their feet. It was unusual—one might say rare—for the tree to lose limbs, considering its significance and the divine energy radiating from it. Vex’ahlia saw it as a sign of Pelor, an offering to the couple, Percy, not so much. 

“Tree branches fall all the time,” Percy had tried to argue.

“But this is the Sun Tree, darling. This tree was planted by Pelor,” Vex had tried to counter-argument. 

They didn’t reach a consensus on the matter. Instead, Percy called for Keyleth to check in with the Sun Tree to be sure Delilah’s influence was completely gone (or that the spinning orb of death underneath the Sun Tree wasn’t the cause of losing limbs). It was only after her confirmation that the branch had indeed been a gift to the couple and the upcoming heir that Percy relaxed. After all, it was helpful having a friend who could talk to plants.

In the present, Percy’s hand brushes the slightly different colored wood of the headboard where the de Rolo crest was carved. His eyes glint with pride at being able to incorporate such an amazing gift into the crib, and while he doesn’t care for the gods, he knows this baby is a blessing of one. But there is no time to lose. Percy has a crib to finish if he wants to eat supper with his wife.  

—

“How was your day, darling?” Vex’ahlia asks, removing the few pieces of jewelry she bothers to put on each morning. 

“Uneventful,” Percy replies with a smile. “And yours, dear?”

“Oh, you know. Boring as usual.”

“Well,” Percy stands behind Vex, looking at her reflection in the mirror. He presses a soft kiss to the top of her head and helps her undo her braid with gentle movements. “Soon enough, that won’t be a problem any longer.”

Vex’ahlia snorts and looks at the little wooden box on her vanity. She had hidden the cufflinks inside it earlier that afternoon, waiting for this exact moment to present them to her husband.

“Percival, darling.”

“Yes, dear?” Percy’s eyes meet Vex’ahlia’s in the mirror. Her face is radiant, and her skin is smooth and clear, with no eye bags, dark circles, or imperfections. Vex’ahlia is a beauty beyond compare to Percy’s eyes, which makes it even harder for the man to see himself reflected right next to her. His face is paler than usual, thanks to not getting much sun, his hair is in a disarray of knots that needs to be cut urgently, and the round, gold spectacles barely do anything to cover the dark circles underneath his eyes from not getting enough sleep. Overall, Percy’s face is just an expression of exhaustion.

“I have a gift for you.”

“A gift? For me?” Percy stands straight behind his wife. He watches her movements as she opens the small wooden box in front of her and picks up something he can’t see just yet. 

“Here,” Vex turns in her chair, sliding her legs to the side. Percy kneels in front of her—Oh, the sight of her husband on his knees in front of her makes her legs tremble—and waits patiently for her to extend her closed fist to his open, expectant hands. 

“Vex’ahlia,” Percy brings a cufflink close to his glasses, smiling at the little carved bear. “These are beautiful, darling. Thank you.” He moves closer, placing a soft hand on one of her knees so he can kiss her.

“I happen to have a gift for you as well,” He chuckles. Vex’ahlia arches an eyebrow in amusement. Giving each other gifts for no apparent reason is common for them, but both having the same idea at the same time is usually rare. 

“Come,” Percy gets on his feet and offers a hand that Vex gladly takes. Suspicion builds in Vex as Percy leads her to the wooden door connecting their bedroom to the nursery. 

At first glance, the room is still the same, covered in darkness in its mostly unfinished state, but then Percy lights a candle nearby—more for his vision’s sake than Vex’s—and she sees it more clearly. In one corner of the room sits a wooden crib, roughly made with curves and notches. 

“Percival, did you make this?” Vex asks, lightly brushing her fingers on the object. Percival standing bashfully behind her is all the answer she needs. “It’s beautiful, darling. It must have taken you so long.”

“Ah, yes. I have indeed poured many hours into it,” Percy replies, wrapping his arms around her and holding her large belly. The relief is instantaneous, and Vex can’t hold in the sigh at the weight difference. 

“Look here,” Percival momentarily removes one hand to point at the part of the crib with the different kinds of wood.

Vex’ahlia leans in and lets out a gasp as the flickering light of the flame reveals the de Rolo crest. But not just that. The wood tone is different and almost looks like its knots and grains shimmer in gold hues by the light. It can’t be.

“Darling is this—”

“Yes. The Sun Tree branch.”

Vex’ahlia spins in her husband’s arms, her hands cradling his stubbled cheeks, and she smiles brighter than the moonlight coming in from the opened curtain.

“It’s beautiful, darling. I love it so much.”

“It’s the least I could do for them,” Percy looks down at the bump between them with fondness in his eyes. 

“They will love it just as much as I do.”

No matter how long it has passed, how many kisses they have traded, whenever Vex kisses Percy, he still feels the same electricity he felt the first time they kissed. Her lips are still the same softness and still taste like honey. 

“We should go to bed, darling,” Vex says, holding Percy’s hand and leaving the nursery behind.

“We should,” Percy replies, blowing out the candle and closing the door. 

The cufflinks aren’t the first gift Vex’ahlia offers Percival—the first gift was given to him years ago in a dark room far beneath the castle—nor are they the last. For as long as they are together—whatever many years Percival has left on him—there will be many gifts waiting for him, either to celebrate special occasions or just because. The same can be said for Vex’ahlia. Even after Percy’s body is one with the earth of Exandria, he will still find a way to give his wife the most beautiful, touching gifts she has ever received, either in the form of fond memories and smiles or of their children running and laughing around the castle, reminding Vex of Percival’s love for her and their family.

[Read it on AO3]

[vsnotresponding]

CHAPTER 21 - THE FRAGMENT - KARMA

masterpost

The text on the page I turn blurs with the next one, the words familiar and set in my brain after many rereads of the tome. It’s a heavy one, long and old, the pages loose and brown with time, the title on the cover faded into nothingness, and the insides filled with scribbles and notes of past owners as well as mine. The language, ilan, is old, as are the stories found in it: of and from the island, of the ancient times before creators, of their era and their myths. Their birth, their miracles, and the doom of those that followed the path of Zaeaf instead of Ila.

And then, what this book calls The Eternal One, the first creator: Jhai, or Khitji, the khithi that gave their life for their people, who came back as a creator with gifts never seen before: healing, healing and power and life. It's one of the many versions of the story: in some they don’t come back, in some they are named, in some, they even had their gifts before Ila gave them.

There’s just one thing that stays constant across all the versions I’ve read across the years: their sacrifice, and the problem they were trying to solve when they talked to the goddess. Just like ours. A sick island, a deathly land, with useless soil and poisonous water. Desperate, they called to Ila, and Ila answered. She birthed the Core and the Iria and the fragments. She gave creators their gifts to communicate with them and to use the dima in the land to light and heat. And then, not long after, she vanished, just like Zaeaf did. Now they are just the wind.

But first, first she demanded a sacrifice in her conditions. There was not only worship and temples to be erected in her honor. There was blood to be spilled, too.

I know myths and legends aren’t always fully true, but the resemblance of what once happened to the situation we find ourselves in now makes me uneasy. I meant what I said to Ira. I fully intend to do anything in my power to keep my promise. And yet, here’s History, telling me that it might not be possible. That I am wrong. That the cure is a sacrifice I don’t even want to think about.

The book closes with a thud, specks of dust flying around the empty library, dawn’s light just coming in through the glass dome two stories above my head. Some of the windows just over the second story, which is barely anything more than a walkway around the perimeter of the room, are open, letting in what little breeze there is to cool the hexagonal room. Piles of books surround me, both in ilan and gair, some even from Derya, which I’m slowly making my way through. Sahare gave them to me before we left. She thought I might find them useful, or at the very least interesting. They deal in coal and how they use steam to fuel their machines, as well as new research the continent has been doing on other sources of energy completely unheard of in here.

We have our Iria, and our imitations, and with the gold and copper we find in our mines, we have access to the power the island lends us. Like creators were meant to once, we light and we heat. Efficiently, precisely, restlessly... until the sickness came.

I stretch my legs before me, head full of how they use energy and how we use our dima, and History, and failure. My back is to the side of a bookshelf that borders the center of the room, clear from shelves to create a reading space, the rows and rows of books going from the center to the outside of the room. The light of the imitations carved into the wood blends in with the golden light coming from outside, and I know that in a few minutes one of the deryan guards that came with us will knock at the door and that the day will start.

Just like yesterday, and the day before that, and the one before that one too. 

We arrived at my mother’s house three days ago, surrounded by the heat, and the oppressive weight of Ira’s silence since I told her what it would cost us—what it would cost her—to come here.

I don’t blame her for it. I can’t. I blame myself. In my fear, in my panic to get out of that room, I bargained with her life without even realizing it until it was too late. She took it better than I expected, once I explained. Her shoulders sagged, and she freed her wrist from my grip. She wouldn’t look into my eyes when she nodded.

When I tried to talk to her about it, when I struggled to find the words to apologize for it all, she glanced at me, and went back into the guts of the palace.

She hasn't really talked to me since.

I was so confident that coming here would help, that the fragment would prove useful. And now we are here, being as unsuccessful as we were in the palace, her connecting without any real useful results, silent as she was on our way here when she’s not explaining what she sees in her connections. She can’t get to the Core from here, hitting the wall the Iria is again and again; she can’t see anything wrong with the fragment at the house or those close by she reaches from here.

Yet there’s a wrongness on the island, the weakness of the illness, and the pain that’s always been there. The earth is sick and dying, the soil is arid and dry like I’ve never seen it before. The glow of the sea at night seems brighter, threatening with his poison. The air feels heavy with the heat, with our fear, with my guilt, and with her silence. And on them echoes her anger in the Iria.

How she starved, how the island wouldn’t let her die, how she blames us for the sickness. How we, the énna, brought it to the island.

I keep going back to her words every time I close my eyes, to her tear-stained face and clenched jaw and fisted hands. I’ve gone over old and new records of the island, trying to find out when this sickness really started, but it’s been here for so long, and there’s so little left from before our arrival here, that I’ve come empty-handed.

The knock comes then, jolting me away from my thoughts, but instead of a guard, it’s Garvan’s voice that fills the room, looking for me. I let out one last sigh, and wait for him to find me.

He’s the one who came here with us to help, or to babysit, as he’d say. Áine didn’t want to, and Emhi was needed at the palace, both to train the rookies and to manage the situation in the city.

They are organized now and have been joined by some citizens. They aren’t énna, khithi, or aldamu, though they were, once. Emhi explained they were attempting to negotiate some resources, not only for the khithi, but for the lower classes of the city too. But the palace’s answer is always the same: the khithi have the process, and the rest of the people have their work. She told us, in a whisper, that the attacks on the factories had increased, and that they were still trying to figure out how they'd done it, machines rendered useless and no option to repair them even if there was no outward damage to be found.

“Hey.” Garvan raises his eyebrows and looks down from where he stops right in front of me once he makes it through the rows of books. He looks at the piles around me, at my tunic crumpled on the floor, and at my boots haphazardly thrown to one side.

“Hey,” I answer. There's a pause as he looks around the room and at me, amused, for some reason.

“Everything alright?” 

"Why?" I take the hand he offers to stand up, and brush the dust out of my pants and shirt without really looking at him. He’s usually the last one to be up, maybe because I barely sleep, and I don’t think Ira does either, so I don't know what he's doing here at the crack of dawn.

“You’ve been cooped up here every second we haven’t been watching Ira hit another wall with the fragment” he picks up my tunic from the floor and I struggle to catch it when he throws it to me “, reading the books we’ve already gone over countless times, thinking the gods know what.”

“Yeah. Well.” I shrug, trying to find the correct sleeve. “Ira?” His look tells me he knows I’m avoiding his unasked questions. I ignore him by putting on and righting my tunic.

“In her room, eerie silent like she’s been since we got here.” I make a noncommittal sound as we walk to the double doors and exit into the hallways of the mansion.

I appreciate the contrast they provide with the glaring white and gray of the palace, built in the ilan style, the tones warm and welcoming even in the sections that have been rebuilt across the years with énna materials.

“So, you aren’t going to say anything?”

“Is there anything to say?”

“You’d know.” He grabs my arm to stop me, and I look at him. “Karma.”

“Garvan.”

“I know you argued.” His words make me fidget in place.

“We didn’t argue.” It's true. He snorts.

“Sure. But something happened.” A glance shot down the hallway. “You are not talking.”

"We talk." Also true.

"Yeah, you talk about the fragment, and different ways she can approach connecting, and the latest maybe useful but most likely useless thing you've read about the island and the Core. She nods back."

"So?" I know what he's referring to. We don't talk like we used to before, or at least she doesn't listen to me ramble like before, because once the work's done, she just leaves, her guards on her trail. 

Garvan and I started walking again at some point, and he grabs my arm to stop me again.

"So?" he echoes back, mimicking my higher pitch of voice. "Something happened."

"You already said that."

"You do realize that your grumpiness isn't helping your case here, right?" I frown and look away, immediately unfolding my arms when I become aware that I've crossed them. 

He smirks at me. I give up.

"She won't talk to me."

"I gathered as much." I frown at him, and his expression softens, his arm falling over my shoulders for a second. "I'm here to talk, you know that?"

"There's nothing to say." His eyes don't leave my face, and I lean back into the wall. "I made a mistake." Silence fills the hallway. "I'm just... giving her space, I guess."

"I think you should talk to her."

"We've established that she doesn't want to talk to me, Garvan."

"I'm just saying," his shrug is playful. "I told you, she's scary when she's silent like that." My frown in response amuses him even more. He claps my back, gently pushing me forward towards the dining room. "Let's get some food into you before you make me endure another awkward fragment session."

The heat is worse in the fragment.

At least in the palace, the Iria's chamber was fully underground and kept cool and protected from the sun. Here, though, the tower where the fragment can be found is open to the hot air outside, which gathers on the lower part as we walk down the stairs to where the glowing orange light meets us.

He's big, as tall as Garvan and as wide as the room allows him to be, half buried in the dirt that stains our shoes in the middle of space. The stairs and the structure are made of stone from the mountains, dark and slightly red, and over us there's a wooden ceiling that makes up the floor of the first floor.

The guards stayed behind on the surface, so it's just us three here. The imitator sits himself on the stairs against the wall to watch the proceedings, and Ira positions herself in front of the fragment. She hasn't said a word on the way here, not that I expected her to. Garvan tried to joke around with her, and she only looked at him and moved faster to lead the way.

I move to the board Garvan and another guard hauled down here, and erase some chalk to rewrite the half-blurred text to avoid looking at her. The note isn't extremely important, just some notes on the words Ira's used to describe what she's seen, but the process helps me distract myself while she prepares, even if I can't help myself from looking at her from the corner of my eyes when she takes a deep breath.

There's no need for words. She knows she needs to connect, to try to get to the Core from here, again, and then if that doesn't work, like it hasn't so far, try to search the parts of the island the fragment gives her access to for signs of the illness, again.

The air fizzles when she gets ready to connect, and the imitations on the wall turn off when she does, suddenly dimming when her hand touches the stone, to then come back to ebb with whatever rhythm Ira's imposing on her connections. We wait for what seems like hours, when in reality it's just a few minutes. I turn the chalk in my hands, dirtying my fingers and then clothes when I try to wipe them, and my thoughts drift away.

Back to her words, and Khitji's sacrifice, and the island wanting her back. They go back to all our efforts these past few months, to the heat and storms of a too long summer, to the times we've gone over the same facts, again and again and again. I'm tired of it all: of failure, which started even before I met her, of going back to the theory because we find ourselves lost, of the hopelessness I need to keep fighting daily because we have to find a cure.

This was our last chance, and we've wasted it.

Realization hits me, finally. There’s nothing I can do to fix this. We have no cause, only symptoms, and without that, there's no cure we can create.

But I don't want to give up. In between the hopelessness and fear and doom, there's the anger that arose at Ira's words in the Iria. It stirs inside me. This, what we do, it isn't fair.

Then she grunts, her shoulders fall, and her left hand comes away from the stone. The light on the imitations settles, the air loses its static, and Ira turns, cleaning the drop of blood that starts to fall from her nose with the back of her scarred hand.

I look at her, she looks at the floor, and Garvan looks at the both of us.

"And?" he asks. She shakes her head in answer.

"Anything new?" My voice sounds strange even to me. Thin, higher than it usually is. She glances at me for an instant, then looks back down at her hands and the blood on them. Another shake.

"Same as yesterday." She talks in Garvan's direction. Their eyes stay on each other for a long second, then the imitator stands up and lets her pass upstairs, her steps silent.

Once we hear the guards leave, he sighs, and I lean backwards, hitting the back of my head with the board.

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