#copper tea kettle

[morimatea]

Be peace and serene at the moment.

[nomairuins]

me and high lamp watching a video and they called something a copper kettle (it wasnt wven. it was a copper pan) but i like went into fight or flight trying to remember that choir warmup. but i remembered it

[daryl-dixon-daydreams]

reader pronouns: she/her Glenn was up early. Maggie was still sleeping and she needed it... so he'd headed downstairs and dug through the cabinets until he found an old box of chai tea. He'd put on the kettle, poured his own cup and a spare, and sat himself down at the kitchen island, and he waited.

And right on time, Daryl's boots shuffled up the stairs from the basement and he dragged himself into the kitchen to face another day.

"Hey," Glenn greeted him kindly. Daryl looked up, struck by someone else being awake at the early hour.

Daryl tried to answer, but nothing came out at first until he cleared his throat, and then he managed a gravelly, 'Hey" in return.

"You look terrible," Glenn said sympathetically.

"...Thanks," Daryl growled back. Then he noticed that there was a second cup of tea sitting on the kitchen island beside Glenn. Swirls of steam lazily rose and drifted in the air.

"Come on and sit down for a minute. I think we should talk," Glenn said. He gestured to the stool in front of the mug.

Daryl hesitated, but then went to join him.

"I think I know why you've been looking so rough lately," Glenn said.

Daryl stared back at him, his blue eyes narrowed in something remarkably like suspicion. "I just ain't slept—"

"—since she left," Glenn interrupted. "I know. And it's not exactly a coincidence. Is it?" he asked.

Daryl shifted nervously and dropped his gaze to the counter, to his boots, to the mug sitting untouched in front of him, to anything except Glenn.

"When Maggie and I got separated after—after the prison... it was agony. I mean, I really thought that if I couldn't find her... I'd just give up and die. That would be it, you know? Because nothingness seemed like the better option compared to living without her." Daryl's blue eyes furtively glanced up to meet Glenn's. "But I knew, I knew, that she was out there. And that kept me going and it was the only thing that could put my world right again. So I did everything I could in my power to make that happen."

Daryl gulped and chewed on the inside of his cheek for a moment, so hard that he tasted the tang of copper. "Why're ya tellin' me this?" he drawled, his voice gritty and tired.

"You know why. She's the one who sets your world right. And if that's true... then you have to go after her and bring her back. Whatever it takes. You have to find her and tell her. And I'm not telling you anything that you don't already know. I'm just trying—to... speed it along a little, I guess," he said with a dry laugh and a sympathetic look. "Whatever is stopping you—" Glenn shook his head, "fuck it. Do it. Set your world right, Daryl. You can't keep going like this. More than that, you shouldn't." Prompt: "I haven't slept since she left." A/N: I'm not crying. It's just raining on my face...

[hallowed-spirits]

*The smell of sogginess wafts through the air until Lucille finds Dals.*

“….Do you have any tea..?”

*Their voice is small, barely collected.*

@auguryofillomen 📖

It takes her a while to find Dals, eventually spotting it at the edge of the hallow a bit of a distance from the side the garden is on.

"Lucille! Hello, I was actually just about to make some more actually," it sounds like its smiling, its hard to tell. Its form is mostly pale wispy smoke at the moment. Beside it is a raised fire braiser with a familar copper coloured kettle, "I have mint, rosehip, nettle, raspberry and rosemary in my pouch, what would you prefer?"

Dals gestures for Lucille to sit, the fire and the sun making the surrounding area almost cosy. The grass around this unused area of the hallow is tall enough that when sitting they are mostly blocked from view, allowing for a sense of privacy without the feeling of enclosure.

[beaft]

my curse is that i am incapable of writing fantasy without establishing all the rules beforehand. like, i know it's okay to just "write a cool thing and then justify it later", but i cannot do that because i have ADHD also known as chronic overthinker's disease. i'll get 100 words in and a character will drink some tea, and then i'll have to stop and ask myself where tea comes from in this world and how it's distributed and whether colonialism exists and are they heating up the water with magic or are they using a copper kettle or perhaps a cauldron and is tea-drinking an elitist Rich Person Thing like it was in the early 1700s or has it settled into common practice? and then it's an hour later and i have still only written 100 words

[nehpetssanders]

Tessomancy at Madam Puddifoot's (Tea-Sons Greetings)

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

Frankly, I was 'bit' disappointed with the "study" session with Cassandra in Madam Puddifoot's tea shop in the last update, so I decided to do something about it. So, this chapter is for those who feel the same way

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

Winter had settled over Hogwarts that morning, casting the castle in an enchanting blanket of snow. As the chilly winds whispered through the halls, you and your classmates found yourselves in the Divination classroom that looked more like a cross between someone's attic and an old-fashioned tea shop. Everything was illuminated by a soft, crimson glow; the numerous lamps were covered in scarves of dark red, and the curtains were drawn at the windows. It was oppressively warm, and the fire behind the packed mantelpiece was heating a big copper kettle while emitting a thick, nauseating kind of incense. 

Professor Trelawney, draped in flowing fabrics, looked around the room with her usual far-off gaze as she seated herself in a winged armchair in the center of the room.

"Now, my dear students," she began, her voice a melodic, misty murmur, "In the ethereal dance of destiny, we shall embark on a Tessomancy project. The patterns in the dregs of the tea leaves shall unveil secrets yet unknown to you as you gaze into the future! I have already divined the pairs through my Inner Eye, and it has whispered its choices to me."

The class listened intently as Trelawney listed the pairs, connecting students in mysterious ways only she understood, pairing students who are more than likely come to blows or heated duels before they could even have a sip of their tea to read their tea leaves. Case in point: Fischer being partnered up with Daniel (who already had his wand out, just in case), and Colby being partnered up with Ivy. Your other friends, Lottie, Kevin, and Robyn, were not safe from this either, with Robyn being paired up with a quidditch-hating, know-it-all attitude Ravenclaw, Kevin being paired up with a thrill-seeking and daredevil Gryffindor, and Lottie with a disinterested Slytherin.

For each partner she called, she instructed them to take a seat beside their partners

You, on the other hand, are desperately pleading, praying even, to Merlin and whatever wizarding gods you know to spare you from this fate. 

"Cassandra Vole and (Y/N) (L/N)," Trelawney declared, her eyes glazing over as if peering into the mystical threads of fate.

Alas, fate is cruel and has some twisted sense of humor it seems.

You suddenly felt your jaw drop out of disbelief. Daniel, Robyn, Kevin, did the same, while Ivy and Lottie had their hands over their mouth. The rest of the class exchanged glances started murmuring amongst themselves, surprised by the seemingly unlikely pairing. Cassandra Vole, known for her sharp wit and vain attitude, and you, a student whose path (and wand) often crossed with hers. The air seemed to crackle with a blend of anticipation and uncertainty.

After quickly composing yourself, you hesitantly made your way to Cassandra's side, she offered no more than a subtle nod of acknowledgment, before turning away in a huff, leaving you rubbing your nape awkwardly as Trelawney began partnering up the rest of the class. The unspoken understanding was that this was merely an academic collaboration, a project to be completed, and nothing more. You knew this as Professor Trelawney began spending the entire lecture on giving instructions on what to do for the project, expecting a report on their findings before the end of the week.

Looks like you've got your work cut for you, it seems.

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

In the few short hours that followed, whispers of the Tessomancy project spread throughout the castle like fiendfyre. Students discussed with their partners and speculated on the outcomes of their readings. Rumors circulated that Professor Trelawney's divination insights had paired students who, under normal circumstances, might never have worked together, thus they were all bound to fail. You and your friends were, of course, aware of this as you sat in the Great Hall for lunch to discuss the project.

Daniel, who sat beside you, sighed and shook his head, playing with his beans for lunch, his elbow against the table, his head propped up with his hand. "I don't know if Trelawney is trying to deliberately make us fail her class—"

"—or she's just being mental and loony as usual," Robyn interjected, her face flushing from anger after some sort of disagreement with her partner for the project, no doubt it's about the Ravenclaw talking Robyn's ear off for the project.

"Well, knowing Professor Trelawney, it's probably a bit of both." Lottie added as she joined the table, looking a bit disheveled. Looks she too had some disagreement with her partner regarding the project. "She thrives on making everything unnecessarily complicated."

"Complicated is an understatement." Kevin grumbled, "My partner won't stop talking about the alignment of the skies and how it correlates with the steam rising from her tea. I swear, I might need to invest in earplugs if this keeps going for the whole week."

Amused groans and laughs resonated across the table as they shared in the collective struggle that was the Tessomancy project. Amidst the banter, a curious expression crossed Daniel's face as he noticed you being silent throughout, completely immersed in your own thoughts, no doubt worried about your partnership with Slytherin's vain 'Princess'. 

Truth to be told, you had harbored a small crush on Cassandra since your first day at Hogwarts, a crush that quickly waned as you witnessed her... less pleasant qualities. Still, you couldn't deny the charm she exudes—confident, clever, stylish, and powerful. And, of course, incredibly beautiful.

It wasn't that you despised her; you didn't hate anyone. You simply didn't appreciate how badly she treated your friends whenever the opportunity arose. Dealing with bullies had been challenging enough at your previous muggle school, and it was no easier at a magical school like Hogwarts. But you believed in standing up to bullies, no matter who they were.

"Speaking of which, how's your partnership with Cassandra going for you, (Y/N)?" he inquired, snapping you out of your stupor, his eyebrows raised in anticipation.

Robyn, who had been in a bad mood, suddenly perked up, her interest piqued. "Yeah, spill the tea—no pun intended. How's the dynamic between you two?"

While your friends giggled at Robyn's comedic wording, you merely sighed, running a hand through your hair. "Nothing. She just told me to wait for her owl to give me the specifics on when we'll start."

As if on cue, a loud screech from the ceiling caught your attention. You looked up, and a majestic snowy white owl suddenly swooped in, landing gracefully in front of you. Its beak carried a small, emerald-green envelope.

You regarded the owl with a mixture of surprise and apprehension. Taking a deep breath, you reached out, careful not to startle the elegant creature. It was evident whose owl this was, given its immaculate grooming. Cassandra's owl extended its head, presenting the emerald-green envelope, and the Slytherin crest embossed on the seal confirmed its sender. You gently nuzzled the owl and offered a meaty piece of your lunch before it gracefully took flight back to its owner.

"Well, open it!" Robyn exclaimed, her impatience matching the curious glances from your friends.

You examined the envelope, turning it over to see something written that said, "For YOUR eyes only."

Giving your friends a knowing look, they relented, granting you the privacy to explore the contents of the letter. After carefully breaking the wax seal and unfolding the parchment inside, Cassandra's elegant handwriting adorned the small page.

"(Y/N), Meet me at Madam Puddifoot's Tea Shop at 3 in the afternoon. Don't be late.  AND DON'T TELL ANYONE. -C.V."

The simplicity of the message struck you. No pleasantries, no unnecessary words. Just a direct command.

"Well? What did the letter say?" Ivy asked inquisitively, already finished with her lunch.

"Can't say, really," you replied, deciding to respect Cassandra's wishes regarding the letter.

Your friends raised their eyebrows at this, looking rather unconvinced, and seemed to assume more than they let on.

"Well, whatever it is," Robyn couldn't resist a teasing remark. "Looks like you've got a date with destiny, (Y/N)."

"More like a date with academic disaster," you mumbled, shaking your head.

The rest of your lunch passed with a mix of laughter and speculations about the mysterious rendezvous. As the appointed time approached, you couldn't help but wonder why Cassandra would pick Madam Puddifoot's Tea Shop of all places to meet. The air was thick with anticipation, and you knew that whatever awaited you there would undoubtedly be intriguing, given the circumstances.

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

The remainder of the afternoon crawled by, every hour marked by the anticipation of the looming meeting with Cassandra. You couldn't help but wonder about the purpose of this rendezvous. Was it solely for the Tessomancy project, or did Cassandra have something else in mind? The mystery surrounding her intentions hung in the air like an enchantment.

As the clock hands finally converged at 3 o'clock, you made your way to Hogsmeade and straight Madam Puddifoot's Tea Shop, a place usually associated with romantic rendezvous. As such you made none of your friends followed you on the way.

Upon arriving, the village of Hogsmeade bustled with activity, students roaming the cobblestone streets, their laughter and chatter intermingling with the magical atmosphere. The quaint tea shop exuded a warm glow, its windows adorned with delicate pink lace curtains and stacked teacups.

Upon entering, the aroma of various teas wafted through the air, creating an atmosphere of coziness. The interior was adorned with pink floral patterns, and small, intricately decorated tables were scattered around the room. You spotted Cassandra at a corner table, her posture composed and her expression already reflecting her disdain for the environment.

"There you are. Took you long enough," Cassandra remarked, her tone cutting through the air. "Well, don't just stand there! Sit down so we can get this over with."

You complied, taking a seat across from her in the flowery and frilly atmosphere of the tea shop. Madam Puddifoot approached with a beaming smile, eager to serve her special Couple's Special tea.

"Welcome to Madam Puddifoot's, bringing people together one cuppa at a time. Can I interest you dears in our Couple's Special?" Madam Puddifoot offered, her eyes glinting with a spark of matchmaking enthusiasm.

"Err, that's okay. Two cups of Earl Grey would be fine," you replied, preemptively dispelling any misconceptions.

"Are you sure? Our strawberry rose tea is made with an infusion of hibiscus blossoms and rose petals. It's sweet, floral, and ever so romantic," Madam Puddifoot persisted.

"Let me make this very clear," Cassandra interjected sharply, "This is not a date. The only reason I'm here with (Y/N) is because Trelawney assigned us as partners on a Tessomancy project. And the tea the Hogwarts house-elves make is vile."

"Very well, two cups of Earl Grey coming right up." Madam Puddifoot, though a bit disappointed, nodded understandingly and left to prepare the ordered Earl Grey.

"Finally. Now let's hurry up and do this stupid reading before anyone we know sees me with you. I'll go first, naturally," Cassandra declared, her impatience palpable. "I'll take a drink and tell you what I see in my tea leaves. You interpret what I say and make a prediction."

As soon as Madam Puddifoot arrived with the tea, Cassandra wasted no time. She expertly took her cup, blowing on the piping hot liquid to cool it down, and sipped until only the dregs remained. Following the instructions provided by Professor Trelawney on scroll of parchment you had on you, Cassandra swills the dregs inside her cup three times with the left hand, then turns the cup upside down on its saucer, waiting for the last of the tea to drain away.

Meanwhile, you frantically rummaged through your satchel, realizing with a sinking feeling that you had forgotten your copy of Unfogging the Future—the key reference for the Tessomancy project. Cassandra, noticing your mild panic, merely rolls her eye at you as she decides to give you her copy, sliding it across the table to you, all the while chastising you for being forgetful.

As the last of the tea drained from Cassandra's cup, the two of you finally began the Tessomancy project in earnest.

"Right," said Cassandra as you opened her book at pages five and six. "So, this blob looks like... an acorn?"

"I think that means..." You consulted Unfogging the Future, tracing you finger on the printed words. "You can expect a windfall of riches in your future."

"Really? Not that I'm surprised. It is the natural outcome, after all, for one as gifted and intelligent as myself." Cassandra replied, a hint of smugness in her tone. "In fact, you'd better pour me another cup. My future's too full of potential for one to be sufficient."

"But—"

Before you could even protest, Cassandra had ordered another two cups of Earl Grey from Madam Puddifoot. The process repeated, with Cassandra going through the same swilling and draining ritual as before. You just sighed at this as you held the textbook reference you had in front of you as Cassandra began peering into her drained cup.

Now I see... a cat? " Cassandra's brow furrowed as she scrutinized her teacup, turning it around as if seeking a better angle to decipher the dregs. "No, a dog? No... both?"

"That's an easy one," you responded confidently, scanning the pages of Unfogging the Future. "You're going to... develop an unlikely relationship with a polar opposite. In, other words, someone you wouldn't expect to get along with. Well, what do you think? Ring any bells?"

Cassandra's gaze shifted from the teacup to you, her skepticism evident, before she finally, ever composed, merely raised an eyebrow.

"It seems the pink and frills have gone to your head," she remarked dryly. "Well, I've had quite enough of this for one day. You can go ahead and leave first."

"But what about my reading?" You interjected.

"I don't have to look at your tea leaves to know what the future has in store for you, do I?"

Intrigued, you prodded, "Oh, really? And what's that?"

Cassandra leaned back, a knowing glint in her eyes, her gloved hand raised near her mouth, stifling a giggle. "A failing grade in Divination."

"Oh, har har. Very Funny." You rolled your eyes at her, "And I'm not leaving my seat until you predict my future, Cassandra." 

The air between you and Cassandra crackled with tension, a silent challenge passing between your eyes. The ambient sounds of the tea shop faded away as the world narrowed down to the space between the two of you. 

The seconds stretched into moments, and the bustling sounds of the tea shop became distant echoes. It was a peculiar tableau, the two of you engaged in a duel of gazes, oblivious to the curious glances from other patrons.

Her gaze was like a storm, intense and unyielding. Dark emerald eyes bore into yours with a sharpness that cut through the awkward silence. It was a contest of wills, a battle communicated through the language of stares. You, on the other hand, maintained a composed exterior, though the undercurrent of nervousness rippled beneath the surface. The challenge was set, and neither of you seemed willing to be the first to look away.

Cassandra's raised eyebrow suggested amusement, as if she found the situation more entertaining than inconvenient. Finally, Cassandra's lips curled into a half-smile, a subtle acknowledgment of the unspoken exchange.

"You're stubborn, I'll give you that. But fine." She flicks her golden blonde hair over her shoulder and sits closely to the table. "Hand me that stupid book," she declared, her words carrying a blend of irritation and amusement, "so I can predict your stupid cup and be done with this!"

In response, you acquiesced silently, sliding Unfogging the Future in her direction. Cassandra seized it without hesitation, her deft gloved fingers flipping through its pages with practiced efficiency. The sound of parchment rustling punctuated the air as she reached the designated pages, her focus shifting from annoyance to analytical determination.

Fortunately, you already have your tea cup prepared so it was a matter of just discerning the dregs.

"So? What do you see?" Cassandra impatiently asked.

"I see..." Your eyes narrowed with effort as you scrutinized the dainty cup. "Some sort of... thin bird? No, wait. Those lines on the edge of the wings continue, forming into some sort of a.... heart? A perfect heart."

Cassandra felt her breath hitch in her throat, and her cheeks warmed slightly before she composed herself almost instantaneously.

She then sighed rather dramatically, pinching the bridge of her nose. "It really does look like the frills and pink went to your head this time, (Y/N)."

"Hey, I'm just telling you as I see it!"

"Well, you clearly need to get your Inner Eye checked," Cassandra rolled her eyes, clearly not amused. "Why don't you go and order us some food from Madam Puddifoot, while I try to make peace with your cup. This whole ordeal is making me famished."

Deciding not to irk the Slytherin girl any further, you gracefully made your way to Madam Puddifoot's to order more tea and some food this time. Meanwhile, Cassandra seized your cup, examining the tea dregs herself. Imagine her surprise when she found out the dregs truly did resemble a heart.

The only difference was you had described it as perfect, but in her 'Eye,' it appeared crooked and blemished. Confused, she consulted "Unfogging the Future" and leafed through its pages until she found what she was looking for.

There were two drawings of a heart, one crooked and one perfectly shaped. The descriptions read: The perfectly shaped heart appears only to the owner of the cup, symbolizing a love that is harmonious and destined to be in his future. When one discerns the heart in its blemished form, crooked in any way, it signifies the fickle love or admiration they hold for the owner of the cup.

Cassandra nearly dropped the cup from utter surprise after reading the last passage from the book. Her eyes widened, and she looked from the cup to the book, realization slowly dawning upon her. The revelation left her in a momentary state of contemplation before she glanced up, meeting your gaze with an unreadable expression.

Returning with the ordered tea and food, you noticed Cassandra's thoughtful demeanor.

"Everything okay?" you asked, unaware of the revelations unfolding in the tea leaves and the pages of the divination book.

Upon speculation, maybe it's because of the fact you had saved her life on different occasions, especially during your nightly excursions in the Forbidden Forest for rare potion ingredients for some project, or maybe because you were the only partner she'd choose during your dance club practices. In fact, Cassandra can’t remember a time in the past few years you and her haven’t been dance partners. And when you asked her about it, she merely responded by saying you were the only one that did not have two left feet.

Whereas other students would praise her and practically throw themselves at her feet begging for her attention, you were the only one who treated her as a fellow student, and she seemed to have grown to admire that in you. Something she'd never openly admit to anyone. Especially to you.

"Yes, everything's fine." Cassandra blinked, snapping out of her introspection.

Upon setting the tray down, you sat back down and helped yourself to another helping of Earl Grey Tea as well as a fresh macaron from the tray. As you observed her, you couldn't help but marvel at the way her usually composed exterior seemed to waver ever so slightly.

"So," you started, trying to break the silence that had settled over the table, "What did your Inner Eye see from my cup?"

"A load of soggy brown stuff," Cassandra replied with a rather unnerving and sickeningly sweet smile.

One you'd wish to never see again, nor ask Cassandra ever again regarding what she saw in your cup.

[johaerys-writes]

I gotta ask about 4. Victorian Patrochilles

Basically this one is a reincarnation AU I started AGES ago... it is set in Victorian London, Achilles is the prince and in line for the throne, and Patroclus is a minor noble, and the meet at a ball and instantly feel this ConnectionTM... like it's one of the first patrochilles things I ever wrote lol, and the first chapter is actually up on AO3 in this collection over here. At first it was only going to be a oneshot but then I started thinking about it more, and I sort of came up with an outline for a full story and started writing it (I opened the file again recently and was surprised at how much I'd actually written) but I abandoned it after a while because I wasn't happy with some plot points and tbh I still haven't figure them out. But there's a lot of it that I still like, here is a small snippet:

I met him later that week. We walked the busy streets of London side by side, and the Prince didn’t seem to mind the mud that clung to his boots or the drizzle that darkened his golden hair to copper. He talked to me cheerfully- he seemed quite fond of talking, but not in the way one blabbers incessantly for the pleasure of hearing one’s own voice. He had much to share with me, and he spoke fast and with confidence, as if he could cram the information of a lifetime in just a few short hours. 

He was different when he was with me. Less aloof, less regal. He had a casual air about it him which he seemed to drop when no one was around; it made him look young, almost boyish—behind his princely facade he hid a cheerful disposition and a razor sharp intellect, as well as a knack for clever puns. 

It wasn’t long before our conversation drifted back to ancient myths and legends, as it normally did when it was just the two of us. 

“The Ancient Greeks were masters when it came to tragic stories,” he said, pushing the glass door of a tea shop open, a small and dainty one hidden in one of the side streets off Baker Street. “The most tragic of all, of course,” he sat by one of the tables, gesturing for me to sit near him, “is none other than that of Achilles and Patroclus. I recall you were quite fond of their love story.”

I self-consciously glanced over my shoulder to make sure no one near us had overheard, even though the Prince didn’t seem to have noticed anything odd about his speech. 

“We have settled, then, that they were lovers?” I asked him with a smile.

“Of course,” he said, without a hint of hesitation. “There can be no question about it. The truth is there, plain for everyone to see, regardless of what historians and scholars say. Left to their own devices, they would argue for centuries whether a tea kettle is black or simply very dark grey.” 

That was another thing about him that I’d noticed; he often spoke blunt truths without any intention to tease or gauge for a reaction. He spoke them because, frankly, that was what they were: the truth, and he had little patience for anything but. It was something I admired about him. 

Well, one of the many things I admired about him, in any case. 

“Indulge me, Your Grace,” I said, lifting the steaming cup to my lips after he had poured the tea. “What is it that you and I know, and all the scholars of the world do not?” 

[magickmama777]

LOVE POTION TEA 🫖💕 💕🫖✨

1 pinch rosemary

2 teaspoons black tea 3 pinches thyme

3 pinches nutmeg

3 fresh mint leaves

6 fresh rose petals

6 lemon leaves

💕To make another person fall in love with you, brew this tea on a Friday during a waxing moon.

Place all ingredients in an earthenware or copper tea kettle. Boil three cups

Place all ingredients in an earthenware or copper tea kettle. Boil three cups of pure spring water and add to the kettle. Sweeten with sugar or honey, if desired.

Before drinking, recite this magickal rhyme:

BY LIGHT OF MOON WAXING

I BREW THIS TEA

TO MAKE (name) DESIRE ME.

Drink some of the tea and then say: GODDESS OF LOVE HEAR NOW MY PLEA

LET (name) DESIRE ME!

SO MOTE IT BE SO MOTE IT BE

On the following Friday, brew another pot of the love potion tea and give some to the person you want to love you. He or she will soon begin to fall in love with you.

[polymorphousculturevulture]

A 'spirit kettle' for tea, guarded by a basilisk, made of wood, bronze and copper, at the Museum of Samovars and Bouillottes in Russia

via dduane

[sleeplesssmoll]

Cultural References: Samovars

Samovars are traditional Russian and Middle Eastern tea urns or kettles. They are typically made of metal, often brass or copper, and have a distinctive shape with a central chimney for holding burning charcoal or other solid fuel. The design allows the water in the surrounding chamber to heat up, keeping it hot for extended periods. Samovars are used to boil water for making tea, and they are an integral part of tea culture in these regions. Traditionally, tea concentrate (zavarka) is prepared in a small teapot, and hot water from the samovar is added to dilute it to the desired strength before serving.

[syn4k]

Pix was up late again as he often was, especially when the seasons changed to spring. The night flowers that bloomed in the Capital were especially nice, and perfumed the air gently while he shined his flashlight on a bit of dirt near the Catacombs.

Nearby, gravel crunched.

Pix kept poking around in the dirt. There were a lot of night creatures around here after all, and Winchester, who he was letting roam about tonight. He didn't have any meetings planned, after all. The gravel crunched again.

"Hello?"

Pix looked up at the sound of his own voice.

"Oh, hello," he said automatically, standing up and brushing the dirt off of his jeans. "Uh, can I help you?"

"You have my voice," said the other man in a tone that was a good mix of suspicion, wariness, and wonder. Well as he might.

"And you have mine," said Pix. "Please don't tell me your name is also Pixlriffs and you're an archaeologist."

"Well, you got the name right," said the other Riffs, scratching the back of his head. "Not an archaeologist, though."

"Thank the gods," said Pix. "Well, I was working on something, but if you need a place to stay for the night-"

"Oh, no," said Riffs hastily. "I don't want to bother whatever you've got going on here. I just sort of wandered in, and I'd like directions."

"Bother?" asked Pix, looking a bit closer. "Dude, you have no idea how rare it is to just randomly be met with another version of..." he waved one hand vaguely, "whatever this is. Besides, trust me, I have had much bigger bothers than whatever you may be. I can get you a map, but most of the server is incredibly dangerous at night. You can stay out here if you want, but I'm making some tea."

Pix turned around and walked towards the entrance to the Catacombs, half hoping that this Pix would follow him, half hoping he wouldn't. This was definitely not something they taught you how to manage in college. Something was definitely a bit off about this guy, but Pix figured that if he was anything like him (which he probably was), he'd like some tea at least.

In the lower levels of the Catacombs, Pix had a small electric kettle/coffee maker and a modest but well-kept kitchen. He may be sleeping in a literal crypt, but he preferred to have power for simple things like this. Putting some water in from a sink nearby and humming as he filled in the kettle and grabbed a teabag from the cabinet, he heard quiet tentative footsteps coming down the stone steps.

"Welcome to my humble abode," he said without turning around. "I have a few extra cups- if you're fine with a mug, all my teacups are dirty. I have a couple small containers of instant coffee, some chamomile tea, Earl Grey, black tea..."

"I mean, if you insist," said Riffs from behind him, sitting in one of the chairs surrounding a small wooden table. "I don't plan on staying for long." His voice was tinged with something strange, maybe guilt, maybe grief, and that was a tone so strange to hear in his own voice that Pix finally turned around to get a good look at his doppelgänger.

Pix didn't look in the mirror a lot, but he knew enough about his own face to see that this man had basically the exact same one as his, albeit a bit thinner in the cheekbones. Actually, he was a lot thinner everywhere. He wore a long sand-covered cloak embroidered carefully with- was that copper thread? alongside simple brown khakis, a light blue shirt and a set of wayworn brown leather sandals.

Riffs was looking at the table despite sitting sideways in his chair, and Pix figured it wasn't worth the trouble to try and make eye contact.

"So," he said, folding his arms and leaning back against the counter as the water behind began to steam. "What brings you here?"

Riffs shrugged, a small, embarrassed thing. "I wander around a lot," he replied. "Sometimes I end up in some... strange places."

"Well, clearly," said Pix. "It'd take a lot of strangeness for you to end up here of all places. Caffeinated or non-caffeinated tea?"

"Either works," said Riffs, looking up for the first time during the conversation. "I'm used to staying up late anyways." His eyes were a dark, stormy grey. Pix nodded and turned back to his tea, wondering if this was all some elaborate prank. Joel's work, probably.

Then again, Pix wasn't sure that Joel had the power to bring dead men back from the history books.

"My map's somewhere in the other room, but I can give you a brief," he said as he dropped the teabags into the cups. "Sugar?"

"No thanks."

Pix nodded. "You're currently in the Ancient Capital, which is essentially where I poke around in the dirt for fun and store a bunch of old artifacts in crumbling buildings. To the east is Gobland, headed by Emperor Fwhip-"

"Fwhip?" asked Riffs.

"Yeah," said Pix. He sighed. "And I have a feeling you might recognize some of the other names here as well, although most of them don't really care for history."

"Thank the sands," muttered Riffs under his breath. Pix, ignoring that, took the teabags out of the cups. Walking over to the table, he set them down- one for him, one for Riffs.

"Thank you," said Riffs, nodding before taking a sip. Pix nodded back and took a sip himself. There was a quite awkward silence of about 20 seconds as both men clearly tried to figure out how to start what was sure to be a mortifying conversation.

"So," started Riffs slowly. "You're obviously me, but also not me. You're different somehow."

"I've noticed," said Pix, taking another sip.

Riffs sighed and ran his fingers through his (rather short) hair. "How do you even talk about things like this?" he asked with a short laugh. "It's like, 12am. I'm not entirely convinced this isn't a fever dream of some sort."

"I think both of us are awake," said Pix, pinching his own arm lightly just to make sure. "I do have a question for you, though."

"Go ahead."

"Care to explain how the Copper King of Pixandria ended up 12,000 miles from this location in the dead of night when he's been dead in this world for over two thousand years?"

Riffs raised his eyebrows, but managed to keep his drink down. Impressive. "How did you figure me out so fast?"

"How about we exchange answers. I'm curious."

Riffs laughed again, a quieter thing this time. "Alright. When I said I was wandering, I meant the desert. I uh, did a thing I'm not too proud of, so I decided to go on a hike to think things over."

This sounded familiar. "A very long hike, hmm?" answered Pix.

"Okay, you answer me now."

"Well," started Pix, putting his cup down, "I've been studying you for roughly fifteen years now. There are records, you know, and I've translated them. I know about the demon. I know about the ancient emperors. I'm not sure if it's just some cosmic coincidence that the guy who ruled the Desert Empire happens to share my name and face, but I do think this may have happened for a reason."

"You, my good sir, are terrifying," said Riffs matter-of-factly.

Pix shrugged. "I try not to be. I call it being direct. I'm sorry if I'm pressing too hard," he said with a small laugh of his own. "It's just not every day that you meet the Copper King in the flesh. It goes against my nature to not ask you a bajillion questions."

"I mean, that's fair," said Riffs with a shrug. "But, fill me in a little. What do your books tell you?"

"Records are scarce and often very damaged," said Pix, "but those that exist say that the Copper King mysteriously vanished from his empire about 5 years after its height."

"And after that?" Riffs asked quietly.

"It faded completely into oblivion," said Pix. "All mentions of it had completely ceased by the time the Fall rolled around."

There was a silence of about a minute then, in which Riffs looked at the countertop, then the ceiling, then the countertop again, then the mug, wearing the expression of a man who had been wrestling with something very large for very long. Pix kept his eyes down.

"I'm sorry," he said eventually.

"No," said Riffs, looking up and looking him clearly in the eye. "I'm the one who asked. Would you like to know the real meaning behind that 'mysterious dissapearance'?"

"Fill me in," said Pix, leaning back.

"The Copper King," said Riffs in a grandiose but unfathomably bitter tone, "exiled himself 5 years after his kingdom entered its golden age for the harm he'd done to his people and his Vigil, deeming himself unfit to walk in its light, and never once looked back." He drained his cup of tea.

So that was it.

"Well, I'd need a citation for that," said Pix, "but that'd look great in a thesis paper."

"We even have the same humor," said Riffs, exasperated. "How did we turn out so differently?"

Pix took a good, long look at the man sitting across from him at the table, perpendicular to the counter. His voice was indeed filled with both shame and grief, but another thing now too- loathing. That was a question Pix could not answer over one cup of tea, anyways, but he did have an inkling.

"Records also say," he said softly, "that the people of Pixandria looked for their king years after his dissapearance, right up until the collapse of the government. Since official records end there, there's a good chance they kept going later than that."

"Did they ever say why?" asked Riffs, staring at the ceiling.

"Every year, it is told, they added another candle to his pile in the Vigil."

Riffs continued looking at the ceiling.

"If you're looking for closure, you won't find it here," said Pix. "I've got my own life going on. I can point you in the right direction, but not much more than that. Seldom do the annals of the past give satisfying conclusions to present problems, but sometimes they can give people ideas."

Riffs sighed and sat back up in his chair, hunching forwards a bit now. "Wise words," he said. "I'm glad you've found your peace here. I, in the meanwhile, am still looking for mine. Maybe I'm destined to wander forever, who knows?"

"If you end up popping up back here in another 20 or so years, me and my kettle will be waiting for you," said Pix. Riffs nodded.

"The uh, the map's in the room one level up and to the left in an item frame," said Pix. "You can keep it. I can always make another one."

Riffs nodded and stood up, looking up the stairs then back at Pix. "Well, this is goodbye then."

"Yep."

"See you around, maybe?"

"See you around perhaps, and may the stars light your journey well."

Riffs gave him a smile, the first one Pix had seen from him all evening and, with a rustle of fabric up the stairs, he was gone.

[jomiddlemarch]

That it alone is high fantastical

“Oh, Mother, you’ll never guess! You’ll never guess in century of guessing!” Rilla cried out, sounding so much as she had as a little girl, for a moment, Anne could convince herself the War had never happened and that somewhere in Rainbow Valley, Walter sat writing a crown of sonnets in his leather-bound journal, his face dappled by the light, back braced against the bole of a birch tree, his grey eyes unfocused as he searched for his next word.

There was still a white stone in the graveyard. Shirley was in Toronto, having refused (albeit politely) to return to Glen St. Mary, much to Susan’s dismay, and Jem walked with a pronounced limp, his uneven gait announcing him as much as Mary’s voice.

There was a mystery there, Jem and Mary Vance, but Anne couldn’t see any way through it and Gilbert, lying beside her in bed, both of them tired but sleepless, told her not to try. Jem had seemed less removed, less falsely cheerful lately, and had begun talking about the medical course again, perhaps a specialty in obstetrics, a hospital practice. As far away from men dying in battle as he can get, Gilbert had observed and Anne had recalled Joyce’s little face, white as a mayflower blossom, and held her tongue.

Rilla, remarkably, given her exuberant entrance, had done the same in the absence of Anne’s response. Miss Oliver had left Ingleside some weeks ago, so there was no one to suggest Rilla either elaborate or calm herself, as her likeness to a whistling copper tea-kettle was increasingly pronounced.

“If I’ll never guess, dear, you must tell me,” Anne said. It was a relief that Rilla could still be the young girl she ought to be, for all that she wore Ken Ford’s diamond ring on her finger and was capable of a brisk, warm matronliness when it came to raising Jims, now reserved for the writing of letters to his new British stepmother and clucking over the missives she received.

“Faith Meredith has eloped!”

Anne did admit to herself she would never have guessed that, because for all her imagination, she wouldn’t have guessed something impossible.

“But, Rilla, Jem is with your father today, doing the Lowbridge rounds. Susan and I packed a lunch with plenty of pie for Dad and some of that flapjack Jem took to after being in England,” Anne said. He’d been in hospital in England, recovering from the injuries he’d sustained at the Front, in the prison camp, during his escape, none of which was spoken of. Only flapjack and stewed tea and how no cook in England was a patch on Susan and that you may tie to, uttered with some semblance of his old roguish humor.

“I didn’t say she married Jem, Mother!” Rilla exclaimed. Her cheeks were pink and her eyes were bright. She had a look of Gilbert at his most delighted about him, an expression Anne remembered from their childhood. Anne opened her mouth to speak but Rilla interrupted.

“It’s Bertie Shakespeare Drew! Faith Meredith is Mrs. Bertie Shakespeare!” Rilla said.

If Anne hadn’t already been sitting down, she would have, suddenly and gracelessly. As it was, the shirt she’d been mending fell from her lap.

“That’s—why, Rilla, are you sure?”

“I heard it directly from Mary Vance,” Rilla said, lifting a hand to stop Anne from speaking. “And Miss Cornelia Bryant. You know Miss Cornelia has no taste for gossip. Miss Cornelia’d heard it from Mrs. Meredith—”

“Poor Rosemary,” Anne said, before she could stop herself.

“Why poor Rosemary? I suppose they thought Faith and Jem would make a go of it, at least, perhaps Reverend Meredith and Mrs. Meredith did, but the War’s done funny things to people and Faith and Jem, they just didn’t fit any longer,” Rilla said. Sometimes, Anne felt Rilla reminded her of someone she couldn’t name and realized her youngest daughter spoke with the wisdom Anne’s own mother might have had. Plenty of folks in the Glen would find such a thought eerie, but Anne was comforted, for all that she ought to be the one offering a thoughtful explanation rather than receiving it.

“I suppose I meant the surprise, an elopement—”

“They must not have wanted to wait. Or were afraid someone would try to talk them out of it. Bertie’s mother maybe,” Rilla said.

Rosemary or her father, Anne thought. Jem, if he’d been given the chance, perhaps. Perhaps not, if Rilla was correct.

“Bertie Shakespeare Drew,” Anne said. “I remember when he was born. He’s just Jem’s age.”

“He’s not much like you remember him, Mother. He’s all tall and stalwart now and they say he’s going in for engineering, that he learned quite a bit in France, found he had a talent for that sort of thing. And his ears don’t stick out quite so much anymore,” Rilla said.

“There’re more things on heav’n and earth,” Anne said, mangling the quote a bit, fairly certain Rilla would not correct her. “D’you suppose Faith calls him Bertie? Or his full name—it’s quite a mouthful.”

Queenly Faith Meredith, the undisputed beauty of Glen St. Mary, who had a sense of humor but also a sense of herself as beyond any teasing, now to be Mrs. Bertie Shakespeare Drew. Anne smiled to herself and thought how Mary Vance would find a way to make Jem grin over it all. She’s lucky to get him, Mary would say, reversing the order the Glen would have assumed, and Mary, canny and unexpectedly kind, would have the right of it, perhaps.

Susan would be quite outraged and the pastry of her next pie might suffer for it, but Gilbert had always taken an unchristian glee in Susan’s outrage and wouldn’t mind the pastry being a bit heavier. It was still the best piecrust on Prince Edward Island, now that Mrs. Rachel Lynde was no longer living to give Susan a run for her money.

“Miss Cornelia said Faith was heard to call him Will, when she spoke to her parents. It’s after Shakespeare of course, and because he was so determined they marry,” Rilla said. 

“And because Faith wanted to,” Anne said. She wasn’t sure if she meant the elopement or the name, but it was all of a piece.

“Miss Cornelia said they’d gone to New York for their honeymoon and she hoped Faith didn’t come back with a bunch of silly Yankee airs but Mary and I didn’t think that was likely,” Rilla said, sitting down beside Anne, picking up the shirt and starting to sew.

“She didn’t come back from England any different, after all,” Rilla said.

“Except that she didn’t marry your brother,” Anne replied.

“D’you know, Mother, even without the War, I don’t think they’d ever have gone through with it, Faith and Jem,” Rilla said. “It was, how shall I put it, like a childhood fairy tale, the honorable knight and the maiden fair, all sorts of adventures they had in Rainbow Valley. They were always going to grow up. We all were.”

Not Walter, Anne’s heart said. Not Joyce.

“I’m glad of Ken’s name, anyway. And don’t worry, I wouldn’t elope for anything. I want our families around us, as many as we can get, even if we have to wait. We’re rather good at that,” Rilla said. She’d finished the one shirt and picked up another. She peered at it, frowned. “I can’t think what Dad does to his clothes—”

“I’ve made up a thousand stories to try to explain that and I still don’t think I’ve figured it out,” Anne said. “Some things, my darling girl, are beyond explanation.”

This one's for @freyafrida because I didn't manage to squeeze Faith/Bertie Shakespeare into my Jem/Mary fic...

[klowncrunch]

The smell of copper

Warning lol this is me cringe posting about Frostkettle

Uhhhh. Vague desc of blood warning. Doomed Yuri fr

----🏆----

You have just killed the girl you love.

There is this unimaginable guilt that wracks your body as you wait by her side. It feels like the first time you ever had a panic attack. But you don't have those anymore. You're grown, you know how to breathe through it. Its just the smell of corpses wafting up your nose and choking you. It's just the corpses. It's just the blood. The distinct copper smell. Like the family tea kettle. It's just copper.

There's no doubt in your heart that she'll come back. He promised you forever with her. It's right at your fingertips yet you can't feel the warmth of glory. You can't hear the beating drums of success. Why can't you hear her heart? She should be back by now. She should be clutching on to you and thanking you. She should be back.

You hold your head to her chest. Maybe she's just...taking a few minutes more. Lucy was always one to lag behind. Especially in the forest... she'd take her time. She always said it was to examine the flowers. You love Lucy, she cared too much. She was too busy with the ethical options, that's what you liked about her. She was your canary, your red alert, she always stopped you when you went too far.

But she didn't stop you here. Some part of her- must've agreed? Right? Lucy wouldn't hide things from you. You're best friends.

She's your best friend. You love her. She knows that right? Even in her last moments, she knew right? You told her it... Often. You think you did. You hope you did. But you can't remember The last time you did. When's the last time you told her you loved her?

You feel your necklace Press against your bloodied uniform. The Ritual looks much different when you're willing to give up your life. You tried to get her to give it up as well. You tried to make her see reason. But by the end of it. All of you had to take drastic measures, and Lucy put up a good fight. You could barely managed to keep focused on her through the volley of spells and counter spells.

Your knife grazed her half of the necklace. When you snuck up on her. And stabbed her in the heart. It felt a little bit too on the nose to stab her in the back. You find that almost comedic. This was good for her, you knew this would be good for her! It's the way to beat the bad kids, to be successful, you have been trying your entire life to succeed. To be a hero. And you were so considerate letting her and the others come with you.

You squeeze the dirt. And move your hands up to squeeze her sweater. Waiting for something. Her blood and the dirt mix together to create a copper color. And you feel so guilty for staining her ivory turtleneck.

You did this so you wouldn't be alone in your successes, sharing it with an ego maniac like Porter. He's just a means to an end.

She's supposed to be your end.

She's supposed to be in your end.

When you and her were kids. She would wrap her hands around yours, behind the school building. You would just sit and cry together, with the few minutes you had between classes. It's hard to be a halfling in a school dominated by people who are bigger and scarier than you, who mock you for your appearance, who mock you for your family name. You thought the family kettle was cool, so you brought it to show the people you wanted to be your friends. And by the end of the day it ended up with four different dents.

You were so angry. You were so hurt. She made it better. You know she made it better so why isn't she making it better now? Why isn't she back already? You yell at her. By this point you're begging. Sobbing over her body. You can see Jace looming like the coward he is right behind a tree in front of you. You scream at him. Telling him to go away.

You think on some level. Jace thinks of you as what he was, a failure, it's no secret that he has no confidence in himself without the other. You're gripping onto Lucy and Ruben, by this time has already been walked away by the others. The last of them to leave you alone? Is Jace surprisingly. It's hesitant you can tell, by the way his footsteps pause. But it's not long before he hurries off.

Maybe it's out of some twisted form of respect for your grieving. You don't even know. At what point did it set in? The smell of copper, the taste of copper, the color, the feeling. The fading warmth of your favorite cup of tea, a fire put out, burning passion that's faded. Lucy Frost blade will never see her next birthday.

She can't make it better this time.

She's dead.

It's been hours.

You've ruined it. You don't get to have the ending you wanted.

You'll get the ending you deserve.

Whatever it takes.

[takeariskao3]

here is a rec: what do you think about delicate by ms swift from harry's pov?

you sent this on May 29th and inspo struck immediately but i knew if i let it stew it might end up being something really cool. thank you pointing this out, these two are forever connected in my mind from now on <33

Day 6: Reputation written for #SeveralSunlitDaylights & @corneliaavenue-ao3

The sky steadily lightened as Harry followed Ginny down the path toward the lake. It had been his idea to have breakfast by the water, but after his initial suggestion, she had ran with it. Ginny had packed all sorts. Ham and eggs, tomatoes on toast, scones and Chelsea buns, an entire tea kettle; all of it shoved into the school bag slung across her shoulders.

Enough food for six people, really, instead of two.

He could hardly complain about it. He'd eat his share of a fry up three times over just for the opportunity to spend time with his girlfriend away from the watchful eye of professors and classmates.

Girlfriend. It had been exactly one week and the word still sent a jolt of elation through him.

Ginny ducked around an overgrown shrub, heading toward a grassy clearing along the beach. As she set her haul on the ground, her hair swung in a soft arc behind her and reflected the golden streaks of sunrise. Wild impulses danced to life inside his chest, to run his fingers through the copper strands, to catalog every shade of amber in her eyes, to feel the pounding beat of her pulse beneath his lips.

Reigning in the urges, Harry plopped down next to her and allowed her to unload the bundles of food and pastries into his lap.

"The jam filled is mine," she clipped, eyeing the napkin full of doughnuts. "Other than that, have your pick."

He frowned at her in false contemplation. "What if I also want jam filled?"

"Tough luck, I suppose." Ginny plucked said doughnut from the stack and took a large bite. "I don't share."

Harry snorted, his eyes flitting down to see a smear of strawberry preserve at the corner of her mouth. He briefly wondered what would happen if he kissed it away.

Ginny took another bite, staring out over the dappled water and he averted his gaze to the various foods surrounding him. He grabbed for something at random, a sausage link, and pretended it occupied all his attention.

He needed to get a grip. It was way too soon for him to let on he was completely arse over teakettle for her. Had been for a while.

That was his one rationality in all this. Of course his brain would continue the habit of daydreaming about her all hours of the day, he'd been doing it for months. Only now his imagination didn't have to fantasize what it was like to have his arms wrapped around her waist, or the little hitch in her breath every time he kissed her goodnight.

No, instead, his mind had taken that knowledge and ran with it, thinking up all sorts of fun things they could do in addition to these perfectly normal scenarios.

Ginny finished off her doughnut, sucking the glaze from her fingers in turn. Harry swallowed hard and grabbed for another sausage.

"Hermione has Luna and I doing vanishing spells this afternoon," she commented lightly. "Any tips?"

Harry remembered their O.W.L. study schedule well. "Don't let the kittens get to you."

Ginny blinked, a little furrow appearing between her brow. "What kittens?"

Harry grimaced. "She'll have you practicing on kittens. Vanishing them right into thin air."

Gaping at him, she looked half outraged, half amused. Then she burst into laughter. He couldn't help but chuckle right along with her. Ginny's delight was infectious like that. Euphoric.

"You absolute ninny!"

"What!?" Harry cried, his indignation entirely feigned. "You try looking into those sad eyes hour after hour and make any progress."

Ginny giggled even louder, falling backwards into the grass and clutching her middle.

She had no idea what she did to him. No idea how much and how often her laughter lived inside his head.

The compulsion to tell her just that was nearly uncontrollable.

Too soon, he reminded himself.

He promised himself that he'd tell her. Someday. When it all didn't feel so delicate.

[mintywolf]

She can’t blame them for wanting to tear down the ivy from the barn. After all, it had tried to eat several of her friends the first time they had visited it, in the other here. But at Laudna’s insistence, they have left it climbing on the walls of the cottage. She likes the wild, overgrown look of it, and the reminder of the passage of time in its reach.

Chetney has repaired the roof, loudly decrying the state of the timbers all the while, and there’s now a fresh cover of fragrant heather thatching. Thanks to Orym the new window boxes are full of violets and petunias, and the flowerbeds beside the door lined with columbine and the long stems of purple and blue larkspur and hollyhocks. Fearne, in the shape of a mossy-hoofed water buffalo, has turned over one of the dormant fields to make a vegetable patch, and there’s an herb garden in progress by the kitchen door. Ashton has contributed a scarecrow in the gangly shape of the Nightmare King and evened out the cobblestone path. Imogen’s magic has determinedly cleaned the dust and grime of forgotten decades from the interior, and Laudna’s has mended what she could find to mend.

It’s surprising how much there was still there to find. A kettle left hanging on its hook over the hearth. Dishes still stacked in warped and lopsided kitchen cupboards. A blue and white quilt, mostly preserved from the harrowing of time, folded up in a blanket chest at the foot of her parents’ bed. A faded needlepoint Sun Tree in a frame on the kitchen wall. A rusted tea tin in the haymow containing a crow feather, two empty spools, a handful of mismatched buttons, a pewter unicorn, and other child’s treasures. A dented copper washtub and a washboard in the scullery, now home to a family of voles. A glass jar of marbles in a trunk underneath the rickety structure that used to be her bed up in the loft. Fifteen numbered markings on the kitchen doorframe, ending at her own height. Pegs on the entryway wall still waiting to receive the coats and hoods of the family who went out one winter night and never returned. It’s eerie, stepping into a place that has, like the rest of the world, gone on aging without her, but not entirely unwelcoming.

They clear out what she doesn’t want to save, or is beyond saving, and move around what she does, just so it’s a little different. With the kitchen table at a new angle she’s less likely to expect to see her mother there cutting apples, and instead able to think of Imogen kneading bread dough with her capable hands. Imogen framed by firelight as she reads on the couch by the living room hearth instead of her father in his armchair whittling. Imogen holding the other end of a blanket as they spread it out over the bed in the room that is no longer the place she would come running from a scary dream, but their own.

When the sun begins to set on a day of hard work they wave goodbye to the other Hells as they set off to return to Whitestone for an evening with the crew of the Silver Sun, docked at the skyport. Laudna wipes her work-grimy hands on her apron and takes Pâté out of the pocket, tossing him up into the air so he can stretch his wings. She slips her hand into Imogen’s as they amble around their farmstead, the late spring grass cool and dewy between her bare toes. Pâté bobs after them like a large and particularly ungainly bumblebee. In the soft-footed gloaming, beneath a sky the same color as her wife’s hair, everything looks both new and familiar at once.

(Read more on AO3)

And so I guess Remember Us is now complete! Thank you so much to everyone who has been following it for the past year.

💜🖤

[kootiepatra]

#FFxivWrite2024 - Day 3: Tempest [in a Mark XIV Thermocoil Boilmaster]

(inspired simultaneously way too literally and way too loosely by the idiom, "tempest in a teapot")

“You would give me instructions?” Tataru Taru’s incredulous laughter rang throughout the hall. “I assure you, Wedge, this receptionist has brewed more than a few pots of tea in her time.”

Wedge’s face went red as he feared she had taken offense. “N-no, that’s not it at all… it is just…”

“Now, now, no need for all that. Why don’t you have yourself a seat and I’ll just pop this over the fire.”

“NO!” he cried out suddenly, in a strength of tone few had ever heard from the anxious engineer. The bustling activity in the Rising Stones’ common room ground to a halt, startled at his outburst. Everyone turned to look at him. One could have heard the drop of a pin.

The crimson in Wedge’s face deepened.

Tataru took it seriously. She stopped. She gave him a confused glance. Wedge offered a shy little wave to the rest of the Scions, hoping to encourage them to return to their own business. Thankfully, they did.

“It is not ornamental, is it?” Tataru asked him, as the room went back to normal.

Wedge sighed a breath of relief. “No. It is not ornamental—it is magitek.”

“Is it indeed? Fancy that! But… Magitek? In a kettle?”

“I call it the Mark XIV Thermocoil Boilmaster,” he replied, puffing out his chest.

“Oh, so it is of your own design then? Most impressive!” Tataru exclaimed, her smile purposefully concealing her ongoing confusion at what the point of it was. “And… you can’t put it over the fire?”

“Er. No. Not for very long, anyway. Not if you want it to function again.”

“I see…”

“But that’s just the thing!” he continued. “With the Mark XIV Thermocoil Boilmaster, you don’t even need the fire.”

“...It brews the tea cold?”

“What? No. It brews it hot. That is what the magitek is for. See here? This mechanism draws on the aether of a fire shard, which then travels through these coils along the bottom of the kettle. The whole thing will set to boiling in only a minute or two, with no need for open flames or leaning over a hot stove! That means it is portable, and convenient—just fill it with water, flick this switch, and off it goes! All you’ll have to do is replace the fire shard every half-dozen moons or so.”

Now Tataru was impressed. “Oh, really? And the tea tastes the same?”

“Better, I’ll wager!” Wedge beamed. “This gauge on the side shows you precisely how hot it is, giving you the utmost precision for your particular brew.”

Tataru smiled warmly. “Well, isn’t this lovely! Thank you so much.”

He returned his own smile—a bashful one. “It just seemed to me that, well, someone who… ah… works as tirelessly as you do… deserves a little luxury or two that might make your job a little easier.”

“It is a very kind gesture, Wedge. Thank you. I look forward to getting acquainted with it.” With a friendly pat on his arm, she hurried off to find the device a new home at the Scion’s shared bar.

—---------------------------------

And it was a kind gesture. It truly was. That Wedge was too sweet sometimes for his own good.

And Tataru reminded herself of that a few days later as she labored to get the blasted machine to go.

And again the next day, when the switch jammed.

And a week after that, when she tried to figure out how she’d managed to pour a cup of tepid water over a visiting dignitary’s tea leaves.

Tataru was far from averse to learning new skills. And the Mark XIV was simple enough. 

When it worked.

Which was, to be fair, on average, more often than not. 

She only had to call Wedge in once to help her troubleshoot it (and, as it turns out, that tepid water was from the canister with the fire shard having come slightly loose). …Which was one more such occurrence than she had ever required for her secondhand, decades-old copper kettle. Not to mention all the time she spent attempting to adjust the mechanisms herself, learning its more finicky quirks, alternating blessing it or cursing it in the name of Byregot in case either of those mantras made a difference.

When the Mark XIV worked, it was a dream. When it didn’t, she wondered why people ever bothered giving up on old, reliable fireplaces for anything at all. It was just to boil water, for the gods’ sakes.

…But if that Nero was going to march into her territory and dare to call their arrangements “primitive”, then, well. That man had another thing coming.

This was the finest kettle she had ever had the pleasure to own.