#i still haven't written up my league verse post anyways so

[edensbite]

and what if i were to rework eden's league au to say she was a black rose plant in piltover all along

as a powerful socialite of her status, she has eyes and ears everywhere. and she's so pretty and manipulative and people just tell her things without her needing to ask, sometimes. she comes off so unassuming and harmless unless you're studying her carefully, especially because she doesn't ever reveal any indication that she could be a mage, let alone a hemomancer. and eden working for the black rose doesn't mean she can't genuinely care for people, you know? eden has always been a complex morally gray character, and i think with enough time away from noxus and having spent the decades that she has living in the midst of zaun and piltover, it's difficult to not come to care for their people ( zaun, at least, because she's there to spy on piltover anyway ).

[loveactualharry]

The Shamrock of the Sea [A Niall Horan short fiction.]

Good evening lovely people. I haven't been able to post anything decent on here for a while, and I know many of you are still waiting for part 3 of "December, 1997" - I'll be quick on that : it's coming next week.

Meanwhile, you might or might not be interested in a little Niall thing!

I originally wrote it for a friend, but I thought It'd be nice to share. So, here it's Part 1 of The Shamrock and The Sea.

Overview: Niall is the only son of a wealthy Irish family in 1897. He sails to New York to negotiate a business on behalf of his father. But The Shamrock has a different fate for him in mind.

Facts: Harry has a part in it as well!

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24th July 1897

“Lily. For you, again.”

Her colleague had panted, throwing the umpteenth letter on her bed. She swiftly lifted up, sitting on the slender, uncomfortable mattress. Her fingers unfolded that paper, slightly wrinkly and rough. The words gathered in the middle of the page, written in a neat, clean handwriting. She noticed how the letters slightly leaned towards the right angle: the author of those verses had to have been lefthanded, she figured.

“One more? Jesus, it’s the sixth in five days.” Sarah remarked, absentmindedly tying the back of her apron.

“I know! Lily, are you sure you don’t know who sent them?” Selene asked with hands on her hips, squinting her eyes. Sarah darted at her, then turned around rolling her eyes. She did not like the questioning tone she always put out. And anyway, she was the last person in the position of questioning her colleagues, especially after Sarah had caught her sneaking out of his cabin. She twitched nervously at the mere thought.

Lily, however, failed to catch the jealousy displayed in the eyes of her best friend, still too caught up in her own thoughts to even care.

“I told you both, and a million times: I have no idea. I don’t know who sent them. Maybe…maybe it’s just a mistake.” She tried to convince herself, getting up and rubbing her palms on the wrinkly surface of her work uniform.

“Or maybe it’s a secret admirer.” Sarah winked at her with a silly face, “A secret admirer who is also a poet. Wait, maybe he is rich! Maybe it’s Lord Styles!” she battled her eyelashes, looking up with a dreamy face, before curling her lips and darting her eyes towards her friend, tapping her foot. “Are you fucking Lord Styles? You’d better not, or I’ll-”

Lily let out a puffed laugh, placing her hands on Sarah’s shoulders. She adjusted her long, silky hair, shaking her head. “I am not doing anything with Lord Styles. First off, he is way too out of our league, and second, I could never do this to you.”

They both tried to look serious but burst out in a loud laugh.

Selena looked at them from afar, hands still on her hips.

“Shut up, you are going to get us all in trouble. We’d better get to work.”

Sarah rolled her eyes again, sneaking out of her friend’s hug to follow the other girl outside.

“Yes, miss. But seriously, Lily, try to find out who this secret admirer is. Maybe one of the musicians?” she hinted.

“I think we are setting out hopes too high. For what we knew, it could be some kind of joke.”

She lowered her eyes, looking at the words inked on the paper one last time.

“You, that's what I've been missing,

Was tangled up and twisted

Now all the clouds been lifted

Lately, my heart's been so empty.”

Her heart still beat in the hope that it would be no joke.

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Dublin, 14th July 1897

HORAN, NIALL JAMES.

The name was inked on that yellowish piece of paper. He read it one last time, then raised his blue, wide eyes. Niall was still amazed at that monumental, imponent structure in front of him. His gaze run on the long, majestic right broadside of the ship. Not far away from him, the long cue on the third-class passenger’s footbridge disgorged in a chaotic mass of unhealthy-looking and dirty men, women and children, gathering upon each other, pushing and shouting phrases in Gaelic.

“Come on, son, let’s move forward.”

His father grabbed his arm, dragging him around, in the that multitude of souls, looking for some sort of salvation on that ship. “The Shamrock of The Sea”, they had called it, in the hope that it would cast the light of good luck upon those travelling on it to the new world. Niall had heard many times his father ramble about how he knew the lord who had funded the construction of the Shamrock, but he had never paid much attention to that. He had never been fond of business and funding, and he had a relative interest in the world of major buyers and sellers. He knew, though, that the trip to America would be a lifechanging path for him, and he was grateful that his father had put enough expectations on him to give him the opportunity to go and negotiate a business on his behalf. New York was waiting for him, and he was excited. Yet, much as he loved his hometown and his country, he wished he didn’t have to come back to Ireland.

“Are you sure you’re ready for this, my baby? You don’t have to do it if you don’t want to.”

His mother stopped to wipe a few tears away from her cheeks. She hadn’t stopped crying ever since they had left Mullingar a few days before. Niall found it sweet and heart-breaking at the same time. Mr. Horan senior asked two of their servants to load his son’s trunk and all his belonging up on board. The boy cupped his mother’s cheeks, looking at Maura with a half-smile.

“I’m alright, ma. I’ll do what I have to do and…I’ll be right back to you sooner that you think. Stop crying for me, will ya, ma?”

The lady smiled through her whimpers and nodded. He held her close in one last, long hug.

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18th July 1897

Niall had spent the first few days wandering around, exploring all the salons, hallways and decks he had access to. Of course, travelling as a first-class passenger had its advantages. Nobody would pay much attention to him wandering around every part of the ship. He liked to look at the other people around him though. He fancied reading and collecting the multitude of emotions displayed on everyone’s face. Most of the passengers were rich, wealthy people, happy to be there, excited about their new adventure and all the comforts that would accompany them to the new world. He could recognize them. Not only by the clear expensiveness of their clothing and shiny jewels, but also because they wore proud smiles on their lips. The men often gathered around the counter of the bar for a sip of whiskey, or they would play cards, setting their bets higher and higher each time. Niall liked to play bets with himself, too. For example, he enjoyed betting on who would have lost at least half of their fortune before even getting to America. One of his favourites to bet on was Lord Styles. He was rich, extremely rich, apparently. And he would walk around the salons with a proud smile on his lips and, very often, more than one woman behind him. He had heard stories about him: he was, apparently, the most coveted bachelor of the whole Cheshire county. And nobody knew why. Niall liked to take the piss out of him, and he didn’t like him very much.

Sometimes, he liked to wander along the lower decks of the ship, and once he had even reached the stern, where the third-class passengers where hoarded. In was different, down there. Hidden in their cheap cabins, mother would try to soften the cry of their many children, shrieking out of fear and hunger. Some young men would whimper, facing the parapet running along the back deck, looking back and thinking about the mother and lovers they had left behind. Niall wondered which storied they carried along. He wanted to ask, sometimes. But he knew the wound of leaving their motherland behind was still too fresh, and scars were still wide open and too delicate.

His trip from Mullingar to Dublin had been long and exhausting, and over the past few nights he still hadn’t been able to adjust to his new bed, losing more sleep than he should have. His sunken eyes and his slightly unshaved face made him look older than he actually was, and he knew he needed some rest. After all, it would be a long trip to New York, and most of the times he preferred staying up at night to write or play his beloved fiddle. So, after lunch he found his way through the decks and staircases, to the cabin 402. He let his gaze travel up to the golden number on the black wooden door, then opened it, still holding the case of his fiddle in one hand. He rarely left it behind and found some kind of comfort in carrying it around with him.

The girl in the room flinched, then turned around as the key clicked in the lock. Niall stepped in, and there she was. She had dark, brown hair, which were thin and shiny. He couldn’t see her eyes, though. He put his fiddle on the freshly made bed, furrowing his thick, ash-blond eyebrows as he slowly walked towards her.

“Good afternoon, Sir. My apologies, I was just bringing fresh towels for you.”

She performed a quick, small bow in front of him. Then, she left with a fleeting glance. Niall noticed how her big brown eyes had rested upon his face for a little longer, before she stormed out of the cabin. He felt his throat go dry for a couple seconds, standing like frozen on the spot. He was normally not an impulsive man, usually very calm and thoughtful. But there was no hesitation in his steps, which led him out of that cabin, after grabbing the pile of white towels she had just left inside. His deep, blue irises squinted, looking around the corridor till he spotted her.

“Excuse me?” he called.

The brown-eyed girl turned around in his direction, still holding one hand on the handle of the wooden trolley she was pushing around on the mahogany wooden floor.

Niall straightened his back as he walked towards her in long strides. There they were face to face again. Now he could see. She looked younger than him, a couple years maybe, he guessed. Her cheeks were slightly flushed, and she carried no ring on her left hand.

“Yes, sir?” she patiently said, bringing Niall back to reality. She was staring at him, now. He had wide, deep, baby-blue eyes. His hair, she thought, resembled a dense honeypot, fluffy and perfectly combed. His cheeks were slightly puffy, making him look younger than he actually was, in contrast with the shallow shade of beard. He had thin lips, and a lovely dimple rested beneath his chin.

“Aye, I…I need to have my towels changed.” He demanded. Then mentally cursed himself.

She furrowed her brows in confusion, taking one step back.

“My apologies, Sir, but I brought laundry-fresh ones no more than one minute ago.”

Niall tapped his foot on the floor, following an irregular rhythm.

“I know, I saw you. I just don’t think they are clean and fresh enough.” He stated, handing her the pile of cloths.

She slightly parted her lips, but bit her tongue right after, taking a new pile from the trolley.

“As you command, sir.” She answered, handing the fresher towels to the man, never breaking eye contact, till she once again bowed before him and went back her own way.

“Many thanks, miss…”

His eyes were quick enough to shoot a glance at the silver name badge on her chest. He stood there, watching her walk away, holding the new towels in his right hand, before heading back to cabin number 402. He locked the door, frantically opening his large, black trunk, searching for ink and paper. Niall sat on the floor, writing her name on that page. Lily.