#disappears for like half a year and comes back with a beach bear drawing | Explore Tumblr posts and blogs

namjoonchronicles · 4 years ago

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late | th

↳ genre fluff, established relationship, dad Taehyung

↳ words 4k

↳ summary a trip back to hometown for a friend turned into something memorable which embarked something deep in Taehyung’s heart.

↳ notes i discussed the premise of this story with my good friend @hellotherehoneybee and based on her ideas, i prolonged the length and added some plots to push a heavy turn so appropriately, the summary here is thanks to her.

↳ warning mentions of childbirth, vivid descriptions of the scene, major character death

↳ song taylor swift ‘gold rush’, imagine dragons ‘levitate’, taio cruz ‘telling the world’, taylor swift ‘ you’re in love’

“Taehyung… tea?”

Sand cuffed the shore. Half painted coast on the canvas. The wind blew rather harshly and every strike of wind, Taehyung’s wild mane of hair ruffled against themselves. They were long enough to cover his eyes but it didn’t stop him from painting the colours on his canvas. He blinks at the view of the sea and how it doesn’t change despite the years passed by. He wore slippers with an open toe, a baggy shirt and baggy trousers. His eyes looked like he hadn’t slept in days. Sunken cheeks and empty eyes, his jaw was immaculate and his face was crafted by God. He is beautiful in this light. So beautiful.

“What are you drawing so seriously?” you asked. But no answers from him. As it should.

Six, maybe ten years back, this caravan was parked here. Pair of hands raised to the ceiling. The sunlight sieved through the blinds. The pair laced themselves, and toyed around. The make out of the knuckles under this light, showed how veiny his hands were than yours. Small chuckles and soft whispers accommodate the serene and tranquil moment. The caravan was parked by the sea. His easel leaned against the kitchen counter next to the sink. His whole body covered yours as you snuggled in bed. You thumbed his supple cheeks and traced the shape of his lips as he lay half-awake. You ran your index finger down the slope of his pretty nose and counted his eyelashes, you lined the edges of his brows and ran your hand through the locks of his brown hair that looked lighter in the sun. He moans sweetly at your touch.

You proceed to trace your fingers down the helix of his ears, his excellent jaw lines and chin. There's prickling hair ends at the chin and you thought that he might need a shave. You remembered how bad he was at shaving. You even suggested that he should stop shaving all the way. The smile he had on when you said it was priceless. Then he remembered that society wouldn’t have allowed him to live. Taehyung’s eyes half-opened at the stimulating touch. He breaks a smile in his sleepy state and he crunches his nose at the view of you. You swore, you had never seen anyone that beautiful. He nuzzles into your face and neck, planting kisses where he can and he spoke, in his drowsiness, “I’m so sleepy.”

He gets on top of you and buries his face in your neck. Through lighthearted giggles, you say, “You’re heavy, big bear…” While making no effort to push him away. He feels like a weighted blanket you always wanted when you’re younger. Warm and snuggly. Gentle and tender. He smells like a pillow and his hair is soft. He loves it when your fingers thread through his hair, just caressing the glorious length, he’ll make sounds that are so lovely. You brushed your lips on top of his head and one arm around him. They never meet the total length of his shoulders because they were too broad. So you end up scratching the fabric of his thin shirt. Had the weather been warm enough, he would have rather slept in his skins. You whispered softly, as you felt him drifting back to sleep in his new found comfort, “If you don’t get up now, we are going to be very late…”

And we won’t be able to help around like we planned.

Jeju’s beaches are breathtakingly beautiful. Especially in Handam. Where the waters are brilliant blue and the skies azure. The black rocks, rubbles, kissing the shore. It would make a fine painting, this scenery. Taehyung poked his head out the caravan door at you,

“I thought you said we’re late?”

You glanced over your shoulder and gave him a sheepish smile. Jogging lightly back into the caravan, you pinched his sides as you walked in.

In fact, you weren’t late. You were not late at all. Taehyung’s eyes had always been inviting. Beautiful brown irises so encapsulating they almost felt unreal. It was those eyes that your friends recognised. They quickly adopted him once he carried in all the groceries like he is one of them. The crowd roars as they see you because they know it will shrink you. You were never good at crowds, so you covered your ears and physically shrunk while laughing till your eyes turned to crescents on their own. Quickly, the host came to the rescue, gathering you in her arms and calling off those people that are bothering you. At once, Taehyung had disappeared to make new friends and greet the old ones.

“A baby shower, this late?” you stared at your friend, Junhee quizzically. She pursed her lips and stared off to the corner of the room while tucking your arm in hers.

“I wanted an excuse to see my good friend,” she said with a cunning grin, then she cowers, falls silent in a sudden, her palm rubbing over her swollen belly. Nine months in, any day now. You knew in your heart that it was a bad idea, but still, her husband, Jimin, felt like it was okay to hold these gatherings for her. Jimin would do anything to make her happy. Then, she hisses. And you start to cower over her, pulling the chair closer for her to sit.

“Is it the contraction? Has any contraction happened today?”

“No, this is the first…”

Junhee seemed to have calmed down after she rested. You still wanted to talk to Jimin if you had the time, asking why he’d think it was a good idea to hold the party anyways. You had your answer when he walked in, snapping the fridge door open for a cold drink refill.

“She looked so miserable these past few days, I just wanted to see her smile,” Jimin carried two bottles of fruit punch as he brushed shoulders with you. Then, a toddler came crawling in, on all fours, stopping just by your feet and falling onto her bum and sat. Her twinkling eyes ushers you to carry her up.

“Where did you come from, little one?” You cooed. She curls up to your neck, and starts babbling. Then you suddenly felt her little hand roaming around your clothed boobs, and when she felt she found the tip, she began suckling. And you laughed out loud. Loud enough to have everyone's attention on you, including Taehyung’s. The baby’s mother rushed to you in her loose ponytail, handling another two slightly older children that were at her feet. One is tugging at her blouse and the other wailing so loud, you became concerned. You helped her into a nursing room, Jimin’s wife had prepared. It was a short tattling walk away from where you were. The baby was hungry. She’s four months old and today was her first day out since she was born and was brought home. You were glad that the number of guests didn’t scare one bit.

Taehyung had distributed the barbecued sausages to the kids around. He had the sharp sticks taken out and was helping to blow the heat from the sausages from one of the kids. He looks pretty much at home with everything. It’s probably been awhile because he finally saw you out the room carrying the baby, her little stodgy fingers curled around your thumb and she is gurgling. What a beautiful sight it was. It seemed you might have heard his thoughts when you looked up to the side and had the baby waved to Taehyung. He chuckles through his nose and crinkles his eyes at the little one, making a funny face. The little toddler extended her short petite arms and grabbed air repeatedly at Taehyung’s presence. Then you motioned her closer to Taehyung.

“I think she wants you to carry her…”

“Me?” He sounded unsure, uncertain, but, he brushed invisible dust off his palm on his butt and, “It’s been awhile but. Okay.” Arms open, collecting the toddler in.

The pinkish hue of her skin, her soft supple cheek, her little angel hairband, and twinkling, gleaming smile. Taehyung memorised her scent like a wolf would to a pup, with his eyes shut, his nose nudging on her softness. His arms held her gently but firmly. It felt like there was only him and the baby, he shut every other sound. When he held that baby, there’s stillness in the air, the noises ceased to exist, the visions clouded and the heaven’s hinted; it was his calling. It felt very much like sinking and flying at the same time. It was as if the world stood still, the time stopped and the anticipation grew. A lifetime in a second. Gold rush, a dam broke and first rain in the desert. Taehyung eyes fluttered open to the view of the baby’s rosy cheeks and immediately searched for you. Any semblance of you.

But you were kneeling by Jimin’s wife laying body on the floor.

Taehyung padding over the wooden balcony into the living room. In daze, Taehyung passed the baby over to her mother and closed into you. Your mouth was moving but for some reason, his brain couldn’t string the words. You were screaming but he heard nothing until seconds after.

“Call 911!” You ordered. There was a puddle of water where she once stood.

Meanwhile, you’re massaging her tummy. Jimin’s at the other end, and people pooling in to watch. The men are asked to wait outside with the kids for the ambulance. Taehyung had his hand on the house phone, and as he tried to arrange his words, his attention flew to you and your alarmed eyes. Your lips read,

“Speak slowly… clearly.”

The dial tone ended and, “We need. Ambulance. Birth. A woman is giving birth, please send in an ambulance.” He turns to you again and right now, you have all the ladies lined up.

“Okay, listen. Towels, all of it, blankets, pillows, sterile gloves, plastic bags, and Jimin,” you listed. Everyone spreads around to get everything. Towels from upstairs, blankets from the laundry room, pillows from the guest room and plastic bags from the kitchen drawers. Even Jimin who was outside waiting for the ambulance is being carried in by Jungkook. Taehyung handed a plastic cup of water. Jimin has his wife’s head cradled in his lap, padded with pillows and she’s holding her hand.

“I told you this was a good idea…” she joked, “I only trust her around…”

“I have only delivered a baby once in my life and that was in nursing school, that does not mean this was a correct choice, Junhee…” you half scolded her.

“I wouldn’t have it in any other way,” she said with a big smile before she hisses in pain and clenching around Jimin’s fingers. Then she groaned till veins were popping on her forehead. Jimin kept on peppering kisses and wiping her sweat with warm water. She continues to wretch and shiver. She felt cramps in her abdomens, churning. So she retched. What a relief she had her husband on the side. Jimin’s whispering words of affirmations and it really helped her calm down. Although she is really not far from giving birth. She is 9 centimetres dilated.

“Where is the ambulance?” You asked in a rushed tone.

“Any minute now!” Someone at the door informed.

That’s not good enough. She will be 10 centimetres in no time and if the ambulance isn’t here by then, the baby will drown. She is perfectly ready for vaginal delivery, you grab a towel, place it underneath her openings and tell her to push until she feels the contraction. Work with the contraction and push as hard as she could. You also massaged to make sure the baby’s head was out first. From the physical examinations, the baby’s head is visible. All that’s left to do is for Junhee to push. You thought her the breathing method, and counted with her. Even Jimin’s following suit.

“Deep breaths, sweetheart. You can do this…” you reminded her, “And then we’re gonna go again, okay?”

“I think I’m going to vomit…” Jimin fetches the bag from the side and vomits. Taehyung gulped, watching the fiasco from the side. He watches his wife carefully guiding, and assuring and giving space towards the mother to feel as comfortable as she can.

Junhee was obedient and she was cooperating. She was entirely under your care. You can see from her eyes that she trusted you with her life. She had been, ever since you knew her. And now, she entrusted you with her life and her baby’s life. Junhee delivers a big push and this time the baby slides out into your arm along with it’s placenta. The detachment is healthy, and you quickly glance to the time, on the grandpa’s clock on the corner,

“Someone note the time!”

“3:47PM!”

You placed the baby on his mother’s arm, a healthy baby boy. Another warm towel on his tiny body and his mom’s tired laugh. He is red and warm and crying, lungs are not congested. But still you need to wait for the ambulance. You placed the placenta into the bag Taehyung opened and told Jimin to hold them up. You refused to cut the umbilical cord without proper tools. It’s not sterile here to do so and there’s no medical back-up should anything go wrong. You told everyone to stay put until the ambulance arrived. Taehyung caught your eyes from across the room and slowly, you drew a smile on your face, contradicting his worried one. And again, in this lifetime, even when he was most concerned about you, you told him with your eyes that you’re okay. Even at this distance.

“Who delivered the baby?” the ambulance personnel yelled, his voice seeped in, through the windows to you, while you were cleaning up the living room.

Taehyung rushed to the door with a panicked look on his face and you sprinted out.

They gave you the scissors.

“The ma’am wanted you to cut the umbilical cord instead of the father, will you do the honors?” The man in medical assistant uniform smiled at you. You took the scissors in your hand and you glanced up at her, tears welling up in your eyes and you cried, “Yes, of course, yes…”

“She’s a retired nurse, I never once worried about my life when she’s around,” Park Junhee boasted as she was carried into the ambulance. Jimin climbed in, too. You followed the ambulance close while Taehyung drove Jimin’s car. It’s to help them later, if Jimin needs to return home. Taehyung left the car parked in the hospital parking area and climbed into your shared caravan. He offered to drive. And as he was driving, and talking about how cool you were as the night fell, he heard nothing from your side. You had already fallen asleep. Defeated by the tiredness. He stops at the same spot this morning and lowered your chair. He fetches a blanket from the bed and tucked you in warm. You moaned and switched to your side. He leans over you and plants a firm kiss on your head. As you swam deeper in your slumber, the stars twinkling in the sapphire blue sky, the moon stood witness to the feeling Taehyung had over you. He lowered his own chair to watch you sleep with a smile and fondness in his eyes.

His soft curls fall over the hood of his eyes, touching the bridge of his nose as he clamors in renewed emotions he felt for you. Such pure love, the kind that authors would write about in novels, many years ago. He is so in love, his feet are levitating from the ground it seemed. One of those wishes thrown at the shooting skies had come true. Broken pieces of him, finally held together, and the last piece was in a form of a person. He extended his arm to reach yours, and you took them in like a soft toy. He gladly cuffed himself to you, it's been his fate. Lips, body and soul, is yours. The bell resonated from the far back of his mind, of when soulmates found each other. His heart thumping so loudly he feared you might have heard them. You have stirred something inside him he doesn’t quite understand yet. Rain or snow, storms or deserts, it's your hand he wanted to hold. He wants to create a home so comfy for you and maybe, in between you two, a baby that’s both his and yours. Someone to carry his name. Symphonies of violin when he watches you sleep. Like an orchestra coming together.

Walking down the street in the morning, you wore beige knitted cardigan, hands intertwined. He swings your hand with a big toothy grin on his face. His soft curls flying in the wind, his deep chuckle sparking your insides with excitement. You wanted to choose a gift for Jimin and Junhee’s baby boy who is now at the hospital. With this man’s hand who made your heart ascend in the small of your back, it felt like you could do anything. An older woman who was also a customer in the small shop gave you both a big smile.

“Newly weds?” She asked.

“Why? Do we seem like so?” You asked her warmly.

“We've been married for almost 2 years now…” Taehyung corrected her.

The older woman chuckled, and then her smile faltered, crestfallen on a vision it seemed, “Such soulmates are rare… You looked so good together, such a beautiful couple…” Taehyung wanted to buy a small necklace for the older women. He grabbed one that caught his eyes and dashed out the shop’s door, but the old woman had disappeared.

“She walked really fast for someone her age…” Taehyung spoke to himself, squinting hard at the distance in both directions. To see if there’s any semblance of the friendly old woman anywhere. It’s like she vanished. When he returned to the shop, you asked him to buy you a glass ball with a bear reading and confettis inside. It was nothing special for Taehyung but you wanted it so he bought them without much thought. In the caravan, it was placed on the dashboard with a double tape, securely glued.

“Wouldn’t it be nice if we have our own little one?” Taehyung stared at his friend Jimin, cooing his little baby.

“Could we?” Your smile faded as you bore into the view of the glass. You turned to him with a broken smile, “At my age?”

“You’re not as old as you think you are…” Taehyung said. And did he prove them well. Nine months later, you were holding his arm as you walked out of the apartment door with Jimin’s wife on the phone, telling you that she had arrived. Unlike her, you wanted to be at the hospital when the water broke. The same beige cardigan you wore on her child’s birthday,you wore today. It’s already old and strings were coming out at the ends but you insisted. Taehyung carried you bridal style into the car, towels ready. His arms were yours to clench on and while you were groaning, he was biting his lips at the same force. You clawed into his flesh as he calmed you down. Jimin was driving and his wife was teaching you the same breathing method you taught her. You plastered your face into Taehyung’s neck. Hair stuck into your forehead as you sweat profusely, fighting through the incessant pain.

“Please hurry Jimin, please hurry…” Taehyung begged.

“I have the hazard lights on, we will make it on time, don’t worry bud…” Jimin said in a rushed tone.

In the delivery room, Taehyung was dressed in all blue, masks and gloves, just like the doctors and nurses. There’s only his eyes, but you recognise them so well. One look, in that delivery room, meant only for you. Light hearted jokes and hand held tight. He pressed his lips on your whitened knuckles the whole time. His tears fell like diamonds as he watches you push with all your strength, a baby that is his. No words exchanged, but you saw enough. He was in love, so direly in love. Memories flash in the back of your mind, under clenched eyes, kisses on the sidewalks, love declarations under the heavy rain. The way he lifts you to the sky in that storm, slowly sliding you down his body, enough for you to place your forehead on his. His wide gaping smile, drenched in the night under the lamp post, warm wafts of breaths escaped his lips. You cupped his face in your hands and kissed him hard. You couldn’t hear what the midwives are saying, but you know one thing, this is the ultimate gift you could give the man that has given you everything.

One last push, and a shrilling tiny cry accompanied. Taehyung looked at you and linked his forehead on yours. You’ve gone pale. So pale. Your lips were blue and your eyes were drooping. You are coming in and out of consciousness. The doctors had to lead Taehyung out of the delivery room, they had to perform operations. You were too tired to continue pushing. But before he leaves, you brushed your lips on his left cheek, and you tell him in your last bits of strength,

“I-I love you. So-so much...Thank you…”

Taehyung’s hand was separated from yours. He was grabbing air just as yours were holding out.

Today.

“Taehyung, tea?” His mother greeted him. He and his easel in use. He shook his head. And from inside the caravan. Small pair of hands curled on the handles, to push the door open. Carrying a beige cardigan. Four feets putting on shoes and padded to their father. With brown irises twinkling at Taehyung’s back, no older than four years old, Taehyung glanced over his shoulder and spread his arms. One in each arm.

You watched them from the caravan, and it felt like you were right there. You could almost touch him, his hair, the slope of his nose. The babies. The babies are all grown. You could almost smell the sea. The breeze you knew so well. But you can’t.

Six years ago.

Taehyung returned home with the babies. Dressed in all black, he has to head back out again, to send his wife. When he returned, he saw the babies sleeping on their side, covered by the beige cardigan. He rushes outside to where the caravan’s were. His mother caught him just in time as he fell to the ground, shivering and calling out your name repeatedly. His mother cradles him in her lap.

“Release, my child. Release your agony…” Taehyung’s mother cradled her baby boy in her arms and Taehyung let out a cry, heart-thumping, guttural screaming cry as he let out the grief he had kept in the silent since he saw your casket lowered, six-feet underground, a baby in his arms, sleeping, coddled in her late mother’s knitted cardigan she wore when she was at the hospital, trying to have her. Taehyung looked up at the sky that strangely bright day, and a single drop of rain fell to the left side of his cheek where his wife had kissed before she went away.

God is neither late nor early.

God took one of His angels back home to Him. Left two behind in Taehyung’s care.

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xxx-cat-xxx · 4 years ago

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we’re collecting dust (but our love’s enough)

Have a little bittersweet Pepperony & Ironfam fic. As always, thanks to @whumphoarder for beta reading!

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And here’s the thing about getting old: it’s marked by an ever-rising contrast between the good days and the bad days. On good days, Tony can still spend hours tinkering in the garage or playing ball with Peter’s eight-year-old son, Ben, down by the lake.

But on bad days, when phantom pain is hijacking all of his senses (despite the fact that two decades have passed now since that final battle), putting on the prosthesis is out of the question—as is getting down the stairs from the master bedroom.

And on the really bad days, his joints are so stiff that he’s barely able to lift his one remaining arm high enough to bring his migraine medication up to his lips.

“Pep?” Tony croaks, hating the weakness that’s echoing back at him. He’s not sure if she’s even close enough to hear him, but he trusts FRIDAY to relay the message that his wife is needed.

It takes her longer than it used to, but then Pepper is by his side, putting an arm behind his back in a practiced motion to help him sit up a little more. He bites back a groan when the change in elevation only increases the stabbing pain behind his right eye.

“Open your mouth,” she directs, firmly but warmly, before placing the pills on his tongue and bringing the water glass to his lips so he can take a sip. He loves her for the lack of pity in her eyes, for her focus on the practicalities of caring, for the calmness masking her worry― although none of that is surprising. Hell, they’ve been through far worse than the thunderstorms in his head.

Pepper adds a heating pad to the collection of pillows propping him up and pats it with an inviting gesture. Wincing, he lies back down, then curls onto his side, pulling his legs up to his stomach.

“Here, just in case.” Pepper puts a trash can next to the bed, freshly lined in order to avoid the smell making his nausea any worse. Tony really hopes he won’t throw up the pills he just took, but the possibility is definitely there.

“You’re the best, Miss Potts” he mumbles, and only then realises that this particular nickname is already a few decades too old.

“Get some sleep, Tony.” She brushes a kiss on his forehead and gently shuts his eyes with her palm. He opens them again the moment she’s left the room, unable to find rest just yet.

With difficulty, Tony turns onto his other side so that the photos on the nightstand come into view. Morgan and her girlfriend Riri with their surfboards at Malibu beach, the sunset bathing them in a warm, almost otherworldly light. Peter and Ben, who is sitting on Rhodey’s lap in the wheelchair and laughing at someone behind the camera. Happy and May, arm in arm and a little drunk on the evening of their tenth anniversary.

Tony keeps looking at the photos until the drugs kick in and they turn blurry in front of his eyes while he finally drifts off.

It’s early evening when he wakes again, his head still throbbing and his body tired, but feeling miles better than earlier. The house is quiet and Pepper is nowhere to be seen. Tony lies still for a moment, marvelling at the simple fact that he is able to form comprehensive thoughts without feeling like his brain is being eaten alive.

After a while, he’s able to sit up on his own and slowly make his way to the bathroom. He uses the toilet and brushes his teeth to get rid of the stale taste in his mouth. Then he has to hold on to the basin for a while because he starts to feel lightheaded from being on his feet for a phenomenal five full minutes. Finally it passes, and he washes his face with cold water to get his blood pressure back to a more reasonable level.

When he looks up, there’s an old man staring back at him from the mirror, rumpled grey hair and an even greyer beard. He bears a vague resemblance to Howard Stark―Howard Stark if someone had tried to melt away half of his face.

The snap has left a long-term toll, and not just in the gruesome scars all over his body. Tony had a stroke last summer, after which he’d temporarily lost the movement in his one remaining arm and was drooling for weeks, and he’s already on his second pacemaker this year. Not that he’s complaining―better to be old than dead, thank you very much―but some things really just suck. He stares at the mirror image a moment longer and then sticks out his tongue at it, content to see that this makes him stop looking like Howard.

“Tony?” He flinches when he hears Pepper’s voice from downstairs, though she doesn’t sound like Pepper at all. Her tone is scared, almost desperate. “Where are you?”

“Hon-” he stops to clear his scratchy throat and tries again. “Honey, I’m up here!”

Her footsteps run up the staircase and he turns around to see her enter, dressed in her favourite light blue summer dress, the long hair cascading down over her shoulders.

“Tony?” she asks again, breathing hard. Then she takes him in and relief blooms on her face. He registers the tears on her cheek and automatically raises his good hand to wipe them away.

“What happened?” he asks softly. But he already knows.

Closing her eyes, she leans into his touch. “I was in the garden,” she starts. “I was, I think I was watering the sunflowers, and then, for a second, I―I didn’t know. Where I was. Where everyone was.”

“Oh Pep,” he sighs, wrapping his arm around her and pulling her close. It’s not the first time this has happened, but all the other times she’s been inside the house where FRIDAY could help her make sense of the situation and get back to reality quickly. “How long were you out there?”

“I don’t know,” Pepper mumbles. “I thought―I thought it was a park, maybe? That I was back at my parents’ place and went out for a walk. But then I saw Morgan’s little house and remembered.” She takes a shaky breath. “God, Tony, it’s all such a mess.”

“You’re alright,” he whispers, and then, knowing it’s not herself she is scared about, he adds, “I’m here. Morgan and Riri are flying around the world somewhere. Peter is in Queens—it’s his weekend with Ben. They might be visiting Happy and May just now. Rhodey is… I don’t actually know where Rhodey is right now, but he’s fine. Everyone’s doing okay.”

“I know,” she mumbles, pulling away. “Now I remember.”

“Good. That’s good, Pep. It was just―a glitch. A tiny glitch in your memory.” He forces a smile and shifts a bit of his weight against the doorframe, his legs suddenly feeling weak.

Pepper, of course, catches on to that. “How's your headache?” She seems to have caught herself, but he wonders whether she remembers his migraine or just guessed it from the situation. “Why are you up?”

“Had to pee. But I’m better, promise.” She looks at him critically, and he adds, “Just won't be up for anything demanding for the rest of the day.”

“That’s fine.” She runs her hands through her hair, combing it with her fingers before tying it up in a bun, her way of reasserting control. “You should go back to bed. I’ll fix us something light to eat.”

Tony doesn’t like the idea of leaving her alone right now, but making it down the stairs to the kitchen seems... challenging. But he’s already got a better idea. “Actually, I was thinking of taking a bath. Getting a little ripe,” he jokes. “Will you help me wash my hair?”

It's always good to give her something easy to do when the dementia is playing tricks on her, something to busy her hands and distract her mind.

“Uh-huh.” She looks right through him, then sighs a little. “Sure. Why not.”

There used to be a time after Afghanistan when Tony couldn’t have set foot in a bathtub if an army had forced him to. He avoided them the same way he avoided caves and, later, endless night skies or Sci-Fi movies with wormholes. It was only Peter’s immense disappointment over not being able to watch the fourth Star Trek movie together that finally pushed him into seeing the counsellor who helped him get a grip on some of this.

(Almost starving in space, Peter’s five-year disappearance and Pepper’s pregnancy might have also played a role, but hey, saying you started therapy to be able to watch Leonard Nimoy in a bathrobe saving whales makes for better dinner table jokes).

Either way, he’s glad that his bath-o-phobia is mostly cured now, because their lakehouse tub is plain amazing, and not having to stand to shower on days like these is a blessing.

The hot water and the essential oils Pepper added to it do wonders for Tony’s aching body. He breathes in the steam that reminds him of expensive spas on New York’s winter days. Pepper has turned her back towards him, organising the already neat collection of tubes and bottles on the counter. Unimpressed with the solemnity of the scene, he playfully splashes some water at her. She turns towards him and smiles, but it doesn’t reach her eyes. Tony could tell from a mile away that she’s still shaken.

Time for plan B.

“Will you join me, honey?” Drawing out the last word, he blinks his eyelashes up at her seductively, which finally makes her laugh for real.

“Well, Mr Stark, if you’re asking like that…” The dress slides down her shoulders and collects around her feet, and her undergarments quickly follow. She glides inside the tub more gracefully than should be legal for anyone over sixty, and, copying him, flicks some water onto his nose.

Ignoring the perfect opportunity for a water fight, Tony extends his arm and pulls her close to his chest, taking in her wrinkled skin and the roots of grey in her ginger hair where the dye has grown out. She intertwines her legs with his and lets her weight, minimised by the water, be borne fully by his body. Her cheek comes to rest on the soft spot between his collarbones. She is moving up and down in rhythm with his breaths, creating tiny ripples on the surface of the water, and he holds her tighter, ever tighter.

Pepper readjusts her position and runs her hand down from his neck, to his stomach, and back up again. He responds with a kiss to the top of her forehead and then starts tracing the outline of her breast with his index finger. She stops to look down at them critically. “Not really what they used to be.”

“Still better than what I have to offer,” he deadpans. At this point, his chest is basically one big scar tissue. “And personally, I’m still a fan of them. It. All of it.”

He can hear her smile in the way she lets her breath out through her nose.

They stay like that for a while, Tony feeling the tension bleed out of his body, the pounding of his temples ease a little, and his eyes slowly falling shut again.

“I was so scared,” Pepper suddenly admits into his collarbones. He feels drops of water trickle down his neck and knows she’s crying even before she sniffles quietly.

“I know,” he says quietly. “But it will be alright, love.”

“Will it, though?” she asks, ever-critically, ever-questioning. Too many of his promises have shattered before her eyes for her to blindly believe him now, so he doesn’t make her any new ones, doesn’t talk about the world-renowned team of scientists he already hired when the first symptoms showed themselves, about the devices he’s working on down in his garage. She already knows all of that. It’s not what she needs to hear right now.

Instead, he swallows hard and says, “Pep, listen. We’ll get through this too. And if… whatever will happen. I'll be there.” What he doesn’t say out loud is what she already knows from how tight he’s holding on to her:

I won’t give you up without a fight.

“I know,” she whispers. Then she takes a deep breath before untangling herself from his embrace. “So, are we going for the anti-dandruff shampoo or can I use something that won’t make you smell like coconut?”

Tony positively purrs while Pepper massages the shampoo into his scalp. “Close your eyes and mouth,” she commands when she tilts his head back before starting the shower. And a laugh bursts out of Tony, because this is the same tone she used to use on Morgan when washing her hair, and in response their daughter would screw her eyes shut and bite her lips so tight in such concentration that her whole face scrunched up with it.

“What’s so funny?” Pepper asks, so Tony, not one to admit to nostalgia, just twists the showerhead out of her grasp to point it back at her, finally getting himself that water fight.

After drying off and pulling on a fresh pair of pajamas, Tony is put back to bed with his tablet and a promise that Pepper will join after making pasta. He checks his email, then sets the tablet aside and gets back up to open the window. He lets his eyes wander to the garden and lake that are just visible in the last rays of daylight.

Sometimes, on bad days, he cynically wonders what will give out first: his broken body or Pepper’s battered mind. But on good days, that's not what counts. They might have months, or years; if things go great, they might even have another decade. Tony has long, long ago started to regard every additional day in his life as something he doesn’t have a right to, and sworn to himself to use them to the best of his ability. That’s what it comes down to, in the end. He and Pepper will do what they have always done―simply keep going as long as they can.

“Hey, old man.” Pepper is standing in the doorway, holding out a bowl of blueberries. “I picked them earlier in the garden―forgot all about them. You want some?”

“Sure.” He turns around to fully look at her. “I'd love to.”

_________________

I hope you liked it! Credit for the idea of Riri Williams and Morgan Stark getting together goes to @fuzzydeergirlart‘s wonderful art (or at least that’s where I go the idea from).

All my fics

#pepperony #old tony stark #old pepper potts #migraine #dementia #ironfam #dad peter parker #blueberries

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suburbiashq · 4 years ago

Photo

cassel resident : isidore castillo.

full name. . isidore estevan castillo. age. thirty birthdate. november 11th, 1990 zodiac. scorpio. gender. male pronouns. he/him occupation. tattoo artist & manager of ink anchor. lives in. miller park.

about isidore castillo.

Birth - Teenage Years

Though he was born in a different part of Illinois, most of Isidore’s childhood had him growing up right in the small city Cassel. He was beginning the second grade when his single mom made the choice to leave the busier city life behind and settle down in her own hometown, near her parents; and end the financial struggling that had been a focal point of Isi’s life until coming to Cassel. His dad was out of the picture and had been for a few years - he was never told why, or what happened, and couldn’t bear the look on his mother’s face when he asked. So, a mystery it would remain, a singular trait that would the two together in likeness the older Isidore got.

So, Isidore was 8 and growing quickly every year, existing in a quiet town full of quiet people and plenty of rules. Like many of the other families, he found himself settled into a church pew with his hair combed and slicked, next to his mother and grandparents. He’d never been a bad child… just, perhaps, a bit more wild than the limits of the town would have preferred to allow him. Authority was something to be challenged, and rules were in place to question, and the child never once stopped asking why.

Teen - Young Adult

Highschool brought on a new slew of problems for the young man. He stopped attending church, finding little value in the teachings and scripture, and rejected many of the stereotypical norms that were enforced in Cassel. He liked nicotine, and late night drives in his mom’s car, he liked weed and loud music. He hated math and science, he didn’t like bullies, and stupid teachers. Isidore wasn’t afraid to voice his disinterest in things, and it got him into minor trouble a handful of times. When Isi liked someone, he told them, and he stood up for the underdogs when he could. There was always a fine line between bad and good, and most days, Isi felt he tettered right along the edge of it, unsure which way he would sway on any given day.

As an average student, Isidore graduated from Highschool with nothing special on his record, but nothing too damning. Rage was a daily battle, always fuming beneath his quiet but firm surface, and it was actually one of the pastor’s suggestions that he give the military a shot. “It will teach you obedience, and honor, and how to control your emotions,” He was promised, so at the fresh age of 19, Isidore enlisted into the marines. Never a man to be afraid, Isidore signed on for a 6 year contract… but would only end up serving for 5.

Being A Marine

At first, the Corps were all Isidore had needed. There was something to feel passion for, pour all of his energy into, and it helped in his own life, too. With the men he trained with, Isidore felt he belonged more than he did in the sleepy Cassel town, and he could smoke and drink and curse up a storm without guilt. Leaving his mom was hard, but she had been dating a man seriously, and Isidore felt he was leaving her in good hands, especially when news of their pregnancy was soon announced after he left for his training. Plus… he got to travel, leaving Illinois for the first time in his life.

Isidore got to live in North Carolina, then Japan, briefly Hawaii, before returning to Japan again by his 4th year enlisted. He called home frequently, in the beginning, but never returned for a visit… and slowly, the calls became fewer and far between. When he sent the news to his family, she was eager to tell anyone who listen - her baby boy was engaged, the woman a Japanese beauty, and it seemed all was going so well for the Marine. Finally, Isidore had found his purpose, right?

Unfortunately, few knew what happened behind the scenes. Isidore loved the water, the sea, the smell of salt in the wind, and found himself comfortable in an engineering position on ships, enjoying the artistic craft of the machines. But he did not go without trouble, even in the Corps, and had a list of write-ups and disciplinary actions in his file. He was less than a year from completing his 6-year contract, when Isidore stormed off from the unit, and refused to complete the contract. His reasoning was inconsolable differences with his superiors, but deep down, Isidore had realized that he was making enemies, and that his home with the Marines no longer felt safe and comfortable. His plan was to accept the consequences for abandonment, marry his lady, and live in Japan-

But like all good things, that, too, ended. While he was busy with work, the love of his life was busy in social scenes, and when the truth came out, Isidore gave up on that future, too. When he parted ways, something changed within him. That passion burning, the fire fueling, it began to die out.

Coming Home

Cassel was the only place Isidore knew to return, after trying to settle back down in North Carolina unhappily, he made the sheepish trek back to his original home. He didn’t want to burden his family by staying with his mom and his step-dad and his sisters (one half-sister, and a step-sister), so he briefly stayed with his grandparents. It was Isidore who realized they were getting too old to live alone, and it was Isidore who helped them transition into an elderly home, and he chose to stay in their house. It was small, quaint, quiet, and starting to fall apart - so Isi spent his days repairing it.

Those who remembered him, were surprised by the change. He wasn’t so outspoken, so obvious with his anger, and far less charming and mischievous… but something remained the same. Isidore was mysterious as ever, choosing what information he divulged carefully. The dark clothing and drinking didn’t fit into the role most mid-20 year-old men were meant to play, and his tall frame in a church pew was unheard of now.

A couple of years after returning home, Isidore stepped into an apprentice role as a tattoo artist. He’d always loved drawing, art, and all things creative; and the town was hurting for a good artist. He was a quick learner, and dedicated to the new passion, and easily became a staple to the tattoo shop.

The Present

He has been home in Cassel for nearly five years now. Isidore is close with his family, spends a lot of time working and constantly repairing his grandparent’s home, and takes weekend trips to Chicago frequently to go boating out on Lake Michigan or simply enjoy the breezy beaches, imagining a past life he had left behind. Casey Andrews was a close friend of his step-sister, and when she disappeared, Isi couldn’t deny his interest in the case, feeling a flicker of a burn of something more-

The motorcycle gang has also been a sort of new home to him, more recently. They call him the baby, the youngest of the crew, but with eyes that have seen equal trouble than even some of the older guys. Isidore likes their company, the feel of the wind and the speed on his back as he races down country roads, and he doesn’t mind the whispers of the town. Not anymore. Plus, if anyone can get to the bottom of the Missing Casey Andrews, isn’t it them?

five songs. war child ( hollywood undead ) / the past should stay dead ( emarosa ) / colors ( halsey ) / sweater weather ( the neighborhood ) / suburbia ( troye sivan )

↳ isidore castillo is faced by jamie lorente and penned by kuromi.

#c #isidore castillo #player : kuromi #jamie lorente fc

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dialux · 6 years ago

Text

made weak by time and fate, but strong in will

APOLOGIES!! For the late update! Life got in the way, yada yada yada.

Content warnings for this chapter include: child abuse (of the emotional/magical/quasi-physical kind, because Blacks R HERE), redemption arcs Like Whoa, and lots of allusion to the casualties of war. The only POVs are the marauders and Lily and YEESH ARE THEY ANGSTY. I promise that next chapter will have more action tho. This one got long enough on its own!

Poem in the middle comes from Ulysses, of course, by Tennyson. Yes, James is a poetry buff, why are you asking?

Enjoy!

...

Peter is cold. So cold. Straight down to his bones, like all the brightness and warmth in the world has been carved out of him. He shudders and looks above him to the cliffs- the brothers Lestrange and the siblings Carrow are watching him on top, and Alecto Carrow is many things, one of which is sadistic and the second of which is in possession of a tremendously unfair ability to aim accurately and precisely at what she wants.

Right now that means Peter, if he doesn’t move fast enough.

The cliffs are sheer, though, and even a rat would find it difficult to find a hold. All that’s keeping him from breaking his neck is a wavering leviosa.

Slowly, squeaking in the part of him that’s still a rat, that terrified quaking animal that cannot believe he’s actually doing this- Peter lowers himself.

It’s ridiculous, in all truth. He’d betrayed James to the Dark Lord and ever after, he’s needed to plumb deeper depths of courage than ever before. The Dark Lord doesn’t take kindly to people remaining in his presence after he’s dismissed them. Even if he’s just crucioed you to hell and back. Peter would have said it was impossible to stand up after that particular torture, but he’s seen others do it. He’s done it himself. Falling down a cliff, trying to find Rowle- it isn’t nearly the hardest things Peter’s done in just the past week alone.

Finally, finally, wrists aching, Peter thumps onto the hard-packed ground.

He inhales through his teeth, like the opposite of a whistle, at the pain. Then he gets up, muscles protesting. Gives himself a moment’s break to adjust to the new surroundings.

The North Sea is loud here. The waves break just a little farther away- but before Peter can reach the beach there’s a ward. Slowly, Peter palms his wand and approaches it. Risks a look over his shoulder; the others are so far away that they might as well be simple black dots. Takes a deep breath. The ward’s easy to identify- the delineations, the smell like salt and rotting bone- but Peter doesn’t know what it means. Doesn’t know what it’s supposed to keep out.

Or, he thinks sharply, heart jumping in his throat, what it’s supposed to keep in. If the dementors are rioting-

Well, if they are, then Peter’s well and truly dead. The Dark Lord’s displeasure on that point would be- something magnificent. Peter breathes out instead of panicking, shivering and drawing his cloak tighter around him in the vain hope it might keep him warmer.

I did this so I could survive, he reminds himself. Everything.

Everything else, Peter can redeem. Forgiveness- of himself, by himself, forget all others- might be a long road; might be an impossible road; but Peter has it, for so long as he draws breath. The moment that breath is taken from him it will all cease to matter. All the sacrifice. All the death.

(He’s seen the blood in Godric’s Hollow. He’s seen the destruction. Nobody loses that much blood and lives. And without James, Lily wouldn’t get far. But: the blood. Peter can forget Harry and Lily and the pain woven into their once-beautiful home’s walls. He can’t forget the blood. He cannot forget-)

Head cocked, wand in bloodless fingers, Peter paces the length of the ward. His shoes don’t leave marks in the soil. His back throbs with every movement.

Then the ward goes sharply inwards, following the natural path of an estuary bracketing the sea. The water’s not very deep as far as Peter can see, but it is cold, and it is fast. He walks forwards, the ward on one side and the rushing water on the other, towards the beach. Something quails inside of him. Something that’s stood before a Dark Lord, tortured and exhausted and unbroken- something that almost withers away now, for some eerie reason.

The first thing that Peter sees when he tops the bluff is Rowle’s body.

Oh, Merlin, thinks Peter, horrified.

Rowle’d been a wild man, prone to a madness that Peter’d only ever seen mirrored in the Blacks. He’d never been a good man but-

But the man in front of him is cleaved in half. The ward had caught him around the middle. The blood is soaked into the sand at his feet; his legs are on the far side, his blank eyes facing up to the sky. Peter stumbles forwards, coming to a halt at the point where Rowle’s corpse lies. The blood-

James, James, James-

The hair on Peter’s arm bristles. He looks up and sees something white; something getting closer. The sea churns louder, higher, and Peter scrambles for his wand. Points it at the ball of light. Swallows and doesn’t breathe, even as the light falls and lands, gracefully, at the beach where Peter cannot go because of the ward.

The light fades a little to reveal a slim, dark-haired man. He holds something too large to be a wand in one hand. Otherwise, he wears robes in the cut of aurors, but black instead of their red. He turns, sweeping over the beach for a brief moment, before he lifts the object in his hand to the heavens.

It’s all the warning Peter has before the world explodes.

He’s aware of something screaming- he becomes aware, slowly, that it’s him- and then Peter realizes that his wand’s still in his hand. He looks up. He’s fallen to his knees; the sand is gritty under his knees. The lightning is too bright for him. For a brief moment, Peter feels blind.

But then the light darkens for a brief moment. Even half-blind, Peter would have known that angled face. The withered thing inside of him shrivels further in on itself. All his sins come to roost- all his grief-

Because there, face illuminated from within, brighter than even the sun, stands James Potter.

...

Light streaks the stone near his hands. Pain lashes down his spine. Someone screams, far in the distance, and he is aware of a woman with thick red hair fighting desperately to get to him. But there is a man between them, and he is busy minding the woman’s spells. He’s already ignored the shell that’s slumped against the wall.

Pain, thinks Sirius, and for the first time in weeks feels something catch in his chest. Something hot, like an ember on the verge of breaking into flames. Oh, mate, this is your fucking mistake.

The red-haired woman is being driven backwards. She’s not quite so good at dueling as the man in front of her. But that doesn’t matter; because all it takes is one heartbeat of inattention, and Sirius has it-

He leaps.

Mid-air, his skin turns to fur. His face elongates. His jaw becomes stronger. His ears become better. The cold lessens.

And between breaths, Sirius tears out Theodore Nott’s throat.

...

A calling card to all the Death Eaters in the area.

James drops the lightning; it takes more energy than it’s worth, even if he’d been careful to only call it from the already ever-present storms above the North Sea. A flick of his wrist makes the axe disappear. Another, and his wand’s in his hand.

There’s a shuffling sound behind him, and James snaps his wand around. He’s an auror, at the end of the day, and that training’s embedded into his muscles. The roll of his body out of the way, the punishing angle of his wrist as he aims it blindly at the spot- it’s the work of a moment, all instinct.

But then he sees.

Fuck, thinks James, swallowing hard. Peter’s at the other end of his wand, and he looks like he’s shitting himself. Like he’s scared. Like he’s scared of James. Fuck, fuck, fuck-

“Peter,” he says, because he can’t think of anything else to do.

“This’s impossible,” whispers Peter. He’s gone deathly white. “Ghosts don’t- you can’t- he killed you!”

“Who?” asks James, dangerously soft. Something’s thrumming in him, thinking about Lily, about dementors, about a Patronus that no longer brands her as his. “Your master, Pete?”

Peter flinches, whole-bodied. “Don’t- don’t call me that.”

“Would you prefer Wormtail?”

“You’re a ghost,” says Peter, tilting his chin up. There’s something there- some courage- that he hadn’t had before. James wants to snarl at it. “You can’t hurt me-”

James slashes his hand down and, in a flash of something hot and bright, Rowle’s body disappears. Peter quails at it. The cold, vicious hole in James’ belly gnaws a little further. A little deeper.

“I’m dead, am I?” he asks, hissing. “I can’t hurt you? Oh, I’m so sorry, Peter, to disappoint you.”

Peter presses himself further into the sand. James advances on him, the sand under his feet turned to glass, crunching under his boots.

“You betrayed us,” he whispers, and there are sparks haloing his vision. Not from his wand; from lightning, summoned, held in check by his will alone. “You betrayed Lily. You gave��Harry up to Voldemort.”

“I know,” says Peter. “I’m so sorry, James, I had-”

“Sirius paid for your crimes, you fucking bastard!” James shouts, and he is shaking, nearly vibrating. “Do you know what we’ve lost, because of you- because-”

“I didn’t mean-”

“You did! Don’t lie to me! Don’t you dare! You stood in front of him and you fucking told him, and you probably laughed when you did it!”

“If you’re going to kill me,” says Peter abruptly, “I’d want you to do it quickly.”

He doesn’t move this time, but Peter’s eyes meet James’ and hold. That chin lift, that blank face- those are all things that came after he joined the Death Eaters. Those are all parts of him that James doesn’t know. But the way Peter looks at James now, it’s how he’d looked when his father died, their fourth year.

Fifteen years old and bearing his mother’s weight on his shoulders as she wept over the grave. James doesn’t know why he remembers it, but he does, so well: the misting rain, the sobs, the look in his eyes, like all the despair and loss in the world couldn’t turn him colder than he already was. It’d been the first and only time Peter ever allowed any of them near his blood family. And Mrs. Pettigrew hadn’t ever really recovered, but Peter hadn’t let on, not really. He’d just- continued grinding away, quiet, unnoticed, burdened and colorless until he wasn’t any longer. Those eyes, watery, bulging, ugly.

Level. Everything else about him is quivering; but his eyes remain unflinching.

The other Death Eaters are coming; James can see them descending the cliffs. Surely this is enough time for Lily to escape- even burdened with Sirius. Even as he thinks it, there’s a shift in the wards- something breaking. The anti-apparition ward is still up, James realizes, but the anti-disapparition ward was just taken down. Lily must have just escaped. And by the time the others manage to break through the general ward, his trail will have gone cold.

But still he lingers.

James makes a choice.

“I’m not going to kill you,” says James savagely, free hand closing into a fist and opening compulsively. “You’re my brother.” And whatever else I am, I’m not a kinslayer.

“I killed you,” says Peter, looking aghast. “I killed you, James-”

“I know what you did.”

“Then-”

Whatever else you have done, you are my brother. Whatever else we are, we are family. And that means that I cannot give up on you.

“If you want to make it up to me,” says James, “you’ll go to your flat.”

“My... flat?”

“Your birthday. It’s next week.”

“I know that.”

“Yeah, well, I had a plan for it.” At Peter’s continuing look of confusion, James drags a hand down his face. “Gifts, Peter, Merlin. So. Get there. Pick ‘em up. Promise me.”

“You’re absolutely mad,” breathes Peter.

James grins, and feels the lightning around him fade, his heart pick up. “Birth defect, Wormtail. You know how it is, I’m sure.”

“James,” says Peter, quietly. “I don’t-”

“Promise me,” says James.

Peter flinches. His hands are shaking. James exhales sharply. The others- Lestrange, he thinks, and another that he doesn’t know- are coming too close for comfort.

Time’s up.

“That’s your price, Pete,” says James, before twisting on his heel, darkness swallowing him whole. “Remember that.”

...

Lily hadn’t known how afraid she was, not until James stumbles into their little cave, swearing under his breath and viciously yanking the little dried burrs from his robes. She surges to her feet as soon as he enters; sees the flicker of lightning around his wild hair and lunges, grabbing his shoulders and dragging him into an embrace.

“I was-” so afraid, are the words that come to her mind, but she cannot say them. Not say them and keep her composure, and Lily’s holding onto that with everything she has. “-well. You took a long time.”

“I got held up.” James eyes flick away for the briefest moment before returning to her. “I met Peter,” he says quietly, and doesn’t move an inch when Lily stiffens in his arms. “He looked- bad.”

“Good,” says Lily venomously.

“You don’t mean that.”

“Good,” she repeats. “I hope he chokes on what he’s done- I hope they kill him slowly, those fucking bastard Death Eaters-”

Slowly, she realizes that James hasn’t moved. Her heart thumps against its ribcage.

“James. James, tell me you didn’t-”

He lets go of her and steps back. “Didn’t what?”

“Let him go!”

“Lils,” he says, and it sounds tired. “What did you think I’d do? Kill him?”

“It’s what I would’ve done,” replies Lily. James shudders, and her fragile hold on her temper breaks. “You know what he’s done!”

“I do,” says James. He runs his hand through his hair and makes it stand straight up. “But-”

“No buts,” exclaims Lily. She is shaking; she cannot look James in the eye. How dare he! thinks Lily, and she is crying as well, now, helpless little jerks that burst out of her chest in gasps. How dare you! “What he would have done to our son, our son, you would forgive that? You would forgive what he did to Sirius?”

“He’s my brother,” says James quietly. “When you chose to forgive Petunia, I didn’t do anything.”

Her wand is in her hand, and it takes all of her control not to raise it. Not to hex James until he’s bleeding from every single orifice, and a few more besides. “Petunia’s never tried to kill me!”

“D’you know what she’d have done if asked to choose between you and her family?” asks James. “Because I don’t.”

“I can’t do this right now,” says Lily, stepping back. All she can see is the deadened look on James’ face; the way he stands, the fact that just a few moments previous, he let a man who would’ve killed their son get away. “I can’t- we can’t do this now.

“You’re right.” James pulls away, face closing off even further. “Where is he?”

“Inside.”

The sunlight had hurt Sirius’ eyes when Lily apparated them away from Azkaban, so Lily’d guided him inside and called up wards to keep the cave dark. Seeing one more person like this- shattered from within- just reminds Lily of the cost of this war. Of the mindless cruelty. Of all the loss.

Lily’s certain she won’t ever forget the trembling and half-swallowed whimpers from his throat.

“He needs help.”

Something flashes in James’ eyes, brighter than Lily’s seen since that dementor nearly Kissed him, there and gone in a heartbeat. But he only jerks his head in a nod. Says, “I’ll manage,” with a voice as uneven as the rocks around them, and heads inside.

This world isn’t safe, she thinks, and grips her wand even tighter. We must make it safe, and it is difficult at times; it is terrible at times.

But- oh- that does not mean we shrink from it.

...

Peter, hunched over half of Rowle’s corpse, does not move, not even when Lestrange swears loud enough to make a flock of birds take flight nearby. He does not move.

They apparate to their lord, and kneel, and the others tell him tales of lightning sprung from Azkaban, howls and other eldritch sounds from that island- and Peter does not speak, does not move, not until the Dark Lord takes his chin in his hand and wrenches it up to meet his red gaze.

“And you, Peter,” he says. “What did you see?”

He’s been afraid for so long. Peter twitches, full-bodied, and then he thinks about Rowle, about light swallowing him whole. About the blood. James. His lord’s red eyes. The red, red, red-

“Death,” he quavers, and the Dark Lord growls in frustration before releasing him.

Peter lands on the floor, knees bruised. He presses his head to the cool marble stone and doesn’t dare to move until all four of them are dismissed. His world is a haze of red, blood and guts and the taunting scarlet of Gryffindor, until he apparates away to his flat.

One breath. Two. It isn’t his flat any longer, not for two weeks now, but Peter had bought it in a muggle part of London and it takes nothing more than a simple alohomora to break in. A slash of his wand, a magiea revelio, and a heavy package thuds to the floor.

His heart aches. There had been a chance that he’d hallucinated that entire conversation on the beach. But now... hands trembling, Peter opens it.

It’s three books. One’s a joke manual, hand-written by Remus. Another’s a textbook on the Black Plague, with helpful annotations in the margins by Sirius; Peter flips the pages slowly, something bitter spreading through his chest. Look into this, Sirius has written, underlining it thrice: rats. Maybe we can kill some Death Eaters, yeah, Wormtail?

A helpless laugh tears out of him.

Finally, Peter puts it down. Reaches for the last book: a leather-bound journal, his name carved into the front. It’s slimmer than Sirius’ but thicker than Remus’ and blank, all of the pages, except for the very first.

“’Come, my friends, it is not too late to seek a newer world. Though much is taken, much abides; and though We are not now that strength which in old days Moved earth and heaven, that which we are, we are; One equal temper of heroic hearts, Made weak by time and fate, but strong in will To strive, to seek, to find, and not to yield.’ - To my quietest friend and dearest brother. I do not know what will come, Wormtail, but I know that I’ve asked more of you than anyone should ever ask anyone else. I know that this war is difficult on all of us. I know that the worst is yet to come, but I know that we’ll get through this, together. Here’s to ten years spent together and a lifetime more! Wishing you the best birthday anyone can ever have, Prongs”

“Though much is taken, much abides,” whispers Peter, tracing the letters written in James’ scrawling script. “That which we are, we are. Oh, damn you, James Potter. Damn you.”

He cannot act against the Dark Lord. The mark on his arm alone precludes that action. But so long as he does not know anything, and only suspects, then there is a chance. A chance to hide it all, the entirety of the failure of the Dark Lord’s plans. The dizzying magnitude of that failure.

Because if James is alive, then Lily is alive. And if Lily is alive, then there is every chance that Harry is alive as well. And if that is true...

It turns this entire war on its head.

But only if.

A nebulous possibility, all told, but Peter’s a survivor. And if the winds of war are shifting to help them- then, then, Peter’s going to live. No matter what it takes.

Not to yield, thinks Peter, and rises to his feet.

One act, then, for James’ mercy. Nothing much. Nothing ever changed because of an owl. Nothing ever changed because of an unsigned, four-word message. This war won’t hinge on it. But what Peter has torn asunder, he can mend; and that, maybe, hopefully, will be enough.

...

A brown-feathered owl wings over to a camp ringed with silver. It is small, light and excitable; it still barely makes through the sheer number of protections layered on the camp. It alights on man’s shoulder and pecks at his ear. He opens the envelope the owl offers him. Reads what’s written on the page, in large, blocky letters:

THEY’RE ALIVE. COME BACK.

The sun sets that night on a gibbous moon, and a loud crack splits the silence apart.

The werewolf camp never sees Remus Lupin again.

...

Fuck. Swimming up from the aches, Sirius realizes two things: one, he feels like absolute shit and two, he’s safe. James is the person next to him, James-the-deer-the-man-the-brother, and something heals like sunlight falling on Hogwarts’ turrets: irrevocable, deep and true as his oldest convictions. Then memory returns, and the warm feeling stops like someone’s just stamped on a candle wick. Fuck, fuck, fuck.

“Pads?” he hears, from a man that sounds too much like James for him to let lie. “You awake yet?”

Sirius breathes, shallow and measured. Catalogs his pains. He doesn’t know how long he’s been in a fugue state; but he remembers Godric’s Hollow very well. He remembers Azkaban, too, and either Sirius has gone entirely mad or this is reality.

Can’t help it if I’ve gone mad, he thinks. So reality it is, then.

Someone’s rescued him. Someone who looks scarily like Lily, but Sirius doesn’t trust his vision entirely. Red hair and a high voice don’t Lily make. Plus, everyone’s certain that she’s dead. That ruin of Godric’s Hollow... nobody lives through a magical explosion that large. So someone’s rescued him, and they sound like people he trusts, but he’s pretty sure they’re not said people, which makes them untrustworthy by definition.

Slow breaths. Even. The barest opening of one eye, to see rough stone all around him. Thank Merlin he’s in his dog form; it has better night vision. It also means that the person who’d just spoken- who’d just sounded like James- is human, and at a distinct disadvantage in the dark. It’s too hot; stifled. Wards. A mental snarl. He slits open the other eye, lazy, slow, not shifting one other muscle. Sees the shadow of the man slumped against the opposite wall. Breathes. There, there, there, a wand dangling loosely from the impostor's fingers. One more breath, then two.

Checks his magical reserves.

He’s got enough. More than enough, considering his starved state. Not enough for a pitched battle, so Sirius can’t stay and fight. He needs to think. The war’s still on. He needs to keep a cool head. To think-

No.

He needs to escape.

Sirius is a Black and a Gryffindor. He does not lie down, and he does not surrender, and it is the space of nothing, absolutely nothing, to shift, to seize the wand, to dig the point straight under the man’s chin.

“You’re going to take down these wards,” he whispers hoarsely. The red-haired woman’s going to be around; it’s vital that this escape remains quiet. “Quickly, now.” The man inhales as if to speak, and Sirius flicks a mild stinging hex at his shoulder. “No, I don’t want you using your head. Just take these wards- down-”

Sirius doesn’t need him in the end. It’s simple- almost muscle memory, more than knowledge. The ward falls with his first diagnostic charm.

“Silencio,” he mutters, and steps back, stumbles.

Inhales the air- tastes salt. Brine.

Too similar to Azkaban.

The man waves his arms wildly. There’s something familiar to the curve of his shoulders, to the flash of light off his specs, but Sirius knows better than to be caught unawares by something so simple. He only adjusts his grip on the wand. Inhales, deep as his lungs can go, and apparates away.

Lands in a clearing in a forest in the middle of nowhere. Grits his teeth; rolls his shoulders; gets to work.

He’s got a lot to figure out in the next few hours.

A lot to figure out, and not a lot of time.

...

Remus swears under his breath as he jimmies the lock to his apartment. The keys work, but it tends to get stuck if left unused for long periods of time. And Remus hasn’t come home in- Merlin, months. Peter hadn’t looked too good after his mum broke her leg, so Remus had gone to stay with him for a couple weeks. Then Dumbledore had asked him to go to the werewolf camps to either get their allegiance or- if that was impossible- act as a spy.

He’d known when Lily and James died, of course. Greyback had made sure of that. But he’d also known that stupid little bird, fluttering about his head like a stray wind might blow it away. He hadn’t known the writing, but the Marauders have always been good at hiding their tracks.

The key finally just breaks off inside of the lock; Remus growls and snaps the handle before slamming into the house.

It’s musty inside. He kicks the door closed behind him and drops his bag on the creaky shelf that serves as his dining table. Remus opens the windows, grimaces at the smoke that enters- he’s close to the full moon, and his nose is far more sensitive than he’d like for this part of the city- but the smoke carries with it fresh air and the flat itself is too full of dust for him to live with. Two flicks of his wand and the furniture’s dust-free. Another, and the kitchen looks practically spotless.

Slowly, Remus gets through the motions of settling back into the house.

It’s a few hours later that his stomach protests the lack of food. Remus sighs; he has some food packed from the camp, but he doesn’t particularly want some more bloody meat, barely cooked. There’s a good takeout place just a few blocks away that’s not too expensive- the issue is that Remus doesn’t have much money to start with, and he’s not sure how long it needs to last.

Fuck it. He’s just spent hours hop-scotching from one end of Europe to another. I deserve a hot meal tonight.

It’s not too far, though not all that close either. By the time he returns with the covers crinkling in his fingers, there’s sweat darkening his shirt and making him uncomfortably damp in the cold winter. He’s cursing mentally and juggling the stupid cartons and trying not to make enough of a racket to let his landlord know that he’s back- a month’s missing rent tends to have that effect- and it’s why he’s halfway up the stairs by the time he realizes that there’s someone in his home.

Remus freezes.

He stacks the takeout on the landing and takes three quick, quiet steps up the stairs to drag in a breath. Smoke, dust, piss, and underneath it: a scent he knows all too well.

This time, the door doesn’t survive his strength.

Sirius, stretched out languorously on his couch, jerks upright. Remus disarms him before pointing his wand directly between his eyes.

“Don’t move,” he says softly.

Sirius swallows. He ignores Remus- he usually does- did, did, goddamn, not does anymore- but only moves enough to sit up properly. “Moony,” he says.

“Give me one reason not to kill you,” says Remus.

“If you want to do it, then do it.” Sirius tilts his head back to meet the light from the streetlight. A faint smile makes his eyes look even darker. “I won’t stop you.”

There’s a catch.

There usually is, with Sirius.

“But?” asks Remus slowly.

“But I didn’t do it. If you want revenge, you should probably aim for any rats you see, not me.”

“You didn’t do it?” demands Remus. “You were the secret-keeper. Who else could have-” he breaks off; tries to breathe. Tries to focus on Sirius, who’s spread out on Remus’ couch like it’s just another day. Like they haven’t lost what they’ve lost. Like Sirius isn’t the reason they’ve fucking lost it. “Don’t you dare lie to me, Black.”

He flinches. “We switched.”

It takes a moment for Remus to make the mental jump.

“You expect me to believe that?”

“Lily watched Dumbledore set it up with me as the keeper. Then she put up another herself, with Peter. You know how good she was with wards.” Sirius’ eyes, those lovely eyes, those eyes like black fire, haven’t dimmed at all. “I insisted. I thought- who’d suspect Peter? Everyone’d think it’d be me. Never thought it’d end like this.”

“You never thought anything would end,” Remus accuses sharply. “You were always too cocky. I told you-”

“Give me veritaserum, then, and be done with it,” says Sirius, slumping in his position. “But there’s a war on, Moony, and I can’t spend as much time mourning as I’d like. If you won’t trust me, then trust in how much I loved James. I’ll walk into Azkaban the morning we win if you’ll help me now, I swear it. I swear it.”

Looking closer at him, Remus realizes: Sirius looks like absolute shit.

He’s very pale, but his entire throat looks shadowed with the start of bruises. His jaw’s even sharper than usual and he’s lost more weight than he can afford. Sirius has always been broad and powerfully built, but now he’s sort of- crumpled in on himself. His robes are in tatters and he’s unshaven and he looks like he hasn’t slept in at least half a month.

“Where were you?” he asks. “I thought- someone mentioned-” meaning Greyback, though of course Sirius wouldn’t know that, “-Azkaban, but you wouldn’t be here if that were true.”

“It was true.”

Remus stares.

Sirius elaborates: “Someone did it for me. I escaped ‘em, though, not Azkaban. Nicked that wand off the guy.” He nods to the wand clutched in Remus’ white-knuckled grip. “Spent the day apparating around to throw off their scent, then came back here.” He shrugs, a carefree lift of one shoulder that shouldn’t leave Remus’ mouth as dry as it does. “Thought I could rest for a few hours. A safehouse, as it were.”

“Someone?” Remus asks carefully.

“Me,” says a voice behind them.

It’s instinct.

Remus whirls around, the world going white around the edges with panic. He doesn’t realize that he’s tossed Sirius his wand until he sees the shield go up around them, right on the heels of his blasting spell. There’s a shower of plaster and wood as the door Remus just broke down spins into the intruder. A second later and Sirius is standing beside him, body a line of warmth at his right.

“Breathe,” Sirius mutters, nudging him. “This’s still muggle London. They won’t try anything big.”

“Apparition wards?”

“None.”

“Can you smell who-”

“I don’t trust it,” Sirius says grimly. “I keep thinking-”

“That I’m alive?” A voice that Remus knows too well, a voice that shouldn’t exist any longer, speaks up. Remus’ hand is trembling; Sirius’ breath is harsh and uneven in his ear. Then someone picks themselves up out of the debris, and Remus knows that lean line of shoulder and neck. That careless angle of his wand. That fucking hair. “I thought you’d have more faith in me, both of you.”

James Potter grins at them, glasses dusted white and mostly blind but also-

Alive, thinks Remus numbly. Alive. Alive. Alive-

“I’m a fucking marauder, you morons,” he says, taking off the specs and trying to wipe the dust off. “It takes more than a dark lord to kill me.”

There’s breathless silence for all of a heartbeat, and then Sirius gives a wordless, inchoate scream of something that might have been anger or relief or pain or some Black malady of too much emotion and lunges straight at James. He punches James straight in the jaw, and after that both of them are shouting and grunting and rolling incomprehensibly over each other.

It’s ugly. Sirius tends to be stronger than James, but James keeps his head about him even in the worst situations. There’s a lot of clawing and kneeing and yanked hair strewn about the opening of his flat.

It gets even worse when Lily enters.

Remus chokes on his spit when she does; she looks- like the rest of them- exhausted, but also alive, which means it’s an exponentially better situation than Remus had thought just a few minutes previous. But it’s bad because she brings with her Remus’ landlord, and he looks pissed to high heavens- his expression goes darker when he sees James and Sirius banging about as they are.

“Goodtoseeyouweshouldgetoutofhererightnow,” Lily says quickly, eyes flicking between the two white-covered lumps still making loud, intermittent noises that could have been charitably called grunts and Remus’ shabby flat. Then, a little slower, with a meaningful look at the landlord: “I think there’s people around.”

That’s the breaking point for Remus’ landlord. His face goes puce. He bellows, loud enough to make Remus’ ears throb and- more importantly- to get Sirius and James to pause, “Out! Out! If yer not out in a minute I’ll call the coppers and have ‘em twist yer ears ‘til they bleed!”

He’s not sure when they bundle themselves down the stairs, nor when his entire life’s belongings return to his mildly-charmed knapsack, nor when James apparates them to a seaside cliff. It all goes a little bit numb there; Remus breathes when his chest hurts and moves when prodded and otherwise just panics very, very quietly in the privacy of his mind.

Panics.

Because if Sirius switched, then Peter was the traitor. Because if Peter was the traitor- is the traitor- then Remus’ entire task to the werewolves has been in vain. Because there’s only one way Remus could have swayed any of the werewolves to the Order’s side, and that’s by sneaking it under the alpha’s notice. If Greyback hadn’t known, then it should have worked. But if Peter had told Voldemort and if Voldemort had told Greyback...

Not panic, then. Not truly.

Rage.

Remus holds onto the fraying strands of his control.

Years lost to a fruitless task. A big bonus, too, to Voldemort’s side: Remus is a good dueler, almost on par with Sirius even if neither of them are quite as good as James. With him tied up in dealing with Greyback, it means one less wand attacking the Death Eaters.

Years.

All that sacrifice- kneeling, that very first moon, to Greyback; Remus tends to forget most of his time as a wolf but not that, not that painful humiliation- eating raw meat- watching werewolves turn helpless children, marking them-

“Remus? Rem- Moony? Moony-”

Remus flattens his hands on the soil.

“Get back,” he growls. There’s someone touching him on his shoulder, but his irritation flares; that person yelps and backs away.

He hasn’t had an incident like this since he was very young; years before Hogwarts. But he can feel it- the way the magic rises to match his fury- and Remus knows better than to try to suppress it. Not now, so close to the full moon, and especially not after he’s nearly drained himself with the travel across Europe. He doesn’t have the control to do much more than direct the magic. Hopefully it’ll be enough. Remus inhales, and on the exhale, pushes his magic into the earth.

It goes. Deeper and deeper and deeper. Down to the roots of the trees clinging to life on wind-battered cliffs.

So few people know who Remus is. His father’s story is well-known: a muggleborn speaking out against Greyback, whose son was brutally attacked. A muggleborn who married a pureblood McKinnon, against all the people trying to convince her otherwise. Remus is a Lupin because that is his father’s name. But his mother’s blood flows through him as well and he has always, always, had an affinity to the earth.

It had always been a sore point between him and Sirius- what Remus could possibly have to talk to with Marlene. All those long hours in the greenhouses ought to have meant something, though it would never have occurred to Sirius that they’d passed the time simply talking about family. Family that Marlene loved, and Remus’ mother loved as well.

Syllables spurt from his tongue, ancient, guttural. Remus closes his eyes and bends forward, presses his forehead to the earth.

What we have come from, we shall return to. That which is given can be taken. The earth can take this rage within me, for it is stronger than those I love can bear.

Tiny fissures in the earth form. Coalesce. Deepen. Remus digs his fingers into the soil, claws at it, feels his nails start to tear, and the cracks deepen.

He thinks about Peter, smiling tearfully in his family home, yellow curtains blowing in the wind. He thinks about burying Marlene and Martin and nearly fifty McKinnons, saying an eulogy and a prayer and a blessing for them all, because there’s nobody else to do it. He thinks about Caradoc Dearborn, who’d offered Remus a job in his law firm just hours before he was chopped into pieces by Death Eaters.

He thinks about Greyback.

The wind howls, and the trees shake, and slowly, inexorably, the cliff is sheared away from the land. It stops at the point where his forehead touches the earth, as the ritual is meant to do, and when Remus rises, he sees that the sea’s churning angrily like a large mass of earth has just been dropped into it.

“Remus?” asks Lily, uncertain and more than a little taken aback. The others look the same, so he supposes it must have been an unnerving display.

Remus turns. “I was angry,” he says hoarsely. Swallows. “It- I couldn’t bottle it up, either, because my magic was so drained. I lost control. And earth magic’s my... forte. So I made sure it didn’t hurt anyone.”

“It’s a good thing we’d packed it up, then, or everything’d be drowned,” says James, lips quirking.

He blinks. “You were staying in a cave?”

“It was a good cave,” says Lily dryly.

“Lily-”

“We have to leave anyways,” she continues, speaking over him. “The magic- if the Ministry figures it out...”

Sirius jams his hands in his pockets. He looks the most weary of all of them, like a stiff wind might just carry him over. Remus looks away from them. He’s so fucking exhausted himself; all that rage has died down to a small kernel in his gut, and now he’s just cold.

“Yeah,” he says and stands. “Got any ideas?”

Remus manages one step, then two, before the dizziness hits. He staggers. Darkness flashes at the corners of his eyes as he tries to get his balance back. A moment later, Sirius’ face, white and strained, enters his field of view.

“Magical exhaustion,” Remus grits out as reassuringly as he can manage. “Just- need-”

Rest, he thinks, but words swim away from him before he can voice it.

The blackness swallows him up. Remus, almost gratefully, surrenders to it.

...

“Most people get exhausted from just five apparitions.”

Sirius glances up at James. Remus’ head is resting in his lap, and though he’s got more scars and too-ragged hair, he looks good. Warm. When Sirius saw that blood in Godric’s Hollow, he’d never even dreamed this might happen again.

“It takes at least ten to make it from Albania,” Sirius agrees. “I don’t know how he managed.”

“Yes, well.” James grimaces. “He’s always got such control over it, you know. I never could manage it even a little.”

“Takes breaking a cliff to make him faint. Not exactly easy.”

“Earth magic?”

“Mm. He always did like those ‘Puffs.”

“Marlene was a Gryffindor.”

Sirius narrows his eyes. “Bastard never told me.”

“You know Remus, though,” James points out.

Which is fair. Remus doesn’t tell people things. He holds onto his secrets like they’re going to kill him if he lets go even a little. If you confronted him, he’d admit to only just enough to get you off his back. Asking him about his werewolf thing had been like pulling teeth; asking him about why he’d given up being prefect in their sixth year had been even worse; he’d just flat out refused to tell by the time they’d graduated.

It’d been half the reason why Sirius suspected him, by the end.

Not the end, he reminds himself.

Through some miraculous lifeline, it isn’t the end.

“Any clues on when we’re leaving?” he asks.

It’s not a subtle change of topic, but both of them are tired. Better to talk about necessities than life-changing secrets. Better yet to not talk, Sirius thinks to himself. He’ll run his mouth as much as shout in this state, and with Remus unconscious and Lily nervy herself, it won’t end well. Remus had the experience enough to ground his magic into his element; Sirius is fairly certain that if either he or Lily do it- both of them strong, and violent, and even worse, flashy- they’ll blow a hole in the land that’d rival the size of Manchester.

James- bless his heart- seems to realize that. He glances back at Lily, who’s pacing the edge of the cliff, muttering to herself. She doesn’t look too good.

“Where, not when,” he corrects. “If we had a clue... well, we’d be gone by now. But we need wards and, preferably, a library. We have clues on how to go forward, but no information. It’s driving Lils mad.”

Wards. Library. Something sifts through Sirius’ mind. Funerals and articles and pitying looks in the middle of Diagon.

This is a bad idea.

“’s it about dark magic?”

James frowns. “Yeah. Think so.”

Oh, this is a bad idea.

“I’ve got a place, then.”

...

Breaking into Grimmauld Place is... not difficult.

Sirius winces as they enter- it’s moldy and dusty, but the worse part is the Dark magic, humming in the very air like an army of locusts. But both the homenum revelios that he and James cast return nothing; his mother’s left the house, it seems, and even Kreacher isn’t there.

More importantly, the number of wards cast over the house ensure it’s practically unassailable. And the library is one of the finest in all of Europe.

That first night, Sirius puts James and Lily in Regulus’ rooms, because if there’s one room that his mother wouldn’t have spelled with traps it would be that one. He levitates Remus into his own rooms. A few cursory waves of his wand ensure that there aren’t any unpleasant surprises on the bed. And after that, he doesn’t get much beyond spelling his shoes off before he falls asleep, stretched out loosely next to Remus.

...

Lily hates it.

Grimmauld Place is unfriendly, from the house elf straight down to the very walls. James and Sirius don’t see it; they’re purebloods, and all those little pinpricks of magic and spells that remind her that she wasn’t born into this world don’t even seem to register. That’s not entirely a surprise, of course. Lily’d expected that when she began dating James and had accepted it quietly when she wed him. But she’s also always had friends to complain with- Mary, and Colleen, and Jenna, who was in Ravenclaw but liked Lily enough to invite her into their common room when she wanted the company- and Remus, as well, to a certain extent.

Remus is too frail to even think about any of that now, though.

Three days passed, and he spends most of his time sleeping. It’s getting better, of a sorts, in that Remus wakes for longer intervals; but that’s only from what Sirius reports to them. Apart from eating and ensuring that Kreacher can’t spill their secrets to others, Sirius stays shut in his old room with Remus, and nothing Lily or James do can coax him out.

It’s even worse now, because she and James are fighting. It isn’t a proper fight, exactly, not like some of the raging rows they’d had in the middle of the Gryffindor common room.

Maybe we’ve grown up, thinks Lily wryly. Maybe we’ve moved past shouting at each other.

Because this isn’t a battle to be won with harsh words or screams. There’s too much hurt on both sides- hurt pride, hurt love, and outrage as well, because Lily knows that James thinks he’s as right in his actions as Lily’s certain he’s wrong- and if it isn’t a loud fight, it’s something like milk left on the stove and forgotten. It boils over. It stinks up the entire house. It’s a pain to clean up.

So Lily doesn’t bother. She’s already wasted two days trying to get the Black wards to untangle for her before leaving it for a lost cause. Azkaban’s wards had been far more complicated, but these knots can only be loosened with Black blood, and Lily doesn’t have any of that in her veins. Instead, she settles into the library and lets herself research, properly research, like she hasn’t been able to do in years.

...

It is- a week, or perhaps more, when Sirius is kidnapped.

Not kidnapped, not exactly, but he wakes in a different place than where he went to bed. He remembers sleeping beside Remus. He remembers the moonlight shafting through the window, the curtain stirring in the chill wind. He remembers...

Silver fingers and the call of a wind so harsh it bruises-

Black robes cut flawlessly-

A voice of contempt and thunder-

His wand leaps to his fingers and slashes a line of fire at the figure standing behind the desk. Sirius growls, low in his throat, as it dissipates before ever reaching the man’s face and rolls out of the chair he’d been sitting on to come up just in front of the fireplace.

Arcturus Black, Sirius’ grandfather and Head of House, doesn’t even flinch. “Sit down, boy,” he says levelly.

“Let me go,” whispers Sirius.

Distantly, he realizes that his wand is trembling.

“I think not. Sit down.”

“I will not,” Sirius retorts. His wand might tremble; but his voice doesn’t. “I am not yours any longer. You’ve no power to compel me, not since I turned sixteen. Five years have passed, Grandfather.”

“I’d known you to be a Gryffindor, not a fool.”

“And I’m alive when your precious son and son’s favored son are both dead,” Sirius says, letting his voice turn ugly. “Let me go.”

“Sit down,” snarls Arcturus, suddenly sharp, and Sirius flinches. He finds himself obeying, too, with an alacrity that makes old rage sing in him like a honed sword. The anger in Arcturus’ face fades, though, replaced with thoughtfulness. Sirius rather dislikes the latter more than the former. “And so it is shown at last,” he says. “I could not have commanded your cousin so easily, had I a mind to try.”

Slytherins. Sirius can feel his breath rasping in his chest. Can feel the ache in his lower back, from sitting so stiffly. He lets his own eyes narrow and inspect Arcturus closely. Always saying one thing, meaning another.

“You think Andromeda would have let you?”

Sometimes the only answer is to force the truth out of them.

“When you are disowned, there is nothing that can be done,” says Arcturus. “That is the ritual that you demanded your parents perform in place of the Heredis Familias, is it not?”

Sirius bows his head. He hates thinking about that night. His father wanted to name him the heir to the Heir of the House of Black, or more properly- the heir to the Heredis of the House of Black, which is a role of itself with different responsibilities and powers than that of the Head. But while magic protects the Heredis from manipulation and magical cruelty at the hands of both Head and other family, the heir to the Heredis is given none of those. Sirius knows, knows, down deep in his bones, that his father would have bound him with such familial magics as to leave him a shell, barely able to do what he’s ordered.

“Yes,” he replies, and looks up to meet Arcturus’ gaze. If his grandfather hadn’t wanted him disowned, then he should have interfered earlier. “Now, let me go.”

“And yet I can command you. With great strain, but it is possible. You could walk into the London home, when the wards ought to have drowned you alive.” Arcturus doesn’t even seem to register his words. “Can you imagine why?”

“No,” snaps Sirius.

“Because Orion and Walburga never disowned you.”

Sirius jerks a hand up. “Impossible.”

“Oh, they did it legally. But magically? Orion was never a fool.” Cold satisfaction gleams in Arcturus’ eyes. “He was waiting for his second son to prove himself worthy. A pity they both died before that could be finished.”

A pity? A pity!

“Your only son and his only son are dead, and you don’t even care?” Sirius’ lip curls. “I’m glad I fled when I did, rather than remain in a home like this.”

“You wish to leave?” asks Arcturus.

“I think I’ve made that pretty fucking clear!”

“You enter one of my homes,” muses Arcturus, leaning back in his chair and lacing his fingers together. “You bring a werewolf with you. You have the absolute gall to desecrate the homes of your ancestors by ruining those portraits. And when I call you here to question you, you think yourself in the right?"

“Who’re you to question me?”

“The owner,” says Arcturus silkily, “of the home you’re currently staying in.”

Sirius jerks his head away. Thinks, furiously. Finally, he says, more sulky than he likes, “I needed a safe place. I thought- we needed a place with wards. And better we die quick with the Black wards than slowly outside.”

“Death, Grandson? I would’ve thought you too Gryffindor to give up so easily.”

“War teaches you things.” Sirius shrugs.

Slowly, Arcturus inclines his head. “Indeed. In light of that- an equal bargain, then?”

Sirius stares at him.

Equal bargain? Sirius flexes his fingers over his wand, as much for reassurance as to ensure he’s ready for anything else Arcturus throws at him. What the hell’s he playing at?

An equal bargain, after all, can only be done between equals. That is how the magic works, it only ensures the truth’s spoken when it’s equals. It can’t be used by a teacher to find out if a student’s cheating; it can’t be used by a general to make deals with spies; it can’t be used by a Head to bring an errant family member to heel.

I’m not a Hufflepuff to trust you blindly. I’m a Gryffindor, and that means I’ll drag you out of the shadows.

“Why?” Sirius asks, tilting his head to stare at Arcturus. Arcturus lifts an eyebrow, deliberately obtuse, and Sirius snarls internally. “The ritual’s meant for merchants. Won’t take hold if we’re not equals. If we don’t think of each other as such.”

“There are many books in the Black libraries,” says Arcturus. Holds up a hand at Sirius’ snort. “Let me finish,” he says, and it’s so dangerous that Sirius finds his mouth snapping shut of its own volition. “Many books, and many tales. A ritual for merchants, you say, and it’s used this way today- but once upon a time, it wasn’t. Once, it was used between generals. Between the left hand of Lady Genevieve and the first Minister of Magic, more than seven hundred years ago.” Sirius swallows, hard. Arcturus is staring at him so intently. “It was that agreement that allowed us to leave the muggles behind. Four hundred years we’d been separated before even the Statute of Secrecy. A monumental moment. ‘Tis fitting that this be another such meeting.”

“It won’t work if we don’t think of each other as equals,” Sirius retorts. “The history’s fine and all, but I’m not sure how you think that holds true for us.”

Arcturus smiles, slow, thin-lipped. “Was this not your oldest grievance against us all, Grandson? That we did not treat you as you ought to have been, with the rights that were yours by virtue of birth?” He nods. “Accept, now, and clasp my hand- and see if that has changed.”

The oldest wrong.

Because Sirius hadn’t been the faultless son, and his father had retaliated by removing him from those privileges that an heir ought to have had. Because Sirius has learned right and wrong and a hundred other things in the years away- seven in Hogwarts, and five past it- but before that, always, has been his pride and his love and his rage, simmering underneath as a flame too low to see until the pot’s a burnt mess.

Not a Head to his family. Sirius breathes in, and it shakes. One general to another. Hope sings in him like a fresh dawn. If this is true-

He reaches out one palm. Feels Arcturus’ grip it. Stares into his grandfather’s eyes.

“Information,” he agrees, carefully, “for information.”

The magic slots into place above them like swords made of blue light. Sirius rips his hand from Arcturus to pace on the carpet, restless energy in his veins, before he turns back to grip the back of the chair he’d been sitting on.

“You’re starting,” he tells Arcturus.

Something shadows Arcturus’ face. “My heir is gone, and my heir’s heir." His voice is perfectly inflectionless. “I know their murderer. I know that House Black has call to declare a blood feud with a Dark Lord, and the only reason we have not done so is because we are not powerful enough for it.”

“You think Volde-”

“-do not use that name!”

“-You-Know-Who, then,” Sirius says impatiently, “you think he killed my- father? And Regulus?”

“Enough to declare a blood feud.”

Strong evidence, then.

Blood feuds are bad business. Rivers have literally run red with the blood of feuding houses. For Arcturus to even think about declaring one...

Well.

They have an ally, now, and though Sirius will have to watch for betrayal- it is still better than the previous morning, when it would have been the four of them against all of the world.

“There is a prophecy,” he says casually, watching Arcturus’ face for the effect of the revelation. “Regarding his defeat.”

“Do you know it?”

“Yes.” Sirius pauses just long enough to ensure it’s clear that he won’t elaborate. “Tell me why I’m here.”

“Because I need an heir,” says Arcturus simply. “As it stands, the heir shall be a Malfoy, through Narcissa, and I’ve no wish to see that occur.”

My turn.

Do I trust him? Oh, Sirius doesn’t, and he’s certain that he shouldn’t. But information for information is a time-honored truce. And Sirius recognizes that vicious desire for vengeance, singing rich in Arcturus’ blood. That same blood that runs in Sirius, twice over from both mother and father. Carefully, then.

“The one with the power to vanquish the Dark Lord approaches,” he recites, not looking away from Arcturus. “Born to those who have thrice defied him, born as the seventh month dies, and the Dark Lord will mark him as his equal, but he will have power the Dark Lord knows not. And either must die at the hand of the other for neither can live while the other survives.”

For just a heartbeat, so quick that Sirius would have missed it had he not been looking so closely, triumph flashes across Arcturus’ eyes like sunlight off frozen stone. But it fades, and is replaced by his calm mask once more.

“The Dark Lord thinks it speaks of the Potter boy?”

“Or Neville Longbottom,” says Sirius slowly.

Arcturus closes his eyes and tilts his head back. Light fractures off his face, like something seen through a kaleidoscope. Sirius sees something that he hadn’t ever seen before: relief, and hope, burning bright as dawn’s first rays. He can’t help but think that he’s missing something.

“Another trade, I think,” says Arcturus. Sirius jerks and stares. That voice- it’s rich, deep, forceful. Arcturus hasn’t sounded like that in Sirius’ entire lifetime. “Not truth for truth, but rather a gift for another.”

“I’ve nothing to offer,” says Sirius.

A razor smile, thin, bladed. “You have not a name or allies,” he agrees. “But your word? For all that your parents doubted of you, your honor was never one of them.”

Irritation flickers in Sirius’ mind. “Just because I wasn’t as cold as they wanted-”

“Become the Heredis, and all shall be forgiven.”

“I’ve done nothing to forgive!”

“Accept my offer,” says Arcturus, unmoved. “If not for yourself, then for those who depend upon you- that werewolf, for instance, who yet seeks shelter in my home.”

The fireplace behind him roars into being so loudly that it deafens Sirius for a moment. He hisses, fingers digging so hard into the chair’s arm that the wood crumples inwards. Sirius feels the fury in his chest at Arcturus’ implicit threat, takes that fury, caresses it into something as sweet and palatable as wine.

“You think I’d give up freedom for the use of one house?” he asks, and then smiles at the brief hesitance in his grandfather’s eyes. Yes. I am not tame, no matter how much you wish otherwise. “I am a Gryffindor, yes, and that should’ve warned you, Grandfather: if you touch Remus, if you even try, I’ll not stop until I’ve ripped you limb from limb and then shredded every piece of the Black legacy into dust.”

“Two gifts then,” says Arcturus after a pause. His lips are pressed so tightly together that they look bloodless. “One, to use Black properties as you wish. Second, access to the gold of all the Black vaults of Gringotts. And in return, you’ll allow yourself to be named the Heredis of House Black at the end of this war.”

Sirius exhales slowly. “One gift cannot match two.”

A spark, buried deep in Arcturus’ eyes, flares and dies. It looks like approval. Because Sirius remembers the traditions? Because he’s spent years trying to forget, and all it’s taken is a room of dark mahogany and cold words to roll all those years back?

“No,” says Arcturus softly. “It cannot. The second shall be a vow, to defeat the Dark Lord or die trying.”

I am already trying to do that. Why would you waste another gift?

He is definitely missing something. But Sirius knows that he won’t be able to find out; if nothing else, Arcturus will deny it to his last breath. All he can do is hope that he won’t be caught blind by his vow.

All he can be is brave.

“Very well,” says Sirius instead. “I accept.”

The magic above them dissolves in a shower of dust. The cool edge to the room that had come from the ritual fades as well, until all that’s left is the study and its smoking fireplace.

“Then it is done.” Arcturus bows his head and rises, heading to the fireplace. He opens an ivory box and reveals the green Floo powder in it. Sirius rises, hand almost brushing the powder, when Arcturus pulls it away, just enough for Sirius to look up at him. “But there is a chance for more, is there not, Grandson?”

“More what?” Sirius asks warily.

“One last bargain. A challenge, let us say, to see who you are: the puling brat of your mother’s words, or the man who survived Azkaban with both mind and body intact to a surprising degree.”

“And if I don’t accept?”

“Then you may go. But I have information that might be... interesting to you. On the Dark Lord.”

Sirius’ hand clenches. “You want him defeated just as much as I do.”

“That need not mean I spoon-feed you answers,” says Arcturus airily. “Tell me, now, whether you accept the challenge or wish to flee it.”

If I don’t take it, he’ll think me a coward. If I do take it, he’ll think me reckless. There’s no way I can win.

Not unless I do this for myself, and ignore what he thinks.

And Sirius would give much to know what his grandfather knows. He’s certain that he won’t die in this challenge; that would negate this entire conversation, the effort that Arcturus has gone to ensure this occurs. Even more, pain is something Sirius can handle.

“Tell me, then,” Sirius says abruptly.

This time, it’s unmistakable in Arcturus’ eyes: approval, bright and cold as the stars around them.

“Follow me.”

Arcturus walks out of the study, not looking behind if Sirius follows. After a brief hesitation, Sirius does, inspecting the rest of the house curiously. The study’s the only room that he remembers of Nox Aeterna, the ancient home of the Head of House Black, and the rest of the house is fascinating in it’s own way. Not so dark and gloomy as Grimmauld Place, but rather airy, with large windows and curtains that shine in shades of blue and silver.

They stop at a balcony, overlooking a choppy sea far beneath.

Arcturus leans forwards and grips the balustrade, knuckles bleaching of color.

“Trust is in little supply and great demand,” he says quietly. Sirius can barely hear him over the roar of the ocean. “And the only truth that is of import now is that of magic.” His gaze swings back to meet Sirius’. “We do this the old way, that which has been forgotten for long years: prove yourself, if you are to be named Heir.”

Sirius lifts his wand and takes one step forwards. Arcturus matches that move. He, too, reaches up; but only to grip Sirius’ chin, bruising in its strength.

Then he twists and in a flash, Sirius is braced over the railing. He yelps in shock, straining for his magic. But Arcturus is older and more prepared- he presses, so that Sirius is nearly bent in half backwards, head pushed so far that he sees the endless grey of the ocean instead of Arcturus’ cruel face.

“You called flame when threatened,” Sirius hears him say, as if from a long distance. “But you are a Black and our home has never been that. It has always been that water from which we first emerged, dripping, to conquer the earth. Call the water beneath you, if you do not wish to be swallowed by it!”

...

Arcturus observes his grandson passionlessly.

He’s shaking, the boy; he’s an undisciplined mess, and an idiot, and a blood-traitor to boot. But he’s clever. Even now, his magic surges around him like an uncontrollable tempest. Even now, terrified and half-broken from Azkaban, Sirius is powerful.

The waves so far beneath them rise, slowly, in response to Sirius’ call.

The ancient call of the Blacks.

Arcturus watches the glittering rainbow strands of water spiraling up to the balcony. He hadn’t done this for Orion or Regulus, too afraid that the ritual would damage them beyond all recognition. He regrets that now. There’s much he regrets, but most of all the ruin of the House of Black in less than five years.

It all began with Sirius’ flight from London in the dead of night. It will end today, with Sirius’ return.

Do you know what you will become? Arcturus shoves forwards, grim and harsh, and feels satisfaction like silk on his spine at the way the water almost touches Sirius’ palms. Do you know what you represent?

For too long has there been two sides in war: Dumbledore and the Dark Lord, with the nebulous Ministry a coin tossed and used by both. But now Sirius is in a Black home of his own volition, and hope lives in Arcturus once more. A boy born at the end of the seventh month, to parents who’ve defied the Dark Lord thrice over? Oh, there has always been more to the magic of prophecy than anyone can put into words, and Arcturus will not let the flame of hope gutter out because of other’s plots.

Between Dumbledore and the Dark Lord, Arcturus knows whom he shall side with. Between the Dark Lord and another side, one where the Blacks can stand tall and proud...

I am a Black. And for too long, the world has forgotten what that means. It is time for us to step out now.

The world shall change, immeasurably, and Arcturus will be there to see it happen.

He’ll be there to make it happen.

No matter what it takes.

...

James is in the kitchen, curled over a mug of tea, when Sirius floos into it. He stumbles in and sits down, hard, on a chair.

“I didn’t know you’d gone out,” says James slowly.

Sirius makes a face back at him. “Wasn’t by choice. M’grandfather kind of... kidnapped me.”

“Arcturus?” asks James, startled. Half-rises out of his chair. “Do we have to leave?”

“No.” Sirius shakes his head. “It was- weird. He was- weird.”

James looks at him closer. But that answers fewer questions than it raises; Sirius is white, bone-white, and shaking, and his hair is-

“Did you go swimming?”

“I wish,” snorts Sirius, leaning back in the chair and pressing a wrist against his eyes. “The bastard shoved me off a fucking balcony, ‘cause it’d prove something to him. Guess he was angry I hit him with incendio."

“Incendio?” asks James, morbidly fascinated. He’s never fully understood the Blacks and their family; how they’re so cruel to each other all the time, for no reason other than that they can. “Did he need healing?”

“Like he’d have let it touch him.”

And it’s anger that James sees now, crystallized and frozen. His hand drops and reveals Sirius’ eyes, shining like slate-stone: unyielding. He’s not shaking from fear or adrenaline. It’s just rage, pure as diamond crystals. And though he’s soaked through from his hair down to his clothes, he also looks far better than he’s done for the past week while they’ve hidden and scrounged around the house.

Rest isn’t something that either of them are good at.

“He treated me like a respected opponent,” says Sirius flatly. “Information for information, gift for gift, and finally: assurance for assurance. He spoke to me- one leader to another. Offered me the Black money and properties if I took the name.” He looks at James. “I took it.”

“Sirius-”

“I told him the prophecy, too.”

James inhales sharply. “That was a good idea?”

“I don’t fucking know, do I?” Sirius waves his wand and grabs the firewhiskey bottle that breaks out of the cellar before it can shatter against the table. Another flick, and the bottle’s opened, and he takes a deep swig of it. “But I did it.”

And now we have to live with it.

“Why’d he push you off a balcony?” James asks softly.

Sirius tips his head back. “Because he wanted to give me something and couldn’t think of a way of doing it without being a horrible fucking human being.”

“Sirius,” says James.

“A book. That’s what he gave. For proving myself worthy of his fucking House, I got a book.” From under Sirius’ robes, he reveals an old tome. Slams it onto the table. “You-Know-Who asked for it. That’s how my dad died, apparently, getting this back into the Black library. The curses You-Know-Who put up around it shriveled his heart into ash, but he got away. Got back home. Here. And that’s how he died, the stupid son of a bitch.”

James steps forwards and presses his hand against Sirius’ shoulder. He can feel the tremors through it- aborted as soon as Sirius can manage, but not truly hidden. Not to James, who knows Sirius almost better than he knows himself.

“I’m going to take that to Lily,” he says quietly. “And then I’m coming back here with Remus, and we’re gonna forget everything else. One night, Sirius. I think we’re owed that.”

No, thinks James, tightening his grip on Sirius’ shoulder, sadness a gulf beneath him that can swallow him if he allows it. We’re owed far more. But this is what we have. And we’ll live with that. Like we have, for so long that we forget how to ask for more.

But there are things that cannot be forgotten, no matter how long they take to return. And James is alive, and his friends are alive, and that is all that matters. So long as they live, they can do more. So long as they live, they can hope.

They can dream.

...

Remus watches James watch Sirius.

Sirius is good at hiding his emotions from everyone who’s not James, and James is notoriously bad at keeping his feelings off his face. Add alcohol to the mix and it’s like taking candy from a child. Remus feels a vague sort of guilt for taking such shameless advantage, but it’s James who’d invited him to a party consisting of hard alcohol while Remus is incapable of consuming it with all the healing potions running through his system.

“One day,” says James, words all slurring together, “we’re gonna get away to a nice place. Have a vacation. The four o’ us. Somewhere warm, where it isn’t raining. No Lily, no kids. I just want-”

“Three,” says Remus quietly.

James looks back at him, eyes blinking. For less than a heartbeat, his eyes look like the firewhiskey in his hand, gold and glittering and inhuman. “Wha’?”

“Three of us, James. Not four.”

“You’re backing out?” he demands, with all the fervor of a person who’s properly sloshed. “Well, fuck you too, Lupin. Making our schedules line up’s hard enough without you being such a bore.”

“I’m not talking about our schedules,” says Remus, with considerably more patience than he’d ever thought he had. “And I’d be happy to come. But Peter’s... not around anymore.”

“I’ll pound that bastard’s face in,” mumbles Sirius from the other side of the table, head pressed against the wood. “Next time I see ‘im. Straight in. No magic. I want to see it happen.”

“Yes, well.” Remus turns back to James, whose glaring intently at Sirius. “Jam- Prongs, look-”

“That’s not nice,” says James, rolling his shoulders. “I’ve seen him, you know, and he looks like absolute shit. Doesn’t deserve what’s happening to him, I don’t think, the poor bastard.”

Remus stills. Across from him, Sirius slowly lifts his head.

“When?” asks Remus, deathly quiet.

“Right before we got Sirius out. Lily was doing that- I was the decoy.” James’ jaw juts forward priggishly, but all that means is that he’s being stubborn. “He was there. I spoke to him.”

“You spoke to him?”

James nods.

“Oh, how fucking magnanimous of you,” hisses Remus, hands clenching and unclenching on his wand. “Speaking to the man who gave you up for You-Know-Who! What, did you debate values with him? Tell him that he shouldn’t have, it made your life a little fucking difficult? You absolutely sanctimonious arse of a pureblood, do you even know what he’s done to the rest of us!”

“Wormtail,” says James, soft as a thread of spider silk. “Our friend. That’s who you’re talking about like this.”

“Damn right!” snarls Remus. “The man who betrayed you, who would’ve stood by and killed your son, you, your wife- you ever wonder why you met him there? Because you were rescuing Sirius. Why were you rescuing Sirius? Because Peter put him there!”

“We get to be afraid,” says James quietly. “You can’t demand people not to feel.”

“He chose to be a part of this war!”

“Did he? Truly, down deep, after all of us had made our choices- did he get one?”

“Yes,” says Sirius, so abrupt that both of them startle and turn to him. Sirius’ eyes are red and he looks like he’s been through a whirlwind right before being dumped into the chair, but there’s sobriety in his eyes that hadn’t been there just moments before. “Yeah, Prongs, he did get one. Just ‘cause he was too afraid to take it then doesn’t mean he gets to take this one now.”

“Then that’s your decision,” says James.

“You’re right.”

Remus spins around so fast that his back cracks, to see Lily standing in the doorway. Her hair’s thick and loose down her back; her face is as steady as a statue carved of stone.

“We won’t ask you to kill him,” says Lily calmly. “We won’t ask you to hate him. But you won’t ask the opposite of us, either. It is your choice to forgive him; it is ours to not do so.”

“Lils-”

“I found something,” she continues, without missing a beat. James’ mouth clicks shut. “The book that Sirius brought back- I’ve found out what that damned ring is. I thought you lot might want to come to see it.”

“I’d love to, but-”

“But?” asks Lily, dangerously sweet, stone face cracking to show something seething and hot beneath.

That’s when Remus realizes that though she hasn’t demonstrated too much of her anger, that doesn’t mean that she isn’t feeling it. The Lily in front of him right now is frayed over at the seams, held together with sheer determination alone. She’s not in the frame of mind to understand why James wanted a day’s relaxation; Remus rather suspects that Lily’d been even angrier when James told her his plan.

She’s pushing herself too hard, he thinks wearily. And when it becomes too much- and it will, sooner rather than later- she’ll collapse.

Remus cannot stop her.

But he can hold her together through it, whenever that happens. And that means that he needs to recover quickly- even quicker than he has been- because Merlin knows that Sirius and James aren’t capable of recognizing an impending breakdown until it’s actually happening in front of them.

“But,” he says now, before James can say something unfortunately stupid, “both of these berks are drunk. Anything you say’s gonna fly straight over their heads.”

“Like it doesn’t normally,” says Lily, caustic as acid, but Remus sees her face relax fractionally, and breathes out in a silent whoosh of relief. “There’s sobering potion in that cupboard-” she nods to the third one over and waves her wand, but the lock doesn’t break under her instruction, though the bottles do soar out with the simple expedience of shattering the glass case. “-oh, god, I’ll clean that tomorrow.” She directs them to James and Sirius before fixing James with a beady eye. “You’ll make sure they take it?”

Remus winces. “Yes.”

“Then I’ll see you in the library.”

Lily turns on her heel and leaves. Remus lifts his brows back at James and Sirius, both of whom are eyeing the potion with distaste.

“Well, get on with it, then,” he says, forcibly cheerful. “Bottom’s up!”

...

Lily would feel more pity for the others if she hadn’t been working so damn hard herself. She knows she’s being unfair. Intellectually, that knowledge is present. What isn’t is her patience. They can rest once this war is over, and wanting to live during it-

We survive, she thinks, tapping her nails against the book-cover impatiently. We survive, and only once we’ve managed that, we live.

The memory of James comparing Peter to her sister still blazes, like a hot coal set against her breast. Petunia is nasty and low and mean but she’s not evil. And Peter- what he’s done is evil. Letting Voldemort come after them, betraying them like that... it’s evil, like taking the heart out of an innocent and crushing it to dust.

When Lily closes her eyes, she can hear Harry’s terrified screams; she can smell James’ blood. She’s slept, yes, but only in short stretches, and mostly subsists on Dreamless Sleep once every four days, which is just long enough not to build up either resistance or dependence. She’s furious and exhausted and surviving in a home that she loathes with every inch of her body, and it is all Peter’s fault.

I hate him, thinks Lily, and bows her head, draws that hate into herself like poison sucking out of the wound. This will not hurt me; this won’t be my downfall. But there will come a time when Peter is not on guard, and then I will strike.

A lioness does not hesitate to bring a fawn. And if backed into a corner, a den of loved ones behind her, a lioness is even more dangerous.

She’d joined this war because it was the right thing to do. She’d stayed because she was a muggleborn and a mudblood and in as much danger with her head down as with her head held high, and she’s got enough pride to want her life to mean something.

It’s never been truly personal.

Not until now.

Voldemort will regret doing that. So will Peter. By the end of this, there will be justice done for all those that she loves.

Distantly, Lily hears something crack in the kitchens. She tilts her head to the side and listens; she can hear the beginnings of some loud argument, and all it takes is one twitch of her fingers for her wand to roll across the table and straight into her palm.

I swear it, she thinks, before getting up to return to the kitchens.

James didn’t know how he looked. Remus hasn’t been in England in nearly a year. Sirius is the likeliest to understand her need for justice, but he’s easily distracted.

It’s fine.

Her friends are dead, and her parents are buried in muggle graves that she can’t even visit for fear of leaving wards, and her sister hates her but cares for Lily’s only son because there’s no other option.

Lily will make sure they- the Death Eaters, Voldemort, all those pureblooded lords who dare to think she’ll die easy- will pay for it. For every last ounce of it.

This isn’t her first time cleaning up messes. This won’t be her last.

She refuses to feel regret for any of it.

...

By the time she makes it down to the kitchens again, there’s a full-blown argument happening.

It’s only Sirius shouting, though; Remus and James have both retreated to the door and are just watching him wearily. It’s almost like Hogwarts, where Sirius’ duels- both verbal and magical- with his family had become legendary by the time he graduated. It only took James and Remus and Peter until third year to stop holding Sirius back, too.

“Remus?” says Lily.

James cuts her a sharp, slightly hurt, look, but doesn’t say anything. Remus sighs.

“A house-elf,” he says. “Apparently his grandfather decided that allowing Sirius access to each of the properties means keeping the properties manageable.”

“Livable,” interjects James.

Remus shrugs. “And managing means... a house-elf. Though it seems to find the broken glass a little objectionable.”

“So why’s Sirius the one acting like a maniac?” Lily asks helplessly.

“When doesn’t Sirius act like a maniac?”

“James,” whispers Lily, a surge of irritation taking her aback with the depth of the emotion, “will you, please, for the love of god, just shut up?”

“Lily?”

She averts her face when she sees the naked surprise on Remus’ face. Lily can feel the ache in her muscles; she hasn’t moved in days, only from her room to the library to the kitchen and back to the library. Disuse hurts just as much as use.

I hate this.

“Sirius,” she says instead, and steps into the kitchen, wand up.

Sirius turns to face her. His long hair’s disheveled and his eyes are red. Behind him is a shriveled excuse for a house elf- bulging eyes, furious, twisted mouth, skin the color of copper scale.

“What are you doing?” Lily asks.

“I don’t want him here,” spits Sirius. Whatever calm came from the hours he’d spent with James and Remus have vanished into thin air; his hands are trembling, and there’s a vicious gleam in his eyes that leaves Lily uneasy. “He’s a spy, a great big spy for my grandfather, and I’m sick to death of this, I am, I cannot- I cannot bear this stupid family again- once was enough, goddammit!”

“Yes,” says Remus softly, slowly making his way into the kitchen. He doesn’t look away from Sirius. “It was. It is.”

Sirius slumps right where he’s standing, like his muscles have just turned to water. The desperate relief in his face, the way something taut and strained softens, leaves an aching pit in Lily’s own stomach.

But that’s when she hears the house-elf’s mutters, which turn abruptly audible: “Mudbloods... desecrating the House... blood-traitors breaking cupboards... Kreacher doesn’t know what Master was thinking, no sir... what would Master Regulus say, Kreacher wonders, oh, yes...”

“Shut up,” snaps Sirius, and though Kreacher’s mouth continues to move, no sound comes out of it. Tiredly, he turns to Lily. “Please tell me you’re going to say that we can leave this bloody place.”

“Soon,” says Lily, lowering her wand and then herself into one of the chairs. It might even make sense to have the conversation here- she’s worn enough not to want to drag herself back to the library tonight, anyways. A glance up confirms that Remus and James are inside as well, Remus with one hand white-knuckled on Sirius’ shoulder and James flanking Sirius’ left. Fine, then. Here it is. “That ring we found? It’s a horcrux."

It’d been far more complex than that, but that’s what her research boils down to. General diagnostic charms revealed nothing but Dark magic; Dark diagnostic charms revealed, in general, nothing. But one had given faint traces of soul magic, and Lily’d jumped onto that trail with zeal. The issue had been that soul magic diagnostics had revealed the ring to have not a soul nor no soul; rather somehow, a mix of the two.

What is neither a soul nor not a soul?

The answer, in the end, being a part of a soul.

From there it’d taken little time to find what kind of magic could accomplish that. She loathes the knowledge that’s sitting in her head now, all the byproducts of her research, but the end is present. Is there. That’s what matters.

“What’s a horcrux?” asks Sirius.

“An object that houses a piece of someone’s soul.” Lily watches Remus’ grip slide down from Sirius’ shoulder to his elbow and dig in. She closes her eyes for a brief moment. “There’s no way of knowing, of course, because it’s destroyed- but I think it’s fair to say that it’s You-Know-Who’s.”

“He split his soul?” asks James, looking sick.

“To give himself immortality.”

“Ah,” says Remus. “And do we know if there are any other such... horcruxes?”

“According to the book-” Lily shakes her head, “-no. Because only a fool would want to do it even once, and multiple times? The soul is what binds our magic to the physical plane. Take that away and the magic we wield becomes fractured. More powerful, maybe, but less controlled.”

Remus sways, before levering himself into a chair slowly, not letting up on his death-grip on Sirius’ elbow. “Mad,” he says. “That’s what he was, isn’t it?”

“Master Regulus would turn in his grave, yes he would,” mutters Kreacher from behind Sirius, just hidden from Lily’s sight by James and Remus’ chair. “Tries to destroy it... but a mud-”

“Right, that’s it,” snarls Sirius, waving his wand so wildly it looks like it might take Remus’ eye out. “Impugno!”

Lily flicks a shield up quicker than thought, so the yellow birds he conjures erupt out of existence against it. “Stop,” she says into the ensuing silence, eyes narrowed on Kreacher.

“Destroy what, Kreacher?”

His eyes dip away. “The mudblood is speaking to Krea-”

“Don’t address her like that!” James says loudly, but Lily waves him away to step closer to the elf.

“Destroy what, Kreacher?” Lily asks again.

House-elves aren’t stupid. Purebloods forget that, over and over again; they treat them like particularly faithful dogs, and don’t keep in mind that secrets said in the presence of people who won’t betray you doesn’t mean that there won’t ever come a time in which those people won’t betray you. And there’s intelligence in Kreacher’s eyes, sharp as a blade, for all that there’s hatred as well.

He’s heard what she’s said, and he’s broken through Sirius’ order to reply.

“Answer her!” says Sirius.

Kreacher says, slowly, grounding it out, “Master Regulus’ locket.”

“My brother couldn’t have made a horcrux if his life depended-”

His eyes are glowing when they meet Lily’s. They’re so large; looking closer, Lily realizes that his skin is less the color of copper scale and more that of sea foam, fathomless in its depths. Love, thinks Lily, breathless, certain as nothing else. This is love. In all its terrible, cruel, enigmatic glory. Then Kreacher says, “The locket Master Regulus stole from the Dark Lord,” and Lily’s heart stops.

...

The whole ugly story spills out of Kreacher. The green glow of the cave. The bodies. The potion, like fire down his throat. The high laugh of the Dark Lord, and Regulus’ rage when he left Kreacher to die in the cave. The grief of having no body to bury, and no one to tell the story to, and solely a locket of death and soul magic to remember Regulus by.

He’s quivering by the end of it, trying to repress his urge to both tell the story and punish himself for giving up his master’s secrets.

Sirius takes the locket from him. The metal of the chain is warm in his fingers. Slowly, he lets it drop onto the wooden table and breathes, lungs aching. He cannot cry. He will not cry. All that he has left behind, all this hatred, and his brother-

Their last words had been said in an argument. It hadn’t been in Hogwarts, but that was because it was Easter and Regulus was home for the break. They’d seen each other in Diagon by accident, and Regulus had come over to speak to him, and Sirius cannot- for the life of him- remember why he’d come over or what they’d gotten into an argument about; all he knows is Regulus, young, color flaring high in his cheeks, eyes blazing like the stars he’s named for. Sirius himself, three years older and disgusted, viscerally repulsed with the tender way his brother curled over his left hand.

The only thing you love is yourself, he’d spat, and Regulus had stood there, wand aloft, mouth pulled tight. What would you know of love, you fucking soulless bastard? Only reason you’ll do anything is ‘cause you want to make our parents happy!

Yes, Regulus had said. Because after all the grief they had with you, I think they deserve better!

No. Because you’re afraid. Sirius remembers that last sentence with shame, vast as his hatred for his family. The hitch to Regulus’ breathing, and the satisfaction that purred up Sirius’ spine in response. And that’s all anyone’s ever going to know about you, Reggie. Regulus had stilled at that name, and Sirius hadn’t known to call it hurt then. He isn’t certain even now, but he hopes. Oh, how he hopes. Your fucking fear.

Sirius had apparated away, then. Hadn’t spoken to Regulus after. Hadn’t known he was dead until he read the Prophet, and hadn’t cared about that until now. He thinks he should have. He thinks, now that he does, that this grief is-

Unending.

...

“Sirius,” says Remus quietly.

Sirius turns, just enough to see him. His head aches. He hasn’t been sleeping well even before this, and now- he’s not managed even one moment of sleep the full night. His body rebels at staying awake, yes, but when he closes his eyes all Sirius sees is Regulus.

How afraid he must have been, he thinks, and grief curdles in him like a cramped muscle. My little brother.

“I’m tired,” he says hoarsely, throat aching.

“You should sleep.” Remus enters, and sits gingerly on the side of the bed. His hand hovers over Sirius’ knee before coming to rest right next to it. “You look like you could use it.”

“No, I’m more tired of this,” says Sirius, fingers digging into the coverlet, both angry and exhausted at once. “Of this stupid home. This- this way they act, always, like it doesn’t matter if we survive if the family continues. As if the family isn’t made of people.”

And instead of fixing things, they just want us back. They don’t know how to treat people like they’re people, but they know that they’re doing something wrong. And it’s us who pay the price. Merlin, I hate them. I hate them all.

He doesn’t dare look at Remus. Only tilts his head back, flat on the pillow, so all he can see is the red-charmed ceiling. “He wanted me to stay,” Sirius says soundlessly.

Remus inhales sharply.

It should be meaningless, and it would be to anyone else- including James, Sirius thinks- but Remus has always known what Sirius means, almost before Sirius knows it himself.

“It wasn’t my fucking responsibility,” says Sirius, and where he might have shouted it at any other moment, right now he feels like a thread so thin it’s transparent; it exists, yes, but might well not in a heartbeat.

“Padfoot,” says Remus, voice thick. “It wasn’t. Of course it wasn’t. Isn’t. Whatever. You staying with your family might not have changed anything.”

Something cracks in Sirius’ chest, hot, bleeding. Ruinous.

“Might,” he says faintly.

Remus’ hand closes on his ankle. His bones grate together and Sirius gasps from the sudden, sharp pain.

“Don’t act like an idiot,” says Remus loudly. “You know what I mean. But this isn’t your fault, Sirius. No, look at me.” His other hand reaches and grips Sirius’ chin and forces him to look at Remus’ eyes, blue as- as- as flowers, and gems, and the sky, and still, none of that is as alive as Remus himself. The miserable stone in his belly lightens, just a little. “Who knows what might’ve happened in a different world? If you’d been in Slytherin, or Regulus’d been in Gryffindor, or- or- I don’t know. But that didn’t happen. You didn’t stay. They’d have killed you, or as good as, and I won’t fucking let you feel bad for surviving that. Surviving them.”

“Oh, Merlin,” says Sirius, horrified at himself, at the hot tears rising in his eyes.

He can’t even move, can only stare at Remus, who’s not letting him up, not even a little bit. Who’s only staring at him so fiercely that it makes the crack in his chest deepen, looking as patiently immovable as any mountain.

“Regulus died a hero,” Remus tells him. “That’s what matters. That’s what you should remember him as: the man who faced Vold- You-Know-Who himself, and decided he wanted no part of it. Who decided to do something, instead of just running.”

“Remus- fucking- let go-”

“No,” says Remus. “Fuck you, I’ll stay like this if I want to.”

Laughter punches through the sobs caught in his chest, like a knife through paper. Sirius hears the horrible sound erupt from his chest and inhales, gasping, razor-edged. Remus immediately lets go of his chin; but just when Sirius starts to curl in on himself, he feels arms come up, swallow him whole in an embrace that shouldn’t be possible when Remus is two inches shorter and nowhere near as broad.

“I hate this,” Sirius whispers, weary, what feels like hours later.

“I know,” says Remus, and he is warm and soft and stroking one hand down Sirius’ scalp. “I know, Padfoot.”

He sleeps, then, and though the world is made of cold, cruel things, Sirius feels none of it that night. Not as he is, safe in Remus’ arms.

...

Lily closes her eyes for just a moment before summoning her courage. The rap of her knuckles on the door shouldn’t feel as momentous as it does. But still she hesitates, even after she hears the muffled “Come in!” from within.

Then, breathing deep, she enters.

It’s James, sitting at the desk in the corner of the room. He’s leaning back so there’s only two feet on the floor, wand spinning in his hand and spitting up sparks.

“We should talk,” she says.

James wand still in his hands. His chair thuds onto the ground. Then he nods.

Lily clambers onto the bed and folds her legs under her. “Why?” she asks, sharper than she’d meant but still aching.

“Because he’s Peter,” says James quietly. The sparks from his wand light up the bottom of his face- the chin, the juts of his cheekbones. “I’ve known him since he was eleven, Lily. I can’t just- forget that.”

“He tried to kill us,” says Lily. “If you’ve forgotten.”

“Only reason you can think of for me not being a vengeful bastard?”

“He held Harry and swore to protect us and then he gave us up.” Lily runs a hand through her hair, tries to still the tremors. “I don’t know how you can just forget that he gave us up!”

“I didn’t. I can’t forget that. But he loved Harry, Lils. He loved you, and me, and not all of it was a lie.” James looks so earnest. Eyes shining. Face glowing. “I believe that. It’s Peter, for Merlin’s sake! That’s what you, all of you, keep forgetting! He’s pants at lying and shit at acting and if we live in a world where Peter fooled us into believing he loved us for years without us doubting him for a minute- then I don’t know if I can believe anything at all, Lily. Not anything.”

Lily folds her fingers together. She hasn’t forgotten. Hadn’t forgotten. That’s true enough. But Lily thinks that she’d chosen not to dwell on it; because she hadn’t been able to, not in those first horrible days when she hadn’t known if James would survive and all she’d had was Harry and a wand and fear like a steady wolf at her heels.

She thinks: Peter, in Hogwarts, hair a flaxen gold and a laugh softer but far, far more often than all of theirs. He hadn’t liked her much in the beginning, because Lily hadn’t been very nice to James that seventh year before they started going out. But they’d been the only Gryffindors in NEWT Charms and in between tutoring and desperate cramming, both of them had become something like friends. Then had come their training in charm-work, in Brussels for Lily and Antwerp for Peter. And after- the war, the silence, the warmth of his hand over hers as they both waited in the kitchen for James and Sirius to come home.

“Then why’d he do this, Jimmy?” Lily lifts her eyes to James, and doesn’t look away. She can be courageous. Now, with a world balanced on her shoulders and the flames of her rage faded to ash, she can be courageous. “How, if he did not hate us?”

“I think,” says James quietly. “I- I think he was afraid. Always. And Pete was the quietest of us, and we started thinking that if he didn’t say anything that meant he was fine with it.” He stands and makes his way closer to Lily, though he doesn’t touch her. The window behind him limns his body, throws his features into shadow but makes his outline shine. “I miss him, Lils. And I’m furious at what he’s done. Of course I am. But- he’s Peter.”

Oh, but James has never moved past people as Lily has done; he has never had his heart broken like she has. He moves through life as if certain that he won’t be killed by it.

“What if he’s killed people?”

“I have too,” says James, a little wryly. “But. No. He hasn’t. When I saw him- it’s not the look of a man who’s planned it. He hasn’t.”

Lily reaches up and grips his wrist. She can feel his heart there, in those slender muscles and delicate bones. “If it comes down to you and him, if it’s down to you two-”

“I don’t know,” says James.

Lily cannot look away. She is caught, is speared, by the old, resigned light in James’ eyes.

Not as if he won’t be killed, thinks Lily, heart rending in her chest. No. As if he would rather die, than survive in a world like that.

“Jimmy.”

“I don’t know. It depends. But- if it’s just me, Lily, if it’s down to just me and just him, I don’t know if I can kill him.” He leans down, and presses his lips to the very tips of her fingers. “I do not know, and that is the entire truth.”

“I believe you.” Lily twists and grabs James, hauls him closer to her, embraces him so tightly that she cannot breathe. “I believe you, and I hate this, and if you aren’t next to me when this war is over, I’ll kill you myself, you stupid, stupid, stupid man.”

“Ah, Lils,” he says, “I think you’ll have to queue up for the privilege. Merlin knows I’ve pissed enough Death Eaters off to have ‘em ahead of you.”

She burrows closer to him, until James finally gives in and topples onto the bed, half on her, half on the mattress. “I hate you,” she mumbles into his shirt. Then, before he can answer: “If you let a Death Eater kill you, I’ll make sure to have a child just so I can name it Elvendork and imagine your anger from beyond the grave.”

“Now that,” says James, voice like a rich song rising around them, “is definitely a reason to stay alive.”

#jily #james potter #lily evans #james x lily #harry potter #my writing #hp fic #the marauders are back!! and everything is Not Fine!!#STORY OF THEIR LIVES #anyways this has been a long time in the making i hope y'all enjoy!

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upstartpoodle · 6 years ago

Text

The Cornish Way (Chapter 6)

Rating: G

Pairing: George x Elizabeth

Summary: The sixth chapter of my coffee shop AU, in which George is terrible at navigating Cornish roads, Elizabeth has two visitors and George and Elizabeth make the most of their last night together before he returns to London.

Previous chapter

“Oh fuck…”

“See, told you you should have let me drive.”

With another uncharacteristic curse, George backed a little inelegantly into an overgrown passing place in order to let an old, battered landrover drive past them along the winding country lane that meandered off in the direction of the creek. It was quite clear to Elizabeth, who had, despite what she considered to have been her solid reasoning, been relegated to the passenger seat of his car, that, if he had ever been in the practice of negotiating the narrow roads of Cornwall, he was certainly out of it now after years of London.

“It’s fine. I’m fine,” George protested, although his words were belied by the slight wince he gave when the side of his car brushed dangerously close to a clump of overhanging brambles that were growing through the hedge. “…Well, admittedly it may not have been the best idea I’ve ever had.”

Elizabeth couldn’t help but smirk as he finally managed to navigate his way out of the passing place and back onto the lane.

“You see, this is what chivalry gets you in this day and age—a scratched car and wounded pride.”

“I’ll try to bear it as best I can” she got in reply, and she had to fight back a snort of laughter at the wry tone.

It was another gloriously sunny day in Cornwall and they were heading towards the Helford River for the afternoon. Elizabeth had recently got a large commission for some landscapes of the area, and, wanting to make some little sketches and watercolours as practise before she started on the final product, she had invited George to join her. He had agreed, but despite not being particularly familiar with the area--he, like her, had grown up near Truro after all--had insisted on driving in the hope of returning the favour for the times that she had been delegated the duty. It was quite clear, however, that he was beginning to regret that decision, as she pointed him to a small parking space which was really just a glorified layby at the side of the road, where there stood a half-concealed signpost reading “public footpath” pointing out over the fields.

“Are you sure we’re actually allowed to park here?,” he asked sceptically as he turned off the engine. “It looks exactly the same as the passing places.”

“Yes I’m sure. Don’t worry about it,” Elizabeth replied as she stepped out almost directly into the hedge, scooting past it towards the boot. George followed suit, the route from his side of the car unhampered by the local fauna, and pulled open the door for her to take out her things. Making sure she had a firm grip on her easel, she headed towards the gap in the hedge where the footpath lay, casting a glance over her shoulder at her companion, who was ensuring the car was locked. “Come on, slowcoach” she called back at him.

They picked their way along the path in companiable silence, listening to the sound of tweeting birds and the whistle of the wind, which was surprisingly strong that day, though there was little bite to it. Roughly ten minutes later, they reached a fence blocking their path with a small, rather wobbly-looking stile embedded in it. Beside it was a large, laminated makeshift sign reading “BEWARE OF THE BULL” in bold red letters.

"Hold my easel for a minute, won't you?" Elizabeth asked, passing the item in question over to him as she headed towards the fence.

George took her things without complaint but there was a rather dubious expression on his face as he eyed the fence and the field beyond.

"Umm, Elizabeth..."

"Yes?" She was already halfway over the stile, one foot on each side of the fence, and she paused, hands outstretched to balance herself, to turn back towards him with a slight frown.

"Are...are you sure that's a good idea?," George was still staring at the fence, the look on his features more and more sceptical by the second. "I mean...there is a massive sign saying "BEWARE THE BULL" in big red letters. I'm not sure how fast either of us will be able to run with all this stuff. "

"Oh," Elizabeth's expression cleared as she swung her left leg over the style and landed lightly on the grassy path on the other side of the fence. "Don't worry about that; there isn't actually a bull in the field. The farmer just puts that up to stop people from walking through it-- Oh it's alright; it's a public footpath," she added, correctly predicting the question that had been showing on his face. "I just think that he'd rather not have loads and loads of people traipsing through his field all the time."

"Well if you say so" George replied, though he didn't look particularly reassured, even if he had at least stopped trying to peer past her in search of the non-existent bull.

"Don't worry, if it turns out I'm wrong, I'll protect you from the big scary bull," Elizabeth said with a soft, teasing smile, holding out her hands. "Could you pass me my things please?"

"Is bull fighting a special skill of yours then?" George asked, huffing out a laugh as he handed the easel to her over the fence.

"Oh yes, it's my secret superpower so ssh, don't tell anyone," she returned with a grin, settling the easel under her arm. "Now come on you--over the fence."

"Uh...," George floundered slightly, his manner that of a man confronted with a task so large that he didn't quite know which direction to approach it from. "I fear that this isn't going to be the most dignified moment of my life."

"Oh no need to worry; I'll only remind you of it for ten years to come at most."

With a soft chuckle, George hoisted himself ever so slightly unsteadily over the style and landed beside her on the other side of the fence. He cast a cautious glance around him and, once he had assured himself of the lack of both angry bulls and disgruntled farmers, the tension melted from his frame.

"See, that wasn't so bad now was it?" Elizabeth laughed, bumping shoulders with him affectionately as they headed off down the path.

"Heh, I suppose not."

Elizabeth grinned. Sheltered from the wind by the line of trees at the edge of the field, the sun was warm and pleasant on their backs, and with the hedgerows alive with the twittering calls of farmland birds, she couldn't help but fee a strong rush of contentment at being out with him on that beautiful day.

"I'll make a rambler of you yet" she said, intertwining her fingers with his and squeezing gently.

“You’re very quiet today,” Elizabeth remarked some time later, after they had settled down under the shade of the trees growing at the banks of the creek. “Is something the matter?”

She turned away from the sketchbook which she had balanced on her lap to frown down at her silent companion, stretched out beside her on the picnic rug, slowly making his way through a punnet of strawberries which they had been sharing. He glanced up at her, sending her a soft, reassuring smile, but there was something a little distracted in his gaze which did little to assuage her worry.

“Oh, it’s nothing,” he replied, his eyes flickering briefly out towards the water. “I…I was just thinking, that’s all.”

“Penny for them?”

George’s lips quirked in dry amusement as he turned back to meet her gaze.

“I don’t think they’re worth that much,” he said wryly, but something a little hesitant was beginning to creep into his tone. “I’ve just been thinking that…well…it won’t be long until I go back to London and…well…what happens then?”

Elizabeth chewed thoughtfully on her bottom lip. If she were honest with herself, it was not just George who had had that thought stuck in his mind. The nearer this past week had come to drawing to a close, the more the realisation that George would be going home to his old, hectic life in the city, miles apart from his old home--from her--had gnawed at her. She couldn’t deny that she would miss him, miss having his company on her little outings, miss talking to him and knowing he was just a short drive away if she wanted to see him. Would it be different for her now? Sitting, half-expecting someone else to be by her side whenever she went out to the beach, or the countryside, or the little coffee shop where they had met, which she so often frequented? It was strange, she reflected, how quickly she had become accustomed to him being a part of her life, and with the prospect of him disappearing from it as swiftly as it had appeared, Elizabeth’s mind rebelled stubbornly at the thought of it.

“I…don’t know,” she admitted, tapping the base of her pencil against her chin as she thought. “We can…we can keep in touch, can’t we?”

There was a hint of uncertainty in her voice which she had not quite succeeded in masking, and she knew instantly from George’s expression that he had heard it. As wonderful as their three weeks had been, she couldn’t quite dispel the notion that, once he was back to his busy, successful life in London, he would have infinitely more interesting things—and people—to focus on, and that she would be forgotten as just a brief holiday fling that didn’t bare dwelling on. Rationally, she knew that that was her past experience talking—Ross may never have looked back when he upped and left for America, but it was unfair to judge George by another man’s actions—but all the same the worry gnawed away at her, no matter how she tried to suppress it.

“Of course,” George said with a smile, but he too looked a little nervous, a little unsure. “I would like that. But…well…it’s just…I think it’ll be strange now, just…going about my life and you not being there.”

He stopped himself abruptly, cheeks flushing pink, unable to meet her eyes. Elizabeth blinked, taken aback by the sincerity of it. George, she had discovered, was naturally a little guarded with his thoughts and feelings, even when he was making an effort to be open—something, she thought a little wryly, that they had in common. As such, the stark honesty, even compared to the gentle genuineness that she had become accustomed to hearing in his compliments, stunned and—if she were to be entirely honest—rather pleased her, and before she had time to consider what she was doing, that they were in full sight of a public footpath, she darted down and kissed him.

The soft noise of surprise that escaped him was swallowed as she pressed herself closer to him, her sketchbook and pencil, swiftly forgotten, falling in a heap on the picnic rug. Her hands slipped into his hair as she felt an arm snake around her waist, holding her close, and she sighed at the sensation, nails raking along his scalp as her fingers twined in the soft blond curls. In response, he nipped gently at her full bottom lip and she gasped, almost ready to give herself over to the feeling entirely, but the rational part of her brain knew that she couldn’t--not here--and it was with a slight feeling of disappointment that she drew away, resting her forehead against his.

“Perhaps we should go out tomorrow night,” she suggested. “Do something special, you know?”

George smiled up at her, though there was something a little sad in his expression.

“What did you have in mind?”

“Hmm, I’m not sure,” Elizabeth replied as she leaned down to kiss him again. “Perhaps I’ll surprise you. It’ll be my treat, though. You are on holiday after all.”

It was mid-afternoon the next day, and Elizabeth had just finished painting her nails a deep, rich red when her doorbell rang. Muttering a soft curse, she blew frantically over them, hoping that they would dry at least a little before she had the chance to smudge them—God alone knew that it had taken her long enough to get it right; it wasn’t something she usually bothered with, but tonight was special—before heading downstairs to answer the door. She resisted the urge to run her hands through her hair with some difficulty. The last thing she needed was to get red nail polish all through her hair, especially since she had only just washed it that morning.

Careful of her nails, she pulled back her front door to reveal, to her surprise and pleasure, a smiling Verity, dressed in a pale pink dress and a thin white cardigan and carrying several large bags of shopping. Beside her was a young girl whom Elizabeth estimated to be around sixteen or perhaps seventeen years old. She too was laden down with bags, and was looking a little shy, though she wore a tentative smile on her face. From what she had heard of her, Elizabeth guessed that this was Verity’s soon-to-be stepdaughter, Esther.

“Hello Elizabeth,” Verity said. “Esther and I were just out shopping and since we were so close I thought we might pop in and say hi before we head back, if it’s not a bad time?”

It was a little inconvenient, but Elizabeth wasn’t about to pass up the opportunity to meet her best friend’s new family, and so she greeted them with a warm smile and stepped aside to let them in.

“Make yourselves comfortable,” she called over her shoulder as she headed out to the kitchen. “Would you like tea? Coffee?”

“Oh, only if you’re making some,” Verity replied. “I don’t want to be a bother.”

“It’s not a bother—I fancy some anyway. What about you, Esther? Would you like something to drink?”

“Could I have some tea as well please?”

“Of course. Sugar?”

“Just one spoonful please.”

A few minutes later, Elizabeth came into the living room to see them both sitting quietly on the sofa, Esther glancing curiously at the little sketches that she had left strewn on the coffee table the previous evening. On hearing her approach, she looked away a little guiltily. Elizabeth sent her a reassuring smile as she handed her her mug—she wouldn’t leave her work lying about if she minded people taking a look at it.

“Elizabeth…are you wearing nail polish?” Verity asked in surprise as Elizabeth handed her her own mug before sitting down in the armchair adjacent to them. Elizabeth blinked down at her hands, relieved to see that, by some miracle, the polish had not been smudged.

“Oh, well, I’m going out tonight,” she explained. “And you know how I am with this stuff. Takes me at least an hour to manage to paint my nails instead of my fingers so it’s best to get it done early.”

She decided not to mention that she had in fact spent several hours before that fussing over which outfit to wear before she could even begin to go about choosing a complementary colour for her nails.

“Really? Who are you going out with?” Verity said curiously, a slight frown on her face.

“Oh, just a friend” Elizabeth replied, attempting a casual tone, but, from the expression on her friend’s face and the fact that she could feel a blush rising in her cheeks, she suspected that she had wildly missed the mark.

“Oh? A male friend by any chance?” Verity raised her eyebrows wryly at her, an altogether too knowing look on her features.

“Maybe, maybe not” Elizabeth rebuffed the inquiry coyly, taking a sip of her own tea.

She half-expected Verity to say more, but she seemed to have decided that, with Esther there (who was looking faintly awkward listening in to the subject at hand) she would leave her questions for another time.

They stayed for another hour or so, chatting about the engagement and James’ new job in the police force and Esther’s aspirations for university. It was only when Verity glanced at the clock and exclaimed that they had to be getting back to Falmouth that she realised how much time had passed. Forcing herself not to panic--she still had enough time to get ready--she waved them goodbye before rushing off to finish her preparations for the evening. She wanted this evening to go well, and she wasn’t about to start it off by being late to her own date.

George, believing firmly in the principle that one should be punctual in both their personal and professional lives, arrived at Elizabeth’s doorstep at exactly seven o’clock. Pressing the doorbell, he stood, fiddling distractedly with the cuff of his jacket as he waited for her answer. He could feel the familiar jangling of nerves encroaching upon him, as they always did on a certain level whenever he was due to meet her. This particular occasion being especially important in his mind, he found that he was much more susceptible to them than usual that evening, albeit not quite so much as when he had invited her over to the holiday home. He knew it marked a change between them—it was, after all, something of a goodbye, though hopefully not a permanent one—and that couldn’t help but sadden him a little on top of everything, for all that he had promised he wouldn’t let those emotions cloud his enjoyment of their evening together.

It had been awhile since he had rung the doorbell, he realised, and she had still not answered. He considered pressing it again, but before he could do so, the door was pulled open to reveal a slightly flustered Elizabeth. She smiled a little sheepishly at him, stuffing her phone into the small handbag hanging from her shoulder.

“Hi, sorry. Verity visited this afternoon and we kind of lost track of time. I—what is it? Is there something wrong?”

George shook himself, suddenly realising that he’d been openly staring. But really, he couldn’t help it. Her hair piled up into an elegant knot at the back of her head, Elizabeth was clothed in a stylish, floaty, wine-red dress which contrasted sharply with her pale skin, accompanied by a thin white shrug and complemented by a pair of dark red heels that accentuated the line of her long legs and gave her several inches on him in height. She was glancing at him nervously from under her lashes, a little self-conscious, but all he could think of was that she looked absolutely stunning.

“I—Elizabeth, you look amazing” he said, all thoughts except blunt honesty temporarily robbed of him.

Elizabeth’s slightly anxious expression melted away into a broad smile, a blush colouring her pale skin as she leaned forward to press a soft kiss to his cheek.

“You don’t look too bad yourself, mister,” she said with a wry quirk of her lips, and it was George’s turn to blush, not quite sure how to respond. “Even if I have left lipstick on you” she added with a slight giggle, attempting to brush the offending mark from the arch of his cheekbone with her thumb.

They headed off along the quay, soaking in the warm evening sunlight and the cries of the gulls above them. Several times George tried to persuade her to tell him where they were going, but each time she evaded the question.

“Hush, no spoiling the surprise!” she teased after his third attempt.

“Alright, I concede defeat” he responded with a put-upon sigh, causing her to smirk in amusement.

They were beginning to head away from the quayside now, up into the city centre with Elizabeth just ahead of him, guiding the way. Eventually, they reached a familiar street full of multi-coloured houses which George remembered to be just along the road from the museum and, turning the corner, came to a halt. Before them was an average-sized, slightly crooked, white-painted house with a low door and small windows. It did not look particularly remarkable--in fact, he doubted he would even have realised it was a restaurant if it had not been for the sign emblazoned on the wall.

“Well, here we are,” Elizabeth said, and he could here a note of uncertainty in her voice. “Now I know it doesn’t look like much on the outside, but it’s definitely worth a visit.”

George smiled at her and nodded.

“I trust you.”

Elizabeth beamed at him.

“Come on then.”

The sensation of walking into the little restaurant, George couldn’t help but think, was not incomparable to that one might feel upon walking into the TARDIS--in that it was most definitely bigger on the inside. Where the outside had been rustic and--dare he say it--a little drab, the inside was spacious and stylish, the white of the tablecloths offset by the deep plum colour of the walls. It was quite busy already, many of the tables already occupied, and the room was filled with a pleasant hum of chatter alongside the soft clinking of cutlery on plates.

“Not quite what you expected?” Elizabeth leaned in to whisper to him.

“Not exactly, no,” he admitted. “But I’m pleasantly surprised.”

At that point, a waiter came over to settle them into their seats and handed them their menus, telling them to take as much time as they needed. They both took them with a smile, thanking him as he headed off to deal with another couple who had just walked through the door.

“God, this place must be expensive,” George muttered as he opened the menu and glanced down at it; his eyebrows shot up. “Oh, this place is definitely expensive.”

Elizabeth laughed.

“Yeah, it’s not exactly a regular dining experience for most people,” she said. “I’ve come here with Francis and Verity before though, and for a couple of family things. Trust me, the food’s worth it.”

She turned out to be quite right. The meal--all three courses of it (thank God he had had a light lunch that day)--had been delicious, though that had not stopped them from talking easily and animatedly on just about ever subject imaginable. Despite that though, George couldn’t help but detect a hint of melancholy in their conversation throughout the evening. After all, they only had one more morning together after this and then he would be gone, back to his old life in London. He didn’t want to think about that though--not now--and so he did the best to put it to the back of his mind.

Their meal finished, they turned their attention to, as Elizabeth described it, “the thorny issue of the bill”. Both determined to pay and unable to come to an adequate conclusion that would suit the both of them, in the end they simply decided to split it fifty-fifty and, feeling full from the food and a little warm and fuzzy from the wine, they stood from their table and headed out into the cool evening air.

It surprised George when they stepped outside to see that the sun had almost entirely set, the red of little more than a low, thin line in the deep blue sky. They must have rather lost track of time inside the restaurant, he supposed. With the sun gone, there was a slight chill in the air, but Elizabeth didn’t seem to mind as she leaned into his side, slipping her fingers through his and squeezing gently, a soft, gentle smile curving on her red lips.

They headed back down to the quay like this, barely inches between them as they walked. The feel of her body brushing up against him, the flowery smell of her perfume in his nose was almost maddening, but he did not pull away from her--he could not ever dream of wanting to. It was only when they reached her front door that they parted, as she extracted her hand from his own to rummage through her bag in search of her keys. She fumbled with them a little before finally managing to unlock the door. Pushing it half open, she turned back to him, a slightly shy smile on her face.

“Do-do you want to come in?” she asked, and it was all George could do not to stare as she worried distractingly at her full bottom lip with her teeth, her expression soft and hopeful. He smiled back at her, following her into the dark hallway. Even if he had wanted to, he didn’t think he could have refused her anything.

George barely paid any mind to the semi-darkness of the house as he stepped over the threshold. All he could focus on was the click of the door closing behind him and then, as he turned to face her, the feel of Elizabeth’s arms encircling him, pulling him close, and the press of her lips against his own, gentle but insistent. Alost of their own accord, his own arms came around her, right and settling at the small of her back and left coming to cup the back of her neck, pressing close against her. She moaned softly into his mouth, hand trailing down to his chest to toy with the buttons of his shirt.

“Bedroom?” she whispered against his lips, slipping the top button undone.

“Oh God, yes” he murmured in reply, gasping as her fingertips meandered along the dip of his collarbone and down to the second button of his shirt. The press of her body against his was almost torturous; he could barely think properly as her lips found his again, the kiss harder and hungrier than the first. All he could do was return it with equal enthusiasm, fingers fumbling with the clip that held her hair up in its elegant knot, so that it unravelled slowly down her back like a dark, silky waterfall. Elizabeth sighed as he ran his fingers through it, drawing back slightly, pupils blown wide, and then, taking his hand in a gentle grip, tugged him towards the stairs.

“If it’s going to be our last night together, let’s make it one to remember.”

Next chapter: George and Elizabeth take one last trip to the coffee shop where they met, and George returns to London.

#poldark #george warleggan #elizabeth warleggan #elizabeth chynoweth #george x elizabeth #elizabeth x george #georgibeth #verity blamey #verity poldark #esther blamey #poldark au #modern au #coffee shop au #mine #fic #my fic #this has taken so long to write it's ridiculous #only one chapter left to go now

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echelonfiction · 7 years ago

Text

Thinking Of You: Chapter 6 - not like usual

AN1: It’s just fanfiction, i mean no disrespect

AN2: I had a chapter of brightlights ready to go but my computer died a bout a monthag and /that/ seemed to be the only thing tht hadnted backed up, enjoy some TOY

Warning: , drugs, alcohol

Tagging @fyeahproudglambert @meghan12151977 @msroxyblog

(ask to be tagged)

Chapter 6

“Chester, what do I do,”

“Is she actually... oh my god, she said she was exhausted but doesn’t everyone say that,”

“I think maybe... I don’t know,” Mike laughed.

“Maybe most people say it, but those who fall asleep really are,”

“No, I didn’t” I groaned as I opened my eyes. My hands were tucked under my armpits my head was rested on someone’s shoulder I looked up at Mike he looked nervous. “I’m sorry,” I whimpered.

“It’s okay,” he said I sat up holding my own head noticing a drool patch on his shirt. Both our eyes with to it then to each others.

“I’m sorry,” I said again, I could feel my cheeks as the heat rose in them.

“It’s okay,” he said as I grabbed a napkin and his shirt wiping it off. “You must be really spent,” he said I looked up at him. he didn’t seem mad at all.

“That’s not an excuse,”

“Tatiana,” Mike laughed. “It’s not a big deal,” I turned to the table and threw the napkin on it.

“Tatty,” Chester said I looked up to him. His face was soft. “Why don’t you have your dinner and not think about it,” he said. I looked at the food I’d ordered on the table. “It’s really not the end of the world,” he said softly.

“You’re right,” I laughed looking between him and Mike. It really wasn’t an issue, embarrassing but I was fucking tired. “Want some of my fries as an apology?” I asked pulling my food tray to my knee, half leaning it on Mikes' knee as well. He looked nervously at Chester who must’ve told him to in some secret bro code.

“Sure,” Mike laughed.

I walked into the bedroom. I’d finally sorted everything out into a good routine, work aside, sometimes I got some free time. Shannon was looking at his phone.

“Are you ready bear?” I asked.

“Yeah, babe, I was just putting some feelers out for something good,”

“Not really a vital, Shan” I smiled.

“maybe” he smiled as he walked to me. “But fun!”

“Right?” I turned to him

“Besides, you’ve been so uptight lately,” he said with a smirk. “It wouldn’t hurt you to lose your mind for a little while.”

We got to the club, I don’t know why I felt so uncomfortable here.

“Leopard girl,” I heard and looked over to see Chester’s friend Brad waving us over.

“Hey,” I called back giving each person I knew a hug as I approached. “Guys, this is my amazing boyfriend, Shannon.” I said pulling him into me, “Babe, that’s Chester, Brad, Dave,” I said realizing Mike wasn’t here. Shannon gave a nervous wave to which he got a bunch of hi’s

“yo, Tatty,” Chester called. “This is my wife, Talinda”

“Hey,” Talinda waved.

“Hey” I grinned, nice to finally meet you,”

“You too,” she smiled.

“sit down guys,” Chester said, Joe was grabbing drinks, I’ll get him to grab you some,”

“sure thanks,” I smiled sitting down next to Shannon.

“Where do you know these people from, again,” he asked. “Those loon groups you attend?” I looked into his eyes and took a deep breath.

“I know Chester through the group,” I told “He come through work or Burger King a couple of times when I’ve been studying,”

“Right,” he sighed.

“They’re not loons,” I told calmly. He looked into my eyes.

“Babe,” he laughed.

“I go there too,”

“I know,” he said pulling my hair over my shoulder. “You’re better,” he said kissing my cheek.

“Tatty,” I looked up at Chester, “Joe will bring your drink soon,”

“Sure,” I smiled. “Are you guys nearly set up?”

“Yeah, I think Mike’s just,”

“Chester, there’s a problem with the, oh hey Tatiana,” he said walking over giving me a huge hug. “I’m glad you came,”

“Mike,” I cheered. “Same, this is my boyfriend,” there was an awkward silence before Mike moved and shook Shannon’s hand. “Shan baby, this is Mike,”

“Hey bro,” Mike said happily,”

“Hey,” Shannon said sarcastically before Mike sat next to me.

“So, you’ve been well?” Mike asked.

“Yeah, crazy busy,” I laughed. “But I think I’m starting to find a balance,”

“Getting back up on top of your leopard stuff?”

“slowly,” I said. “I caught up on all the stuff I needed to submit, but need to catch up on the readings and shit,”

“You’re smart, you’ll get there,” he smiled.

“Thanks,” I laughed. “How’s your week been?”

“Decent,” he nodded. I felt Shannon tense a little. “I have to do a sculpture now, from that drawing,”

“Oh, you made it so complex,” I worried grabbing Shannon’s hand holding it tight.

“Yeah, it’s going to be a bitch,” Mike laughed.

“Mike,” Chester called we both looked over. “What was there an issue with?” he asked as Joe started handing out drinks.

“Oh, right,” Mike laughed. “I’ll catch you later, Tatiana, thanks for coming,”

“Sure,” I smiled as I was given my drink. I leaned back into Shannon as he said thanks to Joe. “I always get nervous when I am about to hear new music,” I told Shannon.

“You do?” he half laughed.

“Yeah,” I smirked. “Like what if they’re shit and I have to pretend they’re good,”

“do you pretend I’m good?” he asked looking into my eyes. I had a feeling he was asking about something not music related. But I wasn’t biting. I wanted a good night and I wanted a good night with him.

“I know you’re the best,” I told. Moving closer to him. “But you’re oh-so-naughty,” I kissed him.

“Oh, really?”

“mhmm,”

“You need to show you deserve to know exactly how much,” he said grabbing my thigh kissing me deeply.

“Challenge accepted.” I grinned.

We sat with each other, Shannon and I eventually broke off a little-going to the bar acting kind of like a normal couple for the first time pretty much ever. The band started they were loud and grungy I watched as they sung and really owned the stage.

“wow,” Shannon laughed.

“What I looked over at him

“Your friend has some lungs,’ he admitted, Mike got his turn he put his guitar over his shoulder and started. “wow,” Shannon scoffed. “Homeboy is rapping,” I looked at him. His eyes were dark. He was turning in to dark Shannon who was a fucking jerk.

“I think they’re great,” I said honestly stirring my drink.

“I figured you would,” he said kissing my cheek. “Hey, will you be okay here for a bit?” he asked looking at his phone.

“why?” I snapped.

“I’ve got to go meet someone,” he said looking at me. “Don’t give me that look, I told you I was putting feelers out,”

“I don’t want to do it, Shan,”

“Don’t want us to both have a good night?”

“Yea- “

“Watch your friends play, I’ll be back before you know it,” he said kissing me before walking off. I turned back to my drink and it was almost like the music changed to suit my mood. It went from some kind of regular rock song to the lowest grungiest guitars I’d heard in such a long time. The song hit in just as I looked up the boys were going crazy on stage, Chester started singing something about bliss, ignorance something about being one step closer to the edge, being ready to break, wanting to disappear. I found myself staring at my drink. I felt this song at my core, by the time it got to the bridge it broke for a moment before Chester started screaming ‘shut up when I’m talking to you,’

“Where’s your boyfriend,” I heard I looked up, Chester’s wife.

“Oh, he had to go meet a friend, He said he’d be back,” I smiled.

“Good, come hang,” she said grabbing my arm pulling me over to her table right by the stage, I barely had time to grab my drink, let-a-lone say no. I was now apparently watching the band with her. “They’re good huh?”

“Yeah,” I smiled. “Such an individual style.”

“I agree, I could watch them for hours.” She said I smiled at her as she started watching them, her eyes trained on her husband. He held the stage so well, I watched them all do their thing until my eyes noticed Mike. He was everywhere. All over the place like a bunny on speed, pressing this button and that button all the while still having a great time on stage with his friends. Every time he smiled, I did too.

“Have they been a band long?” I asked.

“Kind of,” Talinda said. “Like not as long as Metallica,”

“Fair,” I nodded.

“Chester moved from Arizona a few years ago to be the singer, they’re really starting to get somewhere,”

“Oh, nice,”

“Mike and the other guys were a band before that, but Chester really meshes with them,”

“I can tell,” I smiled. “Did you move here with him?”

“No, we met here,” She told. “I am also from Arizona but we met here,”

“That’s cool,” I nodded.

“Are you from Cali?”

“Yeah,” I smiled. “My mom’s family is out of Long Beach, my dad out by Modesto,”

“Oh wow,” Talinda laughed.

“My parents thought LA was pretty central,”

“What about Shannon?”

“He’s from Louisiana,” I said. “He and Jared moved here for Jared’s career,”

“Jared?”

“Shannon’s brother, he’s great,” I admitted. “He wants to be an actor,”

“Oh,”

“He’s actually good though,” I laughed. “But I think He’s a better singer,”

“He sings too?”

“Yeah, he and Shan are in a band as well,”

“Oh, that’s awesome” Talinda cheered. “Maybe they can tour with Linkin Park?”

“Linkin Park?” I questioned. Talinda pointed at the stage. “Oh, right,” I laughed. “I’m so dumb,”

“Nah,” she laughed with me. “I don’t think they’ve said it once,”

“Alright, Ladies and Gentlemen,” Mike called from the stage. “We want to thank you all for coming out and being such a great crowd,” his eyes flickered to mine. I think. Probably not. “This is our last song, we’re Linkin Park, this is Papercut,”

“There we go!” Talinda and I said in unison.

“This is a really good song,” Talinda said, I smiled at her and listened. It was pretty intense, fear of the night, paranoia, the words struck something in me, then the way it was arranged at the end. I found myself completely mesmerized by Mike. “He’s cute, huh?”

“Huh?” I looked at her

“Mike, he’s cute,”

“Oh,” I looked at him pretending I hadn’t yet. “I mean, he’s not ugly,” I admitted. “He’s got a nice smile,” I said. “But I have a beautiful boyfriend,” even if I was major pissed at him right now.

“Okay,” she grinned at me like she was keeping a secret.

“Don’t do that,” I warned with a grin.

“Hey, I’m with the singer,”

“I like drummers,” I laughed as they finished up the song. Chester was off stage Talinda was instantly all over him giving him kisses and praise. The other guys went to their respective partners or guests. Mike came to the table that I was standing up. “That was kind of amazing,” I told him as he at wiping his face with a towel he was given at some point.

“Kind of?” he laughed looking at me out of the side of the towel.

“Yeah, I’d give you the hugs your band was getting but it would be weird,” I admitted.

“Only for you,” he grinned starting to catch his breath. I looked away “Drinks,” he cheered as the bartender brought a tray of what everyone was drinking, including me, which was weird. Chester came over grabbing his drink.

“What’d you think Tatty?” he asked.

“I thought you guys were great,” I admitted. “I don’t know how you guys aren’t touring,”

“We might be soon,” Chester admitted.

“Sweet,” I grinned. “I really liked the last song,” I admitted. “and the shut up screamy song?”

“Shut up screamy song?” Mike laughed.

“You know, the angry one,” I said. “shut up when I’m talking to you,” I sang half-heartedly.

“One step closer,” Mike said.

“Yeah that one,” I smiled “And the last one, the lyrics were hype,” I admitted.

“thanks,” Mike smiled.

“And the rapping over the rockfish sound, it’s pretty epic,” I said he looked in my eyes.

“Thank you,”

“You’re welcome,” I said proudly.

“Where’s Shannon?” he asked looking around.

“Oh, he had to go meet a guy,” I shrugged. “He’ll be back soon”

“Oh,” Mike looked away to Chester who was talking to some guy. I watched his face for a moment, so sticky and sweaty, his hair was up spikey as from the towel just now. The sweat was right down his neck into his shirt, I felt a hard lump in my throat that I had to swallow as I looked away. It doubled back as a slight cough as I took the next mouthful of my drink.

“You good?” Mike laughed.

“Yeah,” I smiled. “Wrong hole,” Mike busted out laughing I don’t know why but I joined in.

“what the actual hell,” He laughed turning to me.

“What?” I laughed.

“you don’t just say that in public,” he laughed.

“you’re dirty,” I said pushing him away.

“I’m dirty?” he exclaimed. “You said it,” I shook my head and went back to my drink as arms went around my waist.

“you look like you’re having fun,” my boyfriend whispered into my ear.

“Even more now you’re here,” I said turning and wrapping my arms around him. Kissing him, but he didn’t take it properly. He pulled back for a moment showing me his tongue with a pill on it. I rolled my eyes and kiss him anyway. Taking the pill with a chaser of his kiss. “Babe, you should’ve stayed for longer, the set was awesome,” I said bringing Mike back into the conversation.

“I heard the start,” he said. “It was pretty good,” he said.

“Thanks, Man!” Mike said offering Shannon a high-five which somehow turned in to a high-five hug over the top of me.

“You guys been playing together long?” Shannon asked.

“Few years with Chester,” Mike told, repeating the story Talinda just told me, a moment later Chester had joined Shannon and Mike in a conversation of band talk. Shannon wrapped his arms around me but wasn’t paying attention to me. So, I turned mine to Talinda. I was enjoying being out and not being completely bat. Shit. Crazy.

#Shannon Leto #chester bennington #mike shinoda #jared leto #linkin park #fanfic #fan fic writing #fan fiction #fan fic #music #echelon #30 Seconds To Mars #Thirty Seconds to Mars #echelon fiction #30secondstomars

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marvelleous · 7 years ago

Text

begin again

i’ve finally caught up with aos after spending a week frozen to death, and this one is for @plechka who is the best. you can also read on ao3 here

When it's all done and dusted, the future saved and the apocalypse prevented, their return home is fairly anticlimactic. It takes all of seconds before they're transported to their own time, the clothes on their backs and the little trinkets they brought brought in their pockets are the only trace that they had ever left at all.

They don't all go their separate ways, as they had entertained while living through the hardships of a post-apocalyptic future, but stick together, having proven once again that they were better as a team.

Phil does decide that they deserve a break; they had after all, saved all of humanity.

It's thanks to Fitz’s efforts that their names have been cleared in the present, and they're able to move about freely once more. Their first course of action is to take a vacation somewhere hot, on a white sandy beach with the waves of the ocean lapping at the shore.

He's not sure about the rest of his team, but Phil hasn't taken a vacation in years. The last time he had even considered such a thing was before his death, another time, a different woman at his side. Now he’s here with the one woman he's been in love with for three decades, and he’s not really sure how to go about it.

Melinda seems to be in a good mood, all things considered, but it's as though she's withdrawn back into her own shell, all the progress they had made with their relationship during their time together in the future wiped away. Throughout their entire career they had spoken of maybes and what ifs, always pushing their feelings aside for one reason or another. He's not even sure how many times they've made an agreement, a promise, to do something about it when the job was done.

Somehow, they never really reached that stage.

There would always be another mission, another problem they had to deal with, and he wonders if this mess they're trying to get out of is a metaphor for their lives.

He's seen what the world looks like after destruction, and he knows how it feels to die. In this moment, both feel painless in comparison to the turmoil he has over their relationship, whatever it is. They've both already survived so much in their lives, but even through their worst moments, they've had one another.

His biggest fear in truly admitting how he feels for her is that they'll end up losing each other over it, and that scares him more than anything.

It's past midnight and he's pacing up and down the hallway, footsteps silent against the plush carpet of the hotel floor. Melinda had disappeared into her room shortly after dinner, and he's been trying to build up the courage to start up a conversation with her ever since.

He pauses outside her door, momentarily distracted by the number carved into the wood. There's no sound coming from the other side, and he assumes she's probably asleep, exhaustion bearing down on all of them. It's the first night they've had an opportunity to sleep without the fear of constant danger lurking around the corner.

Even if she is still awake, he has a feeling she wants to be alone, to process her own thoughts. He cares not what anyone else says; Melinda has had the toughest time of all of them. Her leg injury is mostly healed, but he knows it still bothers her a little, as valiantly as she tries to hide it from the rest of the team. She spent longer in the framework than any of them, suffered more than he could ever imagine, and at the end of the day she's still here.

The selfish part of him had been so afraid she would walk away when they got back, and he thinks any sane person wouldn't have stayed. He can't imagine what's keeping her here, besides her sense of duty towards their organisation, which has already fallen twice in the span of half a decade.

Phil stands there, staring at her door for a moment longer before turning away, ready to head back to his own room. He hears a soft click before he can take a single step, and turns to see Melinda standing in her doorway, wrapped in a hotel robe, damp hair clinging to the side of her face.

“You're going to wear a hole in the floor if you keep pacing around out there,” she mutters, stepping back far enough for him to enter. He folds his hands behind his backward, awkwardly shifting past her, standing in silence until she has the door shut behind them.

She looks up at him expectantly, a mixture of exasperation and an expression that is so soft he cannot find the words to describe it.

“I didn't want to disturb you,” he tells her, unable to help a small smile when she rolls her eyes at him, walking past to sit down on her bed and patting the spot beside her.

“If you really didn't want to disturb me you wouldn't be wandering around like a bull in a china shop right outside my door.”

She smirks, reaching out and placing a hand over his knee. He has no idea how to respond, and hopes his face isn't as red as he feels it is, embarrassed and nervous about his current situation. Her eyes seem to be asking a million different questions, and he clears his throat half a dozen times before speaking.

“I wanted to talk about us.”

The mood in the room shifts immediately, and he worries that he's said the wrong thing, until she nods, hand gently squeezing his knee in a gesture of comfort.

“We’ve postponed this conversation for so many years, always trying to find the right moment, always looking for a time when there's no trouble around us. The fact is, that part of our lives will never really be over. I don't want to wait any longer.”

He pauses then, trying to gauge her reaction, but as usual, her expression is almost entirely indecipherable.

Almost.

“When I said that I'd earned a night in my own bed, it didn't mean that I wanted to spend it alone.”

Her voice is low when she speaks, a string of words that confirm to him how she truly feels about all of this, about him. She's quiet now, clearly having said all that she intends to, waiting for him to make the next move.

There’s no more imagined possibilities for them, no more waiting around for a disaster to occur, because they've accepted that it's inevitable.

When he leans forward to kiss her, nothing else in the world matters, only the way their lips press together, her hands reaching for purchase against his shirt and his arms around her to draw her closer. A part of him thinks about how idiotic it was that they never did this sooner, but there's no point in mulling over past mistakes.

What's important is here and now, and that they're together.

She pulls him beneath the covers with her, and though they do little but kiss and hold one another, it's more than either of them could have ever hoped for. They curl around one another, limbs entangled, her head tucked beneath his chin, and he whispers to her all the things he wishes he had told her earlier.

That she meant everything to him.

He falls asleep to the sound of her voice reciprocating his confessions, the warmth of her body against his, and the familiar, comforting scent of her all around.

#philinda #philinda fanfiction #aos spoilers #phil coulson #melinda may #otp: she means everything to me #type: fanfiction #originelle fic

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greetings-from-the-suffer-puppet · 7 years ago

Note

heLL YEAH ID LOVE YOUR URSULA BASED LITTLE MERMAID STORY BRING IT TO ME I CANT WAIT TO PRAISE YOUR AWESOME WORDWORKS

heY YO YOU AWESOME ANON I LIKE YOU V MUCH AND JUST FOR YOU I WILL POST THE WHOLE DAMN THING IN ONE FUCKING GO

HERE HAVE A LOT OF TRASH IN A STYLE THAT CHANGED HALFWAY THROUGH AND PROBABLY FAILS AT BEING BOTH A RETELLING AND AN ORIGINAL PIECE

HOPE YOU LIKE IT

(Warnings: ...none? other than my shitty shitty writing??? i mean there’s cheating and like,,, disney-canon-typical villain slayage so,,,, also kidnapping i guess? oh and,, like,, mindrape? whatever the fuck you call the part of the movie where ursula puts a love spell on eric.)

Once upon a time, there was a young princess. She lived in a castle atop a cliff overlooking the sea with her parents, the king and queen, and her three brothers.

One brother abdicated to experience the life of the poor; they received news, years later, that he had died, but his son- settled many towns over- had climbed into the clouds and battled giants for their treasure.

One brother went on a hunting trip in the woods; the princess ventured in one day, weeks after his disappearance, and met a great brown bear with the same eyes as her brother. He spoke to her, told her to leave him to his fate: she cried for him and stroked his muzzle, and then she picked up her skirts and went back to her castle.

The third brother, youngest but for the princess herself, was made heir to the throne. He did not leave the kingdom, instead growing into a strong man with wise blue eyes and sympathy in his heart. He was content with his lot, and vowed to be as great a king as his father when the time came.

His sister was less happy. She loved her brothers, and she mourned the loss of the eldest two. She longed for a life beyond the castle walls; she did not wish to die, like the eldest, or be transformed and cursed, like the second, but she wished for adventure.

She loved the sea beneath their castle. They had many fishermen, and they traded the goods of the sea with other kingdoms, for the ocean had blessed her kingdom. She spent long hours on the beaches, skin growing gold and firm, chestnut hair streaked cornsilk-pale with the sunlight. Her parents, while very protective with the loss of their eldest sons, trusted their people to watch over their daughter while she was on the beaches.

One evening, the princess stayed on the beaches later than usual to watch the sun go down. The last of the fishermen wished her a good night and straggled off, leaving her alone on the sand.

Once the ocean had lost its pink and copper gilding from the sunset, the princess rose and brushed sand off her dress. She was about to leave, but she heard a splash, very close to where she stood, and instead of leaving, she turned around.

She was met with a pair of bright green eyes.

A man was in the water, covered up to his waist. He was staring at her like he’d never before seen a woman, and she stared at him, as well, for he looked like no man she’d ever seen: his skin shimmered in the moonlight like the silvery scales of the fish she ate at dinner; he had slashes in the sides of his neck that did not bleed, but flapped like those of the fish the seamen brought in; his hair was long, and bound back from his face by a length of red seaweed.

She stepped closer to him, into the damp sand. The tide washed over her bare feet as she whispered, “Who are you?”

The man turned away, diving into the surf and disappearing.

The princess returned to the castle, resolving to come back and meet the mysterious man again.

The princess returned to the beach every evening, staying out after sundown, watching the moonlight dapple against the waves and waiting for the man to return. For three days, nothing happened. The princess told her parents and brother that she merely enjoyed looking at the waves at night, and that the view was simply inferior from her window.

On the fourth night, the princess stood and called out over the waves. She asked to be met, and if she was not, she would not return.

The man emerged from the waves. He came closer, but he was not walking: he struggled up close to her, and she saw that he had a scaled tail instead of legs, one that shone green in the moonlight.

“I am Nereus,” he said to the princess. “I am of the sea.”

She stepped closer, entranced. Water ran over her feet and legs; her dress grew damp, but she cared not.

She reached out to touch the merman, to confirm to herself that he was real. Her hand made contact with his cheek: it was cool and wet, and he smiled at her.

“I am Vanessa,” she told him. “I am princess of this land.”

“What would you do with me, princess Vanessa?” Nereus asked her.

She smiled at him gently. “I would ask to kiss you, if you are amenable.”

He kissed her. His arms were wet and strong around her waist.

Nereus and princess Vanessa met every four days under the moonlight. They talked and kissed and smiled, and slowly, the two grew closer. Vanessa’s heart grew faint whenever she left him, for she wished for them to never be parted; and on the third night of the third month of their acquaintance, she voiced her desires to him.

“I wish to stay with you,” Vanessa whispered, drawing patterns against her merman’s tail. “I wish to see your kingdom.”

“Only by magic could we remain together,” Nereus told her, “for I cannot walk and you cannot swim.”

Vanessa kissed him and stood, walking back to shore. “We shall see about that.”

There were many gifted with magic in Vanessa’s kingdom. Most were mere hedge-witches or healers, not able to do much but able to do something.

There were, however, those much more talented. Warlock Martin and Warlock Sage, for example, lived together in a tower in the far south. But Vanessa was not going to see the warlocks.

She was going to see a witch.

The most famous witch in Vanessa’s kingdom was one no one was entirely sure existed. They called her many names, but the most common was the ‘corner-witch’, for it was said she lurked in dark crannies and came out only when summoned.

Vanessa traveled to town, spending hours looking through shops but buying little. When the dying sun spread red and pink streaks across the sky, she slipped away from her guards down an alleyway and whispered into the wind, “Corner-witch, I summon thee.”

“What do you wish of me, child?”

An old woman stood at the other end of the alley, draped in black cloth and stooped over a stick. Her skin was blue as the sky, and her eyes were pink as roses.

“My heart is in the sea,” Vanessa replied. “I wish to join him.”

“It will not be easy,” the corner-witch warned. “You will be tested, and your love may fail. The sea is not kind to land-dwellers.”

Vanessa raised her chin. “I love him,” she said stubbornly. “I will be with him. I can withstand these tests.”

“So be it,” the corner-witch said, and raised her hand. “Join your heart, but if you fail, blame no one but yourself.”

Vanessa blinked, and in the space between opening and closing her eyes, she was on the beach under her castle, in the waves. Her skirt was in tatters, and her legs burned. She cried out as her legs fused together and grew a thick, sharp skin of scales, and as her neck split open to form the gills she needed to breathe. Her tail was black as the night sky on a moonless night, and Vanessa cried with the pain of it.

She crawled forward into the ocean on her hands, and when she finally submerged fully, she felt the touch of the waves as the glancing blows of frigid knives. But her love was before her, somewhere, and she must find him and join him.

Vanessa found her love, but she found him in a palace made of gold and pearl on the seafloor, hand-in-hand with another mermaid. They floated before a man with a long white beard and a crown- the Sea-King- and he pronounced them married forevermore.

Vanessa’s heart shattered, and she screamed at Nereus. She cursed him, cursed his heart to bleed whenever he looked at his new wife and for his tail to rot if ever he came close to Vanessa herself.

Then she swam away, sobbing, as the pieces of her broken heart reformed themselves into something much sharper.

Vanessa traveled far through the dark depths, searching for something she did not yet understand. She stayed so long in the dark that her lovely golden skin faded into white, and the grime in the water began to stain it green and gray. She was still inexperienced with her tail, so she traveled slowly, but she was determined to find something of worth in the sea she’d given her life up for.

Eventually, Vanessa found a grotto tucked into the side of an underwater mountain. The entrance was half-hidden by tall, waving plants she had never seen before, and an unnatural light shone from within. She peeked inside cautiously, curiosity getting the better of her.

There was a woman there, a mermaid- but instead of a fish tail, she had tentacles, like those of the octopus Vanessa’s brother once ate on his birthday, though the woman’s tentacles had barbs along with suckers. The woman turned to look at Vanessa: Vanessa put her hands up to show that she was unarmed, and asked the woman her name.

“They call me the Sea-Witch,” the woman said. “Who are you, and why do you come here?”

“I am Vanessa,” the mermaid replied, “and I am here because I have nowhere else to go.”

The Sea-Witch smiled at Vanessa. “Come in, child,” she said kindly. “You have a place here, should you want it.”

“I want it,” Vanessa said, and swam inside.

Vanessa’s heart had grown cold and dark, so the Sea-Witch taught her dark magics, the magic of the deal and the trick and the lie. She taught her how to always emerge victorious and how to play all those she met like puppets. Vanessa’s power grew and grew, and years passed in the dark grotto under the sea. The Sea-Witch grew older and taught Vanessa other things; the best manner of swimming, how to change one’s form with the least amount of pain, the traditions of the Sea-Witches who came before.

“Our name is Ursula,” the Sea-Witch told Vanessa. “I was not always the Sea-Witch, but I am now, and thus Ursula is my name until I die.” She patted Vanessa’s gray-skinned shoulder. “Should you take my place, it will be yours as well.”

Vanessa smiled at the Sea-Witch. “It is a good name,” she said.

The Sea-Witch and Vanessa often swam among the wrecked ships at the seafloor; they could gather valuable supplies there that they would not get anywhere else. As the years passed, Vanessa began going alone: she had grown confident in herself and her power.

She ventured out on one of these trips one day, a few hours after a severe storm. A ship had drifted down through the dark, angry waves, the edge of a cliff piercing the bow and holding it in place. She swam inside, looking for anything useful or interesting, and came face-to-face with a body.

She jerked back in surprise. The body was of a young woman, olive-skinned and flaxen-haired; her eyes were shut, mouth open. She wore a green dress that swirled around her legs in the current.

Vanessa bit her lip and reached out, brushing her fingers across the maiden’s icy cheek. Black sparks followed in their path.

“You are young, unfortunate one,” she whispered, and thought of the wind and currents, the crash of waves and the color of the ocean. “You have a life yet to live. Awake, poor soul, and regain the life stolen from you.”

The maiden’s eyes opened. Her mouth opened wide, perhaps to scream or perhaps to breathe: gills gashed open her neck and her legs simmered together, fusing into a silvery tail. The maiden put her hands to her neck, her mouth; she looked around and then at Vanessa, dark eyes questioning.

“Your ship capsized,” Vanessa explained calmly. “You died. I revived you.”

The woman flinched. “You are powerful indeed, madam.”

“Vanessa,” she corrected. “Would you like to stay with me?”

The woman considered it.

“Yes,” she said finally. “I am Morgana, and I thank you for your kindness.”

Vanessa’s smile was akin to the slash of a blade. “It was no trouble. I know quite a bit about lives cut short.”

She brought Morgana back to the Sea-Witch’s grotto, and the Sea-Witch welcomed the young mermaid with open arms. “She will be your trainee,” the Sea-Witch whispered to Vanessa, “to take your place when you follow me.”

Vanessa brushed her tail against the Sea-Witch’s tentacles. “We shall make you proud.”

“Of that, I have no doubt,” the Sea-Witch smiled.

The Sea-Witch grew steadily weaker, and she passed onward into the dark beyond ten years past Vanessa’s plunge into the depths. Vanessa held the Sea-Witch’s hand as the old mermaid breathed her last, and as she died, Vanessa’s own heart began to speed up. She gasped as the Sea-Witch’s corpse dissolved into sea foam, and cried out when the foam flew into her eyes: her heart grew heavy with power, and her black fishtail split into eight dark tentacles. Her brown hair bleached into ivory. Vanessa threw back her head, laughing at the surge of magic, as she became the Sea-Witch.

Morgana entered the death chamber cautiously. “My lady?”

“Ursula, child,” the Sea-Witch said, looking at her apprentice. “I am Ursula now.”

Many years passed in the grotto under the sea. Ursula taught Morgana all that her sea-mother had taught her, and she continued the legacy. When merpeople needed magic, they came to her, and she delivered- though she always claimed her price. She would give nothing away for free, not even advice or kindness. She cared not for altruism.

She found two baby eels and brought them back to her grotto. Morgana named them Flotsam and Jetsam, as they had been discovered in the wreck of a ship. Ursula kept them as pets instead of spell ingredients.

As the years stretched on, Ursula’s heart grew yet colder. The only beings she had any love for were her apprentice and her pets, and even with them, she was not kind. She treated everyone roughly and cared not for wounded hearts.

And then the youngest daughter of the Sea-King fell in love with a human.

The king was as stubborn and stone-blunt as ever. The little princess would never be allowed to follow her heart under his eyes.

And so the princess searched elsewhere, and as all desperate souls do, eventually she came down into the darkness to bargain for her desires.

“I love a human,” the little princess said, as blunt as her father. “Can you help me go to him?”

Ursula’s cold, cracked heart stirred. She thought of Vanessa, and she knew that she must do what the corner-witch had not. She must test this girl’s love, and the human’s love in return. She would accept nothing less than devotion from both parties to allow their relationship to flourish. No more girls would follow Vanessa’s footsteps.

Ursula sighed gently, the magic of the deal swirling faster in her heart. “Oh, of course, poor dear one,” she said, and began gathering ingredients. “Poor unfortunate soul,” she said, and gave the little princes the courtesan smile she’d perfected when she herself had legs. “But you must give me something in exchange.”

“I know,” the little princess replied. Her hair floated out around her face, a halo of fire. “The stories are very specific about that.”

Ursula laughed. “Clever girl,” she said. “Not quite so poor after all, are you?”

The princess did not reply.

“But then,” Ursula said, dropping ingredients into her cauldron and watching it glow and bubble, “love makes us all poor, and mad to boot.”

The princess’ eyes were fixed upon the cauldron. Ursula snapped her fingers; the contract popped into her hand, shimmering quill held carefully in two fingers of the other. “Now, unfortunate one,” she said. The princess raised her gaze with effort, focusing on the magic paper. “I hereby agree to give you the means to win your heart, if you will swear to pay me the price I ask.”

The princess hesitated, and for a moment Ursula hoped. The little princess seemed smart, unafraid to speak her mind; perhaps she may yet avoid her fate?

“Give me the quill,” the princess said, and Ursula’s icy heart sank.

“Sign here,” she said, her voice steady. “Good.”

The quill and contract disappeared as soon as the princess finished her signature. The magic filled Ursula with bubbling heat and she roared with laughter, her cauldron surging and the princess cringing.

“As the sea flaps and crashes, so does your tail,” the Sea-Witch called. “As the earth scrapes and breaks, so shall your feet.” Her eyes were wild as she looked at the princess, full of white fire and green lightning. “Sing, dear one! Sing, and he shall be yours to claim!”

The princess sang. It was a lovely sound, clear as a bell and bright as gold.

Soon enough, the sound was swallowed by Ursula’s laughter. The princess clutched at her throat: the Sea-Witch clutched at the golden clamshell that still emitted muffled notes.

“You have three days to seek your heart,” Ursula called. “Good riddance to him if you fail!”

She waved her hand, and the princess thrashed as her tail began to split apart at the bottom. Ursula waved her hand once more, and the princess rocketed toward the surface of the ocean as her gills closed.

She didn’t want the girl dead, after all. It was only her suitor that needed to die.

Ursula gave the princess one day of solitude, one day of uninhibited time to catch her lover. On the dawn of the second morning, Ursula waved her hand to create a glittering bubble, in the surface of which she watched the mute little princess stumble into a dress and wait faithfully at the prince’s table for him to join her.

Ursula was surprised. The princess worked fast, apparently - or her suitor was just that biddable. If it was the latter…

Ursula smiled. Her white fangs glinted in the low light of her grotto.

If it was the latter, then perhaps Ursula could sway the deal in her favor and get the princess back into the ocean with her heart intact.

“Morgana!” she called. “Watch over the cave until I return. I have a price to collect.”

It was not exactly the truth, but Ursula had never claimed to be the Truth-Witch.

It was a simpler spell to turn Ursula human than it was to give the princess legs. The poor little princess had always been a mermaid; giving her legs and lungs and all the messy little land-dweller bits was like taking a doll and replacing half its parts without instructions.

Ursula, however, had once been Vanessa. All the Sea-Witch had to do was reach back to the dark-haired princess of years past and pull on the skin she had shed all those years past. It was like slipping into a familiar dress, old and worn but still comfortable, still the right size.

Vanessa surfaced beneath the cliffside. The castle had changed, but the beach was the same - though, it was noon, and all the fishing-boats were out on the waves, too far to see the woman suddenly appearing on the beach.

Vanessa tapped a long fingernail against the humming golden shell hanging round her neck. “With a voice so captivating as this,” she decided, “only the truest and strongest heart could resist.”

The princess slept in her little bed, and Vanessa visited the prince in his room. She hummed soft music to him and stroked his hair, and he turned his face into her touch and smiled. She smiled too, her magic wrapping as a net around the sleeping prince, the threads reaching through the castle to ensnare his staff.

Only the princess and her pets would know something had changed. Now to see if the princess believed her prince still loved her, or if she would turn back and return to the kingdom she belonged in. Her heart may break, but it would heal. She was young and alone in a strange place. It shouldn’t take much to send her back, cracked but alive. She would live on, as Vanessa had not.

Vanessa did not sleep beside her entranced prince that night. Instead, she wandered the halls of the castle, taking in what had changed and what had not. She knew not how long she had spent in the ocean, but only the architecture of the palace was familiar to her. Surely many generations had gone by. Perhaps the bloodline Vanessa hailed from was entirely gone now. Perhaps that would be for the best - only one brother had remained royal, and he was long dead. Who could say if his descendents were any good at ruling?

No, Vanessa decided. The prince caught in her web could not be of her brother’s line. His mind was far too easy to ensnare. No one of her brother’s blood would be so weak.

Besides, he looked nothing like any of the family Vanessa had known.

Dawn broke over Vanessa sitting at the breakfast table, looking at the waves. Perhaps land was her birthplace and two-legged her natural state, but the air was cold against her pale skin and she missed her eight prehensile limbs. Morgana had not woken her with a smile or story today, and whatever mischief Flotsam and Jetsam were getting into, she was not there to see.

It was no matter, Vanessa told herself. This was the dawn of the third day, the final day of the princess’ deal. The prince’s heart was Vanessa’s and so the princess would go home tonight, hurt but better for the lesson.

The prince fawned over her, paying her more attention than the wedding plans Vanessa had planted in his mind (what greater show of devotion was there, after all?). The red-haired princess, Vanessa noted, stood in corners with wet eyes and trembling lips.

Vanessa shot the princess a smug grin, but there was no joy in her heart. She was doing a job, nothing more. She had no desire for this weak-willed prince or his dry, windy kingdom. All she wanted was to send the princess home before the land caught her up in its claws.

So she endured the prince’s soft words and warm glances with only the merest of shudders. She parried his touches with words of propriety, replacing the disgust she truly felt. Vanessa belonged to no man, and never would.

The wedding was to be held on the grandest ship in the kingdom’s fleet, and the vows were meant to be completed as the sun went down. Ridiculously romantic, but it served Vanessa’s purposes. On sundown of the third day, the princess’ deal was off, and she’d be a daughter of the sea once more. Ursula would return and take the princess with her back into the waves. The spell on the prince would break, and the kingdom would return to normal. No permanent damage, other than perhaps to Ursula’s reputation as a heartless, merciless dealmaker. But she could make that back up easily enough. There are always hapless merfolk looking for help on the wrong side of the kelp.

The breezes on the ship was laden with the smell of salt. It soothed Vanessa’s harried nerves, allowing her to smile at the silly prince next to her. The priest who would read the vows was a short man whose glasses kept slipping down his nose. Vanessa tuned out his droning voice and the prince’s dull eyes by wondering if Morgana’d had to turn away any customers in her absence, and whether Flotsam or Jetsam had gotten into her stash of candied shrimp again.

The necklace around Vanessa’s neck was unnaturally warm, the faint hum of the princess’ stolen voice keeping the prince nicely in line. A token of a bound heart’s true beloved always strengthened such a spell as Vanessa had caught the prince in.

The priest was winding down. The sun was sinking. Just a little more time, Vanessa reminded herself. Just a few more minutes, and she could go home and the little princess would be safe.

“I do,” the prince said, and Vanessa’s hands shook.

The priest turned to her. She couldn’t hear his voice over the ringing in her ears. She’d thought the deal would come before this. She could not say it. She could not.

The priest’s mouth stopped moving. She stood, still and silent. The prince frowned at her. The priest looked concerned.

A bird landed on the priest’s tall, ridiculous hat.

Vanessa jerked back from it, startled. It was a mangy, ruffled thing, half its feathers out of place and long orange legs grimy. The priest shouted, hopping about and flapping his hands, but the bird was off his head nearly as soon as it landed. Instead, it flew at Vanessa.

On instinct, her hands went up to guard her head. That was her mistake.

The bird was not aiming for her head. It was aiming for her necklace.

The string holding the golden shell around her neck snapped as the bird pulled away. Vanessa gasped, reaching to grab the bird before it ruined everything, but it was faster than she. It swept away, to the cabin of the ship, and dropped the necklace to the deck.

Directly in front of the bare, scraped feet of the princess.

She met Vanessa’s eyes. Struck mute by the crumbling of her plan, Vanessa only shook her head, knowing the gesture was useless.

The princess slammed her heel down on the gold shell, not flinching as it cracked apart against her delicate skin.

The lovely, bewitching voice surged free of its prison, flowing back into the princess’ throat. She cried out for her prince, and Vanessa watched his eyes come alive.

He stumbled away from her, looking toward the princess.

All inconsequential. The deal wasn’t sealed yet.

Vanessa looked to the horizon, where the sun was a thin slice of molten gold. She smiled.

The little princess could still be saved.

Vanessa raised her arms. The breeze picked up, a cold wind rustling the fancy clothes of the wedding party and the long hair away from Vanessa’s shoulders. She felt the sea, far beneath her feet, and thought of her grotto.

Vanessa’s skin tore apart like paper, fading into dust motes as Ursula ripped free, limbs sprawling across the deck. The people screamed and ran. The daring little princess grabbed her prince’s arm and stared Ursula down.

“I won!” she yelled. “I won! Go away!”

Ursula cackled and slid toward the two of them. The prince stood strong with his love’s grip on him. Hmm. Perhaps Ursula had underestimated his devotion. Her magic was so terribly strong, after all, and his mind was so terribly weak...

“You haven’t sealed the deal, darling,” Ursula purred. “And look at the horizon.”

The last sliver of the sun disappearing under the waves was reflected in the princess’ horrified eyes.

“Sundown of the third day, poor dear,” Ursula cooed, one tentacle curling around the princess’ bare ankle. “And the deal is unfulfilled.”

“No!” the princess screamed. The prince reached for her free hand, but she fell quicker than he could move, legs melting together and taking her whole body down to the deck. She flopped and gasped as her gills opened back up, unprepared for a sudden new source of oxygen - one that wouldn’t work properly until the little princess was back under the waves.

Ursula dragged the coughing princess closer with the grip around her tail. “Goodbye, princey!” she yelled, laughing. “Love is a fickle mistress indeed!”

And she dove back into the ocean with the princess tangled in her coils.

The princess fought her, but she was young and single-tailed, disoriented and readjusting to life without legs. Ursula was the Sea-Witch. There was no fight the princess could win against her.

Morgana greeted Ursula at the entrance to the grotto, Flotsam and Jetsam curled around her arms. She said nothing; the weeping princess tangled in Ursula’s tentacles told the story without unnecessary chatter. Instead, she swept the kelp curtain back to allow Ursula and the princess entrance to her cavern.

“Hush, princess,” Ursula sighed, releasing her grip. Morgana closed the kelp curtain but remained in front of it, effectively guarding the princess’ only escape route.

“Why?” the little princess whispered, curling in on herself.

Ursula crossed her arms. “I always carry through on my deals, dearie. Isn’t that why you came to me?”

“No!” The princess’ eyes were a cold, cold blue. “You- this was a technicality! He loved me! And you interfered! You bewitched him! How was that fair?!”

“It wasn’t,” Ursula admitted calmly. Her deals were never kind and rarely fair. They were always in her favor. It was hardly her fault none of the merpeople knew how to haggle. “It was never meant to be fair.”

The princess stared at her.

“Why so shocked? I’m the Sea-Witch, dear. You saw my garden outside. How many stories of the deals going as their makers expected have you heard?”

Shame flushed the princess’ pale cheeks as she ducked away from Ursula’s mocking gaze.

“Go home, little princess. Live in your father’s court and find a nice merman to marry someday, or never marry at all - one of your sisters can take the throne, I’m sure.” Ursula shrugged, the motion carrying through her tentacles. “Never give your heart to a man of another world. Nothing good will come of it.”

The princess looked at Ursula with her mouth open, seemingly about to argue.

Then something impacted with the top of Ursula’s grotto and sent a shockwave through the rock.

Morgana darted outside. Ursula, with a final glance at the stony-faced princess, followed her apprentice. She’d told the girl to go home. There was no purpose to continue her imprisonment.

She began to reconsider when she saw the source of the shockwave.

The wedding ship - or another from the royal fleet, all ship bottoms looked the same - was floating right above them, and a volley of harpoons had just sunk into the top of her grotto.

“Morgana,” Ursula said, perfectly calm. “Take the eels and go.”

“What?”

“The Sea-Witch must live. The prince won’t stop until I’m dead or he is, and the princess will bring the wrath of the Sea-King down upon my head if I kill him. He has no quarrel with you. Go.”

Morgana gave her a silent, searching look. Ursula held firm. Her apprentice nodded, holding Flotsam and Jetsam against her chest, and swam swiftly away.

Ursula heard the princess come out of the cave behind her. “Your suitor has come for you,” she said, not looking back.

“He loves me,” the little princess said.

“You’re certain?” Ursula prodded. “I did not lie, poor dear princess. Love between the land and the sea never lasts.”

The princess demanded, “How would you know?” She crossed her arms. Her hair floated out around her head, a scarlet sun shining behind a pale moon.

“A long time ago,” Ursula said, turning away to watch another volley of harpoons slam into her home, “a princess of your heart’s kingdom fell in love with a man of the waves. She gave up her legs and her crown for him, but his heart belonged to another. The princess came to the ocean seeking him, and still he married that other girl. The princess was left alone and forgotten.”

Ursula did not turn back to see the little princess’ expression. It was a story she had never told another soul, and some details she would take to her grave. “If another silly young princess is going to give her heart away,” she said, and allowed her magic to spark thick and black between her fingers, “I will make sure it is to a worthy man.”

She rocketed up to the surface, eight limbs propelling her far faster than a single-tailed mermaid could ever go. She burst through the waves and did not stop: her magic crackled like lightning under her skin, and she swelled larger and larger until she towered over the little ship bobbing in the waves, her limbs brushing the ocean floor and her hair parting the low-hanging stormclouds.

She recalled the old stories she’d read in her bedroom, about gods and mountains and thunderstorms. She laughed, the sound booming louder than a thunderclap. She raised her hand and drew her fingers through the clouds, gathering the electricity in her palm.

“HELLO, LITTLE PRINCE!” she called, and threw it.

The stern of the ship cracked right off, bobbing and sinking slowly in the churning waves. If there were any crewman on that ship, they didn’t stand a chance against the sea’s wrath.

She could still see a little figure dressed in white at the wheel. That wouldn’t last long.

Ursula plucked the prince right out of his ship with her tentacle, bringing him up to her face to see her target more clearly. If she was going to truly kill a man… well. Even a sandy-legged man like him deserved a witness, even if she was also his murderer.

He looked up at her. He had wide blue eyes that almost matched the princess’s, and the black of his hair almost matched the black of Ursula’s tentacles.

She felt, very suddenly, that this was a man who did not deserve to die.

The prince struggled and swatted at her, though it was obvious that he couldn’t kill her and if she dropped him, he’d likely die anyway. Certainly a tenacious one.

“HEY!”

Ursula turned. The ship had drifted closer, tossed by the waves, and a familiar shape was flopped across the deck. It would seem the princess had learned how to coordinate her two sets of respirators.

“Let him go!” the princess shouted. Her tail flapped weakly against the wooden boards of the deck, but she’d hauled herself up with a firm grip on the ship’s wheel to get a proper view of the Sea-Witch and her captive.

“AND WHY SHOULD I DO THAT?” Ursula asked, truly curious. Would the little princess truly put her life on the line for this prince? What had she seen in so little time to entrance her so?

“I love him!” the princess screamed. “And I don’t care if you think he’s not worthy, I do!”

Ursula paused, thinking. It was the princess’s heart, after all. It ought to be her choice to give it away or keep it safe.

But... if someone else had seen Vanessa’s infatuation... if someone else had stepped in and saved her…

No. A mind in love was a mind clouded. The princess couldn’t be trusted to make her own decisions about this prince.

“OH, LITTLE PRINCESS,” Ursula said. “IF ONLY YOU COULD PROVE IT.”

The prince looked Ursula directly in her massive eye and said, almost inaudible over the winds, “Who are you to say I don’t love her?”

Ursula looked right back. “THE PROOF.”

She loosened her grip on him, wanting to watch his fear as he dropped. Sure enough, as the only thing keeping him from falling to his death began to give way, he started vainly clutching at the smooth surface of her tentacle despite his hatred for her.

She laughed. “GO AHEAD, LITTLE PRINCE. IT WON’T SAVE YOU.”

The prince’s eyes were very wide. Ursula could see herself in them, her shock of pale hair and her glittering sharp teeth and the lightning crackling around her head.

“No,” he said, fingers relaxing. “But she will.”

Ursula frowned in confusion for a moment. Then his meaning hit her - literally.

The ship’s broken, sharp bow rammed into her side, digging through her flesh and burying itself in her guts. She felt bone snap against the heavy wood, and felt the pulse of her heart pushing blood out of the gaping hole in her side.

She dropped the prince.

He fell, but not to the sea. He bounced off her tentacle and slid down the curling, twitching mess of her limbs, dropping into the roiling waves with only bruises.

The princess cried his name and dove off the ship after him.

Left alone, Ursula gasped. She could already feel herself fading, the blood bubbling from her wound turning to foam as soon as it left her body.

“Morgana,” she whispered.

She pushed feebly away from the ship. Already damaged, the bow broke from the rest of the ship and remained stuck inside her.

Ursula fell. The waves crashed back from her impact, and she looked dully up at the sky as her body continued to dissolve.

The clouds were thick and gray. She could still see the lightning crackling, waiting to be unleashed.

She closed her eyes and let the sea claim her.

A good distance away, hiding in the thick kelp gardens by the Sea-King’s palace, Morgana gasped and shook as a current of sea foam collided with her, carrying in its wake a sudden, burning rush of power that lit her up from the inside. Her silver tail split into eight and her eyes glowed. Flotsam and Jetsam moved away from their new mistress, wary.

She calmed, and reached out for them again. “It’s alright,” she said. “I am Ursula. You know me.”

The eels accompanied Ursula to her hidden watching-place a week later, where they spied upon Ariel, princess of the sea, receiving her father’s blessing and running into her prince’s arms.

Ursula climbed the hull of the rebuilt flagship to observe the wedding of Ariel and Prince Eric. Their eyes hardly left the other, and they smiled with no trace of falsehood.

It would seem her predecessor was wrong about this prince.

Ursula took up the mantle of Sea-Witch, as she had promised. She made fair deals and did not lie to her customers about their chances.

Times changed, and so the Sea-Witch changed with them.

Ariel and Prince Eric had several children and lived a happy life in their kingdom, ruling their lands and keeping up diplomatic relations with the Sea-King next door. The kingdom flourished under their rule, and continued to flourish when they left the throne to their youngest, Melody - their only choice of heir, after their elder sons and other daughter had all went off on adventures to other kingdoms.

The Sea-Witch lived on under the waves, the title and magic switching hands and hearts for as long as life thrived in the sea. There were more disputes with the royal family, but none lead to death again.

And so, at least someone lived happily ever after.

#asks #replies #writing #adrian speaks #my writing #adrian wrote a thing #little mermaid rewrite #twisted fairy tales #fairy tale remix #this may or may not be the first in a series of remixes/retellings i'm working on #if you have any questions about the.... implications i left in the story go ahead and ask!!#(if you're wondering i did put both of vanessa's brothers into actual fairytales)#morgana is named morgana bc that was the name of ursula's 'sister' in the shitty shitty sequel #if anyone wants The Tales Of The Merkiddos i will 100% write them for you #Anonymous

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nyxysabyss · 8 years ago

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LEVEL HORIZON; YEAR THREE 1/9; Dissolution & Moirai’s Whisper

CHAPTER 18!

I don’t believe in accidents. There are only encounters in history. There are no accidents. ~Pablo Picasso in History

The inhabitants of the beach house are just past year three at their coastal home when a message comes from Ukai, summoning Kuroo to town with all haste even as evening closes in.

The black cat returns with dire news. The shop owner has received a raven bearing an unsigned memo with two lines of urgent scrawl:

Five units dispatched on snake nest raid. Make yourselves scarce.

~ ~ ~

Ryuunosuke Tanaka peruses the shelves laden with pretty little blown glass ornaments of a glass maker’s stall in the small village market. The craftsman who made them is quite talented and it’s rare to find a place like this in a small town so far off the beaten path and the coast; he absently wonders if there’s one that his sister would like.

She wasn’t really into flowers and cute girly things… she was far too cynical for those. She didn’t wear much of what most people would term ‘fine jewelry’ and was picky about her earrings; she wouldn’t wear any dangly type stuff. There really wasn’t much that fit Saeko’s particular style… but all the shiny little delicate trinkets and jewelry really were impressive.

Finally, one catches his eye and he bends down to get a better look at it. It’s little more than a pin, but a moment of inspiration hits him when he remembers the way Saeko goes all out with her drum performances. The needlepoint itself is polished metal, but the simple glasswork piece affixed to its end is… almost perfect.

The graceful mitsudomoe insignia that was emblazoned across the face of her drums is captured perfectly in red dyed glass, underlined with smoky black. This small pin would be the perfect thing to keep her headwrap in place for performances. His hand absently reaches for it with quiet awe, but he pauses when his peripheral awareness stops him.

There’s a second or two where he wonders if he’s seeing things, because he could swear Hinata was over by a katsudon stand with Kageyama. He frowns and slowly turns his head toward the patch of orange hair beside him, utterly baffled at why the redhead would be interested in glass artwork. He catches his breath.

It’s not Hinata.

But it could have been if he were a good couple centuries younger… and a girl.

It’s like seeing a weird mirage, right down to the black wings that sprout from her shoulders that are flecked with white feathers on their undersides— exactly like Hinata’s had been.

He takes in the kid beside him as she stares at the glass trinkets with her mouth set into a flat line but her eyes focused with an awed expression. She’s a little thin, but on the verge of adolescence, her bright orange hair pulled into two unruly pigtails, her shirt coated with dust from the road.

And of everything about her, that last detail is what makes him frown, because she has wings. Most avians didn’t traverse roads or earthen routes when they could fly. He glances back at her wings, but while they seem off somehow, he can see nothing obviously wrong with them.

So why would she be walking?

Was she injured?

Her eyes snap to him guardedly, suddenly aware of his critical focus, and he flinches. Almond eyes that could have been Hinata’s watch him with sharp suspicion, her brows drawing down into a frown. They are creased with unease where Hinata’s are often creased with laughter, but they are every bit as expressive.

“Eh… what’s your name?” He asks a little awkwardly. The girl simply stares at him.

“Um… you here with someone? Parents or a brother or something?” He tries instead. Her head tilts slightly.

“... brother?” Her voice slips out almost inaudibly, uncertainly. Ryuu smiles slightly.

“You have a brother?”

Again, no response. Ryuu reaches up to scratch the back of his head and the girl flinches and takes a step backward. He instantly freezes at the wary look that crosses her face and holds his hands up in the universal gesture of ‘I’m harmless’. He knows it probably doesn’t help much; Saeko had always said he had a roughshod look to him that could make people uneasy.

“Eto… I have a sister.” He says and glances back at the mitsudomoe pin. “I haven’t seen her for a while and was thinking of maybe getting her something.”

“Sister?” Her tiny voice finds him cautiously and he glances back at her with a small smile.

“Yeah. She’s a drummer. I was thinking this one.” He says and points to the mitsudomoe.

“What do you think?” He asks.

She watches him for a long moment before looking back at the array of pretty little baubles. She looks at the pin in question only a moment before her eyes roam across the shelves of glass. Her scan complete, she points to another piece, a small hairpin overlaid with spun glass sunflowers.

“You think that one?” He asks, surprised and she nods, the ghost of a smile tugging at her mouth that makes him think that if she really smiled with uninhibited joy— and were a boy, she’d be a dead ringer for Hinata.

“Hmm. My sister’s weird. She doesn’t really like flowers.” He grumbles. The girl looks at him with a frown and points to the hairpin again.

Heh, insistently stubborn like that shrimp, too.

“That’s really the one I should get her, huh?”

She nods again. He scratches the back of his head again, belatedly pleased that she doesn’t shy from the motion this time.

“Ano… I don’t know—” The girl stomps her foot, her wings shifting with agitation.

“Th… that one.” She says with a fierce scowl. The words are curled, as if they aren’t her native tongue and she seems a little unsure of them despite her conviction. Ryuu’s brows rise.

Does she not speak crow?

For a moment, he wants to facepalm, because he just asked some kid who doesn’t speak their language to help him pick out a gift for his crazy sister. He huffs slightly before straightening. His sister would never wear it, but she’d undoubtedly find this situation hilarious.

He reluctantly points out the sunflower hairpin and hands over the few coins the grinning shopkeeper asks, feeling entirely foolish. He takes the pin and turns back to the girl only to find her grinning up at him. It takes him off guard, and he blinks as he realizes that she’s pretty cute in a maddening sort of way.

“She will like.” She says in her warped accent and he grins crookedly down at her.

Oh yes, Saeko will find this hysterical.

“Tanaka.” He glances up from the girl when he hears Kuroo’s voice over his shoulder.

Taking mental stock of where Kageyama and Hinata are arguing over what to bring back for dinner a couple stalls down, he turns toward the approaching cat and his leveler shadow.

“Hey, Baldy. We need to let the others know that there are snakes in the area. Pressure from the rookery a few days back is creating a ripple effect and I heard that they are on the move.”

“Is it something that should concern us more than sentries?” Ryuu asks lowly. The cat tosses his hair and points to his cloudy eye.

“They aren’t the savory type. They captured Kenma with the intent to sell him overseas centuries ago, and their habits haven’t changed much.” He murmurs, scanning their surroundings. Ryuu’s eyes widen.

“They traffic people?” He asks with surprise and Kuroo nods.

“Among other things… and the rookery cracking down on them the last year or so has placed them under stress. Keep close to the shrimp. They aren’t in the habit of abducting crows, but his red hair makes him an oddity— and all the more interesting if they realize he’s a grounded bird. I need to find Daichi and Suga and inform them.”

Ryuu nods as the cats disappear and he quickly finds the younger level pair with new alertness.

In a flash of insight, he remembers another face framed by orange hair. If Hinata were at risk, she would be, too. He turns back to the girl only to find her gone. He frowns and glances up and down the street, searching for orange pigtails and black wings, but comes up nil. He glances back at the pin in his hand, reaffirming that he didn’t lose his mind and imagine that little exchange that led to this poor decision. His frown deepens.

Pocketing the pin, he turns and heads for the shrimp and crow setter, hoping she will be fine.

They’d been fortunate that everyone had been home when Ukai had gotten the raven; tracking down half their group with the message to not come home would have been a nightmare.

When the cat had returned a half hour later at a clip, everyone had paused. When he’d started issuing orders to pack enough so they could be gone by morning, everyone had leapt. By the first gray tendrils of light the following day, they’d gathered outside the beach house, all in one place in front of their home for the last time for the foreseeable future.

Kuroo had split the group into three sects. Noya and Asahi were sent with the girls and Lev and Yaku, the short crow not at all happy about being separated from the rest of their unit. Kuroo had stressed that a split was necessary in the event that one group got caught; they would need people who would have inside knowledge of the rookery in order to attempt a rescue.

The small crow had hated it, but had grudgingly agreed. Ryuu could definitely understand how Noya felt; he’d had very much the same feeling despite understanding where the large feline was coming from.

Kuroo had then sent the owls with Tsukishima and Yamaguchi to live inside Sheru Bay itself, staying with Suga’s relatives. The owls still had their dock jobs and would need to stay in order to avoid suspicion by randomly disappearing, and the other two would help with the Sugawara family store and Ukai’s shop. They were on standby to maintain communication between the three groups and would be the ones to give them the all clear when it was safe to return.

Kuroo had packed up himself and Kenma to join the remainder of the former Karasuno unit with the intent of splitting them once more after they got a bit farther north. Tanaka didn’t like the idea, but he had to admit that larger groups definitely attracted more attention than smaller ones.

The bald crow has the feeling that he’ll be split off with Daichi and Suga while the cats remain with the avian heir and grounded redhead. It’s a dull prospect; he holds nothing but respect and affection for the older level pair, but they aren’t nearly as much fun as Noya and Hinata.

But that doesn’t matter when it comes to their safety. As he catches up with the bickering pair, they both turn toward him.

For a moment, he sees smaller almond eyes framed by orange pigtails when Hinata looks at him, and he hopes that they will all stay safe.

Level Pair ; Chapter 1; Chapter 17; Chapter 19

A/N: How about THAT little surprise? I think the only mention of this wonderfully vexing child (i'm NOT good at writing kids so this could very well go sideways) was way back in Iwa's first chapter.

Just a heads up, but I won't have internet access tomorrow so there wont be a new chapter... apologies. Stay awesome guys, have a spectacular evening!

#level pair #level horizon #haikyuu!!#ryuunosuke tanaka #kagehina #Tobio Kageyama #Shouyou Hinata #fanfiction #long post

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topfygad · 5 years ago

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Wild Lands and Cosy Camps in Iceland

Driving and camping along Iceland’s Ring Road takes a couple to iridescent geothermal sites, whale sightings, and national parks.

Bubbling mud pots, iridescent mineral deposits and steaming fumaroles at the geothermal site of Hverir are the stuff of dreams. It’s worth driving east of Lake Mývatn to witness this spectacle. Photo By: ProMedia Sudath/Shutterstock

Húsavík, Day 7

The sperm whales showed up one and a half hours into our journey across the Arctic sea. The sky had turned leaden and the sea had merged with it, and the only line differentiating the two was the school of six whales spouting water from their blowholes. The sprays spread into the air and disappeared like dandelions in a storm, reappearing every few minutes. Next to me, a six-foot-tall American doubled over with sea-sickness was retching into the Arctic. His wife, although sympathetic to his plight, looked a bit annoyed at having to let go of this ecstatic photographic moment of whale sighting. I observed the whales, swaying between dizziness and exhilaration, grateful to have finally seen them, regretful that the puffins had not shown, and impatient to stand firm on land once again.

***

My husband, S, and I are in the whaling town of Húsavík in the north coast of Iceland and we’ve been driving and camping for over a week now. Having started with sunny weather, our undependable luck caught up with us by Day 4 and we’ve had the rains chasing us for days. They come and go, leaving the campsites damp and muddy, making our task of pitching tents every evening before dinner a Herculean effort that we’ve been managing so far with steady swigs of whiskey. But after the whales have been seen, and the nightmare of a boat ride endured without messy accidents, I insist that we need the comfort of a warm B&B. After we’ve had the most luxurious sleep in days, we’re refreshed and ready for some more camp living. But the sky outside still bears down on the sea with its dark clouds and I ask the man at the reception doing our bills if the weather is always this challenging? He looks up at me with eyes full of remorse and says, “I have to say you have real bad luck because until the day before the sun was out and shining and the sea was the bluest of blues. I wish you better luck when you come next.” I thank him with the saddest smile I can muster and leave the building hoping against hope for the sun to show.

Hvolsvöllur, Day 2

Camping in Vatnajökull National Park is a pinch-yourself-to-see-if-it’s-real sort of experience. Photo By: Henn Photography/Cultura/Getty images

We’ve left behind the lights and tin-walled dwellings of Reykjavik to go deeper into the south on Route 1 or the Ring Road which goes in a complete circle surrounding most of Iceland, giving the fjords in the west a miss. As far as the eye can see, there are no people, just table-topped mountains covered in a spill of moss and lichen and black volcanic soil. Years ago, when the unpronounceable Eyjafjallajökull erupted, halting air traffic in most of Europe, I had looked at stock images and marvelled at its scale. Now looking at other lava fields spreading out around us I feel like I’m inside a movie. Each scene reveals an even more improbable landscape—a desolate, untouched wilderness of low shrubbery, blue rivers and gushing waterfalls which appear with the regularity of punctuation in a very long, artful sentence. There are sheep grazing, their coats so bulky and furry they look like white and black hay bales on a limitless farm. And then there are the horses—stout, docile, their manes flowing in the chilly wind like a mythical beast’s. The animals and fields seem suspended in time as if they’ve always been there and always will be irrespective of days passing and seasons changing.

As we enter the campsite at the town of Hvolsvöllur, 106 kilometres southeast of Reykjavik, and set up our tents and ready our portable stove for dinner, we see a woman with a shock of silver, frizzy hair approaching us. “Are you going to need a shower?” she asks. We nod in obviousness. She then holds out her palm for 800 krónas as fee for using the hot shower at the campsite. We pay her quick and watch her go knocking on every other parked vehicle or pitched tent. She tells us cheerily that she comes every evening to clean the camp kitchen and bathrooms, housed in two red-painted portable structures, and collects the charges for maintenance. As we wait for our sausages and eggs to cook and sip on coffee from camping mugs, we watch the quiet campsite slowly fill up with cars and the hum of chatter, and then tents pop up like colourful igloos dotting the ground with oranges, army greens, and dark blues. The late-summer wind makes us shiver and finally, when the long day is taken over by a darkening sky, we wait for the stars to come slowly aglow.

Skaftafell and Vatnajökull National Park, Day 4-5

Driving on Route 1 has felt more like comfort than chore. We’ve escaped a tourist-saturated south for the moonscape of Skaftafell, a scenic area in Vatnajökull National Park in Iceland’s southeast. The summer night is feeble and the volcanic beaches inky black; an unknown deserted universe laid out flat and open just for us. We’ve driven past vast green treeless expanses; strolled along cold, black-sand beaches strewn with ice blocks broken off from Vatnajökull—Iceland’s largest ice cap—shining like diamonds under a timid sun. We’ve been soaked from the spray of the mighty Dettifoss waterfall as it frothed and foamed its way into the Jökulsá á Fjöllum river. We’ve set up our moveable home at Skaftafell, on fields of green bordered by hills that looked as if the skies had parted and poured giant buckets of emerald felt down them for years.

The waters around Húsavík (bottom-left) are a fertile home for humpback and sperm whales; Icelandic horses (bottom-right) are descendants of ponies first brought here by Norse settlers in the ninth century; Unexpected furry guests (top-left) often greet drivers on Ring Road; Diamond Beach (top-right), is a glacial outwash plain in southeast Iceland and a big draw for tourists. Photos By: Horstgerlach/iStock Unreleased/Getty images (boat), ROM/imageBROKER/Getty images (horses); Alexey Stiop/Shutterstock (animals); Technotr/E+/Getty images (beach)

Mývatn, Day 6

Thanks to the eye-popping landscape we’ve had so many stops on the way that we have lost track of time and are running quite late. The rain hasn’t shown any sign of remission and S, in order to get ahead of the clock, has taken a turn onto a gravel road that would get us to the northern volcanic lake of Mývatn just in time for sun down. We bounce over hills, and slow down like a cautious cat at bends looking out for blind turns. A dense, impenetrable fog swirls outside and at one point I’m certain we’re about to crash to our deaths. Then as suddenly as it had descended, the fog lifts and clears our vision to a wall of waterfalls on the horizon. We drive down the slim, gravel track leading back to Route 1.

We continue our drive down the almost buttery smooth Ring Road flanked by mountains and clear, sparkling lakes. We occasionally spot an iron letterbox and reckon the lone house that stood a mile away from the highway overlooking the sea. Here is isolation and its gift of abundance—each individual on his or her own acre in the midst of nowhere and with a window on the infinite blue horizon. Here it is possible to respect nature and to take refuge in it.

Watching the aurora (top-left) spill colours on the Icelandic night sky isn’t a memory you’ll likely forget; Húsavík (bottom) sits on the eastern shore of Shaky Bay and has the distinction of being the whale capital of Iceland; The Church of Akureyri (top-right) is the town’s most enduring symbol and holds a notably large 3,200-pipe organ. Photos By: Olivier Bergeron/500Px Plus/Getty images (northern lights); Alexeys/iStock/Getty images (lake),; Coolkengzz/iStock/Getty images (church)

Slowly we approach Mývatn, our stop for the night. Steam rises from grey muddy pits bubbling with boiling mud sediments, and the air reeks of sulphur. The landscape has yet again, unmistakeably and without warning, changed. A vast ochre desert lies open before us against the setting sun and steam columns reach up to kiss the sky. We drive further down into the town and pitch our tent by the calm, teal Mývatn lake. While stuffing our faces with steaming pasta, we watch ducks swim past us and count the sad-eyed sheep that flock on the hill right across.

Akureyri and Hvammstangi, Day 8-9

When we arrive in the northern town of Akureyri, the rain has finally left us and the sun is high in the sky. We visit cafés and bookshops and drink beer at hipster bars. We see trees like poplar and rowan, which we hadn’t seen anywhere else in the country, and walk past gardens bursting with scarlet and golden flowers. We take the most spirit-restoring dip in the town’s public hot pool—a complex with four pools set to different cool and hot temperatures just to afford you the best sleep that will surely follow. Elderly men and women sit in extended circles murmuring like politicians—a daily ritual for most Icelanders.

***

We get back on the road again and drive past farms alternated with steep, mountainous descents until we take a right and drive into the northwestern village of Hvammstangi standing right next to the sea. The Arctic has turned rough again, and the wind has picked up after an afternoon’s rest. We struggle to pitch our tent against the strong currents but finally manage to make it steady for our last night out in the open. After dinner, we venture out to spot the Milky Way. As we train our eyes on the northern sky, dark over the sea, we notice it dapple with green spreading like an approaching wave. The wave flickers, fades, recedes, darkens and reappears until it dances ever so slightly. A streak of faint light spills slowly illuminating the sky with a tender, iridescent glow. The aurora comes alive for us—we watch, our eyes fixated.

All flights between Delhi and Mumbai and Reykjavik require at least one layover at a European gateway city such as Amsterdam, Frankfurt, or Paris.

Indian travellers need a tourist visa to visit Iceland. Applications for the Schengen visa can be made online through VFS (dk.vfsglobal.co.in) and relevant documents (list on website) must be handed in at the visa application centre in person. The 3-month tourist visa costs Rs4,680 (plus Rs780 service fee), and takes about 15 working days to process.

Camping

The best time to camp in Iceland is Jun-Sept. Temperatures in June through August hover at 15-20°C, whereas night temperatures in September can dip to 5°C. September is usually the start of the Aurora season too, though there are no guarantees; weather is pretty unpredictable across seasons here.

Between May and August, the tiny island of Lundey, just off Húsavík, hosts nearly 2,00,000 Atlantic puffins, who gather here to breed. Photo By: FedevPhoto/iStock/Getty images

Campsites are easily found in almost all towns and national parks, and most are equipped with toilets, showers, a tiny kitchen (though not everywhere), and washing facilities. Summers are busy and it’s advisable to book ahead. Charges per person per night vary between ��11-20/Rs850-Rs1540. At national parks, pay for designated areas at the visitors’ centre (sites are usually equipped with toilets, showers, and eating areas).

Camping essentials include tent, stove (can be rented, or bought from supermarkets), cooking utensils and cutlery, shower shoes, car charger, solar powered battery charger and a head lamp. Food is pretty expensive in Iceland, so draw up a menu that’s easy to cook, or stock up on sandwiches.

If you’re camping in the open, hire an SUV (www.bluecarrental.is is a good option; from ISK51,606/Rs28,475 for a small, automatic car for 10 days, including insurance, minus petrol).

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marcosassone · 7 years ago

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Distillery District Magazine

Marco Sassone, Blue Track, 2016, oil on canvas, 48 x 58 inches.

Call him Cavaliere. In 1982, he was knighted by the Italian president Sandro Pertini into "the Order to the Merit of the Italian Republic." As a boy of nine years of age living in Tuscany, Marco Sassone befriended a street person and invited him into his home. His surprised family took the visitor in, fed and clothed him before sending the man back on his way. This event galvanized the young man's outlook for a lifetime.

Rarely seen in Europe, and associated with catastrophes, the homeless individuals encountered by Sassone upon his move to San Francisco in 1981 again struck a resonant cord. Near a railroad track at San Francisco's Ferry Building, he ran after a homeless man to befriend him and take his picture. He got the picture, but never saw the man, called Willie, again. In preparing for the San Francisco series, he lived during the daytime among homeless individuals for four years, returning each evening to his studio to live normally. Forty three years after his first encounter with a homeless person, Sassone mounted an exhibition in San Francisco titled "Home on the Streets" at the Museo ItaloAmericano. In his honor, San Francisco Mayor Frank Jordan declared March 30, 1994 as Marco Sassone Day.

Tragedy, anomie, and cataclysm inform Sassone's work. On November 4, 1966, 24-year old Sassone witnessed the great flood of Florence and was forever imprinted by the sight of personal belongings floating atop twenty-two feet of mud and water from the Arno river down the main streets of the city. The catastrophe created 5,000 homeless families. A month later, he went to Crete where he painted on the streets. These were formative and impressionable times for the young man, marked by displacement and issues of daily survival.

Now living in Toronto, Canada, where he moved from San Francisco, California, in 2005, the artist is fueled by singular passions. He has always been a nomad, wandering from one location on to another before comfort and complacency could set in, the proverbial rolling stone that gathers no moss. He moved to California in 1967 at the age of 25, to Long Beach, then to Laguna Beach where he made a name for himself in the Festival of the Atis for several years. ln 1981, after frequent crosscountry trips to New York, he settled in San Francisco, describing this time period as one of great unrest and instability. Even today in Toronto, the current end point in a succession of self-exiles, he admits to disequilibrium, and makes annual pilgrimages to the Amalfi coast and Venice in Italy. The termfldneur comes from the French verb that means "to stroll." Sassone is such an individual, one who experiences the city by walking through it. The modern Western city transforms certain individuals, giving them a new relationship to time and space while altering concepts of freedom and being.

Linear perspective is a mathematical system for creating the illusion of space and distance on a flat surface that originated in Florence, Italy in the early 1400s. In this view, an artist must first imagine the picture plane as an "open window" through which to see the painted world. Sassone paints these urban landscapes-mindscapes from a street perspective, characterized by lines converging into a vanishing point that powerfully, visually pulls the viewer into the work. The vanishing point, also seen as a vortex, is a metaphor for a place in which one disappears. A similar concept is found in physics with the "event horizon" a border in spacetime beyond which things can no longer affect the observer, and essentially disappear into a black hole.

Within one psychoanalytic theory, a primal is a reliving of earlier significant events, and for this artist, the most influential include his befriending a homeless person in 1951 and the great flood of Florence in 1966. Sassone's paintings of the homeless are manifestations of his primal experiences. His realistic expressionist paintings are born of a caring heart wounded by personal displacement and brushes with homelessness, but in his paintings one also finds sanctuary, solace, and deliverance.

Although a work is composed over several days, he states, "Every painting is a moment" that captures mental focus and activity. His painting styles includes divisionismo, with its interrupted brush strokes, and the style of the Macchiaioli from the Italian word macchie meaning "spots", a reference to the sparkling quality to the work that is a consequence of its quick execution. The Macchiaioli, predecessors of the French impressionists, were a group of Florentine painters, many previous revolut􀀳onaries, in the second half of the nineteenth century. Austrian master Oskar Kokoschka and his lyrical colorful impastoed expressionism, channeled through Kokoschka's Tuscan student Silvio Loffredo, with whom Sassone studied in 1963 when Loffredo was a professor at the Accademia in Florence, also critically influence Sassone's approach. Describing his paintings as "living things," he has syncretized his own distinctive style, with palpable emotions on canvases bearing innervated brushstrokes, resulting in a movement of the surface frequently combined with a jolting one point perspective. The paintings are a way for Sassone to plumb his psyche, mining seminal memories that he transduces onto canvas and paper in his personal telegraphic style, creating sanctuary for both himself and for his subject.

In Venezia 79 (2003) Sassone revisits a familiar composition of framing a Venetian canal, and holds a mirror, its reflective surface tarnished and altered by the gradual loss of its silvered backing, up to the sinking Queen of the Adriatic. In this painting, Venice, with its buildings and water similarly gestured and hued, is figuratively and literally dissolving into the sea. Within a tunnel vision-like perspective, the less well-defined and unfocused periphery contrasts with the sharper central image, a trapezoidal column of light that draws the viewer to its vanishing point. Visually searching for it behind the palisade of buildings induces a spellbound mysterious longing and melancholic state. The palette is predominantly Dorian gray, subdued and moody, compared to some of the brightly churning yellows and reds in other Venetian watercolor and oil paintings by the artist. Although the sky threatens darkly above, part of it appears as a brighter dappled iteration of itself in the water, invoking the artist's concept of reflections as distorted versions of reality. Sassone's brushstrokes stoke the surface of the painting, de materializing its imagery to penultimate abstractions of color and light.

In Tracks (2008), with Kiefer-like elements and somber hues, the curving tracks and switches draw the viewer to unseen converging foci. A beam of steel that literally railroads one's vision to the vanishing point visually splits the canvas. On one side of the tracks is a single stand of desolate, nearly leafless trees, the presence of a pathetic nature. The right side describes a curve to the base of the skyscrapers with flanking structures, evidence of man. The city skyline implies the busy metropolis as it towers above the wasteland feel and coloration of the expansive foreground, totally bereft of any human presence. Invisible and implied, the lost, unclaimed, and dispossessed wander along and cross these train tracks in their seemingly aimless peregrinations. Self-described as "homeless before birth," the currently Toronto-based artist is forever imprinted as ajldneur, artist, humanist, knight, and street person. Unmoored in the contested region between longing and belonging, Marco Sassone creates from his core with passion, conscience, and dignity.

Kóan Jeff Baysa

Kóan Jeff Baysa is a curator, writer, art collector, integrative medicine physician, and Whitney Independent Study Curatorial alumnus. He has curated shows for the London Biennale and the LA International Biennial. He is the Director and Curator of International Projects for MOCA Beijing,.

Marco Sassone, Tracks 2, 2007, oil on canvas, 48 x 72 inches.

Distillery District Magazine Editor, Keith Veira had the pleasure of sitting down with MARCO SASSONE, leading up to his November 9th exhibit, 'VIATICUS' at Berenson Fine Art, Toronto.

Keith Veira: Mr. Sassone, thank you for meeting with us. Aft􀀁er being knighted in 1982, any thoughts how it might have influenced your perspective, regarding hierarchical social structures and how does it manifest in your body of work.

Marco Sassone: This is an interesting question. Definitely in Italy social structures are still present - though, not as evident as in the past where classes of nobility were ranked by their respective title. In 1982 I had been in America already 15 years and for the most part well amalgamated to liberty and social equality. I vividly remember one splendid morning in February 1982 when I received this astonishing news from the Italian Consul in Los Angeles: I had been honoured with a knighthood in the Order of the Merit of the Italian Republic. I was stunned. If this honour had any influence at all in my work, I could never tell. What actually has been present in my work throughout my career is that certain sense of colour and sensibility particularly tied to the European school of painting and my growing up in Florence.

KV: When you're painting in divisionismo style, how does it occur, by subject, visionary inspirations, what is the creative process?

MS: Divisionismo has been an element of my work since the early days. I recall I was truly fascinated by the broken strokes that partially revealed the background colour, a technique that was spontaneously incorporated into my way of painting and is still currently part of the process, independently of subject or inspiration.

KV: With all your accomplishments, as a gifted and honoured artist, do you have any regrets? Please share your thoughts with us.

MS: Often an artist's brain is not well equipped to deal with the business world, and for sure I had my share of disappointments in this department. However, when we are talking about the work itself -- in my studio -- I know I have tried to remain in touch with myself during the act of painting. The temptations are enormous in this crazy profession, but beauty emerges only when you are truthful to your core as an artist. Therefore I can say, without a doubt, that I do not have any regrets.

KV: After many decades, of creativity, you art continues to astound and inspire us: tell us about your November 9th upcoming exhibit, 'VIATICUS' by partially li􀀌ing the veil.

MS: I came up with the title Viaticus as I was working on a particular canvas. Painting has always informed my life and this time I must tell you I thought I hit the jackpot just by thinking of this word. It was exactly what I wanted -- something beyond the meaning of journey, something that represented my existence as well. Viaticus is a Latin term for all that regards the road, it identifies the moving, the travelling, the experiences: journey as necessity, a journey to discover new cultures, a journey of hope, of revelations; in many ways a journey to discover ourselves. As examples in literature we may recall Homer's Odyssey and Virgil's Aeneid as well as Jack Kerouac's "On the Road," in modern times. Furthermore, as I wondered about this word, I thought of my own travels through time. All of these ideas were present in my thoughts as I began painting -- small watercolours as studies for large canvasses. I am still presently working on the paintings for the show. I invite you all to completely lift the veil at my opening in November.

KV: Lastly, there's significant evidence that your art was forged in the United States and is currently under investigation by the FBI and the RCMP. Can you provide a few comments and any potential ramifications for the international art market?

MS: Initially, it was under investigation by the RCMP and then the FBI. It continued in the form of a civil lawsuit filed by my attorneys in Las Vegas, and is presently with the Supreme Court of Nevada. I have been instructed by my attorney not to talk about the lawsuit itself, but I can express comments on how it impacted my career following my personal discovery of the forged artwork. In 2014 when I first saw my signature (which was not mine) on an artwork, it felt like I was violated in the most disgusting way. I could not believe it. Painting had guided me through my own path of discovery, but this time I was forced to embarked on a different voyage of discovery, I needed to know who was copying my artwork, who was forging my name, and I realized I was committed to this task with an intensity equal to my painting. Unfortunately any fake art creates a disturbance in the art market. Collectors requests for a work's authentication are an immediate reaction to the news and that's precisely what we are dealing with at the studio. We must let the legal process take its course in order to put a stop to the forgeries.

KV: • Thank you Marco.

Marco Sassone, Venezia 79, 2003, oil on canvas, 72 x 48 inches.

Marco Sassone, Doll Land, 1992, oil on canvas, 40 x 62 inches.

This article is a reprint from Distillery District Magazine, Toronto, October 2017, Digital Edition, Vol. 17. The original article can be found here.

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originaldetectivesheep · 7 years ago

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The Thirty and One Nights' Momentary Diversion - The Bones in the Valley

Tonight, a rally team takes a very, very wrong turn -- have they ended up lost in time as well as in space? And they may be more lost that even that....

The Bones in the Valley

Amina took a deep breath, staring out through the windshield across the 'pass' – over, yes, the first ridge, but that was only a prelude. Dense and barren the forested valleys pressed in ahead of them, twisting and buckling below the grim, uncaring peaks of the empty Dzhugdzhur Mountains. Next to her, Alain leaned over the steering wheel, driving gloves held loosely in one hand, and raised an eyebrow. Amina didn't answer. There was nothing to be done. There was nothing to be done but go on, unless they wanted to turn on their GPS and declare that the last fifteen thousand kilometers and more, from Dakar across Africa, Europe, and Asia had been a colossal waste of time, and that they weren't interested in finishing this rally after all – all but within sight of Magadan on the cold Okhotsk Sea.

Amina shook her head again. "I cannot. The map is impossible – if the Russians mapped this place, in the Soviet days, they lied; none of this is here, and the elevation lines are all wrong. There is no way through."

Alain gave the hint of a shrug. "And? And so we go back?"

Amina leaned back, staring at the roof of the boxy KAMAZ cabin. "If there was a route from Yakutsk through these mountains, they would have made the highway here. We will lose time – we will lose more money on fuel – but if we go into those mountains, and run out there, there is no one living there to get more from, no way we can ever be rescued. You're the driver; where you drive the truck, we follow. But as the navigator, I vote against going ahead: this way was a good idea in Yakutsk, but now it is a dead end."

"You don't know Russians," Janusz, their mechanic and fixer, said, leaning up from the crawl-door into the cargo box, his awful French made even less intelligible by the rancid Chinese cigarette stuffed into the corner of his mouth. "Russians, they say there's nobody anywhere – but I bet, we go along those mountains, we'll find some wildcat miners ripping a hole in one of them. We'll trade cigarettes for diesel or kerosene or hooch and keep going; I could run this thing off a Chinese grease trap if I had to. We can do it – it's not far – and when we get to the sea, we'll run on the beach, and whup everyone in by a half a day clear." He took a big draw on his smoke, and barely managed to vent most of the stench cloud back into his own side of the truck.

Alain nodded. "I agree with Janusz. We have come too far to turn back now, and if we turn to make a way south-south-east, we must come to a town before we are out of fuel. We must be brave – we've come more than halfway around the world, and we are not going to disappear in some ravine in the back end of Russia. We will go on – we have another hundred-fifty-liter drum?"

Janusz nodded. "Yessir. It's the last, but we ain't opened it yet."

"Then we have everything we need. Amina, guide us by the compass, from this bearing: if the map is useless, we will drive off it." Alain pulled his gloves back on and started the engine again with a rumble. "The Soviets might lie about which ridges were where, and be believed, but they cannot lie about the direction of the sea – and for that it is enough."

"Yes sir," Amina said, with less insubordination than she felt. "From the current bearing, with estimated fourteen degrees west declination from true." She took her notebook, stopwatch, and pencil out of the rudimentary glovebox, eyes on the speedometer and compass, determined to keep Team Kelendre on the map, or close to it, as long as she possibly could.

Alain had been right – crawling down, then up ridges, across switchbacks, further and further into the forested maze of these desolate peaks, was impossible for any rational kind of mapping, and Amina had given up before the sun started to sink down behind them. They were still pointed more south than east, but how far they had come, exactly, and where they were relative to where they'd started were less than clear. And now fuel was running low, and night was falling, and there was no sign of one of these wildcat miners' camps that Janusz had promised. Unconcerned, Alain shrugged as they drew up to the crest of a ridge, having climbed the east face and looking to go south. "So we will sleep in the truck tonight," he said, "and then pump in the last fuel tomorrow morning, and then –"

"No," Amina said, "maybe not. What is that – what is that there?" She pointed off at a tall spike standing up out of the forest, down in the shadowed valley below them. If it wasn't for the fact that they were a hundred kilometers from any road or known human habitation, it must surely be the dark spire of a wooden church, catching the light as the sun fell behind the mountains.

Now, Alain saw it as well, and braked hard, the heavy frame of the KAMAZ shaking as the thick tires caught and held on the crest of the ridge. "Janusz – Janusz, what is that?" The mechanic bestirred himself out of the cargo box with a grumble, and leaned, blinking, into the cab, then swore under his breath in his native Polish.

"A church – a church, in this damned wilderness. And not any normal church – not any normal Russian church. That's a church of the Old Believers – the ones who fled into the wastes when they killed the Tsar." Janusz's jaw was set hard, and all the color had drained out of his face.

"Would they have oil? Something we could trade for?" For Amina, a church meant a congregation, at least who'd raised it once, and that meant at least someone who might have a connection to the outside world.

Janusz shook his head, his face impossibly grim. "Dziewczyna, they might not even have buttons. Not just since the revolution – some of these hermits, they've been living in the hidden places for three hundred years."

"Three hundred years or not," Alain said, turning the wheel of the truck to bring them down along the ridge in the direction of the steeple, "they must have water, and may have food to spare – and if they are not such hermits as you fear, they may know a way through the mountains to the coast. We shall go, and we shall see what we find." Janusz shook his head and ducked back into the cargo box; Amina pulled down on the hem of her shirt, self-consciously, and kept her eyes on the juggling shift of the compass.

As they descended the ridge and drew closer, more of the land about the church revealed itself: open in narrow patches where the forest had been cut away, squat brown houses in the ancient Siberian saltbox pattern nestled in under the verge of the trees. There was a road that they came upon: a road that was barely more than a game trail, a muddy rip where no trees crew – and then they came up onto the town itself, amid the falling gloom of dusk, and with the furtive stares of the villagers from behind trees, fences, the corners of walls.

The town itself was barely thirty houses, dense and close about each other with garden yards cultivating the hardy root vegetables that alone could survive the brutal winter lurking only a few more weeks off. But it was not the number of the houses that was strange, nor the tall log-and-wattle church standing up amid them like a dark monolith: it was the build of the houses, and the absence of any trappings of modernity. In other parts of Siberia, these houses would have been roofed with corrugated iron; here, wooden shingles to match the wooden walls – wooden carts with wooden wheels in the dooryards, wooden fences joined post-and-groove. There was not merely no technology – there was no industry, as if Janusz's darkest fears had been correct, and they had traveled, in a way, back in time to a Siberia before the communist revolution. The truck drew to a stop, as if Alain didn't dare to go further, and when he shut off the engine, silence fell like a pall all around about them.

In the silence, the people started to fade in – slowly shifting from the hiding places where they'd watched them come. It was uncanny – unearthly. Men in bloused smocks with long beards, long beards like mad monks or boyars out of the days of Peter the Great, women wearing babushka kerchiefs and long, severe peasant dresses of heavy, dark material – and all of them wary, cautious, silent, seeming to come forward, closer to the truck, without moving at all. There was no one who'd look out of place in an old black-and-white newsreel from the First World War; if anything, a hundred years before was too soon – there was something about the ancient style of their costumes that echoed even further back. What had Janusz said? When had these Old Believers first left the world behind?

Alain sat up, finally noticing some motion – someone, another long beard and a long black cassock like an Orthodox priest, coming forth from the church with steps that you could pick out. He stripped off his gloves, laying them down across the yoke of the steering wheel, and pushed the driver's side door open, standing like a spaceman in his sponsor-covered fireproof coveralls amid these peasants. Amina rummaged for a hooded sweatshirt to pull on over her tank top, and climbed out as well – if her shorts and bare legs were going to be of the devil here, it was best to get them out in the open as soon as possible. She left her door swinging open, and Janusz half-climbed, half-scrambled out after her, probably as much not wanting to be left out as much as wanting to actually translate for them.

"Dobroy den," Alain said, raising a hand to the priest. With so much of the course through Russia, they'd all studied up a little, and his Russian was correct enough, usually, if simple and badly pronounced. "We are travelers – we search the way to Magadan. What is this place?"

The priest nodded, looking the three of them over: the man in the coveralls patched with colorful designs and Roman letters, the dark woman trying vainly to pull her smock down over her exposed legs, the tall rawboned one in the back with his eyes darting around across the villagers. "We bid you welcome, travelers, then, to the place called the Valley of Dry Bones. May the peace of God be upon you."

Alain blinked, not getting all of that, not the fast-flowing Russian, not the ancient accent, not the Biblical allusion, and turned back to his companions. "Janusz?" The Pole hitched his thumbs into his belt and walked up to his driver's side.

"He says this place is the Valley of Dry Bones – I guess it's a Bible thing. And we are welcome, as far as that goes." He switched from French to Russian and addressed himself to the priest. "My apologies, father; these two are from France, and they don't understand so well. We are grateful for your welcome; we don't want to disturb your peace, so we will not need anything more than a place to put our…wagon," – he jerked a thumb back to the KAMAZ, which might as well be a UFO here – "and perhaps some water. Forgive the assumption, but it appears that you and yours have withdrawn from the world here; if that's not the case, might there be one among your people who might know the way to Magadan, or to the ocean?" Janusz tried his best to look like a supplicant, not quite sure what in the heck this guy might be expecting from people who asked him questions like that – especially when they looked like they might have come from the moon.

The priest nodded slowly, his beard rustling in the breeze. "We are withdrawn; the remnant of God's people can have no lasting connection with the world of sin. But there is one among us who knows the ways from here, across the mountains to the sea. He will tell you – but first, we must welcome you properly. The hour is late; you shall break bread with us in peace and friendship." He straightened a little, the discussion over, and made a motion to the villagers, a few words in some impossibly ancient and unintelligible dialect.

Alain and Amina were at Janusz's sides by now, questioning, and he translated to fill them in. "As unlikely as it sounds, they have someone here who knows the way to the coast – but the old man's insisting on feeding us first. Hicks, you know? I figure we don't mind the hospitality, even if it's going to be all turnips and radishes." He stuck his thumbs through his belt, looking over at where several villagers were going into one of the low, dark houses.

"Turnips, eh?" Alain said, looking after Janusz's gaze. "Well, it could be worse; all we've got to do is be polite, let them host their guests, and copy out the map or the story when they've had their fun and let us go. Smile and nod; if they're anything else like the other people of this country, drink and let them drink, but don't try to keep up." Janusz cracked a smile, and Amina tapped him on the arm to pull his attention back.

"If they want us to come somewhere right now, stall them," she said. "I'm going to get a pair of long pants on – I don't feel right like this. It's like in some Texas Chainsaw Massacre – we can't make any offense, break any kind of taboo these people might have. I don't feel right about this, not a lot about anything – but we've got to try, to be on our best behavior, and that means I have to put some pants on." Amina turned away before the others could reply, hurrying back towards the truck.

Nobody said anything about her absence, or her former costume, or gawked at her wearing snap-up synthetic trousers instead of a heavy woolen skirt like the other women around this place; the villagers seated round about the old wooden table inside this darkened house seemed only interested in each other, to the extent that they were interested in anything at all: downcast eyes, slow, limited movements, and the soft smooth words of Russians talking amongst themselves in their inside voices. It was like they were being lulled to sleep – the darkness within the closed wooden shutters, the half-light of tallow candles, the fragrance of the strangely-spiced mead, from bees fed on flowers that no one outside these mountains had ever seen, the taste and feel of the thick Russian stew puddled out onto their plates, like liquid potatoes carrying the impression of some unknown landrace of boar or deer that had been boiled down for the broth. Amina blinked, hard, barely keeping her eyes open, trying to keep herself on her best behavior, upright, polite, and awake, as Alain and Janusz tried to make conversation and glean more information from the priest.

"So, your people, when they came, they came from Irkutsk?" Janusz asked, sipping the last out of a horn-spoon-ful of stew. "From Vladivostok?"

"The people of Christ were scattered when God was pleased to destroy His church upon the earth," the priest said; "it is those who were blessed to survive who have been driven into the east, to slumber here, waiting for the vindication of Christ's return."

"Excuse a traveler's mistake, father," Alain said, his rough pronunciation more jarring in the woolen-blanket air around the table, "but destroyed? In the center of the village, a church? And a priest?"

"No!" the chief of the villages answered vehemently. "No church – no priests! No church since the faithful were made anathema – no priests since the corrupted rite of Nikon. God's church is dead – there is only God, and the remnant of His people, who call to the light in the East, and wait for Him to relent – the miracle by which His face shall shine upon us once more." There was nothing about the man that said anything other than 'Orthodox priest', but apparently it was vital not to refer to him by anything like that, and Janusz hastened to apologize, before he got really angry and decided they needed to be burned inside a wicker bear or something.

"Your pardon, father," he said, "for these two came from France, far to the west, and don't understand such things. For," he went on, suddenly getting a brainwave, "how can we of the abandoned outer world understand the ways of God's folk? As the world has fallen into error, so have we fallen; it will be best if we move on again, despite your gracious hospitality, and not trouble the faithful."

The elder nodded slowly. "Yes – such are the ways of the world, not to understand. But you shall come to understand. After the meal, in the last hour, you shall hear our evening liturgy – and then, you shall have all that is needed to take you from this place." Janusz nodded placidly, accepting, and translated for his teammates in case they'd missed it; an Old Believer service would be something to see, and one night of incense and chanting wasn't too bad a trade for a hot home-cooked meal, and a shortcut to the coast.

With the meal finished, the rest of the village elder's household packing away the plates and cutlery, a sharp, high, hollow tone suddenly cut through the night from somewhere outside, and the villagers stopped in place, filing out the door. Amina blinked, and looked around, eyes sluggish – Janusz and Alain were also rousing themselves, but the elder had gone. With some difficulty they managed to pick themselves up and stagger out of the house to see the whole of the village, fifty people or a hundred, converging on the church by torchlight, the elder standing by an open door hammering at a hanging board to produce that strange and alien imitation of a tolling bell. This was that service he'd mentioned – they had to come, had to attend. It was like they were being drawn, being pulled in; Amina's legs felt strangely heavy, and her head was swimming, her vision loose and liquid. She'd only taken what they'd poured for her, and drunk her mead slowly, just to be polite, put off by the sweetness, the strange and heady flavors. Just how strong was it supposed to be? How were Alain and Janusz taking it? She tried to turn her head to check, but it was like her body was turning to lead, heavy and prone to break as it flexed – and even when she thought she saw them, they were covered up in shadow, the light of the torches by the church flaring and flickering, making nothing certain, nothing real.

Step by step they sleepwalked or stumbled into the church, and into a phantasmagoria that seemed to be even further out, further away from the reality of any sane modern world. The elder, behind then, seemed to usher them on through the ranks of the villagers kneeling and droning on the floor, through the monstrous shadows they threw in the light of the torches, the tall, stinking tallow candles, towards the altar, a barely raised daïs where, instead of the cross or tabernacle that they might have expected in a western church – or any Orthodox church not given over to utter nightmare – there was only a dark and ragged hole in the wall, a hole whose edges seemed to twist and buckle in their drink-clouded, fire-twisted vision. High above, and all around on the walls, skulls stared down: bears, branching-antlered deer, and cyclopean monstrosities that must have been mammoths, their dead and empty eyes staring down at the congregation. This was less a Christian church than a shaman's hut – and less of either than something out of the gap between them, something out of the depths of an immense and lightless abyss.

The elder pushed down on each of their shoulders in turn, the lightest pressure, the smallest hand, and Amina found herself kneeling beside Alain beside Janusz, before some kind of trough at the foot of the altar. "O Lord!" shouted the elder, somewhere behind them, and she did not turn or stir. "Who called Your people into darkness, who delivered them into the wilderness of emptiness and terror! Well have You succored them – well do You bless them who shall keep Your commandments!" "Your blessings, Your blessings, O Lord!" the people answered, and it was like the baying of the hounds of the Pit.

"For God is in the east wall!" "For God is in the east wall!" The chant became a call and response, repeating the mystical phrases back as the elder pronounced them. Amina wanted to turn, to stand, to run desperately away into the forest, but her limbs wouldn't move – and now she found herself murmuring along, to the ancient rite in a Russian she could barely comprehend.

"For God is in the house of His people!" "For God is in the house of His people!"

"For God is in the rock, and below the rock!" "For God is in the rock, and below the rock!"

"For God is the rock, and below the rock!" "For God is the rock, and below the rock!"

"For God is below the space, and inside the skull!" "For God is below the space, and inside the skull!" The church was singing now, inside some awful melody, a moaning, keening thunder that seemed like it was rising out of the ground around them.

"For God is the knife, and God is the throat outstretched; God is the hand the swings, and God is the blood that spills; God is the heaven above the earth, and the door into the East; God is the haze over the edge of the earth, and God is the broken promise never claimed. God is the thunder and God is the mountain and God is the abyss" and Amina was aware of Alain falling over next to her, something thick and black-red pouring out of a hole in his neck into the trough, and of seeing Janusz already collapsed, face down in it on the other side, and the she felt the blade into her own jugular, the searing hot screaming stabbing into the dull fog around her dying brain, and the elder, the celebrant, pushing down with his rough hands, chanting still his insane mystic chant, as he pulled the knife away. The room spun, and her eyes fogged over, and there was nothing but the smell of blood and the murmur of that strange mad oikos chant, around and around and down to the very end.

The women were left to cut away the clothes of the strangers, to butcher them once they finished draining, as the holy Vladimir continued to offer the office. The men were needed to remove their wagon. With a practiced hand, one of them shifted the KAMAZ into neutral, then climbed back out to put his shoulder to the frame with the rest, and as they pushed, carefully, following the secret path from the village to the ravine, they sung their hymn. "For God is the knife, and God is the throat outstretched; God is the hand the swings, and God is the blood that spills; God is the heaven above the earth, and the door into the East; God is the haze over the edge of the earth, and God is the broken promise never claimed. God is the thunder and God is the mountain and God is the abyss, and God is the door that closes, God is the dawn that never comes." Coming to the lip, they moved cautiously, the only light for them the pale shadows from the high-hanging skull of the moon; they pushed, and the front wheels lost their grip, and over and over the truck went, down amid the bones of the others – a tangle of rusting steel and broken running boards collecting the bones of a hundred years of other explorers, who had also, in the end, received all they needed to leave the valley behind.

#fiction #30and1nights

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