#flicker begonia

[ask-imaginary-dreamers]

So Begonia! How does it feel to be friends with multiple gods?

“I’ve never even been all that religious. Like, I knew they existed but never really thought about it more than that? Never would’ve imagined actually talking to any of them.”

“Casey’s honestly been the biggest lifeline here. Not really sure what I’d do without them. As for the Gods…”

[roseatedramon]

silly twitter trend

[scrub-slots]

Me and @tigerdog25 cooked up another au with the Imaginary Dreamers cast. This au is inspired by the PNF Second Dimension, with the idea of mad scientist dictator with killer robots and a resistance.

While no canon spoilers will be stated, I will note some character placements and stories in this AU may be a bit eyebrow raising regarding what it implies for canon. So uh��� I guess warning for that?

Zeus within this AU takes the role of the world’s ruler. He’s a shiny Glameow with a love of gold and an unfortunately brilliant mind when it comes to robotics. He’s brutal and cold, running the world with an iron fist.

Zeus has nine cyborgs at his beck and call. These two, Flicker and Fade (aka Zoruborg and Houndborg) are the two closest to Zeus’ heir, practically being his bodyguards. They used to be civilians, before being captured and turned into cyborgs. No one quite knows why Zeus chooses the ones he does to become cyborgs.

These two are much more violent than their canon counterparts, especially Flicker.

(Also thank you Connor for making the designs of these guys!!)

Begonia is the leader of the Resistance. She used to be named Daisy and was childhood friends with Aster before Zeus took over the world. After Aster was taken, she started the Resistance and changed her name to Begonia. Pablo, her coworker from the coffee shop, is her second in command.

Begonia is still sassy and tough, having to harden up from the quiet demeanor she used to have as Daisy. This universe’s Begonia has a bit of a somber feeling beneath the sass though…

Casey is Zeus’ adoptive son and current heir. He primarily stays within Zeus’ penthouse and mainly socialized with the cyborgs. He’s sheltered a bit from the horrors that are happening, and fully believes the Resistance are evil. After all, they killed someone he cares about… right…?

Gwyn works for Zeus, and honestly just wants to live their life. They claim to support Zeus and his reign, but they’re fully willing to give information to the Resistance and look the other way when they catch them. They adamantly refuse to say they have any sympathy for the Resistance though, even when talking to the Resistance themself. Begonia finds them annoying, but also useful enough.

[noxtms]

DATE : 8th of may, 2023. WITH THANKS : to mozzie @ofmccnlight​, who contributed the final third ( & to who i owe my life ) ! 

I.   HERMIONE GETS OFF THE BUS AROUND THE CORNER from her parents house. it's late enough that she probably could've risked apparating, but the last time she'd thought that she'd been distracted by something at work and tripped on the landing ; her neighbour had been out watering his begonias in preparation for the 'sunny spell' in their forecast and she nearly jumped out of her skin when he straightened up behind their shared fence and called out to say good evening. it was a narrow miss, almost ruinous, and though she was resolved to never have a repeat, she wasn't confident in her ability to be altogether present following memorial weekend. too many feelings were dredged up over those hellish few days, and even the bus ride was a solemn, distracted affair - forehead pressed against cool glass and eyes pressed tightly shut, hermione let the muted hustle and bustle of the late night crowd wash over her and very nearly missed her stop.

she's disappointed but not surprised to find that the council still haven't fixed the streetlight that sits directly in front of her semi detached. she takes a moment beneath it to adjust the strap of her overnight bag one final time and stare up at the flickering bulb - briefly entertaining, not for the first time, the idea of simply using magic to do their work for them - and then shakes herself from looming reverie and sets off down the drive. magic, as mrs weasley has often chastised in her presence, is not a fix all ; a LOT of her life in the past few years has been spent accepting these things she just cannot or should not change, and the council will send someone round soon.

probably.

no sign of her neighbour, so she probably didn't have to go through the pains of catching a muggle bus from the leaky cauldron - she sighs at the thought and crouches to retrieve the spare key her parents had kept in one of those silly faux rocks, her own still with the other neighbour trusted to care for crookshanks the past few evenings. she was a nice girl, similar in age but lacking the same sort of life experience that had caused the perpetual bags beneath hermione's eyes. when she'd dropped the key over the road to her, she'd offered to get her a good deal on a sleep mask from the avon like company that she'd signed up to recently, telling her that it would 'clear them right up' ; she'd bit her tongue and told her 'thanks again', managing to rush out the door before saying anything too critical. she'd probably have to do the same when she called round the next morning, but that was definitely a problem for tomorrow and for now, hermione was happy to trust in a good nights sleep in her own bed. 

she straightened up, plastic rock in hand, and set about sliding the little compartment open as she turned to face her door and, suddenly, froze. no need for the key ; she drops the rock back to the ground, hoists her bag further up on her shoulder and pulls out her wand from her back pocket, no longer caring who sees her doing it. with just the streetlight to illuminate the front of her house, it hadn't been immediately noticeable to hermione that the door was hanging just slightly ajar and naturally, her first thought isn't that the newly minted avon girl simply forgot to pull it closed the way she'd told her. she doesn't have that luxury. 

her heartbeat pounding in her ears, hermione forces herself to take one step at a time and approach the door. it's her worst nightmare come true, the very reason that her parents still think they're living their dream in southern australia ; the idea that her muggle existence, here, her childhood home, that it's all been found out and…- she pushes it open with her foot, wand raised and ready, and then there is a FRIGHTFUL yowl and she jumps, violently, only just managing to hold out her arms to catch him as her ginger cat launches himself at her, full force. 

"oh, crookshanks-" she surveys the initial damage, the shattered glass of a hallway mirror and the contents of a drawer that have been spilled across the carpet, clutching him to her but keeping her wand high, "oh, silly boy. what happened?" 

II.   she almost misses him. wakes too late in the morning & gets stuck in the entrance hall saying her goodbyes to the wix she won't see again until the next memorial ; she never really unpacked and she's been ready to go since the remembrance ceremony wrapped up the night before, but GINNY knows how it would look if she was one of the first to go. visceral discomfort is boxed, residual anger is bottled, everlasting grief is locked away - memorial weekends are perpetually marked by the sacrifices that she has to make for the sake of her friends and family, but it never gets any easier. she's usually ready to blow, about now, but she manages to extract herself before disaster strikes and sets off down the trail before anyone tries to call her back again. so one minded is her focus on escaping the castle grounds that ginny doesn't realize that he's making the same trek alone until he's almost at the hog flanked gates. it's a split second decision - she glances behind her, quickly, establishes that there's no one to witness it, and then she breaks into a bit of a mad dash. she doesn't call out to grab draco's attention, but she does manage to reach him before he apparates or sticks out his wand arm for the knight bus with only minimal breathlessness, which she considers a win. 

quizzical, he turns at the sound of heavy footfall & ginny comes to a halt that she tries to make look natural. 

"hey," she says, lamely, "i didn't know you were here this weekend-... i didn't see you." 

he lifts a single shoulder in a lazy sort of shrug. "our circles don't overlap," he's distant, but that's to be expected. she doesn't think it's aimed at her, specifically. memorial weekend brings out a different side to all of them, really, and ginny isn't fool enough to think that he's always as open as she once found him ( nor as distrusting as she would need to be to consider it a falsehood ) but since then, it's been a lot harder for her to ignore the dark circles pressed beneath his eyes.

she's no longer sure where the initial instinct came from, and a little too willing to see it through to the end : "do you want to come back to mine?" she asks, and when she sees his next thought forming, adds, "just to… hang out. that's all. you can leave if it starts getting claustrophobic." 

his lips quirk at that, a tiny tease of the smile she's come to look for, and when she reaches out a hand - ginny knows he'll take it. 

they apparate onto her 'doorstep', though it can't really be called that. she's tried to dress it up a bit in the few years that she's been living there but there's only so much that she can do. a fresh lick of paint, a funny doormat that luna found funny but neville had gone beet red when he'd seen ( i see london, i see france… ), one potted plant that was slowly giving up on life - seven wix lived on the same floor as her and had put about the same amount of effort in, but ginny was suddenly quite conscious of how it looked to an outsiders eyes. a bit sad, probably. cheap, she thinks, and then she banishes the thought ; he knows who she is, by now, where she's come from & where she got to. she's not ashamed of either, and for all that almost fretting, all her worries about this sudden marrying between two worlds - the one where they are ill defined and this one, where he's… well, let in - he doesn't say anything except a dry, "your plants gone brown."

"yeah, well, i've been a bit busy to remember to water it-"

"for its entire lifetime, i presume…?"

"shut up," she tells him, sternly, rooting around in her bag for a moment until she finds her wand and tugs it free. she taps it against her door handle ( she can never find her key when she needs it ) and the lock gives a loud click as it moves out of place.

ginny turns her focus to him as she pushes through, keeping her wand in hand - just in case he feels the need to make any undue comments - and explains, "you might be unfamiliar with the concept, but this is a flat. they're a bit small, but they're very cosy. mine's probably a little messy, but i-" he breaks their gaze and looks over the top of her head, and it is the tiny widening of his eyes that forces ginny to turn and notice, for the first time, the elephant in the room.

this isn't her mess. the burrow, that had looked like this every once in a while, usually at the start of summer when everyone was back under the same roof and in the same state of disorganized unpacking - but she never would've been so careless. everything she owned that had once had a place had now found a new one on the floor. her mattress was shoved up against the wall ; drawers turned upside down ; the cushions on her sofa had been torn into, their down strewn across the chaos. she didn't have to peek around the corner to know that her kitchen was in much the same awful state - she could see that something had spilled on the tile, because it had crept dangerously close to the carpet in the doorway. 

she was speechless.

malfoy was not.

"merlin… do you actually live like this?" 

III.   a crack rings out through the stillness of ottery st. catchpole as LUNA LOVEGOOD stumbles into view out of nowhere . the speed in which she had thrown herself into the apparation prompts a forward momentum that continues even as the spell spits her out smack dab in the middle of her front garden , more than a few yards away from the front porch sheʻd been aiming for . no one is awake to witness the way she almost ends up ass over teakettle in the dirigible plums . the surrounding night is entirely silent barring the giggles that follow the blonde figure as it trips itʻs way through the garden plants , interrupting the quiet snores of the weeping flowers near the kitchen window. they shake their bell - shaped bulbs at her , tinkling softly and sleepily , in admonishment . she blows a raspberry at them . they pull back in reproach and donʻt bother trying to pass on anymore messages . it certainly wasnʻt they who raised her to have such manners . besides , they were sleepy . their night had been interrupted enough as is .

the idyllic garden life continues to sleep even as she noisily makes her way into the house , not even blinking as the front door gives way beneath her prodding hands . neither her nor xenophilius were ones to lock the door when an alohomora was a master key for anyone who really wanted it to be . besides , their home was an open one . all were welcome if they needed a place to sit and have tea with someone always willing to lend a listening ear .

she breezes through the entryway and into the kitchen , handbag landing on the floor with a thump after she aims for the coat rack and misses by a mile , nearly tripping on the various bits and bobs that are always scattered across the floor . she knocks into more than one end table or bookshelf , teeming with items that have a tendency to just spill over . the mess that she spies through her peripheral , blurry as it may be , seems par for the course .

through the doorway of the kitchen , she spies a light coming from beneath the door and goes about setting two mugs out on the counter . the teapot is an heirloom from her motherʻs grandmother and sits waiting , already full and already heated , for when she pours the two cups that have become more nightly ritual than it was originally intended . itʻs as practiced as the way she places the cover on the sugar container , more than used to the way that her father leaves things about in his forgetfulness . 

“ bit of a late night writing spree , then ? ” she calls to the light still on way later than it should be and is not surprised when she doesnʻt get an answer . this is how things go when heʻs deep into his writing binges . luna talks and talks and talks and her father resurfaces to hear her eventually . not immediately. but eventually , 

“ you know , you really arenʻt producing your best work when youʻre straining yourself by staying up so late , ” she scolds across the house , nudging loose parchments out of the way with her socked foot as she makes her way to the door and gently opens it with her hip 

“ so you might consider heading to bed after this cup — ”

the mug shatters moments after luna hastily shoves them onto the desk , uncaring as to where it is set and not even flinching when it lands too close to the edge and slips right off . 

xenophilius lies crumbled on the ground . heʻs bleeding profusely from a wound on his head .

[fandomscraziness22]

begonia and edelweiss for kaz/inej!

the way you chose the perfect prompts for these two without even really knowing them!!! impressive! (I changed them up just a tad to fit the idea lol)

begonia (beware) — “just be careful, okay?”

edelweiss (courage, devotion) — “touch them again and i promise, it will be the last thing you ever do.”

Inej has only worked for Kaz Brekker for two months now and has gone on many a job for him in those two months. However, this is the first time she has felt real fear about her situation.

She’s been disarmed thoroughly, the Razorgulls finding the few knives she has on her person with ease. The two bruisers are dragging her towards the meet she knows Kaz is scheduled to be at with their gang; another territory dispute, no doubt. Inej is still getting used to the constant turf wars between the many gangs of Ketterdam, though she knows each one is of vital importance to said gangs.

Inej was supposed to scope out the meeting point beforehand and report back to Kaz, but she hadn’t quite been stealthy enough for the Razorgulls’ new sharpshooter who apparently also had sharp eyes. He had cornered her because Inej had forgotten about the burned-down building along her escape route. It’s just one of many reasons she’s worried about being pushed to this meeting; Kaz won’t be happy she was caught and she is terrified of disappointing him. She’s heard the rumors, seen firsthand what Kaz does to people who aren’t up to snuff.

She doesn’t want that to happen to her.

The Razorgulls finally reach the meeting point, where negotiations are already under way. They shove her to the front of the line as they crow, “Look here, Ajax. We caught ourselves a wayward Dreg.”

Inej straightens, willing herself to not cower as she searches Kaz’s face. He’s as tense as ever, though she sees a flicker of what might be fear cross his face. It surprises her; she didn’t think Kaz Brekker could get scared. 

“Unhand my Wraith,” he rasps.

Ajax clucks his tongue (a dangerous action, Inej thinks) and jabs a finger at Inej. “I sense the terms of engagement have changed, Mr. Brekker. I would like that second harbor space along with those four blocks to the north in exchange for your girl.”

Kaz doesn’t laugh, doesn’t smile, doesn’t say anything. The silence is unnerving to everyone, including Inej. The Dregs are outnumbered here, and she’s weaponless.

Ajax is twitchy, and after a moment, he unsheaths a knife and holds it to Inej’s throat as he says, “I won’t ask again, Brekker. My space for the girl’s life.” Inej’s breath catches, though her eyes don’t leave Kaz.

He stiffens, knuckles tightening on his can. “Touch her again and I promise, it will be the last thing you ever do.” 

Ajax laughs, his grip on Inej and the knife firm. “Like I believe that.”

As soon as the words leave his mouth, a shot rings out. The pressure on Inej’s neck lessens, and she’s able to flinch away from the man as he falls to the ground, blood spilling from the back of his head. She slips away from the Gulls and rejoins the Dregs as Kaz says, “Now. Where were we, again?”

~~~

Inej stays a step behind him, wary of the wrath in his eyes as the Crow Club almost swallows them. “Kaz, I’m sorry,” she says softly.

“I don’t want your apologies,” he spits, cane clicking up the stairs to his room. Inej follows, though all common sense tells her to run from this dangerous man.

But something makes her stay. They’re still in public, with listening ears everywhere and other Dregs who will continue the rumors. Maybe the dressing-down Kaz gives her will be less intense when he’s in his own office.

No other words pass between them as Kaz opens his door and throws off his coat. He leaves the door open, an invitation that she accepts with silent grace.

“We need to get you better self defense skills,” he says as he pulls off his gloves to wash the blood from his arm. “I know you can throw a punch, but you’re normally light on your feet. You need to learn to use that, not just as an escape, but to manipulate the situation at hand.”

Kaz doesn’t look at her, but Inej can see the small glimpse of forgiveness in the offer. He’s disappointed, yes, but he isn’t flaying her alive or sending her back to the Menagerie, so she’ll take it as a win.

“Train with Anika—she’s good and she won’t go easy on you.” Finally, Kaz turns around, gloves back in place. They lock eyes, and a shared understanding passes between them. Inej isn’t sure how they have connected so deeply in such a short amount of time, but she can read his intentions just as clearly as if he’d spoken them. Kaz wants her here; wants her to get better so she can be stronger. He isn’t afraid of her or her skills, and he wants her to cultivate them even more. 

In return, she tells him that she won’t get caught next time, that she’s glad to have a second chance; she won’t give up on him either.

“Be more careful next time, Wraith. I can’t go getting into brawls every time my best spider gets trapped under a glass.”

Inej smiles. “Won’t be a problem, Kaz.” Then she blinks and says, “Though, I will need a new set of knives. Bigger ones, preferably.”

Kaz rolls his eyes, and Inej knows that while Ketterdam may be a mess of a city, all is right with the world in this little room. 

send me a flower prompt!

[homestuck-human-generator]

Name: Sai Eris Langley Color: Princeton Orange #Ff8f00 Symbol: begonia Strife Specibus: bowkind Handle: thoroughAmateur Animal: wombat Pronouns: one/ones and le/lim/lis/limself and zi/zis/zou/zei and it/its Age: 19 Birthday: 16th day of the year Sexuality: Fond Of Everyone Interests: rughooking and weight training Dream Moon: prospit Classpect: Rogue of Space Land: Land of Flicker and Light, an old-fashioned place, with frantic Grand Canyon Rattlesnake consorts. It is a place full of shrouded valleys and bays. Adanos lurks. Instrument: shofar

[magdelanesingerin]

Session 23: Support Network

“How have you been doing? Adjusting well to medication?” Nenneke asks.

“I’ve been…good, I guess. Sleeping like shit this week. Stressed about work. This drug is way better than the last one, so far.” Geralt snorts disgustedly, lip curling. “Guess we’ll see in another four to six weeks, right?”

“I know,” she answers ruefully, “the wait to see if a particular medication will be effective can be very frustrating. It’s not unusual for people to give up during the process; I’m glad that you’re sticking with it.” He lifts one shoulder in exhausted resignation. It never occurred to him to just quit, though he would dearly like to. He started this bullshit, now he’ll see it through. 

“I’m sorry to hear that work is still so stressful,” Nenneke continues with a familiar, thoughtful tilt of her head. “Who do you talk to about work stress? Other than me, that is.” Geralt grimaces and looks down at his hands clasped in his lap. 

“Hm. I don’t.”

“Ah.” She doesn’t sound surprised. “Why not, do you think?”

He shrugs and casts about for the words to explain. She has a new plant in the corner of her office, some kind of begonia maybe? That’s a plant, right? His eyes trace over the curves of the broad leaves while he tries to string together his thoughts. They’re covered in fuzz. Looks soft. 

“I don’t know, they can’t do anything to fix it, so I guess I don’t really see the point in bitching. And it’s– my work is sometimes violent, depressing. I deal with some very unpleasant people threatening to do very unpleasant things. I don’t want to…burden them. Or have them look at me differently.”

Nenneke hums in understanding and leans back in her chair with a slow nod. 

“Alright. A few things: firstly, that’s a very thoughtful and self-aware answer, and I just want to point that out to you. You’ve come a very long way since we started working together in being able to identify and articulate your thoughts and emotions, and that’s worth taking a moment to acknowledge and celebrate.”

Ugh, he’s not a fucking child; he shouldn’t need to be praised for being able to speak about this shit in full sentences. His answering grunt is equal parts dismissive and embarrassed.

She laughs. Months ago it would have pissed him off, but now he knows she’s not being derisive.

“Well, we’ll keep working on your ability to accept praise,” she says with a smile. “Secondly, though, I want to push back on some of what you said.” She waits for him to glance her way, tearing his eyes away from the plant in the corner, the bright red underside of the leaves peeking out where they curl over each other. It’s a nice plant. Maybe he should get a plant for his apartment. See if he can keep something other than himself and Roach alive.

His gaze flickers to her, and away again; it’s the most he can do at the moment, and it must be good enough, because she goes on.

“You know, you’re allowed to talk about the things that are adding stress to your life without the goal of finding solutions.”

There’s nothing to say to that, really, so he just frowns back at her, and she sighs. 

continue on Ao3

[dreaminginthedeepsouth]

From my flickr files

* * *

"I Wherever in this city, screens flicker with pornography, with science-fiction vampires, victimized hirelings bending to the lash, we also have to walk… if simply as we walk through the rainsoaked garbage, the tabloid cruelties of our own neighborhoods. We need to grasp our lives inseparable from those rancid dreams, that blurt of metal, those disgraces, and the red begonia perilously flashing from a tenement sill six stories high, or the long-legged young girls playing ball in the junior high school playground. No one has imagined us. We want to live like trees, sycamores blazing through the sulfuric air, dappled with scars, still exuberantly budding, our animal passion rooted in the city." From 21 love poems by Adrienne Rich

 (via rimeswriting)

[alive on all channels]

[consulaaris]

she who wears the mask

1.9k words. original short story, written in 2019 for halloween and edited slightly to post here <3

cw: brief mentions of alcohol, blood/injury, violence 

.

It begins with the setting of the sun, as red-orange hues in the sky seem to mimic the fires that will soon be lit. There is a sense of expectation in the air, a sort of nervous excitement- the missionaries with their strange symbols have branded it as Hallow’s Eve, but Fiadh knows better. Tonight is Samhain, when the boundaries between worlds grow thin and strange things walk the earth.

And tonight she will dance. 

The village has been preparing the pyres for weeks now. The people will be dressed in a myriad of costumes to celebrate the end of the harvest, dancing through the night while hiding in plain sight from the spirits and the fair folk that are suddenly free to roam. The sacrifice of small animals should appease the more bloodthirsty of them, but Fiadh isn’t particularly concerned; her mask, finely wrought in the shape of a fox, will surely hide her mortal status from those who would seek to exploit it.  

(She tries not to acknowledge the part of her that might wish otherwise.)

Fiadh steps out the front door of her cottage and breathes in the heady scent of pine and smoke that’s already begun to permeate the street. Her slippers are quiet on the cobblestone streets as she runs towards the nearest fire, loose reddish hair trailing behind her in wild waves. Already the sky is seeping into dusk and losing the vibrancy it’d held only moments before. She doesn’t mind; she enjoys the night, and Samhain is never quite the same once the sun rises. After all, only children are scared of the dark. 

There are others heading towards the bonfire like wisps on the streets. But Fiadh doesn’t call out, even to those she thinks she recognizes- it’s never quite certain who is who… or what. The sounds of flute and fiddle and drum echo through the village, and she shivers despite the relative warmth of the air. 

As she nears the fire on the outskirts of town, she sees the wizened village elder resheath a scarlet stained knife and toss some unlucky thing into the flames while the crowd of people cheers. Excitement buzzes within her from her head to the tips of her toes and the music grows ever louder as if to stay in time with the rapid pounding of her heart.

Fiadh joins in with the swirling of bodies, feet dancing to the rhythm faster than she can think.  She is young and she does not tire, only laughing and leaping with the bright crackle of flames and music as her backdrop. Her soul soars with a fierce joy that she can seldom find elsewhere but this strange night; it is here, amid this wildness of magic and ghosts of the past that she feels truly alive. Some fear Samhain; she is freed by it. 

Someone passes her a skein of wine and she takes a long gulp, savoring the taste on her lips and the warmth in her belly. She doesn’t know how much she drinks, only that the costumes of her many dance partners seem to grow more grotesque as the evening turns into true-night. Amidst the crowd it’s difficult to tell what is fake and what is not, with flashes of glowing eyes and fangs and fur and scales swaying in and out of her field of vision, illuminated only by the strange flickering of the flames. On this night the oh-so-tenuous boundary between realities is something she chooses not to think too closely about. 

Several hours have passed before Fiadh decides to try another of the bonfires, but something holds her in place as she dances her way to the edge of the crowd. When she pauses a moment she realizes why: a young woman is making her way over, red-painted lips curving into a generous smile as she draws near. Fiadh is strangely aware of the woman and unconsciously smooths her skirts as she draws near. She too wears a mask, although hers is formed of copper wire and elegant pink begonia flowers. 

With a laugh and a curtsy she reaches out her hand, and Fiadh takes it; it would be rude to refuse such an obvious proposal. They dance together for what could have been minutes or hours, lost in the swirling of skirts and quick steps to the beat of the drum, until the woman presses a finger to her lips, dark eyes alight with mischief, and hands Fiadh another skein. Without thinking she grabs it, imbibing a large quantity of whatever is within. 

The drink burns her throat almost immediately, but she doesn’t choke. She simply laughs and hands it back, wiping her mouth with the back of her hand. The woman reaches out her hand once more and Fiadh takes it, expecting another dance, but instead she is led out past the other revelers. She knows she should pull away- meeting a stranger on the night of Samhain can hardly bode well- but with the sweet taste of liquor dancing across her tongue and the buzz in her mind all of her inhibitions fall to pieces. 

They dash through the edge of the woods hand in hand as though something is chasing them; for all Fiadh knows it could be. 

It’s not long before they draw up to another fire, a smaller one this time, surrounded by a ring of stones. Around it dance more young women, all with flower masks in a similar style. In the firelight the effect is eerie, enchanting, and makes Fiadh want to tremble and shout all at once. A younger girl sitting off to the side plays the large drum in front of her, and another plays the flute with a haunting melody she can’t quite place. It doesn’t stop her from swaying in place to the music. She feels almost separate from her own body; it’s as though she’s watching a scene play out before her eyes, and she can’t get over the feeling that it’s terribly important. 

The woman in the begonia mask steps forward to take her hand again, her sweet voice so hard to ignore. 

“What’s your name?” 

Fiadh responds before she can even give it a second thought. “Fiadh,” she breathes. “My name is Fiadh.” 

In that moment she knows she’s signed herself away. Her gray eyes widen, but it is too late; she has partaken of the drink of the fair folk and given them her name of her own free will, and now her life is forfeit. 

“Well, Fiadh,” the woman in the begonia mask purrs, “You may call me Maeve.” Her slender fingers reach out, slowly removing the fox mask that Fiadh had so painstakingly tied in place. She is frozen and powerless, watching as her last protection from the other worlds is removed. 

Gray eyes meet brown and Fiadh simply trembles, too frightened to be brave or defiant. Maeve smiles again, her hand reaching up to cup Fiadh’s cheek as she whispers the coup de grâce into her ear. 

“Now dance.” 

Her muscles seem to move of their own accord, Fiadh’s feet leaping in frenzied patterns and body contorting in ways she never could have imagined. She dances and dances until her shoes are torn to ribbons, until her bare feet scrape against stone and branch. Yet still she moves, unable to resist the command of the one who now controls her. 

All around her the other women continue their own strange dance as though she doesn’t exist, as though she’s not grinding herself into the ground before them. Her legs begin to burn yet still she dances and dances with no hope and no end in sight. When she sees spirits flickering at the edge of her vision and the women around her seem transparent like spectres in the night, she’s not sure if she’s hallucinating or some glamour has been lifted from her vision. It’s not like it matters, though. Fiadh won’t live to tell the tale. 

Her legs are giving out.

(Still she dances.) 

It’s getting harder to breathe, harder to see, harder to feel. 

(Still she dances.) 

Her body feels hot, as though she’s burning in the fire.

(Still she dances.) 

All she knows is heat and pain and the dance. She thinks Maeve may still be near, watching. Waiting for the end. She knows it can’t be long now. She hopes. 

Fiadh stretches her arms up to the night sky, tilting her tearstained face upwards in an attempt to get one last glimpse of the stars. But they are obscured by smoke, and she is denied even her final wish as she trips and falls to the earth with a shattered cry. 

Yet her lips curve, just barely, into one final smile before she becomes nothingness.

Her face is fixed in much the same expression when the villagers discover her body the next morning. “Poor thing,” they whisper at the unfortunate tragedy. “Fell down the ravine and broke her neck. At least she wouldn’t have felt a thing.” 

If they noticed her bloodied feet or lack of a mask they said nothing, for it’s never polite to point out the doings of the supernatural while they still reign free in your lands. 

 *.  *.  *.  *.  *.  

A tortured gasp escapes her throat as she awakes. The sensation of breathing is odd, disjointed; the action is as unfamiliar to her as her surroundings. 

Where am I? Who am I?

Try as she might, the simple fact of her own name does not come to her. 

It should be more frightening than it is.

She lays in a spot of flattened grass, realizing that she wears nothing as she climbs to her feet. The golden light filtering through the trees that encircle her lets her see well enough to get her bearings. There is a small pool of springwater not far from where she had lain, and because her throat burns like fire she walks slowly towards it, noting the feel of limbs that seem as though they haven’t been used in an age. 

The water is clear and smooth enough to act as a mirror, and a sort of morbid curiosity overtakes her as she peers at her reflection. It is a face she recognizes intimately… and yet she doesn’t. The simple details she glosses over- the bareness of her tanned skin, the jagged scar across the side of her neck, the reddish hair falling in tangles around her. 

It’s the mask that truly catches her eye. An obsidian work of art framed by black dahlia flowers, it rests upon her cheekbones and obscures the upper half of her face from view. Some part of her knows that she should be afraid, terrified even, but the only emotion she can summon up is one of faint surprise. 

Just as her fingers reach up to touch the mask she notices a disturbance in the water, and her head jerks up with almost inhuman quickness, eyes flashing. 

Across the pool kneels a woman dipping her hands into the water. Her dark curls and the blood-red slash of a mouth are both achingly familiar, but neither so much as the mask of begonias she wears. The woman smiles knowingly and presses a single finger to her lips, eyes dancing with strange promise. A blink later and she disappears once more. Nothing remains of her presence but ripples in the water.

After a moment of shock  she suddenly throws back her head and laughs and laughs, laughs until there are tears streaming down her cheeks… for at last she has realized her fate. 

(She’d always thought that Death might take the form of a beautiful woman.)

[ask-imaginary-dreamers]

“Uh… I… Well… You…”

“…Alright, this isn’t going anywhere. I’ll try to piece it together then.”

[roseatedramon]

pokeask blog ponies

Moon Flicker (formerly Moon Flower, also pony version of Flicker) used to be a unicorn before ascending after doing some great deed (unsure what). She dislikes being an alicorn due to the attention it brings, and this is compounded when she outlives her best friend, Daisy Bell (pony version of Daisy). Years later she meets up with Flower Bud (pony version of Begonia), an earth pony who still hasn’t earned a cutie mark despite being an adult, since she has found nothing she’s passionate about. They strike up a friendship, letting Moon Flicker come out of her shell again.

[translations-by-aiimee]

The Husky and His White Cat Shizun - Chapter 18

Original Title:  二哈和他的白猫师尊

Genres: Drama, Romance, Tragedy, Xianxia, Yaoi

This translation is based on multiple MTLs and my own limited knowledge of Chinese characters. If I have made any egregious mistakes, please let me know.

Chapter Index

Chapter 18 - This Venerable One has Begged You Before

Tianwen has a deadly killing move. The name was very simple, just one word: "Wind". Once activated, no piece of armor in the surrounding area could withstand it.

Mo Ran was naturally acquainted with the power of "Wind". He also knew Chu Wanning's strength so there was no need to worry. He glanced at the pale man whose robe was dyed red with blood. He threw away the rest of his talismans to buy Chu Wanning some time, then flew away to the edge of the fight. He grabbed Shi Mei with one hand, Madam Chen with the other, and took two unconscious people, hiding a far distance away.

Chu Wanning endured the severe pain and reluctantly moved his other. Suddenly, Tianwen burst out with a dazzling golden light, and Chu Wanning violently jerked it back.

The Master of Ceremonies Ghost went berserk. It jumped up and rushed towards Chu Wanning with a distorted face.

Chu Wanning's robe waved like a flame in a violent wind, billowing and flying. His eyebrows were furious, half of his shoulders soaked in blood. He quickly raised his hand, Tianwen's golden light became more and more intense then it took off by Chu Wanning's flying spin.

The willow vine stretched for several tens of feet and whirled into a golden spiral. Like a whirlpool, it engulfed the surrounding ghosts, dead bodies, golden children, and the roaring and twisting Master of Ceremonies Ghost into the center of "Wind". The fierce image that was created by Tianwen was then shattered in an instant!!!

"Wind" smashed and destroyed. Not even the surrounding grass and trees, being ripped up from the ground, were spared.

The huge storm centered around Chu Wanning let out a dazzling golden light. The sky grew dark, covered by flying sand and rocks. Whether it was a coffin or the dead, they were like grass fluttering in the wind.

She was sucked in and was cut up by the rapidly spinning Tianwen.

Sliced into tens of thousands pieces of debris. . .

When everything calmed down, there was no grass around Chu Wanning, a desolate and empty wasteland.

Other than him standing alone in his bright, auspicious clothes that resembled a blooming red lotus and a begonia blossom, there was only a ground covered in crushed white bones, and the horrible hissing of Tianwen's golden light.

From this point of view, Chu Wanning did the world a favour pumping out so many disciples.

Based on his performance today, if he wanted to, even if every disciple on Life-Death Peak were defeated, it wasn't impossible for him to keep fighting. . .

The golden light faded away.

Tianwen turned into flickering dots like stars, blending into Chu Wanning's palm.

He breathed a deep breath and frowned. Enduring the sharp pain in his shoulder, he slowly walked towards his disciples in the distance.

"How's Shi Mei?"

Coming to their side, Chu Wanning pushed through and asked.

The ink burned down to look at the unconscious beauty in his arms. He still wasn't awake, his breathing was weak, and his cheeks felt cold to the touch. This scene was too familiar, it was a nightmare that Mo Ran couldn't get rid of.

As Shi Mei was lying in his arms like this, as time went on, he wasn't breathing anymore. . .

Chu Wanning placed his hands on Madam Chen's and Shi Mei's necks. He mumbled out: "Hmm? How could the poisoning be so deep?"

Mo Ran's head snapped up: "Poison? Didn't you say they were okay? Didn't you say that they were just being compelled?"

Chu Wanning frowned: "The Master of Ceremonies Ghost relied on the fragrance powder to compel them. That was a kind of poison. I thought it was only superficial, but I didn't expect the poison to be this severe."

". . ."

"Send them back to Chen's house first." Chu Wanning said, "It's not difficult to expel the poison. It's fine as long as they don't die."

His voice was cold and unwavering. Although Chu Wanning normally spoke like this, at this moment, it really made people feel like he was uncaring and downplaying things.

Mo Ran was brought back to that year of heavy snow. He was knelt in the snow and in his arms was Shi Mei whose life was slipping away. With tears on his face, he hoarsely begged Chu Wanning to turn his head, look at his disciple, and pleaded for him to raise his hand to save his disciple's life.

But what did Chu Wanning say back then?

It was also in such a light and calm tone of voice.

Just like that, rejecting Mo Ran the one time he knelt down and begged.

In the heavy snow, the person in his arms gradually became as cold as the snow falling on his shoulders and eyelashes.

That day, Chu Wanning killed two disciples with his own hands.

One was Shi Mingjing, who he could have saved but didn't.

One was Mo Weiyu, kneeling in the snow mourning the death of his heart.

There was a sudden panic in his heart, a brutality, a snake-like flow of resentment, rage and viciousness.

There was a moment when he suddenly wanted to rise up and strangle Chu Wanning. Wanted to shed his kind and pleasant disguise, revealing the hideousness of a malevolent ghost. Like a fierce ghost from a previous life, it viciously tore into him, questioning him and demanding his life.

He claimed the lives of the two helpless disciples in that snowfield.

But when his eyes flicked up, they suddenly fell on Chu Wanning's blood-covered shoulder.

The beast's anger was suddenly cut off.

He didn't say another word, just stared at Chu Wanning's face with poorly-masked hateful eyes. Chu Wanning didn't notice. After a while, he lowered his head again and stared at Shi Mei's haggard face.

His mind gradually went blank.

If something happened to Shi Mei this time, then. . .

"Cough cough cough!!"

The person in his arms abruptly coughed. Mo Ran was stunned and his heart trembled. . . Shi Mei slowly opened his eyes, and his voice was extremely hoarse and weak.

"A-. . . Ran. . .?"

"Yes! It's me!" In his ecstasy, the haze disappeared. Mo Ran's eyes widened. The palms of his hands were pressed against Shi Mei's cool cheeks, and his shining eyes trembled. "Shi Mei, how do you feel? Does anything hurt? "

Shi Mei smiled lightly, his eyebrows still. He turned his head, and looked around: ". . . How are we here. . . How did I faint. . . Ah! Shizun. . . cough cough, this disciple is incompetent. . . this disciple. . ."

"Don't talk," Chu Wanning said.

He gave Shi Mei a pill: "Since you're awake, take this poison dispersing pill. Don't swallow it right away."

Shi Mei took the medicine then was suddenly taken aback, his colourless face appearing even more transparent: "Shizun, how did you get hurt? You're covered in blood. . ."

Chu Wanning still had that faint, calm, irritating voice: "It's nothing."

He got up and glanced at Mo Ran.

"You, find a way to bring both of them back to the Chen's residence."

When Shi Mei woke up, the gloom that was deep in his heart suddenly vanished. He nodded quickly: "Okay!"

"I'll go first. I have something to ask the Chen family."

Chu Wanning said and turned to leave. Facing the vast darkness of the night, the fields covered in decay, he finally couldn't supress a twitch in his eyebrow, revealing a painful expression.

The entire shoulder was pierced by five fingers, the tendons and veins were torn apart, and the Master of Ceremonies Ghost's claws even pierced the bones deep in his flesh and blood. No matter how he pretended to endure it calmly, no matter how he tried to stave the bleeding, he was still be a human being.

It still hurt. . .

But so what if it hurts.

He walked forward one foot after another, the hem of the wedding dress flying around.

For so many years, people respected and feared him, but no one has dared stand by his side. No one cares about him. He has long been used to it.

Yuheng of the Night Sky, the Beidou Immortal.

No one liked him. No one cared whether he lived or died, whether he was sick or suffering.

He seemed to be born without the need for the support of others, no need to rely on anyone, no need for company.

So there was no need to shout out in pain, and crying was even more unnecessary. Just go and dress the wounds, cut off all the festering flesh around the tear and apply ointment on it.

It didn't matter if no one cared about him.

Anyway, that's how he came to be alone. He's survived all these years. He can take care of himself.

When he came to the door of the Chen residence, before he entered the courtyard, he heard an ear-piercing scream.

Chu Wanning didn't care about aggravating his wound and immediately rushed in - only to see the old lady Chen with a disheveled hair, her eyes closed, but chasing her son and husband all over the house, only ignoring the young daughter of the Chen family. She stood beside her in panic, huddled tightly, shaking.

Seeing Chu Wanning enter, Mr. Chen and his eldest son screamed and rushed towards him: "Dao Master! Dao Master, help!"

Chu Wanning held them back. He glanced at Madam Chen's closed eyes, and said angrily: "Didn't I tell you to watch her and keep her from falling asleep?!"

"I can't help it! My wife is unwell. She usually goes to bed early. After you left, she was still holding out at first, then she fell asleep, and then she started to go crazy! She started screaming. . . yelling. . ."

Mr. Chen shivered and ducked behind Chu Wanning. He didn't notice that he was actually wearing an auspicious outfit, nor did he notice the hideous wound on Chu Wanning's shoulder.

Chu Wanning frowned and said: "What was she yelling?"

Before Mr. Chen spoke, the mad woman rushed over with her teeth bared, screaming mournfully. It was actually the voice of a young woman—

"Spineless liar! Pathetically fickle! I want you to pay with your lives! I want you all to die!"

Chu Wanning: ". . . This evil spirit stoops low." He turned back and sternly shouted at Mr. Chen, "Does this voice sound familiar?"

Mr. Chen’s mouth was trembling. He rolled his eyes and swallowed nervously: “I don’t know, I don't recognize it, I don’t know! Please help! Please help!

Just then, Madam Chen rushed over. Chu Wanning raised his uninjured arm, pointing at the sky above Madam Chen, and a lightning bolt slammed down, trapping Madam Chen within a barrier.

Chu Wanning turned his head with an icy gaze: "You really don't know?"

Mr. Chen repeated: "I really don't know! I really don't know!"

Chu Wanning didn't say anything else. He whipped out Tianwen and bound old lady Chen in the barrier.

He should have tied up the rest of the family outside, it would be more convenient and easier to gauge the situation, but Chu Wanning had his own rules of conduct. It wasn't easy using Tianwen to interrogate abnormal individuals. So he abandoned the soft approach and instead questioned the ghost in Madam Chen's body.

Interrogating ghosts wasn't the same as interrogating people.

When Tianwen interrogated people, they couldn't fight it and would speak.

When Tianwen interrogated ghosts, it would form a boundary where only Chu Wanning and the ghost would exist. Ghosts would regain their original appearance in the boundary and pass on their message to Chu Wanning.

A flame ignited on Tianwen. It snaked along the vine, burning from his end straight to old lady Chen.

The old lady let out a scream, and suddenly began to twitch. The original scarlet flame on the willow vine instantly turned into a blue ghost fire and burned back to Chu Wanning's side.

Chu Wanning closed his eyes. The fire burned up the willow vine onto his palm, but the ghost fire couldn't hurt him. It just burned all the way along his arm, down his chest, and then went out.

". . ."

The Chen family looked at the scene in horror. They didn't know what Chu Wanning was doing.

Chu Wanning's eyelashes trembled lightly, his eyes still closed, but a white light gradually appeared in front of his eyes. Immediately afterwards, he saw a small, white, jade-like foot step out of the light, and a girl about seventeen or eighteen years old appeared in his field of vision.

Previous Chapter Next Chapter

[scrub-slots]

gwyn: what pokemon do you guys think I will be reincarnated as? SERIOUS ANSWERS ONLY.

fade: a snom.

begonia: a snom.

flicker: a seel!

casey: a snom.

pablo: a snom.

gwyn: I think I’d be an articuno (I think so too). i would be an articuno chien-pao hybrid mix. king of the tungra- tungra but still graceful and ferocious.

[ahkaahshi]

an untitled drabble

pairing: nanami kento x fem reader

genre: freeform, angst

warnings: implications of struggles with mental health

word count: 1k

note: this is a freeform piece written loosely off a scene that just came to me. probably doesn’t make sense, but this is me teaching myself that my writing really doesn’t have to make sense all the time

The downpour bathes the otherwise quiet bedroom in sea of white noise. Though the front of your body is aglow with the dim sunlight beating against the backs of angry, thundering clouds, the shadow behind you is dark and heavy. The cups of tea in his hand burn against his palms ever so slightly, but his lips are cold. Your hands unclasp before finding each other once more. He figures they must be cold too.

Where he stands in the doorway, out of your sight, he lifts his foot to take another step forward, but something stills him—the sense that he could be intruding on a moment that’s possibly too intimate to be shared between the two of you. Something that only you and the sky or the storm or the swaying, green trees outside could share. Something you wouldn’t dare to let anyone see, especially not him.

Because you’d been fine just a few moments ago. The bright smile that had appeared across your lips at his offer to brew some tea for you had instilled that warmth within him like the sun’s rays on a clear day. Yet, in the near silent solitude of your shared bedroom, he can see just how distant your eyes appear in the reflection on the window.

The rain painting blurred veins across the window seems to slow, as if taking a moment’s pause to admire the beauty of your features as you gaze outside. Or maybe it’s out of sympathy for you that its pace slows to match that of the tears streaming down your own cheeks. If someone told him that the world had stopped for even so much as a split second just for you he would believe it. Because you looked so divine in the begonia hues of the sun’s last light that it spent just a bit longer above the horizon, or because you were just too exhausted to face its first glow that it delayed its journey to this side of the world. To shine for you, to mourn with you, to give you enough time for an extra breath and some room to think.

The world stopping was such an impossible feat, but if you were the motivation behind it doing so, it would suddenly feel believable. It’s almost as if you’re living in the space between seconds now, and by pausing to linger in the doorway a bit longer instead pushing the day ahead by taking you out of this moment, he’s effectively joined you within it.

It’s then, as he watches your lips tremble and your eyelashes flutter slowly, heavy with the tears weighing on them, that he realizes just how absent he’s been. So much so to the point where he’d thought your happiness was as steady and unwavering as the sunshine on a cloudless day rather than a flicker of lightning in the midst of a storm—appearing momentarily before being swallowed by the darkness once more. How could his perception have been so distorted? She’ll tell me if she wants to, was what he’d always thought; but now he finds himself realizing, She might not know how to.

His footsteps across the wooden floor are gentle, as are the drag of his knuckles against yours when he reaches for your hand after he’s placed the cups preoccupying them on the desk. His heat fends off the coldness that had settled into your fingertips. The usual look of shock in your eyes and rush to mask your emotions by turning away and wiping away tears furiously is eerily absent. Instead, your gaze remains firmly ahead. But your eyebrows furrow, your nose crinkles, and your teeth take your lower lip between them instinctively to bite back any sobs threatening to escape your mouth.

The wind howls outside in a wordless lament as if out of sympathy for the shame welling up inside of you at both your inability mask your emotions and your unwillingness to look the man you trust the most in the eyes because you’d spent all this time hiding the true extent of your struggles from him. It’s clear, with how unbothered you are about him bearing witness to your meltdown, that you’re no longer capable of hiding. However, above the roar of the tempest throttling the earth outside the comfort of your home, you find an immeasurable peace in the words that reach your ears.

“You’re not alone.”

It’s then that you turn to face Nanami, allowing your eyes to connect with his and your lungs to fill with a deep breath. His hand moves to the back of your head, guiding your forehead to his lips for a tender kiss that has you melting into his touch when his arm drapes over your shoulders. Your tears create dark pools the shade of midnight in the soft fabric of his gray sweater, but they’re shed partially out of relief since you’re finally warm instead of cold. Vulnerable and trusting instead of guarded and isolated. Here, with him instead of there, with your thoughts.

“We’ll get through it together.”

The love in your watery gaze is sweet and the taste of your lips against his salty. Your fingers find the hot ceramic filled with fresh tea he hands to you, and that you raise to your mouth. You can feel your heartbeat again. The wooden floorboards are solid beneath your feet socked feet. The seconds tick by on the clock perched atop your bedside table. The passage of time seems to continue from where it had felt to be stuck before.

“Would you like to talk about it?”

He sees it again when he asks—that flash of hope in your expression like a flare sent up in the night. In the coldness of the storm, you find refuge in your home, but in the coldness of your despair, you find it in his arms, in the way he looks at you with his full attention, in the gentle tone of his voice. Your fingers find his to give them a squeeze and your lips quaver as they curl into a nearly indiscernible smile. It’s just a flicker for now, but maybe it’ll be a ray spilling between the clouds tomorrow, or an entirely clear sky another day.

“Yeah, I would.”

[ginnywasafriendofmine]

So I wrote this last night while wondering if things could have turned out differently if James Potters parents had survived. It evolved in a way I didn't expect (Euphemia Potter, where have you been hiding?) It's not finished either, but here is what I have so far...

They lived

When Fleamont Potter first felt the stirrings of pain, deep in his chest-he ignored it. He was no healer, and it was to be expected in his age after all. He ignored it when he felt it flutter through his spine, passed it off as a working hazard when he felt a pang in his knees. (He shouldn’t have been fiddling with that old cauldron anyways).

But when his wife said to him, almost idly at the fireside-

“Will you remind me to owl Healer Robbins in the morning? I had a strange pain in my shoulder earlier, and it doesn’t seem to have gone away just yet.”

Fleamont looked at his wife, her hands quick and nimble as they laced glimmering threads through soft fabric. He looked at his wife, and saw his life’s love before him. He saw the dark eyes that had drawn him to her, the sharp wit of her tongue and the power and grace he knew not. He saw beyond her greying hair and the fine lines that told stories of their joy, and saw the life they had built. The garden they had cultivated, the business that had flourished beneath their feet, the son who had his mothers eyes as well as her spirit, her spark, her joy. 

Fleamont looked at his wife, his partner and knew that the world would be just that dimmer without her.

“Actually dear, I think we should owl them tonight.”

Their young son, his dark head of hair ducking under the mantle as he arrived, joined them at St. Mungos, his glowing wife at his side, her fingers weaving knots into her robes. James paled as he watched the Healers gather around the ones who had given him life, and he rushed to call his brother to his side, their dark heads bowed together as they sat in the crowded little waiting room. 

So Fleamont saved his wife, but he died that Thursday afternoon with his little family gathered at his bedside, his last act of love surviving without him. 

Lily Potter may have danced with her new father-in-law at her wedding, his beaming smile as bright as the candles flickering around them but it was to her husband's mother, alone, that she passed her newborn baby to.

Harry Fleamont Potter felt a fitting tribute, and James was sure he wasn’t imagining the tears sparkling in his mothers eyes.

Harry learned to walk through his grandmother's begonias, the ones that, in another life he may have walked towards his namesake. Or in another life, he would not know existed at all. 

When the war which had brewed around them throughout their adolescence came knocking at their door, James cloistered his young family into Godric's Hollow, leaving his mother alone at the Manor where he had frolicked and grown and on one fine summer's day wed his now targeted wife. 

James did not apologise to his mother as he kissed her goodbye. He didn't need to. 

Her second son, the one whose hair was as Black as his name, as black as the scorch mark his birth mother had left in his wake, loped through the wards every few days. Neither of them dared voice the hope, that courageous flighty thing that had found a home within their chests as they sipped their tea, watching sunsets that should have been savoured. 

But they did dare to hope, they dared to trust. And James Potter, who may have his mothers eyes and her spirit, also had his fathers unwavering loyalty. He trusted the wrong man.   

(and their protection fell, shocks of green light rang through the air, and a boy who had found love and joy in the presence of his first friend, found his worst nightmare come to life instead as he rushed through the air on a motorbike he would soon hand away). 

And the dog chased the rat, and the rat knew how to disappear when all the dog knew how to do was grieve. 

Fleamont’s last act of devotion didn’t change the fact that Euphemia woke up on November 1st with an intrinsic feeling of dread. When she opened the door she wasn’t faced with a scarred orphan as a shrieking Petunia Dursley was three counties over, but with the weary and regretful eyes of the men in red robes who had come to symbolise loss in their world. 

Euphemia managed to hold it together, her head held high until they used the words ‘Death Eater’ and ‘Sirius Black’ in the same sentence. Only then did she start to laugh, that horrible haunting laugh that only Blacks could. For Euphemia may have looked like her mother who had grown up across the world, but she was still a Black.

The two men, who had expected a feeble old woman and had gotten a glimpse of true Black madness did not think to question her when she demanded an escort to the Ministry. For her dear, kind son and his brave and bright wife would have to wait, their bodies still and cool as they would be for eternity, for it was her second son who needed her now. Her second son who sat in a stone cell and had cried himself to sleep.

For all that Remus-scarred, sweet, lonely and heartbroken-thought it was Sirius still, Euphemia knew her son. She knew he couldn’t be responsible for this. She also knew the look in a boy’s eyes when envy and greed had made its way deep into his heart, and she had seen it on Peter Pettigrew’s face one too many times to be as trusting as her dearly departed son.

With the power of her husband's name and his wealth she bullied an unsuspecting Barty Crouch into a trial the very next day, where a relieved Remus sat beside her, shaking while she was still. Later Sirius had wept apologies into her cloak, his regret tangible and as dark as his hatred for the man he had once called a brother. 

Sirius did not spend his 22nd birthday as he had planned, holed up with three Potters, being plied with cake and butterbeer, but he spent it screaming at the man he had once called a leader, at the man whose heart may have been heavy with regret, but whose hands still meddled in places he ought not to touch. 

The day after they gathered in Godric’s Hollow and watched a pair of twin coffins lowered into the fresh earth.

(While miles away, Harry cried for his mother and wondered why this woman who did not resemble anyone he knew had hands as sharp as her beady eyes).

Euphemia had saved her son from twelve years in Azkaban, but that did not mean she was going to leave the precious boy that had somehow survived, her husband's namesake, with a woman who had hated her own sister nearly as much as she had once loved her. 

Euphemia hadn’t expected Dumbledore to interfere. 

Dumbledore had expected Euphemia to acquiesce once he had explained with words like blood protection, and love sickly sweet on his tongue.

But she did not. 

Perhaps, in another world-one where Fleamont survived the night that his dear wife did, this would have played out differently. Quieter perhaps.

But Euphemia was different from Monty. She had grown up having to hold her head up, high, above the snickers and the stares and the comments. She had grown up between two worlds; not white enough, not dark enough. Having to make space for herself in a world that did not know what to do with her. 

When she first visited her family in India it wasn’t the overwhelming feeling of joy, she had expected, but rather a deep, dark loss in her soul. A wanting, a longing, a missing she would never truly understand. The colours were just as vivid, the smells just as enchanting, the sounds, the streets filled with life. But Mia had grown up across the world, where she’d had to learn to pronounce her r’s just so, how to preen, and dress and and hide so much of herself away that she’d never really found it again. Mia had grown up with a mother who was just as much a British citizen as everyone else around them, but different in a way they would never understand. 

(It was only when she met a man with eyes as deep as the ocean, and a smile that made her feel like she could soar did she feel she was coming out of the seams. Bit by painstaking bit). 

So yes, Monty, with his lineage and his old money and his class wouldn’t have dared, his fight would have taken place quietly, behind the scenes, where there was no fuss, no ruckus. 

But Monty wasn’t here anymore, and Mia had spent her life being quiet. 

So she raged, and stormed and threw herself into a battle with the most powerful man in Wizarding Britain. She argued her way through the courts, through countless politicians, secretaries and bureaucrats who she had spent her life kowtowing to when she was nothing but an immigrant's daughter with no power they could understand. 

And she won.

The snow had just begun to stick, and the lights were up in the neighbors windows when her grandson finally came home to her, with a trembling lip and a scarred forehead.

Euphemia Potter held him close - his hair smelt just like James had, when he was little, when her entire world could fit in her arms-and then passed him to her other son. The one who hadn’t been born from her, but who she loved just the same.  

They’d both had something taken from them, something ripped away with a cold curse and a flash of light, and she knew that only they could understand each other now. So Mia stayed in her opulent and empty house, and Sirius settled in the South Wing at the room that had always been his, his godson slumbering safely in his arms. 

That first Christmas was as dark as the words carved into stone back in Godric's Hollow. Two men who had to learn to trust each other again and a woman who many had expected to break by now. Only Harry’s laugh, his smile, his sparkling eyes could light up their bleak and unforgiving day. 

So Harry forgot the mean, cold woman who stared at him like something she would rather forget, and spent the spring with his grandmother as she planted flowers, her fingers quick and nimble as they had always been. He spent it with his godfathers-both of them-while one suffered each month as he always had, but whose love for Harry never wavered, and the other finally grew up.

For in this world Sirius Black did not wile away his years counting his regrets as he counted the bars on his cells. In this world he strategised, he built battle plans with the same fervour and determination he might have used to sliver between those bars as a shaggy, black dog. He focused on wiping out the forces that had taken so much of the light from their world. 

But he did not do this alone. For in losing one brother, he had gained another back. 

Regulus Black did not go to die in the cave that dark day in October of 1979. He would still be brave, and fierce, and full of righteous anger, but he did not die alone and afraid. Regulus Black had been in St. Mungos that summer, regretfully rejecting his prized and hard worked offer of a place as a Healer. 

Regulus Black had been there. He had seen his brother-the one who he missed as much as Petunia Evans missed her own sister-pale and weary with grief. He had seen him stumble in the corridor from Fleamont Potters room, the loss deeply etched in his face. 

Grief is the price we pay for love.  

Regulus had watched his brother, and wondered if perhap there were things worth living for-as much as they were worth dying for.

So despite what his mother, and the Dark Lord, and about every other Black relative wanted him to do-A Healer? How plebian. Regulus Black did what he had always yearned to, and was brave. He tore the rejection letter from the secretaries fist, and asked, with a weak attempt at his brothers bravado;

“What day do I start?”

So Regulus had taken a different path, a path that was still hard-for the road to hell was still paved with good intentions. 

Regulus stood with his head held high above the looks and snide comments-from both his Death Eater cohorts and his fellow trainees. But the Dark Lord could not touch him, could not stray him from this path, for the vow that was taken on his first day of orientation had sworn him to the Healing service, and even Tom Riddle knew some vows could not be broken.

Regulus Black had taken a different path (though the knowledge of the Horcrux and the unrelenting question of what/when/how still lingered) and was finishing up his rotation in the children’s ward when his long lost brother rushed in, a feverish child in his arms, and panic wreaking havoc in his young face.

“Please, I don’t know what’s wrong-I-I, he wouldn’t eat, and now he’s warm, too warm, and I-”

“Hand him to me.”

And Sirius had passed over the child he thought of as a son to a man he didn’t recognise and saw a boy he had once known. 

“I-Reggie-?”

But Regulus had always been good at his job. Even the other trainees, who glowered at him through the corridors as they once had in Hogwarts could not deny this. Regulus saw the brother whose approval he had always craved, but he did not think of it now. Regulus only looked at the child who lay shivering before him, and set to work.

Dragon Pox may have taken Fleamont Potter, but Regulus Black’s quick mind and steady hands ensured that his namesake did not follow in this regard. Sirius had cried tears of relief, and Remus had shaken Regulus’ hand so hard it felt bruised.

By now Harry had spent as much time without his parents as he had with them, and his loss would have taken his family to a place they could not return

Once Harry had settled, Mia Potter at his bedside and Remus Lupin fetching the blanket that Harry reached for every night, did the two brothers talk.

They spoke of nothing that had lingered deep in their minds, and their hearts in the years since the older one had departed.

“A Healer, huh?” Sirius Black tried to hide his surprise. 

Regulus bit back the 'You once told me I was good at Healing spells' and managed a smile. "Yes, coming on four years now.” 

Regulus felt young in his brother's presence (even if they were both the same height now).

“That’s… really great.” Sirius smiled, looking close to proud. 

“That's James son, isn't it?” Regulus asked, and watched the darkness flicker in his brothers eyes again.

“You can tell by the hair, huh?”

Really he could tell by the way Sirius looked at the boy-the same way he had always looked at James-but he smiled at his brother's attempt at humor anyways.

When the little family left two days later, a chagrined Sirius mumbled something out that was close to an invitation-coffee? Do you drink coffee? As he left St. Mungos, his beloved godson giggling in his arms. 

Regulus watched and wondered if perhaps he had gotten his brother back. If his brother would walk away from him again.

(He would, once he found out about the paradoxical life his brother led, a Healer who moonlights as a Death Eater. The life of one who fixes scars and curses he recognises, the life of one who is vowed to both worlds even as they threaten to pull him apart at the seams). 

But this time he would come back. And not on accident, stumbling in with a sick child, but with a determination for history not to repeat itself. 

For this Sirius Black knew about the transformative power of second chances.

Harry Potter grew up at his grandmother's elbow, learning about his culture, his heritage. What was left of it. Some had been lost to time, others to the journey made from Delhi to here. The rest to the pressure of a world who didn’t want girls with dark skin and a determined glint in her eye. 

But in this world Harry knew who he was. Where he had come from. What had been lost so he could live. And oh, did he live. 

He lived in the same trees and lakes his own father had made his kingdom at his age, he lived in the books his Moony shared with him-Moony, who watched as identical green eyes skimmed over the same pages he had seen a flame-haired girl devour. He lived in the adventures, the wild reckless stories and pursuits of his Padfoot. He lived in his grandmother's kitchen, watching her bake roti in between English cakes of lemon drizzle and his favourite treacle tart. 

Harry lived, and he knew what it was to be loved. 

(After all, a boy must live so he can learn to die. 

And even now, even here, Harry still had to be the boy who learned to walk to his death).

[bittykimmy13]

The Gardener (GT Angst/Fluff)

In which Sylvia meets Will :’)

Trinket universe and characters belong to me and the lovely @marydublin5​ / @little-miss-maggie​ <3

(( More from the Print/Trinket Universe ))

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The rebellion base was more expansive than Sylvia had assumed— being a trinket may have had something to do with it. Each day she explored, she found a new room or corridor. This time, when she turned the corner in a direction she hadn't tried before, a wave of humidity hit her. Curious, she pressed on.

"Whoa!" She jogged to the railing of the walkway to take in the sight of the massive room she had found. Rows of shelves had been rigged into planter boxes with a light system. To her delight, the print and trinket walkways connected to the shelves.

She couldn't fathom why there weren't people here. It was like an indoor garden, teeming with life and green that she hadn't found anywhere else at the base. At least, she couldn't see anyone there. With the shelves blocking her view, she wasn't even sure how far the room stretched.

Winding her way to the shelves, she stepped onto the soil and strolled among the plants, feeling as though she had found her way into a rainforest. The little flowers she grew in Jon's apartment didn't hold a candle to these thriving herbs and vegetables.

She was so taken by the garden, she didn't hear the footsteps approaching until they were right around the corner. Sylvia froze, shuffling under the cover of parsley leaves. She caught a glimpse of a massive form—a human tending to the plants on the shelves across from her. Trying to calm her racing heart, she reminded herself that she didn't need to hide. It would take some getting used to, but trinkets were not playthings or pets here.

The human turned to face her, but his eyes were on the shelves below her. His curly brown hair ducked out of view as he watered the plants, slowly moving up the shelves.

"U-um…" Sylvia stepped out of the shadows when he reached the planter she was on.

His blue eyes landed on her. "Oh. I didn't see you there." His voice was quieter than she would have expected.

Despite what she knew about the rebellion, having a new human's attention on her was startling.

"Sorry for intruding," she said stepping toward the walkway. "I just haven't seen a full-fledged garden like this in so long. I'll—"

"Do you have a favorite?"

Sylvia stopped in her tracks, glancing around at the forest of plants before her gaze settled back on the human’s soft smile. Her chest loosened.

"Well, I was more of a flower person myself. Lilies, begonias, orchids… I did grow a lot of basil, though." She nodded toward the basil plant she'd walked past. "Did you grow all these?"

He nodded, though his brow furrowed. "Sunlight was easier to work with, but… I make do."

She laughed, shaking her head in disbelief at the thriving jungle of a room. "Buddy, I can't tell if you're gloating or being humble. I wouldn't blame you for gloating, though. This place is beautiful."

His eyes lit up. "If you've ever got some time, I could use some help with pruning the more delicate herbs."

"I'd love to help!" She all but bounded to the edge of the planter and stuck her hand out. "I'm Sylvia."

He hesitated visibly, smile faltering. But his hand came up from below, fingertips closing gently on her hand. "I'm Will."

A chill went down her spine, casting away her excitement in one fell swoop. She froze up, searching his face. Breath catching, she seized her hand back and staggered away from him.

Something subtle changed in his expression. His soft smile remained, but the light in his eyes dimmed. He looked away, even took a step back.

"So, you've heard of me," he said. His gaze flickered to her, but he couldn't seem to bear the look on her face. "I… I'm not going to hurt you. I promise. Please—enjoy the plants. I'll keep to the other side of the room."

He offered one last smile—a sad attempt at one, anyway—and straightened to his full height to walk away. He disappeared two rows away.

Sylvia stayed rooted for a few seconds after, her mind spinning with what she had heard about him. She snapped out of her shock and booked it for the exit. He didn't try to stop her.

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It was far from the first time he had witnessed that sort of look aimed at him, but this time had hurt especially. Maybe because she had been excited about the plants. Maybe because she had obviously worked up her courage to stay and chat, only to be frightened away.

Will shouldn’t have been shocked by Sylvia’s reaction, those tiny eyes widening in terror. It had been nice to talk to someone, even for a little while, who didn’t know about what he’d done. He had briefly considered giving her a fake name, but it would have come off as sinister when she learned the truth.

This was his punishment, maybe forever. He didn’t fight it.

A few days after the encounter, he returned to the concrete conservatory. He stopped at the first shelves, gingerly touching some mint leaves. He’d have to convince Cliff that they needed to set aside a safe area for an actual greenhouse with actual sunlight. At this rate—

“Will?”

He flinched and turned toward the tiny voice. Sylvia was at the miniature walkway near the entrance. She sat with her legs dangling through the railings, as if she had been waiting a while. He had walked right past her.

Unable to make sense of what she was doing there, he looked at the floor. “Sorry, are you lost? I can tell you how to get back to the common area.”

“No. I… I’m here on purpose.”

His eyes snapped to her in surprise. “Why?”

Although he was standing a fair distance away, he still felt like he was looming by the way she flinched. She pulled her legs back onto the walkway and stood. For a second, he thought she might run again. But she merely gripped the railing bars and fidgeted.

“You said you had some plants in need of pruning.” Her voice was uncertain and small, but not laced with terror. “And I said I would help, didn’t I? So, here I am.”

His instinct was to question her, but he held back. “There’s some rosemary that could use attention,” he said, taking a tentative step closer to her.

His hand lifted toward the walkway.

“It’s in the back. I could take you there if—” He paused when Sylvia shrank away, and he promptly pulled his hand back. “I’m sorry. I wasn’t going to grab, I swear.”

Sylvia wavered, then squared her shoulders. “You know, it’s a pretty long walk to get here. I do think I could use a lift.”

“Are you sure?”

She gave a firm nod. He closed the distance, making sure she could easily track the movement of his hand as he laid it down beside her with care. Her hesitance was visible, and he had to fight to the urge to give up immediately. After a few moments, she overcame whatever was holding her back, and she climbed aboard his palm, offering a shaky smile when she was ready.

He lifted her, cupping his other hand nearby in a practiced motion.

“You’re good at this,” she informed him as he carried her over to the rosemary.

The smile he gave her was genuine. He could feel the tension coiled in her minuscule frame, but the fact that she was fighting it at all made him feel like there was hope for him yet.