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searchingwardrobes · 4 years ago

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I Promise to Kiss You (Before You Die): 5/7

I know, today isn’t Thursday, but I just didn’t have time to get this chapter revised and posted until today. It’s not a long chapter either, but are you ready for Emma and Killian to reunite after four years?

Huge thanks again to the mods of the @captainswanmoviemarathon and my beta @hookedonapirate .

Summary: Emma noticed him first, never forget that, and while all four of the Lucas sisters love Killian Jones, no one loves him the way Emma does, of that she is certain. Killian Jones also made her a promise. Sure, she was only twelve when he made it, but one day he’ll realize what it meant. One day, she hopes, he’ll get over her sister Ruby and finally notice Emma. A Little Women AU

Rated: T

Also on Ao3

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Chapter Five: Heartbreak

Four years later . . .

As the carriage rattled through the streets of Storybrooke and away from the train station, Killian’s knee bounced nervously. He was tempted to wipe his clammy hands on his dress uniform, but he refrained. Instead, he fiddled with the hat in his hands.

“Regretting surprising them?” Nemo asked.

He smiled at his uncle and shook his head. “No, I’m just excited.”

“They’ll be excited, too. Mary Margaret and David both seemed quite disappointed when it looked as if you wouldn’t make it to the wedding.”

“It was a happy coincidence that my ship made it in time,” Killian agreed. Then the two men fell silent again.

Killian could feel his uncle’s gaze on him, but he was too distracted with thoughts of seeing Ruby again after all these years. All four of the Lucas girls had written him over the years. Ruby’s letters were filled with woes of womanhood and her frustrations with the limited choices afforded to her.

“I wish I were there with you, my dear Killy. Why should you and Papa be allowed to face the lions of injustice while I must sit and embroider for my dowry (which I shan’t need, mind you)? I rather crave violence, to be honest. Of course, I know what you’re thinking. We aren’t at war anymore, Ruby. Yet you’re still going on your most grand adventure without me! Please write me in great detail about life on a navy ship, for I shall . . .”

Killian smiled, remembering her words as he studied his hat. He tried to spin tales for Ruby, though his excitement had more to do with that volatile mistress, the sea, than with violent enemies. His time sailing the Atlantic and the Mediterranean had more to do with showing off the United States’ now powerful navy to all of Europe.

“A Lieutenant,” Nemo said, his voice laced with pride, “you did very well for yourself, my boy.”

“Only junior grade.”

“You still climbed the ranks admirably in only four years. You’re sure you don’t want to make a career of it?”

“I didn’t want-” Killian broke off, clenching his jaw. “That is to say, I’m eager to learn the family business. And Nautilus Shipping will still allow salt water in my veins.”

Nemo raised an eyebrow knowingly at him. “You were going to say you didn’t want to be away too long, weren’t you? Twenty-one is rather young to think of settling down, you know.”

“For me it is,” Killian snapped defensively, words from Ruby’s letters drifting to the forefront of his mind, “yet why is Ruby at the same age hearing whispers that she shall become a spinster? Why must girls marry so young?”

For the first time since Killian had known him, his uncle grew visibly uncomfortable. “Well, I . . . that is, when it comes to starting a family . . .” Nemo trailed off, then his eyes brightened as he craned his neck to look out the window. “Ah, here we are at Orchard House!”

Killian stepped down from the carriage, replacing his hat on his head. He was disappointed to see that the ceremony had already taken place. A receiving line wrapped around the front yard of Orchard House, and Mary Margaret and David stood on the front steps with their wedding party lined up beside them. David received hand shakes from well-wishers while Mary Margaret received kisses, just as tradition dictated. A slow grin spread across Killian’s face as he joined the line, his disappointment replaced with the eagerness he felt to surprise all four of his favorite girls.

His scheming was worth the reaction he received from his long-time friends. David’s bright grin as he pulled him in for a hug was worth the wait in line. Over the last four years, the two had exchanged letters, their pupil/teacher relationship blossoming into friendship. (Though David’s brotherly advice and encouragement still felt like a welcome stand-in for the brother he had lost so long ago).

Mary Margaret teared up as a grin dimpled her cheeks. She embraced Killian tightly and received the kiss he pressed to her cheek with far more joy than she had bestowed on the other guests.

Ruby gasped and dropped her bouquet as she launched herself at him in her typical scandalous way. When she released him, she shoved him lightly in the chest.

“How dare you surprise us like this! Do you know our hearts all sank to our feet when we didn’t see you in the crowd during the vows?”

Killian laughed and winked at his friend, “It was my intention to be here a wee bit earlier, but I can’t deny my delight at surprising all of you.”

“We’re so glad you’re here,” Belle said softly, opening her arms to receive a hug from him.

Killian drew her close gently, concerned at the thready sound of her voice and the pale color of her cheeks. As he held her, he also noted how thin she had become. None of her letters had even hinted at any type of illness. He glanced over at his uncle, who averted his gaze. Nemo had clearly known how poorly Belle was faring, since he had invited her to come and play his piano regularly now that Killian was no longer home to fill the hallways of his mansion with music.

“Welcome home, Killian,” a voice he didn’t recognize spoke at his elbow.

He turned at the sound and was completely taken aback by the lovely woman before him. All the Lucas girls had braided their hair and threaded buttercups and baby’s breath through them, but somehow the effect was more ethereal in Emma’s hair. The bright sunshine of her waves were wild in her youth, but now it was more like spun gold catching the light. Her figure in the lace cream bridesmaid dress captivated him, and the scooped neckline showed off the decolletage she had not possessed four years ago. Killian tore his gaze away and up to her green eyes, his cheeks heating at the instant attraction he felt. He pushed it down, lecturing himself that this was Emma, whom he had always felt brotherly affection for.

“Emma,” he murmured, slightly embarrassed at the breathlessness of his voice, “I scarcely recognized you.”

“I grew up,” Emma laughed. “Did you think I wouldn’t?”

“My apologies, lass,” he said as he lifted her gloved hand to his lips, his gaze never leaving hers. When he straightened, his heart raced once again at the blush that stained her cheeks.

“I’m glad you’re home.”

Was she just as breathless as he was, or had he imagined it? He suddenly remembered his uncle’s words: A lot can happen in four years . . . girls grow up . . .

“And I am happy to see you, Emma. I can’t call you cygnet anymore, can I?”

“I never liked being called a baby, if you recall. Yet I have always liked being your swan.”

The coyness of her tone and the smirk in her smile made him light-headed. He lifted his hand to scratch behind his ear, but then stopped himself. It wouldn’t bode well for her to know how she was affecting him.

“And that you shall always be . . . Swan.”

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

Emma burst into the house with such energy and enthusiasm that her bonnet went flying from her head. She shouted for Granny and her sisters, but the first floor was empty. She thundered up the stairs, shouting that she had exciting news, but her family was nowhere to be found on the second level either. She grinned when she saw that the attic door was open and raced up the stairs. Some of the pencils in her hand slipped from her fingers and bounced down the creaky stairs, but she didn’t pause to retrieve them.

“I have wonderful news!” she cried the minute she reached the attic, but she came to an abrupt stop when she saw Ruby on the sofa in the corner, weeping. Belle had her arms around her sister, comforting her. Emma clutched her sketchpad tighter against her chest. “What’s the matter?”

Ruby just turned her face further into Belle’s embrace, and the smaller girl gently patted her back. Emma had never seen Ruby need comfort from anyone, least of all from Belle. Dread filled her stomach. Was someone hurt? Sick? Was something wrong with Killian? Mary Margaret? Granny?

Belle looked up at Emma with a sad expression. “She has refused Killian.”

Emma was rendered silent for a moment as competing emotions rattled within her. On the one hand, she was furious with her sister. How could Ruby be foolish enough to cast aside a proposal from a man as wonderful as Killian? A man who clearly adored her and always had? Yet another part of Emma, the selfish part, was relieved. She had tried over the years to prepare herself for the day when Killian would take Ruby as his wife, but the thought had always left her heartbroken. How could she endure having Killian as a part of her family, but not in the way she longed for? How could she see him for the rest of her days as nothing more than a brother, when her heart ached for so much more?

All of this flitted through Emma’s brain in a moment as she sank onto the edge of the sofa with her sisters. The words that fell past Emma’s lips weren’t even a conscious thought.

“Oh Ruby, how could you?”

Her sister lifted her tear-stained face to Emma in shock. “Do you think I did this to spite him? Do you think I relished breaking his heart?”

Loud, melancholy notes pounded out from the piano next door and floated on the summer breeze up to the attic window. Ruby groaned.

“Listen to him!” She rose from her seat, crossed the attic, and slammed the window shut. She began to pace, worrying her bottom lip. “What can I do? I tried to explain it to him. We would be a horrible match! We’d fight constantly, and eventually, we’d despise each other.”

“But you love him,” Emma said.

Ruby stopped pacing and stared at Emma, shaking her head until her thick brown waves tumbled over her shoulders. “Not like that. Only as a friend. I’ve said it a thousand times, and I’ll say it again: I’ll never marry!”

“You don’t love him?” Emma shouted, jumping up from her seat and tossing aside her sketches. “How can you say that? After all those years of flirting with him!”

“I don’t flirt!”

“Seriously!?” Emma scoffed. “You know what? You don’t deserve him!”

Emma stomped over to retrieve her sketches, her entire body trembling. She was so confused right now. Her relief was overwhelmed by the knowledge of how deeply heartbroken Killian was. She wanted to shake her sister in frustration for so easily casting aside what Emma would give anything to have.

“Emma,” Ruby said gently, placing a hand at her elbow, “I know that you feel for Killian in ways I never could. Don’t be angry with me, thank me!”

Emma looked up at her sister with a trembling smile. “I’m not angry with you, not really.” The strands of Mozart’s Requiem Mass in D floated into the attic, despite the closed window. It felt like a premonition. “I just don’t know that he’ll ever get over you. You know how deeply he feels.”

When Ruby didn’t reply, Emma bent down to pick up her things, then turned toward the door.

“Wait,” Belle called after her, “what was your news?”

Emma felt suddenly sad at the way her earlier excitement had so quickly ebbed away. She mustered a smile for her sisters. “Aunt Regina is taking me to Europe.”

“Why, that’s wonderful!” Belle exclaimed.

“I’m so happy for you, Emma,” Ruby added. “You can study painting.”

Emma nodded and forced a brighter smile upon her face. “She hopes I might make a suitable match there.”

The words fell heavy in the room as Emma turned and made her way back downstairs.

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

Admiral Nemo sighed, his forehead creased with worry as the train chugged its way out of the station. He didn’t think his nephew would find the balm he was seeking on this journey, yet what could he do? The boy was as stubborn as they came.

He ran a hand wearily over his face as he turned away from the station and went back to his waiting carriage. Regina Mills’ Brougham was parked nearby, and the woman herself sat stiffly inside it. Nemo headed over and tipped his hat to her.

“Good day, Miss Mills. What brings you out today?”

“My man is purchasing our train tickets for the morrow,” she told him primly. She arched one brow and continued, “Ms. Swan and I are leaving for our European tour.”

Nemo’s brows raised. “Is that so?”

“Yes it is,” replied Regina with a sly smile, “and I assume you just saw your nephew off?”

“I did,” Nemo sighed.

“Rumor has it, he is off on his own European tour.”

“If you could call it that,” Nemo scowled. “He’ll be heading to Italy to reconnect with his mother’s old friends in the theater. God knows where he’ll go or what he’ll do after that.”

Regina nodded sagely before speaking again. “Sometimes a young man needs time to nurse a broken heart.”

“More like sow his wild oats,” Nemo bit out. “I had hoped he would go to London to take charge of my business there, make something of himself, but alas . . .”

“A pretty young lady with a good head on her shoulders could entice him to do so.”

A slow smile spread across Nemo’s face. “I agree.”

“So you’ll write me and let me know his itinerary?”

“Gladly,” Nemo assured her with a conspiratorial grin upon his face. He had tried to steer his nephew toward Emma, especially after he witnessed their reunion at the wedding, but it had been to no avail. Yet if the pair just so happened to cross paths in a more romantic setting . . .

“Good day to you, Admiral,” Regina said as her man returned with the tickets. Her eyes sparkled with sly mischief as the Brougham rolled away.

#cs ff #csmm #captain swan movie marathon #cs little women au

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jovialyouthmusic · 4 years ago

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Past Times

The Dalgleish family continue their tour around John Lykel’s estate, and Elizabeth has to make a big decision.

Word Count 3233

A/N Although this is a spin off of a spin off of a fanfic, it has become it’s own story. I’m pleased to see it has prompted some interest. This is fluffy and gentle and there is longing and romance, but definitely no smut - at least not yet.

8 Will you be Mistress?

The family spent a pleasant afternoon touring the formal gardens before being admitted to the walled garden where the head gardener grew produce for the manor. Fruit trees soaked up the summer sun on the south facing walls which also sported a large glasshouse. Exotic plants were carefully tended in there, and they were told that such fruits as pineapple and peaches would be served at the grand dinner to be held when all the guests had arrived. John’s friend Tom and his wife were due to arrive the next day and would be staying for two weeks, and other guests would be coming from nearby estates. There would be a grand dinner and a Ball in a week’s time and most of the guests would return home at the end of the day, but there were rooms still available for a few who had further to travel.

The estate was set on the banks of a river and the fishing was good. Copses and woods provided game to hunt, and cattle and sheep grazed the meadows. There was a farmhouse with a barn and dairy and other outbuildings and a number of cottages housing estate workers, and John also employed a gamekeeper. Servants who worked in the house either slept in the top story of the manor or in one of a few cottages that stood close by. Naturally there were also stables housing a fine stallion and a sweet docile mare for riding and for breeding, and two lesser steeds which could be hitched up to draw an assortment of gigs and carricles. The farmhouse had its own stable with plough horses, and beehives provided honey. Chickens ran about the farmyard, there were ducks on the pond near the farmhouse and the pig sties were well stocked.

All in all, the estate was not only self sufficient, but a surplus of meat and other produce was sold to traders in Edinburgh. John took rent from the farmer and other smallholders and a percentage of anything made from trading. Having visitors stay at the manor and holding an elaborate dinner and ball for nearby gentry would hardly make a dent in the estate’s finances. What was draining to John’s resources was the rent and upkeep of the townhouse in the city, but Elizabeth’s dowry would help to cover those costs. She would receive an annual income from the money her father left her, plus rent from the farmhouse on his estate – or rather, John would, as the practice at the time was that any property or income a woman had passed to her husband when she married. In Scotland however, women had far more of a say in marital finances and sometimes ran the whole estate if they were able.

Elizabeth was a little overcome at the size and scope of Laxton Estate. She and John walked together, her parents admiring the exotic fruits and flowers in the glasshouse and Amelia trailing behind them. John had promised her that later they would visit the stables to see the horses and a litter of kittens that one of the farm cats had just given birth to.

‘How have you not been snapped up by a finer lady than I, John Lykel?’ she asked him as Morag admired the vegetable beds outside the glasshouse.

‘None attracted my attention like you, my dear Lizzy’ he assured her ‘Money and title are superficial and I did not expect to be managing the estate for some time to come. It is your spirit and your intellect that snared me – do you not remember our first meeting in the library?’ Elizabeth looked a little embarrassed.

‘If I had not tried to surprise Duncan, I might never have caught your attention, or you mine’ she said, and he smiled in agreement. He looked toward their chaperone and steered her a little further out of earshot.

‘Tell me my dear, what do you think of your room?’ he asked quietly.

‘It is very fine’ she replied ‘Is there anything significant about it?’

‘I wondered if your parents would be concerned that I had given you a larger bed’ he murmured ‘The truth is that it was challenging to allocate rooms and beds to accommodate both your family and other guests. I assure you there is nothing improper intended in giving you a bed that would accommodate more than one person. When we are married you may of course choose any room you wish as ours’ Again she blushed at the thought of what might occur when they were finally promised to each other and recognised by the Church.

‘John’ she said, squeezing his arm ‘We shall be wed soon, surely nothing can be improper, short of being more intimate with each other’ He smiled at her boldness

‘We have not set a date yet’ he replied ‘I wanted you to see the entirety of my estate before you accepted my proposal for certain. Some might find the prospect of being Mistress of Laxton rather challenging’

‘Mama and Papa have made sure I have been educated sufficiently for such a prospect’ Elizabeth assured him ‘Some of my friends have only been schooled in genteel arts such as dancing, singing and sewing, but as Father lacked a male heir he made sure to instruct both Amelia and I in the matter of estate as well as house management. It may come to pass that one of us might have to look after the family estate whether we are wed or not’ John raised his eyebrows in surprise.

‘Indeed, I was not aware of that’ he replied ‘You are truly a very suitable young woman, and I am very fortunate to have attracted your attention.’ He grinned ‘How have you not been snapped up by a finer gentleman than I?’ he said, echoing her words. She laughed and drew him closer, making as if to press her nose to his, but behind them, Morag cleared her throat.

‘When we have set a date, perhaps we will have a little freedom’ Lizzy sighed in exasperation ‘It is so tiresome having Morag trail us, and I am sure she wearies of it too’ she murmured, and he made a wry face in answer.

‘The next thing to do before you make a proper decision about our betrothal is to see the rest of the estate, and you will observe what your responsibilities might be beyond running the house’ he explained ‘You and I and Morag will take a gig and drive out. If your parents and Amelia wish to do the same, they may take another, for I have nothing that will seat more than three persons. I presume your father can handle a gig’

‘Oh yes, he is very fond of driving Mama around our estate.’ She replied ‘And I am determined to be by your side for as long as fortune allows’

‘Perhaps I should reveal some of my lesser habits in case you find them repugnant’ he mused ‘Maybe I should pick my teeth or belch after dinner’ Elizabeth laughed

‘Nothing will deter me. I have read that in some countries it is impolite not to belch after eating at a host’s table’

‘I too have heard that. Perhaps we shall visit such a place together’ Her eyes lit up, but they were interrupted by Amelia sidling up to them.

‘Lizzy, if I see one more peach or rose I shall scream’ she said quietly, and turned to John beseechingly ‘They are beautiful, but you promised to show me the kittens at the stable’ John smiled

‘Very well, we shall go there next’ he said gently, and made his way over to the girls’ parents. However, they chose to remain in the walled garden a little longer, and gave Amelia leave to accompany John, Elizabeth and Morag to the stables. They spent some time admiring the horses, and Amelia played delightedly with the kittens.

‘Do you think Mama would let me take one home?’ she asked hopefully ‘It would keep me company when you – when you leave, Lizzy’ She looked so morose that her sister put a hand on her shoulder to soothe her.

‘I can’t say for sure, but you should realise that a pet is a big responsibility, Melly’ she said gently.

‘Maybe I can bring one into the house here’ she said brightly, her eyes shining as she looked up at John ‘I could keep it in my room, and when Mama sees how well I care for it…’

‘You shall do no such thing, Miss Amelia’ scolded Morag ‘The kittens are far too young to leave their mother, and are half wild. They are farm cats, and will catch mice and rats, not look pretty for spoiled young ladies’ Amelia pouted a little.

‘When we all get back to Edinburgh perhaps we will talk with Mama about you having a pet’ Elizabeth said. ‘Perhaps a little dog, or a parrot’

‘Oh not a parrot, Lizzy’ Amelia protested. ‘Eleanor’s father has one that belonged to his kitchen maid’s brother, and it says some extremely rude things, he dare not have it out for visitors. Also it makes a mess with its droppings’ John laughed at her tale, and Elizabeth looked up as her parents made their appearance. Amelia made as if to open her mouth and plead to have a kitten, but her sister frowned at her and she remained quiet. Already the stable hands were harnessing two gigs – small open carriages set up to take two or three passengers, one of them driving the horses. John’s two gigs could each be drawn by a single horse, and he planned to drive himself with Elizabeth and Morag while Sir James drove his wife and younger daughter on a trip around the rest of the estate.

The rest of the afternoon was spent touring the orchards and farmland, the farm and the cottages. Elizabeth could not think of a single thing the estate did not have, save for a folly or some ornamental building or summer house. All was practical and business like, in contrast to her father’s estate which was largely for show, with long avenues of beech trees, an ornamental lake and a tower on a hill overlooking the house. The farmland was quite separate from the Manor, whereas at Laxton all was integrated and appeared to work well. Oddly though, Laxton Manor was, as she had already observed, a finer example with more elaborate décor and fine furnishings.

After their tour they returned to the house to rest and prepare for dinner, hoping that Lady Margaret would feel well enough to attend her visitors. The two girls endured their mother’s attentions as to what they should wear. She summoned a maid to Lizzie’s room to try out dresses and accessories for them. It was not a formal occasion, but if John’s mother was to be there, they must appear suitably dressed. It was decided that their best most fashionable gowns were to be saved for the ball and perhaps one or two other occasions, so their second best could be worn to dinner that night. They could then be put away for when the other guests were present, and they could wear less formal attire from day to day. The girls had two or three other dresses that would do for the latter, and various scarves, hats, bonnets and other hair decorations and hairstyles would transform those plain garments. Jewellery would be reserved for the very best occasions.

At last they descended to dinner. Lizzie’s father was already in the drawing room with John enjoying a cigar, on which his wife frowned, not liking the smell that lingered about him after he smoked. The Captain came forward to welcome Lizzie, taking her hands and placing a kiss on her cheek that burned her skin and made her stomach do somersaults.

‘Mother will be down shortly’ he smiled ‘She asks that we wait, and she will attend us. Would you all care for a cordial in the meantime?’ Amelia’s face lit up, as she loved sugary drinks, which her mother rarely allowed due to the effect on the young woman. She tended to become more animated and subject to flights of fancy, but at a pleading look, her mother accepted for all three of them. Sir James was already enjoying a pre dinner glass of brandy in a fine balloon glass.

‘Oh, is this raspberry?’ Elizabeth asked as a servant brought round a tray of glasses of clear red liquid.

‘Indeed it is’ John replied ‘You will have seen the fruit bushes in the gardens – we had an excellent crop last year. Perhaps you might like to try our raspberry brandy later’

‘Perhaps we might’ their mother replied politely. It was but a short time before a servant came to open the door for Lady Margaret to enter the room. The girls curtseyed and Sir James gave a little bow.

‘Please, if we are to be family we should dispense with such formalities’ the Duchess said generously ‘Sir James, your daughters are have very particular manners; they are a credit to you. I know not what it is like to bring young girls up to fit into polite society.’ She inclined her head to John ‘My dear son is not the only child I have borne, but he is the only one to survive past his infancy’

‘Oh, my dear Lady Margaret’ Elizabeth’s mother said sorrowfully ‘I am so sorry to hear it. I was fortunate to have my girls, and never a lost child to our marriage.’ At this moment John’s manservant came to announce that dinner was ready to be served, and they all moved to the dining room to seat themselves as before at the long table. It was set more formally with silverware and lit by chandelier and candelabra, the soft light setting off rainbow glints on the silver and crystal on the table.

The first course was swiftly served – lobster bisque, which John assured all was made fresh from creatures bought this morning from the nearest fishing village, some hour or so’s cart journey away. Elizabeth was fond of shellfish and declared it was the best she had tasted in a while. The family had stayed with a distant cousin in North Berwick on the coast east of Edinburgh the previous year, and had enjoyed much fresh seafood then, even though it was readily available at home due to the city’s proximity to the port of Leith. Food was more expensive in the capital due to the cost of transporting it in the quantities needed by the number of people that called it home, and many merchants charged the upper classes more, knowing they could afford it.

For the second course, some few dishes of meat and fish were set out on the table along with vegetables and sauces, all made from produce from the estate. There was salmon from the river and pork from the farm, and pickled cucumber from the hothouse, as well as delcate onion and mushroom sauce and egg balls made from egg yolks. Wine was served from the cellar, and altogether it was a fine and delicate repast that Elizabeth made sure to savour and compliment. She cast her eye over her youngest sister to ensure that she wasn’t eating too fast, but she saw that the flavours and textures of the dishes had not gone unnoticed, and she was savouring her food delicately.

She sampled a little of every dish, and the pace of the meal and the conversation was such that when dessert was served, she found that her stomach had space to take some. Sweet cakes and fruit were set out, but the highlight of the meal was the presentation of a dish of lemon sorbet, brought in with a flourish by John’s manservant. Amelia’s eyes grew wide at the sight of the dessert.

‘Oh my goodness’ she breathed ‘I can only remember having anything this fine but once before, at the Beaumont’s Easter dinner party’ John smiled at her wide eyed expression. Elizabeth thought privately that it was as well to produce such a grand dish now, so that Amelia wouldn’t be so overwhelmed at the grand dinner to come, when others would be present.

‘You saw the ice house on the tour, Miss Amelia’ he said ‘We fill it with ice every winter, and it is well insulated enough for it to still have some left when the snows return the next season. As you may have seen, we grow lemons in the hothouse also’

‘It is extremely generous of you to serve it outside a formal dinner’ Lady Charlotte declared ‘We are, after all, almost ‘en famille’ rather than with other guests’ John inclined his head as the servants presented each of them with a glass bowl with a spoonful of the sorbet, equally distributed so the serving dish was empty. It was enjoyed not in silence, but with sounds of delight and appreciation. With a sigh, Amelia pushed her empty bowl aside and looked longingly at the little cakes close to her.

‘Please, help yourselves to more, should you wish it’ John said kindly, and timidly she took one to nibble, as the others also chose small morsels to finish their meal. John sat back in his seat, and addressed Elizabeth’s parents.

‘So, I wanted Liz – Miss Elizabeth – to see the best we have before she properly accepts my proposal of marriage’ he announced. ‘Though I must confess we have not had occasion to serve such a fine dinner since I have returned from sea.’

‘You must have many a fine dinner in the officer’s mess, Sirrah’ Lord James interjected. ‘I have been told that only the common sailors eat bully beef and hard tack’

‘Of course’ John replied ‘But I find it does well to eat with the men sometimes to remind oneself of the conditions under which they work. There is a balance to be had between maintaining order and making a bond of brothership with the lower ranks’ Sir James nodded sagely, then turned to his elder daughter.

‘Well Lizzie’ her father prompted ‘Has all this finery turned your head? Do you think you would like to be mistress of such a fine estate?’

‘I would be content with a cottage in the country, should I have the company of my John’ she replied ‘I hope Lady Margaret will be able to advise me on the management of this establishment, for I am sure I will find it a challenge’ Lady Margaret nodded her assent.

‘I am sure you will learn swiftly, and add your own flair to what will be your home should you accept John’s proposal, my dear’ she replied.

‘I would not think to have your answer with all watching, my dear Lizzie’ John replied ‘You have but to tell me in private’ She gazed into his eyes, and much as she wanted to declare her devotion then and there, she thought it best to honour his wishes. She hoped that once they were properly engaged, Morag might let them off the leash a little and they could have some time alone. She wished with all her heart that their engagement would not be a long one, and that they would soon be married.

@sirbeepsalot @drakeandcamilleofvaltoria @dcbbw @rainbowsinthestorm @katedrakeohd @trappedinfandoms @kingliam2019 @nomadics-stuff @texaskitten30 @princess-geek @texaskitten30

#period drama #Past times #Elizabeth and John #Elizabeth Dalgeish #Captain John Lykel #regency Scotalnd

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let-it-raines · 5 years ago

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Yellow Flowers In Your Hair (1/3)

Emma Nolan has been raised in a privileged household and has never wanted for anything other than freedom to live her life on her own terms. Her parents want that for her as well, at least to a certain extent, but when her father unexpectedly passes, Emma is left with two options: marry a man she doesn't love or lose the home filled with memories of her beloved father as well as memories of her first love, a man with blue eyes and a kind smile who left for the Navy years ago and hasn’t been home since.

But what if her first love were to come back?

Rating: Teen (for now)

a/n: Hi, hey, hello! This is based off of the two prompt game “Historical + Grief + Star-crossed lovers” and @shardminds picked it as her fic as a part of my fic giveaway! She passed up on more of Indirect Deposit for this, so, you know, I hope you all enjoy it. lol. If you know me, you know I’m a modern AU girl. This is decidedly not a modern AU, so we’ll see how this goes!

To @shardminds, you’re a sweetheart, and somehow you’re getting three parts of this story much faster than I anticipated! ❤️

Found on AO3 | Here |

Tag list: @snowbellewells @captainsjedi @wellhellotragic @galaxyzxstark @thejollyroger-writer @kmomof4 @tiganasummertree @xellewoods @idristardis @karenfrommisthaven @scientificapricot @captswanis4vr @a-faekindagirl @ultimiflos @jamif @dreameronarooftop15 @nikkiemms @resident-of-storybrooke @bmbbcs4evr @onceuponaprincessworld @jennjenn615 @mayquita @teamhook @kmomof4 @ekr032-blog-blog @superchocovian @ultraluckycatnd @cs-forlife @andiirivera @qualitycoffeethings @jonirobinson64 @mariakov81

-/-

A soft breeze blows over tall blades of grass, causing them to sway and for the leaves on the trees above to shake in a quiet rustle that mutes most other sounds of nature. There are birds chirping, but they’re quiet, their songs not as beautiful and vibrant as they usually are. Somber. Emma would describe the songs as a somber melody that causes an ache in the heart as it searches for a happy tune amongst the darkness.

And yet maybe that is her own mindset. Maybe that is all in her mind’s own making. If she’s honest with herself, which she hasn’t been lately, she knows that the muted sounds and the slightly grayer sky are all in her mind. In actuality, the sky is a vibrant blue, one that painters wish to recapture in their work, and the birds are likely chirping happy tunes that one could skip to or dance to at a picnic. The sun shines brightly overhead, warm enough to coat Emma’s skin in a glow that should bring life back to her, and yet Emma still feels a chill over her flesh, little bumps rising on her arms despite the knitted coat she has hanging loosely off her shoulders.

What today is can only be described as beautifully pleasant. It is a day Emma has experienced many times in the nearly twenty-four years of her life, and while otherwise it should be a normal day where she rides her horse or spends her afternoon in the study reading one of the novels her father has brought back for her from his travels or simply from a trip to the market, today is anything but a normal day in her life.

Today is very much the worst day of her life, and she is so overcome with grief that she is not sure if her mind has even been able to wrap around it all.

Truthfully, though, Emma may not be able to wrap her mind around today being the worst day of her life because she has spent the last six years thinking that another day was the worst day of her life. She has spent six years replaying the day where Killian walked off of the estate to travel to the Naval base where he enlisted, and having that day not be the worst is…unimaginable even though her heart has never been more broken than it is in this moment.

Everything about that day is still so clear in her mind. Her memories can replay the sad curve of Killian’s lips that quickly turned into a reassuring smile when the tears started to fall from her eyes. The blue of Killian’s eyes and the way they sparkled in the sunlight, the complete lack of stubble on his face, the new cut of his hair, the deep accent of his voice that was so different than how it sounded when he was becoming the man that he is - it is all so clear in her mind even though it is a distant memory.

She misses him. She misses the way that he’d sneak her apples from the orchard as if they were not already owned by her family. She misses the way that he’d sneak away from work to come sit by her at the lake, the two of them talking until he absolutely had to go back. He used to always say he was simply doing a bit of gardening, and while he would occasionally pick a yellow flower for her, there was no gardening involved.

They always were weeds and not flowers anyhow, but Emma has found that she has a fondness for pretty things that most people deem unworthy because they are not expensive or proper things.

She misses his laugh and the way his skin looked under the sunlight, especially after a summer of Killian spending his days outside. She misses the way his lips felt against hers in stolen kisses that had her cheeks painted red and a constant smile painted on her mouth even when she was supposed to be looking serious.

She misses every little thing about him, and she’s been counting the days he’s been gone. He told her that he would wait for her, that not a day would go by where he would not think of her, and he asked her if she would do the same.

Of course, she would. She has, even if she knows that in reality, her parents would never allow her to marry someone who is under their employ. She is supposed to marry a man of status, of worth equal to that of hers if not more.

Status has never been much of one for love.

To hell with status and being proper when she has never been one for conventional methods and traditions anyways. Growing up with Killian by her side likely aided in that.

Emma always thought that the day that Killian left would be the hardest day of her life.

She never assumed that it would be eclipsed by the death of her father if only because her father has been too young and healthy to die.

And yet, he has.

She…can’t. It’s not real. This isn’t real. She loves him too much for him to be gone.

Her mother had been sitting in the parlor knitting, something she always seems to be doing, and Emma was gardening by the front gate, something she always seems to be doing as well.

(The senior Mr. Jones is no longer around to work, replaced by new grounds-keep, but everyone always seems to forget the flowers in the front. Killian never did, and neither will Emma.)

Everything had been normal, happy, and when Emma saw Will Scarlet walking toward their front gate, she thought nothing of it other than that he was here to see Belle. The two of them have been courting, so he’s been around quite often. But the melancholy look on his face immediately told her that he was not at the house to see the woman he fancied, and when he very quietly told Emma that there had been an accident, her heart plummeted into her stomach as her legs crumpled under her dress.

No.

The scream she emitted still echoes in her mind, the shrill hoarseness and utter heartbreak written there, but nothing will ever compare to the way her mother had collapsed when she heard the news. Her mother, who despite all of her shortcomings in understanding that Emma does not want to be a proper lady whose only purpose in life is to serve her husband, is a wonderful woman full of strength, love, and hope for a good life. Her mother who Emma very much loves and her mother who was very much in love with her father.

Emma thought Killian leaving to provide for himself was the hardest day, was a loss that nothing could be compared to, but there is nothing as eternal as death.

Mary Margaret Nolan, a woman who has done nothing in her life except love everyone around her, especially her beloved husband, David Nolan, lost everything on a day that was just like any other.

The love her parents have for each other…or rather the love that they had, is the love that Emma always strived for. When she went into town or talked with her school friends about their parents, most of them talked of them sleeping in different bedrooms or not talking at the breakfast table. Many even mentioned the maids that their fathers would sleep with.

Not David and Mary Margaret Nolan.

They always slept in the same bedroom, in the same bed actually, and as long as her father was not traveling for work, they sat next to each other at the breakfast table chatting and laughing and being genuinely happy. Her father knew how her mother took her tea, and her mother knew that her father enjoyed having the hair at his neck scratched.

It was genuine love in a world where marrying someone of equal or better stature is more important than marrying someone who makes you happy, and their love is exactly why Emma grew up believing in it, even if she did have a few doubts about it all.

Just because she is the product of genuine love doesn’t mean she was guaranteed to find it.

But she did, and he’s gone now as well.

The loss of the two most wonderful men in her life has painted the blue sky gray, but today, her paintbrush is covered in black.

Her beloved papa is dead, and all she wants in this world is to hold him and have him hold her as well, staying as the warm and steady presence who has guided her life.

-/-

“Mother, do you want to go for a ride this afternoon?”

Emma asks the question, but she doesn’t get much of a reply, a non-committal hum as Mary Margaret stirs her tea in her cup and picks at her muffin that Granny baked for them this morning.

“I think it sounds like a wonderful idea,” Emma sighs, grabbing a muffin herself and plopping herself down on a stool at the kitchen table. “The weather is so nice outside today, and it’ll be good to get some exercise in – for us and the horses. We can even take a picnic. You can pick a book, and I’ll read it to you.”

There’s still no reply, her mother’s focus on her tea intense, and it’s starting to grate on Emma’s nerves. It’s been three months since her father died, and while it has been anything but easy, a bit of color is repainted into their lives every day.

But damn if Emma isn’t tired of playing the part of a proper daughter when her mother sometimes doesn’t even pay attention to her. It’s usually only in the mornings, Mary Margaret returning to her normal chipper self as the sun continues to rise in the sky, and even if it is selfish, Emma would like to be able to do something happy for once.

Today is already a particularly hard day for her as she received news that Liam Jones had been married, and she did not receive an invitation to the wedding. It’s fine, not that big of an insult, except that Liam once worked for them and lived on their property.

Oh, and the fact that Liam Jones very much knows that Emma was involved with his brother.

No one else knew except for Liam and possibly Emma’s maid, Ruby, as her parents forbade her to court with anyone they did not pick for her – which very much seems the opposite of what they should have done with their true love – and she expected to at least receive an invitation to the wedding ceremony.

That is not what hurts her, however. What hurts her is the thought of Killian being within miles of her and not coming to see her.

How could he do that?

Emma is not even sure that he was there, she has no reason to think that he wouldn’t come to see her, but her mind has begun to imagine every scenario. Over the months, she has told herself that she will not think of how sad missing Killian makes her because the pain of the loss of her father is worse, and yet thoughts of him still manages to creep into the corners of the pages of her mind.

So, today she needs her mother to be her mother, to be her friend. She needs the two of them to have a nice day together and then maybe return home and invite Granny and Ruby to sit with them at dinner.

Ruby has been her closest companion throughout everything, and if she can make Mary Margaret laugh in the way that she makes Emma laugh, it will be a good dinner indeed.

“Mother? Shall I go prepare the horses?”

Mary Margaret finally blinks up at her, her lips downturned, and Emma’s heart sinks into her stomach once more. It may as well take up permanent residence there lately. This morning is very obviously a bad one for her mother.

“Emma,” Mary Margaret sighs, placing her cup of tea down onto the table, “I have something I need to tell you.”

“Is everything okay?”

“Yes – I mean, no.” Her mother sighs again before straightening her back and plastering a very obviously forced smile on her face. “I received notice two days ago that we could lose the house and all of the land. I don’t know how this slipped my mind, but it did. I was too…after I…my mind has been muddled with other thoughts, and I didn’t think about the fact that we are not allowed to own land.”

“Excuse me?”

“We’re women, sweetheart.”

The words click in Emma’s mind, and while her heart has still dropped, it’s beating much more quickly now. The realization as to what her mother is saying causes rage to boil inside of her, and suddenly riding off into the woods on her horse sounds like the best option for her to do.

“No,” Emma protests, shaking her head as she angrily rips the covering on the muffin before tossing the pieces onto the table. “Fuck no.”

“Language,” Mary Margaret gasps as if that is the worst thing to be happening in this moment.

“What at all does my language matter, Mummy?” Emma groans, slapping her hands against her thighs before curling her fingers around the material of her dress so that her knuckles turn white. “What does it matter about being proper when we are going to lose our home simply because we were not born as men? What about a cock makes a man superior to me?”

“Emma!”

Emma rolls her eyes, knowing that she’s probably mortifying her mother but not caring. Her mother knows that Emma is right, but the language is obviously what is doing her in.

“We can’t lose the house. We can’t. There has to be some way. Papa’s memory is painted all over this place. When I walk into this kitchen, I see the two of you smiling and talking to each other as you drink your tea. When I go into the study, I see him reading me a book, using all of his voices to make me laugh even if it made you roll your eyes. When I walk up the stairs and my foot touches the step that creaks, I remember him telling me that it was simply the house speaking back telling me how glad it was that we were all home. I can’t – we can’t – ”

The words disappear from her as a sob overwhelms her, clogging her throat and making the air escape from her body. She can’t breathe. She can’t. It’s too hard to breathe in the air of this home and the familiar smell that is so uniquely her family because soon she will not be able to breathe in this scent.

No. No. No.

Tears sting in her eyes, and while she manages to regain some air flow, everything that she sees is through the tear-stained lenses that her mother has been wearing for months now.

How is it that she has already lost nearly everything and yet the feelings of anguish do not come until now?

Slight arms wrap around her, and Emma would know the slight arms of her mother anywhere. She would know that scent of her, the warmth. She would know everything, and despite the fact that Emma is going to ruin her mother’s dress, she presses her face into her shoulder and sobs as Mary Margaret runs her hands up and down Emma’s back.

“We’re not going to lose the house, Emma,” she promises. “There are ways around it.”

“What possible ways are there around it? We cannot suddenly become men.”

“But I can marry one.”

Emma’s head immediately rises from her mother’s shoulder, and after blinking away the tears, she finally sees the way her mother’s cheeks are faintly stained with the path of tears this morning as well.

“Mummy, no,” Emma protests, reaching up to cup her mother’s cheeks. “You can’t.”

Mary Margaret sadly nods her head. “I have to. It’s not love, but it will be a way for us to keep the house. I have already found a man, a wealthy man, who is willing, and I – ”

“I’ll get married,” she blurts out, the words rolling off of her tongue without her realizing the repercussions of them. “I am getting older. I’d have to be married soon anyhow, and I am the heir to the Nolan estate. If I’m married, it goes to my husband, and we can keep the house and have a place to live. You loved Papa too much to marry someone else, especially when you still sleep with his shirts.”

Emma thought the only man she would ever marry would be Killian, but if these are their options, Emma will be the one to make the sacrifice.

Killian may never come back anyhow. It’s been years, and the waiting may never end.

Saving her mother is the most important thing right now.

Saving her family.

-/-

The man she is to marry is named Neal Cassidy, son of banker Robert Cassidy.

He is perfectly nice, if not boring and a tad bit too…brutish for Emma. He’s not harsh or violent, of course, but he does believe that a woman is better to be seen and not heard. To him, she is nothing but a pretty thing to keep on his arm, and Emma knows it. It sends a shiver down her spine and makes her blood heat in her veins, but there is nothing she can do about it.

This is the only way to save their home and to save her mother from more heartbreak.

If she has to marry Neal Cassidy, she will.

They will probably never be in love, but she doesn’t want to be in love with him. And as long as she is able to spend time with her mother and her friends without him keeping her away, that is fine with her.

It is not the life she grew up imagining, but life never does seem to go to the plan of a woman when the world is designed for them not to be treated the same as a man.

-/-

The lawyers and bankers give them an additional two months of staying in the house when they find out Emma is engaged to be married. It’s not much, but it’s more than enough as summer fades away and the leaves begin to change colors before falling to the ground. The blue skies that were around all summer, filling Emma with the slightest bit of hope, have morphed into the shades of gray she was imagining.

Her imagination has very much become her reality as Ruby and her mother tie her corset to make Emma lose all of her breath with her ribs being crushed so tightly.

She never has been one to wear a corset on a daily basis, and on the occasions that she does, it is usually miserable.

Today, on her wedding day, it is much worse.

That also may have to do with how much Emma doesn’t want to get married, but she is holding that secret closer to her heart.

The dress she is wearing is long and covered in white satin with a bit of lace that falls off of her sleeves. Every bit of her is covered, which feels unnatural, and autumn flowers of colors orange and yellow are threaded into the plait of her hair as makeup is painted onto her skin and her lips. She looks beautiful even if she doesn’t feel that way, and she’s sure that everyone at the church will think the same.

It does not matter to her, but it matters to society.

After all of her preparations are finished, including a conversation about the marriage bed that Emma most definitely does not need to have with her mother, the two of them load up into the carriage that Mr. Cassidy has provided for them and begin their ride to the church in the center of town. Emma stares out the window the entire time, watching buildings and people go by, and while she knows that it’s not true, she feels as if her own freedom is disappearing when this is the only way for her to keep that freedom.

Reaching for her mother, Emma intertwines their fingers and squeezes, needing reassurance and a reminder of why she’s doing this, before looking out the window again.

And that’s when she sees him.

“Stop the carriage,” Emma screams out to the driver up front, and within seconds the horses slow down in their speed, the gravel not crunching as loudly underneath their hoofs.

“Emma, what are you doing?”

“I,” she starts, but she doesn’t know the words to finish her sentence. “I need to get some fresh air outside of the carriage.”

“We’ll be late for the wedding.”

Damn the wedding, she thinks.

“I’ll only be a moment,” she says instead before opening the carriage door and stepping out on her own, knowing that she’s stepped on her gown.

He hasn’t seen her yet, but she’s most definitely seen him.

He’s…different than before. His shoulders are much broader, the body under his clothes obviously more muscled, and the angle of his jawline is sharp enough to cut skin. He’s also covered in scruff. He used to be before, of course, but it was more in patches and his father would often make him shave. His hair is shorter, more clean cut, and she likes the way that it looks over the top of his Naval uniform.

And with everything that’s different, she knows that the blue of his eyes and the brightness of his smile are going to be the same. How could they ever be diminished?

“Killian,” she whispers, her voice unable to get any louder than that.

If it were anyone else, she knows that he wouldn’t have heard her, but he turns to look at her with parted lips and widened eyes that have tears already forming in Emma’s.

This is all a dream. It has to be. It’s been nearly seven years now, and while she had received letters years ago, ones she had passed off as being nothing more than friendly communication, she has never been able to send one in return since his location seemed to always be changing. She always sent them anyways, hoping that he would somehow receive one, but she had no indication that he ever did.

She was always too afraid to ask Liam.

“Emma.”

His voice is exactly the same, still that low, deep timber, and it sends shivers down her spine as she picks up the bottom of her dress and walks forward until she’s colliding into the firmness of his body, her arms wrapping around his neck and his arms wrapping around her waist. He’s different. His body feels and smells different, but there is an undeniable warmth that could never change and could never be replicated.

“Did you miss me?” Killian chuckles into her neck, his breath warm against her skin, and it only makes her embrace him more tightly.

She cannot breathe, and there is no telling if that’s because of how undeniably ecstatic she is or if it is because of the corset she’s wearing.

The corset.

Underneath her wedding dress.

Oh fuck.

She’s supposed to be getting married in under an hour.

Can she even do that anymore?

“Every single day of my life, it feels like,” she whispers back, pulling back so that her hands can cup his cheeks, fingers tracing underneath his eyelids so that she can study him. There’s a scar on his cheek now. That wasn’t there before. “Where have you been?”

“Everywhere, I believe,” he laughs, that same wonderful laugh. “I’ve been in America for the past two years, but I was in France for a little while, Denmark before that. It’s been a whirlwind, Emma, and I want to tell you about it all later. I – ”

His eyes seem to finally take in her appearance – the makeup, intricate hair, white veil, and the very telling white gown that she very much wishes would burn up into flames right now for the way that it makes the blue of Killian’s eyes dull into a gray that she never wants to see again.

“I,” he repeats, his Adam’s apple bobbing in his throat, “I returned home yesterday. Liam has gotten married a few months prior, you see, and he’s offered me work in the shipping business that his wife’s father owns. I wanted to come and see you as fast as I could, but then…I heard about your father, love. I’m so sorry.”

Her eyes flutter, lashes blinking away the tears, and Emma can practically feel her mother’s gaze on her behind her back.

“I am as well,” Emma sighs, her happiness continuing to fade away. “I miss him every day.”

“I imagine you’d want him here today especially.”

“Whatever do you mean?”

Killian blinks his eyes closed, his long, dark lashes landing against his tanned cheeks before he shakes his head the slightest bit. “Why, it is apparently your wedding day, my love.”

#yellow flowers in your hair #cs fic #cs ff #captain swan fic #captain swan

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derinthescarletpescatarian · 5 years ago

Text

Fulcrum

They say that the old crone on the hill is a witch, and hides her devil’s bite under her hair. They say that she steals life from the town and sickens the fields with her evil. They say that the reason there’s no gate in her fence is because it’s not a fence for her house; it’s a fence of holly wood with silver nails, built to keep her in. And they say that if you cross that fence uninvited, you don’t come back out – or at least, not all of you does. In payment of your trespass, you leave something behind.

“I heard,” my friend Samael whispered to me as we picked the midsummer apples, “that she steals babies’ hair and spins it into thread that takes away their life force. Then she trades the thread to rich foreigners for food and luxuries. You’d better keep an eye on your sister.”

“That’s ridiculous,” I sniffed. “Somebody’s been making a fool of you.”

“No, really! How else would she stay alive, up there all alone? She can’t be growing enough food for herself, and what about when she gets sick, or needs firewood? She never comes to town!”

“If she never comes to town,” Marcus pointed out, “how would she get the babies’ hair? Think, Samael. Everyone knows she curses the town with the smoke from her chimney, and the curses will get you if you don’t say your prayers to protect yourself.”

“You’re both wrong,” I said. “I heard that she sneaks into town in the dead of night and trades secrets for her goods, because the holy sunlight burns her during the day.”

“Well, that’s ridiculous,” Samael said. “If sunlight burns her, why has her house got windows? Huh? And who’s selling to her? She’s not buying tools off my dad!”

“She’s an old woman! How often would she need to buy tools?”

“Hey, you two?” Marcus held out an apple. “Look at this.” He split it with his hands, and we stared.

The entire core was a black, slimy mess. Once it was opened, the smell of rot was unmistakeable.

I split the apple in my hands. Rotten.

“Get your papa,” I told Marcus.

An inspection was called. Three quarters of the harvest was infected. The rest looked clean, but there could be no chances taken with the rot. There would be no apples this year.

The apples were an important part of our food supply, especially with most of last year’s wheat harvest taken by the beetles, but we had enough stores to last until the new wheat came in. We were a very resilient town, and had always taken care to store well.

It would be a lean year, though.

It was decided that we children would finish harvesting the apples, then in autumn compost them on the wheat fields over the river, where they could not re-infect the orchard while they broke down. The next year, the apple blossoms would be trimmed before they could develop – two years without apples – and that should remove the blight’s hold. Chasing thoughts of fresh apple pie from my mind, I returned to the harvest.

“She did this,” Samael grumbled. “Beetles, then apple blight? That’s not normal bad luck.”

“I have an idea,” Marcus said.

And that’s how the three of us ended up lugging sacks of rotten apples up the hill at sunset.

“Are you sure this is safe?” I asked.

“The holly and silver fence will hold her in,” Samael said.

“No, she can get out at night,” Marcus insisted. “She comes into town when the sun’s down to – ”

“This was your idea, Marcus!”

“I know. I’m just saying.”

The sacks were heavy. It was fully dark by the time we made it to the crone’s hut. Moonlight gleamed off the ungated fence, the clay roof, the overgrown garden.

Marcus reached into his sack, grabbed an apple, and hurled it at the hut. It splattered against the wall, smearing foul-smelling rot everywhere. Samael’s apple followed, smacking onto the roof. I pulled one out of my bag and took aim.

“Why hello, children.”

A shape I’d taken to be a particularly sickly tree in the woman’s garden stepped forward. The two boys screamed and bolted. I tried to follow, but I couldn’t move. Why couldn’t I move? I stood there, willing myself to back away from the witch coming closer, but every muscle was stiff as death. She came right up to the fence.

“Oh, how kind! You’ve brought me some old apples to fertilise my garden? It’s lovely when people think to help each other. I certainly have some vegetables that could use a bit of fertiliser. Do lift the bags over the fence, would you? I’m afraid my old bones just aren’t up to the task any more.”

Come on. I could run away. It shouldn’t be hard. The buys had managed it! Just turn and run!

“Oh, is it too heavy for you too, dear? Never mind; I have just the thing for that.” She picked up a long plank of wood and laid it over the fence, one end sticking up like a seesaw. “Do you know how to use a lever and fulcrum, dear? It’s very simple. Just put one of the sacks on the end there, would you?”

I found myself obeying. Was she doing something to me? Making me obey her with her evil magic?

“Now, the real secret of leverage is this – you have to put in as much effort as you’re going to get out.” She leaned down on her side of the plank, lifting my side (with the sack) up high. When it was low enough, she stood on her end, and reached to drag the sack down the plank towards her. “You get out what you put in, the trick is to direct it properly. See? Now the second bag.”

Soon, we had all three bags over the fence, and nothing horrible had happened to me. The old woman grinned. “Do come in for a cup of tea, dear.”

Finally, my legs let me back away. “It’s, uh, late. I should get going.”

“But you came all this way, bringing such a nice gift! It’s hardly going to get darker than it is already. Do come in and rest yourself and warm up a little.”

I knew the stories – cross the fence uninvited, and you don’t come out. But I was invited, wasn’t I? That meant it was safe, right?

Inside the cottage, the floors were swept and the table wiped, but cobwebs hung thick across the ceiling and a rat glowered at me from the corner. Things a frail old lady would have difficulty keeping up with, living on her own.

She put the kettle on and I found a broom to clear the cobwebs. The broom was old and falling apart; the table and chairs wobbled with loose joints. The only well-maintained item in the house was a spinning wheel in the corner, and its distaff, loaded with flax.

The tea was well steeped, but a little sour. The kettle needed cleaning.

The next day, after we finished harvesting the first of three apple orchards, I went to visit the crone with fresh nails for the chairs and vinegar for the kettle. She span flax in the corner, humming quietly to herself, and then we went outside together to dig rotten apples into the starving soil of the vegetable garden.

“Where do you get the flax?” I asked her as we worked.

“I buy it, like anybody else.”

“Where? You never come to the marketplace.”

The crone laughed. “There are many different types of trade in this world, my dear.”

The next day, I brought poison for the rats, and the crone span straw (she’d run out of flax) while I scrubbed the floor. I didn’t know that straw could even be spun, but under her fingers it twisted into a fine, supple cord. She caught me staring and wove the thread into a short length of ribbon, which she pressed into my hands. “A gift,” she said.

I thought of the old stories of princesses who wove straw into gold. I thought of the hour it had taken her to painstakingly weave the ribbon with stiff hands.

“I can’t,” I said.

So she tied it into her own hair and sent me home with vegetable stew for my mother, that she might make good milk for my baby sister, who had a fever.

“You should be careful,” Marcus warned me as we started on the second orchard. “I bet she poisoned that stew.”

“Why would she poison anyone?”

“She’s right,” Samael said, “witches don’t need to use poison. They can curse people with sickness, just like she did to these apples.”

“She’s not a witch! She’s just an old lady with no one to help her. Maybe if you actually talked to her instead of spreading gossip, you’d learn something.”

“Oh, yeah? Like what?”

Like what herbs to add to a mother’s tea to protect her child from fever, which the crone showed me the next day. Like which cobwebs to leave undisturbed, because some spiders protected the house from other pests. Like how to grow enormous turnips, and how a frail old lady could use leverage to move quite heavy furniture.

“You have to put in the energy you want to get out,” she explained again as she used a wooden post to easily lift a heavy oak cabinet and sweep under it. “It’s all about directing that energy.”

The next day, she made a mistake in directing that energy. I arrived at the cottage to find her cradling a badly sprained wrist.

“You’re lucky it’s not broken,” I chided her as I wrapped it up. “At your age you need to be careful.”

“What a waste of luck,” was her rueful reply.

“You can’t waste luck.”

“My dear, when you get to my age, every breath you draw is lucky. You tend to get quite stingy with it.”

I put the kettle on and cleaned out the larder while the crone rested her hand. I missed the sound of her humming melody and the whirr of her spinning wheel that normally accompanied my indoor work.

The herbs worked on my sister. She grew strong and healthy and the days grew long and dry, and we finished the apple harvest and the men brought in the wheat, and the crone’s cottage was clean and in good repair. Her wrist healed, and soon I was pickling vegetables to the whir of her wheel and her melody.

And my sister fell ill again that very day.

Through the night, her little lungs coughed weakly and rasped as she breathed. And the rasp entered my dreams as the whirr of a spinning wheel.

“She’s going to kill your sister,” Samael told me.

“No,” I said. “We all get sick. And we all survive.”

We did. We were a resilient people; illness and misfortune had plagued our town for a hundred years, but we were strong and prepared and we always pulled through. My sister was strong, too. She would survive her cold. We would survive the lack of apples and the rapidly drying town. And a old woman taking to her spinning wheel being blamed for such misfortunes… well, that was just a story made up by silly children.

Still, I stopped visiting the crone. I was too busy, caring for my sister, and my mother who had caught her cold, and helping bring in the last of the wheat, and spinning new thread for my mother’s loom. Watching the crone had taught me to spin faster, smoother thread than ever before, and I caught myself humming her melody as I worked. I kept myself busy, and I told myself that that was why I stayed away. Until the morning I smelled the smoke.

The winds were hot and dry; the wildfire was distant, but moving quickly. While everyone got to work protecting the town, Marcus and Samael and I climbed the hill.

“It’s her spinning wheel,” I explained. “She calls misfortune down by spinning.”

“Then we destroy it,” Marcus said, drawing his father’s hammer from his belt.

The boy’s hesitated at the fence – they say that if you go in uninvited, you don’t come out – but I leapt over it, and they followed, not wanting to show more fear than a girl. I could hear her humming and spinning as the smell of smoke became stronger. I pushed through the door.

The house was once again cobwebbed and dusty in places difficult for an old woman to reach. But it was hard to see that, under the balls of thread littered about the floor. Every surface was piled in thread of every thickness and colour and material, from fine dark wool to rough bark. The crone stood from behind her wheel, and tossed a ball to me.

“Good. You’re here. Grab as much as you can, and take it down to the town. Boys, you look strong; I’m sure you can carry a lot.” She tossed a ball to Marcus, who dropped the hammer to catch it.

“Your thread?” I asked, baffled.

“Not mine. The town’s. I just wind it up and keep it safe.” She wound a length of freshly spun cord around my wrist, again and again. “”But now it is needed, and you must take it. Go!”

“What is – ”

“No time! Go!”

We scooped up armloads of thread and raced back down the hill, letting gravity and the weight of our loads speed us along. The smoke was thick enough to be visible, now, a haze on the horizon, and I felt the thread around my wrist burn, leaking something into me, as my feet missed every stick and stone and stumbling block and found the quickest path down the hill. Marcus stopped to toss balls of thread over trees and storage sheds where it hung like ropey cobwebs; Samael and I split up, heading for opposite ends of town.

The wind was the strongest I’d ever experienced. It snatched string from my arms, and I knew there was no time to stop to pick it up. I dashed to the river. At the edge of the nearly dry bed, most of the village stood, clubs and water buckets at the ready to try to stop the fire from spreading to the fields on the other side. Behind them, mothers lay their children in the shallow muddy stream that still flowed, a last-ditch effort if the fire couldn’t be held back.

“Take it!” I shouted, throwing balls of thread at them. “Take this, and hold onto it! Wind it around yourselves! It’ll protect you!”

It was a ridiculous claim. But the thread around my wrist burned, and they heard the urgency and certainty in my voice, and people took the string, handed it to each other, wound it around themselves and their children and their clubs, and behind me the wind picked up even more and pushed me over.

I took a club and took up a position on the line, but we all knew it was hopeless already. The scent of smoke carried a story; I smelled not just wood, but meat and grease and lanolin and a hint of alcohol… the stores, the sheep, perhaps even my friends… and then the hot air was burning my eyes and embers were raining down and the fierce flames were in front of us and there was no choice but to retreat, sprinting for the muddy water and flinging ourselves down.

I threw myself over my sister, holding her tiny face just above the water and using my body to shield her from the fire and debris raining over us. Something burned my arm; not the fire, but the cord wrapped around it, glowing brightly and disintegrating to dust and leaving the arm underneath unmarked despite the pain. The wool coccooning my sister glowed too, as bright as the fire; I had to look away, up into the sky, and saw burning leaves carry clear over the river to land on the other side among the wheat fields, where it burned through unharvested straw. And then it was gone, and as one, we stood, brushing away ash that had once been string. I checked my sister for injuries – none. We walked back to town, putting out little fires with our clubs on the way.

The town was in surprisingly good shape. There was damage, of course, but the wind had pulled the fire through too fast to destroy everything. A lot of thatching needed repair, and we’d lost some of our stores, but enough had survived. The town would survive.

Everyone started cleaning up, and I climbed the hill to the old crone’s hut.

Most of the hut itself was intact, although the garden had been badly damaged. Part of the fence had burned away entirely, leaving a space just wide enough, perhaps, to install a gate.

Inside the house, not a ball of thread remained. Everything was coated in that strange ash, and I walked past the crone, sitting at her table, to fetch the broom. She didn’t look up at me. She didn’t move at all.

“Hey. Are you okay?”

She did not move. Did not breathe.

I closed her eyelids, took her hands to cross them over her chest. Something dropped into my hand from hers; a short length of ribbon. One I’d watched her weave months ago from straw. It looked a lot shorter now.

I tied it into my hair, and once again tallied my tasks. I would have to sit with her for the three nights’ vigil, because nobody else would. I would have to sell something to get two coppers for the gravedigger, because nobody else would. And I would have to help repair the town, help the wounded, tally our stores, do all of those little things that would tide us over between this disaster and the next. Resilient people like us have to be careful where we direct our energy. Today had been very lucky, and now we had little luck to spare; but it would not be long before the town would need to be lucky again. There was always another disaster.

The ribbon felt hot in my hair. It burned against my head, like something was boring into my skull. I ignored it.

I sat at the wheel, and started to spin.

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

This story is set in the Curse Words universe: https://havenstory975986403.wordpress.com/

#short story #flash fiction

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summahsunlight · 5 years ago

Text

Pathways, a series of drabbles

Title: Family, Part 3

Word Count: 1264

Characters: Poe, Evelyn (OC), Kes, BB-8

Pairings: Poe/Evelyn, Kes/Shara (mentioned)

A/N: This turned into something a little more angsty than I originally had intended. Contains slight spoilers for TROS.

AO3

It was unusually breezy for a summer day on Yavin IV. The weather was making it difficult for Kes to finished up chores around the ranch on his own and some time mid-afternoon, he’d decided to set out and find where Poe had run off too. While Kes was trying to give Poe space, since well, his son had not come home to work, but rather to recoup a bit from the final battle of the war, plus rebuilding a galaxy, he realized he wasn’t going to get all this work done on his own with the winds picking up.

Kes headed towards the garage, where he knew Poe would have disappeared too for the day. Tinkering around working on Shara’s A-wing had always been something that calmed and relaxed his son. He was surprised when he found the garage empty, with the exception of his son’s droid, BB-8.

BB-8 beeped a welcome to Kes as he happily rolled around, making repairs to Poe’s orange X-wing. Kes’ furrowed his brow. “Where did Poe run off too?” he asked the astromech, who informed him that Poe had gone back to the house with Evelyn about an hour ago.

“Thanks,” he mumbled to the droid as he headed off in the direction that BB-8 sent him. Figures, Poe would make it difficult to find him when I need him to do some heavy lifting around here. Kes also wasn’t surprised when he found his son sitting on the porch swing, it rocking in the breeze. He was, however, surprised to find that Poe and Evelyn were both sound asleep.

Kes supposed that they had yet to get a decent night’s sleep since the war’s end four months ago.

Evelyn was curled up against Poe’s side, her head resting against his chest; one of his son’s arms was lazily wrapped around her, the other softly laid across her abdomen, his hand stretched out over the ever growing swell in her stomach.

“Can you believe it Shara?” Kes murmured, smiling softly, “Our son, going to be a papa himself.” His smile grew when the wind rustled the bushes around the Damerons’ ranch, as if Shara herself was answering him. He sighed, and turned to go, deciding to leave Poe and Evelyn to their nap...

“Papa?” Poe sleepily called out to him. Kes turned back towards the porch to see his son’s eyes half-open, looking at him with some concern. “Is everything alright?”

Kes smiled, watching as Poe subconsciously rubbed Evelyn’s stomach. He could see the big grin on his son’s face when he told him the news, the happiness in his eyes... it made it difficult for Kes to be angry that his son had married the girl without even telling him. “Everything is fine,” he said, reassuring Poe. His son was safe, Evelyn was safe and his unborn grandchild was safe. His family was safe.

Poe sat up, gently placing a kiss on his wife’s forehead. He slowly got off the porch swing, making sure that Evelyn was comfortable before stretching himself. “Are you done work for the day?”

His father shook his head. “Too windy to finish up; feels like storms are probably going to move in later, so it’s best I get out of the orchards. Help me make dinner? I want to talk to you.”

“Am I in trouble?” Poe asked, deep brown eyes worried.

“No,” Kes said with a chuckle.

“Are you still mad that I didn’t tell you that Evelyn and I got married? Because, Papa, it was such a spur of the moment thing...”

“Poe, shut up for a second. I’m not angry that you got married, hell if anyone knows about marriage during war, it’s me. I just want to talk... it’s been so long... and who knows how long you’ll be home before the Republic whisks you away again, General.”

Quietly, Poe followed his father into the house. The younger man had taken a lot of comfort seeing his childhood home, untouched, the way he remembered it, after the Battle of Exegol. He was still recovering from all the loss; Leia, Snap... Finn spoke about feeling Rey die... no one had told him yet what that was all about. In fact, whatever happened down in the citadel was not a topic one breached with Evelyn, Kaleb, and Rey. "I'm not due back for another three weeks. Seems like everyone thinks I need some time to recover."

Kes washed his hands, drying them on his pants when he couldn't find a towel. "Time to recover, time to spend with your wife. Don't take anything for granted, Poe. Enjoy these little moments because before you know it, your child is grown up and charging recklessly into danger."

Poe sighed, heavily. "You always said I had too much of Mama in me. I wish... I wish she was here now," he said, his voice heavy with sadness. "She... she would have been so excited about the baby."

"You probably don't remember this, but your mother and Sela were planning your wedding to Evelyn when you were seven," Kes said with a fond chuckle.

"Seriously?" Poe quipped, a warm smile spreading across his face.

"Oh yeah. I caught them several times, sitting out on the porch, talking about the type of dress Evie would wear... if you'd get married here on Yavin or go for a bigger celebration in the capital. I think it helped your mother to talk about your future once she got sick..."

"I'm sure her future for me didn't include fighting a war. Neither of them probably pictured that my wedding would happen on a military base in the middle of another galactic war or that it would nearly end tragically."

Kes reached out then and pulled his son into his arms. He cupped the back of Poe's head; Kes could only imagine what his son had been feeling before help arrived. "It didn't though and now you have the opportunity to raise your son or daughter in a free galaxy."

Poe sighed against his father's shoulder. It was going to take a lot of hard work to keep the galaxy free, to not repeat the mistakes that were made after the fall of the Empire. When Evelyn had told him she was pregnant, he'd vowed then and there that he was going to do whatever it took so his child wouldn't have to fight. He didn't want his child to be haunted at night by the horrors of war, the loss of close friends...

Evelyn's excited voice caused father and son to move away from each other. She was standing in the living room, her hands holding onto her belly. "The baby is kicking!" she exclaimed, reaching for Poe's hand. She placed it on her stomach just as the baby moved once again. "See! Isn't it amazing!"

"Yes," Poe whispered, his face lighting up in a big grin. He pressed his lips to hers in a tender kiss, the baby still moving underneath his hand. "It is amazing."

"I didn't think it would make me so happy to feel it," she said, tears in her eyes, "but it has."

"Me too," he confessed, wiping the happy tears from her cheeks before gathering her into his arms. "Me too."

Kes watched them with so much love in his heart; this is what he'd wanted for Poe when he'd fought in the war. It took them longer to achieve it, and it was the children of the rebels that had done so, but now... his family could live in peace.

#star wars #star wars fanfiction #poe dameron fanfiction #poe dameron #evelyn skywalker (oc)#kes dameron #kes dameron x shara bey #poe x oc #pathways #tros spoilers

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knifeshoeoreofight · 6 years ago

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part 1 part 2

Sid feels a vague sense of melancholy the whole week following the potluck dinner. He tries not to get like this— his life is a gift. He has wonderful friends and family, he’s able to make a living in a way that truly makes him happy. He has his animals, and his health. He really can’t ask for more. And he usually doesn't.

But the conversation he’d had with Evgeni over a pile of dirty dishes won’t leave him, and unease hangs about him like a miasma.

He has a good life, he tells himself again.

The week has its bright spots. The mama cat and her kittens receive a clean bill of health from Dr. Brassard, and Flower calls him to ask if they can take one for the girls when they’re old enough. That only leaves one kitten to find a home for, and Sid isn’t opposed to keeping both it and its mother if need be.

He’s started calling her Caroline, after one of his favorite female hockey players. It quickly gets shortened to Caro. She makes chirpy “mrrrrrp!” noises at him whenever she sees him, and isn’t phased in the slightest by Ref’s clumsy and bewildered attempts to make friends. As the kittens grow, she takes occasional breaks from them and has decided that when not curled around her babies, her favorite location is draped around Sid’s shoulders.

She’s a comfort, and so are the rest of his misfit menagerie. Puck, the black Percheron, is the best listener. Sid talks to him, and Puck just regards him with one kind, warm brown eye, and then leans his massive head into Sid’s chest so Sid will scratch him in the place he likes best, right under the thoatlatch. Stanley, the gray, is usually more interested in hay than in Sid’s problems.

“So, I should just get over myself probably, huh?” Sid ask him, pulling loose a piece of alfalfa that’s been dangling out of the corner of Stanley’s mouth for the last ten minutes. Stanley sneezes, misting horse snot all over Sid’s clean shirt, then nuzzles him, leaving behind a smear of spit and partially chewed hay, just to complete the effect.

“Thanks,” Sid tells him dryly.

***

He’s in the grocery store Thursday evening when he hears a piping “Sid!” followed by a small body hurtling into his legs. It’s Sofia, a tired-looking Evgeni pushing a cart in her wake.

Evgeni smiles wide when he sees Sid, though, and leans with his forearms on the cart handle to talk to Sid.

“How is kitten?” he asks. “Getting bigger?”

“They’re growing like weeds,” Sid replies. “Clean bill of health from the vet, too. He says they’ll be ready to go to new homes when they’re about eight weeks old.”

An inadvisable idea strikes him. He really shouldn’t, but he’s weak.

“But you could always come visit them before then.” In for a penny, he thinks. “What are you doing tomorrow evening?”

Evgeni blinks. “Not...really do anything. I’m have job interview in morning and Sofia have AM kindergarten but nothing after that. Are you sure—”

“Come for lunch, then,” Sid continues, before he can stop himself. “If you want. Sofia can see Maple and Biscuit again too, if she wants.”

“Maple? Biscuit?” Sofia shrieks, because she certainly has picked up those English words.

Evgeni smiles and shakes his head. “Okay, sure. We can come. One pm, is that good?”

“Perfect!” Sid enthuses, and mentally berates himself for using an adorable child’s love of ponies as a lure to spend more time with her and her attractive father. Her attractive, straight father, who’d had a wife before she’d left him, for god’s sakes.

I’m being neighborly, Sid tells himself. It’s called making friends.

Evgeni's eyes are kind of, gentle, as he regards Sid. “You like have people over. I’m remember.”

Oh great, now he just comes off as some kind of desperate recluse. Sid looks down at the box of Raisin Bran in his cart and feels his cheeks flush with shame.

“Happy to come over,” Evgeni says, and his voice sounds a little odd. “Will look forward to, so much.” The tone is achingly sincere, and it’s enough to make Sid able to look up again.

Evgeni is doing that thing again where he’s staring at Sid like he’s just realized something, and Sid dearly wishes he knew what it was.

***

Friday is clear and sunny, the afternoon filled with the beautiful, hazy autumn light that Sid loves best.

He hears gravel crunch in the driveway and Ref start barking his head off, warning him that Evgeni and Sofia are here. He has Caro draped around his shoulders instead of an embarrassing novelty apron this time.

“Hey! How was the interview?” Sid asks, smiling up at Evgeni.

Again, with the staring. Sid is going to get a complex at this rate. Is there something on his face? He wipes at his mouth just in case.

“Was pretty good. Maybe, you know?” Evgeni shrugs

“What was the job?” Sid asks, as he ushers them inside. Evgeni remembers where to hang up the coats and to take his shoes off in the hall, and it makes Sid feel warm to see it.

“You know university next town over? Russian studies program have opening. Difficult job to get but would be perfect.”

“Wow,” Sid says, impressed. “That’s amazing. Is that what you did before? Teach?”

“I did,” Evgeni says. “But in city. Only adjunct jobs. Had to take two, three at a time to make enough money. Still not enough. Part of why Irina leave, I think.” His shoulders hunch, like he’s ashamed.

“I’m sorry,” Sid says softly. “I know you must have been trying so hard.”

Evgeni looks at him, pain pooling in his eyes and hardening the lines of his face. Sid wants to reach out. Hold him.

“I did,” Evgeni says, and it’s like he’s realizing it for the first time. “I did...”

Sid can’t help it. He reaches out and grips Evgeni’s shoulder. “Of course you did.” Evgeni takes a deep, shuddering breath and sways into the touch.

“Papa?” comes an uncertain little voice from the kitchen doorway. Sofia is looking at them, one hand clutching Ref’s fur.

Evgeni smiles. It doesn’t quite reach his eyes. He says something gentle to her, and they all go in.

***

They eat in the kitchen instead of the dining room like at the potluck. Sid loves this part of the house the best. There’s a deep bay window and a nook just big enough for a comfortable little table. Through the window he can see a lot of his property as it slopes down to the road; the orchard on one side and pumpkins and pasture on the other.

“Good view,” Evgeni comments, as Sid brings over the soup he’d made and the bread he’d been warming in the oven. The tightness is starting to fade from around his mouth and his eyes.

“The best,” Sid says, and can’t help but smile. He can see Jake in the field, helping a family choose a pumpkin, while the goats stick their heads through the fence and try to beg treats from everyone in sight.

They eat, and Evgeni elaborates on the interview, getting animated and worked up as he talks about the quality of the program and what he’d do if he gets the job. It’s good to see, especially after the moment in the hallway.

Sid, through Evgeni, asks Sofia about her day at kindergarten. Today was apparently themed around the letter B and the color blue.

After they eat, they check on the kittens, and their growth, wiggliness, and squeak volume are assessed. Sofia doesn't know yet that she’s getting one, and her father wants it to be a surprise.

Evgeni apparently can’t help himself from pointing to the littlest one, a boy according to Dr. Brassard, and asking Sofia for name ideas, though. Sid smiles as Sofia frowns intently. She’s taking her job very seriously.

Evgeni laughs at the Russian word she eventually comes up with. “Don’t know how to translate. Is like, little snow? Snowflake. Very cute, fluffy name, usually for girl cat or girl dog.”

“Oh, I don’t think he’ll mind,” Sid says, and nods at Sofia. “Good job.”

Sofia beams. “Good job,” she echoes. She’s definitely picked that phrase up at school.

***

Later, Sofia of course needs to see Biscuit and Maple. Sid secures Maple’s lead rope safely to the fence with a quick-release knot and turns Sofia loose with a bucket of grooming tools. She chatters happily to the pony in Russian, with a few English words scattered through.

“Good, Sid?” she calls hopefully to where he and Evgeni are leaning together on the fence, showing him the crooked braid she’s just made in Maple’s mane.

“Very good!” he tells her, and gives her a thumbs up. She beams at him and goes back to work.

“Why you do for her?” Evgeni asks quietly. “You nice guy, but this is a lot. You have whole farm to run, you’re busy. Why?”

Sid takes a moment to think about how to say it best. “I grew up in a fairly big town, actually. We didn’t have the money or the room for any animals. The best part of my summers was when we got to come out here and visit my Aunt Esther. Great aunt, actually. I loved it here so, so much. She and my great uncle were older, and they weren’t able to do much with the property, but they had chickens and a dog and an old horse in the back pasture. Uncle Jack had used to show draft horses, back in the day. Skip was the last horse he had left. I used to coax Skip over to the fence so I could climb up swing over to sit on him while he grazed.” Sid laughs. “Not the safest, but he was a sweet old guy. Took care of me. Let me hang all over him.”

He pauses. The next part of the story isn’t as idyllic.

“Uncle Jack got cancer and passed when I was nineteen. I was taking some time off after high school and was just working a shit job at a corner store, wasn’t sure what I wanted to do with my life. Aunt Esther couldn’t handle the place alone, was heartbroken about needing to sell it. I couldn’t stand the idea, or seeing her so sad and scared about moving away from her home. So I quit my job, told my family I was leaving, and showed up on her doorstep.”

He laughs a little. “The first years were...really hard. I was a kid who knew nothing about farming, trying to do a man’s job. But Aunt Esther taught me a lot, and she got to spend the last years of her life at home. She died when I was twenty-five. Left me everything.”

“Sid,” Evgeni says, but doesn’t continue.

“So all this to say, that I get it. Being a kid, feeling like this place is kind of magic. Wanting to visit and see all the animals. Being obsessed with the horses. It’s...kind of why I’ve been shifting the focus of the farm’s income to visitor based stuff. The pumpkins, the apple cider. U-pick fruits and vegetables in the summer, apples in the fall.”

He ducks his head, embarrassed at the look and the smile Evgeni is giving him. “It’s just, more people can experience it too, then?”

“Sid,” is all Evgeni says again, and he shakes his head.

“That’s me,” Sid replies, like a dork, because he doesn’t know what else to do or say.

“It is,” Evgeni says. He says something else in Russian, low and fervent.

When Sid looks up, Evgeni kisses him.

#if wishes were #sidgeno #sidney crosby/evgeni malkin #hockey rpf #dana writes a thing

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