#if you would have told me last year these two would be living my cottage core dream I wouldn’t believe you

[okay-owl]

When your girlfriend comes to visit and farm with you <3

[inthedayswhenlandswerefew]

In The Gloomy Depths [Chapter 7: Sapphire] [Series Finale]

Series summary: Five years ago, jewel mining tycoon Daemon Targaryen made a promise in order to win your hand in marriage. Now he has broken it and forced you into a voyage across the Atlantic, betraying you in increasingly horrifying ways and using your son as leverage to ensure your cooperation. You have no friends and no allies, except a destitute viola player you can’t seem to get away from…

Series warnings: Language, sexual content (18+ readers only), parenthood, dolphins, death and peril, violence (including domestic violence), drinking, smoking, freezing temperatures, murder, if you don’t like Titanic you won’t like this fic!!! 😉

Word count: 5.2k

💜 All my writing can be found HERE! 💜

Tagging: @nightvyre @mrs-starkgaryen @gemini-mama @ecstaticactus @chattylurker, more in comments 🥰

💎 Thank you for reading (and tolerating all my nautical puns)! 💎

How can love be a curse? How can it be something to fear, to condemn, to break?

She has dreamed of him all her life. First he was a protector, almost fatherlike, and then a remote, bewitching phantom as she crept into adolescence, and then when Harwin Strong died Daemon sailed over Saint George’s Channel to offer her solace in England, and at last the fantasies she never would have confessed to anyone were fulfilled, two marriages and four children later. Rhaenyra remembers what he told her in the mist-draped lakeside cottage where they met in secret, crossing paths like an asteroid striking a planet: My wife means nothing to me. She’s not like us. She is young, and weak, and afraid, and I could never respect that kind of person. Her father owns the last Connemara marble quarry in the world, and I needed a son. But the only woman I want is you.

Aegon fires the pistol as he chases her through the corridors of A-Deck, and when she shrieks nobody hears, or if they do they don’t appear to rescue her; the ship is full of people screaming, sobbing, clawing for their lives against wet walls and locked doors. He shoots and misses again. There’s something wrong with his hands. He keeps fumbling with the gun and almost dropping it, hissing in pain as he squeezes the trigger, and there’s blood staining his fingers.

Good, Rhaenyra thinks. I’m glad he’s hurt. I hope he’s dying.

She sees an open room and ducks inside, slamming the door behind her and barring it with the weight of her body as Aegon rams it with his shoulder. Rhaenyra is surrounded by the trappings of another family who purchased first-class tickets: chairs with velvet upholstery, a faux fireplace, paintings by Rousseau and Boccioni and Homer. The lights flicker and the steel beams of Titanic groan, low and disastrous. There isn’t much time left.

“Daemon!” she yells as loudly as she can. If he hears her, he’ll come running. I have to get to a lifeboat. I have to live for my father, for Jace and Luke and Joffrey, for the children I will one day give Daemon.

Rhaenyra struggles with the lock as Aegon batters the door and it quakes on its hinges. Just as she latches it, he fires the pistol through the door. Wood cracks and splinters; a bullet pierces Rhaenyra’s ribcage like a blade. There is unbearable pressure, and then a sharpness, a pain she believes she cannot stand until it keeps getting bigger, deeper, ripping her open and filling her with dark wet weight like the ocean surging into Titanic. She crumples to the floor. When she coughs, blood spurts out onto her lips. Rhaenyra wipes it away and then stares at the red on her palm.

I can’t die now. My life just became what it was supposed to be.

Aegon punches a hole through the mangled door large enough for him to reach in and unlock it. Then he stands in the threshold looking down at her, his hands shaking but his eyes hard, fierce, unflinching. Rhaenyra has never seen him like this before. She didn’t know he could be good at anything.

“How the fuck did you get on the ship?” Rhaenyra snarls as she scrambles away, hacking up more blood. The black opal ring Daemon gave her gleams like onyx or obsidian, something born of heat and earth and insurmountable, ancient gravity.

Daemon and I were made for each other. The same blood, the same bones, the same will to carve treasures from the bleakest places.

Aegon follows her across the floor, slow stalking steps. He doesn’t answer; instead, he shakes his right hand a few times—steadying himself, casting out tremors like demons—and then grips the pistol with it. He raises the gun, the barrel aimed at Rhaenyra’s face.

“Daemon?!” she screams, but he isn’t here. Then she asks, sudden desperate confusion, her blue eyes wide: “Why are you doing this?”

Aegon’s voice is calm. “Because she can’t be free unless you and Daemon are gone.”

That girl? Daemon’s sad, stupid wife? I’m dying because of HER?

“Father never loved you,” Rhaenyra seethes, red on her teeth, blooddrops spilling from her lips like rubies. Her eyes are cold, glinting sapphires, pools of freezing water that only needs minutes to stop the heart. “Just like Daemon never loved her.”

“I know. And I used to care. It almost killed me, it almost ate me alive. But now I’m better. And I finally know exactly who I’m supposed to be.”

Aegon pulls the trigger.

~~~~~~~~~~

As Daemon descends the Grand Staircase, you crawl down towards the next landing, your head spinning, your hands empty, writhing on your belly like a snake.

The dagger???

But you can’t find it, and you don’t have time to stop and search. Daemon is only a few steps behind you. When your palms hit B-Deck, you try to drag yourself upright, grappling for the banister; but before you can get your feet under you, Daemon kicks you and sends you hurtling down the next flight of stairs. You tumble towards C-Deck, clawing in vain for something to break your fall. Your head strikes the English oak wood and you hear your father’s bewildered voice as he sat at the dining room table in Lough Cutra Castle: Where are you going? When will you be back?

Never, never, never; and now from somewhere below you recognize the roar of rushing water.

“You were going to kill me?!” Daemon taunts as he bears down on you like a storm. Blood soaks his throat and the white shirt beneath his black suit jacket. His eyes are bright, feral, monstrous. “After all those times I spared you when I could have drowned you in a river or a hot bath or the sea? You’re so fucking useless. You really can’t do anything right. All you had to do was shut up and endure, and you could have lived to be an old, old woman with all the comforts my empire afforded you. Now, my dear, you will never see another sunrise. And when Titanic sinks, you’ll be buried with her.”

Down, down, always down towards the ocean floor, you crawl faster away from him as his footsteps grow louder.

“Help,” you moan weakly. Aegon? Anyone? But the only reply is the echoing of your own voice and the sounds of the dying ship: breaking metal, distant screams, gushing torrents of seawater.

You crash into C-Deck and again try to stagger to your feet, but Daemon is here, shoving you as if from a cliffside or off a balcony. And as you plummet down the Grand Staircase towards D-Deck—where the First-Class Dining Saloon is, where Thomas Andrews once assured you that Titanic was unsinkable—it is not hard wooden steps you collide with but swirling ice-cold seawater. You plunge beneath the currents and then come sputtering up to the surface, your white wool coat drenched and threatening to pull you below again like an anchor. You struggle to shed it with arms that are rapidly going numb.

I’m so cold, I’m so cold, if I don’t get out of the water I’ll be dead in minutes—

Daemon’s fingers close around your throat and he forces you under the waist-deep water. You thrash and try to push him away, to pry him off of you, but your muscles seem to have disappeared, they have been scraped off your bones and now you can only wait to die, your breathless lungs burning as your body freezes. You have a sudden vision of Daemon in his firelit study at Lough Cutra Castle, marveling at a shard of Larimar dredged up from the Caribbean Sea and quoting the first known treatise on gemstones, written by Theophrastus in the time of Alexander the Great: Of things formed in the earth, some have their origin from water.

“No!” you scream through the depths, bubbles rising up to air you cannot taste. You claw at Daemon’s hands, but you cannot wound him, cannot get a grip on him, and hasn’t that been true since you married him five years ago?

The dark, freezing water makes you want to give up. It makes death feel easy, painless, inevitable. You imagine faces you’ll never see again: Draco, Aegon, your parents, Fern. You hope Carpathia will be here soon to rescue the survivors. You wonder what will happen to Aegon’s paintings.

Through the water come the muffled booms of explosions, four of them, surely something catastrophic, the ship splitting in half or a distress flare misfired or boilers bursting and shearing through what’s left of the hull. Then Daemon’s hands vanish from your throat and someone is hauling you up out of the icy currents, they are freeing you, they are disinterring you from an oceanic grave.

“I’m here!” Aegon is shouting as you burst into open air, gasping and flailing. He drags you towards the Grand Staircase where you can climb out of the flood, but you’re looking for Daemon. He is a few yards away and floating face-up, one hand clasping his chest and a gurgling sound leaking from his throat. The water around him is turning red. He’s fading, but he’s not dead yet.

“Aegon, he’s still—”

“I know. I’ll take care of him once you’re out of the water. I don’t have any more bullets left.”

“I want to do it.”

“We need to get you dry and warmed up—”

“I want to do it,” you say again, and Aegon lets you go.

You twist off your black opal engagement ring and throw it into the water beside Daemon. Then you place both of you hands on his chest and push him beneath the surface, Aegon standing just behind you with the barrel of the pistol in his grasp in case he has to use it as a club. The glacial seawater froths and whirls as it rises over Daemon’s hemorrhaging chest. He startles—a death rattle, a late rite—and resists feebly, gazing up at you with glassy, disbelieving eyes. They ask: How did this happen? I was supposed to kill you, remember? I own you. I own jewels trapped in subterranean darkness all over the world, and you are the very least of them.

“Draco isn’t yours,” you tell Daemon as you force him under. “Rhaenyra isn’t yours. And I’m not yours either. Now sink and die and make me free.”

He twitches, he bares his crimson teeth at you, but after all this time finally Daemon is the weak one. The rising water flushes maroon around him, his skin goes a frail and translucent bluish-white, his heart is drained until the chambers are cold and grey and empty. You hold him beneath the water until the bubbles roiling up from his nose and mouth disappear. He will never touch you again, he will never hurt anyone, he will never bruise or break or ensnare or captivate. And who will inherit his mines scattered across the planet?

Draco. His only son. And my family and I will act as trustees until he’s eighteen.

“We have to go,” Aegon is saying. He must have taken off his coat before he went into the water after you. He stands shivering in only his white shirt and green corduroy pants, the ocean now lapping at his chest.

“Rhaenyra?” you ask.

“She’s gone. I’m sure.”

“It’s over,” you say softly, feeling weight like stones roll off of you, feeling warmth like sunlight on your face.

As if in reply, the listing ship groans and the lights flicker again. “Not yet,” Aegon says, grabbing your hand. “Let’s hope there’s a lifeboat left.”

You wade to the steps and climb out of the water. Aegon helps you wring out your soaked hair and the skirt of your gown, then snatches his black wool coat off the steps where he left it and puts it on you. You race up the Grand Staircase to C-Deck, and then B-Deck, and then the A-Deck landing where you find your green handbag with Aegon’s tiny aluminum lighter still inside.

“I think you dropped this,” Aegon says when he spots the dagger on a nearby step, still covered with Daemon’s blood. He wipes it clean on his corduroy pants and then passes it to you. When you hesitate to take it, he grins. “Who knows. You might need to stab someone else tonight.”

“I never want to draw blood again.” But you accept the dagger and place it in your handbag, the captive gemstones glimmering there: amethyst, tiger’s eye, black opal, emerald, ruby, bloodstone, sapphire like the North Atlantic Ocean that is swallowing Titanic down into her cold, crushing belly. Then you ascend one last flight of steps to the Boat Deck, passing the bronze cherub statue and the ticking clock, stealing a glimpse up at the dome of glass and wrought iron that will soon shatter when the sea punctures through it like a bullet or a blade.

Outside the night air is so frigid that ice crystals begin forming in your hair, and the hem of your blue gown begins to stiffen as it freezes. You are barefoot, you only now realize, and if splinters from the pine planks of the deck needle their way into your flesh you won’t be able to feel them. There are only two lifeboats left on this side of the ship, one of which is already being lowered down to the sea. Officers are still directing women and children into the other. Benjamin Guggenheim and his companions are very drunk, clumsily herding frantic first-class passengers towards the boats. The string quartet is now playing The Merry Widow by Franz Lehár.

“Come, come quickly, Lady Targaryen!” the officers shout when they see you, knowing by your gown that you belong here, perhaps recognizing you from strolls on the Promenade Deck or when you and Daemon boarded Titanic in Cork with much fanfare. Aegon helps you into the lifeboat, his wounded hands cradling yours. Another distress flare is shot into the sky, metallic rain, doomsday portents.

We’re going to be alright, you think. We’re going to survive this.

“Darling, you’re sopping wet!” one of the women in the lifeboat exclaims, and they all begin to fret over you. There are dogs here, a Pomeranian in one lap, a Yorkshire terrier in another.

“Get her under a blanket,” Aegon is saying. “Keep her warm or she’ll get pneumonia. Give her a lifebelt.”

“We will, we will,” another lady shimmering in jewels—a mother of two boys in heavy coats and blue-striped pajamas—promises him. “We’ll take good care of her.”

You turn back to Aegon. “What?”

He tells you, his voice quiet: “Petra, they’re not going to let me in.”

“No, no, you can’t stay here—”

“Women and children only!” an officer booms, then begins waving several shrieking maids towards the vessel, just moments from launching.

“Aegon,” you say, horrified. He’ll die if he stays. He’ll drown or he’ll freeze and he’ll be entombed at the bottom of the Atlantic. “No.”

“I’ll be okay.”

“No you won’t,” you sob, then look desperately at the officers. How can I change their minds? “He’s a Targaryen, he’s a first-class passenger, he must be allowed aboard!”

“A Targaryen?!” one of the officers says distractedly as he battles with the rigging. “I know all the Targaryens on Titanic, and he’s not one of them!”

“Just look at him,” the other officer mutters, meaning: He isn’t dressed like someone with castles or mansions or titles or mines. He can’t be someone who matters.

“He is,” you plead, tears stinging on your cheeks as they freeze. “He’s Aegon, he’s a Targaryen, please, he can’t be left behind—”

“Women and children only!” the first officer barks at you as the other pushes away a group of panicked young men in black suits trying to bribe their way into the vessel. “And if you want to stay here with him, that’s your business, but get to it so the rest of us can try to make it off this ship alive!”

“There’s more than enough room for him, for Christ’s sake, there are dogs in here!”

“There will be other lifeboats, love,” one of the women tells you as she drapes a scratchy wool blanket across your shoulders, but you don’t believe that’s true. The maids are climbing into the lifeboat; the officers are beginning to lower it with sharp lurches that make the occupants gasp.

You reach for Aegon, your hands catching on his drenched shirt, the thin layer of ice cracking beneath your fingers. “No, no, Aegon, I can’t go like this.”

“You have to,” he says calmly, and he holds you face still and touches his lips to your forehead, a kiss goodbye, gentle and lingering.

“No—”

“You have a kid. You have to go. Draco will be looking for you on Carpathia.”

“You deserve to be free too.”

“I’ll stay out of the water for as long as I can,” Aegon says like a vow. “I’ll try to find something to float on. And once Titanic goes down…maybe the lifeboats will come back to pick up any survivors.”

The water is too cold. I’ve felt it, I’ve been paralyzed by it, once you go under you only have minutes. “You can’t…you won’t…”

“Petra,” Aegon says, and his eyes turn desperate. He knows it’s his only chance. “Make them come back for me.”

“I will,” you swear to him.

And he pries your fingers off his shirt and rips away from you before your resolve can weaken. High above and through tears that blur your vision, constellations of stars gleam like diamonds.

~~~~~~~~~~

He runs to the other side of the Boat Deck, searching for lifeboats that haven’t launched yet. He can’t find any. There are swarms of passengers weeping, shouting, jostling, and officers trying to restore order. Pistols and flares are fired, chairs are tossed overboard for passengers to cling to as they float. But Aegon knows that won’t be enough; if they stay submerged, they will die.

I need something bigger. I need something I can lie on. A door or a dresser or…

He shoves through the crowd to get to the ship’s railing. Below, the ocean has gotten so much closer. He sees a lifeboat bobbing in the waves, just far enough away that someone brave enough to leap could not get to it. Inside, along with perhaps twenty first-class women and maids, Aegon recognizes Laenor Velaryon and his ever-present Parisian friends. They are puffing on cigars and toasting glasses of brandy, celebrating their good fortune. They must have successfully bribed their way aboard.

“Fuck,” Aegon sighs, his breath fog in the frigid air.

How am I going to stay out of the water long enough to survive until I’m rescued?

Then he replays the evening in his mind—his first night with Petra, perhaps his last night on earth, red silk and candles and oil paint and the warmth of her beneath his hands—and Aegon gets an idea. He sprints back to the Grand Staircase and soars down to B-Deck, seawater ankle-deep on the floor. He splashes through the corridors to the staterooms once occupied by Daemon Targaryen’s wife and child, now rid of him, now waiting for what will come next. Aegon hurries through the sitting room, passing the taxidermied tiger head above the fireplace and the large, heavy chest where Daemon made Petra lock up the art she bought in Paris.

She didn’t remember to put the real Picasso’s paintings in a lifeboat, but she saved mine, Aegon thinks. If I make it out of this alive somehow, I’m marrying her the second we dock in New York.

He goes to the bedroom, finds what he needs, carries it with him as he returns to the maze of hallways. Now the icy water is nipping at his knees.

~~~~~~~~~~

The ocean is calm, the lifeboat rocking placidly on inky surf. The women comfort their children and their dogs. You take Aegon’s aluminum lighter out of your handbag and light yourself a cigarette, then pass it around so the other passengers can thaw their lungs with hot plumes of nicotine, here in the early hours of the morning when it feels like you’ll never be warm again. The officer who took command of the vessel—the same one who shouted at you and refused to admit Aegon—is rowing vigorously as you and several other women help him, staring horror-struck at Titanic as she goes down by the bow.

“We have to get away from the ship,” the officer keeps saying, and he sounds genuinely petrified. A woman in a glittering gold gown steers with the tiller. “Or she’ll suck us into the water with her.”

There are shadows of other lifeboats nearby, also fleeing from the condemned Titanic, that miraculously colossal and opulent triumph that everyone had told you was unsinkable. You wonder which one Draco and Fern are in, undoubtedly cold and frightened but safe.

Aegon deserves to live too. I have to find him, I have to save him.

Now there is seawater flooding over Titanic’s deck at the bow, where you and Aegon saw third-class passengers—now dead, or very soon to be—kicking around pieces of the iceberg that they didn’t know had doomed them. The ocean surges higher, covering B-Deck, and A-Deck, and finally the Boat Deck, where the towering funnels collapse and you can hear shrieks and guns firing. You know you won’t be able to see Aegon from here—you won’t be able to tell if he made it into a lifeboat somehow, or if he is one of the figures that falls from a lethal height into the waves, or if he is crushed or shot or trapped below deck and drowned—but still, you cannot stop looking for him, peering through the night to where Titanic glows in her spotlight of white-gold electric luminescence.

As the bow sinks, the stern begins to rise, higher and higher until the tension cracks the ship in two, and the passengers you share the lifeboat with wail and sob as the ship’s lights blink out for the last time and the gravesite goes dark. Women call out the names of their husbands, fathers, brothers, adult sons, knowing they must be dying. You can only watch with tears streaming down your face, thinking: How could he survive that? How could I have left him?

The stern bobs for a while in the nightscape sea, a shade, a phantom, and then it plunges into the ocean. The water—indifferent, dispassionate, not a mortal but a titan, here long before humans and destined to outlast them, not unlike the treasures of the earth—gulps down metal beams and pine planks and split bones and shredded flesh. There are screams, so many, so pitiful, so loud they fill the sky, and the howling women in the lifeboat cover their ears and those of their children so they will not have to try to exorcise the sound from their memories later.

As soon as the stern has been consumed by the depths, you say to the officer: “We have to go back to look for survivors.”

“Are you mad, Lady Targaryen?” he snaps at you; but there are tears in his bloodshot eyes. “We’ll be mobbed if we sail into that. They’ll pour into the boat until we go under too. Do you want to freeze to death with them?”

“People will die quickly. They are dying already, the water is cold enough to kill in minutes. If we start rowing towards them now, most of the passengers will be dead by the time we get there. And then we can rescue anyone who’s left.” Please still be alive, Aegon.

“Not a chance in hell,” the officer says.

You turn to the other women. They blink back at you in dazed, timid terror. “It’s murder to leave your men behind,” you implore, you beg them to agree. “Help me row to them.”

But the women only weep softly to themselves and look to the officer to tell them what to do. He smirks at you victoriously, an expression of no humor but rather grim, fearful misery that could drive someone insane. In the lap of one woman, the Pomeranian whimpers.

I can’t leave Aegon, you think. I can’t, I can’t, I can’t.

You open your green handbag and pull out the dagger, the blade pointed at the officer. He shouts and bolts away from you, incredulous, furious.

“You’re threatening to kill me?!”

You shake your head. “I’m offering you a gift.” You turn the dagger around so the officer can grasp the handle. His gaze catches, transfixed and wondrous, on the gemstone spheres like perfectly aligned planets. “This dagger is worth more than you would make in a decade of work. Go back for survivors, and it’s yours. Refuse, and when we are rescued and my son inherits my husband’s fortune, I will make it my life’s work to destroy you. I will follow you anywhere on earth. I will ruin you. So take the dagger as payment and break my curse, and let us save the people who are left.”

The lifeboat sways in the small, serene waves, and the stars revolve high above in a moonless sky, and you and the other women wait for the officer to reply. After a minute or more—we have to go back now, right now, we don’t have much time—he finally lifts the dagger from your open palm and tucks it into his belt.

“Fine,” he says, picking up his oar again. “Let’s go. I cannot abide your damnation. I’ll be haunted by enough ghosts already.”

He and several of the other women row into the throng while you find the flashlights stored in the bottom of the lifeboat, then perch at the bow searching for Aegon. Instead you see hundreds of bluish corpses floating in their lifebelts, dead men and women and children, some of them first-class or crewmembers of the ship but most of them third-class passengers: Italian, Polish, Greek, Syrian, Russian, Chinese, Irish, discarded people, good for dying in the operations of mines or factories or railroads and little else.

“Aegon!” you shout over the water, but he does not answer. There is only the mist of your own words and the sound of cold currents rippling as the lifeboat cuts through them.

Your group saves two people from the sea, both nearly frozen to death and unable to speak: one man floating on a table washed out of a dining room, one little girl clutching her dead mother. Then a long time passes with no living souls to salvage.

“Have we done enough now, Lady Targaryen?” the officer asks you gravely. “Have you seen a sufficient number of the dead to assuage your wrath?”

“Not yet,” you say, steely, your eyes fixed on the water as the flashlight illuminates lifeless faces, scraps of wreckage, nothing, nothing, nothing. And then the light settles on him.

When the stern of Titanic went under, so did Aegon: there are ice crystals in his hair, and his clothes are freezing to his skin, and his lips are blue, and he’s shivering violently. But unlike over 1,000 other passengers, he didn’t stay in the depths long enough to perish as the cold stopped their hearts and lungs. He had something with him, a life raft, a second chance, a treasure mined not from some far-flung crevice of the earth but from the bedroom where he uncovered you, where you found each other and never wanted to go back to the way life felt before.

Aegon is sprawled across the oval-shaped mirror that once stood beside your bed, the fractured glass reflecting the stars that glimmer in the night sky. His ravaged hands cling to the wooden frame. And when the beam of the flashlight skates across his face like moonshine, Aegon knows you’ve come back for him, and he reaches for you until your hands link with his and help pull him aboard.

~~~~~~~~~~

Carpathia arrives an hour later, just before four in the morning on April 15th, and as the sun rises over the North Atlantic Ocean you and Aegon find Draco and Fern on the bow deck, where stewards are distributing blankets and tea to the survivors. Women wander the ship pleading for help finding their lost loved ones, weeping endlessly for their brothers, their fathers, their husbands. Your tears have stopped entirely.

Carpathia’s passengers are generous. They offer in charity their food, their clothing, even their rooms. Children share their books and toys with Draco. Fern teaches him how to play marbles; you read him The Story of Saint Patrick. A doctor onboard disinfects and bandages Aegon’s hands, and assures him that he will be able to play viola again, not now, perhaps not even soon, but one day.

That first afternoon, as you and Aegon are taking a stroll on the Boat Deck, you spot a man painting a scene of the sunset: gold, tiger’s eye, ruby, red beryl. Aegon shows him some of the portraits from his scuffed leather portfolio…though, of course, one in particular is not suitable for mixed company. The man is so impressed that he insists Aegon must not be deprived of the ability to create such beauty for lack of supplies, and gifts him an easel and some paper, brushes, and oil paints.

It’s difficult with his sore, bandaged hands, but Aegon still wants to try, and when his brush begins to shake he asks you to help him. Aegon explains things to you as you steady his hands: chiaroscuro, scumbling, alla prima, glazing, impasto, a foreign language that will soon become familiar. Already, you are learning. And as Carpathia sails into New York Harbor on the evening of April 18th, Aegon takes a paintbrush and draws a circle around your ring finger in vivid, sapphire blue, a worthless gift of no gleaming gems or metal, a vow that means everything.

It’s been years, but Aegon remembers the way to his mother’s house. He leads you, Draco, and Fern to the doorstep of the Hightower mansion on Fifth Avenue. He knocks and a butler answers, a middle-aged man who gapes at Aegon in shellshocked disbelief.

“One…one moment, sir, if you’d be so kind to…to…to just wait here, please,” the butler stammers, then disappears inside. A few minutes later, a different man appears in the threshold. He must be Aemond, tall and white-blonde and precise in every movement, his left eye concealed by a black leather eyepatch. His remaining eye, a clear alert blue, darts to where Fern is holding Draco on her hip and then to you and Aegon, his bandaged hands resting so lightly on you they could never leave a mark.

Then Aemond’s face softens, and there is a kind sort of relief that seeps in, and you imagine your parents will look the same way when you return to Lough Cutra Castle. “You’re home,” he says quietly.

And Aegon smiles and replies: “We all are.”

[hyacintheros]

Home

|| (Wolfstar x Fem!Reader)

Main Masterlist

Word Count: 1.2k

Warnings: A little angst

P.S: Tryna get back into posting regularly again, let me know what you think of this! C:

Synopsis: Late-night confessions and long-forgotten family secrets surface at Grimmauld Place, pulling Harry closer to his godparents, Sirius, Remus, and Y/N. As they share laughter over breakfast, the trio finds solace in each other, turning a house full of sorrow into a place of healing and family.

A once cold and dreary house, now filled with melancholic warmth, Grimmauld Place makes everyone uneasy due to its history.

Harry pads his feet gently across the hallway, hoping to be discreet In his search of a misplaced book. Hermione had told him to pack earlier, they’d be leaving for their fifth year the day after tomorrow. In Harry fashion, he had told her not to worry, now he's worried he won't be able to pack his bag.

“S'not fair, Siri…” Hearing the voice of his Godmother, he pauses, wanting to hear the conversation. What isn’t fair? He’s never heard his godmother cry in the five years he’s known her

“I know darling, but we have to push through, we have to raise that boy…even if it's the last thing we do.” Sirius holds her, the tears in her eyes giving away. Remus joins the hug, his heart breaking for his lovers. She tries to keep her sobs to a minimum, it’s late and she doesn’t want to wake people up.

“It’s been 14 years, yet I still can’t get over them. Everyone says he’s got Lily’s eyes…but he’s also got James’ smile,” she sobs even harder into Remus, unable to hold back. Y/N had known James since they were in diapers, raised together and practically siblings, despite being two years younger.

Sirius gives Remus a look, passing her off to Remus. The werewolf cradles her, patting her hair down and wiping her tears away. He pulls her onto the bed, trying to get her to relax more. Between the two boys, Remus had always been the better comforter.

“Harry, what are you doing up?” Sirius pops out of the room, spotting Harry near the end of the corridor. He freezes in place, not wanting to admit he was eavesdropping. “Just looking for my Herbology book, need to pack my case.” Sirius hums in acceptance.

Walking down to Harry, he smiles. “D’you ever wonder where the Potter Manor went? I mean, your father was a Pureblood, your Grandfather was a Potions Master!” Harry had never pondered on this before, head always stuck with the Dursely’s home.

He shakes his head, not really knowing what to say. Sirius smiles again, chuckling. “It took a little damage during the first war, a small cottage on the property got bashed in. Though the manor itself is in great condition, courtesy of Remus and Y/N.” His eyes have a little twinkle, reminiscing of the manor during his younger years.

His father being a pureblood rarely crossed his mind. Growing up with muggles, he never really registered his family heritage. Some days, he could barely consider himself a wizard, so remembering that his father was a pureblood and what that would entail never crossed his mind.

The boy looks up with a curious look, silently asking for more information. Sirius laughs, amused at his expression, like a little puppy. “You’d have to talk to Remus and Y/N, they’re the ones living there.” Sirius says, then bidding Harry goodnight, going back into their shared room.

Harry, now has forgotten the conversation he eavesdropped on, now completely focused on the thought of a Manor, one his real family had lived in, one where people were excited to finally be able to meet him. Though, only two of the six friends, well technically two friends and one traitor, would have been able to meet him in his teen years. Shuffling to his room, he does his best to not make any noise, it’s late and most Order members are sleeping.

—♡—

The house is bustling with people, most adults on the way to work, leaving the house to the teenagers and the couple. “Y/N, could you call the kids down? Breakfast is almost ready, you know how long they take to come down.” she snickers, bumping her hip into Remus’, a little love tap. Remus laughs, kissing her on the head. Sirius is watching the waffles, given very clear instructions to not burn them.

Y/N calls for Kreacher, being the only person in the house that Kreacher was happy with. “Yes, Mistress?” he asks. Y/N had been sorted into Slytherin, leaving James a little upset, but he eventually got over that. She was in the same year as Regulus, and a Pureblood. They had become best friends, practically inseparable. Kreacher loved her because Regulus loved her, though like a sister.

“Could you be a dear and call the children? It’s breakfast time. Would you like for me to set some aside for you?” She asks. Kreacher has never been accustomed to Y/N kindness, even after all these years. He nods his head shyly, going to call for the children, which he did grovel about.

“That elf could never warm up to me, yet could instantly love you?” Sirius pouts. His two lovers laugh, coming in for a quick group hug. “Guess I’m just better” she teases him. He scoffs, going back to intensely looking at the waffles, still with a pout.

Hermione comes down first, followed by Ginny. They take their seats at the table, waiting for others to join. Y/N pats the girls on their heads, putting plates down and making conversation. A small exploding sound comes from the stairs, revealing two nonchalant twins. She ignores the explosion, accustomed to it by now.

Harry and Ron shimmy down, in a very heated conversation, one only Quidditch could conjure. Kreacher hobbles near Y/N’s legs, sort of like a mean little cat. Remus and Y/N put out the food in serving dishes, leaving everyone to take what they’d like. She gets a small plate for Kreacher, knowing he doesn't like to eat in front of people. Kreacher takes his plate, going off to Orion’s private study.

Y/N takes her seat between Sirius and Remus, serving up a plate of sausage and eggs for herself, a few hushpuppies and a glass of water. She keeps quiet, wanting to observe, though that is quickly thrown out the window as Sirius starts pulling her into conversation.

“D’you remember when Remus got stuck in a tree in 6th year?” Remus goes red and Haya laughs, patting him comfortingly. “How’d you get up there Moony?” He looks away, mumbling. “Can’t hear you Rem~” she teases. He speaks up, “Saw a squirrel and he looked scared..” The table of teens laugh, trying to picture such a shy man going after a squirrel. “And who went after you?” Sirius jests. Y/N raises her hand excitedly. “I had climbed the tree after him, trying to untangle his cardigan from the branches.”

Ginny is the first to speak up, “Was this a regular thing? Chasing after squirrels and whatnot?” she giggles, spooning some yoghurt. “Sirius was always caught by Minnie- Professor McGonagal, always the last one to evade the crime scene, though it was a very valiant effort” Remus feeds them information.

Sirius had always been proud of his pranks, but went red because of the revelations of always getting caught. “Sorry, did you call her Minnie?” Harry jests. “We had overheard it from Dumbledore in fourth year, thought we could tease her with it.” Y/N answers, piling food onto everyone's plate, smiling so brightly it could burn the brightest of stars.

In this house, one that held such painful memories for Sirius, it is this moment where he finally can be at peace in this house. Surrounded by his lovers, by his family, he finally feels like this is home.

[natashaslesbian]

We Saved Each Other (Part Ten)

It’s your first birthday with your new mama, unfortunately it doesn’t go to plan

Word Count: 2.7k

Content: Autistic Meltdown

————

“A little to the left” Natasha guided Clint in hanging up yet another banner. “I’ve tied all the balloons up” Maria called as she came into the room. Today was your 7th birthday and Natasha had promised it would be a day to remember. You had never celebrated your birthday having grown up in the red room and with a father who didn’t care, it was something Natasha had been excited about since she adopted you last year. Your day so far had been filled with breakfast in bed, a few presents and now you were at the zoo with auntie Laura and your cousins, Lila and Cooper (and you were very excited that Laura was expecting another baby). You had begged your mama to come with you but she told you she had paper work that needed to be done. Little did you know, Natasha had sent you on a trip in order to decorate your house for a surprise party. After living in the Barton’s barn for a few months, Nat found an adorable cottage in the countryside. You loved your new house, it was perched on a small hill and overlooked fields filled with sheeps and horses. The back garden had a small pond and you’re favourite part of the day was feeding the fish and having Natasha push you super high on the swings. It was the perfect hideaway when the avengers tower got too much, it had been especially crazy since the organisation had formed a few short months ago.

You were currently waiting in line to feed the alpacas, something you had been talking about non stop all day. The line was moving quickly and you could hardly wait “Auntie Laura is it my turn next?” You asked excitedly. “I think so birthday girl, you ready?” Laura asked as she guided you forward, you nodded excitedly as you grabbed your bowl of grass. “Here we go then, lift up some food for them” your auntie leaded you. you smiled widely as one of the alpacas came over to munch on some grass “look Lila!” You cheered as you twisted to see your cousin. In turning your back you accidentally moved the bowl away from the alpaca, making it harder for him to grab some grass. Not thinking anything was wrong, you turned around with your big rosy cheeks and came face to face with an angry alpaca who immediately spat roughly in your face. You screamed loudly as the goo landed on your face “auntie Laura!” You yelled as you dropped the bowl into the pen, distracting the alpacas. “It’s okay sweetie he just got a little angry” Laura said as she lifted you off the small podium you were placed upon. “Get it off me!” You sobbed as your hands began to flap, the first sign that your autism was starting to take over.

Back at home, Natasha was adding the final touches to your decorated house. There were banners on every wall and balloons filled the hallway. Maria was finishing decorating your cake when Clint came running in with his phone held to his ear “Nat, we need to go get y/n” he said breathlessly. Natasha dropped everything as she came to talk to Clint “what’s happened?” She said in a panicked voice, a million thoughts racing behind her eyes. “Some animal spat on her she’s having a meltdown” Clint said as he guided Nat towards the door, the two didn’t waste a second as they climbed into the car and headed to the zoo. “I knew this was a bad idea” Natasha sighed “she’s been so overwhelmed lately I should’ve just suggested the park or something I just wanted today to be special for her” she said in a panicked quickness. “Breathe Nat” Clint said as he placed a comforting hand on his friends shoulder “she’s got her coping mechanisms right?” He asked. “Yeah but she’s never had to use them without me there, she’s never had a meltdown without me, I should’ve gone with her Clint” Natasha mumbled as her eyes filled with tears. “She’ll be okay, she always bounces back, just like her mom” Clint smiled as he consoled Natasha.

Peoples heads were starting to turn at the zoo, some in understanding and some in annoyance. Lila and cooper stood back as they watched their mom try to comfort their dear cousin. Lila still didn’t really understand why you got so upset at what she felt was a tiny problem but Cooper was slowly learning how to help and interact with you. “Where’s mommy!” You cried as you gripped onto Laura’s sweatshirt “she’s on her way y/n okay, deep breaths sweetheart” Laura said. Your knuckles were starting to turn white at the sheer force of your grip, the material being twisted and pulled in between your fingers. Laura had attempted to get you to count to 10, tried the ‘5, 4, 3, 2, 1’ method but so far nothing had calmed you. “Mommy look it’s daddy and auntie Nat!” Lila called as she saw Clint’s car pull into the car park, pointing over with a wide smile. “Y/n hey, look who’s here” Laura cooed, trying to get your focus onto Natasha. The widow came rushing over when she saw your state, pushing past the small crowd of people who had gathered. “Can you give her some space please?” Clint said to all the bystanders. “Y/n baby!” Natasha called as she came over to you, you ran straight into her arms when you heard her voice. “Mama I don’t like it” you sobbed into her arms “I know sweetie it’s ok mommy’s here” Natasha said as she squeezed you with all her might, something she learned early on helped to ground you.

You couldn’t quite remember the actual events that happened next but in your next moment of consciousness you felt the familiar beanbag underneath you and the weight of your blanket was wrapping around you perfectly. You peaked out through your half opened eyes and realised you were at the tower. Your mom had created four calm spaces for you at your most visited locations, your house, Clint’s house, the avengers tower and S.H.I.E.L.D HQ. You opened your eyes fully when you realised it was dim, small lava lamps illuminated the corners of the room just how you liked it. The black out curtains were pulled tightly shut and all the electronics had been unplugged (Natasha spent weeks looking for a battery powered lava lamp). You saw a flash of red hair in the corner of your eyes and were immediately calmed by the presence of your mother. Noticing you were awake, Natasha slowly made her way over to you, sitting close by but far enough away. She began to sign slowly, something Clint was teaching the both of you for when you needed absolute silence. Taking her time to get it right, Natasha signed for ‘voice’ and you nodded slowly letting her know it was okay to talk. “Hi baby” she whispered “is there anything in the room that needs to be adjusted?” She asked. You looked around the room quickly and shook your head no. “Do you want touch right now?” Your mom said, you nodded quickly and reached out for your mom.

Still wrapped up in your weighted blanket, Natasha gently picked you up and sat you on her lap atop the beanbag. She swayed slowly as she held you close, adding the perfect amount of pressure. “You’re not having the best of birthdays are you baby girl?” Natasha said. “No” you mumbled quietly, rubbing your face against the bare skin above Nats t shirt. Your mom pulled her shirt over her head, cooing gently when you whined at the brief loss of contact. You settled again instantly at the feeling of her soft chest. “I think I have something that might make it a bit better, if you want it?” Natasha said as she pulled you close. “What is it?” You asked sceptically looking up at your mom through your eyelashes “well it’s a very special present I got for you” she said as she shifted you in her arms. Now perched comfortably on your mamas knee, you questioned her further on this special present “why is it special?” You asked. “Because it’s more than a present, it’s something mommy has been thinking about getting you for a long time. I think he’s gonna make you really happy” Natasha said. “He?” You asked inquisitively “is it a person mama?” You said. “Not quite, shall we go and find out?” Nat asked. “Yes please” you said as you wrapped your legs your moms waist and held on tight behind her neck.

Natasha made sure you had fully adjusted to the light before she walked down the hall with you on her hip, after pulling her shirt back over her head. She’d given you a fidget toy to help soothe you further, the worst of your meltdown had passed but she wanted to keep you from going backwards into another one. It was a Saturday so the tower was quiet, the avengers floor practically silent, the crew cleaning up after the attack on New York didn’t work weekends either. You passed through the empty halls unfazed and happily stimming with your fidget snake, only when you heard a familiar voice did you look up from your hands. “Hey little spider” Clint said when you smiled wildly at him “are you feeling better?” He asked. You nodded slowly and made grabby hands towards him, wanting to feel the softness of the familiar sweatshirt he was wearing. You settled in his arms until a sharp bark took you by surprise, you covered your ears at the sudden noise but quickly calmed and flashed an inquisitive look at your mom. “What did you hear baby?” Natasha asked you with a wide smile. “A woof woof” you said questioningly “is there a doggy?” You asked as you scrambled out of Clint’s arms to investigate. “Why don’t we go and see where the woof woof came from?” Your mom said as she took a hold of your hand.

You tip toed down the corridor, listening intensely for another sound, particularly a bark. “It’s coming from in here mama!” You beamed as you came to the avengers common room. “Maybe you should go and have a look” Clint said as he pushed down on the handle. Natasha nodded as she encouraged you to enter the room, you walked in slowly to the dimly lit space. Looking up to your right you saw a pink balloon gently flowing around the room. “A balloon mommy” you said as you jogged slowly around the couch. Your eyes went wide when you saw a fluffy grey husky sitting beside the coffee table “a doggy!” You exclaimed as you looked down into the bright blue eyes of the feline “look little spider he has a note with him!” Clint said, pointing towards the folded card on the table. You ran towards it and picked it up to have a look, it read:

‘Hi y/n. My name is Joey. I’m a special doggy to help you with your autism. I am really friendly and will help you need me’

You finished reading and looked back at Natasha “he’s for me mommy?” You asked. “He is” your mom said as she crouched down beside you, calling Joey over to you both “he’s specially trained to look after you when you get overwhelmed” Natasha said as she gently brushed through the dogs hair. You cautiously placed your hand out for Joey to inspect and he wagged his tail excitedly when he sniffed your fingers “he’s funny” you giggled when Joey came up to lick your face, the gentle strokes of his tongue and his soft fur soothing you. “I think he likes you” Natasha said as she released her hold on Joeys collar, she was delighted when he came to sit at your feet and looked up at you with his adoring eyes. “I like him too mommy, can he sleep in my room?” You begged. “Of course, he’s your special doggy y/n, so he can always stay with you. He’ll always be there if you need him, he can tell when you’re upset so he’ll come and help you and he can alert me if you need mamas help” Natasha explained. “Thank you mommy! I love him so much!” You shrieked as you ran into Natasha’s arms.

Nat stood back as she watched you play with Joey, he was so gentle with you that it brought a lump to her throat. Clint wrapped an arm around his best friends shoulder as he watched on too. “I think they’ll be best friends in no time” he said. Clint had spent months helping Natasha research for therapy animals and he’d taken her to all the meetings. Natasha knew as soon as she met Joey that he was the perfect dog for you and after making sure he was fully trained, she couldn’t wait to bring him home. “I’m guessing the party’s off?” Clint asked as he stepped back. Natasha watched you run around happily while Joey chased your balloon. “I think the party’s right here.”

10 years later.

“Sit Joey” you said as you called your husky to your side “good boy” you praised as you slipped him a treat. Natasha came around the side of your truck after securing the last of your boxes. “You’re all set” she said with a slight quiver in her voice. “Mama don’t cry again” you laughed as you pulled the redhead into your arms. “I can’t help it” Natasha said as she took your face into her hands “my grown up baby girl, off to college. Have I told you that I’m so proud of you” Your mom smiled. “Many times mama” you said as you lent your forehead against Natasha’s. Joey whined at the lack of attention and Nat crouched down to stroke him “oh Joey I’m gonna miss you too. The house is gonna be so quiet without you stomping around” she giggled. You took a glance up at your house, remembering all of the memories you never thought you would have. Natasha had made up for every year of love you were deprived of and along the way you found yourself the best family in the world.

Clint and Laura also cried the day you got accepted into Harvard and Tony threw you the biggest going away party, abiding closely by the many rules Natasha had set to make sure you were comfortable. Yelena was gutted that you two wouldn’t be able to take Joey and Fanny for their doggy play dates. After you, your mom and Yelena had taken down the red room, you had gotten so close with your auntie you couldn’t imagine life without her. But she had promised to face time very day, though you knew it would just be to talk to Joey. You never thought you’d be doing this, leaving your family, going to college. There was a time when you thought your life would only ever be spying and killing, but as soon as Natasha came along you knew you’d be okay. She’d been there through it all. Holding you after every nightmare. Being by your side during each meltdown. Comforting you when the PTSD hit in your teenage years. She’d given you the life you never thought you would have.

Opening the door swiftly, you guided Joey up into the truck, making sure his tail was tucked away before closing the car door. “I gotta get going” you frowned. Natasha lifted your chin with her manicured fingers. “Hey, you know I’m always with you, wherever you are. If you need me, you call me and I’ll be there in seconds. It’s time for you to live your life y/n” she said as she gently ran her fingers through your hair. “You’ve already helped me to live my life mommy. I love you so much. You saved me” you cried softly. “Oh baby” Natasha said as she looked into your eyes “we saved each other”

————

And that’s it! The end of the WSEO series. Thank you for all the support on this story!🤍

————

Taglist<3

@saraaahsstuff / @dannipotatoo / @tobiaslut / @nevaeh-daughterofvalcarol / @marvelnatasha12346 / @yelenasdiary / @mousetheorist / @ashadash0904 / @strange-night-owl / @kkreader78o / @hatergirl-69 / @asv-xx

[laurasimonsdaughter]

Could you tell a gender-swapped version of The Giant with the Three Golden Hairs?

Hmmm I am not a fan of completely gender-swapping fairy tales without regard for narrative structure and I would argue that Joseph Jacob's The Fish and The Ring pretty much is a gender-swapped version of this tale type (and a fun one too!).

But I do have a soft spot for The Giant/Devil With The Three Golden Hairs because of the adaptation The Luck Child in Jim Henson's The Storyteller, so...

The Devil With The Three Golden Hairs

A fairy tale by the Brothers Grimm, retold by Laura Simons.

There was once a poor woman who gave birth to a little daughter; and as she came into the world with a caul on her head, it was predicted that in her eighteenth year she would have the Queen’s son for her husband.

It happened that soon afterwards the Queen passed through that village, and no one knew that she was the Queen, and when she asked the people what news there was, they answered, "A child has just been born with a caul on; whatever any one so born undertakes turns out well. It is prophesied, too, that in her eighteenth year she will marry the Queen’s only son."

The Queen, who had a bad heart, and was angry about the prophecy, went to the parents, and, seeming quite friendly, said, "You poor people, let me have your child, and I will take care of it."

At first they refused, but when the stranger offered them a large amount of gold in exchange, and they thought, "She is a luck-child, and everything must turn out well for her," they at last consented, and gave her the child. For if their little girl was truly destined to marry the Prince, perhaps she was likewise fated to be raised by such a grand and wealthy lady.

The cruel Queen put the baby in a box and rode away with it until she came to a deep piece of water; then she threw the box into it and thought, "I have freed my son from this unsuitable bride."

The box, however, did not sink, but floated like a boat, and not a drop of water made its way into it. And it floated to within two miles of the capital city where the royal family resided, to a spot where there was a mill, and it came to a stand-still at the mill-dam. A miller's boy, who by good luck was standing there, noticed it and pulled it out with a hook, thinking that he had found a great treasure, but when he opened it there lay a pretty baby inside, quite healthy and lively. He took her to the miller and his wife, and as they had no children they were glad, and said, "God has given her to us." They took great care of the foundling, and she grew up in all goodness.

It happened that once in a storm, the Queen passed by the mill and went into it. She asked the mill-folk if the cheerful youth who had gone to help with the horses was their daughter.

"No," answered they, "she's a foundling. Almost eighteen years ago she floated down to the mill-dam in a box, and the mill-boy pulled her out of the water."

Then the King knew that it was none other than the luck-child which she had thrown into the water, and she said, "My good people, could not your girl take a letter to the Queen? I will give her two gold pieces as a reward."

"Just as Your Majesty commands," answered they, and they told the girl to hold herself in readiness.

Then the Queen wrote a letter to the King, wherein she said, "As soon as the girl arrives with this letter, let her be killed and buried, and all must be done before I come home."

The girl set out with this letter; but she lost her way, and in the evening came to a large forest. She was not afraid, for no harm had ever come to her in her life that she knew of. In the darkness she saw a small light; she went towards it and reached a cottage. When she went in, an old man was sitting by the fire quite alone. He started when he saw the girl, and said, "Whence do you come, and whither are you going?"

"I come from the mill," she answered, "and wish to go to the King, to whom I am taking a letter; but as I have lost my way in the forest I should like to stay here over night."

"You poor girl," said the man, "you have come into a den of thieves, and when they come home they will kill you."

"Let them come," said the girl, "I am not afraid; but I am so tired that I cannot go any farther:" and she stretched himself upon a bench and fell asleep.

Soon afterwards the robbers came, and angrily asked what strange boy was lying there?

"Ah," said the old man, "it is an innocent child who has lost herslef in the forest, and out of pity I have let her come in; she has to take a letter to the King."

The robbers opened the letter and read it, and in it was written that the girl as soon as she arrived should be put to death. Then the hard-hearted robbers felt pity, and their leader tore up the letter and wrote another, in the exact same hand, saying that as soon as the girl arrived, she should be married to the Crown Prince at once. Then they let her lie quietly on the bench until the next morning, and when she awoke they gave her the letter, and showed her the right way.

And the King, when he had received the letter and read it, did as was written in it and had a splendid wedding-feast prepared. And neither the Crown Prince nor the foundling made any protestations, because the luck-child was honest and affectionate and the Crown Prince was as kind as his mother was cruel. So the two of them were married and they lived together in joy and contentment.

After some time the Queen returned to her palace and saw that the prophecy was fulfilled, and the luck-child married to her son. "How has that come to pass?" said he; "I gave quite another order in my letter." So the King gave him the letter, and said that she might see for himself what was written in it. The Queen read the letter and saw quite well that it had been exchanged for the other. She asked the youth what had become of the letter entrusted to her, and why she had brought another instead of it.

"I know nothing about it," answered she stoutly; "it must have been changed in the night, when I slept in the forest." But now she knew that whatever that first letter must have held, it would not have been good for her.

The Queen said in a passion, "You shall not have everything quite so much your own way; whosoever marries my son must fetch me from hell three golden hairs from the head of the devil; bring me what I want, and you shall keep my son." In this way the Queen hoped to be rid of her for ever.

The Crown Prince wept when he heard it, for he loved his young wife, but the luck-child answered, "I will fetch the golden hairs, I am not afraid of the Devil."

Thereupon she took leave of them all and began her journey. The road led her to a large town, where the guard by the gates asked her what her trade was, and what she knew.

"I know everything," answered the luck-child blithely, for so it goes with young people who know themselves for a fact to be blessed with good luck.

"Then you can do us a favour," said the guard, "if you will tell us why our market-fountain, which once flowed with wine has become dry, and no longer gives even water?"

"That you shall know," answered she; "only wait until I come back." Then she went farther and came to another town, and there also the gatekeeper asked her what was her trade, and what she knew.

"I know everything," answered she.

"Then you can do us a favour and tell us why a tree in our town which once bore golden apples now does not even put forth leaves?"

"You shall know that," answered she; "only wait until I come back." Then she went on and came to a wide river over which she must go.

The ferryman asked her what her trade was, and what she knew.

"I know everything," answered she.

"Then you can do me a favour," said the ferryman, "and tell me why I must always be rowing backwards and forwards, and am never set free?"

"You shall know that," answered she; "only wait until I come back."

When she had crossed the water she found the entrance to Hell. It was black and sooty within, and the Devil was not at home, but his grandfather was sitting in a large arm-chair. "What do you want?" said she to her, but she did not look so very wicked.

"I should like to have three golden hairs from the devil's head," answered she, "else I cannot keep my dear husband."

"That is a good deal to ask for," said he; "if the devil comes home and finds you, it will cost you your life; but as I pity you, I will see if I cannot help you." He changed her into an ant and said, "Creep into the folds of my coat, you will be safe there."

"Yes," answered she, "so far, so good; but there are three things besides that I want to know: why a fountain which once flowed with wine has become dry, and no longer gives even water; why a tree which once bore golden apples does not even put forth leaves; and why a ferry-man must always be going backwards and forwards, and is never set free?"

"Those are difficult questions," answered he, "but only be silent and quiet and pay attention to what the devil says when I pull out the three golden hairs."

As the evening came on, the devil returned home. No sooner had he entered than he noticed that the air was not pure. "I smell human flesh," said he; "all is not right here." Then he pried into every corner, and searched, but could not find anything.

His grandfather scolded him. "It has just been swept," said he, "and everything put in order, and now you are upsetting it again; you have always got human flesh in your nose. Sit down and eat your supper."

When he had eaten and drunk he was tired, and laid his head in his grandfather’s lap, and before long he was fast asleep, snoring and breathing heavily. Then the old man took hold of a golden hair, pulled it out, and laid it down near him.

"Oh!" cried the devil, "what are you doing?"

"I have had a bad dream," answered the grandfather, "so I seized hold of your hair."

"What did you dream then?" said the devil.

"I dreamed that a fountain in a market-place from which wine once flowed was dried up, and not even water would flow out of it; what is the cause of it?"

"Oh, ho! if they did but know it," answered the devil; "there is a toad sitting under a stone in the well; if they killed it, the wine would flow again."

He went to sleep again and snored until the windows shook. Then his grandfather pulled the second hair out. "Ha! what are you doing?" cried the devil angrily.

"Do not take it ill," said he, "I did it in a dream."

"What have you dreamt this time?" asked he.

"I dreamt that in a certain kingdom there stood an apple-tree which had once borne golden apples, but now would not even bear leaves. What, think you, was the reason?"

"Oh! if they did but know," answered the devil. "A mouse is gnawing at the root; if they killed this they would have golden apples again, but if it gnaws much longer the tree will wither altogether. But leave me alone with your dreams: if you disturb me in my sleep again you will get a box on the ear."

The grandfather spoke gently to him until he fell asleep again and snored. Then he took hold of the third golden hair and pulled it out. The devil jumped up, roared out, and would have treated her ill if he had not quieted him once more and said, "Who can help bad dreams?"

"What was the dream, then?" asked he, and was quite curious.

"I dreamt of a ferry-man who complained that he must always ferry from one side to the other, and was never released. What is the cause of it?"

"Ah! the fool," answered the devil; "when any one comes and wants to go across he must put the oar in his hand, and the other man will have to ferry and he will be free."

As the grandfather had plucked out the three golden hairs, and the three questions were answered, he let the old serpent alone, and he slept until daybreak. When the devil had gone out again the old man took the ant out of the folds of his coat, and gave the luck-child her human shape again.

"There are the three golden hairs for you," said he. "What the Devil said to your three questions, I suppose you heard?"

"Yes," answered she, "I heard, and will take care to remember."

"You have what you want," said he, "and now you can go your way."

She thanked the old man for helping her in her need, and left hell well content that everything had turned out so fortunately.

When she came to the ferry-man she was expected to give the promised answer. "Ferry me across first," said the luck-child, "and then I will tell you how you can be set free," and when she reached the opposite shore she gave him the devil's advice: "Next time any one comes, who wants to be ferried over, just put the oar in their hand."

She went on and came to the town wherein stood the unfruitful tree, and there too the gatekeeper wanted an answer. So she told her what she had heard from the devil: "Kill the mouse which is gnawing at its root, and it will again bear golden apples."

Then the watchman thanked her, and gave her as a reward two asses laden with gold, which followed her.

At last she came to the town whose well was dry. She told the guard what the devil had said: "A toad is in the well beneath a stone; you must find it and kill it, and the well will again give wine in plenty."

The guard thanked her, and also gave her two asses laden with gold.

At last the luck-child got home to her husband, who was heartily glad to see her again, and to hear how well she had prospered in everything. The King, too, was relieved to see his daughter-in-law safe and sound, but the Queen could barely keep her countenance when the girl brought her the devil’s three golden hairs.

When she saw the four asses laden with gold, however, she suddenly grew very pleasant, and said: "Now all the conditions are fulfilled, and you can keep my daughter. But tell me, dear daughter-in-law, where did all that gold come from? this is tremendous wealth!"

"I was rowed across a river,” answered she innocently, "and got it there; it lies on the shore instead of sand."

"Can I too fetch some of it?" said the Queen; and she was quite eager about it.

"As much as you like," answered she. "There is a ferry-man on the river; let him ferry you over, and you can fill your sacks on the other side."

The greedy Queen set out in all haste, and when she came to the river she beckoned to the ferry-man to put her across. The ferry-man came and bade her get in, and when they got to the other shore he put the oar in her hand and sprang out. So from that time forth the Queen had to ferry, as a punishment for her sins. Perhaps she is ferrying still? If she is, it is because no one has taken the oar from her.

[minniebbang]

within the forest | chapter 3

pairing: fairy!Chan x princess!reader word count: 1.1 k words Summary: Chan's younger brother came to visit Chan.

main masterlist | series masterlist | next

[WEEKS LATER]

Shutting the teak door, he continued heading to his backyard until he met an entrance protected by vines and branches. Gesturing his hand in a swipe motion, the barrier retreated and returned to its place. He walked inside and the entrance was sealed behind him. The place had grown green since the last time he visited. The chirping birds suddenly turned quiet, noticing his appearance in the place. Their heads hung low as if they understood his devastation.

His steps died once he stumbled across a grave - no, there were two graves. He smiled bitterly to himself before kneeling in front of the graves where grasses had grown on top of them.

"Happy death anniversary, father and mother. Hope you're doing great despite all the things you have done while you're still alive."

An airy chuckle escaped his lips as his wings began covering his shaking figure. A drop of tear poured onto his cheeks.

"I'm sorry, I couldn't continue your legacy because I'm not strong enough. I guess I get that side from mother. I miss you and living without you for 8 years was difficult. I hope I didn't make you mad for being friends with Stellious's princess. She's a kind girl, I wish she didn't turn like her father. I'm going now. Please rest well." He placed the flowers on the grass. He rose to his feet, returning to his cottage.

Pushing the back door open, a silhouette he missed was there, greeting him with an unsatisfied expression as he leaned against the wood beside his bedroom's door, his black wings expanded fully. Chan averted his gaze to the square table in the living room. Two cups of steamy tea were there.

"Were you back from Father and Mother's grave?" The silhouette asked, walking to the living room and settling on one of the old chairs. The chair made a weird squeaky noise as it came in contact with the silhouette's body.

Chan nodded and sat across from him.

"Were you here to visit them as well, Minho?" He asked softly. His eyes rested on the younger who was slowly sipping his tea. Minho scoffed, placing the cup on the table harshly. Chan saw how the table shook for a moment.

"Why would I? They leave us with such a messed up legacy!"

"I know...but that's how they keep us safe from the king, wasn't it?"

Minho scowled and snapped his head to the side. What his brother said was true. Working with him was the only way to keep the siblings from getting executed by the king. The fairies knew how much Stellious's king hated them for having magic and being different. He said: that being born with magic was unusual until they were considered a threat to the kingdom. That was the only point their father told them because the rest was a made-up story from the king to blind his citizens.

He protected the fairies by saying they were his since he had promised the king that the fairies wouldn't harm anyone.

"But you're dragging yourself near the king, Bang Chan," Minho uttered sternly, emphasising Chan's full name. He crossed his arm over his chest, glancing at Chan with exasperation. Stupid, it was a foolish action. Never did he think his oldest brother could do such an oblivious act.

"What do you mean? Did I do something?"

"Hell yes, you did brother." He slammed the bedroom door open with his magic, revealing the princess, sleeping peacefully on Chan's small and uncomfortable-looking bed because it was just an old and deflated bed but she didn't mind.

Chan spun his head to the source of the sound and a chuckle escaped. Minho must recognise who that figure was. Chan gestured toward the door, a branch wrapped around the doorknob, and quietly closed the door before leaving. He glanced at Minho, flashing a thin smile.

"She doesn't have anything to do with the king. She's my friend, Minho."

"This is a joke. For how long have you kept this? From me and your younger brothers." He questioned, still in disbelief. He tried his best not to raise a tone while talking to his older brother although madness was growing inside of him. He clenched his fists tightly.

He has an explanation, he needed to.

"About 3 weeks now. She found me while I was resting in Mom's favourite place. A lonely adventurous young girl. It was fun to have her around our parent's cottage."

Minho bit his inner cheek and grabbed Chan's wrist, pulling him toward the brimming sunlight. The light hit Chan's wings, revealing a long scar on the surface. Chan screamed in pain and was immediately let go by Minho.

"Even after she did that to you? You're out of your mind, brother."

"She doesn't have anything to do with my injury. I made that decision."

Minho sighed, pinching the bridge of his nose, gently. He dragged Chan back to the chair.

"Such a hard-headed person just like father. Do her parents know about this? Your friendship with her?"

"I left my feather in her room if she wants to stay for the night here."

Minho growled as he threw his head back, voice full of disappointment. "Why are you taking a risk for her?! Was father and mother's hard work vain for you? The king must be searching for you now!"

"I know the consequence I received once I made that decision. I'm not going to blame anyone if I die because of it. Father and Mother's hard work will protect you and the siblings, so I'm not scared if I die at the hand of the king."

"Fine, if you have already made your decision no one can change your mind, brother, just take care. I will not forgive you if that happens, you matter to me and the siblings although you're away from us, we still care about you."

Emerging, he brought his cup to the sink, placing it carefully inside. He turned his head toward his older brother, smiling sincerely.

"Minho, how's your work with them?"

"It's fine but painful too because-"

"You have to kill someone who knew you?"

Although he had a poker face, His brother always knew what was playing inside his mind. He can hide his feelings from the younger siblings but not from Chan. Minho nodded

Chan understood the pain Minho went through.

The fake promises they made to their victim.

The sincere smile they had with their victim.

Their victim's last cry and begging.

Would haunt them as long as they lived.

"I hope I'll get used to it in the future. I'm going now. Hyunjin will be mad at me if I don't get home. See you soon, brother."

Chan bid him goodbye and Minho's figure vanished as he walked to the front door, leaving a cloud of dust in the thin air. Chan looked down at his cup, staring at his reflection caused by the sweet dark yellow liquid. His heart ached thinking about the accident. That accident was probably why the king began hunting for the fairies again.

[dominik528]

Five & Lila: Enemies-to-lovers done right

As unexpected and controversial as the pairing of Five and Lila was for the final Umbrella Academy season, I have to say that the writers knocked it out of the park with the "enemies-to-lovers" development.

Now, was this romantic direction planned from the start? I highly doubt it. Even with their bathroom fight scene in season 3, with Lila obviously naked, I got absolutely no vibes of sexual tension. What I think happened was, since Castañeda and Arya broke up, the writers decided to spare them the awkwardness of continuing to play an on-screen couple, so they chose this trajectory.

When Lila and Five first meet, there is clear distrust and animosity between them, contrasting from her and Diego's bonding and quickening attraction. Five even threatens--and comes close to--killing Lila.

Then Lila's hostility grows when she learns that he's the one who killed her birth parents. After another fight, Five, calmly and reassuringly, says that he was acting under the orders of her adoptive mother, who arranged the hit and picked up the scared 4-year-old girl at the scene.

Come season 3, and Five now considers Lila as part of the family, even with Klaus pointing out how she tried to kill them a few days ago. But, of course, it's more of a begrudging allyship, seeing how the two still bicker and insult each other.

By the time season 4 rolled along, and we got the scene with Lila wiping away the sugar on Five's mustache, lingering, followed by Diego getting the wrong idea, I thought, 'Wait...' (The first hint that slipped by me was when he noticed her from afar earlier, like a scene out of a romance.) After that, I started anticipating more scenes between the two.

You can imagine my excitement by ep. 5, seeing two people who once despised and taunted each other now warming up to one another more and more, finally leading to a kiss. Yes, I had the actors' age difference in mind (Gallagher being over 18, Arya being in her 30s), but I still found myself adoring seeing Five being happy. After all, he'd grown bitter and cynical after spending over 40 years alone in a post-apocalyptic wasteland with an inanimate object for a companion, becoming a cold-hearted assassin, and only mainly showing his softer side towards Viktor. With the cottage core-like scenario at the greenhouse, I hoped that the series would end with the pair living similarly, like how Viktor tried to rebuild his life.

But then, I told myself to tamp those hopes down, considering what happened to every other relationship on this show: Viktor & Leonard, Viktor & Sissy (another unpopular ship I loved), Klaus & Dave, Allison & Ray (I was rooting for them in season 2!), Allison & Luther, Luther & Sloane (I was looking forward to them reuniting in this reset timeline☹️), and now, Diego & Lila. I'd recalled a quote from an article about Five having an "emotional arc" with Lila, giving himself a reason to live, and feared it meant that Lila was gonna get fridged.

The last 15 minutes of the show proved to be far worse than I imagined, leaving me and many viewers alike feeling empty inside.🙃For the first five episodes, I thought, 'This is enemies-to-lovers done right!' And then a chance for a satisfying conclusion to such an arc, along with long-suffering characters finding true happiness, was dashed away, just like the entire cast of Star Wars: Rogue One, and Kylo Ren and Rey in The Rise of Skywalker.💔

[rosethornewrites]

T & G reading since 9/23

Finished

Teen:

waiting to finally be caught, by Pyrrti (🔒)

a moment of rest in-between, a dream after loss, a morning during forever

and taste the stars, by lowlightt

“When a living person enters this place, there’s no coming back—for the body or the soul."

Timing is Everything, by Talayse

The Lan juniors and Lan Wangji find a young man unconscious in an array in a locked cottage in Mo Manor, Lan Wangji takes the young man into his care. When Wei Wuxian wakes up later in an inn, clean and cared for, the story takes a different turn.

Hand in Hand Together (All Your Life), by sami (16 chapters, part of 2 series)

He tells his sister, "There's a little boy in Yiling with no parents and he's in trouble. We have to go and find him." His sister smiles and says, "This is a good story, A-Cheng. Tell me more." "It's not a story," he says. He's frustrated by his own childish petulance, but he can't seem to stop it. "I'm from the future. I know." His sister laughs, and he glares, and then she clears her throat and stops laughing, but still has a small, indulgent smile. "Of course, A-Cheng," she says. "And what's this little boy's name?" "Wei Ying," he says, and his sister's smile freezes. "His name is Wei Ying, and his parents are Zangse Sanren and Wei Changze, and something bad has happened to them. Wei Ying is alone in Yiling and he needs help," he insists. Jiang Cheng starts again from the beginning.

Some Days You're Feeling Good, by sami (4th in a series)

Jiang Cheng turns and goes to bang his forehead against the wall, but Jiang Zhuliu has moved with him and gently puts his hand in the way. Matchmakers. In his previous life he'd driven them all away in short order, but the current prestige of the Jiang Sect has made them more persistent.

Subtle, by nirejseki

"Have you ever considered being subtle?" Wen Ruohan glanced sidelong at that-bastard-surnamed-Nie. "Are you suggesting that I'm not subtle?"

General:

Melancholy, by MissCellophane

noun :

a feeling of pensive sadness, typically with no obvious cause.

Or Wei Wuxian wakes up one day and mourns his parents.

Story of a Dream, by Bamboo_Gden (🔒)

She tried to shake away any sad thought, this was supposed to be a merry reunion, after all. A-Xian had always been someone very especial to her. A solace of gentleness and kindness within a house so filled of grudges and hatred. She knew it was the same to him. Blood didn’t tie them, but they were undoubtedly family.

Jiang Yanli pays a visit to her A-Xian to catch up with him.

but his smile never dimmed, by Stratisphyre (2nd in a series)

I told you he hated me. Probably for good reason. I wasn't in a good place. I wanted someone to fight with, and he was the only one who would oblige. - Wei Wuxian, "i really want to know (who are you)"

While temporarily teaching at Yungmeng University, Lan Qiren finds himself dealing with an unruly student.

How Like a Winter Hath My Absence Been, by stiltonbasket (50th in a series)

Eight years after Xiao Xingchen’s death, Song Lan makes his first—and last—journey to the Cloud Recesses.

I heard a rumor, by MissCellophane

Lan Wangji takes his son out trick or treating to a house that's surrounded by a rumor.

Or

"Wei Wuxian would be THE HOUSE to go to on Halloween, it always has THE BEST candy. He also gives you the option of getting a toy instead of candy if you want!

There's a rumor that if you wish the man with a red ribbon a happy birthday, he'll let you have TWO handfuls of candy instead of one! And give you a really pretty smile!" - my reply to the post that inspired this

Unfinished

Teen:

A Glimpse Into the Future, by Sal13

After Jiang Cheng and Wei Wuxian get blessed by a Lan Ancestor, the brothers each see a glimpse into the future. With the reality of their broken relationship and burning of their home, the Twin Prides of Yunmeng attempt to prevent that future from happening.

Can the brothers succeed with only knowing so little? Can Jiang Cheng prevent himself from becoming blinded by hate? Can Wei Wuxian come to terms with his future husband and son? Only time will tell.

After The Rain Stops, by YourLocaICryptid

Lan Wangji will wither to nothing without his mate; he knows this. Wei Wuxian cannot know about the bond. He knows this too.

Grand Master of Rogue Cultivation, by waterphoenix21

A Wei Wuxian raises A-Yuan fic! After Jin Zixuan and Jiang Yanli die a mysterious death, Wen Qing and the rest of the Wen Clan are found guilty and Wei Wuxian speaks in their defense. This naturally leads to a rift between him and Jiang Cheng. Then one night, the last surviving member of the Wen Clan is found asleep on top of Jiang Yanli's grave. Nobody knows how or why. But feeling as if he no longer belongs to any clan, Wei Wuxian decides to raise little Wen Yuan on his own, as he sets on a path to becoming a rogue cultivator, following in his mother's footsteps and seeking to find the mystical mountain of the legendary immortal, Baoshan Sanren.

A drop in the ocean, by ibuttermybagel

“How can you still stand on your legs after all you’ve done?” the voice had his head whip up. Eyes interlocking with those of the man he called his younger brother not too long ago. Angry eyes meeting those filled with nothing but sorry. “How can you still ask to be excused after bringing pain to so many?” (Or: The ambush on Wei Wuxian is stopped by Jin Zixuan and instead he takes all Wens and WWX back home. Wen Ning has enough and lets everyone know what he learned in drunken talks with Wei Wuxian.)

Serendipity, by midnight_soul (🔒)

Lan Wangji is tired of his family’s passive-aggressive persistence in his love life. He will not go on another blind date; the first two times were disastrous enough.

Wei Wuxian has had enough of his family telling him no one would want to stick with him, no one decent at least.

One trying to live his life peacefully and another wanting to prove his family wrong, how can their plan fail? They’re practically meant for each other.

General:

Once more, if only..., by Pure_Magic

A mysterious character, a powerful array and a dying wish. What could've been might not seem as complicated but the question stays:

What would happen if one knows a future that will never be? And does a change make a difference if the future that will never be has already scarred someone?

Alternatively, this is a time travel fic where WWX wakes up in his 12 y body after dying in the Burial Mounds. The story is from the perspective of others so it doesn't have key details as to what actually happened but the readers can guess!!

An Unforseen Shift, by Remma3760

Wei Wuxian found a resentful sword deep in the bowels of a famed beast. He took it. That turned out to be fortunate since, it would seem, the sword had more than one purpose. That sword was the key to their escape from certain death trapped in the cave of the Slaughter Xuanwu.

[startrekfangirl2233-writes]

Interlude 3: Ride 'Em Cowboy

Part 10 of Sometimes All You Need (A Getaway Car)

Jake ‘Hangman’ Seresin x Reader

Description: You've been feeling weird since Christmas Dinner exploded at Seresin Ranch. It doesn't help that you've barely had any time with Jake since that day. You love Jake's family. You adore them like they're yours. So you can't figure out why you feel so weird. But really, it turns out that all you need is some alone time. Disclaimers: Smut. Warning: Female Reader Word Count: 4972 Author Note: Here’s part 10 of Sometimes All You Need (A Getaway Car). This chapter is all smut. I don't really know what else to say. Oh, wait. Charge your man-adjacent pleasure providers because it's haybales and sexy times full speed ahead! And this chapter is thanks to @desert-fern who very kindly beta-read nearly 5k of smut for me! AO3: Cross-posted Here! Wattpad: Cross-posted Here! My Masterlist Previous Part | Series Masterlist | Next Part

It's been an interesting holiday season. You never expected to be welcomed with open arms by Jake's family (most of it anyhow), and it's been wonderful to get to know his siblings. Things with Jake’s dad, on the other hand, have never been worse. The day you left the main house at Seresin Ranch, Mama Georgie had stopped by and told all of her children she was heading to her sister’s for the New Year just a little earlier than expected. It hadn’t been easy to hear that, not at all. Since then you’ve been fighting the nasty little voice in your head that’s telling you it was your fault that Christmas Dinner imploded so badly. You love Jake's family, but on New Year's Eve as you breathe in the winter air on the wrap-around patio of Henry and Melissa's cottage, you can't help but wonder if you spoiled the holidays just by being here.

Jake always gives you this look when you bring it up, right before he kisses you stupid. Henry and Melissa seem genuinely happy to have you at their home, too. And it's been nice. Nice to experience a family Christmas again. Nice to have little kids and dogs around, and to feel so loved. Nice to see Jake finally, genuinely relax and smile.

He's not fully relaxed, not at all, but you know it'll take some time. As of now, though, it's enough to see Jake with his brothers and sisters. All the siblings are out in force, preparing one of the two colossal barns behind Henry and Melissa’s house for the New Years’ party happening that night. It’s a yearly tradition and every member of the Seresin family looks forward to it. In all honesty, you should say Jake, Will and Henry are doing the heavy labor since Melissa, Hannah, Maggie, and Eliza are cooking. Beth is on kiddo-duty, with baby Sarah, James and Jordan right in front of her eyes. You’d been told the twins would get into too much trouble with the men. You believe it too. You’ve woken up to the twins jumping on top of you and Jake more than once since your hasty exit from the main ranch house - and they don’t even live in the same house! 

But that leaves you to your own devices. Melissa has completely refused to let you lift a finger to help more than ferrying ice-cold glasses of tea and lemonade to the men. And the last time you’d asked, they’d all told you they didn’t want anything. Jake, of course, had plopped his hat on top of your head and smacked your ass with a cheeky wink. The men had all started laughing at the startled squeal that had poured out of your mouth, Jake included. So now you're sitting on the wrap around porch in a wicker chair with a blanket across your lap pretending to read a book while plotting ways to get payback from your fiancé, his hat still perched atop your head. Luckily, you have the perfect dress to wear to the party tonight, something sexy enough to have Jake drooling from the minute he sees you while still appropriate for a party where you have to be his eye candy.

The clomp of boots on the stairs has your head lifting from where you’d been pretending to pore through the pages. Jake's got his shirt off, each muscle glistening in the golden light as they pull and move beneath his skin. Henry and Will are yelling about something behind the bigger of the two barns leaving the two of you mostly alone.

"Hey, sweetheart." Jake's really too good to be true. You must zone out looking at his bare torso because the next thing you know, he's kneeling on the porch with his hands on yours.

"You okay, Gorgeous?" You nod, even as you peck his smiling mouth.

"What are you thinking about?

You cup his jaw, relishing in the prickly stubble on your fingertips, and grin sheepishly. "Nothing, really. I was just thinking about Christmas."

"Again, sweetheart?" He tugs on your hands, pulling you up and twirling you around until you're caged between the porch rails and his body.

"I told you, darlin'," Texas drawl seeping from every syllable, "what happened on Christmas is not your fault. Hell, my father probably would've done it no matter what happened. He's been a powder keg primed to explode for far too long."

"But what about Mama Georgie?" You rest your head against his chest, content in the sound of Jake's heart thudding steadily beneath his skin, not minding at all the scent of Jake as it surrounds you. "I didn't want her to leave your dad."

"Mama'll be fine. She just realized that what he said was going too far. She loves us too much to let him say what he did about us."

"Aren't you a little angry at her too?" Jake just blinks at your words, his eyes going soft and sad as he stares off into the distance.

"Of course I am, sweetheart. But I also know that Mama loves me. I know that she loves all of us equally. There's no favoritism there. Yeah, it stung that she never stood up for me with Dad. That she didn't try to come out to San Diego more often. But he's so controlling, gorgeous. It took an air to air kill for me to realize how much. And even then, I still wanted to make him proud. At least until I met you."

Your heart’s flip-flopping chaotically in your chest, your lips parting as you try to think of what to say. Jake’s never been shy about what he thinks of you, how much he loves you. He loves to make you squirm by dripping sweet praise into your ears before standing back with a self-satisfied smirk that screams, “Yeah, that’s my girl. Only I can make her look like this. What do you think about that?”

“You made me want something better for myself. You made me believe that I deserved something better.” You slide your arms around his neck, kissing him ferociously, devouring his mouth like he’s the air you need to live. Jake’s hands cup your ass as he squishes you close. The heat’s rising between you as you scrabble to grab onto his shoulders, to drag him close. 

At least, that is, until the porch door slams open and James and Jordan come pouring out like a pair of whirling dervishes. They crash right into Jake’s legs and crush you against the hard railing at your back. Your breath leaves you in a whoosh and by the time Beth has wrangled the twin terrors, there is a dull pain radiating up your back despite the hand Jake had placed there to protect you.

But that one incident completely kills the heat between you and Jake. And then it feels like you and he are needed for a hundred different things before the party. The next time you see him is when he zips up your dress, his lips soft as he presses a gentle kiss against the back of your neck. You turn and step into your heels to complete silence. 

Jake’s staring at you like he’s never seen you before. It’s just a simple burgundy velvet dress and heels, the neckline dipping into a v-neck which just hints to your cleavage. You’ve finished up the ensemble with loose curls, a pair of sparkly heels, and some dangly earrings.

“Is everything okay?” Your voice is quiet despite the yelling from the twins down the hall filtering through the solid oak doors.

“Of course everything is okay, beautiful. In fact, I’d say it’s more than okay, it’s perfect. I mean, I get the satisfaction of knowing that my fiancée is the sexiest woman at the party. And I get to go home with her!” There’s something like awe in his eyes as he trails the tip of his finger down one of your earrings. 

“This dress isn’t even that sexy, Jay!” You step out of his reach and gesture to it all. “I mean, it’s off the shoulder, sure, but it’s just velvet and it is fingertip length at least!” 

His snort has you giggling, especially when you realize that you’d defaulted to holding your fingers like you used to in high school to avoid getting a dress code violation.

“It isn’t the dress, baby doll. It’s you. It’s just you. Your sweet smile, your gorgeous mind, how I could forget everything except for how much I love you just by looking at you.” You practically launch yourself into his arms, arching into the kiss even as his hands seem to sear into your skin.

That heat seems to spark more and more as the night progresses. Every touch and innocent glance has you aching for Jake. You’re in great demand, with everyone wanting to know who town hero Jake Seresin has chosen to wed. Jake puffs up like a peacock with each compliment what feels like the entirety of Austin gives you. 

Of course, you lose sight of Jake midway through the night. But as the kids are all sent to bed and the clock begins to approach midnight, you’re aching to kiss your fiancé for the new year. The crush of people in the barn is stifling, and it feels like you can barely breathe as you battle your way out of the doors. Music spills out of the building, so loud you can feel the ground reverberate.

Jake’s never been fond of big crowds like this, and you’re sure that he would have found you if he were in the barn. But it’s also possible that you missed him. You resolve to spend only fifteen minutes outside before venturing back into the barn. There's a slight breeze rustling over the fields and it feels amazing against your feverish skin.

You chase the fresh scent and cool air away from the open barn doors and then squeal as two hands pull you towards the other building. At least, that is, until you realize who is tugging you.

"Jake?!" You sound more than a little fed-up and shocked even as your fiancé grins unrepentantly at you. "What are you even doing in here? Isn't this barn just full of hay? Why aren’t you enjoying the party?"

"I could ask the same thing of you, sweetheart! Do you trust me?" 

"Always," You breathe out, taking his hand and letting him do what he wants with you. In the low light, you can't see a single thing. You're stumbling blind, trying not to fall as Jake leads you further into the building.

You're not sure what you were expecting, not at all, because what you get is so much better. The skylights in the barn are open and under the biggest is spread a blanket. There are hurricane lanterns dotted across the expanse, strawberries, chocolate, hor d'oeuvres, and a bottle of champagne perched within a sweating bucket.

"Jay, how did you do this?" Your voice is hushed as Jake presses a juicy strawberry to your lips. The sweet juice is cold and refreshing, dripping down your throat as you melt into his side, your heels toed off at the edge of the blanket.

"I've been planning this all week for you, sweetheart. You've been so down since we got engaged and well, I wanted to do something to help you relax." You gasp a little as he pops the champagne open and pours you a glass. 

"You're too good to me, darling." Your eyes flutter closed as you sip on the cold liquid.

"I should be saying that to you, gorgeous. I may be good, too good to be true, but baby doll, you're better." You grin at his words, letting him manhandle you until you're perched on his lap and curled into his chest.

"And god do you look gorgeous tonight." You kiss his jaw, relishing in just being in his arms.

"Thank you. You look handsome yourself, handsome!" Jake grins even as he pecks your lips again.

For several long moments, it's easy between the two of you. It finally feels like you can breathe. All of the tension you’ve been carrying around with you melting away in the presence of the man you love with all of your heart. Until Jake's hand starts sliding further and further up your thigh.

"What are you doing, Jay?" You giggle, the champagne having gone straight to your head.

"Making my gorgeous fiancée feel good. You have a problem with that, pretty girl?" You can’t help your smile or your moan as Jake’s lips and fingers finally meet their mark. 

Being with Jake is something you will never tire of. Especially now, you think, sitting on his lap with his hands on your skin. His hands are deft as they drag your dress up over your head. It makes you giggle to see how he places it gently on the blanket. You’re not quite as gentle as you rip his shirt off of his head and lean back, just a little. Jake’s eyes glow in the light as he traces a finger gently between your lace covered breasts.

“How did you hide this from me all night, sweetheart?” There’s something reverent in his gaze as he cups your tits gently, his touch making your nipples pebble and heat pool in your gut.

“It wasn’t hard, Jacob.” You coo, cupping his jaw lightly. “I haven’t seen you all night!” 

You gasp as he reels you in closer, big hands skating over more of your skin than lace.

“Fair enough, my gorgeous girl. Now let me show you exactly how much I miss you?” You let Jake, the love of your life, manhandle you how he wishes, pliant as he props you up against one of the hay bales stacked around your cozy enclave. It’s with your ass facing him that he finally sees the final surprise you’re wearing for him tonight. 

“Sweetheart,” His voice is a punched out moan, even as his hands trail down the shining gold trailing over your bare skin. “Can I take off your bra, baby doll?”

“Please!” Your blood is boiling at a fever pitch, aching for the feeling of his skin pressed up against yours. But you don’t get what you want. Not yet, anyhow. Jake’s hands leave burning trails over your skin, cupping your breasts and kneading your ass gently. The anticipation builds and builds as Jake maps your skin ever so slowly with his hands. But his hands never dip below your waist, never reach the places where you need him most.

“Jake!” You’re practically sobbing at the feelings only Jake’s ever wrung from your body. “Please! Please!” 

You writhe under the firm hands he has on your skin, fighting for any stimulation, shuddering at the way you can feel his cock pressing against your ass. Until the snap of his hand on your ass jolts you into the hay bale. Twin sensations duel for domination in your body, pain and arousal both coursing through your system. It hurts just as much as it makes you aroused, and god, you want Jake more than you ever have before. He smacks you, once, twice, thrice more. In truth you lose count, feeling only the sharp sting of his hands and the heat flushing your bare ass cheeks. You’re nearly delirious, in fact, each strike robbing your thoughts and all sense.

It’s a relief when the strikes stop. Your chest heaves, the prickly hay barely bothering you as Jake’s hands tug your sodden thong from the cleft of your ass. The material is damp with arousal, you know - it’s dripping down your thighs. You need your fiancé that much.

“Jake!” You babble, “Please! I need you, handsome, please!” 

“I’ve got you, my darling girl, c’mere.” Jake’s hands don’t leave your skin even once as he draws two fingers through your wet folds. “You’re so wet for me, baby doll.”

With each word, his fingers open you up. Each time with Jake you feel like you’re going to be spoiled for any other man, and tonight is no difference. You cum with a scream, arousal dripping out of you as the first fireworks light up the night sky.

“Happy New Year, baby doll.” Jake kisses you slow and sweet, and you scrabble for purchase against his chest, moaning into the kiss even as you fight with his belt.

“D’you have condoms, handsome?” You gaze up at your fiancé, the sight of his green eyes blown wide making your arousal grow even more. 

What you don’t expect is the dismay taking over Jake’s countenance.

“M’sorry, baby doll. A week’s worth of preparations and that’s the one thing I forgot.” You pull his hands back to meet your bare skin. 

“Jay.” Your voice is gentle as you curl into his broad chest. “I don’t care. I’m on birth control. I just want you!”

“You sure, gorgeous?” Your heart swells at the sight of the man you love most looking so nervous about you.

“I’m sure, Jay. I love you.” You take his hand and splay it across your lower stomach. “I want everything life brings with you. I want to marry you. I want to have a baby with you. It’s not likely to happen right now,” your voice is cheeky as you tug him close, “but we can always practice, right?”

His groan is guttural, even as he tugs you into a fierce kiss and wrenches his trousers and boots off.

“C’mere baby doll.” You gasp at the sight of him lying in the hay. “You were wearing my cowboy hat earlier. Don’t you know the cardinal rule? Wear the hat, ride the cowboy. And well, darlin’, your cowboy is right, here.”

You're almost too eager to comply, arousal making your motions clumsy as you straddle his waist and dip down to kiss his smiling mouth. You feel like there is too much electricity in your system, the buzzing in your veins drugging you just as much as the exquisite gentleness in Jake's eyes.

It feels different with Jake this time. You're not sure if it's a side effect of how drunk you are on alcohol and Jake or if it's your ebullient mood. You know it has a lot to do with the lack of a condom as well. Without that one thin barrier, you can feel the heat of his length as you ride him, and it makes what you're doing feel more special - more intimate. It feels like you're making love.

"God sweetheart, you feel so good." Jake’s moans are punctuated by the bone deep rattle of the fireworks as they go off above you. The multicolored lights paint his skin, catching in the gleam of his golden hair and sparkling in his eyes.

Before long, your thighs begin to shake, the muscles aching as your thrusts grow sloppy. Jake picks you up then, carefully laying you down on the blanket with your legs splayed open over his thighs. The new angle makes you feel like he's even deeper and each thrust has your moans rising to a fever pitch.

"Baby doll, look at you!" One of his hands meets the swollen nub of your clit as he breathes the words against your nipples between kisses. "You feel so tight wrapped around me. Gonna make you cum baby doll. Gonna stuff you fulla my cum. Gonna put a baby in you." 

"Please please please please please" is all you remember how to say as Jake robs you of every thought except for him. "Gonna cum, Jake!" You sob as the coil in your gut builds and builds. "Please, can I cum?"

Half the question gets lost in your moans, but Jake knows what you want, if his roar of "yes" in your ear is any indication. You cum with a scream, timed perfectly with the last of the fireworks display as Jake finishes in your wet heat.

You wrap your legs around his slim waist, craving, no, needing more of Jake. You're both panting, covered in a sheen of sweat. There's hay in Jake's hair, but you tug him forward anyways, relishing in the feeling of Jake wrapped around you.

It must be at least half an hour later when you're roused with a kiss.

"Come on, baby doll. Let's get you dressed and back into the house. I want to clean you up and get you into bed." His lips are gentle as he peppers your skin with kisses, gently coaxing your legs to release their grip around his waist. 

You whimper when he pulls out of you, feeling empty and sore and needy all at once. 

"Oh, baby. Look at you. Your pussy looks so pretty, with my cum dripping out of you." Jake's intent on killing you, you're sure. And then he does something which has your skin hot all over again. He dips his fingers into your cunt and collects a bit of your cum and his. Your lips fall open, expecting his fingers to press into your mouth. But he presses his fingers into his own mouth, licking the long digits with his wicked tongue until you're aching to feel it on you.

"Mm, we taste so good, baby doll. You want a taste?" You're almost too eager to surge into his arms kissing him with reckless abandon. He's right, the two of you do taste good together. But you're soon just as caught in the sensations of his tongue plundering yours and the way his cock is hard against your hip and how there's cum dripping down your thighs. 

It surprises you when Jake carefully pulls away.

"C'mon baby doll. Let's get you into the shower, hmm?" You moan when he drops to his knees in front of you and licks at the cum dripping down your thighs. His eyes twinkle at your pout while he helps you into your thong, kissing his way up your torso until his tongue is laving over your nipples. 

You feel so good with this man. His every touch makes you feel like the most beautiful woman in the world. Jake dresses you with the same care he takes to undress you, concentration creasing his handsome face with the tip of his tongue poking out as he finagles with the fussy little hooks on the back of your bra.

When your dress is on, it's your turn to dress Jake. It takes you a bit to find his boxers and trousers and shirt, and quite a bit longer to shake the hay out. When you make your way back to the blanket, it's to Jake holding up another two glasses of champagne. You gulp the cool liquid thirstily, finally feeling the heat in the barn. Jake doesn't seem to care that he's still naked, but that's what gives you a wonderful idea.

You drop to your knees in front of him and drag your tongue over his length.

"God, sweetheart. You don't have to do that." You suck gently on the mushroom head of his cock before pulling away with a pop.

"Yeah, I do, Jake. Because your cock always makes my mouth water." It's Jake's turn to moan as you kiss and lick your way over his length.

"Shhh, baby. You gotta be quiet," your voice is a harsh whisper. "You don't want your brothers and sisters to know how loud you are in bed, do you?"

"Baby doll, I don't care about my siblings. It's everyone else at the party that I care about." He clasps a hand over his mouth and you kiss his thigh in appreciation before you take him to the hilt. His skin is velvet soft and smooth. You can taste the salt and tang of his precum and it has you moaning around his length. You wrap your hands around his length as well, stroking him in time to the rhythm of your mouth until he's practically bowed over you, one big hand cradling your head.

"Can I cum, baby doll?" His voice is strained, each muscle tensed under your fingertips as you take him back into your mouth and suck once more, hard. He comes with a whine, the salty-sweet flood of his spend filling your mouth. You swallow each drop, grinning when you pull away to glazed eyes and red cheeks. 

“God, I love you, my Gorgeous Girl.” It has you smirking when Jake’s knees wobble when you drag his boxers and slacks up his legs. 

“I love you too!” You chirp as you fasten his belt buckle. It doesn’t surprise you at all when Jake tugs you into another kiss.

Your lips feel sore and a little swollen when you pull away, handing Jake his shirt while trying to walk normally. You can feel cum dripping into your thong, and it’s an embarrassingly icky foreign feeling. It’s not like the house is all that far away, but you’re going to have to make the rounds and say goodbye to everyone and you’re sure you look like a wreck, with your makeup melting off and your mascara in trails down your cheek. You look like you got fucked, and fucked well, and there isn’t a way you can hide that. Maybe it’s a banner you should wear with pride? Instead, when Jake shoulders the barn door open with the blanket in his hand and the strawberries and champagne in yours, it’s to the sight of all of his siblings and siblings-in-law staring right at the two of you.

“You look like you had fun, Jakey.” It’s Eliza sing-songing the words and if your face was flushed from your earlier activities, now it must be a bright and hot as a neon sign in New York City. 

“Hey, y’all. What’s up with the party?” Jake’s trying to play at being cool even though you can tell so clearly that he’s not cool, not even a little bit.

“It ended forty-five minutes ago, Jake.” This time it’s Henry chiming in, and you have to stifle your grin as Jake blanches at his eldest brother’s words. “We just finished cleaning up, without you, thank you very much, and were wondering where you and your girl got to.”

“Considering how you’ve got hay stuck in your hair, I guess we all know what you got up to.” Jake gives you a horrified glance before schooling his expression to a carefully curated blankness.

“That barn’s lucky, you know?” Melissa giggles as four identical sets of green eyes turn to her and Henry.

“What do you mean?” Your curiosity has the better of you and has the words spilling out of your mouth before you can control your tongue.

“If Jake had hurricane lanterns, blankets and champagne like my Henry did, then that’s exactly how Sarah was conceived.” Jake’s face blanches as he looks horrified at you, back at the barn and then at the smug smirk on Henry’s face. “I think that was the exact blanket, in fact.”

You can’t control your laughter as Jake bolts towards the house holding the blanket out in front of him like he needs it out of his hands as soon as possible. You follow along at a much more sedate pace, ignoring the wolf whistles that follow you. By the time you make it up to your bedroom, the ensuite shower is on. You pull your jewelry off first, fighting with the body jewelry until it’s off and sitting on the vanity with your engagement ring at its side. When you step into the steamy bathroom, Jake’s glaring right at the shower like it personally offended him.

It’s a relief to lob your cum filled panties and bra into the laundry basket for later. You press yourself up against his back, hissing at the heat of the water raining down and turning the temperature down a little bit.

“What’s eating at you, Jay?” You trace gentle patterns over his abs until you feel his muscles loosen fractionally under your gentle touch. “It’s not the blanket or the champagne and fucking in the barn that’s bothering you.”

“No, it’s not.” You have to strain to hear the words, eventually choosing to curl around him so you’re pressed closer to his front. 

“Then what is it?” You cup the back of his neck, carding your fingers through his soft hair as you wait for the love of your life to bare his heart to you.

“It’s what they said about conceiving a baby, sweetheart. I know you’re on birth control, but it’s possible we could have made a baby tonight. And sweetheart, you know what my dad’s like. How do I be a good father when I have no examples of how to act? How do I keep myself from fucking our kids up?” He sounds so lost, your North Star. 

“The fact that you care, Jake, is enough. I don’t know how to be a mom either. I know we haven’t talked much about my family, but my mom and dad were the best people, the best parents for the few years I had them. By the time I grew up, with my godfather who loves me, I’d forgotten all of the things they used to do for me. I’m scared too. Terrified, in fact. But we’re together.  So I know that everything will be okay. We’ll struggle and things will be hard, but we’ll get through it together.” 

It’s his warmth that surrounds you for the rest of the night. Jake still looks thoughtful and is a little withdrawn, but he never fails to tell you, to show you, how much he loves you. You’re a lucky woman indeed.

I DO NOT CONSENT TO HAVE MY WORK POSTED, TRANSLATED, OR PUBLISHED ON ANY SITES OTHER THAN HERE OR ON AO3 BY ME. IF YOU SEE MY WORKS ANYWHERE OTHER THAN HERE, WATTPAD, OR AO3, THEN THEY HAVE BEEN POSTED WITHOUT MY PERMISSION AND I WILL BE WORKING TO TAKE THEM DOWN.

Taglist:

🚙 @love2write2626 🚙 @little-wiseone 🚙 @eli2447

🚙 @f1maverick 🚙 @djs8891 🚙 @shanimallina87

🚙 @chaoticassidy 🚙 @kmc1989 🚙 @dempy

🚙 @mamaskillerqueen 🚙 @abaker74 🚙 @marvelouslyme96

🚙 @daddymack01 🚙 @mayhemmanaged 🚙 @desert-fern

🚙 @horseshoegirl 🚙 @sarahsmi13s 🚙 @cassiemitchell

🚙 @teacupsandtopgun 🚙 @cherrycola27 🚙 @thedroneranger

🚙 @roosterforme 🚙

[alraris]

Day by day, life goes on. Liberty and Gunther went to visit the new gardens that opened recently in Newcrest. Everything located in Newcrest is new. A few new homes, new residents, new cafe and that park. Well, at least it was fun. They felt like on a date, besides it obviously wasn't a date. They are a married couple with a kid, aren't they? But it was so nice to be out of town, damn, out of the house crowded by the large Gunther's family. Liberty likes them and is quite happy to live in a large cottage, significantly bigger that the house she shared with friends in Willow Creek. Sure, but there is always someone around. They are trying to kiss and one of Gunther's brothers enters the room to do his homework. "You have two large desks in your room, you know?". They try to sleep and the other Gunther's brother is sitting on their bed reading a book. "You have so many books in your room and the bed is so comfy". They are EVERYWHERE. And here... they were alone. And it was so beautiful. Flowers, fountains and statues everywhere, giving that romantic feeling. Liberty cherished this moment.

Was it mentioned, that Lucas loves festivals? Yep, he does. So he pleaded and pleaded untill most of the family agreed to take him to Komorebi for a winter sports fest. He made a cute snowman, then proceed to try his hand at snowboarding. And he was doing pretty well! So they even promised to buy him a kids board. Liberty decided to try skiing. She had never did this before, but one is learning the whole life. If she was already there and everyone was doing some sort of winter activity? She could give it a go. Well, maybe it wasn't the best thing she did in her life, but at least she has some experience now. And she knows even better that she detests sports in every way possible.

What Liberty really likes to do, aside from reading books of course, is to practice some space science. She works as an aspiring astronaut and she put a rocket - construction site at the backyard of the Coorinberg Cottage. If she isn't at work, or reading a book, or tending to her garden, or nursing a child, then you can find her there: at the backyard, welding parts of her future space rocket. Everyone wishes her luck. But hardly anyone believes she could succed.

It was long ago, when Liberty learned that she is, in fact, the topic of some unpleasant gossips among people. Kids were laughing out of her even during her school years. She was clumsy, and preferred books than those folks. So she also learned to be immune to those gossips, half smiles and nods people did relating to her. She new better. One day she WILL succeed. And now? She was just happy. She was living her best life. It's not like people said: she wasn't a bookworm as dusty as the old tomes in a local library. She had a social life. She had friends! Last time they invited Martin Karlsson to their home, for example. And she is still in touch with her best friend, Summer Holiday. And, the most important thing: she shares the love with Gunther. It gives her strength, the hope and support she needs. People may gossip as they want. But she is just HAPPY!

While Mila tends to her younger kids and is trying to catch up with their needs, between her shifts as a chef, Liberty is preparing to another big family event: the birth of her second child.

"Gunther, honey, I heared there is a new hospital in our district. I want to go there when the term will be. And I need you to go with me" - she told her spouse.

"The... the hospital? With you? Can't you deliver at home, like last time? It was so convinient"

"No, this time I would rather hand myself to some proffessionals in case of safety. Sure, the home-birth was a nice memory, but also a bit of hazard. Plus I don't want to scare smallest kids off. I heared only good things about this hospital, so it is the best option in my opinion."

Poor Gunther had nothing to discuss further. So they went to a Willow Creek Hospital.

"Ah, yes, this way, Ma'am" - receptionist said.

Liberty headed to one of the rooms at the end of a long corridor. It wasn't large, and painted in depressing grays. "Well, let's hope everything will be alright. It has to be. They are proffessionals, aren't they? And I am already a mother, I did this once and survived. I will this time too" - she said to herself. After entering this room she was not that self confident as she wanted herself to be.

"Aaargh! My wife is delivering! The hospital! The medics! The machines! What will they do to her? God, what is this stuff?! Take your filtchy hands out of my Sweathart!!" - Gunther screamed frantically in panic.

"May you please shut up, Honey? I'm just giving birth! It's not a rocket science, for God's sake! Everything will be alright" - Liberty silenced him.

And soon it was all over. There she was: their precious daugther, Erika. She was like a beam of sunlight. Everything was alright indeed.

[starrycrown]

Where it all begins.. (Drabble)

Rising from the ashes, a young woman must face her destiny. 

As she knelt on the cold and hard ground, she delicately dropped a bouquet of lilacs. Her mother’s favorite flowers. She removed a few dead leaves to uncover the names of the stone, her heart clenching as she read it as always.

Here lies Thingar, Dima and Leidin Somerville. A loving father, mother and brother.

Thinya couldn’t help but feel guilty for surviving them, already ten years ago. She was ten years old when that morning, the bell rang to notify the villagers that the enemy was coming. Dima and Thingar Somerville had heard that the neighborhood was already attacked, some villages completely burned and destroyed. Thinya could still recall the scene: her parents looking at each other with fear, her mother immediately grabbing her two year old brother in her arms while her father grabbed her hand and rushed them all out of their house. A lovely little cottage that sheltered a few animals that Thinya loved to tend to. "We must make haste!" Thingar told his family, his voice steady despite his deep blue eyes betraying him by showing his own fear. Before running away, Thingar released the animals so they could run for their lives as well. Thinya saw her favorite horse canter away, hoping that he would save himself from this whole chaos. 

While Thingar kept his wife and kids close to him, desperately trying to find his way in the middle of panic, the enemy arrived. Torches were lit, thrown into houses, swords were slaying the unfortunate ones who didn’t have time to hide while other women were being taken away from their husbands. Thinya experiences from the first time of her life terror. She saw a torch flying into her own kitchen, lighting an uncontrollable fire that destroyed her house. While Thingar pused them all into the opposite direction, Thinya tripped and fell on the floor. She tried to call for her parents, but what would the little voice of a ten year old girl sound in the middle of screams, sobs, flames and chaos? 

Standing up and desperately trying to see where her family went, Thinya hid behind a house and tried to look for them. The invasion lasted only a few minutes, enough for the whole village to be destroyed. The knights took the few women and kids away, leading them to a tragic destiny, that she found out later on. When she was of age to understand what adults could do. When they all left, Thinya stood there alone, noticing how quiet it was. Deadly quiet. Her young eyes witnessed horror: burnt houses, corpses lying on the floor that was painted red. A metallic smell invaded her nostrils as she stepped over a few dead bodies only to see what she hoped wouldn’t be true: the three bodies of her family lying together. As an ultimate attempt to save them, Thingar tried to lie against his wife and infant to protect them. All three were gone, leaving her behind.

A tear rolled down the young woman’s cheek as she looked at the grave. The memories were still haunting her, but she had to make a difficult decision earlier that morning. Her neighbour informed her that they were threatened again. She had to go before it was too late. Thinya was only twenty years old, she knew that if she stayed, she would be forced to marry one of those knights and face a life full of hate, unhappiness.  "I’m here to say goodbye..." Thinya whispered in a low tone, trying to swallow the lump of her throat. "I have to go for a while. You won’t see me around.. Please forgive me for that. Know that you three are here..." She pointed at her heart as another tear rolled down her cheek. "I love you three. I need to save myself and find my own way.." The young woman explained as she wiped her tear. "I promise you I will make you proud. And I will make those jewels be the most beautiful ones royalty had ever seen."  A few years after her father’s death, Thinya decided to take over and create jewels. She had seen how her father worked, reproduced his gestures and added her own creativity. She was ready to introduce her work, ready to finally start her own life. Thinya had heard that the royal palace was looking for staff. She had the audacious plan to offer her services and perhaps, sneak into a ballroom to reach out the finest of aristocracy. It would be certainly risky. Pretending to be a noble would cost perhaps her life, but she would do it. For her own sake and for her father’s legacy.  "Wish me luck." Thinya whispered to the grave, caressed it tenderly before kissing her fingers and touching the stone again.  The first snowflakes fell, she put her hood back on. As she stood back up, Thinya looked at the grave one last time before turning around and walking out of the cemetery. Instead of taking the direction of her village, Thinya slowly walked in the direction of the forest. Her heart beat faster than ever as she adjusted the small bag she carried on her shoulder. Her creations, as well as the rare and valuable gems she owned were resting in a pocket close to her heart. With determination, Thinya walked in the direction of her future. Where it all begins..

[shallyne]

Feysand Week Day 6: Mates

Accidentally in Love

Day six! Based in one of my Feysand AU posts. @officialfeysandweek2023 please ignore inconsistencies and just vibe OK thx love y'all

Words: 3,056

TW: none

Feyre likes her life as a witch. She's living in a cute cottage and makes potions, her best friend is visiting her all the time. But one day, her friend accidentally sips from her love potion and Feyre has to keep an eye on him

It was a sunny spring day, there was a slight breeze of wind fluttering through the windows, ruffling Feyre's hair as she happily added the last ingredient to her love potion. It had taken her quite some time to find the berries, especially at this time of year but there was also a big demand for Feyre's infamous love potion. It also satisfied her to no end that the potion ended up being pink, it attracted buyers.

Feyre remembered when she was small, it was frowned upon in her village to ask for payment in return for her gifts but why shouldn't she? A farmer took payment, so did carpenters, cobblers, blacksmiths, seamstresses and clothiers. Everyone took payment for their work. Feyre had to make a living somehow. She was born as a witch so she would damn well use that, it would be stupid otherwise. She had left her town shortly after she reached her majority, never looked back and never once missed her village since then. She now lived in a forest on the outskirts of a town called Velaris. That place was enchanting in itself, the atmosphere was incredible and Feyre finally had the feeling of arriving at home. Although she didn't like wandering into the city. The people were nice but the crowds could get overwhelming for her.

She stirred her potion one more time before she rested the wooden spoon on the pot's handle and checked her recipe. Feyre was sure that she made everything right but she just made sure. As she did, there was one knock on her door and then her best friend walked into her cottage as if he owned the space. "There you are!" Rhys exclaimed, "I've been looking everywhere for you."

Feyre snorted, her eyes still trained on her cookbook. It was a book she had written herself, potions she had crafted herself carefully over the years. "What do you mean everywhere? I must say, I'm disappointed, Rhysand. You, as my best friend, should know me better. If you are looking for me, you know my home is the first place to look."

He huffed amused, his steps nearing until he stood right beside her, "For how many people are you cooking? Were you awaiting me?" and before she could stop him, he had taken the wooden spoon and downed a whole spoonful of her love potion.

"No!" she said, ripping the spoon out of his hand. "That's - that's a love potion!"

Rhys's eyebrows shot up. A mild reaction for what she just told him. "Since when do you make potions in the morning? You always make them in the evening!"

"Don't blame me for being so stupid to eat something in a witch's cottage without asking!" She countered.

Rhys smiled, "Touché."

He took the wooden spoon again, that Feyre was close to breaking in her steel grip, and put it on the counter. She sighed, "You're right, I usually make my potions in the evenings but my love potions are so high on demand that I had to track down the ingredients and make them in an instant." she sighed and looked at Rhys, "Do you feel something?"

He went rigid, his eyes slightly widening but shook his head. "I feel the same."

Feyre smiled at him, not feeling the smile at all, and lied, "It wasn't really cooking yet, it probably didn't work." she sighed. "Are you going back to the city?"

"I wanted to spend time with you," he said, "But I'll plan to get back sometime today."

Feyre got her satchel and packed two love potions and a healing potion that she made earlier, "I have a customer in Velaris and I'd like to visit Mor. Will you accompany me?" Feyre threw over her cape. Rhys stepped forward and helped her with the clasp. Their eyes met when she looked up, his eyes twinkling with unconditional affection. "It would be an honor, Feyre darling."

If Feyre wouldn't have known that this is how they always interact, she would have thought it was the love potion speaking. It wasn't, he is his usual self. They are best friends, nothing more.

They kept eye contact for a few more moments until Feyre averted her eyes and walked to the door. "Well then, come. I don't have the whole day."

"Why are you in such a rush?" Rhys asked. "Are you in some shadowy business? If you don't deliver the potions at the agreed time, will you be hunted down by an assassin? Will you have to change your name and vanish?" he chuckled.

When he caught up to her, Feyre pushed him, which made him laugh harder. He kept joking around as they followed the path to Velaris and by the time they reached the city, Feyre's stomach hurt from laughing.

They reached a narrow house in the palace of hoof and leaf, on the ground level was a little shop and the two upper levels were living quarters. The exchange went quickly and smoothly, especially after they stopped eyeing Rhys. Either it was his beauty or the surprise that the High Lord had accompanied her, maybe both. She didn't care.

They slowly walked to the other side of the Sidra, nearing Rhys's townhouse in comfortable silence. Some of the people greeted Rhys, some waved. They didn't pay much attention to Feyre, which didn't bother her. She drank in the city around, the mountains that surrounded the city, the flat-topped mountains of red stone, where Feyre was sure she saw windows built inside. That must be the House of Wind Rhys and Mor told her about. When they crossed the bridge, Feyre marveled at the sapphire water of the Sidra and the little ships she could see in the distance. Feyre also marveled at the white marble, sandstone and red stone buildings all throughout the city, the restaurants where many different, delicious smells drifted over. Feyre couldn't believe she was so rarely here, and when she was, she hadn't paid attention to much. It was unlike her to not pay attention but the thought of getting overwhelmed held her back but now, with Rhysand at her side, she felt safe enough to do so. Maybe someday she'd ask him to show her the Rainbow. Maybe someday she'd paint again.

Rhys opened a wrought iron gate, leading up to a townhouse. She knew that Rhys wasn't living in a castle like other High Lords, the simplicity of it all still surprised her.

"Make yourself comfortable, I'll get Mor." he told her when they stood in the foyer. Feyre looked around as he took the stairs, two steps at the time. Two paintings she painted a hundred years ago hung in the wood-paneled walls. She hadn't painted since she left the spring court, breaking off her engagement with the High Lord of spring and looking for refuge in the night court. She hadn't taken much, but she took three paintings and gifted them to Rhys as a thank you for taking her in. She couldn't see the third anywhere. Maybe he didn't like it and threw it away.

A few minutes went by and she could hear Rhys and Mor whispering upstairs, she couldn't make out what they were saying, though.

"Feyre!" a familiar voice squeaked behind her. She whirled around, looking at the blonde stop the stairs, who vanished into black smoke and then reappeared before Feyre, barreling into her.

"Mor!" Feyre said excitedly, wrapping her arms around her friend. "I missed you so much!"

"These last few weeks were crazy busy, I'm sorry I couldn't visit you." she put her hands on Feyre's shoulder and looked at her face. "Come with me, we have so much to catch up on! I also have an important question for you." she told Feyre as she pulled her to the double doors leading into the garden. They sat down on a little table, Mor smiling brightly at her. Mor's hair was put up in a ponytail, her clothes simple. Wide pants and a thin, blue sweater.

"What's your question?" Feyre asked curiously, pulling off her cape.

"Okay, I have a friend who…it's exciting, actually, he found his mate!" Mor said, her smile spreading wider, a smile so bright that Feyre couldn't but smile, too. Mates were rare, so this was amazing. "Although, he doesn't know if she's into him, either. And he asked me about you, about your love potion, to be exact."

Feyre nodded to signal her to keep going.

"If they would take a love potion, would it change anything about their bond? He doesn't want to ruin any chance of them getting together but having a bond is an unusual situation."

Feyre thought about it for a moment, her head resting on her hand. She shook her head, "The potion shouldn't change anything about their bond. It was created to mimic a mating bond but a real bond is always stronger than a potion. No potion in this world override or take away a bond like this. He should be careful though, no matter who takes the potion, there shouldn't be any other person around. The potion works for the first person you see after you take that potion and if there is a real bond in play, it could potentially get dangerous for every person involved."

Mor's eyes went wide, "How so?"

"The "fake" bond is strong in itself, you feel extremely protective and obsessive over your mate, especially in this initial period. If you found your mate, you usually want to claim them and these feelings are even stronger in a real bond. So if there is a third party who wants to claim someone's mate…" Feyre drifted off but Mor nodded knowingly. If everything went to shit, it could end in death.

It was quiet between them for a few minutes until Mor's face lit up again, "What about you? What's been going on in your life?"

Feyre looked back to the door, making sure Rhys wouldn't hear. Mor looked confused, so Feyre told her, "Rhys accidentally took my love potion." Mor sat up surprised and Feyre fell into an explanation about what happened not even two hours ago.

"Wow." Mor said. "So he'll fall in love with you now?" something twinkled in her eyes that Feyre chose to ignore. She held her cup of tea that Cerridwen brought out while Feyre explained the situation to Mor. "That's it, he doesn't act any different than usual! I was watching him the whole time, he's normal. Normal Rhys. But it can't be my potion. My potion works. So why didn't it work on Rhys?"

Mor took a sip of her tea, shrugging. "Are you sure he's not any different?"

"No! Absolutely not. The very same." Feyre said, frustrated. There was something she didn't see, but what? When she expressed this to Mor, she only smiled. Irritating Feyre even more.

"You should stay the next few days, to keep a watch on my cousin. You can have my room, it's directly beside Rhys's. I'll take Azriel’s in the meantime, he's sleeping at the House of Wind." Mor nodded satisfied at her suggestion.

"I think you're right!" Feyre said, "I should keep an eye on him."

And that's what they did. Feyre was there for a week, spending time with Rhys, Mor and Cassian.

On day one, Rhys and Feyre went back to her cottage to put her love potions in little vials to store them and take them back to Velaris.

On day two, Feyre and Mor lounged on the House of Wind, where Rhys had flown Feyre. They sunbathed and watched the boys during training. She had pushed all her thoughts away that sneaked in, focusing on Rhys's behavior.

On day three they went to a restaurant, Sevendas. Feyre and Cassian had talked for a while on their way there, until Rhys interjected with his own opinions and squeezed between Feyre and Cassian.

On day four, Rhys and Feyre were pretty much alone. She hadn't left his side, steadily keeping an eye on his behavior. All the time. Rhys didn't seem to mind, he even invited her to a game of chess. He won the first two rounds, Feyre won the third.

On day five, Rhys had to go to Windhaven but when he arrived at the townhouse late in the evening, they sat on the rooftop together and watched the stars. His behavior was still the same.

On day six, Feyre tried to make herself Omelette. It only half burned, which was victory enough. When she offered Rhys the half that wasn't burned, he evaded her, panic written in his eyes. Feyre scoffed when he was gone. She wasn't that bad of a cook.

On day seven, Mor dragged Feyre shopping. Feyre tried to deny her offer but she insisted, telling Feyre she had to get out of the house for a day. Feyre could only think about Rhys, what if his behavior changes that day when she wasn't there?

It didn't.

When day eight arrived, there was a change. Not in Rhys, but in Feyre. They all went to Rita's, Feyre sat in the booth nursing her drink while Cassian and Mor vanished on the dancefloor somewhere. Rhys was at the bar, talking to a stunning female. A weird seizing in her chest made it hard to breathe as the pounding in her ear got louder and louder. When Rhys leaned forward, Feyre's grip on her glass was so strong she Feared it would break. Abruptly standing up, she almost lost balance in the high heels that Mor had lent her. She pulled down the sparkling, black mini dress and walked over to Rhys. She felt the eyes of a few other patrons on her but she didn't care. "Rhys," she said, her voice straining. He turned to her, eyebrows raised in question. Feyre ignored the other female. "We need to talk." she said, grabbing his arm and pulling him to a big metal door. They ended up in a dark side street, only one lamp above the door lighting a small spot up.

"What is it?" he asked.

Feyre stepped back, getting a little distance between them. She loosened her fist and balled them again, over and over, not sure what to say.

"Feyre?"

She looked at him, in his mesmerizing, violet eyes. What would she tell him? She opened her mouth, but nothing came out.

"Why did you pull me away?" Rhys asked. It didn't sound like a question. No, it did, but it didn't sound like he wanted the answer. It sounded more like a question she should ask herself.

He stepped closer. Breathing became harder.

"Were you jealous, Feyre?" he asked, tilting his head slightly, a lock of his raven hair falling in his face. Feyre looked away from his face, letting her eyes wander down. He was wearing a black button up, the sleeves rolled up to his elbow, showing his powerful muscled forearms. Was she even breathing anymore?

"No." she looked up again, Rhys was so close.

"Alright," he said, his eyes still trained on her. "So it won't bother you of I get back inside now, picking up the delightful conversation I just head with that lovely-"

"No!" she spit out, grabbing his arms.

"Why?"

"You're mine!" she said. Yelled. Whispered. She didn't know but they both heard, the word echoing between them. Mine. Mine. Mine. But there was another whisper, getting louder with every heartbeat. Mate. Mate. Mate. Mine. Mine. Mine.

Rhys's nostrils flared, as if he could hear it, too. Feyre's eyes went wide, checking her mental shield that he taught her to keep up when she came here. They weren't up, he heard every single thought. Feyre could have screamed them down the bond as well, it wouldn't make a difference. Bond. Bond? The mating bond.

"The– the mating bond." Feyre said. "That's why my potion didn't work."

"No," Rhys said, surprising Feyre. "The potion didn't work because I was already deeply, irrevocably in love with you." Feyre's breath hitched. "I have been since I found you at the night court border, asking for refuge. Since I saw you, hungry and frozen and still having so much fight in you."

"Did you know about the mating bond?"

He leaned against the door, sighing, "Only later. Remember when I showed you the cottage? You were so excited, telling me it's perfect. Already planning how to pay me back,"

Feyre smiled, "You told me it's a gift from a friend."

Rhys chuckled, "I did. When you were all settled in, I left but I turned around one more time to look at you. I saw you skimming through a notebook, smiling. You looked so content, happy. That's when the bond snapped. You just started to heal from your time in the spring court, I couldn't burden you with this. Then, as you healed, we became closer and the thought that you could reject me felt like someone stabbed me in the heart, so I settled to be your best friend. I couldn't risk this Feyre. I couldn't risk you." his eyes were silver lined when he met hers. "I love you but– but I understand if you don't love me back. If you don't want this bond. I can live with it–"

"Oh Rhysand, shut up!" Feyre said, wiping a tear away. "I love you, too, you idiot! More than anything in this whole, damned world." she hiccuped, "I'd be honored to be your mate, Rhys."

Something snapped inside Rhys as he jumped forward and tugged her close. One arm wrapped around her waist, one hand held her head in place and crashed his mouth into hers. It was explosions, it was fireworks, it was like the last puzzle piece sliding into place. Feyre wrapped her arms around his neck, keeping him close, melting into his touch.

She pulled back, just a bit, for a moment to ask him, "Would you show me the Rainbow?"

"I'd show you the whole world if you'd want that," he said out of breath.

Feyre giggled, "The Rainbow does it for now."

Rhys smiled and Feyre kissed him again, not letting him go. He was hers and she was his. The beginning and end.

Them.

Finally.

Feysand Taglist:

@captain-of-the-gwynriel-ship @edgyellie @starfall-spirit @rhysiedarling @corcracrow @sydney-fae25 @tothestarsandwhateverend @aayo-whatt @dreamlandreader

[aheathen-conceivably]

Dearest Zelda,

I write to you with the most joyous news! Not long after the wedding we discovered that Summer was pregnant. Of course I was quite worried; she and Isaiah are still so young and only just settling in to their lives together on the farm, so I was unsure if the two of them would be able to adjust to their new roles as parents.

However, your brother was the pinnacle of love and care throughout her pregnancy. During Summer’s third trimester, we were hit with a horrible heatwave, one so strong that I do not think I’ve felt anything like it since I myself was pregnant with Isaiah.

Dearest Summer was stuck indoors, sweltering, and still your brother did all the housework, cooking for her when I was out with the animals or helping her to walk about the house.

When the heat finally abated for one afternoon he planned a picnic near the tree they used to climb as teenagers. I do not know if I have ever seen a happier pair than them, and truth be told I think that Isaiah may have been even more excited about the prospect of a child than she was.

Of course I am delighted as well. I love Wally with all my heart, but I relish the thought of new children growing in this cottage the way that you and your siblings once did.

One warm afternoon our waiting finally came to an end, when Summer gave birth to a little girl named Annabelle. Virginia insisted that she labor at the hospital, but luckily the birth went smoothly, and no medical intervention was required. It is such a wonder how much medicine has grown since the things your grandmother Adelia taught me in the last century.

I do wish that you could meet little Annabelle. She has the most shocking head of curly brown hair, just like her mother. I must say, I am tempted to think that girls must run in the Darlington family, even after all these years.

It was not long until we were able to welcome Summer and little Annabelle back home to the cottage. In the weeks before the birth, we transformed Isaiah's old room into a nursery for her. Summer spends much of her time there now, playing with her daughter in the afternoon sun before she falls asleep for her nap.

Although she is but a few months old, Annabelle already reminds me so much of Isaiah at that age. She is so spirited and lively, and I could swear that she knows exactly what to do to make her mother and father laugh.

I have also included a photograph from Annabelle’s christening for your records. I am sure that you must have acquired quite the collection by now. Please keep them safe. Sometimes I look at a photograph of you or your father, or even all of us together when we were young, and simply marvel at the wonder of their existence.

What curious things they are, these photographs, like external remnants of our memories, tiny fragments remaining from people and times that have long gone by. Sometimes it feels as though they will be all that remain of our lives in generations to come. I hope that no matter what the future brings, you can look at them and remember us always.

Your Mother,

Florence Darlington

[dreaminginthedeepsouth]

Gail Godwin is one of our finest writers. Godwin's latest book "Getting to Know Death," will be published this month by Bloomsbury U.S..

This excerpt appears in Harper's Magazine.

>>>>>

DARK KNIGHTS OF THE SOUL

I have been close to people who one day found themselves in the desperate place and didn’t make it out.

I remember struggling to write a letter to a young man whose father had just hanged himself. The father had been the builder of our house. He was charming and talented and proud of his son. I wrote these things to the son and then came the point in the letter where I was supposed to write something hopeful for the future. All I could think of to convey was No, you’ll never get over it, but the time will come when you will be glad you can’t get over it because the loved one remains alive in your heart as you continue to engage with the who and the why of him.

Two people in my family didn’t make it out of their desperate place: my father and my brother.

Though I had seen my father only twice when I was a child, I sent him an invitation to my high school graduation. Mother said not to expect him to show up, but he did. He, his new wife, and his brother drove from Smithfield, North Carolina, to Portsmouth, Virginia, for the ceremony. In the early-summer weeks that followed, we wrote letters to each other. He had elegant handwriting and prose to match. He wrote that he would like more than anything to get to know me better. Could I—would it be possible for me to spend a few weeks with them at the beach this summer? I was in my first desperate place at that time and decided to tell him about it—though not all of it. I ended up going to the beach and returning with them to Smithfield and entering Peace College in the fall, paid for by my father.

My father had been doing some personal bookkeeping of his own. At the age of fifty, he had at last achieved a measure of stability. Finally, after thirty years of intemperate living, he had managed to stop drinking, had married a new widow in town with a prosperous brother-in-law, and was manager of sales at the brother-in-law’s car dealership. My father confided to me during the weeks we spent at his brother-in-law’s beach cottage that he regretted not having made more of himself. “You mustn’t let it happen to you,” he said. “Nobody is prepared for how quickly time passes, and you don’t want to be one of those people who wakes up in the late afternoon with nothing to show for it.” But later, in a radiant moment while we were lying on the beach working on our tans, he told me that I had come along at just the right time, and if he continued to win his battle against depression and alcohol, and if automobile sales continued like this, well, the future didn’t look so hopeless after all.

As we lay side by side, congratulating ourselves for finding each other, I had no idea that old disappointments were biding their time, stealthily building like waves, which in less than three years would drown him.

One winter afternoon when I was a junior at Chapel Hill, he phoned his brother at his office. “Just felt like saying hello, old son,” he said. “Son” was what the brothers called each other. After he hung up, he lay down on the floor of his bedroom in Smithfield and shot himself in the head.

Losing ground. Was that the thing that ultimately killed him? In his twenties, he began losing jobs, losing status, but always got back on his feet. A charming, handsome man, he did not need to keep a steady job as long as his mother was alive. And after her death, there would be other admirers waiting in line for whom his looks and charm were enough. By the time he met my mother, he was an alcoholic. After that came the mental disorders, given different psychiatric names as the years went by.

When they were driving back to Smithfield after my high school graduation, he came with a raging toothache. They found a dentist along the road who pulled the tooth. But the pain continued, and when they got home, the dentist told him it had been the wrong tooth. “I should have known,” he would finish this story, laughing. “I should have known when we drove into the parking lot and his shingle read: doctor payne.” He still had the charm but the looks were going.

This is from a June 16, 2018, New York Times op-ed, “What Kept Me from Killing Myself,” by the Iraq War veteran Kevin Powers. “Throughout that summer and into the fall . . . just below the surface of my semiconsciousness, was the constant thought: Maybe I won’t wake up this time.” Powers continues:

I doubt much needs to be said about the kind of despair that would make such an idea a source of comfort, despair that came not from accepting that things were as bad as they were going to get but, worse, that they might go on like that forever. The next step felt both logical and inevitable.

This sounds along the lines of what my twenty-eight-year-old brother might have been thinking in the hours that led up to his death.

In the last week of his life, Tommy was working on a long poem. He left behind two drafts. He titled one “Why Not Just Leave It Alone?” and the other “Why Change the World?” One line is the same in both drafts: “My pride is broken since my lover’s gone.” Both drafts end with the same image of the poet being laid to rest in his wooden home, “With my trooper hat on my chest bone.”

It was October 2, 1983. What happened, what we know happened, as opposed to all that we can never know, was that on the Sunday afternoon after Mother’s birthday, Tommy ironed a shirt at his parents’ house, where he had been living with his three-year-old son. He told Mother he was going over to see J., the woman he loved, a nurse who also had a three-year-old son. They had planned to marry; they had even made out a budget. Then J. suddenly broke it off. Tommy told Mother he was going over to ask J. to reconsider. “I’m going to settle it one way or another before the afternoon is out,” he said, and drove off alone.

COUPLE FOUND SHOT was the headline in the newspaper the next morning.

The day before, on Mother’s birthday, I knew Tommy was unhappy. But Tommy was always unhappy. He “felt things more than most” was the family euphemism for his troubled nature. He most took to heart the family’s fractures as well as the world’s. Drawing you in with his shy, closemouthed smile, he would offer his latest tale of woe. But always, always in his stories, there had been a quality of suspense, of entertainment. He starred in them as the knight-errant, complete with pratfalls and setbacks, but a knight-errant who picked himself up, dusted himself off, and set out on his next mission. Tommy was a modern Samaritan who carried a first-aid kit and a blue emergency beacon in his car in case he came across an accident.

We were in the kitchen and he told me the story of J. suddenly breaking up with him. But this time something was different. I was not, as usual, deriving the usual listener’s satisfaction from his story. Many years later, when remembering that kitchen scene, I realized what had spooked me about it: Not only was there not a trace of the shy, closemouthed smile, there was no knight-errant starring in my brother’s story. The tone was new: one of bafflement and resignation. There was no sense of any future missions. There was no tug of suspense. It was like a story that had already ended.

Tommy would be sixty-three now. He was born the same summer that my father drove from Smithfield to Glen Burnie, Maryland, and rescued me from my desperate place. If on that October afternoon twenty-eight years later there had not been a pistol handy in the glove compartment of J.’s car, would Tommy have remarried somebody else and raised his son and reconciled himself to a fallen world, as long as he had a firstaid kit and a job that gave him the satisfaction that he was rescuing people from injustice?

But now I do hear his voice, the old Tommy voice, just as it was in life, chiding me as he defends the position of his beloved National Rifle Association with its singsong refrain: “Gail, guns don’t kill people. People do.” I continue to engage with the who and why of my father and my brother.

During my life, I have found myself in the desperate place four times. But that first time, at age eighteen, was by far the worst.

Summer 1955 in Glen Burnie, Maryland. Everybody seemed to have a future but me. I had received a letter from Mother Winters, my mentor from ninth grade. She congratulated me on being salutatorian, asked about my plans for college, and brought me news of some of my classmates. “Pat has won the four-year Angier Duke scholarship to Duke, Carolyn will be going to Radcliffe, Stuart and Lee to St. Mary’s in Raleigh . . . ” Here I stopped reading and felt . . . what? A dry mouth, a pang in the chest, a sense of going down, of losing myself. All I knew to do was mark my position.

My position. At the time, I couldn’t hold all of it in my mind. If I had tried, I might have despaired, or lashed out and hurt myself or somebody else. I had so little experience to draw from and there was no escape.

Since my early teens, I had been building my life on false premises. I was creating a persona that was more extroverted than I really was. She pretended to more confidence and security than I felt. I became a pro at embellishing and editing my history. When I entered a new school, I “went out” for things I was good at that would bring me attention. The school paper, the drama club, painting posters and scenery, entering competitions—and, of course, getting high grades. I dated lots of boys, made it a point to be cagey and hard to get until each got fed up and moved on, usually just as I had begun to appreciate him.

That was the outside of things. At home, other dramas were playing out. We were not free people. Our embattled breadwinner, who was angry much of the time, sometimes knocked one of us to the floor for challenging him. There was no money for us except what he doled out and no going anywhere he didn’t drive us. As I entered my teens, the bread winner, who was only twelve years older than me, often spoke of how he “loved” me. His voice trembled. At night I would wake to find him kneeling in the dark beside my bed, his hand taking liberties.

My mother had shed her former confident self. As a child, I knew a mother who arrived home on the 10:00 pm bus after her wartime job on the newspaper, a woman who taught college and on weekends typed up love stories that earned one hundred dollars apiece. This powerless woman seemed more like someone I was visiting in prison. Only I was in prison with her. She suffered because there was no money to send me to college. She made phone calls to a private college in Baltimore to see if I could go as a day student. The registrar said a partial scholarship might be arranged, given my academic record, but where was the rest of the money to come from? There was no “rest of the money,” my stepfather reminded us, as though we were dim-witted. He suggested I take a year off and find a job, “maybe in sales work,” and save up for college next year. He added magnanimously that I could continue to live under his roof for the time being without paying rent.

That’s the way the ground lay that June 1955 morning in Glen Burnie, when the girl sat cross-legged on her bed, the letter from her old teacher clutched in her fist. “Pat to Duke, Carolyn to Radcliffe, Stuart and Lee to St. Mary’s.”

This is my life, but I may not get to do what I want in it.

I can’t see a way out of this.

Things will not necessarily get better.

In my novel Unfinished Desires, about life at a girls’ school, two old nuns are being driven back to their retirement home from a doctor’s visit, and one says to the other, “There was a sentence this morning in that Prayer for Holy Women: ‘In our weakness Your power reaches perfection.’ What do you think it means, Sister Paula?” Sister Paula thinks for a minute and then replies, “I think it means you have to admit you can’t save yourself before you’re fully available to God.”

That morning in Glen Burnie, God was undergoing some very slippery changes in my psyche. He had ceased being the attentive Heavenly Father who was always aware of me. All I could be certain of that long-ago summer morning was that I could not save myself.

But something else did, something already embedded in the tissue of my particular circumstances: the earthly father who had been the absent father. In a mood of defiant resignation, I decided to send him an invitation to my graduation. Of course he wouldn’t come.

But he did come. And when we were lying beside each other on the beach, he said, “When I opened your invitation, after I got over being pleasantly surprised, I thought to myself, Well, this is one thing I did that came to fruition. And then, after we began to write letters to each other, it struck me that I might be the rescuer you needed.”

Art Work: "When Day Touches Night," a painting by Michael Ho, whose work was on view last month with Gallery Vacancy at the art fair Independent New York.

(Follies of God)

[mossy-thing]

And why it was Tomorrow came (and with his grey hand led us back)

Chapter 4

First | Prev

Ao3

In which there is rain, foggy memories and two lullabies, though only one is sung.

I apologize for the long wait, but I think that is compensated by the length of this one.

Content Warnings are:

- heavily implied off screen suicide attempt

- musings about child abandonment

- mentions of a murdered family

Take care and enjoy!

“Bad dream?” Elrond blinked in surprise when a chipped mug of undoubtedly bitter tea was sat down in front of him and looked up at Maglor who, now that his hands were empty, was wringing them nervously. He bit his lip, then nodded.

“Kind of, yes,” he murmured, and Maglor gave him a reassuring smile.

“Tilion’s fault”, his foster father said, patting his head. “At least, I always sleep worse on full moon nights. I could…” He halted, his eyes flitting about for a moment, “I could Sing you to sleep tonight? It always helped my brothers.”

Elrond considered this for a moment. Maglor had not Sung him to sleep for nearly a decade, Elros had started denying the request much sooner, and Maedhros refused it on principle. He would sleep deep, he knew, and dreamlessly, too. Accepting meant not to visit the Cottage tonight. Not to see –

He could feel Elros staring at him from behind, and shook his head. “Thank you, really,” he said, and watched Maglor’s smile slip guiltily, “But it never happens twice in a row.”

Maglor nodded, smiled again, and went to fetch Elros’ mug. Elrond glanced around the camp while his twin sat beside him, taking his tea in his hands and trying to soak the warmth deep into his bones. Maedhros was nowhere he could see. Had he gone hunting, when Maglor awoke?

Can you promise me something?

Elrond looked at his brother, who was staring at his hands with furrowed brows, and sighed. What is it? Elros' turned to him, and Elrond nearly recoiled from the sheer amount of emotion in his eyes.

Promise you won’t go looking for her on your own.

His thoughts sounded so desperate that Elrond could not but nod. Maglor returned with a mug each for Elros and himself, and they sat down to drink in silence as dark, acidic clouds rolled over their heads. Maedhros' seat remmained empty.

In Elrond’s memory, Elros scoffed. “Our mother? Is that your excuse for following us for the last two months? If so, it’s a very poor one.”

He had not believed the woman on the beach. Elrond was not sure if he did. “Our mother is dead!” His twin had shouted, “She’s gone, she drowned! Years ago! How dare you do this to us!”

And the woman who had told them, eyes full of hopeful tears, that she was their mother, that Ulmo had turned her into a bird and saved her life, had wept and wept, until the sea had turned to dust.

Elrond had woken before Elros. He did not know what else had been said. But he understood the turmoil happening in his brother’s mind. They had spent their life grieving people they could hardly remember, if the woman was a liar, then she was the cruelest Elrond had ever met. And if she was not… Elrond was not sure how he would live, if he knew that his parents were alive, safe from the crumbling horror that had become of their home, and had not tried to take them to safety too. Perhaps they couldn’t, he tried to reason with himself. Perhaps they were forbidden to see us.

Then the Valar truly had to be the monsters the Fëanorians said they were.

“There’s a storm coming,” Maglor murmured, and Elrond knew he was right. The clouds above were black and the wind sang of rain.

“Should we go back into the tent,” Elros asked, apparently set on not even thinking about their dream, “Or search for some other shelter?”

“The tent would be the best,” Maglor replied, looking around and drumming his fingers on his mug. “We won’t find a better shelter, and the planes are sturdy.” He pressed his lips together, eyes fixed on the surrounding forest, if the group of dying trees could be called that, then he stood up. “We shall have to bring everything to safety. Come on.”

They stood up, helping their foster father carry the kettle and their breakfast, thin porridge simmering in its pot, into their large tent. They poured earth over the fire, saving the logs that had not yet turned ash, bringing them out of the coming rain too. Elrond let his mind wander, let his sight go blurry at the edges as he let his hands carry out the familiar motions.

“I did not even recognize you the first times I saw you, not until you called each other by name. Can you believe it? What kind of mother does not recognize her own children?”

He shook his head to shoo away the desperate words, and they vanished, exchanged with Elwi- the woman's face. He could not shut his eyes against that, he knew, so he shut his mind instead. Elros stared at him, disbelievingly wide eyed at the betrayal, and Elrond looked away. If he had to keep thinking about it, he at least wanted to spare Elros of it. His twin had made his opinions quite clear, after all.

“Maglor?” Elros called, tearing himself away from his attempts to peek past the barricades Elrond had pulled up around his mind, “Won’t you come in?”

Maglor stood outside of the tent they now sat in, staring at some place between the trees, and as far as he let on, he had had not heard them. Elrond did not try to use ósanwe to get through to him. He had only done that once, and he still shuddered at the memory. “Maglor!”

“Maedhros,” Maglor whispered, hardly audible over the roaring wind. “Do you know where Maedhros is?’”

Elrond stood up. “He will be back,” he tried to reason. “And if not, he'll find some shelter. He won’t just stand in the rain.”

“Not unless he has a death wish,” Elros mumbled, clearly not intending Maglor to hear, but Maglor’s left ear twitched at the words and he pressed his lips together.

“I will search for him,” he said determinedly, stepping inside and opening a trunk. After some digging, he found a raincoat, made of thin, woven glass and covering most of the body, even face and hands, to protect the wearer from the acid that sometimes came down instead of rain these days, and he pulled it on despite the twins’ protests. He threw another over his shoulder, undoubtedly for his brother. “I will be back,” he tried to reassure, though Elrond was not sure whether he did so for their or for his sake, and then he stepped outside, humming a Song of Finding.

Not long after he left, the first raindrops hit the grass. It had already been yellow and dry, Elrond thought grimly, as he watched it turn black. Then he whistled a command, and the tent drew shut. They could no longer see the woods.

“You won’t, right?”

Elrond looked at his twin. “Won’t do what?”

“Look for her again!”

“I said I wouldn’t!”

Elros bit his lip. “She’s not our mother,” he whispered, drawing his knees up to his chest. “She can’t be.”

Elrond did not say anything. Not knowing what else to do with his hands, he stood up and filled two bowls with half of the porridge they had saved from the rain. He placed the lid back on the pot and pushed one into Elros’ hand, attempting a smile. Elros frowned. “Shouldn’t we wait for them to come back?”

Elrond looked down at the porridge in his hands, and his breath went shaky.

“Hey, they’ll come back!” Elros said, immediately abandoning his porridge in favour of comforting his brother. He leaned close, wrapping his arms around him, and hummed softly as Elrond began to cry. He did not know long they sat there, only aware of Elros, the sobs that shook through his chest, the storm ripping at the tent and the warmth of his breakfast slowly being leeched off into the cold, sour tasting air. His tears had long dried when the tent was opened and the Fëanorians came back in.

Elros’ arms left him, but he still held his hand, squeezing it tightly. They stood up. Maedhros looked terrible. He simply stood there, letting Maglor take off the raincoat, not meeting his eyes. As Maglor hung first his brother's, then his own coat up to dry in a corner the acid dripping from it would not destroy anything in, no one said a word. Maedhros looked like he was floating, like he had no idea he existed at all. Had Maglor done this to him, Elrond wondered, or had he found him like that?

When Maglor sat his brother down, Elrond noticed marks, stretching from his cheeks to his jaws, where the rain had dripped down and burned into Maedhros’ flesh. It looked like he had been crying. The urge to go to his foster father’s brother welled up in his throat, and he took a tentative step closer, ignoring Elros' attempt to tug him back. His hands were tingling, he was searching for the right Song, Maglor must have healed his brother already, or he would be looking much worse, but Maglor could only do so much these days…

Maglor's hand settled on his shoulder, and Elrond looked up in surprise. He was smiling. It looked a little forced, a little dreamy, a little lost. Later, he mouthed, and Elrond frowned. Then, their foster father pushed a bowl into Maedhros' limp hand, took one for himself and motioned for the twins to sit down.

“Alright,” he said, still smiling, “Lets eat.”

Elrond did not dream of the Cottage for a very long time.

Instead, he dreamt of normal things that were fleeting his memory when he awoke. In those dreams, he could hardly make out anything and nothing in them made much of any sense. In one, one of the soldiers who had accompanied them, though she had died at least a decade ago, was climbing up the cliff face next to a waterfall, beckoning him after her.

“You’ll fall victim to the orcs if you don’t hurry up,” he heard her call from high up, and then she dissolved into bones that fell and turned to fluffy ducks when they hit the ground before his feet.

Come evening, the ocean takes children into beautiful dreams

In another, he was trying desperately to find a misplaced dagger. He knew that Maedhros thought Elros had stolen it, maybe to sell it and buy more bread, but his twin was innocent, which he could prove, he was sure, if only he could find it before Maedhros had crossed the room and gotten to Elros, who was staring at him wide eyed, shrinking and shrinking, until a shelf fell down and Elrond could no longer see what was happening behind it.

“If only you would have found it in time,” Maglor said, laying a hand on his shoulder and sighing sadly. “Then your brother would not have turned into a squirrel.”

Elrond turned to face the door, and indeed, a small black squirrel was hurrying out through it, Maedhros behind it, and the scream “I will find you, you little thief!” still echoed in Elrond's ears when he shot up in bed.

It whispers stories of faraway lands, where I yearn to go

He dreamt of the little Nandorian girl throwing stones from high up in the tree, more and more, until he and Elros were buried beneath them, he dreamt of his braids growing longer and longer, weaving themselves into complicated patterns at his toes until the sea swept them up and they tangled around his throat, he dreamt of running on sand and of the glinting of swords and of blood, so much blood, the ocean turned red and the currents took Elros away, far away, and he would never see him again –

Close your eyes so the sea breeze won’t breathe in salt

And then, there was the dream he could not see anything in. He was small, very small, and very warm.

I seal the gate to yesterday with a kiss on your eyelids

A hand was brushing through his hair, and two low voices hummed a lullaby. Not the ones Maglor sang, those sad, haunting tunes that dragged you to sleep whether you liked it or not.

I am painting a white shield of my love into your heart

This was a sweet song, a lilting tune, and Elrond felt it sway him to and fro, until he was drowsy, reaching out his small hand for another and pulling it close. He listened to the song and smiled, even though he knew, somehow, that his memory of it was incomplete.

The golden light caresses your cheeks and shows you the way

There was peace in this dream, peace and quiet love, a respite from the chaos his mind usually spewed at him, when he did not take the way across the ocean to the white shore, where he wore a white nightgown and met the woman whose voice he had ever only heard in his dreams. How fitting, he thought, and sunk deeper beneath the warm blanket his mind had spun him.

Sweet tomorrow is calling you

When Elrond awoke, the last verses still in his mind, and looked for his brother, there was a small smile on Elros' lips. The gray morning light made the colours appear strange and distorted, but also soft at the edges. It made his twin look younger than he was. Did Elrond look the same in this light, when still asleep?

He sat up, careful to avoid rustling the blanket too much, so as not to disturb Elros. Maglor lay at the far end of the room, the only room in this one story hut they had found. It had probably belonged to Men, a family of them, judging by the set of broken cutlery on the desk and the bed that was wide enough for five people, though Maglor had chosen not to sleep in it, insisting it should be for the twins, who were still growing, and Maedhros, who needed a real bed and a good night's sleep more than Maglor did.

Maedhros was still in the same position Elrond remembered him being in when he had fallen asleep. Sitting on the bed, as far away from them as he could, and looking across the room to where his brother slept in a sleeping bag in front of a narrow cupboard. Elrond found it stupid that Maglor had refused to sleep in the bed. It would have been warmer, if he had.

“Nelyafinwë?” It was a peace offering, of sorts, to begin a conversation with Maedhros in quenya, and especially to address him in his quenya name. Though one had to be careful with that. Maitimo was reserved only for Maglor, and Nelyo or Russo were not names they were allowed to use either, though Elrond didn't know why.

Maedhros turned to look at him. “You’re awake,” he replied, in quenya as well, after blinking slowly at Elrond, slightly akin to an owl. “You should go back to sleep. You need it.”

It would be useless to tell Maedhros that he needed to sleep too, so Elrond did not. “I just woke up,” he reasoned, “Macalaurë says it is no use to sleep longer than you can.”

That name, he was allowed to use. Maedhros blinked again.

“And I thought we could practice,” Elrond added, meaning their quenya lessons. Maedhros looked at the low ceiling. “No need,” he rasped. “You're fluent. Not as fluent as your brother,” he added at Elrond’s surprised gasp, “And I doubt you will ever be as fluent as Laurë and me, but you could manage half a conversation before your partner noticed it was not your mother tongue.” He shrugged. “That’s good enough.”

“Oh,” Elrond breathed. “Thank you.” It was the closest to a compliment the Fëanorian had ever given him.

“I’ve been dreaming,” he dared after another moment of silence. “Of… of my mother.”

Maedhros’ shoulder stiffened. “That is reasonable,” he allowed, gesturing for Elrond to go on.

“I keep seeing her, or, or hearing her voice, and I’m not sure if I am remembering her, or if… if I am making her up.”

“You want me to describe her to you.”

“Yes.”

It was silent for another few moments. Elros stirred in his sleep, but went still again before Elrond could fully realize the fear his twin might wake up and hear them talking about Elwing.

“She was tall,” Maedhros began slowly. “For a Silvan, I mean. Her skin was dark, darker than yours. I suppose you got some of that from Eärendil, from Tuor’s side, I mean. Idril was dark skinned too, after all. Her hair…” he narrowed his eyes, as if to think. Elrond let him. “Black, too, but curly. Lúthien’s was straight, and I was surprised hers wasn’t. Our informants said she took after her.”

Maedhros looked at Elrond. “Never believe everything spies tell you,” he said, in his advice giving voice. Elrond nodded. “They’re only loyal as long as they are paid to satisfaction, and you might not be paying them quite enough.”

Maglor rolled over, humming softly. Maedhros looked at him, and something like a smile crept into his eyes. “Black eyes,” he murmured, “with a violet sheen. I suppose in that, she did take after her grandmother. And she wore a white dress, completely impractical, with the Stone in the Nauglamir, strung around her neck.”

His eyes glinted suddenly and his voice turned dark. Elrond’s shoulders stiffened. “Its light was shining in her hair, her eyes and the foam of the waves, when she –” he halted.

Elrond nodded, and Maedhros cleared his throat. “Did that… help?”

“I think it did,” Elrond whispered. “Thank you, Nelyafinwë.”

Maedhros' eyes clouded over, and their treelight grew thin again. “Go back to sleep, Elrond.” He said, in sudden, harsh sindarin, directing his gaze back at the ceiling. Elrond carefully laid back down, pulled the blanket over his shoulders and took Elros' hand beneath the sheets. When he concentrated, he could feel echoes of the family that had once lived here.

They really had been human. Where Elrond now laid had once been the preferred place of a little girl, their eldest daughter. She had been four, her sister two years old, when Morgoth’s troops had come, and Maglor had stuffed their and their parents' dusty bones into the cupboard he was guarding in his sleep so they would not have to see. Outside, the wind howled over the grave of four more children, and Elrond shut his eyes, pulled his brother closer, and started to cry.

Thank you for reading! A comment would absolutely make my day. Also, credit where credit is due, the lullaby Eärendil and Elwing sing in Elrond's dream was sneakily stolen from the Czech musical about Eärendil's voyage. I couldn't help myself, it fit so well.

[smilingformoney]

To Dad, From Abbie: Part 3/3

Summary: Dad Snape | Father's Day 2000.

Read on Ao3 or below the cut:

Sunday, 18 June 2000

Every year, without fail, Severus managed to forget it was Father’s Day.

He always kept the previous year’s card on his shelf, but it served little to remind him. It was never something he had celebrated for his own father; it had only begun to have any meaning to him six years ago, when Abbie first presented him with a decade’s worth of cards.

But she wasn’t around this year. She was still 3,000 miles away, living her own life in a place so far removed from their little cottage in the countryside that she may as well have been on a different planet.

He had April and Ariadne, of course, and he loved them infinitely. But he missed the traditions he held with Abbie - a card and a cooked breakfast. He had last heard from her a month ago, her excitement plain on the page as she relayed the latest developments in her musical education. It wasn’t unusual to go weeks without a letter, the international post being as slow as it was, but even so his disappointment grew day by day when, from the desk in his study, he would look through the morning’s post and find nothing bearing his eldest’s handwriting.

It was a little over two years now since the war had ended, and for the most part, people’s attentions had drifted away from him, but he still had the occasional request for an interview from Witch Weekly - always binned - or gushing letter from former students who had ‘always’ had a crush on him. Those were binned too - if they had such an interest in him as to warrant a polite rejection, they would at least have made the effort to know he was married.

It was behind one of Witch Weekly’s repeated requests that Severus found an envelope starkly contrasting the others - paper where they were parchment, and bearing international muggle stamps.

The rest of the post forgotten, Severus promptly opened the envelope and found not a letter but a card.

He laughed when he recognised the front. It was almost identical to the first card she had ever made, at the humble age of four, when she had drawn a crude stick figure of an indistinguishable man with a small stick girl.

Her artistic talents had improved little, but this time the stick man had longer hair and a grumpy expression. The stick girl was much taller than before, but still bore the same smile as her younger self.

Thankfully, she hadn’t enchanted them to move. That would have been extremely disconcerting.

Severus opened the card to read:

To Dad, I miss you every day. Love, Abbie (19)

Nineteen. Fifteen years since that first card was made; and, as he remembered every time he was reminded of her age, the same age he had been when she was conceived. He hadn’t truly understood just how young he and Persephone had been until their child had reached the same age. She was still so young; not that it was possible for her, of course, but if she found herself pregnant now he would be infuriated.

His despair over his increasing age was interrupted when the door opened and Persephone entered the room, her wand in one hand as she levitated a plate of food in front of her, while the other hand balanced April on her hip.

“Now, it’s no Abbie breakfast,” she said, “but - Ariadne, get out from under my feet! - we gave it our best.”

The plate landed on the desk, and Severus smiled up at his beautiful, thoughtful wife.

“You didn’t have to do this,” he told her.

“We wanted to. Didn’t we, girls?”

“Dada!” Ariadne exclaimed, toddling around the desk as quickly as her little legs would carry her. “Dada up!”

Severus chuckled and lifted Ariadne onto his lap. She laughed, and immediately tried to grab his face.

“Excuse me, Ariadne, I need my face to eat,” he said.

“Dada Dada Dada!”

“She knows it’s your day,” Persephone laughed. April, meanwhile, was staring longingly at the bacon and eggs on the table. “No, April, that’s Dada’s food. Ariadne, let Dada have his breakfast.”

“I can eat like this,” Severus insisted. He positioned Ariadne to sit on his lap facing away from him, and reached around her to the plate. “Did you two make this all on your own, or did Mama help?”

“I did the cooking. They did the being cute.”

“A very important job.”

“Of course.”

Persephone sat in a nearby chair and shifted April from her hip to her lap. While he was eating, Severus silently handed the card to her, and Persephone laughed at the crude stick drawing. She glanced inside, smiled, then looked back up at him.

“I miss her too,” she said. April took the card and began examining it as if it were the most fascinating thing in the world. “Even with these two monkeys, the house feels empty without her.”

Severus nodded in agreement, nudging the food on his plate sadly. Ariadne decided she was bored and began wriggling on his lap, so he let her down.

April lifted the card up and showed it to Severus, as if it were new to him. He smiled and played along.

“Thank you, April,” he said, taking the card back. He propped it up on his desk.

“Dada sad?” Ariadne asked.

Severus smiled and ruffled her hair. “No, Dada isn’t sad, Ariadne. I’m very happy; I have you, after all. I wish Abbie were here, that’s all.”

“Baba home?”

“Not yet, darling. Soon, though. Soon.”

“Baba home,” Ariadne decided, “Dada happy.”

That was that, apparently, as she turned and toddled off towards the open door.

“Oh, we’re leaving, apparently,” Persephone said. “Enjoy your breakfast, my love.” She leaned over and kissed his cheek. “I hope it somewhat compares to hers.”

“Of course it does, darling; It’s made with love.”