#he is sufficiently roasted for his troubles

[piratefishmama]

single mother Stevie Harrington doing those daily tiktoks/insta reels of what she packs her kid for lunch each morning and rockstar Eddie who stupidly comments "GIMME ONE CHANCE" under one of her videos on the band's main acc because he is in fact, stupid.

[astaroth1357]

The OM Cast as Househusbands

Inspired by my recent rant about domestic Solomon.

Contents: Pure fluff and unhinged roasts.

~♡♡♡~

Lucifer

A-tier. Generally a solid choice skill-wise.

Cooks decent, cleans well, budgets FANTASTICALLY, has a good list of connections/spells for all home repair, and even has a stern (but caring) parenting-style if so desired.

In short, Lucifer can run a house very well. He practically already does! Hope you like having a big, extended family because the brothers are coming with.

Really, the biggest downside to Lucifer is that you'll be constantly worried that he's bored... Man can run a house and then some. He probably has the daily chores done by noon, and then what?

He just has so much extra potential, is what I'm saying. Very "big, beautiful bird in a cramped cage" energy. But then again, maybe making him chill the fuck out and have a low-maintenance lifestyle for once is better for his blood pressure in the long run. Your call.

Mammon

B-tier. He ain't perfect, but he can learn quick.

If you can give Mammon anything, it's that he's a capable guy when he wants to be. He may not be good at cleaning up, cooking, or anything like that on his own, but with some encouragement...?

Big improvements made practically overnight! Shower him in praise and "thank you's" for every little thing he does and he'll start get greedy for it. Then he'll do even MORE around the house and he gets better each time.

Show him how to cook what you like, and he'll never forget. Remind him to fold up the laundry, and he'll get it done. Praise him for keeping the floors clean, then suddenly he's nagging YOU about tracking dirt on the carpet...

And he'll get so proud about it too... Like, he's your first man and you NEED him now. What would you ever do without him?? Now hand over your shirts because he has some ironing to do, dammit!!

The only downside is you'll have to handle the finances... The words "Mammon" and "budget" go together about as well as "grainery" and "match." He'll blow through it and then some. Earners beware.

Leviathan

Hovers around C-D tier. Levi can play the role of good househusband for a VERY particular kind of partner, otherwise he's a lost cause.

He is a surprisingly decent househusband ONLY when sufficiently motivated and playing out his "domestic slice-of-life" fantasies are that motivation.

He can cook (anime-inspired dishes), he can clean (if you convince him to treat the house like he does his figurine collections), he can even sew/mend (though the majority of what he makes may be cosplay related)!

He won't leave the house to shop, but deliveries are fine. He also can't keep to a budget that doesn't include a MASSIVE chunk carved out to maintain his otaku lifestyle. He'll throw a fit otherwise.

Really, Levi's biggest problem is that once those "domestic fantasies" become mundane, he'll get bored and go back to his shows and games again.

Anyone with him would need to keep feeding into his role with new "quests" or different tropes to try out like a DM running an irl campaign. Could be fun for a little while, but it'll be too much trouble for you both long term. Best give him a skip.

Satan

S-tier. Very good choice, and he's proud of that fact.

Cooks well, very conscientious of your needs, knowledgeable on many topics from recipes to home repair, actually knows how to do laundry in a timely manner... a very good man indeed.

100% the kind of husband who sees that it's going to rain, so he treks out to wherever the hell you are to make sure you have an umbrella. Can't have you getting sick.

Get him a cat and the house will become his own slice of the Celestial Realm. He'll even text cute pics/updates on what your cat is doing like they're your literal child.

Only downside is cleaning. He's a book horder and will argue until he's blue in the face to keep Every. Last. Pamphlet. An in-house library is a MUST and expect to need expansions. Otherwise, perfect man. Much approval to be had.

Asmodeus

B-A tier. Another decent choice, just a little eccentric at times.

Asmo is that partner who will happily play the part of the trophy househusband buuut he absolutely won't do anything too strenuous or dirty.

Cooking? Totally fine! He isn't amazing, but he's not awful either. Laundry? Say no more! Your clothes will never have a wrinkle again. But cleaning...? Like the floors, attic, or ESPECIALLY the bathroom??

Nope. Nuh-huh. His cute-ass hair and his cute-ass nails in his cute-ass clothes will not stand for it! He's going to beg for a maid immediately.

I guess in exchange you'll be hosting some killer dinner parties, though! Asmo has that "suburban wife who flaunts her amazing life" energy. Also keeping his influencer game alive with tutorials galore.

In short, Asmo is willing not just to spoil you, but elevate you as well. You just need to give him a little pampering in return, kay?

Beelzebub

B-tier. Most of his problems are, predictably, food related...

Beel really, REALLY tries but you are probably never going to have a meal on time (if there's somehow any food left at all).

It isn't that he won't cooking, arguably, he spends TOO much time cooking because he'll spend just as much time eating! Or running to the store because he ate the ingredients again...

Surprisingly, though, he's actually very good at cleaning and caring for another person. That's because it's what he does for Belphie. You think the seventhborn is picking up their room AT ALL? Don't kid yourself...

Probably a good time to point out that another downside (or perk??) of husband!Beel is you also get Belphie! But he's just as spoiled as ever so... Hopefully Beel's overwhelming amazingness will make up for that.

If you like Belphie and don't mind an empty cabinet, Beel is a good choice. If not, there are better options available, I promise.

Belphegor

D-tier. Shit househusband. Doesn't even try.

Won't clean, won't cook, won't shop, can't fix, can't budget, and don't even get me STARTED on the state of the sheets!!-

He is a decorative plant of a househusband. Meant only to make the room look nicer by his presence. I've seen dogs more capable and self-motivated to maintain a household than this man will ever be.

Should you somehow get him to exert the effort, he will whine and complain the entire time. And even then, he won't do much more than put some things away and order takeout.

The only upside to Belphie is that since he's always asleep, it's not like he's making the house any dirtier. Vacuuming around his unconscious ass is home life now. At least you probably get Beel too.

Diavolo

C-B tier. What he lacks in experience, he makes up for in enthusiasm.

So... he basically can't do anything but since he's never had to, you can cut him some slack. He loves the idea of TRYING though, so you have an eager student!

He finds cooking to be a fun challenge and he isn't terrible at it. Cleaning is a drag but he likes to see you happy. You'll have to teach anything laundry/clothes related, unfortunately, and sending him to the grocery store without a very detailed list may result in him buying an entire aisle if he doesn't know what to get.

At least he'll genuinely love to hear about your day and have the biggest smile and warmest greeting for you every time you come home. He's like a big'ol puppy, just thrilled with your existence!

(Honestly, if something has him stumped, he'll call for Barbatos to help. He'll try to hide it because he wants to show that he can do things himself, but at the end of the day your happiness wins over his pride. Now let the butler fix your plumbing.)

Barbatos

SS-tier. So good, it's literally not fair.

He's been caring for another person for centuries. He has every possible skill he would need permanently etched into his DNA. He is the Grand Master of Domestic Life that all others should strive for.

Meals are at perfect temperature by the time you sit at the table. The house is so spotless that you could eat off the broom closet. Anything that breaks gets fixed/replaced within the day. He even leaves words of encouragement in the little notes packed up with your lunch. You'll start to wonder if he's an angel who's infiltrated too deep....

Barbs also seems to have a sixth sense for whenever you've had a bad day. You come back dragging from exhaustion? You favorite meal is already cooked, the bath is ready to be drawn, and would you like a shoulder rub on top of that? Feel free to vent, he loves to listen to whatever stories you have to share!

There are only two downsides to Barbatos: the first is that you are absolutely sharing him still with Diavolo and the young master is his top concern. So sorry.

The second is that moment he gets even the hint that there may be a rat in the house, he'll nuke the place with all of your stuff still in it. So keep some traps out and keep'em fresh, yeah? You'll be fine.

Simeon

S-tier. He even comes with pre-installed parenting skills! (If you're into that kind of thing).

Simeon may not have Barbs' "live to serve" mentality, but he is truly an angel to a fault. The man already acts as Den Mother of Purgatory Hall, so what would you expect?

He cooks well enough to own his own business and you can't run a business without being good with your cash. He probably has book royalties too... Plus, he cleans up after Solomon's messy ass in canon, so-

He's gonna be that husband you take to the office party and nobody will leave you alone about him for the next week. People are going to ask if he has a brother or some shit (give them Raph's number, I dare you)

Admittedly, home repair (especially of the electronics he's guaranteed to break) should probably go to someone else. Also, he is a package deal with Luke. That child is your unspoken son now, and you'll just have to deal with that.

Otherwise, he's trophy material. Marry him and carry him over that threshold! He's worth it, truly.

Solomon

I've already ranted about Solomon here. But if you aren't aware, he's D-tier saved only by the fact that he's really trying his best.

800 year-old bachelor be like: "Oh, you're supposed to change those...? They don't smell that bad after a month."

"Of course those dishes are clean! Yes, I can see that there's still food on them, but I washed them with soap. That's what makes them clean."

"What do you mean, 'Don't set the table with beakers on date night?' Isn't this one your favorite??"

"Dinner's almost done, honey! Just let me finish clubbing this octopus!" 😁

Disaster husband. Just leave him to his delusions and get used to takeout...

[suddencolds]

sending u a star!! ⭐️ sorry i wanted to go thru and pick a specific fic but im too sleepy lol but any yvescent piece u had thoughts on :D

[from Fanfic Writers - Director's Cut]

hello!!! THANK YOU N, IT MADE ME REALLY HAPPY TO RECEIVE THIS 🥹🥹🥹

I also realize am responding to this like 2 months late :') I thought for a long time on which fic to comment on, and now that I've posted Atypical Occurrence pt. 2, I thought I might as well write out my thoughts on it while they're still fresh and bc it's close to my heart (I hope that's okay hehe)

—

⚠️❗️ Warning that I will be attaching snippets from my deleted drafts below!! Please read the published installment before you proceed to read this post. This is a little embarrassing... all I can say is that those drafts were deleted for a reason 🥴

—

There’s a grocery store that’s a ten minute drive from Vincent’s apartment. 

I rewrote this scene... 3 or 4 times? It gave me sooo much trouble 😭 I think in the first draft Vincent actually tears up tasting Yves's cooking. (I know, Vincent, I want Yves to cook for me too 😭❗️)

Terrible (ugh 😭) first draft screenshot under the cut (screenshot = old draft, indented quote = current draft):

(Yves pulling up a chair at the end... you can tell he is totally at a loss on what to do 😭 and I, too, was at a loss on what to do)

I wrote this ^, and I was like... this moment just feels unearned? I personally despise outlining + I love going in (mostly) blind. Sometimes the first draft works out of the box, and in this case, the first draft (and the second draft, and the third draft) were all soooo bad that I literally had to take a month-long break to regain my confidence 😭

Anyways! I knew right away that Y was going to cook something for V (it's mentioned here and there throughout the series that he is a really good cook 😭 And in part 3 of Fool Me Twice, Yves promises to make Vincent something more ambitious than hot chocolate. He's finally kept his promise now, 12 installments later 🙇‍♀️ )

From draft 2, there was only one scene which I was sure I was going to include in the final draft, aka, spared from the recycling bin. (But I just checked the final draft and it's nowhere to be seen?? Interesting.)

I would have managed fine on my own.

On this (deleted) scene, and more broadly: I think it's important to me that Yves recognizes that Vincent is self-sufficient in many ways: when Vincent says he will be fine alone, he is telling the truth. Yves doesn't have to stay—he recognizes this too, when he heads for the door in the published draft.

Still, Yves stays, of course—initially, because he insists, and later, because Vincent asks :)

“…You won’t leave unless I eat, then,” Vincent says. He says it evenly enough that it barely registers as a question. Yves smiles at him. It’s not a wrong conclusion. “Exactly,” he says.

It was really, really fun writing the differences between caretaker!Vincent (in Fool Me Twice pt. 5) and caretaker!Yves 😊 I usually don't like to say too much on the end of character analysis, bc I like my work to be interpreted as it is: the text is canon, and everything I'm saying here is just me yapping on about my headcanons. (I have been roasted for saying this by a dear friend of mine, probably rightfully so:)

With that disclaimer: Vincent to me (I can only speculate, etc) is a very no-bullshit caretaker (he likes to enforce whatever will lead most directly to the person's recovery; he actually worries a lot, but his worry often manifests as frustration/snappishness), whereas Yves is a lot more permissive and, for the most part, manages his stress—he is the eldest sibling, after all! I think he does what he can to make it a more tolerable experience :)

“So this is just a Yves thing.” “What? Showing consideration for my friends?”  “Showing consideration is one thing,” Vincent answers. “You could have left after dropping off the files. You would still have been showing your consideration.” “I guess that’s true. But at that point, I was already here,” Yves says, with a shrug. “It seemed logical to check up on you.” “Well, now you’ve checked up on me,” Vincent says. “So you can go.” Yves supposes this is true.

Vincent takes things very literally (and I think he's actually quite aware of the social niceties around these kinds of things, which is in part why he is so skeptical to assume that Yves means anything more.)

There’s a hand on his sleeve, tugging. Yves goes very still. When Vincent notices what he’s done, alarm flashes through his expression, and he pulls his hand away as if he’s burned.  “Sorry,” he murmurs, again. And just like that, he’s back to how he always is—his expression perfectly, carefully neutral, in a way that can only be constructed. “I’m sorry.” But Yves doesn’t forget what he’s seen. “You can go.”

This scene means a lot to me!! It took a loooot of editing to hammer into place (the doc I wrote it on is titled "fixing this scene would FIX ME" haha). I think this is the first time Vincent has actively sought out Yves's comfort 😭 And he regrets it almost as soon as he's said it, because he does not do things without a good justification, and wanting something—even wanting it badly—does not feel like a sufficient justification to him. But give Yves an inch and he will take a mile!! He will take a hundred miles!! That is just the kind of person that Yves is.

I was talking with some friends previously about how I wanted to write Vincent reaching out for Yves. How I wanted Vincent to, through the haze of fever, cross a line that he'd previously not allowed himself to cross :') I think it is a time-old trope to have someone, in their feverish delirium, utter something embarrassing and utterly uncharacteristic of them, or divulge something that has been difficult for them to say.

This whole time drafting, I was thinking, how can I set up a moment like that and have it feel earned? How badly would he have to be feeling? What kind of setup would justify getting past his 590859 mental defenses? (I do not like to outline, but sometimes I do have an emotional beat that I have in mind, and then I have to work backwards to figure out the setup. This took SO much working back from, and I really thought about it for very long). I was almost sure that Vincent would regret it immediately after too 😭

Yves opens his arms out in offering, tries on a smile. “I’ve been told I give good hugs. Good enough to cure all ailments, obviously.”

Ahh, so Y offering V a hug is inspired by a fic I read 6 years ago, where a character offers another a hug as a joke and then the other character surprises them by taking it. Yves is really offering here, but I think he recognizes that joking about it will make it easier for Vincent to accept 😭

Yves has hugged a fair share of people in his life. He doesn’t think he’d be able to list them all if he were asked to. It’s different, though, being so close to Vincent—so close that Yves can reach out and let his hair fall through his fingertips. He can lift up his palm and feel the rigid line of his spine, the slope of his shoulders; he could reach out and trace the dip of his wrist, the form of his hand. Vincent’s chin digs slightly into his left shoulder. His nose is turned slightly into Yves’s neck—like this, he is almost perfectly still. Yves can feel the warm brush of air against his neck whenever Vincent exhales. He is so close that Yves is afraid, for a moment, that he might hear how badly his heart is racing.

I have nothing to say about this paragraph except that I edited it for like 40 minutes straight.

Last thing!!

“We had a habit of keeping the heat off, in the winters, and closing the windows.”

The scene near the end (where Vincent tells Yves about his childhood) is actually the scene which came the most easily to me. I also did not write it last; I jumped around. It took me around 1.5 hours. (By comparison, simply editing the scene before it took 11 😵‍💫)

I did always intend for Vincent to disclose... well, /something/ about himself. (You can tell that when I plan, that's really as far as I plan LOL)

Anyways, when Vincent wakes Yves up (after Yves falls asleep at his desk), I initially wrote it so that Yves wakes Vincent from a nightmare.

But (as direct a link to vulnerability as that might have been,) Vincent would not talk about his nightmare 😭 So I switched gears.

I also specifically wanted to write about Vincent's experience being cared for growing up. I think something that's culturally resonant with me (as an Asian American, and the eldest daughter to immigrant parents) is like, the ways families can and cannot say I love you—the quiet things that are done in place of a more direct expression of it. The way that while unspoken consideration can speak volumes, it can just as easily be invisible. But even now, writing this post, I feel like it's difficult for me to untangle the feelings and experiences I've had into something that feels sufficiently multifaceted.

Vincent has a different childhood from I do (it is probably worth noting that I do not project onto any of my characters, nor do I use them as a vessel to get my own experiences across). I think I'm just drawn to writing tricky/non-straightforward expressions of love, in general :) Sometimes that is the kind of love that resonates with me most.

[craftingcreatures]

Into Eternity

This is a short story I wrote for my Speculative Evolution project Vicis Aeternum. It details the major event which ended humanity's presence on the desert world and began raising sea levels, ending the pre-colonial era and kicking off the Diluvian period. Story under the cut.

~o~O~o~

“Hey, Stella, you want some coffee?”

Stella Cartier turned away from her computer. Reg Hadley stood in the doorway, holding a cup of steaming liquid and eyeing her with studious passivity. “I thought we were all out.”

“We were.” Reg’s voice was as bland as his face.

“What happened? Did someone find an unopened canister?”

“Not quite.” A strange expression rippled over Reg’s face, quickly suppressed. Stella eyed him suspiciously. “You want some coffee or not?”

“It’s been way too long since I’ve had a good cup of coffee. Give it here.” She started to reach her hand out, then paused.

“This had better not be a trick, Reg. If that cup has something gross in it, I will personally set fire to your underwear drawer.”

“No trick.” Reg handed her the cup, and there was no mistaking the achingly familiar aroma. His face seemed to have trouble keeping its neutral expression. “It’s real. Taste for yourself.”

Stella did, and her eyes lit up. It was real coffee, not too bitter, with all the nutty tones of a good Colombian roast. It was probably just the long deprivation talking, but it seemed to her to be the most heavenly thing she’d ever tasted, far and away better than the freeze-dried coffee they’d lived off of since they’d arrived on Spero. It definitely had cream in it, a bit of sugar, and a faint taste of vanilla. Wherever Reg had gotten this coffee, it was a high-quality blend. She sipped slowly, savouring the long-desired beverage. “This is amazing. Where’d it come from?”

“Well, that’s what I’m here to tell you.” Reg’s studied look of indifference crumbled, replaced with shining eyes and a ludicrous grin. “The plantation’s had its first surplus harvest. What you’re drinking is directly from our fields.”

Stella’s eyes had been closed, the better to taste the coffee with. Now they snapped open. “What!?”

“You heard me. Everything in that cup was grown right here on Spero. The coffee, the sugar beets, the vanilla. We had our first hazelnut harvest, too, but I know you hate it so I didn’t put any in yours.”

Stella broke into a grin even wider than her co-workers’. She set the coffee aside and trapped him in a bone-crushing hug. “That’s incredible! We’re finally becoming self-sufficient!”

“Ow, ow, ow! The ribs, the ribs!” Reg spluttered. Stella let go.

The colony world of Spero was a long shot. A desert planet with only a small amount of liquid water on its surface, it was nonetheless the only habitable world within reach of humanity’s interstellar program. Nearly five years ago, Stella, Reg, and the two hundred other scientists had landed on the planet after a hundred years in cryogenic stasis and set to work terraforming the planet so it would sustain human life. Now, all their hard work was paying off.

“I didn’t just come to bring you coffee,” Reg said when he had gotten his breath back. “There’s a party in the Agri storehouse. Kaeli baked some cakes – Pineapple flavoured, also from Spero-grown food. Everyone’s invited.”

“I’ll be there in a minute. I just have to finish up this soil analysis.” Reg left the room, and Stella returned to her computer, sipping her coffee gratefully. She couldn’t keep the smile off her face.

Five years of work – and the planet was finally turning from merely a habitable planet into a nice one.

Granted, there were still the hurricane-force windstorms that threatened the very foundations of her analysis hut almost every day, but the strategically planted lines of fruit and hardwood trees had taken most of the bite out of those winds. She still went to bed every evening with a fine layer of desert dust clogging her nostrils. The arid air still hurt her throat when she woke up in the mornings. But things had gotten better. Most of the land around the Mare Vagus and the banks of the one large river was fertile cropland now, with rich humus instead of sand and dust, and filled with growing green things; farther away from the water, the harsher land still grew grasses and other browse for livestock. And with the success of the coffee, vanilla, and pineapple plantations, even some of the pickier plants were beginning to thrive.

All through the hard work of Stella and the other first-wave colonists.

It was an achievement to be proud of – to take a desolate world, with nothing of value except a breathable atmosphere, livable temperatures, and surface water – and turn it into a home. Stella smiled with satisfaction as she completed her work and went to join the others.

~o~O~o~

The party was a party. People were laughing and singing and playing games. Kaeli Ngi, one of the farmers and sometime baker, stood by her pineapple upside-down cakes, glowing with pride and excitement. The lead arborist, Stan Winters, stood beside her, equally proud of the Spero-grown maple-wood table that the cake sat on, and chatting with anyone who’d listen about the struggles he’d had getting the maple trees to grow in the dry soil. There were games. There was food. There was even a flask of moonshine, made from Spero-grown potatoes, making its way surreptitiously around the crowd as people poured small amounts into their coffee, but no one reprimanded the owners for it. People were in high spirits.

Stella got a slice of cake and wandered over to a group of people that included Reg and several other soil analysts. John Tigard noticed her coming and moved to the left to make room for her.

“…don’t know what it is,” Mika Watanabe was saying. “Some kinda box-type thing.” She paused when she noticed Stella. “Hey, Stella. How’s it going?”

“Everything’s delicious,” Stella mumbled around a mouthful of cake. She swallowed. “What’s happening with you?”

“Mika’s been telling us about this weird thing Leo found buried up in the new cropland they’ve been prepping,” John said, his voice slurred a little from the moonshine in his coffee. “Apparently it’s some kinda artifact.”

Mika nodded emphatically. “It’s a great big box-shaped thing,” she said. “Looks like a coffin, except its way too big. Made of some kind of black metal. We have no idea what it is, but it’s definitely not natural.”

“Maybe it’s alien,” Reg said, his voice quavering in affected spookiness, wiggling his fingers in Mika’s face while he made ghost noises.

Mika glanced at him worriedly. “It’s possible.”

“Let’s not jump to conclusions,” Stella said carefully. “It might be a piece of debris from one of the original probes. Didn’t one of them explode?”

Mika didn’t look convinced. “That could be. But I think you guys’ll have to see it for yourselves. It’s… weird.”

“Weird how?”

“I don’t know.” Mika swirled her coffee. “There’s just this… feeling you get when you look at it. Leo says it makes him dizzy.”

“Have you checked it for radiation?” Stella asked pointedly. “Toxin emissions? Sometimes materials react weirdly to being in space.”

“Yes to both,” another soil analyst – Ravitya Prasad – interjected. “Before we even got it out of the ground. Nada.”

“Hm.” Stella took another bite of her cake. “Where are you keeping it? I’m curious,” she said when her mouth was empty again.

“We got it stashed in a supply quonset,” Mika supplied. “Out by the strawberry fields. Leo thinks its creepy – doesn’t want it anywhere near the barracks. I can show you later, after the party.”

“Sounds like a plan,” Stella smiled, and took another bite of her cake. “Mmm. This is really good.”

~o~O~o~

“Yeah, that’s definitely not debris from a probe.”

The unidentified object was about fifteen feet long, lozenge-shaped with squared-off ends and smoothed edges. Its surface was smooth and shiny black – there was not a hint of damage from re-entry or impact, not even any sand-scoring from exposure to Spero’s harsh desert. There were also no other features – no seams, no details, nothing. It was a featureless monolith.

Mika, Stella, and Reg stood in the supply quonset, inspecting the mysterious discovery in the dwindling evening light. Through the open doors, fields of spinach, strawberries, and onions stretched to the impossibly flat horizon. The dull gray-brown orb of the moon hung low in the eastern sky, so like and yet so unlike Earth’s own moon. A pair of camels knelt sedately on the hard-packed dirt, munching on the feral grasses which sprouted everywhere like weeds.

“Yeah, I didn’t really think it was,” Mika seemed to sag. “Any other ideas?”

“I’m thinking aliens are looking more and more likely,” Reg ventured. Stella shot him a disgusted look.

“Grow up, Reg. There weren’t even any microbes in the water before we began terraforming. Humanity’s been looking for alien life for centuries, and we haven’t found so much as a bacterium on any of the planets we’ve surveyed. Why would there be an intact alien artifact just sitting there on a world that’s been dead for billions of years?”

Reg just rolled his eyes. “Well, if it’s not aliens, than what do you think it is, oh wise exalted one?”

“I have no idea,” Stella said honestly. “But if we can figure out its mass and volume, we might be able to figure out what its made of. I guess it might be some kind of mineral deposit that got buried in an ancient flood – obsidian, maybe.”

“Right,” Mika snorted. “A natural mineral deposit this big, flawlessly smooth, and perfectly symmetrical? Give me a break.”

“Yeah,” Reg agreed. “And besides, don’t you feel it?”

“Feel what?” Stella asked, confused.

Reg looked at her as if her head was made of broccoli. “You don’t feel it.”

“Feel. What.” Stella repeated, growing irritated.

“The artifact,” Reg’s voice was low, almost a whisper. “It’s… humming.”

Stella frowned. “Humming.”

Reg and Mika both nodded. “It’s… not an audible sound,” Mika supplied. “It’s more like… it’s almost like its vibrating in my soul. I can’t really describe it.”

“I don’t feel anything,” Stella said flatly, crossing her arms. “And I’m beginning to think you two are having a laugh.”

“Stella, I know I have a history, but I swear to you I am not messing with you right now,” Reg raised one hand and placed the other over his heart in the classic position of one giving an oath. “I don’t know why you don’t feel it, but trust me, if you could, you’d know exactly what I’m talking about.”

Stella looked stubbornly at him. She opened her mouth to retort, but suddenly her radio beeped. Flashing a cool look at her friends, she thumbed the transmission button. “Cartier here.”

“Stella, are you outside? You need to go outside right now.” The staticky voice was Ravitya’s. It sounded urgent. Frowning, Stella shared a confused look with Mika and Reg and strode towards the doorway.

Nothing appeared to have changed. The camels were still tied up, munching grass as they knelt by the hut entrance. The landscape was still the same as always – impossibly flat, covered in agricultural fields, with only the silhouettes of distant buildings and a line of faraway trees breaking up the eternal nothingness that characterized the planet. Stella frowned. It all looked exactly as it should. Maybe strangely bright for this time of night…

“Okay, we’re outside,” Stella began. “What’s so urgent-”

“Stella, the moon,” Mika gasped. “Dear God, Stella, look at the moon.”

Stella turned. And felt all the blood drain from her face.

The moon had exploded.

The normally dingy grey planetoid had cracked open like an egg, spewing a titanic cloud of glittering white across the starscape. The icy center of the moon glowed almost eye-hurtingly as it reflected the sunlight, exposed to the vacuum of space for the first time in- nobody knew how long. Chunks of debris flew away from the disintegrating body, cutting through the expanding plume of ice shards like bullets. It was like a still from an action film – an explosion, frozen in time, rendered in the impossible bluish-white of pure water ice.

“What… what…” Stella’s mouth worked, but she couldn’t form a sentence. “What happened?” she finally ground out.

Neither Mika nor Reg had an answer.

The apparent peacefulness of the cataclysm was just an artifact of the explosion’s great scale and distance. In actuality the colossal chunks of ice and crust were hurtling through space at speeds of hundreds, maybe thousands of kilometers per hour.

Right towards the fertile fields of Spero.

Stella felt her heart skip a beat.

~o~O~o~

“Quiet, everyone, quiet,” David Nwadike, Mission Coordinator, held up his hands to stem the tide of shouted questions and panicked comments from the assembly of scientists.

An hour after the moon’s destruction had become apparent, almost the entire settlement team was gathered in the administration building’s auditorium – the only ones missing were a few who had been stationed in distant outposts, and those whose experiments were at a critical stage and could not be left unattended. Of the two hundred people on Spero, a hundred and sixty were crammed into the large room, and the rest were likely listening in on the radio broadcast. Everyone had seen the moon explode, and everyone was frantically questioning what it would mean for the future of the Spero colony. Kendrick stared out over the crowd, gut twisting. It wasn’t any good thing.

“There is no need to panic,” he said when the cacophony had at last died down. “Please, we are scientists. Let us remain rational.”

Nwadike was an accomplished public speaker, and so his words sounded strong and confident – a confidence he didn’t actually feel. Nonetheless, they had the desired effect. The tension in the room lessened slightly.

“It’s still too early to tell precisely what happened,” Nwadike continued. “We think that a long-period comet or planetoid collided with the moon, breaking it into pieces. Why this object never appeared on our scopes is a question I don’t have the answer to. Lubovich and the astronomical team are currently hard at work analyzing footage from the impact to try and come up with answers.

“In the meantime, we have more pressing concerns. Unfortunately, our little corner of Spero is directly in the path of the debris cloud. Pieces of material from the moon are heading toward Spero at approximately 40,000 kilometers per hour. We have about eleven hours before the first meteorites hit. If we’re lucky, we’ll just get a light dusting. Regardless, we must spend that time preparing.

“Agriculture division, I want you to lock down the seed banks. See if you can get them into the emergency bunkers. Animal husbandry, let all of the livestock free – better they’re dispersed and we lose half the animals than the barns get hit and we lose them all in one fell swoop. Technology division, we need every vehicle fully fueled and ready to go. Astronomy is trying to predict where the meteorite impacts will be least severe – chances are good we’ll be making an emergency evacuation to higher latitudes.” Nwadike looked out over the sea of ashen-gray faces. “Everyone else, standing evacuation orders apply. Shut down all experiments and get yourselves, your families, and your most vital equipment – in that order – ready to move out at a moment’s notice. That will be all. Good luck, team.”

The auditorium once again devolved into chaos as scientists rushed about to follow their duties. Frantically shouted questions were lost in the frightened hubbub. Nwadike felt deflated.

Five years of work. Three hundred years of preparation. Two hundred people, good men and women, scientists who’d devoted their lives to see this venture succeed. All of it at risk, possibly doomed, because of the mathematical quirks of orbit trajectories. A fraction of a degree to the right or left, and the planetoid would have missed the moon entirely, and none of them would have been any the wiser.

But the trajectories had intersected in the worst possible way, and now colossal chunks of ice and debris were hurtling toward them at horrifying speeds. Nwadike wondered if he – if any of them – were going to survive.

~o~O~o~

Ten hours later, the first meteorites began to hit.

Stella looked up at the debris cloud, looming ominously over the horizon. In the light of evening the night before, the shattered moon had seemed impossibly bright – the moon’s icy interior, normally covered by murky carbon dust and other organics, was suddenly, blindingly white when exposed to the light of the sun for the first time. Now, however, the planet and the debris cloud had shifted, and the sun was coming up from behind the cloud – which appeared much, much larger, covering most of the southern and eastern skies and blocking out the light. The cloud was dark and gray, a thunderhead of darkness so high up in the atmosphere it wasn’t even beginning to billow yet. Flashes of light were appearing high in the sky as chunks of ice and dust burnt up in the atmosphere. It was almost pretty – a sparkling starscape in the dim morning light. If only it wasn’t the herald of something terrible.

With a surprisingly anticlimactic ding, a chunk of ice the size of a softball impacted the hood of Stella’s evacuation truck and bounced away.

Everyone riding in the vehicle – Stella, Kaeli, John, nine others from Agriculture and Animal Husbandry – collectively winced at the sound. The vehicle rocked and sputtered, but kept driving, the meteorite having merely dented the hood. Stella said a silent prayer of thanks that it had only been a small one.

As if on cue, there was an impossibly loud noise, like a bomb going off, and the truck lurched violently. The evacuees were tossed bodily through the air as the force of the impact knocked the vehicle onto its side. Stella was wearing a seatbelt, but there were more people in the truck than it had been designed to carry – not everyone was so lucky.

When the ringing in her head stopped drowning out all other sensation, Stella took stock of her surroundings. She was hanging suspended from her seatbelt, arms and legs dangling from the side of the truck. Beside her, Kaeli hung limply – a trickle of blood ran down her chin from her ear. Burst eardrum. Below them, on what used to be the opposing side, the rest of the passengers lay unmoving.

Chest aching from where it had been thrown against the seatbelt, Stella began disentangling herself. Careful not to step on any injured people, she lowered herself to what was now the floor and began trying to get Kaeli down. The smaller woman was unconscious, which made things both easier and harder.

John appeared beside her, already free from his restraints. He mouthed something.

“What?” Stella asked. She couldn’t hear him – his voice was distant and oddly distorted.

“…got to get out of here,” she finally made out. John was holding one bloody hand to the side of his head – his ears must be ruptured, too. By the pain and the distorted noise, Stella guessed that the blast had been loud enough to burst all of their ears.

“Help me get Kaeli,” she called, as loudly and clearly as she could. John nodded and stepped up to lower the young farmer slowly to the floor. She groaned and began to stir.

Stella checked her over for further injuries, ignoring the hail of tiny meteorites which fell outside the truck. Kaeli didn’t seem to be critically injured, so Stella turned to help John check the rest of the evacuees.

“We got three dead,” John shouted grimly. “Martin, Alvarez, and Wentland. Sigurdsson’s critically injured – broken femur, bleeding badly. Nothing we can do for him. The rest are unconscious, but they’ll live if we get out of here.”

“What do we do?”

“We get them to safety,” John grunted, hefting an unconscious body over his shoulder. “I’ve got Randall, You get Kaeli. There’s a storage hut about a hundred meters back – take her and run. Don’t get hit.”

Stella nodded and struggled to lift the smaller woman over her own shoulder. John kicked open the truck’s rear doors and the two survivors stepped out into another world.

Chunks of ice rained from the sky like hailstones. The sky was almost pitch black – the debris cloud completely blocked out the sun. It was not entirely dark, though – the sky was alight with countless shooting stars, meteors the size of pebbles or softballs burning up in the atmosphere. Stella felt a tiny meteorite bounce painfully off her shoulder, one small enough that the atmosphere had slowed its descent. Gritting her teeth, she adjusted her grip on the unconscious Kaeli and took off, loping over the flat prairie toward the closest quonset.

Every muscle in her body ached. Her ears screamed in pain. Kaeli gasped slightly as a small meteorite slammed into her hip, and Stella winced in sympathy. In the distance, there was another explosion – a much larger chunk of ice impacting with the ground, one too large to be slowed by the atmosphere. Stella flinched as something cool fell onto her face – but the impact didn’t hurt. With a start, Stella realized it was raining.

What the heck?! It never rains here!

In her five years on Spero, Stella had witnessed rain maybe twice, each time a halfhearted sprinkle that lasted a grand total of ten minutes before dissipating. Supposedly it rained more in the faraway mountains, and the presence of the river supported that fact, but Stella had been too busy with the business of colonizing a desert world to make the long trek to the highlands. Here in the lowlands, the only water was the river – and what the desalination plants could get from the mare.

But now droplets of water fell all around her, quickly filtering down into the desert soil. In the distance, lightning flashed – a static discharge caused by the addition of tons upon tons of water vapour to the atmosphere by the icy, rapidly vaporizing meteorites. Stella raced over the ground, which was rapidly turning to mud. In a matter of minutes she was soaked through. A chunk of ice the size of a grapefruit thudded to the ground maybe two feet from her. Seconds later, another explosion a short distance away nearly knocked her over, but she steadied herself and kept running.

Even through her damaged eardrums, everything was loud – the crackle of thunder, the dull boom of explosions, the patter of rain and meteorites on grass and crops and soil and the roof of the quonset hut. Stella tore open the doors and raced inside, followed by John.

It was the same quonset she’d been in when the moon had first exploded – the mysterious black artifact sat against one wall, covered in a fine layer of dust like everything else on this planet. Stella barely noticed it – she had other things to worry about. The building’s roof was peppered with holes, but it would still protect them to a degree. Sighing with pain and relief, Stella deposited Kaeli on a stack of pallets and sat down miserably beside her, soaking wet and aching all over. John, however, didn’t sit down. Instead, he placed Randall carefully on his own pallet and went to rummage in a container that sat just inside the door.

“I’m going back out there,” he said grimly, lifting the emergency first-aid kit which was kept in every outbuilding.

Stella looked up at him in a panic. “Are you insane?”

“There’s still five living people in that truck,” John reasoned, moving to pull a couple of hard hats off the storage rack. “They need medical attention, and fast. I’ll be fine. You tend to Kaeli and Randall.”

“Wait!” Stella cried, reaching out to stop him. John paused and looked back even as he stepped out through the door.

“Please, just – just stay alive,” she said. Her voice, distorted as it was, sounded small and frightened. “I can’t – I need you to stay alive.”

John nodded. “I will, Stell. I promise.”

And he was gone.

~o~O~o~

John never came back.

Stella sat there in the Quonset, shivering, for what must have been hours. Kaeli and Randall were still unconscious, which was a bad sign. Randall was breathing in short, gasping breaths – his ribs had been broken in the crash.

Stella wished John hadn’t taken the first-aid kit with him.

The sounds of explosions and the incessant patter of meteorites bouncing off the roof had increased in volume and frequency. Flashes of light – lightning, meteors or distant impact explosions – flickered constantly through the holes in the roof, which were growing more and more numerous. Meteorites flew through the ragged metal, bouncing off of equipment and shelves with a sound like gunshots, making Stella jump every time.

The structural integrity of the roof – their only protection – was becoming less and less sound, and the frequency and violence of meteorite impacts was only getting worse. It was only a matter of time before… before they…

Stella couldn’t help it. It was too much. She put her head in her hands and cried.

Child of the stars.

With a strangled gasp, Stella jerked her head up and looked around the room.

Had she heard a voice? Had John returned?

But no, Kaeli and Randall were still unconscious, and John was nowhere to be seen. She was alone in the old storage hut, with nothing but farming equipment and that strange black artifact.

Wait.

What was…

Stella felt it deep in her bones – a deep, harmonic thrumming. It seemed to be emanating from the smooth black box.

Child of the stars.

This time there was no mistaking it. That had definitely been a voice – one strange and ancient, and undistorted by ruptured eardrums. It was almost as if…

As if the box itself was calling to her.

The thrumming became more intense as the thought crossed her mind, almost drowning out the rattle of hail on the roof of the quonset. Hesitantly, Stella stood up and slowly approached the artifact.

The smooth black surface was a featureless void in the darkness cast by the debris cloud, but it still seemed to glow with some indefinable light. Stella tentatively reached out a hand and brushed her fingers across the glassy surface.

Child of the stars, this world is lost.

The words fled through her mind like lightning. Stella flinched. They weren’t in English, but somehow Stella still understood them perfectly.

“Who – who are you?” she asked.

I am the Soul Ark.

“Wha- what?” Stella was bewildered. “What’s a soul ark?”

It is a time capsule, the voice continued. Long ago, this world was the home of my people. We thrived, and lived, and devoted ourselves to the study of life and the universe. We learned how to shape the world according to our will. We built cities, and monuments, and cunning devices that gave us unimaginable power. We learned how to manipulate our very souls, and in doing so achieved what we believed was tantamount to godhood. In our hubris, we believed ourselves gods – but at the height of our glory and arrogance, the true gods reminded us of our own mortality. A stone was cast from the heavens.

“A stone?” Stella asked. Half of her was fully absorbed in the story, the other half freaking out over the fact that she was conversing with an actual alien. Or maybe an AI created by ancient aliens. She wasn’t quite sure.

A great meteorite, the Ark explained. Across the room, a particularly large chunk of ice punched yet another hole in the Swiss-cheese roof, and Stella flinched. As great in size as the largest of our cities. It fell from the heavens with fire and ash, and the thunder of its impact destroyed us all. All was lava, and ash, and smoke, and burning. In desperation, those of us which remained built this capsule to hold our souls until such a time as the gods saw fit to restore life to this world.

“So you… so the Soul Ark holds the, um, souls of millions of ancient aliens?”

Millions? No. the Ark sounded infinitely sad. There were a mere thirty of us which still remained among the living when the Ark was completed. I was its architect – I bound my own soul to it to give it its power. My name was Qethryt. Now, I am no more. For a billion years I have slept, buried by ash and sand, holding safe the souls of my people, until I was awakened by the arrival of you humans.

Child of the stars, I have listened to your people’s souls – I have heard your struggle, seen your victories, watched as you fought to wrest a living from this forsaken place. Though this was once our home, it is ours no longer. The gods cursed my people – may they be kinder with yours.

“Yeah, well, it’s a little late for that,” Stella said, angrily wiping away a tear. “The moon exploded.”

Curious. There was no moon in my time.

Stella rambled on, choking back sobs. “Everyone else is probably dead and- and I’m probably going to die here, and- and-” it was too much. She burst into tears.

Child of the stars, accept my gift.

“What?” Stella looked up, startled. Tears tracked down her face, mingling with the rain which drizzled through the perforated roof.

I was built to carry souls safely through the aeons. But all things must fail eventually – it is the law of the universe, set forth by the gods. All things eventually fade, no matter how well preserved. For a billion years I have persisted, watching as one by one my people’s souls withered away despite my efforts. I am all that remains. And I have nothing left to me except my purpose.

Child of the stars, once again this world is destroyed, and there is no hope left for humanity. Once I would have looked down on you as a lesser being, but the gods’ lesson was well learned. If you will accept it, I give you this gift: to take your souls, and the souls of your people, and keep them safe until such a time as the world is once again fit for life.

Stella felt tears running down her face. “R-really? You’d- but how-” She held her head to her hands. “Uugghhh, my head.”

A small meteorite pinged off the glassy black Ark. Stella looked down. Ripples of water flowed over her feet – the beginnings of a flash flood, rushing under the doors. Another meteorite burst through the roof a few meters away.

Time is running out, child of the stars. Will you accept this gift?

Stella thought. An alien device, a relic of an impossibly ancient civilization, with the ability to hold “souls” inside it. A world under siege, a dark cloud blocking the sunlight as rocks rained from the sky like shells in an ancient battlefield. Stella knew that the debris cloud would soon envelop the planet, encircling the equator and shading out their crops, their orchards, their pastures. Only the northern settlements had any hope of surviving the apocalypse, and those wouldn’t be able to support two hundred colonists – assuming that many escaped the meteorites.

She thought of Kaeli, lying unconscious on their pallets a few meters away. Probably dying. She thought of Reg and Mika and Teddy, lost somewhere in the apocalypse, their own truck probably drilled through by a meteorite or swamped in the mud. She thought of David, the stalwart man who had volunteered to venture out into a meteor storm on the slim chance he could rescue the men and women whose bodies were broken when their truck had capsized.

There was no stopping this storm. No surviving the onslaught of moon fragments falling from the sky except by sheer luck. The floods would wash the settlement away, five years of hard work erased overnight. Already she felt the foundations of the quonset groaning against the pressure of the flood. The water was partway up her calves now. Soon the building would collapse, and she would die.

There was only one chance of survival. An unknown alien mind, unimaginably old, offering something she – in her exhausted, terrified state – could barely comprehend.

“Yes. Yes, I accept,” she blurted. “Please, if you can help us, do whatever you can.”

Then sleep in peace, child of the stars, you and all your kin; and I will carry you into eternity.

For a split second, everything went white. When the light faded, the Soul Ark was alone. The quonset was empty. Mere minutes later, the force of the floodwaters carried away the crumbling structure.

Humanity was gone, taken by the Ark. The planet was empty save for the livestock which fled from the oncoming storm and the crops which weathered it the best they could. Still the apocalypse advanced, an endless rain of ice and fire and water, tearing into the desert like some divine monstrosity – an eldritch demon, unfathomably vast, sowing chaos in its wake.

But if there had been any sentient minds around to comprehend it, the violence and destruction wrought by the storm brought something else, too. Carried on the ice and water vapour and rain was the hope of new beginnings.

Spero was not named “hope” for nothing.

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

To recap, an icy trans-neptunian object (or at least, the equivalent of such in a solar system with no Neptune) roughly half the size of Pluto with a highly erratic orbit collided with Spero's single moon, shattering it in a catastrophic event. The debris cloud, made mostly of water ice with some rocky and organic material, fell towards Spero and deposited huge quantities of water in the form of ice and vapour into the atmosphere. This had the immediate effect of causing torrential rain and meteor storms all across the lower latitudes of the planet, which in turn caused flash flooding and the input of massive volumes of water into the ocean. The cloud of debris encircled the planet, filtering out most of the sunlight and plunging the equatorial regions into a dim, sunless twilight that lasted for thousands of years before the debris cloud finally collapsed into a planetary disk not unlike Saturn's.

This caused the first of several mass extinction events. Among the casualties were many of the more sensitive plants which required bright sunlight and dry conditions to grow, although many of these still survived in high latitudes where sunlight still reached. Animal populations plummeted across the board, although the only species which actually went extinct were the humans (which disappeared mysteriously) and the sheep, which could not survive without regular shearing by humans. All other species managed to survive, although most had severely reduced populations; after all, the colonist species were specifically chosen for their hardiness and genetically altered to maximize their chances of survival in an ever-changing world.

[fluxofthemouth]

@leondxs

The fae did not dawdle once they’d entered the kitchen. He listened to Piter’s ramblings half heartedly, giving a little ❝ Hmm, ❞ here and there in response.. His true focus was on preparing (as little as that entailed) his meal. Despite what humans thought, Leondas was but a simple creature, driven by food most of all as most animals were. He grabbed the designated skillet and lay a hearty slab of flesh upon it, warming it gingerly. He did not season nor cook his meals at all, but he did prefer them warm. As close to life as a dead piece of meat possibly could be. And human flesh was such a prize on it’s own  It did not require anything additional in his eyes.

The cat did not go unnoticed. In fact, Leondas’ attention seemed to turn immediately to the feline once it had entered the room. He smiled at the creature, as warmly as a human would greet another of their kin. He knew why it was here and he did not blame it in the slightest. In fact, he was more than willing to share his ‘catch’.

Once he’d sufficiently warmed it, he transferred it to a plate. With a single claw, he sliced off a bloody piece. He knelt before the feline, gently extending a hand and allowing it to smell him. He wondered just how Piter would react, having the cat taste of human flesh. It would be rude of him to deny his fellow creature such a delicious treat. Oh so curious was he that he would find out. He offered the piece of flesh, making sure to look directly, unblinkingly, at the human all the while, as if daring him to oppose in any way.

His ears perked at the mention of a dragon. The pointed tips of his ears peeked far past his ginger hair, not too dissimilar to his feline friend’s. Dragons and he did not interact much, he preferred to steer clear of them and not interfere with their business. They were creatures just as he, doing what they must... and then some, to survive. He would be a hypocrite to deny them such freedom.

But alas, it seemed their agreement would require such.

❝ They can be quite difficult, for sure. Especially the firebreathing kind. ❞ he murmured, the foreign warmth in his eyes brought on by the cat gone as his attention went to more pressing matters. ❝ Very much mortal as any other creature, however. It is a matter of finding their weakness. Though I imagine that is a bit difficult whilst also avoiding being roasted alive. ❞

He smiled suddenly, as if he’d just told a clever joke. ❝ That is for your kind, at least. A dragon would be a relatively simple task for one as myself. They are animals, after all. Much more inclined to listen to me rather than a little human. ❞

The word little was almost hissed. He’d meant to say a nasty insult than such, but thought it inappropriate. Piter had been such an excellent host thus far, the least he could do was not insult his species so vehemently.

Piter watches Leondas feed the cat with silent, slightly astonished acceptance. When Leondas makes unsmiling eye contact, he returns it just as blankly.

Piter is used to being the strangest, most terrible one in any room. He is not the Baron's only torturer, but it's his face people put to their worst fears about stepping too far out of line. He is as human as they come, but his register of sins contains far worse than feeding a little dead flesh to a cat. He wonders at what kind of power play or dynamic is supposed to be playing out here. Does one such as him even deserve to view Leo's unrepentant desecration with moral unease? The dead horse thief certainly might not see much of a difference between the two of them. Wolves showing each other their teeth.

He nods at Leondas's musing over dragons. A sensible response. Not an offer to help, and not a refusal. The possibility of communicating with the beast surprises him, and he turns his head to the side to buy a little space to think.

"I would not trouble you with the burden of calling us friends," he laughs thoughtfully, "but now I am wondering if this dragon might be interested in joining in our little council."

Might be interested in joining in our little council of freaks.

"You could talk to the thing, eh? Wow. If I could negotiate with a dragon - through you, of course - I might like to send him on projects to pressure, influence, or distract my employer. Surely the influence of my hand would be quite invisible!"

He turns to Leondas with a playful spark in his eye. "Some days I am sure that I, in my role of "advisor," do more to run the Barony than the man with the title," he says brightly, allowing the treasonous words to spill out easily. "Now, that causes the obvious issue of going without credit, to be sure. But running even deeper is the problem that if our dear friend the Baron gets it in his head to pursue a choice that runs contrary to the machine's actual functioning, by the estimation of the person who actually knows how it functions, he can be incredibly difficult to persuade that he is in the wrong! And then when it all comes apart, it is not, "where have I gone wrong," but rather, "why have you not kept this together, Piter."

He's looking at the table now, shaking his head and laughing. "All of our squabbling is surely not deeply interesting to you; but please know that if I ever kill the man, I will have no use for the meat."

[lucygraysboy]

“now,  is  this  the  kind  of  friendship  that  requires  a  blood  oath  or  are  these  bracelets  sufficient?”  he  playfully  teases,  his  heart  swelling  even  if  he  still  finds  it  hard  to  believe.  all  of  it.  these  past  twenty-four  hours  have  been  the  most  magical  of  his  entire  life,  and  he  has  trouble  convincing  himself  that  it’s  not  just  a  dream  and  lucy  gray  is  a  real  person.  “well,”  he  can’t  help  but  blush  at  the  memory.  for  some  reason,  although  the  majority  of  yesterday  is  a  blur  in  his  mind,  he  does  remember  her  pretty  blue  skirt  so  vividly.  “you’ve  left  your  blue  feathers  in  the  closet  this  morning  so  it  wouldn’t  make  sense  now,  would  it?  you  look  more  like  a  dove  now.”  because  she’s  wearing  a  white  nightgown  and  does  resemble  a  sweet,  innocent  dove.  “little  paloma.”  always  happy  to  engage  in  a  playful  banter,  he  starts  the  fire  in  the  big,  round  belly  of  the  stove  and  waits  for  the  burner  lid  to  warm  up.      

“oatmeal.  alright,  i  like  oatmeal,  too.  although,  that’s  the  one  thing  that  my  ma  could  never  get  quite  right.  it  was  always  so  runny,”  he  muses  with  a  laugh,  remembering  those  mornings  when  she  served  them  bowlfuls  of  porridge  and  how  much  he  hated  the  texture  of  it.  but  beggars  can’t  be  choosers.  he  was  grateful  there  was  a  meal  on  the  table,  even  if  it  wasn’t  the  most  delicious  meal  in  the  universe.  “thank  you,  lucy  gray.  i’m  glad  you  don’t  think  i’m  a  dumb  mule  incapable  of  keeping  track  of  my  belongings.”  a  laugh  escapes  him.  once  the  burner  lids  are  glowing  cherry-red,  he  pours  two  cups  of  (is  that  goat  milk?)  milk  into  a  small  saucepan  and  waits  for  it  start  boiling  before  adding  oats  that  he’s  found  in  the  pantry.  coffee  beans  are  roasting  in  the  skillet  on  a  burner  beside  it,  filling  the  kitchen  with  a  warm,  cozy  smell.  but,  god,  it’s  even  hotter  in  here  now.  “thanks.  have  you  ever…  do  you  know  how  to  use  it?  a  gun,  i  mean?”  he  inquires,  growing  curious,  thinking  the  preacher  surely  must  have  taught  her  how  to  defend  herself  since  he  seems  to  leave  her  alone  so  often.  

once  she’s  out  of  his  sight,  he  can  fully  focus  on  the  breakfast  that  he’s  making  —  oatmeal  with  honey  and  whatever  seasonal  fruit  (strawberries?)  he  might  find  and  coffee.  it’s  simple  enough,  but  he’ll  make  sure  it  actually  tastes  good.

"friends forever, the two of us," she agreed, the sentiment curling around her heart and causing smile to grow fonder as she adored the sound of that. "yeah, you could definitely say that too." not every day someone just wanders up on your yard and you get along with them so well and have the same letters in their last names. and the same first name as the poem their mother's both seemed to like.

"i thought i was a bluebird." she gently laughed, poking fun at him because of what he'd been calling her yesterday when he was delirious. he would have no way of knowing why being called that name, little birdie, made her face light up in a happiness that shined brighter than the sun though. that was the english version of what her mama called her. "no, i ain't picky. my favorite's oatmeal or biscuits and gravy. but be sure to make some for yourself too, whatever you figure out on makin'." lucy gray remembered, he needed to eat too. "that's cute, i bet it was fun." to watch that, since she knew that observing things like that when they were children was an exciting kind of interesting that adults couldn't understand.

"okay, yeah, you're just smart and observant. like me." she proudly complimented, admiring that about him and deciding it was a good thing so some of the shyness could disappear now about him realizing she had stole it. "i'll put it back after i get dressed." since it belong to him and she guesses she can trust nothing else to go wrong that'll damage any new trust she has for him now. and now was a good time to AVOID him saying she had a crush on him to which she innocently smiled, "which i'm gonna do now, i'll be right back!" turning away officially, "won't take me long!" she chirps as she quickly disappears down the hall and pushes into her room to start finding something to wear with the relief she SIGHED of that she could dodge that crush comment.

[saphirered]

Heyy, is it alright to ask for a verin x reader, like where verin realizes he likes the reader, but is conflicted because the reader is a part of the mighty nein

Boyyyy this one turned out longer than I intended. No matter, here it is in all its fluff and glory. Hope you enjoy! 😘

-

You are funny, smart, a quick learner, an expert fighter. You are generous, gorgeous, fierce, loyal to the people you care about. You never claim to always know everything. You own up to your mistakes and seek to make right your own wrongs whenever you can. You consider others before you think of yourself. You show kindness and compassion to those who have not known it in a long time. Your smile, your laugh, the glint of mischievous amusement in your eyes whenever you’re plotting something, the adoration and approval to those you deem deserving of it, the affection in your eyes when-

Verin could go on and on but he shouldn’t. He can’t. It’s taken him a while to figure out this isn’t some simple attraction towards you. There’s already feelings involved, definitely from his side and he’s not foolish enough to downplay the gentle but obvious hints you’ve been dropping for him confirming in no uncertain terms this is not a one-sided infatuation. Neither of you have acted on it and he’s thankful for at least that because if he hadn’t stopped and thought for a moment he would have indulged himself in your affection should you have given it and he doesn’t know if he’d ever be able to let you go.

Leave it to your matchmaker friends to invite him and his brother to a dinner with the rest of the Nein and seating him right next to you. It’s not he doesn’t want to be at your side, quite the opposite actually. Verin would love spending more time with you. It’s simply the fact that at the end of the day you might be at opposing sides and he doesn’t know what he’d do if that situation arose. So rather he would avoid the possibility all together. You can’t lose what you never had. You can’t fail at something you never started.

So caught up in his own mind Verin misses your question directed at him until you nudge him and repeat it. As asked, he hands you the plate of roast allowing you to take a slice for yourself smiling in thanks and offer to plate him one too. It doesn’t go unnoticed to him, or anyone paying attention to your brief interaction for that matter, Verin is somewhat slow in his reply to take you up on your offer and the both of you return your attention to your food while you engage in the conversation among the table. Verin is somewhat aware of the subject of the conversation but pays too little attention to actively engage in it. He puts in his two copper at times just to pretend and pass through unnoticed but with the more perceptive ones in the group, not even his cocky confidence is enough to make him believe he’s succeeding.

“How have matters in Xhorhas been, Verin? They’re not giving you too much trouble, are they?” You ask keeping eye contact with the drow at your side as the conversation shifts, eyes on Verin awaiting his reply. Verin sets down his cutlery as you do, your meals finished and plates empty.

“Rather dull. The constant bickering politicians does little to calm one’s nerves. At least the fighting among troops and during training provided sufficient entertainment and distraction. Would it be wrong for me to say I prefer it to the halls of stone and thrones of pompous assholes?” Verin answers his eyes go across the company at the table gaging their responses as he’s grown accustomed to. His eyes stay on you longer than the others. He couldn’t help himself.

“Not at all.” You tell him with an understanding only you could embody.

“If you’re missing the fighting I’m sure our friend here would be happy to indulge you in some entertainment.” Beauregard looks over the edge of her wineglass as she takes a sip with a mischievous intent referring to you with a wave of her hand. The disapproving shake of the head from you silently telling her to cut it makes her shrug and roll her eyes.

“What? We’ve all seen it. You could cut this sexual tension with a knife-“ Beau slumps back in her seat as you slam your hand on the table with a glare leaning in and if looks could kill…

“That’s enough.” You demand with an authority that even the monk realises she may have gone too far. It’s exactly that commanding presence about you that has Verin admire you even more. You could charm the hearts of all you face or command them to your will in but a few words and a directed look in your eyes. Your expression softens as you turn to Verin and mutter an apology. Dinner continues and moves on as if the whole ordeal never happened yet Verin still feels the woman’s words burn within his chest. Was it really that obvious? Had he really done so terrible at hiding his affections for you? Or perhaps he had been the last to realise these affections? These questions swarm his mind for the rest of the evening until dinner is over.

It’s a habit to clean up together. Verin is not exempt from this. Each their own tasks Verin helps clearing the dirty plates, stack them and bring them to the kitchen where you’re washing them clean with Beauregard. You had insisted the monk join you and Verin can only assume you did so to keep her off his back and spare him the interrogation.

“-Come on, you just going to keep denying you want some of that hot drow ass?” Verin can practically hear you roll your eyes as the expositor nudges your shoulder taking the washed plate from you to dry it. When you don’t answer and after waiting a good few seconds Verin comes in and setting the stack of plates with the others before exiting again. He doesn’t return to the dining room but instead waits in the hallway near the kitchen out of sight but close enough to hear. He doesn’t know what made him think it is a good idea to eavesdrop, but he does.

“That is entirely inappropriate, Beau.” She snorts at your reply.

“That’s not an answer. Come on. He’s hot. You’re hot. You like him. He likes you.” You bite your tongue holding back a remark which only further encourages the woman who leans against the counter staring you down arms crossed. You’re not getting out of this one it seems to you let the plate sink into the soap water, dry your hands and mimic her position.

“Because, Beauregard, It can never happen.” The words are difficult to say out loud. As if speaking them makes them an undeniable truth. It’s a feeling both you and Verin can agree upon.

“Jeeze, I told you to fuck the guy. Not to marry him.” Beau jokes but quickly realises this is not the time to joke about these things. She mutters a genuine apology as you both turn back to work.

“Look, I know I’m not exactly an expert on feelings and shit but I don’t think it does either of you any good pretending there’s nothing going on between you two. Don’t come at me with the ‘it can’t happen’ bullshit because it can if you’re willing to put in the work and effort. At least talk it out, that’s what I’m saying. No need to both be miserable because you’re some kind of star-crossed lovers.” Beau dries the last plate and puts it on the stack carrying them back to the cabinet they belong in and leaves the kitchen. With a shake of your head you too clean up and leave. You need a drink and a strong one to deal with these conflicting feelings and thoughts.

By the time the others have retired, retreated or simply found entertainment through other means you’ve got the drawing room to yourself. Unceremoniously draped across one of the couches, glass of amber liquid filled beyond the appropriate amount held in your hand and bottle it came from on the low table you groan. Why, for once in your life can’t things just be easy? Why couldn’t you have fallen for some nice commoner with no affiliation to crown or country or the complications of politics and expectations? That's all you ask, just once, let it be easy.

‘It can never happen.’ The words have haunted Verin ever since they came from your lips. Maybe he shouldn’t have eavesdropped. That doesn’t make them any less true. It can never happen. No matter what petty affections he may hold for you or you for him, it can never happen. Your lives are not just your own and despite all you do to fight for your freedom, you’ll never be able to break those shackles without major consequences. Verin justifies not further indulging himself in his feelings of you with the ‘what if’s. What if it doesn’t work out? What if it falls apart? What if someone finds out? Why can things never be easy? Why couldn’t he just have fallen for some noble born from a respectable den like his mother would like him to have done? That’s all he asks, just for once, let it be easy.

Verin finds himself awake in his bed unable to sleep, plagued by these thoughts so instead he chooses to get up and go for a walk to ease his mind. Dressed, cloak draped across his shoulders he silently makes his way down the stairs. The house is quiet and he doesn’t want to wake anyone up but when he sees the faint ember glow from the drawing room his curiosity is peaked. Drawn to the room he eases closer and sees you sprawled out on a couch, eyes closed and glass dangling between your fingers. He assumes you’re asleep at first but when you steer, sit up and go to pour yourself another glass with a deep sigh he’s about to move back into the shadows and leave you to your night.

“I know you’re there. Lurking in the shadows is unbecoming of you.” There’s a hint of your smile in your voice that makes Verin’s lips curl up in response as he steps into the room. He sees you give him a once over and raise an eyebrow at his attire in silent question.

“I was going for a walk.” Verin explains. The look you give him makes him fear you know every thought going through his head.

“Seems like we’re both having a sleepless night. Unless you’d prefer to wander in the darkness of night on your own, you’re free to join me.” You say as you fill your glass again leaning back in the couch, making yourself comfortable. Verin hesitates so you hold your glass out to him.

“Don’t make me drink alone.” You give him a half smile and while he still hesitates, clear through his moment, Verin mentally hits himself for letting all his carefully built and practiced defences and composure crumble under your simply being there. He takes your glass and takes a sip, letting the harsh liquor’s familiar burn run down this throat. Maybe one drink won’t hurt. Verin hands you back your glass as you pull your legs aside and under you giving him space to sit down on the couch. He takes off his cloak and discards it over one of the nearby chairs in the room. Verin sits taking a glass from the tray on the table and filling it.

“To sleepless nights.” Verin toasts as you cling your glass with his.

“To sleepless nights.” You repeat as you enjoy your drink in comfortable silence allowing both of you to analyse the thoughts plaguing you. Neither of you get a single step further in your thought process and wether or not that is because the object of your inner turmoil is sitting right next to you or something else entirely, you’re not entirely sure.

“Will you be heading home again soon?” You ask leaning your cheek on your fist turning to face Verin. Home. He hadn’t thought of home outside of the context that you couldn’t be there with him. It doesn’t even feel like home anymore.

“I’m expected back in a few days.” He admits. “Why? Are you so keen to get rid of me already?” Verin jokes. Your laughter is stifled by the sip you just took and almost sends you in a coughing fit.

“If I was you would have known. But no, perhaps I’m just wondering if this will become even more of a habit than it already is.” You raise your glass making the liquid within swirl.

“I certainly don’t mind the company.” Verin states boldly. It’s not out of character for him to do so though he’d gotten more restrictive and watched his more open flirtations. This one slipped through, though he can’t find it within his heart to care it did when you tilt your head at him, a flirty smile gracing your lips as you bat your eyelashes and gasp.

“Verin! What would the people think?” It’s your turn to earn a laugh from him this time. Then the silence and unspoken words; it can never be, return.

“So how much did you hear?” You ask and Verin’s brow raises in confusion. “Don’t play dumb with me. I know you heard Beau and I in the kitchen. Some would consider eavesdropping rude.” You add the last part as a joke to alleviate some of the tension around your question.

“More than enough.” He admits. There’s no point in lying or dancing around the truth. You’re not the nobility of the Dynasty nor are you a soldier under his command he doesn’t need to explain himself to. You have every right to know the truth and he will tell it like it is. You’ve earned that much from him.

“At least we are on the same page.” Verin breathes. These words, they feel wrong to him so much it leaves him doubting them. This does not go over your head and you can’t help but feel the simmering embers of a hope for something that shouldn’t- no can’t be. Ever since Beau said what she did you’ve been questioning everything, your own feelings conflicted and by the looks of it Verin isn’t much different.

“Are we?” You question with a deep sigh, mimicked by the drow warrior.

“When did you realise?” Verin asks and you raise an eyebrow as if to say ‘you really expect me to answer that’ but the look he gives you is enough to say he does and you think. Ever since you were introduced you hadn’t been shy about the fact that he’s keen on the eyes. You’ve gushed about that with some of the others but all in fairness. It wasn’t love at first sight. Definitely not. A cocky attitude and relentless flirt and much less of socially constipated personality than his brother, the definition of tall, dark and handsome that has Jester swoon at secondhand romance that just never happened. But none of that is affection. Simply attraction. It doesn’t mean anything until someone acts upon it or it grows into something more. Has it grown into something more?

“A couple of months after our first meeting. When you started coming by more often and we got to know each other properly. I think it was when we went out for dinner together in that dingy back alley tavern. Those thugs were so rude. We taught them a good lesson.” You reminisce the fight that followed after some idiots made some rude comments looking for a fight. You gave them a fight and ended up running from the local guard. Perhaps not the best when you were quite literally dragging what some would consider an enemy of the crown through the streets by his hand.

“What about you? When did you realise you were completely and utterly in love with me?” You tease nudging Verin with your toes. He grabs your foot and yanks, pulling you from your seated position to instead lay flat on your back on the couch. You just barely managed to save your drink from spilling giving him a playful glare. This is exactly why you liked him so much, the dynamic between the two of you, playful and lighthearted. Around you it’s as if Verin has left all his responsibilities back in Rosohna and can just be himself.

“I wouldn’t want to inflate your ego. But if you must know, it was a rather recent revelation caused only by myself wilfully downplaying my own feelings.” You raise your glass in agreement and stretch out your legs across Verin’s lap, pulling a pillow from where you were previously seated and place it beneath your head.

“That’s not an answer to my question, Verin. Won’t you indulge me with a real answer or will you keep dancing around the truth to save yourself the embarrassment?” You continue your teasing.

“You sound like my brother.” Verin retorts taking your drink from you. You try to scramble to your knees to make up for the height difference but an arm holds your legs firmly where they are. Still you sit up reaching for the fine amber liquid. Your attempts are futile still. Plan B. You arch your legs, pushing your heels into the cushioning of the couch and leverage your heels against the outer side of Verin’s thigh, lean yourself over his arm holding your legs and instead reach for the glass in his hand leaning over the arm of the couch. He’s quick but you’re quicker and through his surprise you manage to take his drink from him, holding it out of his reach. He goes for it but the hand firmly pressed against his chest keeps him from doing so and you smirk.

“Come on, I answered you. It’s only fair you do the same.” You push playfully. Verin knows well enough you’d take no for an answer if he gave it but he finds himself willing to speak.

“If it means you’ll give me back my drink. It’s moments like these. Looking back it made me realise I don’t have this luxury with anyone else, the closest I get is with your friends but whenever we’re together there’s just something so uniquely you that gives me a sense of belonging I have not experienced in a long time. That’s what made me realise my affections run deeper than a simple attraction.” Verin’s confession brings a genuine warmth to your face and you, as promised hold his glass out for him as he returns yours. Neither of you take it yet.

“There there, was that so hard to say?” With that instead of handing you your drink, Verin brings your glass to his lips and downs the contents in one big gulp. In revenge you go to do the same but Verin grabs the glass and holds it beyond your grasp again. He’s forced to let go his grip on your legs so you swing around and reach over him to get to it. Your legs on either side of his you raise to your knees and this time you manage to grab your glass quickly taking it and draining the contents. With a grin of victory your flick his chin up.

“Ha! I win.” You cup Verin’s face as his fingers wrap around your wrists. He doesn’t remove your hands nor does he move to shift your current position, unbothered by the closeness.

“I’d call that a draw.” He argues but you don’t feel like relenting.

“Whatever helps you sleep at night.” You let your hands drop but his hold onto your wrists remains, a light caress running over your palms. The touch is so affectionate neither you nor Verin really know what to do with it. Neither of you do anything to stop it either and instead live in the moment.

“Maybe Beauregard is right…” Verin breathes and you snort.

“Don’t let her hear you say it.” You still agree with Verin, allowing your mind to wander in this brief moment of affection between just the two of you. You’ve both been holding back despite your feelings being the same for the sake of the politics neither of you wanted to let rule your lives. They have and still do. Maybe it’s time to break the circle.

“What’s the worst that could happen?” You ask and doomsday scenarios play through your respective minds you find it within yourselves to brush them away. Those are problems for another day. You’ve been living in fear of a future that hasn’t even happened and lost sight of the present.

“So many things.” Verin laughs as his hand moves to cup your cheek, feeling the muscle move beneath his fingertips as you return a chuckle of your own. “May I kiss you?”

“I’d be disappointed if you didn’t.” Verin shakes his head before he leans in and closes the distance taking what you willingly give. It’s not a kiss of Jester’s countless romance novels and smut books but it is filled with affection and passion no less. Deprived of this previously by your own choices to hold off, you fully indulge now. You’ll worry about the aftermath another time. For now you’ll stop being star-crossed lovers and instead just be. Be yourselves. Be happy. Be in love.

[wretched-descension-zine]

✧ Written by: @mamichigo ✧ Illustrated by: @arsanders & Sam M ✧ Organized by: @nootiest

He hears a piercing cry just as the sun is starting to set. Albedo looks up from his experiment; the flask in his hand cracks, the earth rumbles. It sounds like nothing he has heard before. After a moment of deliberation, Albedo decides his experiment has been sufficiently ruined to be left behind, and he emerges from his camp to check for the cause of all the ruckus.

Although the air is still, Albedo still hears the growl echoing in his skull. He follows that echo to the very edge of the path, overlooking Wyrmrest Valley. Smoke billows from below. He narrows his eyes, finding a figure huddled by the fire. To his surprise, the person is already looking back.

Kaeya waves languorously with one hand, the other busy with poking at whatever was toasting in the fire. It’s strange to see Kaeya up in these mountains, and Albedo tries to convey his question by staring at him, unblinking. Kaeya laughs, eyes slitted, and mouths something Albedo can’t understand, not from this distance.

He can imagine the sort of trouble Kaeya can–and does–bring wherever he passes, so Albedo decides this has nothing to do with him and retreats back into his camp. However, he has little time to restart his procedures. The light shifts as he's pouring a chemical; Albedo looks up to find Kaeya standing by the entrance to the cave, a smile on his face and a container in his hands. When he sees Albedo looking, Kaeya tilts his head, and his expression grows more cat-like.

“Kaeya,” Albedo greets, albeit confused. “What are you doing here?”

“Our ever-dedicated Acting Grandmaster was worried about you,” Kaeya replies. ��Something about your supplies running low and ‘is he even eating up there.’ She was going to worry herself into an early grave, so I offered to look after you for a while.”

“I see.” Albedo’s gaze falls onto Kaeya’s hands. He raises his eyebrows. “And that?”

Instantly perking up, Kaeya approaches and shoves the container at Albedo. “I did promise I’d make sure you’re eating, but I can’t exactly make a sticky honey roast then carry it all the way in Dragonspine’s weather.” He leans further into Albedo’s space, hair falling slightly over his one visible eye. “So, I made do. There’s surprisingly lots to eat in Dragonspine.”

Albedo checks the contents inside, and finds a simple dish of meat and vegetables. The smell of it, however, is strong enough to permeate the air; did anything up here really smell like that?

“I didn’t know you were good at hunting,” Albedo muses as he takes a bite. Food is food, and Kaeya went out of his way to find this for him.

“Luckily, my target stayed very still for me,” Kaeya praises, eyes sparkling mischievously.

“It didn’t put up a fight?”

“Oh, it did.” He chuckles without a sound. Kaeya cups a hand around his mouth to whisper, “It screamed like the world was ending.”

Albedo startles as something buzzes in his ears. He looks to the piling snow outside; although there’s nothing there but the cold landscape, he can’t brush off the feeling that something is wrong. He glances back at Kaeya, and they share a look for a moment too long. He can’t tell what’s causing the uncertainty bubbling in his veins.

He files the thought away to be analyzed when he has a moment for himself, then finds himself a seat to continue his meal. Kaeya, on the other hand, doesn't sit—but he stands across from Albedo, where his eyes can follow his every move without much effort. Albedo bites into the meat, and swears he hears a distant hiss.

As he chews, pain needles at the roof of his mouth. Albedo pauses and feels along the ridges with his tongue; something small and sharp prickles the muscle.

“Is something wrong?” Kaeya asks.

Albedo shakes his head slightly and sticks out his tongue.

“Just a bone,” he explains.

"Ah, I'm sorry, I think it must've chipped off when I snapped—" Kaeya shrugs one shoulder. "Well, you get the picture. This is not something I'd normally eat, so a blunder was to be expected."

Albedo blinks at him, then nods. He pokes at the small perforation in his mouth and continues to eat, the coppery taste of blood mixed with the saltiness of the meat. Kaeya breathes a sigh of relief.

"If you want more, I'll be glad to provide," he offers, with a glee that Albedo doesn't understand.

It's easy to fall into a routine with Kaeya after that. Despite his boisterous personality, Kaeya makes a point not to badger Albedo while he's working. Besides his insistence to feed Albedo, he keeps mostly to himself. Most of the time, Albedo will look up from his notes and find out Kaeya has been gone for hours—the little corner of Albedo's camp he has claimed for himself is orderly, but cold.

One evening, curiosity gets the best of him and Albedo trudges along the path up the mountain to find signs of Kaeya. There's little to do up here if not for research or training; Albedo can hardly imagine what Kaeya could be distracting himself with late into the night.

The cold isn't a determent, but the snow, now reaching his calves, makes it hard to walk. As he squints, careful not to trip on anything in the dark, Albedo begins to wonder if Kaeya is in Dragonspine at all. He doubts someone inexperienced can find their way around the mountain paths after dusk.

The lake outside Starglow Cavern is deathly quiet as ever as he reaches it. Albedo looks around once, and finds himself alone. If anyone was here recently, the snow has long covered their tracks. Just as Albedo is about to give up on this endeavor, his eyes catch on something half-buried in the snow. He crouches by it and hooks a finger around one edge. The piece of fabric, although simple, seems to be made of expensive lace. Albedo strokes the fabric and wonders where he has seen it before.

His thoughts are interrupted by a shuffling sound. Albedo frowns and looks up; the noise is far, but he can tell it's coming from the other side of the lake, further along the path. He squints and stares into the dark, only hearing the shhhh of something being dragged in the snow.

He sees a figure, too tall and slim to be a hichurl. It takes a moment for him to recognize it, but Albedo sees blue fur and glittering jewelry.

"Kae—" He starts to say, but something stills his tongue. Albedo waits, on alert. Kaeya's chest heaves as he keeps walking, slowly, weighed down by the lump he's carrying. He can't identify the object, but it's as big as Kaeya himself, and heavy enough to have him struggling to carry it.

Albedo stills his breathing and takes a step back. At the same time, Kaeya freezes in place. He turns slightly, enough so Albedo can his profile—he wonders if it's a trick of the light that makes Kaeya's eyes appear as if they're glowing. Albedo ducks out of sight just as Kaeya twirls in his direction.

He crouches, cold and confused, close to the ground. The dragging sound continues, slowly, hauntingly. Albedo stays there for hours—long after the echoes of Kaeya's footsteps have disappeared.

Later, as they both settle into their sleeping bags, Albedo asks, "Have you seen anyone around Dragonspine lately?"

Kaeya makes a noncommittal sound in the back of his throat. "Looking for anyone in particular?"

"No, not really. Some people are known to visit, like the Adventurer's Guild, amongst others. I was wondering, since they haven't been to my camp in awhile."

The glow of the campfire flickers as it crackles. "As far as I know, we're the only ones on this mountain," he replies, amused.

Albedo can't seem to decipher his expression, half hidden by shadows. But then again, it appears he understands very little, lately.

"I see," Albedo mumbles. He holds the black headband he found in the snow, now hidden in his pocket.

He doesn't sleep at all.

[daikon-dishes]

𝐆𝐨𝐨𝐝 𝐌𝐨𝐫𝐧𝐢𝐧𝐠 | Nanami K. |

Nanami Kento told himself that he wasn’t ready for a relationship. Warnings: Major character death, manga spoilers, angst(?) 

┈┈┈┈┈┈┈┈┈┈┈┈┈┈

Nanami Kento hates talking about work. Especially when he’s simply relaxing in bed and suddenly, he gets called in by the ever so carefree Gojo Satoru to take care of something for him.

It was fine, however, as he doesn’t have anything to lose when his time comes. No one waiting for him and he had nothing to leave behind when he finally meets his match.

He had no one and he planned to keep it that way until, well, until that new bakery near his house opened for business. It was a nice place, perfect for working or studying and when Nanami went in to take a look for himself, he met you. Covered in flour and smelling like roast beef, you greeted him with a smile. “Good morning! What can I get you today?”

Honestly, he didn’t feel anything at first but he did come by every Tuesday morning and Friday afternoon for bread and coffee. He would sit on the table by the glass window and read his newspaper, occasionally glancing over when he hears you hum or drop something unimportant on the floor.

It was only when, after few months of wordless exchange, did he feel something... After returning your usual "Good Morning!" with a "Good Morning." He found his mornings incomplete when he doesn't go for a visit, his coffee doesn't taste the same unless it's from that bakery, even water doesn't taste the same.

The exchange of greetings turned to small talk. Thankfully, his usual seat was near the counter so whenever it's not a busy day, you both engage in casual small talk and even jab a few jokes here and there.

"It's gonna rain soon..."

"Do you have an umbrella with you?"

"Uhm... Haha... No." He left his umbrella with you that day and came home soaking wet but satisfied that you won't get sick tomorrow.

Now, as much as he enjoys the company of the pretty woman covered in flour, Nanami Kento wasn't ready for a relationship and he never expects himself to be. His line of work meant life or death every day. He could die anytime and that was fine at first but now he found himself wanting to live every day to see tomorrow. He couldn't risk unintentionally making a loved one, specifically, you cry because he wasn't strong enough.

Nanami convinced himself that this was sufficient. This was fine. Seeing your smiling face, eating the bread you made with your own hands, drinking the coffee you brewed, and listening to your troubles was enough to get him through the week and convince himself that through his line of work, he was protecting you.

That was enough and he would die with no regrets, knowing he wasn't leaving anyone behind. And yet, as he felt his soul being stretched and shattered, why did he feel sad. Why did he feel regret? Only when his mind was going through his memories like a sped-up movie and pausing specifically on your face... did he realize why he felt sorrow.

Nanami Kento was nothing more than a stranger to you. He never told you his name and he never learned yours. You wouldn't grieve his death and once he stops coming, you would just assume he's moved on to another bakery.

Right... He never got to wish you a good morning today.

[georgiansuggestion]

Miss Grange has a houseguest. Transcript under the cut.

Is it a pilot? Is it a pitch? Is it an end-of-year amateur spectacular? You decide.

Featuring music from incompetech.com.

Contains references to food, vomiting, and murderous intent.

My dearest Evelyn,

I wish to tell you all of my novel situation in Lesser Mensleghdale, but no sooner did I settle than did my gracious benefactor (my cousin, of whom you have been previously informed) dispatch his nephew (therefore my cousin of some degree or another), and with no notice whatever, as my first house-guest.

Thusly I find myself to be thoroughly preoccupied at present and little able to account for the persons of the parish, the scéne of my abode and the manner in which I now live.

But rest assured I shall be writing of it, as the house and village are of great interest to me, and its happenings, I believe, would compel you, who are trapped in that dismal terraced house in Bath, with your thirty servants and nothing but the pump-rooms, the theatre, and parties to amuse you.

I say he arrived without notice, and that is not the whole truth.

The truth of it is his notice came some five minutes before he did, as from the top of Ladder Hill (which is the little slope on which the house stands) the maid Phoebe saw a gig and two horses, driven by a most unruly character, who whooped and howled as he drove the beasts up the path.

She maintains there were trunks and boxes which fell from the gig as it travelled, but these have yet to be found and I believe that to be an invention of her fancy.

Still, the young man’s arrival, and the nausea of his poor valet, were quite real and readily apparent, and as he arrived, my cousin passed the sorry gentleman retching in the drive to press a note of introduction into my hands, affirming that he was a relation of mine after all and that I was obliged to shelter him.

His name I believe is Ratthew, though he had such a refined and smoothly genteel manner of speaking that I had very great difficulty understanding a word he said.  

He is a young and unmarried man of some four-and-twenty, and I must consider my cousin, his uncle—that is his uncle, who is my cousin--had some agenda in directing him to me.

He cannot have any intention of seeing the fellow return home, because knowing his character, and being somewhat aware of my own, he must have theorised, rightly, that in several days I will be compelled to kill him, or vice versa.

There was still more trouble as not only were we unprepared for a dinner guest, but we had planned (and rather economically, as you know I am) to eat only some cold liver pie from yesterday, while my cousin insisted on a fresh roasted joint of beef.

This he claimed to be necessary as he purports to be a “growing lad”, though I believe at four-and-twenty his height at this juncture ought to be sufficient.

We did have a small roast, and Phoebe made quick work of it, but it is a loss of what we might have eaten Sunday next and my account-book feels the expense.

Of course, one cannot complain excessively when one is living upon the generosity of other people; at least, one cannot complain directly to one’s hosts, but I have no such impingement upon my liberty in writing to a dear friend such as yourself.

It is the only thing keeping me in my senses, and so I pray you do not chastise me for it, Eve.

Over the course of our meal Ratthew, in an act of familial charity, determined definitively the cause of my spinsterhood.

He alleges it to be some mismanagement or misalignment in the arrangement of my features, and that perhaps I took a tumble down a flight of stairs or a tree in my childhood.

As I did not ask for his insight on the matter, I cannot concede in good conscience that he is correct.

Further, he finds me wanting in accomplishment, as I am not musical, and therefore tasked himself to demonstrate what he called “true and natural musical talent” upon the pianoforte.

I am endeavouring to find a melody in the noise he has produced, and there is little else to do, as the clock shows we near four o’clock in the morning, and my guest has not tired in this occupation.

He is to stay on another week; I can only pray he finds this place too dull to remain at.

Yours faithfully, Thusannon Grange.

[whatdoesshedotothem]

Sunday 2 March 1840

8 40/..

12 35/..

Long in dressing or rather in arranging and doing 1 little thing or other – breakfast at 10 ½ to 11 ½ - then at accounts – had George and the courier and translated the Russian accounts of the latter into French or English – till 12 ½ - then at the courier’s account till 2 – A- and I read prayers at 2 20/.. in ½ hour – talked a little – dressed – off to dinner at Madame Stalepines’ in her carriage at 4 ¼ it having waited ¼ hour – a large party gradually assembled – and 2 parties sat down to cards – it must have been near 5 ½ before we sat down to dinner – 12 ladies and 18 gentlemen and A- says there was a small table in our adjoining room – soup and patés – roast beef (a rouleau cut in thick slices and small onions and chestnuts fried in the middle of the dish) – poisson blanc du Volga – (Sterlet here – 50 ot 60 kop. per lb. the fish would cost 100/. at St. P- I observed yes! 300/. at St. P-) then little birds on toast with kidney beans in the middle then a plat of game (gelinottes etc.) cut up followed by salad and coucombers [cucumbers] salés – then a gateau (good – of sponge cake and sweetmeat) then ice in 3 round grades yellowish white bottom, red, and white oval ball perched on the top – then preserved pine – then and lastly preserved magnum bonums – we had quass and porter – and water decanters bottles in clusters of 3 all down the table on each side with a tumbler and couple of wine glasses each – 5 pairs of candles (brought by and by) down the middle of the table, and by and by little brass lamps affixed to the walls – 3 on one side – one on the window side and about 2 at each end London porter was handed when the champagne or Donskoi came we began with the toasts 6 at least in succession at intervals of a few minutes – a marriage dinner – the custom here to drink the healths of bride and bridegroom, and père assis and others all were of our party and on their healths being drunk rose and bowed their thanks to all around – lastly bishof handed round – a Japan bread basket full of liqueur glasses handed and each took out a glass and held it or put it on the table to be filled (Lunel wine with Saville oranges) – Madame S- then asked me to take a little water which I did and we got up from table probably after 7 – coffee – the carriage not being ready waited a little – home at 8 5/.. Madame S- being to call for me at 10 to go to the ball – A- stays at home – till 8 ½ wrote all but the first 4 lines of this page – then tea till now 9 – nobody handed out today  the lady of the house told us to seat ourselves and all the ladies were together by her and all the gentlemen by him  the ladies were provincial and all together there was a considerable falling off in style from Kazan  to say nothing of Moscow   she from Moscow nobody knew old Princess Ourosoff  till the pe the princess R-‘s going to court which brought them all into notice   the old prince not very bright  nor he nor his wife had any fortune Madame Lapetine from Moscow – her brother is attached to the Russian Embassy at Constantinople – the vice governor of Saratoff [Saratov] was of

our party – desired to make his acquaintance and he as presented to me after dinner – he says it will be best to go tout droit from Sarepta to Astrakhan, and see the Calmuck Encampment from A- there is a petite route from here to Uralsk and thence to Orenburg -  should find difficulty about horses but if we return here the governor general will give us a person with us from here who will shew us whatever is remarkable and save us all trouble – even our courier de poste would not be sufficient to do this on the road from here to U- the vice president then presented the chef de la police – I said if we returned here we should immediately faire visite à Madame la femme du vice governeur and hoped also to find the governor general returned – they said Mr. Temirazoff was, they heard, en route at present for Astrakhan – the German preceptor of the Stalepines asked the chief person of Sarepta (who was also of our party) to give us letters for Sarepta – we are to have them at 10 ½ a.m. tomorrow so that our setting off is delayed till 11 a.m. instead of 6 a.m. as proposed – wrote the last 19 lines till now 9 ¼ - then till 9 40/.. writing out stations to Tzarizen [Tsaritsyn] then reading Schnitzler vol. 1 till 10 when Madame Stelapine sent compliments and excuses – very sorry elle avait la migraine and could not go to the ball tonight, but would send the carriage to take me there if I chose – compliments and thanks in return and declined going – undressed – put away my things etc. till now 11 ¾ - R-13° about noon today dehors – and R+13° on my table in my bedroom on getting up this morning – fine day -

[dangermousie]

I think this is the most formative event of Minglan’s life - her mother dying in childbirth and nobody in the household doing anything to help and Concubine Lin actively preventing help. I mean - think of it - a five or six year old has to climb over the wall and escape the house to seek help because there is nobody else to do it! And not just that, but ultimately her mother and unborn brother die and nobody is punished for it, and nobody cares - here is where she first learns to lock her heart behind thick thick walls because the people who were supposed to love and care for her - her father, her family - have done none of it and she learns she cannot rely on or trust her family, so how can she trust anyone else?

And the other thing - nobody outside is helping either. A small child from a clearly wealthy family is running in a panic and nobody at all stops to help her except Tingye, a child who briefly met her once when she beat him in a game. That’s horrible. Also, Tingye’s tendency to help strangers because they are in trouble is clearly innate and sometimes ends badly (Manniang clearly took advantage of that nature) but sometimes very well (after all, that is how he first met the future emperor and his son.)

His giving her his cloak. Awwwww.

The thing that I love the most about Tingye is how efficient and competent he is. Think about it, here he unhitches the horse to go to the doctor faster, convinces the doctor to come back (on horseback, no less), leaves someone to care for Minglan meanwhile so they won’t be slowed down, finds the gate closed and realizing the situation doesn’t waste any time knocking but climbs over and opens the door from the inside. He is a very self-sufficient person and that serves him well when his family kicks him out and he has to fend for himself. Unlike a lot of the characters in this story, Tingye would always be all right as long as he wasn’t deathly ill or something, because he can rely on himself when all else fails.

Using his status for good.

But of course it’s too late, and Minglan’s mother dies anyway. I think what scars Minglan so much isn’t so much her mother’s death - because back then it wasn’t too uncommon, sadly - but the household’s lack of reaction to it. Nobody cares. Nobody except Tingye who is almost a total stranger. It’s a nonevent and the family moves on happily and Minglan has this huge hole in her life, this huge burning injustice, and everybody is too busy enjoying themselves and living their lives to care. It’s as she says to Tingye many years later, when they are both adults - that he, a stranger, was the only one who cared, and her family treated it as a nonevent - the deaths, the murder, the lack of help.

Also, the total awfulness of her having to refer to her mother as Mistress Wei. Yikes. When Minglan marries Tingye, she never orders his daughter to call her mother, even though she’s legally and societal custom entitled to it. When the girl eventually calls her mother (and Minglan’s face at that!), it’s because the girl has come to love her and view her as a mother so calling her as such is an expression of, not suppression of, the child’s feeling. And I think Minglan does that precisely because she remembers what it felt like to have to do it out of obligation, what that felt like as a child. Both the Shengs and the Gus are messed-up, even abusive families, in their different ways, and the family members cope with it in different ways. Some, like Molan or Tingye’s stepmother, choose to spread the misery around. But both Minglan and Tingye actually take the lesson from it of what not to do, what they do not want in their own adult families, how to do better - because they remember what that felt like to be on the receiving end. Minglan unlike her father, is fiercely loyal to those in her circle and pays attention to all the details of the household. Tingye is a caring father who does not place the sins of the mother against his children in the least and only sticks to one woman. Etc etc.

I wonder which father is worse - Papa Sheng or Marquis Gu? At first glance, it seems an easy answer when one remembers Tingye’s back - that scene in ep whatever where he bares his back and the old empress dowager who hates him freaks out clearly shows Marquis Gu should be roasting on a nice skillet in hell. And we are not even going to get into gaslighting. But the thing is, Marquis Gu hates Tingye as the offspring of a woman he hated having to marry. Papa Sheng does not hate Minglan. In fact, he probably thinks of her fondly when he remembers her, once a year or so. But he doesn’t care to take care of her or about anything but his own comfort and so lets her be neglected, her mother killed, and just it’s an emotional wasteland for her. (The irony is his childhood was also abusive and full of neglect due to his father’s care for nothing but himself but he has learned nothing and repeats the same patterns in his household.)

Tingye aka Job’s Comforter. But once again, in the large household supposedly full of family, he’s the only one who tries.

This is one of Minglan’s most abiding characteristics - she will seek vengeance where she has to but if one has done her a good turn, she will remember it and repay if she can.

[vkelleyart]

Happy Valentine’s Day, loves! My candy heart comes to you in the form of this fluffy illustrated one-shot (a.k.a. fic-with-a-pic). I hope you enjoy it!

TITLE: “Merlin, May I?” (7466 words)

Rating: Teen and up

Summary: When Simon Snow gets roped into a game of ‘Merlin May I’ against Baz Pitch, what starts off as a competition between mages for the most dangerous request ends up precipitating an unexpected collision of hearts.

READ ON AO3 | Fic + art close-ups are under the cut

Special thanks to @carryonsimoncarryonbaz​, @penpanoply​, and especially Mr. VKelleyArt (Merlin May I kiss you?) for beta reading this fic. ❤️

SIMON

Ah, Spring!

With the sun on my face, the promise of a warm roast beef sandwich in my pocket, and an outdoor luncheon with Penny to look forward to, I’m living in the present moment for a while. The rains have finally given way to clear skies and a crisp breeze. Green has returned to the Great Lawn. And, in a pleasant turn of events, Agatha’s started talking to me again since we broke up last winter. (Okay, maybe not actually talking, but she’s not scurrying off in the opposite direction when she sees me approaching in the hallway anymore. Progress.)

My faith in humanity momentarily restored, and death-by-dark-creature and other variations of my imminent doom seemingly far away, few things on earth could spoil a day like today.

“Oi, Snow!”

Except maybe that.

I turn my gaze downhill to see the voice hailing me belongs to Dev Grimm. Beside him, sneering at me from below a perfect wave of black hair is Baz Pitch.

They are both standing on the inner edge of a circle chockablock with eighth-years. It looks like some sort of spectator event is happening, because standing in the center of the circle are Gareth and Niall, the expression on Gareth’s face bleak and dazed, like he’s just misplaced his dignity and doesn’t know where to look for it.

Dev calls me again. “Fancy joining in, Simon?”

“Not likely,” I say, watching Gareth drag his feet up toward the drawbridge like a man condemned. “What happened to him?”

Baz turns toward me and runs a hand through his hair, moving it out of his eyes. “Gareth was just defeated in Merlin May I,” he answers, prompting the spread of a pompous grin across Niall’s face. “And now Niall here will reap the benefits of Gareth’s… concessions.” A rumble of laughter moves through the crowd.

I frown.

“‘Merlin May I’? What in the name of magic is that?”

“You don’t want to know, Simon. It’s a rotten game,” says Penny, traipsing down behind me. “And shame on all of you for enabling this ridiculousness!” she scolds the crowd, instigating a sea of eye-rolls.

“Come now, Bunce,” says Baz, stepping through an opening in the crowd toward us. “You don’t mean to say you’ve never played Merlin May I. I figured you a braver magician than that.”

Penny’s eyes turn into slits behind her glasses. “Refusing to play that nightmare of a game has no bearing on my bravery. It just means I’m not a glutton for punishment. Or a thundering idiot.”

Baz’s eyes move away from Penny and fix on me. I feel my cheeks flush, and suddenly the sun’s warmth overhead is bordering on oppressively hot.

“That’s perfect. Snow is both. I bet he’d love to play.”

BAZ

Aleister Crowley, I can’t believe my luck. Fate has delivered Simon Snow to my Merlin May I tournament, and though his plucky sidekick is trying to tug him away, he’s still rooted to the spot, which tells me he’s a few carefully timed insults away from playing a round of it himself.

“Simon, don’t you dare,” warns Bunce.

“Don’t worry, Penny. I don’t even know what Merlin May I is.”

“I’d be delighted to bring you up to speed,” I say. “Merlin May I is the mage’s hawk-dove game. We take turns making requests—to do things, take things, and generally force our opponent’s hand—until someone makes a request the other person can’t comply with. Dev, care to brief Snow on the rules?”

“Gladly,” he replies. “The rules are simple…”

You must say “Merlin May I” at the start of every request.

You may not repeat any requests already made.

No requests that will result in shagging, death, or other potentially fatal calamities are allowed either.

To accept a request, you must say “Yes, you may.” Otherwise, say: “You may not.”

The first person to say “You may not” loses the game, and the game is over.

When the game ends, every request the loser agrees to during the game, the winner gets to carry out.

“In other words, say ‘yes, you may’ at your peril,” I finish.

“So it’s ‘chicken’?” Simon sums up. “You just ask questions to see how much the other person will tolerate before they decide they don’t want you to completely fuck them over?”

“No. Chicken is prosaic and dull. Merlin May I is a game of risk and trust. A test of free will,” I reply grandly. “Your opponent may or may not throw you to the merewolves depending on what you request, so you’ll need to weigh just how much harm you want to inflict against how much you’re willing to take. Which is also to say that you should only ask questions you already know the answer to if you want to stay in the game, and that is the last tip I’m giving you.”

“It sounds terrible. I’ll pass.”

“What’s the matter?” I say. “Worried I’ll ask to move your bed to the bottom of the moat?”

“You probably would,” Simon mutters. “Why would anyone play this game? Seems like an easy way to lose friends and make enemies.”

He isn’t wrong. Watford played host to one of the most epic Merlin May I games of all time, and it brought a dramatic end to the school’s then-power couple, Gemma Harrington and Claus Beuchner. They were eight hours into the game when Gemma asked to fly Beuchner’s parents’ Lamborghini into a maelstrom and Claus agreed. He was out of his depth, of course, lost spectacularly, and got into so much trouble for agreeing to Gemma’s requests that his parents made him volunteer to scoop dragon dung at the Swedish Speartail Sanctuary for the rest of term. When he returned, the aroma of smoke and putrescence followed him around the halls for several months.

“Precisely,” I say. “I’m already your enemy. You have nothing to lose.”

“No, thanks. Come on, Penny.” Snow takes a bite from his sandwich, adjusts his rucksack over his shoulder, and turns like he’s about to leave.

I never want him to leave.

“Come, Snow. I’ll make sure your defeat is quick and painless.”

At this, Simon fixes me with an icy glare. “Who says you’d defeat me?”

“I do.”

“You won’t be feeling so jammy in a minute,” he snaps.

I smirk. “Then you’re in?”

Simon drops his rucksack, takes another bite of sandwich, and straightens his jacket. “I’m in.”

“Splendid,” I say.

“Simon!” exclaims Bunce.

“It’ll be fine, Pen,” Simon mutters. “There’s hardly anything terrible this prat can do to me that he hasn’t already done.”

“Apart from kill you!”

I roll my eyes. “As much as it’s in everyone’s best interest for Snow to die, Bunce, requesting his death is against the rules.”

Bunce glares at me, then at Simon. “I’m not playing witness to this. Go ahead and have at it. I’m going to lunch.”

“Oh, come on, it’ll just be a moment,” Simon calls after her, but she’s already storming away. He turns back to face me and sighs. “Let’s get this over with.”

“Yes. Let’s.”

Dev steps forward. “Hands up,” he says and pulls his wand out of his pocket. I extend my right hand toward Simon.

Snow is instantly suspicious. “What’s this about?”

“Insurance,” I answer, “to ward against cheating and ensure we carry out what we agree to. Go on.”

Hesitantly, he takes it. Dev lays the tip of his wand against our joined hands and says, “Do or do not. There is no try.” Dev’s magic sinks blue and cold into our skin.

The game has begun.

“You can start,” I say.

“Fine,” Simon huffs, then takes a massive bite of sandwich as he thinks of something to ask for. After a solid minute of chewing, which I can only assume takes so long because it is directly fueling his capacity for thought, Snow finally says, “Merlin May I pass your essay for Magical Words class off as my own?”

“Yes, you may,” I snigger. “Though I should warn you that Miss Possibelf isn’t a complete moron and will know who really wrote it by the time she gets three words in.”

“I didn’t ask for commentary. Your turn.”

“Merlin May I keep our window closed at night for the rest of term?”

Simon rolls his eyes. “Is this why you wanted me to play? So you could magically strongarm me into complying with your petty wishes?”

“I’m just taking advantage of a rare opportunity to get what I want without throwing curses at you,” I reply. “Your answer?”

“Yes, you may,” he grumbles. “But then… Merlin May I practice my swordplay on your side of the room?”

I frown at him. “I’m assuming you can resist shredding my bedsheets. And clothes. And all my bloody furniture. Yes, you may.”

Simon smiles, satisfied at having sufficiently lowered my upper hand and disturbed my good mood.

We go on for several rounds, and Snow impresses me with his creativity. He manages to rope me into trading soap with him (which pained me deeply to accept, but I suppose even Simon would prefer not to smell like a hospital once in a while) and confiscating my stash of salt and vinegar crisps because apparently the crumbs get stuck to his bare feet. I told him he wouldn’t have to fuss about it if he’d stop being a Neanderthal and get a set of slippers. (At which point, he Merlin-May-I’ed mine away from me.)

But it’s all relatively harmless. Nothing he’s asked for has legitimately threatened me, and as a result, I’ve had a decently challenging time trying to match Snow’s list of requests. I’ve obstructed Bunce’s secret visits to Mummer’s House, and I’ve forced him to let me Clean As a Whistle his side of the room whenever it starts to look like a numpty nest, but I don’t know how much further to go.

Our spectators look bored. Snow has so little to his name, there’s barely anything worth taking from him without leaving him naked and joyless, the latter of which doesn’t suit my interests at all. I just want to needle him, not destroy his will to live.

“All right,” I pick back up, deciding to raise the stakes. “Merlin May I eat all your scones at tea tomorrow?”

Simon blanches. (Adorably.) “All of them? I’ve never seen you eat one, let alone as many as I can put away.”

“What does that matter so long as it means you don’t get to eat them?” I retort.

He folds his arms across his chest. “Fine. I hope you choke on them.”

I tip an ear toward him. “Sorry, what was that?”

“Yes. You. May,” says Simon through clenched teeth. He looks justifiably forlorn until something wicked occurs to him and his smile returns.

“Merlin May I… play your violin?”

The crowd around us “Ohs” like this is a football game and Snow’s just fouled me.

Because he has. My violin is nearly 300 years old. It’s practically a museum piece. If my parents ever found out Simon so much as touched it, they’d cancel my classes and confiscate the instrument along with my entire sheet music collection.

It’s also my most treasured possession next to my wand. Crowley knows what this hamfisted idiot might do to it.

Well, fuck all, it’s a risk I’ll have to take.

“Yes. You may,” I hiss. “You’ll pay for that one, Snow.”

“Yeah? Let’s hear it then.”

His whole body is tilted in my direction. His jaw is pushed out, his eyes flinty. This is my favourite of Simon’s expressions (he only has about three), which is why I provoke it as often as I do. It often precedes him roughing me up, which is the only physical contact with Snow I’m allowed to have, but I’ll take it.

No one would know it by looking at me—least of all Snow—but my heart is practically beating its way out of my rib cage with anticipation.

I know the answer to my next request. It’s the one I ask him in my mind all the time. But I’ll finally get to say it out loud.

I make sure everyone can hear me.

“Merlin May I kiss you?”

Simon drops his sandwich.

SIMON

“Kiss me?” I repeat. “What are you playing at?”

Baz cackles at me. “Well, it’s a classic trap, isn’t it? If you say ‘yes,’ you’ll finally be called out for spreading lies because no one in their right mind would let a vampire’s mouth anywhere near them. Back down, and you’ll not only lose the game, you’ll be branded a coward,” he explains. His head is tilted slightly upward so he can look down on me.

“So which is it, Snow?” he asks, his eyes bright, triumphant. “Are you a liar, or are you a weakling? Either way, I win.”

“I’m neither. You are a manipulative arsehole,” I growl.

He shrugs. “In the present circumstances, I’ll take that as a compliment.”

I clench my jaw and shove my elbows against my sides to keep from reaching up and creating a more dramatic bend in his nose with my fist.

“Well?” he drawls, his voice saccharine sweet. “May I?”

Fuck it all, there’s nothing else I can say, is there?

“You may… not.”

Baz’s lips curl into a vicious smile. Applause for his cunning victory permeates the crowd of students around us, and I can feel my magic, red and burning, prickle up my spine like the mercury in a thermometer.

No.

I’ll be damned if this actual bloodsucking wanker walks off thinking he’s won.

He’s turning away from me when I seize him by the sleeve. I yank him back and shove my face into his, catching his mouth in a kiss that nearly cuts my lip on my own teeth. Everyone around us gasps in unison, then goes instantly silent.

There. I’m not a coward or a liar if kissing a vampire in the presence of at least three dozen witnesses ensures I won’t get bitten.

I didn’t plan this out very well, though.

My mouth is pinched shut and crammed uncomfortably against Baz’s, and he’s completely frozen on the spot. (Literally, I think. His lips feel like ice.) I’m tempted to open my eyes just to see if his are closed. He doesn’t even pull his sleeve out of my fingers.

I also think I’ve bruised my lip. I don’t know if I’m motivated by discomfort or habit, but I soften against him the way I would if he were Agatha. And for the briefest moment—less than a few seconds—I kiss him properly. I suppose I don’t know any other way to kiss.

Astonishingly, Baz’s breath smells like cinnamon tea. I don’t know what I was expecting (blood, maybe?) and I also don’t know why this observation feels so important, but it instantly wedges itself in my long-term memory.

Because… he’s kissing me back.

I flinch and pull away.

When I open my eyes, Baz looks like he’s been visited by Merlin‘s ghost. His lips are still parted. His eyes are wide and glittering at me.

I clear my throat.

“Reckon it’s lunchtime,” I say above a chorus of hoots and howls of laughter. I feel lightheaded and embarrassed, so I try to channel Baz’s arrogance, smirking as I reach down for my rucksack and sandwich (the latter of which thankfully fell onto the former when I dropped it).

When I stand back upright, he’s striding down toward the Wavering Wood away from me, his coal-black hair dancing in the wind behind him.

BAZ

I’m sitting on a large rock—fuming—when I hear Snow’s footsteps crunching loudly behind me. His foot must slip on some wet leaves because I hear him yelp so loudly, it sends the dryads back into their huts. He has the grace of a hippopotamus.

“Hunting, are we?” he calls after me.

“Fuck off,” I say.

“Funny. That’s usually my line.”

I ignore him.

“I don’t know why you’re sulking,” he grumbles. “You’re the one who made me play.”

“A decision I wholeheartedly regret. Come to gloat now that you’ve humiliated me?”

“Humiliated you? You were trying to humiliate me!” Snow bothers his curls with one hand and makes a gnarled mess of them. “I actually came here to apologize, but seeing as you’re still intent on being a git, I’ll just head back to lunch with Penny and be satisfied that you’ll have all my scones tomorrow as a consolation prize.”

“Consolation prize indeed. You cheated,” I snap, and I hate how petulant I sound.

“I didn’t cheat.”

“Yes, you did. The game was over. And then you decided to make up your own rules.”

“What else was I supposed to do? You cornered me!”

I spring to my feet and spin around to face him. “Of course I cornered you! Entrapment is how you win! I’d demand a rematch if I didn’t think you’d just find a new way to cock it up!”

Snow flings down his rucksack. “Come on, then. A rematch.”

“Here? In the Wavering Wood, where no one can witness your defeat? That’s convenient.”

“Yes, here. Where no one can wipe you off the floor if you call a chimera on me and it goes after you instead,” he snarls. “Which, by the way: you’re welcome.”

“I’m not thanking you for that. If not for me, it would have obliterated us both. You don’t even know how to trigger your own nuclear meltdowns without my help.”

“Get on with it, arsehole.”

“On one condition,” I hiss. “This time, we play the sudden death version of the game. That means every request gets fulfilled on the spot—no hesitation, no excuses.” I fold my arms. “Then we’ll see who is the hawk and who is the dove.”

Simon nods.

“You’re on.”

SIMON

“You start this time,” I say, squaring my shoulders.

Baz is leering at me through narrowed eyes. “Merlin May I have your sandwich?”

It takes everything in me not to throw it at him.

“Yes, you may,” I reply. He reaches me in two steps, stopping less than an arm-length away. (Trying to intimidate me already, the prick.) Then, he grabs my sandwich and flings it into the brush.

One does not simply take away my sandwich and my scones without a fight.

I go straight for the jugular.

“Merlin May I have your wand,” I say in as even a voice as I can muster.

Baz’s nostrils flare. “That depends. Do you plan to use it to blow yourself up?”

“Answer the question.”

He pauses, then he reaches into his sleeve and draws out his wand. “Yes. You may,” he says, like the words are being dragged out of him against his will, his eyes locked on mine as he drops it into my palm.

Shit. I never thought in a million years he’d ever let me take his wand. It seems impossible—counterintuitive even—but he must trust me at least a little if he’d relinquish it. I set it down on the rock.

“Merlin May I have your sword?” he asks.

I feel myself pale. “Shouldn’t you be asking for my wand?”

“No repeats. And what would be the point? You’re practically useless with one.”

“Fuck you, Baz.”

This isn’t going well at all. I can’t bloody think with Baz this close to me. After a brief pause in which I struggle to come up with ways this could backfire, I come up dry and finally say, “Yes, you may.”

He extends both hands. I call the Sword of Mages and hold it up between us by the hilt. Baz doesn’t so much as flinch, but I can see his brain working behind his eyes.

He didn’t expect me to give up my sword anymore than I expected him to give up his wand.

I lay the blade gently across his palms, but he doesn’t put it down. “Why are you still holding it?” I ask.

“There’s nothing in the rules that say I have to put it down. Consider it a deterrent—in case you’re thinking of asking for permission to hit me.”

“Is that right? Well then: Merlin May I take your hands?” I ask.

“You… may.”

Baz looks irritated and bends to put my sword on the ground behind him. Where I can’t reach it.

When he stands again, I hold out my hands. For a moment he just stares at them, and my mind races for a way he might twist my request to harm me. He’s a vampire; I wonder if he would use super strength to crush my fingers in his grip.

But then he slides both his palms over mine. Gently. His hands are rougher than I expected (from a lifetime lighting flames in his palms, no doubt) and cold.

So cold.

The shock of it makes me involuntarily close my fingers around his, like it’s my own hands that are freezing and I need to warm them.

Unnerved, I look up at Baz’s face.

He’s staring right at my throat.

BAZ

Fucking Snow.

He’s better at this than I thought he’d be. I need a way to get his hands off my own and end this before I forget we’re playing “Merlin May I” altogether and trap him with a kiss instead of a question.

I see something glitter near the button of his collar. “Merlin May I take your cross necklace?” I say.

His eyes widen. “It’ll burn you.”

“You don’t know that.”

“Yes, I do. You’re a vampire.”

“Yeah? Prove it. Give me the necklace.”

Snow lets go of my hands, and I let out the breath I had no idea I was holding. I watch as he reaches behind his neck, unclasps the chain, and dangles the cross between us.

I don’t let him drop it in my hand. I simply close my fingers around the chain, making sure not to make contact with the cross itself, and cup my other hand around the pendant as I would protecting a flame from the wind. He can’t see that it’s not touching my skin. Quickly, I drop it onto the rock beside my discarded wand.

Snow frowns. “Let me see your palm,” he demands.

I shake my head. “Not if that’s how you’re asking.”

He growls. “Merlin May I see your palm?”

I hold my hand up, but he snatches it out of the air and squints so he can get a better look. With his other hand, he runs a finger down the centerline of my palm to see if I’m burned, and it’s everything I can do to keep my breath from hitching at the sensation of it. His touch is so soft, it feels like dragonflies lighting in my hand.

It’s as if he doesn’t want to inflict more pain, in case the cross had burned me after all.

Snow looks up at me, disappointed. Hurt. Because he knows I’ve tricked him and he can’t prove it. I ought to be used to that expression. I lie to him daily. This shouldn’t be any different than any other trick, but here, alone in the Wavering Wood together with my hand in his, standing on the receiving end of that glare feels like he’s slapped me.

Surely, he knows. He must know; when I cornered him on the great lawn and threatened to out him as a dishonest weakling, I wasn’t talking about him. How could I be? Simon Snow is the most powerful mage ever to walk the earth (and trample my heart in the process).

I am the liar. I am the coward.

I am… losing my nerve.

My constitution won’t let me concede defeat yet—I am a Pitch, after all—but I also can’t help entertaining an outcome where I just cave, hand him his victory, and come clean. Crowley, what would that feel like? What disasters might occur if I confessed it all right here, with the Chosen One burning lines into my palms with his fingertips?

Maybe then, I’d be freed from the other game we play. The one where I pretend I’m not a love-sick vampire with a brass neck and too many secrets. I could just let it all go—my better judgment, my family’s wishes, my hardwired instinct for self-preservation—and say it…

I asked to kiss you, Simon Snow, because I knew you’d never let me. Because I punish myself for loving you by conjuring scenarios where I can come close enough to your fire without being burned.

Of course, he went and kissed me anyway, and now I’m incinerating.

If only.

I wish I could believe that, if he trusts me enough to hand over the only two things in the world that could protect him from someone like me, perhaps I could trust him, too.

I’d tell him no one asked for my permission to make me what I am. There was no “Merlin May I?” when the vampires bit me. There wasn’t one when the Crucible shackled me to Snow, either, and I sure as fuck didn’t ask to fall in love. The whole concept of free will as it applies to my life is a sick joke.

Simon was right. This game is terrible.

I don’t want to play anymore.

SIMON

When I look up at Baz’s face, I see him staring straight at me, his grey eyes boring holes into my pupils. They’re like mirrors in this light, casting back the greens and browns of the forest around us. I catch myself looking for my reflection in them before I clear my throat and say, “It’s your turn.”

I have no idea what he could possibly ask for now. We’ve disarmed each other, except for my wand, but he’s right. Ever since he asked to kiss me, my magic has been volatile and flaring just under my skin. I’d avoid using it against him. (Too risky.) And, rules or no rules, he’s still close enough to bite me if he wanted. No one else is here. Looking at his face now, tense and concentrating, I wonder if he’s thinking the same thing.

Would being bitten feel different than kissing him felt?

I think, in either case, my heart stops.

He’s got a strange look on his face. When Baz finally speaks, it’s unlike any sound I’ve ever heard come from his mouth. His voice is soft and low, all its sharp edges gone. Like music.

“Merlin May I touch you,” he says, “here.”

His fingers hover over my neck, just below my jaw.

My heart is racing now. Maybe he’s putting me in a thrall (vampires can do that, can’t they?), or else it’s a challenge. Maybe he wants me to think he’s actually going to bite me so I’ll concede defeat. But neither of these theories seems compatible with the sound of Baz’s voice, and the next moment, the breeze sends a whiff of cinnamon in my direction, turning all my thoughts to mud.

I say, “Yes, you may,” and Baz’s face is unreadable. I feel his fingers first, then his palm. His thumb trails against my cheek. I expect it to feel uncomfortable, but it doesn’t. My skin is always too warm and his feels like cool water against it.

I can’t help it. I think of Baz’s lips parting against mine.

The breeze picks up then, sending his raven hair flying. He turns his face into the wind, but his hand is on my neck, and I don’t want him to let go.

“Merlin May I touch your hair?” I ask.

He looks confused. It’s an expression Baz doesn’t usually wear unless I’ve done something uncharacteristically civil, like thanking him for leaving the bathroom door open, or waiting for him to finish his homework to turn off the light. It usually precedes a sneer or an eyeroll, but instead, I see Baz’s Adam’s apple bob as he swallows.

Is Baz… nervous?

“Why?” he asks.

“It’s getting in my eyes,” I say. Maybe he was right about me being a liar.

Nevertheless, Baz nods slowly. “Yes,” he says. “You may.”

Hesitantly, I reach up and move several wayward strands of his hair off his forehead, tucking them behind his ear.

My arm stays raised of its own volition. Instead of pulling away, I thread my hand further into Baz’s hair until my fingers are full of it. I’ve always wondered what this would feel like, so I run my hand through it again, and it slips softly through my fingers. I don’t encounter a single knot.

I can’t believe he’s letting me do this.

As I do, Baz tips his head into my touch and closes his eyes. If I didn’t know better, I’d think he was enjoying it. But then he sighs, and I revise my assessment. He’s definitely enjoying it.

What the hell am I doing?

What the hell are we doing?

“Merlin May I…” Baz whispers, his eyes still closed.

Cross that, I’m definitely in his thrall. I must be. Gravity or some other kind of magic is pulling me closer to him, and I’m staring at his mouth when I feel his hand—the one that isn’t on my neck—slip gently over my waist.

I’m unarmed. No one is here to save me. But I’m not afraid of him.

I wonder if his lips are always so cold…

“Yes?” I whisper back.

His eyes open just then. He’s so close to my face, and where once he looked serene, he now looks stricken.

“Baz?”

He yanks his hands back and shakes his head, like he’s stirring from a bad dream.

“I forfeit.”

I must not have heard him correctly. “What?”

“You win. I’m out.”

“You’re out? You can’t just quit the game,” I say, but he ignores me, scoops up his jacket and wand and heads hurriedly back up the hill toward Mummer’s House. Grabbing my things, I rush after him, but his head start and long legs mean I’m utterly outpaced.

I’m halfway up the hill running at full speed after Baz before I realise I have to turn back around.

I’ve left my sword and cross behind.

BAZ

I’m back in our room, pacing.

More accurately, I’m trapped in the torture chamber between my ears.

I keep reliving the moment on the Great Lawn when Simon’s mouth softened against mine, and when I’m not doing that, I’m obsessing over all the moments that followed. Snow’s fingers in my hair. My hand on his waist. The sticky, smoky smell of his magic pouring off of him as he leaned in… It’s all cycling over and over in my mind like I’m looping through television channels and every network is broadcasting the same slow motion instant replay.

I’m not nearly as devastated over Simon calling my bluff and embarrassing me in front of everyone in our year as I am that he kissed me and didn’t mean it. But then… why did he linger? Why did he run his hand through my hair? Did I imagine him moving in to kiss me again or was that… real?

Nothing makes any bleeding sense.

I should leave. Head to the catacombs. He’ll be here any moment, and I need to get out of this godforsaken room. I would torch it to a cinder if it meant not having to share it with Simon Snow anymore.

My hand is on the doorknob when Snow pushes it open and nearly knocks me down.

“Baz,” he says, panting. We stand there for an endless moment gaping at each other like a pair of idiots before Simon finally notices my rucksack.  “Where are you going?”

“Library. I have homework,” I mutter, and I try to push past him, but he blocks my path.

“Why did you forfeit?”

“I couldn’t come up with anything else to ask, obviously.”

“That wasn’t in the rules.”

“It’s implied.”

Simon sets his jaw and pushes me further into the room. “Well, I don’t accept your forfeiture.”

“It doesn’t matter if you accept. It’s my choice,” I retort. “And honestly, what’s wrong with you? No one in their right mind passes up the opportunity to win Merlin May I.”

“That’s not how I want to win!”

I wish there was a rule prohibiting the victor of Merlin May I from talking about it ever again.

“Please, Simon,” I say, lowering my voice, and he starts at the sound of his first name. “I don’t want to play anymore. You won, fair and square. Crowley, even when you lose, you fucking win…”

I shove past him and make it through the doorway when I hear him call out behind me. “Why did you ask to kiss me?”

I spin around to the sound of neighboring doors clicking and creaking open. “Aleister almighty, are you a bloody air raid siren? Keep your voice down!” With a huff, I rush back to our room, push him back inside by the shoulders and close the door behind me. “Haven’t you wrecked my reputation enough for one day?”

“Why did you ask to kiss me?” he repeats, ignoring me. He looks pained.

“Like I said. You should only ask questions you know the answer to. I asked because I knew you wouldn’t allow it,” I whisper loudly. I almost stop myself before curiosity commandeers my voice and I say, “Why did you touch my hair?”

“You touched me first.”

“Because I was trying to intimidate you!”

He shakes his head, furious. “I know what it looks like when you’re trying to intimidate me, Baz. You do it every fucking day,” he growls. “Tell me the truth.”

“I have nothing more to say to you,” I snap. “You’re the one withholding infor-”

“Because I wanted to!” he shouts over me. And then, silence.

I’ve lost the ability to speak.

Or think.

Simon’s face is dragon red.

I think actual sudden death would be preferable to standing awkwardly across from Simon with no feeling in my extremities and no hope of escape. The Humdrum could materialize right here in this room to vanquish us, and it would be a mercy.

Snow looks fit to go off right now.

“I thought maybe you’d put me in a thrall,” he murmurs finally and laughs bitterly at himself. “I thought kissing you was about winning that stupid fucking game. But you kissed me back, and now it’s all I can bloody think about and… Baz, why did you kiss me back?”

My mind is reeling, scouring for excuses, but for once, I’m unprepared. Everything I could say right now would only hurt me on its way out of my mouth.

He steps toward me. “Don’t tell me I imagined it.”

Entrapment is how you win.

I don’t have to lie to him, do I? He just said he wanted his hand in my hair. I’m getting dizzy thinking about what else might he want from me. Aleister Crowley, I want him to have it, whatever it is. Simon has opened a door. I just need to walk through it.

Out with it, Basilton…

Instead—out of habit, sheer stupidity, cowardice, or all of the above—every muscle in me clenches like locks in a fortified wall, bracing me for my usual self-immolation. I hate myself with every word as I monotone, “You imagined it.”

Snow’s eyes darken, and he nods.

“Right,” he says quietly. “Don’t bother going to the library if you’d rather stay. I’m leaving.”

He picks up his belongings.

Oh, Simon.

I never want you to leave.

SIMON

“Snow, wait.”

I pause with my hand on the doorknob. Not a second later, I feel Baz’s hand on my shoulder.

“Merlin May I… tell you a secret?” he whispers, making the hair on the back of my neck stand up. He feels close.

Glancing over my shoulder, I answer: “Yes, you may.”

“Crowley, don’t turn around,” he says. “You’ll just make this worse.”

I’m at a loss for words, so I just nod.

“You’re right about me. About what I am,” he says, his voice low from behind. “I don’t want to be a vampire anymore than you probably want to share a room with one, but I didn’t really get a say in the matter.” Dropping his hand from my shoulder, he adds, “I’ve never bitten a person. And I never will—unless you tell anyone what I’m saying to you, in which case I’ll have no choice but to tear out your larynx with my teeth.”

I can’t help myself. I turn to face him. Baz’s face is ashen, his eyes fixed to the floor. He’s holding himself by the arms, like he might come apart if he lets go.

“I was a child when the vampires attacked Watford,” he continues softly. “They bit me. And they killed my mother.”

It takes all my mental faculties, but I finally find my voice—only I don’t know what to do with it except whisper, “Jesus Christ,” which is both an inadequate and utterly useless thing to say. Though I can’t see Baz’s eyes behind the veil of his dark lashes, at least my reaction doesn’t seem to offend him because he keeps talking.

“I didn’t lie when I said that I asked to kiss you because I knew you wouldn’t allow it. But then you kissed me , and…,” he says, his voice so quiet, I can barely hear it. “You didn’t imagine it. I kissed you back.”

He finally lifts his eyes to look at me.

“Because I wanted to,” he whispers.

My heart is thundering in my chest. I don’t know what to say. This is too much to process and I’m clearly shit with words anyway. I have so many questions, but none of them are appropriate, and Baz is just standing there with his hair in his eyes, waiting for my cue—to fight, flee, or die on the spot, probably.

But I don’t want him to do any of those things. He told me the truth for once, and it was the biggest, most terrible truth I could have imagined.

And he trusted me with it.

I step around him and toss my jacket and rucksack on my bed. “My turn.”

“What?” Baz looks properly surprised.

“Merlin May I sit beside you?”

He closes his eyes and sighs. “Snow, I didn’t mean to imply that I still want to play this infernal game.”

“I know,” I say, moving toward him. “Consider this the world’s first single-player game of Merlin May I. Your answer?”

He furrows his brow and says warily, “Yes, you may. Aren’t you at all concerned that I’m—“

“Still my turn,” I cut him off, pulling him by the wrist toward his bed and taking a seat next to him. With one hand, I smooth his hair away from his eyes and fix him with a soft gaze. “Merlin May I hold your face?” I say.

Baz is looking at me like I’ve sprouted an extra head. He doesn’t say “yes, you may.” He simply nods. As both my hands reach up and rest against his cheeks, I decide to let the infraction go.

Because he’s trembling.

I’m weightless with shock. This Baz isn’t a threat or a villain or a monster. He’s just… a boy.

He leans into my palm and closes his eyes. His eyelashes look wet.

“Merlin May I tell you something?” I say.

“Yes,” he breathes, “you may.”

I stroke his cheek with my thumb. “I want to kiss you again,” I whisper.

His eyes spring open. “No repeats,” he replies, breathless.

“That was a different game.”

“Same opponents. Same day. Same game. It’s illegal.”

“I don’t think you mind.”

I weave my fingers through Baz’s hair without asking, my hand coming to rest on the back of his neck. He lets me.

“You’re not worried I’ll bite you?” he asks.

Smiling, I touch my forehead to his. “‘Merlin May I is a game of risk and trust.’ Isn’t that what you said?”

“You don’t trust me.”

I shrug. “I trust you not to make supper out of me.”

He shakes his head against mine, and laughs. “I don’t understand your strategy.”

“I don’t have one,” I say, and I’m so close to his mouth that I’m breathing in the scent of cinnamon and cedar. “What’s your answer?”

His answer doesn’t come in words. He just shuts up and closes his eyes. His hand finds my wrist, like he’s afraid of me, but I won’t hurt him. As I close the gap between us, a thought enters my mind.

This is so much better than fighting.

BAZ

I’m certain I don’t know what I’m doing. My first kiss only happened an hour ago in front of God and everyone, lasted mere seconds, and precipitated the most senseless and backwards game of Merlin May I in the history of Magic.

I’m not sure if we’re still playing.

I don’t care. Fuck this ridiculous game.

Simon Snow is kissing me.

On. My. Bed.

Thank Crowley he’s done this before. His hands are still on my face and in my hair, and whatever blood is in me is singing in my ears. He’s blessedly warm which is helping my trembling, and his lips are so strong with intention—to devour me whole, it seems—that mine move in his rhythm, like we’re dancing and he’s leading.

And he’s humming. Like I’m something to savor. I can hear the whisper of his breath, its warmth skimming gently over my face. As his lips move against mine, it sounds like the tail end of a rainstorm. I would give up all my possessions to Merlin May I if he asked for them, just to keep him attached to my mouth.

I feel light. Like I’ve been exorcised of something toxic and terrible.

When he pulls away, we both look stunned.

“So…” he rasps, “this is not how I envisioned finishing out my day.”

“Someone should make sure hell hasn’t frozen over,” I murmur, grinning in spite of myself.  

Snow’s eyes brighten. “Merlin’s tooth, I’ve never seen you smile like this before.” He sounds awed. “I mean, you’re fit whether or not you’re smiling at me, but you’re gorgeous when you do.”

“You think I’m fit?” I ask incredulously. “Are you possessed?”

“Don’t let it go to your head. You’re still a git,” he laughs.  

“A git, it appears, you’re willing to kiss,” I say, and I can’t help the disbelief that sneaks into my voice. “I didn’t think kissing blokes fell into the realm of things you do for fun.”

He shrugs. “I’m not sure it does,” he murmurs. “You’re the only bloke I’ve ever wanted to kiss.”

I smile. “Crowley, Snow, you have no idea how strange it is to hear those words come out of your mouth.”

“Can’t be much stranger than hearing you admit you’re a vampire,” he says. “I promise to properly shut up about that from now on, by the way.”

“What happens now?” I ask, staring at his lips.

“I haven’t thought much farther ahead than snogging you until Penny has to send a search party here to find us.”

He barely finishes his sentence before something courageous comes over me and I take him by the shoulders. I don’t need to say “Merlin May I” for permission to kiss him this time, so I just do it. I just want to dwell a little longer in this impossible reality where I’ve confessed all my secrets to Simon Snow and he somehow still wants me—in spite of what I am, what I’ve done to him, and what we were to each other before I conned him into playing a game designed to drive mages apart.

Leave it to Snow to completely subvert the point of Merlin May I by sheer accident.

A long moment later, Simon pulls away from me, frowning. “Are you still eating my scones tomorrow?”

I raise an eyebrow. “If all this is just an elaborate scheme to salvage your scones—”

Snow knocks my arm in retaliation. “No, I mean, is Dev’s spell still active?”

“I’m not sure,” I admit. “Are we still playing?”

He shrugs and reaches for my hand. “Dunno. We sort of got sidetracked…”

And now he’s lacing his fingers in mine.

Simon Snow wants to kiss me and hold my hand, and any moment now I’m going to wake up.

“I suppose we both lose, then,” I say. “And that way you can keep your precious scones.”

“We’ll share them,” he whispers, bringing our joined hands to his heart. “I’d say we both won.”

❤️❤️ HAPPY VALENTINE’S DAY, LOVELIES! ❤️❤️

[anne-lister-adventures]

Sunday, 2 March 1840

8 40/’’

12 35/’’

Long in dressing or rather in arranging and doing 1 little thing or other – Breakfast at 10 1/2 to 11 1/2 – Then at accounts – Had George and the Courier and translated the Russian accounts of the latter into French or English till 12 1/2 – Then at the Courier’s account till 2 – A-[Ann] and I read prayers at 2 20/’’ in ½ hour – Talked a little – Dressed – 

Off to dinner at Madame Stalepine’s in her carriage at 4 1/4 it having waited 1/4 hour – A large party gradually assembled – And 2 parties sat down to cards – It must have been near 5 1/2 before we sat down to dinner – 12 ladies and 18 gents[gentlemen] and A-[Ann] says there was a small table in one adjoining room – 

Soup and patés – Roast beef (a rouleau cut in thick slices and small onions and chestnuts fried in the middle of the dish) – Poisson Blanc du Volga – (Sterlet here 50 or 60 Kopek per lb.[pound] the fish would cost 100/- at St. P-Petersburg I observed yes! 300/- at St. P-Petersburg) then little birds on toast with kidney beans in the middle then a plat of game (gelinottes &c.) cut up followed by salad and concombres salés – Then a gateau (good – of sponge cake and sweetmeat?) then ice in 3 round grades (yellowish white bottle, red, and white oval ball perched on the top – Then preserved pine – Then and lastly preserved magnum bonums – We had quass and porter – And water decanters bottles in clusters of 3 all down the table on each side with a tumbler and couple of wine glasses each – 5 pairs of candles (brought by and by) down the middle of the table, and by and by little brass lamps affixed to the walls – 3 on one side – One on the window side and about 2 at each end London porter was handed when the Champagne or Doskoi came we began with the toasts 6 at least in succession at intervals of a few minutes – 

A marriage dinner – The custom here to drink the healths of bride and bridegroom, and père assis and others all were of our party and on their healths being drunk rose and bowed their thanks to all around – Lastly Bishof handed round – A Japan bread basket full of liqueur glasses handed and each took out a glass and held it or put it on the table to be filled (Lunel wine with Seville oranges) – Madame S-[Stalepine] then asked me to take a little water which I did and we got up from table probably after 7 – Coffee – 

The carriage not being ready waited a little – Home at 8 5/’’ Madame S-[Stalepine] being to call for me at 10 to go to the ball – A-[Ann] stays at home – Till 8 1/2 wrote all but the first 4 lines of this p.[page] – Then tea till now 9 – 

nobody handed out today    the lady of the house told us to seat ourselves and all the ladies were together by her and all the gentlemen by him       the ladies were provincial and all together there was a considerable falling off in style from Kazan    to say nothing of Moscow      Sheshe from Moscow nobody know old Princess Ourousoff till Princess Rs[Radziwils] going to court which brought them all into notice     the old Prince not very bright nor he nor his wife had any fortune – 

Madame Lapatine from Moscow – Her brother is attached to the Russian Embassy at Constantinople – The Vice Governor of Saratoff was of our party – Desired to make his acquaintance and he was presented to me after dinner – He says, it will be best to go tout droit from Sarepta to Astrakhan, and see the Calmuc Encampment from A-[Astrakhan] there is a petite route from here to Uralsk and thence to Orenburg – Should find difficulty about horses but if we return here the Governor General will give us a person with us from here who will shew us whatever is remarkable and save us all trouble – Even our Courier de Poste would not be sufficient to do this on the road from here to U-[Uralsk] the Vice President then presented the Chef de la Police – I said if we returned here, we would immediately faire visite à Madame La Femme du Vice Governor and hoped also to find the Governor General returned – 

They said Mr. Temirazoff was, they heard, en route at present for Astrakhan – The German preceptor of the Stalepines asked the Chief person of Sarepta (who was also of our party) to give us letters for Sarepta – We are to have them at 10 1/2 a.m. tomorrow so that our setting off is delayed till 11 a.m. instead of 6 a.m. as proposed – 

Wrote the last 19 lines till now 9 1/4 – Then till 9 40/’’ writing out Stations to Tzarizin then reading Schnitzler vol.[volume] 1. till 10 when Madame Stelapine sent compliments and excuses – Very sorry elle avait la migraine and could not go to the ball tonight, but would send the carriage to take me there if I chose – Compliments and thanks in return and declined going – 

Undressed – Put away my things &c. till now 11 3/4 – Reaumur -13º about noon today dehors – And Reaumur +13º on my table in my bedroom on getting up this morning – Fine day –

[in the margin of the page:]             dinner chez Madame Stalepine

Page Reference: SH:7/ML/E/24/0030

[skgway]

1824 Aug., Sat. 28

6 3/4

3 20/60

From 8 10/60 to 9 10/60 took a stroll along Coventry Street, Halfhide and Co., No. 7. Will cut me a seal with a motto e.g. a violet under a hedge with the motto il faut me chercher, for a guinea. Cutting my arms would be 3 guineas – 

Then strolled along the Haymarket Jermyn Street., Regent Street to the end of Pall-Mall, thro’ St. James Square home – Sauntering leisurely turning up and down to look about me – Breakfast at 9 1/2 – went out at 10 10/60 – 

Mr. Webb went with me to shew me the Jews’ synagogue (Danemark Court, Exeter Street Strand) – Went thro’ Leicester Square – 1/4 hour at the synagogue – Much disappointed – A dirty shabby place, yet they say, quite as good as that in Duke’s place near Houndsditch – But it seems, their grand place, where the tabernacle is, is in the minories – the Jew do not like to admit strangers – Cordingley met us just come out of the chapel (I had sent her at 9 to Mr. Truefitt to take a lesson in hair dressing) – 

Went to the sitting magistrate Hatton garden – Only 2 magistrates there this morning (got there at about 11), the one Mr. Flower, the other (the most gentlemanly) who behaved to me so like a gentleman yesterday – 5 40/60 p.m. Interrupted here by dinner – 

Mr. Webb soon brought up a roast leg of mutton and a newspaper asking me if I would like to look at it – I casually answered yes! He said there was business at Hatton Garden in it – He had never thought of its getting into the papers, and now it would be in them all – ‘Ah!’ said I, ‘the thought and fear of it just struck me last night – I am very sorry for it’ – It was the Times newspaper of today – 

The whole thing very fairly put in – At the moment I felt mortified and annoyed at the idea of what a quiz it would be against me – Mr. Webbe saw this, which was probably more than he expected – I soon, however, grew reconciled as I always do, and told Mr. Webb when he came in again I could not help laughing at the thing, and did not know before that I was like a foreigner – “a lady whose habiliments and address bespoke her of foreign extraction” – 

Told Mr. Webbe, if my uncle saw, it would a laugh against me forever – The truth was, I thought first of the Saltmarshes and that it would be in everybody's mouth at Halifax – 

But to return to my this morning’s visit in Hatton garden – I walked in to the magistrates room – It seems, by the newspaper, Mr. Rogers was the 3rd magistrate yesterday and Mr. Laing the gentlemanly man to whom I felt most obliged – 

I bowed and told him I had brought Mr. Webb – Mr. Laing appeared to smile, just said if I would give my name and address the permission should be granted – I asked if my name would not be sufficient. On his answering, ‘No!’ They were obliged to be particular whom they admitted – only to admit ladies and gents – Immediately wrote Miss Lister Shibden Hall Yorkshire, and Mr. Laing desired a clerk to write an order for me and my servant Elizabeth Wilkes Cordingley and Mr. Webb to see the tread-mill and the interior – I bowed, said I was much obliged the the gents, and retired – 

The order procured us instant admittance, the utmost civility, and a sight of the whole interior – I asked the matron (a very nice woman who shewed the womens’ apartments, if she often shewed them – She said yes! But it required a particular order from the magistrates – And that this order (by which we were admitted), must have been a very particular one – 

A most gratifying sight to see the prison so clean, and healthy, and orderly, and altogether in such excellent discipline – About 250 men and women and children – The men and women have 1 1/4 lb. bread a day, a pot (would hold a quart, I think at least) of gruel a day, and 6 oz. of meat every other day, and on the intermediate days, soup made of what the meat (beef, I understood) was boiled thickened with oatmeal and vegetables – 

The women far worse to manage then the men – The matron would have less trouble with 500 men than 10 women – The young women (in their teens) the worst – And the man told us, the boys were much worse than the men – He thought there was more vice among them then any set of people – 

8 20/60. I have just had Mr. Webb who came with the Courier newspaper (a little different from the Times, not less civil to me) and begged to say, he thought perhaps I had best write something in reply – Had best write a handsome letter to the editor of which paper I chose (I preferred the Courier) – I shall think of this a few minutes – 

Began to write some – Buckley came with my pelisse – It does not fit at all – A great deal too large – Then the person from Waller’s brought my stays – Luckily, these do very well – At last, at 10 1/2 sat down and finished (altered the whole style of what I had written before) the following:

 “To the editor of the Courier – 

Sir – I have this moment read in your paper of today, the account of my applying yesterday to the magistrates of Hatton Garden for permission to see the treadmill at Cold Bath-Fields prison – I am surprised and sorry to find myself so unexpectedly intruded on the valuable space of your paper, having been perfectly thoughtless that so unimportant a circumstance could have been deemed worthy of notice; but since the matter has been made public, I feel desired that my motive should be divested of the “scientific” nature to which it has been attributed, and reduced to the simple wish of examining for myself the merits or demerits of the tread-mill. 

I beg to express my thanks to the magistrates for their order of admission, which procured me not only access to the whole interior of the building, but the most obliging civility and attention from the matron and other attendants, on whom the apparent health and civil manners of the prisoners, and the perfect neatness and cleanliness of all the rooms, reflect the highest credit – 

I cannot help feeling persuaded from the case with which all the prisoners, male and female, seemed to perform the exercise of the tread-mill, as well as from the short trial I myself made of it, that the labor is not so excessive as it has been represented, nor by any means so great as that daily undergone by a large portion of the lower classes of society – 

If this determination never to condemn even in my own mind (for I presume not beyond this) any institution sanctioned by the proper authorities of my country, till I have taken all the pains in my power to procure the best possible information on the subject, – 

If such a determination, tho’ however in the present case too hastily or ignorantly pursued, can at all excuse the singularity and perhaps informality of my application to the magistrates, I shall be much obliged to you to insert this letter in your next paper, and am Sir, your honourable servant A. Lister”–

Sent for Mr. Webbe – read him the above – He thought nothing could be better and was for my sending it – But I had determined to let the matter rest, and merely wrote this, that he might not think I could not do it – 

Told him I should not like the notoriety of the thing – Should bring John Bull upon myself, etc. etc. and should be absent into the bargain, etc. and Mr. Webbe finished by agreeing I was right, tho’ I plainly saw he would have liked the notice into which I should probably bring myself – 

I told [him] I could bring myself into notice any time, but it would not suit me now. John Bull would sift out everything. And my uncle, tho of an old family and good fortune, did not live in that style, would bear me out at present as I should wish – 

But to return once more to the morning – After leaving the prison Mr. Webbe walked with us in search of South Crescent (Alfred Place Tottenham Court road) – It seemed a pretty long walk thro’ Brandenburgh, n! Mecklenburgh Squares, and thro’ an abundance of new streets –

Knocked at home 3 in the crescent – Asked for a wrong person, merely to find out that Mr. James Vallance lived there – A dirty woman servant came to the door – A simple house, like all the rest in the crescent – 4 stories high including the cellar kitchens – But I think the V– [Vallance]’s must be a vulgarish set – 

Returned by the Soho bazar – Mr. Webbe shewed us all over it – Got home at 2 – Thanked Mr. W– [Webb] for his civility – The poor man had spoken most handsomely of his wife, and seemed to like to talk of her – He seems impressed with a considerable of my talents, and importance, physical strength, walking, riding, etc. etc. 

Asked him about the expense of living in London – or of having lodgings or being at an hotel – He thought I could keep myself a maid and 2 men at an hotel very handsomely for 3 guineas a day, and a couple of horses would cost me a guinea a week each at livery – 

My cloth boots pinched me – Changed them and went out again directly – Took Cordingley to shew her the Burlington Arcade and Western Exchange bazar – Then sent her home – 

Sauntered slowly along myself to 166 Strand, and bought (at Dobson’s) a self-pointing pencil – Did npot much like the manners of the man, but found his pencil 3 /. [shillings] cheaper than in the Exeter change [Exeter Exchange], where I bought a small mariner’s compass in a brass case 4 /. [shillings] – 

Then sauntered all along Regent Street and Portland Place, and Park Crescent across the new road a little way into the Park – The entrance paris style portico and steeple of all souls church at the far end of Regent Street very beautiful – The circle not quite finished – Regent Street and the tout ensemble Portland Place, etc. magnificent – 

Met with a seal cutter No. 260 who would cut a fancy seal (a violet and il faut me chercher) for about 12 /. [shillings], ladies’ arms 1 1/2 guineas, gentlemans 2 guineas, without a motto, and 2 1/2 with one – Silvester No. 27 Strand would charge 18 /. [shillings] for the fancy seal, 2 guineas for a lady’s arms, and 2 1/2 for a gentlemans – Cheaper than Halfhide – 

Got home at 5 20/60 – Washing my hands, etc. Dinner at 5 40/60 – The occupations of the evening are given out of their place – Above – Very fine day – E [one dot, treating venereal complaint] O [no dots, marking discharge]. 

Settl[ed my accounts (sent Cordingley to bed at 11) and went to my room at 12 40/60. Then packed, which took me till 2 3/4 –

[More About Coldbath Fields Prison]

In the Mount Pleasant area of Clerkenwell, London the prison was originally run by magistrates and housed prisoners on short sentences of up to two years, and also served as a debtor's prison. It took its name from Cold Bath Spring, a medicinal spring discovered in 1697. The prison housed men, women and children until 1850, when the women and children moved to Tothill Fields Bridewell, leaving only male offenders over the age of 17. Despite its aspirations to be more humanitarian, it became notorious for its strict regime of silence and its use of the treadmill.

"Prisoners Working At The Tread-wheel, And Others Exercising, In The 3rd Yard Of The Vagrants' Prison, Coldbath Fields" from "The criminal prisons of London, and scenes of prison life (1864) by Henry Mayhew & John Binny.

Another image from “The criminal prisons of London, and scenes of prison life” (1864) by Henry Mayhew & John Binny. The main felons block is on the left, the vagrants block was the "half cartwheel" bottom left, the misdemeanants block centre right. More details are on the accompanying plan File:coldbath-fields-plan-mayhew-p283.jpg

Extract from London Courier and Evening Gazette, Saturday 28 August 1824, shared by Moira Macdonald with The Real Anne Lister blog.

[ohorthur]

Exit Pursued by a Grieving Widow

Platonic Charles x fem!Reader, mention of Arthur Morgan x fem!Reader

Warning: spoilers/mention of death

Summary: Charles helps the reader settle into The Mysterious Hill Home so she can start her new life close to the grave of her beloved.

(In this story, Arthur gave his journal to Charles for safekeeping rather than keeping it in his satchel to give to John along with his other possessions.)

Word Count: ~1.8k

~~~

“Ughh…” a grunt left you as you tried to catch your breath. “Thank you, Charles. I appreciate it. You really didn’t have to go through all this trouble.”

“It’s no trouble at all,” the burly man casually responded, hands on his hips as he observed your combined handiwork. You were in awe of how he managed to not break a sweat as he helped you settle into your new home on such an inconveniently sweltering day.

The structure itself wasn’t new. In fact, it had long since been boarded up and abandoned which was what warranted this arduous cleanup process in the first place; the rotting furniture, moth-eaten bedspreads and upholstery, and overgrowth of greenery all had to be taken care of before you could make yourself comfortable in the peculiar house.

The novelty of it all really boiled down to the lifestyle that staying here entailed. You’d be stationary and entirely self-sufficient for the first time in God knows how long. But you were certain that this house was where you belonged. “The Mysterious Hill Home” was how Arthur had referred to it in that journal of his...

Before you could get too lost in thought, you wiped away the layer of sweat that had accumulated on your brow and turned to Charles. “All the same, you should still stay for dinner. It’s the least I can do. I can’t promise much in terms of the seating arrangement considering we had to scrap almost everything that was in there, but I’m confident the food will be better than anything poor Pearson had to scrape up for us these past few months.”

“I don’t know about that,” he chuckled out playfully. “I’ll take my chances, though.” With an exaggerated glare, you headed over to your horse to see what you could whip up with whatever provisions you had in your saddlebags.

~~~

Evening brought with it some respite from the high temperatures you’d suffered in throughout the day. Crickets stirred, providing their soothing song to accompany your improvised dinner for two on the front steps of the hill house.

“I’m sorry, Charles,” you poked at your sad, dry cut of venison and roasted corn with a slight grimace. “My selection was limited and I may have overestimated my culinary skills.”

“I’ve never been a picky eater so you’ll hear no complaints from me,” he reassured you, trying to balance his food on his lap.

“I’ll get something to help it go down easier,” you muttered - more to yourself than to him - as you began to rise to get some whiskey. Before you could set your plate aside, Charles was already pushing it back firmly into your grasp.

“Sit and rest. I’ll get it,” he calmly commanded. He returned with an unopened bottle of fine brandy from his own belongings and handed it to you. “Here, you can do the honors. You’ve been through a lot.”

“I’d hardly call house cleaning a lot,” you sighed, nodding a thank you but avoiding eye contact. After opening the bottle you took a quick swig. You didn’t have to see his face to know he was giving you the “that’s not what I meant” look, but from his relaxed posture you could tell it was one he cast on you out of concern rather than annoyance. Once he finally turned back to his plate, dinner continued in a more or less comfortable silence. He didn’t push you to talk and you didn’t want to disturb the peace, at least not before a few more substantial swigs of brandy.

“So where are you off to next?” you finally questioned, knowing he didn't want to settle down quite just yet. He paused for a moment, mulling over his options.

“Honestly, I’m not entirely certain,” he intoned and reached for the brandy, helping himself to a healthy sip. “All I know is that I’ve had enough of heat and humidity for a good long while,” he continued, hastily running a finger up the side of the bottle to catch a runaway drop.

“In that case maybe north?” you suggested.

"And end up back in Colter again? Not too thrilled by the sound of that."

"Maybe even farther north. Canada perhaps. After everything that's happened - the gang, Micah, Dutch, and…" your voice died out. The final name was caught in your throat with no chance of escape, held prisoner in a vice grip. "...and all that unpleasantness - it might do you good to get away from everything. This land is too bloodstained and scarred."

"You might be right," he decided. Faint scrapes of his fork against the tin plate reached your ears as he aimlessly pushed around what few crumbs of his meal remained. "You know… maybe it would be good for you to put this whole mess behind you as well. You can come with me."

A wave of regret washed over him as you form shrunk into itself, as if it was deflating. "It's just a suggestion, I'm not saying - "

"It's okay, Charles. I understand what you mean," you interrupted quietly. "But it wasn't all a mess. Not for me at least. It must seem silly, but I can't just leave him here, alone and forgotten."

"It' doesn't."

"We never married. We never even discussed it. But foolish as it is, I can't help feeling like a widow. And that comes with it's own obligations. He deserves to have someone watch over him"

"In every sense but in name, you are. Arthur cared for you, Y/N. You were the most important thing in his life. His own words were that he'd have asked you to marry him if he'd been a better man," he soothed. "When he told me there was no coming back for him, he was terrified. Not for himself but for you. He felt that he had it coming for what he'd done, but he hoped to make his end count by getting everyone out. Especially you. I told him it was a blessing of sorts that he knew what was coming. I guess we all know it'll come eventually but the certainty of it all instilled a sense of urgency in him to come to terms with his actions and make a final effort to set things right - even after he was gone. He asked me to look after his girl, make sure she's safe, make sure she's happy."

You rested your cheek on his sturdy shoulder and closed your eyes. "I'm glad we had you, Charles."

"You still do, Y/N," his deep, smooth timbre warmed you along with the arm he now draped around you. "I made a promise and I intend to keep it. Wherever the road takes me, I'll always come back to check on you. Both of you."

~~~

The first rays of dawn and the scent of freshly brewed coffee were a surprising awakening. You had no recollection of when you fell asleep, nor of how you ended up on a bedroll for that matter. Once you propped yourself up on your elbows, the slight ache that shot through your head made you reckon that the alcohol was to blame. Footsteps rustled behind you, approaching closer until Charles came into sight.

“Morning,” he smirked knowingly. You squinted up at him for a few seconds before registering that he was extending a cup of coffee to you.

“Thanks,” you rasped and eagerly accepted the bitter drink. You intended to laze around and take your sweet time nursing the beverage until you noticed that Charles was already packing up his things. You scrambled up in alarm, rushing to dig through your belongings. “Wait! You’re leaving already? Have you eaten anything yet? Do you have enough food for the road?” you rambled.

“Y/N.”

“You know what, just take everything I have. You’ll need it more than I do.”

“Y/N.”

“I was planning on going hunting today anyways, so it’s really not a prob- ”

Charles’s sudden grasp on your shoulders shook you out of your frantic babbling. “Y/N, trust me. I’ll be okay.”

“Please? Just take something. It doesn’t feel right sending you off like this, especially after you’ve been so helpful,” you begged with the most pleading look you could muster.

“Alright, fine,” he surrendered and you rushed to help him transfer your food and supplies into his saddlebags.

“Before I go, I have something for you as well,” he pulled out a familiar leatherbound book from his satchel. “Arthur asked me to hold on to it the last time we spoke in case he couldn’t give it to you himself. Here, take it. It’s already yours, but consider it a parting gift.”

Your hands gravitated to the journal without you even realizing it. It brought you comfort to run your fingers over the worn brown leather you knew so well. Whether the warmth of the book came from Charles’s hands or the pure heart and spirit it held within its pages you couldn’t say. But you did know that it would provide you more peace than the warmth of any new hearth and home ever would.

No words could possibly relay your gratitude. All you could do was throw your arms around Charles as tears threatened to trickle down your cheeks. If he hadn’t been built like stone you might have strangled him. Time ticked on and eventually you parted so Charles could finally make his way back to the ever-patient Taima.

“My offer still stands. You can join me whenever you feel in need of a change,” he reminded you as he mounted. You took a deep breath and smoothed out Taima’s mane.

“Goodbye, Charles,” you hummed through a teary-eyed smile.

“Goodbye, Mrs. Morgan,” he hummed back with an understanding nod to you and a final glance at the hillside behind your new home.

Your smile grew at being addressed with that name. The trot of hooves grew fainter and fainter as you turned back to take a seat on your front steps. Holding the journal tightly to your chest, you felt an unusual bump between the pages that you must have been too shocked to take note of earlier. After unwinding the cover’s strap, the book fell open to reveal Arthur’s final sketch.

You were faced with your own tired eyes and your own sad smile, both expressing a sort of subtle affection. It wasn’t an unflattering rendition of your features and it wasn’t idyllic. It was simply honest, a testament to the trying times the two of you had held each other through and the love that would always persist through them. To the left of the page, near the binding, lay a ring adorned with a small but elegant stone.

“Mrs. Morgan…” you absentmindedly mused to yourself. The ring caught the light of the steadily rising sun as it peeked over the mountains from the east, illuminating the hills and trees before you. You slipped it onto your left ring finger and took in the view as you finished your now cold coffee. “Ain’t that somethin’.”