#it's just 'brenneth is fucked up about things and also crispin makes bad and high handed life choices'

[words-writ-in-starlight]

ooh ooh alleirat but fae? faerie courts, changelings and curses and blood oaths that burn in your veins like chains of silver

Hey listen…I’m in a lot of pain today and I was supposed to do this as headcanons and I super did not do that.  Also this is mostly the prequel to a longer story about Brenneth’s quest to win them their freedom.  Sorry dude, I just kinda got In My Feelings about this.

Their names aren’t Brenneth and Crispin yet.  But Brenneth and Crispin walk into the woods, ten years old, on a dare, with their coats inside out and crowns of rowan on their heads, while their classmates clap and chant at the treeline–a skipping game with consequences.  In roses red and briars green, a little girl in white was seen; went through the forest all alone, she’s never, ever coming home. The children laugh, at first, teasing as Crispin’s red hair vanishes.  Then there’s the real calling, the shouts into the dark trees and the thin tremor of voices that won’t admit they’re scared.

Then there’s sunset, and the police, and no sign of either of them–except the rowan crowns, lying one beside another at the foot of an oak tree at the heart of the forest.  Children taken by the Folk, they murmur together, and walk away.

Seven days later, it’s the full moon and the autumn equinox, and a woman of twenty is found unconscious on the edge of the trees, dressed in a fine shirt the deep orange-red of live embers and black trousers and a leather doublet out of an old story, embossed with oak leaves.  Her black curls are braided away from her face with a tender hand, and she lies on thick, soft chamomile with a scent so strong that the teenage girls who find her nearly fall asleep beside her.  The police are called again, to hover uncertainly around the sleeping figure until her eyes flicker open and she springs to her feet with the speed and grace of a startled cat.  An officer steps forward, hands out to calm her, and she closes with him so swiftly that he understands, watching her eyes glitter in the moonlight, how his ancestors must have felt when the Hunt rode by, with horns and bells ringing.

“Where is he?” she demands, catching the cop by his collar and shoving him against a tree with a strength that dazes him.

“Where is who?” he gasps, breathless. She looks fierce and wild and hungry and beautiful in her rage, and for a terrible moment the world gasps, airless in love with her, and the police and the teenagers and the gawkers all remember, suddenly, the stories that are told about humans who live long years with the Folk and come back just slightly too real for reality to bear.

“Crispin,” the woman says, and shakes him with the careless ease of a cat shaking a mouse in her teeth.  “Where is he?  He’s a singer, with red hair–mortal, like me. Why isn’t he here?”

The officer shakes his head, wordless, and says, “Who are you, ma’am?”

“I’m–Brenneth.  Ghadafi,” she says, setting him slowly down and stumbling back with a look of dawning horror in her black eyes.  “He–he didn’t come. He lied to me, he didn’t come.  He said he freed us both, and he–”

She presses a hand to her mouth and sinks to her knees on the chamomile, and the police look at each other over her head, and finally one of them says, “You had better call the Ghadafis and tell them we found their daughter.”

Brenneth’s parents arrive just in time to watch a police officer tackle her to the ground to keep her from running back into the trees.  Their daughter, who was ten years old seven days ago, looks right through them like they’re strangers, or ghosts, and refuses to leave the forest line until the sun rises.  They call her Brenda and she doesn’t answer them, and she snarls like a wild thing when her mother tries to take down her hair, but she lets them take her home, and Brenneth plans.  For four years, she doesn’t do anything else.

Everyone in their little town knows Brenneth, after a while–the un-changeling, the human girl who disappeared and came back something…else.  It has been much longer for Brenneth than for the rest of them, longer than seven days, longer than ten years, and she never smiles, never thanks anyone, never takes any of the precautions everyone else does.  She walks barefoot in the forest, and leaves iron and steel at home, and lingers over vernal pools and fairy rings longingly.  She’s too old and too young and too other and everyone who meets her is afraid of her–is afraid of what those unnaturally steady black eyes could ask them to do, and get a response.

Four years later, to the day, Brenneth walks to the oak in the heart of the forest and drives a steel cooking knife into the trunk to the hilt, and then she stands back and waits for the consequences.

“You have hurt the wood,” says a slow, lilting voice–a singer’s voice, smooth and articulate and with just a thread of warning.  

Brenneth turns.  Somehow, this seems right–seems like she should have known how this would be, who would come when she came to the end of her patience and hurt the Folk in order to find a door, who would be guarding this forest that swallowed her heart whole.  The being behind her looks fey and perfect in the moonlight, utterly and breakingly unlike anything that walks on asphalt under street lamps and among cars, unlike anything that wears a crown of rowan and an inside-out LL Bean coat, with waist-length coiling hair the perfect brilliant copper of a polished penny and dressed all in beautiful white.  The bones of his face are almost the same as when he lied to her, but sharper and colder.

This, then, Brenneth thinks, reaching out thoughtlessly to touch the ground-glass jaw with her fingertips, is what happens when a mortal swears life and soul to the Folk in return for another person’s freedom.  He’s not one of them, not quite.  He’s still as far from humanity as a wolf is from a sled dog.

Crispin stops her hand by catching her wrist before she can touch his face.  His fingers are as cold as ice. 

“Crispin,” Brenneth says, as if his grip isn’t pressing the bones of her arm together to the point of pain.  She’ll see the bruise later and wonder where she got it, press her thumb into the shadowed purple-blue and yelp in surprise at the pain.  “I found you.”

He blinks at her, and his eyes are wrong–the whites are gone, consumed whole by the honey of his irises and large, flashing pupils.  This is what proves to her that he’s real.  If he were an illusion, he would be perfectly himself, and perfectly hers, and he’s neither, not anymore.  For a moment, she wonders if he even recognizes her.

Crispin reaches out with his other hand, and the cold fingers touch her hair, her cheek, trace the lines of her nose and her cheekbone and her brow, until his palm settles against her jaw, his thumb on her lips, and she looks back fearlessly.

“Why did you come back?” Crispin asks.

“Why did you lie to me?” Brenneth replies, just as calm.

He blinks again, more slowly, and says, “I…had to save you.  They were determined to keep one of us.  I had to save you.  Why did you come back?”

“I’ve been looking for you,” Brenneth says, ignoring him, and the hand on her face is beginning to shake, an utterly human fit of tremors.  “I looked everywhere.  All the right places. If I’d found anything, I wouldn’t have come, but you weren’t there.”  She takes a step, expecting him to hold her in place, but instead he falls back, as if she’s dangerous, his hands falling away from her arm and her face.  She takes another step, then another, and Crispin retreats from her until his back hits the wall.  “I knew that if I hurt the forest, someone would come to punish me–I just didn’t expect that it would be you.”

Crispin’s strange, honey-gold eyes are glittering and wet in the moonlight when she stops, and he whispers, “You shouldn’t have come.  You shouldn’t have–I have to punish you.  You used steel on the tree.  Why did you do that?”

“You’re right,” Brenneth says mercilessly.  “You do have to punish me.  Because you made a fool’s bargain for my freedom, when I didn’t even want it.  So.”  She steps back and holds out her wrists, held together like she’s waiting for shackles.  “I propose a trade.  You do your duty to the Folk and the forest, and instead of killing me, or striking me blind, or stitching my lips shut with gold, you take me back.”

“As a slave,” Crispin says dully, like someone watching his life’s work unravel.

“I’m going to do it right this time,” Brenneth says.  “Both of us will be free.”

“I can’t go back to the mortal world.”

“Neither could I.  Take my offer, or kill me, faerie.”

Crispin stares at her with those inhuman eyes, in that face more perfect than it is human, and Brenneth looks back and smiles for the first time in four years.

“Trust me,” she says.  “I’ve never lied to you.”

Crispin smiles faintly, lips twisting like he’s about to cry, at that, and closes his cold hands around her wrists.

[words-writ-in-starlight]

ohohohohO YOUR WISH IS MY COMMAND COOL OKAY SO WORLDWALKER HOLLYWOOD AU, ANY MIXED BAG OF 11, 14, 19, 20, 29, 33, AND/OR 40 PLEASE AND THANK YOU

Hell YES, ask meme!  For a briefexplanation to the rest of the Internet, the Hollywood AU of Worldwalker goeslike this: in a mundane AU of this novel, Crispin Adesso is a rising starA-list actor at 24, who was just cast as the White Wolf, the villain in what’santicipated to be the fantasy blockbuster of the decade.  Problem is, the woman who was cast to playthe lead opposite him just suffered a major injury, and her contract was terminated.  While the higher-ups scramble to recast, theygrab an electrician who has sort of the right look and ask her to do her bestto read the lines, so that Crispin can at least get a sense of what he’sdoing and he’s not getting paid to do nothing.

Brenneth Ghadafi absolutely crushes the role of theFireheart, first try, and her chemistry with Crispin is electric.  They hire her on the spot and she blundersinto stardom overnight.

11) Do they celebrate holidays? Anniversaries?

Holidays aren’t a huge thing for either of them prior todoing Worldwalker, because they’re estranged from their living families, but doingthe movie is a weirdly effective bonding experience.  The woman who plays the Fireheart’s righthand, called only “the Devoted” in the credits (Worldwalker is Oscar-baitfrom moment one and absolutely sweeps the categories it’s nominated for, andeveryone waxes poetic about how beautiful the epithet-only naming scheme is asa creative choice), is immediately tight with Crispin and Brenneth.  Her younger friend is an agent, and Toreitakes pity on Brenneth to get her hooked up with Krei so that Brenneth isn’tsolely responsible for her new situation. They even make friends with the makeup artist, who likes to wear longskirts and always has eyeshadow on her fingertips from touching people up, andget front row seats to Shiko and Krei’s schoolgirl romance.

It’s Krei, a big believer in family after her mother’s deathwhen she was young, who invites them all over for Thanksgiving.  After that, Crispin and Brenneth get a littlebetter about holidays.

Crispin is an Advanced Level Anniversary Planner and it’sonly through tremendous effort that he moderates himself down to celebratingone anniversary a year.  He knows thedate of their first meeting, their first date, their first kiss, their firstdance, the first time they said they loved each other, and the first time theygot caught by the paparazzi, in addition to their actual anniversary.  The paparazzi incident was quite a bit beforetheir first date, which is related to the fact that there’s a flourishingonline shipper network for over a year before they get their act together.

Brenneth is a little chiller about anniversaries.  Crispin is used to having money, so he takesBrenneth to museums and weird niche classes and expensive dinners for theiranniversaries, and she makes jokes about being a gold-digger.  Brenneth gives him two gifts everyanniversary: letting him buy her something expensive and frivolous, and a letter.  The letter is always the hardest part—shedoesn’t consider herself effusively affectionate and it’s hard to put herfeelings down—but it’s always worth it to see him tear up.  She proposes in one of them.

14) Anything they both dread?

Ironically, the things theyrespectively dread are mostly resolved by dating.  Crispin, who shot to stardom at a very youngage, kind of dreads being alone, and having to worry about normal things he wasnever taught to deal with, and calling his parents on their birthdays.  Brenneth, who did not plan for this,dreads being alone, and having to give interviews, and seeing her parents ather aaji’s grave (her grandmother). Brenneth knows how to fix a sink and tells Crispin to stop calling hisparents; Crispin goes with Brenneth to all her interviews to keep her confidenceup and goes with her to see her aaji; when one of them feels lonely,they grab the other one’s hand.  Theyhave very compatible anxieties.

19) What do they fight about? What are their argumentslike? How do they make up?

Their worst fight is the first one, when they’re talkingabout what they’ll do after Worldwalker before they’re even dating and Brennethsays, like it’s obvious, that she’s going back to her real actual job.  Crispin snorts and tells her that’s notlikely, and suddenly all her swallowed-back nerves and all her strain and allher uncertainty is pouring out in a burst of anger, because how dare hetell her she can’t live her life? Crispin lashes right back, suddenly realizing that he is desperatefor her to stay, and she was just telling him how she’s made more money in thelast six months than her entire preceding life, and how could she just givethat up?  There is shouting, and thenthere’s three days of treating each other with icy good manners and weirdlyon point chemistry for the scenes between the Wolf and the Fireheart—they usealmost every bit of footage from those three days.

Then Crispin shows up at Brenneth’s apartment at two in themorning with Indian takeout from the place that she says reminds her of her aaji’scooking and two bottles of wine, more expensive than she’s comfortable drinkingon her floor even though that’s what they do. They don’t really talk about it, not explicitly, but Brenneth sayssomething oblique about not knowing how to do…this, this movie star thing, andCrispin says something equally oblique about how she should do somethingwith her talent, even if it’s community theater.  Things are better after that.

Even after they learn how to have more productive arguments,there’s usually shouting.  They both grewup in intensely emotionally neglectful homes—the shouting makes them feel likethe other person is invested.  It meanstheir arguments are a little scary to see, but it works for them and they’recareful not to argue in front of anyone who might really worry.  They learn to talk about their shoutingmatches, after they have them, and something about the emotional catharsismakes them much more equipped to have a calm chat afterward.  Krei and Shiko, who argue in the stiffest andmost formal way possible, find it absolutely fucking baffling.

20) What does their home look like? Their room?

They move into Crispin’s apartment, because Brenneth livesin a one-bedroom closet with a bathroom so small that someone sufficiently tall(Krei or Torei) will actually hit their knees against the sink if they sit onthe toilet.  

Brenneth has a small anxiety attack about how big Crispin’splace is, the first time they hook up there. It’s kind of a hotel vibe when she first moves in—Crispin travels a lotand never really thought of it as enough of a home to decorate—but Brenneth’sfirst act of unilateral decision making as a resident is to get rid of the plainstock expensive photography and put up some actual art.  Things progress from there.  They still travel a lot, but there’s colorthere, now, and signs of life, and their shared study is full of crafts—Brennethmakes jewelry and Crispin does needlepoint. He made her a sign to hang above the kitchen door that says “We’vesurvived every bad day we’ve ever had, motherfucker” and Brenneth never missesa chance to point it out.

Their room is heavily Brenneth-influenced as well, largelybecause she took one look at it and said, “Well, Christ, at least you have somebooks that you like.”  Basically the onlything in it that has any trace of personality is Crispin’s closet, which isadmittedly full to bursting of brilliant colors and expensive fabrics.  But the rest of the room is practicallyclinical.  

She makes him get rid of most of the crisp minimalistglass-and-steel furniture that he bought when he got the place at 18 and neverreally cared about, and replaces it with wood. Not necessarily expensive wood, but something with a little color andlife in it.  She also makes him repaintthe room from plain fucking white, what are you doing, Cris, no wonder younever spend time here.  They settleon a nice cool blue, accented with a deep venous red that matches the comforterBrenneth spent too much money on when she first moved out on her own.  Crispin, who has an exceptional eye fordesign and a terrible eye for incorporating his own tastes, is glad to stepback and let her do what she wants.

He’s surprised to discover, once his apartment doesn’t looklike a magazine spread anymore, that he actually likes it there.  

29) How do they handle disasters or emergencies? Minorinjuries? Sickness?

Disasters and emergencies are usually fine—they’re both abit high-strung even if they won’t admit it, but it’s the kind of high-strungthat translates into getting their feet back under them real quick.  They also have a good division of labor in caseof catastrophe, based on what kind of problem it is.  Interpersonal disasters go directly toCrispin, because he has been professionally charming since he was fourteen.  Logistical disasters go to Brenneth, who wasconsidered a prodigy at figuring out how to solve problems with the leastexpense when she was an electrician and who has maintained that skill setbeautifully.  Anything that doesn’t fallneatly into one of those two categories is normally handled by both of them intandem, usually with great efficiency.

Injuries and sickness tend to be more upsetting to theperson who’s still in good health, largely because they are both horriblepatients.  Crispin got dropped during a stuntin the filming and was mostly okay except for some bruised ribs, and Brennethsnarled at four people before Torei banished her to sit in makeup and take deepbreaths while he got looked at.  He wentback and redid the stunt the next day, which is the take they used.  Brenneth got appendicitis on their press tourafter the movie dropped and Crispin was useless for the time she was inthe hospital, snappish and downright nasty in a way he’s usually not, andshe almost killed him for hovering afterward, insisting she was fine to go onwith their interview schedule.

They are not beloved of the on-set medics.

33) What kind of presents do they get each other? Do theyonly do it on special occasions?

Brenneth likes to give useful gifts and almostsinglehandedly stocks their kitchen so that Crispin can play with increasinglyfancy equipment.  She prefers to give giftson special occasions, although sometimes she’ll see something small like hisfavorite chocolates or a book she knows he’s been curious about and she’llimpulse buy it.  Anything more thentwenty bucks is probably a special occasion gift.  While Crispin loves her gifts, he honestlysecretly likes her weird texts more, it always makes him grin like a dumbasswhen she texts him a picture of a dog in a hat or something with an inexplicable“saw this, thought of you” and no further context.

Crispin can and will give gifts at any time, and it’s commonfor him to impulse buy flowers (or one time a five hundred dollar coat), but heknows that Brenneth gets more out of things that involve some doing—either somethinghe put work into or something they can do together.  He buys her things like classes or museummemberships or riding lessons, or gives her ornately prepared food or handmadethings, pretty much whenever he can find a half-decent excuse.  

He also likes to buy her nice clothing becausehe knows she won’t.  Thus the coat.  And like five pairs of boots.  And some silk shirts.  And about half her wardrobe.  Brenneth, who was a very reluctant convert tothe idea that jeans and a sort of okay blouse weren’t “talk show attire,” ismore than glad to let him do her clothes and Shiko do her makeup and not haveto worry about anything except putting up her hair.