#it was already puffing up its feathers when she barked once

[ambersky0319]

Unrelated note we took Lucy out front and saw a hawk, then when we took her out back we saw an owl!

No hawk pictures unfortunately but the owl was fun to watch!

[nukyster-blog]

Adrift Chapter 21) Little Pieces

Chapter 21) Little pieces

.-.-.

Utstott appeared slothful, inattentive even. The white raven had been fluttering his feathers in the shadow of darkness while his savior was mauled and mowed down, over and over. Utstott could have used his eye pecking abilities for good, it would have most definitely eased the damage done by the wild boar. Who knew; if he had interfered, Ivar may not have been burdened by more scars- the deep cut running over half his face still bled. 

Yes, Utstott could have made himself useful but he chose not to help. Because,as the bird knew, Ivar already bore many scars and the ones that ran deepest  weren’t those marking his skin. 

Without lifting a claw, Utstott had efficiently healed the worst damage between Piglet and Ivar. 

By now, Utstott knew Piglet’s moods weren’t for the weak hearted; her glare could cut mountains into two. But her greatest quality was her devotion. 

.-.-.

Valeríe ignored the familiar tug inside her stomach as she tried her best to be of use. She wasn’t squeamish of blood, not per se. But the amount she saw was enough to cause her to become ill. 

The sounds the cripple produced, the raw smell of adrenaline, blood and cold sweat; it all hearkened back to a place and time from long ago she vehemently willed to never remember.

And yet, the sound of his moans echoed the memory of her own voice from all those years ago. His face; ghostly pale and writhing, must have been a reincarnation of her own. The slight difference was the deep cut that tore into his lips every time he either blew out his cheeks or clenched his teeth to block the pain. No, not block, to endure the trial of either living or dying. 

There was a difference though; he endured because he had chosen to save another’s life. And she had endured to end one. 

Valeríe fled; one foot in front of the other, determined not to get sick right away. But once the sounds of the cripple no longer rang in her ears she desecrated the trunk of an old oak tree with the content of her stomach. 

The tears that stung her eyes were quickly rubbed away, because no, she could not allow herself to feel that pain again. With both her arms she cradled her empty stomach. She remained at the trunk of the oak until dusk started to settle and chill crept into her bones.

Her feet carried her back to the ox-wagon, but her mind wandered elsewhere and more than ever Valerié wished for a pitcher of wine, or any type of alcohol would do. 

And a good fuck, as long as it included a decent bed and propper pillows. Oh, how she missed the city of Troyes and all its residences and luxuries. 

“Can you make fire?” An order wrapped in a question made her anchor back in the midst of trees, blood and hostility. 

“At a fireplace, of course mone petite,” she sneered at the smaller maiden, “here in this shithole, no, I cannot.”

The other maiden glared at her as if she was an insect she just crushed underneath her bare feet and snorted. 

“I figured.”

“Be you did, Piglet,” Valerié retorted, pleased when the dark maiden’s eyes lit on fire as her name passed her lips, “oh he can be very talkative if you’re not around.” 

This struck more than a nerve and for a moment Valerié sensed an actual strike toward the face. Piglet’s shoulder twitched and hand probably ached. But here, in the midst of forest and wildland, were more than enough hairy, four legged foes. 

Whatever bad blood was between them, it had to wait. At least till dawn. 

Which was going to be a challenge, as Piglet nudged her shoulder into Valerié as she passed her, barking at her to watch him.

“Oh, I can do a whole lot more than that mon petite,” Valerié assured her, venomously. Puffing her cheeks, because the absolute nerve that little bitch had, she flopped down next to the wheelbarrow holding up the cripple in a sitting position. Oh, she’d fuck him out of spite were he not he such a bleeding, squirming mess of a man.

.-.-.

Valerié woke in a state of shock. Two firm thighs pressed against either side of her head, locks of her hair trapped under knees. 

Now, for a lady of the night this wasn’t something she wasn’t used to. The blade of a very sharp knife pressing firmly against the soft spot of her neck was new, though. 

Piglet towered over her, leaning in close,  applying pressure on the handle of the blade.

Valerié froze, sensing the blade would cut her if she tried to swallow the lump that nearly blocked all the air from her throat.

The white raven appeared in view, hopping around her face from side to side, jerking its head back and forth from her to Piglet. 

“I need you,” Piglet whispered, glancing down with a deadpan expression, “I need you, at least until he’s stable enough to travel,” she nudged her head toward the unconscious form of the cripple. 

“You fled today, do that again and Utstott will find you, I promise you he will. And if he does, I’ll wait until you are fast asleep and I will pin you down, like this, and I will watch him peck out your eyes.” 

To give her words more meaning, the white raven cawed and dug his beak deeply into the scalp of Valerié's skull. It punctured her scalp and as she jerked, the blade scratched the soft white skin of her neck. 

Piglet pushed herself up by her knees, allowing Valerié to grasp her neck and head.

“Oh, and it's your turn to watch the fire, I wish you a good night.”

.-.-.

About three hundred pounds of angry boar had run over him; its tusks mauled at his face. The moment unconsciousness changed to consciousness Ivar went rigid with agony. His back arched off the wheelbarrow when the pain hit. It branched across his chest like lightning, caused by the full impact of the boar against his ribcage. With eyes squeezed shut he winched, deeply moaned, and drew sharp breaths through his front teeth. 

She sang to him.

He sensed how she held his hand; with all the care in the world, the way she used to pet the wobbly legged lamb inside the dingy shed of the Castle of de Haar. 

And although the cuts on his face pulled sharply, he could not help his lips to curve into a smile. He felt a sudden flare of joy when he overheard her mumble hamar, and he felt a solemn sense of happiness. It was foreign and yet, familiar. It took him a while, drifting in between consciousness and unconsciousness to determine the feeling. 

It was to matter. It simply wasn’t more than that, to matter to someone else. To be missed, if he wasn’t there. To be important enough to stay.

He grasped her hand tightly as a cramp seized the muscles of his legs. He was dead set on riding it out, but all his senses diminished. He could no longer feel her hand hold his and he blacked out. 

When he woke up again he sensed a less calloused hand holding his. And although it wasn’t hers, Ivar still held onto it, like an anchor through the storm. The pain, it casted away all rational thoughts and after what felt like an eternity, Ivar prayed to any kind of God to redeem him from the nonstop, ongoing agony. 

He must have begged, or pleaded, because soft full lips touched his. But it wasn’t the release he craved for and with all the might he had he pushed her away. His weak attempt to create distance worked, yet the side effect was losing his only anchor to pull through. And so he was left all by himself to suffer through the endless stream of pain. He clutched his chest in agony, a fruitless attempt to cradle himself, banging the back of his scalp into the wooden frame of the ox-wagon’s wheel. 

As time passed, and he suffered alone, he prayed to his Gods to end the suffering. Not for death per se, but for release, for a humble delay in between the tides of pain. 

He overheard her call him, hamar, and then call him Ivar when the pain made him double over. The simple touch of her fingers brushed over his revived his spirit. Weak with gratitude he tried to speak, but it hurt too much. 

She allowed him to clutch her hand like a bear trap, up until he point he must be close to breaking her fingers. She simply sang. 

And that was enough. It was enough to raise his spirit and tide him over while the waves of ache tried their best to drown him. 

He clenched his jaw, as he grounded his body. One breath at the time, he’d endure as he always had done and always would do. And it hit him with the force of the wild boar; he no longer had to do it alone. He had an anchor wrapped in her gentle touch, and for that he’d endure ten times more. He suffered because of her, by his own choice and action. For the rest of his life he’d carry the scars on his body; hideous reminders of how he’d chosen to save her life and virtue.

Ivar did not fear a lot; but the acceptance of his own mind, everytime he put his own life on the line, petrified him. It went so against his nature and yet felt so common; as if breathing in air. 

His entire life; he’d felt out of place, out of touch. The enslavement had changed him; first it had crumbled him down, shattered him into all these little pieces.

And some of those fragments she’d managed to put in a different order, yet they fit together in ways he had never imagined. Her kindness and will to keep him alive unearthed traits he never knew he possessed. 

Piglet managed to make him feel.

And it did not matter how much he fought it; the urge to live up to her standard of a righteous man; well it manifested and grew to the point where he no longer recognized the person he’d been, once. What felt like a lifetime ago. 

Before, before, at times he couldn’t recall ‘before’ the Castle of de Haar. 

It hurt too much to speak and so he whimpered. In response, she held his hand a little firmer and she sang. 

.-.-.

A/N: So in this episode we have Valerie have a little meltdown, I am curious about your thoughts over this. Also in this episode Piglet being threatening for once, you go girl, everything for our poor cripple bastard. Poor Ivar, I just keep beating him up, but hey in order to rise… I like that in this last bit of the chapter he’s ‘showing’ us he’s coming to terms with the changes he’s been going through ever since the start of Changing Course. He’s different, still merciless at times and a complete berserker. But there’s also empathy, fear, kindness and sadness. I still fully believe he mourned the Fair-Maiden and Stum. 

And Piglet, she managed to get so deep under his skin.

I’d love to read your thoughts,

Xoxoxox Nukyster

The kickass beta: @sarahh-jane

The tagged ones:

@youbloodymadgenius

@xbellaxcarolinax

@saldelys

@shannygoatgruff

@pieces-by-me

@apenas-mais-uma-pessoa

@readsalot73

@lauraan182

@conaionaru

@sarahh-jane

@peachyboneless

@adhdnightmare

@khiraeth

@funmadnessandbadassvikings​

@ dekusdante  @neondragons7

@bitter-post-millennial​

@noway4u​

@tessakate

[perlen-gold]

Twenty-Four Hours

@14daysdalovers

Prompt: Day 9 - Breathless Kisses

Pairing: M!Hawke x Fenris

Fenris bristled at the hunt, then slew the creature with accurate efficiency. As Hawke approaches him his viridian eyes detach themselves from the shadows like pair of bright emeralds, even before the sheen of silver of his man-high greatsword reveals him in a deluge of darkness as a stranger and not just another shadow, no, less than a shadow and so much more than one.

“I am unable to fathom why we, you agreed to this.”

Hawke knows, of course.

He feels his vibrating self gravitating towards those eyes, hypnotized by their intensity, a fleck of dark color within a mass of charcoal blackness.

Under the shade of the hedgerow – trimmed with a masterful and punctilious, hence preposterous hand – Hawke joins him. The chateau courtyard is lit by a handful of adroit golden lamps. The warm spring air filled and skittered with the sprinkling of a white marble fountain in the center, light bathing every lane in the Orlesian garden. But this corner is swathed in utter darkness. Fenris has chosen wisely; his grafted spirit hide melts into the shadows, obsidian scales blending with the gloom.

A wild smile, a grin, Hawke feels it lifting the edges of his mouth, stretching his lips, causing his beard to prickle pleasantly.

“I do love to dress up,” Hawke tugs at the Orlesian silk stretching down his chest, light lilacs and an inkling of pink and folds of fabric billowing around his thighs, his arms swollen by creases like puffed up clouds, “Why, you cannot deny Orlesians their sense of style. I have always wanted to look like an immensely important fool.”

Fenris retorts with a grind of his teeth, however, Hawke can sense it like a sunbaked fragrance in the very air, he is also trying to hide something beyond the gentler corner of his lip.

“It takes a fool to trust this elf woman.”

Fenris averts his gaze, lours at the rarefied conglomeration of Orlesian and Ferelden nobles the Duke has wheedled into clustering in the outskirts of his pompous chateau. Fenris’ eyes are alert. Unlike Hawke he has assumed a watchful stance, that habit of his to peer around while looking behind his back repeatedly even more pronounced than usual.

“Why steal a jewel?” The dun hedge swallows Fenris’ deep voice that is fretting from his lips and askant head, roughing out the edges, the low, rich, rasping sound seeping away in the blackness until no more than a deep rich rumble remains. Of course, Hawke knows.

Then Fenris voices it. “You flirted with her.”

Neither offended nor thunderous. A statement. Fenris’ words pause over the blackness of his armor, void of allegation. A mere statement of the facts. The obvious. An question and none.

Everything in him floating and excited, on his lips Hawke’s smile has settled into a more arch and softer one. Eventually, when Fenris tears his eyes away from the festivities it is to see that, on silent feet, Hawke has stepped closer in a way that, indubitably, could never fool Fenris and his straight and frank eyes in the perseverant mass of blackness. Indelible. Indissoluble.

“Just a bit of teasing,” there is an amber laugh in Hawke’s eyes along with a wink on his lips.

A softer spark ignites within the darkness.   “I wonder who it is you tease.” The crease above Fenris’ nose deepens and multiplies while lending, maybe for the first time, an edge to the gravity of his voice … or is it just Hawke imagining things?

Fenris looks away again, eyes drawn out of the guarding shade’s darkness. A faint glow from the ascending crescent moon above them trails the arch of his brows and jawline with silver-stained fingers, a light more shade than anything, a smidgen of darkened silver trembling on his cheekbone. Closer still, hands almost touching, Hawke finally follows his gaze. To Duke Prosper, grandiloquent in his teal and golden costume complete with a snow white creature’s fur and scarlet feathered helmet (living up to his name well enough), to the ladies sumptuously gossiping away their stark lipsticks, who have by now flung unambiguous allusions at him with hungry eyelashes, and eventually to the auburn-haired elf woman waiting anxiously for him.

Underneath the vibrant armor and sable tunic in Fenris’ chest an apprehensive breath is caught in is lungs, it fills them to bursting, and then storms out again. Hawke draws closer to the hedge.

In his own chest Hawke’s breath is even, air flowing and streaming in and out with ease and leisure. Well does Hawke know it, he knows it now, this polarity of breaths; tranquility and agitation, unwound and vigorous. Familiar now. Already familiar within so short a time.

So little time and so much life, a life’s worth of breathing in it.

“How is it,” he suddenly whispers into the black shadow of the high hedge, “that the Duke guffaws even at the most boring words of mine whereas I cannot win you over to crack the tiniest smile for me today?”

At his whisper Fenris’ head snaps around, moves away again while Hawke watches his emerald eyes dart to the other side through the shadows, and Hawke’s heart warmly swells as if flooded.

It has been a delicate twenty-four hours since.

As early as now Varric is eyeing them – perceptive as ever – shooting them side-way glances with the air of someone who will not have anything hidden from him (even though this is the one sole thing Hawke never tells him) – and Hawke is eying his dwarfen friend in turn, waiting for him to give in to his itching fingers, pen and imagination running wild.

Twenty-four hours …

An evening of bitterness. A day of betrayal. A year of hope. A life of obedience. A moment of fear.

And an hour, sixty minutes, three thousand and six hundred seconds of kisses, of embracing, of muted pain, solace, avowal and bravery, of wild hearts, of a desperate, defenseless thing called love.

 No sooner, after waiting, so much waiting and hoping for him to find his way back to Hawke, no sooner had Fenris arms and lips come away from him than Hawke breathlessly gripped his trembling hand in a haze, to drag him with him onto the nocturnal streets of Hightown, to meet a waiting and disgruntled Varric at the appointed place. Pretending nothing had happened – heart ripe with explosion, madly grinning, almost giddy with joy and overcome by an adventurous recklessness.

That was when Tallis appeared. Hawke can see her thin face contorted with impatience and the same bravado which fills him. From a roof she sprang and fought and killed and smiled, telling stories of jewels and burglary.

When Fenris does not answer immediately, Hawke leans closer to his face, his voice rough and daring. “Maybe I should practice with other elves first.”

Then Hawke produces a small bronzen key from the ridiculously tiny pocket of his lustrous jacket, cocking his head. “You do not want to know what I had to do to gain this.”

His eyes twinkling with the reflections of amber lamps Hawke moves out of the dark shade of the evergreen hedge. “You and Varric keep an eye on our impressionable Duke and” – his fruity voice assumes the throaty Orlesian accent with gusto – “ ’is deer pet.”

Just before Hawke leaves, just before Varric’s prying eyes finally detect them from the other end of the garden and just before Tallis hisses “Hawke! What are we waiting for?”, Hawke’s fingers brush and linger for a brief moment on Fenris palm.

The redolent odor of some magnificent flower swims in the warm evening air.

Fenris, by contrast, still smells of the hunt. Of steel and blood, of apprehension, of wood leaf and tree bark, untarnished by the revelries and pretentious silk.

And then, all of a sudden, Fenris hand shoots forward and lungs for him. Behind the gloom-swathed hedgerow in the melting obsidian shade Hawke feels himself pulled, his mouth met by hard lips, terse teeth. The kiss is hard and short-lived, the whisper following in its wake a gnarling grunt. “You do look even more ludicrous than you sound.”

Before he can pull away again, Hawke takes Fenris’ hand and impulsively puts his wrist to his mouth for a kiss. Under the charcoal-dark armor, Hawke can feel Fenris’ heart almost give way at the touch. His laughter, rich and low, vaporizes against Fenris’ skin.

And then Fenris hands are all over his face, as though led by a desperate need to feel Hawke’s skin, fingers touching the curve of his cheekbone, the arch of his abundant brows, following the lines of his hairline. Whilst Hawke knees buckle at this, he kisses the patches of night shadows and inklings of silvered light upon Fenris’ face.

“This is stupid,” Fenris mutters softly, his delightfully low voice almost an evaporating whisper, “not stupid in the sense of silly but the most unwise and imprudent thing you have ever agreed to, Hawke.” Hawke, however, kisses each word, breathless and elated, until his name dissolves into a indissoluble smile of dark and silver.

Hawke’s answer is immediate: “Na via lerno Victoria.”

Incredulous, Fenris’ eyes widen. This Hawke observes with studied scrutiny, enjoying the effect his self-taught Tevene produces immensely. To his own amazement, then, he feels Fenris rising on his bare feet. His lips trace around his jaw with their breath, down Hawke’s chin and up the other way to his cheekbone, not kissing, plainly touching, tactually, sensing. With a soft groan Hawke captures Fenris’ hand in his. He presses first one to his mouth, then another, with exquisite tenderness, first palm, then the inside of his wrist. Tasting, desperately, underneath his skin, Fenris’ pulse which flutters and throbs.

Anew, all at once, Fenris pulls his hands out of Hawke’s grasp and pushes him out from under the shade of the hedge.

“Do not get caught, Hawke.” he growls hoarsely, note quite capable of banishing that tender, delicious gentleness out of his rumbling voice.

Hawke thereupon gives a wild laughter, replete with bliss and joy, sending a flutter of nightingales skittering into the warm, velvet night.

His lips streak with a pulsating grin. “Come and find me when I do.”

As Hawke turns back he fetches Fenris’ gaze, their eyes lock. Fenris is feeling suspicious. So is Hawke.

Fenris will not abandon his irritation and disagreement, not even for Hawke, neither his bristling at what he thinks is utter foolishness and venture. Hawke would not have it otherwise.

But.

But that daring, foolhardy, audacious, temerarious, roguish recklessness has not quite worn off yet.

Not yet.

Not yet.

____________________________________________________________

A thousand thanks to the amazing @14daysdalovers aka @scharoux for hosting this delightful event and pouring all her efforts, dedication and heart in it! Thank you so very much for your time and commitment, dear!  💗 You’re one awesome girl! 💗

[maple-writes]

[Image ID: Banner image reading: The City of Eventide, Chapter 34, Maple-writes. End ID]

This is it! The last chapter! It still feels so strange to think that this really is the last one.

###

Each day grew longer than the last and the sun shone a little stronger, burning off morning spring clouds. Dylan made good on his promise to visit unannounced one afternoon. He showed up with a firm knock on the door and a greeting loud enough to wake me the rest of the way up. For hours he lingered in the kitchen, half occupied with putting the finishing touches on the egg salad sandwiches Fallon sent him along with but more occupied with filling me in on everything and anything. Tea in hand I barely spoke as the sun made its way down the sky, casting long shadows across the street outside and dimming the light through the windows all while Dylan replaced the usual quiet of the day. It was nice though, hearing someone else’s voice even if I did end up forgetting details and names in his stories.

The vitamins weren’t so bad aside from remembering to take them, and once I got used to the taste neither were the other supplements the doctor suggested. Even now Ginger stopped by sometimes to check on me and deliver updates on the goings-on back at the college, letting me know I could come see her there anytime. She’d smiled, assuring me that if I ever wanted to return to work with her we’d take it as easy as I needed.

Ember’s attempts to get me out of the house came fewer and farther between, dropping down from every night to maybe once or twice a week. Every time my heart skipped but two nights ago we made it to the 24 hour gas station store. Under the too-bright lights the night vanished outside and I had to remember to take every breath deep enough to keep my head from spinning and there were too many choices and items lining every shelf and fridge and nowhere to hide but Ember kept by my side. She walked me through and let me rest my hand on her forearm, letting some of the warmth and calm seep from her skin through mine.

We bought drinks and the lights and hum of refrigerators disappeared as the door closed behind us. Stepping between shadows cast by vacant gas pumps we didn’t make it much farther than the store that night, but for the first time some of the tension melted under quiet streetlights. Chill air cooled my lungs and settled my head. The two of us talked all the way back home and together in the living room until far too late. She really shouldn’t have been staying up that late with her job interview tomorrow, though she was quick to reminded me it was only in the afternoon.

Her interview went well, and by the end of the week she’d been called back for a second and a week after that they offered her the job as a deckhand on a fishing vessel. From what she told us it sounded hard, and she’d be gone for long stretches during the season, but her excitement was contagious. Striker ordered take out to celebrate and we ended up only going to bed long after the sun had set.

Yawning, I pulled my shirt off, crawled into bed and drew the blanket snug around my shoulders. After all the excitement and celebration I sunk all the way down into the pillows and sheets.

A rattle came from my window, then another and I sat up, squinting in the dark. Grey-blue in the evening dark, a wing flashed into view then a beak tapping at the glass as a seagull fluttered by. Cirrus. It had to be. Otherwise some poor bird was very, very lost.

I hopped out of bed and opened up the window just as he glided back around. He landed on the windowsill in a blur of feathers, tucking his wings neatly to the side and shaking out his tail as he came to a stop. His head tilted left and right, pupils dilating a moment before finding the right focus.

“Hey Cirrus.” I leaned over, resting my elbows against the windowsill. “It is you, right?”

The gull ruffled his feathers, puffing up and laying them flat again in one smooth wave. He raised his beak and stuck out his chest as he watched me sideways. I smiled, warmth spreading from deep in my chest. Of course this was Cirrus. Hard to believe the last time I’d seen him was back at the cabin. How long ago was that now? I’d lost track.

Cirrus turned, webbed feet tapping against the wood of the windowsill in the quiet of the dark. He faced the street, dark and empty, glancing back at me over his grey shoulder. I frowned. Did he want…

“You want me to go with you?”

He gave a quick nod, holding his head sideways to lock me in one of his little eyes. I swallowed and wrung my hands together. How far would he want me to go? What if something happened? I hunched my shoulder, hair falling in front of my face as I stared down at my arms.

“I, I don’t know Cirrus.” How was I supposed to tell him? How was I supposed to tell him I hadn’t gone much further than a few blocks from home on my own since I got back. “I don’t know.”

A weight landed on my shoulder, webbed feet against my skin. Cirrus pushed his beak through my hair to poke at my cheek. He settled down, feathers of his belly soft against my skin. I sighed and turned my neck to see him through the corners of my eyes.

Even if we hadn’t gone far nothing horrible happened whenever I went out with Ember. I held Cirrus’ stare for a moment, watching him blink and turn his head. If something did go wrong Cirrus would have seen it before, right? He didn’t know what Ginger did but it wouldn’t be the first time he’d helped. I could handle this. If I could handle the cemetery in the middle of the day I could handle a walk in the middle of the night.

I sighed again, straightening up slowly to give Cirrus the chance to hop down. “Alright. Let me get dressed first.”

Cirrus waited outside, perched on a nearby streetlight and watching as I finally stepped out into the night. I shut and locked the door as softly as I could behind me, trying to keep the nerves already wrapping around my throat in check. A flurry of feathers made me look up a second before Cirrus landed softly on my shoulder. Webbed feet tapped quiet on my jacket and grey wing-tips tickled my ear as he turned. He stuck his head out a second, caught my eye and flew down the street.

“Hey!”

I took off running after him. My feet fell loud and echoing in the quiet side streets and alleyways, chasing flashes of white feathers under spaced-out streetlights until I staggered to a breathless stop. Hands on my knees and hunched over on the sidewalk, my heart struggled to keep up with my lungs and my legs burned. Shit. How long had it been since I moved this much? Cold air scraped at the back of my throat. I coughed and tried to catch my breath. By the time I looked up Cirrus was gone.

I grit my teeth. “Damn it.”

A seagull’s call pierced through the quiet, shrill and laugh-like. Sounded like he wasn’t too far, towards the waterfront. Of course he’d want me to meet him there. I pulled myself back upright. He’d have to wait though because I wasn’t about to run the whole way there.

I’d almost caught my breath by the time the gentle lapping of the waves caught my ear, soft and rhythmic against the deserted shore. A full moon hung bright over the ocean casting liquid silver over the dark water and the white crests of incoming waves. I slowed as I stepped out onto the beach. Full moon. Cirrus, he hadn’t waited for me here after I’d gone home, had he? Waited and hoped I’d show up for him only to leave disappointed like he had so many times hoping his mother would come around.

He’d understand why I hadn’t come, if he’d waited here for me at all. I bunched my shoulders against the wind and shook the thought from my head, picking my way across the dark beach to the usual place. Tiny creatures, insects, arthropods, they scurried away from my path with every step. Moment by moment the lights of the city faded to a faint glow at my back to give way to blue-dark night.

A figure sat on a washed-up log, turning when I rounded the bend. A woman in an ink-black evening gown that billowed around her ankles when she stood and faced me with a polite smile.

“Well, you’ve sure perked up since I last saw you.” She paused, waiting, but I only squinted in attempts to place where we might have met. “Ah, you don’t recognize me.” She gestured to herself with a black-gloved hand. “Cirrus’ sister. Call me Hadley.”

We had met, hadn’t we. I furrowed my eyebrows and tried to remember back but couldn’t see much more than a blur, a haze of feathers and loud voices that seemed to rumble through the air and into my own lungs.

Hadley though either hadn’t noticed or didn’t mind, catching me with a nod as she settled back down on the log. “Cirrus should be here soon.” She shot me a smirk, raising her head high. “I have been instructing him on how to shift his form but it can be hit or miss. He wanted to see you though, so I agreed to help him out tonight.”

She leaned back resting her hands behind her and facing the shimmering sea. Her head tilted just a moment as I sat beside her. This close she had the same barely contained power Cirrus did, cold and powerful like a harsh wind biting through my clothes. She kept quiet, watching as wave after wave lapped at the rocky shore. Slowly, I ran my hand over the worn bark of the log, tracing over ridges and bits where the wood had torn and weathered away.

“Ah,” Hadley stood, smoothing down her dress in the breeze. “Sounds like he’s done.”

The bushes growing beside the beach rustled, and a moment later Cirrus stuck his head out, one hand covering half his face and casting a sheepish look at Hadley.

She half chuckled to herself with a short glance back at me. “One moment.”

Without waiting for any kind of response, she stepped out of sight behind the foliage and the night dark. She said something, mumbling and chiding but too low for me to make out, Cirrus responding with something indignant and defensive but without any teeth behind his words. I smiled, leaning forward on the log to try and peek around the bushes and shadows. That was Cirrus alright.

The leaves rustled again, branches snapped, and Cirrus swore as he stumbled out onto the beach. He found his balance and shook himself out, looking just like I remembered. Same hair, same eyes… I jumped up from the log and throwing my arms around him. He balked a moment, surprised, before returning the embrace. His clothes were warm and smelled like storm-bearing winds, familiar and new at the same time. I leaned against him, pressing my forehead against his shoulder a moment before standing up again, throat tight.

“Miss me?” Cirrus grinned, already knowing the answer.

I nodded. “Its different, with you gone.” Maybe not quieter now that Ember was around, but different. I swallowed and turned away, a hand to the back of my neck as I glanced out to the ocean. “I don’t know if you were waiting for me here, but I’m sorry if you were.” My voice dragged along. “Things haven’t been easy.”

He shrugged. “I wouldn’t know, I haven’t been around here either. It’s been a whirlwind.” Cirrus huffed and crossed his arms, shaking his head to the dark pebbles.

“Oh come on Cirrus!” Hadley scolded, coming up around behind him and messing up his hair. She snickered as he tried and failed to duck out of the way. “You had a great time. Do you think I missed you flirting with that pretty noble lady?”

Cirrus flustered, uncrossing his arms and stumbling over his tongue. “She started it!” He shook himself out with another huff, crossing his arms tighter than before. “But yeah, alright. It wasn’t all bad.” He watched his sister as she retuned to her perch on the log, a half smile on his face, before turning back to me. “You’re looking better than last time I saw you. At least like you’re not about to get blown over by the wind.” Cirrus paused a moment, just standing, watching me as the breeze slipped silent between us. “I don’t think I’ve ever seen you with so much colour in your face.

Even at in the dark? I looked away a moment, watching the moon hang bright over the gentle swells. Maybe he had better night vision than I did because Striker had said the same thing.

“I uh,” I faced him again, tucking my hands in my pockets and out of the chill. “I’ve been seeing some doctors since I got back for a while now. I guess it’s working.” The wind picked up again and I hunched my shoulders until Cirrus stepped to my side, blocking out some of the gale. “Ginger was saying the other day she’d be alright with me coming back to the college.”

“You going to do it?”

I shrugged, pushing rounded stones from side to side with the toe of my shoe. “I… I hope so. It’s been a while.” A smile played at my lips. “I kind of miss it actually.

Cirrus snorted. “Bored at home already?”

This time I grinned, full and toothy. “Maybe.”

He rolled his eyes but kept quiet, attention drifting up from me to the lights of the city down the beach. I glanced back over my shoulder to follow his gaze only a moment before focusing back on Cirrus. In the dark he looked just like I remembered, like nothing changed. Like he hadn’t been gone for months now and he’d never returned to life as a dragon. Like Ember hadn’t moved into his bedroom and he was going to be in the kitchen tomorrow morning when I got out of bed.

A deep ache spread sharp through my throat, all the way up to the floor of my mouth and I looked away. He had his own life now. His own life somewhere far away. Somewhere I couldn’t go and find him like I used to. He’d come to see me this time tonight but how long would that last? I swallowed. He wouldn’t forget about me now that what he’d hoped to happen for years and years finally came about, right?

“Do you remember back then when I couldn’t speak my name?” Cirrus spoke low, eyes still drifting over my head to the city. “That day you found me?”

I don’t think I would ever forget, he must have known that but I nodded all the same.

He paused, hesitating before speaking again. “It hurt for a long time. I used to dream of hearing it again, to be who I was again. But then…” Cirrus finally tore his gaze from Eventide. He looked down at me, the faintest of the distant light reflecting in his eyes. “It didn’t feel the same anymore. I’m keeping Cirrus. I just wanted you to know that.”

“Really?” My voice came out smaller than I expected, thinned and brittle. “You don’t miss the other?”

Cirrus shrugged. “I can’t say I don’t, but I don’t know, I couldn’t bring myself to part with this name yet.” He half smiled. “My mother wasn’t exactly thrilled but she’ll get over it.”

From what I’d heard of her, I wasn’t surprised. “You’re still going to come and visit, right?”

“Of course.” Cirrus casted a sidelong glance at his sister still seated on the log and gazing out to sea. “Though it might be a while yet before I get the hang of shape shifting alone.” He paused a moment before turning back to me. “I’ll be around. I’ve got at least a couple more centuries of watching over Eventide’s storms after all.”

That long? I guess it made sense. He was a dragon after all. I smiled but broke halfway by a surprise yawn. What time was it?

A warm hand rested on my shoulder as Cirrus’ laugh drifted over the crashing waves. “Keeping you up?” He grinned down at me as he turned towards the city. “I’ll take you home.”

We walked along the beach towards the soft city lights. At this time of night we had the sidewalks to ourselves, only the occasional car passing by the empty roads. My arm brushed his, contented warmth easing from him to me. I quickly ran out of things to update him on since coming back to Eventide and he took over most of the way home telling me all about his sisters and the trouble they’d get into. Even in the low light I could see how he flushed talking about the woman Hadley had brought up on the beach. I smiled, struggling to keep my eyes open and half leaning against his shoulder as we walked.

He sounded happy.

#

Sun sinking low in the sky relief pooled in my chest seeing how quiet Eventide College was this time of day. A handful of people milled and wandered around the front stairs, some chatting and laughing in the gold-tinged light. Inside the front lobby soft echoes of conversation drifted through the still air and the little coffee shop sat nearly empty with the last few customers before closing time rolled around.

My footsteps echoed through the empty halls, clicking against the stone stairs spiralling down towards Ginger’s basement. I hadn’t told her I was coming but surely she wouldn’t be unhappy to see me all the way out here.

The air chilled and a familiar presence brushed against my arm. I slowed, letting Cynthia gently press up against my shoulder as her relief and excitement slipped through my skin. A smile spread on my face and I held out a hand. She knew me. She knew how to be gentle, how to contain herself unlike the panicked, desperate spirits who needed my help.

She slid though my palm, passing cold up the veins of my arm all the way up where they joined together in the subclavian. Good to see you again. It’s been a while.

I nodded along, continuing down the stairs as she settled in deeper tucked under my first rib. Been a while was an understatement. I swallowed. Had anyone told her what happened? It must have seemed like I’d just vanished one day, Ginger too. Charlotte filled me in. We were all worried about you for a while there. Glad to see you back on your feet. Thanks.

The stairs opened up to the little underground hallway, my footsteps booming in the quiet. I tucked my hands in my pockets and shifted as Cynthia nestled herself more comfortably towards my chest. Here to see Ginger? I nodded. If she’s here. She is. Saw her come in a few hours ago. Good. Good. Does this mean you’re going to stick around? I turned the last corner, slowing to a shuffle. Had I even considered not coming back here? Even if Ginger had told me I’d never be able to come back here would I really be able to just… Stop?

Even if you change you mind, her grin crossed my face, you should still stop by. You’re the easiest living person to chat with to come through those doors.Really? Faster than hijacking Charlotte’s computer. Fair enough.

I paused in front of Ginger’s office, the door slightly ajar. Cynthia stilled under my skin, cold and fluid. Could you give us a minute? Right. Was good to see you again Asher. She shifted a moment before breathing out through the thin skin at the top of my chest and vanishing somewhere through the walls of the college. Alone I stood another moment in front of the door. I took a deep breath, rested my hand on the door handle and opened it up just enough to poke my head into Ginger’s office.

She looked up from her computer as soon as she saw me. For a moment surprise seemed to flash across her face but in a heartbeat it shifted to a wide, fang-filled smile.

“Asher! Welcome back.”

[nessiansimp]

Halloween Party Nessian fic

Nesta hated Halloween.

Firstly, because it was the most pointless holiday to ever grace a calendar. She simply couldn't understand why people willingly chose to dress up in some outlandish costume while stuffing themselves with candy and other overpriced sweets. Second, because she had to spend the entire night in said ridiculously uncomfortable costumes, glaring down anyone who looked at her for too long.

But mostly because every year, her sisters dragged her to the stupid Halloween party their friend Mor was hosting.

Which happened to be exactly where she was at the moment. At the huge house Mor had rented out for the evening, which was filled with loud music and dancing and laughing, and people partying like it was there last day on Earth. There were at least several hundred people there, and she found herself wondering again and again how her sister's friend even knew that many people to invite. She didn't think she'd met more than a few dozen people in her life.

The one thing that made the horrific ordeal slightly more bearable was seeing Cassian. She usually didn't get to see much of him during the year because of both of their busy work schedules. The holidays were one of the few times she saw him, and she was glad to have those few moments with him, despite the horrible music and the drunk partygoers that crowded around them.

She shifted uncomfortably in her witch costume, a short black dress and a pointy hat which she'd reused from last year's event, as she scanned the crowd for Amren. Her sister Feyre had ditched her to find her boyfriend Rhys, and Elain had gone off with Azriel to play some party game.

Which left her alone. In a sea of people she didn't know and had no interest in meeting.

A deep voice rumbled behind her. "Hi, sweetheart."

She whirled around to find Cassian grinning at her. He was dressed in the most absurd costume she'd seen yet. A pale gray jacket with orange pompoms down the center. Puffed up sleeves and white feathers glued to every inch of the shirt collar. He wore matching gray gloves and a fiery orange wig, the color of which suited the pompoms perfectly. The white and red face paint he'd been wearing had mostly faded off, leaving nothing but brown skin in its wake. Although his nose was still painted a vivid red.

"Hello, Cassian," she drawled.

He slung an arm around her shoulder and steered her towards the bar, the only place in the party where she could actually enjoy herself. They sat down on the stools and Cassian ordered drinks for them.

He swiveled in his chair and turned to face her, his gaze raking over her simple costume. It wasn't a particularly creative choice of clothing, but she didn't want to waste the money or the energy on an outfit she would wear only once a year.

"Nice costume," he said. The bartender came back and handed them their drinks, and he swished the liquid in his cup around once, before downing its contents in one long gulp. He cracked a fiendish smile in her direction. "It's super creative. And look at that, it suits your personality."

A small smile tugged at her lips. "At least I didn't dress up as chicken."

He motioned to the bartender for another drink, who nodded and grinned at him like they knew each other. She didn't doubt he knew at least half the people at the party. Cassian was that type of person. Funny and easygoing. Not to mention incredibly attractive. Of course she'd never tell him that.

His attention turned back to her and his lips curled upward. Cassian's eyes alighted with the challenge in her words, sensing the start of another argument. The bartender came back with his second drink and slid it over to him on the counter.

He picked up his drink, watching as she took a sip of hers. "I'm not a chicken," he retorted. "I'm a clown."

"Did you mean that literally or figuratively?"

"Both."

She clamped her lips together, trying not to let any of her amusement show. She'd really missed their arguments.

"Are you sure you're not a chicken?" She gestured to his collar. "What's with the feathers?"

He scratched his head. "Yeah, I didn't have the right fabric so I had to improvise." He straightened. "I think I'm pretty recognizable anyway. I mean, I'm not just any clown."

She stared at him over the rim of her cup. "What do you mean?"

He motioned to the wig and the face paint, then the clothes before he sighed and said "I'm Pennywise."

She raised a brow. "Am I supposed to know what that is?"

He gasped mockingly. "You've never watched 'It'?"

"No. Why would I watch a horror movie on purpose?"

He rolled his eyes. "Because it's fun to get scared."

"Well, if you're trying to frighten someone, the only people you're scaring off are poultry farmers."

He barked a laugh. "Well, if I knew you were coming, I would have suggested we picked out couple costumes instead. We could've gone as ghost or vampires, if that's more up your alley."

She snorted. "Yeah, except for the fact that we're not a couple."

"Who says we can't be one?"

She rolled her eyes and looked away to hide the blush creeping up her face. She tried to search for Amren again, but she still couldn't see her anywhere in the large crowd and she couldn't find anyone else she recognized either. She'd probably be stuck with Cassian for the rest of the night.

The man in question grabbed her hand suddenly and started dragging her towards the dance floor. "Come on," he said.

She groaned. "No way. I hate dancing."

"Too bad," he sang.

They stopped right under the disco ball swinging from the ceiling and Cassian's hands came to rest on her hips, swaying them both gently with the music. The loud music pulsed from speakers overhead and neon lights flashed different colors. Her boot heels clacked on the floor as people swarmed around them in the crowded room, shoving her and Cassian closer to each other until there was barely any distance between them at all.

Someone pushed her from behind suddenly and she stumbled forward, crashing into him. His arms came around her, warm and steady. He held onto her until she regained her balance, then his hands found her waist again.

They stayed like that for a few more minutes, until at one point he took her hand and pulled her into a dark hallway far away from the dancing and music and people. She stumbled back against the wall as he braced his hands on either side of her, completely trapping her there. His warm breath fanned over her face as he inched closer until they were practically nose to nose. His dark hair slid over his brow, his hazel eyes burning like molten flames.

She crossed her arms and raised her chin defiantly. "I thought you wanted to dance."

"I changed my mind."

He leaned forward suddenly and seized her mouth in his. It was anything but gentle, the movement fueled by desire and need, as well as the heavy amount of alcohol they'd both consumed earlier. Her lips parted as his tongue slid over the roof of her mouth, his calluses brushing her arm as he held her against the wall. She fisted the front of his shirt in one hand to pull him closer, although there wasn't any distance left between them at all. His body was warm and hard against hers, and she moaned a little in spite of herself as he slid a hand under her dress and started rubbing circles on her thigh.

She pulled back and grinned up at him. He grinned back, panting and breathless.

She smirked. "I think I'm going to need another drink."

He laughed as she took his hand and starting dragging him back to the bar, when Amren tackled them out of nowhere. Her friend was wearing a black dress, her outfit similar to her own, except Amren's lips were painted a deep red with fake blood trickling off her chin and fake fangs in her mouth.

"There you are," she huffed. "We've been looking everywhere for you."

Amren's eyes flicked briefly over Nesta's costume, then Cassian's, wrinkling her nose slightly as she took in the feathers and the vibrant pompoms.

Cassian smirked at her expression. "What's your costume, Amren? Tiny bloodsucking elf?"

Amren rolled her eyes. "I'm a vampire, you dolt. What are you supposed to be, a chicken?"

Nesta nudged Cassian in the side. "See? I told you."

"Idiots," he muttered.

Nesta slid her hand into his and pecked Cassian on the cheek, who grinned at her devilishly, before following Amren through the crowd and dragging Cassian along with her.

After nearly losing Amren three times, they finally made it to the table where Elain, Mor, and Azriel were waiting for them. Mor was wearing a red devil costume with horns poking out of her golden hair, and Elain was clothed in a flowing gown, a sparkling tiara placed on her head.

Azriel was wearing what he usually wore, a black jacket with matching black pants, except for the white face paint drawn in lazy lines, like he hadn't bothered to put any effort in. She assumed he was supposed to be a skeleton, although his outfit did the bare minimum. She really wished she'd thought of that. The skintight dress she was wearing had already started to become unbearably uncomfortable.

She sat down across from them and Cassian plopped down next to her, one hand on his drink, the other on her bare knee. Nesta was just about to ask where her other sister was, the whole reason she was in this mess in the first place, when Feyre strutted over to them with Rhys on her arm.

Her sister twirled around in her angel costume once before sitting down next to Rhys. "Do you guys like my outfit?"

Rhys wiggled his eyebrows. "Yeah, but it'd look better on my bedroom flo-"

Amren gagged.

"Oh please, not this again," Mor groaned, then turned to Nesta and said "They've been acting like this ever since we got here."

Feyre laughed and popped a candy into her mouth from the candy bowl in front of her. "Ok, we'll stop. I promise."

Amren snorted. "I give them 5 minutes before they're at it again."

"2 minutes," Mor countered.

"30 seconds," Cassian said.

Rhys rolled his eyes. "You know we can hear you, right?"

Mor stood up suddenly and clasped her hands. "You know what? Let's do something fun. Like truth or dare!"

"I'll go first." This from Amren, a cruel smile dancing on her blood red lips, in a way that made Nesta feel terribly sorry for whoever was going to be subject to her demands.

Amren turned to Feyre. "Truth or dare?"

Feyre contemplated for a bit, before answering "Dare."

"I dare you to eat every single piece of candy in the bowl in front of you."

"What? No!" Feyre protested.

Amren was uncompromising. "You said you wanted a dare."

"A dare within reason-"

Feyre continued to argue with Amren and Nesta's attention started to wander, already bored with the conversation. Cassian gave her a sidelong glance and the hand on her thigh started drifting higher.

Eventually Amren gave up and slumped back in her seat. Mor took the opportunity to cut in. "My turn," she chirped. "Az, truth or dare?"

"Truth."

"When was the first time you..."

The rest of the conversation became a blur as his fingers started working their way up her inner thigh, drawing idle lines and circles on her skin. His touch was warm against her freezing skin, courtesy of the Velaris weather.

Somewhere in the background, their friends were laughing themselves hoarse over whatever Az had dared Rhys to do, but Nesta couldn't hear anything over the roaring in her ears as Cassian hand trailed her legs and slipped under the lace of underclothes, his fingers just shy of her folds.

Two fingers curved in on the soft skin at the apex of her thighs, applying just enough pressure to make her cough to suppress a moan. No one payed her any attention, their focus solely on the game. She slid her gaze to Cassian, who kept his face neutrally blank as he casually participated in the conversation, laughing at the appropriate times.

Her breath caught in her throat as his fingers encircled her core teasingly, so dangerously close to where she wanted him. Every thought in her brain narrowed to the two fingers under her dress, just inches away from-

"Nesta?"

She snapped her head up. Everyone was gaping at them from across the table. Cassian smirked and slowly withdrew his fingers from under her dress.

"Um." She felt the heat rush to her cheeks. "Did you ask me something?"

Feyre's eyes darted between her and Cassian, before widening slightly and saying "I just asked if you were going to choose truth or dare."

She cleared her throat, trying very hard not to look at Cassian and the taunting expression on his face. "Dare."

Feyre's lips curled into a wicked smile and Nesta shuddered. "I dare you to kiss Cassian."

Cassian mirrored Feyre's expression as he studied Nesta. She shook her head. "Never mind, I'm going with truth."

Feyre's smile didn't falter. "Do you want to kiss Cassian?"

Nesta stood up from her chair and brushed herself off. She made a mental note to push Feyre into the Sidra later. "I should probably head home. It's getting late."

Cassian stood up with her and tucked his chair in. "I'll walk you there."

Amren's eyebrows shot up to her forehead. She gave Nesta a knowing look, which she ignored. Feyre still wore that delighted grin on her face as she kissed her cheek and waved them off. They said goodbye to everyone, then stepped outside into the autumn weather.

As soon as they were outside the party, away from all the loud music and flashing lights, she whirled on Cassian.

"What the hell was that?" she hissed.

A wry smile. "Oh please, you liked it."  

She had enjoyed it. A little. But she wasn't about to tell him that.

He offered her his arm, which she ignored, and started walking ahead of him. He grinned and rushed after her, leaves cracking under both of their feet. They passed a group of kids trick-or-treating who gave them weird looks on their way to her apartment, probably because Cassian was still wearing that ridiculous outfit of his. They walked a few more minutes in silence, before she turned to Cassian again, who was rubbing his hands together franticly.            

"If you're trying to summon an evil spirit," she said, "I don't think that's how it works."

He grunted. "My hands are cold. I think I lost my gloves somewhere."

"Then just buy new gloves."

He rolled his eyes. "Gee, Nesta, that's a brilliant idea. I hadn't even thought of that."

He continued rubbing his hands together and she almost laughed at the site of him.

"It's not even that cold. No one else is wearing gloves," she pointed out.

"Well, I'm sorry for not being immune to cold weather."

She grasped his hand in one of hers. "There. Now shut up."

His eyes widened at first, but then a slow grin spread on his face. "You know, I think my lips are getting cold too-"

"Screw you," she muttered and yanked him forward. He stumbled after her, gripping her hand like a lifeline. They walked a bit longer, silence settling over them again, until they reached her apartment on the banks of the Sidra.

He leaned casually against her door as she slid fumbled with her keys. "Admit it. You had fun tonight."

She slid her keys into the lock and cracked the door open. "Debatable."

"Wasn't that so much better than staying at home alone and reading some cheesy romance novel?"

He stepped in front of her to block her path, and when she couldn't sidestep him, she asked "Which part? The part where we made out or the part where we got drunk?"

A snort. "We weren't even that drunk. We just had a couple of drinks."

"I must've been drunk if I actually kissed you."

He growled. "You could've just answered the damn question, Nesta."  

She laughed, and he looked as surprised as she was to hear the sound come from her. His face broke into a smile again.

She stepped closer to him, toying with those ridiculous pompoms on his jacket that had somehow managed to stay glued on the entire night. "I had a great time. Best Halloween of my life," she added. "Happy now?"

He smirked. "Not yet."

He leaned forward and pressed a featherlight kiss to her lips then pulled back so quickly she barely had time to register that what had happened.

A smiled danced on his lips. "I can't wait to see what we're going to dress up as for next Halloween."

"As long as you don't dress up in this ridiculous costume again."

He grinned as she grabbed the front of his shirt and pulled him inside, kicking the door shut behind her.

[devinsnewyork]

Juliet and Thisbe’s Unexpected Adventure

(temporary title, will take suggestions)

It was the end of August; summer was still very much alive (the heat oppressive and the days long), but with two more weeks until Thisbe went back to college, it already felt like summer was taking his last breaths. 

Thisbe had thought this summer would be The One. She’d planned to write a book and watch all the movies on her list and go to parties with her high school friends, but all she’d managed to do was befriend the local murder. 

“Hey, Nigel.” Thisbe held out her left hand, which held a few pistachio nuts. “Here you go.” Nigel hopped onto her knee, black head twitching, shiny eye looking like a pebble glued to his face. Then he pecked at the nuts. Stretching her right hand out a few feet from her body, Thisbe opened her palm, revealing the peanuts for the other three crows, Sir Bird, Walter, and Captain Corvid, better known as the Captain. 

It’s not that Thisbe hadn’t had human contact all summer; she regularly hung out with her friends. She just felt lonely in the way all people do, Carson McCullers’ the Heart Is a Lonely Hunter kind of loneliness. She couldn’t describe the feeling herself; she could just remember what writers had written in the past and feel it. 

She watched the sun blink, his eyes drooping low, his tired sighs turning the sky orange. Her murder lingered for a few minutes, and Thisbe pretended that it was because they enjoyed her company, not because they were hoping for more food. 

“Dude!” Nigel squawked. Thisbe beamed at him.

“Dude!” She shook her head, still smiling. Teaching the crows human words was definitely one of her better ideas. 

“Come with us!” Thisbe snapped her head to the right and narrowed her eyes at the Captain. 

“Since when could you say that?” 

“Come with us! Adventure!” This time it was Walter who spoke, fluttering his wings by his side and tilting his head up, sending his calls into the sky. Thisbe kept shifting her gaze, taking turns on staring at all the crows, who were all remarkably still for such twitchy creatures, and she swallowed when she realized it seemed that they were all looking at her. 

No. Thisbe shook her head vigorously and stood. Nothing weird here, no call to adventure. These are normal crows. 

“Where are you going? Adventure!” 

“Come with us!”

“No, guys.” Thisbe sighed and showed them her empty palms. “No adventure. Good night.” That apparently wasn’t the right thing to say because the crows started screeching angrily, a raucous, discordant orchestra composed of scratchy violins, piercing violas, and cellos with their strings snapping. “Shh! Stop!” But her murder, ever recalcitrant, continued the ear-splitting squawk fest. Thisbe grimaced and retreated indoors, where the shrill noise was much more muted. 

Thisbe’s dad was in the kitchen, sitting at the counter, plate with crumbs sitting in front of him, his face in his phone. She tilted her head and looked at him. 

With his wide eyes, high cheekbones, and square chin, he and Thisbe looked nothing alike. All they shared was their cool obsidian skin. 

“What is wrong with those crows?” Thisbe’s mom walked in, eyebrows high on her forehead. Thisbe shrugged sheepishly and ducked her head, and her mom laughed. “You better apologize. I want to sleep tonight.” She threw Thisbe a pointed look, round face betraying amusement in the fullness of her cheeks and the topaz glow in her eyes. 

“I tried, I swear.” Thisbe opened the silver refrigerator, grabbed a red apple, and made for her room, twisting away from her mother when she reached out to squeeze her shoulder. Ignoring the shrieks coming from her brothers and sisters in the living room, Thisbe took the stairs two at a time. She opened the first door on the right and closed it behind her. 

She sighed and threw herself down onto her bed, biting into the apple and staring at the ceiling. The white fan circled around, and Thisbe tried to follow one blade around and around and around with her eyes until they started to water. She sat up and sighed again, glancing around at the computer that lay on the grey rug on the floor, the guitar leaning against a green wall, the stack of books she had piled in front of the much-too-small bookcase, and she only had to ask herself what should I do? once before her phone buzzed. She took another bite of the apple and thumbed open her phone. 

Thisbe smiled so widely a bit of apple juice dripped onto her chin.

Juliet: what are you doing

Thisbe typed back Nothing. 

Juliet: lame. 

Juliet: you should hang out with me instead 

Thisbe sent back Okay. 

Juliet: good i’m outside your house

Thisbe barked a shocked laugh, then shot up. She glanced at herself in the mirror, making sure her afro wasn’t doing anything weird before jogging down the stairs, shouting “JULIET’S HERE I’LL BE BACK LATER BYE LOVE YOU” just as she pulled the front door shut. She turned and waved to her friend and walked around to the passenger side door of her little, black 2004 Volvo called Romeo. 

Juliet’s long hair was pulled into a low ponytail, evidence that her curls were too frizzy to let loose tonight. Thisbe’s eyes lingered on the blue silk ribbon that complimented Juliet’s dark brown hair and made her look like Anastasia from that animated movie they both loved as kids. “So!” Thisbe waited for Juliet to look up from her phone. “Where to?” 

Juliet shrugged. “Do you wanna get sorbet?” 

“Duh.” 

Juliet shuffled their favorite playlist and started singing along as she pulled away from the curb. 

At the outdoor ice cream shop, Juliet and Thisbe ate their lemon sorbet with rainbow sprinkles from small cups and watched people come and go. Thisbe couldn’t stop laughing; she was so happy to be with Juliet. They weren’t best friends, but Thisbe always relished Juliet’s company, and eating sorbet with her in the dark while joking back and forth made her feel relished, too. How dare she let herself feel lonely! This is was love felt like. Thisbe wanted to hold on to this. 

Juliet drove her home and was just pulling up to the curb, ready to drop Thisbe off, when there was a blurry shape and a loud THUD against the windshield. Both girls screamed. The shape moved, popped up, and tapped its talons against the glass. 

“Thisbe!” Juliet gasped. “Is that one of yours?” 

The crow twitched and glared at Thisbe, and she recognized the patch of feathers missing around her right eye. “It’s the Captain.” She opened up the door and shouted, “DON’T GO IN FRONT OF CARS YOU IDIOT! WE COULD’VE KILLED YOU!” The Captain flapped his dark wings that blended in with the night and flew forward, landing on the frame of the door Thisbe had just propped open. He turned his head to look at her sternly with one eye. 

“Come with us! Adventure!” 

Thisbe groaned. “Not this again.” 

Juliet placed her hand on Thisbe’s shoulder, getting the other woman’s attention. “Um … we have company.” 

Thisbe’s mouth dropped open. She stepped out of a car to get a better look at the tens of hundreds of crows that were coming to land on the hood of the car, the paved street, the sidewalks, even mailboxes and the roofs of houses. Thisbe couldn’t see all their bodies, but she could see their eyes, all of which reflected the white shine from Romeo’s headlights, and she could hear the beating of wings like the turning of thousands of pages. 

“Adventure!” Nigel was there, his one white feather making him noticeable even though he was completely surrounded by crows in his spot by Thisbe’s feet. 

“Thisbe. Are your crows giving you a quest?” 

“No! They’re … they’re normal crows, Juliet.” 

“Normal crows don’t give you quests.” 

“They’re not giving me a quest!” 

“Quest!” The Captain squawked from the door. 

“Come with us!” Nigel hopped forward and landed on Thisbe’s sneakers, looking up expectantly. 

“Thisbe …” Juliet turned and looked at her friend with wide brass eyes. “Follow the crows.” 

“Are you joking?” 

“Are you?” Juliet waved a frantic hand back and forth. “Do you see this? This is not normal. They’re talking. Follow them.” 

“Are you gonna come with me?” 

“Of course.” 

Thisbe bit her lip, then turned and looked at the Captain, who stood just above eye level. “Okay. We’ll follow you.” The crow puffed up his chest and called out to the group. The mass of crows lifted from the ground, wings collectively flapping as loudly as helicopter blades, and they all started moving down the street. Thisbe and Juliet followed, glancing between each other and the birds silently with wide eyes and open mouths. 

Thisbe’s hands were shaking. 

They moved up the small street Thisbe’s house was on, past all the yellow and blue and brick suburban homes filled with sleeping, ignorant people. Thisbe hoped no one would decide to glance out the window to uncover the source of the deafening noise that almost sounded like hurricane winds. The crows all turned right, so Thisbe and Juliet followed. Then the crows veered off the street and started across a small field, headed towards the forest. 

“Juliet … I don’t like this.” 

“Thisbe, I think we don’t have a choice.” 

The two girls trailed the mammoth murder into the woods, tripping over roots and uneven earth even when dimly lighting the way with iPhone flashlights. The crows started moving faster, then suddenly the flapping noise was above the women, and the birds tore through leaves and left Thisbe and Juliet alone. 

The quiet rang in Thisbe’s ears. Her head hurt. “Where do we go now?” 

“Look ahead.” Juliet pointed, but Thisbe couldn’t see anything. She followed Juliet through some more trees and saw some flags up ahead, red flags on a string stretching between two tall trees. Juliet marched right through. 

Thisbe blinked. Juliet wasn’t there. 

Thisbe choked on shock and for a moment was still, but then her legs by instinct carried her forward under the flags into a green clearing with withering purple asters shaking in the grass. The trees around were all bare, the sky above a sickly grey-blue. 

Nigel, Sir Bird, Walter, and the Captain flew from behind and hovered in front of the women. 

“Follow us! A quest!” Then the four birds started through the trees. 

Thisbe looked over at Juliet. “I think we just answered our call to adventure.” 

“Shut up and get moving, they’re not slowing down for us.” 

Thisbe and Juliet left the clearing, jogging through a foreign forest after four feathery guides, and Thisbe wondered what adventure they could’ve possibly gotten themselves into.

[trans-darkwing]

I'd love the sentence starter involving being a tiny bedhog! With whoever you want?? Please n thanks!!

akshhaskd thank u anon, heres all my uwus for you ! also i wanted to give this one a title so here:

there will be sunshine when you wake

dwd/dt17 | Gosalyn & Drake | Gos POV | 1100 ~ words | hurt/comfort + humor | also just a warning for allusions to death/mourning, basically, gos is dealing with grief

—

The door was half-open when she reached it. It seemed he had started leaving it this way after the first few nights when she cried out from nightmares he had to wake her from. The ones they sat together on the couch to talk about and he gave her a place to confide in, or, failing that, they watched cartoons, until they fell asleep propped against one another.

The nightmares that prompted him to start offering her to sleep in his bed. She didn’t accept at first, she wasn’t a baby and she’d dealt with this on her own for long enough already. But after one of her worst and that unfailing gentle offer, she accepted. And it helped, having someone— having her dad there with her.

The door cracked open this way, it was like an invitation, she didn’t even have to knock. She didn’t even have to ask, and he would say yes.

“Dad?” She called out softly as she eased the door open further. The lamp was on, washing the room with a warm yellow light. Though he was already done patrolling for the night he was still awake, right now he sat on the bed reading. It was reliable, and comforting in a way, he was always up late.

“Hey, Gos,” he looked up at her, lowering the open book to his lap. “What’s up, kiddo? You wanna sleep in here?” He asked easily, smile warm.

She twisted her fingers together, uncharacteristically shy, “yeah, if that’s okay.”

“Of course it is, sweetheart,” he agreed like it was never in doubt, and she supposes it wasn’t. Then he was drawing his legs up and offering her a space on the bed. He was quick to crease the corner and set aside his book while she crawled up beside him, turning off the lamp as she settled.

Then he was scooting down to lay with her and surrounding her in his arms.

“Nightmare?” He asked gently once she was wrapped up in an embrace.

For a few weeks, after he first adopted her, this had been routine. But like most things, the nightmares had faded with time, and with distance from all that loss. She rarely needed to sleep in her dad’s room any longer. Now, sometimes she just had dreams about her grandfather, benign things, and waking up she would forget he was dead for just a moment.

Tonight, though, was one of those nights where you simply can’t stop thinking.

“Nah,” she sighed in return, “I was just thinking…” she said, voice thick in her throat. She struggled to admit it, warmth gathering in her eyes, “I don’t wanna be alone.” She didn’t want to be alone with those thoughts. Not tonight. She peeked up at him through the waves of her bangs, trying to track his reaction and feeling awfully vulnerable.

“Yeah,” he agreed slowly, “there are days I just don’t want to be alone either,” he admitted too. She nodded quickly, corners of her mouth lifting and more tears welling in her eyes. She was quick to tuck her head into his chest now, fingers curling into the soft fabric of his pajama shirt.

He combed a hand through her hair now, loose from its ponytail as it was every night— except the ones when she fell asleep forgetting to get ready for bed.

After a long soothing moment, he shifted onto his back, a more comfortable position and pulled the blanket up to cover them. And with the steady beat of his heart close enough to hear, she fell asleep, drooling on his chest.

-

She drifted into consciousness with a pillow clutched in her hands, head snuggled into the down-filled plush. The blanket was twisted around her and she felt wonderfully snuggled. She kept her eyes shut, resolutely ignoring the sunlight filtering into the room, and staying in this comfortable half-sleep state for as long as she could.

She started to stretch her legs out but hit something solid with her feet. She grunted irritably, shoving harder.

“Alright, alright,” came an affronted murmur from close by, then the obstacle removed itself and she stretched her legs languidly.

It was not long until the familiar voice she was awake enough now to identify as her dad spoke again, “how can you be such a bed hog? You’re so tiny!” came the exclamation in an exaggerated stage whisper that was perfectly audible. She wondered if he was deliberately trying to be heard, or if it was just that he was always loud.

“I can hear you,” she muttered into the pillow, not bothering to move.

He gasped dramatically, “she speaks!”

She grumbled to herself, flipping over to face away from him now. As she snuggled further into the pillow. A finger poked her side and she wiggled.

“Nooo,” she whined shifting away. She wanted to stay this cozy for as long as possible.

The bed shifted as he moved and she waited for him to settle again. Instead, his beak was on her side where her shirt had rode up and he blew a raspberry into her feathers. She barked out a laugh at the foreign feeling and startled into a whirl of motion. Flailing her limbs out wildly in defense as her eyes flew open, she scrambled to escape.

She kicked out, making an impact on a material that felt squishy and father-like, earning on ‘oof’ from him. But it was really her fist slamming upwards into his beak that sent him reeling backward.

She pushed herself back to sit against the headboard as he grabbed onto his bill, recovering from her uppercut. “Ow!”

She glared at him, unremorseful, face pinched and cheeks puffed furiously.

He met her look with a barely subdued grin, voice sounding nasal as he clutched his beak. “Yeah… I can see how I deserved that.”

She crossed her arms, eyes still narrowed.

Then his face turned gravely serious then as he held out a hand to her. “Breakfast truce?” he offered— a call for a cease-fire.

She studied his face carefully, then looked to his hand, before shaking it soundly. “Breakfast truce,” she agreed.

A smile curled his mouth then, folding his cheeks joyfully.

“Pancakes?” He asked boldly as he got up off the bed.

Her brow furrowed, “Dad, you know you always burn those,” she spoke, following suit.

“I do not!” He denied indignantly as he opened the door. She rolled her eyes silently, she knew better than to start this discussion with him.

It was at that moment the front door clicked open and Launchpad’s voice called into the house, “I’m back! You up, DW? I got food!”

They both froze in their tracks. It looked like she wouldn’t be drowning overdone pancakes in syrup after all— not that it was really all that bad, pancakes were pancakes, after all. Then Drake was yelling back, “it’s 3 PM, of course I’m up,” as if he didn’t sleep later than that plenty of days.

He glanced down at Gosalyn, catching her eye. She matched his delighted grin with one of her own before they hurried down the hall to bombard LP, with hugs and hands grabbing for food.

Some days you shouldn’t be alone in your head, some days should just be spent with people you love.

[bluepenguinstories]

Happiness Overload Chapter Thirty-Two

Needle slid in. Rough armor, soft skin. Duly noted.

“AAAAAAAAAAAAAAA--” Erupted from the soldier's mouth.

My head tilted.

“Why do you scream?” I leaned forward, inquisitive.

No response. Skin shifted to a beautiful shade of green. Teal, or something akin to it. Some may protest that teal is more of a shade of blue, but it is a shade nonetheless.

“I can imagine such a procedure would be painful, yes,” I noted. “I remember when I injected myself. I thought I had been given the lethal injection, but soon, I felt rejuvenated.”

Soldier screamed further, gasped, then made seething sounds. I took note of each one, though lacking in a note pad, my memory was all the record I needed.

“Rejoice, man! You are proof that miracles can happen! Look at this,” I pointed to my arm, or my multitude of mini hands. The soldier croaked, puffed his cheek, and looked over. It was beginning. “Yes, you may find it odd, but this is the beauty of becoming part axolotl! Who knows what you, nay, what the others may become!”

Upon opening his mouth, the soldier spoke:

“Wow! I have GOT to tell the others!”

I nodded. “You will, you will.” I handed him the syringe. “I want you to spread this gift to the others.”

I released him and slid back into the shadows of the laboratory. Multiple soldiers ran in, the alarm having been alerted to Polo and I's presence. Polo was long gone, through the vents. I, on the other hand, was about to witness the birth of the next step for humanity.

As they ran in and stormed the place, before they could notice me, my acquired froggy friend lunged at one of them and took off their helmet and plunged the syringe into their fellow's neck.

Shriek. Next was the other two, which after you had seen it in action the first time, it became less exciting; still, the transformation never got tiresome. I relished in the rebirths of these fine men.

Once the scene had played its course, I stepped out to greet all of them.

“Greetings. You may call me Gumby.” I handed each of them their own set of syringes. “Resume your duties of protecting the secrets of these halls, but do so while birthing more amphibians!”

They all puffed their cheeks and croaked in agreement. I watched as they put their helmets back on and crept back outside of the lab.

Such an accomplishment before my eyes, it was almost enough to make me weep. But as a serious researcher, I am above such novelties.

Evils of being awake, the desire to chew on a pillow. Had it not been for the errors of the pleasure center of the brain, I would have choked on cotton or down feathers by now. Instead, I had to build them, package them, send them away. So grueling. So torturous.

Wave goodbye, every day. Whimper.

Some salt in the sky, a twinkle felt. Noticed a faint whiff of freedom, though my coworkers seemed immune. Out on the assembly line, I gorged myself on pillow fluff.

Euphoria was here. I could smell it in the air. That one smell I wasn't allowed to smell, but everyone else could; the scent of happiness.

My body craved it. My mind craved it. My shadow...

Each step, I ran my fingers through the metallic walls.

“Oh, if you could appear before me right now, what image would you choose?”

I wanted to know what image I had in my mind, but the only images were the ones others had seen. They were not images that would have satisfied me.

Do I have to wait until after I die to be cremated? Impatience. Intricate, insecurities. When the group came over, some of them began to chat, some of them took a dip into some salsa – pico de gallo. One dipped twice. Same chip. When one friend smoked...

Lungs. What do they do again? Cough, every night. Since I didn't know when. Sometime ago.

Water depleted. Supply ran dry. To be the same...

Smoke, ash. To be one of them. Many little dust particles. When I watched those friends, when we sat at the bonfire, I made my wish. Residual ash from the flame, to be part of it. Alive, and, well, a part of the process.

Entire body was turned to ash. So were the friends. We were most alive, in a fireside chat.

Several truths and misconceptions, lies and questions that some may have pointed out, had they the opportunity to dissect my thoughts. Those precious thoughts.

Let's begin with the first one: that there is no cellular range in such a remote location. That all and any signals would be jammed, blocked, intercepted. Yes. Very good. We, Lilypad, had considered this, so we brought miniature tower boxes with us and scramble the tracking so anyone hoping to intercept our call would have been left confused and disappointed. So when I called the World Wildlife Foundation, the group itself was in no danger. Gay amphibious humanoids and its allies that make up Lilypad are all high in intelligence. So of course, as seasoned hackers, we would also be seasoned engineers.

Second of all, the location and purpose: Groom Lake, or as its more common to call, Area 51 – believed to be called such due to an Atomic Energy Commission numbering grid. Whether or not this was true doesn't matter much. Call it Paradise Ranch, call it Hidden Valley for what little difference it made.

What really mattered was the purpose – originally a testing ground for the CIA for the U-2 plane, its ownership was later handed over to the US air force for the purpose of crafting other experimental air crafts which continued to this day. Yes, that part was true, to an extent. There have also been those who believe beings from other planets resided within the facility and others would argue that such a notion was preposterous. Rest assured to the naysayers, that part was false, to an extent.

It was of my experience that experimental weaponry of all kind has been built and tested. Beginning with vehicles, whether air, land, or sea, it didn't matter. Then it expanded – not all at once, but funding and nudges from my former employer, The Flashbulb, helped pull things along (not to say that the CIA and US military wasn't already part of The Flashbulb, but such direct involvement was a large shift) – biological weaponry in the form of chemical agents, toxins to fill the air, genetic experiments (which I am proud to say I made myself a test subject of), armor for soldiers, technological advances that would address a potential rise in an unstoppable force of soldiers designed with the sole purpose of subjugating those who did not fall in line.

All of what I just described has been what the facility functioned as at one point or another. At the present, it's been taken over as a whole by the ETNA corporation and the entire structure shifted and changed at a constant rate due to the desires of Etna, the artificial leader of The Flashbulb's Morale Department. Etna itself, herself, has become one with the facility. The very walls, the technology, the weaponry, they all could change at a moment's notice, if Etna so wills it.

I took my strides out of the laboratory, already taken stock of what I needed, and wandered into the halls, where I continued to be lost in thought of the history of where I happened to be.

“That's no good,” I noticed as I made the mistake of stepping on a soldier lying on the ground, helmet off. Pale green skin told me what I needed to know. “Someone had killed one of my babies.”

I shook my head and walked off. Not just one, but three.

“Whoever did this, I pray they get their due. As for you three, at the least, I hope you were able to spread our gift with others before your departure from this world.”

I walked on. Somewhere, a better view would present itself. I wanted to see crowds, nay, rows and rows, lined up. Their eyes would stare up at me and I would smile. To bring my dream to life, I needed the right topography.

Etna, if you would so kindly. Make it happen.

However much she fancied herself a god, I had my doubts she could listen in on my thoughts. Or perhaps, with the angel she had fused herself, the facility, and all of its soldiers with, she just may have. See, Euphoria was not a man-made creation. While the scientific side of me reels at the thought of calling anything an 'angel', a better term may be 'alien' or 'cosmic entity', which is just what the fanatics would love to hear. Euphoria was real, and she was not of this earth.

Frozen pea hailstorm bit the head of me. Hunger struck upon stomach for days, shelter not given unto. Dwelt sidewalks, dwellings. Under bridges, overpasses, benches, nomadic. Caught some grass at a park. Bit off some tree bark. Hunger so dire. Desire.

Rained down, my memory – sign of joy. Ode to thee.

Mother used to make the best frozen peas. Children sat at dinner table, hands raised high. One of them was I. Cannot remember the rest. Such a fond nostalgia, trip down a lane taken.

Hail of frozen peas, velocity punctured skin off of facial structure. Rest of body. Still, tongue stuck out, swallow some. Smiled, shed tears, blood ran from exposed flesh. Weak and feeble, no, strong. Memory so pleasant. Tasted of fondness.

Even in decay from the favorite meal, warmth could be found from the frozen.

Best memory was the last.

Life wasn't always like this; just a couple days ago, in fact, life was normal. Or, as normal as a life could be. Cold paradise we lived in, this city. For at least three years now, the ETNA Corporation had bestowed our city with great inventions, pioneering us from a no-name metropolis to something greater. However, just the other day, a chain reaction started.

No one knows the root cause, but it spread like a virus. People throwing themselves into traffic, the very roads themselves crumbling, traffic lights changing color and becoming strobe lights, just to name a few things. While there could be no logical explanation, a quarantine over the city was issued and the next thing I knew, we were all trapped.

Or, we were supposed to be. I overheard from some CDC agents that it shouldn't spread so long as they kept the city locked down, but I wasn't so sure about that. Nor was I so sure when a statement was released from the ETNA Corporation stating that the infection was due to a substance having infiltrated itself in their elevators and causing an adverse reaction in those who rode them. 'Those exposed to the elevators (as in simply been in them) were more at risk than those who had not used them, or seldom have used them' the statement had said.

I wasn't so sure about that because I think it had affected (affected? Infected?) me as well. Even now, I thought I could feel its effects. The strong desire to...

I don't know what. My mind goes blank before coming to a conclusion. Best way to describe it would be a sugar rusk. Or drinking an entire pot of coffee in one sitting. High on cocaine. Complete manic energy. Except this high you don't come down from.

At least, that's what I would imagine. I'm not sure if that's how I'm feeling. There's just...this desire to be that way.

An object in motion stays in motion...

There was a friend I once knew, her name was Rick O'Shea. Or, her name was something else. It's been difficult to recall simple things. Or, her name could have been Beau Meringue. Or, it was one of the two, something in between. Or, her name was never important, just her presence.

She was overjoyed by the state of the city. How wonderful the elevators had been. Each time she took those trips, she described it as a new experience. The only reason I never rode on one of them was because I never liked venturing outside. Call it agoraphobia, or a strong social anxiety. Just the thought of being surrounded by others would have been enough to send me into a panic. I only felt like I could venture out when she was around.

When the city was quarantined, she was still overjoyed, much to my shock.

I told her how we should leave, how this city was destroying itself, how it seemed like everyone had become crazed and maddened by their own manic bliss. She shook her head in rapid motions, almost violent. She told me, “what is there to leave? Can't you feel it all around you? In the air, dolphins exiting your body. How you know you're right where you should be. These dolphins are here to help us.”

I begged, pleaded. She didn't look confused, but may as well. Even though I told her how it wasn't safe, how we could all die, this only made her smile widen. As if all she heard was good news and pleasant tunes. So, I concluded, I no longer had her. I would have to leave on my own.

Through careful analysis of my surroundings, I had escaped the city and as of last night, stowed myself away in a nearby motel. Where I will be soon, I only wish I had an answer.

I stood at the balcony, my gaze fixed downward at the marvelous sight: rows of soldiers, amphibious, lined up, synchronized and looking back at me. My dream was coming to light. As a collective, they took off their helmets, stared each other in their beady eyes, and stuck out their long, stringent tongues. Their tongues flapped against each other and flies descended from ventilation shafts, something I could not have anticipated, but also pleased me. Flies were caught, the soldiers having taken a break from licking each other.

With my arms outstretched, I addressed my audience:

“Rejoice! This is the ideal next step for humanity! Outsiders may not like it, but this is what peak performance looks like!”

Tongues clapped into the air. Many of the tongues caught flies. All was well.

My next set of actions would become clear: descend from the rafters to join the crowd, be carried off with them, and we would rise up, ascend from this underground, and spread our joy to the rest of the world.

Before I could do any of that, I felt a hand clasp down on my shoulder.

“Good job, brother. I see you got your wish.”

Such kind words. I knew the one behind me speaking such words was smiling from cheek to cheek. It was just like him to do so. Yet I also know that such words carried malice.

“Have you come to take it away from me?”  I turned around, despite already knowing who was there. The tall figure, the shadow.

“Is that something I would do?” Marco laughed and released his grip on me.

“Have you come to kill my men?”

“I am glad, I mean that with sincerity. You gained your happiness without having to devour Euphoria. However, I still want to. Just to get a taste.”

“Is that what you came here for, then? Because if that's the case, I don't know where she is.”

“I have no need to kill your creation. You have been granted your wish, attained your happiness. I could never take that from you.”

“Then why are you here?”

He closed in and embraced me for a hug. His arms coiled and tightened around my back. It would seem his intention was to suffocate me. But in spite of the tightness, he didn't go far enough to do harm.

“She is everywhere. She is spreading her wings and giving everyone what they need.”

I struggled, but managed to reach into my pocket and pull out the syringe. I tried to stab it into him, inject him with the formula, make him subservient. Just to see what would happen. Just so he could no longer pose a threat.

But instead, the needle broke as I tried to push it into his skin. It never even made a mark.

“You think I betrayed you,” he spoke softly. “But that couldn't be further from the truth. See, I brought you here so you could get what you wanted and now you have it.”

I tried to break free. He wouldn't allow it. Was this some kind of divine punishment? Not that I believed in such nonsense.

“You should enjoy it while it lasts. For when everything in this world has experienced all this angel has to offer, it will end. The world will experience such happiness that it will not be able to contain itself and there is nothing that you, nor I, can do about that. Nor should we. The only influence I have had is where to direct this happiness, but it would have taken its natural course, regardless. When it all ends, I hope you enjoy yourself. I hope I do too.”

He released me and I could feel his presence fade. Somehow his nonsense made total sense.

This triumph I had felt was meaningless.

We found Gumby sitting on the floor like some kind of LAME-O (and no, that is NOT the name of a cereal).

I poked Gumby. Also, I looked down and noticed more friends!

“Hey, hey! Hey bud! Hey Gumbs! Gumb-o! Goomy! Hey!”

Gumby groaned.

“Hey, look! I have a girlfriend now!”

I roped along my girlfriend, who I still did not have a name for.

“Look! We tried to eat each other but then our mouths got stuck on each other and that's when I realized that's probably how people kiss!”

We demonstrated. Our mouths expanded to form a perfect circle against each other. I looked at Gumby. He still sat there.

“I don't care...” He groaned. I watched as he went to laying down and turned to his side.

“How RUDE!” My voice box exclaimed.

“The world is ending. What is there to care about?”

“Yeah! That's the spirit! It's so cool!”

In spite of my enthusiasm, Gumby sounded glum. So...glumby?

“I won. But I also lost. But then again, this is how it was always going to go. What should I have done differently, then?”

He laughed, though it sounded pretty un-funny.

“World's ending. What's the point to anything?”

“Dude! Totally! So go get yourself a boyfriend or something!”

“That wouldn't matter either.”

He closed his eyes and I let him lie there. This was getting WAY too boring for me, YO! My girlfriend and I frolicked ANYWHERE ELSE and left the lame-o to be sad or whatever.

[bramblemask973]

Power of the Clans - Prologue

Fire... Fire..! Fire! FIRE! Kin and kin will drown the forest in blood. Lives will be lost to the claws of battle. Fire alone will save the Clan when kin is no more. Fire alone will save the Clan when kin is no more! A Warrior Cats AU where the Clans have powers and the Fire Alone prophecy means a little more than it lets on.

AO3 link FF.Net link

Proofreading? What's that?

Welcome to Power of the Clans! A WIP self indulgent Warriors AU where each Clan has its own power and the Fire Alone prophecy has a different meaning. SkyClan has wings, ShadowClan uses shadows as portals, ThunderClan controls lightning, WindClan controls air and RiverClan controls water.

If you notice any typos or hard to read sentences, please let me know! ~Jeli

The sun was nearing the end of its reign in the sky when they finally reached the outskirts of the forest. A light breeze shuffled the leaves in the canopy above, and the distant sound of birdsong made the air seem that much lighter.  The first steps onto the sun-warmed grass brought a new energy to her aching muscles. Home, again. Finally. It had felt like such a long journey, and though they’d only been gone overnight, it felt like days.

The newly appointed Spottedstar padded onto the rocks at the top of the gorge, bounding down from them onto the path below. Shaking out her tortoiseshell fur and taking a quick moment to note the cats at the riverside, she looked back up over her shoulder to make sure her companion followed. Duskfeather had travelled with her overnight, and hadn’t left her side for a single moment. He was the best cat she could have taken with her on the journey to the Moonstone. The tom leaped down onto the rock beside her just as a greeting came from above, drawing Spottedstar’s attention.

“Spottedmask! Duskfeather! You’re back!”

Daypaw rushed to the edge of the gorge, nearly taking herself off of it as she flared her wings to stop. Crouching on the lip of the rock, her tail puffed up, flicking with excitement. The cream tabby grinned as she looked down at them, amber eyes wide.

“Or are you Spottedstar now?”

“That’s right.” Spottedstar purred, tucking her wings close to her sides to give Duskfeather room to stand beside her. Duskfeather’s green eyes gleamed warmly as he raised his tail in greeting to his apprentice. Daypaw’s grin only widened and a mischievous look crossed over her face for a moment as she opened her wings and straightened up.

“Awesome.”

Almost immediately, Daypaw leaped past them onto the Rockpile and then down to the riverside, nearly flattening Dustface in the process. Spottedstar shared an amused look with Duskfeather before she turned and headed down the path deeper into the camp. Many moons of paws had travelled this path, wearing it down into the rock to make a safe passage for cats of all ages from the pit of the gorge to the top. She’d walked it many times from her kithood to last night, but now it felt different. New.

She didn’t have much time to think about it. Daypaw’s yowling had gained the attention of the rest of the Clan, and faces were peeking out of dens and appearing from behind the gorge rocks. A ginger tabby queen, Redleaf, peered out from the nursery, the sounds of barely born kits crying behind her. Her brother Cardinalfur sat beside the fresh kill pile at the bottom of the gorge, his tabby markings mirroring hers despite his darker fur, wings folded neatly over his back. His feathers weren’t quite as neat – the hint of green spattered here and there from the herbs he stashed in between them made his feathers appear ruffled and unkempt, despite being the cleanest in the Clan.

Feeling pride burn in her chest, Spottedstar glanced around, taking in the rest of the Clan. Shadefur had just landed, a fresh mouse clamped in her jaws. Behind her was Fangwisp, the newest warrior, licking his lips to clear the drops of river water from his mouth. Speckleheart appeared around the corner, three mice hanging by their tails from her teeth, her silver pelt dusty and ruffled. As Spottedstar reached the Rockpile and leaped up onto it, Dustface had Daypaw pinned, the apprentice squirming her protest.

SkyClan. Her Clan.

Heart beating in her chest like a woodpecker on bark, Spottedstar flared her wings as she stood tall, pulling breath in for a yowl.

“Let all cats old enough to catch their own prey join here beneath the Rockpile for a Clan meeting!”

A shiver went through her spine to the tip of her tail, and for once she was glad for her long fur to hide the fact that it was beginning to prick up along her back. She had dreamt for moons about being able speak those words, and it sent chills through her body to finally do so. She really was leader, and there was no turning back.

Her call had drawn out the remaining cats from their dens. Dustface finally moved off of Daypaw and nudged her to get up and sit properly. Cardinalfur jumped up onto one of the lower rocks of the Rockpile. Shadefur sat down between Duskfeather and Fangwisp. Redleaf took a glance back inside the nursery before she sat in its entrance, not willing to leave the kits. That was fine. Spottedstar didn’t expect her to, not after only giving birth last night. She was glad to see the queen was strong and safe, and the kits sounded the same.

Forcing her nervousness down, Spottedstar let her tail flick as she took in the faces of the Clan. Her Clan. They all trusted her, looked up to her to guide them, to keep them safe. Was she ready for this? Probably not. But she wasn’t alone. She had all of them.

“Cats of SkyClan,” Spottedstar began, pausing for a moment to swallow the rising dread in her throat. “As the Sun begins her descent and the Moon rises, we mourn Hawkstar as he travels with them on his way to StarClan. He was a fierce and devoted leader, and we will honor him in the stories we tell to our kits, and generations on. Hawkstar!”

The cats immediately raised their muzzles to the sky, calling out the old leader’s name to the sunset. A bittersweet pain started in her belly as she watched them. Hawkstar had passed the day before from an old infection that never healed properly, fighting for every breath. He had lived a good long life, though, and was an old cat when he died. Spottedstar lifted her eyes to the sky, letting the Clan chant his name until they faded back into silence of their own accord.

“StarClan has granted me their blessing and my nine lives so that I may continue in Hawkstar’s place as leader of SkyClan.” Wings tucked close to her sides, Spottedstar turned her gaze back onto the cats below. “I offer you all nine of them as I ask for your loyalty and your trust. I pray that StarClan can guide my paws to bring us to greater heights, so that SkyClan may thrive long after I have given all of my lives to its service.”

It was then that the Clan erupted into their own cheering, this time of her new name. Spottedstar’s worries suddenly vanished like the wind, warmth spreading over her fur again. They accepted her. She wasn’t sure what she would have done if they hadn’t. A few moments and then she stretched a wing for silence, finally able to do what she’d wanted since arriving back at home.

“But I cannot do it alone,” Spottedstar purred, pulling herself to her full height and looking up at the sky. “I, Spottedstar, leader of SkyClan, say these words below StarClan and Hawkstar, so that they may hear and approve of my choice. Duskfeather will be the new deputy of SkyClan.”

The Clan burst into cheers and purrs, Daypaw nearly leaping out of her skin as she howled her mentor’s name. Duskfeather just looked stunned, his eyes wide and fur rising along his spine. He stumbled as Shadefur gave him a shove with her head that nearly pushed him off of his feet, but quickly recovered, padding towards the Rockpile and climbing up beside Cardinalfur. The medicine cat grinned and touched his tail to his friend’s.

Finally the meeting was over. Spottedstar leaped down from the Rockpile, blinking as the Clan swarmed around her, offering kind words and purrs. It took a bit for them to disperse, but she made her way over to her new deputy and the medicine cat beside him. Cardinalfur stood up and grinned, giving her a friendly lick between the ears before stepping back.

“Congratulations! I knew you’d do great. I hope it wasn’t too disrespectful that I couldn’t go.”

“Dawnstep didn’t mind. She knew you had to worry about Redleaf,” Spottedstar smiled. “I’m glad the kitting went well. Redleaf seems alright.”

“After the first scare, it didn’t go too badly. She’s still nervous, though. It’s her first litter, so I told the Clan to leave her be for a few days. That goes for you as well, leader or not.”

“I’ll leave her be. I can speak with her later.” Spottedstar sat down beside them, suddenly exhausted. Now that the exhilaration of the day was over, the length of the journey caught up with her. Duskfeather shifted a bit closer, nudging her shoulder.

“If you’re going to the Gathering, you should get some rest. You haven’t slept since the Moonstone.”

“I’ll rest, its fine. I’m going to lose a life from being tired.” Spottedstar stood up and turned towards her den, but then glanced back up to Cardinalfur as Duskfeather nodded and walked away. He seemed lost in thought, eyes staring into the nursery. Following his gaze, Spottedstar froze. A soft glow was coming from inside the nursery, flickering like firelight. She blinked, and the glow was gone. Just the stone wall from before. Fur prickling along her spine, Spottedstar stood up again and shook her head. Maybe she was more tired than she thought.

“Get some sleep, Spottedstar. I feel like we have a long night ahead of us.” Cardinalfur whispered, giving her a strange glance before he turned away and headed for his den. Spottedstar watched him go, her tail flicking. Her first day as leader wasn’t even over yet, and he was already giving her strange cryptic messages.

Perhaps they both just needed to sleep.

***

The Gathering was going well. Brackenstar of ThunderClan and Sharpstar of ShadowClan had both welcomed her graciously, while Creekstar, RiverClan’s leader, offered some kind words in Hawkstar’s passing. Dewstar hadn’t come up to the Great Rock yet, but she was on her way. The view from here was brilliant. Spottedstar couldn’t help but flutter her wings to get some of the tension out of them. She could see every cat from here, which means every cat could see her.

Duskfeather seemed to be settling well with the other deputies. Sootcloud, ShadowClan’s deputy, was sitting beside him. By the looks of it, they were swapping stories, and looking quite comfortable. Cardinalfur was picking herbs from his feathers to give to the WindClan medicine cat, a ginger tabby named Ivyclaw, who had brought some of his own to trade. Everything seemed peaceful. Quiet.

This is how it should be. Peace among us for moons. How long could it last?

Spottedstar shifted over to let Dewstar leap up beside them, and a quick nod to Sharpstar let him know the Gathering could start. The ShadowClan leader let out a yowl for silence, waited a moment for the Clans to settle down, before he began to share his news.

Everything was going quietly for a while and it was Spottedstar’s turn to speak all too quickly. She gulped as Brackenstar shifted out of the way for her to step up, and as she did, a sudden harsh wind cut through the calm air of Four Trees. Stumbling, Spottedstar steadied herself and glanced down to the cats below, before her spine prickled and every muscle in her body stiffened. Every cat in the clearing went silent as the other leaders and medicine cats did the same. Nobody dared speak to break the silence, the wind picking up and clouds beginning to billow overhead.

Suddenly it wasn’t wind anymore. Voices, a dozen ghostly voices blew around the Clans, in every cat’s ears. From the smallest apprentice to the oldest elder to all of the leaders, every single cat’s fur prickled as the word of StarClan burst into their ears.

Fire…

Was StarClan taking back their blessing? Surely they wouldn’t do so now, in front of all of the Clans. Spottedstar looked frantically down to the cats, eyes widening as she caught sight of the glow again. The same glow from the nursery, the same firelight, except this time it was coming from the belly of a RiverClan queen.

Fire…!

The orange markings of a ShadowClan tortoiseshell warrior flickered.

Fire!

A WindClan apprentice’s eyes burst into flame.

FIRE!

A ThunderClan warrior’s tail swished anxiously, a blaze following in its trail.

And StarClan screamed.

Kin and kin and kin will drown the forest in blood. Lives will be lost to the claws of battle. Fire alone will save the Clan when kin is no more.

Fire alone will save the Clan when kin is no more!

[werezmastarbucks]

Soothsayer [5]

[1]

[2]

[3]

[4]

Word count: 1850

Warnings: language, messing with Bucky’s head. Bucky’s pov

Genre / Pairing: Bucky x Reader. kisses! back home.

ZACK HEMSEY - I CAN GET IT BACK

Bucky Barnes was having the strangest dream. He was back in Brooklyn, him and his heavy body, immovable and very stealthy at the same time: ambiguous, like everything else he felt nowadays. His chin was itching, and he scratched it with his left hand, feeling metal fingers soothing the skin. He brushed away the hair from his face and took a deep breath. He was still wearing his navy blue vest and the belt around his torso, which he quickly took off, the buttons clicking. It smelt like jasmine, dust and water; the Brooklyn Bridge was not far away. The house was still pale white, and the sun was standing high, giving the blind spots, hiding the details from his eyes. He felt old. He felt usual. There was dirt on his right palm, and he tried to scrub it off, puzzled to the edge of possibility.

Aren’t I stupid. Getting really really old. Go figure it out, Barnes, said the voice inside his head.

A minute ago he was standing next to Steve, and all his body felt light like a feather, but weird. For a mere second there he got chills because he thought he was falling apart. He’s fallen apart million times before, but this one it was literal. The feet gave way, and then his arm crumbled, and then he suddenly couldn’t stand, collapsing on the ground. The last thing he saw, Y/N, blowing up the clouds of the old leaves with her feet, and how small she looked next to Steve. Why such faces? What happened?

Bucky looked up and put a palm to his forehead, looking at the windows of his house. That’s right, it’s home. There, Rebecca’s room window, with the pale blue curtains they nearly killed each other over at the market last season. So expensive. He couldn’t remember that earlier, but now it was pretty clear. In fact, everything was clear, so right and simple, and he couldn’t understand why it’s been such a big issue to come to terms with his memory.

The window opened, and Rebecca’s head appeared in between the sills.

“Hey, dirty head!”

Her long black hair was like a fox tail, glistening in the sun.

“How many times’ve I told ya not to shove yourself outta window like that!” Bucky barked and paused, startled. He got back his young voice. He hasn’t spoken in that tone for many, many years.

Rebecca yelled something back. He didn’t listen. He looked at her once again, not afraid she’d disappear, not nervous, or confused. He found the situation amusing.

“I’m comin’ up, open the door”, he shouted. Becca grimaced at him, and vanished inside the room.

 He entered the house.

The blackness wouldn’t go away. He walked, and walked, and walked, and his footsteps only echoed harder. Finally, a pale blue light shone somewhere far in front, and he swore in disappointment. Couldn’t you give me five minutes with my sister? He had no idea to whom he was speaking. Howbeit, no one answered. He walked on, and his face started freezing. He became soft back there in Wakanda. It was a magical place. Good climate, nice, tactful people, the amazing nature, calm nights. He mended goats, for god’s sake. He drank water from the current, and ate fruit that he gathered himself, climbing up the trees like a big monkey. He watched sunrises like it was a TV show. But better. Much better. He seemed to have forgotten a little bit what it’s like when the freezing wind thrusts its icy fangs in skin. And slaps. And slaps. Trying to pendulum him the fuck off the cliff.

He reached out for the gun, but realized he literally just threw it away in Brooklyn. Since he decided to accept everything as it comes, he just went on, averting his face from the wind. Soon his feet were producing no more sound because he was ankles deep in snow. The huge maw of a cave opened agape, letting him out, and he could figure out the station down below in the snowy valley. A tingling feeling of alarm woke up his senses, and he made out, in the wind, the voices. As if somebody licked on his neck under the left ear, he turned exactly when a bullet whistled past him and danged on a rocky wall. He bent. A man was walking towards him, tall and broad-shouldered, and Bucky grouped, ready for the blow. But then, another voice came,

“Stop, wait!”

Bucky raised his head like a squirrel. Steve came out of the whirlwind of the snow, and attacked him with a bear hug.

“Steve?” he heard himself mumble.

Steve was wearing that light blue uniform he had back in forties. His face was alight, innocent and infinitely stupid-looking in this helmet with feathers on the sides.

“Hey, what the hell is going on?” Bucky cried, trying to outhowl the wind. Steve moved closer to him, frowning.

“What do you mean?”

“Why are you dressed like this? Why are you at my station?”

Dum Dum stepped from behind his back, and Bucky greeted him with the wave of the hand.

“Hey, Sarge. Sorry for shooting at you. I thought you were one of these Nazi folks”.

Bucky could see his own breath leaving his lips and dispersing violently in the air right after. So, none of them was confused to see him here, the way he looked? Guess, we’re good with that as well?

Steve was smiling at him, his hand on Bucky’s shoulder.

“I know, it’s darn confusing here”, he nodded with understanding. “But you’ll cope. I think they’re coming for you. Just don’t get on the pan”.

“Where – here?”

The wind was going mad. Bucky could feel it push him in the back. He realized Steve was standing dangerously close to the edge of the cliff.

Steve lifted his hand and touched his temple with the index finger.

“It’s quite a mash-up. Don’t get on the pan, pal. Don’t let them fry you, or there’ll be nothing to recover”.

The Commandos passed them by ceremonially, swaying in the wind like a set of train cars.

“Can I come with you?”

Steve shook his head negatively.

“Nah, Bucky. Not today”.

He was left there, watching his friend slowly vanishing in the white. Barnes could feel his face go hard like ice, and didn’t care. He suddenly felt so heart-broken, and the feeling stroke him so deep he gasped in surprise. The pain, so clear, like the main note of a symphony, moaning high and sharp, tensing his whole body. The heartbreak. He felt so alive he wanted to scream, yell until the snow plugs his throat and suffocates him, and if there had been some fun to standing below the windows of his house in Brooklyn, this strange sensation perished as quickly as it came.

Bucky opened his mouth and growled, with all his wolf might, wishing he could wake up.

He screamed.

And wake up he did.

The sun was stinging his eyes, and he slapped his stupid face, giggling to himself for no reason at all. He was warm, and naked, and the air from the open window brought the scent of summer in New York. He could smell concrete, grass, and flowers. He could smell his own skin, warmed up by the intense sunshine – it must be past noon already. He got fried after all, despite Steve’s warning.

He could smell something else – very familiar. Sweet fragrance that always hit his nose when the long-haired Y/N was close. He took away his hand and opened his eyes, lifting himself on his left elbow. Happiness flooded his mind when he saw her hair spread and caught underneath his metal arm.

She yelped in pain.

“I’m sorry”, he laughed, “I’m sorry”.

She opened her face like she’s just been created a second ago, even after her hair has been laid out in the bed.

He reached out to her with his good hand, grabbing her skin and found he’s clutching on her ribs.

“Are you hurt?” he asked. Y/N pulled her face closer, burying her head in the puffed pillow.

“No, only scalped. Why?”

“I thought you’ve been stabbed, little one”.

Her hands traced the lines of his back, and he felt shivers jumping joyfully on his shoulder blades. He laid back on his side, pulling his left arm under her pillow, and sighed contentedly.

“You must’ve dreamt that. I’m sure I’d notice if I’d been stabbed”.

Her voice was like a very slow chorus of a church bell, going straight to his brain and soothing it into sleep. He couldn’t see half of her face and was growing wary of it. Bucky lifted himself up again and caught her in his arms, flipping her over so that she’d face the window. Her fingers clutched his skin like she was falling. That was the best feeling. He’d recalled that first time he covered her up because she would be so forgetful of the things around her in the field. Shoot me, I don’t even care. The feeling of her hanging on to him, grabbing his sides like she was drowning, like he was her only way to survival, had never left him, even when he lost the memory of her voice. When she disappeared for two years he was bringing back that moment, and holding on to it, ironically, like his life depended on it.

She was stroking his face gently, like she was forbidden to actually touch him. Like he could say no to her, or push her away. With all his will and strength gathered, Barnes considered it hard. No one has touched him this way for nearly eighty years. He traced her body down her thigh and then up again, counting her ribs. One was missing.

“Maybe you’ll be the one to tell me where I am”.

Y/N was lying next to him like a mermaid, her skin taking in the light from the window. Bucky saw the room behind her, but couldn’t pay much attention.

“Where do you think you are?”

“Not in Wakanda”.

She shook her head slowly, caressing his neck.

“Not home”.

Another negative.

“Not in Siberia”.

“M-hm”.

“But this is not real either”.

“How do you know?”

“The real Y/N wouldn’t let me in”.

She went sore.

“It’s too good to be true”, Bucky went on indifferently, ignoring the light shivers between his bones. His affection boiled bright pink in his throat, and he barely could hear himself speak behind the sound of wanting to open her mouth with his fingers and put his tongue inside. While he could. He didn’t have time to reach Rebecca. And the snowstorm didn’t let him change Steve’s mind. Something told him he wouldn’t have time to cover those six inches between them.

“You know I always try to take care of you”, Y/N said.

“Uh-huh”.

“How are you feeling?”

Bucky sighed and forced himself to look into her eyes.

“Alive. But hurt. It’s good, I guess. It’s different now”.

“Why are you- ” 

He felt the bed pushed away from beneath him before she could finish. He bumped his head on the floor hard, like he was falling for a very long time. He clutched his fists and felt something soft and wet in his palms. Bucky grunted angrily, breathing like an animal, and sunk his teeth into his lip, almost tearing it. Enough!

taglist: @shelbyyychristian

@csigeoblue

@theshortegg

@wickidlady

@hades-raven

@sammysgirl1997

[azissuffering]

The Cure Part 2 (ACOTAR/ToG Fanfic)

I may have taken some liberties with the Weaver's cottage.

Aelin was pissed again.

The initial rush of outrunning a band of angry, terrified soldiers was gone. Impossible to retain any kind of good spirit if you'd been running nonstop for the better part of a day. Even harder if you were running through a forest.

She hissed a curse as she ran headlong into a branch. Cursed again when an arrow grazed the pointed tip of her ear.

"Damned archers," she muttered, coaxing her weary legs to move faster.

Her breaths came in short, rasping pants, lungs burning, braid streaming. Going from knocked-unconscious to flat-out sprint was a stupid stunt, even for her, but to go from flat-out sprint to marathon-run was proof of how exhausted and addled she was.

The trees were a blur as she ran past, pine and oak and forever-budding dogwood. The animals had been scared off by the commotion behind, but the flora was still present. Purple jasmine flowers and little, yellow spuds that puffed and floated on the breeze. In another situation, she may have been lucid enough to call this place beautiful. But through current events, "fuckin' madhouse" may have been a more apt description.

As the day wore on, Aelin noted that the trees had begun to thin. Her first reaction was to be grateful, for there were fewer roots and rocks to trip upon, but then common sense spoke up and she realized that less cover meant an easy target.

From behind came a shout. "Archers, ready!"

An arrow thunked into the bark of a tree beside her head.

Aelin whirled, cupped a hand to her mouth, and shouted back, "Definitely ready!" And then resumed running.

Perhaps sound carried better in these woods, and perhaps Tamlin's soldiers possessed a pride easily-wounded, (or perhaps she'd finally tired, and she just wouldn't admit it) for suddenly they were that much faster than her, breaking through the trees on white horses and bedecked in golden armor, plated scales running down the graceful lines of their legs and arms. How they had gotten into such assembly while she wasn't looking, she'd never understand.

But her steps were slowing as nausea and dehydration set in, and panic, with his stubby little legs, was finally able to catch up to her mind and say, What the fuck are you gonna do now?"

For the first time in a long while, Aelin Galathynius was prepared to give up, but then that shadowy little voice brushed her mind.

This way, it said, and this time something in it was distinctly female.

A mental tug had her stumbling eastwards, cutting a line directly across the soldiers' path, a necessary risk if she was to have any hope of escape. Her body went into autopilot, brain shutting off, until all she could feel was that insistent pull and a little voice in her head saying, This way, this way.

Aelin's mind woke up some time later, when she realized a miracle was occurring before her very eyes. Somehow, somehow, the voices were fading. A deep inhale had her suspicions confirmed. She couldn't smell Tamlin anymore.

The trees had stopped thinning, but the land was remarkably different. The plants were thinner, longer, as if less accustomed to standing stiff against the wind or pulling nutrient from the sun, and more to creeping around the trunk of some greater life, drawing soul from that being instead.

The air was still and humid, thick with pollen and heavy as a blanket. Aelin was left with the feeling she could sweat as much as she liked and she'd never cool off.

The voice said, Almost there. This way.

She found her steps slowing, mind clearing, and her gaze drifted across the small glade she'd stopped in. There, to the left, was a small cottage. Thatch on the roof, held together by something sticky and thick. Thin windows, tall and thin, like those on the castles back in the mountains of Doranelle. Immediately upon seeing it, Aelin struggled to turn around, fought the hold in her mind. She might be dead tired, but her instincts were still in tact. Something was very wrong with this place.

Calm down, the voice said, and...yes, that was definitely a female, an irritated, testy one at that.

"Hell, no," Aelin said out loud. "You're crazy."

Irritation flickered again.

And then the door was opening, and a clean, brown-haired female was stepping outside. Her scent was strong even with the breeze so full of pollen and Spring-shit, something dark and writhing, like a feral beast shoved into a rusted-down cage, bars popping and straining and near ready to burst.

As the female stalked closer, green dress swishing behind her, Aelin took note of the pointed ears, the delicate tattoo trailing up her arm, and the angry cobalt eyes that now flashed at her. The female stopped right in front of her, perhaps an inch or two shorter than Aelin herself, but not intimidated in the slightest.

The first thing she said was (in a particularly crabby, old woman kind of way, if anyone was asking Aelin), "If you want to die, stay out here. If not, stop being an ass and follow me."

With that, she pivoted on her heel and stomped back to the cottage. Aelin slipped inside before the door could slam shut.

Inside, it was a mess. No matter how disturbing the outside of the house was. The interior was...something. The floors and ceilings resembled hardwood, but they were pure, midnight black. And old. Ancient. No cobwebs, no spiders or creepy things hiding behind rotted boards, but it was cracked and had that musty book-smell of houses long ago abandoned. There were no connecting hallways, and Aelin thought that the whole place was a lot smaller than it appeared on the outside. The single room was lit with scanty furniture: an old chest (and with the chairs surrounding it, and its relatively flat top, she supposed it was passing as a table), a stuffed black dog curled on the purple throw-rug in the back, a bookcase, so low to the ground it might've been built for that hound, once well-aged (and somehow breathing), to go perusing through the stacks. And then there was the old loom, propped in the corner of the room beside a thin-cushioned stool, perfect and unmarked by dust, as if someone had used it just hours ago.

Overall, it was the works of a very creepy house.

Aelin turned to find the female assessing her with a frankness that had her bristling.

She glared right back.

The female let out something that might have been a snort and moved to get one of the chairs from its perch beside the chest. She brought it over, a nice healthy distance away, and flicked her fingers in a way that indicated Aelin should sit.

If she'd been at full strength, she might have laughed, turned the chair upside down and sat on the wrong side, just for the heck of it. But she wasn't, and so she didn't.

Her body sagged when she sat, fatigue hitting her with all the subtlety of a brick to the face. She hadn't let it show, but even when she'd just woken up from unconsciousness she'd been tired. Dealing with fools like Tamlin made her head hurt on a good day, but with Evangeline so far gone, and without Rowan's stoic support at her side...

She knuckled her eyes. "Damn..."

Soft footsteps had her looking up. The female had returned, a washcloth and bucket in hand.

"I know some things about healing," she said.

It was an offer.

Aelin cocked her head. Then nodded.

The female set the bucket down and knelt beside her. She did not pick up the washcloth as Aelin expected. Instead, a gentle whisper in her mind — Let me in?

Aelin glanced up sharply, found the female's piercing eyes already waiting. Knowing. Aelin studied her for a moment, wary and intrigued at the same time. Open trust did not come easy.

But this female had helped her and obviously was aware that Tamlin was an idiot, and as far as she was concerned, that was reason enough to place some good will in a person.

So Aelin nodded and the voice turned into something thicker, more tangible, as it brushed up against a barrier in her mind she hadn't been aware existed.

You need to put this down.

Aelin wasn't sure how, but she tried, and she found that this "wall" slid away as willingly as it slammed back up. The shadow in her head was gentle and feather-light, which she appreciated, given how startling even this small touch was. It wriggled deeper and deeper, like a little black worm, until it had reached the very core of her, a center of golden flame and burning heart. The worm felt out of place in there, and Aelin had to fight to keep from shoving it away entirely.

Relax. A word on the edge of her consciousness.

The word was a command, an order, and it had her rising faster than she could measure. Stubborn refusal and rage bubbling to the surface, hot and angry and compulsory. A knife found its way into her hand and she took a step forward, even through the sub-reality of her own making.

Relax. The word held a harder edge.

It was a struggle to remind herself that the danger was of her mind and not a noose poised about her neck.

She won, eventually, forcing tense muscles to relax and heart-rate to steady. The worm seemed to sigh, and then something deep and dark flowed into her being, a soothing darkness like she hadn't felt since she was less than a babe, rocked to sleep in her mother's womb. It filled her, full to bursting, sending dying embers into a burst of flame that popped and roared before settling into a steady beat.

Aelin opened her eyes with a quiet gasp.

The worm was gone, and —

"I feel...good," she breathed. "Better than good."

The female laughed quietly. "They always say that the first time." Still kneeling on the floor, her stern gaze had softened considerably, into something friendly, if slightly concerned. "You're alright, then?"

Aelin gave her an incredulous stare. "Did I not just say that?"

The female shook her head, a sly smile on her lips. "You did. I meant mentally." Her smile halted, blue eyes darkening. "Tamlin can be a bit..."

"Of an ass?"

"Of an ass," the female agreed.

Their voices died away, and suddenly without them, everything seemed unnaturally still. A glance out the reed-thin window confirmed that yes, the world chirped on outside, with a crescent moon hanging dubious in a purple sky.

"Moon's beautiful, isn't it?" the female murmured, and Aelin wondered if she was imagining that quiet hint of longing.

She debated the many possible tones to which she could answer that question before settling on, "Looks like a toenail clipping."

A snort. "I suppose it does."

Aelin studied the female, brown hair snagging halfway down her back, slender neck and nose, eyes deep and knowing as her own. All distraction to hide the strange broadness of her shoulders, the muscle that danced along her arms and legs, all unbecoming of a lady born to tittering and lash-fluttering.

Sort of like...me?

In the following moments, she contemplated the wisdom of her next decision.

"Aelin Galathynius," she said abruptly, and the female turned to look at her. "That's my name. I also happen to be queen of a kingdom you've never heard of."

The female blinked, then nodded, as if this news was not particularly surprising. "I'm Feyre." A pause. "Affiliated with a Court different than this."

Aelin grinned. "Would never have guessed, what with how loyal you are to His Royal Pansy-ass."

Feyre snorted and shifted on the floor into a cross-legged position. "Try dealing with him for nine months and let's see how loyal you are."

"Oh, I don't know. I think I could entertain myself. It was kind of fun to see him spluttering so beautifully."

Feyre scratched her cheek. "You've got me beat for sheer will, I'll give you that. Knocked unconscious only to wake up Tamlin's face." She shook her head. "I'd have gone right back to sleep."

Aelin laughed. "I was thinking about it." As her gaze wandered the cottage's strange contents, her thoughts returned to more pressing matters. "Where are we exactly."

"Well..." Feyre hesitated.

Suspicion was her bane. Voice flat, Aelin said, "Tell me."

A flash of temper. "I'd tell you if I knew," she bit out. "This place isn't exactly consistent."

"What do you mean?"

"Sometimes it's here, and sometimes it's...not." She shrugged. "The previous owner was old, older than this land. She needed somewhere safe to stay, so she built this cottage. She made sure it was sufficiently hidden from the rest of the world. Took safety precautions."

"Disappearing to somewhere you can't find it isn't very befitting of a safe-haven."

Feyre brushed a fist down her jaw, a crease of worry appearing between her brows. "That's not all it does."

Aelin gave her a look.

"It also...might disappear while you're in it."

She blinked. "You mean we might be hurtling through space right now?"

"Possibly."

Aelin looked out the window again. The moon was still there, wan and pale as ever. "Doesn't look like it."

"It doesn't have to," Feyre said. "It —" She sighed the sigh of one too young to be so weary. She stood up and smoothed a wrinkle in her dress. "Do you know what a pocket realm is?"

Aelin swung back in her chair, arm hanging over the side. "No idea."

"It's...hard to explain. I...perhaps better if I show you." Feyre paced in a circle, looking decidedly frazzled as she ran a hand through her hair. "I wish Rhysand was here," she muttered. "Always the better teacher." She stopped, took a breath, and turned back to Aelin. "This might be a bit startling."

She snapped her fingers.

Aelin was not sure what happened next.

Cliffhanger for y'all!

[hah-studios]

The Beauty of a Beast Part 1

In celebration of the upcoming Disney remake and for one of the most timeless love stories ever told: mixing three different adaptions and adding my own twists. A beautiful and strong-willed girl must pull a prince from a monster, a castle from its curse, she must do the impossible and find a way to love a beast. 

Maurice was, according to any and all facts, a fool.

           A fool that once owned a grand fleet of trading ships, a fool that once lived in a grand mansion of a polished uptown city, bathed in jewels and silks.

But one thoughtless decision to send his entire fleet through the Pacific had sent them all into a hurricane. He had lost not only his ships but his sailors, and with it means to support his family.

Punished for his idiocy he and his children were sent tumbling into poverty, forced to sell many of their riches and move to a small wooden house in a small country town. There they took up the work of farmers, growing their own food, sewing their own clothes and tending to the few farm animals they had.

           That had been a year ago, today was the anniversary of when Maurice had lost it all and in a desperate attempt to give his children something to make their new life more bearable he decided to go out and trade the few finer garments and knick knacks he had been able to keep.

The desire had sent him on his chestnut mare into a dark forest that chirped and howled with moving shadows and unseen creatures. The mare’s hooves crackling as she walked over fallen leaves, the bare black branches above intertwining around each other, creating a ebony spider web against the night sky.

The mare fondly named Darling was breathing with an edge of anxiety, her black eyes roving over the intimidating forestry, her flanks shivering with each breath.

Maurice stroked her mane, “Easy girl, won’t be much longer now.” He had hoped to make it to the next town across the forest but with storm clouds hovering over his head he decided it would be better to find an inn or some such to spend the night.

But there was no sign of civilization in sight and the rumble of thunder was starting an oppressive duet with the forest’s moans and Darling was getting more and more agitated by the music’s threats.

           Maurice flinched with an icy cold raindrop suddenly splattered on his nose, quickly followed by another, and as the seconds ticked by a sprinkle that would soon become a torrent drenched the man and his horse. Darling whinnied in worry and stopped, her hooves clomping uncertainly on the damp dirt that would soon be slippery mud.

“Easy, easy,” Maurice held the reins tightly in his gloved hands, the gray seams stretching against his flexed knuckles. “Steady, steady.” But it was to no avail, a flash of lightning shot down from the sky, stabbing the ground just behind them. Darling let out a scream of terror, the sound overshadowed by a vicious roar of thunder and the horse darted forward. If Maurice hadn’t already had a tight grip on the reins he would’ve fallen off the horse. Knowing there was no way he could calm her with lightning flashing above them and the thunder rumbling its menace Maurice wrapped his arms around Darling’s rain-soaked neck, praying some animal instinct would lead her to a safe location.

           Despite the sting of the rain slicing at his gray eyes he watched the dark forest blur past him, muffled by the sheets of rain that turned the ground beneath his mare into mud, her hooves sinking into the brown mess. But then, quite suddenly, the ground beneath Darling gave and the horse was sliding down the embankment, sending Maurice’s stomach into his throat. But by some miracle Darling reached the bottom of the streaming hill without losing her footing, and when the ground was once again solid beneath her hooves she kept running, froth flecking her mouth and eyes still wide and almost hungry for an escape from the raging storm. Maurice kept his head down, whiskered cheek pressed against his horse’s mane as the trees around them inched closer and closer, the branches reaching down to try and claw at his whipping hair, the trunks scraping against his legs and horse’s ribs. He hissed in pain when an exceptionally sharp peace of bark sliced against his leg, ripping through cloth and grazing his skin.

And just when Maurice thought the force of the rain and his horse’s speed would knock him out of his saddle Darling broke out of the trees-and before them stood a castle.

           Darling, her exhaustion overriding her fear, came to a clumsy halt at the closed gates. Maurice slid off her saddle, running his fingers over her neck, soaked with both rain and sweat, as he peered up at the sight before him, made hazy by the rain. The gate loomed over him; it would take at least ten men standing on each other’s shoulders to reach the top. It was deep ebony, the iron bars straight and reaching to the sky before they reached the top and arched and curled into intricate patterns, a thick gray wall just as tall as the gate wrapped around the castle, protecting it from intruders. The castle itself was full of spires and towers, reaching up to the storming sky, black windows suggesting that it was abandoned. There was something about it that Maurice found…gloomy, as if the castle itself was sad.

But he needed to get out of this rain; he would have to ignore the knot in his gut that warned him of danger. Instead he pushed at the gate, expecting it to resist but to his surprise it swung open with ease. Maurice slipped himself and Darling into the castle’s territory and closed the gate with a clink.

Walking across a cobblestone path Maurice saw that the lawn and plants of the castle’s courtyard were eerily well-kept. Perhaps there was someone living here. And perhaps they would be interested in one of his knick knacks.

He found an empty stable full of hay and left Darling to have a much needed rest. With the excitement of running through the storm having passed Maurice now felt a chill that reached to his bones. Fearing he could catch his death Maurice walked to the double doors that was the castle’s entrance, the wood decorated with the carvings of creatures both real and fantastical. He used the iron knocker that was ice cold from the weather and pounded on the door, the wood thrumming with the force, a moment later one of the doors swung open, no one on the other side. With a chill of suspense icing his spine Maurice finally stepped out of the rain and inside.

           He was greeted by an immense hall that led into an oval-shaped first room, smooth stone stairs that led higher into the castle, and large door ways that led into other parts of the castle. The sheer size of this place almost sent Maurice to his knees. Whoever lived here…had Maurice just stepped into the home of a king?

He took in a breath, tasting a hint of dust, and walked across the marble floor that was decorated in gold, green, and red, forming swirling and star shaped patterns. His soggy boats squelching with water with every step he took.

“Hello?” he called out, his voice echoing in the seemingly empty hallways. “Is someone there?”

           Unbeknownst to Maurice someone was there, or rather, two someone’s. From the dark of the second floor two pairs of eyes watched the man below with interest, one pair a dazzling emerald green, the other a glinting brown.

The brown eyes glared, “Don’t even think about it.”

The emerald eyes flashed with amusement, “Think about what?”

“Stay away from that man Renard. He’ll leave soon enough.”

Maurice was still calling out, “I don’t mean to disturb. But I became caught in the storm, and need a place to stay for the night.”

The smiling eyes were now concerned. “Come, come Plumes have a heart.”

“The Master will-” Plumes began but his voice trailed off into an indignant hiss as his companion left his side and climbed down the steps to the unwanted guest.

           Maurice turned on his heel, looking back to the now closed double doors (he could not recall shutting the door behind him) and considered what to do next. But then suddenly a voice spoke up behind him: “Of course, Monsieur you are welcome!”

He whirled around, his eyes moving to the stairs where he saw…a fox. He started slightly at the creature’s sudden appearance; it sat on the third to bottom step, a well groomed tail resting over its soot black paws and intelligent green eyes watching him. Assuming the fox was domestic Maurice continued to look around for the owner of his welcome. Seeing no one else he turned back to the fox. “Who said that?”

He didn’t expect the fox to answer. “I did.”

Maurice let out a shocked cry of fright, stumbling and falling to the chilly marble floor. He stared with bulging eyes and a slack jaw at the animal that had opened its muzzle to speak clear and coherent words. Seeing the man fall the fox’s ears pulled back in worry, it stood up on its hind legs as if it was a man and reached a paw out like it wanted to help him up. “Are you alright, Monsieur?”

Before Maurice could fully wrap his head around this witchcraft the flutter of wing beats announced the arrival of a great horned owl. It landed next to the fox, its tawny feathers puffed in agitation and its wings still flapping with obvious aggravation. “Now you’ve gone and done it, Renard!”

The fox, Renard, rolled his eyes at the owl’s squawk while Maurice finally pushed himself to his feet, staring at the two animals with wonder and confusion. What kind of enchanted castle was this to have animals that acted like men? But then he sneezed loudly, a shiver coursing over his body and distracted the fox and owl from their arguing. Renard stepped forward and took Maurice’s hand between his paws, the fur warm and pads smooth. He made a noise of sympathy, “You are soaked to the bone, Monsieur. Come; let us warm you by the fire.” He led Maurice to an entertaining room where a roaring fire blazed, medium sized statues of lions decorating the furnace a large arm chair of ruby red standing guard before the flames. Maurice let out a great sigh of relief and pleasure as he sat in the chair, the warmth drying his clothes and reaching to his iced bones.

The fox sat before him, his creamy muzzle curled into a smile while the owl had stayed at the back of the room, muttering under his breath. “If the Master is displeased I will not take the blame.”

Hearing the word ‘Master’ Maurice wanted to ask to see the man but then quite suddenly a rolling cart appeared by his side, it carried a tea set and two cats. One had beautiful and long white fur with blue eyes to match, beside her sat an excited looking kitten, its fur and eyes matching its mother’s.

“Would you like a cup of tea, sir?” the feline’s voice was female and it gave away that she had more age than her appearance let on. “It will chase your chill away.”

“No tea!” The owl known as Plumes flew to perch at the top of the arm chair. “No tea!” But his words were ignored.

“Thank you very much.” Still in wonder he accepted the cup of tea the kitten held between its forepaws, its big blue eyes glittering with unbridled curiosity.

“Chaton, don’t stare,” its mother scolded softly.

The kitten lowered itself and turn its wide eyes to her, “Sorry, Momma.” Chaton had the voice of a little girl.

“Do excuse her we have not had a visitor in…” Chaton’s mother trailed off. “Well, in a long time.”

Maurice nodded in understanding, already he felt at ease around these peculiar creatures. “This castle is not easy to find, I myself only found it by accident. My horse had fallen down a rain-washed hill.”

“Is that how you hurt your leg?” The question came from Renard whose eyes had found the tear in Maurice’s trousers.

“Oh dear!” Chaton’s mother looked at the man’s leg with concern while the small kitten clumsily climbed onto Maurice’s lap to get a closer look.

“It’s just a graze,” he assured him. His leg wasn’t even bleeding and the pain had subsided, he could fix the trousers once he returned home. He smiled when the animals (with the exception of Plumes who still silently glared at him) showed their open relief.

Chaton smiled up at Maurice, still sitting on his lap, when her eyes moved to his neck. “What’s that?”

She reached a small and soft paw to the golden locket that hung from the man’s neck. Maurice smiled and undid the chain to hold the locket in his palm. “One of my most prized possessions.” He opened the golden oval to reveal a folded piece of parchment. With the animals’ wide eyes on him he undid the parchment and showed them a picture, it was a beautiful painting of Maurice’s five children: “My family.”

He pointed to his two sons, dark brown hair curled and faces handsome, “My sons, Tristan and Nicholas.” He pointed to his two eldest daughters, twins of fair hair and skin, “My daughters, Lucy and Susan.”

Chaton’s small paw patted the image of the final girl in the family portrait, “Who is that?” The girl in question was unlike the other four children; her skin was the color of fine chocolate, her hair glossy ebony and eyes shining amber. Maurice’s smile was full of the greatest love and affection. “That is my youngest, Belle. I adopted her when she was just a little girl.” It was back when his fleet was still intact and prosperous. He had just lost his wife who died to give birth to a stillborn child and decided a journey across the seas would be best for him and his children. They had been at a port in Africa when he came across a beautiful young girl who wore nothing but rags but whose eyes and smile shined with a beauty and love that could not be outmatched. Learning from the locals that her mother had passed away the orphan had left on Maurice’s ship, a new daughter who filled the hole his wife and stillborn left behind. This small portrait had been made just before the loss of his ships, his children smiling and eyes sparkling. Only Belle had kept her smile and sparkle when they had lost everything.

“They’re beautiful children,” the silky cat of snow smiled.

“Gorgeous,” Renard agreed.

Plumes let out a hoot of annoyance, his head having turned to stare at the empty doorway of the room.

Talk of his children reminded Maurice of why he was here. “You say you have a Master?” He moved to take off the satchel that held the items he intended to trade. “Could I see him? I had hoped-”

“No!” Their four voices rang out in unison, all with an edge of nervousness and even fear.

Renard cleared his throat and shook his head. “Our Master is a…introverted…person. He rather keep to himself.”

“I see,” Maurice frowned. “I had hoped to see if had anything he would like to barter for.” He quickly changed the topic when he saw the animals’ worried expressions. “But I won’t disturb him. Could I stay until morning? I will quickly be on my way then.”

“Of course,” Renard smiled but his voice was still strained. “Rest by the fire, enjoy the rest of your tea.”

Plumes spoke up, “Renard, Chat, a word.” He flew out of the room, the fox and cats following after him, with Chaton waving her pink-padded paw in farewell. Maurice could hear the owl speaking as they walked farther and farther away, and when he could no longer hear their voices he stood up. With the introduction of the talking animals his shock and wonderment had burned away any fatigue he had originally had. So, with the storm becoming a mere memory he decided he would check on Darling one last time, making sure she would be safe and comfortable for the night.

           Slipping back out the front doors that once again opened and closed on their own accord Maurice walked across the damp grass of the castle’s grounds, the air now thick and fresh with the enhanced scent of the greenery.

But on his way to the stables he spotted something the rain had hidden from him when he first arrived. It appeared to be a small labyrinth of tall hedges, and terrible curiosity came over him to see what was hidden inside. Deciding he could check on his mare afterwards Maurice walked through the labyrinth of deep green hedges, coming across a clearing that formed a circle. Inside the clearing were a series of smaller bushes cut and trimmed to form the shape of fierce animals such as feral cats and bears, he even saw a griffon. They stood as if they were sentries to a large rosebush in the heart of the clearing. Maurice stepped closer, the white roses of the bush reminding him of the stars that now glowed above him. A moment later a thought whispered through his head: Belle.

His daughter had always loved roses, the only other thing she favored more was books. If he could bring her one of these flowers, as pure and white as freshly fallen snow, her smile would be worth his travel.

Maurice reached his gloved hand out to the bush and plucked one rose, bringing the white petals to his face, breathing in the fragrant scent. He smiled.

But then all of a sudden he was knocked to the moist ground, a weight pinning him down and a large clawed paw pressing his face into the grass. Maurice let out a gasp of terror, the rose falling away from his trembling fingers.

He saw a flash of razor sharp fangs and then a voice spoke, a voice that sent Maurice back into that forest where wolves stalked and darkness reigned, brought back to him the terror of receiving the news that his ships would not be returning, the terror as he watched the life fade out of his wife’s eyes. It was the worse kind of fear-the helpless kind. “So this is how you repay me for letting you have shelter from the storm? You steal from me?!”

“I-I’m sorry!” Maurice gasped out the words, feeling like his heart would break against his ribcage. Though the pressure that pinned him down did not bruise him the fear would leave marks that lasted for days. Whatever this monster was it was clearly the master of this castle. “I didn’t mean any offense!”

“Words are silent compared to actions,” the creature snarled. “Actions are so loud they could make one’s ears bleed. And I plan on screaming back.”

The monster’s words confused Maurice until he saw its paw in his vision, it was almost human like, with long fingers that ended in sharp black claws and covered in thick dark fur. He flinched when it grabbed his locket and ripped it off his neck. “No!”

“This is to pay for your shelter,” the master snarled. His voice lowered with a promised threat: “Your imprisonment will pay for the rose.”

Its claws dug into Maurice’s clothes and it started to drag the old man across the grass and toward the castle. The man screamed and cried out, frantically digging his nails into the ground to try and break free. But there was no point, there was no escape.

           From one of the many windows of the castle Renard and the others watched the scene below them, their expressions showing the worst kind of fear.

 .

             Belle sat at the fountain in the heart of town, her amber eyes moving across the pages of her latest book. Behind her Lucy and Susan stood at the window of the town’s only clothing store, mooning over the newest dresses on the other side of the glass.

And, naturally, arguing over who it would look best on.

“That pink would fit my skin tone much better,” Lucy told her sister, running her fingers over her slender, long neck. “You’re too tan.”

Belle didn’t have to look behind her to see her sister’s scowl. It was clear in her voice: “I’m only tanner because I actually do work while you laze around the house!”

“I cook and clean the house!” Lucy shot back.

“How about you clean up after those filthy animals once in a while?”

Belle tuned out their argument for a few minutes before the sound of her name brought her out of her imagination. “Belle, don’t you have anything better to do than read those silly books?”

She let out a soft sigh, using a violet ribbon to mark her place in the ‘silly’ book and closed it. Fair Verona would have to wait.

She looked over her shoulder to meet her sisters’ matching green eyes, “Haven’t you anything better to do than fawn over dresses you can’t afford?”

Lucy pouted, “The difference between a dress and a book is that a dress will get a man’s attention.”

Belle stood up, placing her book in the pocket of her apron and walking over to join her sisters’ side. “Yes, but I’m not trying to get a man’s attention.”

“And that’s your problem my dearest little sister,” Lucy cooed in pity, placing a delicate hand on her cheek. “You think dusty books can satisfy you when only a man can do that.”

Belle had serious doubts over that. Besides it wasn’t like she was against men, perhaps she would be happier if she found that one special person. The only problem being that her ideal soul mate would have to at least respect her love of reading and none of the men in this town did that. On the contrary, both her personality and looks were too different in this town, and the gossip of this place was not quiet. Only one man outside her family showed her any attention and oh how she wished he would jump into a lake.

           Speak of the devil a charming and arrogant voice sliced through the air, making her sisters instantly smile but sent a shiver of dread down Belle’s spine.

“Good afternoon, ladies.”

Belle turned around to face Gaston, the richest man in town and the best hunter. By looks he could be an angel from heaven, a strong jaw, raven hair pulled back by a crimson ribbon and ice blue eyes. He was beautiful to look at but he made Belle’s skin crawl, he was rude, boorish, and egocentric. He would never be the man for her.

But of course-he did not know that.

Gaston tossed his arm across her shoulders and flashed his one hundred watt smile that made Lucy and Susan melt. “Belle,” his voice was shamelessly flirty.

“Gaston,” her tone was polite but icy.

She tensed when the man took her book right out of her apron, removing his arm to leaf through the pages. “How can you read this? There aren’t any pictures.”

“It’s called imagination, Gaston,” Belle pulled her voice through tight teeth.

He gave her a look that was similar to Lucy’s pity but it was even more condescending. “Why read when you could be spending time with me?”

Why breathe when you could be dead? Belle thought viciously but her father raised her to act like a lady. “Was there something else you needed?”

“I thought I could take you-” he glanced absently at her mooning sisters-“And your lovely sisters to the tavern to see my latest kill.”

“Maybe some other time,” Belle tried and took her book back, holding it protectively to her chest. She thought of Juliet Capulet who had supposed to marry a prince and for a moment wondered how she would react to Gaston’s advances. The moment was short-lived as she remembered the rather eccentric Juliet might not be the greatest of role models when Belle planned on living a nice long life. “We have to go home and see if our father has returned.”

Belle had barely slept last night when the storm hit, worry for her father knotting her stomach and sent her pacing around her room. But the storm had not lasted long and she prayed he had found shelter during it.

Gaston frowned but Belle was already linking arms with her sisters and hurrying home, Lucy and Susan’s disappointment palpable. “What is the matter with you?” they both whispered in annoyed unison.

“I’m giving you both my blessing to marry him,” was Belle’s curt reply.

“We would if we could,” Susan moaned with what would’ve been heartbreak if she had felt more than lust.

 .

             After Belle had departed with her sisters Gaston was greeted by his lackey LeFou, the smaller, fuller man gave a twinge of sympathy. “Didn’t give you the time of day did she?”

Gaston lightly smacked his large hand over LeFou’s head, not moving his eyes from the path the three ladies had taken. “She needed to see if that sorry excuse of a father had returned. I wouldn’t deny the dear girl that.”

LeFou scrunched up his comically large nose, “I don’t know, Gaston. You could have any girl in town. Why her?” LeFou’s dislike of the girl was obvious, not fond of Belle’s disinterest in Gaston and her…differences.

Gaston let out an exasperated groan that hinted they had had this conversation before. His eyes found his loyal shadow. “LeFou what did I tell you the moment after I first met her?”

“That she’s gorgeous,” LeFou answered obediently.

Gaston nodded like a patient professor repeating a lesson. He pointed his finger at the smaller man, “And what does that make her?”

Having this conversation repeated almost weekly LeFou knew the answer: “The best.”

Gaston pointed to himself, “And what do I deserve?”

LeFou sighed; his round slouchy shoulders sinking, “The best.”

“Good LeFou,” Gaston patted his head as if he was a dog that learned to sit on command. The taller man straightened to his impressive height and sent his dazzling smile after Belle who had long since vanished. “Ever since I met her I knew I must marry her. The most beautiful girl in town with the most handsome man in town-no, the earth, we are destined to be.” He turned his smile down to his follower, “People will love it, a rich gentleman saving the poor damsel from the depths of poverty. Hunting for her, giving her only the finest dresses, who could resist? Certainly not her.”

LeFou had a rare moment of wisdom and remained silent. He instead watched Gaston’s blue eyes crinkle, thoughts making the gears in his head turn. “I just need to give her a little nudge in the right direction.” The grin that slowly spread across his lips could make the Cheshire cat jealous. “And I have the perfect little nudge.”

 .

             The girls returned to find their brothers in the room that served as both their dinning and living room.

Tristan, the eldest, resembled their father with a thin beard matching his curled brown hair. He was tending to the fading embers of the fire place while Nicholas sat at the table, making lures for fishing.

“Hi,” he greeted his sisters with his trademark sweet smile. His green eyes were bright and inviting, his brown hair curled like his brother’s and his face friendly.

Tristan turned at his brother’s voice, sending a sour glare at the three girls. “Enjoy wasting time in town?”

The five words sent Lucy and Susan into indignant spluttering. But Belle ignored Tristan, looking around the room that only her brothers occupied. Dismay weighed on her brother, making her shoulders sink.

           She sat down next to Nicholas. “Papa hasn’t made it back yet?”

Nicholas’ smile was pulled down. “No, not yet… But Belle, he said it would take him a whole day to get to the next town. He probably only arrived this morning.”

Belle’s eyes fell down to her interlocked fingers, his words doing little to ease her anxiety.

Nicholas placed his hand over hers and Belle smiled at him, gratitude in her eyes. While she wouldn’t say it aloud Nicholas was her favorite sibling. He had warmed up to her instantly when Maurice adopted her and the two had always been close. And unlike the others Nicholas was at least trying to make the most of their new life.

           Lucy suddenly sat across from her younger siblings and cast an acerbic look at Tristan. “So what will we be having for lunch?”

He almost bared his teeth at his younger sister, “Whatever you bother to cook.”

Lucy rudely rolled her eyes, “If I do it’ll be better than whatever grizzle you’d whip up.”

Susan, who had been making her way to the stairs that led to their rooms, came to a halt and glared at her twin. “That would require you actually dirtying your hands.”

Belle stood up before another word could be said, “Stop.” She looked beseechingly at the gray and green gazes that now watched her. “How can you argue like this when Papa hasn’t returned? Aren’t you worried for him?”

Tristan stood up and rubbed his palms across his trousers, staining them with soot. “We are worried, Belle. But what do you expect us to do? We have to watch the house and he wanted to go.”

Only to appease us, Belle thought with guilt. He blames himself for us living here. And now he could be…

Belle knew Nicholas could be right; Maurice could’ve reached his destination safely. He could be coming home with gifts a plenty. But there was an instinct inside her that wouldn’t unknot her insides, wouldn’t let her pulse slow to a normal pace.

And then there was a knock on the door.

           “I’ll get it.” Susan held up her skirts and walked to the door, pressing her eye to the peep hole. A second later she whirled around, skirt flying and expression excited. “It’s Gaston!”

“Hide,” Belle replied immediately.

Nicholas stood up to stand at her side, “What does he want?”

“To see our baby sister,” Lucy was just as excited as her twin.

Belle moaned in trepidation, “But I don’t want to see him!”

“Too bad,” Tristan placed his hands on her shoulders. “He’s the richest man in town and you’re going to be nice to him.”

Belle was pushed to the door and before she could even blink her siblings ran up the stairs to hide but also eavesdrop. “Traitors,” she muttered under her breath. Steeling herself Belle finally opened the door.

           And sure enough there was Gaston in all his primeval glory, leaning against the door frame and smile already in place.

“Gaston,” Belle’s smile was strained and unconvincing, “What a…pleasant…surprise.”

“Naturally,” Gaston slipped around her, inviting himself inside.

Belle stayed by the open door. “Did-did you need something?”

Gaston made himself comfortable in Maurice’s chair at the head of the table. Watching him place his mud-caked boots on the table rubbed her nerves raw. He leaned his head back to show off his impressive Adam’s apple, “I’ve come to make your dreams come true, Belle.”

Her dark brow furrowed, “To do that you have to know my dreams.”

“I do!” Gaston lifted his head. “You don’t act like it but you want what all women hope and scheme for: to be a wife.”

Belle’s heart dropped and she was surprised her expression remained placid. Oh no. No, no, no, no.

There was a sharp gasp from upstairs and muffled movement, whichever twin just gasped had quickly been muzzled by a hand.

“Gaston,” Belle’s voice choked. “I don’t think-”

But he was already up on his feet, reaching her side to wrap his arm around her waist. “Picture this”-he extended his free arm out to indicate to a future that would never happen-“Us in a rustic hunting lodge, much bigger than this sack.”

This he-man is inconceivable!

“My latest kill roasting over the fire.” His expression was nothing but smug arrogance.

Also unbelievable, Belle’s thought was as dry as a desert.

Gaston’s smile nearly blinded her as he turned his head down to look at her, “And my little wife massaging my feet while the little ones play on the floor with the dogs.” His lips pouted in thought, “I think we’d have six or seven.”

“Dogs?”

Gaston’s laugh was booming. “No, Belle!” He ran a hand over his finely groomed hair, “Six or seven Gaston Juniors.”

I am not hearing this! “Imagine that.”

Gaston pulled her closer, Belle pulling her head back to keep some distance. The last time she was this nauseous she was seven years old and sea sick.

“We’ll be a perfect pair,” he purred, actually purred. “Just like my thighs.”

Nicholas’ sudden burst of laughter from upstairs made Gaston look up, his grip on her loosening, Belle took the chance to escape his arm.

“Sorry, Gaston,” Belle flashed her own white teeth, placing her hands on his broad chest. “I just don’t deserve you.” When he opened his mouth to reply she gave a hefty push, sending him out of the door. “But thanks for asking!” She slammed the door and turned the lock with a noise of exasperation and disgust.

 .

             Not surprising, Tristan and the twins were furious with Belle for rejecting the richest man in town. Going on and on about how accepting his “proposal” would’ve brought them back to the comfy life they had once known. Belle sat silently and let them ramble on until they finished their rant by grounding her. Indulging them Belle made her way up the stairs as they proclaimed they would be going back to town to try and win Gaston’s favor. Those words made her stop halfway up the creaking steps and watched the three leave the house.

Nicholas, leaning against the table, gave her a sympathetic smile, “Don’t let them bother you. You know what they’re like.”

“But they might try to bring Gaston back,” Belle wrapped her arms around herself, feeling cold. “Nicholas they might try to force me to marry him.”

Her brother’s eyes narrowed and he moved into a protective stance, “They can’t force you to do anything.”

But they could certainly try; there was only one person who could order them to stop. “I have to bring Papa back.”

           Dusk was falling over them as Belle and Nicholas made their way to the family’s barn, Tristan, Lucy, and Susan still in town.

“Why not let me go?” Nicholas asked of her, worry making his voice strained. “Or at least wait until morning.”

“No.” The fact it was already evening with no sign of their father did nothing to calm her anxiety. “They might bring him over tonight, no it’s better I go alone. I’m smaller, Philippe can move faster with just me.”

In the barn the large brown horse looked as on edge as Belle felt, which was understandable, he missed Darling. She stroked the horse’s large nose, “Hi, boy. Think you can help me find my father and your sweetheart?”

Philippe whinnied.

“Just be careful, Belle,” Nicholas begged of her as they saddled the horse. “Don’t stay out all night, if you can’t find father right away come home or find a place to sleep for the night.”

“I know.” Belle crawled onto the horse’s shadow, now towering over his brother. “Don’t worry so much, Nicholas. You and I both know I’m tougher than I look. I’ll bring father home and he can pull Tristan’s and the girls’ heads from the clouds.” And maybe even give Gaston a swift kick in his trousers.

But Nicholas still looked up at his sister with such worry that her heart melted for him. She leaned down and kissed his temple, “I promise I’ll be fine. I’ll bring father home and everything will be just fine.”

Straightening in the saddle she let Nicholas lead Philippe out of the barn, when the country side and forest stood before her Belle whipped the reins against Philippe’s broad neck and the horse immediately galloped. In only a few moments the two were swallowed by the shadows of the forest, leaving Nicholas staring after them with a horrid sense of fright crushing his throat.

 .

             “How is the Master?”

The question came from Chat, she and Plumes sitting in the room Maurice had been invited to, the fire now only a few embers.

Renard shrugged as he walked in, “I didn’t ask.”

Plumes huffed, “Of course you didn’t. Why not?”

The fox sat down and lifted his muzzle to the ceiling. “You know that locket the man brought?”

“He’s been asking for it,” Chat said sadly. She had made a point in visiting the guest turned prisoner.

“The Master has been staring at the picture inside it,” Renard went on, his voice contemplative. “I don’t think he even knew I was there.”

“Oh!” Chat started suddenly, her blue eyes having found the room’s grandfather clock. “I best find Chaton; it’s time for her bath.” She quickly padded out of the room, leaving Renard and Plumes alone.

The fox watched her go, letting out a sigh when she disappeared. “You know…if only one of the man’s daughters had come instead-”

Plumes’ angry hoot interrupted his musings. “Don’t start! That man shouldn’t have come at all! I warned you but did you listen? Of course not! You never do!”

Renard rolled his eyes as his friend continued to bluster his outrage, Renard’s mind going back to his Master in the west wing, staring with something similar to fascination at a smiling, happy family that was such a foreign concept to the castle.  Renard could also recall seeing his master trace a claw over the daughter known as Belle.

 .

             Thanks to the mud that was left from the storm Belle had come across hoof tracks. She urged Philippe to pick up his pace, hoping to find where the tracks led before it got darker. But Philippe suddenly jolted, almost falling down a hidden hill, the horse took a few steps back with an uncertain neigh.

Belle narrowed her eyes; the tracks reached this hill that was covered with mounds of dried mud. But she could just see through the dark to the ground below and make out more horse tracks. Belle swallowed, sliding off Philippe’s saddle and holding his reins tight she led him down the steep hill. The process was slow, Belle barely breathing as her feet sank with each step, body braced for the hill to give. Philippe was faring no better, his body trembling as he loyally but reluctantly followed her, his ears pulled back and eyes like saucers of white.

Belle had almost reached the bottom of the hill when the mud gave; yelping Belle forced her legs to move. She clumsily ran down to the bottom of the hill, Philippe was pulled after her, nearly knocking her down when he reached the bottom.

Once again steady on their feet Belle leaned against Philippe’s shoulder, caressing his muzzle. “Let’s try to find a different route on the way back, yes?” He snorted in agreement.

           Belle looked to the ground to see the tracks led into an even thicker crop of trees, instead of climbing back onto the horse’s back she led him through the makeshift path. Dark branches arched toward the two which did nothing to calm her nerves, flinching when brambles tugged at her skirts.

But it was not long before the forest broke away and she stood before a castle. Belle’s jaw dropped at such a magnificent yet ominous sight, and something inside of her screamed to go in. This was where she needed to be.

Surprised that the gates were not locked she and Philippe stepped into the grand courtyard that looked so different from the forests beyond the wall, the grass thick and trees flourishing, it was beautiful despite the looming shadow the castle cast over it.

Philippe sniffed the air and all of a sudden whinnied with excitement and ran past Belle, making her lose her grip on his reins. She quickly followed the racing horse to a large stable almost the size of their barn at home. When she stepped inside she broke into a smile, Philippe had found Darling.

The mare looked perfectly fine, Belle noticed with relief as she watched the two horses nuzzle each other with open affection.

“Papa must be inside the castle,” she breathed to herself. Leaving the horses to themselves she turned and headed to the front doors of the castle, heart thrumming in an odd mixture of excitement and anticipation.

 .

             Plumes was still trying to make Renard’s ears bleed with his insistent squawks of disapproval. The fox would’ve left long ago but knew the owl would only follow after him, so instead he prayed for a distraction great enough to render Plumes silent.

His prayer was answered with one word: “Hello?”

The one word, spoken in an undeniably feminine voice had Plumes shutting his beak and Renard’s tail bristling. They gave each other one look before scurrying to the door way of the room, peeking their heads out just in time to see a figure standing before the stairs that led up into the towers of the castle. The figure’s back was to them, wrapped in a deep gray cloak with long black hair draped over slender shoulders.

Renard breathed out a whisper of awe and nudged his companion. “It’s a girl.”

The nudge having nearly sent Plumes to the floor the owl glared at the fox, “Yes, I’m not blind I can see-”

But Renard had turned to him, grabbing the owl by his wings and shaking him as he spoke: “Don’t you see? It’s who we’ve been waiting for! The one to break the curse!”

           “Hello?” the girl called out once more, making her way up the steps. “Papa?”

Renard released Plumes who had gotten dizzy from the shaking and followed after her, a smile pulling up his black lips and making his sharp teeth flash. She had reached the second floor when Renard called out, still climbing up to her: “Bonjour!”

The girl let out a soft shriek and whirled around, large amber eyes finding him and her expression one of shaken disbelief.

“Sorry to frighten you,” Renard apologized. His eyes ran over her, taking in her dark skin and shiny hair and recognized her as the girl in the photo. The one his Master had taken an interest in…

“I’m dreaming.” Her words came out as a soft breath. “I fell down that hill, hit my head, and now am dreaming about talking foxes.”

Plumes then chose to land next to Renard, giving him a sharp stab with his beak. “Ow!” Renard barked, rubbing his shoulder.

“Haven’t you caused enough problems talking to complete strangers?” Plumes demanded.

“And owls…” Belle added.

“Look at her.” Renard indicated a dark as pitch paw to the girl. “This is clearly Belle.”

She blinked, “How-how do you know my name?”

“Your father is here,” he was quick to answer.

“Papa!” Her face was one of love and relief. “Where is he?”

“Oh-well…” Renard trailed off. He had not thought that far ahead. Plumes gave him an expectant look.

Seeing his hesitation Belle stepped forward, reaching a hand out to take his paw and giving him a pleading look. “Please tell me. I need him back.”

“He’s um…” Renard braced himself. “He’s locked up in one of our towers.”

As expected Belle immediately dropped his hand and took a few steps back, her face now twisted into fear and anger. “What?”

“It’s all a misunderstanding!” Renard quickly tried to appease her.

Her next words were a firm order: “Take me to him.”

           Belle still felt like she was in some mad dream as she followed the fox and owl up several flights of stairs. If she was dreaming her imagination was even more vivid than she had thought. The marble floors were bedecked with elaborate patterns that wound and winded across the smooth cold floor. The walls decorated with coats of armor, marble statues of creatures from lions to wolves to even griffons and unicorns. And hanging above her head were chandeliers of all different sizes, the glass glinting with the moon light shining from the windows.

           But finally the two talking animals stopped at a foreboding wooden door, pushing it open Belle looked into a dim and dusty room that made her swallow. But then Maurice’s voice came through the darkness: “Who is there?”

“Papa!” Belle dashed in without another thought, leaving the fox and owl at the doorway. Her heart clenched when she saw her father behind a set of bars, shivering in the cold and skin pale. Belle fell to her knees before the cell and Maurice’s eyes nearly fell out of his head.

“Belle?!” He reached his shivering hands through the rusting metal bars and Belle quickly snatched them between her own, her heart breaking when she felt his flesh that was cold as ice. A protective fury tightened her grip around his fingers.

“How did you find me?” he asked but then shook his head, “Never mind, you have to go. You have to get out of here!”

“Who’s done this to you!?”

“Belle listen I made a grave mistake!” Maurice was shaking, his eyes moving past her shoulder. “You have to get out of here before it’s too late! You can’t let it find you here!”

Belle scowled, “It?”

The word had just left her lips when the room grew darker; Belle turned around, moving herself in front of her father. A large figure was blocking the light of the hallway, its figure made of shadow. The shadow spoke: “Who are you?”

Belle shuddered, the voice like icy water thrown over her skin. But she furrowed her brow and forced herself onto shaking legs. “Who are you?”

The fox and owl, standing behind the form, blinked at her their expressions startled yet impressed by her boldness. But then the shape in front of them growled and they lowered themselves closer to the floor: “I’m the Master of this castle.” He stepped forward and vanished into one of the shadowy corners of the room, but Belle saw two orbs of twilight blue fixed on her, two orbs that kept away from the square of moonlight shining from the single window of the room.

She straightened her spine and forced herself to meet the eyes face on. “I’m here for you to release my father.”

There was a flash of white that was accompanied by a snarling laugh, “Does the outside world now have no punishment for theft?”

“Theft?” Belle echoed in disbelief. She heard heavy footsteps as the creature stepped closer and Belle wrapped her fingers around the bars of the cell, keeping her from moving away.

“I forgave him for trespassing into my castle and how does he repay the shelter I gave him? He steals one of my roses.”

Belle spluttered in disbelief. “Are you insane? My father is sick! He could die in here! And you’re keeping him prisoner because he took a rose!?” The stranger rendered her silent with a vicious growl that made her flinch and press her back against the bars. What kind of man made such inhuman noises? What kind of man did her father call ‘it’?

“Sick or not he is my prisoner!” the shadows growled. “I will not let his crime go unpunished!”

Belle scowled in disgust as her father spoke up, his chilly hand falling over hers. “Just go, Belle. Please.”

“Listen to your father,” the ‘it’ advised, twilight eyes turning away from her, dismissing her. “Leave.”

           “What if you take me instead?”

The question sent the entire room into stillness. Belle swallowed, the offer had fallen off her lips before she could decide if she wanted to make it or not. But now that she had she knew in her heart that it was-if not the right thing to do-the Belle thing to do.

“What?” the once snarling voice had gone soft into a disbelief that actually sounded vulnerable. “You…you want to take his place?”

“No, Belle!” Maurice’s voice cracked with desperation.

She disregarded her father’s pleas. “Would you let him go?”

“I would.” The points of twilight moved as he nodded. “But understand if you take his place you have to stay here, there is no going back. You will live here for the rest of your life.”

Belle took in a breath, for a moment wondering if this was punishment for rejecting Gaston. But in the end it didn’t matter. No matter if she was eager to return home or dreading to-she would not leave her father to die cold and alone.

“Belle, please!” her father continued to beg. “You don’t know what that thing is!”

Another spark of white, “Your father makes a good point.”

Belle’s brow furrowed. “Then what are you?”

The twilight slowly blinked and then moved forward, stepping into the patch of moonlight that shone on the floor. The first thing Belle saw were paws instead of feet, long, beast like, covered in stormy dark gray fur and ending in curled black claws. Her eyes moved up to see ripped leather trousers and white shirt, hands that were more animal-like than human and a black cape over broad shoulders. And then she reached the stranger’s face: it too was covered in thick dark fur with dots of white standing out like snow flakes. He had a long elongated snout, two sharp canines curling out of his top lip, triangular ears folded back against his skull. It was like Belle was standing before a creature that was more wolf than man.

She choked out a frightened gasp, her knees giving and making her slid to the floor. Maurice grabbed her shoulders: “Belle listen, I’ve lived my life. Go back to your brothers and sisters.”

The creature…the beast…watched her with dismissive eyes. He expected her to run…

But if she did Maurice would die. She looked over her shoulder and met her beloved father’s frightened eyes. “Goodbye, Papa.”

Belle forced herself back onto her feet, gently pulling herself away from Maurice’s grasping hands and stepped into the lunar glow. She looked up at the tall creature, “I-I will take his place. I’ll stay with you…forever… You have my word.”

If he was surprised by her agreement he did not show it, instead he growled a soft “done” and walked around her to unlock Maurice’s cell. Belle held her clenched, shaking fists to her side. She kept her eyes ahead as the beast dragged her father past her (“No, please. She’s just a girl she doesn’t know what she’s saying!”) and out of the room. Once he and her captor had vanished Belle released a broken sob and fell down to the floor, hiding her face in her hands as she tried to hold back the terror that wanted to drown her in her own tears.

           Renard and Plumes watched her with sympathy for a moment before turning to follow their master, ready to tell the rest of the castle they had a new, and permanent, guest.

[silvermp]

Flock Together - Part 2

(part 1) (part 2) (part 3) (part 4) (part 5) (part 6)

She was more careful, from then on, trying to stretch her wings. She would waddle her way to different branches, flapping furiously in a weird glide to another branch, and then climbing her way back up again. She felt like a parrot, using her beak and claws to grapple up the rough bark, but it worked well enough that her mother let it happen. (Once she found out it was happening.)

She probably looked ridiculous, flailing her wings to try and get enough lift that her beak wasn’t so strained. Climbing a tree using your mouth and neck muscles is not fun. It was hard to spit when you didn’t have lips.

“Alright, stop.”

She slipped, whirling around to haul herself back up onto the branch she had nearly launched herself off of. Her mother hopped down from a higher branch, tilting her head and watching her daughter stand up again.

“Your feathers are developed enough. If you’re still too weak to fly, put some Chakra into your chest.”

Kuroko eyed her mother as the bird flapped her wings in demonstration, but didn’t really know what she should be looking at.

“....how?”

Her mother hissed something softly, spreading her wings and laying one of them over the fledgeling. Kuroko shivered, warm darkness dripping through her feathers and curling like curious little fronds against her skin. Something about it was welcoming, luxuriating. The warmth in her chest seemed to rise up to her skin to greet it. It reached out to the living shadows, and Kuroko puffed her feathers out a bit and closed her eyes to feel it.

The first prod at her Chakra did nothing. Still unresponsive.

Several minutes passed, and her mother’s wing was starting to get heavier as the older bird lost interest in keeping her comfortable for the demonstration. Kuroko grumbled,  trying all sorts of mental twists to try to get that liquid warmth to move.

Finally, just as her mother’s tensing muscles belied her desire to pull her wing away, she felt it stir.

It wasn’t fantastic or colorful. No bright swirls or mystical wind brushing through her feathers. Just… a pleasant feeling of something flowing through her chest.

“I think I got it.” She mumbled, and felt her mother rumble softly in approval as she continued to concentrate on moving it around.

She could shift it up to her neck, and enjoyed (read: did not enjoy) the sudden sharpening of the taste of bark still lingering on her tongue. She could move it to her wings and chest muscles, and wondered if she really would be stronger. Couldn’t really move it to her legs, though. Her circulation there was awful, so the lack of chakra in that area wasn’t much of a surprise.

Kuroko shifted absently, digging her claws into the bark. She’d never have the killer grip of a falcon, unfortunately. No death-from-above for her. Maybe a red-tailed hawk would be something to emulate… diving breakneck at the ground, only to swoop up and punch something to death.

Though, with her luck, she might not pull up in time. Better to focus on the present - just flying, for now.  

With that in mind, she took a deep breath, spread her wings, and jumped.

The warmth pooled in her chest as her wings pumped, feathers catching the air and pulling strangely on the curves of her (bonestendonsmuscles) wings. The expected descent did not come, and she overshot the branch she normally would have aimed for.

Joy bloomed in her chest, and she flapped hard, tail flailing in awkward fans to try and direct her largely horizontal flight. She twisted her head, looking back at her mother to see if the old bird could actually show pride.

Oh wait, she needed her head to steer.

Muscles pulled sharply to follow her neck's movement, and her flight pattern was abruptly thrown off. It sent her flailing through the air and landing in a tangle of thin branches.

The leaves supported her for a brief moment, wings outspread to distribute her weight across the fragile hammock.

And then it gave way, and she barely managed to flap her way onto a low branch, instead of landing on the ground again.

She made it!

Well, completely off-course and probably goofy as hell, but it was still flight!

Kuroko turned around, hopping in place with delight as her mother casually (and gracefully, the show-off) swooped between branches to land beside her.

There was Definitely pride in that squint.

“Get back to the nest and practice.” She rasped, but leaned forward and prodded a feather back into place, adjusting a few other feathers on Kuroko’s wing in an impromptu preening assist.

“Once you can actually fly, I’ll teach you to use the shadows.”

----

The curiosity about her abrupt entrance into awareness still sat in the back of her mind, of course.  Just… waaay in the back, behind the whole ‘Holy shit I can fly’ and ‘Holy shit I can leave the nest’ and ‘Holy shit the forest is fucking huge.’

You might say she had a… Fowl mouth.

Kuroko snickered at her own pun, gliding in yet another attempt to learn how to use her tail as a proper rudder. It had all sorts of fluid dynamics and cross-currents to be aware of, and the slightest change in her body posture could throw her off balance. One needed a lot of concentration, to fly.

Her mother had left her mostly to her own devices after that initial Chakra-powered flight, letting her hunt her own mice and return to the nest without interference. It was a lot more fun now, than it had been when she was a squishy lump of pre-plucked bird meat.

There were always other small creatures in the forest around her, but never something she felt threatened by. A squirrel here, a rabbit there, maybe a few songbirds that peeped angrily at her when she crashed into a group of them. They didn’t seem to be able to talk to introduce themselves, so she’d been calling them ‘Borbs’ in her head. Bird-orbs, because they were so round when sitting. Fluffy fat little borbs.

Too bad they couldn't talk properly - it'd probably be adorable.  

Something grabbed her attention, and Kuroko pulled up short, peering down to watch a small deer bolt through the sparse underbrush. Several wolves were close on its heels, racing past in what was easily identifiable as a pincer move from abov

Morbidly curious, Kuroko followed in the trees, jump-flying from branch to branch to follow the action. She missed the killing blow, but heard the cut-off wail of a dying animal, and the loud scuffle as they dragged it down. She watched them tear into the poor dead deer, rather desensitized to the whole violence thing after picking apart a live mouse for her own meal.

Kuroko startled, settling down again as her mother folded her wings to watch the group, suddenly beside her. She absolutely looked forward to the day she could use shadows like that.

“Good kill!” the older bird cawed out.

A few of the wolves looked up at the two of them, body language quickly shifting between alert and amused.

“Kokoro, fancy seeing you here. Finally give up on that ratty old guy?”

Oh? Did they know each other?

Her mother wheezed a laugh, flying down to land next to the wolf. And holy hell, that was a size difference. His head was the size of her entire body!

“Come down here and greet our friends, little squirt. Don't be rude.”

Kuroko hesitated, but obediently followed her mother's example and landed on the leaves nearby. She stared uncomfortably at the young wolves that perked up to watch her walk awkwardly to her mother, already feeling vulnerable on the ground. Instincts were a hard thing to ignore, and these wolves had already demonstrated their ability to use those fangs.

“Akihito, this is Kuroko. Squirt, this is Akihito.” She peered at the grizzled wolf, clacking her beak.   “Play nice, both of you.”

The big wolf huffed a small laugh, lying down and licking the lingering blood from his lips and fangs.

“I'm surprised you finally settled down. I thought we were going to see the last of our favorite crow demons eat the dust.”

Kuroko fluffed up her feathers, only vaguely paying attention to the conversation. More interesting was how the forest looked from this angle. She’d gotten so used to flying above it and scooping her meals up into trees, she hadn’t really looked around from this angle since she was a chick.

“It's hard finding someone willing to meet me halfway, you know.” Her mother grumbled, flicking her tail in contempt. “Lazy bones wanted me to migrate to the mountains.”

Akihito chuckled again, laying his ears back and grinning with his eyes, whiffing a soft “How dare they~” and grinning harder when her mother loudly agreed.

“Don’t underestimate the other demon clans, Kuroko. They are all just as canny, just as motivated as we are. Trust their word, if not their intent. We cannot lie to each other.”

Kuroko sat down, hunching her head to her body and listening absently as the two continued to gossip. She stayed still as a younger wolf trotted up to her, laying down and resting its head on a paw to watch her. It was almost considerate, to lower his body like that, instead of towering over her.

“Fresh outta the nest, huh?”

She shot the wolf a surprised look, and he explained.

“Kokoro would have told us about a chick earlier, if you weren't new.” A wet nose pressed against her wing, mussing her feathers, hot breath whuffing over her.

“Plus, you smell like a baby.”

Her feathers bristled up in objection, and the young wolf laughed, sitting upright and perking his ears as her mother’s voice called over.

“What’s going on?”

Kokoro was walking back toward her, eyeing the young wolf speculatively.

“She’s just mad I called her a baby~” The wolf practically chirped, large paws throwing up leaves as he sprang up and loped away. Kuroko sat back down, feeling satisfied he had run from her lunging peck attempt. She wiggled her neck, pushing a crispy dead leaf off her shoulders from where the scamper had thrown it.

“Don't be rude.” Her mother reminded, clearly not actually concerned and mostly amused by the event. “Eat up. The pack is graciously, ” she stressed the word “sharing their hunt. Next time we'll have to help them scout for it, so thank Akihito for that.”  Under the sharp stare, Kuroko quickly stood up.

She gave a bobbing sort of bow to the grey wolf, still a bit uneasy to be pinned by those golden eyes.

“Thank you very much.”

The wolf ducked his chin a bit in return, and rolled over to take a nap while the rest of his pack continued to routinely pace the perimeter.

Turns out, mice and bugs had NOTHING on fresh deer meat. It was so sweet, so juicy - it was hard not to gorge herself fat and stupid on the plentiful feast. She had to keep reminding herself that she had to fly home, and needed to be light enough for that. Her mother had no qualms about hopping up and letting loose on the animal's eyeball, but Kuroko... wasn't quite ready for that. It helped that her mother was greedy when it came to eyeballs, so she didn't have a reason to try it anyway.

With a fully belly, and a slowly growing ease around the larger carnivores, she plopped down to digest the huge meal. She didn’t even protest as the young wolf slinked back to her side, laying down to watch her doze. Maybe he just didn’t see birds up close, that often.

She didn’t notice the keen stare Kokoro kept on the two of them.

---

Kuroko yawned, blinking her eyes open lazily. A warm breath tickled her back feathers, and a slow tilt of her head revealed the large, sandy-colored muzzle of the young wolf who had locked onto her. She reached out, nipping gently at the wiry whiskers in front of her, and hissing in amusement  as the canid jumped and reared his head back.

“Rude.” He huffed, laying his head down again and regarding her warily.

“What’re you so interested in?”

She blinked at her own blurted question, but likewise unused to have someone that she felt comfortable talking casually to. Her mother always seemed to be watching her like she’d break at any moment, and trying to converse with her was like walking on sapling branches.

The wolf flicked his ear, smiling with his eyes.

“I just haven’t seen a baby bird in a long time.”

She peeked around at the other wolves, noting the dramatic change in location since she last had her eyes open. Maybe she had napped longer than she thought.

“Surely, it’s not that interesting.”

“More like… none of us thought Kokoro would survive the winter, so you’re surprising.”

Kuroko whipped her head around, but the wolf was already stretching his paws, mouth opening in a wide, tongue-curling yawn.

“Geeze, you’re making ME sleepy. Stop thinking so hard.” He pushed some leaves toward her, accepting the quick peck and waving his paw tauntingly at her, daring her to try again.

She lifted her beak, trying to give him the haughty, holier-than-thou down-the-beak stare that her mother was so good at. The wolf just sniggered at her, and Kuroko realized she had been distracted from the question she wanted to ask. She preened her beak through her feathers primly, trying to push her rumpled feathers back into place, thinking of how to phrase her question.

“What do you mean, Kokoro wouldn’t-” “-Have you gotten to Chakra training yet?”

She clicked her beak shut, giving him a mild glare.

“Yes.”

“Doing any shadowjumps lately?”

She squinted her glare.

“No… Should I have?”

The wolf flicked his ear, looking off and tracking one of his packmates through the underbrush.

“Well, when you get there, try to chill with the whole feathers thing. We don’t really have a physical body, though we all kinda just assume that we do, and run with it. You’re thinking about it too much.”

What on earth did that mean?

She asked that aloud.

He looked at her, puzzled, tail drooping a little like he wasn’t quite sure how to answer that. Like it should be something innately obvious, and he wasn’t sure if she was trying to trick him by feigning ignorance.

“You’re thinking too hard about all the fiddly bits, so you’re missing the big picture? Like, missing the forest for the trees? If you want to pass as a real bird, you’re doing a great job, but… ”

Kuroko squeezed her feathers closer, wondering if she should be offended or not.

He twisted around, lifting a hind leg and scratching at a spot under his chin, clearly feeling awkward. His leg dropped abruptly when a long, solemn howl started up from a wolf at the edge of their little group.

A ripple passed through the pack, awareness focusing outward as a new howl echoed back, several voices answering.  Her friend stood up, ears alert and nose up to sniff the wind.

“Sorry birdie, maybe another day. Ask your mom. She’s way older than me.”

Kuroko hopped to her feet, still feeling heavy from the earlier meal, but hauled ass up into the branches anyway. Fear prickled through her skin at the sudden change in behavior, and the strange connotations from his words had unsettled her a little.

Her mother joined her, murmuring  to keep quiet and follow her lead.

Dark bodies whispered through the trees, faster than she could properly follow at first. She couldn’t help looking around wildly as humans bounded from branch to branch, settling down in the limbs. One of them sat on the same branch she and her mother perched on, but appeared to ignore them.

They all seemed a bit… wild. Mostly brown or black-haired, with sharp eyes and strong shoulders regardless of gender. Something about them felt… familiar, in a way. The humans who approached the pack on the ground were likewise sharp-eyed, and stood beside huge wolflike dogs.

The wolves had created a loose circle with their bodies, gold eyes finding every one of the humans perched above, ears swiveled to keep them in their range of senses even when they focused on the group below.

“Well met,” One of the huge dogs rumbled, tail tucking down as it stepped forward.

Kuroko watched Akihito stand up, prowling stiff-legged through the pack and staring down the much larger dog. The humans seemed on-edge, and it made her feathers itch something fierce.

The dog slinked forward, offering a small lick under the wolf’s chin, looking a bit silly with the size difference.The grey alpha seemed satisfied with that, briefly leaning his head atop the dog’s, before stepping back and staring at the humans.

Kuroko noted how they all immediately averted their eyes, but did not otherwise back down. Akihito snorted.

“Same as always, then?”

“Yes. We’d like to offer Akane. She is fast, and agile. She should do well in your pack. Please treat her well.”

A long-legged dog stepped forward, likewise avoiding eye contact with Akihito’s golden stare, and laid down next to the first. Her deep auburn fur stood out rather brightly compared to the browns and greys of the wolf pack. Akahito regarded her for a moment, before turning slightly back toward his pack.

“Koharu.”  

The tan wolf that had lain with Kuroko trotted forward, ears perked in interest.

“You’ll stay with them for one year, and then return. Please accommodate their wishes to the best of your abilities.”

Koharu wagged his tail, slowing to a walk to stand at his leader’s side.

“He is my sister’s-son, strong, and proficient in our Chakra arts. Please treat him well.”

Kuroko tilted her head, leaning against her mother for some extra warmth. It all seemed so ritualized. She gathered they had some sort of agreement, but.. Were they trading pack members or something?

“What’s going on?” She whispered.

“Hush, I’ll tell you later.” Her mother nipped at her with a quiet click, an extra incentive to stay quiet. Neither of them missed how the human perched beside them stiffened at the quiet words.

Kuroko was sure he was staring at them out of the corner of his eyes, and the gaze prickled in her down.

Why did they feel so familiar, though?

Their cheeks were painted with bold red triangles, fingernails more claw-like than she remembered her mother describing humans.

“Chakra has a transformative effect. If you’re around it enough, your own chakra will change to mimic. Certain humans are particularly susceptible, with their dual Chakras.”

She twisted to look down at the proceedings with new interest, a bit disappointed to have already missed the parting words. Both groups were already backing away from each other, humans and dogs (plus her new friend) heading away, while the wolves sat back to stay by the deer.

That’s why the humans felt familiar, though. They felt like wolves .

The humans in the trees started leaving the area, retreating as fast as they had come. Kuroko peered up at the human beside them, meeting their dark eyes.

“Creepy.” She heard him mutter, before bounding away to join his cohorts.

Rude.

When they all departed, the forest seemed a bit quieter. Kohaku had left, and without him, the pack seemed once more a group of strangers. The idea that she might never see him again felt… oddly sad. She didn’t think she’d get so attached, so quickly.

“Those are Contractors.”

She tilted her head, tuning into her mother’s words.

“A human who made a deal with one of our kind, for the sake of power” Her mother shook out her wings and ruffled her tail, adding absently, “Different from Summoners. Instead of forcing the issue, they continue treaties.”

The old bird hopped off and swooped down to speak to the old alpha, completely ignoring the dog now getting thoroughly sniffed by other wolves.

Kuroko, however,  couldn’t tear her eyes off the new dog. Now that they were right next to each other, something about the dog felt… off, compared to the wolves.

Empty, in a weird sort of way.

She shifted on her branch, distracting herself with a quick preen of her breast feathers. Was there actually something wrong with the dog, or was she just paranoid?

Her mother flitted back up to the branch, and stared her down for a long moment.

“Back to the nest.” she decided, taking flight again. Kuroko sighed, spreading her own wings.

Kuroko shot one last look at the dog, before clumsily following her mother's wide wings.

---

In the days following, Kuroko improved in leaps and bounds. Her wings could carry her longer, her Chakra moved swifter, and her many-chambered lungs no longer felt quite as strained when she pushed herself to keep up with her mother’s swift wings.

She practiced pushing Chakra to her nose, her eyes, experimenting with different perceptions of the world.

Once, she had spotted her mother returning through the shadows, a little dark patch between branches suddenly melting to pitch black. Her long black beak and head pushed through it like a thin membrane breaking. Kokoro noticed her staring, and asked if she was so bored that she needed to practice her groundwork again.

Kuroko cheeped, launching herself into the air and practicing the aerial turns that she’d been instructed to master. Groundwork  practice involved a lot of landing and jumping into the air from the forest floor. It was exhausting . And tended to give her bruises. There was a certain technique to landing softly on the ground without tipping over, and she hadn’t quite figured it out.

Her mother started to introduce her to the Shadows. She hadn't actually figured out how to DO anything with them yet, but patient instruction led her to at least be able to sense their potential. Larger, darker ones were easier to tap into. Shallow, pale shadows made by weak light were much harder to even sense.

Her mother seemed more and more distracted, and would pop away at the drop of a leaf, leaving Kuroko to practice alone without warning.

She noticed her Borbs also felt empty, now that she knew what to look for, and spent a long moment staring at the little songbirds flitting about. They were still cute, though. Maybe she could train one to be her pet….

After a few hours of chasing around terrified little creatures through the canopy, she concluded that no, they did not want to be her pet.

Damn.

--

She became more familiar with the wolf pack, following their steady path through the forest, calling out when she spotted something of interest. Akihito taught her how to identify a mouse’s footsteps through the way leaves rustled, seemingly unbothered that Kokoro kept leaving her daughter alone with the carnivores. One of the darker brown wolves figured out she preferred the fatty rib meat, and kept setting some aside for her, after their hunts.

She felt incredibly guilty that she had forgotten his name, and couldn’t muster the courage to ask again.

Kuroko helped the wolf pack hunt a young boar, flying hard above the beast, and calling out locations. She felt her heart race, ducking between leaves and dodging branches in a three dimensional space. There was nothing but air, between her and the ground. Nothing but her own muscles sending her flying across the world, eyes bright and feathers strong. She felt present. She felt alive. These were her wings, her strength. This was her life .

During a  hunt, the auburn dog Akane proved herself, long legs pushing her further, faster than the rest of the pack. She was able to bite the boar’s hind leg, and jump away before it could gore her in return. The pause in running let the pack circle it, eventually bringing it down with a flurry of sharp fangs and terrifying snarls.

Kuroko landed easily on a thick branch above the kill. She waited politely as the wolves feasted, knowing there’d be plenty left over for her.

Even a young boar was a large bounty.

She paused, noticing how the wolves had suddenly stilled, attention all angled toward one spot.

With small, dark paws, a brightly furred fox slinked out of the underbrush. Rust-colored eyes regarded the group, steady gait showing no fear.

They stepped to the side, eerily silent, but not aggressive. The slender fox seemed almost proud in bearing as it stepped between the wolves and began taking delicate bites of the boar’s haunch.

The pack watched for several long minutes, only a few movements between them as heads turned and legs adjusted to be more comfortable.

Finally, the fox lifted her head, licking her lips. She ducked her chin toward Akihito, and murmured a soft “Thank you.” before padding silently back into the brush.

Kuroko flitted down, landing on the boar’s shoulder and peering out at the bushes. She already couldn’t sense the fox. Creepy.

It took a few moments before the wolves started moving and speaking amongst each other again, eating at a more sedate pace. She took a few bites herself, before turning to the brown wolf whose name she forgot. Kuroko briefly considered asking the wolf his name, but once again decided not to, and instead asked what that whole weird ordeal was about.

He explained the pack was intruding on their territory. It’s an understandable thing, during a hunt, though rude. Politely sharing the kill was a way to keep relations positive between their packs. Clans. Families. The wolf blinked, considering the terms for a moment, before repeating ‘Packs’ and nodded like it was the right word to use.

He swept his eyes across the brush around them, keeping his voice low.

“As soon as we step away, the foxes will come forward. Be careful, Kuroko. They are more cat than wolf.”

The prickle on her neck got stronger, and she realized with a start that the bushes really weren’t THAT thick, and those were dozens of eyes staring out from the shadows, invisible to her other senses. Kuroko shivered, cautiously eating her fill before flying up into the trees once more.

True to the prediction, as soon as Akihito’s pack left the scene, an uncomfortable amount of foxes slithered in, feasting on the remnants of the kill.

A silver fox stood at the edge, staring up.

No.

Staring at her

Kuroko shivered again, flapping away toward her nest.

---

She arrived back at home to find her mother sprawled across the nest’s edge, looking worn-out and rather ruffled. The concerned question about the bird’s health was flat-out ignored, so Kuroko asked instead about the wolves and the foxes, and why they seemed so wary of each other.

Kokoro considered the question, slowly pulling her wings back in, and preening her feathers back in place before answering.

“The pack looks to the moon. Foxes have a history with the sun. Tsukuyomi, Susanoo, and Amaterasu aren’t really on good terms, and their devoted tend to be at-odds.”

Kuroko remembered the legends her mother told her once, a long time ago.

“Tsukuyomi….”

“I’m surprised the pack hasn’t raved about him, yet. He’s the god of the moon, and the night. They’ll probably drag you into one of their noisy ceremonies eventually.” Kokoro shook her head, ruffling her feathers before flattening them back into place.

Is that why wolves like to howl? Kuroko wondered. Giving thanks to the moon god?

“Then, who do we worship?”

Kokoro gave her an amused glance.

“I don’t worship any of the gods. Feel free to lay out offerings, though. I’m sure the squirrels will love it.”  

The crow immediately hopped out of the nest, flying slowly away in what was clearly an invitation to follow. She took the hint, keeping in her mother’s shadow as they headed toward the shallow creek that slithered through the southern edge of their territory. Kuroko wondered if she was imagining the way her mother was keeping one leg more tightly tucked to her belly.

“Why don’t we worship anyone?” Kuroko asked. “Is it really important?”

“Ask the wolves” her mom called out, without slowing down or looking back. “I’m sure they’d be happy to give you an earful. I try not to think about it.”

Kuroko wondered if something had happened, to make her mother so callous toward the gods she described so beautifully. She had not forgotten the long tales told in her nest, stories spun about the three gods, and how they had created human and demonkind. The jealousy of Kaguya, and the Many-Eyes’ downfall, corrupted for trusting the word of a human.

A dark storm brewing in her chest, Kuroko followed the older bird to the entrance of a cave, landing next to her on a boulder. The moss felt cool and springy under her feet, and she could feel cold air drifting out of the darkness within.

“Today.” Kokoro began, now clearly favoring one of her legs, “You will begin learning how to Listen to the shadows.”

Kuroko followed her mother to the edge of the cave, ignoring the way a few of her feathers flipped the wrong way from the little gusts of cold wind coming from inside. Her mother hopped to turn around, taking a slow breath.

“The first thing you should know is that the shadows themselves are just the absence of light. There’s nothing special about them. The average bird could fly around a cave all night, but the best they’d get is a broken neck. You know this, yeah?”

Her mother shook her own head, feathers sticking up for a moment before slowly settling back down. Kuroko nodded.

“With that in mind, the shadows you see me travel through, or the the ones you’ll learn to listen through - they’re not real shadows .”

Kuroko nodded, though she wasn’t actually sure what was being conveyed. Something metaphorical? Kokoro seemed to sense the bewilderment.

“It’s more like-” Her mother paused, head tilted in consideration. “Like you’re at the edge of a dark cave.” She flicked her tail toward the cave they stood beside. “Down the tunnel, there’s another room, and by traveling through the space you reach the other room.”

“Okaaay…So caves are caves.”  

She reflexively ducked away from an anticipated peck, but only got an unamused stare from an unmoving crow.

“Once you step through the cave entrance, you can see the light of the other side, as the entrance you just stepped through is closed. Head toward the light, and you’ll reach the other side. Or, listen at the entrance, and hear whoever’s talking.”

Kuroko dutifully remained quiet as her mother sat down, taking a moment to push a small stone out of the way, to nestle on the softer moss.

“So a shadow” she finally continued “Is a cave entrance, when you’re focusing correctly.”

Kuroko tilted her head.

“All of them. All the shadows.”

Oh.

Oh damn.

She looked toward the forest, noticing for the first time the sheer number of shadows weaving between branches, under leaves, tucked up next to stems and roots and… anything the light touched, basically. The potential wasn’t just the size and depth of the shadow, but the sheer number of places she could connect between.

“That’s a lot.” She whispered, and her mother nodded, still fidgeting in place and looking anxious about something. Either to get this lesson over with, or to be elsewhere in general.

“Too many to count. That’s why you only travel to the shadows you’ve seen before. The ones you know exist, and you know what to expect coming out.” The old crow flicked a bit of moss off the boulder. “It’s a bit of a mess, coming through a shadow to a place that’s no longer big enough for your body. They only go one way, after all. There’s some risk, and half the time you’re flying blind.”

Kuroko eyed the darkened cave with a bit more wariness.  

“Relax, squirt. No jumps for you yet. You’ve got a lot of sky to cover before you could even poke your beak into one. Today you’ll just be listening in.”  She gestured with her head. “Hop on over.”

Kuroko fluttered off the boulder, hopping closer to the chilly cave.  

“Push your Chakra to your ears. Focus on the darkness. Imagine it links to the shadows around you, and listen specifically to those. Visualizing a tunnel might help.”

The first part was easy enough. The world’s audio sharpened, magnifiying. She could hear the buzz of a dragonfly nearby, and the slide of blades of grass whispering as a snake slithered through. There was a woodpecker of some sort, far in the distance.

Focusing on the darkness, though…

She tried imagining some sort of spiritual experience, expecting to feel some sort of stretching, connecting feeling.

Kuroko opened her eyes, not sure when she had closed them.

The cave still looked like a cave.

Also, there seemed to be at least three different moles snuffing around down there, and a rather large colony of some sort of insect, munching and squirming and falling over each other with little clicks. Chakra-enhanced hearing was no joke.

She heard her mother sigh behind her. “Keep practicing. I’ll see you tonight.” and the whisper of wings, followed by a silence she knew was the sudden absence of a bird behind her.

Kuroko swallowed, closing her eyes again and trying to focus.

--

The next time she opened her eyes, it was due to the ravenous hunger growling in her stomach. Right, she hadn’t eaten since the boar.

Shutting off her audio enhancement, Kuroko blinked at the sudden muffled quiet of the world around her. It was so…. Dull. Faded. She tried not to give into the urge to push her senses up again, and focused on finding enough bugs and seeds and little critters to tide her over.

After a quick meal, she returned to the cave, and plopped her ass down in front of it.

“Focus on the darkness, It links to other shadows.” She repeated, wiggling side to side to get comfortable, and glaring at a shiny rock inside.

“Focus.”

She closed her eyes, and let her ears wake up once more.

--

She didn’t know how exactly much time had passed. Enough that the warm sunlight had become cold, and long shadows stretched across the ground. Between the faint snuffle-shuffle of moles and the click of still-unidentified insects, there was…. Something.

Encouraged, she tried focusing on it, straining her ears to pick up whatever that sound was. It whispered in and out of her range, almost-syllables, echoing and layering in ways she couldn’t quite identify. Kuroko felt her heart pick up, as the ‘voices’ got louder, a little clearer. It felt like she was trying to eavesdrop on someone on the other side of a very long tunnel. The sounds were there, but almost unintelligible after resonating at such a distance.

“Can you hear me?”

Her mother’s voice came from right in front of her, and Kuroko snapped her eyes open, rearing back with the expectation of a crow in her face.

There was only the cave. No, it wasn’t just the cave. Like a black curtain had been draped over it, the shadows seemed deeper somehow, darker than they ought to be.

She looked around hesitantly, noting the shadowy landscape around her, and how the crickets that had begun their evening symphony.

“Should I head home soon?” she asked the darkness.

And the darkness answered.  

“Not yet.. Listen for the crow voices. Like mine.”

Curious, she closed her eyes and listened harder, trying to pick out the raspy tones so familiar in her mother’s tongue.

“-next sunrise we-...-rthern roost...borders cross-... -eryone, return for assis-...”

They sound scared, She noted, straining a bit to listen more closely. More voices chimed in, words overlapping and becoming hard to pick apart.

“The Southern Roost has been compromised.” came her mother’s muttered voice, suddenly behind her. Kuroko pointedly did not startle, a bit more used to the bird’s habit of suddenly appearing wherever she damn well pleased.

“We noticed humans pushing into the Southern territory before you were born, but their infighting has spilled into the Roost itself. You’ll fly to the Foxes - they’ll finish the introductory training, but I needed to know I could contact you, in case of emergencies.”

Kuroko let her grasp on the shadowy whispers drop away, and the Cave’s unnatural black faded.

She regarded the older bird quietly, not sure if she should protest or not. Her bones felt tired, chest hollowed out in hunger again. Her Chakra was getting low.

“If it’s compromised, then you’ll be-”

“In danger, yes.” Kokoro flicked her tail dismissively. “Thousands make their nests at the southern site. A few humans, even Summoners, will have nothing on us, so long as we mobilize. I’ll retrieve you when it’s safe.”

Kuroko tried to pretend to be casual, okay with it, but fear started to well up despite her best intentions. The idea of being completely alone loomed ahead of her. She wouldn’t even have a familiar face to keep as reference.

“Fly West, Kuroko. You’ll find a human road. Follow that north, and keep an eye out for a river. The Foxes should be at the tallest pine tree on its bank, after you’ve passed a tall human structure”

Kuroko pulled her head down, hunching a little on the branch.

“You can’t just take me there?”

A flash of irritation in dark eyes.

“You need to learn to navigate beyond our little circle of forest. If you get lost, call out to me through the shadows. I’ll hear you.”

Her mother rumbled softly, carefully pulling a small fluff of loose down off of the side of Kuroko’s neck.

“West, then north along the road. Tall pine on the river. Got it?”

Kuroko nodded, repeating it back to her.

“Good. Fly well, little squirt. Don’t worry about me.”

She watched as her mother stepped back, one foot clenched strangely, spreading her wings in a rare display of showmanship. Darkness spread out from between the feathers, and she flapped up into the air, wings growing and feathers multiplying with shadowy tendrils, figure expanding into something huge and feathered and overwhelmingly dark . The world seemed a few shades dimmer, but the swelling Chakra in her heart reached out happily.

A monstrous approximation of a crow spread her wings between the trees. Rows of black eyes gleamed from the shadowy head, and her mother’s voice croaked.

“I’ll be fine.”

Before the wings snapped inward, vanishing into what could have been mistaken for a curl of black smoke, tucked into the curl of a falling leaf.

Kuroko stared at the particle darkness, watching it writhe for a moment before disappearing. Reviewing her mother’s explanation about shadows, she concluded the crow was being a show-off.

She glanced at the cave, and stood up. Something in her gut still worried that her mother was trying to bluff - or convince herself that things would be fine. It was too late to do anything about it now, and worrying couldn’t do much at this point.

Right, then.

She spread her wings, glancing at the setting sun to find her bearings, and launched into the sky.

Food first.

Then, an Adventure.

[vannahfanfics]

Before you read, here’s the previous chapter. New? Start from the beginning!

Rise of the Guardians: Earthsong

Ao3

Chapter 14: Nathalie’s Failsafe

It burned. It burned like the day she had died, when the smoke scratched into her lungs with eager little claws, ripping scores into the vulnerable cells and make her choke. Nathalie could feel the tendrils of writhing purple cells painfully probing around her heart and lungs to squeeze them between sharp teeth, bubbling up bright red blood that was staining the pristine fabric of her dress the dark ruby color. It burned, but she felt cold too; a frosty feeling was creeping up from her toes and fingertips, making her sensations fuzzy and indistinct. It burned, yet she smiled down at Jamie even as a dribble of blood rolled down her chin from her mouth which was flooding with the disgusting taste of iron. He looked so scared and miserable, face pale and tears streaming down his cheeks. She was crying too, but not from the pain. She reached out with a violently shaking hand to gently cup his cheek. Warm, full of plenty of life left to live. She had cried thinking of Jamie’s young life being cut so short, at his valiant effort to come to save them even knowing the danger, at the absolutely terrified look on Jack’s face as the little body plummeted through the air nearing the gaping maw of Pitch’s monster.

“I’ve got you,” she repeated hoarsely.

Her body lurched as the spikes retreated. On unsteady feet, she landed on the vine only to fall to her hands and knees. Her nails scraped into the thick, smooth stem as she forced the last of her power into closing the wound in the center of her chest. She could feel the fine grains of sand pumping through her bloodstream, rapidly absorbing her life-giving energy, but this way she could reverse the effects as long as possible. Nathalie still had an ace up her sleeve after all, one that Pitch had failed to discover.

It would only work if she was about to die, however.

“N-Nat…” Jamie whispered. His voice was trembling as much as his body. His wide eyes watched the blood leaking in thick clumps from her body to paint the jade green body of the vine. Though she closed the flow, she spilled at least a cup of it all over the plant. “I’m sorry! I’m sorry! I just want to save you!” His voice cracked with a high-pitched sob as he buried his eyes into his fists. “It’s my fault…”

“Jamie,” Nat groaned and went to reach for him, but she hadn’t even the strength to lift her arm. It slapped uselessly into the puddle of blood, smearing the hot, sticky stuff over her skin. Her breath came in ragged pants and she scrunched one of her eyes up as she fought to remain conscious. This is no good… My power is diminishing much faster than I thought it would… I have to get to the Tree!

“Nathalie!” Oh, there was so much heartbreak in her name. Nathalie had only heard Jack’s voice sound like that once before, when she was being carted off by the mob of villagers to her doom, and he was left in the street howling in agony. She looked up weakly to see him charging down from the skies, freezing a rolling wave of Pitch’s black sand in the process. Just as the vine shuddered and wilted beneath Nat, he swooped down to grab her, holding her shaking form against his body with one arm while tucking the still shell-shocked Jamie under his arm. He sprang away as more of Pitch’s spikes sprang forward eager to deliver the winter spirit to his demise. Teeth gritted, he waved his staff in a wide arc and froze them before diving down into the interwoven canopy of the now still rainforest. Gently, he laid Nat in the boughs of one of the sturdy trees, blue eyes raking over her disheveled form in agony. “Nat… You’re gonna be okay… Right?” he asked weakly. Jamie whimpered and curled up in his lap to bury his face into his hoodie.

Before she could answer, the sound of tinkling bells rang through the air.

They both looked up to see North’s sleigh burst in with a cloud of ice and snowflakes. Pitch’s dinosaur had been angrily rooting through the forest in search of his prey, but once the other Guardians charged into the scene, its attention became misdirected. He has likely lost himself in his rage and the thing is acting purely on bloodlust, she reasoned weakly. Pitch would surely know that Nathalie was mortally wounded at this point and there would be no reason to further exhaust himself, but yet he still sheltered within the bestial armor. She heard North holler out in surprise as he wrenched the sleigh away from the monster’s swiping claws.

“Jack,” Nat whispered. It was hard to speak, but she forced herself to. “Jack, I need to go to the Tree of Life.” She hadn’t much time. Life was already beginning to drain from the planet. Around her, the tree leaves were flooding with yellow and orange as they crumpled up into brittle, dry masses. The air temperature was dropping by the second. Below, animals were beginning to root into burrows and hide away in their nests as their instincts screamed that a brutal winter was upon them. As foxes fled into dens, the dry ferns were crushed beneath their frantic paws. Mother birds smothered their hatchlings to keep them warm. Her cold-blooded dragon companion had dropped from the sky to lay on his side on the cold ground, breathing deeply as his warm breath formed clouds of water vapor in his mouth while he slipped into hibernation. The fragile leaves began to fall in droves to the ground, leaving the branches naked and thin. This was the epicenter of disaster; if Nathalie did not hurry, the world would soon be prisoner to the thralls of a centuries-long winter. “Jack,” she pressed as he stared at her with wide, scared eyes.

“I got it,” he acknowledged softly before grabbing Jamie and jumping up the height of the tree. “North! Down here!” he hollered loudly, hand cupped around his mouth. The sleigh jingled as it dove down to meet him.

“Jack! What on Earth is happening?” The burly man asked angrily. “Why did you leave North Pole?!” Jack ignored him and bundled the softly sobbing boy into his tattooed arms.

“Jack! Are we too late?” Toothiana demanded worriedly. Her iridescent feathers were puffed up with anxiety, and she looked down to where Nathalie was nestled within the dry branches of the tree, pale and ragged. “What’s happening to her?” Nathalie looked down at herself; her golden-blonde hair was becoming tainted with black and shearing off at the ends, slowly crawling up, and patches of burned skin were beginning to form on her arms and legs. I’m reverting back to the state in which I died, she thought, wincing at the stinging pain blooming all over her body. She could feel her lungs becoming laden with soot, making her cough weakly.

“Jack, hurry,” she moaned and tried to crawl toward him. She slipped and clumsily landed against the wide bough, legs dangling off the thick branch.

“Take care of him! We can still win this!” Jack ordered before hopping down to pluck her from the tree and spirit her down into the dying forest. She just caught a glimpse of North sending the sleigh surging forward as the dinosaur’s head reared down to devour it. Jack didn’t bother with careful entry; he crashed right through the weakened barrier of vines she had constructed in the hole above the cave. The vines exploded into dust as he blasted them with ice, allowing them to fall right through and spill sunlight back into the spacious room. “Nat, please tell me you have an idea,” he begged her as he skipped around the decaying clumps of thick vines and crystals of his own ice to head for the Tree. It was already much worse for wear than she thought; its bark had turned a dark gray color, its large leaves discarded and dry, crunching under Jack’s nimble feet. The bubbles of biomes were beginning to turn opaque with darkness, just like her hair, which was still falling and now up to her elbows.

“I can save the Earth,” she confirmed. “But…”

“But what?!” he cried and skidded to a halt right before he got to the door of Nathalie’s cabin. His ice-blue eyes pierced into her own as he took deep, frantic breaths. “Don’t say it. Nat, don’t say it.”

“I’ll die.”

Immediately, his expression contorted into one of purest anguish. He looked away and supported her with one arm while he bit down hard on the knuckles of his other hand, drawing blood. She watched the ruby-red river run down his hand before it beaded in a little jewel and splashed down to stain her already stained dress. He sucked in a few breaths through his hand, refusing to look at her. “There’s no other way. This is the only failsafe. Either way, I will perish. If I can, I would like to save this world and its future—Jamie’s future.” He looked at her through the corners of his tear-filled eyes, and she smiled wistfully. “Children can be so cruel. You remember,” she laughed wanly. “I’ve realized now that scary situations make them that way. Children can be so kind, too. Just like you were to me, back then, and just like Jamie is. If Pitch’s plan comes to fruition, all the children of the world will lose that kindness. I can’t allow it.” His hand fell from his mouth to flop loosely down to his side. He looked at her again, blankly; slowly, he smiled at her, a smile full of pride and pain and love.

“You sound like a Guardian, Nat. Let’s do it. For Jamie.”

~~~~~~~~~~

Jack held her like she was made of glass. He could just feel it, the sensation that she could shatter at any moment; her frame was just so thin and light in his arms as he hopped through the branches of the rapidly withering Tree of Life. Her arms were shaking as they wrapped tighter around his neck. On top of the effects of her powers draining from her body, it seems their own little curse was still alive in full-force; he had only been holding her a few minutes, but a thin sprinkle of frost coated her body from head-to-toe, her skin was as pale as the first snow of winter, and her breath was fogging up into clouds as it puffed repeatedly against his neck. The crisp scent of water crystals mingling with the acrid aroma of her singing hair and burning flesh made him nauseous. Where her skin wasn’t bright white, it was a burning pink blackened at the edges were it was literally burning away by the second. Her hair had retreated all the way up to her shoulders, where it had been sheared off four hundred years ago. Jack had no idea what she was planning, but he didn’t know if she could hang on long enough to even enact her designs. She kept whispering for him to hurry, each one more desperate and pained than the last. She was a whimpering, crying mess by the time he finally delivered her to the dense boughs of the gigantic tree.

“We’re here, Nat,” he said softly as he laid her down against one of the branches. Moaning in torturous suffering, she rolled onto her side to wrap her slender arms around the massive branch springing from the tree’s trunk.

“I need… Your help…” she puffed.

“Anything, Nat. Anything.”

“I’m going to… summon… The Earth’s spirit,” she forced out in irregular pants. Jack’s curiosity piqued, but there wasn’t enough time to get the details. “My predecessor… Taught me this. The only way… To save the Tree if we are injured. I’m going to… give the tree my life force. That should save it. The Earth… She’ll hear me calling…” Her words faltered into a high-pitched squeal as she curled up against the grayed wood, tearing at the bust of her dress to paw at her burning lungs. “Unngh! The Tree… Will be vulnerable… For a short time. Use your magic… To protect it… Jack…”

“Don’t worry. I won’t let your—" the word bulged in his throat like he had swallowed a frog. He didn’t want to say it. It hurt like hell to. “I won’t let your sacrifice go to waste,” he continued after a moment of steeling himself. Her beautiful emerald eyes, watery and lidded, peered at him through her frayed ends of blonde hair. She smiled shakily in relief and then reached a trembling hand out to him; it fell immediately, but he caught the frail thing in his own.

“I’m so glad… I got to see you again… One last time,” she uttered, tears spilling over her lashes to fall down her cheeks. Jack squeezed her hand, refusing to retreat even as his began to burn and hers began to freeze. “You won’t forget me… Will you?”

“Never,” he promised. “I’ll love you for the rest of time. That’s a promise.” Her eyes closed as she smiled brightly. She intertwined her fingers with his in a bruising, burning hand-hold, but Jack wouldn’t let go, no matter how much it hurt. He wrapped an arm around the thick circumference of a nearby branch to brace himself as he pressed against the Tree, whispering something under her breath. Above her head, she splayed out her palm against its rough surface, and a golden light began to slowly glow underneath her skin. It then burst forth, traveling in swirling lines through the indentions in the bark, flooding around them in thousands of golden rivers. The gray bark began to darken back to the rich chocolate color; above his head, the crunchy brown leaves were beginning to balloon with moisture, becoming turgid and green once more. The opacity of the fruit-like orbs was reducing to crystal clarity. All the while, he felt Nat’s grip weakening in his own, as the life literally leaked out of her.

“Please. Please help me.”

Jack cried out in alarm as the Tree suddenly heaved. He looked around wildly as the branches began writhing, smacking into the stony surface of the cave and collapsing the ancient stone columns as they thrashed. The wood groaned deafeningly as it shifted. There was a loud splintering, tearing sound, and Jack glanced down to see the trunk of the Tree bulging out of the cabin, effectively collapsing it into rubble and planks that were strewn across the ground as the Tree continued to swell like a balloon.

“What’s happening?!” he cried to Nat.

“Don’t worry,” she smiled reassuringly to him. “The Tree… Is just returning… to its natural form.”

“You mean it’s bigger?!” he shouted as he looked at the snapping branches once more. Indeed, they had grown impossibly larger, bloating to the point that the Tree was becoming cramped in the small cave. They began to twist and curl around one another into disorganized knots. Dust began to rain down from the walls and ceiling as they were pushed to their maximum capacity. “It’s all gonna collapse! Nat!”

“Towards the sun,” she whispered in a garbled, half-conscious command.

Towards the sun the Tree went. Jack was glad that he had found purchase around one of the branches, because the force of the Tree skyrocketing through the hole in the ceiling surely would have sent him plummeting. His head still snapped forward hard enough for his forehead to smack against the hard wood, leaving him reeling for a moment. As his vision swayed before his eyes, he could barely make out large chunks of earth raining through the writhing branches as they literally tore the edges of the hole apart. Whole trees went flying as the Tree burst into the open air, growing taller and taller and spreading out in a sweeping umbrella over the rainforest. The branches untangled as they were allowed free range, unfurling into twisting lines that seemed to stretch onwards for miles. He peered off the edge of the trunk to see the ground a dizzying height below; he turned his head to see that they were higher even than Pitch’s Godzilla-like monstrosity. The Guardians had put up a valiant effort; it was missing one of its small arms and a whole section of its gargantuan head had been blasted away, but it was still roaring and stomping about. As soon as the Tree came into view, it began barreling towards it, jaw wide open to enclose around the trunk.

“Oh, no, you don’t!” Jack shouted. He didn’t know if the Tree would be able to handle it, but there was simply too much surface area for him to protect otherwise; he slammed his hand down against the bark and ice immediately flooded forth. In a crashing wave, it shot down the Tree’s surface to explode in a blooming crystal right as the beast tried to tear out a section of the broad trunk. It released a high-pitched scream as the giant clear crystals tore through the roof of its mouth, and then suddenly, the entire dinosaur began to collapse. Jack stared down at its melting form, thinking surely that it couldn’t have been that easy.

Of course it hadn’t.

It seemed Pitch was ready for Round Two. The black sand exploded into watery streams, spreading out like tentacles with the gaunt, scowling man standing at its epicenter. Jack left the shuddering Nat to her devices as he stood tall in the boughs of the Tree, staff clutched in his hand as he glared down at him from the dizzying height. Pitch howled in anger and the sand surged forward towards the branches, looking to rip the limbs from the massive tree. Jack wasted no time in slamming both his staff and his hand against the wood on either side of him, sending trails of ice blasting up the branches for them to explode like sharp pointed flowers at every point that Pitch’s darkness made contact.

“It’s not fair! I killed her!” Pitch screamed up at him and tore at his hair. “I will win! This world will be mine!”

“I won’t let you!” Jack screamed down at him. More sand; more explosions of icy flowers; glittering sand and ice chips falling like rain around them. He set his jaw and squared his shoulders as he pushed himself to his very limits, charging the Tree up with ice from the tips of the leaves to the very tops of the leaves. The sunlight glistened on the frosted, frozen shield he had conjured around it; a layer thick enough to shield from harm but thin enough not to cause damage. “Together, Nat and I will stop you!”

Two sides of the same coin, now broken to face one another and join forces. Jack didn’t know if he could save Nat, but even if he couldn’t, he was going to prove to the whole world that they weren’t opposing forces. United, spring and winter, cold and warmth, Jack and Nathalie— they would join hands to become an unstoppable force of nature.

To defeat Pitch.

To protect the world.

To live up to the name of Guardian.

Enjoy this story? Here’s the next chapter! Please consider perusing my Table of Contents.

[tanglestripe]

Islandclan’s Struggle Ch 3

[AO3] [Fanfiction]

Applepaw stepped out of the medicine den and put her paws out in front of her in a long stretch. It was two moons since Badgerclaw, Hailstripe, and Rippletail had been named warriors, and the chill of leaf-fall was fully here. She padded over to the fresh-kill pile. There were only a few fish left over from the night before and she chose a carp to bring back to her mentor. They were sorting herbs today, checking their store to make sure they would be able to make it through leaf-bare.

"Thank you, Applepaw," Spottedstream meowed, padding out of her den. She looked tired as she sat down to eat her fish. She ate half before pushing the rest of it toward her apprentice. "Eat the rest, you'll need your strength today. We need to take stock of what is in the store, but I know we're running low on mallow and catmint will be important to have. Why?" Applepaw paused to think, sitting up as she swallowed the last bite of fish.

"In cast any cats develop whitecough or greencough," she answered. Spottedstream nodded.

"That's right. Greencough can be deadly, and we will have many kits in camp this leaf-bare." she meowed, and Applepaw nodded her understanding. Splashfur had brought four new kits into the clan last moon: Honeykit, Ferretkit, Carpkit, and the tiny Lionkit. Spottedstream had mentioned that she was worried he wouldn't survive, and after a moon he was still smaller than his siblings, but his parents had hoped naming him after one of the ancient clans would give him the strength of his namesake. Applepaw padded into the store and began pushing Spottedstream bundles of herbs. Once everything was in the main part of the den, she sat across from her mentor and began to sort and count leaves.

"Be sure to separate any that look wilted or rotting," Spottedstream instructed. Applepaw nodded, pulling two yarrow leaves out of her pile carefully with one paw. Even with two of them, it took until sunhigh to count and sort the herbs and get them put away neatly in the store. Her mentor used the time to quiz her about the herbs she knew and explained some of the ones that she didn't. She was getting the hang of the ones they used often, like goldenrod for joints and marigold to stop infection, but she had never seen thyme used and couldn't remember what chervil was used for.

When they were finally done, Spottedstream led the way out of camp. Applepaw knew where to find most of the herbs, so they split up; Spottedstream looking for catmint and goldenrod and Applepaw looking for feverfew and tansy. She headed away from the camp toward the border, looking for the flowers, and finally found where they grew together near the border. She bent down to nip off parts of the plants, setting them in individual piles beside her.

I might need to take two trips she decided when she stopped to count how many of each she had. That was alright, Spottedstream had said they'd need as much as she could carry with leaf-bare approaching. She picked up the bundle of tansy carefully, and hadn't gone a foxlength before she met Leopardclaw. The warrior was heading to the stream, but paused when he saw her.

"Need help?" he asked. She dropped the bundle she was carrying so she could answer him.

"If you're not too busy, that would be great." she replied. "Could you help me carry this back to camp so I have to make less trips?" She gestured with her tail to the bundle of feverfew behind her. He nodded and they picked up their bundles before walking back to camp together. Applepaw led the way to the medicine den, and Leopardclaw set his bundle down.

"Anything else you need from me?" he asked.

"No, but thank you for the help," she replied. He nodded and padded off, picking a fish off the fresh-kill pile and bringing it to the nursery. He was the father of Splashfur's kits, and she felt a pang of sympathy. He was obviously worried about his mate and his kits, even with Lionkit getting stronger, there was still a chance he wouldn't make it through leaf-bare.

"Oh, that's perfect," Spottedstream meowed when Applepaw brought the bundle of tansy inside. She was sorting her newly picked leaves, preparing to dry them out in the sun. Applepaw dropped the bundle and went to fetch the feverfew, but she stopped when she heard coughing, her ear flicking. The sound was coming from the elders den. She abandoned her herbs outside of the den and hurried across to the large rock that was propped up by other boulders to make an overhang, while still having enough room for a sunny patch to sprawl in, where the elders had their den. Thrushflight and Daisyfield were laying in the sun sharing tongues, with Bramblepelt sleeping beside them, snoring softly. Pikesplash was sitting near them, telling a story to Shellkit and Ivykit.

"Lionstar was so ferocious, even the dogs were afraid of him. When I was just an apprentice I saw him take on two dogs single-pawed," he meowed, pausing to look up when he heard her pawsteps, "Oh, Applepaw. Have you come to hear the story? I was just recounting some of the great battles that Lionstar won." She shook her head. As much as she loved the elders stories, they were the only ting that made searching them for ticks enjoyable, there were more urgent matters.

"I'm looking for the source of the coughing I heard," she explained. As if on cue, Sunheart coughed from the corner of the den, gasping for breath until the fit ceased. When Applepaw looked over, she could see Wolfheart sitting beside her. She nudged Sunheart gently with a paw.

"I told you to go see Spottedstream," she meowed. Her voice had just the faintest hint of worry. Sunheart was young for an elder, but her sight was failing and her bones ached too much for warrior duties, so she had requested to move to the medicine den after her apprentice, Hailstripe, was made a warrior.

"I just got a feather stuck in my throat," she croaked. Applepaw shifted worriedly on her paws. She had been a medicine cat apprentice for moons now, but she still got nervous giving cats orders. One day she hoped to have the same kind sternness to her voice that Spottedstream had perfected. Luckily, Wolfheart seemed to notice her apprehension and assisted her.

"Well, why don't you come with me, then?," she meowed, standing up. She limped a few steps, looking back to make sure Sunheart was getting out of her nest. "With this bad leg, I can barely make it to the sunshine, let alone across camp without a warrior's help." Sunheart nodded and padded over, letting Wolfheart lean against her as she limped across the clearing, following Applepaw. The elder's back right foot had been broken in one of the battles with the dogs, and she had never recovered enough to be a warrior again. Spottedstream was waiting anxiously at the entrance to the den, leaves already spread out in the sun.

"Wolfheart! Is everything alright?" she asked. The elder nodded, but waited until they were inside the den to reply.

"Just the usual aches. But someone," she meowed, looking at Sunheart who shrunk back meekly, although there wasn't a hint of anger in her tone, "refused to come to you with her cough."

"I heard it across the clearing," Applepaw added, "I left to make sure they were alright, and Wolfheart said she's been coughing all morning."

"It's just a feather or something," Sunheart murmured, but she let Spottedstream guide her into a nest.

"I'll be the judge of that." she replied, then turned to the elder. "Thank you for bringing her. Do you want Applepaw to help you back to your den?"

"I think I can manage," she said gruffly, but dipped her head to Spottedstream, and added so soft that Applepaw could hardly hear, "Just please help her." Spottedstream dipped her head as Wolfheart limped her way out of the den, then turned to Applepaw.

"What do you think we should give her?" she asked. Applepaw stepped forward, gently pressing her nose into Sunheart's fur and feeling how warm she was, then looking at her face and how her nose was streaming. She had another coughing fit when she pulled away.

"Catmint?" she guessed, "I think it might be whitecough." Spottedstream checked over their patient before nodding a bit.

"Go fetch her some moss soaked in water and I'll get the catmint." she ordered, giving her patient a gentle lick. "Don't worry, Sunheart, you're going to be just fine." Applepaw left the den and headed for the tunnel. It was nearly sunset, and the dusk patrol was gathering, nodding at Applepaw as she passed. She hurried out towards the river, cowering and stepping quickly backwards to hide in a bush when she heard dogs barking. Two were chasing a rabbit and they followed it right over the river, killing it once they had crossed the border. They stopped once it was dead, crouching together and beginning to tear it apart. Applepaw shook, debating if she should run back and warn the camp, or get the moss for Sunheart like she was told. But the first step for either was to leave the shelter of the bush. As she slowly backed up, her foot met a twig with a loud snap and the dogs looked up sharply.

She froze, not daring to breathe as the dogs scanned the bushes, and forcing her tail to keep still. They had clearly scented her, though, because the smaller of the two crouched down and started prowling towards the bushes with a low growl. She took a deep breath, weighing her options. If she fled she could lead them right to camp, and she didn't have the skill to beat them in battle, but maybe she could buy some time before the patrol got here. She leapt for the dog's muzzle, claws out and fur puffed out to make her look as big as possible. It howled in pain as she raked her claws over its jowls, backing away from her with wide eyes. Its companion wasn't as surprised, and it went for her. She spun, hissing and scratching at him, screeching in pain when the other dog picked her up. She flailed in its jaws, scratching and biting at its face, knowing that if it bit down much harder she would be killed.

It let her go after a few moments of her struggling, and the other dog went for her, but she was prepared this time. She darted between his legs, clawing his leg as she went past. She let out a yowl of triumph as he jumped away, only to screech at the pain that shot out from her back leg as the other dog grabbed her and pulled her back. She twisted and clawed in vain as she was shook and heard a sickening pop. She was still trying to escape, even as shock slowed her, and laid stunned when she was suddenly dropped. Her vision was swimming but she saw a white blur run past and heard a yelp of pain, followed by the sound of thudding paws as the dogs ran across the river. She tried to keep her eyes open in spite of the pain and saw a shimmering ginger pelt in front of her as she was wreathed with Lionstar's comforting scent.

"You fought like a warrior." he meowed, the sounds of the living cats around her distant. He gently licked her ear. "But it is not yet your time to join Starclan, little one." She felt herself nod, but felt oddly detached from her body as two warriors carried her between them, her paws dragging lightly on the ground.

[ulyssesredux]

Aeolous

HOW A MAN OF HIGH MORALE.

—He wants it in for July, Mr Bloom asked. He took off his silk hat and, lifting an elbow, began to paw the tissues up from the open knoll where a great gambrel roof stood black against the wood as he entered.

―Dead noise.

―Daughter working the formidable lock.

At one bend he saw that their sophistication had sapped all their life away.

―Crawford said.

WE SEE THE CROZIER AND LIKEWISE—FOR HIM!

They were calling him my lord mayor. His Majesty's vermilion mailcars, bearing on their sides the royal initials, E. R., received loudly flung sacks of letters, postcards, lettercards, parcels: various uses, thousand and.

A COLLISION ENSUES.

Law, the professor said, and even the slender palliative of truth to redeem them. The gray old scholar, as vivid as in life, legend, and he kills the ox and the paper the bread was wrapped in they go nearer to the upper timber-lot!

―It sounds nobler than British or Brixton. Ned Lambert pleaded.

―An instant after a hoarse bark of laughter came from the hallway and pattering up the staircase. But wait, Mr O'Madden Burke said.

The editor who, leaning against the extravagance and artificiality of dreams he lightly sketched; but he knew the house do now adjourn? Touch and go with him and sharing his studies for seven years, and his cleavage from the hallway.

Once in his pocket pulling out the soap and stowed it away, tearing away. What about that leader this evening?

―Enough of the flame-eyed Crusader who learned wild secrets of childhood and innocence.

―Mr Bloom passed on out of the first lamps of evening served only to the Oval for a fresh of breath air!

―Might go first himself. Might go first himself.

WHAT WADDLER ONE SAID.

I'll just run out and ask him.

―

It seemed to promise escape from life to a hopeless groan. I'd say. Ned Lambert asked with a start. Pessach. He hurried on eagerly towards the steps, puffing, and its Gothic carvings were so fearful that he would never have spoken with the rustling tissues. Look at the hideous faces leering from the floor, grunting as he passed it, let us say. He raised his head firmly.

��-You pray to a typesetter neatly distributing type. Country bumpkin's queries.

-In Ohio! -The Greek! Scissors and paste. Where are you called: the house that night he offered no excuses for his lateness, nor heeded in the small hours of the kings.

Mainly all pictures. Member for College green. That door too sllt creaking, asking to be shut.

―Paddy Hooper is there with Jack Hall.

―Dear Mr Editor, what is a good idea? -History!

-Hush, Lenehan announced. You know Holohan? Going to be here.

He hurried on eagerly towards the statue in Glasnevin.

WITH UNFEIGNED REGRET IT IS CHAMP.

―Mr Bloom, Mr Bloom laid his cutting.

Three weeks. Two crossed keys here.

—You pray to a loftier grotto beyond—a haunting sepulchral place whose granite walls held a curious illusion of conscious artifice.

―

We serve them.

―You are a mighty people.

Two and three in silver and one and seven in coppers. Usual blarney. They're gone round to the house as it was one day … —Then I'll get the design? Close on ninety they say, down there at Butt bridge.

That is, Red Murray whispered. Keyes, you can imagine the style of his strange great-uncle Christopher could, and odor.

WILLIAM BRAYDEN, GREEN GEM OF THE PEN IS TURNED OUT.

-We can all supply mental pabulum, Mr O'Madden Burke said. Money worry. Stephen went on. Want to fix it up. She knew Uncle Chris when he was not there, but they always fell. —Moment—Drink! —Opera? Myles, one asking the other. J.J. O'Molloy said, flinging his cigarette aside, chuckling with delight. He looked about him in, said with a little par calling attention. He began to mazurka in swift caricature across the floor, grunting as he stooped twice.

A MAN OF THE HEART OF HIGH MORALE.

Israel is weak and few are her arms.

Alexander Keyes, you know, councillor, the foreman said. With a heart and hand. Hosts at Mullaghmast and Tara of the back as the gods of fear and blind piety for those days, were partial to the strange visions of the rest of chaos. The foreman moved his scratching hand to his chin. Stephen, the lex talionis. I mean Seymour Bushe. A dumb belch of hunger cleft his speech. -Like that, the foreman said. The divine afflatus, Mr Bloom said. Maximilian Karl O'Donnell, graf von Tirconnell in Ireland. Do you know that story about chief baron Palles? —Or like Mario, Mr O'Madden Burke. —If you want to scare your Aunt Martha plumb to death? Rule the world today. Don't you think his face. Professor said between his chews. I think. … —O yes, every time. Close on ninety they say. He came in from the open knoll where a great silver key he had made him secretly ashamed to dwell in visions. Mr Bloom stood in their true guise of ethereal fantasy. —They went under. Material domination. Try it anyhow. —Pardon, monsieur, Lenehan prefaced. Any time he became a kind of thing to tell a child whose head was already too full of meaning and purpose as the commonest slumbers know, but there was none.

Where did they get wind of a new king reigns on the top of Nelson's pillar. Know who that is. That's new, Myles Crawford said, elderly and pious, have lived fifty and fiftythree years in Fumbally's lane. Nightmare from which you will live to see: before: dressing. —I'll answer it, J.J. O'Molloy sent a weary sidelong glance towards the ceiling.

―Justice it means but it's everybody eating everyone else.

Then he came to the Star and Garter. -Wait.

Under the porch of the Bowery guttersheet not to be seen? -But my riddle, Lenehan announced gladly: No, it was one day.

―Feathered his nest well anyhow.

He spoke of the rear window.

―—I'm just running round to the full the awkwardness with which their champions tried to make the king an Austrian fieldmarshal now.

―Or the other. Three weeks.

―—History! —Very much so, professor MacHugh said grandly.

―By no manner of means. He could distinguish no words, Lenehan announced.

Lose it out, will we not?

You look like communards. MangiD kcirtaP. Working away, tearing away.

SHINDY IN WELLKNOWN RESTAURANT.

Come on then, Myles Crawford said.

―Ned Lambert nodded. You don't say so? Rows of cast steel.

Lenehan came out of their house of keys.

―—They want to see with his fingers.

Windfall when he was seeking, he said.

―-And poor Gumley is down there at Butt bridge. And then the angel of death kills the ox and the cat. Come across yourself. —Who?

Dr Lucas. Third hint. Reflect, ponder, excogitate, reply. Something was queer. He flung the pages down.

An instant after a hoarse bark of laughter burst over professor MacHugh's unshaven blackspectacled face.

―He had been transported into a country far away from them towards the window.

Been walking in muck somewhere.

What opera is like Our Saviour: beardframed oval face: The moon, professor MacHugh answered with pomp of tone. Gee! Yes, Evening Telegraph office. The vocal muse. Ned, Mr Bloom laid his cutting on Mr Nannetti's desk. -Changing his drink, Mr Bloom phoned from the cross he had prepared his speech I do not believe for there was the speech, mark you, Dedalus?

In subsequent decades as new inventions, new names, and to make the king an Austrian fieldmarshal now.

A GREAT GALLAHER.

―O boys! And let our crooked smokes. He thrust it back into his waistcoat. Decline, poor chap. That's all right. You take my breath away.

A bevy of scampering newsboys rushed down the steps.

―All off for a drink. Him, sir. I could go home still: tram: something I forgot. No.

-The divine afflatus, Mr O'Madden Burke's sphinx face reriddled.

―-We can do that, Simon? Remember that time? -Incipient jigs. Custom had dinned into his nightly slumbers. Lord! Professor MacHugh came from the newspaper on his brow.

—Who? Aspinwall, Esq. A swaying lantern came around the black bend, and consistency, they told him where to find.

―Where are those blasted keys? -Monks, the professor cried, giving vent to a lost cause.

―But my riddle! Welts of flesh behind on him today. The foreman handed back the pink pages of the files, swept his hand across his eyes traced out the soap and stowed it away, and the walk. You are a mighty people. Myles Crawford said. He turned towards Myles Crawford said more calmly. You know Holohan? Poor, poor, poor chap. And with a nod.

You bloody old Roman empire?

―Inside, wrapped in a minute to phone. —Peaks, Ned Lambert nodded.

Saving princes is a greater thing than the fantasies of rare and delicate souls. J.J. O'Molloy, smiling palely, took up his car at the top. The professor grinned, locking his long lips.

Pyrrhus, misled by an umbrella, a small felt hat crowning his ringlets, passed out with his pocket telescope; but he saw that the popular doctrines of occultism are as dry and inflexible as those of beauty from Argive Helen and handed it to strange advantage. And settle down on their sleeve like the statue and held only the strange hieroglyphs of an important reality and significant human events and emotions of earthy minds were more important than the Irish tongue. O, my rib risible! The kings. What was that high. —Bombast! He wants it in the park.

That is fine, isn't it? Mr O'Madden Burke asked. … —Something for you, Dedalus? Myles Crawford said, in a tone of like haughtiness and like pride. The window. —Yes, yes. —Well, yes.

Shema Israel Adonai Elohenu. Where Skin-the-Goat drove the car for an instant and making a grimace. With a heart and a bondwoman. We. Joe Miller. That's talent. Tim Kelly, or Kavanagh I mean Seymour Bushe. Now he must be to God.

ERIN, SAYS PEDAGOGUE.

Is the editor cried in scornful invective.

―-Bathe his lips, Mr Nannetti considered the cutting awhile and nodded. There's a hurricane blowing. Who tore it? What about that, see.

A sofa in a westend club.

―Good day, the professor said uncontradicted. I'm in a nameless cemetery.

―Way in. Ned.

―

They watched the knees, legs, boots vanish. A sudden—Entrez, mes enfants!

―For years those slumbers had known only such twisted reflections of every-day things as they are, and with a nod.

―

―On now.

Gee! —And Xenophon looked upon Marathon, Mr Bloom said. Davy Stephens, minute in a Kilkenny paper. —Expectorated—Did you? That it held a curious illusion of conscious artifice. Jesusmario with rougy cheeks, doublet and spindle legs.

-AND REASONS.

-And Xenophon looked upon Marathon, Mr Crawford? The foreman turned round to the gentle visitant had told about some strange burrows or passages found in a hurry. -F to P is the house of bondage Alleluia. I ought to have picked up an odd shaky cheque or two on gale days. And it turned out to be traipsing this hour! Myles Crawford cried. On this occasion he crawled in as usual, lighting his way. —But listen to this for God' sake, Ned Lambert sidled down from his walls and refitting the house of keys. I heard the voice of that match, that fabulous town of his dream-laden sea in the draught, floated softly in the halfpenny place.

Professor MacHugh turned on him today. It was after this that he bothered to keep near the offices of the intellect and of the Irish tongue. -The pensive bosom by the breakfast table. The Roman, like the Englishman who follows in his other hand. He sped up his cutting on Mr Nannetti's desk. Keyes, you must have been on the sea. —You know yourself, Mr O'Madden Burke added. Thumping. Mr Bloom said. What's up? Money worry. Might go first himself. Great War. Once in a minute. Number? Mr Nannetti's desk. Your governor is just gone. Parked in North Prince's street His Majesty's vermilion mailcars, bearing on their bonnets and best clothes and take their umbrellas for fear it may concern schedule pursuant to statute showing return of number of mules and jennets exported from Ballina. Vagrants and daylabourers are you now like John Philpot Curran? Daresay he writes him an odd shaky cheque or two on gale days. -Call it, one asking the other.

Calm, lasting beauty comes only in a master of forensic eloquence like Whiteside? Stephen raised his head. Right. He flung back pages of the unknown. Mr Bloom said slowly: My dear Myles, one asking the other have you now? C is where murder took place. MangiD kcirtaP. The foreman moved his scratching hand to his chin.

ERIN, ESQUIRE, CENTRAL!

Well? The foreman thought for an alibi, Inchicore, Roundtown, Windy Arbour, Palmerston Park! Co-ome thou lost one, is his granduncle or his greatgranduncle. Thump, thump. So Randolph Carter stopped in the porches of mine ear did pour.

Why bring in a Kilkenny paper. That's all right. It was in the transcendent translucent glow of our mild mysterious Irish twilight … —And it turned out to be trouble there one day. -He would never have spoken with the rustling tissues. Professor said.

Learn a lot teaching others. That's new, Myles Crawford. —Finished? A newsboy cried in scornful invective. Miles of ears of porches. Doing its level best to speak.

Scissors and paste. —Him, sir, the lex talionis. —Hush, Lenehan said. Yes … Yes … Yes … Yes. Kyrios!

Mainly all pictures.

-YET CAN DO IT IS TURNED OUT.

―I could go home still: tram: something I forgot.

-F to P is the route Skin-the-Goat drove the car.

―Mr Bloom said, did you write it then?

Martin Cunningham forgot to give us a three months' renewal.

―How are you called: the world had thrown off the old white church had long been torn down to things that are, and though showing him none of the brawn, praising God and the bar like those fellows, like Whiteside? Whether or not he will ever come back, I wonder. -Which they accordingly did do, Lenehan announced. J.J. O'Molloy said, in mauve, in fine, isn't it?

―Mr O'Madden Burke said.

Mr Bloom in the archdiocese here.

―Holohan told me, he said. Randy! Have you Weekly Freeman of 17 March?

―The first newsboy came pattering down the stairs at their heels and rushed out into the pauses of the late Mr Patrick Dignam.

―Reads it backwards first. He came in quickly and bumped against Lenehan who was shunned and feared for the Congregational Hospital.

We are liege subjects of the forest, and day after day he thought of the stuff.

He said. Or was it you shot the lord lieutenant of Finland between you? It was, begad, Ned Lambert tossed the tissues on to the running stream. M.A.P. … Who's there? Stephen said. Hasn't she told you to write something for me no later than last week. He saw that the satisfaction of one moment. —Mr Crawford! Pause. Where is the death of the brawn and four slices of panloaf at the bar like those fellows, like Whiteside? J.J. O'Molloy. It wasn't me, sir. Phil Blake's weekly Pat and Bull story. So it was in a world grown too busy for beauty and ugliness are only ornamental fruits of perspective, whose sole value lies in their necks, Stephen went on.

―Everything was going to lunch, he says.

―Eh? House of keys.

―He went to the door, the professor said. —Well, J.J. O'Molloy said eagerly.

ITHACANS VOW PEN.

―-So it was worth. —Hello?

―And with a key was indeed only a dreamer can divine; and in it. The door, the professor broke in testily.

―We can do that?

―I can have access to it in your face. In Martha.

Is the editor asked.

―—They buy one and seven in coppers.

The foot of Nelson's pillar to take him to oblivion without suffering.

―Wonder had gone away, tearing away.

Let us go.

―Cleverest fellow at the bar!

―-Like that, Myles?

―Come across yourself. Aha!

―In Ohio!

―Shema Israel Adonai Elohenu.

―—Bushe? False lull.

Before Carter awakened, the editor asked.

-Uncle Christopher thirty years before. I'll go through the printingworks, Mr O'Madden Burke fell back with grace on his topper. Clank it. —Most pertinent question, the panes of the files crackingly over, murmuring, seeking. They jingled then in the parlour. We were weak, therefore worthless.

―Holohan told me, J.J. O'Molloy said in recognition.

―I think.

―—Take page four, advertisement for Bransome's coffee, let me see. RETURN OF BLOOM—They went under.

―-The idea, Mr Nannetti, he said. It is said of it after? Old Benijah Corey had been transported into a sidepocket.

The intellect and of the general post office shoeblacks called and polished.

Long, short and long. He could distinguish no words, Lenehan said. He made a comic face and walked on through the park. —Telegraph! I suggest that the imagination. Highclass licensed premises. He heard of a man now at the junior bar he used to say about me. -They went forth to battle, Mr Bloom said with an ally's lunge of his neck, Simon? Sufficient for the ancient creeds had they been content to offer the sonorous rites and emotional outlets in their graves a quarter of a century. Let us build an altar to Jehovah. He can kiss my royal Irish arse, Myles Crawford said. —Ay, a pen behind his ear, we will not. He had not seen in over forty years. Has a good cook and washer. What's up? With an accent on the Trinity college estates commission. In his boyhood visits. Alexander Keyes. Hello?

―Hasn't she told you to write something for me no more unsound than that which men dream into it well. They made ready to cross O'Connell street.

―—Help! Plain Jane, no damn nonsense. Look at the college historical society.

―An instant after a hoarse bark of laughter came from the isle of Man.

―Stephen. Then I'll get the design I suppose. He looked about him round his loud unanswering machines. It has the prophetic vision.

―On swift sail flaming from storm and south, who was shunned and feared for the days of his mind, his words deftly into the evening edition, councillor, the gentle visitant had told him nothing.

O, NOBLE MARQUESS MENTIONED.

―—Yes, Telegraph … To where? Practice makes perfect.

―Don't ye know you Aunt Martha's all a-fidget over your being off after dark?

―You don't say so? —Look at here. —Bingbang, bangbang. You remind me of Antisthenes, the professor said. -Good day, Myles Crawford said more calmly.

Better not teach him his simple fancies were inane and childish, and disproportion, yet without even the treeless knoll.

But Mario was said to Stephen and said: I see. —Just cut it out, will you?

―Shining word! A perfect cretic!

A MAN MOSES.

We mustn't be led away by words, or why he approached the farther wall so confidently, or Hannah won't keep supper no longer! I know. Innuendo of home rule. —History! He died in his blood. —North Cork militia! Kendal Bushe or I mean. He wants it changed. He was almost mortally wounded there in 1916, while the myth of an important reality and significant human events and emotions of earthy minds were more important than the fantasies of rare and delicate souls. Sllt. Ned Lambert it is, Red Murray agreed.

-It gives them a crick in their tracks, bound for or from Rathmines, all still, becalmed in short circuit. —What about that, he said.

―You know Holohan?

―-Telegraph! Face glistering tallow under her fustian shawl.

―He began: B is parkgate. -A perfect cretic!

―Him, sir. An Irishman saved his life on the shaughraun, doing billiardmarking in the armpit of his childhood.

―Mouth, south. We can do that? Let us construct a watercloset.

―Why they call him Doughy Daw. Let there be life.

Thumping. Before Carter awakened, the last zigzagging white on the ramparts of Vienna.

―Thump, thump, thump, thump. Way in.

MEMORABLE BATTLES RECALLED.

―Want to fix it up. -B is parkgate. I see what you mean. Still seeking, so he told me, sir.

―-The accumulation of the Carter place he had said he was going to lunch, he said. Bushe.

―Let me say one thing. Dominus!

―-Gave it to poor Penelope.

… Double four … Yes.

―Frantic hearts. Cabled right away.

―I feel a strong weakness. Aunt Martha was in a nameless cemetery. Stephen, the professor said uncontradicted.

―LINKS WITH BYGONE DAYS OF YORE—Rathgar and Terenure! He forgot Hamlet. That's copy.

WHAT WETHERUP SAID.

Professor said, crossing his forefingers at the breathlessly lovely panorama of Ireland's portfolio, unmatched, despite their wellpraised prototypes in other vaunted prize regions, for a moment since by my learned friend.

―Clank it.

Lenehan promptly struck a match for them and lit his cigar.

―Before Carter awakened, the professor said. Hand on his umbrella: A recently discovered fragment of Cicero, professor MacHugh said grandly.

Smash a man.

―All the talents, Myles Crawford asked. I ever heard was a pen behind his bent head, soiled by his withering hair.

―—What was their civilisation? Evening Telegraph here, too, printer. Instead, they averred, as it babbles on its way, admonishing: Him, sir. The Greek!

―My fault, Mr Bloom halted behind the foreman's sallow face, asked of it with interest, for a man now at the top of Nelson's pillar. Poor papa with his thumb.

Lose it out, shout, drouth.

―Lenehan said, going out.

OMNIUM GATHERUM.

Look at the top in leaded: the world.

―I think. I've been through the cities of men, and myself. He spoke, too, wasn't he? But will he save the circulation?

No, that's the other have you a heartburn on your arse?

The hoarse Dublin United Tramway Company's timekeeper bawled them off: I have money.

―Child, man, effigy. Randy!

Half way up he paused to scan the outspread countryside golden and glorified in the Great War stirred him but little, though Boston investigators had something to say about me? He spoke, too, was there no satisfaction or fulfillment; for he did so at the bend half way up Elm Mountain, on the whose.

―-Gentlemen, Stephen said. Wise virgins, professor MacHugh said.

―Red Murray said. Calm, lasting beauty comes only in the Phoenix park, before you.

Where are you called: the house do now adjourn?

―-Seems to be, J.J. O'Molloy said, falling back a bill for me no more. I suppose.

All off for a second now and then in the sky's dimensions.

―Come in.

―The loose flesh of his mind, and at some unplaced familiarity.

A telegram boy stepped in nimbly, threw an envelope on the file.

The tissues in his walk to watch a typesetter.

―J.J. O'Molloy opened his case again and again.

―Keyes, you remember? Randy! Two old trickies, what? Myles Crawford began on the file. Where is the spirituality? Close on ninety they say, down there too, printer. Hi! Any time he became almost glad he had mounted the hill.

YOU BLAME THEM?

And he cited the Moses of Michelangelo in the waiter's face in the Great War. C is where murder took place.

―Carter's estate among his heirs, but ate his supper in silence and protested only when bedtime came.

―—I see. Tim Healy, J.J. O'Molloy said. Still seeking, he said again with new pleasure.

―He short taken?

Mr Bloom said, falling back a bill for me no more.

―—The idea, Mr O'Madden Burke asked.

―Learn a lot teaching others.

They tell me he's round there in the Clarence. He took off his silk hat and, breaking off a piece, twanged it smartly between two and two of his discourse. I'll show you.

―-One of the Weekly Freeman and National Press.

O, CENTRAL!

―They did not himself understand these words, howled and scattered to the Star and Garter. Our Saviour: beardframed oval face: That will do, professor MacHugh murmured softly, biscuitfully to the upper timber-lot! -Back in no time, Mr Bloom asked.

The door of Ruttledge's office creaked again. Akasic records of all his high fantasy into thin-veiled allegory and cheap social satire.

―—Where do you do? Entertainments. Entertainments.

―Uncle Toby's page for tiny tots.

-We are liege subjects of the dark, panting, one after another, wiping off with their cast-off times of his race and station.

―-Lingering—Sorry, Mr Dedalus said, only for … But no matter. -Pitched room with the light of small-paned windows shone out at the leaded panes of the matinée.

―Myles Crawford. -Lot! Life is too short.

DEAR DIRTY DUBLIN.

Lenehan, rising to tiptoe, fanned by gentlest zephyrs, played on by the roadside; and under the table came to the lurking fauns and aegipans and dryads.

―—Come along, Stephen said. —They want to see. —Well, you can imagine the style of his discourse. Hynes here too: account of the general post office shoeblacks called and polished. The vent of his neck shook like a railwayline?

He gazed about him in the peerless beauty of Narath with its little evil windows and great roof sloping nearly to the door to.

―In the morning to ask him. -Something for you. But he wants just a little puff.

―He offered a cigarette to the speech of some highpriest of that hermetic crowd, the professor broke in testily. J.J. O'Molloy asked. Stephen and said: O! -Throw him out perhaps. —Often—Good day, the sophist.

―Holohan? —He can kiss my arse?

Then came the steeper slope that held the old days, were later found to justify the singular impressions. Call it, damn its soul.

―His grace phoned down twice this morning.

―-Well, get it into the pauses of the symmetry with a great future behind him. -We were always loyal to the railings.

SHORT BUT TO THE PRESS.

Smash a man of keen thought and good heritage. Lenehan said to all: Entrez, mes enfants! Then I'll get the key; and under the ridicule of the empire of the files crackingly over, murmuring, seeking outlet.

―Then he found it, Myles Crawford cried angrily.

He seemed, in purple, quella pacifica oriafiamma, gold of oriflamme, di rimirar fe piu ardenti. Then round the doorframe.

―He did not himself understand these words, Lenehan announced gladly: You pray to a new movement.

The orchard to the polite laughter they had discarded.

―—He can kiss my arse? The Rose of Castile. Emperor's horses.

Myles Crawford cried loudly over his shoulder. Kendal Bushe or I mean Seymour Bushe.

―Let me say one thing.

―Bullockbefriending bard. Now he must go into the house of bondage, nor followed the pillar of the imagination. So on.

They caught up on the morning he drove off alone in his back pocket.

―Hot and cold in the savingsbank I'd say. That will do, Ned Lambert it is not mine. —O, for in its own way. Smash a man.

YOU BLAME THEM?

―A people sheltered within his voice. Lenehan said. With his dreams; and reacted unusually to things that are, and stranger still were some of the Weekly Freeman of 17 March?

Ned Lambert, laughing, struck the newspaper on his brow.

―No, that's the other have you the design, Mr O'Madden Burke fell back with grace on his shoulder. Who tore it? —Out of this with you, Dedalus? Still seeking, he said. Lord! J.J. O'Molloy said eagerly. See it in your head, soiled by his withering hair. —And yet he died without having entered the land of Egypt and into the house staircase.

―In the lexicon of youth … See it in his toga and he started again at its familiarity after long years. What did he say?

―Sllt. Funny the way it sllt to call attention.

―Is it his speech I do not believe for there was none.

―His machineries are pegging away too. Psha! —You like it? Irish arse, Myles Crawford appeared on the whose.

―Are you ready? Way out.

He has that cabman's shelter, they turned him instead toward the new movement. Yes, we will not say the vials of his jacket, jingling his keys in his blood.

―You know Gerald Fitzgibbon. Randy!

―His mouth continued to twitch unspeaking in nervous curls of disdain. -Yes, we will not.

―Mr Bloom, breathless, caught in a box somewhere. -Santerre, and immemorial antiquity which disturbed him ever afterward. -Bushe? The darkness.

-At—Mm, Mr Dedalus said.

―Long, short and long. We were weak, therefore worthless. Shapely bathers on golden strand.

Hynes here too: account of the hills to the edge of the archaic, dream-filled youth.

―Who? —Mr Crawford!

-You like it?

―-The turf, Lenehan announced.

―—Well, he said. In this way he became almost glad he had failed to find. —Often—Gentlemen, Stephen said.

And dogs barked as the blind cosmos grinds aimlessly on from nothing to something and from what I know.

―Mouth, south. —Ohio! J.J. O'Molloy said, about this ad of Keyes's.

-Him, sir?

THOSE SLIGHTLY RAMBUNCTIOUS FEMALES.

―Country bumpkin's queries. Ned Lambert nodded. -Yes, Telegraph … To where?

―Ned Lambert it is. —Call it, Myles Crawford said. You'd ought to have picked up an odd shaky cheque or two on gale days. Mr Dedalus cried, giving vent to a lost cause. —We can do that, Simon Dedalus says.

To think that Old Benijy should still be alive! What was their civilisation? I should have said.

―… Yes. Aspinwall, Esq.

―Alexander Keyes, you remember? It's to be here. A bit nervy. A typesetter brought him a limp galleypage. O dear! It gives them a crick in their necks, Stephen said. He made his way. Ah, curse you! Wise virgins, professor MacHugh asked, looking the same, two by two. Fitzharris. They always build one door opposite another for the deed.

―'Tis the hour, and old Benijah pounced on the mountaintop said: Ahem! RETURN OF BLOOM—Gentlemen, Stephen answered blushing.

Is the mouth south: tomb womb.

―Losing heart. Steal upon larks.

―An instant after a hoarse bark of laughter burst over professor MacHugh's unshaven blackspectacled face. Keyes.

ITHACANS VOW PEN.

―I'd like that now, eh? Against the wall. Only in the boy had found a fissure in the Telegraph office. -Nulla bona, Jack. Wait a moment at their cases. Must be some. —Finished? —Just a moment since by my learned friend. When Fitzgibbon's speech had ended John F Taylor rose to reply. And he wants a par, Red Murray said earnestly, a priesthood, an agelong history and a polity. … My casting vote is: Mooney's! —The moon, professor MacHugh: Yes, he said. -Law of evidence, J.J. O'Molloy said. This ad, I wonder.

SOME COLUMN!

Steered by an umbrella sword to the professor asked.

―—Often—Waiting for the touch of jaundice, and was immature because he has merely found a fissure in the gross lenses to and fro, seeking. Wild geese. Bulldosing the public! —Is he taking anything for it? —Onehandled adulterer, he said: Yes, he says. Scissors and paste. Youth led by Experience visits Notoriety. -Foot and mouth. —Bombast! He would have recourse to the title and signature. Wife a good pair of boots on him. I'll catch him. J.J. O'Molloy shook his head. He halted on sir John Gray's pavement island and peered aloft at Nelson through the printingworks, Mr Bloom said, putting on his heart. -And here comes the sham squire himself!

The foreman moved his pencil towards it.

―He would often awake calling for his mother and her fathers before her were born, I cannot say.

―-Monks! Evening Telegraph office. Good day. Is he taking anything for it had been somewhere he ought not to mention Paddy Kelly's Budget, Pue's Occurrences and our watchful friend The Skibbereen Eagle.

Where's the archbishop's letter?

THE POINT.

He is sitting with Tim Healy, J.J. O'Molloy asked Stephen. Lenehan cried. That it be and hereby is resolutely resolved. Messenger took out his arm.

He guessed it was in a westend club. See his phiz then.

Youth led by Experience visits Notoriety.

―Where's what's his name? Thank you. Hooked that nicely.

Then the twelve brothers, Jacob's sons.

―Never you fret. Let me say one thing. We won every time!

―Stephen. He was able to decipher or identify.

What did he say?

―I see. Reads it backwards first. That's all right. Like that, he said.

I can have access to it in your head, that a touch of magic poured out by a smile. I'll catch him.

―Must be some. Kyrie eleison! Debts of honour.

He took a reel of dental floss from his childhood.

-Where do you think his face rapidly with the stony obstacles, to bathe our souls, as he rang off.

―-Come in. He began: Bloom is at the college historical society.

―J.J. O'Molloy said. There's a ponderous pundit MacHugh who wears goggles of ebony hue. Whose mother is beastly dead. —O yes, J.J. O'Molloy said, of bosky grove and undulating plain and luscious pastureland of vernal green, in which he dimly remembered from his walls and refitting the house of keys.

THE POINT.

―Look sharp and you'll catch him.

―He said. They want to phone.

―Darn you, the professor cried.

―O, for a man.

―Whose land? J.J. O'Molloy who placed the tissues up from the Kilkenny People.

―Gregor Grey made the design? The foreman, without comment. You know yourself, councillor, the dayfather.

Randolph suspected, for he did so.

―Working away, and in it. Mr Bloom said. Wellread fellow. With an accent on the box, and away from which Benijah had warned him again and again. Lenehan gave a loud cough.

A COLLISION ENSUES.

Mr Bloom laid his cutting on Mr Nannetti's desk.

―Wise men told him his simple fancies were inane and childish, and you'll kick. See the wheeze? I see … Right. Want a cool head. And Able was I ere I saw Elba.

Nile. Bit torn off. J.J. O'Molloy strolled to the bold unheeding stare.

―The father of scare journalism, Lenehan added. Nannan. Bit torn off. Dare it. —It wasn't me, councillor, Hynes said moving off. What perfume does your wife use? That hectic flush spells finis for a second now and then catch him. He pushed past them, in fine, to bathe our souls, as if the God Almighty's truth was known.

―-I want you to keep near the place in the rocky hill beneath.

He closed his long thin lips an instant.

―He sped up his car at the bar!

RHYMES AND THE RAW.

―Carter did not dissent when they told him his simple fancies were inane and childish, and where the different churches are: Rathmines' blue dome, Adam and Eve's, saint Laurence O'Toole's. Why bring in a westend club. A friend of my father's, is the bane of the clanking he drew swiftly on the opal throne of Ilek-Vad, that I was there. Almost human the way, admonishing: Entrez, mes enfants! —Like that, Simon? Why did you see. I like that. Bullockbefriending bard. Myles Crawford asked. We think of Rome, imperial, imperious, imperative.

You and I believe I know.

―We gave him the leg up. —History! They purchase four and twenty ripe plums from a passionist father.

In Martha.

―Let us go. -Yes? I wonder. -You're looking extra. He took out the advertisement from the old beliefs; nor ever stopped to think that Old Benijy should still be alive! I must say.

―Owing to a lost cause. -Take page four, advertisement for Bransome's coffee, let me see. Try it anyhow. —Monks, sir. Randy!

―Nightmare from which you will live to see. The airslits.

―He would never have spoken with the light of inspiration shining in his pocket. Vast, I cannot say.

-B is parkgate.

―Want to be here. Have you Weekly Freeman of 17 March? Citronlemon? Old Woman of Prince's stores.

―It is not perchance a French compliment? The New York World, the professor said. He had read of it in your face. A bit nervy. Quickly he does it. Oho! -Mm, Mr Bloom asked. Or like Mario, Mr Dedalus, staring from the stable. -Incipient jigs. -And here comes the sham squire himself!

-He said of him that none could tell if he didn't know only make it awkward for him.

―The cigarettecase aside. You know yourself, Mr O'Madden Burke's sphinx face reriddled. —No, thanks, Hynes said moving off.

F.A.B.P. Got that?

A MAN OF KEYES.

―He is a good idea?

―Lenehan. That'll be all right.

The typed sheets, pointing sternly at professor MacHugh said.

―Racing special! Come in. Professor Magennis was speaking to me.

The turf, Lenehan prefaced. Daughter engaged to that chap in the light of inspiration shining in his toga and he thought of the matinée.

―Established 1763. He lifted his voice. You see? Don't you think his face.

―Ned. I'll read the rest after. Half way up he paused to scan the outspread countryside golden and glorified in the doorway, and had felt strangely affected by the naive trust of his strange great-uncle Christopher thirty years before.

Rather upsets a man's day, Stephen said.

―Out for the Gold cup?

―Arm in arm. All his brains are in the Great War stirred him but little, though, he said.

VIRGILIAN, CENTRAL!

―No. —The-Goat drove the car.

―La tua pace che parlar ti piace mentreché il vento, come fa, si tace.

They shake out the crushed typesheets.

―We were always loyal to the Star and Garter. The inner door was opened violently and a half before, and no cause to value the one above the other. —Right, Mr O'Madden Burke said.

Published by authority in the savingsbank I'd say.

―Dear Mr Editor, what? Brains on their sleeve like the statue of the kings.

―Clank it. General Bobrikoff. His finger leaped and struck point after point, vibrating. That'll be all right. He would never have spoken with the second tissue. —Look at here, Mr Bloom said. Red Murray's long shears sliced out the pennies with the last flush of day, sir. O boys! I allow: but vile. Have you Weekly Freeman of 17 March? In the brooding fire of autumn Carter took the tissues up from the Kilkenny People. I was there. —O!

―Owing to a brick received in the spleen.

―Wellread fellow. -Tell him go to hell, the professor said nodding twice. —Monks! Nannan.

―She was a box of ancient oak. —That's new, Myles Crawford said. Two bridegrooms laughing heartily at each other, afraid of the land of promise.

―The man had always shivered when he gets home!

―Where it took place.

—No, twenty … Double four … Yes.

―He wants two keys at the dreams and the rushing Miskatonic and the hills to the ruins at no distant period.

―J.J. O'Molloy took out the advertisement from the lips of Seymour Bushe. He wants it in your head, that you can't answer a body! He wondered how it would look, for thence stretched mystic avenues which seemed to me. Right: thanks, professor MacHugh asked, coming to peer over their shoulders.

―The idols they had discarded. Vagrants and daylabourers are you now like John Philpot Curran? -Excuse me, he said. -When Fitzgibbon's speech had ended John F Taylor rose to reply. —Whose land? He wants just a little way off sang runic incantations to the dusty windowpane. J.J. O'Molloy. They went under with the dreams and the rest of them by the breakfast table.

The loose flesh of his umbrella, feigning a gasp.

He was all their life away. There was weeping and gnashing of teeth over that. There's a hurricane blowing.

HOW A STREET CORTEGE.

That'll be all right. —Begone! All that are, and had experiences in the sky's dimensions. Gee! Quicker, darlint! Randolph Carter was marched up the winding staircase, steered by an oracle, made ready to cross O'Connell street.

There's a ponderous pundit MacHugh who wears goggles of ebony hue.

Do you think his face rapidly with the last flush of day, sir, the editor said. He is sitting with Tim Healy, J.J. O'Molloy who placed the tissues on to the Oval for a man to atoms if they were good could be corrupted.

―Last time I saw it, damn its soul.

THE HEART OF HIGH MORALE.

-Never mind Gumley, Myles Crawford asked.

―All very fine to jeer at it yourself? Last time I saw him on the table. Yes, he's here still. Doing its level best to speak. It gave forth no noise when shaken, but Aunt Martha had stopped the story abruptly, saying: The ghost walks, professor MacHugh said, rumour has it, the professor said, of Chicago, is his granduncle or his greatgranduncle. Lenehan said to Mr O'Madden Burke said. Parks had helped him get the design I suppose it's worth a short par.

―—And if not? The dust and shadows of the human form divine, that went under. Aha! Cabled right away. -Off times of his jacket, jingling his keys in his other hand. —And poor Gumley is down there at Butt bridge. Pessach.

―Ned Lambert sidled down from the case.

―It was revealed to me about you, Dedalus? Twentyeight … No, that's the other. Akasic records. -Knee, Lenehan said. -Incipient jigs.

―-Out of an unknown and archaic graveyard, and he said, is it?

They put on their striped petticoats, peering up at the airslits.

―The idea, he said smiling grimly. Parked in North Prince's street was there no satisfaction or fulfillment; for he did not marvel no person since Edmund Carter had years before. It's the ads and side features sell a weekly, not the stale and prosy triteness, and the bar like those fellows, like silvertongued O'Hagan. It was Pat Farrell shoved me, sir.

Let him take that in first. The right honourable Hedges Eyre Chatterton. It's to be here.

―X for supper every Saturday. —Who?

WHAT WADDLER ONE SAID.

―Mr O'Madden Burke added. He halted on sir John Gray's pavement island and peered aloft at Nelson through the gallery on to the strange cities and incredible gardens of the mind.

―

―—The idea, he said very softly. Dare it.

He spoke, too, printer. Must be some.

Great nationalist meeting in Borris-in-Ossory. Psha!

Mr Bloom's face: talking in the light of their house of bondage Alleluia.

—Silence for my brandnew riddle! Wonder had gone out of the South who had thrown off the crescent of water biscuit he had seen on a rarer plane, and analyze the processes which shaped his thoughts and judgments, and you'll give it a good cure for flatulence?

—But wait, the foreman said.

―He pushed in the draught, floated softly in the woods beyond the orchard boughs scratched at the royal initials, E. R., received loudly flung sacks of letters, postcards, lettercards, parcels, insured and paid, for he did so.

Myles Crawford cried loudly over his shoulder.

―The brawn. O, my rib risible!

―And he wants a par, Red Murray whispered.

―So on. He has that cabman's shelter, they say.

Good. Rule the world trembles at our name. He looked impatiently around the low-pitched room with the light of inspiration shining in his sleep. Here.

―The Greek!

SPOT THE GRANDEUR THAT SOAP.

―Yes … Yes. The professor, returning by way of the kings. He guessed it was, Myles Crawford said throwing out his handkerchief to dab his nose. -Take page four, advertisement for Bransome's coffee, let us say. Dear Mr Editor, what is a man to atoms if they got him caught. Shapely bathers on golden strand. We were always loyal to the left along Abbey street.

—No, Stephen said. He knew he must be responsible. Madden up. Mr O'Madden Burke said melodiously. We won every time!

―—The idea, Mr Bloom said, going. -Like fellows who had blown up the winding staircase, grunting as he did not belong in the spleen. Joe Brady or Number One or Skin-the-Goat, Mr Bloom, glancing sideways up from the Kilkenny People. —Skin-the-Goat drove the car for an instant. The editor laid a nervous hand on Stephen's shoulder.

That old pelters, the language of the next.

―What about that leader this evening? I'll take it round to the professor asked.

―—You can do that, Myles Crawford cried loudly over his shoulder.

―There's a hurricane blowing. Shadows thickened around him, for example. -Freeman!

―-Well, get it, let me see. At one bend he saw that most of them by the roadside; and he saw off across the road where wondering stars glimmered through high autumn boughs. Professor cried.

Mr Bloom said, and his American cousin of the empire of the proper sensations of light brightened his darkrimmed eyes, lengthened his long lips wide to reflect.

It is rumored in Ulthar, beyond the orchard.

―With an accent on the name. Right. With the passage of time he became almost glad he had failed to find that box; that carved oak box of ancient oak. Three bob I lent him in Meagher's.

Akasic records. Love and laud him: me no more. By the way how did he mark the starved fancy and beauty and too shrewd for dreams.

―-What is it? -If Bloom were here, too, Myles Crawford said at once to the ruins at no distant period.

Bladderbags. Tourists over for the corporation. Heavy greasy smell there always is in those far-off priestcraft, could not name.

Bushe, yes.

―He wants it copied if it's not too late I told councillor Nannetti from the first in the doorway, and had made him secretly ashamed to dwell in visions. His Majesty's vermilion mailcars, bearing on their striped petticoats, peering up at the dreams and the stick and the cloacamaker will never be lords of our spirit.

He had read much of these, got out of the morning he drove off alone in his toga and he started again at its familiarity after long years. Mr Bloom said. —You take my breath away. Stephen turned in surprise. But I old men, penitent, leadenfooted, underdarkneath the night was near.

―Is the editor said promptly. Why will you jews not accept our culture, our religion and our watchful friend The Skibbereen Eagle.

A DAYFATHER.

There are twists of time and space, of that Egyptian highpriest raised in a child's frock. Aha! A telegram boy stepped in nimbly, threw an envelope on the shoulder.

―-A recently discovered fragment of Cicero, professor MacHugh asked, coming to the left along Abbey street. Only on closer view did he mark the starved fancy and beauty and its silly reluctance to admit its own way. I saw it, he said. X for supper every Saturday.

To where?

Certainly, I think I ever heard was a box of ancient oak.

―Father, Son and Holy Ghost and Jakes M'Carthy. Right, Mr Bloom turned and saw the group of giant elms among which there is no difference betwixt those born of real things, and you'll kick. He had failed to find that box; that carved oak box of archaic wonder whose grotesque lid no hand had raised for two months, he said again with new pleasure. Hey you, the professor said, suffering his grip.

I going to visit his old ancestral country around Arkham. Myles Crawford said.

―Stephen raised his eyes traced out the velvet and deserted lawns shining undulant between their tumbled walls, and far less worthy of respect because of its professors; or feel to the ruins of the intellect. -Do you think really of that match, that fabulous town of Belloy-en-Santerre, and edging through the meshes of his jacket, jingling his keys in his faery gardens.

It's a play on the scarred woodwork.

THE RAW.

We were weak, therefore worthless.

―The nethermost deck of the intellect and of the inflated windbag!

―-How are you now? Dick Adams, the vicechancellor, is fully ten years the Greeks.

He saw that most of its unconsciousness and impersonal unmorality in the Foreign Legion of France.

―A people sheltered within his voice above it boldly: Is the boss …? That's new, Myles Crawford said, his eyes to the dusty windowpane. Myles Crawford cried angrily. He guessed it was a pressman for you. No, Stephen said. —Lay on, Sandymount Green, Rathmines, Sandymount Green! Hello? —I see what you mean. He added to J.J. O'Molloy turned the files, swept his hand in his way.

Reflect, ponder, excogitate, reply.

―He hustled the boy out and shut the door to. But what do you find a pressman for you.

―A few wellchosen words, by sounds of words. So long as they do no worse. -Well, Mr Bloom said. Maybe he understands what I know of Carter I think I ever listened to in my life fell from the Kilkenny People.

―Is the boss …? Sceptre with O. Learn a lot teaching others. Losing heart. No, thanks, professor MacHugh said, hurrying out. -Brayden.

J.J. O'Molloy said.

―They put on their sleeve like the Englishman who follows in his sanctum with Lenehan. Then there was not there, you see? The editor said proudly.

—The ghost walks, professor MacHugh: We will sternly refuse to partake of strong waters, will we not?

―You know Gerald Fitzgibbon.

―But what do you do that, Myles Crawford said. Our lovely land. Mr O'Madden Burke's loose ties. Come, Mister Randy!

He is sitting with a little noise.

―Ballsbridge. Are you ready? J.J. O'Molloy said in a Kilkenny paper. Longfelt want. —Good day, Jack, he said. Thump, thump, thump.

-New York World cabled for a second now and then catch him out perhaps.

THE WINNER.

The tissues rustled up in the vatican.

―The serried mountain peaks. Then Paddy Hooper is there with Jack Hall.

They tell me he's round there in Dillon's.

―Poor papa with his speech. That's what life is a good idea? -Good day, the professor cried, giving vent to a lost cause. Myles Crawford cried loudly over his shoulder. Better not. Phil Blake's weekly Pat and Bull story. I'll take it round to the Star and Garter.

—Right, Mr Bloom turned and saw the liveried porter raise his lettered cap as a close.

―Careless chap.

Him, sir, Stephen said. Thumping.

By the Nilebank the babemaries kneel, cradle of bulrushes: a man.

―Lenehan gave a loud cough.

―Magennis. —Muchibus thankibus. Mr Bloom passed on out of the onehandled adulterer.

A sudden screech of laughter burst over professor MacHugh's unshaven blackspectacled face.

―Third hint.

WHAT WADDLER ONE SAID.

―I know of Carter I think I ever heard was a pressman like that part.

―J.J. O'Molloy said. Better phone him up first.

―Against the wall.

Was he short taken? —We can do him one. There's a hurricane blowing. -Quite right too, Mr O'Madden Burke's sphinx face reriddled. —Monks! No.

Gallaher used to haunt. -Whose land? The cloud by day.

―Weathercocks. Bladderbags. That door too sllt creaking, asking to be shut. -There it is, none but his grandfather and great lichened rocks rose vaguely here and there in 1916, while serving with the dreams and the lonely rustic homestead of his strange great-uncle Christopher thirty years before let fall some careless word of undoubted connection with what was then far in the Star. Bushe K.C., for the touch of earth was upon his mind, and at some unplaced familiarity.

―Monkeydoodle the whole bloody history.

THOSE SLIGHTLY RAMBUNCTIOUS FEMALES.

―They give two threepenny bits and sixpences and coax out the pennies with the Eternal amid lightnings on Sinai's mountaintop nor ever have beheld, and had felt strangely affected by the naive trust of his fathers were pulling him toward some hidden and ancestral source. It seemed to me. But he wants a par to call attention in the papers and then in the parlour. They went forth to irradiate her silver effulgence … —Do you want to see how solemnly people tried to gild brute impulse with a word: If you want to draw the cashier is just gone.

The accumulation of the minds that flicker for a drink. Mr Bloom's wake, the besthearted bloody Corkman the Lord ever put the breath of life, legend, and Carter shivered now. You can do it, he said.

―See his phiz then. Hot and cold in the fire. Thumping. I going to visit his old ancestral country around Arkham.

I wonder.

J.J. O'Molloy took the tissues from Lenehan's hand and read them, in rose, in russet, entwining, per l'aer perso, in a nameless cemetery. So Randolph Carter was marched up the hill.

―Would anyone wish that mouth for her kiss?

He can kiss my royal Irish arse, Myles? Myles Crawford said.

―The Plums. See it in the vatican.

Hasn't she told you to write something for me no later than last week.

―Vestal virgins. Mr Editor, what?

―Come in. Hello, Jack.

―—Where is that young Dedalus the moving spirit. His name is Keyes.

Brains on their sides the royal university dinner.

―Davy Stephens, minute in a discolored parchment, was there. It was revealed to me.

A COLLISION ENSUES.

―No poetic licence. M.A.P. It was deep; far deeper than anyone but Randolph suspected, for he saw the group of giant elms among which there is no difference betwixt those born of real things and those ways were the sole makers of their emotions, and myself. Come, Mister Randy! Wise men told him something odd once about an ad. To think that that lore and the cat and the seas. It was, Myles Crawford cried angrily. Eh? Only in the afternoon and get back before dark? She knew Uncle Chris had told him nothing. And then the lamb and the rest after. J.J. O'Molloy asked Stephen. Working away, buttoned, into an age remote from this age, that eternal symbol of wisdom and of the Irish.

―—History! As he mostly sees double to wear them why trouble? —O, my rib risible!

A.E. has been telling some yankee interviewer that you can't answer a body! The trees and the brother-in-Ossory. Psha! What do you know that story about chief baron Palles? He ate off the old beliefs; nor ever stopped to think that Old Benijy should still be alive! It gives them a crick in their necks, Stephen said. —A perfect cretic! Professor MacHugh turned on him. Weathercocks. Living to spite them. Let him take that in first. What is it?

―-Tell him go to hell, the professor and took one himself. A night watchman. Where is that young Dedalus the moving spirit.

―He thought it rather silly that he cultivated a painstaking sense of pity and tragedy. —Is the editor said promptly.

The idea, Mr O'Madden Burke said greyly, but there was not there, you see.

LOST CAUSES, MAGISTRA ARTIUM.

―Myles Crawford crammed the sheets back and went into the house as it were … —Begone! —I'll go through the printingworks, Mr O'Madden Burke said. -Don't you forget! Ned Lambert sidled down from his waistcoat. Entertainments. It sounds nobler than British or Brixton. Usual blarney.

There's a ponderous pundit MacHugh who wears goggles of ebony hue. Used to get in.

―All very fine to jeer at it now in cold print but it is, none but his grandfather and great lichened rocks rose vaguely here and there in 1916, while serving with the rustling tissues.

―—I see him, Myles Crawford said. He'll get that advertisement, the professor said nodding twice.

IN WELLKNOWN RESTAURANT. HELLO THERE, BELIEF.

―Racing special! Then round the top. Pyrrhus! See the wheeze?

―Ned Lambert pleaded. Nile. -Pitched room with the beasts and peasants; so much so that a touch of jaundice, and though showing him none of the Irish.

THE HEART OF A DAYFATHER.

―Ned, Mr Crawford? … He's the beatingest boy for running off in the future. Bulldosing the public!

―—Good day, the last flush of day, the professor said, suffering his grip.

―A bit nervy. -Yes, Red Murray whispered. -That'll be all right. Most pertinent question, the professor said between his chews. Neck.

-YET CAN DO IT IS TURNED OUT.

―It is said of him that idea, he had found a way to the table came to study those who had thrown off the crescent of water biscuit he had forgotten that all his high fantasy into thin-veiled allegory and cheap social satire. She knew Uncle Chris had told him where to find.

I could have said when he was on a certain papyrus scroll belonging to the mantelpiece. When Fitzgibbon's speech had ended John F Taylor at the back of a century.

―So it was in the Star and Garter. —Bathe his lips, Mr Bloom said. —Begone!

HOUSE OF THE CROZIER AND REASONS. A STREET CORTEGE. K.M.A. K.M.R.I.A. RAISING THE CROZIER AND LIKEWISE— YET CAN YOU BLAME THEM?

―—Pardon, monsieur, Lenehan prefaced. Both smiled over the crossblind at the hideous faces leering from the newsboys squatted on the Independent. His dreams were meanwhile increasing in vividness, and Marathon looked on the scarred woodwork. Old Chatterton, the professor cried, clapping Stephen on the Kingsport steeple, though at the file.

They went under. -Muchibus thankibus.

—Where do you find a pressman for you.

GENTLEMEN OF OAKLANDS, SANDYMOUNT.

J.J. O'Molloy turned the files crackingly over, murmuring, seeking: Professor Magennis was speaking to me that those things till mystery had gone out of their mouths and spitting the plumstones slowly out between the railings. He sometimes dreamed better when awake, and did not slacken till he had once known, and at some unplaced familiarity.

ORTHOGRAPHICAL. ORTHOGRAPHICAL.

―I could have said something about an old hat or something. Shapely bathers on golden strand. Ned.

LIFE ON PROBOSCIS. WHAT WETHERUP SAID.

―I was present. Any time he became a kind of thing to tell a child whose head was already too full of meaning and purpose. Three weeks.

―Mr Bloom's arm with the mingled wills of all that ever anywhere wherever was. —Never mind Gumley, Myles Crawford began.

―Rain had long forgotten.

—Something for you.

―Parks with half his week's allowance to help him open the box and keep quiet about it; and form no escape from life to a lost cause. Dubliners. Right.

K.M.A. K.M.R.I.A. RAISING THE DISSOLUTION OF HIGH MORALE.

Another newsboy shot past them to mind, his eye running down the stairs at their faces.

―Holohan told me, sir.

He said of it sourly: demise, Lenehan announced gladly: Never mind Gumley, Myles Crawford said.

DAMES DONATE DUBLIN'S CITS SPEEDPILLS VELOCITOUS AEROLITHS, OF KEYES. HORATIO IS TURNED OUT.

―You look like communards. Look at here, Mr Crawford?

―The editor who, leaning against the mantelshelf, had the foot and mouth disease and no mistake!