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badsongpetey · 5 months

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The Water Guardian (aka Cryptid Keith AU) Part 7

Keith’s cave is, well, Lance wouldn’t call it homey, but it’s not what he was expecting, whatever that was. Set off to the side of the waterfall, still close but far enough away to avoid the spray that surrounds it, the cave is dry, and warm, and remarkably clean. The stone floor smooth and polished from what looks like decades, maybe even centuries of wear.

A simple wooden table and chairs line up against one of the walls, and an equally simple bed piled with a few old quilts stands in the back. There are no pictures on the walls, but carvings made of wood and stone fill alcoves carved out of the stone walls of the cave itself.

Keith raises his hand and a sphere of bluish white light forms over his palm and rises gracefully to hover near the ceiling, illuminating the space fully. Well, that’s convenient.

Keith walks to the back of the cave, and bends over to open a chest at the foot of the bed. “My books are here.” He says by way of invitation.

It feels odd to be in what is clearly Keith’s home, but Keith seems cool about it, so Lance tries to be nonchalant. “Nice, ah, cave.”

Keith grunts and squats next to the chest, lifting out some of the books within.

Lance leans over. The chest is old, but well cared for. A couple dozen hard cover books are stacked neatly inside, next to some smaller carved wooden boxes, some wrapped in old linens.

Lance glances at the spines of the books he can see: There’s Jane Austen, Dickens, H.G. Wells, Jules Verne, Thoreau, Conan Doyle, Mark Twain, Brontë, Lewis Carroll, Bram Stoker. Keith hands Lance a book and he looks down to see it’s an old copy of “Treasure Island”. A really old copy.

He sits down at the small table to examine it. He carefully turns the yellowed pages, not wanting to damage Keith’s prized possessions. This book looks more like an antique than something a person would keep on their nightstand. All the books Keith has look old. Doesn’t look like he has a single author from the 20th century even. Keith said they belonged to his dad, was he some kind of collector?

“Have you read it?” Keith asks him, nodding at the book in front of Lance.

“Huh? Oh yeah,” Lance answers, “I think we read it back in 6th or 7th grade. I remember thinking it would be cool to be a pirate.” He smiles.

Keith hums and returns to sorting through his stash.

Lance takes another good look around the space. Now that he’s thinking about it, everything here looks old. And not the normal “this belongs to my parents or grandparents old”, but an “I found this at an estate sale at some haunted old mansion” kind of old. The only things that don’t look like antiques are the carvings of animals and birds that fill the shelves notched into the walls.

They look hand made, which makes sense, it’s not like there’s a mall nearby. Lance picks up a small wooden rabbit from the shelf next to the table. It’s beautiful work, delicate and realistic, looking like it could hop out of his hand at any moment. Keith clearly has other hobbies besides reading.

As he carefully returns the rabbit to its place on the shelf, he notices something he hadn’t before. A small, faded, sepia toned photo of a young couple in a plain sliver frame. Lance lifts it off the shelf and takes a closer look. The couple is dressed in clothing from over a century ago, and posed formally in what looks like a nice living room. The man is handsome and well built, he looks like he’s no stranger to hard work, but has kind eyes. The woman next to him is tall and beautiful, and, fuck, a DEAD RINGER for Keith.

Is this Keith’s mom? Are these his parents? They can’t be, this photo is ancient! But then so are the books, and everything else.

“Keith? Who are these people?” Lance asks, holding out the photo.

Keith glances over, “My parents.”

His parents? But, how…

“What year was this taken?”

Keith shrugs and turns back to the chest.

“You don’t know?”

“What care would I have for human years?” Keith responds without looking up.

Bah, this idiot is FRUSTRATING. But still, if this photo and the books are as old as they look… “Keith, how long have you been here?”

Keith is idly sorting through the books in the chest, clearly avoiding having to look at Lance. “A while.”

Lance huffs in exasperation, “How much of a while?”

“It’s not important.”

“Humor me.”

Keith sighs, “Maybe, ninety turns of the seasons?”

Lance sits back. NINETY YEARS? Keith’s at least ninety years old! He looks no older than Lance. Of course, he’s not a human, and who knows how long a dragon is supposed to live. Forever?

Still it’s a long time to live in this cave all alone. Geez, has he been alone this whole time? No wonder he wanted Lance to come back.

“Has it always just been you here to guard the waterfall?” Lance asks.

“Mostly.” Keith answers softly, still speaking into the chest.

“Did your mom live here too?”

Keith drops the lid of the chest down with a crash, standing abruptly. “You’ve seen the books, so we’re done here.” He spats.

Oh crap, too far. “I, I’m sorry. I shouldn’t pry. I just wanted to get to know you.”

Keith is silent, glaring at the exit, waiting for Lance to get out he supposes.

“I could get you more books. If you want.” Lance offers, hoping Keith takes it as the olive branch it is.

Keith shifts his gaze to Lance. “More books?”

“Well, you can’t think that this is all there is?” Lance chuckles, gesturing at the chest.

Keith looks down, “I don’t think much about it. This is what I have.”

Lance is suddenly overwhelmed with compassion. Hell, poor kid, stuck out here for a century with the same handful of books to keep him entertained.

“Well, yeah!” Lance smiles, “Of course there are more. Thousands more! Look!”

Lance grabs his phone and thumbs quickly to find his book app, bringing up one of the few downloaded books he has and shoves it in Keith’s face.

Keith squints looking confused, then focuses, his eyes growing wider by the second.

“This is a book??” He points to the phone in astonishment.

Lance nods enthusiastically. “Yup!”

Keith blows out an audible breath as he looks again at the phone. “I don’t know this story.”

“There are a lot of stories you don’t know.” Lance laughs. “But I can bring you them.”

Keith’s eyes are impossibly even wider when he looks back at Lance. “You could get books? For me?”

Lance scoffs, “Yeah, no problem! I’ve got a few and I can stop by the library. Seems like you enjoy adventure and fantasy stories, me too, I’ll bring some back next time I come.”

“Next time?” Keith asks, suddenly shy.

Oh lord, this guy… “Yes, next time. I mean, I’ve been a guest in your… cave, I figure we’re friends now.”

“Friends?” Keith repeats warily.

Shit, did he read this wrong? Just when he thought that maybe he was getting the hang of it. “I mean, if you don’t want me to, I don’t have to…”

“No!” Keith practically yells, “I… I want you to. Come back… bring books…” he looks down, “be friends.”

“Friends then.” Lance confirms with a grin.

#klance #voltron #keith kogane #lance mcclain #vld #water guardian au #dragon keith #klance au

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blueshistorysims · 8 months

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September 1921, Henford-on-Bagley, England

Dearest sister,

I hate it. I bloody detest it. Thomas, the title, the fucking castle. I could go on for hours about the castle. It is beautiful, yes, and full of history, but my god, it costs 6,000 bloody pounds a month to even run it. 72,000 a year. That’s more than I would make in fifteen years in my field of work. I think once Thomas dies I am going to sell it. I don’t see the need to live in a Versailles Palace knock-off. I was told that they even hired Jules Hardouin-Mansart and his successor Robert de Cotte to design the place back in 1709.

I spend six days a week with his grace, learning the skills and duties of a duke. He’s hired an etiquette coach to teach me how to dine properly (there is no need to be so many types of spoons and forks, why is there a fork just for eating cheese and another for snails?), a ballroom instructor to teach me to dance waltzes, and I spend hours with the estate manager, learning to the run the bloody place. Stella has escaped these tortures because her mother thought it be would smart to learn American, English, and French etiquette and dining styles.

Sundays are my only free day, and I spend it with Stella. She hates it here more than I do. She tells me that she wants to go home, back to New York. I don’t blame her. The countryside has almost no society, and we avoid the neighbors—Thomas doesn’t think we are ready to be in proper society yet. It is so bluntly obvious that he does not like us I almost laugh.

He leaves for London for parliament soon. I am tempted to sneak away on a boat back to New York. Change my name and run to California where Stella and I will run a hotel. It began as a joke at first, but I wonder if she’s starting to be semi-serious now. I think I will make a case to let us live in London, that way we will be near you and Francesca, and Stella knows people in London. She won’t stuck in a society based on racial privilege and merit. I just want to pursue my own life with my own interests.

I will send a telegram when I am in London. Hopefully soon.

Your darling suffering brother, Byron

East London

Giselle set the letter down and sighed. Of course Byron was complaining about living in a castle. She understood why he was angry, but she was living in a tiny apartment in East London, barely making ends meet if she and Francesca weren’t both working. The only person she felt sorry for in the matter was Stella.

“Oh Giselle,” Francesca wailed, opening the door and slamming it behind her. She was crying.

Giselle stood up in shock. “What happened, dearest? What is the matter?”

“I’ve had a telegram from the family lawyer. Aunt Rosamond is dead.”

#the walshes #the walsh legacy #the sims 4 #ts4 #sims 4 decades #sims 4 historical #ts4 story #history simblr #sims 4 history challenge #ts4 historical #ts4 decades challenge #1920s #ts4 1920s #tw sex mention #tw death #byron walsh #thomas walsh #stella gardenhouse #francesca pace

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theteasetwrites · 2 years

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The Beginning Is the End Is the Beginning

Chapter 99: In the Company of Angels

❧ Pairing: Daryl Dixon x Female Reader ❧ Era: Season 11 ❧ Pronouns: she/her ❧ Warnings: major character death ❧ Word Count: 3.5k

❧ In This Chapter: The Commonwealth is saved in one last effort to defeat the herd. When the panic dies down, there is happiness, but not everyone will live to see another day.

❧ A/N: Second-to-last chapter! So this one is pretty short, but I wanted to write the time jump in the next chapter (aka the last chapter ahhh). I tried to add in some stuff to tie in Reader's father and some of the characters she was closest to. You might also notice that I purposefully made Reader kind of uncomfortable with the celebration (because I was uncomfortable with the celebration lmao). I just felt like it was kind of random and unrealistic (yes I am aware that there are zombies walking around, but within the context of the show, it's nice to have the way people behave be a little realistic). Idk the whole dinner scene didn't sit right with me, so I tried to convey that a little bit lol.

Date: April 18, 2021

Time: Midnight

Our arrival to the Commonwealth was fraught with some… trouble. A herd had somehow gotten through the walls. Governor Milton’s orders were to direct the swarm to the lower wards, where the poor live. She’d also caught onto Mercer’s betrayal, imprisoning him. By the time we arrived, the walkers were flooding into the streets. We took the sewers through to Union Station, where a shootout ensued. Myself and many others were shot, and at this point my recollection fails me, but I’m told that at some point, Princess led a group to release Mercer from his prison. From there, Mercer and his guards snuck us into a safehouse in the Estates, where Pamela and the other elites were hoarding the last of the medicine. We lost Luke and Jules to the walkers. Lydia and Aaron had lost track of Jerry and Elijah in the herd, but they joined with us again by some miracle. Rosita found her daughter, Coco. She is safe, and so is Eugene, Yumiko, and Maxine.

The estates have the luxury of walls to keep the walkers out, but it kept the Commonwealth citizens out, too. Pamela refused to open the gates, signing a death sentence for the unlucky ones who were locked outside. They were screaming, crying, and begging to be let inside, spared from the dead.

Father Gabriel Stokes took a stand, ignoring the guns pointed at him as he made his way to the gate, preparing to shoot the lock and let the people in to save their lives from the impending herd. Governor Milton commanded her guards to shoot him down, but a resounding voice stopped them. It was Alexandria’s own Daryl Dixon, bravely approaching the governor herself, no weapons drawn. His words were simple, but louder than any gunshot, and stronger, too.

“Stop,” he said. “We all deserve better than this. You built this place to be like the old world, that was the problem. We’ve got one enemy. We’re not the walking dead.”

You paused for a moment, thinking of what to write next. It was most important that you wrote down exactly what Daryl had said, you figured. You supposed the rest now was living history, and you’d have to write more later, when you could collect your thoughts.

Daryl himself made his way over to you, looking just as dashing and brave as he did just a few hours ago now. As you sat up in your bed, he eyed you suspiciously. Hadn’t he just told you to rest? And yet there you were, etching hundreds of words into your journal, frantically writing down every thought that had come to you the past twenty-four hours. Everything that happened here tonight was important, and so much more was about to be underway.

When you felt his gaze on you, you lifted your head from your journal. The letters were starting to make you dizzy anyway. “Yes?” you asked.

A few men dressed head to toe in Commonwealth armor pushed past Daryl, carrying various boxes of explosives. It made you nervous, to say the least, but it was all part of the plan. Mercer’s plan.

Daryl crossed his arms with a huff, coming forward to sit himself down beside your bed. He’d left a chair there for himself, marked rather obviously by his vest. “Thought you were gonna be restin’.”

“I am resting.”

“No, you’re writing.”

“Well, I can write and rest at the same time, can’t I?”

He narrowed his eyes at your left arm, still wrapped tight in its sling. “How you feel?”

“My arm hurts,” you sighed. “But I’ll be fine.”

Out of curiosity, Daryl leaned back in his chair, his neck craning to get a look at what you were writing. “I see my name,” he said, focusing on your familiar cursive writing. “What’re ya sayin’ about me?”

“Oh,” you sighed dramatically, “just about how… noble, and brave, and heroic my husband is.”

You swore his eyes rolled into the back of his head. “Stop.”

“Why? It’s true. Besides, Robin and Westley will need to know how great their father is. It’s important, you know. And maybe someday they’ll have children of their own, and they’ll tell them about their… grandpa.”

Daryl shook his head. “Nah, no way. I’m not gonna be a grandpa.”

“Maybe you will,” you said with a shrug, and a mischievous grin. Sometimes, you got far too much enjoyment out of teasing him, but he was just so serious, and it was so fun to make that serious demeanor crumble, as it only really could for you. “It’s important to think about the future, about the consequences of all this.”

“All’s I know is what’s goin’ on right now. And right now it’s time to go, so get your journal.”

Indeed, the plan was ready. Aaron and some of the others had already diverted the herd, clearing a path for a truck to leave the estates and bring back the fuel. The plan was to light up the sewers, soak them in gasoline and lead the flame to the center of the estates, where the walkers would be corralled.

You could hear it now, the music just starting. “Cult of Personality” by Living Colour. Fitting, you supposed. The lyrics didn’t matter, though. What mattered was that the music was loud enough to bring the walkers to the estates. When those mansions were going to blow up, you didn’t want to be anywhere near it.

Everyone was loaded onto a truck, packed like a can of sardines and taken to the rendezvous point—one of the houses on the other side of town. By the time everyone had cleared the estates, the gates were left open, purposefully. The walkers poured in, death and decay taking over this once prosperous neighborhood.

Everyone was far away when the music stopped, time suspended for what seemed like years, but it was only a few moments. Finally, a huge burst of flames, followed by waves upon waves of explosions dotting the estates, each triggering another until the whole district was bubbling with bright orange.

Beneath the ground, the sewers were opening up, splitting the dirt to suck in hundreds of burning walkers, like Hell was opening up and taking back its creatures. When the first bursts of the explosions died down, the charred remains of the estates were filled with burning trees and the last of the walkers that could still walk as their rotten flesh burnt off their bones.

From what you could see, the herd was eradicated. Still, you weren’t sure it was cause for celebration. The estates were destroyed, along with dozens of homes that could’ve housed the poor and the sick. Whatever food and resources those buildings had were reduced to smithereens before your very eyes. Not only that, but who knows how many people had died during the swarm?

You didn’t share that sentiment with most of the others, though.

Yumiko invited everyone from Alexandria to her house in the wee hours of the morning. For your part, you fell asleep on her couch, not knowing when you awoke that a grand feast was waiting for you in the afternoon.

It was Daryl’s hand that gently rocked your shoulder. “Come get somethin’ to eat,” he said, and you swore you were in a dream.

The dining room was immaculate, with a meal of epic proportions splayed over the table, with more to spare on the kitchen counters, where so many familiar faces gathered around to serve themselves. You blinked hard, shaking your head as you looked towards your husband. “Am I awake?”

“Yeah,” he said, and you knew it must’ve been real—you could feel his hand pressed upon your lower back, then his lips grazing your cheek. “I’ll make ya a plate. Sit down.”

Despite its clear reality, you couldn’t escape the strange warm glow all around you. It felt like you were dead. Well, in Heaven, maybe. But you weren’t, you knew you weren’t. You were alive, but something felt too good to be true. Something was off.

Across the dining room table, you felt Rosita’s eyes on you. She leaned closer, pointing her finger at your sling. “You all right?”

“Mhm.” Tentatively, you took a sip of red wine. It was the first you’d tasted of it in ages. Nine months pregnant, plus several more in which wine was the least important thing you could consume, so you didn’t. It felt strange to drink it now, but why not? Everything else felt so strange, anyway. “Are you?”

She rocked uncomfortably in her chair, but flashed a smile regardless. “Of course.”

Something was wrong.

“Rosita—”

Maggie’s hand startled you as she touched your shoulder. Her green eyes widened as she let out a laugh. Were you the only one not happy?

As she sat beside you, she eagerly unfolded her napkin, then helped herself to a serving of mashed potatoes. How did anyone have the energy to prepare this meal? Nothing seemed right.

“You were asleep for so long,” remarked Maggie. “I was worried you wouldn’t wake up.”

“Feels like I didn’t.” You were caught between reality and a dream.

Daryl’s heavy presence loomed over you. He placed your plate in front of you—it was overflowing with ham and gravy and biscuits and salad and grapes… He’d given you far too much food for one person to eat. Still, you knew you would eat all of it with how hungry you were.

“Thank you.” He shocked you for a moment, bending over to kiss the corner of your mouth. You looked at him suspiciously. “Am I in the Twilight Zone?”

“Eat your food,” he scoffed playfully. “‘Fore it gets cold.”

With a belly full of food, soon it became clear to you that there was no harm in celebrating what merriment there was for the time being. Pamela was imprisoned, the walkers were slain, the people were free.

It was a beautiful dinner, the warm glow of the candles spread all over the table illuminating so many smiling faces. The world had changed so much since last night—darkness had given into light, and with the new day came a new era. It was on everyone’s breath. The cleansing fire had come again, as it had come so many times before.

It was nothing new, you’d seen it before, so many, many times.

Atlanta, the quarry, the CDC, the farm, the prison, the Kingdom, the Hilltop… As worlds ended, new ones were born. Even those worlds hadn’t really ever ended, you figured. It wasn’t even really a matter of things ending or beginning when it came down to it, it was a matter of continuing on, keeping those memories alive for as long as you could. That was the trick.

That was the celebration. A new beginning, once again. As many times as you’d felt it, you’d never get tired of that feeling. Hope, that’s exactly what it was. Hope for the future, for the world to become whole again.

The mission wasn’t over, you all knew that. The world was still broken, crumbling all around you, but there were pockets of wholeness, moments wherein everything became so perfect that it was hard to believe it was real. But it was real, and they were real. Your family was real.

And yet, you couldn’t shake this feeling, as though the vibrant images that projected all around you were just figments of your imagination, like any second now you’d wake up and it would all have been some strange, long dream.

Maybe you’d awaken, having never met a man named Daryl, having never had his children. That was the worst thing you could imagine, so you willed it away from your mind as quickly as it came.

Instead, you dozed off for a while, thinking of all the voices you couldn’t hear amidst the celebrations. Strangely, you found yourself picturing a world in which your father could see all this. You hadn’t thought of him in so long, but a sudden wave of memory lost to time came flooding in.

The memory wasn’t one that had ever existed, at least, not in this lifetime. It was an image of a dinner much like this, but with everyone you’d come to know and love.

Rick, Michonne, Glenn, Beverly, Dale, Tara, Andrea, Tyreese, Beth… All the ones you lost were surrounded by some glowing aura, like they were angels. They were so bright and beautiful that you nearly squinted just to make our their features.

Your father, though, you saw particularly clearly. In your vision, he’d sit right across the table from Daryl. He’d know the happiness you had found with him, the true and innocent love he gave you. You knew above all else that he would’ve loved Daryl, too. He would’ve seen him as another son, and a great man.

In his lap would sit baby Westley, watching in fascination as his grandfather played peek-a-boo with the child, much to his wonder.

Robin would sit near him, too, laughing at one of Dale’s silly jokes. He’d impart some important lesson to her, and she’d listen closely, eager to learn from the wise man.

Aaron would pour a glass of wine for Eric, his one true love. You were sure your father would look on proudly, happy to know that Aaron was living the life he wanted with the man he loved.

Perhaps Rick would raise a toast, it seemed like the kind of thing he would’ve done. “To family,” he might say. “To hope, and to the future.”

Glenn and Maggie would laugh together like they used to. They’d have a hard time letting go of each other’s hands. You recalled they used to hold on until the last possible second.

Sophia and Carl would be so much bigger now. You’d hardly be able to recognize Sophia, but what a beautiful young woman she would’ve become. You’d reminisce with them about the times at the quarry, and how little they seemed in such a big, scary world.

As much as you hated to invite him to your perfect little tableau, you turned to look at Daryl, and you saw an inkling of Merle in that smirk he gave you. It had Daryl’s gentleness, but Merle was in him, too. You liked to think that, if he had lived to see this day, he’d have changed. Maybe he’d see the ignorance of his ways, and maybe, by some miracle, he’d be a good uncle to your children. Well, thank goodness it was just in your imagination.

“Hon?” Daryl’s raspy whisper made those faces disappear, but their essence still lingered. His warm hand laid tentatively over yours, until he gently squeezed it to get your attention. “You all right?”

“Yes,” you said with a smile. He felt some relief wash over him. For a second there, he worried you had already gotten tipsy from the wine. You were always a lightweight, but then again, you were terribly amusing when you were drunk. He would know. “I’m fine, sweetheart.”

His lips eased into a small smile. As his cheeks lifted, you admired his face, how beautifully sculpted it had been. Every detail, from the bags under his eyes to the slight slope of his nose, was your favorite—you couldn’t decide on just one. And his skin was so clear, so soft. The wine must’ve been getting to him a little, as you could see a glowing rosiness in his warm cheeks.

Though his black eye had only darkened, you still swooped his hair back, allowing you to see every perfect inch of him.

The fact that you were admiring him through hazy bedroom eyes did not go unnoticed.

“What’re ya thinkin’ about?”

Naughty things, mister Dixon.

“How happy I am,” you replied, opting for an innocent conversation instead.

His hand squeezed yours a little tighter. In this lighting, with the gold-tinted hue of the candles playing off your features, he couldn’t take his eyes off you if his life depended on it, and thank goodness it didn’t.

“Are you happy, Daryl?”

For the last eleven years, he’d been able to say yes. Why would that change today?

“Yeah. I’m the happiest I’ve ever been, since you came along.”

He wished he had the more complex words to describe the way you made him feel, but simple platitudes spoken by many lovers before and many lovers after would have to do.

“I’d like it to stay like this forever,” you said. “Just frozen in time. I don’t ever want to forget this feeling.”

“You don’t have to… We keep it alive, you and me. Long as we live, and after.”

“And the people,” you added. “The people we lost, they’re still alive, right? We keep the fire burning for them.”

“That’s right, angel.”

Despite the euphoria you felt come over you, there was still that inkling of looming devastation floating around the room. It didn’t show itself immediately, but gradually, as the heady afternoon blended into the clarifying evening, your suspicions of impending tragedy proved to be correct.

Rosita shared the news, that horrible news you’d been dreading since she looked at you that way. You didn’t process it at first, it just sort of… sat there. She’d hid it so well all this time. The bite on her back was completely covered by her shirt and her hair, but nothing could hide the fact that the fever was coming, worsening and becoming stronger with each passing moment. Time was running out for her, and it felt so wrong.

In the bedroom where she laid, each and every one of you was given the unspoken opportunity to say goodbye. It was a beautiful room, perfect for Rosita. The walls were a pale blush color, with lovely pink roses in a vase by the door. Roses for Rosita, you thought, smiling through your tears as you sat upon the chair by her bed.

She reached for your hand, and you took it with a gentle shake. Beside her was Coco, napping upon a bed of pillows. She was older than Wes, of course, but you couldn’t help but see her and wonder if one day the two of them would be friends. You hoped so.

“Hey,” she said, her eyes struggling to keep open. She looked paler than usual, and you could tell by the redness under her eyes that the illness was taking its effect. It felt so cruel, so unfair. She had so much life left in her, and for it to be cut short so suddenly was nothing short of a tragedy.

“Hi.” Even a single syllable word was not immune to your tears. Your voice cracked and faltered as you wiped your nose with your free hand. What were you supposed to say? There was so much to say to her. She was your friend. “I—I, um…” You shook your head, trying to compose yourself. “Rosita, nothing’s going to be the same without you.”

She smiled. “You’re going to be fine. You’re brave.”

You laughed at that. It seemed like just yesterday Rosita had called you weak. Now, it was just a humorous memory. “You’re one of the bravest people I’ve ever known.”

It was evident in the way it happened. She’d been bit saving Coco, her child. That, indeed, was the greatest act of bravery. “Will you… watch over Coco for me?”

You were choked up at this point, hardly able to speak without bursting. “I will,” you said with a fervent nod. “Of course. Always.”

“And, if you can,” she faltered a little, her eyes becoming hazy. You could tell she was on her way out, her voice having trouble coming through. “Tell Robin… about how badass we were, you and me.”

Your eyes widened a little. Of course, Rosita was “badass,” but you weren’t so sure that you were. “I sure will,” you snorted. “I’ll tell her all those stories.”

“I wish I could see her grow up…. Her and Coco, and Wes, too… All of them.”

“Hey,” you said, leaning forward to hug her. She was burning hot, so hot she was cold. “I’ll be your eyes and ears, okay? Everything I see, you’re gonna see it, too.”

“Promise?”

“Promise.”

It was so hard to say goodbye.

That night, you closed your eyes to sleep, held tight by the same pair of strong arms that were made for you. They kept you safe, sheltered, but your mind still wandered.

You found yourself at that dinner table again, surrounded by all those you loved, and those you lost. Rosita was shining bright now. She held her baby in her arms. She looked like the Virgin Mary.

Her soothing face didn’t haunt you, it lulled you to a peaceful sleep. The death she’d been given was beautiful. You could only hope that someday, you’d die with your greatest loves beside you, and you’d see them again in some crazy woman’s vision.

Thanks for reading! Likes, comments, and reblogs of any kind are always appreciated!

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luminouslumity · 11 months

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Mainland Boys: A Joseph and Billy Story

From Kendare Blake's newsletter: a snippet set on the mainland during the time that Joseph was banished there with Billy.

By the winter of his sixteenth year, Joseph Sandrin had been away from Fennbirn for what felt like a long time. But only when he thought about it. Most days, he was as any of the other mainland boys his age: concerned with his studies, and the break from his studies for the holiday, concerned with prospects of sport, concerned with whether he and his foster brother Billy Chatworth would merit an invitation to the Governor’s Ball. Most days, he was of the mainland, for that was the ground beneath his feet, and those were the lives that surrounded him.

But sometimes, and more often when he was near the sea, he thought of his old life, the one he had led as a boy on that shrouded island of magic. He would think of hot, steamed clams in butter, and birds perched on shoulders. Dogs and petulant cats with such expressive faces that they could sometimes seem to speak. He thought of fields full of barley that popped at a touch. And mostly, he thought of his girls: a dark little queen with a coal-smudged nose, and the naturalist girl with one green eye and one blue.

That day, at the start of December, he stood at the edge of a frozen pond, edged with dead, tanned reeds. Close enough to the sea, he supposed, to spark the memories of the island. Or perhaps it was only that it was December, when both of his girls would celebrate their birthdays.

“Joseph! Ho, Joseph!”

Joseph smiled, listening to the soft crunching in the snow as Billy approached from the direction of the house. Then a sharp crack, and a laughed curse: his shoe must have broken through the ice. “Stop walking on the pond, dolt,” Joseph said over his shoulder. “The ice isn’t thick enough yet.”

“Damn, my foot is freezing!” Billy threw his arm around Joseph and shook him. “What are you doing out here?”

“Thinking.”

“Thinking of Christine Hollen? Squirreled away in the privacy of the Governor’s stables?”

Joseph chuckled. Christine Hollen was the Governor’s daughter. His oldest daughter. She would not be seen cavorting with the likes of him, a foreigner, a foster-son, not even if his foster family was one of the richest in the city.

They had come north for the holiday, like many of the best, most respected families had, including the Governor. The Chatworth’s country estate, Hartford, was not far from the Governor’s own. It was actually visible from the most eastern hill. Joseph ought to know. Billy had brought him up there plenty of times, dreaming of the day he would buy it right out from underneath the Hollens at half the value.

“I’m not about to play around with the Governor’s daughter. Your father would have my head.”

Billy let go of him and tugged his scarf up farther on his neck. “Well you ought to do some playing at least. The lads are starting to talk.”

“You know I’m…waiting for someone.”

“Ah yes.” Billy grinned. “Waiting for someone. And that would be the infamous Jules Milone, wouldn’t it? The girl you haven’t laid eyes upon since you were eleven? The girl you may never see again if I don’t become king of your home country?” He cocked an eyebrow and burst out laughing. Joseph did as well. Billy Chatworth, the king-consort of Fennbirn Island. It sounded ridiculous, and seemed impossible.

Not impossible, he thought as he looked at his foster brother from the corner of his eye. Difficult. But he must have been sent to the Chatworths to groom Arsinoe’s future husband. Why else would the Goddess have sent him? He had clung to that belief in the early years, clung to it hard, filling Billy’s ears with stories of Fennbirn. His education, in Joseph’s mind. But now that the time of the Ascension drew near, it felt more and more like fancy. Made up by his childhood imagination, to make his banishment bearable.

“Only a few months left,” Billy said. “Finally, after all this time, I get to go to your secret island. I have to admit, part of me doesn’t believe it exists. Part of me expects to board the boat and find you and my father laughing your arses off at your magnificent, five-year practical joke.”

“But we don’t know if it’s ‘we’, do we?” Joseph said. “I’m still banished. You might be on your own.”

“On my own? No, not after so long.”

“The Black Council doesn’t often let go of a grudge. Why do you think I’ve been preparing you all these years?”

Billy shrugged, the carefree mainland boy, even in the face of courting a queen. A queen who would have to murder her two sister queens, no less. But Billy had grown up on the mainland, with no gifts, and no Goddess. No queens and no Black Council looking down over everything. He had grown up with money, and with power, and with ease, and the struggle of the queens would not be real until he saw it for himself.

“You worry too much, Joseph. My father will work something out. He always does.” He blew warm breath into his cupped hands. “It’s freezing out here. Let’s go into the village and grab a pint before the party tonight.”

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

The walk to the village was short, but Billy insisted on taking the carriage anyway on account of his cold, wet foot. As they were let out near the pub, something in a shop window caught Joseph’s eye.

“What now?” Billy asked, following as he went to press his fingertips to the glass.

It was a ring. A simple, silver ring, set with dark green stones.

Billy leaned close. “That’s nowhere near fine enough to catch the prettiest girl in three counties.”

“Christine Hollen is not the prettiest girl in three counties. She’s only the wealthiest. And I wasn’t thinking of her.”

“Of course you weren’t. This is more to Jules’s taste, then?”

“When it caught the light, from over there…it looked like the color of her green eye.”

Billy leaned back and squinted. “So it does.”

“How would you know?”

“Well, I did have that old cat, with one blue eye and one green—”

Joseph smiled. “Stop comparing Jules to your old deaf cat.”

“I loved that cat. And I’m willing to bet that I remember the shade of that cat’s eyes better than you remember the eyes of some eleven-year-old girl. She might not even have those eyes anymore. They might have,” he wiggled his fingers vaguely, “darkened and whatnot. It’s unnatural for you to have carried on about her this long when you don’t even know what she looks like.”

“I know what she looks like.” Or at least, he thought he did. He remembered so well that girl of five years ago. Her smile. Her clothes. The sound of her voice. And as time passed, and as he grew up, so did the Jules of his imagination. Her hair grew long and tumbled down her back. Her face thinned and her eyes softened. Her laugh changed from the high, wild laugh of a child to the low, easy one of a young woman.

Of course, anyone who knew her family could have told him that the girl he was imagining was really only the image of Jules’s aunt, Caragh, with a dash of her mother Madrigal thrown in as wishful thinking. When Joseph imagined Jules, he simply conjured up the most beautiful girl he could think of, because to him, that’s what she was.

“It’s nearly her birthday. Sixteen, just like the queens. Born in the same month.”

Billy sighed. “The same month as Arsinoe. My bride-to-be.”

“Your queen-to-be.” Joseph watched as Billy’s eyes lost focus, and the blush crept into his cheeks. Billy imagined Arsinoe the way Joseph imagined Jules. Over the years, Joseph had built Arsinoe up, highlighting her virtues: her bravery, her wit, her fierce, affectionate spirit. He may have left out some other things, like that she was stubborn as an old donkey, sarcastic and secretive. And of course he had told him she was beautiful, when he had no idea. When they were children, Arsinoe was just like Jules: dirty and running about, and she had kept her hair very short. Poor Billy. All queens are beautiful, they say, but in Billy’s mind, Arsinoe must look just like Christine Hollen, only with black hair and eyes. And though Joseph does not doubt that she will be lovely, she will not be lovely like that.

“I can’t wait to meet her for real,” Billy said, his voice wistful. Then he straightened, and tugged on his lapels. “Queen or not, one look at me and she’ll faint dead away.”

“From fright?” Joseph laughed, and Billy tugged him back down the street to the pub.

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

Despite the chilly winter air, the party was warm. It was a dinner party, and so not terribly crowded; certainly not as crowded as the Governor’s holiday ball was bound to be, though that was on more expansive grounds.

Joseph, as usual, stayed back from the dancing, content to stand by himself at the window and imagine what Jules and Arsinoe would make of the mainland dances. The mainland girls in their frilly frocks, with lace at the sleeves and ribbons in their hair. Perhaps he should have warned Billy that Arsinoe would be constantly in trousers. But no. Why ruin the surprise.

“Are you not dancing again, Joseph?”

He did not need to turn to know who that purring voice belonged to, but he did so anyway, to be polite. “I’m afraid dancing has never suited me, Miss Hollen.” Christine Hollen, the Governor’s daughter, stood before him resplendent in green satin that made her blond hair shine like spun gold. Somehow she had managed to get herself alone. Usually she was flanked by a small herd of girls of similar age and social status. Watching them Joseph was reminded of the geese that wandered to and from the pond on the Milone property.

“I could teach you,” Christine said quietly.

“So I could dance at your wedding to Billy?” he asked, and she tossed her head back and laughed.

“Billy Chatworth has not looked at me once since this summer.”

“But he speaks of you often. Just this afternoon he told me you were the prettiest girl in three counties.” She does not blush much at that. No doubt that is a lower number of counties than she is used to. “You know that if he decides not to go abroad, he will pursue you in earnest. And when he does, then I’ll learn to dance.” He excused himself quickly, and ignored her dropped open mouth.

He moved through the rest of the party, making sure to appear to be searching for Billy. If he was idle for one moment, some girl would be upon him, trying to drag him out for a turn on the floor. Room after room and he did not spy Billy; after four rooms he began to search for real. He even poked his head into the drawing room, where the men sat smoking cigars and playing cards. But Billy was nowhere in the house.

“So which girl is also missing,” Joseph muttered as he stepped out onto the porch. The winter air was cold, but still, and an earlier dusting of fresh snow coated the trees and fence posts and made everything soft. Even in the blue light of evening, it was not hard to follow Billy’s footprints.

As he walked, he heard Jules’s voice in his ear like he so often had when they tracked something as children. “Here’s where they started to hurry,” she would have said, and, “here’s where she picked up her dress to stop it dragging in the snow.” They hit a snow drift, and the girl’s prints ended. “Oh, for Goddess’s sake,” he could hear Jules sigh. “Here’s where he picked her up.”

He followed the trail to one of the stables. Not the busy one where the coach drivers were having their own bit of merriment as their horses rested and stayed dry, but the nearly deserted one that housed the horses owned by their host. He opened the door and it creaked, but not before he heard the low laughter and rustling of clothes.

Joseph shook his head. He stomped his feet. He gave them plenty of time to put themselves together before he climbed the ladder into the hayloft, but even then, Billy’s tie was undone and Penny’s dress was askew.

“Joseph!” Billy exclaimed and put his hand to his head in relief. “You gave us a fright!”

“As I should. You’re starting to be missed.” He nodded to Penny, who blushed as she brushed past him.

“Will you—will you make it back to the house all right?” Billy asked, and she paused on the ladder only long enough to glare.

“What are you doing?” Joseph asked when he heard the door open and close again. “Just this afternoon you were dreaming of queens.”

“So I’m practicing.” Billy grinned. “Besides, that festival you keep going on about isn’t for months.” He peered regretfully at the ladder after Penny. “Not terribly gallant, I suppose.”

“Not terribly.”

“I’ll be better. I will.” He threw his arm around Joseph’s shoulder.

“If you ever treat Arsinoe that way…”

“I know, I know, you’ll strike me dead. And I wouldn’t dream of it.”

Joseph clenched his jaw. “Sometimes I don’t know how I expect her to come to love you like I do.”

They walked together back to the house, and upon entering, ran directly into Billy’s father, Mr. Chatworth. Instantly, both boys straightened. Mr. Chatworth was an imposing man, though Joseph could never put his finger on why. He was handsome, but not extremely so, tall, but not towering. It was something in the eyes, perhaps. You always knew that he had the measure of you. That he saw through you, the moment you opened your mouth.

“There you are,” he said, and smiled. “Joseph, I need a moment with my son.” He led Billy without a word up the stairs and into a private office. It did not matter that it was not his house, and not his office. Chatworth did what he wanted, and somehow that earned him respect. Back in Wolf Spring, it would have earned him a punch in the face.

Content to wait, and away from the party at least, Joseph paced slowly at the bottom of the stairs. It seemed a long time before Mr. Chatworth came down again, and smiled at him, and patted his shoulder. Billy followed after, looking a bit dazed.

“What was that about?” Joseph asked.

“He received a letter,” Billy replied, and as he spoke, his face lost its paleness, and his mouth curled into a smile. “From your island. Your banishment has ended early, brother! You’re to go home before the end of the month!”

Joseph could barely breathe. He threw his arms around Billy and they shook each other hard. “I can’t believe it!”

“And that’s not the best part! I’m to come with you, and stay with your family. Get a bit of a head start with the queens.” He punched Joseph in the arm. “I told you my father would figure something out.”

Joseph’s head spun with hopes he had been too afraid to have for the last five years. He was going home. Home to his mother, and father. Home to Matthew and Jonah and Wolf Spring. Home to Jules. And to Arsinoe, with the gift of a fine husband.

Billy reached into his pocket. “And there’s this,” he said, and pulled out a small box. He opened it, and inside was the silver ring that Joseph had admired in the shop window. Even in the dimness of the hall, the green stones glittered. “I doubled back for it when I sent you home ahead.”

“I can’t afford it,” said Joseph, and pushed the box back.

Billy shook his head and placed it in Joseph’s hands. “I’m not going to let you go home with nothing for your girl.” Then he turned him back to the party, his grin wide. “Joseph my friend, we are going to take that island of yours by storm.”

#three dark crowns #kendare blake

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