#ill never forgive telltale for what they did to him

[just-some-random-blogger]

Tormented Spirit | 17

Part 1 [...] 14 15 16 17 18

"Is it such a sin to stand up for yourself?" you mutter as tears blur your vision. The way he reacted was visceral, instinctive even. "You never have to stand up for yourself ever again," says Daemon, reaching a hand to you, "come."

Daemon Targaryen x Hightower!Reader | 5k+ | cw: fem!reader, reader has brown hair, wife!reader, twin!Gwayne, arranged/forced marriage, canon divergence, alternate universe, slow burn, DD:DNE, violence, pregnancy, miscarriage, panic/anxiety attacks, suicidal ideation, attempted suicide, daddy issues/child abuse/family problems, mentions/depictions of mental/physical/psychosomatic illness, ye old misogyny, angst, typos, etc.

A/N: my mum and i got into an argument after my cat died and now i remember why i wrote this | cross posted on ao3

@arabellasleopardcoat @prettybiching @astrogirl01

You walk across the dragon pit, making your way back to Laenor, who was petting his mount. "Hello."

He turns and smiles, "hello. He watches how you pick the petals of the flowers he gave, "where's-"

Before he can finish, the sound of a dragon screeching and soaring of echoes across the pit. His own dragon huffs and bleats, making you turn to it.

"What's the name of your mount?"

Leanor looks at you as you near the beast, "Seasmoke— eh," he dashes in front of you, "careful," he takes your arm, "he's not hostile, I don't think, but then again, he's my ride and I'm biased. Regardless, Seasmoke is, in fact, a dragon."

"Ah," you step back, "forgive me, I-"

"Found yourself very comfortable around Caraxes?" Leanor smiles at me, rubbing your arm, "I'm surprised. The wyrm is rather cranky..." he leads me to his dragon, "not unlike his rider, no?"

Your eyes remain on him as Seasmoke screeches. The dragon sounds nothing like Caraxes, neither does he look or even smell the same, which you think is rather interesting.

"You may touch him if you like," Laenor smiles, stroking his dragon's scales. Seasmoke purrs, almost like a cat.

You rub your hands before touching the beast, "rytsas." Hello.

Laenor's brows quirk.

"Skorkydoso gaomagon gaomā?" How do you do?

He chuckles, "when did you learn High Valyrian?"

"While you and Daemon were in the St-" you squeal when Seasmoke shoves you with a roar, earning an equal reaction from his rider. Laenor snaps and swats his ride, commanding him to obey, to be gentle.

Your heart races and continues to against yourself. You clutch your chest, feeling a telltale uncomfortable tightening. Gods, please, not in front of Laenor.

You vaguely hear him chide the dragon for being cheeky in High Valyrian, and you suppose he says something to you, but your lungs are too constricted for you to hear. For a moment, as you feel your legs begin to buckle under the weight of your breath, or rather, lack thereof, you realize you were treating Seasmoke awfully familiarly. He gave you a simple correction, and now your weak heart was going to make him look like a villain.

"Apologies for— prin-" Laenor grunts as he catches you just as you topple. You crumble into his chest and drop your flowes. You both end up on the floor as you try to catch your breath.

Laenor looks around. He orders the dragon keepers to bring his ride to the pit and he pulls you into his arms, "can you stand?"

Stand? You can barely breathe.

Your silence, paired with the tangible tremors of your body, is enough answer for him. He maneuvers around you, arms wrapping over your form. His stomach drops at the greyness of your skin, but he tells himself he's merely imagined it. He quickly carries you out of the pit.

Alternatively, Daemon is idle in the sky. The sun beats down on his skin as the wind scratches through his hair. There is no thrill in it however, no reprieve. What's more, Caraxes seems to stagger halfway through the flight. The usual agility of his lithe body dwindles the longer they fly, and his rider is rightfully concerned. He turns back before they go very far.

When they arrive at the pit, Seasmoke is no longer there. Daemon is alarmed by the way Caraxes lands. It's not at all like his usual demeanor. He drips into saddle and yelps when Caraxes flops and crashesbelly down on the ground. The dragon keepers are as equally concerned as Daemon upon witnessing this.

Daemon dismounts and gazes upon his mount. One of the senior keepers asks him, "skoros iksis pirta lēda Caraxes, ñuha dārilaros??" What is wrong with Caraxes, my prince?

"Nyke ȳdra daor gīmigon," Daemon mutters, "ziry massitas hen daoriot." I don't know. It happened out of nowhere.

The prince watches as one keeper brushes Caraxes by the snout. The dragon huffs and closes his eyes, rolling on his belly. Daemon's brows furrow tightly and his lips part. This was severely unlike his vicious mount— falling prostrate? He was deeply concerned.

Daemon explains to the keeper that his dragon was well earlier today, in the funeral, and when they just got back from it. It was only after they had flown again did Caraxes begin to act rather dreary.

The keepers try to feed Caraxes but he does not eat. They try to bring him into the pit, but he does not stand. It troubles Daemon. He does not wish to leav, but as much as his heart aches for his companion, it bleeds for you.

"Laenor."

Laenor freezes upon hearing your voice. He had already managed to carry you halfway towards the maester's ward when you regained your voice. He looks at you, brows furrowing at the sight of the tears you'd silently shed. He speaks your name.

"Will you set me down?"

Laenor nods and slowly brings you to your feet. You wobble against the young prince and lean your weight into him as you find your footing. You shudder, struggling to keep yourself upright. A shameful heat wraps around your body. I hate to have you see me like this.

"Hush," Laenor mutters, guiding you to the window sill.

You look up at him, brows furrowing.

"Are we not friends?" he tilts his head, "do friends not help friends?"

Gods... you had said that aloud. You were losing yourself. You shake your head, "yes, but-"

"But what?" Laenor purses his lips, "but if I could not find the strength to stand, surely you would do all you could to help me."

You frown.

He follows suit as you sit by the window. He squeezes your arm, "it's just me, the same Laenor you wrote heartfelt letters to."

Your brows furrow. You gulp as your throat tightens, "I never wrote to you about my affliction."

He shrugs, taking your hand in his, "it is your prerogative what you do and do not wish to tell me."

"I am dying."

He does not respond.

"I'm already dead inside."

He hums, "how macabre," he looks off, "I was rather hoping you'd bring up something more mundane, like how the drapes in these halls are rather plain, considering the fact we are in the capital castle."

You stare at him for a moment.

He looks back at you, "it's safe to say the king cares little for drapes."

You snort and shake your head.

A faint smile spreads across Laenor's lips. He squeezes your hand, "I suppose that is good. A king has much more to worry about than the drapes that drape across his halls."

You release a deep breath. The heaviness of your shoulders become apparent to you. You tentatively lean into Laenor's shoulder; he shifts towards you, offering his arm.

"You hark aimlessly so like my twin."

He steals a glance of you, lips curling into a soft smile, "you speak this as if you believe it would offend me."

"It should."

He chuckles and examines the texture of the wall in front of him, "to be likened to Ser Gwayne is an honor."

You snort and roll your eyes, "it should not be. He is ugly."

"He has your face."

"He does not!" you pull away to look at him, "pray tell, do you think I am comely?"

Laenor looks at you. He purses his lips where yours curl mischeviously.

You raise your brows and snort, "my point exactly."

"Your beauty is simply not to my taste."

"But my brother's is?!" you exclaim, "he has my face!"

Laenor rolls his eyes, "he does not."

You swat his arm.

He raises a brow at you, pretending to be offended, though it barely lasts. He instantly melts at the sight of your smile. He smiles back, "I am glad to know banter livens your spirit."

Your expression softens, "I am glad to know you will be living here."

"Yes. Perhaps initially. You might soon find me irritating like mine own sister does."

You share a chuckle. You shake your head and come to a stand; the prince immediately does the same. You link arms with him and begin walking, "might I show you the gardens, my prince?"

He thinks for a moment, "should you not go to the maester's?"

"They have nothing for me but scolding and milk of the poppy," you tighten your hold on his arm, "the roses are in full bloom."

He nods, "very well."

You saunter to the gardens with no sense of urgency whatsoever. Laenor is good at concealing his worry over you, but unfortunately, you are better at sensing other's agitation over your affliction. You fill the walk with hushed chatter, "you cannot like my brother more than I. I wish to hold your affection."

Laenor turns to you, brow raised, muttering, "you hold my affection."

"Yes, but you've not met him, yet still you prefer him," you whisper.

He looks away, shrugging, "I think he is pretty but I do not prefer him. If I recall correctly, he drank much during someone's nameday and became rather less pretty to me."

You chortle.

Laenor chuckles, turning back to you.

You look at him, thinkinv his eyes are very kind. Your smile turns into a frown as you squeeze his arm, "where were you when they were forcing me into marriage?"

His jaw feathers. He rubs your hand, "you do not want me as a husband. I would not satisfy you."

"I would not ask you to."

He shakes his head, "I do not think I would be able to give you heirs."

You tighten your hold on him, "I do not think I would either."

He frowns, "I-"

"Daughter."

The two of turn back, finding the Hand of the King rushing towards you. Normally, such a sight would cause you concern, but presently, it made you feel only exhaustion... and dread. You pull away from Laenor, preparing to face your father.

You huff when Otto reaches you. The first thing he does is place a hand on your cheek, "are you well?"

You frown and nod, "yes."

"The servants say your husband left you in the pit and your affliction flared. Prince Laenor," he offers him a glance, "had to carry you off."

"I am fine," you mutter, shaking your head, pushing him away.

He lowers his hand, "have you gone to the ma-"

"I'm bringing my friend to the gardens, father."

Otto stiffens. Laenor notices the way Otto's hands clench; he clears his throat, "she has told me pl-"

"Forgive me, my prince, but it would be best if my daughter goes to-"

"The gardens," you blurt, "to show my friend my flowers."

Your father mutters your name.

Laenor knows the argument is quickly going to inflame. He steps forward, "the princess assured me she is well enough—"

"She is not well," Otto blurts, "she just burned her children and fainted in the pit-"

"Why do you despise me?"

Laenor stiffens where he meant to take your arm. Otto altogether loses his words.

You huff at his terse expression. You clench your teeth and turn to Laenor, "perhaps I ought to show you my garden another time."

The prince furrows his brows. He mutters your name slowly.

You shake your head and manage a smile, "perhaps after supper?"

Though he was rather reluctant to leave you in the thick of it, Laenor nods. He squeezes your arm one last time and gives your father a curt nod, "Lord Hand," before walking off.

"Have you gone mad?"

You turn to Otto. He is seething with rage.

"You would speak so carelessly in front of-"

"My frien-"

"He is not your friend," he blurts, stepping forward, "today? Tomorrow? He is promised to Rhaenyra and-"

"He is my friend!" you interrupt. "And my question does not involve him but you, my lord." You shake your head, "why do you despise me?"

He scoffs. He feels his collar tighten around his neck, "you think I despise you?"

"No," you mutter, "I know you do."

He scoffs once more and wipes his face with a sigh, "you stupid, fucking girl."

You feel like you're drowning as tears stream down your face. Your father paces and you gasp when he suddenly walks off. You watch him take large strides, only to stop at the end of the hall to turn back to you. Your heart races when he storms back with a finger pointed at you.

You gulp and step back, but you do not trust your feet to take you very far, so you end up freezing in your spot.

"You are ludicrous!" he pokes the air, "and you are wrong!" he pokes again, face red as he comes back in front of you.

You shudder when he grabs your shoulders and shakes you slightly.

"Despise you?!" he snaps, spittle spattering to your face. He releases you roughly, his chest rising and falling, "you unwitting pup! You've no idea the measures I've gone to ens-"

"DOES IT MATTER?"

Otto clenches his teeth so hard his head shakes.

Your outburst costs you all the air in your lungs. You care little to chase after it, "you fed me to your enemy! Left me to die!"

"I HAVE DONE NOTHING BUT PRESERVE YOU!" he screams, loud enough that his voice echoes in the hall.

Your ears ring and your struggle to breathe.

"Out of all my children," Otto's voice comes out shaky, "I have not lost sleep and coin as much as I have for you."

You manage to reply through the thrumming of your chest, "then you have your answer."

Otto's face hardens as he screws his eyes shut and shakes his head. He wipes both hands across his face in exasperation, "I do not despise you."

"Look at what's become of me," you bring your fists into your chest. You chuckle dryly, "perhaps if you despised me more, I would be better."

"All I've ever done is to better you!"

"Like how you forced me to bear children?!" You quip, "my body could not keep them!"

"If you did not do this, you would have been casted out or killed!" he raises a finger, "you did your duty."

"I did what you wanted-" you groan, "AND IT IS NEVER ENO-"

"ENOUGH!" he snaps and you flinch. Otto grabs your arm, "you are hysterical."

Hysterical. You wince at his tight grip. How you loathe the word. Though you knew it was pointless, you still attempt to wrangle out of his strong clutch.

Even in his vehement vexation, he does not force you to stop. He loosens his grip, speaking your name.

"Release me," you mutter, heart racing.

"No," he mutters, "you need a maester."

You whimper and yank at your arm, "father."

His stomach rolls. For a moment, he hears the voice of his young child begging for his presence. His grips tightens, "let me bring you to-"

"I hate you!"

Otto clenches his jaw. He mutters your name.

"You will not let me be happy. You will not let me die."

He shouts your name.

"Release me!" you whimper, begging to feel light headed.

Finally, he does.

You gasp when you topple into a wall. You are shocked when arms come around you. You turn, breath staggering, eyes meeting the hard face of your husband.

"If you ever touch her," Daemon mutters, hands clutching your waist and arm. He pulls you into him, "if I even hear that you touched her- nyke hobrenka kivigon jaehossi uēpossi arlȳssī-" I fucking swear by the old gods and the new—

You can feel him trembling against you. You will yourself to breathe in deep to try and calm yourself. Your hand comes to his cheek.

Otto draws breath, "my daughter is-"

"Do NOT fucking call her that," Daemon snaps as he pushes you upright only to bring you behind him. His hand clutches the hilt of Dark Sister, "it matters not who sired her— she is my wife."

"She needs medicine," Otto blurts raising a hand, "she is in hyster-"

"Of fucking course she's in hysterics!" Daemon growls and steps forward, "you're her fucking father—"

The Hand scoffs.

"— It's a miracle she's withstood the poison you've been sledging into her throat since gods know when. You're the reason she's fucking sick-"

"DO NOT," Otto barks, "speak to me of her—"

"Daemon!" you grab his arm as Daemon presses closer to him.

"Ivestragī nyke ossēnagon zirȳla!" Daemon barks, eyes fixed on Otto. Let me kill him!

He repeats this twice, leaving you in a fit of tears. The sound of your staggered cries is the only reason he stays his hand.

Otto watches as you crumple into Daemon's arms. He feels helpless to see the monster clutch your cheeks and hold you close. He can see you struggle for air, and it makes his own breath hitch. He feels an overwhelming sense of horror overcome him.

Daemon's brows furrow as you shake your head. He wipes your tears before carrying you and walking away.

Otto stands there, balked, torn, angered, hurt, resentful, tormented. He watches the devil usher you deeper into his hell.

"Maester?" Daemon mutters as he hurries down the hall.

You shake your head.

He makes a sound, "are you certain?"

His throat tightens as you grip his collar, tugging it ever so slightly. You shake your head, "bed."

He nods, heading to your chambers.

When you arrive, Daemon is quick to sit you upon your bed, leaning you on the headboard. He removes your shoes and undoes the braids in your hair. He is gentle, far gentler than anyone who has ever touched your hair.

His face is grave when your tears do not cease. He notices that your breathing is still heavy and ragged. Images of the day you nearly died flash in his mind's eye. He stops undoing your hair and takes your hand, kneeling beside you on the bed. His eyes begin to water, "you must breathe."

You groan and turn away from him, pulling your hand with you. You strangle out, "it is difficult."

Daemon whimpers, kicking his shoes off. He climbs on the bed and sits beside you. He rubs your chest and leans on your shoulder. He cannot help himself; he kisses your neck, "please-"

"Daemon."

"I- I-"

You grab his wrist and shake your head again.

He clenches his jaw as you lower his arm to your lap.

"I can do it."

He gulps and nods slowly.

You inhale deeply and exhale slowly.

Daemon squeezes your hand. He is restless.

"When I die—"

"Stop-"

"— you cannot kill him."

He makes a terrible sound. He shakes his head, "do not speak to me of this."

"I must," you squeeze him, "he deserves to suffer me, to flinch each time my name is spoken."

"Do not die to spite your father," Daemon grunts, "spite him with your life."

You close your eyes and sigh, "and what if I do not want to live?"

You gasp when you hear him whine. Daemon crumbles into your lap. He squeezes your hands tightly, "speak no further... I beg you."

You look down at him. Your heart aches. You sigh and brush his hair, "I would not kill myself. You know this."

He turns his head, one eye peeping up at you, "am I supposed to be comforted?"

"Yes," you blurt, "be sure that when I pass, it is my time."

Daemon sits up, "and what if he kills you?"

You sigh. You take a moment to calm yourself before reaching for his face. He instantly presses his hand over yours and leans into your touch. You rub his wet cheeks, "my father would not kill me."

"Yet he does."

You feel Daemon clench his jaw.

"Slowly... subtly."

You lean your head back. You whimper at the feel of the braids that were still not undone. You pull away from Daemon to undo them yourself. He's about to help you, but then you mutter, "get me shears."

"... why?"

"I do not wish to fashion my hair ever again."

He looks at you for a moment before standing. He heads to your vanity and quickly finds what he is looking for. He reluctantly hands it to you and you gratefully take it.

He watches you undo your hair wholly and bring it to one side. You bunch your dark strands together and haphazardly try to cut it. You cannot, your hair is too thick and the blades too dull; it barely cut parchment. Still, here you were trying to cut your hair. Daemon is silent as you do.

You grow frustrated and look at him, finding his eyes are fixed upon your tresses. Your eyes water, "am I hysterical?"

Violet eyes meet your glassy ones. He strokes your head, "you are my wife."

You grip the sheers tightly before lowering it.

Daemon frowns, "did you not enjoy my braids?

"I-" you stare at the shears, "that is not why."

"... would you like me to help you?"

"No," you look up at him, handing him the metal object, "I am hysterical."

"Do not listen to that cunt," he takes the shears from you, putting it back in its place. You watch him crawl beside you again. He takes your hand and frowns, "you are far tamer than you ought to be."

You raise your brows at his words. You reciprocate his hold and rub your thumb against his skin, "you would feed my madness."

He gazes at your sad face and shrugs, "we could be mad together."

You chuckle.

His heart skips. He squeezes your hand.

"You mean to tell me you aren't yet mad?"

Daemon dares to lean into you.

You do not pull away when he rests his head upon your shoulder.

He whispers, "no."

You feel him bring your hand to his chest. You feel him kiss your hand.

"You are my sanity."

You feel him kiss your neck. You shudder.

Daemon is entranced by your scent. He soon has his hands brushing around your torso, pulling you close to him. He breathes you in like air, because you were his. He buries his face into your hair. Gods, he's missed this. Gods, he's missed you.

You close your eyes and sigh, palms brushing up his shoulders. He takes this as permission to kiss you more, so he does. He peppers his lips across your skin, down your throat, across your neck. He clutches you into his chest, willing you into his ribcage. You gulp and melt into him with a sigh.

The sound encourages him. He pulls you down to bed as if you were weightless. Your skirt hikes up in consequence, and he hisses when he repositions you and feels the bareness of your thigh.

Daemon breaks the kiss, panting like a dog as he examines your from. He gulps, mind reeling at the skin your dress no longer concealed. He remembers what you told him in the garden, how you no longer loved him. He slowly withdraws his hand, feeling it trembld.

You watch as he battles with himself. You dig your fingers into his collar, urging him to look at you.

He does, pupils blown. Your name slips past his parted mouth.

You rub his shoulder, "do you want me?"

"Fuck," he laughs manically, "d-do I want you?"

Goosebumps prick on your skin as he rubs up your thigh. You feel your breathing heavy as his nails dig into the flesh of your hip.

He draws a deep breath and whispers, not trusting his voice, "I want you."

You huff and close your eyes. Your tug his top and part your legs.

"Fuuuuuuck," Daemon whines through a sigh, sinking his head into your neck as he slots himself between you. He curses again when he hears you whimpe. He wraps your thighs around him.

He bucks into you. His teeth nip your jaw. Your nails scratch up his nape and tug his short hair. Your eyes water.

Daemon could peak from this alone.

You mutter his name.

He moans and squeezes your thigh in response.

You whimper as you feel his erection against your core. Your lips wobble. You press your face against his and whisper, "I'll let you put a babe in me again."

Daemon turns to stone.

You begin to breath heavily again.

His voice is muffled, "what?"

"I said I'll let you put a babe in me again."

He lifts his head. His eyes are reddish and his brows are furrowed. Little did you know you mirrored him, if not worse. You were crying, and you couldn't even feel it.

"And then w-hat?" his voice cracks.

You clutch his cheeks.

"And then you die?"

You brush his chin. You cannot reply.

He chokes on your name and screws his eyes shut. He buries his face into your neck and shakes his head. He sinks into you, but he's no longer hard, just sad and desperate.

"... if gods be willing... I'd have a reason to live."

"I am unwilling to gamble."

You lean into his head, "it's always a gamble, affliction or not."

Daemon lifts his head and looks down upon you. He rubs your cheeks frantically as he says your name. He mutters, "I do not even have you yet. Do not be so eager to leave me."

You close your eyes, relishing the feel of his thumbs on your face.

He kisses your forehead, "give me a chance. Please."

You sigh, "I'm exhausted."

His hand trembles, "please."

Your brows furrow.

He examines your face restlessly, brushing your skin in hopes it will coax the answer he wants.

"I'll try."

He breathes a sharp sigh of relief. He kisses the corner of your mouth, "thank you."

[lukesmachete]

They are brother & sister your honor

[edensrose]

Hi, I’ve never requested anything before so I hope this is ok, but can I have a one shot where Thranduil comforts his crying s/o (established relationship please) after finding out that she’s being bullied because maybe she’s human or something

( ❀ ) ˙ ˖ thranduil ⠀〳 reader⠀ ❜࿔

· ⊰ synopsis. it took him an hour to find you, yet now you refuse to look at him? he's frustrated, but — wait, are you crying?

· ⊰ note. hi there love! this is perfect, I hope I did it justice <3

“Feren!”

“My lord?’’ The brunette exhales and turns to his king with the straightest face he could pull. A guard, that is what he was 一 not his majesty’s royal advisor. Then again, with the way things were? He might as well be. “What is troubling you?’’ 

“Where is Y/N?” He frowns. “She was to meet me at noon and whenever I look for her, there is not a sign. Where is she?” 

Feren mentally pleaded with Eru who bestowed upon him this cruel fate 一 how was he to know of your whereabouts? Was he a magician? 

“I am unsure, my lord. Have you checked your resting chamber?” “Obviously.’’ Thranduil clicks his tongue and turns away from the guard just in time to miss his eye roll. “She is nowhere to be found. Have you any idea where she could have wandered off to?” 

‘Perhaps she is hiding from you.’ 

“Forgive me, my lord. I know not.’’ 

The elf pauses for a moment before parting his lips once more. “The garden may be a place of interest. Shall I give it a check, Sire?” “The garden?” Thranduil glances down his vast halls towards the direction of the telltale area, narrowing his eyes and focusing all his senses 一 as if listening for any sign of you. 

“. . . No, I will check myself. You are dismissed.’’ 

With that, he let Feren get back to his peace and quiet before finding his way down the intricate halls. Guards stood at attention and those in his way promptly stepped to the side after giving respectful bows and short greetings. He paid them no mind. 

His only concern was you. 

It was out of character to not meet with him on schedule. In fact, it was something you often jumped at the opportunity for 一 what, with the duties of a king, your time with him was often cut short. What was different this time? Had you forgotten? 

Surely not. You had just expressed your excitement about the little date earlier that day. . . had you fallen ill? 

The longer Thranduil let his mind race, the more absurd his thoughts became. Were you alright? Had you gotten hurt? Was there an issue he wasn’t aware of? 

All these thoughts festered and toiled like that of a pot of boiling water, threatening to spill and blow the top off the further his questions were left unanswered. In the midst of his train of thoughts, the king had yet to realise he had already found his way into the flourishing garden. 

An area cultivated not too far from the palace, a little cradle where the beauty of the once Greenwood the Great was preserved laid before him. Blooming blossoms in rows from pink to blue and everything in between. A few trees on the outskirts which bore hundreds of fruits each year, one of which stood beside a miniature pond decorated by little rocks and water crests 一 this particular spot was always your favourite. 

And that is exactly where he found you. 

“Meleth?’’ 

“. . . Meleth?”

How odd, perhaps one of his initial thoughts weren’t too far off. Had he angered you in some way? All you did was curl up further beneath the tree, gaze fixed upon the pond of which your feet edged at. 

Concern outweighed irritation as the elvenking swallowed the bitter taste in his mouth and chose to inch closer. “Y/N, I searched for you everywhere. Tell me, why do you hide?’’ His presence left you shifting and muttering a quiet apology, yet not once did your eyes meet his. 

Surely he hadn’t done something in such a short space of time to have fowled your mood to this degree, he thought.

Unfortunately for you, Thranduil was not always the most patient person. This, combined with the fact he had spent the last hour in search of you, worried for you 一 the newfound silence did more to irk him than anything else. 

“You have a voice. Use it.’’ 

The flinch left his brows furrowing, twitching. It’s almost as if you took his words without care 一 and that alone was enough to tick him off further. With an inhale, he channelled whatever inner peace within him had left and yet despite that, his voice still trembled with vexation: “Y/N -” 

“My king,’’

finally, you grant him an answer. “Please. . . if I have found any favour in your eyes 一 leave me be.’’ 

This would have spiralled the king’s mind into a blaze of fury. . . if it were not for his better judgement; the waver in your voice was enough to clear the storm clouds and pull him from gurgling rage. It was his turn to hold his tongue and instead focused on finding the reason for the trembling request. 

Albeit out of character, the male slowly dipped himself to your level as his knees found the grass. A blur of silver tresses caught the corner of your eye and before you knew it; there sat your lover beside you. Even in such a position, he towered over you. Regardless, that was the last thing on your mind. 

A melody of crickets, a whisper of the wind, all of which filled the void of bellowing silence as he sat there at your side. You couldn’t tell whether he was gathering his words or simply at a loss for them 一 whatever it may be, his presence was difficult to ignore and you showed little appreciation for it, especially when you hugged your knees closer. 

“. . . Meleth,’’ 

you flinch, ready to shift away if it weren’t for the arm that subsequently looped around and brought you near, ruining your miniature escape. “Won’t you look at me?’’

No,

No, if you obeyed you were unsure if you would 一

“Please.’’ 

You sucked a breath. His voice was impossibly gentle, incredibly soft, drained of any irritation it held prior. . . how could you refuse him? 

“My king,’’ the whimper left him on guard and when you finally faced him, Thranduil’s heart sunk to the pit of his stomach. 

Eyes that rivalled starlight, those of which he adored and come to cherish. Eyes he wished to see filled with nothing but joy 一 now shimmered with tears that threatened to spill upon delicate cheeks, which by the looks of it, were already stained by their presence. 

“Meleth,’’ the murmur is soft yet not nearly as much as the touch that finds your skin as a hand now cups your face. “Why do you cry, my darling?’’ 

Those simple words are the catalyst of your inevitable shatter. With little to no restraint, you crash into him and find refuge in his shoulders, hands balling his robes of silk between them. The walls come tumbling down and finally, a sob which had previously lodged itself within your throat breaks free. A broken, muffled cry silences the melodies of the nights and leaves your elven lover in shock. 

“They 一 they berate me,’’ you choke. “They say I am unfit, a low human in comparison to the elvenking. Th-That you keep me around for mere entertainment! That your feelings are nothing but infatuation!’’ 

Thranduil can do nothing but encase you in his warm embrace, shielding you from the world which dared to make you cry. His lover, his queen. The flames which once died down were now raging and ready to run rampant on the soul who caused this 一 but he held strong. 

You were his concern at this given moment. He would spare them. . . for now. 

Not a word left his lips as he focused on providing you comfort and security whilst you wept. Arms subconsciously tightened the more you confessed to the horrid things said to you, the insults, the mocking. It was a miracle that Thranduil did not rise from where he sat and ordered for their heads to be brought on a silver platter. 

How dare they? 

“Ssh. . . I am here, Meleth.’’ Lean fingers find your hand and play with its ends as the elf cooes a variety of assurance, leading to inevitably calm down and resort to merely clinging onto him and finding peace in the rhythm of his heart. 

When you had settled to nothing but a few sniffles and breathy exhales, Thranduil straightened in the slightest. His request, a simple yet firm one: “look at me.’’

Upon obeying, the hands that once comforted you now reached up to cup your face. A gentle and icy sensation that left you shivering before focusing on the pale sapphires which bore into your very soul. Emphatic and clear, they spoke for him before he even used his voice. 

“Tell me, do you believe this. . . mockery?’’ 

The sudden tension of your nerves gave him all the answers he needed and before your eyes, his own hardened for but a moment before simmering to that of softness once more. “My darling, you have accepted me as your king 一 have you not?’’ 

You nod, leaning into the thumb that grazes your cheekbone. “Then surely you must understand that as much as I am your king. . . you are my queen.’’ 

He smiles at your stunned features. “And as queen, you have every right that I do in being here.’’ Thranduil leans in and presses his lips to your forehead in a delicate manner as if frightened that any more force would cause you to shatter. “You are mine, Meleth. And what’s mine should be held in the highest regard.’’ His head now leans upon yours, staring into your eyes as if to emphasise his point. 

“I love you.’’ 

His lips brush yours. “I love you.’’ Again and again, he murmurs this claim with the utmost pride. You can do nothing but collapse into him, smothered in his affection and praise, his adoration, his devotion. 

“Thranduil. . .’’ Tears find your eyes once more as you whisper out a slew of your own favour. “My queen,’’ he returns, a breathy, hushed whisper. “You and you alone hold my heart. Can you not see?” 

You did. Blessed by the moonlight, his eyes, his face, the entirety of him. It reminded you of what you previously doubted. Whatever uncertainty tainted your mind was, in that moment, brought to nothing as the elvenking showered you in intimacy. . .

And proved that you were his queen.

[dailydragon08]

Show Me

Prompt 8 from this list: “You don’t have to pretend to be all right around me.” Summary: Arthur can always count on you when he needs solace. Pairings: Arthur x Reader Warnings: some cursing, gets a little steamy, but not too much (mentions of very tight pants). A/N: From Arthur’s POV. Might make a part 2, or even more fics within this universe, where the rating goes up, but not sure yet. Thanks for reading and enjoy! Read here on AO3

Arthur sighed as the door to the great hall shut with a great boom behind him, echoing in the vast space. Sometimes all the spaces in the castle he now called “home” felt too vast—so much so, he hardly thought of it as home and missed the brothel and streets of Londinium sometimes. Sometimes he wished Excalibur had never shown itself. He was so close to getting his coffers full enough to buy a piece of land…But then, he never would have met you.

Still, he wished you were here now—like every night once he was alone. Like every hour of every day if he was honest with himself. He’d fallen hard for you and couldn’t help it. You’d been a local healer that came up to the castle for work so much, it only made sense for you to move into your own quarters.

He remembered going your place in the village for the first time and being struck by you. Of course, you’d had no idea who he was—and he preferred it that way for a long time. He always made sure to intercept his guards or anyone else with him before the your majesties started rolling off their traitorous tongues. He and Stick had originally rushed there after Blue fell at an odd angle with the telltale crack of a broken bone during a hunting trip. You’d been the closest healer. Blue had liked you, and if Arthur had to guess, he’d say the boy had a bit of a crush on you—and he couldn’t blame him. Plus, you were amazing with him, making him feel safe and cared for without patronizing him.

But soon, Arthur kept finding excuses to feel ill or get injured when he was close to you and a friendship had slowly bloomed between the two of you. What started as acquaintances quickly turned into weekly board games, drinks at the tavern when he could manage it on slower nights…He’d told you his name was Art, and he was part of the king’s guard.

But eventually, you’d found out who he truly was. He hadn’t realized just how often you made trips to the castle until you’d rushed in while court was in session to help a nobleman who had suddenly collapsed. You hadn’t been happy you’d been lied to, but when he explained he wanted you to befriend him and not just the king, you’d seemed to understand and forgive him rather quickly. You were practically living in the castle by the time Arthur finally made up a room for you—generous quarters behind a lab where you’d set up shop, going to your place in the village a few days a week to check on the villagers.

But now…he wasn’t even sure if you were awake. It was late, and he was left alone in the great hall with scrolls upon scrolls of matters that needed his attention—or his signature, more like—and a plate of fresh fruit, cheese, bread, and wine. The fire crackled in the hearth and the castle once again felt far too vast—with echoes and shadows the only witness to the shell of who he used to be.

He slumped into a chair in front of the fire, pressing his fingers into his eyes as if the sudden kaleidoscopic shapes could drown the king out of him and he’d wake up back at the brothel, but this time with you nestled safely in his arms. His advisors would say it wasn’t “appropriate,” that he needed to stay open to a noblewoman or foreign princess for a political alliance.

He laughed humorlessly without opening his eyes. “Fuck that.”

“Fuck what?”

Arthur jumped, surprised to find you standing in front of him. “I…Y/N, how the hell did you—”

“There’s a smaller, much quieter door in the big door. I keep trying to tell you that and it scares the shit out of you every time,” you chuckle.

Arthur motions to the chair next to him. “Sit, please.” His eyes clock the small box under your arm. “What’s that?”

You drag over the side table so it’s sitting between you and open the lid to reveal your usual board game. “It’s been a while since we played, and I figured you could use a distraction.”

Arthur smiled. “You really want me to smoke you again, darling?”

You snort. “Please, the only games where you’ve won are because you moved the pieces around and I didn’t realize till the end.”

“Whatever helps you sleep at night—ow!” He caught your wrist as you tried to move your hand away from where you’d smacked him upside the head. “Is that any way to treat your king?” He tried to make his voice stern, but would never admit how much he cherished these moments with you. There was no Royal Healer or the Born King here—just Arthur and Y/N, and he could never quite comprehend how lucky he was that you stayed for Arthur even after you met the king.

“A king who’s about to lose.”

Arthur smirked as he lined his pieces up. “Famous last words.”

~~~

“Ha!” you crowed, your voice echoing in the great hall, but an echo he would cherish and prayed stayed ringing in his ears for hours to come.

“You cheated!” Arthur cried and couldn’t contain his laugh at the sincerely offended look on your face.

“I did not!”

“Oh, really? Then lemme see your pockets—”

“No!” you cried with laughter as Arthur shoved the table aside, pieces and cards spilling all over the floor, and yanked you into his lap.

He tried to shove his hands into your pockets, but when you evaded him, went for a different strategy—one he knew you would hate.

You burst into giggles as his hands tickled up and down your sides, trying your best to get away, but he held you firmly against his chest. “Art, I’m going to kill you!”

“That’s treason!” Arthur cried, the sound of your laugh filling his ears like food for a starving man.

You continued to try and wrestle your way out of his grip as his hands found more ticklish spots all over. In your haste, your elbow came back and whacked him hard in the nose. He halted and cried out, bringing a hand to the tender part of his face.

You were immediately off his lap, moving his hand out of the way to inspect his face. “Well, you brought this on yourself.”

“Very funny. Is it broken?”

“No, I didn’t break the royal nose,” you chuckled, earning a laugh from him. “It’s just bleeding. Here.” You pulled a cloth out of your pocket and started dabbing gently at his nostril, eventually holding the cloth there for a few moments.

Arthur took the opportunity to admire you as cared for him—the slope of your cheekbones and nose, the length of your neck, the curve of your jaw. It suddenly hit him like a lightning bolt, and he felt his heart plummet into his stomach.

“Sorry about that,” you murmured, breaking the silence.

“Don’t apologize. I started it.”

You brought the cloth away from his nose, taking a closer look. Close enough that Arthur could feel your breath on his face. “Are you in pain?”

“No. Why?”

“You just look really serious all of a sudden…” You met his eyes and your face fell. “And sad.”

Arthur looked away, chewing on the inside of his cheek. There had been sparks and little touches here and there that had grown bolder recently, but…would you even want to be with him? If you did, he was sure he would fall even deeper in love with you once he courted your properly and after that, there was only one outcome. But maybe you wanted someone whose life was…simpler.

“Art?”

He finally met your eyes again and could see his storm reflected in your face. He hated when you were sad, even if it was for him. You two were fairly similar…what if he pulled you into something you ended up regretting? What if the weight of the crown weighed just as heavy on you as it did him?

He still couldn’t help but watch as you licked your lips, his pants suddenly tight at how close you were, how well he could feel your body heat and smell your skin. “Art, you don’t have to pretend to be all right around me.”

Arthur sighed before taking the bloodied cloth from your hand and pulling you into his lap. You went willingly, straddling his legs and wrapping your arms around his shoulders. He held onto you like a post in a storm. You were a solid whisper in a room full of empty echoes, a warm promise in a court full of numbingly cold faces…You were his world, his rock, his solace. But what about what you wanted? What if you deserved better?

“Art, please talk to me,” you mumbled into his shoulder.

He wrapped his arms even tighter around your middle and buried his face in the crook of your shoulder. “I just…”

“You can tell me.”

“…I need you.”

For a moment, you didn’t respond and he feared he’d gone too far. Maybe you really did want some village man with a simpler life—maybe the castle was only a detour on your way to your own cottage at the edge of the king’s forest, a simple working man your loving husband, the father of beautiful children who he was sure would look just like you—

You pulled back to look at him, hesitantly weaving your fingers through the short hair near the nape of his neck. He closed his eyes and couldn’t help the groan that escaped him as the blunt end of your nails scratched at his scalp perfectly.

“Look at me,” you murmured softly.

He opened his eyes to find your gorgeous face staring at him with nervousness and hope.

“Did you mean that?”

He merely nodded, rubbing his thumb over your waist.

You hesitated before leaning in and pressing your forehead against his, the hand that wasn’t in his hair trailing over his tunic to rub at his chest. As you bumped your nose against his, he felt his heart somersault and hammer against his chest and brought one of his hands up to trace the curve of your neck and jaw. He’d dreamed of this moment so many times, and never expected he’d find such a bright light to lead him through the throne’s shadows. He murmured your name against your lips, pulling you closer against his chest until there was barely a breath between you. “I do need you,” he whispered.

You brushed your lips against his so softly, he feared his emotions would burst out of his chest. “Then show me.”

[baoshan-sanren]

Chapter 27

of the wwx emperor au I’m thinking of calling Lan QiRen’s Terrible, Horrible, No Good, Very Bad Week oh god it’s only gonna get worse

Prologue | Chapter 1 | Chapter 2 | Chapter 3 | Chapter 4 | Chapter 5 | Chapter 6 | Chapter 7 | Chapter 8 Part 1 | Chapter 8 Part 2 | Chapter 9 | Chapter 10 | Chapter 11 | Chapter 12 | Chapter 13 | Chapter 14 | Chapter 15 Part 1 | Chapter 15 Part 2 | Chapter 16 | Chapter 17 | Chapter 18 | Chapter 19 | Chapter 20 | Chapter 21 | Chapter 22 Part 1 | Chapter 22 Part 2 | Chapter 23 | Chapter 24 | Chapter 25 | Chapter 26

WangJi is not familiar with YiLing.

His first sight of the town had been marred by the stress of the six day travel, and all the unpleasantness that the trip had encompassed.  Their inability to find any accommodations for the Lan Sect escort had also contributed to the unfavorable impression. Overall, YiLing is not much smaller than Gusu, but significantly older, its streets and canals having sprouted wherever they were needed.

There is symmetry and regularity to Gusu that has always appealed to WangJi’s need for clearly discernible orderliness; it had been designed with care, roads proportionally wide to the demand, the street market restricted to specific areas built to accommodate the resulting foot traffic.

In contrast, YiLing had formed itself around a popular trade route both by land and by water, and had grown as the fame of the Immortal Mountain had grown, without any order or forethought. Some alleys are wider than the main roads, some are cobblestones and the others dirt, and in some, stubborn weeds and vines have taken root, choking the nearby walls and hedges. Some canals have so many bridges, that one could cross half of YiLing just hopping across them; some only have single, narrow bridge, and those are perpetually clogged by carts and carriages. Handsome mansions sit next to houses of ill repute, next to tanneries and farriers, the stench mixing heavily in the day’s heat. The street markets have taken root wherever there is space, and in many places where they clearly should not have, their stands and awnings blocking the thoroughfare. The result is haphazard at best, an overwhelming chaos made worse by the seven-day festival in honor of the Emperor’s birthday.

Wei WuXian loves it.

WangJi can hardly keep up with him. It is a relief to know that Nie MingJue has stationed multiple members of the Nie Sect throughout the town, because Wei WuXian seems to have entirely forgotten to worry about his own safety. Everything is fascinating to him; everything is new, and exciting, and worthy of exclaiming over. Not a single piece of cloth, or an ornament, or a children’s toy has been overlooked. Wei WuXian has to touch everything, ask about everything, haggle over everything. His smile is so wide and bright that WangJi is finding it hard to focus on anything else. Multiple times, he has found Wei WuXian’s hand wrapped around his wrist, tugging on his sleeve, pressing on his shoulder. He is like a child who needs to see everything, but also needs WangJi to see it as well, even if Wangji hardly has time to offer an opinion, before being tugged to the next stand, the next alley, the next bridge.

Wei WuXian has dressed to blend in. His robes are dark gray, lined in red, sleeves tightly tied off at the wrists. It is a uniform more suited to a rogue cultivator, or perhaps a second or third young master of a middling clan. But WangJi is certain that no set of dark, unadorned robes would ever prevent Wei WuXian from standing out. His smile is infectious; people smile back without meaning to, as if compelled by some invisible force. Those that do not, are still left looking dazed, blinking into the space where his smile had been moments ago. The red ribbon in Wei WuXian’s hair is perhaps the most conspicuous part of his outfit, fluttering as he darts from one corner of the street to another, a bright splash of color WangJi can easily follow even when left behind.

“Did you know you look an awful lot like the Emperor?” an old lady says to him, and Wei WuXian laughs loudly, turning to WangJi.

“Did you hear that Lan Zhan? What do you think? Am I as handsome as the Emperor?”

WangJi feels his face heat, but Wei WuXian is already skipping away, exclaiming over a row of grass butterflies. He buys three of them for A-Yuan, then dashes to the next colorful thing, a row of bright scarves embroidered with lotus flowers.

They have long lost sight of Nie MingJue and XiChen; WangJi knows they had not intended to stick closely to one another throughout the evening, as the sight of two Lan Sect members together may raise suspicion. They do not know if the assassin or their accomplices have eyes and ears in YiLing; the rumors in the Immortal Mountain City have placed the Young Masters of the Lan Sect in the Imperial Gardens, along with the Emperor, and Jiang WanYin had been quite insistent that they do nothing to compromise the plans set in motion. Both WangJi and XiChen had dressed simply enough to be mistaken for the Lan Sect escort still residing outside the YiLing proper, but once they are standing side by side, their resemblance is difficult to ignore. Still, WangJi knows his brother will worry, and wishes he could at least catch a glimpse of him in the crowded streets.

“Lan Zhan! Lan Zhan! Look at this!”

Wei WuXian had stumbled upon rows of paper lanterns, each one delicately painted with a different woodland creature in careful strokes. These are, by no means, the first paper lanterns they have seen on their trek across the market. Later in the evening, when the darkness fully sets, thousands of them will be released to the sky, as is tradition on every fifth day of the Emperor’s birthday festival. But these are the first lanterns WangJi has not found visually overwhelming, and he watches Wei WuXian haggle with the merchant for a little while, before simply stuffing the amount the man had wanted into his hands.

“Lan Zhan! He was going to sell it for less!”

The man shoots Wei WuXian a look that clearly says he was not going to do any such thing, but WangJi does not care either way.

“Which one?” he asks, and that is all it takes for Wei WuXian to become distracted again, exclaiming over hedgehogs and deer, until he settles on a lantern depicting a white rabbit.

“Do you like rabbits, Lan Zhan?”

WangJi nods. He has never before considered his feelings about rabbits in any detail, but now, he finds himself quite fond of them.

“Hm, I think we should eat. What do you think? After, we can find a peaceful spot to watch the lantern festival.”

Anything with a word peaceful in it is more than satisfactory to WangJi, and he nods again, letting Wei WuXian pull him to the nearest winehouse.

The common room is crowded and loud, the stench of alcohol mixing with the sharp scent of spices. Majority of the patrons seem to be merchants, but WangJi sees a few cultivator swords leaning against the table edges, despite the fact that their owners lack discernible sect uniforms. YiLing has always been a popular town for rogue cultivators. The Immortal Empress herself had belonged to no sect or clan, and each year, even the largest Sects see a number of disciples leave to strike out on their own, the idea of being anchorless and sectless doubtlessly more romantic in theory than it turns out being in truth. Still, WangJi is more focused on ascertaining if any of them are Sect members in disguise, than he is on Wei WuXian’s conversation with the serving girl.

Once the proprietor approaches however, he finally recognizes that there is an issue.

A single glance at the man’s face explains the situation fully, and WangJi steps closer to Wei WuXian, who is still visibly confused.

“We should leave,” WangJi says softly.

Wei WuXian does not listen. The common room is crowded, but there are clearly at least two unoccupied tables, and Wei WuXian does not understand why the serving girl would pretend otherwise.

The proprietor, unlike the serving girl, has no qualms about speaking plainly, “The Lan sect is not welcome here.”

WangJi had remained a few steps behind Wei WuXian, and cannot see the expression on his face, but he can perceive the telltale stiffening of his shoulders, the tightening of his grip on the sword. WangJi feels a moment of pity for XiChen, having to deal with his own eerily similar reaction in MoLing.

“Excuse me?” Wei WuXian says, his voice cold.

The exchange has drawn notice of the few nearby tables, most of them occupied by men who clearly know how to use their swords, and WangJi can see this situation escalating past the point where it can be managed peacefully.

He grabs Wei WuXian by the elbow and pulls him backwards, stepping in front of him.

“Forgive my friend,” he says, bowing to the proprietor, “he meant no offense. We are leaving.”

He has to physically push Wei WuXian outside. The line of his back is iron hard under WangJi’s hand, and his grip on the sword has not loosened.

“How dare he?” he bursts out, before they are even fully in the street, and WangJi pushes him harder, hoping to put some distance between them and the common room as quickly as possible.

“Do not be angry,” he says softly.

“Do not be angry?” Wei WuXian spits out, fury making his voice vibrate, “By the time I am done, he will be lucky to run a QiShan whorehouse!”

WangJi steers him down an empty alley, afraid that someone might decide to follow, “We are in disguise. The proprietor mistook you for a rogue cultivator. He did not know that he was insulting the Emperor.”

“He knew he was insulting you!” Wei WuXian whirls to face him, his expression outraged.

This is the second time WangJi has seen him angry in response to the mistreatment of the Lan Sect. It is just as overwhelming as the last time, and he is equally as incapable of formulating the correct response.

���This is YiLing,” he says, “the home of the Empress. The Lan Sect has never been welcome here.”

“Are you saying that they are all like this?” Wei WuXian’s voice is dangerous now, and WangJi does not know how to answer that question in a way that will deescalate the situation.

He should have known that this would happen. He should have steered Wei WuXian away from the places that he knows are likely to refuse to serve him.

It was stupid and thoughtless of him to forget. The evening had been going so well. Wei WuXian had been genuinely happy, and now he is furious, and WangJi does not know how to fix what he had broken.

Feeling agitated and unsure, he reaches for Wei WuXian’s hand, “Do not be angry. The street merchants will not care what sect I am from. We can buy food from them.”

He watches Wei WuXian’s anger bleed away in a rush, but it is replaced by frustration and grief, both nearly as crushing as the anger had been.

His fingers press into the back of WangJi’s hand, “Is it like that everywhere?”

“Sometimes,” WangJi says, “but it does not matter right now. You wanted to eat. We should do so before the festival starts, and the streets become crowded. Come on.”

He tugs Wei WuXian slightly, desperate that the subject be dropped, desperate for the return of the happy, smiling Wei WuXian, who seemed to not have a care in the world.  

Wei WuXian lets himself be led, but it is a long time before he smiles again.

[marktuansvevo]

new years eve

“y/n, do you even know how to smile?” bam asked, his face morphing into one of confusion instead of carefreeness. “it is a party you know!”

you brittled with annoyance at his tone. “why did you even bring me here? look around you, this room is full of couples that i don’t want to be around! you know im still upset about –“

“oh, well fuck me for trying to do something nice for you,” he spat angrily, his usual demeanor gone. “fuck me for trying to get you out of the house and stop moping around, right? i get it okay, youre upset that jungkook broke up with you and youre hurting. but you can’t keep taking your anger out on me.”

you stiffened at his tone. never in your four years of friendship had bam ever once raised his voice at you, nevertheless talk to you so harshly.

“oh, what no sassy comeback about how youre going to die alone?” you winced at that one. “you know what, y/n? im going home. ill ask mark to take you home.”

“bam…don’t go. i-i can leave. this isn’t really my scene….so.”

“you really don’t fucking get it. im leaving, dont wait up.”

you watched as bam walked through the crowd, as if he was parting the red sea. you watched as yugyeom tried to chest bump him but just left.

what did you just do?

“hey, what’s up with bam? is he okay?” jackson said, handing you a shot. “i haven’t seen that dude look so upset in a while, and its new years eve!”

you handed the shot glass to yugyeom who was now by your side. “why don’t we go look for him? this isn’t like him,” your tall friend mused.

“ill go after bam, you guys stay here. ill text you when i get to his place.”

since you weren’t drinking, you waited at the stand for one of the valet boys to get your car for you and drove in an anxiety ridden silence. bambam was one of the most carefree people you knew, and you yearned to be like that. you didn’t know how he could stay so happy and positive all the time, but you wished that could be you. it killed you to think that youre the reason he was so upset, especially since new years was his favorite holiday.

you wished jackson was here with that shot as you knocked on the door. you needed some courage right now.

“bam? bam, please, i need to talk to you,” you rested your head on the door to his apartment, seeing if you could hear one of his cats. before you could pull back, he opened the door and you fell flat on your face.

“y/n!!” bam exclaimed, immediately forgetting how mad he was. he was relieved to see you were giggling at yourself, a telltale sign of his old friend. the one who wasn’t so hung up on her ex.

“h-hey….uhm, can we talk?”

“you go ahead.”

you sighed before bowing your head. “please forgive me, i know ive been such a pain in the ass,” you looked up at him before you reached out and squeezed his hand. “i haven’t been appreciative of you trying to get me out of the house. im sorry.”

“do you know why i asked you to that party?” your best friend asked you, finally smiling a bit.

“to get over jungkook?”

you watched him. “i was going to kiss you at midnight.”

huh?

what was he talking about?

you continued to watch his features, to see if he was joking or not. you looked away from him after studying his face – he was looking at you way too seriously.

“i was going to ask you out, y/n,” bambam spoke gently, tugging on your hand so he could pull you into a hug. “but you kept bringing that cheating asshole up, and i lost my cool, so im sorry.”

“please don’t apologize, i ruined a perfectly good nye party,” you whispered, ignoring his confession.

“y/n….please don’t ignore the question.”

you winked at him. “you didn’t ask me anything.”

he rolled his eyes. “i should have known you wouldn’t make this easy for me. y/n, will you go out with me?”

“of course i will,” you hugged him tighter, looking down at your watch. “oh, and won’t you look at the time?” your watch read 11:59, and bambam smiled, closing the distance between you, and kissing you ever so softly on the lips. you could feel your skin reddening as he moved his hands up to cup your cheeks. you gazed up to see his eyes still closed, looking oh so content.

“you have no idea how long ive wanted to do that,” he was blushing. “happy new years, y/n.”

[gatesofember]

Frailty and Fortune: Chapter 6

PJO Arranged Marriage/Royalty AU Part 10

Rating: T | Pairing: Solangelo

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Summary: A few months have passed since Prince Nico’s wedding to William of Solace. Even with his husband at his side, Will sometimes feels lonely as he settles into his new life. He misses his home, his family, his friends, and his studies in Venadica. Meanwhile, Nico is uncertain how to help him, awkward about expressing himself, and he wonders if he’ll ever be able to truly make his husband happy. As time goes by and Will continues to feel lost in his new home, Will and Nico must both learn how to make their marriage work.

Despite the fiasco with his husband, Will felt more confident than he had in a long time after visiting Phrygia.  For months after his wedding, Will had spent most of his time with Nico or Hazel, but in the rare moments when he was alone, he hadn’t known what to do with himself.  He wasn’t studying, he wasn’t helping with his father’s ranch, and he’d felt so useless that may as well have been wandering around the palace aimlessly.  The Palatium de Divitae had been his new place of residence, but it hadn’t been home.  The trip to Phrygia had reawakened Will’s usual drive and passion and reinstated a sense of self-efficacy that he’d lost sometime after his wedding.  Now that it had returned, Will had no intention of losing it again; he had too much to give Pluto.  Firstly, he had to address the problem of pit pony labor, then there was the abysmal state of Plutonian healthcare and the slow recovery of the economy.  Will had a duty to Pluto.  He couldn’t let the country down.

Will chose to start with the palace infirmary.  It may not have been a matter of state, but Will knew that having a routine and working as a healer would protect him from falling into the cycle of idleness that he’d found himself trapped in before Phryigia, so he decided to try talking to Achlys again.  Unfortunately, Achlys wasn’t any more agreeable on Will’s second attempt than she was his first.  She practically chased him out of the infirmary the moment he showed up.

He’d try again later.

“And so now I’m not quite sure what to do with myself,” Will said.

Mellie hummed sympathetically and removed the hot iron from his hair.  As Will’s personal maid, she helped him with his hair every morning and was therefore the first person to see what clothes Will had chosen for himself, so she often corrected his attire, as well.  Since the wedding, Will had grown closer to Mellie than he’d ever been at his father’s estate.  Her familiar face was soothing in an otherwise foreign home and they often reminisced about Diana and the Sun Palace together.

“Have you spoken to the Prince?” Mellie asked.  “I’m sure he could order the physician to give you something to do.”

“That would make her hate me even more,” Will replied.  “I’m not quite sure exactly what she has against me, but I’d like to get along with her if I’m going to help in the infirmary.”

“True.”  Mellie took a pin from her apron and tucked his hair into place.  “She sounds difficult to get along with, though.  If she’s so rude to the Prince’s husband, then imagine how she must talk to everyone else!  I ought to tell you that you’re better off not working in the infirmary at all.”

“You may be right, but I’m not willing to give up just yet.”

Mellie picked up the hot iron again and moved to work on Will’s other side.  “Well, if I’m ever ill, I’ll skip the infirmary and go straight to you.”

Will smiled.  “Thank you, Mellie.”

“It’s as much for me as it is for you; I’d rather not visit her if I can help it.”  Mellie took another pin from her apron.  “Just a few more pins and you’ll be done.  Is there anything else you need me to do for you before I go?  I’m leaving the palace when I finish here and I won’t be back until this afternoon.”

“Where are you going?” Will  asked.

“I ordered a dress from a seamstress in the city,” Mellie answered.  “I offered to run errands for a few other members of the staff, so there are a couple of other things I’ll need to pick up, as well.”

“Is Hedge going to accompany you?”

Another pin from Melle’s apron.  “No, he has a shift with the Prince.  Pity, though.  I would have liked to spend the day with him.”

“Perhaps I can go with you, then.”

Mellie paused with a pin stuck between her teeth.  After a second, she shook her head and took the pin from her mouth.  “I’m not certain that’s a good idea.  If we were still in Phoebus, I’d take you with me, but I’m still new here in Divitia and I’d hate to get in trouble.”

“I wouldn’t let you get in trouble,” Will promised.  “Please, Mellie?  I don’t have anything else to do and I’d hate to be locked up inside all day.  I’d love to see the city.”

Mellie sighed.  “Do you have any idea how difficult it is to say ‘no’ to you?”

Will brightened.  “Then yes?”

“You can’t go dressed like that,” Mellie said.  “You’ll stand out too much. Put on some of your consor clothes and let’s undo your hair.  And I just put in all that work, too....”

Not an hour later, Will found himself sitting across from Mellie in a horse-drawn cart bound for Divitia.  The palace was on the outskirts of the city and the distance was too far to travel on foot, especially while carrying everything on the list of errands the staff had given Mellie.  When they entered the city, Mellie’s reasoning for opting for a cart rather than a carriage became immediately apparent.  A carriage from the palace would have drawn far too much attention.

Despite having lived in Divitia for the past several months, Will hadn’t seen much of the city.  He’d ridden through in a carriage on a few occasions, but he hadn’t taken the chance to actually get out and walk around on foot.  He’d known that Divitia wasn’t like Phoebus or Venadica, but the state of the city was far worse than he’d anticipated.  The sewage system was in dire need of updating, evidenced by the putrid smell of human waste permeating through the streets, and Will saw more homeless within the span of a minute than he’d ever seen in one place before.  Many of them were children, some elderly, and some closer to Will’s age.  Despite wearing his consor clothes, Will stood out; the fabric of his clothes, though either undyed or neutral in color, was too expensive to blend in.  It didn’t help that Will had bathed in perfumed water that morning and his smell kept drawing attention.  Even Mellie, dressed in her plainest skirts and bodice, was too conspicuous to look like she belonged in the city.

“Haven’t the cattle from my dowry helped the people in the city?” Will asked as Mellie led him through the street to the seamstress’ shop.  “I thought that the new jobs would lessen the poverty.”

“Oh, they have,” Mellie answered.  “The rest of the staff talks about it and even I’ve noticed the change since we first arrived in Divitia.  Unfortunately, it hasn’t helped everyone — or at least, some people aren’t feeling the effects of it yet.  Even several hundred cattle aren’t enough to employ the entire city.  Besides, many people aren’t able to work—they’re too old or too young, or perhaps they’re just not well enough.”

Then disease was a problem, too?  Will didn’t know what kind of expression he was wearing, but when Mellie looked at him, her voice softened reassuringly.  “But your dowry did help them, really.”

“Perhaps improving sanitation should be the next step,” Will said.  “Updating the sewage would cost a great deal of money, but it would offer at least temporary employment to Divitians and it would go a long way to curb the spread of disease in the city.”

Mellie smiled kindly and told him that was a wonderful idea, but Will got the feeling that she was merely being polite.  He didn’t have the opportunity to question her before she opened the door to a dress shop and gestured for Will to enter first.  The seamstress greeted them kindly, mistaking Will for Mellie’s husband.  When Mellie corrected her and introduced Will as another member of the palace staff, the seamstress quickly ushered Will out of the shop, insisting that it wasn’t proper for him to be there while Mellie was being fitted.  Mellie protested until Will assured her that he’d be fine waiting outside.

“Please be careful,” Mellie said, and quietly added, “neither of our husbands will forgive me if I let something happen to you.  Don’t go wandering off.”

“I’ll be right outside the shop,” Will promised.

Mellie looked doubtful, but let Will go.

Outside, Will leaned against the shop’s outer wall and kept himself entertained by watching people in the noisy streets.  Peddlers pushed carts of fruits and fish along the road, shouting out prices as they passed.  Other vendors stood on street corners or in front of shops advertising their wares to pedestrians, like the butcher across the street who was chasing off a graying beggar.  Some of the meat hanging in front of his shop was so fresh that it dripped blood on the road and Will wrinkled his nose in disgust.  The butcher would leave meat out in the crowded, busy street to spoil and gather dirt and dust?  It wouldn’t decay as quickly in Angelus as it would in the heat of Diana, but Will could still smell the telltale stench of rotting entrails coming from the butcher’s shop.

Will’s eyes wandered further down the street, back to where the horse-drawn cart he’d arrived in with Mellie stood waiting for their return.  A group of children had gathered around the horse, some hesitantly reaching out to touch its hide before stopping short and jumping back in fear while their friends laughed.  It was like they’d never seen a horse so close before.  Will debated approaching the children, but before he could, the driver chased them off and they scattered away.

From the other end of the road, Will heard a loud crash and the sound of breaking pottery.  He looked over in time to see a gaggle of teenagers running from a shop with their arms full of bread, quickly followed by an angry baker shouting and waving his fist.  The teenagers proved too fast for the man, bolting down the road and knocking over a cart of fruit to slow the baker down.  Hungry children rushed forward to steal the oranges before the vendor could even start to gather them and the teenagers escaped from view.  The baker shouted a few more profane words before stomping back to his shop.

Will nearly jumped out of his stockings in surprise when the old beggar he’d noticed earlier suddenly appeared right in front of him and said something.  Between the thick Plutonian street accent, the missing teeth, and the scratchy voice, Will had a hard time interpreting exactly what the man was saying.  It was obvious why he’d approached Will, though.  Will reached for his coin purse, but discovered it missing from his coat pocket.  Frowning, he searched his other pockets and found them empty, as well.  He was certain that he’d brought it with him, but—

Ah.  He’d been pickpocketed.

Well, that wasn’t very polite.  They could have just asked.

Will supposed it didn’t matter much in the end; he’d brought the coin purse with the intention of giving coins to beggars and whoever it had ended up with would have far more need of the money than Will.  He would have preferred to distribute the coins among more people, though.

“I don’t have...” Will started, but he stopped himself.  With the way he was dressed, it seemed like a flimsy excuse.  Even in his consor clothes, he was wearing more money than this man had ever had in his life.

Will looked down and noticed the man’s bare feet, dirty and calloused.  The shoes Will wore around the palace wouldn’t be useful for someone who lived in the city—they were too stiff, designed for fashion rather than function—but Will had changed into a more comfortable pair before leaving with Mellie.  Will lifted a foot and took off one shoe, then the other, and offered them to the beggar.

“Someone took my coins, but you can have my shoes,” he said.

The man gave Will a wide, gap-toothed smile accepted the shoes gratefully and wished Will the gods’ blessings, then scurried away like he thought Will might change his mind.

Mellie emerged from the seamstress’ shop a moment later with the news that her dress would be finished in an hour.  She took out the list of errands the staff had asked her to run and gestured for Will to follow her further down the street.  Will trailed behind her and stopped a few shops down to stand on his toes and peer over a crowd gathered around a store front to see what had them so interested.  He managed to catch sight of a satirical cartoon, but couldn’t figure out what it depicted before Mellie noticed he wasn’t beside her anymore and called for him to hurry up.

It wasn’t until Mellie accidentally stepped on Will’s toes when she took a sudden turn that she noticed his shoes were missing.

Mellie blinked at his feet, like she wasn’t sure she was seeing things correctly.  “What happened to your shoes?”

“They got muddy,” Will lied.

Mellie raised an eyebrow.  “So you took them off to get your stockings muddy, too?”

Will wiggled his stocking-clad toes on the warm, dirt covered stone road.  “Yes.  Well.  Um.  I figured, why stop there?  May as well dirty the rest of my clothes.”

Mellie sighed.  “You gave them away, didn’t you?”

“My coin purse was missing!  And there was a poor old man with bare feet and I couldn’t just give him nothing—”

“You were pick-pocketed, too?  Really, you need to learn to be more aware of your surroundings.  You’re lucky you weren’t mugged!  What was I thinking, bringing you into the city?  I have half a mind to make you wait in the cart until I finish.”

Will didn’t mean to pout, but he did it anyway.

Mellie pursed her lips.  “Oh, stop it.  You know I can’t be upset with you when you look at me like that.  I won’t make you wait in the cart, but don’t complain to me when your feet start to hurt.  You’ll have to do without shoes until we get back to the palace.  Come on, follow me.”

Mellie led Will towards the next street.  She nearly had to pull him along when Will stopped to watch a group of hungry children and skinny dogs picking through the discarded viscera in the alley behind the butcher’s shop, searching for something salvageable to eat.  Will stopped again a few shops down when a fight broke out across the street.

“Shouldn’t we stop it?” Will asked.

“Absolutely not,” Mellie said.  “This is exactly the kind of trouble you shouldn’t be getting into.”

“But—”

“You’d just end up making the situation worse.  Now, hurry up—we won’t get back to the palace before dark at the pace you’re moving!”

Mellie ushered Will along.  She dropped off a watch for repairs at a clockmaker’s store, then picked up a pair of shoes from the cobbler.  (Regrettably, they were women’s shoes and far too small for Will to borrow.)  Mellie was purchasing some fabrics when Will was approached by a small, skinny, dirty child who said nothing, but held out his hand to ask for money.

Will looked at Mellie.  “Can you spare a few coins?”

“You shouldn’t have gotten pick-pocketed,” Mellie said.  “Be more cautious next time.”

“But he’s just a child,” Will insisted.  “Please, Mellie, I’ll pay you back when we get home.  I’ll pay you double, even.”

Mellie sighed.  “Oh, alright.  Just this once.”

So she said, but by the time they returned to the dress shop, Will had convinced Mellie to hand coins out to three more children and he’d lost his coat to an expecting mother.  He had to pawn off four of his waistcoat’s buttons to the seamstress help Mellie pay for her dress.

“I’m sorry I took all your coins,” Will mumbled on the way back to the cart, his arms filled with the bundles of fabric that he was helping Mellie carry.

“I’m sorry I took your buttons,” Mellie answered.  “Let’s consider it even.  Next time, watch your pockets.”

They arrived back at their cart and the driver helped them in, and for a while, Will was quiet.  It was one thing for him to lose his coin purse—Will could handle that.  But what about the poor baker who the teenagers stole bread from, or the vendor whose cart of oranges had toppled over?  They’d lost a full day’s income.  The Divitians who’d stolen were hardly to blame, either; Will had little doubt that if they could have paid, they would have.

“Is something bothering you?” Mellie asked.

Will sighed.  “It’s just that the city is so poor.  Maybe the cattle from my dowry have helped, but there’s still such a long way to go.  I thought that sanitation work could help more, but you didn’t seem to agree with the idea earlier.”

“It’s not that it’s a bad plan,” Mellie quickly assured him.  “It’s a wonderful plan, really.  Only, it won’t fix everything.  The city��s problems are far too deep and complicated.”

“Because not everyone can work?” Will asked.

“Yes, that’s part of it,” Mellie answered.  “But there are other problems, too, like...well, let’s take one example.  Something the staff talks about is the issue with people around your age who were orphaned as children during the Scarlet Delirium.  Those who would have been apprenticed to their parents never learned trades, and without parents, they have no dowries, so many of them are struggling to gather enough money marry now that they’re old enough.  And if they have children without getting married, their children will face all sorts of problems—you know how Plutons are about that sort of thing.”

“Surely employment can help, then,” Will said.  “Then they’ll be able to raise enough money to marry.”

“But usually their parents take care of dowry payments,” Mellie said.  “Parents start dowry funds as soon as a child is born.  They save money for years.  For people who are trying to get married right now, it’s too late to start saving—they spend most of what they earn just trying to survive.  Even children who didn’t lose their parents are struggling.  For years, families hardly have had any leftover money to save and some parents even had to use the dowry funds of their children to keep their families alive.”

Will frowned.  Venadica had programs to care for orphans, so Will wasn’t familiar with the problems parentless children usually faced.  Leo had been fortunate enough to be born in Venadica.  He’d lived in the children’s ward until he was old enough to move to the consor dormitories, and had never lived on the streets or gone hungry.  The Sorority even had dowry funds for Venadican orphans—Will recalled Leo mentioning it once.  But Venadica couldn’t finance the dowries of every orphan in Pluto, nor could Will send every orphan to Venadica.

Will wondered if Reyna knew about the problem with the orphans.  He’d have to discuss this with her.

“Mellie,” Will said.  “I’d like to come back to the city with you some time.  Perhaps we can do this again?”

“Perhaps,” Mellie answered.  “Just make sure to keep your hand on your coin purse next time.  You’re too easily distracted.”

Will sighed.  Mellie knew very well that the incident earlier that day hadn’t been the first time Will had gotten pick pocketed.  She’d told him many times that he was far too sheltered to survive outside of a palace.  Living in Venadica didn’t count, she’d told him; the Matestra would never let anything happen to her nephew while he was in the Sororal City.

When they reached the palace, several members of the staff rushed forward wearing terrified expressions, demanding to know where they had been all day.  One ran inside to notify everyone that the Prince’s consort had been found while the others wasted no time berating Mellie for bringing Will into the city.

“No one knew where you were!” one maid said.  “The Prince has been out of his mind with worry.  What were you thinking, bringing His Highness into the city with you?”

“Mellie was only doing as I ordered,” Will said.  “She tried to refuse, but I insisted.”

Mellie cast Will a grateful glance when the staff stopped chiding her in favor of fussing over Will.  They took the rolls of fabric he was carrying and urged him to go inside and find the Prince to give him some peace of mind.  One manservant hurried ahead of him to draw a bath even after Will insisted that he would be fine using the washbasin.

At their persistence, Will entered the palace to find his husband, flinching at the first touch of the cold marble floors against his stocking-clad feet.  He didn’t have to look long; Nico appeared almost immediately on the landing above him and called his name while he ran down the stairs. 

“There you are!” Nico said.  “I’ve been looking for you all day!  Where have you been?”  He halted when he reached the bottom step, looking Will over with a confused frown.  “What are you wearing?”

“I went into town with Mellie,” Will said.  He pecked Nico’s lips in greeting before starting up the stairs.  “I was just about to wash up and change my clothes.  I had a wonderful day, but I feel so filthy after spending all that time roaming the streets.”

Nico’s frown only deepened.  “You went...to town?”

“Mm,” Will replied.  “Mellie had some errands to run and I asked to accompany her.  She picked up a new dress and did a few favors for the rest of the staff.”

After standing at the base of the stairs for a moment, Nico hurried after him.  “Didn’t you bring a guard with you?”

“I didn’t see a need to,” Will answered.  “Please don’t scold Mellie for it, though—she’s gotten in enough trouble already.  Besides, no one in Divitia knows me well enough to recognize me yet and I wore the plainest clothes I own.  I was perfectly safe and inconspicuous.  Well, I tried to be inconspicuous, anyway.  But it was nice to explore the city on foot.  I hadn’t had the chance to do that yet.”

Nico followed Will as he turned to the corridor leading to their apartments.  “Didn’t you at least inform anyone you’d be leaving?”

Will shook his head.  “That didn’t occur to me.  I suppose I should’ve.  Apologies for worrying you.”

“Well, make sure to tell me next time,” Nico said in an uncertain tone, like he didn’t quite trust Will’s assurances about the lack of danger.  “And take a guard with you.  Anyway, where are your shoes?  And your coat?  And what happened to your buttons?”

“Oh, right,” Will said with a glance at his clothes.  “Well, there was a poor old man with bare feet and I lost my coin purse, so I gave him my shoes.  After that, I met a charming young lady who was expecting and the least I could do was give her my coat—it’s not like I don’t have plenty more.  Then I convinced Mellie to give some of her coins away to hungry children and she didn’t have enough left for her dress, so I offered the seamstress my buttons to pay for what she couldn’t.”

Nico was quiet for a moment, so Will turned and prepared himself to be scolded again.  To his surprise, Nico clapped his hands on either side of Will’s face and tugged him into a kiss.

“You are far, far too kind for your own good, Will,” Nico said.  “And by the gods, I love you for it.”

Nico kissed him a second time, then a third, then he took Will by the hand and pulled him the rest of the way to their apartments, insisting that Will deserved a warm bath and a nice meal.

[fieryaxolotl]

Saurianne/Asra: things we said/did to try to reach a compromise.

As usual, this took waaaaaaay too long but I really hope you like ^-^

(Un-betaed, all mistakes are mine)

*********************************************

Asra sat down on the bed. His mind was still swirling after the afternoon’s events.

As usual, his parents had come over to the shop after having spent the day at the Palace, pouring over city plans and trying to fix Lucio’s many mistakes. Not to mention improving the lives of Vezuvia’s citizens. It was also only a few days after the visit of Saurianne’s old companions. He still didn’t know what to think of it. He knew she had been a seasoned traveller.

Before her death in any case.

Still, there was a difference between being well-travelled, and to learn his lover used to be an actual experienced battle mage. And rushing head-on to face demons and raving warriors alike. Not that he should be surprised, really. He was well aware that Saurianne has never been one to remain safely in the sidelines after all. 

“You know… The smoke will eventually come out of your ears if you keep on like this.” Asra snorted and turned around.

Saurianne was sitting back against the bed’s headboard. Her hair, loosely tied in a braid, hung over of her shoulder. She was smiling, her golden eyes glowing fondly in the fairy lights hung above the bed.

How long had he wished for her to look at him like that?

Then, his eyes fell on the book she was holding on her lap. It was her old grimoire. And he knew well why she was going over it.

Salim had been in the middle of describing their current plan for the Lazareth when Barris, Saurianne’s old friend, stepped through the door, closely followed by the mage called Dorian. They were on their way back home and had only stopped to say their goodbyes. That was until Dorian spotted Salim, and the pile of numerous plans and ideas laid on the table, and had rushed over for a better look.

It turned out that Salim also knew of Thedas. Soon, he, Dorian, Barris and Saurianne started talking animatedly, trading stories and news. When Asra had looked over to his mother, hoping to get some sort of answers, Aisha only shook her head. The story was obviously his father to tell. The talking continued well into the evening, with the stories becoming wilder as the hour grew longer. 

Until Salim mentioned their latest troubles with the rebuilding of the Lazareth. Dorian became all focused and started asking for more details and pointed questions. Asra already knew about the issue since it wasn’t the first time it had happened.

Nadia planned to build a monument that would serve as a memorial for all the victims of the Red Plague. Salim and Aisha had started to draft up plans and, with surprisingly good input from Valerius, the project finally had started. His parents were happy, Nadia was happy, everyone was happy, until strange problems started to occur. Nothing major but… tools kept on disappearing, accidents barely avoided, eerie whispers surrounded the teams until everyone left, claiming the island was haunted.

“Well… I believe your workers are not wrong…” Dorian pointed out. “See this?” he asked, grabbing one of Salim’s sketches, “This is the handiwork of a necromancer. And a very pissed off one at that, if I may so.”Asra tried very hard not to glance at Saurianne. Who, of course, leaned over for a better look.

“I think I know this marking…” she said, her fingers tracing over the symbols.“I would hope so!” Dorian snorted. “After all, you were the one who designed it!”

Everyone stayed silent for a moment before starting to talk all at once. Salim, louder than the rest, asked how Saurianne had managed to do it. Asra stayed silent. Their inner circle knew the whole story about Saurianne and the deal he made with the Devil. It’s not a story he cares to share.

In the end, it was suggested that Saurianne would the one helping Salim and Aisha calm the Lazareth’s spirits down. Considering, as Dorian put it, she had been the one calling out to them in the first place. Unfortunately, Saurianne had agreed with him and had started to dig through all of her books and notes, looking for a way to undo her spell work.

“You disapprove.”

Asra blinked, startled out of his ruminations. He hadn’t moved from his spot and Saurianne was still watching him carefully.

“You disapprove.” she repeated.

“Ah… Would it actually matter if I did?” He regretted the words as soon as they left his mouth. 

“Asra…” Saurianne’s voice held a warning, her eyes now cautious. They had talked about this, many MANY times before. And yet, he couldn’t help himself.

“I’m sorry…”

He twisted around and leaned forward until he could press his ear against her chest, listening to her heartbeat. It was usually enough for him to calm down and ground him. She was angry thought. He could feel it.

While she did let him try and get comfort, she stayed stiff and unmoving underneath his cheek. And, althought he could hear her heart pounding slowly beneath his ear, it also brought many memories. Memories he’d rather forget.

“I’m sorry.” he said again.

“You said it before. I have to wonder if you mean it really.”

Asra hugged her hard before answering. “I’m sorry for making you angry…?” His voice lifted a little at the end, hoping to make her smile. Or, at least, dissipate the sudden tension.

“Asra…” he could hear the eye roll in her voice.He rolled his head so he could look up at her. “Hmmmm…?”Saurianne scoffed and poked his cheek. “That is not what I meant, and you know it.”“It’s not?” Asra blinked innocently.“Don’t make me zap you.” She warned, poking his cheek a little harder. Asra chuckled softly and sat up, his hands on either side of Saurianne’s hips. “You know this is important to me.” she stressed; her eyes serious.

“I know… “he said, leaning forward until he could press his forehead against the soft curve of her neck. It was always easier when he could touch her.

Thankfully, she understood his intent and slid her hands up his back, before cradling the back of his neck. Her book was tossed aside, forgotten for the moment. Asra took a deep breath, the scent of her natural perfume instantly relaxing him. “I’m sorry…” he mumbled against the flesh of her neck.

Saurianne simply hummed, “But..?”

Asra’s arms instantly wrapped around her waist, as if he needed to be sure she was really there. And maybe, just maybe, he *did* want to make sure.

“But… What if… something goes wrong?” he said after a time, his face still hidden against her neck. “What if… it’s too strong a spell for you to undo? What if..?” He didn’t say it out loud but the image of the shallow grave and half burned bones was still strong in his mind. He didn’t know much about necromancy but, given Saurianne’s past, he thought his fears were justified.

She hummed again, her hand still cradling the back of his head and neck. “What if you came along with me and Dorian?” she asked after a time.“What?!” He moved back to look at her better.“What if you came along with me and Dorian?” she repeated. “You know we’re much stronger together than apart.” Not to mention that it would prevent him from turning the shop upside down while waiting for her to come back.

And most people thought *Julian* was a drama queen…

“But… What about the shop?” Asra frowned.

They had gained a steady clientele and could ill-afford to close for too long. Not if they wanted to keep on going on month-long vacation as they often did during the drought season. “Dee is still exploring the North with Muriel…” His eyes widened. “You can’t be serious!”

Saurianne shrugged, trying to keep her expression neutral. One that was betrayed by the telltale twitch of the left side of her mouth and the teasing light in her eyes. “You have a better idea?”

“No! But…” Asra thought quickly of a better solution. None came to mind. All the sorcerers he could trust would be with them at the Lazareth, except for Muriel and Diana who were away. And Nadia’s sisters had all gone back to Prakan, except for Natiqa. But Saurianne would never forgive him if he even dared to even suggest her. Not that he would but that mean it only left… “But he doesn’t even trust magic!” he groaned, burying his face against Saurianne’s neck again.

She just laughed. Asra moved back to look at her. “Why are you laughing? You know I’m right.”“I’m sure Lranja will keep him in check.” Saurianne tried to reassure him but she was still chuckling. Asra pouted for a moment before laying his head on her chest again. He could feel Saurianne’s barely contained laughter rumble against his cheek.

“Fine,” he grumbled at last, “but if he over stockpile leeches again, YOU are the one handling them.”“Eh?!”

Asra just smiled, well aware of how much Saurianne HATED leeches.

[sanctum-of-fantasy]

24 16 Albafica/Shion

24 - Right before a passionate/first kiss 

16 - “There’s nothing to be scared of, okay? I’m right here.”

I’m so sorry this took so long! But please enjoy some fluff consisting of Albafica looking after a workaholic Aries and realizing he doesn’t have to worry about being near people!

He didn’t consider himself to the worrying type of person,cautious yes but that was a trait that served him well as Pisces Saint, betweenbattles and the poison that ran in his veins. Yet he was human and that meantmany things, such as certain emotions surfacing when he was sure he had firmlylocked them away. And despite his efforts of keeping others at length therewere some that managed to push past the barriers. From the loud and wild Kardiawho always dared to sneak up on him (Failing each time). The ever courteousDegel who was always mindful of his boundaries but always passed him books hethat he thought Albafica might be interested in. To the kind Aldebaran whoalways made small talk when he spotted him, asking how he fared and how hisgardens were. Even the thorn in his side that called himself Manigoldo managedto slip past and called him friend.

And then were was Shion, who stirred emotions in him witheven the simplest action. A lingering presence when they spoke, a laugh when hemade some small joke and so, truly fearless enough to visit him regularly enoughfor any reason. “I enjoy your company” the Aries Saint had explained once whenhe asked and Albafica could still remember the warmth that spread on hischeeks.

The last time he seen the other man, he had just returnedfrom a trip to Jamir at the request on the Pope. Clearly tired, between hisattempts to hide any yawns and the dark marks under his eyes but still kind andstayed for a small chat before he headed back down the path.

That had been several days ago and though he had seen theothers plenty of times the Aries Saint was missing. At first Albafica hadsimply thought that the other was adjusting back to day-to-day life ofSanctuary, but there was a nagging feeling in the back of his heart. Had hefallen ill? Flus traveled easily enough, and a tired body could catch iteasier. Had he overworked himself again? He remembered Degel storming up thepath once, mumbling about “damn workaholics” and “shouldn’t push himself sohard.” With those thoughts storming inside and without any tasks that needed tobe done immediately Albafica steeled himself and headed down towards the firsttemple.

Fortunately from him, he was a master of dodging the otherinhabitants of the Zodiac Path, so the trop down was quick and quiet. Whichpleased him enough, the last thing he wanted was to spark any rumors or teasingabout something. Normally he would have announced himself when he enteredanother’s temple as well but considering how silent Aries Temple waswhen he reached the center chamber, he decided to skip the etiquette. Quiet andAries Temple simply did not mix, like oil and water, between the sounds of theCloth Smith at work or him fussing at Dohko or Kardia when those troublemakersbothered him.

No hammering, no shouting or laughter, nothing. It wasalmost unnerving, but he was determined.

He checked the library first, then the kitchens and Shion’sstudy, only to find them empty. The only place he thought to check last was theroom Shion set aside to repair the Cloths. Briefly he thought of checking theAries’ bedroom, but he quickly shoved that away.

‘I just hope he’s alright’ Albafica thought with a frown ashe tapped his knuckles against the repair room door, noting it wasn’tcompletely closed. He expected to hear some sort of sound when he came close, aclank of metal or Shion’s quiet murmuring but he found the opposite. It wasquiet, distant but clear enough for him to catch.

Begging, gasps, cries in a language he did not know.

“Shion?” He jerked, calling out to the Saint louderthan he intended as he shoved open the door and grimaced.

The repair room was always a bit of a mess but now it lookedas if a twister can come through it. Several Bronze Cloths laid scatteredaround, in various pieces and stages of damage, fragments clustered together.The panicked sounds came again, louder now as he perked up, twisting his headtowards the source.

“Shion?” He repeated, a bit louder as he looked over theroom, stopping when he locked eyes on a pile of blankets that were tucked intoa far corner, shifting. As he squinted his eyes Albafica could catch the faintsight of Shion’s pale hair between the blankets. Immediately, he stepped closeand crouched down, calling out his’ friend’s name again as the other tossed inhis makeshift bed.

“Shion? You need to wake up” He muttered, twisting onehand into his tunic as he pressed the other flat against the ground. He bit at acorner of his lip when the other didn’t respond, still trapped in a nightmare. “Shionplease” He called out louder before jerking back as Shion let out a strangledcry.

His heart twisted, oh how he wanted to reach out and shakethe other awake, but he just couldn’t. Couldn’t risk harming anotherbecause of his carelessness.

He’d never forgive himself.

A blanket was tossed away reveling Shion’s tense and tearridden face, his mouth mumbled words that he couldn’t hear or understand as hetossed his head.

‘Your blood is harmless if it’s all inside you’ Manigoldohad said once, when they were on a mission in Italy. ‘You shouldn’t be afraidto reach out man, it’s not healthy.’

Maybe the Cancer was right.

Albafica took a chance, as he swore under his breath andreached out to gently shake the Aries Saint by a shoulder. “Shion? Shion, comeon, wake up. It’s me Albafica!” he said, trying his best to keep his voice even.

A gasp came from Shion, warm, brown eyes snapped open and heshot up causing Albafica to jerk backwards. The Aries touched along his armsand face until he settled one hand against his chest as he panted.

“Shion? Are you alright? Albafica managed to say aftergasping at the sudden movement.

Shion twitched in his place, twisting his head to face himwith wide eyes. “A-Albafica? How-why-gods forgive me! I didn’t mean tostartle you” He said, voice cracking as he tried to slow down his breathing andprocess his sudden awakening.

The Pisces shook his head and waved a hand “Don’t apologizefor anything, you couldn’t help having a nightmare.” Athena knew, it happenedto them all at one point or another.

“I shouldn’t have dozed off in the first place. There’s toomuch to be done” The Cloth Smith groaned, leaning his back against the wall.

Albafica frowned and turned his head, leaning back to grab theglass bottle of water he spotted nearby and handed to the other. “We all needsleep Shion, it seems you have been working particularly hard lately” hereplied. The Cloths he had spotted still had the telltale stains of battle andrepair on them, chances were they had been in worse shape when they firstarrived.

“You are too kind” Shion shuck his head, hair spilling outof the loose ponytail “These came to me two nights ago, I’ve been trying to repairthem as quickly as I could.”

A thought entered Albafica’s mind when he heard those wordsand he gave the Aries a leveled look. “Please tell me you haven’t been pullingall night sessions?” he asked, voice low as Shion blinked and looked away,rolling the bottle in his hands.

“Shion” He groaned and resisted the urge to rub athis face.

“What brings you here Albafica? Not that I mind youvisiting, I’m just …surprised I suppose” He replied, still looking away.

“I- “Albafica began, mind whirling over to explain he wasworried about the other before he shook his head, tsking. “Do not change thesubject, I will go get Degel if you don’t allow yourself to rest” hedidn’t want to bring the Aquarius into this, but he couldn’t stand theidea of someone he cared for neglecting his health.

That however did catch Shion’s full attention as he straightenedhis back and tensed up, waving a hand as he looked back over to him, a slightlook of panic on his face. “No need for that! Perhaps a rest truly is inorder! But there’s no reason to bother Degel about this” he said, laughing slightly.

Albafica smiled and nodded “How about I make some tea then?I’ll join you for a while.”

***

“Are you sure, you don’t need my help with anything?” Heasked, setting down the tray on the only clear spot he could find on Shion’sdesk. He crossed his arms as he turned back to the other Saint, watching as hepulled his hair back into a ponytail and rubbed at his eyes.

‘What kind of nightmare plagued you, my friend?’ He wonderedbefore Shion gave him a tight smile and nodded.

“Don’t worry, I’m just getting to tidy some of this mess up beforeI retire for the day. It shouldn’t take me long to do. You don’t have to stayif you don’t want to either” He answered.

‘Easier said than done’ Albafica wanted to say. Instead hesighed quietly, glancing down to his hands. He wasn’t wounded, his blood was nothreat and Shion showed no signs of becoming ill from being near him. That’swhat he kept repeating to himself but… well decades of holding onto a beliefcouldn’t be changed so easily.

In the meanwhile, he could make sure the Cloth Smith didn’twork himself to the point of exhaustion again. If Shion even thought about arguingabout it, he’d pull him away if he had too, Albafica decided.

“I think I would like to say” He said, looking up to see Shionsmile so brightly, sending a wave of emotion over Albafica’s heart.

The Aries kept to his promise, that he just wanted to cleanup some of the parts he had been working on before. A few baskets had beenpulled out of a storage closets to keep each Cloths piece together, smallerfragments had been placed into cloth bags as Shion muttered to himself to “Fixthat as soon as he could.”

Whatever had happened to the Cloths must have beendangerous, though Bronze Cloths were the weakest of them all, they were stillstrong and incredibly hard to even dent. A bitter thought entered Albafica’smind then and he frowned.

“Shion?” He asked.

“Yes Albafica?” Shion called back, running a rag over one gauntlet,likely freshly repaired.

“What happened to the Saints that wore these Cloths? Did theyfall?” He questioned, looking over to the closest one to him. It’s form in toomany pieces and broken to tell which constellation it was shaped after. Many ofthe Bronzes he knew of, were younger, most being teens or entering their firstyears of true adulthood.

For a moment the only sound he heard was Shion setting down thepiece of armor and picking up another. “They got caught in an ambush, but itwasn’t fatal to any. They managed to take down their attackers and returnedwith only bruises and cuts. His Holiness and Athena have removed them from anyduties until they’re well rested and healed” he answered, tone light as it wasclear he was relieved as well.

“Thank goodness for that” Albafica sighed. “What that thecause of you’re nightmare?” He asked, jerking when Shion tensed up.

“Forgive me, I didn’t mean to overstep my limit” He quicklyadded, lifting a hand as he shifted to move from the chair.

“No” Shion said, turning to face him “It’s alright, I don’tmind. The nightmare was…. a memory I hadn’t expected to encounter. An old onefrom a battle long ago.”

Albafica rose a brow at that “From long ago?”

Shion shook his head “Yes, I-I know this might sound strangebut the Cloths, all of them, they carry memories of the ones that wore them.Sometimes, when I repair them, I catch glimpses of these memories.”

“It doesn’t sound strange to me” He replied. His father hadtold him long ago that the Cloths were alive in a way, so the idea of themcarrying memories made sense. Albafica learned that truth when he asked whyPisces Cloth was constantly in a pool they had in Pisces Temple.

He also remembered fondly of how his father told him of thetime Pisces had leapt out of that pool and slapped itself into his chest like aliving fish out of water.

“That is…pleasant to hear, thank you Albafica” Shionblinked, as if stunned at first before his posture relaxed and his kindexpression returned.

The Aries looked around him and laughed “Well, it seems I’vefinished quicker than expected yet the day is already beginning to end. Weshould both head off to sleep then.”

Albafica hummed in a reply and stood, turning to leave “Companyas I’m learning, has an odd way of passing time quicker than anyone expects.Though I believe I have taken up much of your time, so I think I’ll return to my-“

“Wait” Shion said, nearly shouted as he grasped theedge of Albafica’s sleeve.

He froze, sparks running down his back as he looked behindhim. Shion looked away, an unknown emotion on his face. “Shion?” He asked,voice nearly cracking as he felt his heart speed up.

“I, sorry Albafica, I just…. might I ask one thing of you?”The Aries asked, voice low enough to be a whisper.

“What is it my friend?”

Shion took a breath before he looked up, locking eyes withhim and said one simple sentence that nearly stopped Albafica’s heart. “Wouldyou like to stay the night?” He asked.

His mind screamed, his heart leapt and before Albafica knewwhat happened he replied “Yes.”

***

His heart was pounding in his ears, even as he tried tosettle it. Was it the anxiety of being so close to another person or the joy ofit? How much had he wanted to simply be close to someone? Albafica couldn’t sayfor sure, it had been an eventful day and his thoughts were scattered to the wind.It’s was bad per say just different, very different.

From his spot, he could see Shion shift into a comfortableposition in the bed, tugging up the blankets and tossing onto his side, playingwith the edge of one as he bit his lip. The Aries was as nervous as himself,even with something as simple as sleeping next to each other. Albafica smiledthough and wanted to chuckle at the idea of two grown warriors acting likeyoung teens in love.

In love, they were, weren’t they?

“Are you sure you’re alright with this? I understand if you’dlike to leave, you’ve done so much as it is” Shion spoke, voice low and calm. Stillso pleasant to listen to and calming to Albafica’s own anxiousness.

He shook his head “I’ve made up my mind Shion, do not worryabout me, I think I’ll be just fine.”

“I’d hate to ruin your own sleep Albafica or cause youanymore trouble, really I’d not be- “Shion began, sitting up on an elbow as heran a hand through his hair.

Albafica held up a finger to his lips, quieting the otherSaint just for a moment. There was a chance what he was about to do was a badidea, but for now, just for a few hours he’d allow himself this luxury. Thingshad worked out so far after all and he could not bear the idea of leaving Shionto his nightmares.

So he leaned forward, feeling the warmth of Shion’s lipsagainst his. Heat spread to his cheeks as he did and as he pulled back, Shion’smouth was agape and his own cheeks were pink.

“There’s nothing to be scared of, okay? I’m right here”Albafica said, hoping to sooth the last parts of Shion’s worried and nightmareridden mind.

Shion sighed, relaxing and leaning forward slightly to kisshim back, which Albafica did not refuse. The warmth in his chest and shiverdown his back was too pleasant.

“You have no idea how much those words mean to hear” Hewhispered, one hand gently cupping one of his cheeks as settled back down onthe bed, looking up with half open eyes.

There was no harm in this, Albafica swore and he wanted thistoo much to let any doubt stop him. His heart had ached for such things and tolearn that Shion wanted this too was…incredible. This wouldn’t be the last timehe’d be around Shion in such ways, he was sure of it. He knew that in theirlives, in their dedication to their Goddess and to protecting the rest of humanity,what they were about to start few others considered possible. He didn’t mind though;he swore he’d enjoy every moment.

With one final look towards Shion, he leaned back againsthis pillow, one hand gently brushing through Shion’s hair and closed his eyes.Content to be where he was and sleep.

[passage-of-arms]

Crosses pt. 2

Renaud's boots fell heavy on the stone path leading to Anyx Trine, while the man navigated the ruined stonework strewn about. The Elezen had never been this deep into the Forelands, his duties as a knight rarely taking him past the gates of Tailfeather. His heart thudded heavily in his chest, every instinct screaming at him to turn back, his gaze darting about with same keen-eyed caution he'd learned all those years ago.

"This is a mistake." Came a hiss from the back of his mind. "They'll know. They'll kill us."

"Silence." He uttered back, pausing at the gargantuan gate that marked the entrance to the tower. He heard the telltale beats of Dravanian wings. A bead of sweat rolled down his forehead as he swallowed thickly, tentatively making his way into the structure. It took every fiber of his being not to reach for his greatsword.

His footfalls echoed throughout the chamber as he entered, the Aetheryte casting a glow about the chamber. He was silently pleased that no dragons milled about the chamber. He ascended after a moment's pause at the crystal, eventually rounding into the second floor chamber. There was an eerie silence, broken only by the rumbling voice of a Dravanian hidden in Renaud's blindspot.

"Son of Man," Came the echoing timbre of it's voice. "For what reason hast thou come here?" Piercing amber eyes peered out at the Elezen.

Renaud visibly jumped, though he still fought his instinct to draw steel. He swallowed the knot forming in his throat, as he righted himself and spoke, staving off the tremor in his tone. "I... I come on pilgrimage. To atone for my sins."

The Dravanian's head canted, a rumbling hum echoing through the chamber. There was curiosity in the being’s tone, a certain glint in it’s eyes. “My question remains.”

The Elezen steadied a shake in his hand, a shaky breath making it's way free. "I am formerly of the Holy See. Many of you and yours fell to me, as did many of mine fall to yours. Full well do I wish to correct my past mistakes."

"I see." The words came simply as the dragon lumbered up onto trunk-like limbs. "Dost thou seek the forgiveness of myself? Of my kin? Full bright did our vengeance burn during the Dragonsong. We bear no ill-will, not anymore."

"I do." Renaud's tone started to steady, his posture righting. "To speak with those I called foe brings memories forth that I long wished to forget. But I cannot continue like this. To confront it may bring me some manner of peace."

"Son of Man." The dragon rumbled again. "Thou needest not prostrate to myself and my kin. Thou needest not beg our forgiveness. Thou hast seen what vengeance and hatred hath wrought. Thou hast felt it keenly as well, I feel."

The Elezen was quiet for a long moment. "...I have, yes."

"The past is past. Thou must keepeth thy gaze ever forward, and forgive thyself. Lest thou burn with the same rage that burned within us all. The war is ended, for us. Tis time that it end for thee, as well."

There was another pause, before the knight offered a brief bow of his head. "I... appreciate your words. I am Renaud, you have my thanks."

"I am Eehs Fhail. May thou find some manner of peace, son of Man."

Renaud stepped out from the tower with far less weight than before. His gaze turned up to the stars above, a sigh on his lips.

"My crosses to bear, my own forgiveness to seek." He murmured softly.

There was a long pause before the knight once more took to the path, his return to Tailfeather illuminated by the night sky.

[house-vexile]

~Forsaken~

“We need to keep moving. Either you fall behind and stay with what remains of your boy, or you leave him and stay with the group. But we are not slowing down just to watch your son die.”

Sarangerel followed behind her mate as he led her off the main path, her chin turning to the side every few steps so she could watch her tribe-mates move further and further away from the corner of her eye. Every single one of them watched her for at least a breath or so. Nhaama, but each set of eyes was so heavy, so horrible. They may as well have shot a hundred arrows and slayed her as she walked away.

She deserved it, considering her son’s fragile and sleeping form that she held against her breast.

Chuluun did not look back. Judgment be damned. He had been given an order, grave as it was. Any one of them would have done the same. Why was he to bear their whispered ill thoughts? His steps slowed from time to time when he heard his mate’s steps fade behind him, waiting for her to catch up with him.

“Do you need me to carry him?” Chuluun raised his low rumbling just loud enough for Sarangerel to hear him.

“Never.” The word shook from her lips. Such a lie she told.

The couple’s path led them higher into the rock face, up towards where bushes and scrawny trees tried to grow between the jagged chunks of fallen stone. The air was cooler up here, the wind less kind as it rushed across the plains, slamming into the base of the mountains. Sarangerel embraced her son tighter, her arms trembling under the strain of his fading weight. With care, she tucked bits of the blanket that warmed her boy around his face and neck, trying to keep the wind from lashing at his muted, sickly skin. That brief tenderness roused the young boy, his normal glacier irises a murky blue.

“Where…?”

As if she could shield him from it, Sarangerel leaned her head over her son’s cradled form, her silver hair falling around him like a curtain. She cooed at him, kissing his forehead and rocking him gently as she walked, her steps uncertain and exhausted.

“Just a walk, my boy,” she breathed against her son’s curved horns, “Rest your eyes a bit longer?”

“Father?” The boy tried to make his voice louder, but between a mix of his parched throat and his lack of strength, it barely did more than crack and wheeze from his exhausted throat.

Chuluun knew it was coming. His son saw through his mother’s soothing words quite often. It was a blessing and a curse. Some days, the aged navy Xaela wished his son would remain blissfully ignorant under the distracting love of his mother. It would make this whole sordid affair easier, at least for Sarangerel and himself.

“It is as she says, my boy. Go back to sleep.”

The boy granted his parents the silence they requested, shutting his itchy and dry eyes in an act of feigned sleep. It was enough for his mother to be appeased, considering how he could feel the pounding of her heart easing up from where it thundered against her rib cage and rattled his body. Time was a strange thing in his state. Minutes swapped between feeling like bells in one breath, then blinks of the eye in the next. He could only catch the sensation that they had gone a long way up the side of the rock face. It was colder here. He could feel the air get moist and the mist cling to his hair.

                            “ThEy ArE LyInG tO yOu.”

‘...I know.’

                            “ANd yET yoU sAy nOThInG.”

‘I don’t know what to say.’

He continued his ruse of sleep, even when he felt his mother’s steps cease. His eyes remained shut as she lowered him to the frigid ground, tucking the blanket around him to bundle him up once more against the cold. His breaths remained even and deep when he felt his father’s rough hand smooth his hair and his mother’s lips rest against his forehead.

“It’s time now,” he heard his father’s voice, hardened and rough. The words seemed to break his mother, making her lips tremble against her son’s face.

“Forgive me, Shoniin,” she whispered. Words were left behind, leaving only the sounds of swallowed whimpers and fading footsteps. Only when the telltale sounds of his mother and father had disappeared did the boy open his eyes once more, taking in the blurry shades of the stone around him, feeling the uneven gravel and dirt under him.

A piece of him had hoped that this was not the true end, that he had not expected the nightmare only to wake within it.

“It iS JuSt yoU AnD I noW, bOy.”

[dancingdevoraks]

The Argument

I'm incapable of writing anything involving Phoebe that isn't angst. I've been thinking of this since book XIII. The argument with Asra (and the aftermath for Phoebe).

I guess warnings for hurt/no comfort, and obviously the plague.

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

In her nightmares, Asra turned to her with violet irises eclipsed in blood red sclera. Like so many of the neighbors she'd known since her childhood, he wasted away, wracked with a cough that persisted despite her best efforts to heal it. Despite his own efforts to heal his sickness. The plague would claim him and she would be helpless to stop it.

She didn't like being helpless. She didn't like being helpless and she didn't like waking in the night with the single panic-driven goal of assuring herself of Asra's health. At first it was enough to see him sleeping beside her, breathing calm, regular, devoid of the rattling wheeze that took up residence in the chests of plague victims. But then she had needed to wake him, to see his eyes for herself.

The third such night of that, she had woken to Asra already awake and watching her with concern. "Was I talking in my sleep?" She asked sheepishly.

He shook his head. "Just restless." Asra looked tired.

"I should sleep down in the shop," she said. "At least one of us should get a decent sleep."

Asra put an arm around her waist when she made to get up. "I'll just wake up when you hit that creaky stair to come check on me," he told her fondly. His expression wavered into concern again. "We'd both sleep better out of the city," he began.

It was a familiar debate. The house in Nopal, safe from the plague. A tempting haven for them until the plague in Vesuvia ran its course. "You should go to Nopal, Asra," Phoebe said gently, beginning to unwind his arms from her torso. "Somewhere the plague hasn't touched."

"And you should come with me." He resisted her attempts--halfhearted, if she were honest--to escape his embrace.

"Asra..." She let him pull her to his chest, let herself listen to the steady beat of his heart. And she took a shaky breath. It came out a sigh, wordless as she kissed his breast over his heart. "You know I don't keep secrets from you," she began again. "You know... you know everything. Everything I've done. The blood on my hands."

"Phoebe--" Asra started.

"Asra, I can't sit idly by while people are dying." Her voice was sharper than she meant it to be. "I can't run away. Not this time. I'm going to tell Julian to take me on at his clinic. I'll see if magic and medicine can do something together for this plague."

"And what am I supposed to do?" He sat up abruptly, shaking out of the embrace. "Twiddle my thumbs in Nopal while you're here walking among the dying? Run away and have you think me a coward?" Asra scoffed. It was the angriest she had ever heard him.

"I could never think you were a coward."

"But you'll think it of yourself." She sat up too, but didn't answer his accusation. They both knew he was right. "Be kinder to yourself, Phoebe."

"You know what I've done," she repeated plainly. "Asra, all the blood on my hands... if I don't help these people now..." She would never be able to forgive herself if she left now; the ghosts of the plague-stricken would haunt her for all her days. "If I don't help these people, I'm no better than Lucio. All these years of learning healing will have been for nothing, Asra. Nothing, if I don't do something about the plague now."

"And I'm supposed to just leave you?" They were both nearly shouting. Faust slid from wherever she had been hiding in the blankets to curl around Asra's wrist. Mishal had climbed out of the stove, trailing the scent of ash as he scampered into the crook of Phoebe's neck, perpetually cool against the heat of her frustration.

"You're supposed to be safe," she snapped. "You're supposed to go to the sanctuary where the plague hasn't been and be safe, so I can work without wondering if you're the next patient who will walk in my door."

"And what about my worries? You think I can just sit in Nopal and not worry about you, Phoebe? It's not safe in Vesuvia. Not for you. Not for anyone anymore."

"We are lucky enough to have some haven to run to, Asra. You remember what it's like not to have that." He recoiled as if she had slapped him. Mishal shifted uncomfortably on Phoebe's shoulder while Faust slithered up to Asra's neck to offer comfort. Her clenched jaw and Mishal's movement were the only outward signs Phoebe gave of remorse for her words. Her face was otherwise composed as she looked coolly at Asra.

Hurt twisted his features. Silently, he turned from her and got up to dress. "You don't have to go now, I'm not trying to kick you out Asra," Phoebe tried, and her voice betrayed only a little of the desire to mend the bridges she had damaged.

"I'm used to night travel. I'll be fine." Asra spoke with a cold tone, like something had iced over his normal expressive inflection. "Besides, you'll sleep better when I'm not here."

Phoebe took the harsh words as her deservee punishment. "Send me a message when you get to Nopal?" She asked.

Faust peeked from his scarf as Asra turned to her with a silent look. He turned away without answering, though Faust twisted to face her still. She hoped Faust looking back was a confirmation. Phoebe brought her own hand up to rest on the quivering salamander on her shoulder. Together from the window, Phoebe and her familiar watched Asra exit to the street and disappear into a hazy Vesuvian night.

Jaw set, Phoebe placed Mishal back on the stove and started gathering her clothes. "Stoke the fire, won't you? We'll bring some tea to Ilya and see what we can do to help."

----

It was becoming increasingly apparent that there was little magic or medicine could do to fight the plague. Her fire burned back the disease, but only for a while, and only the external symptoms. The bloodshot eyes and dehydration remained, and the patients she saw always came back more ill than the last time.

Ilya had gone to the palace, summoned by Lucio who, too, had contracted the wasting disease. "I leave my clinic in your very capable hands, my dear," the doctor had said as he left a week ago. "Between your study, and the research I can do with the palace library, we'll have a cure in no time."

Phoebe wished she shared his confidence, though she had humored him with as much bravado as she could muster. Long days and longer nights left her drained, even as the notes Julian sent from his office in the palace piqued her curiosity and sent her excitedly to her own books. She had yet to hear from Asra. She could only assume he had reached Nopal safely. There was no word that the plague had spread beyond the city, so for now, when Phoebe slept at all, she slept assured of his safety from the plague.

She sipped water by candlelight, and poured over notes in her hand and Ilya's. If only he could smuggle her samples of the plague to test herself. So far, her tinctures and spells found and treated only the symptoms. They needed to find the root of it. Phoebe shivered and called up magic to warm her blood. Too many late nights, she mused, and too little answers to be had. When the writing blurred before her eyes, she had to admit defeat. Taking the candle to the little room she'd taken off the side of Julian's clinic, Phoebe paused to look at herself in the mirror. Her medical clothes hung from her frame--too busy to feed herself properly, she'd lost weight--but the candle dropped from unresponsive fingers when she caught sight of her face.

She had been thin before, a gaunt waif on the docks of Galbradine and then a soldier on short rations for a time. She knew what her face looked like when her diet had been poor and when she was exhausted. The bags under her eyes did not surprise her.

The irises staring at her from scarlet sclera did.

Phoebe clapped her hands over her mouth to smother a sob. Knees shaking, she closed her eyes and exhaled slowly. Another look showed her the same sickly reflection; not the bloodshot look of eyestrain, but the surefire design of a plague victim. Phoebe turned back to the lab, calling up a glamour to hide the telltale symptom. Her mind was already working, determining that her magic, her fire, had suppressed the other symptoms thus far. That her thinness and exhaustion had been the combined work of her daily exertions and the sickness that had taken hold of her. Interest leant her energy anew to continue her study. Research, at least, pushed back the conscious thought that she was dying.

----

Phoebe had stopped seeing patients. The quarantine mark she'd drawn on the door of the shop felt like a brand on her skin, though it was only in white chalk and kept in place with magic. It had been a war in her mind, whether to keep seeing them at the clinic or to retreat to the shop to continue research.

The morning she collapsed before breakfast made the decision for her.

She stopped seeing patients because she barely had the energy to see one--herself. Julian had stopped sending his notes to her, presumably too wrapped up in his work. Phoebe didn't want to consider the alternative, so she busied herself with work. Occasionally, when she had the strength, she sent a parcel of notes to Julian in the palace. Quarantined she may be, but Phoebe would be damned if she didn't do what she had set out to.

She still hadn't heard from Asra, though she didn't blame him for his silence. Not after what she said to him. The longer the silence wore on, the more assured Phoebe was that she was going to die alone from the plague. It didn't frighten her like it did the patients who had wept in her arms at the clinic when Julian gave his sorry diagnosis. It felt like an appropriate end. After years fighting others and emerging victorious, she would die to her own failing body, a creature she could not fight.

Time became fuzzy. Phoebe lost track of days, napping intermittently, falling asleep at a book. Her fingers were black with inkstains. Mishal, who snuffed her candles when she fell asleep reading, was the only saving grace she had, the part of her she couldn't push away.

She talked to the salamander like the old friend he was. Asked him favors she wasn't sure he could keep, in her voice that was rapidly disappearing to the cough that woke her violently from sleep. "Stay in the stove for Asra, love. He's hopeless with fire. If you or Muriel aren't there to light it, he'll burn the shop down without me."

Phoebe gave up on the books. It was time to leave the research to the doctors in the palace. Hordes of them, if the rumors were to be believed, working tirelessly for a cure. Julian Devorak among them. But not Phoebe Fontaine.

Instead, she wrote a letter to Asra. It had been three weeks since she'd spoken to him. She couldn't let their argument be the last of her voice he had.

Phoebe pinned it to the door of the shop when she left. Her failing reserves of magic swept through the shop, burning away any trace of the plague. This place would be pure. The plague would not be waiting here when Asra returned. Not in the shop. With the last of her voice and her palm against the door, she whispered the cross-me-not spell, and watched magic swirl through the grain of the wood. Almost an afterthought, Phoebe swept her palm over the quarantine mark on the door, disappearing it without a word.

Then she let herself disappear into the dark street, and made her way to the docks.

[cantoinmaschera-blog]

@mercysought

Maxima never thought that a day would come where she could have a mask of her own, or at least partake in this (as she came to realise it) very silly custom. Beautiful and absolutely ludicrous, but silly all the same. She had never thought that a day would come, but now that the day had come she found herself bored and so the mask was placed over the table, red nails tapping soft and absently against the white scales against the side of her mask. Her long fingers grazing it all the way over to the upper part of the mask, where white feathers decorated the sides of her eyes, born from the scaled surface. Bored, but not unaware of the need for it, and while she would use it when standing in the crowd where the great crowd of nobles from all around stood and danced, where she stood, by the window with a beautiful view to the gardens and with only the man that approached to keep her company? The mask remains on the table.

It was an Orlesian tradition after all; while many nobles that attended these Orlesian parties were not from its nobility, they did so love to partake in it. To show with pride what were the symbols that painted the pride off their faces and onto something shiny and likely far more beautiful than their faces could ever be. Not the case with her companion, though his mask did not lack for… enough reason to take one’s attention completely off his face. Beautiful and a master piece made out of glass and jewels, and a stark contrast to the one that she held on her fingers. Half scales, half feathers with a single jewel where the scales transformed into feathers. It was quite sad that such a mask would draw attention off his face, from the little that she could ascertain, it would be quite beautiful.

It was said that in the past there were beings that held both and were as large as dragons. It would not surprise Maxima if that was the case and if those in Orlais were already expecting her to bring in the scales and the dragon themes then she would appease them, even if it was just briefly and in such a subdued manner. Unlike them, she let her red lips and nails and dark green gems lined over her face do any talking that needed to be done. Her presence enough while she was the Inquisiton dance and trip on their own feet.

Bored, until that point she supposed. The cigarette that she had been holding is brought up to her lips in a brief pull before the other lifts the mask, holding it against her face with a smile.

   “But small talk can be so much fun!” she hums no louder than a whisper, in the dim light that the Winter Palace found itself in, her eyes are dark as they study the other with a smile that grows “You should see the circles that some of your countrymen have drawn around me tonight.” some of them with smiles as sharp as knives, some ready to gut her while others preparing for a hunt. Maxima would quite prefer if they would bother the Inquisition’s commander, at least that would provide her some low effort amusement in the irony of the situation. Or perhaps she was simply far meaner than she would admit otherwise “If nothing else it can amuse me when no one seems to quite be able to match me in dancing.”

The cherry smoke dissipates towards the opposite side from which the other stood. Her own cup of wine is barely touched and would remain so; Work and drink should hardly mix when in public, while a beautiful dance it was one that she did not do. Mask or no.

   “As for the food and nowhere to sit…” a hum that turns into a purr as green eyes pass him to the crowd in the back, towards the glimmer and loud music. A small smile forms on the edge of her lips, but she doesn’t elongate the line of thinking that her mind was going down towards “Better to go hungry than eat poison, better to stand than to prickle yourself in a bed of needles, hm?“

Her attention returns to the other. A stag, she did not quite recall seeing him or the mask before. Fortunate. Her words were certainly spoken as someone that had never gone hungry, someone that had never slept in the cold with humidity clinging to one’s bones. How wonderful it was to hear those words flow so easily off her tongue. Maxima leans forward, pressing her cigarette down and effectively putting it off “Though I find that my time in the south has shown me that there are plenty that might disagree.“ a pause, one that she spends looking at the other. Her gloved hand lifts in his direction “Maxima.“

Fabien smiled, his lips curling up at the corners in a line that matched the curl of his moustache, and it was a smile both for the answer and for the raised a hand, a gesture that called upon his gallantry and, lest witnesses decide to speak ill of his manners, that he happily obliged. He switched his glass of sparkly wine to his left hand and, with well-practiced movement and well-bred grace, he set a foot in front of the other and caught the hand in a soft grasp, bowing down to kiss the air just above it, as it was undoubtedly expected, expectation that it was his pleasure to meet, with not a single drop of wine spilling in the meanwhile.

He straightened up, adjusting briefly the frills of his attire, the bronze coloured overcoat tailored for this very event, as it had been a long time, after all, since a member of his family had properly set foot at a court ball, let alone one as important as this, where the absence of a mask would have stood out as glaringly as a faux pas on the dance floor. The Inquisition could afford going without, naturally, but the Inquisition was both somewhat religious, and thus above the grand game, and mostly not comprised of Orlesian nobility, and thus not entitled to it.

« Lady Maxima », he greeted, making no show that he had heard her being introduced at the ball by the chamberlain, as it was likely both superfluous and in bad taste. « Marquis Fabien de Serault », he added then, introducing himself, and forgiving her privately if the mask hadn’t been enough of a telltale detail, since, all things considered, it had only been back in his possession for not longer than a few months, and though news travelled quickly, Serault remained quite its own little world --- Orlais had been caught by greater concerns, in any case.

« Of course, I ought to call myself out for the small talk, since I complain about it, and yet here I am, doing small talk. » He smiled, quite veritably amused. Wasn’t the chatting, the talking circles, the preambles, the courtesy, wasn’t all that ritual the very heart and soul of events such as this? Fabien had heard that the Grand Duke despised such things and, as a man of action, one could be inclined even to understand him.

He took a sip of wine, its bubbles tickling his lips as the shine of candles tickled fantasy and gave room to all sorts of deals that benefited from dim light. « But drawing circles is always better than drawing blades. »

His eyes then brightened up, uplifted by a spark of gaiety. « So! You are with the Inquisition, correct? May I inquire what brought you so far south? I have taken a look at the Inquisitor’s closest associates and I have the very distinct impression that her Worship is collecting beauties from all across Thedas. »

[unto-myself-together]

Of Stories and Songs: A Haunted Mansion Fanfic Ch 4

This chapter was getting so long, that I felt like I have no choice but to divide it into two.  30 some odd pages in word, after all, is a little long to be left whole like that.  

Check below the cut for both author notes and the chapter proper.

Authornotes: Despite what the Ghost Host says, he will be making an appearance in the next chapter.

The description of the scarecrow should be familiar.  It is, in fact, a description of Jack Skellington’s alter ego scarecrow disguise.  I wanted to make tiny references to the Haunted Mansion Holiday overlay without making a pure crossover, as the plot I’m going with wouldn’t mesh well with the Nightmare characters. So, instead, I’ll just briefly reference it here and there.  Thus, the scarecrow in this fic isn’t actually Jack Skellington (unless you really want to pretend it is, I mean I can’t stop you).  

Solomon Gracey….Oh let me tell you the story about this.  When I was young, and going through the Mansion for the first time, I saw the aging man portrait.  Except, I didn’t know anything about Oscar Wilde or Dorian Gray (I was a kid), so I never made the connection there (even though in retrospect, it seems a little obvious that’s what the Imagineers were going for).  But I DID know about Batman, and through that someone had told me the poem once associated with one of the villains named Solomon Grundy:

Solomon Grundy, Born on a Monday, Christened on Tuesday, Married on Wednesday, Took ill on Thursday, Grew worse on Friday, Died on Saturday, Buried on Sunday, That was the end, Of Solomon Grundy.

And you might be wondering “What does this have anything to do with anything?”  You see, as a kid, I misinterpreted the poem and what it meant.  I thought it referred to someone who was born, quickly grew up, lived, and died all within the span of a week. It apparently never occurred to my childlike mind that these things could happen on separate years.  

So when I saw the portrait of the man, and he aged so rapidly, I thought “Oh!  It’s like Solomon Grundy!”

And that’s the story of how the name stuck.

Artwork was drawn by me.

The statue comes from a statue in the Disneyland fast pass for Haunted Mansion

For the Gracey family seal, I used official Disney merchandise for the base.  It is the Master Gracey necklace from the Memento Mori store.   Here is the reference: https://www.pinterest.com/pin/506725395552228282/?autologin=true&lp=true

Here are other photographs and videos used as references for the other art pieces:

https://davelandblog.blogspot.com/2015/02/terrific-thirteen.html

https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=1RGdw4ePzPg&t=306s

I am the one who played the piano and recorded myself.  I used sheet music from the internet for this. Here are the reference links. Please note that I made small edits for the Haunted Mansion piece and  I didn’t follow the original sheet music for John Brown’s Body piece, I just used the same key.

https://musescore.com/user/6017331/scores/1485776

https://www.music-scores.com/midi.php?sheetmusic=Trad_John_Browns_Body

~~~

Trigger warnings: ghosts, death concepts/discussions, murder, suicide, abuse, blood, lots of scary stuff (horror), implied sexual abuse, cursing (damn and hell), drug abuse, attempted rape (never completed; in a later chapter).

~~~

Table of Contents:

Prologue, Chapter 1, Chapter 2, Chapter 3 , Chapter 4 , Chapter 5 ,

Chapter 6 , Chapter 7

~~~

Ch 4.  John Brown’s Body

~~

“John Brown's body lies a mouldering in the grave, His soul is marching on!”

-Traditional Folk Song, John Brown’s Body

~~

“This is all a bad dream.  This is all a bad dream. This is all a bad dream. There’s no such thing as ghosts. This is all a bad dream.  This is all a ba-“

                  “Repetition does not turn a statement to fact.”

“Shut up.” She muttered, shakily walking down the hall towards the door that she could see on the far end; the complete opposite end from the strange stretching room she had come from.  “This is all a bad dream.  This is all a bad drea-“

              “You can chant such trifle prayers to your dying breath, but                      your words will never be any truer five centuries from now than                                they were five moments ago.”

“But it keeps me going,” She muttered again, this time to herself. “And there…there can’t be life after death.  It’s impossible.  There’s no such thing.  Dead is dead.”

              “Care to repeat that to the dead person behind you?”

The creepy feeling of an ice cold hand on her shoulder made her speed up, nearly running towards the door.  

                       “Why not look behind you, hmm?”

“No I won’t I won’t!” The anxiety making her giddy, she gave a little nervous laugh as she made it through and slammed the door.  She leaned against the door and slid to the ground, eyes closed and breathing in deep.

                     “Rather impolite, but no matter….               You can always repeat your statement to the one in front of you.”

This time…This time, her eyes had flung open all without her permission and she screamed.  

She screamed all the while as she crawled backwards.

All the while as she jammed her wrist against a table in her attempt to get under it.

The thing that lay before her.  Whatever it was, it did not follow her, choosing instead to remain swaying side to side in its position.

And she permitted herself to think about what she had just seen: its legs looked like bond stalks, it’s mahogany jacket in tatters.  A figure that seemed stiff at first, its limbs in haphazard directions, as though it’s clothes were stuffed with straw.  But…

…But that couldn’t be; there had to be a person in there because behind the carved smile of its pumpkin head….she could see teeth.  

Human teeth.  

She dared to peek out from under the table, but there was no longer any sign of it.  The scarecrow’s long legs ought to have been in sight, where could it ha-

-

POUNDING ON THE TABLE ABOVE HER.

SHE COULD SEE THE SIDES TIP PRECARIOUSLY

AS SOMETHING DANCED ATOP IT.

“I’msorry I’msorry I’msorry!!” She screamed out, her shaking mimicking every jerk of the table.

The pounding stopped.   The table stopped.  

The thunder rolled off in the distance, and the rain pattered against the windows.  

She took an uneasy breath.

“…Why are you doing this to me?”  She said in a small voice.

                                  “Why, whatever do you mean?”

She could hear his tone, the thinly veiled sarcasm, the mirth that made it seem like he was laughing at her.  She tried again.

“What…what exactly do you want with me? What did you say before, that lives have value?? That the raven was useless to you??  What is it about me?”

                        “But lives DO have value.                       Unless, of course, you don’t see value in yours.                        We are certainly capable of removing                         such a heavy weight from your shoulders.                                Or are you more hands on?”

By her side….

………………

….a noose appeared….

Dangling over the sides of the furniture, her safe zone.

She found herself staring at it.  

A good.  Long.  While.

“Are you really trying to kill me?” Her throat constricted, just by having it in her sights.

                     “Would you take comfort in hearing me say ‘no’?”

“At this point….At this point I’m not sure I’d believe you…”

                “Then there’s nothing more to be said, now is there?”

She closed her eyes again.  Even knowing that her “host” might take advantage and shove another creature in her face, it was comforting to pretend that she was back at home, in bed, with her eyes closed and ready for sleep.

But the noose…

“Please….please will you at least take it away?”

….

A soft whisper of a sound, and wisp of a breeze.

When she dared to peek, bracing herself for the return of the scarecrow or some other terrible thing, she was surprised.

The noose was gone.  And there was no evidence of any new scary entity within her immediate sights.  

“Thank you.”  She mumbled.  

The only response was the low rumbling of a chuckle.

Perhaps because of that, she could not bring herself to leave the relative safety of the furnishing she’d cowered under. The underside of the table was nice and cozy, after all.  

So spent the time to look around instead.

There were instruments.  Karen couldn’t pretend that she knew much about music, but she knew enough to recognize the violin sitting on one of the chairs.  The bigger one sitting in the corner was probably a cello, and there were likely even more instruments hidden from sight in the cases she could observe.  

A piano took up most of the room; the light from the candelabras on its surface glowed in the reflection of the gigantic window behind it.  From beyond the window, she could see the dead trees buckling under the weight of the downpour, their gray limbs looking much like ghosts themselves.  It seemed so deceptively easy to shatter the glass and escape.  

    ��                     “Whatever is the matter, hmm?                              Have you given up on your friend already?                            Shall I leave him my condolences?                              A message?                           The very last thing he’ll ever hear:                               ‘Karen has left you for dead’.”

“No.”  She said flatly.  “No I’m not leaving without him.”

That telltale chuckle again.

                         “That’s exactly what I’m counting on.”

“You’re not going to ever tell us why you’re doing this, are you?  Is it really because you think we’re trespassers?”

                                 “You’ll have to forgive me.”

The piano began to play, a series of mismatched notes creating a discord of ugly sounds.

                       “I was not aware I required a reason.”

She held her breath, watching the keys move across the instrument without any visible fingers to press on them. But there was a shadow that fell across the whole scene that looked oddly…human-esque.   Already, she was too frightened to think too deeply into that.

                 “Shall I play you something light and bright                   to coax you from your crypt?                    The mortal creature does still love a happy harmony                   wrapped up in a major key…correct?                                          And after all                                     wouldn’t you agree                                   that your life would be                           so flat without a sweet melody? ”

And with that announcement, the piano changed to a happier cord.  Was that the Battle Hymn of the Republic?

Listen to the piano part1

Despite her wariness, she did feel herself relax a tinge.  She even went so far as to lean back a bit to rest herself against the wall that bordered her ‘safety table’.   The ruffling of paper at her fingertips snatched at her attention.  

Two papers, actually.

“Mr. Williams,

I write to you on the matter of the issue you had previously approached me for.  

Thus far, the Atencio Trading Company has remained relatively unchanged despite the change in the Head of the Gracey family.  Indeed, the Atencio Company firmly remains under the ownership of the Graceys, as it always has, despite the remaining echoes of the war and reconstruction. None of the businesses contained within the company have been removed, destroyed, or discarded; if anything, new businesses have been added and not subtracted.

Below is a list that I have compiled, as best as I was able, of the Industries contained therein of the Gracey family’s Atencio Trading Company:

2 Wineries   6 Tanneries 4 Major Textile Production Factories (not containing various minor Textile Refinements involved) 1 Business involved in the Production of Cutlery 2 Beekeeping farms (also involve Honey Refinery) 3 Breweries of Beer and Fine Liquor 9 Livestock farms (not including horses) 5 Horse Ranches 2 Bakeries 7 Farms that variously produce Wheat, Barley, Grapes, Corn, Apples, and Vegetables 1 Metal Production or blacksmith factory whose purpose I could not ascertain

These industries are spread out among several states, regions, and cities. As you know, the Atencio Company regularly transports on the behalf of foreign companies.    Thus, this is in addition to the trading profits the company gets for the transportation and shipping of goods owned by companies not under the control of the Graceys.

This is not including, however, the personal farm and properties therein attached to the Gracey Manor house itself. The production involved there is mostly for the immediate benefit of the family, it’s fellows, and the servant class who board there.  

I am afraid I have still come up empty, sir, in finding the meaning behind the name “Atencio”.  It has apparently been used for ages long past, as long as the Graceys have owned this company.  The only shared name I have ever found in records, was that of a pirate crew that operated in the 1400s, long before the Golden Age of Piracy.  As such, there are only scant records of this crew, and none of them enlightening enough to provide evidence that there is any relation.  

The methods by which the Graceys run their business is still very non-involved.  Like before, it appears that many of the overseers of each company sub-branch are left to manage their own affairs, provided that profits are returned to the family proper.  The Graceys are involved in making final decisions regarding payment distribution, and appear to be very generous with those in their employment.  Especially so with the current Gracey head of family.  As such, exceptional loyalty to both the Atencio Trading Company and the Gracey Family itself is not unheard of, nor should be unexpected.  

It is with this in mind that I send this letter through an unconventional means.

For you see, sir, I am greatly concerned that this letter should be intercepted by them.

-Leslie Harrison”  

And there was a second letter underneath that.  

At its very top, was a family crest: A carved letter G in the center of the decorative shape, swirling lines jutting on both sides and a devilish head at its very top. The symbol was flanked by Latin: Familia Supra Omnia.

“Dear Miss Slater,

I am very much distressed at reading your previous missive, which I had received on the fifth of February.  I understand your concerns regarding your status as, and I quote you, “a lowly circus performer”.  But as I have stressed on more than a single previous occasion, I do not care.  

As far as the town is concerned: I, and my estate, are dead to them.  

I have long given up on pleasing the most influential members of the community.  As well you know, Mr. Williams, whom has the town in his purse strings, already hated my father long before even the War of Rebellion, hated him even worse during the war, and has shown even as recent as last week that he finds my methods of running my affairs a contemptable sight in his long list of grievances against my family name.  What the head of the Williams Company says is practically decreed, and, by extension, I am no friend to any member of the upper crust in these parts.  It subsequently gives me the freedom to do merely as I please.  

And it would please me more than anything, Miss Slater, if you allow me to help you.

I have been hearing so many rumors about the financial status of that circus company that you have affiliated yourself with, and even worse rumors about the ringmaster himself.  

Miss Slater, I do not trust that man. He has proven time and again that his humor is morbid, and that his tricks are similarly so.  Many of his acts remark and revolve on death itself, and with such a depressing notion it is surprising that his fortunes did not deplete themselves sooner.  That mishap with the lion and the poor drunkard is simply another suspicious death to add to his collection of mysterious airs.  

I am concerned by some of your wording. You’ve known I have no qualms about reputation.  And you’ve never asked for privacy before, even when you had fallen ill.  Nor have you been forthright with any reasoning, on my part, that has caused you discomfort.  All of these things are suspicious and so very out of ordinary from the past twelve years you have been with these travelers.  Your phrases, too, are upsetting: “A lost cause” “Nothing left for me”, these are not words you have ever previously used to describe yourself. I cannot but be concerned that your ringmaster, or someone else in the company, has harmed you in some way.  

Which is why, at first chance, I will make the journey to fetch you.    

Your daughter is of Gracey blood, if not in name, Miss Slater.  We are family.  And I will make sure nothing lays a finger on either of you.  

Yours in Sincerity,

Solomon Gracey”

As she tried to make sense of the newfound information…Miss Slater.

                                       Mr. Williams.

                                 Solomon Gracey.

                                         Circus.

                                          She….

…Was suddenly standing.

And not underneath a table at all anymore.

There was a man in front of her, sitting at a desk with a concerned expression.  He had on a fine white shirt, nice trousers, a gray vest, and was that a pocket watch?  It held the uncanny air of a bygone era, especially as he sat, the sleeves of his white dress shirt rolled up to the elbows, at a desk that had no dust.  

She recognized that desk….and…when he turned and she saw him eye to eye….she recognized him.

This man wasn’t the same angry man from the earlier vision, with the maid and the young boy.  

This man…was from the portrait.  

The portrait that she had seen at the beginning of the house, the one that had aged to death right in front of her eyes. And as the eyes glanced her way, she felt herself back away a step.

To be sure, those eyes were beyond comparison.  Even here, the vividness of their blue felt like they could see straight into her.  

At the same time….she felt…safe.  The other vision had held a sense of terror.  The other man had clearly been antagonistic.  But this man….

                                Please. Let me help you.

She blinked.  For a moment, she had imagined that the man had spoken to her. But that…couldn’t be.  He didn’t even seem to see her, for one, as his eyes had glanced over her without any acknowledgement.  By now, he had gone back to writing….

She peeked over his shoulder.  He was writing…the very letter…she had just recently read..?

Karen stood gob smacked, gaping as he finished it off with a flurry of his signature.  

Was this really some kind of memory from the past.   How….?

                             I just want you to be safe.

She blinked again.  No, those weren’t words spoken aloud.  She finally identified them as a gut feeling.  An aura; something that the scene gave off that somehow she felt compelled to think of those exact words.  She was sure, anyways, that those feelings were mostly for the benefit of the person he wrote to.  

But those thoughts felt good.  The scene felt good. After all the ridiculous stuff that Ghost Host had thrown on her, the scarecrow and spiders and stretching rooms and nooses appearing out of nowhere, this was so relaxing in comparison. Comforting, even.  

Why couldn’t she stay and listen to Solomon?   Would it hurt so badly?  Who could blame her?  

Staying like this, watching him read over and over the letter he had just completed.  He had an intricate ring on his left hand; she could see it as he held his forehead in his hand in thought.  It was a good ring.

What was wrong with staying like this, watching him, forever?

Without worries, without cares.  No broken windows….Or was it reading…?  Law school….Something feels missing….But what does it matter?  None of the horror, just a calm room with a man writing a letter that he’d been struggling hours to find the words for.  Finally. Finally, he had gotten around to writing it out in full.

But…This won’t do at all.

He stood up.  

“Edgar!”  He called out.  “Fetch my coat and get Samuel!  We’re taking a trip to that damned circus.”

Why did he even need the letter?  By God, he’ll just show up unannounced, then he could see for himse-

….

Wait….

Karen’s face furrowed in deep thought. What were these thoughts that were now going through her head?

These weren’t…her thoughts. They had nothing to do with her.  So why was it as though her thoughts had begun to turn, turning to mush and then reshaping themselves, and all without her permission? It didn’t hurt.  But.  There was this small sense of mismatch, that something wasn’t quite right….

Thoughts about the ring on his finger….No, this ring didn’t represent marriage…But what was it…Why was she….

…..She was back underneath the table.

There was a brief sense of déjà vu as she tried to catch her bearings; the piano wasn’t helping, as it was now playing a more sinister sounding version of the Battle Hymn of the Republic.  It only cemented the idea that the dream was over and the nightmare was back.

listen to the piano 2

….She stared back to the letter. Touched it, even brought it up to her nose to sniff it.  It was real.  

Which means….the vision….

She squeezed her eyes shut so that she could gradually open them again.

The piano was still playing.  Didn’t that “Ghost Host” ever get sick of the same song over and over?

She didn’t want to deal with any of this; not him, not that vision-thingy, not this letter.

Michael…

There was a door to the left.  

She glanced back to the piano.  The Host was still playing, but for how long would he remain distracted?

Getting up on her hind legs, ready to sprint for it, the song still in the air,

one,

two,

three.

The door was in her hand, the handle turned, she slipped on through, into-

                                    “Hmm hmm hmm.”

-the same exact room?

She opened the door behind her again. In the room she left, a piano playing the Battle Hymn of the Republic.  In the room in front of her, an IDENTICAL piano playing…something else.

listen to the piano 3

Two pianos.  The same chairs.  The same violins.  Even the same table she had taken refuge under.  

Trying not to panic, she ran down to the next door.  Went through it.

                            “HmmHa ha ha Ha HA ha.”

listen to the piano4

The same room.  Again.  

She ran over to the next door. Just to peek.

AGAIN. That piano!  That horrible, wretched sounding piano!  

She stood in the center of the room, carefully avoiding the shadowy figure that seemed to sit at the stool and play away, her eyes bitter and angry as she stared at the instrument.  If she had to burn a hole through the piano with her eyes just to make a statement, so be it.  

                      “Finally facing the music, are we?                 Have you accepted the reality that you need me as a guide                   if you ever hope of getting anywhere?”

“I’ve accepted the reality that you’re a well certified jerk.  Let me out of this room.”

                         “I didn’t hear the magic words.”

“Sure.  How about: ‘Let me out of this room or I break your piano’.”

Laughter radiated from the area of the piano, filling the whole room with the sound of the Ghost Host.  

                     “My how BOLD you’ve become just now.                Whatever happened to that poor, helpless mortal                           I left cowering under the table?”

Karen held her tongue at this part. She didn’t want to risk him retaliating and sapping what little courage she’d managed to muster in her bitterness.

“Take me out of this room now.”  She said, holding her ground with her chin up.

….

“Please.” She halfheartedly added a moment later.

                     “…Well.  Since you’ve asked so NICELY.”

The door in the middle opened.  As she recalled, that was the door she took to enter the music room to begin with.  

But strangely enough, it didn’t seem to lead out to the same hallway as before.

…Had he been moving her around when she was traversing all the duplicate music rooms?

If so…She opened the door that had led to a duplicate music room, only to find a wall.  He’d completely stripped her of all sense of direction…

She shuddered at the thought, finally relenting to go through the door he’d opened for her.  

“Th-thank you.”  She stammered out.

                   “Hmm hmmm hmm…You’re very welcome.”

The door behind her slammed shut so loud that she jumped.

                   “Come now.  Shriveling up on me, are you?               I was having so much fun with this new version of you…”

“Is that what you call ‘torture’?”  

            “One man’s torture is another’s…entertainment. Hmm hmm hmm.”

“And that’s literally the reason you’re doing all this?  THIS? All of THIS is entertainment to you?  What was all that before about us being trespassers?”

The voice chuckled darkly.

                         “If you must know, I could care less                 whatever foolish reason a mortal comes wandering here for;                                                  trespasser or not.                      So long as they are here, in the flesh,                           I can take my pickings as I please.                  Such a curious creature you are, though, to keep asking about this.                           Most mortals merely accept my deeds                    without questioning my motives so aptly…                         . . . Perhaps this is your ‘gift’ talking…”

“My gift?”

                         “Yes.  Surely you’ve noticed by now                        that you’ve a talent that expands beyond the grave.                        Becoming one with the very essence of human nature,                    and all of the exploits and endeavors,                         good or otherwise, therein.                                 In effect, a psychic.”

“I am NOT a psychic.” She said with a huff as she strode off.  

He had led her to yet another unfamiliar hallway.  There was an end table with scattered papers, a stairway that lead up (complete with a fancy banister).  Candelabras with intricate weaves of spiderwebs held behind an intricately carved griffin. And a statue was hidden in the alcove.

A very strange statue.  

And familiar; she could have sworn she saw one like it outside with the gravestones.  

But this one was much larger, human sized, in fact.   And it was strange specifically because she got an odd, prickly feeling as she came close to it.  For all intents and purposes, it LOOKED like any other statue she may have seen in her life.

It was that of a women who appeared to be grieving.  Her dress cut just above her knees, the shawl around her shoulders wrapped up and covered her head.  Her face was positioned to the floor, and one of her hands across her chest placed over to about where her heart would be.  

Karen reached out and touched it, and it even FELT like a statue.  Hard stone that was a little rough along the edges, likely from wear and tear over the years.

But very cold.  Almost ethereally cold.  

What was worse than any of that, was the smell.  Statues didn’t normally smell, but this one reeked.

It reminded her of the time a squirrel had gotten into the electric breaker box of a telephone pole near her house; it had chewed through a few lines and wound up electrocuting itself.  The power workers had tossed the remains by the side of the road, but no animal dared to take a bite of it so it simply sat there rotting.  The smell that always ran to her nostrils every time she had to pass it was an unholy combination of cooked flesh and putrid decay.  

                              “Are you sure you’re not psychic?”  

The voice said, as though mocking the anxiety that the statue seemed to produce in her.

“No, I’m not psychic!  Maybe…Maybe ghosts exist, ok?  But I am definitely NOT psychic!”

                      “Oh?  You admit to the existence of some of the supernatural?                           A nice improvement in your disposition.                          But do you mean to tell me you’ve never feel those moments?                              That prickling on the back of your spine?”

As if in obedience, the goosebumps on her back became more pronounced.

“Stop it.”

                   “That chill that you can so easily feel in the air?”

And in that moment, the area immediately around her dropped a few degrees.

“I said stop it!”  

                  “That feeling of being watched,                    as though there were someone, or something there?                       And all you have to do is look behind y-“

“Shut up.”  She seethed under her breath, trying to avoid glancing behind in case he sent another scarecrow.   “Why don’t you just go back to playing the piano or something?? Why can’t you just leave me alone?”

                                       “As you wish.”

The temperature normalized, the goosebumps died down.

“Wha-really?”

                                          “But of course.                         If you so desire it, I am FULLY prepared to leave you.                               In this empty, creaking, dark hallway.                                              By yourself.”

“Or.  You could drop Michael off near me.”

The Host’s laughter was raucous.  

                   “And interrupt all of the exquisite entertainment he’s experiencing?                                  Surely you don’t think me THAT cruel.”

Karen bristled.  “You want to talk about cruelty?!  How about ever-“

                    “But worry not.  You may be alone now,                          but you’ll be joined soon enough.”

“What…?”

                             “The happy haunts have long since received                         your sympathetic vibrations and are beginning to materialize.”

“What. Does. That. Even. Mean?”

                        “They’re assembling for their nightly swinging wake,                        and they’ll be expecting me… I’ll see you a little later.”

“Wait…!”

There was no indication that the hallway had changed, and, of course, no actual physical sign that a disembodied voice had left the area.  Yet it felt emptier than before.  

“Ghost Host?”  She called out tentatively.

No response.  Only the low sound of thunder that rumbled in the distance. That indescribable feeling that she had experienced up until that point that had indicated his presence ceased to exist anymore.  

The hallway was devoid of its Ghost Host.

And somehow, someway, she knew that.

[ineffablecolors]

BLUNDERS AND (HAPPY) BEGINNINGS [2/?]

So I kinda like this but it’s kinda like pulling teeth at times (except the dialogue, the dialogue flows :D). Sooo hope you are enjoying it!

Blunders and (happy) Beginnings; CHAPTER 2; ~ 2, 500 words; FF.NET || AO3

The result of too much Jane Austen and associating everything with Captain Swan.

A public assembly, Miss Emma Swan decided years ago, was an occasion for one to be either extremely agreeable or completely disagreeable. And this particular dance in Storybrooke, on that particular night, she could, with only some little trouble to herself and some possible offense to others, arrange in those exact two categories.

The agreeable

Miss Emma Swan

At the very start of the evening Miss Swan herself was prepared to be extremely agreeable indeed. And the reason, for the most part, lay in the expression on Captain Killian Jones’ face when he entered the rooms.

If betting was an appropriate pastime for young ladies, she would’ve bet her fortune, her honour and the very gown she was wearing that there had never been, nor will there ever be, a more reluctant and ill-disposed man to cross that threshold.

Now, contrary to what a large part of their intimate acquaintance might believe, Miss Swan merely took pleasure in outwitting Captain Jones and none at all in causing him pain. But they had been acquainted two years now – due to her newfound, and his longstanding, friendship with the Nolans – and she had not once seen Jones at a ball, nor heard it talked of him attending one or having ever done so. Though she knew the last one to be impossible, for a man could hardly be the brother of Captain Liam Jones and the close friend of Mr and Mrs Nolan and never attend a ball (nor could he likely find a wife without doing so and she knew that he had had one of those some five years ago).

So, on the whole, Miss Swan was much too thrilled at the prospect of finally seeing the captain make such an appearance, and even more so at his obvious reluctance, to think about being anything but agreeable. Truthfully, she rather thought Captain Jones responsible for putting her in such a good mood and thus responsible for the unforeseen progression of her evening.

But that could wait. First she had to admit into her club of agreeableness the person of

Captain Liam Jones

Cunning as always, he still managed to impress her with what she perceived as nothing short of pure genius.

Owning to his recent return to land, he had almost no acquaintances in town outside of their party. And of that party Lady Ingrid, despite being far from an old lady, rarely danced (much too eager to encourage others to do so instead), Mrs Nolan knew far too many people to be limited for partners (should she choose to dance) and Miss Anna could not be thought of before her older sister was provided for (but when that moment came she needn’t be worried about in the least). This, Emma later realized, had left only her own good self in between Captain Jones and Miss Froster, as she had been much longer acquainted with Liam than Elsa had.

But, of course, the sly man had found a way around it, asking her the day before when he knew Emma was certain to refuse him. Oh, she would think herself fanciful and ridiculous, if it wasn’t for the speed and self-satisfied manner with which Liam approached Miss Froster minutes after making his entrance and solicited her company, bemoaning the cruel manner in which her particular friend (and this with a most pointed and not at all regrettable look at herself) had refused him the day before. Emma would’ve liked to tell him that she was much too happy to be rid of such a partner, who, she knew, would’ve spent their dances looking for another blonde head around the room.

She could never picture herself shocked by Liam’s scheming and success. He was known for always having one scheme or another in progress (mostly aimed at his brother). He was also known for being successful in all of his undertakings – be them honourable or slightly questionably so. It was indeed the other pair of fine legs in that little dance that Emma was surprised to find so willing.

Miss Elsa Froster

If Miss Swan had known her friend not quite so long or not quite so well, she might’ve been fooled into thinking Elsa ignorant of any particular thought or attention on Captain Jones’s part. But she had known her long and she had known her well, and just because Emma had never seen her eyes sparkle quite like that before did not in any way signify that she did not understand the meaning behind the look.

Curious and eager to know, still she was content enough for now to entrust Elsa to the elder Jones and turn her eye elsewhere.

Mr Hans Islington

Rather tall, rather handsome, with rather pleasing manners and rather skilled in the Scottish reel. And for all his most promising rather’s, Emma remained unconvinced.

Indeed she had been blamed many a time, and each one unfairly so, she would claim, of a distrustful nature, a most unforgiving temper and a quick manner of forming her many opinions. To the temper and manner she might submit but her nature she must fight for and defend. She believed it was no inherent distrust of all of mankind but a most pressing feeling deep inside that could not and, she had firm belief and some not unimpressive experience, should not be ignored.

And that telltale feeling told tales of Mr Islington’s not quite so absolute trustworthiness, or worthiness in general, despite his indisputable presence among the most agreeable people in most rooms he entered.

And yet, how could Emma pass judgement on a gentleman who had been most properly introduced to them by a cousin of Lady Ingrid’s and had asked both Elsa and Anna to dance, giving precedence where precedence was due but showing curiosity and affection where curiosity and affection had been inspired?

How could Emma pass judgement on anyone when her own conduct had shifted so severely throughout the evening?

The disagreeable

Miss Emma Swan (and by proxy Mr Neal Gold or the other way around)

Oh, Emma did not care for pomp and ceremony but she held (even now, even after such an evening) that she did care about propriety. Perhaps not quite as much as Mrs Nolan and Lady Ingrid and perhaps not quite as successfully as Miss Froster and Captain Jones but she cared none the less. Which is probably why, when faced with her own failure to uphold it, she was so willing to fling her ire where it was probably least due.

“But, oh, if Killian would’ve just come off his high horse this one time!”

“Emma!”

Elsa’s eyes had been blazing with reproach ever since she caught Emma’s eye on the dancefloor hours ago and now, in the privacy of her room, she let it be known in every word.

At that moment Elsa’s hand had been in that of Mr Nolan – a respectable, married man as we well know, a close friend, one of the kindest souls that ever lived, and Emma’s – in that of Mr Gold – a cheerful-looking, young man who not one of them knew the first thing about, who had no qualms about asking Emma to dance, despite not being introduced and having never spoken to the lady before in their lives, had no qualms even about retaining her hand for not one or two but three dances. And Emma… Oh, dear, impulsive Emma.

“Well, it’s true! What was I to do? Refuse a perfectly amicable young man and sit there by myself like some old spinster?”

“You were to refuse a perfectly imprudent stranger and sit out a single dance in the company of my aunt.”

“Oh, you have such a way of making me sound positively horrid. As if you all behaved so handsomely!”

“I will not pretend to know what you are talking about, Emma, but I do not see how comparing your actions to those of others makes them any less reprehensible.”

Emma felt a little shudder go up her spine despite herself. She was well-acquainted with Elsa’s cold condemnation but she had so rarely had it turned on herself and never with quite such a force. For a second, a precious moment in time, she had the thought of folding, admitting her fault and asking her friend’s forgiveness and advice.

But Emma was so quick to jump when squeezed into a corner that she often leaped right over those treasured moments of could-have-been reconciliation.

“You need not pretend for I am perfectly willing to tell you what I mean. Mary-Margaret and David were quite tranquil in abandoning us all the minute we walked in and your aunt would suffer twice as much and twice as strongly over any of us sitting a dance out as we ever could.”

“Oh, Emma-“

“And Anna! Why should I be judged for dancing with a gentleman that asked me, while everyone is making a Mrs Islington of her already!”

“Because the gentleman in question is known to the family and was properly introduced and still restrained himself to the proper two dances with my sister and all this you know perfectly well.”

“Oh, proper and perfect! Don’t talk to me about proper and perfect, when you know how properly and perfectly Liam arranged it so he could have you all to himself.”

Something inside Emma swelled with triumph as she watched Elsa’s mouth fall open the slightest bit and her friend drew back almost on instinct.

“There was nothing improper in mine and Captain Jones’s-“

“No, indeed. As I said it was all proper and perfect and all the more transparent for it.”

And at this Miss Froster had nothing to respond, yet Emma’s triumph did not grow on seeing the faint blush that had never been present on her friend’s cheeks before. In a recess of her mind, she recognized that in another night just like this she could have delighted in it and teased with the best intentions and encouraged with the happiest phrases.

But tonight was a night when the soft pink in the one usually so reserved chilled something in the one always flaming.

“But then no one looks to the side when they are happy with what they see in front of them.”

Elsa opened her lips to parry her friend’s bitter tone, her ire having softened at the mention of her own tender success and now completely melting as sympathy sneaked between the cracks. But Emma would not be placated now.

“And Jones! Why, you are so quick to condemn me but where is your displeasure with a man who shows to a ball to do nothing but tempt and tease, to torment with his presence when he has no intention of…”

Elsa’s brows creased in confusion as her friend struggled to order her words or, perhaps, as she finally realized what words were coming forth. She drew near again, getting the end of a muttered “just to torment me indeed”, before she was faced with Emma’s tired face and sad eyes.

“Berate me again tomorrow, will you?”

“Oh, Emma.”

Elsa’s arms went around her, finding her like a ragdoll as first but slowly, reluctantly Emma’s arms came round her as well.

 “You are aware that you are 34 and not dead, are you not?”

“I have put in the effort of attending one of those blasted balls you always prattle on about and this is the gratitude I have to show for it?”

“It hardly counts when your feet were so firmly rooted to that one corner the whole time, Killian. Wait. I have it, little brother! You don’t think yourself dead but merely a tree. Tell me I have got at it at last!”

The younger man turned his attention back to wracking the coals in the fireplace between them.

“Come now, you have to tell me, if I have guessed it… What?... Would you not even speak now?”

“I know you have been quite long from land, brother, but need I remind you that trees to not speak?”

“Ah, no, indeed. But then again, you would’ve quite burned up, were you made of wood. What with the glares Miss Swan was throwing you all evening.”

Killian abandoned the fire in favour of turning his back on his brother, taking off his coat, rolling up his sleeve and tackling the task of removing his prosthetic.

“Surely you could’ve asked her to dance at least once, Killian.”

“I’m confident there is no shortage of gentlemen eager to dance with Miss Swan.”

“Yes, indeed. Strange fellows with grins too big for their faces. Miss Froster was not too impressed with her friend for that one. Nor was anyone else, I believe.”

“Ah, the collective society of Storybrooke taking grave offense at a young woman daring to enjoy herself at a dance.  May we never let her forget her folly!”

“I believe-“

“And I believe you care a bit too much for what Miss Froster thinks, brother. Should I remind you of your own age?”

“I have not decided to retire straight from the seas to an empty house and a dusty library and I see no objection to a good ten years or so between a man and a woman.”

The younger Jones felt his lips tick up despite himself.

“Aye. And you probably shouldn’t. A dusty library would be so tormented by your constant pacing. And who cares really about the age of your face when your head is likely still that of a boy of 17.”

“My head I shall defend from your cheap shots! But upon my heart you may take aim all you wish, brother, indeed it is not much older than 14, I believe.”

“And already shot down, I’d say.”

“Well, I hope I’m not that far gone so soon, but I see no harm in it, if I were.”

“No, I thought you wouldn’t.”

“I see no harm in someone aiming for yours as well.”

Killian’s laugh was terse yet genuine.

“It is not worth the bullets, I assure you.”

“An arrow then, perhaps.”

The silence seemed to make Liam’s voice quieter, more sombre. Or perhaps it was the tone of his voice that made one notice the silence and lent it such a tangible feeling.

“Truly, Killian, next time I shall accept no faux excuse for you behaving so at a ball.”

“I do not remember giving any promise to attend another.”

“You shall.”

“And if I do, I must be the single person in possession of the most excuses to behave just as I have.”

“Distant and disagreeable?”

“Disinclined to dance.”

“Oh, are you claiming to be a tree again?”

“Merely not under 30-”

“And put to shame by gentlemen twice that.”

“A widower-“

“Which, much like 34, is not equal to being dead.”

“And I believe you are meant to handle a lady with two hands on a dancefloor.”

“Ah, but you need just the one to make the offer.”

Killian shook his head and chuckled darkly, he was not to come on top tonight and he knew it, his best plan of action would be to retreat for the night.

“Goodnight, brother.”

“And I’m quite confident no more will be required.”

“Goodnight, Liam.”

[infinitehours]

Chapter 4

This chapter was getting so long, that I felt like I have no choice but to divide it into two.  30 some odd pages in word, after all, is a little long to be left whole like that.  

Check below the cut for both author notes and the chapter proper.

Authornotes: Despite what the Ghost Host says, he will be making an appearance in the next chapter.

The description of the scarecrow should be familiar.  It is, in fact, a description of Jack Skellington’s alter ego scarecrow disguise.  I wanted to make tiny references to the Haunted Mansion Holiday overlay without making a pure crossover, as the plot I’m going with wouldn’t mesh well with the Nightmare characters. So, instead, I’ll just briefly reference it here and there.  Thus, the scarecrow in this fic isn’t actually Jack Skellington (unless you really want to pretend it is, I mean I can’t stop you).  

Solomon Gracey….Oh let me tell you the story about this.  When I was young, and going through the Mansion for the first time, I saw the aging man portrait.  Except, I didn’t know anything about Oscar Wilde or Dorian Gray (I was a kid), so I never made the connection there (even though in retrospect, it seems a little obvious that’s what the Imagineers were going for).  But I DID know about Batman, and through that someone had told me the poem once associated with one of the villains named Solomon Grundy:

Solomon Grundy, Born on a Monday, Christened on Tuesday, Married on Wednesday, Took ill on Thursday, Grew worse on Friday, Died on Saturday, Buried on Sunday, That was the end, Of Solomon Grundy.

And you might be wondering “What does this have anything to do with anything?”  You see, as a kid, I misinterpreted the poem and what it meant.  I thought it referred to someone who was born, quickly grew up, lived, and died all within the span of a week. It apparently never occurred to my childlike mind that these things could happen on separate years.  

So when I saw the portrait of the man, and he aged so rapidly, I thought “Oh!  It’s like Solomon Grundy!”

And that’s the story of how the name stuck.

Artwork was drawn by me.

The statue comes from a statue in the Disneyland fast pass for Haunted Mansion

For the Gracey family seal, I used official Disney merchandise for the base.  It is the Master Gracey necklace from the Memento Mori store.   Here is the reference: https://www.pinterest.com/pin/506725395552228282/?autologin=true&lp=true

Here are other photographs and videos used as references for the other art pieces:

https://davelandblog.blogspot.com/2015/02/terrific-thirteen.html

https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=1RGdw4ePzPg&t=306s

I am the one who played the piano and recorded myself.  I used sheet music from the internet for this. Here are the reference links. Please note that I made small edits for the Haunted Mansion piece and  I didn’t follow the original sheet music for John Brown’s Body piece, I just used the same key.

https://musescore.com/user/6017331/scores/1485776

https://www.music-scores.com/midi.php?sheetmusic=Trad_John_Browns_Body

~~~

Trigger warnings: ghosts, death concepts/discussions, murder, suicide, abuse, blood, lots of scary stuff (horror), implied sexual abuse, cursing (damn and hell), drug abuse, attempted rape (never completed; in a later chapter).

~~~

Table of Contents Link

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Ch 4.  John Brown’s Body

~~

“John Brown's body lies a mouldering in the grave, His soul is marching on!”

-Traditional Folk Song, John Brown’s Body

~~

“This is all a bad dream.  This is all a bad dream. This is all a bad dream. There’s no such thing as ghosts. This is all a bad dream.  This is all a ba-“

                 “Repetition does not turn a statement to fact.”

“Shut up.” She muttered, shakily walking down the hall towards the door that she could see on the far end; the complete opposite end from the strange stretching room she had come from.  “This is all a bad dream.  This is all a bad drea-“

             “You can chant such trifle prayers to your dying breath, but                     your words will never be any truer five centuries from now than                                they were five moments ago.”

“But it keeps me going,” She muttered again, this time to herself. “And there…there can’t be life after death.  It’s impossible.  There’s no such thing.  Dead is dead.”

             “Care to repeat that to the dead person behind you?”

The creepy feeling of an ice cold hand on her shoulder made her speed up, nearly running towards the door.  

                      “Why not look behind you, hmm?”

“No I won’t I won’t!” The anxiety making her giddy, she gave a little nervous laugh as she made it through and slammed the door.  She leaned against the door and slid to the ground, eyes closed and breathing in deep.

                         “Rather impolite, but no matter….              You can always repeat your statement to the one in front of you.”

This time…This time, her eyes had flung open all without her permission and she screamed.  

She screamed all the while as she crawled backwards.

All the while as she jammed her wrist against a table in her attempt to get under it.

The thing that lay before her.  Whatever it was, it did not follow her, choosing instead to remain swaying side to side in its position.

And she permitted herself to think about what she had just seen: its legs looked like bond stalks, it’s mahogany jacket in tatters.  A figure that seemed stiff at first, its limbs in haphazard directions, as though it’s clothes were stuffed with straw.  But…

…But that couldn’t be; there had to be a person in there because behind the carved smile of its pumpkin head….she could see teeth.  

Human teeth.  

She dared to peek out from under the table, but there was no longer any sign of it.  The scarecrow’s long legs ought to have been in sight, where could it ha-

-

POUNDING ON THE TABLE ABOVE HER.

SHE COULD SEE THE SIDES TIP PRECARIOUSLY

AS SOMETHING DANCED ATOP IT.

“I’msorry I’msorry I’msorry!!” She screamed out, her shaking mimicking every jerk of the table.

The pounding stopped.   The table stopped.  

The thunder rolled off in the distance, and the rain pattered against the windows.  

She took an uneasy breath.

“…Why are you doing this to me?”  She said in a small voice.

                                 “Why, whatever do you mean?”

She could hear his tone, the thinly veiled sarcasm, the mirth that made it seem like he was laughing at her.  She tried again.

“What…what exactly do you want with me? What did you say before, that lives have value?? That the raven was useless to you??  What is it about me?”

                       “But lives DO have value.                      Unless, of course, you don’t see value in yours.                       We are certainly capable of removing                        such a heavy weight from your shoulders.                               Or are you more hands on?”

By her side….

………………

….a noose appeared….

Dangling over the sides of the furniture, her safe zone.

She found herself staring at it.  

A good.  Long.  While.

“Are you really trying to kill me?” Her throat constricted, just by having it in her sights.

                    “Would you take comfort in hearing me say ‘no’?”

“At this point….At this point I’m not sure I’d believe you…”

               “Then there’s nothing more to be said, now is there?”

She closed her eyes again.  Even knowing that her “host” might take advantage and shove another creature in her face, it was comforting to pretend that she was back at home, in bed, with her eyes closed and ready for sleep.

But the noose…

“Please….please will you at least take it away?”

….

A soft whisper of a sound, and wisp of a breeze.

When she dared to peek, bracing herself for the return of the scarecrow or some other terrible thing, she was surprised.

The noose was gone.  And there was no evidence of any new scary entity within her immediate sights.  

“Thank you.”  She mumbled.  

The only response was the low rumbling of a chuckle.

Perhaps because of that, she could not bring herself to leave the relative safety of the furnishing she’d cowered under. The underside of the table was nice and cozy, after all.  

So spent the time to look around instead.

There were instruments.  Karen couldn’t pretend that she knew much about music, but she knew enough to recognize the violin sitting on one of the chairs.  The bigger one sitting in the corner was probably a cello, and there were likely even more instruments hidden from sight in the cases she could observe.  

A piano took up most of the room; the light from the candelabras on its surface glowed in the reflection of the gigantic window behind it.  From beyond the window, she could see the dead trees buckling under the weight of the downpour, their gray limbs looking much like ghosts themselves.  It seemed so deceptively easy to shatter the glass and escape.  

                         “Whatever is the matter, hmm?                             Have you given up on your friend already?                           Shall I leave him my condolences?                             A message?               ��          The very last thing he’ll ever hear:                              ‘Karen has left you for dead’.”

“No.”  She said flatly.  “No I’m not leaving without him.”

That telltale chuckle again.

                        “That’s exactly what I’m counting on.”

“You’re not going to ever tell us why you’re doing this, are you?  Is it really because you think we’re trespassers?”

                                “You’ll have to forgive me.”

The piano began to play, a series of mismatched notes creating a discord of ugly sounds.

                      “I was not aware I required a reason.”

She held her breath, watching the keys move across the instrument without any visible fingers to press on them. But there was a shadow that fell across the whole scene that looked oddly…human-esque.   Already, she was too frightened to think too deeply into that.

                “Shall I play you something light and bright                  to coax you from your crypt?                   The mortal creature does still love a happy harmony                  wrapped up in a major key…correct?                                         And after all                                    wouldn’t you agree                                  that your life would be                          so flat without a sweet melody? ”

And with that announcement, the piano changed to a happier cord.  Was that the Battle Hymn of the Republic?

Listen to the piano part1

Despite her wariness, she did feel herself relax a tinge.  She even went so far as to lean back a bit to rest herself against the wall that bordered her ‘safety table’.   The ruffling of paper at her fingertips snatched at her attention.  

Two papers, actually.

“Mr. Williams,

I write to you on the matter of the issue you had previously approached me for.  

Thus far, the Atencio Trading Company has remained relatively unchanged despite the change in the Head of the Gracey family.  Indeed, the Atencio Company firmly remains under the ownership of the Graceys, as it always has, despite the remaining echoes of the war and reconstruction. None of the businesses contained within the company have been removed, destroyed, or discarded; if anything, new businesses have been added and not subtracted.

Below is a list that I have compiled, as best as I was able, of the Industries contained therein of the Gracey family’s Atencio Trading Company:

2 Wineries   6 Tanneries 4 Major Textile Production Factories (not containing various minor Textile Refinements involved) 1 Business involved in the Production of Cutlery 2 Beekeeping farms (also involve Honey Refinery) 3 Breweries of Beer and Fine Liquor 9 Livestock farms (not including horses) 5 Horse Ranches 2 Bakeries 7 Farms that variously produce Wheat, Barley, Grapes, Corn, Apples, and Vegetables 1 Metal Production or blacksmith factory whose purpose I could not ascertain

These industries are spread out among several states, regions, and cities. As you know, the Atencio Company regularly transports on the behalf of foreign companies.    Thus, this is in addition to the trading profits the company gets for the transportation and shipping of goods owned by companies not under the control of the Graceys.

This is not including, however, the personal farm and properties therein attached to the Gracey Manor house itself. The production involved there is mostly for the immediate benefit of the family, it’s fellows, and the servant class who board there.  

I am afraid I have still come up empty, sir, in finding the meaning behind the name “Atencio”.  It has apparently been used for ages long past, as long as the Graceys have owned this company.  The only shared name I have ever found in records, was that of a pirate crew that operated in the 1400s, long before the Golden Age of Piracy.  As such, there are only scant records of this crew, and none of them enlightening enough to provide evidence that there is any relation.  

The methods by which the Graceys run their business is still very non-involved.  Like before, it appears that many of the overseers of each company sub-branch are left to manage their own affairs, provided that profits are returned to the family proper.  The Graceys are involved in making final decisions regarding payment distribution, and appear to be very generous with those in their employment.  Especially so with the current Gracey head of family.  As such, exceptional loyalty to both the Atencio Trading Company and the Gracey Family itself is not unheard of, nor should be unexpected.  

It is with this in mind that I send this letter through an unconventional means.

For you see, sir, I am greatly concerned that this letter should be intercepted by them.

-Leslie Harrison”  

And there was a second letter underneath that.  

At its very top, was a family crest: A carved letter G in the center of the decorative shape, swirling lines jutting on both sides and a devilish head at its very top. The symbol was flanked by Latin: Familia Supra Omnia.

“Dear Miss Slater,

I am very much distressed at reading your previous missive, which I had received on the fifth of February.  I understand your concerns regarding your status as, and I quote you, “a lowly circus performer”.  But as I have stressed on more than a single previous occasion, I do not care.  

As far as the town is concerned: I, and my estate, are dead to them.  

I have long given up on pleasing the most influential members of the community.  As well you know, Mr. Williams, whom has the town in his purse strings, already hated my father long before even the War of Rebellion, hated him even worse during the war, and has shown even as recent as last week that he finds my methods of running my affairs a contemptable sight in his long list of grievances against my family name.  What the head of the Williams Company says is practically decreed, and, by extension, I am no friend to any member of the upper crust in these parts.  It subsequently gives me the freedom to do merely as I please.  

And it would please me more than anything, Miss Slater, if you allow me to help you.

I have been hearing so many rumors about the financial status of that circus company that you have affiliated yourself with, and even worse rumors about the ringmaster himself.  

Miss Slater, I do not trust that man. He has proven time and again that his humor is morbid, and that his tricks are similarly so.  Many of his acts remark and revolve on death itself, and with such a depressing notion it is surprising that his fortunes did not deplete themselves sooner.  That mishap with the lion and the poor drunkard is simply another suspicious death to add to his collection of mysterious airs.  

I am concerned by some of your wording. You’ve known I have no qualms about reputation.  And you’ve never asked for privacy before, even when you had fallen ill.  Nor have you been forthright with any reasoning, on my part, that has caused you discomfort.  All of these things are suspicious and so very out of ordinary from the past twelve years you have been with these travelers.  Your phrases, too, are upsetting: “A lost cause” “Nothing left for me”, these are not words you have ever previously used to describe yourself. I cannot but be concerned that your ringmaster, or someone else in the company, has harmed you in some way.  

Which is why, at first chance, I will make the journey to fetch you.    

Your daughter is of Gracey blood, if not in name, Miss Slater.  We are family.  And I will make sure nothing lays a finger on either of you.  

Yours in Sincerity,

Solomon Gracey”

As she tried to make sense of the newfound information…Miss Slater.

                                      Mr. Williams.

                                Solomon Gracey.

                                        Circus.

                                         She….

…Was suddenly standing.

And not underneath a table at all anymore.

There was a man in front of her, sitting at a desk with a concerned expression.  He had on a fine white shirt, nice trousers, a gray vest, and was that a pocket watch?  It held the uncanny air of a bygone era, especially as he sat, the sleeves of his white dress shirt rolled up to the elbows, at a desk that had no dust.  

She recognized that desk….and…when he turned and she saw him eye to eye….she recognized him.

This man wasn’t the same angry man from the earlier vision, with the maid and the young boy.  

This man…was from the portrait.  

The portrait that she had seen at the beginning of the house, the one that had aged to death right in front of her eyes. And as the eyes glanced her way, she felt herself back away a step.

To be sure, those eyes were beyond comparison.  Even here, the vividness of their blue felt like they could see straight into her.  

At the same time….she felt…safe.  The other vision had held a sense of terror.  The other man had clearly been antagonistic.  But this man….

                               Please. Let me help you.

She blinked.  For a moment, she had imagined that the man had spoken to her. But that…couldn’t be.  He didn’t even seem to see her, for one, as his eyes had glanced over her without any acknowledgement.  By now, he had gone back to writing….

She peeked over his shoulder.  He was writing…the very letter…she had just recently read..?

Karen stood gob smacked, gaping as he finished it off with a flurry of his signature.  

Was this really some kind of memory from the past.   How….?

                            I just want you to be safe.

She blinked again.  No, those weren’t words spoken aloud.  She finally identified them as a gut feeling.  An aura; something that the scene gave off that somehow she felt compelled to think of those exact words.  She was sure, anyways, that those feelings were mostly for the benefit of the person he wrote to.  

But those thoughts felt good.  The scene felt good. After all the ridiculous stuff that Ghost Host had thrown on her, the scarecrow and spiders and stretching rooms and nooses appearing out of nowhere, this was so relaxing in comparison. Comforting, even.  

Why couldn’t she stay and listen to Solomon?   Would it hurt so badly?  Who could blame her?  

Staying like this, watching him read over and over the letter he had just completed.  He had an intricate ring on his left hand; she could see it as he held his forehead in his hand in thought.  It was a good ring.

What was wrong with staying like this, watching him, forever?

Without worries, without cares.  No broken windows….Or was it reading…?  Law school….Something feels missing….But what does it matter?  None of the horror, just a calm room with a man writing a letter that he’d been struggling hours to find the words for.  Finally. Finally, he had gotten around to writing it out in full.

But…This won’t do at all.

He stood up.  

“Edgar!”  He called out.  “Fetch my coat and get Samuel!  We’re taking a trip to that damned circus.”

Why did he even need the letter?  By God, he’ll just show up unannounced, then he could see for himse-

….

Wait….

Karen’s face furrowed in deep thought. What were these thoughts that were now going through her head?

These weren’t…her thoughts. They had nothing to do with her.  So why was it as though her thoughts had begun to turn, turning to mush and then reshaping themselves, and all without her permission? It didn’t hurt.  But.  There was this small sense of mismatch, that something wasn’t quite right….

Thoughts about the ring on his finger….No, this ring didn’t represent marriage…But what was it…Why was she….

…..She was back underneath the table.

There was a brief sense of déjà vu as she tried to catch her bearings; the piano wasn’t helping, as it was now playing a more sinister sounding version of the Battle Hymn of the Republic.  It only cemented the idea that the dream was over and the nightmare was back.

listen to the piano 2

….She stared back to the letter. Touched it, even brought it up to her nose to sniff it.  It was real.  

Which means….the vision….

She squeezed her eyes shut so that she could gradually open them again.

The piano was still playing.  Didn’t that “Ghost Host” ever get sick of the same song over and over?

She didn’t want to deal with any of this; not him, not that vision-thingy, not this letter.

Michael…

There was a door to the left.  

She glanced back to the piano.  The Host was still playing, but for how long would he remain distracted?

Getting up on her hind legs, ready to sprint for it, the song still in the air,

one,

two,

three.

The door was in her hand, the handle turned, she slipped on through, into-

                                   “Hmm hmm hmm.”

-the same exact room?

She opened the door behind her again. In the room she left, a piano playing the Battle Hymn of the Republic.  In the room in front of her, an IDENTICAL piano playing…something else.

listen to the piano 3

Two pianos.  The same chairs.  The same violins.  Even the same table she had taken refuge under.  

Trying not to panic, she ran down to the next door.  Went through it.

                           “HmmHa ha ha Ha HA ha.”

listen to the piano4

The same room.  Again.  

She ran over to the next door. Just to peek.

AGAIN. That piano!  That horrible, wretched sounding piano!  

She stood in the center of the room, carefully avoiding the shadowy figure that seemed to sit at the stool and play away, her eyes bitter and angry as she stared at the instrument.  If she had to burn a hole through the piano with her eyes just to make a statement, so be it.  

                     “Finally facing the music, are we?                Have you accepted the reality that you need me as a guide                  if you ever hope of getting anywhere?”

“I’ve accepted the reality that you’re a well certified jerk.  Let me out of this room.”

                        “I didn’t hear the magic words.”

“Sure.  How about: ‘Let me out of this room or I break your piano’.”

Laughter radiated from the area of the piano, filling the whole room with the sound of the Ghost Host.  

                    “My how BOLD you’ve become just now.               Whatever happened to that poor, helpless mortal                          I left cowering under the table?”

Karen held her tongue at this part. She didn’t want to risk him retaliating and sapping what little courage she’d managed to muster in her bitterness.

“Take me out of this room now.”  She said, holding her ground with her chin up.

….

“Please.” She halfheartedly added a moment later.

                    “…Well.  Since you’ve asked so NICELY.”

The door in the middle opened.  As she recalled, that was the door she took to enter the music room to begin with.  

But strangely enough, it didn’t seem to lead out to the same hallway as before.

…Had he been moving her around when she was traversing all the duplicate music rooms?

If so…She opened the door that had led to a duplicate music room, only to find a wall.  He’d completely stripped her of all sense of direction…

She shuddered at the thought, finally relenting to go through the door he’d opened for her.  

“Th-thank you.”  She stammered out.

                  “Hmm hmmm hmm…You’re very welcome.”

The door behind her slammed shut so loud that she jumped.

                  “Come now.  Shriveling up on me, are you?              I was having so much fun with this new version of you…”

“Is that what you call ‘torture’?”  

           “One man’s torture is another’s…entertainment. Hmm hmm hmm.”

“And that’s literally the reason you’re doing all this?  THIS? All of THIS is entertainment to you?  What was all that before about us being trespassers?”

The voice chuckled darkly.

                                “If you must know,               I could care less about whatever foolish reason                     a mortal comes wandering here for;                                       trespasser or not.                     So long as they are here, in the flesh,                          I can take my pickings as I please.            Such a curious creature you are, though, to keep asking about this.                             Most mortals merely accept my deeds                   without questioning my motives so aptly…                        . . . Perhaps this is your ‘gift’ talking…”

“My gift?”

                        “Yes.  Surely you’ve noticed by now                       that you’ve a talent that expands beyond the grave.                       Becoming one with the very essence of human nature,                   and all of the exploits and endeavors,                        good or otherwise, therein.                                In effect, a psychic.”

“I am NOT a psychic.” She said with a huff as she strode off.  

He had led her to yet another unfamiliar hallway.  There was an end table with scattered papers, a stairway that lead up (complete with a fancy banister).  Candelabras with intricate weaves of spiderwebs held behind an intricately carved griffin. And a statue was hidden in the alcove.

A very strange statue.  

And familiar; she could have sworn she saw one like it outside with the gravestones.  

But this one was much larger, human sized, in fact.   And it was strange specifically because she got an odd, prickly feeling as she came close to it.  For all intents and purposes, it LOOKED like any other statue she may have seen in her life.

It was that of a women who appeared to be grieving.  Her dress cut just above her knees, the shawl around her shoulders wrapped up and covered her head.  Her face was positioned to the floor, and one of her hands across her chest placed over to about where her heart would be.  

Karen reached out and touched it, and it even FELT like a statue.  Hard stone that was a little rough along the edges, likely from wear and tear over the years.

But very cold.  Almost ethereally cold.  

What was worse than any of that, was the smell.  Statues didn’t normally smell, but this one reeked.

It reminded her of the time a squirrel had gotten into the electric breaker box of a telephone pole near her house; it had chewed through a few lines and wound up electrocuting itself.  The power workers had tossed the remains by the side of the road, but no animal dared to take a bite of it so it simply sat there rotting.  The smell that always ran to her nostrils every time she had to pass it was an unholy combination of cooked flesh and putrid decay.  

                             “Are you sure you’re not psychic?”  

The voice said, as though mocking the anxiety that the statue seemed to produce in her.

“No, I’m not psychic!  Maybe…Maybe ghosts exist, ok?  But I am definitely NOT psychic!”

               “Oh?  You admit to the existence of some of the supernatural?                         A nice improvement in your disposition.                  But do you mean to tell me you’ve never feel those moments?                                  That prickling on the back of your spine?”

As if in obedience, the goosebumps on her back became more pronounced.

“Stop it.”

                  “That chill that you can so easily feel in the air?”

And in that moment, the area immediately around her dropped a few degrees.

“I said stop it!”  

                           “That feeling of being watched,                   as though there were someone, or something there?                         And all you have to do is look behind y-“

“Shut up.”  She seethed under her breath, trying to avoid glancing behind in case he sent another scarecrow.   “Why don’t you just go back to playing the piano or something?? Why can’t you just leave me alone?”

                                      “As you wish.”

The temperature normalized, the goosebumps died down.

“Wha-really?”

                                         “But of course.                        If you so desire it, I am FULLY prepared to leave you.                              In this empty, creaking, dark hallway.                                             By yourself.”

“Or.  You could drop Michael off near me.”

The Host’s laughter was raucous.  

          “And interrupt all of the exquisite entertainment he’s experiencing?                                     Surely you don’t think me THAT cruel.”

Karen bristled.  “You want to talk about cruelty?!  How about ever-“

                      “But worry not.  You may be alone now,                            but you’ll be joined soon enough.”

“What…?”

                          “The happy haunts have long since received                     your sympathetic vibrations, and are beginning to materialize.”

“What. Does. That. Even. Mean?”

                       “They’re assembling for their nightly swinging wake,                       and they’ll be expecting me… I’ll see you a little later.”

“Wait…!”

There was no indication that the hallway had changed, and, of course, no actual physical sign that a disembodied voice had left the area.  Yet it felt emptier than before.  

“Ghost Host?”  She called out tentatively.

No response.  Only the low sound of thunder that rumbled in the distance. That indescribable feeling that she had experienced up until that point that had indicated his presence ceased to exist anymore.  

The hallway was devoid of its Ghost Host.

And somehow, someway, she knew that.