#great now I need Splinter to have an extensive talk with her about the fact her overprotectiveness is just hurting his son

[microfeelings]

I just had a rant (with myself) about the character of Mama Jones in 2003 and how she was reduced to "haha, she babies her son and is basically looking for a babysitter for him lol" and how much I HATED that! She lost her husband to a very violent attack (implied), Casey was involved in this (also implied but for the life of me I cant get the timeline straight), the store her husband had got burned. This woman should have heeps of trauma that she most likely buried deep because SHE HAD TO RAISE CASEY ON HER OWN (I guess its implied theres an uncle or auntie bc of cousin sid, but theres no mention of them so I can only imagined they fucked right off), and she got reduced to that?? Come on 2003 you can do better. I KNOW you can do better

(Extra info on the notes bc its mostly ranting and it wouldnt make sense on the main post)

[classpect-crew]

Aspects and the Classical Elements

Let’s talk about Aspects and the classical elements. (We're leaving out aether for the time being.) I’ll only go into this briefly, because I’m procrastinating working on a really big final project right now for class and I don’t have much time left. For a primer, I’ll explain the elements that the four cardinal Aspects represent. According to the Aspect Wheel—and I agree with this setup—Space and Time are set perpendicular to Breath and Blood. Hang onto your butts, because it’s going to get bumpy.

So, let’s start with the easiest association: Breath and Air. I really don’t think I have to explain that one too much. Breath and Air represent freedom, but on a deeper level, they also represent intellect. This association of intellect with Air is clear if you’ve ever read tarot. Breath is associated with pranks and japery as well, which requires a great deal of wit to pull off successfully. Fortunately, as a fairly comfortable Heir of Breath, John is absolutely surrounded and defined by Breath-related imagery.

Next up, we have Time, representing Fire. This is another one that doesn’t take much of a stretch, and again, Dave is constantly inundated with the presence of Fire, from the blistering Texas heat to his own Land. Fire is a destructive force, much like Time, but it can allow for new growth in the place of the old. (That’s another reason why a God Tier player who experiences permadeath is subject to the whims of a great clock.) Fire—and, by extension, Time—is an element of passion, burning away what is unnecessary to forge on ahead. Dave’s passions are often obscured behind thick layers of irony, but irony isn’t part of Time’s domain: it’s a reflection of his guardian, Bro, the Prince of Heart. It’s a splintering of authenticity. With that said, when we see Dave in his element, “spitting sick fires” and whatnot, we can see that he’s happy. His passions must necessarily be honest, and that’s a huge part of his character arc: “letting his little light shine,” so to speak.

Now, here’s where things get complicated. We’ll look at Space first. Obviously, Space represents Earth, as we see from Jade’s connection with her plants. The Aspect of Space is stable, everlasting, and—wait a minute. That’s not right, is it? No, dear reader, Earth is not the domain of Space. Rather, it’s Water. When we think of Earth in the classical sense���the foundation of matter, the closest element to material reality, connection and stability—we actually see this running through the veins of Blood, the Aspect of forming strong bonds with others, of pushing through no matter the cost, of covenants and iron. Hell, iron is one of the biggest symbols of Blood in the whole comic, and you’d really have to stretch to say that iron belongs in the realm of Water over Earth! So, departing from Space for a moment, we can see how Blood can’t truly be anything but Earth. It is the antithesis of Breath, as Earth is the antithesis of Air, and Fire the same of Water. We don’t have a Blood player in the cast of kids—not even the Alpha kids—so Rose is the stand-in for the classical elements, representing Water. Naturally, that means Jade represents Earth. But this only speaks to their influences, not their personalities! Rose, after all, is greatly influenced by her mother, the Rogue of Void. Void is one of the best examples we have for an Aspect that is literally represented by Water and other liquids—except for Space. Notice, of course, that Void is right next to Space on the Aspect Wheel: this is intentional. In fact, every non-cardinal Aspect shares qualities with the classical elements of their closest cardinal Aspect. Life evokes the freedom and rule-breaking power of Breath. Heart brings the passion of Fire to a personal journey of self-discovery and acceptance. Mind is always shifting shape to its present needs—in this way, with Space being flanked by Void and Mind, its connections to Water become even clearer. Doom is an Aspect of rules and limitations, as well as sacrifice, which speaks perfectly to the Earthlike Blood.

I completely understand if your head is spinning right now. Let’s take it just one step further to cement the association of Water with Space. There is one gigantic symbol of Space that absolutely outclasses all others: Frogs. And what happens to a frog if it can’t absorb moisture through its skin? It will die. Space players don’t just breed their frog: they raise it in the waters of creation. The presentation of space in myth and legend as a vast, cosmic ocean is very common across the world. Water is also necessary for all living things, and in this way, the association between Space players and their botany makes perfect sense. In addition, Water is associated with deep wisdom and intuition, something which our healthier Space players develop in spades. Meanwhile, Blood players are often ones who uniquely suffer—I mean, we literally have The Sufferer for that one. More than anything, this is a point in favor of a Gnostic interpretation of Homestuck’s symbolism. Aspects on the top half of the Wheel are closer to the abstract world of ideas, whereas Aspects on the bottom half find themselves entrenched in the physical world of matter. Hence, those Blood players who are most successful do so by pushing hard, then harder against their own circumstances, whereas powerful Breath players like John are able to escape the narrative itself and act upon it in the only way that can put an end to the demiurge, that false creator—Caliborn, in this case. Blood is at the lowest point—even lower than Doom, which is literally the Aspect of decay and great power at great cost. It represents the Earth, the very epitome of groundedness in a reality full of pain and suffering. Those Blood players who manage to still generate hope, who find a cause and pursue it relentlessly, who build connections and use them to fight back: these are the leaders, the martyrs, the trailblazers that possess the power to change reality forever. But unlike Breath players, who remain loyal to the abstract world of ideas, who—much like Peter Pan—can only alight on the surface of reality for a brief moment before flitting away again, Blood players are forged in the struggle and challenged to transform it into great wisdom, gaining a deep understanding of the world that smacks of Earth.

Well, that was far longer than I intended it to be, and I still have that project to work on, so I’ll leave it here for now. I guarantee it won’t be long before I’m back on here discussing the matter further, though!

[mishasminion360]

Crushed (Bonus Chapter)

Pairing: Javier Peña x Fem!Reader

Warning: Language

Notes: Okay, I just couldn’t resist writing one more chapter from Javi’s POV. Purely because I’m a sucker for pain and love writing sad shit. I hope you’ve enjoyed my little ficlets! If you haven’t already, be sure to check out Part 1, Part 2, and Part 3 before reading this one.

He was there when the call came in; one of the first to learn that 220 pounds of TNT inside a car had just turned the downtown Bogotá shopping district into a pile of ash.

He didn’t even wait for the higher ups to finish barking orders before he was running out the door, ahead of the troops. He didn’t need to wait for orders and he didn’t need directions. He knew that district by heart by now. Because he’d been to your apartment enough times to memorize the way there.

***

The mess wasn’t anything like Javi had imagined; had hoped for. It was much worse.

Bodies, and pieces of bodies, had been tossed about haphazardly in the wake of the blast; strewn about as chaotically as the rubble. He realized with a growing sense of dread that one of these corpses could be your own.

Working his way through the destruction, smoke filling his lungs, he dared to glance up at your apartment and his heart dropped to see that it was...gone. There’s nothing but a hole where walls and windows used to be. That home he’d come to know better than his own had been reduced to a fucking crater.

His pulse hammered in his ears and muted the world around him. The screams, the sirens, all far away now. Somewhere in the distance right beside him he could hear Steve yelling at him, trying to pull him back from the ledge before he fell headlong into a chasm of despair.

“She’s fine, Javi. She’s got to be. She might not have even been home. Whatever you’re thinking right now, just stop.”

Javier didn’t even turn to look at him as he responded. “You don’t know what I’m thinking. You couldn’t possibly know.”

He was already off and running before he’d finished the last sentence. Javi didn’t care that part of the building was still in flames, he didn’t care that it could collapse at any moment. All he cared about was you.

Javi took the steps, what was left of them anyway, two at a time on a perilous journey to your floor. There wasn’t much of that left either. Opening the door was another trial, and once he’d finally managed to jimmy his way inside he could see why. And it made his stomach roil.

The blast had blown everything, debris, furniture, to the front half of the apartment and the pile of wreckage had barricaded the door. Javi didn’t waste a single second climbing the mound of detritus, like the Dread Pirate Roberts scaling the Cliffs of Insanity.

He felt his lungs tighten from exertion and the excess inhalation of ash and dust, but he still found enough strength to scream your name as loud as he possibly could. He got only silence in return.

Javi started flipping over smoldering furniture and chunks of scorched rubble, praying softly to himself that he’d find you and that he wouldn’t. He dug and dug until he was soaked in sweat and his fingers were black with soot and red with blood.

He spotted your hand first, sticking out from beneath the splintered remains of your dining room table. The small, delicate extremity was abnormally pale, and not because of the layer of dust that coated it. He frantically removed the rest of the mess until he’d uncovered you, his buried treasure.

One of your arms and legs had each bent at an unnatural angle. Your skin was littered with cuts of different sizes and stained with bruises. Your hair was matted with blood. But it was your eyes that frightened Javi the most. They were wide open, but unseeing.

Javier knew better than to move you until paramedics arrived, but that didn’t stop him from trying to rouse you into the realm of wakefulness.

“Come on, baby, wake up,” he said, voice cracking as he framed your bloodied face in his hands and tried to force those empty eyes to look at him. “Don’t do this to me, baby. Please.”

He refused to leave your side for an instant, not even to spare a second to cross over to the gaping hole where your wall once was and shout down for help. So he just screamed again.

“Ayúdame!!” he roars. “I need help! Someone, please!!” He didn’t know if anyone was coming. He didn’t know if it’d make a difference. “AHORA!!!”

His throat was too raw to try again. Javi collapsed at your side clutching your hand in both of his, as if he could heal all your wounds himself the tighter he squeezed. If only life, or love worked liked that.

“Please....”

***

He’d always hated hospitals. There was something so unnatural about the sterility, and the fact that it served as a haven for healing felt like nothing more than an illusion. Javier knew what it really was. A place where people came to die. A place where you were currently bedded.

At first the nurses refused to let him in, not being a direct family member and all, but they quickly learned in frightening ways that nothing was going to keep Javier Peña from your side. If Steve hadn’t been there to watch his back, Javi was fairly certain he would have been arrested for assaulting a doctor. More than once.

Steve was the sensible, level headed one. He asked the docs all the questions, got all the answers. All Javi could do was stare at you. You looked almost alien to him wrapped in plaster and sprouting too many tubes and wires, but it was still you and he couldn’t look away. His deep brown eyes willed you to wake up.

From time to time he caught words from the doctor’s mouth, words like “skull fracture,” “extensive hemorrhaging,” and “cerebral and internal bleeding.”

“Can you fix it?” he thought he heard Steve ask.

“The damage she’s suffered is severe,” said a doctor who’s name Javier did not know and did not give a fuck to know. “We’ve stopped the bleeding for now, but until the swelling on her brain goes down she’ll more than likely remain comatose.”

The only thing Javier hated more than hearing the doctor spout his medical jargon was hearing his lame attempts to be comforting.

“These attacks are getting worse and worse in terms of casualties. It’s always a shame to see someone so young this badly broken,” said doc what’s-his-name. “Poor woman was in the wrong place at the wrong time.”

“Will she be okay?” The words left his mouth so softly that Javier wasn’t even sure he’d said them.

“As I said, the surgery was a complete success,” the doctor responded. “The rest is up to her.”

The doc had other patients, so he didn’t stick around. Steve offered to stay, but Javi told him to beat it. All Javi wanted was to be alone. Alone with his grief. Alone with his shame. Alone with his love.

His fingers stroked tender circles up and down your arm; he wondered if you could feel it.

“I’m here, baby,” he whispered. “I’m right here.”

***

Days turned to a week, and that week became two. Javi had taken up a steadfast vigil at your bedside. He’d become a permanent fixture in the room and no one could convince him to leave or, at the very least, sleep. He’d sleep when you woke.

The nurses tried to offer positive affirmations here and there and their saccharine sweetness almost made him sick.

“It won’t be long now, I’m sure of it,” one offered. “Just a matter of time until we see those pretty eyes of hers.”

“Her vitals are stabilizing. That’s a good sign,” said another.

They all reminded him to keep talking to you; that, even though you couldn’t respond, you could hear his every word. It wasn’t long ago that he would have killed to get you to stand still and listen to him. Now he finally had you all to himself, but it wasn’t in the way that he wanted. This was an awful way.

“Come back, corazón,” he pleaded silently. “Please.”

***

Soon the doctor was able to deliver a spot of good news: the swelling in your brain was gone and you were likely to regain consciousness soon. Javi tried to take the news for what it was, but knew he wouldn’t be able to officially breath a sigh of relief until you truly were awake and responsive.

“She’s going to have a long road ahead of her, though.” Ah, the good ol’ doc. Never one to sugarcoat shit. “Recovery will be difficult.”

“I’ll be there,” Javi said flatly. “Every step of the way.”

***

It was going on three weeks and you were still fast asleep. According to the doctor you were pretty much healed, internally anyway, but you just refused to come around. Stubborn as always.

Javi couldn’t remember the last time he’d slept himself. The last time he’d moved. He’d missed a shit ton of work, but he didn’t give a fuck. The world had stopped turning and it wouldn’t budge again until you returned to him.

Javier Peña was not a patient man. He’d never waited this long for anything in his life. But for you, he’d wait a lifetime. It felt like he already had. He’d spent so much of his life searching for something that he’d never been able to find. He wasn’t even sure what it was. Until he met you.

The second you walked into the office something shifted. You were like a breath of fresh air; an answer to all of his most burning questions. You awoke in him a feeling he’d long ago forgotten. He didn’t know yet if it was love or just desire, but he knew well enough that you were going to change everything.

But now, in that very moment, gazing longingly at your silent, slumbering form, he recalled the name of that feeling. In that moment he realized that you had made him whole. And it was at that moment he finally broke.

The tears came out of nowhere. His exhausted body was consumed by great, heaving sobs. Javi felt his throat constrict around a string of words that came unraveling from the very depths of his aching heart.

“Wake up, baby,” he begged. “Come back to me.”

He wept openly and loudly and didn’t give a fuck who heard or saw.

“Please, come back to me, please.”

He collapsed atop your supine body and cried the tears of a man shattered beyond repair.

“I’m right here,” he whispered. “I’m here.”

He repeated those words until, at long last, sleep overtook him.

***

“J-Javier...”

He was floating in a sea of darkness, blissfully lost in it when he heard the call. That very sound was enough to cause the inky blackness to evaporate and the world was suffused with light; a sunrise over the retreating black waves. And something inside Javier began to steer him toward wakefulness. Because he knew that sound. He’d heard it countless times in the waking world, and in his dreams. The most beautiful sound he’d ever heard. The voice of the woman he loved.

“Javi?”

The pull of the ocean receded, and he turned his face toward the sun.

@mamacitapascal @obsessivelysearching @grimeylady

[deiliamedlini]

WIP Wednesday

This is a piece of a long oneshot I was working on that I actually just went back to so I could change the era this took place in to use for something else! So this is is the modern meeting of small-town Link and big-city-moving-to-small-town-for-work Zelda. 

I might still go back to this one specifically, especially since most of this info can’t transfer to the earlier era I’m changing it to. I also haven’t edited it, since I’m just in the process of hijacking bits and pieces, so please excuse my dear Aunt Sally. No, wait... that’s not writing... 

~~~~

“I just can’t believe they sent me here,” Zelda said into her phone. It was tucked between her cheek and her shoulder as she drove down a dirt road. On one side, there was farmland: an extensive few acres of it, from what she could tell. On her other side, trees.

Zelda loved trees. She did! They were a big part of her job, and she had nothing against them. But goddess above, she’d never seen so many trees in her life. Glancing at the clock, she realized that she’d been surrounded by trees for nearly an hour now, overwhelmed by the sight.

A city girl through and through, her entire life had been spent in the bustle of Castle Town: the largest, busiest, most innovative and thriving city in all of Hyrule. She’d gone to the best schools there, and worked at an exclusive corporation.

But they needed her to go somewhere else.

For the sake of the research, she reminded herself as she tried to focus on the phone and not all the trees. Or the mountains that replaced skyscrapers and castles. Or the farms that replaced parks and streets.

On the other end of the receiver were two voices. One was Midna, Zelda’s best friend. The other was Tetra, her older sister. The three of them together were incredibly close, and Midna had even offered to uproot her own life to join Zelda on this rural adventure. But Zelda had told her to hold down the fort; this move wasn’t permanent, and she’d be joining Midna back in their three-bedroom apartment that they all had shared in the heart of Castle Town.

“Are you almost there?” Midna asked, loudly typing something into her computer.

“She’s got to be,” Tetra muttered.

“I think I am.” Zelda looked around, but there were only… more trees. Shocker. “If the moving truck could find this place, then so can I.”

“Does she start work tomorrow?” Tetra asked, clearly directed at Midna.

“No,” Zelda answered for her. “I start Monday. They’re going to send me all the information ‘once I get settled.’”

“At least you know how much they value you,” Midna tried, but it was clearly a forced compliment and a poor attempt to make Zelda feel any better about taking this position. But really, when her boss asked her to take on a special assignment, one that paid double her old salary, she couldn’t resist, no matter how uprooted her life became.

“I know, but it’s—”

Suddenly, there was more than just trees.

A goat stepped into the road, much faster than Zelda ever thought goat could move. She dropped the phone, let out a high-pitched noise of absolute panic, and swerved around the goat. But she swerved off the dirt path, heard a thud, felt the car shake, and immediately slammed the breaks, rearing forward into the steering wheel.

“Sweet Goddess Hylia and all things holy!” she hissed, breathing heavily. Her chest hurt where she’d bounced into the wheel, but it hadn’t nearly been hard enough to cause the airbags to deploy.

Quickly putting the car in park, she shakily unbuckled her seatbelt and stepped outside, shaking out her hands and letting out some nerves before reaching into the car to grab the fallen phone.

“I’m okay,” she said quickly, brushing her hair from her face. “I almost hit a goat.”

“Goddess!” they both breathed. “We thought you were dead! My heart, Zelda!”

“I know, I’m sorry! Look, I hit something. I don’t see any dead animals in the road, but I’m going to hang up so I can look. I’ll call you later.”

The three of them were notorious for never saying ‘goodbye’ on the phone. Really, they didn’t do it in real life either. Even when Zelda left, the last thing Tetra had said was ‘I’ll come up to visit  real soon’, and Midna had said, ‘find me a hottie, or some other excuse to move up there with you.’

So, Zelda hung up with just a promise to call them back, and she hurried down the road to where she’d heard the thud.

It didn’t take much investigating to figure out what had happened: there was a broken fence, splintered and thrown wildly around the area after her apparent impact with it, and a frayed rope on the ground. And a sign that said “fence broken”. Helpful.

Zelda glanced back at the goat, unmoved by anything that had just occurred. It was meandering through the road, boredly exploring an area that it didn’t seem interested in. Perhaps the trees felt familiar to it.

Zelda groaned and took a picture of the fence before trying to get the internet on her phone so she could look up the local police number to report that she’d damaged property.

No internet connection.

“Great,” she muttered, turning to take a picture of the goat before it could move. Then, she headed back to her car, just to make sure there was no innocent animal underneath. She flipped the flashlight on and ducked down.

Zelda groaned, but not because there was a dead animal. No, it wasn’t an animal that was dead; it was her tire. There was a giant piece of the broken fence impaled into the rubber, and thanks to her rolling a few feet away, it was in there good.

“Of course. Of course!” Zelda yelled into the abyss, not even earning a curious glance from the goat.

Grabbing her phone, she was blinded by the light she’d left on and turned it around so she could look up the tow company immediately but was met by the same message. No internet connection.

Rolling her eyes, she scrolled to Midna’s name and pressed call.

Silence. Not even ringing.

Zelda checked the corner of the screen, struck first by her red battery life, and second by the device bars desperately looking for a connection.

“I was just talking to them!” she yelled at the phone, as if it cared that she’d had service moments ago. It gave her the urge to throw the phone, but she wasn’t that angry yet.

Instead, she turned her camera on, took a picture of her impaled tire in case the insurance company would need it, and then took several pictures of the goat just for fun, praying that it didn’t charge at her or whatever goats did.

She continued observing the goat without anything else to do until a car headed down the road. She stood and began to wave her arms wildly, but the car drove right past her.

“Jerk,” she muttered, pushing her hair back and returning to sit. But it wasn’t long until a pickup truck slowed down before she could even get back out of the car. She breathed a sigh of relief when they stopped and rolled down the window.

“Everything alright, Miss?”

“Not really,” she sighed, looking at her car sympathetically. She gestured to her tire.

“Got a spare? I got a jack if you need it.”

His voice was accented with the local dialect, which made her feel a little at ease. At least this was someone who’s likely be familiar with the area and could tell her how far away she was.

She had to admit, she’d spoken to one of her coworkers on the phone and had also become enamored with her accent, though it wasn’t from around here either. Zelda had a feeling she was just a sucker for anything that wasn’t the harsh poshness of the Castle Town accent, where every letter pronounced, every syllable attempting to be heard. It was a hard accent, and a cold one. The ones around here was warm and inviting.

Of course, it would make her stick out anytime she opened her mouth, which she didn’t really want.

Castle Town was posh, for sure. A town for the rich and the well-off, or those in school or at work. So Zelda knew a thing or two about stranger danger, and the deeply rooted nerves she felt when she saw the man unbuckle his seatbelt from her peripheral vision bubbled up. She had an escape route planned: toward the broken fence. She wasn’t being kidnapped on her first day in town. But he didn’t get out. He just leaned across the seat to the open window.

Finally, she looked at him, and her breath caught. Well, he certainty matched his voice. Something tired and alert all at once. His blonde hair was long and tied back into a ponytail, falling out in the front so his bangs messily framed his face, bringing her attention to his piercing blue eyes.

Oh yeah, this was the kind of guy they warned you about in Castle Town. Too pretty for their own good. She’d have talked to him in a crowded bar for sure. But out here…?

She glanced back at her car, breaking her distracted trance, trying to remember what he’d asked. “Oh, uh, no. I took everything out of the car to fit my things. I figured I’d take my chances for not getting a flat, but surprise, surprise, a goat wants me dead.”

“Where you going? I can give you a lift if you want. You can get Daruk out here tomorrow morning to tow it wherever you need to go.”

“Oh,” she breathed. Don’t get into a car with someone you just met unless someone knows who they are or where you’re going. “Yeah, I was actually just going to ask if I could borrow your phone? Mine isn’t getting service. I can just call my tow company that I’m enrolled with.”

He nodded and reached across his passenger seat before handing her a phone out the window. She half expected it to be something old and rustic, like this whole place, but it was new and modern and almost exactly like hers. She’d just assumed the small town didn’t have the newest phones. What a stupid assumption.

“Mind if I just look up their number first?” she asked before randomly clicking around on a strange man’s phone.

“Go for it.”

She did and listened to all the automated options. The man was bobbing his head to some music she couldn’t hear. A car came down the road, stopping and honking, despite the fact that they could clearly go around him.

The man rolled his eyes and backed into the breakdown lane behind Zelda’s car, though she was thankful he still didn’t get out

It was only when Zelda’s eyes widened in either shock or horror at whatever she’d heard over the phone that he leaned his head back out the window curiously.

She walked up to him and handed the phone back. “Thanks.”

“So?”

“Three hours to get out here.” Zelda’s misery was palpable.

“Where are you going, if you don’t mind my asking?”

“Some little village called Ordon”

He smirked and leaned back in his seat. “I’m headed there as well. Want a ride? We can get Daruk out here sooner to just tow your car in if he knows he’ll just be headed back into town. It’s not far.”

“Oh, I don’t know… not that I don’t appreciate it, but I don’t know you.”

He reached his hand out the window. “Link. I live in Ordon. Work too. Nice to meet you”

“Zelda,” she said, taking his hand.

“Here,” he said, pulling out his wallet and handing her a business card. “So you don’t think I’m lying. But I do have to get to work at some point, so if you want that ride…”

“I just don’t want you to be a kidnapping murderer and kill me, you know?”

He grinned, suppressing a chuckle.

Zelda crossed her arms. “Don’t laugh at my potential murder.”

Gesturing to his phone still in her hand. “You can keep that with you the whole ride so you can call the cops on me if you think I’m kidnapping you.”

Toying with the phone, she took another look at her car. “Okay. Just let me grab my bag.”

[bigskydreaming]

Going through some old pages on the wiki I keep for my projects (can not more highly recommend building a private wiki site for yourself if you’re a writer with a ton of different or extensive projects. Soooo helpful at keeping me organized).

Anyway, came across this old short story I wrote set in the days of the Holy Wars from the Citadel ‘verse I was talking about a couple weeks ago, that was the original setting for what became By Lost Ways. Tossing it out there in case anyone wants a read. Its fairly short and is a glimpse at the future gods of Night and Day from that ‘verse, Adana and Reyus. *Shrugs*

Even Heaven Can Break

“God is dead.” Nerrick sighed and pulled off his glasses, mopping at them again with his now wrinkled shirt front. It wasn’t as though he held any great hopes that clearer vision might give him any further insight into the utterly inscrutable - and likely insane - young woman sitting across the table from him. He‘d already tested that theory and found it lacking. It simply gave him something to do. An ever so slight distraction from the roundabout circles they‘d been engaged in since - what was it now? Some six hours past? 

“Yes,” he heaved, long past the point of trying to disguise his weariness. “You’ve said as much, multiple times. I don’t suppose you’d care to elaborate?” The girl - and she was nothing more than a girl, no matter what foolish superstitions she’d inspired amongst the lower classes - smiled again that same enigmatic smile that half made him wish he was a man more inclined to act on violent urges. 

“God is dead,” she repeated with a small, careless shrug. “It seems a fairly straightforward statement of fact. I’m confused as to what more you expect me to say on the matter, Sir Magistrate.” His back molars ground together audibly. His patience maintained only by the constant vigilance of his temper. Nerrick reminded himself, not for the first time that morning, that he was a man noted for his restraint, his even temperament and unemotional dedication to justice. He was not about to be bested in a contest of wills by some ignorant, backwoods child, in his own prison. 

The small dank room stank of mildew and rot, not to say anything of the havoc the dim torchlight was wreaking upon his fragile eyesight. Only his own personal ethics kept him from abandoning the girl to a more permanent exile in the deeper catacombs, an option that grew more appealing by the moment. 

But as long as the possibility remained that she was merely repeating some heretical pagan belief, unaware of the repercussions her words had upon more civilized folk, he could not in good conscience treat her as just another rabble-rouser. Or, the Citadel guard against, condemn her to a space in the asylums, no matter how mad she seemed. Sitting comfortably three levels below the surface of the great granite and steel prison as though she were some grand lady awaiting tea in her parlor. . “Perhaps you speak of another god unknown to me,” Nerrick conceded gracefully. The wooden chair, almost entirely rotted through, creaked ominously beneath him as he shifted his weight, but God above, even his ass was falling asleep. Still she remained poised, back ramrod straight and never shifting those dark, pupil-less eyes from his. He was a man of reason and science and knew the unnerving Berut eyes to be nothing more than an unfortunate physical trait of her people, but it was easy enough to see how they’d gained their reputation for witchcraft and beguilement. Only the sternest of wills kept his gaze locked with hers. “I admit to being unfamiliar with all the customs of your people, and perhaps we speak of two entirely separate entities. The God of my people is eternal. He created everything we know, and much else besides, and He will endure when all else has turned to dust. He can not die.” “No.” Still she smiled. “There is only one God. In this, my people believe much the same as you. But you speak of faith, things that you can not know but believe to be true. I speak of fact. God is dead. This I know.” He tried reason. “God is the creator of all, and has no peer. If you admit this to be true yourself, then how can God possibly die?” She shrugged again. “Perhaps he willed himself to die. One can imagine eternity might grow tiresome after a time.” Nerrick could almost agree with that sentiment, as for a moment, he entertained the blasphemous thought that even God could be moved to suicide after sufficient time spent with this wretched creature. He dispelled such thoughts with a shake of his head - down that road lay this girl’s particular stamp of madness, no doubt. He tried another tack. “God created the universe. If He is gone, how is it that we are not? Shouldn’t the creation end with the creator?” “Perhaps it is ending, and it just hasn’t finished yet. We can hardly expect the universe to work on the same timetable as ourselves.”

“Tell me then,” he finally indulged her. “What makes you so certain God is dead?” “I saw him.” He sketched disbelief with an aged ashen brow. “You saw God.” “We seem to find a language barrier between us again, Sir Magistrate. Is my Erudi not accomplished enough for our conversation? Among my people, I’m considered quite proficient in your tongue, but perhaps I’ve been misled.” Nerrick flushed. Her Erudi was quite fine - more than, in fact, if a bit stilted. Another minor detail that bothered him, though he could not say why. How did such a young representative of an infamously uneducated people come to speak his tongue with the skill of the most lettered gentry? He cleared his throat uncomfortably. “How do you know that the man you saw was God?” “Wouldn’t you know God if you saw him?” “God is above humanity,” he rasped impatiently. “He doesn’t appear in human form. Should we see him, we’d hardly be capable of comprehending his glory.” Her lips moved in what he imagined to be an expression of pity. It was impossible to be sure, the way her eyes resisted any attempt to read emotion in them. They quivered like liquid night, reflecting the faint torchlight as unsteady flames alit on twin seas of oil. “You speak again of what you believe, because you have never known otherwise. I have known otherwise, and speak again of what I know.” “Enough!” His hand cracked down on the wooden table top, spearing his palm with splinters. His reddened face, already contorted in rage, barely registered the pain. Her face registered nothing at all - just the same painted mask of gentle amusement she’d worn since first escorted down here in the company of his guards. And it was a mask, he was sure of it now. She was too clever with her words to be either ignorant or insane. Whatever game she played at, he wanted no further part in it. “I have no more patience to waste indulging your heresy, and I refuse to subject more of my city’s people to it. You’ve caused nothing but disruption since you first arrived, inciting riots and restlessness among the lower classes, using their faith in service to your own twisted agenda, whatsoever that may be, and it ends here, girl.” She remained unmoved. A pale statue in a plain white dress, inky black curls spilling down both shoulders like curtains cut from the same cloth as those damnable eyes. Her lips twitched. “You may call me Adana.” Nerrick froze, save for where his chest heaved like the billows of a forge, grasping greedily at air to feed his exertions. The tinglings up and down his spine were more than just pinched nerves from too long sitting in one position. This girl, with her damn eyes and impenetrable nerves and heretical talk was more than just some insolent brat from the savage lands north of the city. He was no longer completely convinced there was nothing to the stories and legends of Berutian bewitchery. But those eyes held him now, and he didn’t think he could look away even if he willed it. “You resist giving me your name for these past several hours, and now offer it freely, without me even asking. Why?” “It no longer matters,” Adana told him, heaving a sigh of her own for the first time all morning. Nerrick almost felt that there was regret in that sigh, but her painted mask hid that as well as any other emotion, were it there at all. “For what it’s worth, it was never my aim to disrupt the peace of your city. Call it an unfortunate symptom…nothing more, nothing less.” “Then why?” “Everything you know is about to change,” she said gently. “Well, not for you, I suppose, but for them. They needed to know. It’s time for man to take charge of his own destiny, not spend the coming days huddled in shrines chanting desperate prayers to a deity dead and gone. They won‘t listen, not nearly enough of them at any rate, but some maybe.” Why not for me, Nerrick wondered, but instead he merely asked, “Why now? Why do you tell me all this now, when before it was just a game to you?” Adana laughed, a low throaty chuckle laced again with that hint of pity. “It no longer matters,” she said again. “You want to be here,” Nerrick intuited suddenly. “You evaded the guards for over a week, and then when they arrested you today, you hardly resisted. Like you wanted to go with them. Why? Why now, why here? What is it you want?” “To wait. Here with you.” And then, before he could ask for what, she continued. “There’s a mountain two day’s journey north of here by horseback. My people call it the Degatoi. Yours call it the Foothill, I believe. They say that’s where the Citadel rests, where God makes his home.” “That’s just a myth,” he frowned. “God doesn’t dwell amongst his creations, the Citadel exists in a realm untouchable by our own.” “Some myths are make believe. Others are facts that have since been forgotten. I believed it to be fact, as do my people. So I journeyed there, a pilgrimage of sorts. My…reasons are my own.” “And did you find the Citadel?” “No, it wasn’t there anymore. It moved. It does that, you know.” “Of course,” Nerrick snorted. “Why wouldn’t it?” “Why indeed,” Adana smile wryly. She smoothed her dress in her lap. “I did however, find God. He was lying at the base of the peak. Roughly your height, wearing unfamiliar clothes, though I suppose that’s only to be expected. His hair was strange, almost feathery, and he looked like no man I’d ever seen before. He was dead. And I looked into his wide, staring eyes and in them beheld the Abyss. And I knew then that he was God, and knew all the mysteries and secrets of the Universe that he’d known then at the last. My people can do that, you see.” Nerrick nodded, numbly. He had heard that, any schoolchild knew that myth of the Berut people, the legend that kept even the greatest sorcerers of the South from their doorstep lest it turn out to be true. They could see into a man’s soul with those strange eyes of theirs, see all the way into them into their deepest, darkest reaches and pull out every twisted secret and hidden truth for accounting. It was the kind of legend he’d always held up to be nonsense, but now, staring into those eyes of myth and reckoning, he knew it to be true. Knew all of it to be true. 

He started to tremble, sweat dotting his brow, tracing salty rivers down the cracked parchment of his skin. The torchlight grew fainter and fainter and the air was dryer and thinner, harder to grasp at. Black flecks spotted his vision, and he took off his glasses again. Wiped them, though he suspected the problem was his eyes, not the spectacles. He’d heard these were all symptoms of a heart-death, but it was hard to worry about such things now. He had to know, had to wonder instead, what kind of things might one see in the eyes of a dead God? What kind of things might one know? “The same things we all know at the end,” Adana said softly. She looked at him in the rapidly regressing torchlight and he knew with the same certainty he knew everything now, that yes, her eyes held pity. For him. “You feel it now, don’t you? When it’s so close, that no reason, no logic, none of the games we play to convince ourselves we don’t know the things our soul senses - that little piece in each of us that’s the smallest sliver of divinity linking us to the rest of the universe - none of them can hide it anymore.” Nerrick shivered and licked chapped paper-dry lips. His voice came out a croak. “Why are you here?” “To wait.” “For what?” “The end.” And then, “I’m sorry.” The earth split with a roar, but to Nerrick, all seemed silent. He leapt back, knocking over his chair with a hoarse shout his ears could never possibly hear over the sound of walls crashing down, thunderous echoes reverberating throughout the small chamber. The stained slate floor rent with a crack right through the center of the room, and he stumbled, tried to right himself, stumbled again as the earth shook and danced and trembled like a living thing, like a puppet whose strings had been cut. Dust stormed the air in gray, ominous clouds that twisted into his lungs with every breath he took. The sound and fury buffeted him on all sides, splinters and shards of broken rock bombarding his skin. Pricking, ripping, tearing and gouging. 

His glasses cracked and fell, but before he the torches finally failed, he could still blurrily see the girl, Adana, seated serenely on the other side of the table, riding out the madness with perfect poise and watching him with those damned eyes. He fell himself finally and the ceiling split, raining clouds of dust and slate and broken rafters. One struck him full in the chest, pinning him to the floor. He felt ribs break, felt his terrified screams silenced by a shard of wood spearing him through one lung, all his breath going to granting him a few last gasps of air. Adana’s face filled his blurred vision then. In all the din, there was no chance of hearing her get up from the table and walk over to his side, but then there she was kneeling over him. She looked deep into his eyes. “You see? We all know things, even if we don’t know we know them,” she told him gently. “It’s because we’re all a little bit of God. Or maybe the Universe. Creation. I’m still figuring out where the line separating one from the other begins and ends. You were special, Sir Magistrate. Even if you didn’t know it. Take whatever comfort from that you can.” “Go with God.” Then her hand covered his mouth and nose, and she looked into his wide, staring eyes and beheld in them the Abyss, and all the secrets and mysteries of the Universe he had known at the end. ************* Adana rose with some difficulty, and drew the magistrate’s keys from his belt. She smoothed her dress - it would never be white again, she feared - and made her way to the door over a floor that still quivered and rattled, but only restlessly now. Much of its temper had been spent. The hallway beyond was relatively untouched. She quirked dry lips at divine providence, but perhaps it was more accurate to say she enjoyed the favor of the Universe at the moment. The torches were all spent and broken, save for where one had fallen upon the corpse of one guardsman and set his skin and hair aflame, lighting the gray hall fitfully with its macabre light. It was more than enough to see by. At least, more than enough for her eyes. She stepped over another body and ascended the small, tight stairwell at the end of the hall gracefully. Less so, when she almost ran into the blond, dirtied youth who came clattering down the stairs in the opposite direction. He reared back, startled, and she saw that she’d been accurate in her assessment: he was probably no younger than she herself, but his youth shone from his eyes and the sprightly smile that sprang to his face. She recognized him as one of the city-folk always to be found at her gatherings, listening intently to her words. Reyus, she thought his name was. She smiled. “Milady,” Reyus rasped out. The air was still thick and heavy with dust, and he had to stop and pant for breath before continuing. “We were just coming to rescue you!” He waved aimlessly behind himself with what she took for a stolen sword, perhaps looted from a guardsman dead in the earthquake. Coming down the stairs behind him were another young man and a slightly older woman, similarly ill-equipped. Adana favored them with a bemused smile. “How thoughtful.” Reyus blushed a rosy dawn and pressed his back to the wall to allow her passage by. He followed quickly at her heels as she passed the other two and continued up the stairs - rather like an eager but ill-trained pet, she contemplated with some amusement. “Well, there was a number of us - rather, we thought…we weren’t certain what the magistrate would do to you, and we were concerned…” “So I see,” she murmured as they alighted on the ground levels of the prison and found ten or so more men and women of varying ages and garb awaiting them with anxious expressions. They filled in silently behind them as Adana continued towards the front gates, kicking aside the outstretched limbs of the dead where they littered her path. “And are these all your enemies slain? What fearsome warriors have come to my aid here?” She suspected she might be needling Reyus just to see how much further his face could purple in shame and embarrassment. But it was the end of the world, after all. One should take one’s entertainment wherever they found it. The hues of his face performed admirably. “The rest of the guards fled when the earth shook. We never suspected - milady, what is happening? Is this your doing?” “God is dead,“ she said softly. “Such a thing is not without consequences.“ Adana stooped and unwrapped a relatively undamaged black cloak from one body, throwing it over her shoulders. “You’ll want one as well, I believe,” she told the boy. 

His eyes held hers bravely, and he nodded. His was an interesting soul indeed. A cult had hardly been her intention. Gaining the attention of the magistrate had been her only real aim, and if she happened to seed her own mystery a bit early, and allow it more room to grow - well, that had hardly seemed at cross purposes either. But, she supposed, it was never too early to find one’s faithful. A boy like Reyus might come in handy, and who knew what secrets the others might hold? She nodded decisively, and raised her voice to address them all. “Everything you know is about to change.” “I have a long road to walk ahead of me,” she continued. “It is not for the faint of heart.” She turned and walked from the prison‘s gatehouse. All of them, she noted with some interest, followed close behind. They raised scattered cries and shouts of alarm as they beheld the vista outside, but she barely looked up. She already knew the sky overhead was a dark red as though aflame. Roiling purple thunderclouds collided and went to war, crimson lighting stabbing at one and then another underneath. A long black tear split the heavens, stretching from one horizon to the next. Consequences were to be expected. The streets ahead of them were filled with the ruins of buildings and the bodies of the fallen. Survivors milled about in small groups, suffocating in shock while scattered fires raged. Flames crackled hungrily, fitful tongues licking at the sky and spewing their venom of smoke and ash. She could hear, faintly, the desperate prayers for salvation and succor. She sighed, and would have told them to save their breath, but then, she’d already done so. Reyus spun about, lost for even a direction to point his horror. “Milady, what about them?” Adana shook her head without slowing. “They’ll follow, or they’ll die. This city is not long for this world. It’s too close to a Vein. Nothing more can be done, and the whole world will follow if we do not reach our destination.” “But where are we going?” She favored his persistence with another small smile and drew the hood of her cloak up over her head. “We‘re going to the Citadel. To seek divinity.” It began to rain, thick, heavy drops that were warm to the touch, quickly soaking them through and through. She was glad to have found a black cloak, as the imagery of her white dress stained by this unnatural downpour was not one she cared to contemplate - even if it would already never be white again. She reached out to raise Reyus’ hood for him when he remained too distracted to care. The blood staining his golden hair, still vibrant even beneath the dust of dungeons, was not an image she found herself caring much to contemplate either. His was a curious soul indeed. “Milady, I don’t understand. If God is dead, what divinity do we seek?” Adana laughed, a deep throaty chuckle that echoed through the ruins of the broken city. “Ours,” was all she said. They picked their way through the rubble as the skies continued to bleed.

[ranjxtul]

Fire and Reign Chapter 3: Out for Blood

Witches AU; WC: 3,878

TW: scar mention

Ao3 link: https://archiveofourown.org/works/19249039/chapters/46316320

Jane took a deep breath as she slipped into the attic. It was useless to believe she’d be able to work all day uninterrupted as she’d have to check on Eddie and spend time with him. It wasn’t that she minded spending time with her son. In fact, he was one of the best parts of her life, despite how he’d come about. Having a son meant she couldn’t throw herself into research as she’d like to though.

In reality, she knew Parr or Aragon would help if she wanted it or needed it, but the young witch and Supreme already had enough on their plates. Plus, divination was Jane’s thing. Tracking magic was an extension of divination anyway. She could manage this perfectly well. Over the years, she’d worked on her fair share of divination techniques and taught them to those who’d asked. Her fondest memories included teaching Parr some of her research and in return Parr had taught her recipes to the spell she’d spent time working on.

She’d gone into her current endeavors with high hopes and expectations for herself, after all, this was her specialty, but she hadn’t as successful as she hoped. So far, she’d been able to create a spell that would discern a specific spells magical trace from others, but that was a far cry from tracing its origins.

The next problem would be getting close enough to Henry to cast these spells. None of the girls in the house could feasibly succeed without being noticed. Only Cathy stood a chance considering her memory wipe spell, but even then it wasn’t ideal. She’d expose herself as a witch inadvertently most likely. She could put up wards to make her magic indetectable but she wouldn’t be able to keep them up while performing another spell that powerful. Jane Seymour was no fool, she didn’t believe these spells she’d craft would be easy to cast.

Tracking magic as it already existed required a high level of skill and energy. Contemplating the subject of how to put her research into action, she tried to remind herself that Parr was one of the most talented witches she knew, but she also knew the reality of magics. It’d take some losing to win, the loss being ruining Parr’s anonymity.

Then it occured to Jane that she could come at this all from a different angle. She understood divination which in essence was locating someone using either stones or an object they’d owned. If she could find a way to combine divining and tracking. That could of course take a substantially longer amount of time, but then again she was pretty much at a dead end on her current lead. It couldn’t hurt to turn things around and attempt a different approach. Perhaps she was wrong and this would be a more rapid way of going about things.

With a new vigor, Jane sat down at her makeshift desk and opened the book she’d been studying the previous day. This time however, she turned to an entirely new section. Part of her knew she had to hurry with her research. Each witch, whether or not she wanted to acknowledge it or deny it could feel a sense of impending confrontation. Henry wouldn’t be placated with his petty, covenless kills forever, not when the coven was starting to try and protect them more.

Additionally, the fiercer side of Jane wanted to beat him to the chase. It wasn’t necessarily that she wanted to be on the offensive, but she wanted to figure out how to play his game. In turn, she wanted to bend the rules to his game and make it their game. She wanted to have the upper hand for once instead of playing by his rules. If her magic could help them do that in any way, then it was all the more reason for her to continue her work.

The protective side of Jane also had a hand in her drive. She not only had herself to protect, but a coven and a son. If Henry got ahold of the women she cared about so deeply or her own child, she’d be beside herself. Should he lay his hands on the girls, herself included, she knew it would be certain death. If he were to touch Eddie, there was no way to know what he’d do.

One one hand, there was a possibility Eddie could have inherited the warlock gene and if Henry didn’t kill him on the spot he might once his powers came to light. On the other, he could raise Eddie as a hunter. The latter gutted Jane. The idea that her son could be raised to senselesley murder people tore her apart. She didn’t understand where the fervent hate came from anyway, or more accurately how it festered. She supposed like any other hate in the world it came from fear of the other, or maybe from a religious place. Though, if hunters would take the chance to understand their ‘prey’ maybe they’d learn that their powers weren’t satanic nor meant to be destructive.

With a new determination and swirling thoughts, Seymour berated herself momentarily for straying so quickly. She took a deep breath before focusing her mind on the words on the page before her.

Meanwhile, Cleves had decided to find Katherine to have that lesson with her on her control. First she’d peaked into her room to find an empty space. Next she checked the ultimately vacant living room, which then led her to the backyard where Katherine sat leaning against the fence, a book propped up in her lap. “Kath!” Anna called as she approached the pink haired witch.

Promptly, the person in question’s head shot up at the sound of her name being called. Cleves traipsed the rest of the way over before she spoke again, “What’re you reading?” She asked taking a seat beside Katherine.

“Just a book I borrowed from Cathy on herbs and healing. I was going to talk to Jane about working more on healing by itself, but she’s seemed busy so I’ve settled for this book,” she said with a short half laugh nodding toward the thick text on her knees.

“I can’t help with healing or anything like that, but I can help with some more defensive and offensive stuff if you wanted to learn,” Anna shrugged a small smile flickering at the edges of her mouth.

Katherine’s eyes widened in excitement momentarily, “I’d love that, what can you teach me?”

“Oh, a lot of things,” Cleves quipped with a wink.”But let’s start with working on telekinesis.”

Katherine furrowed her brow, “But I can already do that?”

Cleves raised a brow in return, “May be, but doing it and fighting with it are two completely different things. Now, come on, up,” she grinned pulling herself up and offering a hand for the other to take.

The shorter witch set her book aside and took Anna’s hand to pull herself from the ground, “Fine then. What’s the difference?”

“Controlling everything,” she replied taking a few paces away from the girl. Katherine nodded in understanding, her mind flashing back to Aragon’s advice on the first day she’d tried anything.

“Okay, teach me how to control it then,” she relented with a firm nod.

“Well, from what I’ve heard you’ve got enough force behind it to send something flying and that’s great because that means your natural magic is strong, but that’s not always ideal. Have you got a handle on direction?” Cleves asked. She received a nod from Katherine in return before she continued, “Good. The next thing to worry about then is how forceful you are. You’ve probably heard Aragon say this, but intention really does matter. Emotion too in a sense. I’m not exactly sure how I can explain that… uh maybe we’ll just put it into practice.”

“I need you to think about… Henry. Once you have him in mind, try to name what emotion you feel, either out loud or in your head. It doesn’t matter. Then, you need to slam that piece of spare wood against the other side of the fence,” Cleves instructed.

Howard stood still, contemplating Cleves’ request. Henry’s name brought an unnameable emotion somewhere between fear and anger to the forefront of her mind, as well as a determination. With that identification, she moved to the next part of her task and in a split second, said piece of food flew across the yard and hit the fence with enough force that a splintering sound echoed through the backyard.

Anna nodded approvingly, “Wonderful. That was exactly what I intended to happen, well breaking that piece of wood more or less, but that was the general idea. This time, think of someone you care about and identify that emotion. Then I want you to make the book you were reading fly into my hand.”

“Into your hand? What if I hurt your hand with the force?” Katherine asked her voice betraying a certain insecurity about being unable to control her magic. She had no qualms with the forceful things, but so far she’d been unable to soften the edges of anything. Granted, she hadn’t been at it for long. It frustrated her though. She wanted to learn and be good this.

“If you do then we’ll worry about it when it happens, but I don’t think you will. Just try it, yeah?” Anna waited until she saw the younger witch nod to give an encouraging nod in return.

Once again, Katherine let her mind drift until it landed on her cousin and her new friends. Even now, these women brought her a warm safe feeling she could revel in for ages. Now wasn’t that time though, she had a job. Allowing the warm feeling to course through her veins, she imagined the book flying gently into Anna’s outstretched hand and much to her pleasure, the book glided into Anna’s hand.

“See, I told you,” the German spoke with a small cheeky grin spreading across her face.

“Yeah, yeah,” Howard rolled her eyes, a light blush spreading across her cheek.

“Mhm. Now, remember how that felt? The difference? While you were using emotion to fuel everything, the intent came from those emotions. Obviously in the heat of the moment you won’t have time to think about it, but that’s what it’s like. I’m honestly quite impressed with you, babes. You learn quickly. Let’s work on some more then, yeah?” Cleves suggested with a quirked brow.

Katherine nodded eagerly awaiting instruction. In the next half hour, Katherine found herself falling into a comfortable pattern controlling how everything worked. It turned out, Aragon and Cleves were exactly right, unsurprisingly. Once she found a deliberate way of focusing, she started working on making the thought process into control less deliberate.

Finally Anna spoke again, “You wanna have a little spar?”

Katherine raised brow, “Spar?”

“Yeah. You and me, just using telekinesis of course. There are rules too. Any object we use can’t be made of glass and nothing heavy enough to be fatal should something go terribly wrong. The winner will be the one to actually hit the other with an object, preferably not hard,” she challenged a smirk ghosting across her face.

Katherine titled her head for a moment, “Don’t hold back on me. If we’re gonna do this I want you to fight full out.”

“Never,” Anna assured shaking her head.

“Then… you’re on,” Howard stated with a grin. Sans warning, she sent one of Parr’s gardening tools which had leaning against the shed flying toward Anna’s side.

“Cheater,” Anna teased, “you didn’t let me know we were starting,” she continued changing the direction of the projectile so it aimed for Howard’s arm. The grin on Howard’s face dropped into one of concentration as she realized Cleves really wouldn’t make this easy.

“Element of surprise,” she retorted waiting until the last second to once again change the direction of the spade, sending it flying toward Anna. She simply dodged, knowing the force Howard had used would give her time to make an offensive attack as there’d be a change in what was being thrown.

Katherine blinked as the tool crashed into the ground, it’d been a cocky shot. In Howard’s brief moment of surprise, Anna took it upon herself to let a stray stick from a tree that’d fallen fly toward Howard’s hip.

In a turn of events, Howard managed to snap the stick mid air and let it drop to the ground. Cleves was ready though, she’d prepared to hurl a remnant of the wood plank at Katherine. The wood almost came close, but Katherine dodged physically and Anna followed.

Closing in on Katherine could assure victory and in the time Katherine had taken to dodge herself, Anna had taken steps in and with a flick of her wrist, a bucket was flying toward Howard.

Ever vigilant, Katherine repelled the object, sending it back toward Cleves, aiming for her shins. This put Anna in a position where she couldn't dodge physically so she had no choice but to send it flying back at Katherine. The shot was carelessly aimed for a shoulder, which Howard ducked.

Katherine had been more focused on defense considering Anna’s offensive stratagems. Then, she saw her chance once she'd dodged, for a split second, Anna looked glanced around the yard for a new 'weapon' in range. Beefore she could think about the potential effectiveness, Katherine propelled the book she'd ben reading toward Anna with the gentlest tilt of her head in that direction.

Whether it was a stroke of luck or not, the book found itself softing knocking into Anna’s side before she could do anything. It was indeed close quarters that had led to a victory, just not Anna’s. A grin spread across Katherine’s face, “Yes!” she cheered quietly to herself, celebrating her victory.

Anna shook her head, “Well, you did it,” she chuckled. The German bent down to scoop up the book before closing the gap between her and Howard. “That was good, I’d say we go another round because I can’t stand defeat, but we probably need to head back in. It’s my turn to help Aragon and Jane with dinner,” Anna made a face. “I keep telling them it’s not a wise idea. They know how inept I am in the kitchen but still, they insist: everyone has to take a rotation helping,” She chuckled.

Katherine let out a laugh, “Yeah, let’s head on in. I think I’m good not going another round. I can rest on my laurels… and I’m sure you aren’t that bad of a cook.”

“Oh really? Once I burnt rice,” Anna deadpanned.

“Wait really, you’re serious?” Katherine asked her mouth falling open momentarily then closing as a giggle escaped.

“Dead. I’m not even sure myself how it happened, but it did,” Anna confirmed laughing with the pink haired girl as they walked.

Upon entering the house, both were greeted by three voices, clearly annoyed.

“I thought bought cream cheese!” Jane.

“No? You never mentioned needing it?” Anne.

“I clearly did. When I sent you grocery shopping last time I told you I needed it,” spoke Jane again.

“Regardless of who did or said what we can’t cook dinner until we have cream cheese!” Aragon. She sounded more exasperated at the pair before her rather than the actual predicament.

“Shall we join them in the kitchen?” Cleves asked with a sigh. Katherine nodded, allowing Anna to lead the way into the kitchen. Wherein Jane and Boleyn stood in front of each other, arms crossed with Aragon leaning against the kitchen counter looking more than done with the situation.

“I’m not going to get it. I literally went to the store yesterday,” Anne defended herself.

“What? Going to sneak off to greenhouse to spend time with Cathy while we cook instead?”

A blush rose in Anne’s face and Aragon’s eyebrows shot up at the implications. It’s not that she minded, but it was news to her. Jane sat back, satisfied at having momentarily stunned Anne into silence, of which Aragon took advantage, “Anne, just go. It’ll save us a lot of time and arguing.”

Boleyn looked as if she might argue for a second more but instead dredged away, turning at the kitchen exit, “I’m not helping cook when it’s my turn next time or doing dish duty next time I have to just for this,” she threatened slipping out.

Anne huffed to herself as she gathered her phone and the car keys. She did have things she’d much rather be doing than running an errand for Jane. Especially considering she did happen to have other plans and Jane definitely had not told her to buy the cursed cream cheese on her grocery run. She could have argued with Aragon and Jane, but in reality Boleyn knew that arguing would just waste time. She’d just bite the bullet this time. At least it was only one item and not a long list of items she’d supposedly forgotten to buy on her grocery run.

The drive to Tescos went about as mundane as Anne imagined it would be. The traffic was beginning to pick up though. That’d be a hindrance when she headed back home, she thought sighing to herself. Perhaps if she could get in and out quick enough she could miss the heat of the traffic.

That was her plan, in, out. Anne made her way into the store and toward the refrigerated section. As she walked, however, someone caught her eye. In a split second Anne Boleyn whipped her head up to observe the passerby. His tall stature and scruffy beginnings of a sandy beard unmistakably marked him as Henry Tudor.

Anne’s mind froze on the spot; though the girls had taken precautions should see Henry, none of them had. Thankfully, nearly as quickly as she froze, her brain started to work at lightning speed. She whispered a few words in Latin under her breath and a tingle shot through her body signaling that her glamour had been successful. To a bypasser, her curly hair had straightened out suddenly and her eyes were now a stormy grey, her jaw a bit rounder. The changes were subtle, but enough to make Anne Boleyn unrecognizable.

She moved on, walking faster than before, analyzing the situation. This could mean nothing, London was Henry’s stomping ground. Nonetheless, his presence was threatening. Had he held anything in his hands? Anything other than a mundane food item could mean he had another target or was at least stocking up for when he did. Then it occurred to her, rope. He had rope in his hands.

With an even hastened pace, she wrapped up her shopping trip, all petty frustrations about having to make an extra trip having left her mind now. Had she gotten her glamour up in time? Surely she had. He’d only been near for a moment. Had he seen her, had he taken notice of her? As she thought of the awful man in question, her hand found its way under her chocker to the raised scar, his mark. A wave of nausea from touching it coursed through her veins.

The situation had been real before when Katherine became involved, but now it seemed even more real. Henry was active in London, he wouldn’t leave. Some part of Anne had hoped that all of the preparation the girls had been doing would be useless, that he’d move on, but seeing him now, she knew Henry really was still a threat. He was out for blood.

“Catherine! Cleves! Jane! Everyone!” Anne yelled as she walked into the house, dropping her glamour. She made her way into the kitchen, where thankfully most everyone sat.

“Loud much,” Katherine teased from her spot at the table beside Cleves. Anne hardly glanced at her cousin’s wit.

“I saw him,” she burst out, unable to keep it in. Her mind had been on hyperdrive the whole way home.

“Him?” Aragon asked her mind immediately becoming alert. Her mind jumped to the worst possible conclusion: Henry. He had been the only him on their minds lately after all. Anne could be in danger if that was true or someone else could be. No, not now.

“Henry,” Anne confirmed almost slamming the cream cheese on the counter.

“Well, fuck” came Cleves’ voice.

“Did he recognize you or were you able to put up wards?” Asked Parr in rapid succession.

Anne cut in before Jane or Katherine could comment, “Yes, Henry, and I don’t know, but I did put wards up, hopefully in time. He was buying rope.”

“Rope?” Jane questioned.

“That’s what he uses to tie his victims up,” came Katherine’s voice, a bit quieter and filled with some indistinguishable emotion. Anne nodded, for once no words accompanying her nod. She wouldn’t admit it, but dormant fear had ignited in this situation. Her murderer truly was out there and still hunting for her.

“So you think there will be another one soon?” Aragon asked her face falling into a grim contemplative line, the best she could do without betraying her emotions. Her stomach churned at her own question. She already knew the answer; that was the sad part.

“Yeah,” Anne nodded, glancing at the Supreme. Wordlessly, Aragon left the kitchen. Any appetite she’d had quickly ceased in the wake of Anne sighting Henry. It wasn’t that he was in London, but one of her girls could be in danger again. Another innocent young witch could die in her jurisdiction.

By the time Aragon reached her office, her hands shook with a combination of anxiety and frustration and her heart beat wildly. She didn’t need another death or for the girls to see her like this. She was their cool, collected leader. They couldn’t know how Henry’s violence got under her skin and helped her to both feel incompetent and worried at the same time. There’d been so many murders lately in a row, first Katherine, then the unnamed girl, and two weeks before there’d been another. His violence had gotten less spread apart. The now quickly rising body count helped her reach this breaking point.

She needed to handle this better, and it was clear laying low and waiting for Henry to come to them with an attack while all they did was gather intelligence, wasn’t enough. Her girls weren’t being proactive enough, and neither was she.

She sat down at her desk and opened the notebook sitting toward the side. The filled pages containing sloping script which entailed information about Henry and his victims. She’d found vague information about his foregin victims and their identification. Katherine and Anne had pages. Then, the pages of his unnamed victims were the saddest.

Frantically, Catherine began to reread her notes, thoughts swirling. Nothing made sense though, the words she read didn’t register. In a haste, she slammed the notebook and sat back, forcing in a deep breath. ‘No,’ she thought, ‘this won’t help. Breathe.’

Once Catherine’s head stopped spinning in so many different directions and the initial wave of emotions had subsided she opened the notebook again, this time searching for anything she could have missed. Then, she’d come up with something she could do to be proactive. The Supreme losing her head like that wouldn’t aid anything, she knew that.

The only thing she could do was stay focused on the task at hand and more rapidly work toward a resolution once and for all. Henry was out for blood, their blood, which meant her coven had to be out for his blood too.

[drgnrder82]

   The edge of Chinatown was distinct. The lights on the archway radiated red, white and gold before your eyes took in the sight of the cluster of signs in the narrow streets. The street always seemed to be bustling, like most of New York, even after dark. This city is packed tightly together, but in this burrough it is more apparent. Each building felt connected to the next, the cross streets almost disappear and the gaps seem as small as alleyways. Traveling through this part of the city was easy.    Ignoring the fact that it was close to home, this was a burrough they grew up in, trained in, but over the years they frequented Chinatown less and less. He may not have come through this way at all if his brothers didn't start reminiscing about it with father. Chinatown was not out of his way from the junk yard, but he often kept to the sewers. Particularly in the day. Best not to get caught by people, especially on camera. At this time of night Chinatown was still as active with tourists and natives as the daytime.    Kitchen vents delivered new scents at every rooftop. Fried noodles from a restaurant. A street cart with fried dumplings. The next roof he could smell a whole assortment of fried meats from another of the array of restaurants. Great. Stopping for this detour delayed dinner already and the aromas were conspiring to make him hungrier. Sentimentality clearly came with a price. What was wrong with him, making this detour anyways? By the time he got back all of dinner would be eaten. Mikey and his bottomless stomach would see to that. The others would just laugh and he would be scrounging for food. Wait. Did he need to get groceries again? Probably. Another item to add to the list.    He continued to jump from rooftop to rooftop until a large gap at the far southern edge of Chinatown appeared. He wasn't sure the building was still there until he saw it. Every building in the area was at least three stories, usually more. An old, single story home sat at the edge of the district. When they were kids it was abandoned. From what he had gathered the it was a home and had been converted to a shrine. It was hard to say if it was supposed to be a Japanese shinto shrine, a Buddhist temple, or a shrine to a man from Chinatown. Not that it mattered now. Someone still owned the building but no one used it for anything anymore. From his perch on the rooftop, even in the dark of night, the building should be condemned. Holes littered the roof. A strange building to say the least. It was circular and he only remembered there being a few rooms inside when he was a child. The unique reason they stopped here at all was the garden. The building encompassed a small grassy garden with a single sakura tree. Sensei brought them there to see the sakura tree bloom in spring time for a couple years. Too early in spring for blossoms yet.    He jumped down the outer edge of nearby fire escapes until he could reach the closest section of roof. He judged where the best location to jump would be. Shingles were loose everywhere and he doubted the integrity of the wood supports.    All the windows were dark in the building. Didn't seem like anyone was around. He dared to leap onto the peak of the roof and vault immediately into the thin grass. The cherry tree seemed both bigger and smaller than he remembered. He could easily reach up and touch the lowest branches. Buds were starting to appear, it might blossom in the next couple weeks. He would have to remember to come back. Maybe he would bring father. Father rarely came to the surface but this shrine was generally a safer place to visit.    Something scraped the wood inside the shrine. Could have been anything, but he knew he shouldn't risk getting caught if some person was holed up in the abandoned building. At least the sewer entrance was still in the far edge of the grass, near the back gate to the alley. Swiftly, he ran to the cover, lifted it, jumped in and covered the entrance again. Next time he would do more recon. Or, if he was more intelligent and did not listen to Michelangelo and his stories, not bother being sentimental and just run his errands and get home.

--

   “Did you see someone in the garden?” a girl turned to a boy at the door of the former temple. Tools, new wood, a few pieces of furniture littered the room. The electricity was on, and being paid for for that matter, but not really working in this room yet. Extension cords ran all around the room, mostly connected to work lights. A girl, average height, small build, had tripped over the hammer while trying to avoid a ladder.    At the front door, the boy she was talking to, clicked another work light on from the floor, “Nope.”    “I'm serious.”    “You must be seeing things again. Think this place is haunted?”    “You're an idiot.”

--

Donatello threw his messenger bag on his bed. The lair was dark and still save for the graphics on the video game consoles dancing around. His brothers had retired early after their hard day training. And as he predicted, no one left any dinner for him. Michelangelo ate every last piece of pizza and finished off the cereal, which meant little for breakfast in the morning. He would definitely need to ask April or Casey to get some more groceries for them in the morning. Donatello switched on his work light in his computer lab before he booted up his work PC. Another late shift working as a IT phone technician. Waiting for the PC to boot he rummaged in the cabinets, not surprised to find them mostly bare. He felt fortunate to find a box of ramen hidden in a cabinet and enough oatmeal to lead to a loud, complaint filled morning. Waiting for water to boil he checked the security system cameras, ran back to the kitchen for his ramen and a soda, grabbed his headset from his bed and sat heavily in his computer chair. Before he logged in to the VOIP account for work, he thought about his detour. He really shouldn't have stopped. He kept kicking himself that Mikey got in his head. Now that Leo was back, their family whole again, Mikey was becoming rather reminiscent about childhood. Every time April or Casey came over Mikey would convince Master Splinter to tell different stories about their childhoods. The most recent being some of their rare outings to the surface. “Ever since the day we were mutated we have had few safe havens above ground. Day or night.” Splinter curled his tail around his feet on the couch, settling in next to April. “When they were small children I kept them bundled on me with a blanket, but as they grew they would not heed me, or be still. It was impossible to keep them safe above ground.  It was my duty to keep them safe, even if Michelangelo insisted on climbing the pipes all the way to the ceiling.” When the giggles died out, April asked, “Where could you take them that was safe.” “Of all places,” Leo needed to stifle another round of rare laughter, “the junk yard.” Appearing to meditate on the story, Splinter continued, “It was the only place with a fence Michelangelo would not climb over. I also was able to run them around finding what we needed for our home. To an extent.” “Let me guess, Don would try to bring everything he could home.” Casey tipped back his beer, eager to get a shot in.   His brother’s enjoyed that barb too, “Yes, laugh. I built that warming lamp we still use in the winter.” Claiming the room again, Splinter continued, “When they were older, and I could venture out further and leave them in the lair, I started to explore different neighborhoods. I enjoyed the atmosphere of my old home in Chinatown, and knew the streets well enough and that I may go unnoticed. The boys were young, five, perhaps six years old when I stumbled on a community garden on a roof near the edge of Chinatown. Fresh vegetables were the hardest foods to come by. We only took sparingly and I taught them to help care for the garden as our way of repayment for the food.” Pausing, Splinter sipped at his tea. “One evening as I searched for food behind the restaurants I was almost found by some cooks coming out on a break. I dove behind the dumpster, cornered.” “Like a rat?” Mikey yelped as Splinter’s tail whipped the side of his head. “Police were investigating a murder at a small house on the edge of the district. I had seen this place. It did not look like a house, many people visited, like a shrine. It was a peculiar building. Short and round. From the rooftops I could see a small garden. Weeks passed and I studied the building. It was most certainly abandoned and no police visited any longer. During the depths of the night, I woke my sons early and took them to this small house.” “Wait wait wait…why would you wake them to take them there? I mean…” “Grass.” They intoned quietly. “Grass?” “Hey, it’s not like we can just waltz around Central Park!” Raphael’s face fell but lifted again seconds later, “And that tree.” “What tree?” “In the middle of the garden, a sakura tree.” Their father stretched out his hand, he’d concealed a paper flower in the folds of his robe. “And it was mid spring. The blossoms were just opening.” April tried to conceal tears welling in the corners of her eyes as she watched each of the turtles relive the moment. They could still feel the breeze swirl around them, allowing the light scent of the cherry blossoms to wash over each of them. Donatello opened his eyes. Back to reality. While living in the sewers offered relatively low amounts of bills, he still had to pay for gas and groceries for the family. Reminiscing was nice but he needed to get back to life. IT, as painful a job as when Leo was gone but at least he got the occasional technology repair job in his drop box. Money was money. A wall full of monitors sat in front of him, lighting the entire room. Gadgets in various stages of build were scattered among his floor, desk space all the way around the room with remnants of wires and bolts making a trail practically to his bed in the next room. Maybe he would consider stopping at that building again on his next scavenging trip. Or even the community garden.

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

I literally don’t know how long it will take me to edit this thing. I am near the end of the first arc and starting to edit the beginning. I may get to posting it on AO3 in chapters if I am happy with it. Either way...I liked how the beginning started to turn out. (Post 2007 movie)

[romionesecretsanta]

Unconcealable

I humbly offer this gift to the genius that is @coyotelaughingsoftly I was equal parts thrilled and terrified when I found out that I was your Secret Santa!! Miranda, I hope that you have the best Christmas ever! Please enjoy 3000+ words of angsty, fluffy pining from our favorite 6th year dorks!

Perfect-bloody perfect!

When he first began to open the package, he hadn’t a clue what might be inside, but after the robe fiasco of fourth year, Ron Weasley was more than a little wand-shy about what might be lurking in any box from home.  He had almost breathed a sigh of relief when he saw his father’s handwriting on a piece of parchment on top, unfortunately the feeling was short lived.

Ron,

Hope the term is wrapping up nicely for you. Ginny mentioned in her last letter that you are doing a great job again this year as Keeper, we’re so very proud of you! She also mentioned that she didn’t think that Hermione would be coming for Christmas, so I’m sending you the gift that you made for her this summer in case you want to give it her before she leaves for the holidays. You really outdid yourself- I know she’ll love it!

See you tomorrow,

Dad

His heart dropped, like a stone, into the pit of his stomach: it was a feeling he’d gotten used to over the last few weeks. He should just put the lid back on the package; he knew what was inside just as well as he knew that nothing good could come from looking at it, absolutely nothing. Feeling as if he had been Imperiused, he watched as his traitorous fingers drew back the charmed paper that was keeping the contents safe. He hadn’t forgotten about it, not really, but it was just one of those things that he had stuffed down into the vault of shite he’d rather not think about.

He’d tried last year to get her a gift that would show her…well, at the time he hadn’t been exactly sure just what he wanted to show her, but he knew she deserved something better than a box of poorly wrapped sugar quills. In retrospect perfume hadn’t been the best choice; her reaction had been less than enthusiastic, but in all fairness, he’d never known her to wear perfume. So he had been on the look-out for the remainder of fifth year for any clues to what she might really like as a gift. It had been anything but easy. The only thing she ever talked about wanting was books and parchment, and those would be the daftest gifts in the history of Christmas. He had all but given up on any hope when inspiration had presented itself in the last place he had thought it might: McGonagall’s office.

She had called all the Gryffindor prefects in for a meeting, basically warning them about Umbridge’s new regime. Afterwards, he’d noticed Hermione lingering around a bookshelf in the back corner of the office.

“Miss Granger, may I help you?” her voice was warm, but her exhaustion evident.

“Sorry, I just couldn’t help but notice this,” Hermione started to pick up the object she had been admiring, but then thought better of it, “this wooden box is lovely, it reminds me of one that my grandmother had.”

“Oh, that?” McGonagall crossed to the shelf, picking up the trinket with affection, “My own grandmother gave me this when I was about your age, said every young witch needed one.”

Ron came closer, drawn in by the look of delight on Hermione’s face. “It’s very nice Professor, what does it do?”

“Do, Mr. Weasley?”

“Uh…I mean, it doesn’t have to do anything I guess, I just wondered why it was so necessary,” he prayed silently that this wasn’t one of those things that his mum whispered to Ginny about, those were usually right embarrassing.

“Calm down, it’s nothing nefarious, I can assure you. While muggle versions are more than likely just for decoration, this one has a few magical advantages,” always ready to give a lesson, McGonagall opened the lid and showed them the inside of what appeared to be an empty box. Smiling at their confused expressions, she reached inside and pulled out a large stack of letters, tied together with green ribbon.

“My grandmother’s most certainly did not have a concealment charm. What’s the other?”

“I think it’s an extension charm of some sort.”

“That’s correct, Mr. Weasley; a very tricky charm that one is, but dead useful for keeping things private,” she tucked the bundle back inside the box and returned it to its place.

As they made their way back to Gryffindor Tower, Hermione had been the happiest he had seen her in weeks. She’d even shared a very amusing story about the time she had tried to sneak a package of biscuits out of the cupboard at her grandmother’s house. She had grabbed the container by the wrong end and had dumped them all over the kitchen floor. Her grandmother had laughed so hard that she’d forgotten to scold her precocious granddaughter. The thought of a tiny, three year old Hermione breaking the rules in the name of extra biscuits brought him a joy he couldn’t quite explain.

Ron reached inside the disheveled package on his bed removing the small wooden box that his father had so thoughtfully placed inside. He had to admit that it turned out nicely. All those hours inside the shed, learning to use muggle tools-Arthur had insisted and his son rightfully agreed that it was an important part of the gift-had provided him with more than a few scrapes and splinters, but it had been worth it to see the finished product.

He had also underestimated how enjoyable working with his Dad would be; when you grow up in a large family, having a parent all to yourself for any amount of time is a luxury. Ron had relished the easy way that they worked together and had deeply appreciated that his father hadn’t made him feel the least bit awkward about spending so much time making a gift for Hermione. He hadn’t even cocked a quizzical eyebrow when Ron had first approached him with the idea; he had made his son feel that it was the most normal thing in the world to do.

But now, as he traced the scrolling designs that he had so carefully carved, he felt anything but normal. The pride he’d felt in himself when he’d finished: knowing that he had crafted it the muggle way, knowing that he had then mastered the complicated spells which added the magical elements, had been reflected in his father’s eyes. And while that feeling had been priceless to him, it had paled in comparison to the reaction he had envisioned from Hermione herself. There was nothing like the look she gave him when she was really impressed.

Some people threw around praise so much that you knew they didn’t mean it. Every little thing you did or said made them go on and on about how wonderful you were. And you might think that would be brilliant, there certainly had been a time when he would have thought that, but in reality the shine wore off that galleon pretty quickly.  

It wasn’t that way with Hermione. When she told you that the introduction on your potions essay was really good, you could bet your sweet arse that it was top-notch. When she giggled at one of your jokes, you knew it was really funny. When she looked at you in the Room of Requirement when you cast your first Patronus, her eyes wide and sparkling, and gave you that little nod, and later on the way back to the common room when she laid her hand on your arm and told you how she had thought yours had been the best…

Fuck!!

What good did it do to think about that anymore? She would never look at him like that now. Any look he got from her now would be icy sharp really good quidditch players or, worse yet, the hollow look of hurt and disappointment.  What was there to be done? For a fraction of a moment he considered the gift in front of him. He should have just given it to her for her birthday; at the time it hadn’t seemed right. They never got each other real gifts for their birthdays, so to give her something so, nice, so personal felt like a much bigger step than he was ready to make.  His decision had also been aided by the fact that their friendship had seemed so awkward at times. She always seemed so preoccupied around him, and when Slughorn had started his little club he’d secretly wondered if she would even like his handmade gift at all.

That wasn’t fair, Hermione had never made him feel that way, not really. She never gushed over expensive things like some other girls did. If he were completely honest with himself, he knew she would really like it even if she did fill it with letters from that git Krum! What if he gave it to her now, after all? A peace offering? Would she accept it? Would she conjure those birds to peck it to pieces?

No, he couldn’t give it to her, not now, not like this.

What should he do? The thought of giving it to someone else was so preposterous that it was less likely than his punching McLaggen in his ridiculously perfect jaw and taking his rightful place as Hermione’s guest at Slughorn’s party tonight.  As hopeless as he felt right now, there was still enough a spark of hope that one day, they would be friends again. They were still friends even now, were they not? They would eventually talk again; the Scabbers fiasco had lasted longer than this, right? Surely it wouldn’t take another innocent creature being threatened with death to bring them back together this time, would it?

“Ron? Are you in here?” Harry’s voice preceded him in to the room.

“Yeah,” Ron hastily returned the box to it’s safe wrappings and stowed it in his trunk.  

“You disappeared after lunch…all good?”

“‘Course it is, why wouldn’t it be?” He forced his face to form the smile that he knew would ease his friend’s mind.  

“Alright,” behind his glasses, Harry’s eyes were skeptical, “you coming down in a bit?”

“Sure, I just had to, uhm, get some things together for the hols, go ahead, I’ll be on in a tic.”

Alone again, Ron let out a sigh. While it wasn’t much of a plan, it was the best he had: just lay low, and hopefully she would be over it after the break.  A really great late Christmas gift just might set me up for a nice birthday surprise in return.

Ron fidgeted, looking at the new watch on his wrist. He hadn’t been surprised that his parents had gotten him one, all of his brothers had gotten the same thing when they’d turned seventeen, but he was impressed by just how nice it was.  And even though it was a brilliant gift, it paled in comparison to the one that he was waiting to arrive.

Waking up to find Hermione at his bedside had been worth all seventeen of his birthday wishes put together. Even better, she had been coming back everyday since then. She said it was to help him catch up on his classwork, but to be quite honest, there was not much work getting done.  He had never seen her less inclined to force him into revision; their “study” sessions mainly consisted of talk that was anything but academic. Harry was a safe subject, as was the doings of the Weasleys it had been nice to see Fred and George hadn’t  it? He had slipped once and made a less than complimentary remark about McClaggen, holding his breath until she had surprised him by joining in on his criticism. He knew, or at least he thought he knew, that she wasn’t dating him, but he was unsure if she were on friendly terms with that pompous ape.  Ron had done a very poor job of hiding the ecstatic grin that followed her visceral reaction.

They talked about everything and nothing…well everything but the thing. They had both apologized, in very broad sweeping terms, for their behavior during the last few months, but both seemed reluctant to test the newly tied tether that was holding them together.  More than anything Ron wished he could erase all that had happened, or even just find the words to put it right.

Not bloody likely Mr. Fake Sleeper! Why can’t there just be a spell for this? Girlfriendo-reverso! Fancius Revealius! Maybe there’s a chapter in that book Fred and George gave me…

The familiar creak of the opening door brought him out of his reverie. Ron literally held his breath, could just be Pomfrey, until he recognized the cadence of Hermione’s steps. He hurriedly adjusted the bedclothes and did his best to appear at ease, to calm the thunderous beating of his heart as she came into view.

Ron held up his arm, tapping the face of his watch in mock admonishment, “Where have you been? S’not good to keep someone in my fragile state waiting.” He added a dramatic half swoon, delighted to see her roll her eyes, huffing at him in a way that he had learned to admit that he found quite intoxicating.

“Well, someone as delicate as you are needs their rest. Rumor has it that you sleep most of the time,” she let her eyes meet his, a boldness showing that he hadn’t seen from her in months. For a split second he thought they were headed for a row, but her face broke into a mischievous grin.

“Oi! If I had been asleep, I’d be awake now. No one could sleep with you tromping in here. For such a little thing, when you walk it sounds like a flock of hippogriffs!”

She was on him in a flash, books abandoned to poke him in the side and swat playfully at his arms. He tried, but not too hard, to fight her off, and before long they were both breathless from laughing.  Ron realized, quite suddenly, that she was lying across his chest and he had his arms around her in a way that was anything but platonic.

Hermione seemed to have the same revelation because he could see her cheeks flood with color; however, neither of them shifted their position. He was overcome by just how right it felt to hold her, and how amazing it was that, as someone who had very recently felt that he’d had more than his fill of snogging, he wanted nothing more than to snog this girl senseless. He knew in that moment, even though he had suspected it for months, that he would trade all those other kisses for the one that hung between them at this moment.

His brain scrambled to catch up to his hammering heart, but it found nothing to leave on his tongue but a feeble, “Sorry.”

She blinked at him slowly, seeming to remember herself, “Oh, it’s alright, I know you were only joking,” she pulled back from him and sat on the edge of his bed.

“Yeah, but not just about that,” he looked at her pointedly, “I meant ..about everything.”

“Oh,” she glanced down at her hands, fiddling with a thread on her jumper, “you don’t have to do that..you’ve already…I mean we both…it’s fine.”

It was better, he knew that, but it wasn’t completely fine, not yet. He wasn’t sure when it would be, but he knew it was worth waiting for. Maybe he could help it along, just a little. He reached over to the bedside table and retrieved the package that Dobby had very recently fetched for him.

“I know the outside looks a bit rough, it’s been in my trunk, but this is for you,” he nervously handed her the gift, thankful that the inside contents had not been disturbed.

“For me?”

“Yes…it’s you Christmas gift…better late than never, right?”

“But I didn’t…I mean…I don’t have yours. And I didn’t even get you anything for your birthday!”

“That’s alright, think I had all the excitement I could stand on my birthday, and being your…friend… again is more than enough.”

“I feel the same way,” she emphasized her words like a ray of light through a prism, showing all the colors that had previously been unseen. She then began to open the parcel, moving back the charmed paper to reveal the contents inside, “Oh Ron!”

“I hope you like it. It’s like the one you saw in…”

“McGonagall’s office.”

“Yeah…like hers. I know it’s maybe not as fancy as hers. I mean…I think it turned out okay…Dad said it was a fine job, even if all those muggle tools are kinda barmy,” he was full-on rambling, but he couldn’t stop.

Hermione just sat, staring down at the box. When she looked up at him finally, her eyes were wet, “You…you made this?”

“Yeah, Dad helped a little.”

She opened it gently, whispering, “When?”

“Last summer,” his own eyes were now damp, and his shoulders bore the weight of lost time.

“It’s…beautiful…it’s too much!” There were proper tears flowing down her cheeks, and Ron felt a stirring of pride for having evoked such a strong positive response from her.

“Open it! See, the concealment charm makes it look empty,” he grabbed a roll of parchment from Hermione’s pile and placed it inside the open box, “even when you put something in it.”

“Extension charm too?”

“Undetectable extension charm,” he quipped back.

“Brilliant, Ron! That’s a complex spell!”

“Thanks, I could show you how to do it. Only takes a bit of practice.”

“I would really appreciate that…I just…this is really the nicest, most thoughtful gift anyone has ever given me…thank you doesn’t seem like enough,” the sincere look of adoration on her face fanned the tentative flame of hope warming his heart.

“As long as you like it, that’s all I need for sure,” he reached for her hand; she anticipated the movement and met him more than halfway, grasping his own tightly.

“Like isn’t the right word,” her voice came out softer, but more powerful, “I’d say love is more accurate.”

“Love?” She was killing him, finishing the job that poison could not.

“Definitely, love.”

And for a warm, lazy time they sat alone, hands clasped, thinking about how there were some things that just couldn’t be contained or concealed, not with any amount of magic. No matter how frightening it was to face them, suppressing them only brought heartache. There were still a host of doings and feelings to sort out, but now the box had been opened, and once so, could never be closed.