#legend to this day firmly believes he is taller

[kai-zuha]

This is my prediction of how we figure out Hyrule is taller than Legend

Legend: *trying to grab something from a shelf but his fingers barely brush it*

Hyrule: *passes by and sees Legend struggling, easily grabs the item Legend wanted and hands it to him*

Legend: I hate that you can do that.

Hyrule: :)

[quietly-sleeping]

Wip Wednesday - 11/6/24 Urban Legend SY

Back to sufficient energy levels so maybe I can participate again next week! Finally made progress on this wip, and I'm slowly chugging through a few others, so hopefully a few more of these posts will go up in the next few days

@wizisbored @eriquin @enigma-the-mysterious @twyrewolf @circus-complex @oriharaizayadividesintoslytherin @asha10100101010 @1attheedge @kallisto-k

Yue Qingyuan was having what could be described as a good day. No disciples had to be sent to Qian Cao; no inter-peak raids occurred, and there was not even a public argument between his martial siblings. So, of course, as Yue Qingyuan was taking the time to plow through his paperwork after teaching his disciples, some of his martial siblings arrived. He didn’t dislike these visits; he found them vital to retaining the close bond martial siblings needed. However, when they arrived unannounced and with many young eyes following them, they became a bit more troublesome. Mu Qingfang and Liu Qingge weren’t an unusual pair. However, those visits were usually because their shidi refused medical care, and Mu Qingfang was using Yue Qingyuan as a last resort. The pair sat down at the low table in his office; they were quiet as Yue Qingyuan allowed his Head Disciple to prepare tea. The soft sound of the door closing signaled Mu Qingfang to begin. “Yue-shixiong, it seems that Liu-shidi did not read any of the letters or summons sent to him over the past month.” The doctor didn’t hesitate to cut directly to the issue. Even though it caused Liu Qingge to glance away when Yue Qingyuan turned towards him. Yue Qingyuan knew he was hopeless against his younger martial siblings; he tried not to make known amongst them, but they had spent nearly twenty years together already. So he really couldn’t do much more than sigh as Liu Qingge avoided looking at him. “I see, and where is Yuan-shidi?” 

Liu Qingge frowned, shifting slightly in his seat, “He’s still with some of his friends, I think. Dealing with beasts appearing where they aren’t supposed to.” Yue Qingyuan nodded slowly. So, the ascension would have to be pushed back further. “Would you be able to find him?” Liu Qingge nodded shortly, “Likely, he told me where they were going to head next.”  Yue Qingyuan smiled, ignoring the look Mu Qingfang was shooting him, “Then you should be able to lead Shen-shidi to him as well.” Liu Qingge jerked his head back towards Yue Qingyuan, his silver eyes wide. “Shen Qingqiu?” He snapped, "Why him?" Yue Qingyuan didn't flinch, simply keeping his eyes firmly on his shidi. "Shidi would know if he read the summons, wouldn't he?" Liu Qingge frowned at him, but leaned back, accepting the task. Nodding slightly Yue Qingyuan turned to Mu Qingfang, who appeared to be stifling a smile. "Thank you Mu-shidi, I'm sure you have other tasks to be handled." The doctor glanced over at Liu Qingge once more before nodding and standing. "This shixiong wishes Liu-shidi luck in his mission." He said mildly, ducking out of the room quickly, the door shutting softly behind him. Liu Qingge scowled darkly at the wall behind Yue Qingyuan, and he simply couldn't hold his tongue this time. "Surely Liu-shidi is not so opposed to working with his shixiong?" Liu Qingge was quiet for a moment before crossing his arms, his eyes moving from the wall behind Yue Qingyuan to the taller man's eyes. "You should ask him." Yue Qingyuan wasn't quite sure what lurked in those silver eyes staring at him. This wasn't usually how Liu Qingge spoke about Shen Qingqiu, he seemed more resigned in a way. Yue Qingyuan allowed the silence to settle before he nodded, "I will explain to Shen-shidi about the mission, I believe Qi-shimei is already waiting for you with Liu-shizi." As the door shut behind Liu Qingge, Yue Qingyuan sighed softly, they both knew he wouldn't ask.

[kylermalloy]

B, K, O, T, W, Z

Christina my love! Thanks for the asks 🥰

B - A pairing–platonic, romantic or sexual–that you initially didn’t consider, but someone changed your mind.

A lot of the pairings I’m into happened like this—I was neutral or lukewarm toward them, but then I read a fic, or found a mutual who was really into them, and I became a believer.

Hmm…it’s still not an otp of mine, but I’ll say Royai—Roy/Riza from FMA. I’m barely interested in the military characters on a good day, Riza being the exception because she’s cute and nice and the Elrics like her. I’ll credit @tomochingus and @aeruthien for getting me to appreciate her with Roy (because who am I to deny Riza what she wants?)

K - What character has your favorite development arc/the best development arc?

So many that I can think of! But for this one I’ll go with our genius banshee, Lydia. She begins Teen Wolf as the stereotypical mean girl at school—clearly there’s more going on, but this is all she lets people see. But as the show progresses, she lets more of her true self show. She becomes open about her intelligence, her growing affection for her friends, and her determination to do the right thing with her newfound powers. Even so, she doesn’t lose her hyperfemininity, her snark or any of her personality. She is still the same person as in the beginning, but she’s grown!

I mean, we can blame some of her development on Colton Haynes leaving the show and her losing Jackson earlier than they were planning—but I’m honestly grateful for that. Jackson’s abandoned storyline wasn’t worth all the stupid stuff that would’ve weighed Lydia down for another season or so.

O - Choose a song at random. Which ship or character does it remind you of?

This song was next on the playlist I have right now! The Labyrinth Song. Obviously takes inspiration from the myth of Theseus and the minotaur—the lyrics invoke Ariadne a lot, and how the singer has failed her. How he has slain the beast, but it’s implied the beast was actually part of him.

Naturally this train of thought leads me to the Mikaelsons and their complicated relationship with their humanity/monstrosity. Specifically I am thinking of Haylijah and Elijah’s struggle to feel worthy of Hayley’s love. Should he love her? Is he deserving of her? Does the “beast” inside him need to be killed before he can have her? Can that beast be killed? So many questions!

T - Do you have any hard and fast headcanons that you will die defending?

Normally headcanons are a slippery realm for me. I am not a fan of popular headcanons being elevated to “fanon” status that people will die on their hills for.

I do however have some small parts of canon that I will die rejecting—does that count? For instance, I posit that Stiles and Lydia were definitely dating before 6a; it just wasn’t shown to us. It doesn’t affect the plot of 6a at all—and it gives me more room for imagination!

Also, speaking of FMA stuff—I firmly reject Brotherhood’s take on post-canon Alphonse. He’s much too square and bulky. No one who spent years being malnourished can bounce back and look like a linebacker in that amount of time. The boy stays slender. He can get taller, sure, but not broader! I’ll die defending that.

Also, I haven’t brought up SPN yet—I must bring on the cringe! I’ll die on the hill of SamJack, that Sam had much more of a relationship with Jack than we saw.

W - A trope which you are virtually certain to hate in any fandom.

I hate to say found family, but…found family.

I will emphasize the fandom part of this question—I have no problem with stories where people without roots find home in each other. That’s great! One of my favorite shows, DC’s Legends of Tomorrow (rip), has a proper found family narrative that I adore! These characters are literally rejects from other DC shows and they find a place with other time traveling losers. Truly a proper found family.

I can’t stand it though when fandoms co-opt this trope and take it to mean “these people who are maybe(?) friends in canon definitely consider themselves a family unit and this is what the show is about.” (I’m looking at you, spn fandom. And you’re not even honest about what you really like about the show!)

The main reason this annoys me is that fandom “found family” tends to leave out the characters who actually do have the strongest canon bond—the biological siblings! Like, sure, this character makes friends in canon, but can you not see how much they care for the person who has been by their side since they were both little?

It’s oddly specific, I know, and doesn’t happen every single time in fandom—but it’s something I see over and over in my experiences, and it really grinds my gears. I get it if that particular sibling relationship isn’t your favorite or whatever, but would it kill you to acknowledge it? If not, I just won’t enjoy your fics or your fanart or whatever.

Z - Just ramble about something fan-related, go go go!

This is way too tempting, Christina. I want to complain about things! Positivity is not my strong suit, at least not right now.

I just…don’t see why people (fans and creators) can’t just let something die when it’s ready. Why are we getting a prequel to SPN less than two years after the show ended? And honestly, if I had to choose a spinoff for SPN, I would choose…literally anything besides this. There is no substance or importance to the story that they’re telling, not to mention we’ve already seen the most important parts of it in…you know, SPN itself.

Why is there a Teen Wolf movie? The show ended, what, five years ago? It won’t even be a “next generation” story because the first generation cast is still here—well, the ones who can’t get other jobs. Let’s not lie to ourselves, the charisma of Dylan O’Brien is largely what kept Teen Wolf enjoyable for so long. The last season without him was a humorless, miserable slog and I’m sure this movie will be the same.

Just…let the story be. You’re not going to make it any better by messing with it.

I’d complain about Legacies existing and messing up The Originals’ ending, but honestly—I got a suicide pact and my faves dying in each others’ arms. I will take that and fanfic the rest. (Also Legacies was just cancelled, so there’s that.)

I’m sorry for not rambling about something more positive 😔 but this is where I’m at today, apparently!

Send me fandom asks!

[shirokh]

THE POET OF THE COURT

“Alas my love you do me wrong

To cast me off discourteously;

And I have loved you oh so long

Delighting in your company.”

So was one of the more popular songs Damien, the sheikah poet used to sing for the court of Hyrule. Since he was a child, he always thought the queen was beautiful, and one of his goals was to sing in front of them just as he was now doing, and he did so since his father allowed him to acompany them at the age of twelve. The princess was a few years younger than him, but he always managed to find a nice lyric, story or poem to delight her with during special meals.

Even when he had to find some appropriate melody to her mother’s funeral, the sympathy he felt for the princess became more intense, as he felt the need to protect her from any harm, watching her child stoic self, and not allowing herself to cry in front of others. Was it perhaps his Sheikah blood, such as her guardian Impa, that he felt... whatever he was feeling...

Or maybe the songs he sang about romance were there for a reason, and from then on, every time he composed and sang, the princess came to his mind.

-“That must be what love is about... an impossible love... such inspiring” He told himself the moment he realised he just kept thinking a big percentage of the day on princess (goddess) Zelda, his muse. He didn’t eat, he didn’t sleep until he recognised on his heart that the love the songs described was little, compared to what he felt for his unreachable lady.

Or so he believed.

-“Damien! Could you keep playing that lullaby?” The princess asked him, it was already late and, as usual she kept working on her lab. Impa was half asleep sitting in a chair, and the princess was dissecting a peculiar full guardian arm.

-“You’r request is my pleasure as always, your highness” He said as he played a guitar version of Zelda’s lullaby. He loved when she called his name, it was like tasting honey.

-“You know that you are not obligued to keep working this late, right?” Impa told him, they knew each other since childhood, they were neighbours in Kakariko village, and their families also had a long friendship. Despite Impa’s parents and grandparents dedicated themselves to train in the arts of fighting as successors and guardians to the royal family, and all of Damien’s family were dedicated to music and served the royal family also.

-“It’s an honor to contribute to the princess investigations” he said as he began to play a different song, secretly this song was composed to express his feelings to the princess, it was a waltz he thought it would be better played with an accordion, but the violin gave it a soft and nice tone itself.

-“Such nice melody! I like when you play the violin also” The princes said, her hands were stained with oil from the guardian and half her face too. -“It always helps to have music, I think I can concentrate better”

-“Princess Zelda, It’s past midnight, we should get you to have a bath and prepare for tomorrow” Impa pleadingly asked, as she was tired herself.

-“I... Why can’t you come with me?! Instead of that perfect knight or whatever?!” Zelda left a heavy piece on the table, making a loud noise, Damien perceived her annoyance.

-“Princess... we already discussed it... it was a direct order from the King”

-“Impa! Or you could come along! I don’t think I need a knight to follow me around, it’s such a nonsense”

-“If I could be of any help, princess, I’d gladly contribute”

-“Thanks Damien, it’s just that I must part to the four regions to investigate the divine beasts, and my father insisted on me going with a knight he selected, instead of just me going alone...or with Impa” she said looking at her reproachingly.

“Mo! Princess! I told you already, all of us Sheikas are required to help with thecnology investigation, it could be an important part to defeat calamity... besides the sacred sword selected him”

-“Divine beasts are more important ! But my father is... worried that I can’t wake my power in time ..., so I must hurry, if I want to be able to pray to the goddess and have the Goron,Orni, Zora and Gerudo help with the beasts at the same time...”

-“I could come along if you allow me to, besides I haven’t been required in court for a while” Damien shyly suggested.

-“Could you do that?!” Zelda took his hands firmly, surprised the young Sheika blushed entirely, retreating himself from her.

-“I’m sorry... it’s just...” the princess began to apologise, it was a rush, but she liked the idea of going with a friendly face.

-“Please don’t apologise your highness, of course I’d love you... I’d love to go along with you...” he said stuttering a bit. Impa gave him a suspicious glance.

-“I’m watching you Damien, don’t try anything funny!” Impa said pointing at him with the guardian’s leg, and the three of them began laughing.

His hands were now also stained with oil. If he could, he wanted to keep them unwashed forever.

The knight was already waiting in the hall. He wasn’t a very tall man, even Damien was taller. He couldn’t help but compare himself to the boy, he seemed to be like his age, yet he had imagined a big and musculous guy, but instead there was this young man with an innocent and serious face, if he could say so.

Not that Damien considered himself ugly, even some girls had flirted with him, not because of his manly appearance, but because he took good care of his fragile self. Being a court musician didn’t involve much physical activity, yet he was trained in the proper way of the sigilous Sheikah. Demian had just packed some sheikah snaks, and of course his violin as well, it was better for travelling, the guitar would be heavy to carry.

The princess went down the stairs, and without even looking at Link, she went out her way, greeting Damien. Link bowed politely, getting on one knee.

“-Are you ready, master of music?”

-“On this tempestuous day,

Let me, beautiful princess

Show you all the way”

-“How is it you always have a verse?” She smiled and kept on going to the exit of the castle.

LINK’S POINT OF VIEW

He arrived early this morning. Rumour was that he was soon to be named the appointed knight for the princess officially. Yet now, the king entrusted him with the safety of his daughter travelling to the Rito Village. He used to be relaxed, but since that event where he obtained the master sword, he felt every one was watching him, so he was restless... “Was he good enough to carry the sword that repels the darkness?” Since childhood legends told that the hero would rise against evil, he used to love that stories, now he felt anxious about them, as he never imagined he would actually get to BE the hero himself.

A sheikah arrived and seemed to be waiting for something or someone. It was odd he carried a violin and Link felt observed. He nodded as a greeting.

The princess came downstairs. She was as beautiful as he remembered, and she had quite developed womanly features, Link scolded himself because of this thought, after all she was to become his Queen someday, so he owned every respect he could muster. Quickly he got in one knee and greeted her silently. After he stood up, he saw the princess happily greet the man with the violin, and how he took her hands and told her some words that made her smile.

“Why was he so close to the princess?” That though left his envious side arise, yet he had being training on not letting his emotions show anymore, after all, he had to be seen as a true hero chosen by the sword.

End of LINK’s POV

They began walking, followed by the knight and three more knights her father assigned to scort her. Damien thought that the sweet princess had also a different and more dark side, as she ignored and diminished the presence of the appointed knight, it was more than evident that she didn’t enjoy or even wanted his presence around her. Damien wanted to know every side of her, even the wrong sides.

The fact that the knight hadn’t said a single word about it was more entangling.

It was almost noon, they went on horse all the way, and only stopped to feed the horses and have a snack themselves. Zelda mainly spoke with Damien, as he also improvised some verses for her, and the other knights were entertained during meal by him. Link stood behind, always vigilant of the surrounding.

They went back on the horses, and when they got to Carock bridge Zelda looked at the map again.

-“So, I think that the way to Tabanta is this way to the north.”

Damien wasn’t sure, he barely traveled back and forth from Kakariko village, he had seen once or twice an orni merchant, but he was confident that the princess had the map with her.

-“It’s not”

A voice sounded from behind. Link had spoken. He had a soft and somehow masculine voice.

-“Speak, Link? Was it your name?”

-“The shortest way to Rito village is to the left. Unless you want to go trough the tundra, that would take us...”

-“We’ll take north” she interrupted him, not wanting to hear more of the chosen knight. And her horse obeyed the command to go north. Time after she would regret this decision.

-“... one more day...” he finished his sentence with a whisper. The other knights looked at him.

-“Well, if we are with you Link, I bet no monster would scare the sh** out of me”

The other knight scolded him for swearing, after all the princess may have heard them.

THIS WAS MEANT FOR A ONE SHOT, but the story kept on going 😬. Hope you enjoy it, Zelink story to the bones, and some jealousy involving the poet of the court (Main witness of Zelink) THANKS to Greenie for the name of the poet 💖

[maaaddiexo]

Chapter Three

Arthur Pendragon

Series: The Black Spear

Mainlist | Serieslist

A land lost to fire and magic but never forgotten.

A girl once of noble blood.

A boy blind to his own luxury.

---

Controlled chaos ensued for the next five minutes. Guards and Knights scrambled for extra weapons as the warning bell was rung from the highest tower. Arthur stood off to the side speaking with his father and Morgana. Merlin spoke with Gaius by the bushes urgently. With everybody distracted by something, Y/N pulled Clarice off to the side.

“I want you to leave. Get out of the castle and get to the others. Take them back to the camp.”

“What about you?”

“You look like a servant. I’ll get too much attention wearing this. You have more of a chance if you go alone.”

“We took an oath, Y/N. I won’t break it and leave you behind.”

“You have to.”

“You’re sitting ducks here. The guards will never get in position in time.”

“Clarice, today is not the day to be stubborn. If this is the day I die then it has been an honour to serve with you all. You have made my life amazing and exciting. Something a noble life could never be. Now go!” Y/N could tell Clarice didn’t want to leave her behind, but the blue-eyed girl turned her back and ran towards the maze. Once she was out of sight, Y/N turned and searched the crowd for a familiar face. It was Arthur she spotted first. He wasn’t necessarily tall, but he was taller than a lot of the people there.

“What’s going to happen?”

“The guards will form a circle around us. They’ve barricaded the castle doors already. We won’t be able to get in but if they think we’re in the castle when we’re out here we might be able to buy ourselves a little more time.”

“And if it doesn’t work?”

Arthur didn’t have an answer for her. “Look, just do what I tell you to, okay? It’s for your own safety.”

“Are Suron’s men good fighters?”

“They’re a well-trained army,” Arthur admitted and then gave Y/N a small smirk that didn’t seem entirely real. “But mine is better.”

The warning bell mixed in the air with shouts and war cries. The battle had begun. Y/N heard as swords clanged and men screamed in the distancce. She heard the sound of the castle doors being broken down and wondered how long they would be in the castle before they realized nobody was there.

She stood between Gwen and Arthur silently. In front of them, a row of knights stood in position, waiting for the garden doors to be broken down. Y/N covered her mouth with her hand to silence her heavy breathing. Somebody grabbed her hand in the darkness and she realized it was Gwen. The girl inched forward so that she was slightly in front of Y/N. When Y/N realized Gwen was protecting her, she felt her heart tighten. These weren’t her people and she owed them nothing yet they were willing to lay down their lives for her. In that moment – looking at the back of Gwen’s hair – she decided that when the gardens doors burst open and all hell broke loose, she wouldn’t stand idly by. She took an oath; not that of a princess but of a Protector.

When the garden doors finally fell, there wasn’t an immediate onslaught of invaders into the garden. They walked calmly and slowly over the doors and stopped on the other side. A man at the front with a receding hairline and a large scar running down the majority of his face sneered.

“Uther Pendragon. You’re looking pretty rough these days.”

“Yes. That happens when I’m constantly having people break into my castle,” the man responded wittily. “Leave now and we will not fight you.”

“That’s too bad,” the man chuckled. He tightened his grip on his sword. “I was kind of hoping for a fight.” And then he swung.

A guard met his blow with a block but stumbled under his force. As the other invaders rushed forward, so did the rest of the Camelot guards and knights. There were louder cries of war and pain as men from both sides fell and rose. And unlike last time, Y/N could see who it was crying out in pain and that was somehow worse. Y/N felt herself back up further and further until her back brushed the large hedge.

“It’s fine,” Gwen said over the sound of metal on metal. “Arthur has trained his men well. They’ll hold Suron’s men off until the rest can get here.”

“Arthur looks like he’s itching for a sword,” Y/N breathed, staring at the boy beside her. He was practically vibrating with adrenaline, shifting his feet and fisting his hands. He smiled at every step forward his men took and felt every blow his men felt. When one fell, he instinctively reached for a sword that wasn’t there. Y/n felt for him and had to look away.

“He might need one. We’re severely outnumbered- wait. Who’s that? Up on the balcony.”

Y/N followed Gwen’s line of sight and spotted a figure running along the balcony above the garden towards a banner that hung down. They were dressed in shades of black with a ripped jacket and worn boots. A mask covered the lower half of their face but when they turned, Y/N saw the glimpse of braided fire red hair and wild blue eyes.

Y/N smiled and shook her head as she watched her friend disarm an invader and frisk him for his weapons. “Should’ve known she’d never leave me behind.”

“What?” Gwen asked.

“I said could you hold this for me?” Y/N handed the borrowed crown to Gwen without waiting for a response. “Thanks.”

“Wait? Where are you going?”

Y/N didn’t answer. Clarice was already bringing her hand behind her head to throw a sword and Y/N had to be there to catch it. She was happy her dress was light and billowy as it was light when she ran and both Arthur and Gwen failed to grab it and hold her back.

As the sword summersaulted through the air, Y/N ran for the table covered with delicious foods. She stepped on a chair and then the table before jumping into the air to grab the sword. When she had it firmly in her grasp, she felt the power and confidence flood her body and smiled up at Clarice just as her friend repelled down the blood-red banner.

“You’re stupider than I thought if you actually thought – even for a second – that I was going to leave you behind.”

Y/N smiled and to the onlookers, it looked out of place. The two girls held swords comfortably – as if familiar with wielding them – and were surrounding by battling and fallen soldiers. But had they been dressed like the rest of fighters, nobody would have been able to pick them out of the crowd. They fought just like the men but were more graceful and with Y/N’s billowing dress, Arthur thought she looked like a goddess.

“Where did they learn to fight like that?” Arthur asked nobody in particular.

“They look like rebels,” Uther replied.

“Look!” Morgana yelled and pointed to the same balcony Clarice had come from. More female rebels flooded the balcony and repelled down the banners and made quick work of cutting down the enemy. They didn’t stop to cry when they sustained an injury and they didn’t grimace when they were splattered with blood.

“I’ve never seen such talented rebels,” Arthur told his father.

Uther was in complete awe and admiration as he spoke. “I don’t think they are.”

“But you said-”

“I-I was wrong.”

When Arthur focused on all the girls and not just Y/N’s graceful fighting style, he realized his father was right. They fought much like his own soldiers – the same techniques and moves – but with more grace and efficiency. They were dressed like rebels but no rebel he knew of fought like a knight.

There were only a handful of Suron’s men left and they were quickly surrounded by both of the other parties. Still, they went down fighting but were slaughtered within minutes. Arthur watched Y/N fight with the elegance of a princess and the fierceness of a knight. She was unstoppable and she knew it. When the last invader had fallen, there was a moment of silence before one of the knights sheathed his sword and began to clap. Slowly but surely, everyone still standing in the garden began to clap and Y/N smiled, walking over to the group of royalty. All were shocked into silence except for Uther, who had seen this sight once before.

“You’re Keepers of the Black Spear.” It wasn’t a question. Y/N smiled.

“Yes.” She gestured to another girl who stepped up beside her – no older than she – and pointed to the insignia stitched into the shoulder. “You recognized our mark?”

“No…no. I’ve seen this once before. When I was a boy.”

“Who are the Keepers of the Black Spear?” Morgana asked.

“It’s believed they fell into myth long ago,” Uther said. He still couldn’t take his eyes off the girls in front of him. “The Black Spear was the alias of a man long ago. He was good but did bad to achieve it and thus gained many enemies. According to legend, he hired only the best of fighters which happened to all be women. They were the best-trained fighters in the world. But they were also guardians. Protectors. It is said they keep the world mostly at peace, eliminating threats and creatures of magic.”

“Actually, just those who perform bad acts. Human or magical, we have no quarrel with those who do good.”

“How did you come to be a part of this…organization?” Arthur asked.

“They were the ones who found me and the few survivors after Coventry was attacked. The men were taken to nearby towns and the women to the Black Spear’s camp. They’ve raised me and have become my family.”

Arthur pursed his lips and stared at the crown in Guinevere’s hands. He tapped it. “I guess you won’t be wanting this back?”

“I appreciate all that you have done for me, but I am a Keeper now. My royal life is in the past, and that is where it is meant to stay.”

Arthur nodded firmly and stepped forward. He looked at Y/N once again and took in her appearance for he knew this was where they parted. Her hair was now a mess and covered in blood, which had run down her face like rain down a window. Her dress was ripped and Arthur spotted a few cuts on her arms. By all definition, Y/N was a mess, but she was still beautiful. Fierce and beautiful.

“Thank you for coming to our aid. I see you have no loyalty to anybody and yet you risked your lives for Camelot. Thank you. Camelot owes you a debt.” Someone in the background muttered, ‘Oou. The Prince owes us one. Fancy’.

“Maybe I’ll come collect it one day but for now, I think it best if me and the girls get as far away from Suron as soon as possible.”

Arthur laughed. “Good idea. It was an honour to meet you, My Lady.”

Y/N stuck out her hand for a shake but Arthur treated her like the princess she once was and not the commoner she currently was and kissed the back of her hand. Y/N rolled her eyes but let it happen. When Arthur stood up and rolled his shoulders back, Y/N leaned forward and kissed his cheek.

“If you ever want to play damsel in distress again, head north and travel beyond the mountain ridge.”

Arthur gave a humourless laugh. “Right, okay.” Like he would need help from a girl ever again. This was the one and only time a girl would save him.

Y/N gave him a brilliant smile. “See you around, Art.”

[captcas]

Worth Fighting For (5/?)

WORTH FIGHTING FOR by capthamm

Killian “Hook” Jones is a dominate up and comer in the UFC while Emma “The Savior” Swan’s career was cut short. When Hook’s manager moves up and the office brings in UFC’s youngest legend to keep him in check, will either of them be able to handle it?

read on ao3 // tumblr: ch 1/ ch 2 / ch 3 / ch 4

[CHAPTER 5/?]

That meeting was a disaster.

Professionally speaking, her and Killian actually got a lot done, but on every other level it was the worst meeting she’s ever been to. Everything felt forced and awkward. She supposes it’s her fault for blocking every single attempt Killian made at them having any sort of human connection.

She can’t allow that. She feels herself drawn to him in a way ten times more powerful than anything she felt with Neal.  She just wishes the meetings could be less excruciating.

She walks into Granny’s to meet Ruby and Henry (who she picked up from school when Emma ran late at work) and practically throws herself into the booth.

“Rough day?” Ruby is sneering at Emma who must be wearing the residual effects of that horrible meeting all over her face.

“You could say that.” Emma scoffs. “Hey, kid, how was school?” Henry looks up from his game and smiles, “It was great! I’m almost done with the seventh book and my teacher said I could do my next book report on it.”

Emma smiles at her son and then gives him a few quarters for the jukebox. As soon as he scoots out of the booth Ruby levels with her, “Ok, spill.”

Emma rolls her eyes, “Really, Rubes, it was just an off meeting with Jones.”

“Ooohhh, Jones .” Ruby wiggles her eyebrows, “You’ve already got nicknames, huh.”

Emma grunts in mock amusement, “It’s easier than saying Mr. Jones all the time.”

Ruby has to hold back her laughter, “Ok, Em, whatever you say. I think Mr. Jones has you all worked up and we need to let off some steam.” Before Emma can decipher what she means, Ruby is tapping away on her phone, and Emma’s goes nuts with notifications for the group chat their friends share.

Ruby: Emma needs a girls night. Ms, you in? David, can you take Henry?

Mary Margaret: Ohh how fun! I’m in!

David: Of course. I’m in desperate need of a guys night. ;)

Ruby: Perfect! Tomorrow night. 8pm. That pub. The one sort of by Emma’s apartment.

Mary Margaret: Perfect! Oh! I’m sooooo excited!

Emma: Don’t I get a say in this?

David: No.

Ruby: No.

Mary Margaret: No.

Emma looks up at Ruby and sighs, but she can’t fight the smile that creeps up at the corner of her mouth. She may be a bit unorthodox, but Ruby is one of the best friends Emma’s ever had. She always knows what Emma needs and makes it happen in record time.  As they chat about their days and Henry details the entirety of his plan for the Battle of Hogwarts, the stress in Emma’s stomach dissipates. She finds herself looking forward to a night out with friends. Hopefully the drinks and company will remove all thoughts of the dark haired, blue eyed, British fighter who seems to be taking up space in her mind whether she likes it or not.

. . .

It is not uncommon for Killian to find himself nursing a glass of Captain on a Friday night. It is uncommon that Emma Swan walks into the very pub where he’s chosen to do so.

He switches up where he drinks, typically avoiding crowded sports bars downtown where he may be recognized. He finds comfort in the rum– a familiar feeling– as he lets the ambient sounds of the bar blur behind his thoughts.

Her laugh cuts through the static like a knife. He can’t help but turn around at his recognition, but he quickly pivots back before meeting her eye; unsure his presence is what she desires this evening. He diverts his attention solely to the rum as a woman leans into the bar a few feet away from him. He can see her look around out of the corner of his eye and when the brunette’s gaze lands on him, he is too late to turn his head. “Killian ‘Hook’ Jones? Is that you?”

He sighs and rubs his bruised knuckles, “Aye, lass. No pictures tonight, ple–”

“Oh no, I didn’t mean– My name is Mary Margaret! I just– my friend, she–” Killian turns to look at the woman as someone walks up behind her.

“Ms, did you order ye–” Emma finds him as she follows her friend’s eyeline. “Oh, Killian, uh, hi.”

“Hello, Swan.” He gives her a tight smile, doing his best to hide his happiness just to be in the same room as her. He decides it’ll be easier to slip into his “Hook” persona– not just for him– but for Emma, as well. He smirks softly at her, darting his eyes to her friend.

Emma sighs, but introduces them all the same, “Ms, this is Killian. Killian, my sister-in-law, Mary Margaret.”

Killian stands up from his barstool and approaches Emma’s friend, “Pleasure, m’lady.” He shakes her hand as another woman, taller than both Emma and Mary Margaret comes up behind them.

“Oh, hello.” She eyes him up and down (if he weren’t a bit tipsy he may have felt a bit violated). “You must be Killian Jones. I’ve heard so much about you.” Killian hazards a glance at Emma, grinning as the blush creeps into her cheeks. “All good I hope.” He winks. “And you are?"

Emma’s friend steps forward, but in an uncharacteristic move, Emma stands in front of her, effectively cutting her off. “That’s Ruby.”

“Pleasure.” He smiles down at Emma but gets the overwhelming feeling he should excuse himself from the conversation. “Aye, well, it was wonderful meeting you lasses, but I should let you get back to it.”

He sees the tension leave Emma’s shoulders as she sighs, but Mary Margaret speaks up, “Nonsense! Any friend of Emma’s is a friend of ours! We’ve got room at the booth, why don’t you join us?”

He glances towards Emma and can see the hesitation in her eyes, “That’s awfully kind of you, ma’am, but I’ll leave that up to Emma.” He turns to her, hoping the look in his eye tells her the choice is hers.

She looks at him intently before nodding, “Alright, but the first round is on you.”

Killian can’t stop the smile from breaking across his face at her acceptance. “As you wish, Swan.” He mocks a slight bow as Emma and her two friends laugh and turn away back to their booth. He collects their drinks and another for himself before joining them in the booth.

He slides in next to Emma, the brush of their thighs burning white hot. She smiles softly as Mary Margaret begins asking questions about his career and how he became a professional fighter.

He gives her the press approved answer, leaving out broken hearts, dead siblings, and bar brawls.

The rest of the night flows easily, Emma’s friend Ruby a harmless flirt and her sister-in-law seemingly the most genuine person he’s ever met. Conversation is lighthearted and he even manages a smile out of Emma more than once. By the end of the night, she’s sitting next to him comfortably rather than putting as much space between them as is possible for a small bench.

He likes this Emma; carefree, flushed, and happy. He’d give anything to see her happy for the rest of his life.

That realization should startle him much more than it does.

. . .

Much to her disdain, Ruby and Mary Margaret let it slip that Emma’s apartment is close by, and Killian insists that he walk her home. She hesitates at first, shooting wary glances to her friends but a small nudge from Mary Margaret tells her it can’t hurt. Henry is spending the night at the Nolan’s, and even if he wasn’t, it’s not like he’d come upstairs anyway.

Emma ignores the disappointment she feels at that realization.

“Alright, let’s go, Jones.” He smiles the smile she’s learned is reserved just for her and her belly does something absolutely absurd.

They walk the few blocks only inches apart, their knuckles brushing lightly every other step. They talk about nothing, but the silence is comforting. When they arrive at her place, she turns to him, “Thanks, Jones. You really didn’t need to walk me home.”

“Aye, Swan, but it was the gentlemanly thing to do.” He smiles that smile again.

Damn him.

“Oh so now you’re a gentleman.” She smirks at him, flirting before she realizes it.

He steps closer into her space. “I’m always a gentleman, love. Now, I believe gratitude is in order.” Emma can’t help the small drop in her jaw when he flirts back, touching his lips with his hand.

“That’s what the thank you was for.” She mentally tells her feet to step away, but they act of their own accord, cemented firmly toe-to-toe with his.

“Is that all your ensured safety is worth to you?” Emma can’t help but scoff at what he’s insinuating.

“Please, you couldn’t handle it.” His smirk grows more cheeky now, the small part of Killian that is Hook coming through in his flirtations.

“Perhaps you're the one who couldn’t handle it.”

Emma doesn’t know if it’s the distinct lack of space between them, the way he clicks the final syllable of his sentence, or the challenge he’s presented, but before she can stop herself, she’s grabbing the collar of his leather jacket. In the next moment, she finds lips softer than she imagined– she’d be a liar if she said she hadn’t imagined this– brush against hers. It’s slow at first, but– as soon as he starts kissing her back– the pent up tension that’s been simmering since the moment he approached her at the gym takes over.

They fit together perfectly.

She indulges in this for a moment more, and he breaks away for a breath. With the gasp of air, her common sense douses her like a bucket of cold water.

She refuses to make eye contact with him as he whispers against her lips, “That was…”

Emma cuts him off before he can express aloud all the feelings she’s actively running from.

Ah, there’s her wall. A little late this time, but adding bricks all the same.

“...a one time thing.” She backs away, resisting the urge to touch where his lips just left hers.

She walks towards her apartment building, reeling from a kiss she thought would end her stupid infatuation with this man. As she closes the door she can’t help but hear his response carried by the wind, and despite her best efforts, she can’t feign the small smile which twitches on the side of her mouth.

She closes the door behind her, taking a deep breath and releasing the tension in her shoulders. She hesitates, but ultimately pulls out her phone, scrolling to the name she entered but never thought she’d use.

[bi-in-july]

30 Day WOL Challenge #1

June 8 // Aftermath, 2381 words

She was a most perplexing creature, this Warrior of Light. Or Darkness, he supposed it was now, given current events.

Semantics aside, she was every bit the hero here that she was in the other realm, the one with the Garleans. Every bit the hero in both as she was in her numerous other forms, really. And yet, she was the only one who seemed to resent the title, the only one who hid from it. The only one who, in all but name, was anything but a conventional hero.

Emet Selch had only had the opportunity to speak with her other shades on a few occasions, and they had been only a fraction of the many that made the whole. Shades was an apt description. Hollow shells - vain, simple, ignorant, blank. Any hopes he’d have of catching a glimpse of a memory or sliver of a resemblance were always rather quickly and decidedly dashed. Audrieth was certainly no exception.

But she was different. And perhaps that made her closer to the real thing than he cared to admit.

He had studied the way her palette shifted, saturating with a streak of passionate scarlet when she beheld the emergence of her miqo’te accomplice from the aetherstream. In an instant, both she and the hyuran fellow had been kneeling at her side, scarcely believing she was in their arms once more. Emet Selch had smirked to himself. How easily they had forgotten their suspicion and ire in the presence of their thought-to-be-gone friend.

For much of the rest of the conversation - mostly a boring display of affection from the hrothgar and musings about the supposed mysteries of Qitana Ravel - that splash of red had persisted, though it did subdue. This was not the first companion she had seen restored to life, he supposed, watching as she relaxed, her world no longer turbulent with grief and at ease with a sense of peace. 

One by one, the Scions had disappeared, already turning their focus to the next task at hand as they made their way back to the huts of the trees. One by one, until Audrieth remained. Her sparkling eyes followed them, faring them well with a smile. It was perhaps the most honest her face had been since she had arrived. She must truly be overcome with relief if she allowed herself to be this vulnerable. 

As they departed, he watched the black seeping back into her aura, with a mix of silver it seemed. The Ascian straightened in his physical form, perking up at the sight. Now that was interesting.

“What a touching reunion that was,” he drawled to her back. Another surge of black accompanied the tensing of her shoulders, her fingers curling against her palms. But as usual, she answered him with a silence that told him all he needed to know. 

“It fair brought a tear to the eye,” he continued, “But as we both know, such moments are nothing if not momentary.” She heard him approaching, her head tilting to the side to hear his words better. Or perhaps to locate the source, should she need to pounce. Curious thing. Her bangs hid her eyes from him, but rather than pursed lips, hers were parted, black ever expanding around her.

“Before long they will remember their many differences,” he finished as he arrived at her side and peered down at her, “and return to squabbling.”

Now he could behold those windows to the soul, as red as her earlier outburst of emotion. Her dark lashes shaded them from the sun and he could practically see the gears churning, hear the creaks and hisses, as she mulled through some thought that she was getting ready to share. Though her gaze was pointedly directed toward the ground in front of them, he knew exactly where her words would be addressed. Her mouth opened fully and closed promptly. Then again, twice more. A spiral of black and silver spinning and spinning around her.

“You are welcome,” he said with a smirk. “Expressions of emotion do not come easily to you, do they, dear? Not to worry, I will not force your vocal gratitude.”

There was that characteristic eye roll. Her red eyes flashed upwards, a light crackling in the air between them. “You are insufferable.”

“You seem to be suffering me rather well thus far.”

Her arms crossed with her rather predictable denial and frustration. “Don’t get excited,” she warned him, “Just because I find you useful doesn’t mean I trust you.” Or enjoy my company, he inwardly chuckled.

“Of course not,” he said, theatrically giving her his best offended expression. “The Warrior of Light would never think anything of her mortal enemy. I’d be a fool to believe otherwise. Though it does wound me to think you are only ‘using’ me.” He tsked at her. “I thought heroes were better than that?”

Audrieth turned to face him now, but where he had expected to find a defiant glare or an admonishing look, she instead appeared thoughtful. Her eyes were searching him and for a moment he actually genuinely shuddered.

Who was it he was speaking to again?

“You didn’t use void magic.” There was a question here and an oddly timed one at that. Emet Selch blinked at her as he placed her face once more in his mind.

“Void is not the only source I draw upon, this is true,” he answered slowly with realization. “Are you referring to my retrieval of the thaumaturge?”

Audrieth gave him a single nod, her eyes unchanging. “You could have brought her back with void magic, but you didn’t.”

He shrugged. “Well, you wanted your friend back in one piece, did you not? A shadowy replica would not do. Not to mention,” he smirked again, “I cannot imagine you would have allowed me to let loose any other unspeakable creatures on this plane.”

She visibly shuddered at the thought, but remained steadfast in her attempt to talk to him. He had not seen such a swelling of black in her before. He half desired to call her out right then, but thought better of it. She was a prickly one. It would be more rewarding to let her speak.

“I didn’t know you used other forms of magic.” Her head was cocked and Emet Selch was momentarily distracted by the uncharacteristic and endearing sight. The two of them began to walk and the Ascian was becoming increasingly intrigued by where their steps would carry them. She was only about a half fulm shorter than his current form, but with the way she was carrying herself she seemed smaller, younger, unsure.

“Well, my dear,” he chuckled, “I would not have concealed my true nature well within that little empire if I had been opening void-gates at each stroke of the hour. You will find I possess a vast array of talents.” He enjoyed the way ‘dear’ rolled right off of her, like a skipping stone barely touching the surface of the water. That was just like a mortal not to notice something so painfully familiar. She truly had no idea who she was.

“What did you use, then?” she asked, interrupting his thoughts, her eyes firmly on his now. “How did you bring her back?”

He raised an eyebrow at her. “What is the phrase? ‘A magician never reveals his secrets?’”

Her eyes narrowed in annoyance. “Don’t give me that. Tell me how you did it.”

“You cannot do me harm with your eyes,” he said, chuckling again as she continued to glower at him. “Why? Is it not similar to how you heal?”

She paused, and all of the warmth of the red from earlier turned cool. “There is a difference between healing and bringing back the dead,” she said, her voice lower now. “I’ve never seen someone plucked from the stream before.”

“Gods, how weak you all are,” he mused aloud, “No wonder you all are so frightened and easily swayed.” He couldn’t fathom feeling so powerless. The things he could do at the snap of his fingers were only myths and legends, even for Hydaelyn’s most esteemed champion.

Audrieth suddenly moved to stand in front of him, blocking him off from walking any further. They nearly collided, but his movements were slow enough that he anticipated the new obstacle and came to a halt before her. 

“You want my gratitude? You want my trust?” she asked, her eyes blazing, as red seeped back into her aura. “Answer my questions. With straight answers, not distracting insults.”

Emet Selch let out a heavy sigh. “Back to threats, are we?”

“It’s not a threat,” she said, jutting up her chin a bit, “It’s compromise. I need a reason to heed you and allow you near my friends.”

“Oh? And my reviving of the dead is not reason enough?”

“It’s...a start,” she said hesitantly, “Look, I just-” She cut herself off, tearing her eyes away from his as she was bombarded with waves of complex feelings she didn’t fully understand. He watched the black and silver and red and blue mixing and blurring like water-colored paint, patiently waiting. 

“You need me,” she finally said, “I don’t know what for, but there’s a reason you haven’t been interfering with anything we’ve done yet. You say you’re also being honest, which I don’t trust for a second. But you want something from me, I can tell.” 

Her eyes darted up to his once, more gauging his reaction. He wasn’t going to give her one. But oh, was this getting to be very interesting indeed. “Is that what you think?” he asked, his face passive and unreadable.

“Well, you’re not outright denying it or insulting me, which makes me think I might not be too far off,” she said, her weight shifting. She was gaining confidence, her shoulders rolled down again as she relaxed.

“Aren’t you clever. You can read me like a book.” His smirk reached the outer edges of his cheek. “I can keep no secrets from you.”

She pointedly ignored his sarcastic jabs and continued, “And the fact that it’s me, and no one else here, means something. Based on all of the other Ascians I’ve met, it means power.” Audrieth stood a bit taller now, not taller than him, but certainly meeting his gaze head on. “So, I have a proposal.”

Emet Selch tilted his head, squinting as sunlit rays bounced off of his conversation partner. For a moment, the light disrupted his vision, and everything with Audrieth’s profile shone a blinding white. It was amusing watching her, letting her think she had all the answers. He enjoyed teasing her so much he was always startled when she managed to surprise him. 

“Go on.”

The elezen took in a shaky breath, her eyes as cloudy as he was sure her thoughts were. “If you tell me what I want to know, I will be even more powerful.” 

One of his eyebrows quirked. “And?”

She flipped some strands of hair which had tumbled onto her chest over her shoulder, trying in vain to hide her apprehension. “It is in your best interest to help me. If you tell me how you brought Y’shtola back, teach me even-”

Emet Selch lifted a hand to stop her. “Well, well, well. The Warrior of Light wishes to bargain with an Ascian. What would your little friends think if they could hear you now, I wonder? I did not know Hydaelyn taught her minions to grovel so shamelessly.”

“I’m not a minion and you know it,” she shot back, red starting to swallow up the black. He could not help but notice that her cheeks were flushed now as she spoke. “And you are dodging the question, like you always do. Trustworthy people do not dodge questions.”

He let out a snort of laughter as he watched her fume. “Yes, because you have never dodged a question in your life.”

Audrieth huffed and looked away again, glaring at a nearby glowing spore. “Case in point,” she grumbled. Perhaps he had ruffled her feathers enough.

“Forgive me, my dear,” he resigned his torture. Poor thing could only handle so much. “You are quite entertaining when you are flustered.”

Though her words were low, he thought he could make out something resembling a rather charged dismissal. Yes, her short patience had been lost, he realized. This was about the part in most conversations where he allowed her to leave, having given up on trying to understand or solve his riddles. But something made him want to speak further.

“The fact of the matter is, it is not something I can teach or share with you.”

That got her attention. Her hesitant curiosity drew her questioning eyes back to him. “It’s not?”

He shook his head and sidestepped around her, wishing to continue their pace. He half expected her to stand her ground and block him from moving, but she let him pass, her eyes following him. “To be able to grasp what I accomplished by procuring your friend,” he said, “There is an entire universe of knowledge you would need to grasp first. And you,” he glanced back at her over his shoulder, “...are not ready.”

That ever so predictable denial flared up once more. “I am ready.”

“No, you are not,” he sighed. “But you will be.” He watched her disgruntled expression turn to one of intrigue. She opened her mouth to respond.

With a snap of his fingers, he was gone from her vision, hiding in the shadows somewhere, watching the aftermath of their little interaction. Red and blue clashing, fighting and forcing the black and silver away. A frustrated stamp on the ground whose sound was muffled by the soft grass beneath it. But Audrieth was still after that, breathing steadily until her heartbeat returned to its normal pace. And after a few moments more, one of her Scion accomplices called her, bringing her away from her wandering thoughts and back to their mission. The colors subdued to their standard gray. 

But just before Emet Selch decided to depart, to shift his ethereal gaze to another tortured soul, he caught a glimpse of silvery shimmer, that almost seemed to reflect the light of the sun.

[vexingvexar]

Creation of the Seal

This story is part of Vexed Reflections, if you would like to support more, please check out our Patreon page.

Young Sisi longed for knowledge, as any sphinx would. They seek and protect knowledge as a more valuable prize than any material treasure. Every sphinx’s home had an archive, even the smallest of them. Tsete, the Platinum Champion was Sisi’s father, a proud sphinx warrior. Sihili, her mother, was a siren. How the two met is a story held in the very archives that Sisi happened to be sneaking into. The manor she called home had many such archives. Sisi had only just started to build her own. Today, she had decided to sneak into her father’s personal collection. Tsete was a warrior of legend, and Sisi’s wanderlust always lead her to stories and knowledge of adventure and battle.

Her light frame tiptoed down a dimly lit hallway. Blue orbs of light flitted in sconces against the walls. The hallway was far longer than she had imagined. It seemed only a dozen or so paces from end to end. No matter how long she walked, she could not reach the doors. She huffed in frustration, one of her mother's spells must have been used to safeguard the archives. Sisi wasn’t patient enough to master spells like her mother. She was more of a brute force kind of girl. She decided to outrun the magic, but It was to no avail. Only now, did she realize she hadn’t moved at all. She glanced back at the entrance of the hall, and she was no closer into the hallway than she had been when she first started walking.

A memory of her father walking down the hall came to her mind, almost as if called on. He had been talking to her mother somewhere else in the house. He chuckled at a comment she made as he backed down the hall.

“Ah!” Sisi turned around and began to walk backwards. Finally, her small wings brushed up against a pair of doors. “You are not he of the metallic flight, nor she of the waves. Who are you?” A soft voice whispered to Sisi. It took her by surprise. “I am S-” She paused, and thought before she spoke again. “I am she of the songs.” Sisi had worried about revealing herself, to what seems to be another protective spell. “He did not grant you access, nor did she. You of the songs, answer or be restrained.” ‘Crap’ Sisi thought. ‘Not a riddle, please, not a riddle.’ “Two are born of the same mother. They are born on the same day, the same year, the same time. The two are not twins. How can this be?”

‘WHAT?!’ Sisi thought in absolute frustration. ‘A riddle?’ She clenched her fist. Sisi knew not to answer incorrectly. The incorrect answer to anything a sphinx, or a sphinxes spell could lead to death; or worse. ‘Hnng, they are twins! They have the same mother, the same birthdate and time, two of them. They are twins! What else could they be?’ Sisi plopped herself down on the floor. The spell that protected the door gave no clues, not even another whisper. It simply waited for an answer, wrong or right. Sisi, brows furrowed, thought about her classes. She tried to remember anything that might help her understand. ‘Aha! The Rhyder brothers!’ “They are triplets!” Sisi spoke proudly, as if she had the answer all along. When the spell did not answer her, she began to worry. “They are triplets, all born at the same time, to the same mother, on the same day of the same year. Or quadruplets... Quintupl-” The door clicked, interrupting her other possible takes on the same answer. She reached a hand out, and pressed firmly. The cold stone of the heavy door gently swung open without much force. Magic seemed to hum to life as she entered. Gentle warm light filled the chamber. Books lined every wall, shelves seemed stacked in on themselves. A reading table sat at the center of the chamber. She was lost the moment she took a step. So many choices before her, her first adventure in this chamber was about to begin.

It had found her, or her it, a black and gold spined book. It was thick, old, and heavy enough to make her struggle with it back to the reading table.

The book was filled with hieroglyphs, diagrams, phrases and writings in languages she’d never heard of. Still it called to her. She saw something in the nonsensical writings. There were inventions, buildings, and mentions of spells in modern languages. It seemed like this book was both old and new, ancient and modern. She hadn’t realized the golden glow that began to brighten from the pages she turned.

Sisi seemed to float over a city of gold. The buildings tore at the clouds. Flying chariots delivered people to and from. An immense pyramid stood on its top at the very center of the city; much like the one in her own city. That is what drew her closer. Into the heart of the upside down prison. Who was imprisoned there? Why? Questions and answers began to flood her mind. It was looked at her before she looked at it, long before she looked at it, the book, long before she was, long before they were, and long after.

She wanted to look away, to scream, but there was no sound. Alone, in the archive, she sat frozen in place. Gold light shone from her eyes and the book. Her fingers clenched down on the desk.

Footsteps echoed from the hallway. “My child, you should not be in here!” Sihili rushed to her little girl. When she reached out, Sisi looked at her mother. The siren froze in her place. Tears of gold dripped down from the corners of Sisi’s eyes. “No, my child...” Sihili knew everything in that moment. She saw everything. The questions that all would ask, and the answers nothing could answer. That nothing had a voice, and that everything stared back.

‘How long have they been here?’ Tsete ground his teeth together. The pit in his stomach grew. He knew what awaited at the end of the hall. There were already several servants paralysed at the opened doors to the large room. His mind was racing with thoughts, the strongest of which was ‘How much longer was Thipa going to take?’

The sphinx seemed to arrive at the thought. A tall woman, covered in a bronze shimmer, strode toward Tsete. Thipa took a humanoid shape taller than most sphinx would. Her pride and stature was hard earned, even beyond the mighty Platinum Champion.

“She found it, of all those that were after it, she is the one who found it.” Tsete could not hold his anger back any further. “Your masters have done this to my family.”

“A risk we all agreed upon, Tsete. It was you who were given the task to protect it. Let us not waste time assigning blame. Your daughter may yet be salvageable.”

“SALVAGEABLE!?” He nearly roared.

Thipa let a glare fall upon him. Her bronze eyes swirled into an aquamarine color. “What is two halves together, but not whole?” Tsete felt weak in the knees. Thipa wielded the only weapon that could so easily wound him. He was bound to answer the sphinx. “My daughter.”

“What do you really think to get back from this? This is your price.” Thipa’s eyes shifted back to bronze. “This is what you pay to be allowed to let the two of them continue to exist.” She said no more as she walked down the hallway. The siren’s spell that enchanted the hallway was no more. Thipa cast a spell and a violet light formed a transparent shield in front of her face. Each servant she passed had long since been dead. They had suffocated in their paralyzation. “Rest in knowing all, your questions have been answered.” Thipa whispered as she passed Sihili, who had met the same demise. Sisi’s cheeks were covered in a stream of golden tears, down to her chin. “My poor child.” Thipa knelt in front of the young sphinx. She flicked her wrist and the large book closed itself. Sisi’s form did not change. “It is too late then, the first has taken hold.” Thipa began to chant, she held her hands out before her. “My child, may this day be forgotten. May he who hides be forever within, and for us forever without. My child, may your tears be cleansed, my child, may this day be forgotten.” Thipa cupped her hands under Sisi’s chin. Tears dripped slowly into Her hands. She began to chant again. Time passed as her hands filled with golden tears. The spell Thipa chanted would weave the golden tears into a sheet of metal. It flattened, and warped, working the metal into a visor. She called for Sisi “This punishment is not meant for you young one. This prison is not your own. You will not be alone. May your tears be forgotten. May this day be gone.” Thipa placed the now elegant, golden visor against the child sphinx’s face. For all of Thipa’s pride, her eyes watered. Though Sisi was not a full sphinx, no child deserved such tragedy. “If only we could all forget this day.” She whispered as she held Sisi. Thipa stood with the girl in her arms. She took a moment to regain a steady breath before heading to the hall. Tsete watched Thipa carry his daughter out of the chamber. Silent tears falling from his eyes from the sight, fearing the worst. Thipa nodded, “She sleeps for now, champion. When she wakes, she will not remember.” Thipa gently handed over the child to her father. “You would do well to make a believable story. Do not let today’s actions be a total loss. The power within that book is now within her. Should that be discovered, she will be sought after. Enjoy your remaining time with her, I will return within a week to begin her training. It will be hard for her to hide the power of a Khuul.”

Tsete could only nod. He refused to take his eyes off of his daughter. “Will I ever be able to see her eyes again?” “No.”

His broken breath gave way to his sobs. “And her mother?” “Was there.”

“Gods, why?”

His heartache touched Thipa far too unexpectedly. “I must take the book to the archives.” She struggled back her own tears. “You may go say your goodbyes. I will send help, for their removal... And further arrangements.”

The great champion dropped to his knees and cradled Sisi. Golden streams now stained her once rosy cheeks from under the ornate visor. His own tears fell to her face.“Thipa...” His voice broke. “This is too much.” He clenched Sisi close. “This price is too great.” He looked up at her. His face wet and flushed red. “I cannot pay this.. I cannot pay this!” Thipa turned away from him. She hoisted the book close to her chest and drew a long breath, and composed herself. “Life is a debt that cannot be paid, Tsete.” She slowly walked away from him. The sounds Tsete made next, the wails of a lover in grief, of a father in pain over his child echoed in her ears as she departed. She wanted to run from the sounds. “May we all forget this day.” She muttered with a broken breath.

[fictionalnormalcy]

The Boy with a Strange Name Ch.3

Modern Day HTTYD AU

Blurb: Living in practically every city in the Archipelago. Dad tells me that Berk seems to be the place to stay. New high school, old bully, actually making friends, but my unknown secrets are bound to catch up to me. It seems to me…that this move is going to be one of the most hectic I’ve had in 16 years of life. (Mix of book & movie univ.)

The New Kid’s First Day

She was going to throttle both of the twins at the same time if this was another prank. Ever since freshman year they had decided they were following in the footsteps of Loki. They used their friends as test subjects for any new prank they wanted to try, and she was tired of it. The Thorston twins were like leeches you could never be rid of, because no matter how she and their friends threatened them they still stuck around. Sure their pranks were at times unbearable, but they were loyal as well.

The twins had come to them practically bursting from excitement on Thursday, telling them they should be a welcoming committee for Monday morning. A boy had moved into a house on their block and said that he would be attending Berk High. Trent had said that they should meet up early so he wouldn't feel lonely on his first day. She couldn't believe it. They've come up with more elaborate schemes, and failing to give the boy's name made her think it wasn't true. She just wondered who else of their group of friends had been roped into this as well.

She ran behind him as they turned another corner. Aside from not mentioning the boy's name, he had also failed to give a description, so she had no idea who they were supposed to keep an eye out for. There were fifteen minutes until the first bell rang, which meant a small window to find the new kid. She spotted Regina's large thick blonde braids before they made eye contact. She called out to the pair, her words faintly heard since they were on the other side of the hallway.

Grabbing the idiot's hand, she dragged Trent over to meet her twin. Regina had her hand on someone's shoulder, who was trying desperately to not make eye contact with the three of them.

" Where's everyone else?" She asked.

" I could only get Astrid. Some went to their zero period class and others just couldn't get here in time. Wanted the extra five minutes to sleep in."

" This was important!" Regina pouted. " What, did they think we were joking!?"

Astrid resisted the urge to chuckle. She bet that was exactly the case.

Trent shrugged. " Guess we're going to have to do this at lunch then."

" The whole point was to do this before he was exposed to, hold on, where'd he go?"

Unbeknownst to the three of them, the boy they were supposed to be "welcoming" had slithered away. Astrid had only caught a glance of him, and now she could see him taking calculated steps along the row of burgundy lockers. He had his shoulders purposely hunched, trying to avoid attention from the other passing students.

" Hold on a second!" She yelled.

She took the couple of steps forward, and latched her hand onto his wrist. Regina had lunged forward as well, her hand locking around the boy's other wrist. Together they both tugged back until he had to turn around to face them. He had a nervous smile on his face, but she could tell from the look in his eyes that he felt... cornered.

He was just at her height, maybe an inch taller, and dressed in a lot of layers. The new kid wore a gray beanie, perched on his head so it hid most of his hair but his bangs were swept across his forehead and auburn locks peeked out at his nape. The scarf around his neck had been loosened, revealing his facial features fully. He had a faint scar on the right side of his chin, freckles scattered around his cheeks and on his nose, and bright forest green eyes.

Astrid immediately dropped his wrist, mumbling an apology while brushing a strand of hair behind her ear. " You know, you really don't need a lot of layers here. With the heating you're going to get warm rather quick."

" Right." He said quietly.

He made no movement to remove his clothing. He just stared at the three of them, his hands on the strap of his bag slung across his back.

" Sorry if the twins freaked you out. You'll just have to get used to it, because they're normally like this." She gestured to her friends. " We just wanted to give you a welcome to Berk High, but we're afraid the rest of the gang isn't here so you can meet them."

She held out her hand. " Name's Astrid Hofferson. The twins and I are juniors."

The boy grasped her hand, shaking it firmly before releasing. " Hiccup Haddock. I'm actually entering the junior year as well."

She neglected to say it aloud, but she was surprised someone would name their child Hiccup. It was such a strange name. It sounded vaguely familiar too.

" Hey, you might have a few classes with us then!" Trent shouted.

" Hiccup," Regina handed him a small booklet," we had more planned, but we're going to have to wait until lunchtime, you can meet the gang then."

" Ruffnut, a little nicer no?" She cuffed her on the back of the head. " That is, if you want to hang out with us Hiccup, you're welcome at our table."

" If you don't mind, could one of you show me around before classes start?"

" Astrid would be happy to do it!" Regina shoved her forward so she nearly fell into Hiccup's arms.

She cast a scowl back at them, then brushed another strand behind her ear as she faced Hiccup. It was then that she noted his one-strap bag was practically empty, sagging at his back with maybe only a notebook and pencil inside. He waited for her to lead the way, casting curious glances at the other students streaming through the hallways or merely hanging around their lockers. No one seemed to have noticed yet.

" She'll give you a better tour than either of us could. See you later Hiccup!" Trent waved before he and his sister quickly vanished from eyesight.

" I really hope that's true," She heard him mumble as they went in the other direction.

" So, we finally have a Haddock coming to Berk High," She tried for conversation as her hands fiddled with each other.

" Funny, Regina said something similar, about the Haddocks leaving the house vacated."

" Well yeah, in the trophy hall there's about five trophies and a lot of pictures honoring a Stoick Haddock. He's a legend around here."

Hiccup rolled his eyes. " That's my dad. Quite the athlete when he came here."

" You're following in his footsteps aren't you?"

" Not exactly able to." He said nonchalantly. " You called her Ruffnut. Isn't her name Regina?"

" Some of us have nicknames for each other. We never really call her Regina, we call her Ruffnut. Same for Trent. We call him Tuffnut. The Nut twins." She laughed.

" They have their own little strange names too," Hiccup offered a small chuckle.

" Where are you from Hiccup?"

" From Meathead."

" That's miles from here!"

" Dad wanted to come back to his hometown."

" Well we'll be glad to have you." She let out an audible sigh of relief as they reached the office. " Just go inside and ask to see Ms. Myrles. She'll get you your schedule and locker assignment. I'll wait outside so when you have your stuff I can show you around."

He opened the door, giving her a brief wave before the door clicked shut. Her hand immediately climbed to her forehead, wiping away the imaginary sweat she had accumulated. He was different than the usual students here at Berk High. She could definitely say she had never met anyone so nervous. His sentences were few, short, and to the point. She also noted that his voice sounded slightly-nasal and had a muddled accent.

Granted, she had never met anyone from Meathead, so she had no idea if it was the proper accent. If she could get him to relax enough and comfortable enough to speak freely, maybe she could pinpoint which accent it was. Some of her friends had relatives in Meathead, so there was a chance they would be able to figure out his accent. As the minutes ticked by, she revolved between staring at her phone for the passing time and trying to figure out what to talk about with the new kid.

Astrid wanted to get to know him, but she sensed that he wasn't eager to get to know her. His apprehension was clearly visible, and it compelled her to want to make him feel comfortable here at Berk. It made her wonder how he had been treated back at Meathead for him to be wary of other students who would only spare him a single glance before forgetting his existence. Or, he may just be the kind of person who attracts unwanted attention.

" Oh no I'm all right thank you someone already offered to give me a tour," A nasalled voice protested as the office door opened.

Hiccup cast a glance back at Astrid's shape leaning against the wall. Ms. Myrles followed his gaze and unleashed a huge grin.

" Ah yes, Miss Hofferson. I'll be glad to leave yae in her 'ands. A very capable student, she is," The headmaster's assistant said in her Scottish brogue," I hope you have good first day here at Berk High Mr. Haddock."

She patted his head before allowing the door to the office to swing shut. Hiccup adjusted the beanie on his head, having come loose from the adult contact. Astrid could bet that the new kid wasn't accustomed to people touching him.

" That was close."

" Huh?"

" Would you ever want to meet the principal on your first day?" He asked her pointedly.

" Actually, it's headmaster here, and yeah I understand how you feel. Meeting Headmaster Vikat for the first time can be pretty shocking."

" Another day, I told her."

" Though you hope for never, huh?"

" That easy to tell?"

He started to walk away, clutching the paper in his hands like it was his lifeline for surviving Berk High.

" Hiccup." She called. " You're going the wrong way. That's the way to the cafeteria."

" I should have asked for a map of the school."

" Show me your schedule. Then we'll navigate your route."

" Thanks, for helping me. Astrid, right?"

She have a nod, and he held out the paper toward her. Astrid could only help she managed to make his first day at Berk High one to remember.

https://www.fanfiction.net/s/13183339/1/The-Boy-With-A-Strange-Name

[bailesu]

Ladies Legendarium April Story - Prompt - Not Wholy Shut in Books.

Even now my heart desires to test my will upon it, to see if I could not wrench it from him and turn it where I would – to look across the wide seas of water and of time to Tirion the Fair, and perceive the unimaginable hand and mind of Feanor at their work, while both the White Tree and the Golden were in flower!’ He sighed and fell silent.

- The Two Towers

If I ever see Feanor again, I am going to beat him like a redheaded stepchild.

-- The Chronicles of Aredhel (ignored by Pengolod in his works)

But he isn’t a stepchild.  

-- Turgon in The Chronicles of Aredhel

The Untold Story Can Now Be Told Below the Break

Aredhel had not expected death to feel liberating.  The pain was gone and she flew over a seemingly endless ocean; the strangest thing was the dramas which played out upon them, which seemed to all involve humans, and a few of which also involved Dwarves and Elves, though Orcs were more common than either of those.  

She heard a song and she knew that voice, the voice of Nienna.  Singing at the end of the world, accompanied by her brother Mandos, the great call which drew home to Valinor the souls of the Fallen.  She did not want to go to Valinor, but she wanted to be free.  Free of the alternating gilded cages and hells she had been trapped in by choices gone bad and things beyond her power.

There might be another cage in Valinor but for now, she flew free and she had not realized how much she needed it.

The call drew her to the Halls of Mandos, but strangely, no one seemed to notice her arrival; she flew in a window and wandered the halls in the form of a bird, unsure if this was some new ability she had gained or a temporary effect of the call.

But suddenly, she was weary, so she found a statue to perch on and slept.

In the way of her life, she awoke on the floor, returned to her normal form, only now she was translucent.  Everything around her was so solid.

And oddly empty, as if it had been made to hold far more people than it now held.  She could not have said how many days she wandered, lost in memories and her own thoughts, trying to find *someone*.  Surely Mandos had not abandoned his halls or died.  Where were the dead???

A light drew her; the bobbing ball of light floated around her as she studied a strange wall painting; it was very crude but lively, some poorly sketched hunters using spears and bows on animals.  There was a life to it, a power, though it was *so bad*.  Had a dead small child drawn this?  But it was taller than she could reach and she was a full grown, if oddly crystalline, adult.

Even Thingol would have needed a ladder.

//Human Art//, the ball of light said to her mind.

//One of the Ainur,// she said softly.

//How did you wander into this wing?  There’s hardly anyone here because humans only stay a little while, then go on to the Halls of the Creator,// the ball said.  //They call me Illimix.// Beat.  //They being the humans I tend.//

//I have never met a human,// she said softly.  //Only heard stories.//

//They are so hasty,// Illimix said.  //I will take you to the Elven area .  Some of your kin are there, Lady Aredhel.//

She blinked.  //You know my name.//

//It is written on your beautiful soul,// he said respectfully.

She followed him for a long time; all the art here was terrible, but there was a vividness and a power.  If they had lived long enough to develop their skills.... but they died like flowers.  Flowers on Arda, anyway.

Finally, they entered an area with much more beautiful art... but there was less life to it, though it was new to her.  She greeted some she had known, but their conversations are not part of this saga.

Finally, Illimix led her to a room where a redhaired man and a redhaired woman were sitting and talking; many other translucent elves were listening. The woman, however, was solid, unlike the man.  She knew them, Feanor and his mother  Míriel Serindë.  Arguably the greatest elf who had ever lived, if you valued creative vision and art, and his mother would have been high on that scale as well.

He continued pontificating on some idea he had come up with to infuse the essence of wind into wood, to create ships which could fly.  He did not seem to notice her as she approached, but Miriel did, studying her cooly.

“Lady Aredhel, this is your uncle Feanor and your... step grand-mother?  No, that’s not right...,”  Illimix said, now speaking with words and getting a little agitated.

“It is good enough,” Miriel said.  “Just call me Lady Miriel,” she said to Aredhel, surprising her.  “Feanor, your neice is here.”

“I have no nieces,” he said firmly.  “Father’s marriage to Indis was a sham and invalid.  Now as I was saying...”

“The Valar approved everything,” Miriel said, frowning.  “Like it or not, Finwe married Indis with my blessing, for it let me rest as I needed.  I bear her line no ill will.”

“Did he tell you about how he abandoned us to die?” Aredhel demanded of Miriel.  “How we had to walk through the ice of the Helcaraxe?  How he burned one of his own children to death because he was too stupid to count?  How the Trees could not be saved because he was utterly selfish?  How his own father died because he was dumb enough to stand with Feanor, who only loves the works of his hands and nothing else???”  Aredhel trembled with rage.

“Calm down, this is a place of peace!,” Illimix said, uttering a song of summoning to get backup.

“What have you ever made?  What tales of yours will be remembered?” Feanor asked.  “One day, I will be free of this prison and I will recover what is mine.  You have nothing to recover,” he said harshly.

“You will be remembered as the Man of Blood, the Elf who let Morgoth into his heart and became a kinslayer, even of his own *child*,” Aredhel shouted.

What ensued would become known as the Great Beating, a legend which would resound for eternity, because though Mandos tried to prevent its spread, eventually those who saw it were released; it would linger with them for all of eternity, for Elves do not forget.

Sadly, even the Great Beating could not cure Feanor from being a smug bastard.

But Aredhel had to *try*.  

-- The Chronicles of Aredhel

Frodo put down the book and looked at Bilbo. “Did that actually happen?”

“Well, tomorrow, we can go to where she lives and you can ask her yourself.   Sadly, we will not be able to visit Feanor, as he is still bound in the Halls,” Bilbo said.  “I know you would like to see your friend Boromir.”

Frodo stared at the floor; Bilbo’s house here was not a hobbit hole, but it was comfortable and comforting.  “I must.  But that must wait; I cannot cross all of Valinor like this.”

“You should read the whole thing, so we can both ask her questions tomorrow and see what is true and what is for fun in it,” Bilbo said, then fell asleep on the spot, startling Frodo.

But a good book and good kin, hot tea, and warm food soon sent Frodo to sleep as he wondered what Aredhel was doing now.

“Mother, I think it’s time for us to end the annual throwing of Father off a cliff in effigy,” Maeglin said to his mother.  “I learned a lot about letting go in the Halls of Mandos.”

“So did I, but for him, I make an exception.”  They could hear stone shatter.  “And I had to do it today; the Ringbearers are visiting us and I wish to ensure you make a good impression on them.”

Maeglin feared that impossible, but his mother, who had always believed in him, for her, he would try anything.  It was hard for an Elf to change, but he was trying, trying to be what she’d always hoped for him.

“You can’t throw them off a cliff if they compliment Uncle Feanor,” he said warningly.

“I can be subtle,” she said.

This worried him more than if she promised a cliff-tossing.  

THE END

[plinys]

steelatom for the ship meme!

Gives nose/forehead kisses

i feel by virtue of being taller it has to be ray, but also he’s more of a top of head kisser than a forehead but its still very soft and the sentiment is there

Gets jealous the most

nate’s middle name is actually “bi jealousy” can confirm

Picks the other up from the bar when they’re too drunk to drive

theyre both there getting drunk together lets be real, like ray tries to be the one that looks after nate but like canon has confirmed that they drink together and are messes and probably drunk dial sara, who is at ava’s, so it ends up being ava who rolls up to pick them up

Takes care of on sick days

its probably both. but also ray has like 100 natural remedies to get better from colds faster and nate is just dragging himself to gideon like “please ray made me drink grass juice cure my cold” (but also nate used to get sick an coddled over as a kid when he got sick, and so he probably tries to hide it a little now beecause he doesnt want people fussing and makes it worse

Drags the other person out into the water on beach day

nate, but only because ray got distracted and was taking too long putting sun screen on like. ray wouldve been in the water five minutes later, but nate does not know patience 

Gives unprompted massages

probably nate, and they probably lead to sex, just a hunch

Drives/rides shotgun

im feeling like ray drives? just cause nate has dibs on operating the aux cord and thats a shotgun privilege (normally theyre riding with someone else and both in the back seat even though ray is so big he should get shotgun at least by defaul) 

Brings the other lunch at work

nate frequently forgets to eat, and ray brings him healthy snacks

Has the better parental relationship

nobody has good parental relationships this is legends (actually thats not true, nate’s mom is lovely and thinks the world of ray)

Tries to start role-playing in bed

nate is a sinner

Embarrassingly drunk dancer

theyre both dancing together

Still cries watching Titanic

probably both, but also probably ray because hes a big softie (but also nate is crying too but ray starts crying first so it doesnt count)

Firmly believes in couples costumes

consider ray is han solo, and nate is luke skywalker and its gay af

Breaks the expensive gift rule during Christmas

its ray, because he wants to treat nate good and also he has like a secret stash of money from his palmer tech days and that uses to spend on people he loves, and like he loves nate a lot so

Makes the other eat breakfast

its ray, and its all healthy, and nate really is like “youre the only man i would drink grass juice for, i hope that you know and appriciate this”

Remembers anniversaries

both?? i feel like theyd both be good at this

Brings up having kids

its nate and its a joke about like naming their kid “han solo” and ray is like so softly like “you want to raise a kid with me” and nate is like “fuck yeah of course i do” and theyre both emotional and a whole mess and its soft and touching and theyd be the best and most cool dads (they get a little girl and name her “leia” and its precious

[rhymeswithlion]

Writing Exercise #2 - DO NOT LOOK AT THE MOON

[WP] It's 3AM. An official phone alert wakes you up. It says, "DO NOT LOOK AT THE MOON." You have hundreds of notifications. Hundreds of random numbers are sending "It's a beautiful night tonight. Look outside."

--------

The phone alarm blared at full volume, jarring Michael out of a deep sleep. He opens his telephone to a large alert window that reads, "DO NOT LOOK AT THE MOON." He sees his own puzzled expression reflected on it. The phone buzzed maddeningly as it is flooded by text messages by numbers he's never seen before. He begins to think of how so many people could have gotten his number. He turned on the light and got out of bed.

Michael was, by all means, an introvert. He tended to leave his abode as infrequently as he could afford. Work and basic needs like groceries and hygiene were of the few things to drag him from his habitat. He had friends whom he saw semi-regularly (at least, to him it seemed that way. His friends would have consider their meetings closer to seasonal). Michael could count them on two hands. Could he have shared his phone number online? Was it from all the free trials of subscriptions that he used? Had someone hacked him?

The phone vibrated for minutes. He felt ambushed by continued stream of notifications once it fell the to the ground from his desk. He broke from thought and reached for it, still buzzing. He hadn't even read the messages; He was too concerned with figuring out what this could possibly be.

Michael pressed a button and the device comes to life. He still saw the alert about the moon. He couldn’t dismiss it, either. Odd. The phone continued showing notifications. Michael couldn’t shake the bad feeling that rushed over him. He searched for news online. The internet, his main source of information about the world outside of his bedroom, yielded no helpful results. It was supposedly a normal morning. Another round of notification alerts appeared before the phone settled down for a few minutes, somehow leaving him Michael more unsettled.

"258 New Messages" was next on his home screen. 258 spam messages or advertisements sent to him in the middle of the night was the best case scenario in his mind. He opened his messages and nearly dropped the phone in shock. He lost his breathe. His face paled, to a shade some might consider undiscovered. Unread messages from different unlabeled contacts took up most of his screen. Everyone read the same: "It's a beautiful night tonight. Look outside."

Michael staggered from the shock and sat down to collect himself. He didn't understand. Worriedly, he checked the concealment of his own windows. He returned to his desk, leaving his phone aside, and searched about the moon with his computer. He saw pages of images and new stories about the moon, but nothing about not looking at it. The only helpful information he found was a blog post discussing lunar phases, myth, and legends. The blogger, whose other posts included conspiracy theories that ranged from "believable" to "this reads like bad fanfiction", cited the full moon tonight as their inspiration for the article. Michael, mentally grasping for straws, continued to read in hopes of finding some rational explanation about the moon that night. Of course, seeking reasonable explanations on a website discussing the high likelihood of reptiles running the world may not have been the most reliable source.

One part in particular caught Michael's eyes: "There are unexplainable increases in emergency room visits, accidents, crime rates, and spiritual practices around the time of the full moon. The latin word "Luna" is the root for the word "Lunatic", driven by a belief that abnormal behavior was most common during the full moon. Could this be when the world is most open to supernatural phenomena? Studies have shown no statistic background but there is a lot of data on the topic. Maybe this one will be special." He looked down from his computer screen back to his phone as it buzzed with new life. More unknown numbers. More messages. The panic hit him like he had just learned he was burning. He physically recoiled and jumped from his chair.

Michael began trying to rationalize the situation, "Maybe it's a big prank. There's nothing online about it! I should text my friends about it! No, that's dumb. Who would respond at 3 AM? They're all asleep, I'm sure. I should talk to the neighbors. I'll get dressed and talk to the neighbors."

Michael's apartment building is one of those that seems bigger on the inside. From the outside it looked like a modest, single story, three bedroom home. Surprisingly, there are 12 studio apartments. It was mostly surrounded by taller buildings but he could always see the sky from his window if he stood close. He always felt that some natural light would be better than none.

He was familiar enough with his proximate neighbors, if only because they expectedly saw each other when departing or returning. He didn’t even know their names. Well, he didn’t remember them. He had heard them on several occasions but managed to get by all the same. Michael dressed with clothes he wore that day, since they were the closest to him and he believed nobody would care about that kind of stuff at 3 AM. Just before opening the door, he remembered a window in the hall to the right.

"It doesn't have a shade or curtain, but I don't want to risk looking at the moon by accident. It doesn't hurt to be too careful, right?"

He exited his bedroom with a flattened cardboard box he'd used to move in several months earlier. It was large enough to cover a portion of the wall and the hall window and reached to his right to place it. The difficult part of his plan was placing it while looking away. He backpedaled towards the window with his head turned until he felt the makeshift barrier contact the wall. He leaned it on the wall and went back to retrieve a suitcase large enough to hold it in place. Michael turned back towards his across-the-hall neighbor and knocks on the door. As he knocked, he realized the door had been left open. He knocked again and took a step inside.

"Hello? Is anyone home?"

No response.

"It's me, Michael...I’m sorry to bother you at this hour. Are you getting any of these weird phone alerts?"

The silence worsened his anxiety and paranoia. He stepped forward to look around, careful of his angle towards any open spaces and potential windows. The room was empty. There were no signs of disturbance, yet no one was there. The open window was the only detail to catch his eye. Thankfully, he was safe from direct view of the moon. He left the apartment and returned to the hallway. Michael looked left to see his barricade and felt some reassurance under the pressure. He stepped towards his next door neighbor's door. Once again, he knocked and the door crept open. Michael cautiously moved inside and briefly surveyed the area. Aside from the contents of the room, the details were the same: no signs of disturbance, no tenant, and an open window. He closed the door and decided to check the rest of the apartments. Every room on his floor was empty. Every tenant was missing. Every door was unlocked. Everyone’s windows were open. Michael took great care to avoided any views outside neighbors' windows and made sure to close every door behind him.

He couldn’t suppress himself anymore. Michael yelled at the top of his lungs, hoping to dispel some of the fear consuming him. He checked his phone again. New alerts were all the same: A warnings about the moon and ceaseless texts about the beautiful night. He walked back down the hallway to his bedroom and loudly slammed the door behind him. He tried to lock the door but can't seem to stop his hands from shaking. After struggling for some time, Michael sat back down at his desk. He decided to call everyone he knows. He knew there was something terribly wrong and needed to hear a familiar voice. Michael opened his contacts list and hurriedly called each person.

"This number is not accepting calls at this time. Please try again later", a pre-recorded message repeats several times before he hung up the phone. He tried again with the next name on his list to no avail. Another attempt, another failure. Michael worked through his entire social circle of friends, family, and co-workers before collapsing to the floor, physically and mentally exhausted. He spoke loudly to himself, perhaps in an attempt to give himself some kind of company,

“What the hell is going on? Where is everyone? This must be real. Is this real life? Am I really awake? Am I alive or dead?”

A moment passed before something clicked, or perhaps snapped, in his mind. There were so many unknown variables. What was going on? Could someone else have managed to avoid the night sky, by accident or intentionally? Were there any other people experiencing the same dread? What was the government doing? Was there still a government? Was anyone in contact with anyone? Will anything change when the sun comes out?

Michael resolved himself, in only for the moment. He decided to return to his studio to check television, radio, and the internet to see any notice about this grave and present emergency. He planned to take a sleeping pill and set several alarms to wake him up for daytime, so that he could go outside and find someone else, anyone else.

His phone buzzed while his computer notified him of new emails. He tripped on the pile of unfinished books that had accumulated near his bed. His hand moved swiftly to move the mouse and see what his inbox had to offer. At this point, he felt anything would be a comfort. He had been proven wrong. 100 new emails from new senders that all read, “It’s a beautiful night tonight. Look outside.”

He firmly shut the door behind him and locked it, as though there was any sign of activity in his entire building. He roused his computer from its sleep and refreshed his news feed on Google, Facebook, and other media outlets. Nothing was different. Nothing had changed since he had looked. This was the digital age, he thought. If something this big was going on, someone would have posted something. There was no evidence of any new developments in the world. The only solace he found was on the television and radio, which he felt was a bit ironic but almost certainly wasn't.

A message displayed on his television screen through the local emergency broadcast system and the radio played a text-to-speech of the same notice: “DO NOT LOOK AT THE MOON.” He turned off his television, computer, and radio. He found his sleeping pills, dropping some to the floor because of a steady tremble through his hands and body. He took one, drank some water, and closed his eyes. He fell asleep, but he couldn't tellhow long it took. He just knew it felt like a lifetime.

Michael's alarms went off in metered intervals. 9:00 AM, 9:05 AM, 9:10 AM, and so forth. He swung his legs to the side of his bed and stood up too quickly, falling back down as the blood had rushed to his head. Sleep had helped to clear his head. He thought it was probably a dream. Things would go back as they used to be because he was just having a bad dream. Seeking brief comfort, he opened his computer and turned on his TV and radio. The contents were the same as before he had forced himself to bed. It was like the world had stopped. No news - no celebrity gossip, sports analysis, political stirrings, weather, Reddit, Facebook.

Michael briefly felt confident in thinking that maybe nothing at all happened in the world today. He could barely grasp his immediate surrounding circumstances, let alone an world events. He turned to his curtained window before he was overcome with a sense that something was terribly, terribly wrong. He rushed to his light switch and turned off his ceiling lamp to confirm his suspicions. He was right. There was no natural light. Where was the sun? He turned his light back on just so he could feel some kind of radiant warmth on his skin.

The only certainty in Michael's mind was that he was still alive. He must still be alive. He pinched himself to see, because he learned from someone that feeling a pinch meant you were not dreaming. He began searching for food, then decided that tending to basic needs would help him to better process the situation. His eyes shot to the small pantry in his kitchen and he approached. Grief and hunger worsened the realization that he had nothing edible in his whole apartment. Could he borrow some food from neighbors? Would they even care? Would they ever even notice? Would they ever be back? Guilt and determination collided in his mind before he walked into each of his neighbors’ apartments.

After some time scavenging the building, he assembled the haul on his countertop: a collection of three half-eaten bags of tortilla chips, eight ounces of two-day old guacamole, five cans of soup, four packages of instant ramen, two eggs, and a frozen pizza. Conservatively, he felt this would last him just under a week. Michael took a shower to wash the dirt, sweat, and stress from him. He planned to eat two meals a day and continue until the sun came up. Once the sun came up, he would try to find help.

His daily to-do list on the refrigerator nagged him. He always needed structure. It helped organize his thoughts and kept him focused. He designed a daily routine for himself until the situation changed. He used one hand to write and one to shovel guacamole and chips into his mouth. The schedule read, “Wake up. Check for sun. Eat. Check internet, TV, etc. Read. Shower. Eat. Go to bed.” He felt more in control in this moment, proudly shoveling the last bit of guacamole into his mouth. He grabbed the closest book-in-progress to him, of which there were many, and read for as long as he could. He plugged his phone in once he began dozing off, checked his alarms, took a couple of sleeping pills, and fell into the covers of his bed.

Michael woke up the next day with a stronger sense of purpose and control of his situation. He looked to his list. He knew the first step of his day. He approached his window and saw`the same as yesterday. He sighed and walked to retrieve the frozen pizza but a lack of appetite changed his mind. Nothing new on the internet. No new messages. He picked up a different book nearby him and began reading until his sight blurred. He marked the page, dropped the book, and walked to his shower. Michael solemnly walked to his bed and took more pills than usual. He stared at his window before drifting off.

His alarms rang. He woke up. He saw a familiar lack of light outside. He turned on his oven for a moment and inserted the frozen pizza. No changes online. Michael removed the pizza and ate it like an oversized taco. He tried to read but kept losing his place on the same few pages. He left the book on the ground to take a shower. He ate what was left of his pizza and a bowl of instant ramen. He took some pills. He thought to himself, because he felt talking out loud made no difference to him at this point,

“Am I dead? Is this Hell? Is anyone else out there?”

This cycle repeated for five or six more days. Michael couldn't really tell because the food lasted longer than expected, as stressful situations often ruin appetites and his concept of time wavered as he increased his dose of sleeping medication. On what he felt was the sixth day, something new happened.

He woke up and saw the sun was still not yet out. He accepted this a new reality, as though the sun had never existed. He said softly to himself,

“It's always been night time. It's always dark. The moon is always there. I would assume so, but I haven't even looked outside in maybe a week. Is there anything left? I wish I could talk to someone I know. Hell, anyone.”

The phone buzzed to life for the first time in days. It woke again, then slept. And once more. Michael furiously tapped the locked screen to see three messages from names he recognized. He was eager to see if they were alright, or holed up, or if they had any idea what was happening. In the moment he saw his three unread replies, he felt his heart drop into his stomach like a ten ton weight and it knocked him to the ground.

Michael, stunned, saw more messages arrive from his friends, family, and more. Old classmates, ex-girlfriends, coworkers. Within moments, he saw a new message from every contact in his phone. His heart raced. His breath was unsteady. He couldn't think straight. The room spun and felt increasingly small as Michael felt the world he knew had left him behind. He dropped his phone as though his muscles went limp, and promptly fell in a similar fashion. Michael became overwhelmed with questions, the same he'd been asking himself all this time. Was he awake? Was he asleep? Was this real? Is this Hell? Why did he have to be alone? He didn’t want to be alone anymore.

He felt a mental snap similar to the first day of this event and it instantly drew him to three conclusions, among all other possibilities he’d considered. He was either dreaming, stuck in some sort of time loop, or everyone else had looked at the moon and he was the only human left on the planet. Michael believed at this point that nothing he had tried would work and that he needed to take a radically different approach. That was the only way he would know, he thought.

As his decision solidified in his mind, he sat down at his desk and woke up his computer to open a blank text document. He felt, at least, that if he wrote what he could remember from however long this had been happening, that he’d be able to leave something behind if someone found it. He couldn’t stand being alone anymore. He didn’t care about food, water, or hygiene. He just didn’t want to be alone.

He began writing as much as he could from the very beginning up until the last day, or night as it was. He couldn’t tell time anymore, and he knew the sun would not come up, so he didn’t keep track of how long he sat there. Eventually, he got to where he last was. He felt he had done his best. He saved the document, unlocked his computer, and set the display to stay on indefinitely. He felt nothing else left to try. He had to know. He had to see if the night was indeed beautiful.

I’m going to look now.

Signed,

Michael

[joemerl]

Writer's Month 2022, Day 28: "Going Inside a Book/Story"

Original fiction/"Sleeping Beauty" adaptation (with bonis "Jorinda and Joringel") Status/Word count: Just a little snippet of something I want to write one of these days. 267 words. Author's notes: "Going inside a book" (or whatever) never made much sense to me (does it have its own pocket dimension? Does every writer have such godlike power?), so here's a metaphorical take. Also, pretty sure that I do a fairytale every year.

The prince and his companion looked up at the massive, brambly vines. The thinnest were as thick as their arms, with inch-long thorns sticking out like a monster's teeth. The mass of plants rose toward the sky, taller than the tallest tree in the forest. You could barely see the patches of stone between the huge coils.

"Here it is," Joringel breathed.

The prince nodded. "The Castle of the Sleeping Beauty." His eyes fell back to the vines.

Joringel, however, was still gazing up at the towers. "It's strange to think about," he murmured.

"What is?"

"This place...being real. I've always heard of it," he added. "Everyone in our kingdom has."

"Mine, too. It's a legend."

"But it's always seemed like just a legend. It's just hard to believe that we're here. That this—" He motioned up to the mountain of brambles "—used to be our capital, back when my grandmother's grandmother was young. That the old king and his court have been sleeping there for a hundred years."

The prince considered that. "And we're about to walk into it," he said grimly.

"Yeah." Joringel took a deep breath. "You know how many other princes have gone into those thorns, right?"

"Ninety-nine. One each year since the curse began."

"And you think you'll be luckier than they were?"

The prince unsheathed his sword. "I'm getting her out," he said firmly. He looked at his friend. "And you? Still hoping to get your flower for Jorinda?"

Joringel swallowed hard, then nodded, taking out his knife.

And the two of them got to work hacking at the nearest vine.

[geminicblue]

20 Galaxies: Legend in the Sky Chapter 7

Breckenridge was a few miles from Quarterhill's main tourist strip, and the Breckenridge girls rarely visited. The house mothers preferred museums and historical landmarks over the gaudy glory of Main Street. Ru's mother used to take Colleen to Main Street every once in a while. Colleen remembered the haunted houses the most, though they never scared her. She admired the props and wondered how much time it took to build them.

Main Street wasn't anything special, Ru said. Just ice cream shops and haunted houses and five different T-shirt stores all selling the same ten designs. Colleen silently argued she'd take an ice cream shop any day over Breckenridge. For once, she thought most of her housemates would agree.

Breckenridge itself was an attraction, though it didn't get as much traffic as Main Street or Tanager Park. It was a historical site with very limited tours. Most people saw the house only from the street. A stark iron-spear fence lined the property, taller than any person Colleen had met. The gate was wide, made of a labyrinth of flat, uneven curls. Mother Fontaine told Colleen it was designed with the leaves of a tree in mind. Colleen thought of it more as the inner workings of a lock.

She wished Mother Fontaine was still there. Most of the girls knew her as Laura; she had been the only house mother who let the girls call her by her first name. She was also the only one who ever tried to talk to Colleen without giving up. Mother Fontaine had bought Colleen her first paint set. The two of them spoke more often in pictures than in words.

Colleen shoved the memory away. Tears threatened when she thought too long of Mother Fontaine. Proper young ladies hold themselves with dignity, Mother Kendrick said. They don't blubber or whine.

The Breckenridge manor seemed miles away from the bottom of the hill, surrounded by towering oaks and maples. A few willows dragged their branches along the edges of a small pond. The manor was as wide as the high school gym, with lavender walls and navy shutters, the tall windows barred with white slats. Crew cut hedges and rosebushes wreathed the house. The porch had a railing like a ribbon of white lace, and a neat row of wicker chairs, all of which stood abandoned at the moment. Neatly abandoned. Proper young ladies do not leave their chairs facing every which way, Mother Kendrick said. The rest of the house had the same symmetry to it, as if Mother Kendrick had spoken to it personally.

Mother Grace herded the girls through the gate. She was a tall and narrow woman, whose physical presence was about as scant as her mental one. Colleen could have easily mistaken her for a figure on TV rather than someone actually standing next to her. Under her eyes the girls wandered about the property and lingered on the porch before her plaintive instructions finally nudged them all through the door. Colleen was last. Her feet crunched slowly on the glittering gravel path, her eyes dragged over the ants climbing through the porch boards, on the coral roses bobbling in the breeze. Sunlight grazed the stained glass on the front door and cast a wheel of color on the floor.

Mother Grace disappeared as soon as the group was in the entry hall. Colleen looked everywhere but at the other girls, at the marble floor, velvet furniture, the chandelier with crystals like melting icicles. Most of all, the stairs to the second floor. Until Mother Kendrick came to take roll, Colleen would have to hide, then make her escape to the stairs. Once she reached her room, she would be safe. Mostly.

"Aww, look who made it home. And all by herself, too."

Too late.

Ronnie Kale leaned in the doorway to the south wing, where only the house mothers were allowed. She was careful not to speak loud enough for her voice to carry to the next room. Colleen knew better than to acknowledge her, but there was nowhere else to go. The other girls were watching now, most with scorn, a few with pity.

Ronnie stepped in front of Colleen, her brown curls bouncing. She had a small face with huge eyes that made her look half her age, the perfect front for her snide, sharp tongue. Only Mother Kendrick seemed aware of Ronnie's true nature. "What'd you learn in school today? Numbers, or letters?"

Mutters fluttered in Colleen's ear. It was her own fault, bringing their attention on her with those supposed nightmares. Or maybe she really was scared of the dark. Maybe if she didn't have to have a room to herself, she wouldn't be such a crybaby. The whispers of those who believed Colleen's nightmares were worse. What if she dreams about me? What if she dreams about the house burning down? Don't let her see me.

"Hi, Colleen!"

She turned, surprised by a new voice. Misty was now in full Breckenridge uniform. She looked strange in it, like she was too tall for it and at the same time too thin. It draped off her like it would on a hanger. "I saw you have a Carmody."

Something shined in Misty's hand. In the many lights of the chandelier, the object seemed to gleam on its own. "I collect them. Maybe we can trade."

The room fell silent. Dozens of eyes locked on Misty.

"It's not a Carmody," Colleen said, voice tremulous. She brushed the tail of the dolphin with her fingertip. "My mother bought it for me when I was a baby."

"You still are a baby," Ronnie said.

That, on top of Misty's perplexed and disappointed look, sent Colleen scurrying for the nearest corner with tears brimming in her eyes. The only thing that kept the tears from falling was the peculiar expression that wiped out all emotion on Misty's face. Misty's pale eyes went unfocused, her lips open, as if she was on the verge of speaking, but to no one.

Ronnie put on her sweetest smile and put a hand on Misty's shoulder. Colleen was fairly certain that Ronnie was warning Misty not to make friends.

Misty's face froze over. She slapped Ronnie's hand away. Ronnie scowled, but then Misty replied.

Colleen didn't hear what was said, but all the girls in earshot flinched. Ronnie actually recoiled, wincing, as if she'd been slapped in the face instead of the hand. Colleen had never seen Ronnie afraid. Colleen liked it a lot less than she assumed she would.

Her stomach fluttered with Misty's eyes found her again. Misty had the same calculating expression Ru had when working on a tough math problem. Not malicious, but without empathy, either. By experience, Ronnie would have Misty seeing straight in a week. Ronnie was in charge of the house mothers, Quarterhill students were ignorant slobs, and the only one worse was Colleen Amundsen. Ronnie was at the other end of the room now. Contempt laced her voice, but her hands trembled. It did seem awfully cold in the hall.

Once the house mothers took attendance, Colleen sprinted for her room. Well, as close as she could to a sprint without being scolded about her manners, which was little more than a stiff, brisk walk. She hurried past the sunburn-pink walls and fluff-filled rooms without looking twice. Her room had not always been on the far end of the north wing. At a doctor's request, she had been moved. She had a vague, unpleasant memory of the doctor and Mother Fontaine asking questions about her nightmares, and what she remembered about her parents.

The lone room suited Colleen well. She minimized contact with her housemates anyway. Early in the morning, usually before the sun rose, she peered down the hall, looking for lights under the other doors. She went through supper at the very end of the long, lace-covered table with her eyes firmly fixed on her plate. Whether she liked or hated what was served to her, she ate as fast as she could without being upbraided for table manners. At least most of the girls ignored her there. It was hard to get away with anything under the hawk eyes of Mother Kendrick. Colleen didn't like being under her watch any more than being scrutinized by the girls her own age. She was always excused first. Whispers followed her up the stairs. There were no locks on the doors of the bedrooms; when Colleen wasn't the first upstairs, she found things missing. A picture of her parents, one of her diaries. She stopped writing those after she found Ronnie reading the entries aloud to her roommate. The only house mother who didn't act like the theft was Colleen's fault was Mother Fontaine.

For this reason, she kept the dolphin pendant around her neck at all times, even when she slept. Mother Kendrick made her take it off, afraid she'd choke to death in her sleep, but she put it back on after bed check was complete. She could not afford to lose it, especially if it turned out to be made of precious stone. It might be the only thing she had with enough worth to get her away from Quarterhill when she was old enough. Or when she escaped.

Her mind wandered from the World War I battle she was supposed to be studying. One summer night, she would pack all her things in her art supply bag. She would sneak some food away from the dinner table or kitchen, climb that tree on the west side of the property that leaned over the gate, and run as fast as she could before sunrise. Ru could lend her clothes so she wouldn't be running in her easily-recognized uniform. She brought the subject up at school once with Ru, and dropped it after her little brother overheard.

"First of all, Quarterhill's curfew is 11."

"Who says someone'll see her?" Ru shot back. "Besides, she's tall, they might think she's too old for curfew."

Jayson shrugged his sister off. "Second, there's no way you'll get out of Quarterhill before sunrise, even if it is kind of small. You might be able to hide in Tanager Park for a little while, if you don't think the Blue Star is coming to get you," he rolled his eyes, "but I bet that's the first place they'll look for you. Joe Ackerman's dad says that's where they find the most runaways."

The idea had already crumbled in Colleen's head, but Ru wasn't ready to give up. "Did Joe tell you that, or did you hear it from his dad?"

"His dad, when he was here on Career Day. A cop would know, right? Third, no one's going to buy a tourmaline necklace from a kid. They'll either think you stole it, try and find out where you came from and who your parents are, or they'll try to steal it from <i>you.</i>"

"How do you know?" Ru asked heatedly.

Jayson sighed. "Remember that time Randy broke a window on his dad's van?"

Colleen had only met Randy Fresnel a few times, and was happy for so few meetings. He seemed like a compressed spring ("That'd explain why he's so short," Ru said) ready to launch with his mouth or his fists.

Colleen's room was small and her possessions scant. A few carbon copies of her uniform hung in the closet, along with a puffy white parka and her pajamas, freshly cleaned. There was a set of plastic drawers, mostly full of things Ru's mother scavenged from the Amundsen home before everything was auctioned off. A picture of Colleen's parents and distant relatives, her great-grandfather's engineering textbook with brown pages and a crumbling leather cover, a tiny wooden pot Colleen liked to play with when she was younger, a tape of Colleen's mother playing violin. Ms. Hadley said Colleen's mother had been a songwriter, and the money that was still being made by those songs would pay for Colleen's entire stay at Breckenridge.

The room was different today. The floor had been covered by a plain yellow rug, but Colleen made a mess of it after the dream about Kelly. Her stomach still turned at the memory. At least the smell was gone, though it was replaced by the choking scent of sanitizer. All this she had expected. She was startled to find the other bed in the room occupied.

Three small, worn leather suitcases squashed the frilly comforter on the other bed. One case had its contents spewed across the bedspread, clothes, a pair of frayed, filthy sneakers, and a small makeup kit. The owner of that kit would have to learn to hide it, or it would end up in Mother Kendrick's contraband bin, never to be seen again.

"Oh, so you're my roommate?" Misty scoffed. "Good, I thought I'd end up with one of the annoying ones. Your name's Colleen, right?"

Misty resumed emptying her luggage. She handled her things in a strangely business-like manner, something Colleen would have expected from a house mother. Colleen's nerves buzzed as she sat down on her own bed. She rummaged through her bookbag, her long hair obscuring everything but the sandy carpet. She heard Misty walk to the closet and back. Metal hangers clanged softly as they were set on the bar.

"Why are the other girls afraid of you?" Misty asked suddenly.

Colleen's head jerked up. "Afraid of me?" she blurted.

"Yeah. Especially that girl, Ronnie."

"Um -- I don't think she's afraid. But I do have bad dreams sometimes. And my birthday's October 31st."

Misty gave a short, confused laugh. She had her eyes on her things, but Colleen couldn't help but feel watched. "That's it? Is 31 an unlucky number or something?"

Colleen stared in disbelief. Was Misty trying to make fun of her? "You don't know about Halloween?"

Misty flung her hands into the air. "I don't know about anything! Do you know how many times the house mothers yelled at me today? Over really petty stuff, too. Especially the old one."

"That's Mother Kendrick," Colleen said. "She's on second watch. She's here until ten every day."

"Does she let you have any fun? Or is that something 'proper young ladies' don't do, as she would say?"

Misty's voice flashed into an impersonation of Mother Kendrick's, near-perfect only ten times more cantankerous. Colleen giggled, despite her shock and nervousness that Mother Kendrick could have easily heard. Misty smirked at her. "Really, do you just study when you get home?"

"I like to draw."

Normally Colleen was hesitant about showing her works to the other girls, but Misty actually, genuinely seemed interested. She pulled out her sketchbook. The images within were mostly of outdoor scenery, different angles of the Breckenridge property with the house and birds and flowers she'd seen. Misty's face lit up as she shuffled through the pages. "These are so pretty! Could you draw me something, maybe?"

That was a common request, one Colleen usually turned down. "I could, maybe," she said quietly. "But you have to hide it from the other girls. They might rip it up."

Misty's silver eyes widened with shock. She almost seemed offended. "Why would they do that?"

Colleen's voice came out thin through a suddenly tight throat. "Ronnie did, anyway. The other girls just laugh at it. They, um - they tell me my artwork isn't any good. I'm not smart enough to make anything good. Maybe I never will be."

Misty smiled, a bright, warm smile. Colleen wondered why she assumed Misty wasn't capable of such a friendly face. "Oh come on! Don't say things like that. You're the nicest one here I've met so far, and you really do have talent. You should stand up for yourself more."

"You think I'm nice?" Colleen said. "Even after I wouldn't trade with you?"

Misty waved her hand dismissively. "I'd be mad if I found out it wasn't a Carmody, except maybe if yours is made of diamond. But then I'd just feel bad because yours is probably worth a lot more. Hey, want to see my favorite?"

She tucked her fingers into her collar and pulled on a string beneath. It must have been the thing she'd showed Colleen in the common room, a gray, silvery cloud pendant with an iridescent sparkle. Though it was easily the prettiest raincloud Colleen had seen, it was still sad. "A friend of mine back home gave it to me. It's the only one I'd never trade."

"It doesn't look like the other Carmody jewelry I've seen," Colleen said.

Misty's eyes looked beyond Colleen, her cheeks rosy. "It's not."

There was a quiet moment before Misty noticed Colleen's soft, questioning stare. Misty turned nearly as red as her hair. "Uh, anyway! Have you ever tried origami?"

Colleen let her question go unspoken. "Never heard of it."

A binder of colorful paper squares came out of Misty's suitcase. Misty chose a silver leaf, smoothed it out, and went to work on it. She folded, pressed, flipped, pulled hidden prongs from under the paper's umbrella-like folds, until a bird sprang to life out of the sharp corners and points. "It's a crane," Misty said. "You want to learn how to make one?"

A smile cracked Colleen's face. "Sure."

First Chapter || Previous Chapter || Next Chapter

[mx-bebe31-blog]

Banshee!Jooheon

Wailing from a Banshee is an omen that warns there is going to be death in the family. Heralds the death of a family member. Ik banshee’s are female but I couldn’t think of anything else ok- 

Also,,, since a Banshee is a warning of death, that obviously means there will be some minor/side character death apart of this au! It’s not detailed at all, but pls heed with caution!

Ps. This au I feel takes place around what I can describe as “Lizzy Borden” times. Older houses/towns, that lurking aura of old legends and desolate places.

_____________________________________________________

You know of your family’s omen, just like everyone around your age is mostly familiar with

People can’t hear other family’s omens, but you maybe wish you could hear it just so you knew what you would be in for the next day. Nothing is more horrible than seeing someone you know ghostly pale and walking like a mindless zombie - they cry and shiver - everyone hates hearing the screech of a Banshee

But you,,,, you’ve only heard your Banshee twice in your life (from what you can clearly remember)

How loud a Banshee’s scream is depends on how close you are to the relative. 

For example when your grandfather died, your mother screamed along with the Banshee while you sat next to her, only jolting and freezing from how chilling the scream seemed. To you, it sounded like it came from the forest. Your mother swears it was like it was in the same room.

Those words stick with you and the fear is always prickling your back

The fear becomes real when you’re woken in the middle of the night by an ear shattering scream.

At first you think it’s your father, but then you know better. Another scream hits you and immediate tears fall down your cheeks as you start to hyperventilate

You jump out of bed and run out of the house through the back. You don’t want to look in your parents bedrooms. So many screams mixed together you think that by the time you take cover in the forest, you went deaf

You’re panicking. You feel like you’ll drop dead too. It’s foggy out, and the dawn is near. It’s early morning, and you collapse on the forest floor as sticks poke you through your thin nightwear

You’re crying and wondering what has to happen next. You have to go back inside sooner or later. You have to go down to the police station if your worst fears are true. Suddenly it feels like there is so much to do you don’t want to face it.

There’s an unsettling mist left in the air as you struggle to stand

And suddenly it feels like you float to your feet, a blanket of ice wrapping around your side

You gasp and hiccup from the recovering shock as you look up

It’s a man taller than you, wearing a light grey robe, donning white hair and a perfect face

His face is solemn, and his lips seemed cracked - too red for a human’s.

Though he is freezing your blood from the inside out, he comforts you silently as you drift out of the woods

You first thought it might be death escorting you to see your own parents

You maybe thought the screaming of the banshee was so loud, that it was you who was dying

But you understand as you are lead to your back porch - the door left wide open from your escape

He is the banshee that causes you so much terror when you hear him scream

He is the one who is the omen of death at your very own feet

He might look like an angel at first - his glass like features that should only scream

But he is neither an angel nor death. His robe not a stark pure white or a shadow black

It is perfectly in between - an overlooming grey that sweeps you back into reality

You’ve never known anyone who has seen their family’s banshee

You know it must mean something

“I’m sorry.” He croaks from his throat. His ghastly hand pushes me another step towards my own personal nightmare.

“Please stay with me. I’ll certainly die if I do this alone.”

You know that some people will say a banshee is just a hallucination or a myth of a bad omen

Just like some people don’t believe in gods or devils. They are just old man’s tales.

But you firmly believe in your family’s banshee. And with your family slowly dwindling over the years, you want him to help you stand for just a little longer.

“Alright. I’m right here, m'lady.” He murmurs as he holds you to his side, slowly taking another step towards the doorway.

It’s like a trance. You’re in a dream and he’s guiding you through it.

Your toes barely scrape the bloodied ground of your parents bedroom

And your face pales and your eyes sink with grieve

Your savior drags you along like a ragdoll towards the police station at the end of the old town

People are already gathered there, reporting the sound of screams coming from your sector over an hour earlier

But as your mouth moves to tell the horrifying truth towards an officer, you feel the banshee slowly fade from your side

A weight comes crushing down your chest as you can barely stand on your feet

Banshees don’t have strength beyond the sudden burst of energy death gives

And instead of being able to be by your side in his human form,,,

Jooheon has to watch from the mist he hides in

You move to your aunt’s house, and have your two cousins to be there for you

At the funeral, he has enough strength from the grief and mourning in the air

Just enough to squeeze your hand and brush your hair back in reassurance

“I’ll always be here. Always.”

Instead of taking it as a severely haunting omen of death, you take security in his words

Because you know he is inevitable. You will hear him, and see him again.

But you only wish that in death that your family’s banshee will be able to stay with you.

___________

This is short!! Omg I didn’t really know how to elongate it without it being unnecessary! Hope you enjoyed this little snippet of an AU. 

-S

[tkmedia]

If He Chooses To Retire, Manny Pacquiao Can Walk Away With Dignity

For over two decades, Manny Pacquiao has been the measuring stick for any fighter in his chosen weight class. By definition, having held world titles in the 1990s, 2000s, 2010s and 2020s across eight weight classes, that has been the case. Even when he’s had true contemporaries, namely Floyd Mayweather, there was never certainty about their status until they beat Pacquiao. (photo by Ryan Hafey) Even into the 2020s, the best welterweights du jour, Errol Spence and Terence Crawford, both wanted their chance to fight Pacquiao not just for the prestige it would afford them, but because even at 40 years of age, he was still just a little too much for Keith Thurman, who was at that time in the discussion for world’s best welterweight along with them.  After Saturday night’s loss to Yordenis Ugas, a late replacement for Spence, who was originally scheduled to face Pacquiao before a retinal injury was discovered in a pre-fight checkup, that luster may finally be gone.  Prior to the bout, Pacquiao’s trainer Freddie Roach described Ugas as “an ordinary fighter,” and expressed no concern about facing him on ten days’ notice. Ugas is of course not ordinary in the grand scheme of things, he’s one of the sport’s top welterweights, but when you’re handling a fighter as great as Pacquiao, it’s understandable for your perception to be a bit skewed. Relative to Pacquiao, most fighters in boxing history are “ordinary.” Until this past Saturday, with the exception of a fluky and controversial loss to Jeff Horn, Pacquiao has only ever taken losses to the sport’s absolute best, fighters who like him were headed for Canastota. Pacquiao still firmly believed he could beat Errol Spence at 42 years of age, so he understandably felt Ugas would be no issue for him.  In practice, Ugas presented all of the wrong problems for Pacquiao. Ugas was physically bigger, taller and longer. More importantly though, he was composed, judiciously throwing accurate shots and resisting the urge to bite on Pacquiao’s feints.  Hand and foot feints were but empty threats on this night, because most problematic for Pacquiao was the noticeable lack of movement and foot speed. It’s an issue he acknowledged at the post-fight press conference. “I’m not saying this is my excuse but my two legs were cramping. That’s why I (couldn't) move around," said Pacquiao. “In my early days, I (could) easily move and outbox him. This time around, it’s like my two legs were tight and hurting me in the second round until the 12th round. I’m not making excuses but that’s the reason why I can’t move.” According to CompuBox’s Dan Canobbio, Ugas landed 59 per cent of his power shots, the most ever landed by a Pacquiao opponent. Pacquiao landed 16 per cent of his total punches, the lowest tally of his career, and for perspective, three per cent less accurate than he was against Mayweather (19%). Although the boxing community will spend the week eulogizing Pacquiao, a few things should be made clear. Even being competitive with Ugas at the age of 42, as a man who started his career at 112 pounds, is still incredibly impressive. For him to have thrown over 800 punches in a bout at this age proves once again that he is an athletic marvel. And although his legs seemingly betrayed him, brought about as he speculated by overtraining, that shows that he is a marvel when it comes to determination too. For a sitting, influential politician who is also over a decade past cementing his Hall of Fame status to have the drive to over train in the first place confirms the assessment we all had watching Pacquiao in his prime, smiling as he engaged in legendary wars, that this is a man who has a burning love of boxing on a deeper level, and no amount of fame, power or money has ever extinguished that flame.  The question will become whether Pacquiao is okay with either a) Becoming purely a name attraction who hand picks lesser opponents, or follow the trend of facing foes from other disciplines like Conor McGregor without concern about his ranking in the sport as a competitor, or b) Merely being a good to very good, but no longer great fighter who potentially loses to other very good welterweights, as he did on Saturday.  Nothing in his past has suggested that either of those paths would be satisfactory for him. He did entertain the idea of a McGregor bout, but he did so while also hunting for bouts with actual elite boxers. Pacquiao’s intention in the sport has always been to be the very best, and up until a few days ago, he hadn’t encountered a satisfactory reason to convince him that was no longer possible. Pacquiao has aged more gracefully than almost any fighter in history. In his later years, he might have been a touch slower, a tad less busy in certain fights, but even a weathered version of Pacquiao was better than other top welterweights into his 40s. That likely is no longer the case, and unlike in team sports, there is no way to mask or account for a steep decline in production in the ring. Aging legends in other sports, like Miguel Cabrera of the MLB’s Detroit Tigers, can still produce in his twilight years with lowered expectations and hitters in the lineup around him to pick up the slack. In boxing, a decline leads to losses to less and less talented fighters, and to further physical damage. Neither of those things are what anyone wants to see for Pacquiao. As I wrote in 2019, for fans who are around 23 years of age, there has never been a time in their lifetime in which Pacquiao was not either a world champion or a top contender for one of the world titles. And for fans of any age who have been immersed in the sport during his reign, his bouts have been signpost events in their lives as fans or their careers as journalists. Media members save their Pacquiao fight credentials, several writers even tweeted their collections over the weekend. You remember where you were when Manny fought, because for a very long time, his have been among the biggest fights of the year, the mainstream appeal fights that your non-boxing fan friends ask you about and might even come over to watch with you. Whether you cheered for him or against him on a given night, he brought us happiness, excitement and a feeling of pride about our sport a couple times every year.  Those are the memories the boxing community should want to keep, untarnished by a sad, dangerous decline into mediocrity or worse. Saturday’s loss to Ugas is nothing to be ashamed of. A competitive fight against a top contender he didn’t have to face, if anything, it was demonstrative of Pacquiao’s take on all challengers approach, even in the years of his career in which he could have been more selective.  If Pacquiao chooses to walk away now, he can do so with dignity, one final thing he can accomplish that so many other fighters were never able to.   Read the full article