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piracytheorist · 4 years ago

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A Kiss for Good Luck (11/16)

Summary: So this is the story of one born lucky, and one born unlucky. Fate will keep making them cross paths, but is it to bring them together, or to test them? Captain Swan AU.

A/N: I wrote a short epilogue for the end, so chapter count and total word count has gone up again! XD

Rating: T (make sure you’re okay with the warnings on AO3)

Word count for this chapter: 3.7k (51k in total) AO3

Read from the beginning: Tumblr | AO3

Chapter 11: Emma Swan and Killian Jones, May 19th – May 25th 2016

When they pull apart, the strap on Killian's bag breaks and he hustles to keep it from dropping to the floor. Emma quickly finds an empty luggage cart that looks forgotten and brings it to him.

“It's not that heavy,” he says. “But thank you.”

As they start rolling it towards the exit Emma says, “You got my message?”

“Aye. Everything all right?”

“My car broke down. We'll need to take the subway-”

“Emma?”

They both turn at the sound. Emma's face breaks into a slight smile as she recognizes Jefferson and his daughter Grace, two neighbors from her block. They had gone on a weekend trip and offer Emma and Killian a ride home.

“That was lucky,” Killian comments to her as they get in the car.

Emma takes the week off work; she meant it when she said she wants things to go slow, but there's so many actual things she wants to do with Killian.

As in, spend her time on.

Killian is still reserved; the broken bag strap and the feeling of jet lag as soon as he steps into Emma's apartment are not signs he considers good.

Maybe that will help more in encouraging him to go slow. He needs that time, but it's still not the easiest thing.

Conversation flows as naturally as it did in their video calls. When they finally decide to call it a night at three in the morning, Killian jokes about how they're finally getting sleepy at the same time.

Emma offers to take the couch and let him sleep in her bed, but Killian isn't having it.

He doesn't tell her he has the bad feeling he'll break it the first time he sits on it.

Emma takes him for late breakfast at her favourite coffee shop – the one she met Ruby at, in fact – and they eat in comfortable silence. It's not easy for either of them to admit that the previous night they spent about an hour each, lying in their respective beds and looking at the door separating them, with a little voice in their heads telling them to go knock on it.

They exit the coffee shop and Killian notices how Emma, at first on his left side, swaps so she can walk on his right side. Following her, he looks more at her relaxed hand on her side than on the road – she's the one who knows the city, either way. He's so surprised when she reaches to take his hand in hers that he doesn't wrap his fingers around hers until she looks at him and smiles.

Emma nearly teasingly asks him why he thought she swapped sides.

That night, Emma lies in her bed, still feeling guilty she didn't insist that Killian should be sleeping there, and still looking at the door separating them, as if it would give her the courage to go to him. Would he be asleep already? Would he even be jet-lagged?

Feeling alert, she jumps up when she hears soft noises from the other side. She runs to the door and puts her ear on it; the sound of the tap being turned on, then off, then a glass being put down.

She pulls away, quickly runs her fingers through her hair, and opens the door.

Killian looks at her, almost guiltily. “I... got thirsty,” he says. “Did I wake you up?”

“With the running water? Hardly. It's just... you know, we were doing things all day and I still feel a little restless.”

He rubs his forehead. “I was rolling around until I decided to come get some water. I don't think I'll be sleeping early tonight.”

If only there was another reason for that.

“Water won't get you through the night. You need something stronger.”

He swallows hard. “Swan.”

“I'm just talking about hot chocolate,” she says casually, hoping her panic didn't show. Not that she didn't have the instinctual thought to add some rum to it; she'll have to settle for cinnamon, and get used to it for now. “Cinnamon?”

Killian can't lie, he feels a little nervous. One ought to, he thinks, when being welcomed as a guest somewhere. But Emma didn't intend to make a joke about his rehab, nor did she try to get him to drink, though she had the perfect opportunity to.

Since he lost his hand, he's found himself wearing his prosthetic hook over it more and more, only exposing his arm in the presence of his family or when he had to for check-ups and security reasons. It feels special that he's sitting on Emma's couch now, with his stump out in the open, casually watching her as she moves around her kitchen preparing their chocolates.

She hasn't even commented on it. She saw it at some point during their video calls, but didn't react nor ask anything about it.

“I put less sugar in yours,” she says as she gives him the cup, “for your 'bitter' tooth.”

He smirks at her.

“But if you change your mind...” she points at a bag of marshmallows over on the kitchen counter, then sits next to him.

It's warm enough for a t-shirt and shorts, but the warmth from the cup feels comfortable, cozy. Homey.

“Would you mind, if I shared something?” he says.

She shakes her head, a soft smile on her face.

“I never told you about this.” He raises his left arm. “How come you never asked?”

“It's your business. If you wanted to talk about it... I mean, I'm here, if you want now.”

“I lost it nearly five years ago. It was-” A lump forms in his throat, and he looks down. Bloody damn, it still hurts.

“It's okay. Don't pressure yourself.”

“You remember I told you I went through a dark phase? Losing my hand was the start. And it's... connected to so many negative thoughts that I wanted hidden and tucked away. I rarely let people see it, even with- with that woman I was with, I never took the brace off fully.”

And he lets Emma see it. She breathes out slowly.

“So I just... wanted to thank you for your discretion. It means a lot to me, to be myself without having to worry about someone's nosy looks.”

“I know nosiness. I think sometimes we carry our pain on our faces too, and that can attract a similar, kind of way, nosiness.”

He finally looks at her.

“Prison teaches you a few things,” she admits.

“I've got to give it to you,” he says. “I don't know where I'd be now if I had gone in jail for that time for breaking and entering.” He purses his lips. “I'd probably still be in there. But you...” He points around her flat; he didn't know bail bonds agents make that much money, and she still gets to travel to Europe at least once every year.

“I started with a yellow Bug, don't forget,” she points out. “After a few too close hits, you just start going with what you have, you know?”

He does, very well so.

They finish their chocolates, and Emma takes his cup to put it on the coffee table with hers; she then sits back on the couch, and they just look at each other in the soft light from across the kitchen.

They don't take their eyes off each other when Emma wraps her fingers around his. She moves forward and captures his lips in hers, and he sighs at the way the chocolate tastes from her; it's the sweetest flavour and he can't complain. Besides, it's not just his lips that respond to that taste.

He turns a bit to the side, disguising his effort to hide his excitement as a way to wrap his other arm around her middle.

Emma holds his face, breathing hard into his mouth when their lips pull apart. She's damn near to push him back and climb astride him. His hand is on the small of her back and moves, dragging her shirt up a bit and she sighs at the touch of his fingers on her skin.

They pull away together, though still keeping close. Her hands go to wrap around his neck now, and he lowers his hand again, now resting on the fabric over her hips.

“Not ready yet,” she whispers.

He leaves one small kiss on the corner of her lips. A consolation, a tease, or a thank-you? She moves a bit, opening her eyes to look at him.

Holy hell, the way he just looks at her.

Look, look, look. She's too emotional and horny to remember why there's something haunting about that word.

She kisses him again, short but soft, then she moves again, settling her head on his shoulder. He wraps his arm around her, hand resting on her shoulder, left arm resting on his lap.

She moves her hand slowly, giving him time, allowing him to see; he doesn't stop, doesn't move. Her hand rests over his blunted wrist, and she can feel him exhale deep. He leaves a soft kiss on her hair, and she has to close her eyes to stop the tears before they fall.

Maybe it's just her idea that something warm and wet seems to land on the crown of her head.

Killian shakes her awake about two hours later.

“Hey, love,” he tells her, and she straightens up lazily. “I think we might need to lie a bit more comfortably.”

He nearly shivers in his sleepiness; did he say too much?

“I think I hear your bed calling for you,” he says teasingly. There. That should do.

“Hmm,” she mumbles and presses her forehead on his shoulder, softly patting his other shoulder with her hand. “Goodnight,” she says. She stands up, grunting softly, then gives him one last look before she walks through her door, leaving it ajar.

Suddenly feeling sleepy but not sore from sleeping seated up with Emma's head on his shoulder, he lies down on the couch and looks at his left arm.

The way she touched it, held it... bloody hell, he'll start crying again. It was all he didn't know he needed. He wasn't sure what to expect in his days here, but he certainly didn't expect to feel that wonderful, so carefree, so loving and loved.

He loves her, and he's certain he feels her love. All from a simple touch, and not the one his body asked for, but the one Emma's soul offered.

Her soul. Her beautiful, wounded, caring soul.

Once again, he feels the spark of hope in his heart, the one that makes him want to put himself together again, to make himself worthy of such devotion.

He can only wish Emma already sees herself worthy of the same.

The days go by, quick but fulfilling. They still sleep in separate beds but they don't shy away from kisses. The feeling of that night carries over when they cuddle on the couch to watch each other's favourite films; Killian's right arm wraps around Emma's shoulders, and her hand reaches over to hold his left wrist.

They talk mostly about everything, allowing almost every thought out in the open, even about how they plan to continue. Maybe Emma will visit him in the summer, midway through her trip to Norway and/or back.

And, Killian thinks.

Maybe they can organize a vacation together.

“It's a shame there's really no middle for us to meet. Except Iceland, I guess,” Emma jokes.

There's one thing no-one comments on, even though it's the first time it happens for them both; usually, it was either stepping on poop or finding money on the street for, well, years at a time. It's the first time in their lives that both things may happen in the same day.

It's Killian's last morning in town; tonight he'll have to board a plane and hope his life won't fall apart again. Maybe third time's the charm.

They're walking down along a beach when they see a very young couple, probably teenagers even, run hand in hand to dive into the water, giggling as they do so. Killian turns to Emma and asks,

“I've been curious.”

“Hmm?”

“When was your first kiss?”

Emma huffs. First kiss in what way? “It's, uh... I guess you could say when I was eleven years old. It was in a game of spin the bottle, though I never got that boy's name.”

“That's a very specific memory.”

“Well, the whole thing kinda stuck with me. That was the luckiest day of my life.”

“How so?”

She smiles softly. “Ingrid adopted me.”

After a short pause, Killian says, “Spin the bottle, you said?” Then he stops walking. “When you were eleven?”

Emma turns to him, oblivious to his racing mind. “Yeah. Why?”

He's sure he must be looking at her like an idiot.

He is.

“Where were you living then?”

“Uh, still here. I was already living with Ingrid-”

“Emma, my first kiss was in a game of spin the bottle. In the summer of 1995, I was in Boston, I visited a friend's birthday party... and I kissed a blonde girl whom I never talked to.”

Emma's eyes widen. She shakes her head, but amusement bubbles in her, especially seeing Killian's face light up as well. “No way.”

Killian just huffs a laugh.

“You were my first kiss?!” Emma says, unable to contain her smile. “Oh my God! What were the chances?”

“Of all people!”

Emma shakes her head again and continues walking. “It would be crazy, but, since you lived in London first, you wouldn't happen to have been dressed as a pirate on Halloween of 2000, would you?”

For one single second, Killian is glad for all the difficult years that led to him being able to construct a cool, indifferent exterior. For half that second, it hits him how that was the day he considered his luckiest, when he got out of Silver's house and was moved to Nemo's... and it wasn't much later than that that Emma started getting into trouble, as she told him once.

He just shrugs. “No. Not much of a Halloween fan,” he says, struggling to keep his voice normal. He mentally screams at himself as Emma's brows furrow. What kind of an answer was that?! he thinks.

Could it really be?

“You'd wish you were that pirate boy,” Emma says in a teasing tone. “He was so shy but just the way he looked at me has stayed with me.”

“What were you dressed as?” he asks.

She flinches a bit, still awkward at the memory, but smiling. “A zombie princess.”

Fuck.

This time, not even the sight of the sea can calm his racing thoughts.

After the first time they met, Emma got adopted and Killian went through the worst time of his life. After the second, it was Killian's life who started going for the better while Emma struggled.

And then... then after they met in the concert, things were already bad for him, and probably good for her, and it switched. Immediately after they met, he thinks, as he remembers Emma's still cracked phone screen.

Emma notices how lost in thought he is, and maybe it wasn't as good an idea as she thought, to confess so much.

“Was that weird?” she says, breaking him out of his thoughts.

“What?”

“That we kissed when we were little.”

Killian wants to slap himself; her nearly worried face is little punishment for him right now. “No, no, no. I just...” The alternative thought that is also truth comes at him at the right moment. “I just thought that, today we will have one last kiss. For a little while, at least.”

Emma relaxes. “It doesn't have to be too long,” she says. “We can meet often and take it slow at the same time.”

Emma smiles, and Killian uses it as an excuse to keep her walking and her eyes hopefully away from his face. Words cannot describe how much he wants to both stop taking things slow and stop things entirely.

If it is true, if they've somehow been doing this to each other... he can't keep taking good things away from her.

And he's terrified to think that if she knows, she'll think the same.

He focuses on Emma and on making sure she doesn't get suspicious. He can act happy for a few more hours and pretend it's just that he'll miss her that gets him down, and not that he fears he'll have to stay away from her for good.

Despite his efforts, Emma notices his distress, but is none the wiser about the reasons. Is it because he felt weird about their first – very first – kiss, because he doesn't want to leave, or because he can't wait to?

She knows he's hiding something, and though she feels she knows him better than she'd know anyone else after just their few months of knowing each other, she can't read his mind.

Despite how much he can't seem to stop talking.

Killian tries to distract his thoughts by talking, and talking, and talking. It's halfway into the evening that he thinks it's as if he's compensating for later, for when he won't be able to tell her anything... because he'll have to cut himself out of her life.

On their ride to the airport, he allows the small heartbreak at the thought that he has to leave her. Emma is focused on the road and he looks outside his window. Used to the cars back home, he's thrown off at how he can't hold her hand when she's the one driving.

Emma keeps her eyes on the road, hands gripping hard on the wheel. Occasionally she throws glances at Killian, wishing the wheel was on the other side so they could hold hands.

Her worries disappear when they arrive one hour before his flight and he stays with her, talks to her and holds her until she has to practically push him to the airport checkpoint fifteen minutes before his gate opens.

“It's a big airport,” she tells him.

“But you know it well, and you said my gate is very close.” He gives her that smile again that makes her melt.

“It's your flight to miss.” She leans towards him. “I wouldn't mind having you stay longer.”

He lets out a short laugh and kisses her, and she can't help feeling a deep longing in his kiss; with his departure so soon, it doesn't feel out of place, and she reciprocates, wrapping her arms around his waist.

“I'll miss you,” he says.

“Call me when you arrive,” Emma says. “No matter the time, I will have WiFi on.”

She smiles, but she sees the reserved one he gives her back. He gives her one last, short kiss, then he turns for the surprisingly empty queue for the checkpoint.

His back at her, he finally crumbles and allows himself to think. He started out lucky, she unlucky. It swapped when they met at that birthday party when they were eleven, then at that Halloween party when they were seventeen.

Then... when was it? When did they meet again?

It must have been in New York City, before Milah was killed. Was Emma there? She told him once how she was very lucky to get the job she has now and to reunite with her adoptive mother only four years ago. Those same years that he spent mourning Milah and despairing over Gold not paying for his crime.

Then it was when they met at the concert. And all these days... they've been both lucky and unlucky. It's like with them being together, their luck didn't know which one to choose to bless.

Every time they met, their luck swapped. And especially for him, that meant that someone he loved died. He was lucky this time, between the concert and coming here, so it's no doubt that when he goes back, he'll be unlucky once again.

And Nemo...

Killian drops his head. Is this a punishment for allowing himself to fall in love again? But it's been a cycle of change since... since they were born? They were born very close to each other, weren't they?

As slow as he took his steps, there was no queue in front of him and he's crossed the belt barrier corridor in seconds. He picks up a basket for his backpack and notices a twenty dollar bill lying in the basket underneath.

Killian looks at the security guard in front of him. He just shrugs at him, smiling slightly.

“Find a penny...” the guard says.

Killian's gaze freezes at the bill.

No. He wasn't supposed to be lucky this time.

How does it work? If it's not just them meeting, or travelling to each other's countries, then what determines where the luck will go?

He looks back at Emma, who's still standing where he left her. She appears confused, then she makes a 'what' gesture with her hand.

“Are you alright, sir?”

He turns to look at the guard, who's now looking at him worried.

Of course he'd be worried, instead of annoyed at him, as well as the people behind him in the queue.

He's lucky, after a meeting with Emma. How-

He's ducking under the belt barrier before his thought is even complete.

It was not just them meeting.

It was the one thing they shared every time – a kiss.

How could he forget? The thing that has haunted him since Milah died – that before she did, the last person he'd kissed was a stranger who had been just as drunk as him. Drunk enough to not remember him, and not recognize him when she met him again.

Emma.

Emma is still confused when he reaches her, but he immediately leans down to leave one single long kiss on her lips.

“Just this last one,” he says.

“For now,” Emma says softly.

Killian just nods, then turns away before he's tempted to say 'For good luck'. The less she knows about it, the better.

He doesn't turn around to look at her this time, certain that she'll see the despair on his face if he does.

#Captain Swan #captain swan ff #cs ff #ouat ff #akfgl #captain swan movie marathon #piracytheorist writes

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thewritingstar · 5 years ago

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Valuable Possessions: Greens Oneshot

Pairing: Buttercup x Butch (butchercup/Greens)

Fandom: Powerpuff Girls

Thief/royal au.

This idea came to me at 1 am last night as I was struggling with my focus so I hope you all enjoy!!

He was an expert thief. Stealing from the rich and giving to himself and his brothers, that was his type of charity work. He had gotten word about the abandoned tower on the east side of the castle. No one had kept that room company for years and the guards post just collected dust.

He could have easily gone through the front door like his older brother said too, but why would he? He liked it rough and dangerous and if he came out with a few scratches and bruises, he saw no problem with that.

He could see the windows opened as he scalded the tower. Shoving his feet into the cobblestone wall plates was something he was skilled at. A trait he picked up as a child since his no good father taught them how to break and enter without getting caught. He tumbled inside easily and was surprised to see a candle lit on the vanity. It was covered in an endless array of treasures, his mouth practically watering from the riches he was about to claim.

He wasted no time stuffing his bag with the jewels and tiaras. All of this fancy stuff would keep his brothers on their toes for months, this was heaven.

“Those pearl earrings are worth thousands.” He dropped the bag and his back hit the vanity as he turned. He covered his mouth to not let out that deep scream and he yelled at himself for not checking the rest of the room.

His eyes widened as he spotted the figure on the bed. The figure crawled to the edge of the bed before swinging their feet over to get a better look at him. How the hell did he miss her?

“Relax I'm not going to tell the guards, they wouldn’t hear me anyways...or care.” He heard the last part but he had a feeling he shouldn’t have.

His brothers were waiting but he was frozen in his place. His breathing was fast and uneven as she swept a lock of thick black hair behind her ear. The faint glow of the candle could only do so much and she stood from her bed and walked forward. The black nightgown draped around her as she picked up his bag and began to shove more things inside.

“I hate all of this stuff.” She mumbled and grabbed a crown that he knew was worth too much to even think about. “It's pointless.”

She shoved the burlap sack to his chest. “Have a nice night.”

He should have ran, slid down the side of the tower and to his brothers and showed them his prized hall. He would be celebrated by the youngest and maybe even praised by the oldest which he needed since he almost lost his hand at the last break in. But he couldn’t. His mind was racing, tumbling over the questions. Why was she here?

“Who are you?” He blurted out and she looked up from the necklace she was holding.

“By royal terms my name is Princess Buttercup but I don’t think the title is worth wild.” She shrugged and tossed him the necklace. He felt weird shoving it in the bag but he couldn't take his eyes off her as she sorted through more things.

“If you’re the princess-”

“Then why am I here? Well funny story. They tried to marry me off today. It was a hold deal with men in too tight outfits and smelled like gold apples, how do you smell like a gold apple? One man got down on his knee, didn’t even know the guy, and before he could say anything, I stabbed his sorry ass with my small dagger. And now this-'' She gestured to the room.” Is my time out zone.” She flopped on the bed and threw her arms in the air. “Well it's just my room, but still secluded from the rest of the castle like always.” She didn’t sound bitter but he noticed almost a disinterest from her.

“You stabbed the guy?” He grinned. “Not your average princess huh?”

“Right in the leg.” She mimicked the motion with a hairbrush that was engraved with silver and gold. “And not by blood so I really don’t care what they say.”

“Bad ass.” He whispered to himself.

He turned back to the vanity. “Oh if you could just leave the portrait of my sisters and the heart locket, that would be nice but everything else is fair game good sir.”

“Good sir? I'm literally stealing from you.” He picked up the photo. “Sisters you say?” It must have been when she was young. Her hair was much shorter and her smile was bright and missing a tooth in the front.

She leaned on her elbows. “It's the only thing I have left of them. Once I turned five we were separated. I ended up being an adopted princess who is nothing short of a disappointment who hates the king and queens guts. Not to mention-”

“Princess Morbucks yeah that must suck. Haven’t met her personally but I know enough to see her as the bitch she is. I feel sorry for you.”

She only shrugged. “Yeah well you would think all of this junk is nice but-”

“You don’t have any freedom.” He finished and she gave him a look of uncertainty. She nodded and smiled to herself.

“Exactly. And I can’t just leave, I have nowhere to go and even if I did, everyone would know it's me.” She twisted her finger with a long strand of her black hair. “Oh there's some nice shoes in the closet, probably worth something and I have an extra bag there too.”

He set the photo down and found the shoes. Yep these would sell great. He was really hitting the jackpot. After clicking the vanity again he realized he had swept it clean except for the locket and photo, he would be nice and leave it since, yeah know, she let him steal.

He left the gowns and some shoes in the closet and didn’t dare to go near the bookcase over to her, he had enough and ran out of space anyways.

“All done?” She said with a smirk and he gave her an over the top bow.

“Very much. Thank you M’lady.” She smiled and he felt a slight tightness in his chest.

“Well if you are ever in the area, I'm sure this place will be refilled by tomorrow, I’ll just say I went crazy and threw it into the ocean. That is if they dont kill me first.”

“In the ocean?” He asked with wide eyes.

“It happens sometimes.” She shrugged casually as if she wasn’t aware that she was discharging thousands of dollars in objects. “Make them pay right? Plus all my stuff got washed up and some village people found it. Consider it my anger doing community service.”

“Well doubt I’ll be coming back to this shit hole of a kingdom. My brothers and I will be traveling for a long time, thanks to you.”

“Glad to help and hey.” He turned as he was leaning out the window. “If you by chance ever see one of my sisters-” She smiled and faded smaller and her eyes looked at the picture. “Maybe tell them I miss them, I know it's a long shot but it would give me hope.”

He should have been on the ground by now, running away. His brothers and him could be set for life with this stuff and he could just imagine it all now. But this deep feeling in his gut made him stop and think. He threw his feet back inside and sighed. Grabbing the extra bag, he stuffed the locket and photo inside.

“Hey I said-”

“You’re coming with me.” He stated.

“What?”

Yeah what was he thinking?

“You said it yourself. You have nothing here worth staying for. The least I could do is get you out of this hell and allow you some freedom before the guards rip your head off. Now throw on these and lets get going.” He threw some pants he found and a coat. She caught him and stared at him hesitatingly.

She turned around and he finished packing her things as well as some fruit he found by her nightstand.

“You have a tattoo?” He smirked and she hit him on the head.

“Don’t fucking look you creep.” Ahh so she cusses, good to know.

She finished changing and found more things to bring for money purposes.

“Wait.” He said and he opened a drawer and found a silver pair of scissors. “Sit down.” He found it oddly charming how she gladly sat and she didn’t even flinch when the scissors snapped shut.

She kept her eyes close as she could feel the hair falling off her shoulders, she knew it would be messy and probably look weird but there was a silent weight that was coming off. She knew the moment she was adopted into the kingdom, she was a burden.

They always said they picked the wrong one. And they are right. His youngest sister would have loved playing dress up everyday. She could see her now fanning over all the suitors. She missed them terribly.

“Alright all set.” She opened her eyes and almost gasped. Her hair was a little above her shoulders now and it felt so light and free. She had forgotten what it was like to run her fingers through her messy cut and she loved it.

For once she felt a genuine smile coming on and her eyes met him in the mirror. He was staring at her in a different way than before. She finally got a good look at him. Dark raven hair like herself and he was nicely built. Her eyes trailed along the mass of tattoos on his arm but he looked about the same age as her. She caught herself from sitting for too long and stood up.

“Thanks. Now let's get the hell out of here.”

“Of course your majesty.” He faked bowed and she rolled her eyes before he went out the window and climbed down. “Need help sweetheart?” He called up but she surprised him by following his movements exactly.

“No thanks, I’ve escaped plenty of time-Ahh”

Her feet slipped at the bottom and she fell and almost screamed before she felt strong arms holding her. She opened her eyes to see him smirking. He didn’t see it before but her iris were bright green like of an emerald or a grasshopper he once dared his brother to eat, and he did.

She gazed back at him. Her smile broke out as she looked up at the tower that had confined her for many years, yep she had been sent there too many times and felt more like a burden. She held a hand up to it and flipped it off and heard him laugh.

She shook her head and looked at him. This overwhelming feeling in her chest. “Fuck it.” She whispered and slammed her lips against his. He kissed her back immediately and her hands clutched his face and she heard him groan.

She pulled back with a smile. “What the hell was that for?” He asked with a flustered grin.

“Well usually in stories the prince who rescues the princess gets a kiss as a reward but I think a thief who just stole from me and stole me as well deserved something too. Plus.” She looked at him with narrow eyes. “You are much hotter than any of those fucking snobs.”

He only smiled back before setting her on the ground. “You bet your sweet ass I am.” He winked and she followed him towards the hidden passage where his brothers were staked out. They walked in silence before a thought came to him.

“You know with all this money, we can probably find your sisters.” He said to her.

Buttercup nodded. “I hope so. Say I never caught your name.”

“Names Butch.”

She hummed as she caught up to him and walked by his side. “Nice name. Suits you.”

He thought that night he would be stealing a mass of riches. Taking priceless artifacts from the kingdom but little did he know that he stole the most valuable item of all.

Just something quick and cute! Hope you liked!

#buttercup x butch #greens #ppg x rrb #greens oneshot #ppg fanfiction #butchercup #thewritingstar #powerpuff girls

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littlesparklight · 4 years ago

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Princes and Cowherds

First part for a short fic (though longer than this, obviously) dealing with Paris’ discovery. I never really could like the later prophecy-exposure background for Paris, since they have him rejoin his biological family when he’s something like 16-19? And the Iliad itself always gave me the feeling he’s lived with them for a majority of his life, and you don’t get any indication any of the prophecy or exposure is a THING (bet it would have been mentioned otherwise), but I find I like it better if you make Paris younger. :)

Huffing and puffing through swaying firs, a cooling wind somewhere up above but not reaching down to Hektor, was a terrible way to get lost. Two hours ago Hektor hadn't yet admitted that lost was what he was, but by now it was inevitable. The two hunting spears, light as they were, weighed on his shoulder and his thighs and calves were protesting their cruel treatment since Hektor had so far refused to stop walking even to just sit down and rest for a couple minutes.

If he stopped, after all, he would be those extra few minutes away from getting un-lost, and the sooner Hektor got himself back on familiar ground, the better.

It still grated a little that Mount Ida should be where he'd gotten lost. He'd been here a couple times on hunting trips with his father and Aisakos, after all. Of course, he hadn't taken himself all the way to Shepherd Cottage just for this hunting trip, and when they'd always set out from there previously, perhaps it wasn't so strange that he might have taken a step wrong, at some point. If that was so, however, Hektor thought he should've found his way back to his starting point hours ago. All this, too, and all he had to show for it was a couple rabbits. He'd passed a deer or two, scared into graceful flight by his passing, but he couldn't exactly drag a whole deer around, even if it wasn't a stag in antlers, though they were all growing them in, still, at this time of year. At the very least he didn't have to admit to responsibility of having had the chance to know the mountain better by way of the traditional sheep herding, because he'd only just started out. The royal princes of Troy no longer necessarily spent any part of their stint herding sheep up on Mount Ida unless they truly wanted the full experience, and Hektor had, until now, rather intended to skip it.

Maybe he really ought to learn to know the mountain better, since that would at least ensure something like this didn't happen again, and actually going through the full effort of spending some time on Mount Ida with the sheep would help with that.

"Stupid," Hektor muttered, stomping along what looked like a possible path, and if he was supposed to get lost he was at least glad he was alone for it. He would have died if anyone caught him out like this, not knowing what he was doing or where he was going. He was fifteen, after all, not eleven! And with Aisakos gone just last year, his father needed someone he could depend on.

But who could depend on an oldest son and prince who got lost?

"Stupid, stupid, stupid." Groaning, Hektor finally gave up and stopped, running a hand down his face. Just for a little while. He needed to catch his breath, and maybe looking around while standing still would give him a better hint as to what part of the mountain he'd ended up on.

Unfortunately, the widely spaced, majestic firs looked no different now than they had in the last hour or more, and the only paths, barely obvious in the sparse undergrowth and the mat of pine needles, were animal ones. If humans walked past here, they didn't do so with enough regularity to mark their passing. Squinting up at the sky visible past the treetops, Hektor grunted. He knew he needed to go slopewards at the very least, but he could swear he'd been doing exactly that at several points, and yet he was nowhere near the foothills. Angrily, he almost shoved one of his spears down into the ground, but took a breath, let it out slowly, and shook his head. Losing his temper would solve nothing. Tossing his spears about as if he was a two year old having a tantrum would solve nothing. If this took until tomorrow to solve, it was not a catastrophe - he had food, water could surely easily be found, and it was summer. If it did start to rain, he could deal with getting wet.

In the distance, a rolling crack of noise, as if in answer to a certainly not meant challenge, sounded, making Hektor's teeth itch.

"Great." Sighing, Hektor looked around once more, this time in hopeful search for a potential shelter, even if it wasn't necessary that the thunder would come with rain, and then frowned. Tipped his head and cupped a hand about the ear, but no, he wasn't mistaken.

Singing.

Actually having registered it now, Hektor realized he'd heard it on and off for the last hour, maybe even the last two hours, at least.

It took him about a couple minutes of dithering, shifting on his feet and taking a step in the seeming direction of the noise, catching himself, doing it again, before he gave in. He was highly unlikely to ever run into whatever hunter or herdsman was out up here, so asking for a pointer to find his way back down to Dardanos wouldn't hurt. Much. He wasn't much at all charmed by the idea of having to ask a peasant or slave for directions, no matter if he should never see them again.

That the singing could be something other than mortal was, of course, not something that escaped him, but Hektor decided it was better to take the risk, and a nymph would be far better than a mortal hunter or herdsman, if only in how well she'd known her own home. For as tricky as it at first was to find the source of the singing, when Hektor stepped out into a sloping mountain meadow dotted with a small herd of cattle, he was pretty sure he was dealing with human singing, and thus human limitations on what might transpire.

The cows, at least, with three calves about their legs and making mad, dashing forays across the meadow, were certainly normal enough. Huge placid eyes followed his path across the meadow, through high, drying grass and around bushes, and were little bothered by him. Their neatheard Hektor found sitting on a rock by a narrow rivulet of water barely deep enough to swamp a finger's breadth of grass with itself.

A child, nothing more, so long-haired Hektor was wondering if it was a little girl, maybe a little less than ten years of age, especially considering the flower crown atop the child's head.

"Greetings," Hektor said as the singing broke off, and was treated to a gap-toothed smile after a startled, wide-eyed moment of staring. The child then jumped off their perch, flapping a hand to the rock.

"Hello. Do you need to sit? The slope is pretty steep!"

Bristling, Hektor, swallowed his pride with a sigh. At least he hadn't said he looked tired, but surely, after walking all the way past noon, he must look rather bedraggled, particularly in this heat. So he sat, eyeing his potential guide. A boy, probably, even if the child's voice was one of the sweetest he'd ever heard. When he wasn't singing, it was a shade more possible to tell, and while he was graceful, there was a certain boniness to the future promise of lanky build that made Hektor feel certain of his judgement.

"It is," he agreed, dropping his spears and the rabbits at his feet, caught by the wilting flowers spread around the stone. Looked up, to the fresh crown on top of those shining-soft brown curls, and wondered if the boy had woven himself a new flower crown at the first sign of his old one starting to fail in the heat. That was... dedication, he supposed. "Do you live near Dardanos?"

There was, after all, no real graceful way of asking for help without asking if the boy could help, and if he lived in some small mountain village somewhere up here, he would probably not be able to. Biting down on a groan, Hektor stretched his legs out as the boy blinked and then shrugged. His eyes were very large, and blue-green like a shallow sea, and Hektor could swear he'd not even seen comely maidens with as pretty cheeks as this boy had. He looked more as if he should be a prince than a cowherd in rough spun linen, the tunic he wore a little too long for him - something to grow into.

"Oh, yes. I like going all the way up here, most don't bother, but it means the grazing is good." The boy nodded, and little winks of light caught in carefully twisted metal hair ornaments spread out in his hair; they were clearly not meant to tame the curls. Rather, all they did was draw the eye to the thick fall of them, even if the metal must be cheap and the decoration of the ornaments sparse, if any at all. They did match the twisted bit of woven grass on one wrist, and on the other hung another bracelet of beads, a little chipped and colour fading, maybe, but nice enough for all that. Hektor wondered why the boy's parents would put such effort into making him look like this, when he clearly sat out among his cows most of the time.

But maybe it wasn't just, or only, the boy's parents. The fresh flower crown, and it wasn't a messy, slapdash work either, did attest to the child's own interest, as strange as that was.

"So you know the way down to the city from here? You need to tell me, then."

The boy opened his mouth. Closed it. Stared at Hektor for a squint-eyed moment, then shook his head, causing another glittering rush through his hair. "I could, if you want. But it might be easier if you just waited, and we could go down at the same time. The path isn't very simple, though maybe there's a better one I don't know."

It was Hektor's turn to draw breath and then snap his teeth shut around words unsaid, as much as he wanted to demand the child give him directions. Or maybe grab him by that skinny arm and drag him down the mountain, cows or no cows. But the boy had work to do, and clearly took it seriously. As well as, potentially, just trying to look out for the stupid, lost stranger who'd just asked him for directions down the mountain.

"Besides," the boy commented in the silence Hektor left, "would you rather walk down the mountain wet, or wait, and walk down dry?"

"What makes you think it's going to start raining anytime soon?" Hektor scowled, not liking the reminder. He didn't much like the idea of walking down the mountain for a couple hours, sopping wet, but he could deal with it.

"The thunder, of course." Somehow, the boy managed to sound as if it was obvious, but not as if he thought Hektor was stupid for asking. Or maybe not much, at least. "And those clouds."

One hand shielding eyes that made Hektor think of his father or Anchises or Aeneas, drawing to mind the rivers and their daughters, the boy pointed off south, the mountain falling off to the east and the slopes stretching out wooded and wavy. Beyond, above, was indeed a towering weight of roiling clouds, chasing the sun and soon to overtake it. Hektor opened his mouth and flinched as a drop of water hit him on his cheekbone, then his nose. He found new words to voice instead of what he'd intended to say.

"We're more exposed up here, what is to keep us drier than the moderate shelter offered by the pines?"

The meadow, after all, was empty aside from the cattle, their neatherd, stones, and Hektor himself. The boy grinned and waved at him.

"This way!" He whistled, though the cows were already moving, and so Hektor slotted himself at the head - behind the child - of a little parade of cattle as they walked up the meadow, to the cliffs at the other end.

Hektor should perhaps have expected the cave, large enough to hold the whole little herd as well as allowing himself and the boy to sit near the entrance, dry enough as the clouds darkened the sky completely and upended their contents. Once again dropping his spears and the rabbits as he sat down, Hektor stared at the view outside. The rain obscured the meadow, leaving on a fuzzy curtain of water to see, and so Hektor glanced to the boy sitting on the ground, legs folded at the ankles and studying him.

"What?" he asked as the child shook his head, and maybe it was only the lack of sharp contrast between light and shadow now that the sun was gone and they were sitting in the softer shadows of the cave, but the boy reminded Hektor of several of his own brothers. "What's your name?"

"Paris," he proclaimed, and then fearlessly - and quite shamelessly, too - peered at Hektor, from his red leather shoes to the heavy fringe along the bottom of his tunic and the sturdy belt, made of good leather and with golden inlays of a double-headed eagle, up to the fillet with its winged sun. "And you, my lord, look like I should be bowing in your presence."

He didn't, to note, and Hektor snorted, more charmed than he would admit. "You probably should, as I am Hektor, son of Priam and Hecuba, but if you should tell me you are the son of some Dardanian noble, it wouldn't surprise me in the least - your looks are those of a prince, not a common cowherd."

"My father's name is Agelaos, no slave, but a common man of Dardanos," Paris said with a shrug, but by his straight back and the sparkle of his eyes, he was undeniably preening for Hektor's judgement of what blood he should have. It seemed improbable, still, that such a plain background should produce a child like that. Thunder followed, startling both of them as well as the cows, the sound so loud the cave rather rung with it and followed near immediately by a thick, branching bolt of lightning across the sky. The flash of over-saturated light threw Paris' awed, wide-eyed little face in sharp relief, and Hektor once against felt as if he was looking at a sibling - one of his sisters, perhaps. The glint of metal ornaments in his lush curls didn't help matters.

"A kind father, surely, if one who indulges your comeliness a bit much." Hektor frowned as he looked Paris over. Honestly, it was a little concerning. Shouldn't Agelaos take more care when Paris carried what little finery he wore as if it might as well be a princess' array of jewels, and his precise way of sitting down had left the bottom of the tunic nicely spread, despite that it should be bunching up, large as it was? Paris was far too aware of himself.

"It makes me feel nice," Paris said, childish pout only making the severity of the words all the more ridiculous. "And my father doesn't really like it, but he doesn't stop me, either."

He looked away, staring out at the rain with the pout lingering on his face. Hektor didn't miss the twitch and shift of his arms that might have been Paris about to pull his legs up against himself, but catching himself before he did so, clearly self-conscious in front of such a well-born stranger despite his bold looks and words so far. Hektor shook his head.

"You should listen to h--- What's this?" Hektor reached out, having to lean over to graze fingertips along a fragile, jutting little collarbone, though that hadn't been his goal. His goal was the thin chain around Paris' neck, disappearing in under the tunic's hem.

"It's mine." Paris leaned away from Hektor, shuffling up against the cave wall, but the entrance was only a little wider than a cow and her calf, and so he didn't get very far without getting up and moving deeper inside the cave.

"It's gold," Hektor said, up on his feet, one hand sweeping down himself, but he hadn't been wearing anything about his neck, only a broad wrist cuff and a couple rings, and the other reaching for Paris. Paris struggled up to his feet, and clearly he wasn't stupid - he whirled around towards the cave's opening, but Hektor lurched forward, grabbed him by the waist and hauled him back.

"Let go! It's not yours!" Paris howled, surprisingly vicious and with quick elbows and hard little fists, more than one that Hektor got to his chin and stomach until he trapped Paris between his legs and against his torso, those maybe eight year old little wrists narrow enough for him to hold him still with one hand long enough to yank the chain out of Paris' tunic. After a moment or two Hektor gave up on pulling it over Paris' head, for his rich crown of curls were far too thick and long for him to easily free it when Paris was still wriggling around.

"Maybe not, but I don't believe it's yours either," Hektor said slowly, staring down at the medallion in his hand.

It was gold, and clearly kept lovingly polished for the shine of it even in the rain-shadowed cave. A double-headed eagle crowned by a winged sun decorated one side, which meant that unless if had come from south of the Troad, by some travelling messenger or noble, perhaps, it must have come from either Capys' or Priam's house.

"It is," Paris insisted, breathless and high, and shoved himself against Hektor so suddenly he almost lost his grip on Paris' wrists. One small, bare foot found his own, and leather wasn't exactly enough to protect against an angry eight year old stomping down. Hektor grunted, but couldn't really make himself discipline his little thief. "My father gave it to me, as a memento of my parents! He found it with me when he picked me up! It's not my fault it looks like your belt."

"... Picked you up?" Hektor asked as he slowly turned the medallion over. The back was smooth, except for the thin, scratchy lines of hieroglyphs messily inscribed there, clearly done well after the medallion had been made. He rubbed his thumb over them, frowning. "... Alexander?"

"You can read?" Paris breathed, and if it weren't for the small foot still digging its heel into Hektor's toes, the wriggle would have been pure excitement.

"I can," Hektor said, lightly - and far too kindly, definitely - jostling Paris with his legs. "Answer me."

"I was abandoned on the mountain in early spring. A bear apparently nursed me! Father said he didn't even have to chase her away, she just moved away when he came across her. And I was wearing that." Paris nodded to the medallion currently held taut away from his neck.

"Do you know how ridiculous that sounds?" Hektor snorted, but he tightened his grip on the medallion. Paris had said it with far too much nonchalance, as if it was something he'd heard many times, and while that could easily be a story made up to make an abandoned child feel better, it didn't change the fact of the existence of the medallion. The bear might be ridiculous, the sort of thing taken from any number of stories of mortal children of gods abandoned by their fearful mothers and nursed by an animal or other until found, but the medallion was mundane. It was the sort of thing you'd leave with a baby, even if you might have chosen to expose it for whatever reason.

The hastily scratched in Alexander on the back made Hektor's stomach churn.

"It's the truth," Paris huffed, stomping his little foot - the one he still had on top of Hektor's own foot.

Hektor closed his eyes as he jostled Paris again, hand so tight about the medallion his knuckles ached. Would his parents expose a child? It wasn't that he had a particularly terrible memory, no matter what Deiphobos might say since he liked to insist he remembered everything from the time he'd learned to walk, which Hektor didn't believe a whit of, but it was harder to remember his mother not being pregnant than whenever she was. He honestly couldn't say if she'd been pregnant or not when he'd been seven. Taking a breath and holding it for a beat or two, Hektor let the medallion drop back against Paris' chest and pulled him back, away from his foot. He did keep a grip on Paris' arms, and straightened up, trying to summon as much princely severity as he was capable of. The fact that Paris, if only for a beat, dipped his head a shade before he stubbornly turned his head and looked away was encouraging.

"We're going to talk to your father. Can I trust you not to run off, if I let go?"

Paris' little mouth wobbled, firmed. He looked back at Hektor with wide, wide eyes, though he tried to straighten up and stick his chin out.

"You're not going to take it? Or hurt my parents?"

Hektor stared at him, and silently admitted he probably deserved that, even if he wasn't sure what Paris thought he could do against a full-grown man. He did have his hunting spears as well as a large knife at his belt, admittedly. So he said nothing in his defense, just sighed. Thankfully it was drowned out by another roll of thunder.

"I'm not. I just want answers, and I think your father can give them."

"Answers for what?" Paris frowned, the lightning - more distant than the first two - throwing him in half relief, shadows stark and his hair a pale halo worthy of any mortal child of a god.

"That's what your father needs to tell me," Hektor said, refusing to consider just yet that maybe it wasn't Paris' father who needed to answer, but rather his own.

#greek mythology #the iliad #trojan war #hector of troy #paris of troy #lightart

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ajokeformur-ray · 5 years ago

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If you, it’s you... // Arthur x Flavia // personalised!

Summary: You’re falling apart at the seams and Arthur’s trying to stitch you back together, he is. But his seams are unravelling too and it’s all either of you can do to keep the other one from falling apart. As the sky falls and you crumble, so too does Arthur. But you will follow each other into the dark and make your way back into the light together.

A/N: A personalised gift for @jokerownsmysoul. I mentioned doing you a piece a while ago as a thank you for being here for you and for comforting me and for being your wonderful self, and I finally thought of an idea worthy of you and the love you both share! So here, my love. To make it more you I stalked your blog for personal posts and they were the inspiration behind this piece, as well as some of how I’m feeling, too. 💜 I hope that you like this and please don’t be shy to say otherwise; I’m happy to write you something else!💙 Arthur and I both love you and we’re so, so proud of you!

Word count: 1, 904.

Arthur had seen that look on your face many a time but never, in all the time that you had been together, had he ever been able to get used to it. Oh, how he hated to see you suffer. It was a look which he saw every time he dared to look in the mirror. Oh, but he hated the things he saw. He was too old for you, too poor for you, too ugly for you, and you deserved someone who was kinder, stronger, more present within his life. You deserved so much better than anything Arthur felt that he could give you. These insecurities plagued him so ferociously that every day did he fear that today was the day his insecurities became truth, as if the intensity of his thoughts had so manifested into reality. But he was strong and he fought against himself every single day... just as you did.

You were strong, almost impossibly so, and you were always so brave. You got up every single day even with how you felt and you tried to get through the day, even with the thoughts which plagued your mind and threatened to turn you even against yourself, so incessant and so relentless were your thoughts. You were so full of love and so full of the will to do and to be better and your soul just radiated love and light and warmth and Arthur had only ever gravitated towards you, hoping even in part that by hanging around you would he be able to absorb even some of your natural energy, so in love with you was he that he wanted a piece of you with him always.

Arthur cooed softly as he padded across the room to get to where you were sat on the worn sofa. His footsteps were muted by his white socks, which pooled at his cute little ankles, and dark curls bounced atop the sharp angles of his shoulders as he bent in front of you. His weight was rocked back onto the heels of his feet and two weathered, slightly bruised hands came up to hold yours. Nimble fingers slid into the spaces between your own and Arthur squeezed to get your attention. Your eyes met his green oceans and Arthur smiled both in pain and in understanding. “Hey,” His soft rasp made you smile, you smiled and Arthur positively beamed at you, his adorable crooked tooth glinting in the natural light of the room. “What is it, Flavia? Talk to me, angel.”

With your tight grip continued, you pulled Arthur’s hands so far across your lap that the tips of his fingers brushed against the shirt which you wore, and Arthur smiled, his eyes never leaving yours as his fingers deftly slipped beneath the hem of your shirt. His fingers stroked soothing, firm circles at the point where your jeans met your flesh and you shivered, a warm tingle spreading easily from the base of your spine to the very nape of your neck. You felt yourself relaxing and you ducked down so that you could, with a slow and careful twist of your joined hands to prevent Arthur from jumping away from you, still so shy and unsure was he even after all this time together with you, press a tender and lingering kiss to the soft, delicate skin of his inner wrist. There was a small cut there from the too tight bite of the handcuffs left over from his last stint in Arkham, which hadn’t fully healed yet, and it was here that you focused your loving attention. Arthur cooed softly and leaned forward to press a kiss to your forehead, his lips brushing against your hairline, so far up was he, as you kissed his inner wrist and in this moment were minds, hearts and souls aligned. Oh, how you loved each other, so reverently and so completely.

It was the first and last time that the two of you would ever love like this and neither of you would ever have it any other way.

There was no way for you without Arthur, not now that you knew what life with him was like, what it meant for you, and it was the same for Arthur when it came to you. He had waited a month shy of thirty six years for you, for he had had to learn to be patient, and he had been paid off extremely well, for you were everything he had ever wanted in his one and only person who understood him, to be with him in his space but not all alone. For how could he be all alone with the person who held his heart in their hands? Yes, while it was true that he sometimes felt alone with his thoughts, just as you did with your own, he never felt lonely, and he hadn’t ever since the day that he had met you. Indeed was it much the same for you, so equal were the two of you in your relationship and the love which you shared.

“I just feel like jelly.” Your hair fell over your face and Arthur rocked forward onto the balls of his feet, effortlessly shifting his weight and his centre of gravity so that he could slide his hands out of your reassuring grasp to tuck the strands which hid your face from him like dark curtains behind your ears. His hands fell back upon yours and the ghostly feeling which had made your palms feel cold and empty disappeared as quickly as it came. “All shaky and not... not right.”

Arthur hummed thoughtfully. “I know what that’s like,” His soft rasp caressed your inner ears and you closed your eyes at the sound of his voice as your soul came home for the first time that day. “When you don’t even know whether there’s a tomorrow and you can only feel from one day to... another.” The last word was released along with a sigh weighted in unexpressed emotions and a soul deep weariness and sadness. You tightened your grip on Arthur’s hands and tugged upwards. Arthur giggled softly in understanding and he almost jumped up in his desperate need to be beside you, where he belonged.

The misplaced springs in the worn sofa clicked and cracked back into place and you felt one digging into your coccyx. The sofa was way past needing to be replaced but neither of you could afford to put a deposit down for another sofa this month and next month wasn’t looking so good either. But that didn’t matter to you; economically poor you were but rich were you for the deep and intense love which the two of you had and shared with each other. You had built the foundations of your love from a chance meeting in the street from which the birth of serendipity had occurred. Like a magnet was between your bodies did you lean automatically towards Arthur, unable to resist him were you, and Arthur’s arm lifted away from his side so that you could fit oh so naturally into the crook there. Arthur tucked you into his side and rained kisses down atop your head. His kisses were soft and reverent yet the pressure he applied to each one was such that you could feel him there. There was no denying this moment; not even your darkest thoughts could tell you that this wasn’t happening, that Arthur wasn’t kissing the top of your head like his life depended on it. He was making little mwah noises and the smile which came to your face was a direct contrast to the tears which began to run down your cheeks and drip off your nose.

You sniffled and swiped a hand over your face and Arthur cooed softly. A finger underneath your chin tilted your head up and Arthur shifted on the sofa so that he could wipe your tears away with the calloused pads of his thumbs. Those tears which his thumbs couldn’t reach were dashed away with his lips. Arthur didn’t shush you. He didn’t whisper sweet nothings. He didn’t tell you that it was going to be okay. Arthur only kissed and wiped your tears away with his lips and his hands, the tools he used to express the ache in his soul, so deeply and so ardently did he love you. He only stayed with you as you cried and as you found freedom in crying yourself out as your mind broke the spirit of your soul, Arthur allowed small giggles to escape his thin lips; they were unhappy noises soaked in pain, like a sponge was Arthur’s fragile soul for the filth and grime which the city threw upon him.

Now was it your turn to coo. Positions and roles were reversed and soon Arthur was the one cradled in your arms as you rained down kisses all over the top of his head. Your nose nuzzled into the crown of his head and your eyes slid closed as you took a moment to just... breathe him in. He smelled of stale cigarettes, vanilla, of fresh laundry, and you burrowed into Arthur, who sunk down so that he could tuck his head underneath your chin, his legs drawn up underneath him and his toes flexing into the worn sofa cushion.

“Is it just me... or is it getting harder to get through the day?” Arthur’s voice was thick with tears his body wouldn’t allow him to shed and you tightened your arms around him in response. You were both exhausted in and of yourselves and it was all either of you could do to just... stay here within the moment, to stay alive.

You couldn’t say anything, for there had been a similar question in your mind for as long as you could remember. Instead, you squeezed Arthur into you, holding him as tightly against you as you could, and you pressed a lingering kiss to his forehead. “I love you, Arthur. I want to climb inside you so that we never have to be separated.”

Arthur giggled again, the noise this time disbelieving but relieved, for indeed did he feel the same me. “Me too,” Arthur lifted his head and pressed an almost bruising kiss to your lips. You sunk into his touch and his body, tightly pressed against yours, and allowed Arthur to kiss you as he wanted to; which was to say, with his entire self. Arthur was a being made to love and he had been denied both the receiving and the giving roles of such an expression and with you did he now make up for that lack in abundance. You received all of Arthur’s love and it so often left you overwhelmed and breathless in the best of ways, and you gave him everything that you had, too, for you were also such a warm and radiant soul whom was made both to love and to receive love, most especially from yourself. “I love you so much, Flavia.”

Arthur kissed you once, twice, thrice to seal his vow, and as you both settled into a loving, healing cuddle on the sofa, did you each feel your tried and tired souls reach some level of peace. It was the very least you both deserved, in the arms were you both of an angel.

AF/J @impulsiveclown @astheworlddturns @fluffedstar @jokersqueenofchaos @germansarechill @tsukiakarinobara @lynnesm @sagyunaro @docsportello @flowerglitterwoman @ben-solos-writing-avenger @jokers-doll @jokershyena @arthurjokersgirl @antonija89 @lilliryth @hotpacino @obsessedandthirsty @call-me-harley-quinn

#arthur fleck #arthur fleck imagine #joker #joker imagine #joker 2019 #joker 2019 imagine

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iamleavingthisfandom · 5 years ago

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a small fic for Valentine's Day. Rated T/PG-13, just 40yo reddie tenderness

Technically, they agreed to a no-gifts rule. Well, not a rule, more of a guideline, really. They agreed that Valentine’s Day was a dumb holiday, what with its consumerism, commercialization of showing affection, heteronormative standards, the idea that they needed to show their love for each other on specific calendar days when they did that all the time anyway – and all that jazz.

That didn’t stop Richie from getting stuck in front of a patisserie window playing chicken with a box of strawberry macarons he knew Eddie would love. After standing in the street for a while, he started getting weird looks from the passersby, so he decided, screw it, and walked into the front door. Immediately, he was hit with a powerful smell of pastry and sugary sweets that made his head spin. Next thing he knew, he was home with a large bag from the patisserie. He got, perhaps, a bit too much. Maybe buying two Danishes (one strawberry and one apricot), half a dozen cupcakes (hummingbird, strawberry, and lemon raspberry meringue, the last of which he chose purely on a whim because of how many words there were in the name and because he couldn’t connect them all together in his mind) in addition to the box of macarons that initially captured his attention was enough. Maybe it was more than enough. But he couldn’t help himself and bought a couple of éclairs, a box of assorted pastries, and some chocolate-covered strawberries as well. So when he came home, he decided to display everything he got. Eddie was well-known for his sweet tooth, and if he had any initial half-hearted objections to the sweets, seeing the variety was bound to make him leave his concerns about a ‘healthy diet’ at the door and let himself indulge for one night. By the time he heard the door to their apartment open, Richie had managed to set the table in the nicest way he could, a rose amidst the sweets and all. Eddie walked through the door, calling out to him, and started telling him something before he came into the kitchen and froze in his tracks. “Rich,” he said slowly, eyeing the pastries laid out on the table. There was no mistaking the excited glint in his eyes, though. “What the fuck are we supposed to do with all this?” “Eat?” Richie suggested, raising his eyebrow. Eddie groaned and dropped the bag he had been holding onto the counter. Somehow Richie hadn’t noticed it before, but upon further inspection, the bag was sporting the logo of one of his favorite restaurants. “I got takeout from that place downtown you like so much,” despite his annoyed tone, he was grinning, and Richie walked over to him and leaned down for a sweet kiss. He pulled Eddie close and felt arms wrap around his shoulders. “You did that for me?” Richie smiled when they broke the kiss. Eddie’s expression was softer now, and he was smiling, too. “Yeah, well, you did that,” he gestured towards the table, “for me. But that’s beside the point. What the fuck are we supposed to do with all this food?” “We’re supposed to watch anything your heart desires while gorging ourselves until we can’t move, obviously.” God, Richie’s expression must have been stupidly happy, but he didn’t care one bit, not with how gently Eddie was looking at him. “Obviously.” Eddie’s soft tone combined with that small happy smile of his left Richie breathless even on his best days. And now, as he was standing in the middle of the apartment he shared with the love of his life, both of them smiling at each other because neither could resist getting a lovely surprise for the other, despite agreeing not to? He couldn’t shake the feeling that he had somehow won the lottery of life, without ever deserving it. And he wanted to show it, too. Always did. So he stroked Eddie’s cheek with his thumb, smiling at him softly. “You make me feel like I’m the luckiest bastard alive, Eds.” Eddie raised his eyebrow in response, his smile morphing into an ever-so-slightly self-satisfied smirk. “Really? Because I’m pretty sure I’m the lucky one here.” Eddie's hand slipped to the back of Richie’s neck and he was tugged down into another kiss. He would definitely argue that he was objectively luckier, but his lips were otherwise occupied for the time being, and maybe that was just fine. Once they broke the kiss, all Richie could do was stare down at Eddie in wonder. “How are you even real?” Eddie just laughed lightly and patted Richie’s cheek. “Come on, the food will get cold,” with that, he left a peck on his lips and walked off to unpack the bag with the best Kung Pao Chicken in LA (in Richie’s personal opinion), leaving Richie standing there with the dumbest grin on his face. They spent the rest of the evening on the couch, Eddie’s legs swung over Richie’s lap, getting crumbs all over living room furniture while ‘Doctor Who’ played on the TV. And if they spent more time talking to each other and trying to get cupcake frosting on the other’s face than watching the show, that was just them. At the end of the night, Eddie didn’t even complain about how much leftovers they had (testament to the wonders sugary sweets could do to one’s character). “I’m so full,” Eddie groaned as he stretched where he was sat on the couch. Richie took the opportunity to run his fingers over his toned calf lightly, admiring Eddie’s gorgeous legs. He was met with a smile when he looked up and couldn’t hide his own. “Me too.” “Wanna make out?” Eddie raised his eyebrow, chuckling as Richie nodded a bit too fast and too eagerly. He stretched his arms out and Richie scrambled to knock him over with a fit of laughter from both of them and press their lips together through the small laughs. Eddie made a sound to get Richie’s attention again and tapped his shoulder, making him pull away. “If you lie down on top of me, I'll be sick, scooch off.” “The things I do for love,” Richie sighed melodramatically, making Eddie snicker, but still rolled off of him and let Eddie settle on his side and kiss him. It was slow and sweet, with none of the excitement and perfect romance he always imagined on Valentine’s Day when he was growing up. This was way better. They kissed and kissed, as if trying to make up for the years they lost, and it took them at least half an hour to separate. But when they did, Eddie cozied up into Richie’s side, Richie’s arm around him. “When did we become old and boring?” he sighed, his head on Richie’s chest and his fingers stroking patterns into Richie’s expanded stomach. “Around the time we decided that killing a demonic clown was more than our fair share of excitement.” Richie pressed a kiss to the crown of Eddie’s head. “But hey, if you’re concerned about that, I’ll totally rock your world in bed. Just give me a couple hours.” Eddie laughed and turned his head to meet Richie’s eyes. “Nah, I like being old and boring with you,” he patted Richie’s stomach gently. Richie could see love in his eyes and was probably looking back at him with a lovesick look of his own. “Yeah, me too,” he smiled and gave him another kiss before they both passed out on the couch. Maybe Valentine’s Day was overrated, but as long as they spent it together, it didn’t really matter.

#reddie #reddie fanfic #richie tozier #eddie kaspbrak #writing tag

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zutaradreams · 5 years ago

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Day 3: Season 4 Zutara

AO3 Part 2

“Can you heal minds?” Zuko asks Katara to help him with Azula; To be continued tomorrow

“I abandoned her.”

“No, you didn’t.”

“When the news broke that Aang defeated my father, I felt victory. But when we fought Azula...well, did you feel victorious?”

She remembered how Azula writhed like an animal in chains, and how she screamed the most heart wrenching shriek, all while Zuko’s weight pressed against her as he struggled to his feet from the brutal wound that should have killed him.

“No.”

“I was lucky, now that I think about it. I had my uncle. I had been banished. I had the freedom to understand the world in a way Azula never could. My inclinations had already been challenged, but when Azula was finally forced to face the same realities, she couldn’t handle it.”

“So you want me to take a look at her?”

Can you heal minds, his desperate letter had asked her. It was the first letter they’d received addressed to her. All the others went to Aang. But Zuko wrote her a letter that told her Azula’s madness was now her permanent state. His worry for his sister bled off the page and seeped into this evening meal they shared. He wanted to know if there was any hope for her at all.

Another time, when there was less on his mind, she would tell him she was worried about Aang too, and the new darkness thriving inside him since he stole Ozai’s bending away. Another time, she would admit she was afraid of him.

“If you’re comfortable with it. I just want to know if her brain is suffering some kind of physical trauma, or if it’s all mental.”

“I’ll do it. First thing in the morning.”

“Thank you, Katara.”

She shuddered. The last time he said that she had started his heart back up in her hands. That whole battle would forever be something only the two of them understood.

Azula didn’t acknowledge her at all when she went to see her the next morning. She just stared at the metal bars of her cell door.

“We have to lock you in,” a guard said. “Just yell if you need to get out.”

She swallowed down the bile. She could be strong. She could do this for Zuko. “Hi, Azula, I’m just here to make sure you don’t have any injuries.”

Azula didn’t move.

“I’ll, um, start with your hands.” Katara reached for one, but Azula ripped her hand away and screamed. Katara jerked back. She was deathly afraid Azula would shoot a wave of fire at her, but she didn’t. She only screamed. The sound reverberated off the damp walls of her iron cell and surged the fear Katara had struggled to suppress.

Then as suddenly as she started, she stopped. Katara exhaled deeply. “I’m sorry I grabbed you. I wasn’t thinking.”

Azula didn’t respond, but as Katara looked into the blank depths of her eyes, she realized Azula’s hair was a knotted mess. Matted clumps collected at the nape of her neck, and jagged bangs fell in her eyes. “I bet no one’s done your hair, have they?”

So Katara came back with a wide-tooth comb, special soaps, and hair oils. She spent two hours bending water through her hair and detangling the weeks-old knots, smoothing her hair back to a healthy condition. Azula didn’t fight her once, and it gave her the perfect opportunity to probe healing hands against her temples. It would hurt Zuko to know there was nothing out of the ordinary, nothing that could be fixed with her “magic water”.

When she finished, Azula lifted her fingers and ran them through the freshly-combed strands. “Mother,” she called, the first word she had spoken all day.

“No, it’s not Mother. I’m a friend of Zuko’s.”

Azula smiled. “Zuzu.”

“Yes, Zuzu. Get some sleep. I’ll be back later.”

The spices on the chicken burned the back of her throat. She tried some of the soup to wash it down.

“So, no physical trauma.”

“Not that I saw.”

He struck his palm into his forehead. “I don’t know what to do for her. I’ve had all kinds of sanatorium physicians talk to her. None of them recommended anything but keeping her locked up for the rest of her life!”

“While I do admit she isn’t stable now, I don’t think it’ll be like this forever.”

“You always have hope.”

She rolled her eyes at him, though she didn’t take offense. “Do you know why I have hope right now?”

“Why?”

“Because she smiled when I said your name.”

The next day, Katara combed Azula’s hair, and after, she gathered it all in her hands and styled it into a neat topknot.

“I have something for you,” Katara said. She didn’t ask Zuko for Azula’s crown. She wanted to stray away from the influence of their father and recover her memories of her mother. Those memories seemed to be from a more pleasant time. She brought with her one of Ursa’s hair combs and held it out for Azula to see.

“Look, it’s Mother’s.”

Azula tentatively held her palm out. Katara placed the hair comb in her palm, thinking about how excited she would be to tell Zuko over dinner that night. Then her fist clenched around the comb, and flames erupted from her hands. The melted comb flew towards Katara’s head along with a burst of fire. She ducked as Azula bent formations randomly around the cell.

The guards got her out of there as fast as they could.

“I should have known it would be a bad idea as soon as you asked for that comb. Azula hated our mother.”

“Zuko, it’s not your fault.”

“Did she hurt you?”

“No.”

“Are you sure? Her guards told me it was the most she had firebent since she was put in there.”

Her face lit up, despite it all. “Maybe that’s a good thing! Maybe it’s good for her to get all that anger out.”

“I’d agree...if she was directing the flames far away from you.”

“You don’t have to worry about me. You have enough to worry about, Fire Lord.”

He shook his head at her. “I worry about the nation as my job. I get to worry about you recreationally.”

She tried a different strategy on the third day when she went to do Azula’s hair. This time, she wouldn’t mention Ozai, or Ursa, just--

“Zuzu sent me to check on you.”

“Zuzu.”

“He wants to make sure you’re eating.” She wasn’t. Her untouched food usually stayed right where the guards dropped it off, and nobody was going to force feed her.

Katara picked up a spoonful of oatmeal. It looked terribly unappetizing, but it was food, and Azula’s cheeks were looking rather sunken. She pressed the spoon to Azula’s lips and watched her swallow the bite. She wouldn’t hold the spoon herself, no matter how many tricks Katara tried, but Katara did manage to get her to eat every bite.

Then Azula threw it all up. Katara patted her back as she cried and murmured soothing words as she expelled all the oatmeal and painfully heaved up bile after the oatmeal was gone. Katara used her waterbending to wash away the mess. She would need the guards to bring more food and water.

Azula sat in the middle of the floor with vomit in her nose, on her clothes, stuck to her mouth. “Is he okay?”

“Who, Azula?”

“It smells so bad.”

“You just threw up. Come on, let’s get you cleaned up.”

“Is he okay?” she asked again as Katara used her sleeve to clean Azula’s face.

“Let’s make sure you’re okay.”

“That’s what happens when you disobey. Suffering will be your teacher. Did you see his face?”

His face? “Zuko?”

“Did you see his face?”

“Yes, Azula, I saw his face.”

“Is he okay?”

She patted her back again. “Yes, he’s okay.”

Azula stopped crying long enough for Katara to get her to drink some water. Soon after, she got some more oatmeal and fed her a quarter of the bowl to prevent her stomach from getting too full and have the same thing happen again.

“My name’s Katara,” she said to her because it dawned on her that Azula might not know. “I’m Katara. You’re Azula. You’re okay. Zuko’s okay.”

Azula said nothing.

“I’ll see you tomorrow.”

“I appreciate all the time you’re putting into her care.”

“Of course.”

“I should be the one to do it.”

“You don’t have the time,” she reminded him. “But maybe you could go to see her. You seem to be the only one she cares anything about.”

“She hates me. She doesn’t want to see me. She shot me with lightning.”

But she didn’t mean to. She was aiming for me. “If you have the time, go see her.”

“I will.”

“Promise?”

“Katara--”

“Come on, Fire Lord.”

“Fine. I promise.”

On the fourth day, she talked and talked, trying to coax some sort of response out of Azula. It was a bit like talking to a baby, talking and talking to someone who couldn’t reply. Azula stared blankly at her as Katara styled her hair, changed her linens, fed her small bites of food.

“I have an older brother too. Can I tell you a secret? I love him more than anyone in the whole world. If something ever happened to him, I don’t think I’d be okay. I’d go on, but part of me would be missing for the rest of my life.”

Katara was young. Until she was fourteen years old, there hadn’t been a world outside her family and her village. She loved everyone she met; they’d become a part of her family, but Sokka was the one she’s spent most of her life with. Until she started her own family, he would always be the most important to her. They would always understand each other better than anyone else.

She was lost in thought, wondering what everyone else was up to, spoon feeding another bite into Azula’s mouth, when Azula reached out and burned the wrist of the arm holding the spoon.

“You will learn, and suffering will be your teacher.”

Katara cried out, but Azula’s fiery hand grasped her harder. Tears of pain sprang to her eyes, and she wrenched away from her just in time for the guards to pull her out. One of the guards delivered a blow to Azula’s head, and Azula fell limply to the floor.

“You didn’t have to do that!” Katara shouted at him, while the rest of her could only register the white-hot pain surging from her wrist. Against her better judgment, she looked down. The sight of the blistering, bloody skin made her stomach turn. She needed to work on this quickly.

“The Fire Lord must be notified.”

“No, please the Fire Lord is busy.”

“He told us to inform him immediately if any incident like this occurred.” The guard critically glanced at her wrist. “It clearly has. You have to be taken to the palace physician at once.”

“I can heal it,” she insisted. She just needed some cool, clean water. She didn’t need a physician to rub salves on it, or Zuko to tell her never to visit Azula again. This was just a setback. It didn’t mean there wasn’t any hope for Azula. Just like it didn’t mean there wasn’t any hope for Aang.

She did end up agreeing to see the physician, so long as she was given a chance to heal it first. She soaked the blistered skin in cool water to soothe it and set to work on healing the skin. It was not as easy as when Aang burned her while he was learning. Those burns were minor compared to this one. She was able to ease some of the pain and keep the blisters from thickening, but the physician would need to rub a salve on it to prevent infection. The physician also had the proper bandages.

The physician, named Sazura, was bandaging the wound when Zuko came in dressed head-to-toe in his Fire Lord regalia. “She burned you?”

“Just a little bit on my wrist.”

“The guards said she held onto you and wouldn’t let go.”

“I was able to get away from her. It’s okay, Zuko. It’s just a little burn.”

Sazura added, “My Lord, with Lady Katara’s accelerated healing, I expect it to heal completely in less than a week.”

This information did nothing to calm the worried look in Zuko’s eyes. Once the physician finished wrapping Katara’s wrist, she recommended the lady get some rest. It was the only other medicine she prescribed Katara. Zuko offered to walk Katara back to her room.

“I’m not tired.”

“Then take a walk with me.”

“Don’t you have work to do?” It was the middle of the day. Zuko was usually stuck in back-to-back meetings, pouring over documents, seeking advice. He never had time to walk in the middle of the day.

“Not right now.”

She agreed to go with him. They ended up wandering into some part of the palace she hadn’t had the chance to visit in her relatively short stay. It was a grand room filled wall-to-wall with tapestries of the history of the Fire Nation.

“I wish you wouldn’t see her again.”

“Zuko, please don’t lose hope.”

“Katara, I can accept that I’m never going to get my sister back. I can make peace with that. I don’t want anything to happen to you. You don’t need to risk yourself for a lost cause.”

“I don’t think she’s a lost cause! You don’t either! I know you don’t. You never would have asked me here in the first place if you thought she was.”

“I want her bending taken away, just like my father.”

“No!” Katara shouted at him. “You can’t do that. You don’t get to decide who gets to bend and who doesn’t. You don’t understand how dangerous that kind of power is.” There were tears in her eyes just thinking about it.

“What do you mean?”

It felt like a betrayal to even say it out loud. “Aang’s not the same.”

“Not the same how?”

“He has these awful dreams at night. He swears they’re memories of your father’s life, and when he wakes in the middle of one of them, he’s merciless and sadistic and destructive. He’s terrifying, and there’s no snapping him out of it until he wakes up completely. No Avatar has ever taken another’s bending before. There’s no one to help him understand the consequences of what he did. There’s no one to help him heal. You can’t ask him to do it again.”

“Then I won’t.”

“Thank you.” She hugged him. She needed a hug.

“We’re going to figure out what’s going on with Aang,” he assured her, rubbing his hand soothingly along her back. “I wish you’d told me sooner.”

“He wanted me to keep it a secret.”

“That’s too much of a burden to put on you,” he said gently. She knew she needed to pull away from him soon, but his arms were too comforting. “Is that why you came here? You thought if you could figure out how to help Azula, you could figure out how to help Aang?”

She squeezed him tighter one last time before she let go. “No. I came here for you.” She looked down at her bandaged wrist and sighed. “I didn’t think the end of the war was going to be like this.”

“Neither did I. I imagined a lot less chaos.”

“Yeah, I was hoping for more parties. Some nice festivals.”

“Wouldn’t that be nice?” he mused along with her before he steered the conversation back to reality. “When Azula burned you, was it an accident, do you think?”

“No. I wish it was. She said ‘suffering will be your teacher’ like she knew what she was doing.”

Zuko tensed, and his eyes turned cold. “What did she say?”

Did she even need to repeat herself? From his reaction, she was sure he already knew. “‘Suffering will be your teacher.’ She said it before a couple days ago when she threw up after eating. What does it mean?”

He didn’t reply at first.

“Zuko, what does it mean?”

“It’s what my father said before he burned me.”

An answer to a question she never asked, though she wondered a million times. Zuko, how did you get your scar? Now so many more questions. He was gone before she could ask them.

#zutarafic #zutaramonth #zutaradreams #zutara month 2020 #zutara

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ericsonclan · 4 years ago

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A Moment Frozen In Time

Summary: Willy comes up with a special day of fun for himself and Allison.

Word Count: 1947

Read on AO3:

“Just keep your eyes closed a minute longer!” Willy’s voice broke through the stillness in Allison’s mind as she walked hand in hand with him through the winter snow. Her bare feet drifted through the snow silently, completely unaffected by the chill. It was part and parcel of being an ice maiden: she never felt the cold. As they walked though, her nose tickled a bit as snowflakes began to gather atop it. She wrinkled her nose, trying to loosen the buildup without making a sound.

“Oh shit! Your nose!” Willy’s mittened fingers roughly brushed against Allison’s nose, removing the tiny pile of snow building there. “Sorry. I know you mentioned your skin attracts snow, but I didn’t think it’d get clumped on your face like that,” Suddenly his footsteps stopped. “OK, we’re here!”

Allison opened her eyes and saw… nothing. Well, nothing of interest. They were standing outside the gym at Ericson High beside the empty ice-covered football field. No one else was around since the grounds were closed for winter break. Willy stood with his arms outstretched, spinning round slowly as he proudly displayed their surroundings. “I figured what better place to have fun with your ice powers than at our own school but this time with nobody nearby to get trapped in ice!”

“You were the one that got trapped the first time,” Their first encounter back at the beginning of the school year had certainly been memorable with Allison freezing the entire pool and trapping Willy from the chest down in solid ice. They’d been fast friends ever since.

Willy shrugged happily at her point. “True, but I know better now. Besides, right over here by the field is…” he paused as he ran underneath the bleachers to return a moment later toting a hose, “This bad boy! I dropped by the field on my way to pick you up so I could get it out of storage, y’know, cuz they put it away during the winter so the cold doesn’t cause the rubber to get all cracked,”

Allison nodded. “So… what are we doing with it?”

“We’re doing… this!” Willy thrust the hose up in the air with exuberance only to pause when he realized his mistake. “One sec,” He scampered back over toward the bleachers, moving with a sort of waddle thanks to all the layers he was wearing. The sight made a smile tug at the corners of Allison’s lips. It must suck to be a cold-blooded swamp monster in the winter but somehow Willy had the same hyper level of energy as always.

Willy was back in a moment, the hose already dripping slightly from the water pressure. “Like I said, we’re doing this!” Thrusting his hand skyward, Willy pressed the nozzle on the head of the hose, sending tiny streams of water shooting up into the air. As soon as they reached their apex he withdrew the hose and cried, “Hit ‘em, Allie!”

With a flick of the wrist, Allison froze the falling droplets to solid ice. They fell to the ground with a silent plop. The pair stared at them in silence for a moment.

“That. Was. So. Cool!” Willy exclaimed, jumping up and down with glee. “You froze that water like it was nothing!”

“It is nothing,” Allison glanced over at the ice pellets that lay scattered on the ground before them. “They look like ice turds,”

Willy chuckled at the comparison. “I bet we can make them look even cooler! I just need to figure out the settings on this thing and-” he was cut off as a powerful stream of water erupted from the hose, hitting Allison directly in the face. The water froze on impact, covering her entire head in a fractured series of ice crystals.

Willy’s eyes widened as he realized his mistake. “Shit, Allie, I’m sorry! Lemme just… hesitantly he reached forward, pulling on a single piece. It came off effortlessly, the skin below looking as clear and smooth as ever.

“That’s one down. 5,000 more to go,” Allison noted dryly. She could see Willy looked worried at the statement, likely unsure how she was feeling about getting hit in the face. “It’s a joke. I’m bad at them,”

“Oh. Oh!” Willy chuckled in relief. “Thanks for not getting mad,”

“You weren’t mad when I froze you into the pool. How is this any different?”

“Huh. I guess it isn’t. That makes us even then!”

Allison smiled at Willy’s gap-toothed grin. “Cover your face. I’m gonna shake these off,”

Willy complied, immediately hiding his face underneath the confines of his scarf. Allison shook her head vigorously, like a wet dog. The ice crystals went flying everywhere, may sticking all over Willy’s puffy coat and the ear flaps on his cap. Once he sensed it was over, Willy popped out of his fluffy shelter and grinned at his new look. “I’m bedazzled now!”

“You never looked better,” Allison nodded approvingly. “Now what did you actually have in mind with the hose?”

Willy picked up the forgotten hose once more, this time aiming it safely away from the snow maiden. Once he was sure he had the proper setting he turned around. “OK, so the idea I had for your ice powers wasn’t ice turds although that was fun. I wanna go big, with tons of water! That way when you freeze all the water, we’ll have a whole ice sculpture garden!”

Allison’s eyes widened slightly at the thought, a smile flitting across her lips. “I’m in. Let’s do this thing,”

“Awesome! Let’s goooo!!!” Willy shot the hose directly into the air, twirling it like crazy before running out of the path of the falling water. Allison raised her hand and froze the water instantly. The spirals of ice look beautiful as they fell through the air but the entire structure broke into a dozen pieces once it hit the ground.

“Oops,” Willy looked at their shattered art. “Guess I gotta shoot it lower if it’ll last the fall,”

“Or you could aim it in an arc so it ends on the ground. You just have to move the hose in time so I won’t freeze all the water inside it,” Allison gestured to the hose whose dripping faucet was leaking everywhere, including directly onto Willy’s mittens. She didn’t want their fun to suddenly end with a trip to the emergency room and frost burns all over her friend’s hands.

“Yeah, good idea! OK, on the count of three then,” Willy aimed the hose with determination. “One, two… three!”

The arc of water that came from the hose froze perfectly, but immediately plopped on its side instead of sticking to the ground. Allison picked up the giant curved icicle and jammed it into the ground, impaling the frosty AstroTurf. The icicle still slumped over though, a half-hearted version of the glory they aspired to.

“Let’s try it again, this time from the ground up,” Wily suggested, repositioning the hose.

---

It was a series of trails and errors on their path to success. Dozens of attempts fell flat, broke or turned out as lumpy, gnarled messes. Many times, Willy released the water too soon or Allison got dangerously close to freezing something she shouldn’t. Slowly but surely though, their craft improved till finally they achieved one beautiful, clean arc of frozen water rising proudly from the ground. The pair smiled at each other, sharing a fist bump.

“We finally got it! Now the sculpture garden can really begin!” Willy cheered, running to a fresh patch of snow to begin another work of art. Allison followed along with a grin. They were going to fill this whole field.

---

They didn’t fill the whole field, but they did cover a good chunk of it: everything within the hose’s range. As their talent improved, Willy and Allison got more and more daring with their designs, building sculptures branching off from others, spiraling and glistening all over the field. Their laughter filled the air as they threw water all over the place, watching it glisten in midair before freezing it in perfect crystalline form. The sun shone down upon their masterpieces, reflecting off the sculptures and bringing their beauty to its full form. The two young teens danced amongst their creations, adding more and more to their garden as the hours whittled away.

At last the light began to fade, all too early in both their opinions. The pair shared a look as they saw the sun beginning to slip behind the walls of Ericson High. Slowly Willy lowered the hose, looking rather glum. “Guess that’s it for the day, huh?”

“We could come back tomorrow and make more,”

His face lit up at Allison’s suggestion. “That’s right, we could! Would you wanna do that?”

“Sure,” Allison shrugged, her body language nonchalant though her eyes betrayed her.

Willy seemed to notice the glisten in them. He smiled all the brighter. “I had buckets of fun today! Seriously, it was the best!”

Allison couldn’t help but smile at his enthusiasm; it was contagious. “It was pretty cool,”

“Should I walk you home? I know I promised your dad I’d have you back by curfew,”

Allison waved her hand dismissively. “Curfew’s still hours away. He forgot to adjust for Daylight Savings,”

“Still, we should probably get there before it gets pitch dark,” Willy eyed the sun, squinting suspiciously.

Allison chuckled. It was sweet that he was trying to be responsible. “We can take a minute,”

The two stood together surrounded by their ice creations in the light of the setting sun. The dimmer light seemed to lend a different feeling to its reflection against the ice, more thoughtful, almost nostalgic. Their crowning achievement, a massive archway with several intricate offshoots, soared above their heads, magnificent in its presence. It was a thing of beauty. The two young teens looked up at their masterpiece with pride before their eyes caught one another’s and they both suddenly looked away.

“Thanks, for today,” Allison murmured. “I had a good time,”

“Me too,” Willy’s voice was soft for once, almost reflective.

Allison studied the boy’s face, wondering if she should rethink her current inclination. But she wasn’t one to back down. Following her gut, Allison leaned forward and placed a quick kiss upon Willy’s clammy cheek. Her lips left the faintest mark upon his scaly skin before fading away.

Willy’s eyes widened in shock. He was still for a moment, almost as frozen as their sculptures. Then a goofy chuckle escaped his lips. “I knew it! I knew you liked me!”

Allison shrugged happily, smiling at him. “You got me,”

Willy surged forward, planting an enthusiastic, wet kiss upon Allison’s cheek, the mark freezing instantly against her skin. “I like you too,”

“So… this was our first date then?” Allison asked, looking down with a small smile as she traced the mark on her cheek.

“I guess it was. Did you like it?” Willy asked, a hint of nervousness in his voice.

“Best first date I ever had,”

Willy giggled happily at her words. He eagerly took her hand in his, his mitten feeling warm against her cold skin. “We can walk extra slow on the way back,”

“I’d like that,” Allison gave Willy’s hand the softest squeeze before they began to walk together. Hand in hand they left the sculpture garden behind, the ice still subtly glistening in the evening light. The world was still, nothing existing but the two of them as they exited the field at a slow meander. They were all but gone when suddenly a shout broke through the air.

“Shit, I forgot to put away the hose!”

#twdg #twdg willy #twdg allison #twdg wallie #twdg christmas #fanfic #we are monsters we are proud au #ericsonclanchristmaschallenge

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fortunatelycooltrash · 5 years ago

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So people love to say that America doesn’t have free healthcare because the quality would sink and the waits would go up. Now, while those are valid worries despite being no excuse for the atrociously high prices of even minior procedures, I’d like to share some bullshit that I’ve experienced involving normal US hospitals and medical branches alike.

My root canal is going to cost 2500 dollars because it is not covered by most dental plans despite it being a completely necessary procedure that directly affects my health. Absorb that then absorb the fact this plan covers some of braces. The crown alone is costing over 1200.

I almost died in a hospital waiting room because my ‘stomach ache’ that was causing me so much pain I was sick with it wasn’t severe enough to qualify for immediate attention. Undiagnosed Appendicitis.

My nephew and sister almost met their end because an incompetent doctor misdiagnosed my sister with a URI. She had type A flu.

My cousins father had a doctor who refused to diagnose him despite him coming back constantly because of lethargy. Said he couldn’t find anything wrong. Her father was poor and had really bad insurance. Finally he went to another doctor and was diagnosed with kidney cancer. He could have lived if he had been diagnosed a year or two prior before it spead but by the time he got his diagnosis, it was too late. He died, I believe, a few months later but I was young so he might have made it a year or longer.

I suffered from chronic nosebleeds as a child to the point that blood didn’t even scare me anymore. The doctor told my mother that it was coming from wounds inside my nose and I was most likely picking at it and there was nothing medically wrong with me. My mother, knowing even as a child I knew not to waste her money, took me to another doctor. Severe Anemia. Still suffer from it too this day. Have to take those horrid tasting red pills🤢.

My aunt constantly butchering her budget because she needs her insulin and it’s cost keeps getting higher despite it remaining relatively the same. Luckily my state is looking to cap it at 100 though if that will actually go into effect isn’t determined yet.

My mom, bless her, repeatedly going in for her back aching only to be told pain was normal for someone of her weight and age. Nope, she is a nurse and turned people that were 300 pounds or more. She had completely blown her back and had a pinched nerve that was so severe she could barely stand without pain. The doctor that diagnosed her was surprised she could even walk.

My sister, having a grand mal seizure in the nurses office of a high school. They told her to stop faking. That bitch wasn’t even a real nurse so this one doesn’t count but I had to mention this because why the fuck wasn’t a registered nurse hired?

My (other) aunt having minor chest pain then suffering a heart attack in the waiting room because they had her wait so long since she didn’t seem serious. I’m sure that’s going to have lasting damage that could have been easily prevented.

My sister giving birth and getting a 28,000 dollar bill for a room and care for her and the baby. She was there for a day and a half. She didn’t even have a long or complicated delivery.

My mother being told she was completely fine to continue working despite having an off feeling about her third pregnancy(about 24 years ago) the doctor told her there were no complications and she could go on as normal. She miscarried her seven month along daughter three days later because her placenta was underneath the baby and tore. That doctor is still in practice.

The nurses in my mothers delivery room ignoring both her and the monitor. Which, if they had been looking at, clearly desplayed my older brother with his umbilical core wrapped tight around his neck. He lived because my moms main doctor walked in and had a conniption fit when he noticed the vitals dropping. He’s the doc my sis uses now. A good man.

(Same bro)My older brother turning blue everytime he cried being brushed off. Hole in his heart that has since closed.

When I was younger, I slipped in the shower and hit my head so hard against the metal lining of it(stall shower) that the skin split open and abscessed. My doc treated the abscess but did no further testing after a 4 hour wait. As we were leaving, I don’t remember much of this week my mom told me, I vomited and passed out in the parking lot. Had a concussion.

My brother being misdiagnosed with the flu, strep, and a few other things over the course of a few weeks before one doctor finally tested him for HIV. It was positive. Luckily he only had one partner. Unluckily, the partner was the one that gave it to him via cheating on him.

Me, almost dying of a violent case of strep throat because they said I had a sinus infection. My fever peaked at 104 then, blessedly, broke. I do not remember this as the memories of the days I was sick are incredibly fever burned but I remember wrapping blankets around me because I was so cold.

The strep attacked so quick and harshly that if I had lived alone it probably would have killed me since I wouldn’t have been able to get help and I would’ve kept trying to get ‘warmer’ and helped raise my temp over 106. You typically don’t come back from that one unharmed. If at all.

My older bro(cord baby) being told suffering from auditory hallucinations was a common thing(not wrong but they should have actually asked about his family history and idk, did more??) he had undiagnosed bipolar disorder. He is medicated and much happier now.

Me breaking my gotdamn pointer knuckle and the x-ray person getting blurry x-rays that she used despite the fact that they weren’t accurate. Thank you bitch, now my abnormally short pointer finger clicks because it began to set wrong.

Theres a few more but I’m currently giving my bro a hard time for texting me a text meant for his bf so imma bounce for now. May add more later. The whole point to this was to show people that don’t want free health care because the ‘quality would go down’ or the ‘wait would be too long’ that the wait is already long enough for you to die anyway and the quality already sucks ass if you’re poor because they will not diagnose you correctly.

Or They will misdiagnose you then blame YOU when you sue(happened to my mom in that miscarriage one but because he hadn’t wrote a release back to work she had no actual proof he’d told her she could.)

Or They will overcharge you for things that have a far cheaper value simply because they can and you can’t do anything about it because you need that procedure or medicine to keep your health good.

I can understand things like heart surgery or transplants, you know, the big major stuff not being free because yeah that shit takes a fuck ton of resources and care so I get it, I do. I can reasonably say “Yup that should cost thousands.” I mean, I’m don’t even avocate for fully FREE healthcare, I just want a limit on their overpricing bull shit to where it matches with economic standards.

You can’t expect someone with an average 7-4 job that pays 10/hr(oooh ya, y’all think I’d go higher? Guess what, young people starting out their careers also get sick!) to drop thousands upon thousands of dollars for whatever. The sad thing is I can say ‘whatever’ and you can actually think of multiple things that aren’t that major or that resource draining yet still cost thousands.

Even someone making 15/hour couldn’t do that and I’d be hard pressed to say even 20-25/hr could do that. They may have it better and be able to pay it off faster but they’d still be in debt for a while or have to work years after their planned retirement to make up for the lost savings if they were lucky enough to have them.

I’ve also heard people complaining about it raising taxes but you’ll spend way more getting something done at a hospital then you’d spend on those taxes in a year.

Besides, if you’re so pissed about taxes then to even it out protest the stupid taxes. Your house? Taxed. Your inheritance that you gain but also leave behind to care for your family? Taxed. Your property that you bought 100% full price paid? Taxed every year. Your car? Taxed.

How bout getting pissed about those instead of getting pissy about people getting their health fixed? There are plenty of ridiculous taxes so I don’t know why people are so against having one that actually helps people.

Sorry for this rant, I know it’s not centered around my profile theme but I am majorly pissed off that I’m about to have to let a tooth rot out of my head because my insurance decided that: covering something cosmetic like braces? Yeah! Covering a completely necessary surgery that can actually harm/kill the person via infection if left untreated? Nope, that costs us more!

I can’t drop two fucking grand on dental surgery. It’s just not happening. I don’t know anyone who can do that shit. Anyone who gets pissed off about me posting this: go slam a hammer against your tooth until it cracks down the middle, exposing your nerve to the harsh unforgiving world then let it develop a cavity around it.

Afterwards, try to eat literally anything: hot, cold, hard, soft, it doesn’t matter. You’ll cry, I promise. Now imagine being told the only way to fix that is to cough up over two grand and if you can’t well then oh fucking well? Kinda hurts ya a bit. Not nearly as much as the tooth but still.

Hell, I know dental probably wouldnt even get covered if they made healthcare reduced or free but this whole situation has reminded me just how fucked you are if you get anything remotely wrong with you in the U.S

#freehealthcare #no i dont plan on having kid too many bad genes #america #americanhealthcare

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sarahjtrash · 6 years ago

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An Untimely Admission

2.3K, Jurdan, Rated T

Jude shares something she's been keeping secret during an inopportune moment.

A/N: Despite what the summary may suggest, I just want to say this isn’t a pregnancy fic. Nothing against those, but I don't really write that. Fluff and angst still ensue. Enjoy!

-o-0-o-

Jude couldn’t take it anymore.

While she understood that being exiled and keeping her title a secret was the politically wise thing to do, she couldn’t watch Cardan pursue his carnal desires anymore. It didn’t matter that she knew he would never fully pursue these women, that he would crawl into bed with Jude and whisper sweet nothings in her ear. She was tired of being sidelined in her own life once again. So when Cardan leaned down to whisper something in Nicasia’s ear, Jude handed her drink to the nearest courtier and stormed out of the hall.

She heard Nicasia’s laughter follow her out the room.

As she walked, she pulled her jewelry off and dropped it on the floor. While Cardan and her agreed that it made more sense for them to win over courtiers this way, she hated it. She had the same privileges in almost anything being fair game in the hall for political advancement; however, after three months of it, she wanted to punch something. They always tumbled together afterwards, neither going farther than chaste kisses with a stranger, but Jude was tired of playing these wicked games. She wiped her sleeve against her face, trying to stop the tears that rolled down her face, surely smearing her makeup.

Whatever the guards and servants wanted to say about the state of their supposed seneschal didn’t matter.

When she reached the end of the hallway, she turned towards her old rooms instead of the king’s suite, refusing to share a bed tonight, or perhaps any night in the future if she had it her way. Cardan could certainly find himself someone else to satisfy him.

That thought seemed to work like a summoning as she heard quick footsteps following behind her.

“I don’t want to talk right now,” she said pathetically.

She heard Cardan stop moving. “Please don’t run away,” he quietly begged.

She whipped around quickly, her jealousy quickly becoming anger. “And what would it matter to you?” She hissed.

His face morphed into something she couldn’t recognize. “Let’s not do this in the hallway.”

Her blood positively boiled. “Or what?” She seethed, “Someone would hear us? What a catastrophe that would be.”

Cardan’s face changed to match hers. “You can stand here and yell all you want, but I am going back to the King’s chambers.”

Jude watched his back as he strode away from her and damned herself when she followed him after a few seconds. It amused her that he had to refer to their bedroom as ‘the King’s’ for fear of discovery. His cloak billowed behind him, emanating power as he strode down the halls like he owned them, which she supposed he did.

When they finally reached his chambers, Jude fifteen paces behind, her anger began to swell once more as they entered the room, and he gently closed the door behind them.

His entire demeanor changed when they crossed the threshold, and his eyes filled with care. “What’s wrong?”

It was exactly this kind of mind game that drove her insane. “I don’t think you get to ask that.”

He let out a frustrated sigh. “I am really exhausted of fighting you, Jude.”

“Then don’t.”

“I can’t do that if you’re not telling me what’s wrong.”

She crossed her arms and broke his infuriatingly concerned gaze. “Every day in Elfhame, I am constantly reminded of how inadequate I am. I have fought tooth and nail every day for years to crawl to where am I. Which by the way, where I am is a Queen without a crown and a title no one knows about. And I was willing to accept that. So stupidly willing to accept that. Now, all I have is a husband who can dance and swoon and kiss whoever he desires, and I just get to watch while everyone thinks I am a petty, dumb mortal.”

“We can march into that throne room right now and declare you the rightful Queen.”

Her eyes felt like stinging once again. “That is not what this is about. You just party and seduce all the time, without ever caring about—“

She watched the frustration build in him, as he spat out, “You know as well as I do that you are held to the same standards that I am.”

“And what good does that do! If you even cared a little a bit, you would know that I haven’t tried to be seductive towards a courtier in over a month now. I just wait like a naive, trained dog for you to crawl home and get a good fuck in. Do I have any affect on you or do you just enjoy watching me suffer?”

He tried to reach for her, his voice begging a little. “You know what you do to me.”

She stepped back from his advances in disgust. “I should have known. Everyone in your life leaves you or betrays you for one reason or another. Maybe it’s the disappointment or the lack of concern you have for others, but everyone in your life has been part of a sick twisted game, and I am finished being a pawn Cardan. I must be such an idiot, one who watches you drink and play and then gets repeatedly fucked over. Could you even imagine that? How awful it is to be in love with someone who is constantly trying to best you? And you let yourself get fooled time and time again because maybe this time they’ll behave differently.”

Cardan’s eyes grew wide as saucers as Jude’s heavy breathing filled the room.

“You’re so inconsiderate to everyone around you that I’m not surprised that Balekin—“

“Jude,” He interrupted her sentence.

“You can’t even let me finish one sentence. It’s like when I speak—“

“Jude,” He practically yelled at her.

Anger filled her, and she couldn’t help the glare that she hoped buried him six feet under. “If you’re so inclined to hear yourself, then what,” She spat.

“I think you should stop speaking—“

“And you’re so controlling and goddamned—“

“Before you say more things that you don’t mean,” He finished loudly.

Their breathing settled between them, and tension filled the room. She thought about what she could say that would ruin him as much as he ruined her when she realized what she’d admitted.

Her thoughts must have shown on her face because he said, “Sometimes Jude, I really wish you couldn’t lie.”

She wouldn’t give him the reassurance of admitting that she meant what she said. Instead, she chose to let him believe the worst. “I think it’s best that I leave.”

He didn’t say anything as she walked out the door.

-o-0-o-

Three days later, Jude felt awful.

She still saw Cardan daily at meetings and the revel last night, but neither deigned to speak with the other more than necessary. They played their roles of King and Seneschal, so that no one would notice anything amiss. It drove Jude insane. All she wanted was to apologize, let him know the truth, or at the very least say hello. All she got, though, were cool glances and smirks thrown her way.

If she truly wanted what she claimed she did the other night, she knew that she would have to instigate relief efforts, no matter her pride. For the past two days, she’d written and rewritten a letter over and over, trying to explain what she meant. Eventually, she left it short and handed it off to a servant as she walked towards a dueling ring in the courtyard.

The other letter she’d written was to the bomb demanding her presence in training gear. In the palace, she was Jude’s most worthy adversary. After the better part of an hour, sweat dripped off Jude as she blocked and deflected the bomb’s jests and strikes. Her mortal heart pounded in her chest. It felt so good to release herself like that his that she’d forgotten all about the three little words she wrote on that sheet until she heard an approach from behind.

“My queen?” Cardan called almost hesitantly.

The bomb instantly stopped fighting and sagely made no noise as Jude turned around.

“Is this true?” He asked, there was more than just desperation in his voice, almost as if he hoped for answer.

“Would I lie to you, Your Highness?” She asked.

He licked his lips in a way that set Jude on fire. “I have need of Jude, Dear, if you don’t mind her leaving the session early, Bomb.”

The bomb said, perhaps too innocently. “I don’t think she minds at all.”

When they reached his room, Cardan held out his hand with the letter in it. “I’ve received word that perhaps you’re ready to end this little feud.”

She took the letter while watching him. “And is this word to be trusted?”

“I feel inclined to believe so.”

As Jude unfolded the letter, she already knew what she would find. It was something that had taken her days, to draft. It was incredibly short and simple, and barely reflected her thoughts.

In her own handwriting, the cream paper read,

I didn’t lie.

She pretended that she was mulling over its contents, that it was some long policy proposal instead of a flimsy admission. In an uncharacteristic manner, Cardan patiently let her stare at it.

She decided she wasn’t quite done with their little game. “Anyone could have written this.”

Cardan’s eyes drifted to the letter as well. “Though true, it appears to be in your handwriting.”

“Anyone can fake that.”

He leveled her a look. “The servant said, ‘From your seneschal, Jude Duarte.’”

“Perhaps a twist of words.”

“Jude.”

HIs name seemed to rattle through her, and she remembered why she even wrote that blasted piece in the first place.

“For the more hurtful things I said the other night, I apologize. For others, I meant what I said.”

“And what part was that?” He challenged.

She rolled her eyes and looked off. “It seems to have escaped me.”

“Liar.”

When she looked back at him, she said, “I hate you.”

He watched her very intently. “I know.”

She inhaled deeply and panic seemed to fill her bones as she thought about her next words. It would probably take her months to say it if she didn’t let it escape. It would be so easy to fall into their little game once again, but Jude felt her tiredness from before sweep through her. In the long run, that was not what she wanted. Not at all.

“But,” she paused, drawing a shaky breath. “I also love you more than I ever thought possible.”

A small goofy grin pulled at his lips as he reached out for her. She obligingly tucked herself into his arms as hers wrapped around his neck.

“That wasn’t so bad, was it?” He teased.

She leaned up and kissed the corner of his mouth. “Is that all you wish to say?”

He pulled her slightly closer, a new hunger filling his eyes. “Not in the least.”

“Then the King shall speak his mind.” She brought her hands down to his shoulders.

He released a pathetic little nose laugh. “I have never been more envious of your ability to lie.”

“It never really seems to do me any favors,” she said quietly.

His hand made a smoothing gesture on her back, and he brought his gaze down to hers. “I think you underestimate its success rate.”

“Stop avoiding the topic.”

“I am also quite envious of your earlier courage,” he said.

Jude gave him a significant look, and he sighed before saying, “But, the answer to your question is yes.”

“I never asked you anything,”she said confused.

“You most certainly did. The other night you asked me if I ‘could even imagine that?’,” He asked in a terrible impression of her voice, “‘How awful it is to be in love with someone who is constantly trying to best you?’ Jude. Jude. My dearest Jude. I have never met anyone who holds my heart so dearly and still manages to behave as an adversary.”

She laughed a little at that.

“Like I said, though, my answer is yes. I can most certainly imagine that because I am so tragically in love with you that it pains me despite all you have done to try and undermine me.”

They paused for a second and let his words settle, but it didn’t take long until they were suddenly a clash of lips and tongue. It felt like breathing for the first time and that every barrier they’d ever put between them came crashing down with their words. Jude pulled on his hair slightly, needing him to just be closer to her. Her heart may have just about leap out of her chest, and she couldn’t help the small sound that escaped her when he pulled away.

“Jude?” He asked.

She knew her pupils were dilated and her breathing heavy, but at that moment she couldn’t find an ounce of her to care. Anything he asked, she’d be willing to do. “What?”

“While I appreciate our vigor, I have but one request.”

She cocked her head at his tone.

“I understand that your training is important, but I think we would both benefit if you bathed yourself before we continued.”

Jude’s mouth opened slightly in fake astonishment, and she pulled away. “If you can’t appreciate me while I’m in this condition, then I must really question your previous declaration.”

Jude stepped toward the wash room, watching Cardan’s shocked face, before turning around and strutting away, perhaps swaying her hips more than necessary. When her hand reached the doorknob, she threw him a significant look. “Perhaps you should call for a servant. There’s one spot on my back I can never reach.”

“I believe I could help,” he all but growled before approaching her quicker than Jude had ever seen.

#jurdan #jude x cardan #cardan #Jude duarte #tcp #qon #twk #holly black #tfota #taryn x Locke #madoc #nicasia #under sea #elfhame #High King #high queen of elfhame #jurdan fanfic #my fanfic #my fic

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bbrandy2002 · 6 years ago

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The Breakfast Club

Chapter Three

WARNING: Suicide mentioned. Profanity and bullying.

*I promise this will be more like the movie soon 😉

___________________________________

Maxwell stood completely intrigued before the petite, brunette with the most captivating smile he'd ever seen. She was beautiful, but, in a natural way. Unlike the girls he knew, mostly rich, snobby types, whom wore an air of arrogance; Riley seemed genuine, pure, and sweet.

Maxwell looked at his surroundings..a couple of run down buildings...several of them vacant. If Maxwell wasn't getting a tattoo, he never would have known the place existed.

He rose both arms and motioned to their location, "so what's a girl like you doing in such a rough and tumble neighborhood?"

Riley smirked and placed a hand on her hip, "I could ask you the same Mister Red Porche", she joked while briefly acknowledging the vehicle behind her.

Maxwell snickered, "fair enough" and moved his sunglasses to rest on top of his head. With the darkness of the glasses removed from his vision, he tipped his head back in a bit of concern. He pointed to the outside of his left eye, "so how'd you get that shiner?"

Riley immediately placed her hand over the outside of her eye. Maxwell noticed her timid posture, however, she slightly giggled, "If you only knew how clumsy I am", she rolled her eyes and shook her head nervously, "...sometimes I can't seem to keep one foot in front of the other without tripping over them."

Maxwell raised an eyebrow, but, nodded in agreement, "yeah....I have that problem sometimes too" tapering off his words.

Riley appeared to relax again as an awkward silence took over.

Maxwell broke this lull and shifted his posture, "Sooo....it was nice to meet you Riley."

Maxwell noticed Riley's eyes start to flutter and her body weave slightly. She reached out and grabbed on to his arm. He immediatly hoisted her closer to him as her face smashed into his aching chest. She went mostly weightless in his arms and he walked with her a few feet to his car. He held on to her with one arm and opened his passenger side door with the other. He gently placed her in the seat and lowered the headrest back.

Maxwell began rubbing her arm and asking if she needed him to do anything for her. Riley's skin felt cold and clammy, small beads of sweat had surfaced on her forehead and both hands were trembling.

She swallowed hard and with a raspy voice told him she needed water.

Maxwell anxiously reached across Riley, grabbing a half emptied bottled water from the middle console. He promptly removed the cap, lifted her head up to her chest, and placed the opening to her dry lips. She lapped the water down until not even a single drop was left.

She laid her head back, closed her eyes and rested an arm on her forehead.

Maxwell studied her her body language as the rise and fall of her chest started to even out. He reached up and pulled her frail arm from her forehead, placing it easily across her stomach.

With the direness of the situation, he hadn't noticed the deep purple bruises that adorned her forearm.

Maxwell bit his top lip and turned his head away. His mind was racing with speculations.....was she really unadept or did someone hurt her? He took a deep breath through his nose, holding it, before blowing it completly out his pursed lips.

He avoided asking her about the marks when he turned back to face her; she'd probably make another excuse anyway. Riley sat up in the seat, smoothing out her dress as Maxwell adjusted it's back into an upright position.

Maxwell cleared his throat, then tilted his head, "there's a diner about two blocks from here and I'm starving...what'dya say about joining me...my treat." Her eyes started to beam and the corner of her lips curved upward, she answered softly, "okay."

He shut the door and retrieved her old guitar that lay flat on the hot concrete sidewalk. He walked swiftly to the drivers side, opened the door and placed her guitar in the back before sliding in.

They made small talk over dinner, mostly about her music. She spoke to him about her dreams of going to New York City and playing for a big label recording company. Her friend Daniel had moved there last year and invited her to join him when she had the opportunity.

He was impressed by the fact that she could out talk and out eat him. He made the assumption that the episode earlier was from dehydration. I wonder when she ate last?

She was funny and laughed at his goofball stories. He enjoyed her company and she appeared to have similar feelings of him. There was an amicable affection, but, not sexual in nature, completely platonic.

Maxwell offered her a ride home, but, she denied needing one since her apartment was just a few blocks away. After paying the bill, she thanked him for the meal, shared a quick hug and both parted ways.

Two miles into his drive, he realized Riley's guitar was still in his back seat. He made a quick u-turn and sped back to the neighborhood he just left in hopes of catching her. As he was stopped at the corner of the diner, he glanced over and there she was; sitting with her back against the exterior of the diner; knees bent, head resting on them with her arms tightly wrapped around her legs.

He manuevered his car into an empty space along the street. He got out and approached her slowly, "Riley?".

She looked up at him with red tear stained eyes and he knelt down beside her clutching her back.

With a quiet whimper, she answered, "I have no where to go."

His heart sank and his stomach turned. He reached for her hand and pulled her up with him. He wrapped his arms around her shoulders and glared at her for a short moment, "yeah you do...come on."

***

Olivia prepared to descend the grand stair case when someone caught her eye; a sharp toothed grin would surface on her plump, red lips. She grabbed ahold of the railing and began her slow descent. "Well, well, well" she would say mockingly, "it appears they'll allow any old riff-raff to clean this place".

Drake clenched the shaft of the wooden mop, stopping his momentum, then contining its side to side motions.

Once she reached the main floor, she leaned against the ornate statue that adorned the bottom railing, "I heard about your little exploits last night...did poor Drake have a rough evening?" she continued with fake sorrow.

Drake turned away from her, wearing his usual scowl, continuing his task. He was in no mood to deal with her this morning; he just wanted to get his punishment over with.

Olivia pushed herself from the statue, clasping her hands in front of her, before making her way to Drake's position. "You know Walker, all this mopping will be good for you once they finally decide to lock you up".

Drake dipped the mop in the warm water of the bucket before slinging the drenched mass of cloth at her. Water pooled across her feet and the bare flesh of her lower legs.

Olivia glanced down, seething and considering the situation.

Drake put the mop in the bucket, placing both hands on top, "anything else you'd like to add bitch?".

Olivia eyed him with malice before bending down to remove her light pink heels. She stood and inched closer to his face. With an icy whisper, "Know your place commoner...you are a nothing...you may as well not even exist" she accentuated every word. With a smirk, she dropped both heels in the mop bucket and smirked, "by the way, you missed a spot."

Drake went to lunge at her when Bastien, standing at the top of the stairs noticed the exchange and called out to him.

Olivia's face turned smug with an added devilish smirk. She bit the tip of her index finger and gave a wink before scampering off.

Drake hated her strongly and had for many years. She represented everything he despised about these people. To him, she had the perfect, cozy life without a care in the world. Her beautiful sparkling dresses, the diamonds and gold that glittered on her ears and neck, the fancy balls and all her rich, better-than-you friends who made no secret of his value to anyone. He was 18 now and was free to get away, but, he couldn't abandon his sister the way his mother had.

"Drake", Bastien would say while clamping his shoulder, "you've got to stop engaging her son".

Drake huffed and became defensive, "you don't even know what she said...and don't call me son!".

Bastien clasped his shoulder a little harder, "I don't need to know what she said, I'm certain, knowing her, it wasn't kind...but, Drake, you gotta realize, she's a lot like you, dealing with the same emotions. You both just express them differently."

Drake forcefully shirked his shoulder from Bastien's clutches and pointed his finger at his face, "don't you dare ever say she's like me, she's nothing like me!". He took a step back and kicked the mop bucket away; water splashing trails as it glided. He stamped past Bastien and out the front door.

***

Liam stood in front of the bathroom mirror as he stared at the face in front of him. His day had been filled with one boring lesson after another. His father was preparing him to take on the duties of a crown prince; a duty he did not want.

The way Constantine cursed at him and would tightly grab the back of his neck for getting a question wrong was at the forefront of his mind. He remembered the way his brother looked just days ago...happy and content. Why can't that be me?

Liam's mind was swirling and the pressure in his head was crushing his entire body.

He turned the sink on and bent over to splash some warm water on his face; it did nothing to quench the pain and stress that had overcome him.

He placed both hands on the counter and dropped his head down. He looked back in the mirror and realized his puffy eyes were filled with tears.

He spoke to himself, "do it you fucking coward...just do it already."

He closed his eyes and was breathing so heavily he began to feel a rush.

He walked back into his room and over to his dresser. He opened the top drawer and grabbed his prescription of Xanax that had been recently filled. He ran a hand through his hair and contemplated the ramifications of his actions.

He glanced up at the picture of his beautiful mother, held within a silver frame, sitting on top. He just wanted to escape everything...he wanted to be with her.

He wiped the tears that were streaming down his cheeks. He grabbed the bottle and lifted it to his mouth. "I love you, Mother".

It wasn't clear to him how many pills he swallowed, he only hoped it would be enough to take him quickly.

He sat on the edge of the bed and layed flat back. He placed his hands across his chest and starred up at the ceiling. Within minutes, he felt the rumbing in his stomach and the pounding heart in his chest. His hands started to shake, he could feel the blood rushing through every vein in his body. Soon, his vision became fuzzy, and weakness took over.

The room became darker and darker, then-nothing

#the royal romance #choices trr #trr liam #trr drake #trr fanfic #maxwell beaumont #olivia nevrakis

55 notes · View notes

beautifulterriblequeen · 6 years ago

Text

Lost Boys

Rating: Gen

Characters: Runaan, Harrow, Rayla, Viren (mentioned)

Tags: #major character death, #canon compliant, #young Runaan, #young Harrow, #timeskips, #friendship, #friendship gone wrong, #fathers and sons,#destiny is a bitch, #good intentions, #sad, #bittersweet, #Runaan’s dad is awful, #fluffy happiness turns to heartbreaking angst, #angsty af, #did I mention the angst, #contains 3943% of your daily allowance of angst, #AAAAAA that’s six A’s on the Swiss Angst Scale, #tissue warning, #tell me how this made you feel, #your feedback is a gift

Word count: 12k

(art by @random-fandom-ramble)

Runaan’s toes had gone numb, but he kept walking through the shin-deep snow anyway. He was sure he was close to camp—he could smell the cedars—but the falling whiteness had obscured his original tracks hours ago. He wasn’t even sure which way was north anymore. Surely—please, Moon—this was the right copse of cedars. The last three hadn’t been.

“Hello?”

Runaan’s little boots stopped short. That voice was no Moonshadow. His mind had wandered far ahead, hoping for shelter and warmth, and he hadn’t been paying attention to his surroundings.

He shifted his bright turquoise eyes toward the small voice, moving nothing else, as if his white winter clothing might make him turn invisible even without a full Moon.

A young boy about his height stood twenty feet away, peering around a slender fir tree, his arms wrapped around its crusty, snow-dusted bark. His face was dark against the white ruff of fur on the hood of his coat, which was gray and finely made, and his knitted mittens blazed scarlet against the black-and-white of the trees and snow.

Runaan tensed and sucked in an icy breath that burned its way down his throat. Gray and scarlet. The colors of Katolis. A human. Reflexively, the young Moonshadow tugged on his thick leather hood, making sure his ears and horns were covered.

“Do you know the way to the Banther Lodge?” The boy’s voice tried to be brave, but a thread of fear ran through it. “I… got lost.”

Runaan blinked in surprise, but a small, warm tendril of connection flared in his chest. It couldn’t be so bad to be lost in enemy territory if the enemy got lost in his own backyard. But this little boy didn’t look aggressive. He looked worried. And cold.

The boy rubbed his hands together for warmth. Runaan studied the gesture of vulnerability. His father had trained such behavior out of him two years ago. It had been a hard lesson to learn. But his father had been—was still—determined to make his son the best Moonshadow in the family. And Runaan would never do anything to threaten his family’s honor. Which meant that, right now, Runaan needed to act as human as possible, to keep the boy’s suspicions at bay. What would a human do in this situation?

“I can climb a tree and look for you,” he offered.

The look on the boy’s face was pathetically grateful. Runaan figured he didn’t even know how to climb trees. Or maybe he was afraid of slipping on the snow. The young elf scanned the area, full of several firs and a few bare oaks, and picked the fir with the lowest branches. He trudged through the snow toward it, making obvious tracks like any human would, then he hopped up and scrambled through the fragrant branches. He reached the top in no time and looked out across the snowy landscape. The snow was falling thickly, and he couldn’t see far in any direction. But the gentle curves of the nearby hills gave him the lay of the land, and a cut through the woods indicated the humans’ road, which led directly to the lodge and crossed the river next to it.

He knew where he was. He knew which way the Banther Lodge lay. More importantly, he knew where his own camp sat. A grin split his face, and he looked down through the tree branches.

The young boy gazed up at him from beneath the shelter of the tree. Runaan shimmied down and dropped into the thin layer of snow that had reached the ground beneath the tree’s sheltering limbs. In the quiet, surrounded by winter’s frozen fall, they faced each other closely for the first time. The dim shelter of the tree limbs hooded them in peaceable silence.

Runaan silently raised a hand and pointed in the direction of the lodge.

The boy grinned, exposing a gap-toothed smile. “Thanks.” His dark eyes shifted from Runaan’s turquoise gaze to his nose—its blue stripes—and back up again.

“Do you live there?” Runaan asked, hoping to head off the human’s next question. “The lodge.”

The boy shrugged one shoulder of his fine wool coat. “We stay here in winter.”

Runaan nodded. Moonshadows didn’t always live in the same place, either.

“My grandfather is the king.” The boy’s tone was proud, and his chin lifted as he spoke.

Runaan’s thin white eyebrows shot up. Was he supposed to compete with this young prince for status somehow? Human rules were very strange. “My father works for a king,” he offered, hoping that was the right thing to say.

It was not. The boy’s pleasant face closed down. “Which one? Are you from Evenere?”

Runaan’s lip curled at the very idea. “No.”

“Then who are you? Why are you here on my grandfather’s property on the Eve of the Winter’s Turn?”

This one, Runaan knew. His father had made him practice. “My parents are tinkers from eastern Del Bar. Our wagon broke a ways up the road. I’m just… exploring… while my father fixes it. We’ll be on our way soon.”

“Del Bar? That’s all right, then. The King of Evenere is—well, my grandfather calls him a handful. He calls me that, too, when I’m being naughty.”

Runaan blinked. “A handful of what?”

The boy laughed as if he’d said something truly funny. “Trouble, usually. But Grandfather says that, come spring, things will change.”

“You won’t be a handful of trouble in the spring?”

Again with the laugh, clear and easy. Arrogance masks ignorance, Runaan’s father always said. “He wasn’t talking about me. I’d better go. Thank you for your help.” The boy held out one of his bright red mittens to shake hands. “My name is Prince Harrow.”

Runaan stared at the scarlet mitten and the line of knitted stags that danced across its back. Slowly, he reached out and clasped the young prince’s hand with his own leather mitten. “Runaan.”

“Thank you again, Runaan. You’ve saved me.”

Harrow’s words shivered uncomfortably against Runaan’s spine. He didn’t know exactly what his father and the others had come to Katolis to do, but humans were the enemy, and not generally to be saved from things. “From what?”

“My father would’ve been furious if he’d had to send the guards out after me. He’s in a foul enough mood as it is, with Grandfather being sick.”

Runaan gulped and tried to smile. He knew all about the foul moods of fathers. “Then I’m glad I could help.”

Harrow took two steps toward the edge of the fir’s sheltering limbs and turned back. “You’ll be okay out here, won’t you? You know the way back to your family’s wagon?”

Runaan pointed toward the road, nearly the opposite direction from the Moonshadow camp. It seemed to satisfy the prince, who waved a friendly goodbye and stepped out into the falling snow.

Runaan watched him go until the prince vanished past a thicket. Then he dashed toward the Moonshadow camp. Not twenty minutes later, he puffed into the center of six pale tents with silver-gray markings, each sheltered under a tree at the edge of a small clearing.

“Runaan.” His father’s voice was low and taut.

Runaan’s heartbeat jumped. His absence had been noticed. He stood as tall as he could and faced his father’s lanky frame, holding his little chin high and meeting those dark teal eyes without any outward sign of fear. “Yes, Father.”

His father had other things on his mind besides his son’s winter wanderings, though. “You will stay in camp tonight. If none of us return by sunrise, make your way home without us. Your mother will understand.”

Runaan studied his father’s stern face with a small frown. His glance strayed to the other Moonshadows as they sat just inside their open tents, dressed in heavy white rabbit fur and preparing various items for the work they would carry out. “Is this a test?”

A smile flickered once at the corner of his father’s mouth.

Runaan hooded his eyes, hiding his feelings. An old habit even at his young age. Everything’s a test when it comes from you. But I won’t fail.

***

As the first rays of dawn crept through the window of the chambers belonging to the King of Katolis, they fell across his slack face and lit in his unseeing eyes. A crystalline smear of a poison common to Evenere was found on the rim of the glass beside his bed.

The whole household mourned the king’s passing for seven days. Then Harrow’s father performed the burial rites and accepted the Crown of the Uneven Towers upon his brow.

Spring came. But Harrow was wrong—nothing changed. The new King of Katolis redoubled his realm’s war efforts, and all of the human kingdoms shook with battle cries for the next three years.

***

Prince Harrow woke suddenly as if he could sense a watching presence. He rolled over, scrubbed at his eyes with his knuckles, and squinted up toward his open window. Its shutters lay open and its sill was drenched in moonlight.

Drenched, that is, except for the figure that crouched on it, casting a deep shadow. Its turquoise eyes glowed faintly, and a pair of slender, curling horns arose from its head. The moonlight illuminated a pair of dark green boots and side tails of soft white hair.

The figure stared down at Harrow, motionless, unblinking.

Harrow felt a grin spread across his face, and his chest lightened with amazement. He propped himself up on one elbow. “I knew it,” he whispered. “I knew you were real.” His gaze rested on the other boy’s horns. “And… you’re an elf.”

Runaan’s voice was soft, just another shadow in the night. “All my life.”

The prince’s dark eyes narrowed. “You said your parents were tinkers from Del Bar.”

“You can’t prove they’re not.”

Harrow began to splutter indignantly because yes he could, but then he spotted the shadow of a grin on his visitor’s face. It triggered a parade of fairy tales that flitted through Harrow’s mind. Unlike most of the stories the servant children grew up with, the ones his grandmother told him painted elves as pranksters, but never evil. “You lied to me, you trickster.”

The lithe elfling on the prince’s window sill tilted his horns with curiosity. He didn’t protest either the accusation or the label. “Do you want to play?”

A tingle of excitement that had nothing to do with the cold shivered down Harrow’s spine. He pulled his heavy blankets back and swung his legs over the edge of his bed. The chill bite of wintry air nipped at his toes. “Let me get my boots.”

Harrow threw on trousers, gloves, and a new scarlet coat as well. The young elf helped the warmly dressed prince clamber out onto the sloped roof of the Banther Lodge and up to the sharp ridge. Though the snow lay thick on the ground, the dark slate roof was snow-free after several sunny days. Despite the easy footing, Harrow nearly slipped twice in his big boots, but Runaan easily caught him both times without a word.

They sat straddling the ridge and gazed out over their tiny, snowy kingdom. Harrow decided not to ask about the blue stripes on the elfling’s nose. Runaan’s hair had grown longer, Harrow thought, or perhaps it only seemed that way since the elf wasn’t wearing a hood. A single turquoise bead glimmered on a thin braid tucked back into Runaan’s ponytail, giving him an air of glamor and adventure. Harrow wondered if Runaan’s life had been full of it since they’d last met. “I didn’t think I’d see you again.”

“Why not? I know where you live.”

Harrow leaned forward. “It’s been three years. That’s a long time.��

Runaan raised a puzzled white eyebrow. “Is it?”

“Yes. My father’s war just ended last month.” Harrow gestured toward Evenere with a mittened hand. “We won, by the way.”

The elfling turned his gaze to the snowy fields that surrounded the lodge. “Congratulations. Maybe we shouldn’t play down there tonight. They’ll wonder why your footprints are everywhere.”

“Mine and yours.”

Runaan’s grin was bright and cocky. “No.”

Harrow squared his shoulders, determined not to be useless. “What can we play on the roof then?” His question puffed out into the chill air.

“We always play elves and humans back home,” Runaan offered. “I’ve never played it with a real human before.”

Harrow squinted with mild suspicion. “We have that game, too. How’s it go when you play it?”

Runaan’s grin was back, cockier than ever. “Like you’d expect.”

With an eye trained by three years of military tactics and philosophy, Harrow studied the young elf’s slender, athletic legs, encased in only a thin layer of dark fabric despite the deep chill. His arms were bare, too, and he wore neither hat nor hood. When Harrow played elves and humans, it always ended with his side’s victory, too, but he didn’t think he could manage it against such a superior force. “I don’t think I want to play that right now.”

Runaan shrugged easily. “Well, what do you want to do, then?”

Harrow looked down the steep slope of the roof to the ground thirty feet below. “Let’s be explorers. You can climb all the peaks, and I’ll draw all the maps and carry our supplies.”

“That’s fun for you? Carrying supplies?” Runaan eyed Harrow, who nodded equably. “All right, then. And if we need human troops, you can tell me how many and what kind.”

Harrow snorted. “‘Human’ troops? As if I’d allow elven troops to guard me.”

The elfling’s slender horns tipped to the side. “They’d do a better job.”

“They would not.”

Runaan’s giggle was soft and sure. “I got onto your window sill, didn’t I?”

“Yes, but you’re no elven soldier. And you don’t want to hurt me.” Harrow glanced down again. It was a long way to the snow, but more than two feet of it would cushion his fall. He’d probably survive. If he didn’t have a dagger in his back. “Do you?”

Runaan’s turquoise eyes gleamed in shadow for a long moment before he replied, “Of course not. Let’s go be explorers.”

The boys played under the moonlight for hours, exploring every peak of the roof with dedicated imagination. Harrow woke exhausted the next morning, yelled at his tutor during his history lesson, and ordered the four troops assigned to guard him to perform marching maneuvers in the snow for miles around. Eventually, his mother lost patience with him and sent him to his room straight after supper, where he promptly fell asleep, smirking on his pillow.

Harrow woke at moonrise to see Runaan crouching over him. “I told you it would work,” the Moonshadow whispered.

Harrow grinned up at him with mischief dancing in his eyes. “Let me get my boots.”

Runaan helped Harrow scamper down to the ground by guiding his feet just so along the lodge’s sills and eaves. Freed from the roof, they dashed off into the silent, snowy night, hiding their footprints in the trails that Harrow’s guards had stitched across the moonlit landscape. They played for hours, climbing, racing, and building snowmen. Runaan insisted his was a snowelf, though, and gave it stick horns. Harrow got a snowball in the face when he stole one of the stick horns, but he gave as good as he got, leaving Runaan blinking in shock through a layer of snow and sending Harrow into fits of giggles.

Runaan helped Harrow clamber back in through his window just before dawn. As Harrow shucked off his heavy scarlet coat, Runaan pulled a small snowball from his pocket and pelted the prince with it. It caught him in the chest, soaked his nightshirt, and sent him into protesting splutters. Runaan smirked and held a finger to his lips before whispering, “See you tomorrow night, human.”

Every night for ten nights, the Moonshadow elf woke the prince, and they’d run through the forest and build snow forts together. Runaan never accepted Harrow’s invitation to sneak around the Banther Lodge on the inside, though. So on the tenth night, Harrow tugged off his snowy coat and said, “Wait here. I have something for you.” Then he slipped out his door and closed it behind him.

Runaan perched on the window sill, ready to flee at the first sign of soldiers. But after a minute, Harrow returned with a carved wooden box and set it on the little table right below the window. The elfling’s eyes widened at the sight of the leaf on its curved lid. “Where did you get that?”

“It’s my grandmother’s. Just some old box. I’m not supposed to take it out of the game room, so please don’t tell anyone, okay?”

Runaan hesitated, as if Harrow asked a great and heavy boon of him. His eyes lifted from the box to Harrow’s face and studied him seriously. Finally he said, “I promise.”

Harrow grinned and lifted the lid, not letting Runaan peek inside, and pulled out a silvery old key. He held it up like a talisman and proclaimed, “I, Prince Harrow of Katolis, hereby give you, Runaan of the Moonshadow elves, permission to enter my room. And the rest of the lodge if you want to, but you don’t have to.” He held out the key.

Runaan accepted it slowly and turned it over in his fingers. “What does it unlock?”

Harrow shrugged. “No idea. There’s like, six dozen useless keys in here.”

Runaan stared at him, perplexed. “Humans are so weird.”

“Yes, we really are.”

They both broke into quiet giggles.

The next night, the moon was new. Harrow waited for Runaan to summon him out into the snow, but the elfling never came. When Harrow woke at dawn, disappointed, he looked out at his window sill and spotted something that hadn’t been there the night before.

A length of soft white braid bearing a turquoise bead lay atop last night’s freshly fallen snow.

***

Runaan trekked home alone through the snow and placed the key in his father’s expectant hand. “He gave it to me freely.”

His father lifted his chin in a rare gesture of pleased pride. “Well done, Runaan. What does it unlock?”

Runaan’s turquoise eyes glittered. “His trust.”

***

“You didn’t say goodbye.”

Runaan blinked down at Harrow from his perch on the prince’s window sill. “Should I have?”

“It’s considered polite.”

Runaan tipped his horns and considered the prince. The human’s hair was longer now, and set in braids. The shape of his face had changed a little, too. But his eager green eyes were still the same. “If you say so. Do you want to play?”

“It’s been a whole year, Runaan.”

“Yes. We have the same seasons in Xadia that you do.”

Harrow snorted. “Do you still have the key I gave you?”

Runaan pulled Harrow’s gift out from under his shirt, where he kept it on a slender leather cord. “Did you keep my braid?”

Harrow’s eyes flickered to a small keepsake box next to his oil lamp. “Yeah.”

Runaan’s turquoise eyes lingered on the box for a moment before returning to Harrow’s face. “Do you want to play?”

The intervening year vanished from the reflection in Harrow’s dark eyes so cohesively that Runaan saw it leave, saw the very moment the young prince let him back into his life. Harrow grinned, threw back his thick coverlet, and leaped out of bed. “Let me get my boots.”

The boys played atop the roof that night, exploring new territory—to Runaan, anyway, for he asked Harrow to name all the peaks and valleys the rooftop represented, and he even coaxed a hand-drawn map out of him. Harrow drew it by moonlight, and it vanished into Runaan’s tunic. The next morning, Harrow ordered his personal guard to march all over the grounds again. The next night, the pair dashed silently into the forest and played to their hearts’ content. Monstrous foes of bark and snow were vanquished, dragons slain, and princes and princesses rescued from danger.

Runaan shared some of his moonberry juice with Harrow when the prince’s stomach growled so loud that it scared away the mouse they were stalking, and when Harrow could barely keep his eyes open, he led the tired prince stumblingly back to the lodge. Harrow shucked off his snow-packed boots and his new, longer wool coat, and fell exhaustedly against his pillow.

Runaan hesitated a moment, then he slipped in through the window and tucked the prince under his covers. “See you tomorrow, Harrow.”

“You promise?” Harrow’s murmur was nearly incomprehensible.

“I promise.”

Runaan woke the prince every night for two weeks. And then he was gone, vanished across the snow again.

Once home and dry, he handed his father the map Harrow had drawn and recited a list of tactical details he’d gleaned from the young prince’s chatter.

His father studied the map for a long moment. “Well done, Runaan.”

The praise and accompanying rare smile did nothing to ease the cramp in Runaan’s belly. He’d kept the secret of Harrow’s Earthblood box for a whole year. Told himself a promise to a human was no promise at all, and that he’d pretend to learn it this year, to present his father with the information like a prize. But on the snowy journey home, Runaan couldn’t stop thinking about the human’s kindness, his earnest heart.

Harrow had kept Runaan’s braid. Hadn’t told anyone about it for a whole year. He’d passed Runaan’s simple test of trust. Shouldn’t Runaan show the same loyalty he’d hoped for from Harrow? Wasn’t that what friendship was based on? Wasn’t that worth something? What was his word truly worth, if he gave it knowing in his heart that it was worthless?

Runaan curled up to sleep on his first night home and swore he’d never tell his father about Harrow’s mysterious Earthblood box.

***

“Do you want to play?”

“Let me get my boots.”

The snow was scant that year. Runaan taught Harrow how to shoot a Moonshadow bow. Harrow could barely draw it at first, and he pretended that the problem lay with trying to shoot an elven bow with five-fingered hands. Runaan teasingly offered to cut his pinkies off for him.

Harrow finally convinced Runaan to sneak around the Banther Lodge’s rafters with him. They listened in on the grownups discussing late-night political matters. Harrow tried to twirl fly wings down into their steaming mugs from up above. Runaan was first to land one in the king’s mug.

“Do you want to play?”

“Let me get my boots.”

The extreme cold had splintered dozens of trees in the forest the week before, so Runaan convinced Harrow to play on the frozen river under the moonlight. They built a snow fort and pelted each other with snowballs. Runaan’s missiles found Harrow more often, but whenever Harrow hurled a snowball that Runaan knew would land, Runaan learned to scramble for safety. Then, just when Harrow thought he’d won, Runaan shifted into his full Moonshadow form, darted across the open ice unseen, and tackled Harrow into a snowbank.

Harrow beat Runaan in a midnight bread-eating contest. Easily. Runaan tried his best, but he just couldn’t get used to the baked goods’ strange texture. Harrow jokingly consoled him with a jelly tart, and Runaan ate the whole thing just to spite him.

“Do you want to play?”

“Let me get my boots.”

The boys’ voices had begun to change. In solidarity, they said very little as they roamed the forest. As the first night ended, Harrow darted across the river bridge toward the lodge. But Runaan paused reluctantly on the forest side, hoping to draw Harrow back for more play. Both unwilling to speak, they stared at each other impatiently until Runaan finally stalked across after him. On stormy nights, they passed their time in Harrow’s room. Runaan perched on the chest at the foot of the prince’s bed and practiced his balance. Harrow wrapped himself in his blankets and drank hot cocoa. Runaan told Harrow about the Moonstone Path. And Harrow kept that to himself.

The fifth year that Runaan sneaked onto Harrow’s window sill, everything changed.

***

“Do you want to play?”

“Runaan, we’re not children anymore.”

The lanky Moonshadow tilted his horns in confusion. “What do you want to do, then?”

Harrow looked up at him from his pillow. He hadn’t done more than open his eyes at the sound of Runaan’s voice. “Let’s just talk. You want to come in? I have something exciting to tell you!”

Runaan automatically scanned the interior for threats and found none. He knew from previous years that the king and queen slept on the other side of the lodge, and that the rooms nearest to Harrow’s were for servants or daytime activities, but after years of his father’s lessons, the young Moonshadow took little for granted. He slipped a booted foot over the sill and entered the prince’s bedchamber, feeling out of place.

“Sit,” Harrow invited as he sat up himself, indicating the foot of his bed. “But close the shutters. Not all of us dance in the freezing moonlight all night long.”

“I don’t dance in the moonlight.” Runaan pulled the shutters across the window. He didn’t like the trapped feeling the action gave him, but he trusted Harrow. So he sat cross-legged on the foot of the prince’s broad, fluffy bed and rested his hands in his lap.

“You did that one time,” Harrow said with a chuckle. “Hands behind your back, parading in a circle. What did you call it? A rune henge procession?”

“Moonhenge progression,” Runaan corrected. “And I only showed you because you wanted to see what Moonshadow dancing looked like.”

“Just for comparison purposes. It’s a lot like the rondel I had to learn for last High Solstice. Anyway. I wanted to tell you that I’ve started attending university.”

Runaan’s ears drooped. “Does that mean you won’t come to the lodge anymore?”

Harrow only chuckled. “Of course it doesn’t. You always visit me during Low Solstice anyway. My family is always at the Banther Lodge at this time of year. That won’t change. But that’s not the thing I wanted to tell you.”

“Oh. What is it, then?”

“I met someone.”

The glee in Harrow’s voice made Runaan curious. “A girl?”

“No, a boy.”

Runaan’s white brows rose. “Wait, you like boys, too?”

Harrow blinked. “What? No, he’s just really interesting. Like you!” Harrow’s warm green eyes twinkled with excitement. “His name is Viren, and he’s a stable boy at the university. I met him when he started filling in for my usual horse groom. Silly man broke his ankle falling down stairs. Who does that?”

Runaan had a suspicion about what had really happened—humans would do almost anything to get closer to power—but he kept it to himself.

“And he’s so bright and clever,” Harrow rambled on, barely pausing for breath. “If he could afford the university, I know he’d be one of its best students. I’m actually thinking of sponsoring him next semester so he can attend classes with me. I’ve already arranged for him to have the most exclusive private tutor in Katolis. Whenever Viren shows—”

“Why are you telling me this?” Runaan interrupted. The slow swirl of emotions that had begun as Harrow began talking had whirled faster and harder until he had to say something. He’d spent years befriending this silly young prince. Years planning what to do with him every winter, crafting the illusion of a perfect, harmless elven friend. Until this year. This winter. His father had given him new orders—the final step that made sense of all these years of work. Runaan had soberly agreed to his mission, though deep down, he’d been troubled and uncertain. And now, Harrow seemed to have no interest in their shared history. Runaan’s chest cramped with hurt.

That’ll make this easier. I think I can do it after all. His fingers brushed the dagger he’d sheathed inside the top cuff of his boot.

“I’m getting to that,” Harrow assured him, waving his hands animatedly. “Like I was saying before you so rudely interrupted me, Viren likes to show me what he’s learning from his tutor.”

Runaan’s brows drew together. “I thought you said he’s a stable boy, not a student.”

“Would you listen?” Harrow huffed impatiently and shot Runaan a short glare. “He’s not a student at the university. He’s studying independently. For now. And see—this is why he reminds me of you—he’s learning to do magic!”

Runaan froze, his spine tingling with sudden sharp stabs. “That’s impossible.”

“Hah, I knew you’d say that!” Harrow showed no remorse or concern for his horrific statement. The only expression that danced in his eyes was excitement. “Humans can do magic too, Runaan! Dark magic is our birthright, it’s our heritage, and Viren’s showing me all kinds of ways to use it. It’s amazing, it’s—it’s—”

“It’s disgusting.” Runaan’s voice was cold. His fingers slipped inside his boot cuff.

Harrow gave him an exasperated look. “It’s a few grasshoppers. No one’s going to miss them.”

Runaan’s stomach clenched and roiled. All these years, I kept carefully away from the subject of dark magic. I didn’t want to push him away. And now, he knows nothing. Nothing at all! Runaan’s first fear raised its ugly head again, sending a cold spike through his guts. What if humans chop me up for spell parts, one piece at a time? What if I die screaming under the hands of someone who doesn’t see me as anything more than a walking collection of supplies? Humans really are monsters after all.

“You’re upset,” Harrow added.

Runaan realized he hadn’t replied in far too long.

I am. I am very upset.

Runaan’s mind fled back to the moment his father pressed a new dagger into his hands, its green sheath decorated with a coiling serpent symbol. “What’s this for?” Runaan had asked.

“It’s time you knew the true extent of your mission, Runaan.” His father folded his hands behind his back and stared down at him, gray eyes sharp. “You’ve befriended the prince. You’ve brought years’ worth of useful details back to us. But there is a larger picture here. The human kingdoms are barbarous, and if they ever make peace and unite, they will turn their eyes to Xadia. We are kept safe when they are in turmoil. Assassinating the old King of Katolis provided three years’ worth of protection for Xadia. Your mission has been to encourage a more permanent state of war. The assassination of the Crown Prince of Katolis at the hands of Del Bar has been calculated to provide Xadia with the longest respite from human attention.”

Runaan’s fingers stilled around the dagger’s handle. The image of Harrow smiling at him in the snowy night flickered across his memory. “What are you saying, Father?”

“I’m saying, you are to return with the terrible news that Prince Harrow has perished. With this dagger in his heart.”

Runaan couldn’t lift his eyes from the weapon in his hands. Its pull was too strong. “But… he’s my friend.”

“And you are my son. You’re fifteen now. Next year you will take your place among the Moonshadow assassin recruits, Runaan. It will give you an edge on the others if you have already taken. The harder blade gets drawn more often from its sheath.”

Unshed tears edged Runaan’s turquoise eyes. I don’t want to kill Harrow. Please don’t make me.

But what had come out of his mouth was the ever-obedient “Yes, Father.”

Sitting on the end of Harrow’s bed, Runaan could almost feel the weight of his father’s hand on his shoulder. His fingers slid further around the Del Bar dagger’s handle.

“Runaan? Come on, talk to me.” Harrow leaned forward and waved a hand in front of Runaan’s eyes. “I only paid Viren any attention because I already knew you. You told me so many stories about Xadia and its magic. You made me want to see your homeland. It’s only natural that I’d want to learn more about magic—”

“There’s nothing natural about it!” Runaan snapped. “You know nothing, Harrow, and your ignorance is going to ruin lives. Starting with your own. Stay away from Viren. And stay away from me.” Runaan spun to his feet, feeling the façade over his true feelings splinter. All the hurt, fear, and guilt he’d been soothing himself to sleep with for years burst out in one single, controlled action.

The Del Bar dagger embedded itself in Harrow’s headboard, a mere inch from the prince’s ear.

Harrow’s eyes went as wide as Runaan had ever seen them. To his credit, the prince sat very still and didn’t even flinch. And though the prince’s body had halted, his mind was clearly racing, because the first thing he said, when he finally did speak, was, “Did you kill my grandfather?”

Runaan’s eyes tightened. “I was seven. What kind of monster do you think I am?”

Harrow’s gaze didn’t waver. “Your parents, then. You lied to me about them the day we met. They weren’t tinkers. They’re assassins. Like you. My grandfather died the night after I met you. That’s why you were here that day.”

Runaan bunched his jaw. He hadn’t known what his father’s mission had been that day. He’d felt terrible for months afterward. But Harrow was in no mood to hear about Runaan’s childish ignorance or regrets now. “I’m not an assassin.”

With the towering arrogance that only a human prince could muster, Harrow slid his eyes ever so slowly to the side until he stared directly at the handle of Runaan’s Del Bar dagger. Then he flicked his dark gaze back to Runaan’s turquoise eyes. “Really.”

Frozen by his own uncertainty in his flight toward the freedom of the shuttered window, Runaan had never felt so overexposed in his life. His past and his present collided and shattered, and Harrow could see far too much of his soul. Secrets he barely understood himself had just come spilling out of him.

He had no idea what to do, and all he could think was, Father will kill me for this.

“I’m confused,” Harrow said coolly. “Are you storming out or trying to kill me? Because you can’t seem to decide. Maybe you’re not an assassin after all. You don’t seem to understand how it works.”

“I… I just…”

Fragments continued to fall from the shattered armor around Runaan’s heart. He’d known Harrow for more than half his life, and though trust came slowly to Moonshadows, Runaan had absolutely trusted this human. Had trusted, but no longer.

No one had told him how much the breaking of trust would hurt. It stabbed deep and coiled through him like a poison, leaving green and black afterimages against his vision. It stole his breath and froze his guts. Its insidious black hand squeezed his throat from the inside, making him heave for air, forcing him to stare into Harrow’s eyes.

But the prince wasn’t a hardened liar. His face softened, and he leaned forward. “Runaan, you just don’t understand. You have magic. You’ve had it every day of your life. I’ll never know what that’s like. But Viren does. And he just wants to learn—”

“To kill. He wants to learn to kill, Harrow.” Runaan flung an open hand between them, desperate to make the prince see, to make him understand—

Harrow sighed slowly. He kept his eyes on Runaan’s, but he tipped his head and once again indicated the dagger Runaan had just hurled at him.

To learn to kill.

Runaan’s argument ground to a halt. He couldn’t drag his gaze from that dagger, couldn’t think of a single thing to say, except “I’m not like him.”

Harrow’s voice was quiet. “Everything you accuse him of, you do yourself, Runaan.”

Runaan would have to tell him. He’d have to tell him, and Harrow wouldn’t believe him. Not yet. Maybe not ever.

“Do you know the secret to dark magic, Harrow?” he began.

But Harrow cut him off. “Yes. It’s a shortcut. And literally anyone can use it. We don’t need to be born an elf, all special and blessed, like you.”

Harrow’s innate pride had picked exactly the wrong moment to raise its head, and Runaan’s temper snapped. “You utter fool, elves are no different than grasshoppers in the eyes of dark magic!” Runaan growled.

“That doesn’t even make any—listen to me.” Harrow scooted forward to the edge of his bed and gave Runaan a direct look. “Viren would never hurt any elf, no matter what. I guarantee it. So quit being worried over something that’s never going to happen. He’s pro-Katolis. That’s not the same thing as being anti-Xadia.”

Yes it is. The final shards of Runaan’s heart crumbled and fell. He couldn’t stand to be in the room with this stubborn prince for another breath. “I’ll leave you to your new friend’s care, then.” He ripped open the shutters and leaped onto the sill, but he pivoted back as the icy winter air struck him.

His braid lay in Harrow’s keepsake box. White Moonshadow hair with a turquoise bead. The Del Bar dagger lay buried deep into Harrow’s headboard. And Harrow, still breathing, able to explain the true significance of both. If Runaan let Harrow live, not only could the prince blame the Moonshadow for an assassination attempt, but with dark magic, he could make sure that Runaan was personally tracked down and killed for it.

This is why Father didn’t tell me my real mission until just before I left. He knows how soft I am. That if I messed up, the only way to set things right would be to kill Harrow anyway.

Harrow tensed on the edge of his bed. By the look in his eyes, the same idea had occurred to him, too. Runaan met his eyes guardedly. He glanced at the Del Bar dagger, then back at Harrow.

Runaan could reach it first.

Harrow knew it, too.

“Is that what you want?” Harrow asked softly. His fingers knotted in the sheet, and his toes curled from against the icy draft that poured in the window. “Runaan, do you really want to kill me?”

The soft hurt in Harrow’s voice nearly shredded Runaan’s already broken heart. “No,” he choked out. “No, I don’t.”

Harrow’s shoulders slumped, and he leaned his elbows onto his knees. His braids fell forward and obscured his expression. “Then here’s what we’ll do. You’ll go, and I’ll let you. I don’t think I can ask you to trust me anymore—your Moonshadow sensibilities wouldn’t let you, would they? But stay nearby. Somewhere safe. And watch me. We’re the lost boys remember? Lost together.”

Runaan stared down into the prince’s face for a long moment, caught in the window, between two worlds. One world where he trusted his unique childhood friend. Where they could run off and play in the moonlit forest every winter for a lifetime, never growing up, never growing apart. And another world where his father had been right all along.

Humans are liars.

Runaan turned his eyes to the snowscape that spread before him under a layer of broken clouds. The pattern of moon and shadow appeared chaotic from where he perched, but if only he were perched a little higher up, he’d be able to see the pattern spread across the land.

Never trust what you see. Trust what you feel. Trust the Moon. Not the human.

“Goodbye, Harrow.” Runaan leaned forward, letting gravity pull him off the sill and onto the roof.

“Will I ever see you again, Runaan?”

Runaan hesitated. He turned his head partway back toward Harrow and said, “You’d better hope not. I am my father’s son.”

From a sturdy branch in a towering cedar tree just within hearing distance of the lodge, Runaan watched as morning brought a bustle of activity outside. Troops formed up. Harrow stalked outside and mounted his horse, outfitted in light armor. He stood in his stirrups and addressed his father’s men. “Last night, an assassin attempted to take my life, right here on these grounds.”

The troops murmured angrily.

Runaan tensed.

Harrow produced the dagger. “Del Bar may or may not have actually sent an assassin after me. But someone wants us to think they did.”

Runaan’s eyes went hard. His fingers dug into the branch he held for balance.

“Our enemies are indeed under our very noses. We must all stay vigilant. I want this man found. He fled northwest. If we’re fast enough, we can catch him and ask him who sent him.”

The mounted troops thundered off after Prince Harrow, leaving Runaan a clear escape toward Xadia.

Runaan stared after Harrow for a long time. He squared his shoulders and took the eastern path without a backward look.

***

Runaan had no prize to give his father when he arrived home. “You have your war,” he said as he stalked past the older elf.

His father paused in the doorway and observed Runaan’s angry packing. “Ready for another mission so soon?” he asked wryly.

Runaan whirled, turquoise eyes blazing, and lifted his chin. “I’m joining the academy. Not next year. Now.”

Runaan’s father held his gaze for a very long time, sieving his very soul. But Runaan’s soul held no fear, nor guilt. Only anger. And he let it show. His eyes sparked, his chest heaved. His hands balled into fists at his sides.

Infuriatingly, his father let one corner of his mouth pull into a smile. “Well done, Runaan.”

***

When Harrow entered his chamber, he brought the smells of high summer with him. Corn and apricots, tall grass, fresh cool streams. Yet he moved like a man twice his age, as if his body was gripped with an icy chill colder than the winter that was supposed to be swirling outside. The winter that still existed across the border in Xadia. He never noticed Runaan lurking in the shadows atop his wardrobe.

Runaan had spent years bracing for a sudden attack from Viren’s magic, or Harrow’s troops, following the magic Runaan had foolishly left with Harrow in the form of his childhood braid. But seeing Harrow now, he began to question his fears. Some quiet instinct deep in Runaan’s heart, under the thrumming rage and the decade-old pain, told him to wait. To watch.

Harrow’s steps were slow as he shed his formal coat and dropped it carelessly across a trunk near the wardrobe. They slowed further as he turned toward the bed on the dais.

Then they stopped, just shy of the first step. The King of Katolis covered his face in his hands, his shoulders drawn tight like a bowstring.

Runaan pivoted in a crouch, ready to raise his bow, his arrow nocked but not drawn. He knew what Harrow had done. Knew what it had cost. Runaan had come anyway.

“You were right, Sarai,” Harrow murmured into his hands. “I did want to build a better world. But this wasn’t the way.” He rubbed his cheeks as if massaging life back into his face and addressed the empty bed. “It was too easy. And far too hard. I thought the price of saving two kingdoms was cheap. But it was way too high. If I had known…” A groan of deepest anguish filled him and radiated into the silent room as if he were made of regret given form. “If I had only known…”

Before his childhood friend could lose himself in grief, Runaan leaped lightly from the top of the wardrobe and stalked closer, his arrow half-drawn. The message he’d come to deliver didn’t require words, but Harrow clearly hadn’t learned anything since they’d met last. And look what it’s done to you. “You’re missing her point, Harrow.”

Harrow spun to face Runaan with wide eyes, drawing a dagger from his belt. “R-Runaan?” The dagger’s gleaming tip trembled in the moonlight.

The assassin paused and let himself be seen. Taller than Harrow, whip-thin, and dressed for the shadows, Runaan was a deadly breath on the wind: a brief warmth on the skin, here then gone, leaving nothing but cold death in his wake. “Your queen. She was trying to tell you something important. You didn’t listen.”

Harrow’s eyes were still wide with shock at Runaan’s sudden appearance. His dagger shivered harder. “Are-are you here to kill me?”

Runaan’s face was hard. “Yes.”

Harrow’s eyes lowered to Runaan’s bow, still pointed at the floor. He gulped and looked up into Runaan’s eyes again. “I understand.” He lowered his dagger and stood tall, lifting his chin. Accepting his fate.

A dirty glee slicked across Runaan’s rage, and he tipped his horns mockingly. “You acknowledge your arrogance?” he murmured.

Harrow’s accepting pose bowed back into defensiveness. “My—? No. I acknowledge that I willingly invaded Xadia to save a hundred thousand lives from an agonizing and drawn-out death. I acknowledge that my military solution carried a secondary risk: you.”

“You knew I’d come?”

Harrow took a deep breath. “Not you specifically. But Xadia is well defended. And I have first-hand knowledge of the skills of Moonshadow assassins. Your kind killed my grandfather to spark a war. You came to kill me to spark another.”

Runaan pointedly glanced toward a large map clearly marked with Katolis’s recently expanded borders. “You started that war yourself.”

“I made a military feint to let you walk free. Pardon my softness, assassin. It so happened that I did find traitors among my men. My war was justified. Yours never has been.” Harrow’s brows lowered. “Is that why you’ve come? To start another war for your precious political schemes?”

Runaan hesitated so long before replying that Harrow actually took a step back from the angry elf. “I’m here for me, Harrow,” Runaan finally said. “I’m here because you didn’t listen. To me, or to your wife. I warned you about Viren. You didn’t believe me. And you’ve learned nothing.”

“It was one monster, Runaan. For a hundred thousand lives. You’d have done the same. You’re standing right there because you’ve already decided to do the same. Haven’t you?”

The accusation caught Runaan by surprise. “That’s not what—”

Harrow went on the attack, eyes flaring with pain and hurt. “Isn’t it? How dare you come into my life, at the lowest moment I have ever suffered, and tell me to my face that I deserved this, while you stand there ready to make the same ‘mistake’ I did? How dare you.”

Runaan’s fingers slipped on his bowstring, and he took a step back at the harsh truth in Harrow’s words. He’d become an assassin. His father’s son. He’d killed for Xadia, repeatedly. But Xadia hadn’t sent him after Harrow. He’d come of his own accord. Out of fury. Out of guilt. “You don’t know what you’ve done, Harrow. What you’ve started. Your arrogance reaches much further than you think.”

Harrow’s eyes narrowed, eager for any emotion that wasn’t sorrow. He waved an angry hand, inviting Runaan to explain, if he could. “And how is that, exactly?”

Upset on too many levels to resist, Runaan obliged. “I never thought I’d hear of you again, once I walked away from you that night. But I was wrong. You had the towering presumptuousness to assume that you could strut across the border and take what you wanted. That you could commit murder on foreign soil and simply walk away. But your actions have consequences, Harrow! The King of the Dragons is furious. He’s forming the Dragon Guard to defend against further foolishness like yours. My sister—” Runaan bit off the rest of his words.

At that very moment, his sister, Cloda, and her husband were preparing to say goodbye to their little daughter, Rayla. They’d answered the call to serve the King of the Dragons as elite members of his newly formed Dragon Guard.

The only way to quit the Dragon Guard was to die. And with the way the slumbering war with the humans had suddenly rumbled to life again, Runaan and Cloda both knew how her term of service would end.

Cloda knew all about Runaan’s connection to Harrow. Her Moonshadow sensibilities had forced her to choose between salvaging her brother’s honor and raising her daughter. And she’d chosen Runaan. Runaan and Xadia.

Runaan owed her. And he owed Rayla. In fact, he’d never stop owing Rayla. His soft heart—soft head, more like—had led to disaster within his own family and torn his sister from her only child. What else could he do but promise Cloda that he’d look after her daughter while she looked after his honor?

What else could he do?

Runaan’s face was a mask of pain, but he drew his brows down. Justice will not be denied.

“Your sister,” Harrow pressed. “My wife. Your Dragon King. My people. You. Me. We all pay prices, Runaan. One way or another.”

Runaan lifted his arrow from the bow and swiped it through the air in a negative gesture. “But not like this, Harrow! Never like this.”

Harrow folded his arms and glared at Runaan accusingly. “Says the assassin who’s come to kill me for my crimes against Xadia.”

Runaan stalked closer in a rush of angry shoulders and hot breath. “I’m not here for Xadia. I’m here for me. This is my fault. You’re my fault. Everything you did after I let you live… That’s on me. And I’m here to make things right.”

“‘Make things right’?” Harrow shoved himself into the inch of space that separated his chest from Runaan’s. His dark green eyes stabbed up into the assassin’s bright blue ones. “Make things right? Don’t stand there and tell me that marrying Sarai was wrong. That raising her son alongside our own was wrong. That leading my people toward a more equal future than the one my father envisioned is wrong. That wanting everyone across two kingdoms to live happily and healthily is wrong. Don’t you dare judge my life from your high and mighty position as a blessed elf, gifted at birth with powers none of my people will ever have.

“You want to talk about arrogance, Runaan? Let’s talk about how your father killed my grandfather. Let’s talk about how he sent you to kill me. Let’s talk about how you said yes to that. Let’s talk about how I kept your secret from that day forward. How I kept all your secrets, including the Moonstone Path. Because I’m not trying to go to war with Xadia. I’m not trying to invade you and take what I want. And let’s talk about how, the next time I finally see you, you don’t acknowledge that I’ve never given you away, not once. No, you come in here trying to make up for what you see as weakness. You come in here telling yourself that you’ll finally be the good son your father always wanted once you make up for your failure all those years ago and kill me!” Harrow slapped his hands against his own chest and held them open wide, inviting Runaan’s death blow.

But Runaan only stared at him. His bow lowered, and his mouth slowly fell open. “You have children?”

Harrow threw his dagger across the floor and lunged, shoving Runaan back with both hands.

Runaan took the blow and skidded smoothly to a stop several feet away. His eyes flickered across Harrow as if seeing him for the first time. “Harrow—”

“You heard me, you disgraceful excuse for an elf. You utter embarrassment. You unworthy son. Kill me!” Harrow dug his fingers into Runaan’s tunic and slammed him back against the wardrobe.

Runaan dropped his arrow and clasped Harrow’s wrist, not to remove, but to contain. “Harrow. Stop.”

But Harrow didn’t seem to hear him. He slammed Runaan against the wardrobe again, though more softly. His face crumpled, his hands knotted in Runaan’s tunic, and under his breath Runaan heard him muttering over and over, “Kill me, just kill me.”

Harrow’s shoulders knotted, and his grief overcame his ability to stand. His knees gave out, and he sank toward the floor. Runaan smoothly leaned his bow against the wardrobe and dropped with him, hands on his shoulders, guiding him down, until they knelt together on the stone tiles. The king’s grief radiated against Runaan like a dark sun, and the thick weight of it shredded Runaan’s single-minded rage.

Harrow’s head dipped forward, shaking with sobs, and rested against Runaan’s chest. “She’s gone, she’s… I miss her so much.”

Runaan sat back onto his heels and rested his arm across Harrow’s shoulders, feeling the heavy tremors of the king’s utter grief. How easy it would be to kill him now. How easy to destroy him, too—to tell him he deserved this. But Runaan only murmured, “I’m sorry, Harrow. I’m so sorry.”

The assassin who’d come to kill the king held him instead as he wept for the death of his queen. When Harrow’s sobs finally subsided, Runaan handed him a soft cloth, and Harrow wiped his eyes and blew his nose. They knelt facing each other, full of too much emotion and too few words.

Uncharacteristically, Runaan spoke first. “You’re right. And Sarai was right. It’s not my place to come here and take your life. So I won’t. You… you have children.” Rayla’s face blossomed in his vision, smiling up at him for approval, her tiny, dark horns nudging their way out of her short white hair, her lavender eyes alight. “And I have—my own responsibilities.”

Harrow raised his eyebrows, too tired to fight anymore. “You found someone, then.”

Runaan dipped his horns to the side. “I have someone to take care of.”

Harrow’s gaze shifted toward the door to his chambers. “So do I. I’ll try to do better. They deserve that from me. For Sarai’s sake.”

“All your people deserve that from you. Come, you need to rest.” Runaan flexed to his feet. He could have taken up his bow, or simply struck out with his hands. But he did neither, offering an empty hand to Harrow instead.

After a moment, the king took it and let the assassin pull him up. Runaan rested a hand on Harrow’s shoulder and guided him up to the dais. He drew back the embroidered blankets on the bed and tucked Harrow in, just as he had done once when they were children. His shadow fell over the grieving king, and Harrow rolled onto his side and hugged Sarai’s pillow.

“Thank you, Runaan,” Harrow mumbled, as the exhaustion of the bereaved began to claim him. “For your mercy.”

Runaan studied Harrow, curled against the hurts of the day, exhausted by the toll of his own choices. He’d known Harrow well, once. Should have trusted him more than he had. Though he wasn’t sure that letting the king live with this crushing grief counted as mercy, he replied, “I’ve owed you a debt for years. Today I consider it repaid.” After a breath, Runaan laid a hand on Harrow’s shoulder. “Don’t make me ask you about Viren again.”

“Viren?” Harrow’s voice was cloudy with sleep.

Runaan’s voice was a breath of shadowy judgement. “Sarai’s death is his fault.”

Harrow’s eyes slid shut, and he let out a tired breath. “Sarai’s death is Thunder’s fault.”

Runaan’s fingers twitched. Now was no time to borrow trouble. He’d have enough to explain when he got home as it was. He’d traveled all this way, unsanctioned and alone, only to hesitate? Runaan’s father would have had a viscerally strong opinion on that kind of behavior if he were still alive to see it. Although, to Runaan, his father’s death was only an insidious illusion. Runaan could hear every word the old assassin would say anyway.

Everything’s a test.

“Goodbye, Harrow.”

Runaan’s shoulders tensed. Guilt, his oldest friend, dogged his steps as he fetched his bow, retrieved his lost arrow, and vanished into the shadows.

***

Night fell as the six Moonshadow assassins darted through the forest. The storm would be upon them well before dawn, and Katolis Castle was still hours away. Runaan gestured for a break. It would be their last dry one before the rain fell.

Beneath a spreading oak tree, Rayla sauntered over to Runaan, still bouncing with energy and excitement, and grinned up at him. “How am I doing, Team Leader?”

Runaan nodded curtly, though he kept his eyes soft. “You’re doing very well. The real test will come later.”

Her violet eyes sparkled with adoration, just as they always had. Runaan would miss that innocent gleam after tonight. He took a deep breath and fixed it in his mind.

His young charge noticed. “Runaan?”

“Yes, Rayla.”

“You’re staring a bit. Is everything all right?”

No. “All according to plan. How do you feel?”

Rayla straightened her shoulders and tucked her hands behind her back. “I’m ready, Runaan. You’ve only been training me for this all my life.”

He hid his thoughts behind a tolerant smile. “You’re fifteen, Rayla.”

Rayla shot him a sassy look and tucked her beaded braid behind her right ear. “Yeah, I am. That’s plenty old enough.”

Doubts jostled inside Runaan’s chest. Rayla had demanded a position on his team in order to restore her family’s honor after reports circulated that her parents had fled Avizandum’s lair instead of staying to defend him, the Dragon Queen, and the egg of the Dragon Prince. Her insistence gave Runaan flashbacks to when Cloda had insisted on joining the Dragon Guard after Runaan’s failure to kill Harrow when he was only fifteen. The cycle is complete. And yet it’s my own failure that put everything in motion.

Runaan steadied his expression. “Fifteen, Rayla. Do you know what I was doing when I was fifteen?”

Rayla rolled her eyes and gestured broadly. “Oh, I don’t know, probably killing every traitor you passed on your way to market?”

Runaan gave her a lightly reprimanding look despite his inner amusement. Despite the weight in his heart. I was getting my heart broken by a friend who turned to the darkness.

“No, wait, I know,” Rayla continued, wagging a finger at him with broad exaggeration. “You were slaying an evil dragon between running epic marathons around Xadia!”

“Hardly.” I was learning why an assassin needs to be hard.

Her sass was on a roll, though. “Or, wait, I bet it’s this: you were being wined and dined by the King of the Dragons himself because he wanted you to be his own personal bodyguard!”

He crossed his arms and toughened his expression to sternness. “Rayla. Nobody likes a loud assassin.” I was learning the lesson I needed, if not the one my father was trying to teach me.

Rayla sighed and let her sass run out. “Yes, Runaan.”

He settled a hand on her shoulder. “And remember.”

“Yes, Runaan?” Rayla used her attentive-pupil voice.

“Moonberry surprise when we get home.”

Her soft white brows shot up. “But it’s not even close to my birthday.”

I’ll tell myself that it will make up for that gleam I’ll have stolen from your eyes. Maybe I’ll even believe it for a breath or two. “You’ll have earned it. Look at me, cooking twice in one year.” He let a smile cross his lips. “We shouldn’t dally. You lead this time.” With another silent gesture, he gathered everyone’s attention and directed them onward. With pleased surprise, Rayla took point.

She didn’t slow down even when the downpour began.

***

“You will wait here, quietly.” Runaan pointed imperiously to the rock, his turquoise eyes sparking. Rayla wouldn’t dare challenge him now, would she? Please, Rayla. Don’t.

Rayla reluctantly plopped onto the rock, and Runaan felt his shoulders unclench. His right hand went slack with relief, hidden where she couldn’t see it. She’s hidden, too. Away from us, away from camp.

But he knew her stubborn streak well. She wouldn’t stay unless he shamed her into it. Such a sentimental child—she’d found the key Harrow had given him long ago and decided it was a delightfully quirky human treasure, hanging it from her window at home. Runaan hardened his heart and told himself it was just a trinket, after all.

Focus. Runaan couldn’t have Rayla lurking around camp if the humans returned. And he couldn’t have her following him, either. All the scenarios he’d been running in his head for the past hour had ended in disaster. There was no escaping that, now. It was all a matter of degrees, a matter of price. And of how many would pay it.

Runaan would do whatever it took to ensure that Rayla didn’t pay it, including paying it for her. Rayla needed this redemption as much as he did, but if he was going to keep her alive, he had to choose for her, between death and dishonor. I never should have brought her with me.

His left hand tightened harder, and he felt his knuckles pop. “If we’re not back by sunrise…” He turned toward the castle, tightened his right hand back into a fist, and stabbed Rayla with the words that he knew would hurt the most. “Go home.”

His ear just caught the soft sound of her hurt sigh. He kept walking until he was out of sight.

Then he began to run.

The castle loomed in the high distance, but Runaan knew the way. Along the river, lurking across the underside of the bridge, around the base of the wall, up the side of an isolated outer tower. Then along the roofs toward the central tower where Harrow’s chamber lay.

Everyone expected the assassins to wait for the cover of darkness. Everyone expected a team of six.

Runaan had never been one to measure up to others’ expectations, for good or ill. He was going to finish what he’d started. Alone.

As he eased his way around the edges of the castle guards’ eyes, he tried to keep his thoughts on the moment, but it was impossible. The roots of this mission ran deep.

The battle against the humans on Winter’s Turn had been a disaster of epic proportions. In the aftermath—the devastating reality of the Dragon King’s demise, and the dawn of a bleak, warlike future that could have been prevented by Runaan’s dagger striking true all those years ago—Runaan had utterly fallen apart, been unable to eat for days. Rayla had been so worried she’d tried to drag him to a healer.

For her kindness, he’d snapped at her.

Things had gone downhill from there. Rayla was beside herself with horror at what her parents had done, and it manifested in a kaleidoscope of emotions that even Runaan couldn’t predict. Runaan’s guilt hadn’t let Rayla fix anything, had driven her to the most extreme solution of them all: demanding to join his assassin team in order to extract justice from Katolis. That same guilt which had held her comforting words at bay had clouded Runaan’s judgment—he’d allowed Rayla to join up.

At any given moment during the mission, Runaan could easily have broken down into hopeless sobs. Everything was coming together—or was it coming apart?—too hard, too dark, too fast. He couldn’t stop it. He could only do his best to complete the mission at hand and keep Rayla safe. He’d never taken a mission so knotted with personal attachment before. It didn’t suit. Runaan functioned much better detached and he knew it. If he kept up this level of inner turmoil, someone was going to get killed.

Possibly everyone. And that will be on me, too.

At least I can only fail everyone once.

Runaan slipped around the crenellated crown of Harrow’s tower and timed his descent to the balcony with the turning of the guards’ heads as they scanned out across the castle courtyard for enemies. With practiced ease, Runaan dropped lightly to the smooth stones next to the balcony railing and slipped in through the open doors. He stepped to the side, put his back against the wall, and let his eyes adjust to the dimmer interior.

Memories of the last time he’d stood in this room flooded his mind, and his resolve betrayed him once again. Harrow had cried. And Runaan had let him live. Why can’t I hate you, Harrow? How much easier it would be if I could.

Harrow sat at his desk across the broad chamber. He pressed a heavy seal against a spill of red wax, stamping a rolled letter with his royal mark. His expression was soft, sad, contemplative. As if he bore the burdens of generations on his shoulders and could press them into that blood-red wax with the weight of his royal seal. Beside him, his sword, blade bare and bright in the last golden rays of a dying afternoon, rested its handle against the table’s edge, while its point gleamed deadly sharp against the tile floor.

A bright green bird of prey perched nearby on an elevated stand. It saw Runaan first and chirruped a soft call. Harrow immediately rose and took up the long, broad-bladed sword, aiming its deadly point toward Runaan’s lurking spot.

“It’s you, isn’t it, Runaan? They finally sent you properly.”

Runaan didn’t answer. Didn’t step forward. He should have shot Harrow by now. He should have killed this faithless human three times over. He’d learned to be hard enough for anything in the past nine years. He’d hardened up over Cloda. His hard heart had given in to Rayla’s demands, too. But the old softness of his youth danced before his eyes. His friend, exploring the roof of the Banther Lodge under a waning moon, grinning mischievously from a snow fort, lurking in the rafters at Runaan’s side.

He could be hard for anything. Anything except this.

Harrow’s sword point lowered. “It’s all right. I understand. You’ve been trying to kill me since we first met, haven’t you? It’s high time I let you finish the job.”

Runaan took one step forward, and the failing light of day backlit his horns. He fitted an arrow on his bowstring and drew it back smoothly. He had drawn that bow a thousand times. But even though his aim was true, his fingers would not loose the missile. One breath, then another, and still he hesitated. “Tell me why. Why you never listened to me.” He gritted his teeth so Harrow wouldn’t hear the tremble in his voice.

Harrow grounded the point of his sword on the tile. “Yours was never the only voice striving for my ear, Runaan.”

Runaan’s eyes slitted. “Is that what you thought I wanted? Your favor? The ear of the king, for what? For the sake of peace?”

Harrow’s face was drawn. His shoulders slumped. “You would have had it, if you’d been honest with me.”

The condemned king’s words struck hard, and Runaan lowered his bow with wide, outraged eyes. “I put my life in your hands every winter.”

“You were grooming me to trust you so you could kill me and start a war, Runaan. That’s not being honest. You of all people should know that.”

Runaan bit back his protests. If he’d truly wanted Harrow to understand, he’d have spoken them years ago. But Runaan’s father had wrapped him in decades of schemes, and Runaan could only cut himself free of the cords he could see. His father’s machinations ran deep.

Just as Viren’s did in Harrow.

Harrow misinterpreted Runaan’s silence and offered an unexpected statement. “You were right, though. All along. I should have listened to you.”

“Your words won’t stop me. They’re about twenty years too late.”

“I wouldn’t expect them to.”

Runaan took a steadying breath and studied Harrow. “This changes nothing. I’m sorry.”

“I’m sorry, too.” Harrow reached into a pocket and pulled out a small token, offering it slowly. “I thought it might be you, so…”

Runaan’s eyes dropped to Harrow’s palm and flickered wide.

His boyhood braid draped softly over the king’s hand, its turquoise bead still intact.

Something broke—shattered—in Runaan’s chest. Hot magma began to ooze out through his ribs, making it hard to breathe. “You kept it. All these years. You kept it from him.”

“Of course. I want you to take it back. They can’t find it on my body after— Afterward. Please. It’s yours, anyway. I’m glad it’s you, Runaan. You’re the only one who would understand.” Harrow stretched his hand a little further toward the assassin, offering the soft token.

Runaan’s heart hammered against his ribs. It’s a trick, it’s a trick.

“It’s not a trick,” Harrow said, as if he could read Runaan’s mind. “If you won’t take it back after everything I’ve done, I understand. But for your own safety, destroy it. You know what he’ll do with it if he finds it.”

The utter absurdity of the moment broke over Runaan like a sundering wave. He’d never felt so evil in all his life, nocking an arrow to kill a man who offered him everything he’d ever wanted of him: trust, validation, friendship.

I’m here to avenge one king by killing another. I’m here for justice. I’m here to kill my oldest friend.

Runaan’s father’s face swam in his mind’s eye. “What does it unlock?”

“His trust. Is this a test? Everything’s a test when it comes from you. But I won’t fail.”

Harrow broke into Runaan’s spinning thoughts. “Runaan, it’s all right. I accept my fate. It’s what I deserve. So unless we have time for me to get my boots so we can run around on the roof one last time, I suggest you get to the business you came for.”

Heat pricked at the corners of Runaan’s eyes. His side tails swayed as he shook his head. “No,” he breathed. “I’ve tried three times to kill you. I’ve turned my hand away every time. It’s not your destiny to die by my hand, Harrow. You deserve justice for what you’ve done. But not from me.” Runaan dropped his arrow back into its quiver.

Harrow blinked in surprise. “You’re calling off the mission?”

Runaan faded back into the shadows. “No.”

“But… your braid.”

“Burn it.”

Harrow’s hand slowly closed around the soft white braid. He nodded sharply, eyes soft with pain. “I would never have given it to him.”

A muscle in Runaan’s jaw twitched. No. But you gave him everything else. “Goodbye, Harrow.”

As Runaan slipped out onto the balcony and began to scale the wall, the sun slipped behind the horizon before him. The moon rose at his back. And the acrid smell of burnt hair reached his nose.

The first and last connection between Runaan and Harrow went up in smoke.

***

The full Moon was rising as Runaan made his way back across the castle battlements to meet his team. Everyone but Rayla—

Ting.

His Moonshadow senses told him another elf was nearby. Runaan eased to a sudden stop and looked down over the tower crenellations. A spike of disbelief and fear shot through him.

Unbelievable. She didn’t stay on that rock four minutes.

While her back was turned, Runaan leaped lightly down to the top of the wall that stretched from his tower to the next and strode up behind her.

“Rayla.”

***

Runaan knelt on the cold stone of the dungeon floor, his right boot slowly filling with blood, and felt his left arm start to die. Its rot would take the rest of him soon, if Viren didn’t.

Viren. At long last, Runaan had come face to face with the man who had turned Harrow against him. And found him to be disappointingly human. Just an ordinary man who’d caught the ear of a soft king.

An ordinary man, yes, but one with extraordinary vision. With a heart of righteous greed. With a mind for dark magic.

With a disturbingly familiar magic mirror hidden under a dark cloth.

If Viren could bring down a king with his pragmatism alone, what might he do with that mirror? Runaan had no intention of letting the world find out. For Viren had indeed brought Harrow down. By the time Runaan led his assassins to the king’s chambers, intent on letting one of them take Harrow’s life, Runaan’s childhood friend was no longer as Runaan had left him.

In every way that mattered, Runaan’s mission was a success. In every way that mattered, Runaan was a failure. As he staggered out to the balcony to loose his shadowhawk, sending proof of the kill to the Dragon Queen, he finally understood what Harrow had been saying.

We’re both dying for what we cannot change. Dying because we cannot change.

A long, hot pang slid through his heart like a deathblow as he leaned into his chains. Rayla, Rayla, do better than I did. Be better than I am. Don’t get lost.

Hot tears squeezed out and dripped onto the cold stone floor between his knees. You and I are still wandering the forest, aren’t we, Harrow? Two little lost boys who never found our way home.

Heavy footsteps approached. Runaan sent a hot blue glare toward the door to his cell. The dark mage who had lured his oldest friend away from him, and ruined any chance for peace in the process, had finally come to finish the job. Runaan would make sure of it.

Viren entered, and their eyes met.

I’ll see you soon, Harrow. I’ll crouch on your sill and ask if you want to play. And you’ll say yes.

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