#my garden is barren and dead until the spring

[gothmothgoblin]

december is hard bc its cold and dark and where is the sun? no one is around and everyone is upset. everyone is broke and reliving shit w their family from the past and grieving another year lost and worrying for the future. all the plants are dead and everyone is sick and everyones lips are chapped, noses raw.

its so hard for me to leave my room its so hard for me to get up its so hard for me to remember all the reasons i have been getting up this whole time.

my friends leave to go home and come back Different but never Okay

[desertdollranch]

In one week's time, I will become the lady of this house. This news has come quite suddenly, and I be as surprised as anyone else. But Mother gathered us all around her this morning, to tell us of her dream, or rather a vision, in which she boarded a ship that crossed unknown waters to an unknown land. Upon disembarking, she set her foot on land and did behold the dead and barren vegetation, laid waste by mold and rot, that seemed to crumble to ash under her feet as she walked in the direction of a mighty mountain, far in the distance. But as she turned to gaze behind where she had trod, indeed her footsteps did leave a trail of vibrant and resplendent greenery, that did grow more rapidly than a garden in spring. She may have dismissed this vision as merely a dream, if she had not been awoken, hours before dawn, by the sound of a vigorous knock on the front door. It was her friend, Mercy Jarrett, who had to tell Mother about the dream she had dreamt, in which she sailed to a strange land overrun by dead vines, which had sprung to new life at her touch. 'Twas a dream entirely like Mother's. Mother takes this to mean that God hath called her and Mistress Jarrett to be Public Friends. That is, to travel together as itinerant preachers, as many other women like them have done, and share the Quaker faith to those whose hearts would hear it and be moved by it. In seven days shall they depart, and I will, as I said, take Mother's responsibilities as my own. She did reassure me that it will only be a little time, maybe less than a year. Until then, she trusts that I will care for the home in her absence, not only in the the household duties but as a loving caretaker for Saul, Amos, and Henry, who are too little to understand why Mother has left. I know not if this will be an easy task for me, or if I shall find it frustrating. But if Mother be so brave as to heed a God-given vision, then surely I can shoulder this much less difficult burden.

I'm pleased to remember that only the day before yesterday did I complete a piece of fancy stitchery, which Mother praised for its beauty in its simplicity. I think she might like to bring it with her, for it will be a small consolation to me, knowing that Mother hath received a memento of my stitchery. Just as she hears the whisper of God's voice when she looks upon her heart, she will hear the whisper of my love and admiration when she sees my gift.

[cymorilcinnamonroll]

Awake O Sleeper (A Jesus x Mary Magdalene Romance)

The Asherah grove at the heart of the temple of Our Lady is full of olives and grape vines, in the sacred heart of our worship. Men come to do penance to the Goddess, worshiping us as the qadesh leads them into the bosom of the Mother. I often go to the well at the temple’s courtyard and wish upon the moon reflected in the still waters. She is beauty in the grips of Yahweh, bosom companion of our Heavenly Father.

Jerusalem is a bustling city, full of Canaanites and Samaritans and Jews and Philistines. This Bethany township is but an extension of the metropolis. Herod rules from his abode and the Temple is corrupted, and people are forgetting the old ways, cutting down Asherah groves at the root and pissing on her fig and olive trees. Where stands a temple to El, there rests an Asherah grove. From the Mount of Olives to our own temple in Bethany, where I left Martha and Lazarus behind to become a priestess, I have been trained in anointment and service to the Goddess.

Sometimes starlings roost in the roof and we clip their wings to keep as pets, and I am reminded, I do not live for myself, but for Her, and my body is but a vehicle of prayers. The grove has stood for mayhaps thousands of years, as the olive tree does, cut down then to spring forth from the stump. We prune, we worship, we sing hosannas and we do not weep.

There is nothing to weep over in the temple of the Goddess. Sacred whore, they say, woman of seven devils. It is true, there are demons in my mind, and I am wont to make love to the Damned as well as the angels, as all my fellow anointed qodeshah are, but that can break the body, disassemble the mind, leak out your wineskin until you take the shape of the emptiness of stars, and then, mayhaps, you die. But I survived the temptations of Samael, I have roosted in Lilith’s Huluppu tree, I have eaten flies with Beelzebub and tasted fish to fight back Asmodeus. I have consecrated my virginity to El and Asherah, and Asherah, dear Asherah, has staked her claim on my destiny.

There are rumors from Nazareth. From Egypt. From Galilee. From sea to desert to mountain strand. God walks in human form. Merely twenty, and I am eighteen. He goes by Yeshua, like Joshua of old, and I am Miriam Magdalene in this temple, a watchtower of the lord, Migdal Eder. Mary Magdalene as the Greeks who worship through me say. They say this young man preaches sermons on mountaintops and topples false idols and cuts down Asherah groves. Cuts the Goddess down by the root. Says he is El, says he is the Father.

I have no time for fools. I have no time for false messiahs. I know Asherah, I know El, and though the Messiah is promised, he does not live on manna alone. This Yeshua shits and bleeds, I am sure he fucks, and were he to come to my temple, I would take my teraphim and drive it through his heart.

God bleeds, after all, and Simon Magus is just as much a fool, levitation or not. So is that John the Baptist, beheaded someday soon, an Essene surviving on stale locusts and rotting honey and dumping bodies in the River Jordan.

I survive on the wilderness alone, the barrenness of my heart, for it is only by being empty that one can let the Goddess in. I am a vessel of dripping myrrh and a garden of lilies, oh Asherah. These cults come with passing moons and cycles of suns, and they wax and wane, Mithras and Cybele and Anath and Baal (there are many Baals, after all) and the strange peculiarities of the Romans. I say, stick with what is tried and true. Lady Asherah is Queen.

My brother Lazarus has taken up with this Yeshua, and I hate this false prophet for it. For stealing my impressionable, starry-eyed brother as some false disciple. They say Yeshua loves Lazarus so much he would raise him from the dead. Crackpot talk. Martha, my sweet older sister, has entertained this Yeshua at our rich home across the field. I refused to go. Why, perhaps because Martha wants to know the heart of God, and this Messiah, this Yeshua, has a strange draw on the practical types like Martha and dreamers like Lazarus alike.

They say he believes women equal to men. That his mother Mary and aunt Salome and friend Joanna and now my sister Martha are equal in his eyes, his radical ministry in the desert. They sew and preach and anoint. In his name, they cast out demons. This strange man that claims to be God may well be speaking parables of smoke and mirrors. Here at my temple, we give our bodies over to the Goddess. When has this Yeshua given his body, his blood, his Sacrament, over to God? If that happens, I shall fall to my feet and worship. But he goes around in tattered clothes, a wanderer, and has the woman radically engaged in his ministry. How strange.

Lazarus writes that Yeshua will not touch women. Resists worshiping the Mother. Does not know the way of the flesh, is a Rabbi yet will not take a wife. Will not even contemplate a woman to share in his ministry at its highest point. I think of the rumors flying around Jerusalem and the provinces often as I tend to the duties of the temple, sewing and cleaning and singing and worshiping in body, wine, and moon’s blood.

How can this Yeshua have sway over Martha and Lazarus, when but Asherah is the way and Yahweh, squeezed into a man’s body, would have but the world as his Logos? Were he to meet me, would he give in to the Goddess? Has this strange madman forgotten the way of our ancestors? For every Yahweh, his Asherah. Thus this Yeshua needs a bride. To neglect the Goddess, why, that usurps the whole sun and moon. That is light without the darkness of the womb.

A starling comes with a note summoning me from the High Priestess. There is a visitor. I must go attend to my temple duties. He has requested me to anoint him and be his vessel of worship. The High Priestess say he has paid handsomely for my Sacrament. Far more coins than ever spent on one of the temple priestesses. I wonder if it is mad Herod himself. That would amuse me more than anything.

I dress myself in scarlet, anoint my cheeks with rouge and lips with berries, line my eyes with kohl, and make a messy knot of my curls. My hair never behaves, auburn in that strange way of women burned in Egypt as witches and my eyes the light speckled brown of a sparrow. Once I am done preparing, bedecked in jewels as befit Asherah, I go to the qodeshah room.

There he awaits. Smiling like a lamb yet with the grace of a lion, dressed simply in dusty white, all lithe muscle and smiling dark green eyes that the fire dances in. Smoke clouds the room. I have the sudden urge to run my hands through his dark locks and kiss him senseless. Gravity overtakes me, that calling that drives me into ululations of ecstasy, only it is not one of the seraphim or cherubim that courts me, but divinity himself. Who is this stranger, eating grapes and draped like a Roman over dinner?

“Miriam, a glass of wine?” he asks with a voice like olive oil. He takes the carafe from the table and smiles bemusedly. The red sloshes into a bejeweled cup. His hands are like the milk from the cows of spring. Not the color, mind you, or the softness – they are tan and calloused, fingernails short like the poor. I would think him a carpenter or stonemason, someone who carves idols or builds temples.

I take the glass of wine and scrutinize him. “I am the one who offers wine and anoints you, oh mysterious stranger. Don’t you know the ways of Asherah?”

He laughs like an ewe. “Oh sweet Miriam, but that is not my purpose. My purpose is to do penance and devotions unto you. Come, sip the wine of my blood. It is to you I offer the first Sacrament. They will forget it was you who I offered the Last Supper to first, thirteen years before my death. Eat this bread, this loaf of my flesh.” He takes from his pocket a rich loaf wrapped in linen. I take it hesitatingly, dip it in the wine, nibble a bit, and it is somehow the best meal I have ever had as I chase it down with the goblet. Strange, this man, a mystic perhaps.

Suddenly, I smell blood. “What?” I ask, incredulous. I look down at the bejeweled cup and am horrified to find ruby blood. The bread I hold is a heart that is bleeding. I drop both and scream. This man laughs, laughs at my terror, laughs at his miracle, as if it is the most mundane thing a woman could ask for.

“Yeshua?” I breathe.

He beckons me to him. It is the most natural thing to curl up beside him. I am under a moonspell of Michael, and rushing water fills my veins, icy yet warm, like the River Jordan meets a desert night. We lay together chaste yet starstruck and I stare aghast at him, unable to resist his gravity.

“That is my name, yes, sweet Magdalane, my comely Bride. They will call you a Whore. But you are my Truth, the Gnostics will adore you, and the Cathars, troubadours, and Knights Templar will worship at your hips. You are Asherah. There is no need for this temple, not anymore, as I hold you here manifest in my hands!”

He runs a hand through my curls and unbinds them. “So it’s all true. You are the Lord made flesh…” I trail off, my tongue still bloody and warm with skin and meat and muscle and gore. The bread I dropped and my goblet of wine have disappeared. I am hyperventilating, barely cognizant in the overwhelming grace and fire of this stranger, yet I know him better in my heart than Yahweh, for he is the Father El, made Son.

Lazarus and Martha were right. Damn me a nonbeliever.

“I am but a man, at most, with a few tricks up my sleeve. You will be my comfort, dear woman. My apostle of apostles. My witness. Follow me out of this cursed ground and leave your seven devils behind. The ways of Asherah are over. For you are Asherah, not these statues, never these trees. To be material is a terrible thing! The ways of whoring out your body are done. It is the dawn of a new age, of my sweet Shekinah, my Wisdom, Sophia made New Eve. Cannot you see how red thread bears my loins and your womb together? They will whisper about us in hushed circles millenia down the line, write us poems and canticles and heresies and all agree that to me, you were above all the reason, my anointer, my best disciple, my most beloved. I will raise the dead for you. I will die for you. And you will grow old without me, and you will be my testament, oh Migdal Eder.”

His words are rapturous. His words are true. I cannot divine the future, but I feel the shape of it.

We burn the Asherah grove down with my oil lamp.

I leave behind any vestige of myself.

I follow him out of the temple, across the field, on a donkey out of Bethany, into the winepress night.

And never, ever, do I look back.

Thirteen years pass, and the Last Supper draws close. I am a mystic following in Christ’s footsteps, ever-weeping, washing the dust from his feet. Peter damns me for my passions, but Levi praises me, and Mother Mary holds me closest of all.

Rain outside the window of our kitchen, and Lazarus’ body is held up in the tomb for four days. My sweet older brother, a starstruck wanderer at Christ’s side, just as I cast my lots in with this mad messiah whose gristle and blood I drank down thirteen years ago at the tender age of 18. All to know redemption, as my Temple of Asherah burned and I left my wanton ways behind for higher ground, better things, blessed by doves. To become Asherah in my own might and right! The plague took Lazarus, a wasting away with pustules and jaundice and fragile limbs.

I thought with the Lord, all things were possible, but in his domain is death, and so in my quiet ways, I rage.

Martha and I have washed and dressed and anointed our brother in myrrh and linen – our wealthy parents died when we were but children, leaving us treasures beyond measure as merchants are wont to do and Martha and Lazarus to raise me. The whole town is in mourning over Lazarus, and our expansive household has been filled with mourners.

Yeshua has been at Jerusalem preaching to the masses, but I sent a pigeon from our dovecote with a letter to my Lord of his beloved’s death, our family whom he cherishes above all, and Christ wrote back in eager, wrathful script that even death has no hold on his disciples.

So we have prepared a feast for the other wanderers: dates, lamb, greens, bread, wine. Martha and I have been hard at work in the kitchen baking and cooking and mixing herbs and fruits and vegetables. I purchased vintage straight from Italy a local trader had traveled far to obtain, enough casks to hold a wedding feast like blessed Cana, only this is a funeral.

I can hear him rumble with wrath in the distance. My sweet Rabboni feels like an oncoming storm. Sometimes when I am debating and sparring wits with him over philosophy and pedagogy and theology, the sky suddenly darkens and thunder rumbles as Christ opens his lips, and out comes rains and retorts as lightning strikes. Once we were debating the virtues and vices of angels – how do they serve God, do they have free will, yetzer ha ra versus yetzer ha tov: is a teraphim able to care for its family or is it more golem?

I said I did not believe in free will, and Yeshua said: “Then what shall I die for but humanity’s freedom, my Migdal Eder?” and he laughed like a wine press and it began to gale and storm.

He took me into his arms and we danced by palms at the oasis in the radiance of the tempest, singing hosannas, and I was soaked to my underclothes and my red dress clung to my breasts and hips. Peter would call me an adulteress just for that. Christ’s dusty white robes were glued to his skin like a snake, Nachash be damned. Lazarus found us both dancing like plagues and begged us come inside and break bread with the other disciples, but we were lost inside each other, starved of the wrath of God.

Mother Mary brought us blankets afterward as we both rid ourselves of chills by the fire, Joseph laughed, and Salome made it a running joke: Mary and Yeshua have the tempers of storms, beware if they curse your fig trees or drive your demons into squealing pigs in the ocean’s squall. Salome and her dagger tongue! Judas remarked we could have been struck by the firmament, but Yeshua said: brother, I am God, can’t you see how the storm is my heart of darkness? Peter and Thomas and Luke and John and James paid reverence to Christ, but I was too busy staring into the fire we grilled fish on, eating my loaf, haunted by what would come when the sky darkened for Yeshua’s death.

My eyes tear up at that memory as I am tending Christ’s bread, which is his body, a small taste of what is to come. It is leavened and ready to be devoured. I set the table, the long wooden beauty my father picked up from some far northern country, was it Ing’s land? Who knows, but the Celts have such intricate eyes for knotwork. Living beasts in the legs. I would like to go to their province someday. To see where these curiosities come from. What strange gods and demons they worship.

There is a knock at the door. Salome is there with Zebedee, John, and James in tow. She looks like a gazelle, all proud and lithe lines, not a bit of wasted space about her. “Mary, Martha, we came as soon as we heard!” Salome explains, impassioned. There are tears in her, Zebedee’s, John’s and James’ eyes. She wipes at it with a cloth. “Lazarus was the best of us. How you two must mourn. Here, John, James, take the horses to the stable, Zebedee, why don’t you unpack and set up camp? Lord knows Miriam’s house is big, but not enough for all the disciples. Elohim took Lazarus under fair weather, so we will have no problem in the courtyard.”

I hug Salome close to me, this mentor of mine who was Christ’s midwife and the first besides Elizabeth to declare him the Son of God. In some ways she was first, first to catch the placenta and afterbirth and caul of Christ the King. Finger withered at his might.

No wonder he was a calamity come into this world that has been relentless ever since. He is my storm dancer. My soul. I can only imagine 33 years ago, Salome at 12, in a manger with blessed, tough-as-nails Mother Mary and nervous Father Joseph. Mary is never nervous. Never doubts. Always asserts. She is our strength, like Gav’riel, who favored her. Sometimes Gav’riel still visits her when he thinks no one is looking and they have long talks in the reeds – angels sound like panpipes and bells and regrets. I have caught her in quiet corners talking with that messenger of the archangels about Yeshua’ road to Calvary and ending in Golgotha. Gav’riel has prophesied as much, told us his days are numbered. Christ accepts it, with the bullheadedness of his mother.

That I will grow old without Yeshua.

It is something I do not like to contemplate much.

“Mary, my sweet daughter, in all my 45 years, I have never seen anyone with as much devotion to Yeshua as you, besides his own mother. He said he would raise the dead for you.” She hugs me hard with her whipcord muscles, then accompanies me to the kitchen and greets Martha.

“Martha, my other blessed daughter, do you not know what service you do to our Lord? Us ladies are the backbone of the ministry, after all. From our own funds we support these rambunctious men. I have tried holding James and John in check, but yet they go casting out demons and fishing for souls and preaching. Zebedee is easier to tame. That is why I married him, hah!”

Martha laughs and embraces us both. “Oh Salome, our family reunited, yet for such sad occasion. Having Lazarus gone, why, a missing limb. Wine without a glass, spilling constantly. Here, eat!” She takes a date and presses it to Salome’s mouth. Salome smiles and bites it mischievously.

“Let us go to the wishing well, girls. The women rode ahead. Yeshua held a lengthy sermon with the men, giving us time to charge ahead and prepare the banquet and speak to the angels. Joanna and Mary and Susanna await.”

“Oh!” I say, wiping away hot tears as I dwell on Lazarus. They say my tears could fill an ocean.

The peach pit in my throat lightens a bit at the thought of my spiritual sisters here to visit my Bethany township. We make our way to the well outside and see Mother Mary and the others divining in the well. They are staring coolly into its depths. Martha, Salome, and I join them in silence. The six of us peering into the silver depths and we summon an image: Lazarus alive, at the cost of Yeshua.

They are inextricably linked.

“A life for a life, my dears,” Mother Mary says, dabbing at her strong brow with her sleeve. “My son will give his life for Lazarus, for that is the only way to cheat the grave. But Lazarus is well worth the sacrifice. We all know what awaits at Golgotha. Perhaps the men doubt, but my son granted us all the sight. Women’s magic: prophesy. In dying for Lazarus, he gives life to us all, a way to Heaven. It is not what I would have chosen for my only child, but he is the Lord, and I will be living testament to his short life.”

We gather round Mother Mary, hugging one another in sisterly love. Salome grips her fiercely and I fall to her feet and kiss them. We then retire to the dining room until the men arrive.

“There was no choice in this, was there, Mother?” I ask Mary.

Joanna and Susanna share a look of wistfulness. Salome bites like a lion with fury into a bit of crusty bread ends dipped in olive oil. The two phases, or likewise feelings, surrounding what awaits Yeshua ahead: fury at Christ’s death or sadness. Or an interim like me, awe and resignation.

Mother Mary sighs. “No, Gav’riel told me as much, sweet Magdalene. My son’s life was never his own, but then again, neither are ours. We will be near deified, us outcast desert ramblers. I just hope I have prepared my loving son for the hatred and ultimate cost of his sacrifice. Joseph will take it the hardest. Joseph always does. Martha will take it the second hardest. Salome, you shall curse the ground the Devil walked upon. Susanna and Joanna, you two will be wed in memories and become some of the most eloquent in voicing his ministry, but they will forget you, just as they will hold small memories of Salome.”

Mother Mary takes a sip of wine, then looks to me with lambent eyes under her shawl. “Girl of Migdal Eder, yours is the most cursed fate. For asking Lazarus back, to you goes the blame. For your passion and devotion, they will mark you a whore. I can see how this all ends, centuries, nay, millenia down the line. Our ministry divided into a thousand fractured shards. Our legacy used for villainy and anything but radical love. They will snuff our teachings out at the bud and mark them heresies. Us women used as props and all but forgotten. They will say my son stood for hatred and oppression, yet while he walked this earth, he was hated and oppressed. And you, my Miriam. You will suffer the most out of love. Love is all our cross to bear. But I say, drink now, live well, and so be it!”

We all echo her and raise our glasses in toast, then chase down the wine. Martha’s eyes are fire. “I know what price I ask of Yeshua. I ask it anyway, so damn me to Gehenna. Lazarus needs to live, just as Yeshua must die for our sins. That was shown to us all in the well, my sisters sweet.”

There are muffled voices outside and the whuff of horses and call of hounds. The men have arrived. With a steel face done with crying, Martha goes outside to meet our maker.

I sit with the women who are closer to me than my own mother. “What Martha asks, what I ask of Yeshua, his will be done, a life for a life, flesh for flesh, blood for blood, a grave for a grave, perhaps they will look back on us and think us selfish. Perhaps they will believe us mighty. But asking never hurt anyone, I say.”

“The sun gives life but cares not who he burns,” Joanna and Susanna say in unison. They are always together, commiserating, sharing ecclesiastic knowledge, singing the Song of Solomon, speaking in rhyme and time. They are full of the Holy Ghost, moreso than any f us.

We all smile. “Makes the mustard seed grow, does the Son,” Salome says in but a whisper, and we all laugh.

There is weeping at the door. Levi clings to hunched over Martha, who looks like she has gone into labor of the soul. He practically carries her inside. Tears flow like gold from her blue eyes. “Mary, the Master is come, and calls you out.”

My heart stirs like a falcon. I walk out to the well. Yeshua stands alone, drinking water from a canteen. The other disciples are heard with Zebedee and James and John setting up camp in the courtyard. My Rabboni’s eyes have flames like Uriel’s sword in them. Some kind of samiel wind from Arabia. Without a word, he embraces me, then kisses me on the lips as he does his disciples when we need the Logos most. I cling to him. I will get in trouble for clinging to him someday, somewhere in a garden, with a stone rolled away, beyond the grips of death.

He laughs and strokes my hair. “Do not cling to me, woman,” he teases. I laugh through my tears and kiss him back. “What did you think, that I would let Lazarus lay dead? Oh my Magdalene, damn your doubts. For you I would raise the dead. It is for you I will die. It is for me you will live and be my witness. Can’t you see how our love will be consummated on the Cross? Me bleeding blood and water into your mouth. Pick up that sword that will stab me, sweet Mary, and become an angel of the Lord, with flaming blade and your red hair of fury. I want you to wreak vengeance with your words and wit when I am gone, my girl.”

I wipe my tears. “Yes, Rabboni.”

“I am not Rabboni now, not ever, Mary Miriam. Call me servant. Call me your lover. Call me your witness.”

“Witness, servant, lover, it doesn’t matter. You are my heart.”

“You are a stubborn girl, aren’t you? Remember when we met those thirteen years ago, I twenty and ever the fool, you 18 and priestess to a dead goddess? No, Miriam, the Shekinah is stubborn, Wisdom never gives up, Sophia is relentless. She comes with the greatest pearl of great price. Challenge me in your storm. Ask, and ye shall receive.”

“Give your death for my sweet brother, Yeshua. Raise him from the dead.”

Yeshua smiles and contemplates the lines on my palms clutched to his hands. “Thy will be done, my Migdal Eder. Where have you laid him?”

“In a cave outside town. The mourners are still there.”

We make our way to the stony entrance. People are red eyed and watery mouthed, wailing, commiserating, remembering, drunk off and stinking of wine. Lazarus was always the most loved, bookish neighbor of Bethany. He was the only one that died of the sickness, as if he was marked by the Lord to suffer. A bleeding wound of God’s tear.

Yeshua falls down weeping, wracked with sobs, and from his tears grow ivy. From his tears grow roses. From his tears grows vines ripe with red grapes. The sky darkens, and the familiar storm of our hearts engulfs from Galilee to Nazareth, with its dancing eye in Bethany. The surrounding firmament is tumultuous, but here where the sky parts, the sun glows, and there is a rainbow akin to God’s promise. The brilliance engulfs my Rabboni, and he curses the stone, and it rolls away of its own accord, revealing my brother’s corpse.

Martha and the disciples have heard the commotion, and Martha is bereaved. “Oh my Lord, he has been dead four days, how he must stink. Surely this is beyond even your glory!”

Yeshua chokes on his tears and roars, hitting the stone and then it fractures into hundreds of pieces. He swallows hard, Adam’s apple bobbing and turns to Martha with a feral smile. “I said to you Martha, that, if you truly believe, wouldn’t you see the glory of God?”

Martha is silent, just falls to her knees weeping, and nods. Salome and Mother Mary are by each of her shoulders, comforting and supporting her.

“Have faith in the Lord I have brought into this world,” Mother Mary whispers with her indomitable strength. There is a bit of Gav’riel in her eyes. Over the course of the years, her and her angel have both become messengers, almost yin and yang, Adamah and Chavah, one and the same. At this point, Mary is more queen of angels than human.

Martha blows snot into Mary’s sleeve. Unlike me, she was never a beautiful crier. That makes it more important, the messiness of it. No one would ever build a statue of Martha bereaved, but to me go the idols and repentant whores.

All the disciples and town are weeping. Ululations even, screams of Lazarus, but Christ’s sobbing and fury at that great enemy, Death, are strongest of all. He kneels down, shaking, in prayer, then looks to the swirling sky and violet and green of the parted clouds haloing Lazarus’s stinking grave and suddenly the light illuminates him like a candle flame in Samael’s darkness.

“Father, I thank you that you have heard me. This storm is testament to your wrath, my wrath, at that great enemy, Death. You who always hear me. You who fulfill the wishes of my people, and hence all the world, that follows and loves me. They believe in me through you. I believe in you through them. They are my brides, every one of them, and come New Jerusalem, I will wed the world. But there is a man whose time is not done. My beloved disciple. Lazarus, come forth!”

White light fills Lazarus’ grave, and suddenly my brother rises, rot and sickness gone, still bound in corpse clothes, and his eyes are near violet for a moment until they settle on their black, and Martha screams, and I laugh, and we all fall down in worship to the Christ. I cling to his feet and weep. He embraces Lazarus and undoes the cloth covering his face.

“Yeshua,” Lazarus breathes. “You kept me to your bosom for four days. I would like to return there on my true dying day, to become your marrow, but here I am healed and whole, my body restored, no longer hollow of soul. You talked long over these four days and nights of how Martha, Mary, and I will serve you.”

Lazarus and Yeshua kiss, and then Yeshua picks me up and kisses me. “Rise, my flock!” he says through fierce tears, then embraces and kisses every one of us. We are moved by the spirit and begin singing. The rain comes and we are soaked. Yeshua eyes me as he is kissing sweet, innocent Judas. There is a trickster fire in his eyes, just like Gavr’iel. It is a message I am not yet privy to, as if to say: this is my death, and you are my life, my Magdalene.

Later that night, past supper, Yeshua takes me out into the storm for one of our secret talks, the storm of his heart, and he kisses me, and he whispers in my ear: “In six days before Passover I shall return to Bethany. Wait for me here, sweet Magdalene. Peter may be my Sapha, but you are my Migdal Eder. Your rivalry: watchtower and cornerstone, is but the fight of Adamah subduing Chavah only for Chavah to be triumphant in the end of days. You will cry at my feet as you always do and anoint me as the Bride does the Bridegroom for my death. It is you I place this burden on: my witness. My accuser. My seducer. My destroyer.”

“You know not what you ask,” I whisper.

“Oh, but Miriam, I do. On the Cross I will make love to you finally after these long thirteen years, if only through my wounds nursing you. You will never bear my children as you want, Mary. We will never marry. We will never join as man and wife. I will leave you long behind when I take my place beside my Father, but you will always be faithful in ways Peter will forget. They will curse you. They will drag your name through the mud. But at the end of days, it will be you I wed foremost. It will be you who eats the final Sacrament. Can you promise me Mary, that you will not shy away from dressing me for the tomb? I promise you as Apostle of Apostles, Miriam of Bethany. I pledge my troth to you, though it is a strange and scary vow.”

“I accept it all, all the pain, all the testaments to you! I will anoint you with my own wanton red hair and costly myrrh. I knew this was coming. I bought the myrrh three years ago, sweet Yeshua.”

“Let us dance in this storm, my Magdalene.”

So we did.

[hiccanna-tidbits]

@jackunzel-time

Jackunzel Month Week 4 - Fairy Tales Beauty and the Beast

***

AKAJSIFEBPYBGU NOT ME PLANNING A JACKUNZEL ONE SHOT FOR JACKUNZEL MONTH LAST YEAR AND NOT GETTING AROUND TO WRITING IT UNTIL THE END OF JACKUNZEL MONTH THIS YEAR OMG

Anyways, it’s here!!! I finally did it, it’s here!!! I was gonna write two other little drabble things for fairy tale week, but honestly?? *Collapses*

I MEAN I’LL DO THEM I PROMISE I’LL DO THEM but ain’t no way they’re getting done on time XD

So basically the story is that I saw this post last year and just. Immediately came up with a Jackunzel Beauty and the Beast-type AU to go with it in my head. At first I was like “UGH great another fanfic idea I’ll never get around to writing” and then I was like “BUT WAIT!!! Jackunzel month!!! I’ll write it then!!!” and then I just. Didn’t. XD

But then THIS year I was like “ENOUGH DILLYDALLYING BITCH YOU GONNA DO THIS” and then I guess I actually did??? Took like a week of late-night writing sessions and intensive spooky ambiance, but IT GOT DONE.

So without further ado, enjoy this bout of literally-star-crossed celestial angst! I also took a lot of inspo from the Corrupted Nightmare Jack AU here, as well as the beast from Over the Garden Wall. Kind of going for what Jack could have become if he really did join up with Pitch, even if he doesn’t exactly here. Hopefully the design I used for him is sufficiently spooky!! And tragic!! :’)

Might go without saying, but CW for a little body horror here. It’s beauty and the beast, tho so I feel like that comes with the genre XD

Fic under the cut! As always, moodboard pic credits available upon request!

***

The Sunbringer and the Shadowkeeper

The Sunbringer shivered as she made her way through the murky forest.

It felt like she’d been walking for hours and made it nowhere. The woods never changed—always the same crooked, barren tree silhouettes, their topmost branches forming jagged windows into a vast and endless night sky. Peat and old leaves squished and crunched underfoot, sometimes making noises so pronounced that the Sunbringer could swear someone else was there.

Or something. Watching her.

She quickened her pace, pulling her translucent golden cloak tighter around her shoulders. Some solar warmth still remained among its folds, but it was trickling out day by day.

The periods where the days should be, anyways.

Spring was late that year. The Sunbringer was starting to regret telling the Council of the Skies she would be the one to investigate.

By the equinox, the sun was always released from the Place of Shadows. The Sunbringer caught it without fail, holding it high in the sky as the grass grew and the flowers bloomed and the animals crept from hibernation and started families. But the solstice had come and gone, and there was no sign of the warmth-giver needed for the world to be reborn.

Now, the Sunbringer wandered through an endless winter landscape. Dead and dark and horribly cold, the only sources of light were the faint, faraway stars and the glow from the Sunbringer’s own golden braid. The further she went, the more the air bit into her skin and the winds wailed like a miserable dog. It was like something out of a nightmare.

She hummed a tune to herself, trying to calm frayed nerves. The sound of her own voice was her only companion in this lifeless place.

It was a song her mother had taught her, long, long ago. A healing incantation that could seal any wound, no matter how brutal. If rumor be believed, it could even raise the dead.

Now, the Sunbringer only hoped to dispel her own fear.

Surprisingly, the Sunbringer’s mother was not some celestial goddess, a queen of the clouds who passed her divinity on to her daughter. No, the Sunbringer had been human once, chosen for this job many, many millennia ago.

She couldn’t remember much of her human life. There were bits and pieces, scattered through her mind like tiny wildflowers in an alpine meadow.

She’d been from a small village. It was a simple life—one where she was expected to become a seamstress or a milkmaid or a farmhand girl or a grocer’s assistant or any number of other mundane things. She collected berries and herbs in the woods. She knew which mushrooms were the poisonous ones, and which ones tasted delicious cooked with butter and sage. She helped where she could—the fall harvest and the sheep herding and the chicken feeding. Her mother, who she faintly recalled being a curvy, dark-haired woman, doted on her day and night, but at the price of smothering her relentlessly. The Sunbringer had to fight to do anything on her own.

She had to fight not to have her hand held.

There was a boy, too. Brown-haired, twiggy, a constant bounce in his step. Always running through the woods and climbing trees in the summer and entertaining the younger children with goofy antics on long, frigid winter nights. He’d been her best friend. She was pretty sure, anyways.

She remembered he died young, although the exact way wasn’t clear. It brought her a strange sort of comfort, knowing that she never missed out on growing up and growing old with the brown-haired boy.

Sometimes she snatched at the faint recollections, trying to pull on the threads to see what else she could find. Her Sunbringer duties always seemed to call before she got far.

After all, there was sunshine to spread and plants to grow and cats to keep warm in little yellow squares on kitchen floors. The world was a delicate, precious balance of life and death, and it would crumble within days if she ever shirked her responsibilities.

And now more than ever, she had more pressing matters. She suspected she knew what happened to the sun—and if she was right, there was no time to be wasted.

The Council of the Skies had told many a tale of the Shadowkeeper. A creature always just beyond the shadows, he was more the dread of the darkness or the nervous tingles you got on the back of your neck than a tangible being. Those who met him said they never got a clear look, his form obscured by black tendrils and his head only a silhouette with sharp antlers and pointed teeth. When you came upon him, you felt all the bleakness and biting cold of the dead of winter wash over you.

He kept the sun swept up in his dark, swirling form all throughout the frostiest months, weakening it almost too much for the world to bear. In spring he released it, at last letting warmth reclaim the sky.

This year, the Shadowkeeper must have kept his grip on the sun, greedily sucking light into his cold body like a tick drinking blood. Hogging the sun for 3 months was no longer enough for him, it seemed.

Light embedded into the Sunbringer’s skin flickered, as it always did when she grew nervous. Long had she suspected she may have to battle the winter’s terrifying guardian, but she never dreamed it would be over something as immense as him wanting to keep the sun for his own.

Sometimes she resented being chosen for this life. It was a draining existence, guarding the heat that kept the world alive when the smallest chain reaction could leave everything destroyed.

The Sunbringer had never met the Shadowkeeper, but she believed the stories. The forest he called home was icy and frightful, and she didn’t imagine he was any better.

A heavy fog hung in the air, sticking to her skin in chilly droplets. She wondered, not for the first time, what would happen if she were to die again.

Was there any way the Council of the Skies could bring her back, use their powers to form her out of sunlight again? Or would they simply move on, letting her fade into legend as they chose a new Sunbringer?

The thought made her feel unbearably lonely—a nearly invisible wisp of a soul that could dissolve into the mist at any moment, leaving few behind who would care she was gone. The world would mourn the role she played, sure—mourn the position that needed to be filled. But they wouldn’t mourn her.

She couldn’t say how long she walked before the fog began to clear. The forest floor came into sight at some point, a carpet of brown leaves frosted at the edges.

They were cold against her bare feet. She couldn’t fully explain why, but the prickles they sent through her didn’t bother her.

Perhaps, she thought, she was so used to the heat of her own skin that a new sensation was welcomed, even if it was the antithesis of everything she was meant to stand for.

When the wisps of fog were thin enough to see the trees she stopped, eyes widening. The branches were covered in white snow, glimmering softly in the starlight.

It was a strange kind of beautiful. An unexpected piece of something pure and lovely in a world so desolate.

She couldn’t explain why, but the sight of it made her sad. Her heart felt suddenly hollow, like there was something just out of reach that belonged there.

Something to do with this tiny speck of beauty in a dead, frozen world.

The Sunbringer pushed the melancholia aside. She had a job to do—one where she simply did not have time to wonder about why she was at such a puzzling loss here.

She walked on. The leaves became sprinkled with snow—first flakes, then clumps, then a sprawling carpet. She found herself relishing the shivers it sent through her feet. Something still strange and novel, but exhilarating nonetheless.

Moonlight glinted off ice, and she saw a frozen river blocking her path. She tested it with a tentative foot, wondering if she had enough of the sun’s power left in her to float if the frozen covering didn’t hold.

The river was sturdy and strong, no trace of spring around to weaken the ice. The Sunbringer placed a foot on the frosty surface and began her crossing.

Toward the middle, the river groaned. The Sunbringer tensed as the realization hit.

There had been no spring to melt the ice until she came along.

She broke into a run, ice cracking and caving behind her. Thank the skies she always seemed to be one step ahead of catastrophe.

She swore there was something dark swirling below her—something always just under her field of vision. She knew if she stopped to get a good look, the river would have her.

Reaching the other side did not bring her the comfort she had hoped.

There was something distinctively eerie about the woods here. The Sunbringer wondered again—more urgently this time—if someone or something was watching her.

There seemed to be shadows everywhere—rippling, licking, always just out of her grasp. She heard them swooshing and whistling like gusts of wind.

But whenever she turned to look, they were gone.

Her feelings were becoming more and more of a riddle. The Sunbringer should have felt fear—crippling, nauseating fear.

Instead, all she felt was a strange longing.

The shadows were her other half, she supposed. You couldn’t truly have light without them. Perhaps that was why they called to her.

But there was something more.

The dark tendrils swirled thicker and thicker between the trees, always on the verge of engulfing her. She stopped.

“Shadowkeeper.” She spoke the word aloud, realizing where she was.

She’d reached the heart of his domain. His lair.

“Is that all you know me as?”

His voice floated in the air like mist, formless and ghostly. The icy breath of winter itself.

The Sunbringer frowned. “What other name is there? I bring the sun, you hold the shadows. That is all we are.”

“It wasn’t always.” The Shadowkeeper laughed, and it didn’t sound nearly as menacing as the Council of the Skies always described.

It was…playful. Bittersweet, almost.

“That doesn’t matter.” The Sunbringer forced her expression to harden. “All there is is now. You’ve kept the sun too long, and I have come to reclaim it. It is time for spring to come.”

“So formal.” The Shadowkeeper chuckled. “How long have you rehearsed that?”

“Long enough.” She frowned, although she couldn’t quite determine which cluster of dark wisps she should frown at. “It’s been weeks!”

“That was the only way I could see you. It’s not like you’d come out here on your own.”

Her frown turned to a look of confusion. “Why would you want to see me? Doesn’t the light hurt you?”

“Not if it’s you.”

All the flickering shadows snaked around the tree trunks and clustered together, twisting like water in a whirlpool. They spun around and around, melting from a trembling pillar into the inky form of…something.

The creature that stood before her loomed over the forest clearing. His body was surrounded by billowing shadows, floating in inky puffs like a cloak of midnight clouds. His head—or what the Sunbringer guessed it to be, anyhow—was narrow and elongated, crown adorned with the silhouettes of sharp, spindly tree branches. They jabbed out in every direction, bringing to mind the head of some strange deer that couldn’t stop growing antlers.

The only bit of color on the beast was his eyes—a pale golden that almost perfectly matched the Sunbringer’s hair. The Sunbringer found herself feeling strange again.

“You really don’t know me?” The voice that came from the beast was soft. Almost timid.

It had to be a trick. Some way for the Shadowkeeper to throw her off-guard.

Did he believe if he attacked her—if he vanquished her light—that he could plunge the world into darkness? It seemed a naïve sentiment from a spirit at least as old as her, if not older. He had to know the Council of the Skies would pick a new Sunbringer.

It was strange, come to think of it. She somehow knew the Shadowkeeper was not some ancient creature who had been around since the dawn of time, nor was he a young spirit only just learning the ebb and flow of the natural world.

To answer the Shadowkeeper’s original question, what the Sunbringer did and did not know was becoming more and more puzzling.

“I know you stole the sun.” Perhaps she should start with what it did make sense for her to know. “And I’m not sure what you want with me, but I know you need to give it back. I can’t let you make the world go dark.”

“Ask me by name, and it’s yours.”

It was an odd request, but the Sunbringer saw no reason to refuse.

“Shadowkeeper, I implore you to—”

“That’s not my name.”

The Sunbringer scowled. “Well, if that isn’t your name, then I don’t know what it is!”

“I think you do.”

The shadows swirled around their keeper, circling a few times before dissolving like smoke. Gradually his form came into view, lit only by the faintest starlight.

The Shadowkeeper—the beast—was a frightening thing. His limbs were long and grotesque, spindly and stiff like the barren trees surrounding him. His skin was rough and cracked, made almost entirely of bark. His hands ended in long, pointed branchlets, curved and sharpened into claws.

The branches on the Shadowkeeper’s head looked even more unnerving in the light. They snaked all the way down his back, all honed like a young stag’s antlers. It hardly helped that his face was still difficult to see, save for those eerie yellow eyes.

Her eyes trailed across his body, and she started. There was something pale under the bark, barely visible behind thickly-woven black tendrils.

Human skin, slowly being suffocated by wood. Before long, it would all be buried too deep for anyone to see.

The Shadowkeeper was once an ordinary person. Like her.

“Does it hurt?” Her voice came out in a strangled whisper.

The Shadowkeeper glanced down, as if just noticing the bark that was choking out the softer flesh underneath. He chuckled.

“To be honest, I’ve stopped noticing. Does it hurt when you hold the sun?”

Despite herself, the Sunbringer laughed too. “I guess…I’ve stopped noticing, too.”

The Shadowkeeper took a pace toward her. The Sunbringer surprised herself when she felt no desire to back away.

Something on the Shadowkeeper’s back caught her eye, and she cried out. Protrusions she had thought were just more branches were arrows.

She knitted her brow, suddenly concerned. “People hunt you? In your own forest?”

The Shadowkeeper snorted. “Maybe they think they can get rid of winter that way. I’m usually too quick for them to land a good blow, but not always.”

“I’m sorry. You shouldn’t have to live in fear.”

The Shadowkeeper shrugged, the bark of his shoulders creaking. “Eh. What can you do? I pretend it’s an intentional fashion choice.”

The Sunbringer found herself laughing again.

She gave him a thoughtful look, wondering if she’d been wrong. “You…don’t want to hurt me, do you?”

“No.” The Shadowkeeper looked at her with such a sorrow that it took her aback. “Who do you think helped you across the stream? Who do you think made sure the places you stepped were always frozen?”

“That was you?”

Her eyes widened, picturing the dark swirls under the ice and not quite believing they were something benevolent. “You were really trying to help?”

“Always.”

His voice was quick and certain, and she was left baffled once again. “But why?”

He takes a breath before answering.

“Because we were friends once, Rapunzel. A long time ago.”

Rapunzel…

The Sunbringer almost fell back onto the snow.

Memories so vague before came stampeding back at full force. She remembered everything—the bedroom her mother locked her in, a fluffy bob of brown hair, weaving flower crowns for her best friend’s sister, dancing around the maypole at summer festivals, the ice pond that had drowned her best friend.

Her best friend.

“Jack.”

She breathed out his name in a ragged sob. For a moment she stood with her head spinning, wondering despondently how she could have ever forgotten Jackson Overland.

“Took you long enough, Zellie.”

She ran to him, throwing her arms around rough skin and burying her face in his chest.

Bark groaned as his arms wove around her, pulling her closer. She felt wooden tendrils twist across the surface of her gown, entwining them together until they could have been one being.

Rapunzel thought back to the cramped room in her human home—the one her mother made her prison. With Jack’s branches surrounding her, she found it strange she didn’t feel trapped.

On the contrary, she felt safe. She felt loved.

“I’m so sorry,” she choked, face wet with tears. “I’m sorry I—I don’t know how I…”

“It’s all right.” He murmured into her hair, voice soft. “For…a long time, I didn’t remember you either. Then one spring, I looked up, and saw you floating through the sky like this…miracle of nature, and…” His voice broke. “It was like you never left my mind.”

She looked up and met his eyes, getting a good look at his face for the first time.

It wasn’t quite what she remembered. Framed by spikes of inky black instead of chocolate brown. Stretched, slightly distorted. All ghostly skin and sharp angles. Like the lengthened shadows at the end of the day. Like something in the half-light.

She reached out a hand and cupped his cheek. It was so frigid her hand stung.

She didn’t let go.

He leaned into her palm, amber eyes slipping shut. Long, sharp fingers slithered into view, his clawed hand coming to rest gently over hers.

The frightful tales of the Council of the Skies seemed laughable now. She couldn’t be scared of Jack, not when she knew how bright and good and kind he had once been.

How much he still was.

It seemed none of that tenderness ever left, monstrous form or not. He was still her Jack, even after everything.

“I missed you,” she whispered. “I felt so hollow. I didn’t even realize it, but…it always felt like I lost something. Why didn’t you ever come find me?”

“I can’t—I can’t leave this place.” He blinked down at her with wet golden eyes. “I’m not strong enough to come out of the shadows. Going out and finding you would be like—like trying to make a blizzard in June.”

“But in the winter?”

“You’re always too far to reach.” He smiled sadly, shaking his head. “I see you, flying through the clouds and glowing bright enough to warm the whole world. Meanwhile, I’m stuck in all the dark crevices—down on the ground, wanting to run to you every chance I get. But the light beats me back every time I try. So…that’s why I had you come to me.”

His hand uncurled from her back, sliding around to form a closed fist in the air between them. As his fingers opened, Rapunzel gasped.

There was the sun, golden and radiant and as mellow as it was on spring mornings. It looked strangely delicate, floating in Jack’s hand in a tiny, flickering orb.

Odd to imagine something that seemed so small and insignificant gave life to all of earth.

“At the end of winter, you always waited for me to release it.” Jack’s voice was suddenly pained. “You floated above me and got ready to catch it, but…you never looked at me. You never saw me.”

She stroked the cold skin of his cheek with her thumb. “I see you now.”

“All according to plan.”

He smirked in a way that made her raise her eyebrows.

“I knew you’d never give me a second thought if things went on like they did. I was this…menacing thing that tossed you your sun sometimes. Always just out of sight enough to make the tales of horror seem true. So one spring, I didn’t toss you your sun. I made you come and get it.”

“And so you did.” She laughed, pressing her forehead into the craggy bark of his chest. “You should be ashamed of yourself, Jack. A forest that gives a girl the scare of her life is no way to treat an old friend.”

“Sorry about that.” He chuckled sheepishly. “Wish I could curate a bit of a warmer welcome. Unfortunately I am, in fact, a guardian of winter and darkness and other related spooky things.”

“Well, I suppose it’s my own fault. I was the one who volunteered to roam the creepiest forest in existence to find you.”

“Also planned on that.” He snickered into her hairline, and she scowled.

“What do you mean?!”

“You always have to bend over backwards pleasing everyone. I remember how you were with your mom.”

Rapunzel huffed. “I like to think I’ve grown a little as a person in the past millennium or two.”

“Maybe, but…you’re still not going to ask someone else to do something you figure you could take care of yourself.”

She sighed. Even after all this time, he still knew her well enough to predict her every move.

“Oh, get out of my head, Jackson Overland.”

“You wish.”

Something nudged her side. She turned her head to see Jack extending his hand to her, sun gleaming in his palm.

“I believe I have something of yours.”

She scrutinized it for a moment. It was strange—the end of her journey was so close and so tangible, and yet…

Rapunzel didn’t want it anymore.

“Take it.” The rough edges of Jack’s fingers nudged her again. “It was selfish of me to keep it so long, anyways. And now I got to see you, so…”

She reached out and closed her fingers around the bright sphere.

Immediately she felt its power course through her, setting every vein in her celestial form ablaze. Warmth rippled beneath her skin, seeping into every crack and crevice that had grown cold. The corners of her vision were flooded with a blinding glow, and it took her a moment to realize it was her.

Suddenly, she was expanding, the sun’s power swirling around her body as she grew and grew and grew. She felt like a supernova—a radiant burst of light on the verge of giving birth to a new galaxy.

Within moments, she was standing as tall as the Shadowbringer. As Jack.

He looked different from up here. His eyes were close enough now that she could see the playful shine in them. She could make out the thin curve of his lips and the boxy shape of his ears and the rounded bridge of his nose and eyebrows that always had a rebellious hair or two out of place. Everything about him was so achingly familiar that she wanted to cry.

She glanced down at their hands—still intertwined. Jack never let go after she took the sun.

It might have been her imagination, but his clawed fingers looked a little shorter. A little less pointed.

He laced their fingers together and held on tightly, as though scared she might dissolve at any moment.

Like an afternoon sunbeam when the evening was looming.

Her thumb ghosted over the back of his hand, trying to communicate a silent reassurance.

I’m here. I’m real. I’m not going to leave you again.

She hadn’t meant to disappear in the first place, but it was no matter. It was still a mistake she was not keen on repeating.

Rapunzel looked up, and their eyes met again. She remembered something else.

She remembered how she looked at him when they sat tucked away in the treetops, him telling her stories and her sketching his movements on a tattered paper pad. She remembered watching him do skits by the fireside and splash her in the lake in the summer, and how she felt something so profound that for weeks and months and years she couldn’t put a name to it.

All she could do now was try and speak with her heart. Rapunzel leaned in and pressed her mouth to the Shadowkeeper’s.

Pure energy exploded through her, and all at once she felt so gloriously alive. It was as if she had become the entire sky, unbounded and immeasurable and shining with every color—cerulean blue, peach pink, blinding golden, deep violet, tangerine, fiery red, soft white, ebony black.

Jack’s arms wrapped around her again, pulling her closer. It felt like every moment in the universe—every passing day, every time the sun had risen and set—had been leading up to this.

It was more powerful than all the stars above them combined.

Perhaps that was only her biases talking. Perhaps she only imagined it to be that way, considering she had yearned for this longer than she would ever know.

It was like coming home to a hearth and a cozy bed after a long, long journey. One that had taken her much farther than she ever wished to go.

And it was right. Something—she couldn’t tell quite what—had been so asymmetrical before.

Now it was perfectly centered.

A deep, warm calm settled through Rapunzel as she pulls away. Jack watched her with soft blue eyes.

Blue eyes.

He’d changed. Eerie amber faded into sparkling ice blue. Inky back hair was now tinged with a beautiful, crystalline white, like fresh snow dusting winter treetops. Bark begun to peel off his skin, revealing more and more of the boy Rapunzel remembered.

He smirked in a way that made her feel lighter than she had in perhaps a century. She laughed, resting her hands on his cheeks and pressing their foreheads together.

“I love you.”

It was the first time she had truly put it into words, but she was certain some part of her had always known.

She knew when they were children, chasing each other through the woods and jumping in leaf piles and sledding down steep hills in the winter. She knew when the boys and girls at school began to kiss and hold hands, and she found her eyes always straying to Jack, wondering if his lips tasted like peppermint hot chocolate and stories and mischief. She knew when she heard he’d drowned in icewater, and it felt like half of herself had suffocated right down there with him. And she knew for all the centuries she thought she forgot about him, even if it was buried deep inside.

She felt wetness against her face, and realized he was crying.

He let out a shaky, relieved laugh. “I love you, too.”

Sharp cracks and snaps rang out as more bark peeled off. The body beneath Rapunzel’s fingers grew softer.

More like the one she had always yearned to hold, all those years ago.

And suddenly Rapunzel knew. She knew exactly what she had to do to finish this.

She knew what she had to do to fully pull Jack from the dark shell—the prison—that had grown around him, fueled by all those centuries of being feared and alone.

One of her hands strayed from his face, grabbing a tendril of blonde hair and wrapping it around a spindly, twiglike wrist. His long fingers curled over hers, shaking nervously.

Even so, Jack made no move to pull away. He must have trusted her fully.

She began to sing.

Rapunzel’s mother may have been an eccentric woman, strange at the best of times and terrifying at the worst. She may have had some unusual ideas about what it was to “love” your daughter, too.

But she had been right about one thing: The incantation she taught Rapunzel could heal anything.

Sunlight slipped down blonde hair, radiating soft gold as it went. The glow trickled across Jack like honey, and Rapunzel could only hope the heat didn’t hurt.

It appeared not to. Jack’s eyes slid shut, contented. His hand went limp in hers.

The hand that, to her amazement, was starting to feel less and less like gnarled twigs and more and more like skin.

The glow faded. Blue eyes opened under a mop of pale hair, white as afternoon clouds. Rapunzel felt fingers lace between hers, holding tightly.

They were a perfect fit.

The hand he lifted to cup the back of her neck was fully human. She smiled into his mouth and kissed him again.

Down on earth, folk across every land and every sea would later say that spring began with the most spectacular sunrise any of them had ever seen.

[chiimaera]

‘ try me. ’ // @ persephone

MORTALS WERE SIMPLE CREATURES, their survival was fickle and ever under threat since they had reached beyond their means. whispers of the infinity stones in the human realm had been a surprise, along with the merry little band of heroes they seemed to throw at every problem that arose. it was so predictable that it took very little effort to find herself the concern of the season. the daughter of demeter was not the sweet little girl that her mother still believed her to be. the tragic story of persephone had pervaded the human realm, used as a cautionary tale for little girls to mind their mothers and keep away from men who might snatch them away. a tale that was believed so deeply that it had been far too easy to fool their so called protectors.

the air was thick with smoke and rebellion, mortal voices raised in war cries and chanting protest rhymes. the streets of new york were filled with their discontent, shouting and picketing at the steps of their institutions. she couldnt help but bask in the nostalgia — though that time there had been more rope and guillotines. her mother had very disappointed in her 'silly tantrum', riling up the mortals just to watch the chaos. boredom picked away at her sanity along with the ache of longing that never seemed to dull this time of year.

that was under she heard her name in a familiar baritone.

the goddess spun around, her flouncy pastel dress fluttering unmarred by the destruction that surrounded them. the street was vacant save for the man with the metal arm and his spangled flying companion. the moment that her gaze fell on the ever so serious expression on her husbands faces, the barren dry trees began to flourish and bloom around them. the dead flowers on stoops and balconies finally began to stand, home gardens bearing their vegetables and fruit. it was the middle of summer yet the surrounding fields and mountains had been stripped of their color — until now.

persephone grinned prettily, running toward @unseenking until she could fling herself into his arms. the chaos around them seemed to stop, the two mortal heroes watching in disbelief. if she had just been in a battle, no one would have known it. her attention was completely raptured by the man in her arms, eyes bright with elation and adoration that the spring blooms paled in comparison. that was until she realized that her husband was not reciprocating her joy. not that he was one to be jumping into someones arms — or smiling for that matter. her smile fell a bit, forming more of a pout.

" you wont understand— "

" try me "

her pout deepened, glancing back at the heroes who had picked themselves off the ground to stare in confusion. buildings were cracked, cars destroyed, glass and plaster glittered the pavement. she was not allowed to meddle in mortal affairs, her duties were to bring the spring so that the world kept turning. instead she had stripped this side of the country of its fertility, letting everything wilt and die. moods fell into depression, food became scarce. when faced with adversity that could not be controlled, mortals tended to rebel against those in power, grasping for solutions. so she offered herself as one.

worship of the old gods had dwindled with the passage of time, was it so wrong to remind them? yet they both knew that was not the reason for her meddling. not really. persephone looked up at her husband, arms still around his neck on her tip toes. despite being barefoot in the streets of new york, the soles of her feet had no markings, cuts or dirt.

" i missed you, my love, and i was so bored, " the blonde whined. a curse escaped the metal armed man, his anger held back by a hand to the chest stopping him. the goddess smiled with a sweetness that made her dangerous, hiding the cunning queen of the underworld under its bright sincerity. " historically speaking, the gods are supposed to test mortal heroes, are they not? "

[ganondoodle]

Having lived my whole life in the same place, its strangely sad to see the change around it, helplessly watching.

I remember the old bridge over the little creek going by just beside our house, small and crafted from natural stone, ivy growing all over the thick stone railing. I remember climbing on it to reach the fruits of our old plum tree, giving some of them to strangers walking by or to just sit there and watch the water. Now there is a big bridge, made of blank concrete and maschine cut granite, with railings of metal bars. I know the old bridge had to go, after all, i was the one who noticed the weird noises coming from it during a rain heavy storm, as the stones that once withstood tanks rolling over them, were loosening and falling into the water below. I saw how the thick stone railing slowly started to move, and watched as it fell, hastily running outside in the rain to stop cars from driving there as we feared it could break more ... . Our plum tree had to be cut down for the new bridge to be build, as had the wild bushes and trees growing at the sides of the stream including the giant healthy chestnut tree on the other side of the bridge, it was so big my arms couldnt have reached around even half of its trunk; i liked walking under it just to stare up into the huge tree crown. I cried when it was cut down. Our biggest cherry tree was displaced to make way for a metal walkway for pedestrians, its roots cut too shortly it soon started to die; and yet, here it still stands, the trunk falling apart, barren and dead while one single branch still grows leaves, clinging onto life.

I remember the big willow, its crooked and twisted branch creating little plays of shadows in my room at night, illuminated by the moon. I remember it breaking off and falling onto our swing in the garden during a storm, utterly crushing it. I cried when the tree was cut down piece by piece. My father placed pieces of its trunk and thick branches around the garden, they started to sprout again, but all soon died anyway ... exept for the biggest part of the trees wood, still lying in the grass, it sprouted again and took root, even after the droughts of recent years stunting its growth, its still alive. The trunk it grows from is falling apart, slowly becoming one with the ground. I hope it wont damage the tree when its splintering apart further. I water it in the summer.

I remember the sandpit in our garden we used to play in. How deep we could dig until the earth came through. How when needed, we would drive somewhere not far, to get new sand for it. I remember climbing around on the big mountain of sand, searching for the best parts to take from, how we always overloaded our car by a little bit and yet the people we bought the sand from, still let us through. The sandpit is now overgrown, almost swallowed by grass and moss. The piece of the trunk of the willow is right by its side.

I remember the big spruce tree in our garden. We called it "Wetterfichte" (weatherspruce), it was the tallest of all the trees, its top had multiple crooks and the end was split in two, both kept growing for years. It didnt make it through the drought last summer. My father had to cut it down a few weeks ago. He screwed a big hinge at half of its height and build a little circle of protective wooden beams around its roots so it wouldnt damaged the little garden of saplings we planted there, when it falls. It worked thankfully, the various kinds of saplings didnt suffer much, if any, damage, including the stump of a piece of the willow i put over there because little maple seedlings took root in a hole within it. They are still growing. Sometimes in the spring, i go around the garden carefully plucking out the little maple seedlings to plant them somewhere save from the lawnmower. Even if most dont make it in the end.

I remember the sudden freezing temperatures last year, just when my walnut trees started to open their buds. We tried to cover up the twins we planted in the spot of land that nobody really owns, we call it "Niemandsland" (No-ones-land), like the area sophie, from "howls moving castle" traveled to after being cursed. The frost killed the little trees buds and leaves anyway, but they sprouted from the sides afterwards, even if weakly. This year they are as lively as if nothing happened. Only the dead endings of where their original crown used to be is a reminder. And i watch anxiously, when workers come to mow down the grass on the other side of the creek, fearing they might step over it and mow down the saplings i care for so deeply too, as if they were no different from the grass.

I remember the big hedge that used to be on the other side of the road. Birds would eat the berries of it and build their nests within its branches. As kids, we used to pluck some berries off and jump on them, they sounded funny when squashed under our shoes, like bubble wrap. When people moved into the house that the hedge belonged to, they ripped out the bushes during the birds nesting season and replaced it with a thin metal fence. They mow their lawn every few weeks with one of those rideable lawnmowers. The grass thats left stands in patches of green and brown. Its perfectly short.

I remember the second big chestnut tree, always in the view of my window. Its been a sickly one for as long as i can remember clearly, though almost as big as the one was by the bridge. It has deep scars in its bark from nails and pins that people used to hang up announcements for the restaurant build behind it. The restaurant is long closed and the rooms rented for little theater perfomances every now and then. Not long ago they cut off all its branches, i dont know why and all i could do was watch helplessly. It grew leaves from its stumpy ends again. They are half brown and shriveled up and half green and lush, just like it always has been.

I remember the tall maple tree my parents cut down when i wasnt home, knowing i would protest it if i was there and somehow hoping that doing it behind my back would make it any better. It was one of my favorite trees. I didnt talk for days.

I gaze into the distance. Theres the big oak tree on the horizon, now fully green and lush. It was leafless for so long, i feared it didnt survive the drought.

My view wanders to the two big healthy fir trees not far away, knowing, one of them will soon be cut down to make way for a garage.

And all i can do is watch.

Helplessly.

[togglesbloggle]

How We Decided

The day after tomorrow- that is, February 18, 2021- the Perseverance rover will attempt to land on the surface of Mars.  It will enter the planetary atmosphere at an acute angle, giving it as much time as possible to experience drag and slow down from orbital velocities.  Because Mars’ air is so thin, and the rover is so heavy, this will fail- in the best case, Perseverance would still be going almost a thousand miles an hour when it impacts the surface.  To help save itself, the craft will deploy a parachute of advanced design, seventy feet across and able to withstand supersonic velocities.  This, too, will fail.  Even with a parachute, there is simply not enough air between Perseverance and the Martian surface to slow it down all the way.  So this is where the rockets kick in.  Once air resistance slows the rover to a bit less than two hundred miles per hour, the heavy heat shield will be jettisoned, and a system of secondary rockets will fire against the direction of motion until it slows to near-hovering.  In a final flourish, the rover will descend from the rocket-boosted frame on coiled springs, until it touches down in the western part of Jezero crater in the northern hemisphere of Mars.

As it happens, Perseverance’s destination was one of the very last things we decided about it- not until the craft itself was fairly thoroughly engineered and designed.  Formally, the decision was made by the mission directorate.  In practice, they follow the consensus of the scientific community, which in turn hashes things out at a series of open-invitation workshops.  Things began with a call for white papers- an open suggestion box, basically.  In 2015, the first workshop narrowed things down from thirty serious proposals to eight candidates.  In 2017, the second workshop further winnowed the list down to three.  And in October of 2018, after three days of presentation, debate, and discussion, the final workshop selected Jezero Crater from these final three candidates using a simple vote of all attendees, and passed on the recommendation to the mission leads.

I haven’t been in the business for very long, so the final workshop was the only one of these where I actually participated.  It wasn’t a close vote as such, and I didn’t break any ties, and technically we were just making a strongly worded suggestion.  Nonetheless, my vote is one of the reasons why the Rover will be going to Jezero Crater instead of Syrtis Major or Gusev, and I think I’m entitled to feel ownership of this mission choice, just a little bit.

(This is, of course, terrifying.)

Having gone through the experience, there were a few surprises worth noting.  The first was how small some of the numbers are here.  The conference was not very large: only thirty proposals, debated by just a few hundred attendees.  I’ve seen book review contests with more entries, and that are read by a wider audience.  Which is to say, this is a situation that was, and is, extremely responsive to individual effort.  In that small a room, populated by people that are philosophically committed to changing their minds when they see good evidence or a good argument, one person can stand up and change the future in a very real way.

The second surprise was the attendance requirements.  Or rather, the lack thereof.  The project is public, paid for by American taxpayers, to whom I am profoundly grateful.  And one way the process reflected that public-spiritedness is that this is not a walled garden.  A small attendance fee (iirc, $40?), and you’re in.  You get a vote, if you want to use it.  A few non-scientists even took us up on this; there’s one retiree (a former schoolteacher, I think) that’s attended every major conference I’ve been to in the last few years, and sets up a small table in the back with his home mineral collection just for fun.  In practice this open-door policy is limited by the obscurity of the event itself; if you don’t move in research circles, you have to be something of a space exploration superfan to hear about it.  Still, as symbols go, you could do worse.

And now that we’re coming up on the day itself, the same kind of public-facing mindset is making me think about why I was persuaded to vote for Jezero Crater, what it means to explore there, and how I’d justify that choice to those of you that made the ongoing discovery of Mars possible in the first place.

If you want to know what Perseverance is like, and what you can reasonably do with it, start with Curiosity- the two are built, more or less, on the same chassis.  That means you have a mobile science lab about the size of a Volkswagon Beetle.  Add some mechanical improvements (no more wheel punctures!) and a few bells and whistles (microphone!  helicopter for some reason!).  Trade out some of the scientific instruments- raman spectroscopy instead of a mass spectrometer, for example.  And it’s got these:

That, dear reader, is a sample return canister.  Not to be returned immediately, alas, but to be returned nonetheless.  One of Persevereance’s primary directives is to find interesting rocks, collect them, and leave them in place for a sample return mission in the early 30s.  There’s a ton of work we can do in situ, but there’s even more we can do in a clean lab back home; things like isotopic analysis really need a much more controlled environment than you’ll get in the field.  And so a major, major consideration is to optimize Perseverance’s landing site for cool rocks that we’d like to take back home.

The other thing that Perseverance is really good at is astrobiology.  There’s no such thing as a life sign detector as such, but this rover represents an attempt to approach that ideal: instruments like SHERLOC and SuperCam are adept at finding organic compounds and fine-scale mineralogy and chemistry that might be influenced by microbial metabolism.  This is a natural extension of what we’ve been learning so far: Spirit and Opportunity showed us that Mars formed under the influence of liquid water.  Curiosity showed us that this was not just wet, but actively habitable: lakes and rivers at a neutral pH under a rich and temperate atmosphere.  The next question along this line is the hardest, and the scariest: we know it was habitable, but was it inhabited?

If you’re like me, that question makes you feel weird.  Collecting rocks is one thing, but a fossil?  The mind rebels.  We’ve spent the last two generations of space exploration tempering our expectations, reminding ourselves that the other worlds in our solar system are largely barren and dead, learning again and again how precious life is in the cosmos.  It’s hard to get in the mindset of people back in the 40s and 50s who could, somewhat reasonably, imagine that Mars might not just host life but multicellular life, vegetation and robust macroscopic ecosystems.  We look back at the science fiction of the era, swarthy soldiers hopping from planet to planet in silver rockets, and laugh at the naivete.  A smile at the exuberance of youth, if we’re feeling generous.  When we were first beginning, we may have imagined ancient canals on Mars and crystal cities on Venus, but that was when space was a blank canvas for us to paint our fantasies.  We’ve learned so much since then, and if it was less fun, at least it was true.  We did the hard thing and accepted reality over fantasy.  We accept that extraterrestrial environments are hostile to life- cratered, silent, and still.  We’re grownups now.

Unless…

Unless.

Imagine that we were born just a bit earlier.  Say, three and a half billion years or so.  We raise our telescopes to the sky, and we see a sister-planet.  Not red, but white and blue, with an atmosphere full of clouds and multiple large bodies of water scattered across its surface, prominent ice caps and snow-capped highlands, rivers tracing their way down to the lowlands in the north.  (Maybe the water is all under the ice, not open to the air at the surface; maybe the liquid pools are small and limited to craters, not feeding a large ocean.)  Sober scientists might have suggested we shouldn’t get our hopes up too much- after all, the gravity is much lower, there’s no tectonic recycling, and there’s no protective magnetosphere.  But is sterility really the default assumption we should be making here?  Is ‘we are alone in the cosmos’ really the most sane conclusion to draw from this situation?  Is it not worth, perhaps, sending a rover to go see?

We’ve adapted our sensibilities to a dead solar system because in the moment we’re looking, it kind of is.  We’re hopeful for the icy moons- and the evidence keeps mounting there as well- but the terrestrial planets are a grim reminder of the fragility and contingency of our own world.  The thing is, the more we learn, the more we discover that we’re a bit late to a very, very interesting party.  Venus is a hellscape, but it probably didn’t start that way.  Mars is a desert, but once it was an oasis.  What makes Earth special among the terrestrial worlds isn’t that it developed a temperate climate, but that it kept a temperate climate for more than four billion years.  Stability, not habitability, is the party trick that makes us unique in the solar system.  And if we’re really committed to being grownups, to accepting what’s real instead of what’s easy, we have to learn that lesson too.

And life does not need four billion years to begin.  Not even close.

That brings us to Jezero Crater.  The most interesting feature here is a large river delta- based on some clever geology, we’re pretty sure that a large river emptied into the crater during Mars’ wet period.  When the rapidly-flowing water hit the still water of Lake Jezero, the loose sediments being carried along the current all fell out of suspension at this place, forming a large pile of detritus at the mouth of the river that accumulated over the lifetime of the system.  Even more interesting, check out this geologic map:

See those tiny teal deposits to the right side of the image?  Those are also river delta deposits.  Which means the thing labeled ‘delta’ on this map isn’t the original extent- it used to be much, much larger, at least twice as wide.  Which also means that the outer edge of the ‘delta’ that we see here in this image is actually an erosional surface, and we get a natural cross-section of the thing with the oldest deposits at the bottom and the youngest at the top, just before Mars lost its hydrosphere.  By climbing the outer edge, we can move through time across a large fraction of the habitable period.

Here’s another image I’d like you to see:

The crater I’ve been showing you is the small circle in the lower right- color is elevation, covering a span of about 5 km.  The black line is the watershed of that river, the region of Mars that channeled water to the delta.  In other words, the river delta collects sediments- and potentially, biosignatures- from a region hundreds of kilometers in diameter, and gathers them all in one place, neatly sorted by time.

For this reason, ancient deltas on Earth are a favorite of paleontologists.  In addition to being comfortably wet and active itself- plenty of access to biologically important nutrients, fresh supplies of liquid water, and a nice dynamic environment- deltas do the legwork for us.  Rather than exploring a huge fraction of the planet with a tiny rover, hoping that we stumble upon an ancient life sign, we can position ourselves at the mouth of the proverbial fire hose and let life come to us.

This does come with some tradeoffs.  Most importantly, whatever we find, we won’t know the original geologic setting.  If we find an unambiguous fossil of some kind- a microbial mat, perhaps- then we’ll know less than if we’d found it in its original home.  And if we don’t find life, then the samples we take will be similarly uncertain.  They’ll be defined in time, at least relative to one another, but not in space.  In the case of life signs, this is an important caveat, but the bare fact of proving that extraterrestrial life exists is sufficiently monumental that it’s still a secondary concern.  But if we’re just talking about geology, that’s a hard thing to lose; that terrifying multi-stage descent isn’t the only risk we’re taking.  We’re leaning into the astrobiology mission hard with this one.

And the search for life is, in itself, fraught.  That’s putting it mildly.  There’s every chance that any evidence that’s even slightly marginal is going to touch off decades of debate, rather than being some kind of slam-dunk.  As it should!  Life is such a fuzzy concept, and such an important concept, that it should absolutely be held to the highest degree of scrutiny we can muster.  This is why it matters that Perseverance includes sample return- in the highly likely case that the findings are disputed, we’ll hopefully have the chance to subject those samples to the highest degrees of scrutiny.  So it feels like the right time to go hunting.

On top of that, there’s the ‘evidence of absence’ problem.  Strong biosignatures update our priors very hard in the direction of life on Mars.  But what is the correct amount of evidence necessary to convince us that Mars never was alive?  I’m not sure, but failure to find microbial mats in Jezero probably isn’t enough.  So the search for life can succeed, but if it ‘fails’ that doesn’t necessarily teach us much; the best experiments teach you something no matter what, and ideally a commitment this large would meet that standard.  This is, more or less, baked into the search for extraterrestrial life, and there aren’t too many ways out from under that problem.

That said, Jezero in particular has some compensation.  As I mentioned, we’re collecting a lot of good data regardless; and even without the gologic context, there’s a ton of opportunity to sample different minerals and how they formed, and get a nice broad sample of the Martian surface over time.  And, even better, here’s the location of another interesting potential field site, in northeast Syrtis:

Note the proximity to Jezero crater!  And Syrtis is also a fantastic candidate for a sample return mission.  It has exposed mesas with layered outcrops going all the way back to the earliest days of Mars, and extending (potentially) through many of the most interesting periods.  Now, these are not ideal for the search for life, although they’d give us a ton of technical data about surface chemistry and the behavior of the atmosphere during the early, wet periods; it would go a long way towards resolving arguments about the temperature of the early Martian climate, for example, or tracing the early destabilization and loss of the magnetosphere while teaching us loads about the planet’s core.

Those mesas are still pretty far away.  Too far, probably, for a sensible rover lifespan to make it all the way there.  But there’s a plan- called the ‘Midway’ route, as a nod to the compromise nature of it.  See, halfway between Jezero and these mesas, there are a lot of banded rocks that look suspiciously like they’re sourced from the table mesas in Syrtis.  And those, we can get to, maybe.  If we call a specific deadline on looking for life in Jezero, then we can pivot to Midway and hopefully take a really deep look.  So, in the end, we’re going hard for astrobiology research, but we’re not going all-in.

The importance of the search for life is… well, there are a lot of people out there, and we enter the world in a lot of different ways.  Most of us agree that the existence of extraterrestrial life would be a Big Deal, and we tend to have a lot of different reasons for that.  It’s not a bad subject for a future post or three, in fact.  But there’s one thing lurking in the back of my head that’s a non-obvious reason to go looking.  This wasn’t discussed at the workshop particularly, but it fed into my vote somewhat.  Check the logic of this for me, see if it makes sense:

Worrying about existential risks, we sometimes talk about the ‘great filter’.  That is, the mysterious phenomenon which explains the lack of extraterrestrial civilizations reaching out to us.  Now, maybe we’re in a zoo or a preserve or something, and intelligences are out there watching after all; maybe the Earth really is the center of the cosmos, because of the simulation hypothesis or the various religious explanations.  There’s no real way to know for sure at this point.  But consider the space of very real possibilities where the universe actually is material, and actually is mostly barren.  Why?

Stepping through the sequence, it might be that abiogenesis is really hard- going from a temperate world to a living one is almost (but not quite) impossible.  Maybe there’s some hurdle to clear between genesis and encephalization.  Maybe, given encephalization, civilization and tool-use are almost impossible.  Or maybe there are many civilizations like ours, and the great filter is ahead of us- it is almost impossible for technological civilizations not to self-destruct or turn in to lotus-eaters before they reach interstellar civilization.  There are a lot of possibilities for the filter, and for present purposes we’ll divide them into two categories: those which we would have already passed, and those which are in our future.

And here’s the thing: for each possibility we can exclude from the great filter, all the other possibilities increase commensurately, becoming more likely in our estimation.  (Assuming the exclusion is ‘clean’ and doesn’t favor some other possibility, that is.)  Given that the silence continues, if we could somehow prove that technological self-destruction isn’t a big risk, that would commensurately increase our guesses about how hard abiogenesis is.

Life on Mars, especially if we could be very sure that it evolved independently of Earth life, would be a strong argument against the difficulty of abiogenesis.  One biosphere in the solar system, and nowhere else, might be down to luck.  The one biosphere has to be somewhere, right?  Two in the solar system, and nowhere else, is a good bit less reasonable.  If we find a second genesis on Mars, then we’ve learned that life is not rare.  That the hundreds of billions of stars in the Milky Way are likely host to many billions of different living (or at least once-living) worlds.

And as wonderful as that news is, as much as it makes me so happy that I literally had to take a second to cry on my bed for a bit, it also makes the great silence much, much scarier.  Today, we can reassure ourselves by saying that life may be rare in the universe.  But what if it isn’t?  If the cosmos is full of life, but not full of thought, then…

If this is the case, we need to know.  We need to know as soon as possible, and we need to know it while we’re engaged in the great project of technological development and moral progress.  It’s easy to imagine that this particular mission is one that can be framed in purely positive terms- the joy of discovery, the vastness of truth, the love of how things might be.  But I do also have this sense of civilizational fragility, you know?  And understanding the risks that we face and the chances we’re taking- that’s not idle curiosity.  That’s genuinely urgent.

[nad-zeta]

Seasons

Pairings: Vlad x Reader

Words: 1400

Comments: Eeeeeeeek! I'm not even going to try and hide my intentions this weekend! ❤☺hehe this is for a special little cutie who goes far too underappreciated,☺😳😳😳😳 sooooo here I am dubbing it appreciation weekend for this special dear hehehe! Who is this cutie you might ask? Well, we will just have to find out! ❤❤😳😳

.*:・’ﾟ:｡.*:ﾟ･’ﾟﾟ:。’ .*:・’ﾟ:｡.*:ﾟ･’ﾟﾟ:。’･ﾟ｡.*:・’ﾟ: ｡.*:・’ﾟ:｡.*:ﾟ･’ﾟﾟ:。’ .*:・’ﾟ:｡.*:ﾟ

Life works in mysterious ways, or at least that is what the white-haired pure blood thought when he observed the humans.

Lucky, he thought them to be— for, in their short lives, they were allowed a singular soulmate. A life companion to share the load— a place to call home— a safe haven for their hearts, and most of all, someone to share stories and memories with.

He had known no such luck being born and raised a so-called creature of the night, a vampire — pureblood— destined to walk the earth alone for all eternity. Time forever stopped while the world around him continued to move along.

That is until one curious morning when the last grain of the immortal hourglass had fallen, and the clepsydra had been turned over once more— new golden grain falling through the cracks to mark a new beginning.

It started in the months of autumn, a curious little dot appeared on his wrist— he thought nothing of it at the time— thought it to perhaps be a mole or sunspot of sorts. Surely it would leave his porcelain skin in due time, vampiric blood not allowing anything to plague the body for too long.

The world around him started to wither, as leaves discoloured and fell from the trees, staining the earth with a new colour pallet of golden hues. The once warm, humid breeze turned nippy and cheeky with its trick of the mind days. Not being able to decide whether it wanted to be hot or cold—or perhaps it liked to keep the earth on its toes. Despite the sun beaming down, jackets needed to be fished out of the winter storage, lest you wanted to be subjected to autumn chill.

Autumn was a time of housekeeping, not only bringing about warm blankets and soft cuddles but also the time to prepare landscapes for the winter months and the brilliant spring to follow.

Vlad would be out during these months, deadheading his beloved roses and collecting the fallen leaves to make his own compost. A fresh patch of soil would be dug and tuned to plant an array of autumn beauties into his beloved garden. An array of pansies and violas were expertly selected for the task of bringing vibrancy and colour into this sanctuary of his— as the world continued to transform with the season, fading in like a softly sung hymn.

The first mark of the winter season had begun with the wind howling through the breeze; he hadn’t noticed it before, but as the season progressed, so did the little mark tainting his skin.

One morning while he was out and about bringing in some of the more delicate plants— to protect them from the imminent biting frost that would sweep across the land with the first peek of the morning sun— something curious caught his attention. Crimson eyes roved over the surface of his skin and instantly widened— mind you, he almost dropped the pot nestled between his bicep and chest— when he saw the thin inkling on his skin. A soft gasp escaped his lips as he placed the potted plant down on the kitchen counter and traced his long delicate fingers over the new line that had formed.

Winters were cold—too cold— too cold to move, and far too cold to function. Yet Vlad would still be out in the trenches, come hell or high snow, pruning his fruit trees and planting his winter crop. Despite the dead desolate world outside the castle walls, his garden continued to flourish and flow with life. Pops of colours contrasted the pure white blanket covering the earth— hellebores, camellias and glories of the snow being tended to, and bringing a smile to Vlad’s face. Of course, Marshmallow enjoyed the winter months far too much, springing around the snow as Vlad nurtured his lovely garden.

When evening would settle, and the temperatures would drop to unholy coldness, Vlad would sit in his library with Marshmallow, comfortably nestled in his lap and read. Mark, seemingly forgotten with the rush of the winter bang.

Next was spring, oooh, wonderful spring. The snow finally melting, and the earth once again changing, taking on a new form, a new colour palette, if you will. The world around seemed to blossom, making it easy to forget the once barren wasteland that swept across the land like a plague only a few weeks prior.

In the early days of spring, Vlad would be out hardscaping, assessing the winter damage, fixing up his bed, and expanding his garden. It was one of Vlad’s favourite times of the year. He would often spend the warm spring days in his gorgeous garden, simply sitting in the peace, surrounded by the orchestra of nature. Enjoying the fragrant cup of strawberry tea while admiring the labour of the fall and winter growth. The true test— to see which of his hardy bulbs had withstood the winter’s chill to bring about their blessings to his garden. And sure enough, his nurturing green thumb encouraged even the most delicate of flowers to take up residence in his garden and brighten the landscape.

Oooh, and another reason to love spring? It was strawberry planting season!

Vlad would practically be buzzing with excitement as his pale hands dug through the dirt to deposit the tiny seeds of his all-time favourite snack. He hummed gently, the floral breeze carrying his soft voice through the garden like a prayer and a blessing to all his plants.

Sitting back on his heel with a satisfied smile, he grabbed hold of his hand towel to clean the dirt from his hands. One stain, however, refused to budge, ingrained in his skin and seemingly spreading like venom with the passing of time. He contemplated asking Charles to take a look at it, or hell, even Faust, but ultimately thought better of it.

It intrigued him —this little thing that seemed to change shape and form with the seasons. His fingers traced over it then, down the long line, following the delicate curves, round and round— mind racing to decipher. And that is when out of the corner of his eyes, he caught sight of the tulips he had planted during the winter, now breaking through the surface with blossoming buds. That’s it— his crimson eyes widened, connecting the dots and seeing a pattern in the mark that had been plaguing his skin. A blossoming flower? A tulip, perhaps? 'A sentimental promise of love that will never grow old,' he mused with a hum, thinking of the various Floriography he had studied through the years. ‘But what use or place had it had on his skin?’ came his next thought. Fingers tracing over it once more, his shoulders shot up to shrug it off as he continued to prepare his garden for summer.

Summer once more! The most fantastic time of the year for one reason and one reason only. It was the time of the year the strawberries could be harvested and enjoyed. Oooh, how Vlad loved summers and indulging in his favourite strawberry treats. Garden in its full glory at the peak of its majesty filled with vibrancy and brilliance. It felt like something from a storybook, a fairytale garden with butterflies and bees dancing from flower to flower, birds happily chirping in the trees, and the crisp floral notes combined with sunshine carried through the air. Even his flower shop would be bright and magical with all the various summer flowers out on display.

The ring of the bell announced a curious customer one summer afternoon, and within moments his heart stopped. A breathtaking woman entered the store, one who seemed to not quite belong—radiating an air of old and new. He watched quizzically from the counter as she wandered around the flower shop before bright eyes met his own.

He had not known it before, but now, with time seemingly stopped between the two, he knew. He was in the summer of his life, and with her by his side, the summer would continue forever.

For life did work in mysterious ways, and the moment he shook her hand in introduction, the inked stain finally bloomed and filled with colour to match the one hidden beneath her sleeve: a matching pair of purple tulips, a symbol of everlasting love.

:・’ﾟ:｡.*:ﾟ･’ﾟﾟ:。’ .*:・’ﾟ:｡.*:ﾟ･’ﾟﾟ:。’･ﾟ｡.*:・’ﾟ: ｡.*:・’ﾟ:｡.*:ﾟ･’ﾟﾟ:。’ .*:・’ﾟ:｡.*:ﾟ

[thiswasinevitableid]

88. I dropped my watch in an open grave, jumped in to get it, and while you were visiting your dead grandmother, you saw me climbing out of the grave (credit to @enchantedcass)

Indruck, sfw or nsfw, please!

Here it is! This is technically SFW, though there's some discussion of sex and a bit of steaminess at the end.

“Here, these are fresh.” Indrid sets the wildflowers on the small, stone marker, so covered with moss and worn with age that no one can read it. He only knows where to find her because he watched from the Barrens as she was put in the ground.

Temperance Leeds. His grandmother, the one who narrowly avoided accusations of witchcraft, the only human who ever set foot deep enough in the trees to bring him food, to drape blankets over his shaking shoulders. She never forgot him, and he shall return the favor as long as he lives.

There’s a thump of earth behind him and he whirls; it’s midnight in a graveyard, who could possibly be here? The ghosthunters usually wait for darker nights to come. In his periphery, a hand rises from an open grave.

Great, if the dead rise he’ll probably be blamed for that too.

“Fuck” A young man pulls himself from the grave, staring at his cell phone, “c’mon, please don’t be fuckin cracked.” Light illuminates his face and sighs, “thank fuckin christ.”

The light disappears and he blinks, eyes adjusting to the dark. Indrid, too caught up in working out why he’s in the ground, hasn’t bothered to hide as he should. The human notices.

“Uh. I. Uh. Dropped my phone checkin the time. I, uh, definitely wasn’t smokin in the off limits, uh, fuck, graveyard I, uh, I fuck, promise I’ll clean up my beer bottles I mean, uh, fuck.” He scratches the back of his neck, “please don’t call the cops?”

“Can you see me?” Indrid cocks his head.

“Yeah?”

“And you are worried about me alerting the police?”

“I mean, guess we’re both breakin the rules but I kinda figured you were staff here because of the clothes.” He gestures to the ensemble Indrid cobbled together from clothes lines.

Indrid stands, stretches his wings, flicks his tail and watches the human slowly notice the color of his eyes and the outline of his horns.

“Fuck. Look, man, whatever you are, I swear I won’t tell, I’m just tryin to keep busy, please, my folks are already worried about me-”

“I’m not going to harm you.” Lightning cracks through the sky, flashing his shadow across the frightened human, “I just wanted you to see me clearly.”

Rain patters on the leather of his wings. The man looks up at the sky, face seeming even younger as it fills with resignation. Indrid recognizes it’s source.

“You have nowhere to go, do you?”

“No. I, uh, decided I wanted to get outta town and never come back, made it as far as here before I ran outta money.”

Indrid offers his hand, watches the man’s face zero in on the claws, “You may spend the night with me, if you wish. My home is a ways into the woods, but it is dry and warm.”

“Okay.” The young man replies softly, letting Indrid help him up as the dirt turns to mud. Indrid shelters him as best he can with a wing until they reach the cottage. Indrid kneels by the fireplace, lumps kindling into a pile as the young man sets his backpack on a chair.

“Nice place. Gotta admit I was expectin somethin more dilapidated. On account of the whole, uh, y’know.” He gestures to Indrid’s horns and cloven feet.

“It was much like you expected, once upon a time. But a human named Arlo Thacker took pity on me and helped me build it with the aid of a few friends. There.” The fire flickers merrily, “that should keep us warm. You may--ah, what are you doing?”

The young man has removed his jacket and shirt, revealing what Indrid recognizes from human magazines as a sports bra. His hands are now on the fly of his jeans.

“You said I was supposed to, uh, spend the night with you?”

“Yes, in that you may sleep here to be safe from the weather and any who might wish you harm. Not so that you may keep me warm. So to speak.”

“You’re not gonna fuck me?”

Indrid flicks his tail, surprised, “You would offer yourself to me, looking like this?”

The man nods in a way that suggests he’s run a calculus in his head and decided Indrid’s desire was less abhorrent than some other option. Indrid crosses the small living room, bringing them face to face. He reaches out a hand, runs his claws through black hair until the human closes his eyes. Then his hand slides to cup his cheek, one nail tracing fond little shapes on the skin as the man sighs. Against his better judgement, he tilts his head down to nose the dark locks; smoke lingers there, just as alcohol hangs on his breath. He’s so warm, so willing and so very soft. Indrid wants nothing more than to undress him further, carry him to his cozy bedroom and discover what sounds come when he fits their bodies together.

“What’s your name?”

“Duck. It’s a nickname.”

“A charming one. But no, Duck, I will not take such advantage of you. I may be called a devil, but I do not believe in making one trade their body for basic kindness. Come along, the bedroom will allow you more privacy.”

“Thanks.” Duck sways, and Indrid senses a weariness he’s not certain a good nights rest will fix. Tomorrow he will be sure to be gone when Duck awakens, leaving his dry clothes and a map back to town outside his door so that he can do what Indrid can dare to; leave the Barrens and find a life waiting for him in the world beyond.

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

There are some days when Duck thinks his encounter in the woods was a dream. The hand-drawn map he keeps folded among his books tells him otherwise.

He’d come home after that night, made his peace with Kepler for a few years more, and often awoke from dreams where he was pushing through brush in pursuit of a strange shadow. He never cites these as a reason for his taking a job at a state forest in New Jersey that includes the Barrens.

Now, he’s decided to upgrade from his apartment to a house in the woods that’s been listed for over two years and is a goddamn steal because of that.

“As you can see, there’s another residence across the clearing; that’s why the company that built this lovely dwelling was able to do so. They intended to build a nice little community here.”

“The fact that ain’t happened got anythin to do with the reason I gotta stay the night before I make an offer?”

Ned’s smile falters, “Indeed, dear boy. I like you, so I’ll be forthcoming; we’ve never seen anyone in the other house. But they have most certainly seen us.”

Duck settles in for an uneventful afternoon and evening, reads his book and considers whether he could fit some windowboxes on the house for garden space. It’s not until it’s pitch black outside that it starts; footsteps on the roof, followed shortly by red eyes peering in through the living room window.

He opens the front door, the undergrowth rustling hurriedly to his left.

“Uh, hey there. You may not remember me but, uh, we’ve actually met before. About ten years ago. You uh, you let me stay the night?”

Only some crickets, unaware of the tension in the air, reply to him. Then the bushes grow two, ruby red flowers.

“Duck?”

“Yep. Y’know, you never told me your name. If we’re gonna be neighbors, feels like I oughta know what to call you.”

A shadow moves from the trees, stopping when it reaches the light spilling from the windows. He’s as Duck remembers him; short horns sprouting from a mop of silver hair, claws on his fingers and black wings folded on his back. His skin is a swirl of ashy grey and ember red. And his face, while striking, is human. That was the part that always tripped Duck up; the Jersey Devil was always drawn with a goat or horse face, making him question whether that’s who he met all those years ago.

“Indrid. My name is Indrid.”

“Nice to see you again, Indrid.”

The other man smiles, and Duck knows what will replace the mad hunt through the brush in his dreams, “Likewise.”

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

“You know, she had three more children after me. None of them suffered the same curse.” Indrid kicks idly at the long decayed remains of his family home. Their nightly walk brough them close to it this time around, and Duck had been curious. His interest is never prurient or morbid; Duck wants to get to know Indrid, not his legend.

“That fuckin sucks.”

Indrid chuckles, “I do enjoy how you put things so plainly.”

“I’m serious, what kind of folks put their kid out when it’s a baby? I mean, mine weren't always the fuckin parents of the year but at least they understood lookin after me was part of the deal.”

“It was a different time.”

“Fine, but I’m still judgin the hell outta them.”

Indrid looks fondly down at the human, “That’s as fair a fate for them as any.”

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

“It don’t weird you out?” Juno indicates Indrid’s house from where she and Duck are sitting on his front porch. The twin Adirondack chairs are a new addition, as the warmer months mean he and Indrid spend ample time trying to see the stars through the treetops.

“Nah. Indrid’s a real good neighbor when he’s around. He’s uh, from an old family so he don’t gotta work. Part of why he keeps such weird hours.” Duck wishes he could introduce them; it’d be nice for the three of them to have dinner before Juno heads south again. But Indrid has several centuries of shitty human encounters that dig under his skin like splinters, and Duck will never push him to ignore that pain. Besides, there will be other visits.

The summer and fall pass in much the same ways last winter and spring did. Duck works in the park, visits friends in town, runs errands, and generally goes about all the mundane moments that make up a life. Then he spends his evenings in one of the two cottages, or walking alongside Indrid on long-overgrown pathways.

The hardest part of it all is not mentioning Indrid in every single conversation; Duck is already tempting disaster being unable to lie and the neighbor of a cryptid. He doesn’t want to also drive his friends up the wall talking about said cryptids art, or his laugh, or the little herb garden Duck is helping him grow.

They’re in the stretch of days between Christmas and New Year, and Indrid has just finished opening the gift Duck brought him; a thick, soft sweater that Duck stitched a “I” into the front of along with a few little pine tree patches. Indrid smiles at him and notices that Duck’s sweater is done in a similar fashion (in fact, everyone in the Newton family wears one like this). The grin turns bashful and Indrid rubs his cheek against the fabric.

“Thank you, Duck. I, ah, I’m sorry I do not have anything to give you. Holidays are not my strong suit.”

“Just gettin to see you is enough.” Duck stands to refill his tea, Indrid’s gaze caressing his back as he moves through the room. He almost hadn’t gone home, had offered to stay and keep Indrid company. But his friend insisted, reminding him that while it felt odd to be without each other, they both had spent plenty of time apart and been fine. All the same, when he got home yesterday Indrid was knocking on his door before he even put his bag down.

Duck didn’t mind at all. No more than he minds when Indrid sleeps with his head in his lap or strokes his hair while they read on the couch.

The cryptid stokes the fire as the snow gives way to sleet, streaking the windows with icy drops.

“Goodness, what a frigid night.”

“No kiddin.” Duck sets his mug down, turns just as Indrid gets to his feet, “can’t say I mind, kinda reminds me of the night we met.”

The colors of Indrid’s skin make a blush difficult to spot, but Duck’s learned which dip of his head and quirk of his lip means it’s there.

“‘Drid? Did you ever think about that night? Because I did. I, uh, I do.”

“Yes.” Indrid’s tail twitches.

“What do you think about?”

“I, ah, I...you first.”

Duck crosses the creaking floorboards, looking up into red eyes, “I think about how safe it felt when you brought me here. How when I woke up, I felt like this was some kinda weird sign, that I needed to rethink some things and that’s how come I went home, which turned out to be a good call. And” he smirks, “I think about how I was drunk and desperate enough to ask the fuckin Jersey Devil if he was gonna fuck me.”

Indrid blushes once more, studies the ground as Duck touches his shoulder, “I must say that is the part that dominated most of my thoughts. Not right away; for the first few weeks when I thought of you I only hoped you were alright. Then I would let myself imagine that I had been devilish indeed.”

Gently, Duck raises Indrid’s hand and cradles his cheek with it as they did that night, “What would you have done, devil of mine?”

A snicker, “I will answer that only if you tell me whether you are angling for the demonstration that I think you are.”

“Damn right.” He closes his eyes, heart swelling and skin prickling as Indrid steps closer and nuzzles the top of his head.

“I would have asked if you were tired of running. If you wanted a home. And would you like to make it here, so that we could keep each other company. I know in my heart this would have been a selfish offer. I am glad I did not make it, did not trap you here, resign you to a fate that was not what you would have chosen freely.”

“I’m pretty fuckin free these days.”

“And that all on it’s own fills me with joy. But yes, there were nights where I wished I’d been selfish.”

Duck tips his head up, brushing their noses together, “Say you made that offer and I accepted. What then?”

Indrid cups his face with both hands. The kiss is chaste, Indrid sighing against his lips as he twines his claws in his hair. Duck wraps his arms around his waist, lightly teasing the edge of one wing.

“Then” Indrid murmurs, “I’d carry you to bed.”

“Yeah, that part woulda been easier when I was seventeEEN” he laughs as Indrid scoops him into a bridal carry with ease. He’s never been in Indrid’s bed, so he giggles again when he discovers it’s ten times squishier than his own. The cryptid sinks onto it with him, guiding him so they’re face to face on their sides.

“May I undress you?”

“Knock yourself out, darlin.” Affection deep and warm as a thermal spring wells up in him as Indrid carefully removes his sweater and shirt before dainty setting his claws to work on his fly. When Duck is down to his boxers, hunger enters Indrid’s eyes for the first time.

“Oh you are divine.” One hand strokes his leg, pausing at the crease of his thigh each time it reaches there. The other curves along his belly up to his chest before caressing his face, the black claws making his skin seem oddly pale and very fragile in comparison.

Duck touches the hem of Indrid’s shirt and the cryptid freezes.

“‘Drid? Is this okay?”

“Do you...truly wish to see me unclothed?”

Duck surges forward to kiss him as he rucks up his shirt, the movement a sufficient answer for Indrid to raise his arms and let him pull the sweater and battered shirt beneath it away. His skin here is the same swirl of colors as the rest of him, but there’s a dusting of peach fuzz fur across it. It’s delightful under Duck’s tongue, though the little keen of pleasure from Indrid is even better.

“It’s strange” Indrid traces hearts and zig-zags with his claws along Duck’s sides as the human continues kissing his chest and neck, “I thought that seeing you like this would so overwhelm me with need that I’d beg to have you this instant. But it seems I feel much the same way I did in my fantasies of that night.”

“Oh” Duck reaches up to toy with the base of a horn and Indrid groans happily before continuing.

“Had you stayed, knowing you were now mine, I’d have taken my time. Nestled you under the blankets, opened you up on my tongue until you were weak from pleasure. That way it would be easy to take you when I was ready. Perhaps on your back, so you had me to hold onto if you needed. Or on your belly, so you would be even more sheltered from the cold, cruel world by my body and wings. And I’d stay there for hours, make up for decade after decade of touch starvation by glutting myself on your young, willing body.”

“Holy fuck, ‘Drid.” Duck pulls him down into a kiss, “christ that’s a fuckin good image.”

“Mmmm” the cryptid licks his cheek, “it is, isn’t it. But since you are not going anywhere, and we are not limited by the confines of my imagination, I am even less inclined to rush. Will you indulge me with just kisse tonight?”

Duck brushes silver hair from his forehead, planting a kiss there when he’s done, “Of course.”

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

The morning brings several feet of snow and announcement that those who can stay in their homes and shelter from the ongoing storm should. The pines drop heaps of white across the ground, and frost makes the windows so icy it’s better to draw the curtains and stay curled up in the dark.

Duck doesn’t mind at all.

[deathlikessodaandpizza]

What should we do with a drunken dwarf?

A/N: Hello! I wanted to take a break and write something fun and lighthearted and this is what came to mind! It takes place in an au where everyone lives and what might change because of that! I hope you all enjoy this one shot!

Rating: Teen

WARNING: mild language use, heavy alcohol use, and fight scenes

Word count: 4,006

Summary: Kili has gone out to drink with friends, but, hours later, and he is still not home. Tauriel is about to go out to get her husband, but comes up with an idea when their daughter, Minasel, offers to help. Now, Minasel is set on a mission to locate her father and bring him home safe and sound. 

“Your father has been gone for quite awhile,” was the sentence that started a great mission given to a young half-breed by her mother. The man of the house, Kili, told his family early that day that he would be going to a local pub with some new friends of his, but he shouldn’t be gone long. Hours later and he still was not back, which made his wife, Tauriel, grow anxious. Her husband is unpredictable, especially when alcohol is involved. There is no knowing what trouble he could get himself into. So, her plan was to adventure out, fetch him, and bring him back home, but then their teenage daughter, Minasel, spoke up. 

“I can bring him back if you want,” the half-breed offers.

Tauriel pauses in her tracks and turns towards the red head, a thoughtful look on her face. Send Minasel, her only child, out to a human village to fetch her father, where she could possibly face dangerous characters and get hurt? A foolish thing to even consider! Tauriel thought of declining her daughter’s offer, but another thought came to mind. Minasel has proven time and time again how responsible and how capable she is. Every morning, she goes out, feeds their chickens and sheep, then collects the eggs laid by their chickens, even going as far as to crawl through a tight crawl space under their cabin to make sure all eggs are accounted for. During the rest of the day, apart from normal chores, she will assist both of their parents with anything they need, never refusing any of their requests or complaining. Shear the sheep for the wool, help her father repair the cabin, or hunt for supper that night; she will do it. As for her fighting skills, she has gotten better over time. Through hunting, she has had plenty of practice with her bow, and her parents have helped her everyday with one-on-one sparring with both her sword and her fists. Now, she doesn’t miss a shot with her bow, and she is able to disarm both of her parents in a fight. Of course, Tauriel still worries about her daughter going into a village by herself, since their family lives out in the middle of a forest for Minasel’s safety. She has gone into the village before to help sell eggs or wool, or to pick up groceries, but she was always accompanied by her parents. Minasel has never gone into the village by herself. However, Tauriel also knew that it would not by right to forcefully keep her child in one place forever and that she should be able to find her own independence. If there was a perfect time to finally let her daughter explore an area outside of the forest by herself, now would be it. 

So, Tauriel set up a quest for Minasel; find Kili and bring him home safely. Tauriel gave Minasel a satchel to carry with a canteen of water and some cookies for the journey there and back. Minasel was also given a knife, which is being held by a belt wrapped around her waist, and a map, just in case she could not remember where to go since it had become so dark outside and her sense of direction could be blurred. Minasel felt ready to leave. She turned towards the door and went to walk out, but then felt her mother’s hand grab the back of her blue dress and pull her back. 

“Hold on there,” Tauriel says, pulling Minasel back towards her. “Where do you think you’re going?”

“Out,” Minasel answers, trying to wiggle out of her mother’s grasp. “Did you already forget that you wanted me to go out and retrieve adad?”

“Oh, I did not forget. I just did not say you could leave yet.” 

“Nana,” Minasel grumbles, slouching over. “Knowing adad, he could be dead by now! We can’t waste time!”

“That is a bit of an over exaggeration,” her mother sighs and walks out of the room, rolling her eyes with a calming smile on her face. 

“Have you met him!” Minasel shouts to her. “I am not overexaggerating!” 

Tauriel walks back into the room, laughing at her daughter and carrying a piece of cloth in her arms. From the maroon color of the cloth, Minasel knew exactly what it was. 

“Oh,” she says, a nervous laugh under her breath. “I don’t think I need that. It is already pretty dark out, so I can just hide in the shadows-”

“Nonsense,” Tauriel interrupts, wrapping the cloak around her daughter. 

Tauriel drapes the cloak over Minasel’s shoulders, pulling her closer in order to tie the strings. Once the strings were tied into a nice little bow, Tauriel’s hands went to her daughter’s head. She lightly brushed her daughter’s cheek as she moved hair out of her daughter’s face and behind her pointed ear, before lightly holding the hood of the cloak and pulling it over Minasel’s head. With Minasel’s head and ears covered protectively under the hood, Tauriel sighs, a kind smile on her face, “that’s better.”

“My ears can’t breathe,” Minasel mutters, obviously not feeling the same way as Tauriel. 

“It’s not that bad, baby.”

“That doesn’t mean I should like it.” 

“No, it doesn’t, but, at the moment, that is not what matters. The world is not the safest place at the moment and it can be very unkind to those who are different. I just don’t want anything bad to happen to you.”

Minasel stares at her mother for a bit, blinking only twice, then sighs. “Alright, nana. I understand.” 

Minasel turns around to try and leave again, but is immediately pulled back again, but this time into the warm embrace of her mother. Tauriel lays her head on her daughter’s and presses her lips against her cloaked temple. 

“I mean it,” she mutters. “Please be safe.” 

“I will,” Minasel mutters back. 

Tauriel held Minasel there for quite some time until Minasel spoke up. “You can let go now.”

“Oh, yes! Sorry!” Tauriel says, being brought back from her little daydream and letting go of her daughter. 

Minasel nods and starts walking towards the door for the final time. Once farther away, Tauriel notices the lack of shoes Minasel was wearing. All that covers her bare feet is a thin sheet of dried dirt and mud from the day's early activity. 

“Minasel, you should-“ before Tauriel could bring her daughter back in to put some shoes on, the door slammed shut and Minasel was gone. All Tauriel could do was let her daughter go off on her own, with a smile on her face and a shake of her head. 

With the door closed behind her, Minasel steps out onto the grass and looks up at the starry night sky. She was free and couldn’t be happier. She could not wait to go out of the borders of her home, pick up her dad, bring him home, and prove that she is fully capable of going out by herself. She took one more step outside and only to realize there was a problem: he is heavy. Well, at least heavier than her. Even worse than him being heavy, he was probably very drunk. That means he will probably fight back and move around, making it impossible to carry him. Minasel groans and slaps her hand on the forehead.

“Of course this is going to be harder than I thought,” Minasel mutters. “Adad is always difficult.”

Minasel looks around the lot, hoping to find something that could help her. There are the horses in the stable she could use, but the terrain leading to the town hasn’t been the best. There is also the fact that Minasel doubts her father could even stay on a horse. So, she continues to look around the lot, past the chickens and sheep settling down to rest, and the large vegetable garden that her family planted earlier that spring. 

While looking at the family’s garden, Minasel starts to remember something from when she was young. She was old enough to walk at the time, but her legs were so short, keeping up with her parents was almost impossible. Kili, wanting to make sure she was by him at all times, decided to pull out the wheelbarrow, used for carting around vegetables and farm supplies, and just use it to transport Minasel around in. He loved this idea so much that he just decided to use the wheelbarrow for everything. No more did Minasel have to walk anywhere, because her father would make sure she didn’t have to. It wasn’t until Tauriel finally put her foot down, addressing her concerns about their daughter not walking, having her ride in the wheelbarrow everywhere she goes, and how that might affect her in the future. Kili was upset at this statement since he loved pushing his baby around in the wheelbarrow, but, ultimately, it was stored away in a shed that was located on the property. The door was also locked and the key was hidden, just in case Kili decided to go against his wife’s wishes and take the wheelbarrow out in secret. Minasel knew where this shed was… and she knew where the key was hidden. 

It only took a couple of minutes, but now Minasel’s running through the forest, feet bare, and pushing the old wooden wheelbarrow in front of her. Her cloak flew behind her as she ran and her feet barely touched the ground. It was like she was flying. While running, Minasel occasionally looks down at the map that was spread out to each handle of the wheelbarrow, that way she could be holding both at the same time. While looking at the map, she went over bridges and made sharp turns down barren paths that act as shortcuts. 

After some time running, Minasel finally made it to the town her father was at. Her feet were sore and incredibly dirty and her arms ached from holding up the small yet heavy cart, but she knew she couldn’t stop to take a break. She slowly walks around the town, looking upon each building and village folk. With the amount of inns and places to eat and drink, she could tell that this is a town full of merchants, travelers, and workers of any kind. Her father did work in a mine full of men, in order to provide for his family, so Minasel is not surprised that he would be in such a town. As she walks, men stare at her with a tired, yet confused look on their faces, possibly wondering what a mysterious stranger like her is doing in their town with an empty wheelbarrow. Either that or they are trying to look under the hood of her cloak to find out what race she is. Either way, Minasel kept her head and made her way through the town, peering at every pub and inn window. 

Minasel glances through every window, until she sees a familiar figure drink a large mug inside of a pub. He was with two human men and stuck out like a sore thumb with not only his height, but with how much he was drinking. Minasel set her wheelbarrow down at the side of the building and looked at the figure through the window, almost pressing her face on the glass. At this point, she could see more features of this short person. He has long dark hair and a beard that is growing in, telling that he was a dwarf. In his hair, there were a few braids with beads braided in them, telling different things about him such as that he is married. He has brown eyes and stern eyebrows, yet he looks like the kindest soul you would ever meet. Even outside she could still hear his laugh, which is loud and contagious. Minasel knew that this was her father. 

So, leaving the wheelbarrow outside, Minasel walks inside the pub, hood up and squinting at the sudden blast of light. She ignores the barmaids who try to offer her a seat as she goes straight to the table her father is at. As she moved closer to the table, the louder the laughter became. The table was covered with empty mugs, but it seems like most of those mugs belong to Kili, as they circle around him. The two men at the table laugh louder as Kili lets out a loud belch, which makes Minasel roll her eyes. The men were about the same when it comes to size and look, larger around, tall, rugged features, knitted beards, and dirt covering their faces and clothes, but their hair was different, with one having blonde hair and the other having orange hair plus an eye patch over his right eye. She can’t put her finger on it, but she doesn’t much care for these new friends of her fathers. Kili set down his now empty mug and the men started talking. 

“What should we do next?” The blonde man asks. 

“I know!” The eye patch man exclaims. “I bet our good old friend is a good dancer.” 

“Me?” Kili asks, slurring on his words. “Of course I’m a good dancer!”

“Good enough to dance on the table without falling?” The blonde man asks.

“Of course I am!” Kili answers, triumphantly.

The eye patch man’s friendly laughter fades as his mouth curls into a smirk. “How about the roof?” 

Kili scratches his chin. “Never done such a thing, but I can try!” 

After hearing this, Minasel immediately walks over to the table and slams her hands down, causing some of the empty cups to topple over. Then three men jump at the sound and stare at Minasel, utterly surprised. She then turns her head to Kili and looks at him. 

“You’re coming with me,” she orders, grabbing his hand. 

Kili shakes his head and pulls his hand away from her. “I’m sorry, lass. You’re a little too young for me.” 

Minasel’s face starts to turn a bright red as she stares down at her father, standing straight and eyes wide. “W-what?” 

“You’re a young girl, you have so much life left and shouldn’t go after someone old like I. Not to mention I am happily married. I could never go against my beautiful wife.” Kili’s eyes then went into a dazed state as he sighs and leans on his hand, smiling like a complete idiot. “Ah… Tauriel~”

Minasel tries to talk again, face still somewhat red. “Dad, please-“ 

“You shouldn’t call me that,” Kili interrupts, snapping out of blissful thoughts about his wife. “The only one who is allowed to call me that, is my baby girl. Speaking of which, I have a cute story about her!” 

The two men groan and Minasel covers her face as Kili starts telling stories about his daughter when she was younger. At that moment, Minasel came up with a conclusion; her father really was an idiot! He doesn’t even recognize her, his own daughter! Granted, he is very drunk and his perception probably isn’t the best and the moment, but still, it’s embarrassing. She continues to try and get his attention again, but has no luck as he is too entranced with his storytelling. So, she does the only logical thing possible. 

Minasel pulls off the hood of her cloak, revealing her large, pointed ears and big mass of red hair. The patrons in the bar gasp at the big reveal, which was enough to silence Kili and make him finally turn towards her. Once seeing his daughter with her hood down, he smiles, seeing that his baby girl is with him. 

“Minasel!” He cheers, standing up and falling into her. “When did you get here?!” 

Minasel couldn’t help but laugh as she held her father up, trying to steady him on his feet. 

“I’ve come to take you home, adad,” she states, crouching down to become eye level with him, while still holding onto his shoulders. 

“Oh! A royal escort! How thoughtful!” 

“Where do you think you’re going?!” One of the men at the table, the one with blonde hair,  exclaims. 

Minasel turns to him, a smug look on her face. “I am taking my father home. He is not in a state to be out at the moment and should have been home hours ago. My mother was worried sick.” 

Kili immediately went back into a blissful state, staring at the ceiling with a wishful look in his eyes. 

“Mmm… Tauriel~” he sighs.

“Well, he is with us,” the eye patch man assures and tries to shoo Minasel away. “You and your mother don’t need to worry. We will bring him home.” 

Minasel glares at the men, sits her father down back at the table, and moves slowly to the men, hands on her hips. “We don’t need to worry, aye? As I recall, I heard you two trying to get my father to dance on the roof, something he does not have a balance for at the moment. To add onto that, by looking at the table, it seems as if he has been doing all the drinking and you two have only had a couple. If I take that information into consideration, I am to suspect you only invited my father out to drink in order to get him drunk enough to do dangerous stunts that could either injure or kill him.” At this point, Minasel was only an inch away from the men, looking up at them as if trying to intimidate them. “Am I correct?” 

The two men stare down at her, blinking only a few times. She has read them like a book, and now who knows what she might do. Despite the fact that she is only a kid, they couldn’t risk it. The man with blonde hair brings out a fist and goes to swipe it at her head, but Minasel ducks, causing the punch to miss and go directly into the orange haired man’s stomach. The punch in the stomach causes him to stumble back with a pained grunt. 

“Gods…WHAT WAS THAT FOR?!” The man with the eye patch groans. 

“I didn’t mean to hit you!” The blonde man snapped back. “This is why you shouldn’t stand so close to me when there’s a fight!” 

As the blonde man shouts at his friend, Minasel jumps on one of the pub tables, jumping at the man and kicking him in the face. As she lands back on the ground, the eye patch man comes up behind her, picks her up, and holds her to his chest, holding her arms down and squeezing her. Minasel wiggles and kicks, turning towards Kili to see if he can help, but he is still too busy in his thoughts. At that moment, the blonde man has gotten back up and is now slowly going towards Minasel with a knife. 

“Don’t worry, lass,” he hisses, waving his knife around. “This shouldn’t hurt a bit.” 

“Quit moving, you little bitch!” The eye patch man grunts, holding onto Minasel tighter.

Minasel wiggles and kicks more, trying to get out of the eye patch man’s grasp, before the blonde man gets to her, but he is too strong. As the knife inches closer and closer, fear starts to set in as Minasel knows that her end is very near. She can’t save herself and no one can save her. She is doomed. All she can do is wait and close her eyes, hoping that it will help lessen the pain… but that pain never comes. A wooden mug suddenly flies across the room and hits the eye patch man in the head, knocking him out cold and freeing Minasel. Seeing the eye patch man on the floor, Minasel turned to see where the mug came from. Surprisingly, there was her father, sitting up and glaring at the unconscious body on the floor.

“You don’t call her that,” Kili grumbled then laid him head onto the table. 

With a smile on her face as she nods at her father who seems quite fatigued, Minasel takes out her knife and charges at the blonde man, who was still shocked to see his friend unconscious on the floor. With that distraction, Minasel was able to get the upper hand and cut the guy’s hand, causing him to drop the knife. The man curls onto the ground, holding his hand, as Minasel lays one final blow by breaking a chair over the guy’s head. This was enough to knock out the last man and the fight was over. 

Minasel lets out a sigh, looking at the carnage, then goes over to her father, sitting him up in the chair. Kili’s eyes flutter open and he smiles, looking up at his daughter. 

“Look at you,” he chuckles, moving his hand up to move hair out of her face. “Little warrior girl.” 

Minasel smiles at him and rolls her, standing him up. “Come on, adad, let’s get you home.” 

Minasel and Kili walk out of the pub with Kili holding onto his daughter for balance. She leads him to the wheelbarrow and helps him in, making sure he is comfortable. Kili starts shivering, wrapping his arms around himself. 

“S-so cold!” He exclaims. 

Minasel shakes her head, takes off her cloak and wraps it around her father, making sure it is secured. Kili immediately starts to smile, snuggling under the cloak, which tells Minasel that he is satisfied. Knowing this, she holds the handles of the wheelbarrow, lifts up, and makes her way out of town. She decides to go at a slower pass than she did getting to town, since she now has her father and she doesn’t want to tip the wheelbarrow, because of this extra weight. As she walks through the forested area to go home, her father sings to himself, bobbing his head and dancing underneath the cloak. 

“Be careful, adad,” Minasel warns him, trying to steady the wheelbarrow. “Don’t move too much.” 

Kili stops moving and singing immediately, but, to replace that, he tips his head back and looks at Minasel as she pushes the wheelbarrow. 

Minasel looks down at him, confused. “What?” 

“I knew it,” Kili exclaims. “I have the most beautiful daughter in all of Middle Earth!” 

“Oh really?” Minasel asks this, going along with her father’s drunken conversation. 

“Of course! Very pretty!” 

“What makes you say that?” 

“Why, look at you! You have mine and your mother’s looks, and your mother is absolutely stunning!” 

“That makes sense.” 

“Not to mention you fight very well. You are perfect! Perfect and beautiful! Even though you are upside down!” 

Minasel just smiles at this statement, but Kili continues to stare at her. 

“I am very proud of you,” he says. 

“Thank you, adad,” Minasel answers. 

“I mean it,” Kili states, becoming a bit more serious. “I am VERY proud of you.” 

“I know you do, adad.” 

“I remember the day you were born. I was so scared, because you were just this tiny pebble. A tiny pebble in a large world, and I didn’t want anything to happen to my baby girl, my starlight. But look at you now! All grown up! I’m so proud of you!” 

“Thank you, adad,” Minasel says and leans over, quickly pecking the top of Kili’s head. 

Kili grins at this gesture, looking absolutely silly. He does a little happy dance before looking back at Minasel. 

“You know why I call you starlight?” He asks. 

“I believe I do,” Minasel answers, still expecting her father to tell her anyway.

“The love your mother and I have is made out of pure starlight, and, since you came from our love, that means you are made out of starlight. Do you want to hear the story of how your mother and I met?” 

“Sure adad.” 

“It started long ago, when I went with 12 other dwarves, a wizard, and a hobbit to take back Erebor…” 

[notfeelingthyaster]

Imagine (based on the incomplete fanfic Son of the Underworld) (4/5) (Son of Hades! Percy AU)

Before you read it, check the masterpost - I continue into HOO. Check the warnings before proceeding :)) Good reading!

Percy stalls to see his father while he can. He doesn't want to see other demigods nor his mother until he is better. Until he can protect them. He won't see any of them die because of the gods again. But his father hurt him. So he stalls.

Eventually, he wanders to Persephone's garden. Ripe pomegranates tempt him, and he just wants to lay his head upon the soft grass and stay.

There's where the goddess of Spring finds him: basking in the beauty of her garden.

She smiles. That's not only her husband's bastard: that's Sally's son. And while Hades loved the woman, like he loved many, Kore adored her.

She wasn't Persephone or Proserpina with Sally. There was no destruction in their love. Kore smiles, and she remembers the fields of flowers they walked together.

Then, Perseus wakes up, and she is Persephone again. Kore is her past, her innocence that she gave up willingly when she followed her husband to the darkness.

"Lady Persephone" It's the first time he treats a god with true respect.

Persephone hesitates. He has green eyes - he is Hades' son but he is her champion, the closest she can have to a son after her mother cursed her with barrenness.

Perseus smiles.

"Call me Kore"

"My name is Kore, and I bring the spring"

They walk together. Plants turn to look at them, but Perseus doesn't leave a trail of death in his wake. He isn't his father. He is not a destroyer - he is a protector.

She talks to him. About the blessing she put on him, about the flowers she plants in her garden, about her childhood.

He talks back. He tells her about Sally, about the hobbit hole. Perseus tells her how he doesn't belong anywhere.

Kore shows him Gabe's statue. She kisses his forehead, and tells him he doesn't need to fear her touch - he can't hurt her.

They stick together for two weeks before crossing paths with Hades. The Underworld is vast, and Kore had many gardens to show him.

Stepmother and stepson walk barefoot and bare-chested throughout the trails of stone and grass and sleep under the shade of trees, the part of the land of the dead that was now full of life.

Kore shows him how to weave crowns of flowers and how to grow vines under his feet. She teaches him patience, and the flowers glow in his presence.

Persephone teaches him how to make the soil sing. She teaches him control, and the earth purrs under their fingertips.

Proserpina trains him to make the shadows obey. She teaches him resilience, and the darkness is his to command.

They go to the palace together, hand in hand. Percy doesn't question her many facades - he adapts to it. To her skin being green or brown or black, to her ever-changing eye color, to her hair made of vines.

He doesn't dare voice it - but he thinks her more beautiful than Aphrodite.

Perseus is happy here. He leaves his human clothes behind - there's no need for them - and put on togas and chitons.

He stands tall before his father, and the god apologizes with an ax made of stygian iron. Hades says it's a prize for his last three successful quests.

He doesn't let the grudge go, but accepts the bribe anyways.

They dine together. Perseus loves it here - but eventually, he has to go back to his mother and his human life.

His school has one more week of break, and he is spending it with his father. Persephone, Kore, and Proserpina taught him much - but only his father can hone him.

It's against the old laws for godly parents to spend time with their children - Hades is in his own dominion and he doesn't give a damn.

Hades teach him how to call for the Underworld. Teaches him how to curve metal around his arms like water, and teaches him politics the best he can in a week.

Perseus goes back home. He soothes his mother - who, swarmed by calls of Annabeth and Thalia and Chiron, is too worried - and tells her to not visit this year - he'll come home by himself at least once a month and will be spending the rest of his time in the Underworld.

He pleads for her to not tell anyone. Percy needs space.

Sally understands, kisses the crown of his head, and tells him to be safe. He bundles himself up in sweaters instead of togas, and go back to Yancy.

His grades continue to be awesome in Math and awful in English. He keeps getting tutored - and when he gets a B- in Language Arts, it's enough to boost his GPA for the scholarship in Phillip's Academy.

He goes back to the Underworld every weekend. Ghosts teach him how to kill best with his hammer and ax, and some say he would do better with a shield instead of with double weapons, but he doesn't care.

Percy gets muscle - he is a soon to be fourteen years old, and his godly blood helps. He fills his sweaters now, and his new roommate tells him that he looks like a bodyguard. A wall of intimidation - Perseus likes it.

He perfects shadow travel. He gets tired if he goes further than his mother's house and back, and more than one person is still a little off, but he is getting there. Blackjack helps a lot - he is like a shadow charger.

He bends metal and he tries to summon green fire - he only gets sparks, but it's okay - he'll get there.

He uses more white and stronger shades of green and blue - they remind him of Persephone.

Once, he takes his mom to see his stepmom - it's teary, and they spend the whole evening in each other's arms, talking. Mom tells him this goodbye is for real - she tells him she met someone new, and he rejoices.

He starts to differentiate Persephone from Kore and Proserpina - and they are all amazing in their own right.

He takes his finals earlier because of the scholarship. Percy finally says goodbye to Yancy Academy.

This summer, he doesn't go back to Camp - he has no reason to. Everyone is fine, he is not having nightmares, there have been no monster sightings nearby.

He spends half his time in the Underworld. The other half, he spends with Luke.

After two years of taking care of half his friends, it's time to care for the other side.

He doesn't meet Kronos - he doesn't want a master - but he sits down in San Francisco with Luke and Ethan and Alabaster, and they ignore the war that rages around them.

Ethan and Alabaster are dating - Percy is happy for them. They look at him and Luke, and they know Percy loves him.

But Luke is twenty to Percy's fourteen, and he tells himself it's just infatuation, a teacher's crush.

Percy bakes with his Mom and walks Blackjack, and spends most of his weeks with Persephone in new gardens everywhere - it's summer, her time with her mother - but his Tuesdays and Thursdays are reserved for his friends.

Luke asks him only once if he'll join them. Percy says someone has to protect Annabeth, and Luke is clearly incapable of doing it. They don't talk about it again.

Soon, it's September. He takes a road trip with his newly graduated Mom to see the school - and learns that his mother's new beau is a teacher named Paola Blofis.

In the freshman introduction he meets her - Rachel Elizabeth Dare. She sticks to him like glue.

She is a fiery little girl, and Perseus had crushes before - Annabeth, Luke - but he has never been flustered. It's funny for Rachel, seeing the solid wall of sophomore muscles in her front stutter like a middle schooler.

They become friends. He explains the vision to her - she barely believes him, until one day they're out on town and Percy has to kill three empousai. Blackjack shows - and Rachel makes fast friends with the hellhound.

He moves in with a boy named Matt Sloan, and they don't talk at all - they have their own space, and don't ask questions.

Percy keeps visiting the Underworld. He tries to keep contact with Luke - but the boy gets erratic and his humor floats between exhilaration and blind rage.

When Luke punches him in the face two months into the school year after he denies knowing where Annabeth lives, he says his goodbyes to Ethan and Alabaster and leaves.

Perseus worries for Rachel. She is fiery and strong - but she is not a fighter. He teaches her how to stab with a dagger - he has no idea if Celestial Bronze works for her, but the Minotaur horn should.

He is the only black freshman in the whole Academy.

But people don't mess with him nor with Rachel. Percy looks like he could break someone in half like a twig, he disappears for a number of hours for who knows where he is a math genius even though he barely studies. He was involved with shady things three years ago. He barely talks with anyone but the strange girl - and never smiles in public.

Racist people call him a thug and drug trafficker. Persephone gives him a very realistic cherry earring - and rumors grow.

Perseus has to deal with much worse. So he keeps his facade, and sits with the other people of color of this place: It's segregation all over again, and Rachel is the only one who ever approaches them.

And the fact there's only fifteen people of color in the whole Academy? It says a lot about this country.

There are three black boys (including him), four black girls, two desi girls, three boys of oriental descent (mixed Japanese, Korean and Chinese), one Native-American boy and two Latinos, one with a black mom and a Cuban dad and another with all grandparents from French Guyana.

Most of them have scholarships, and just some of the girls interact with the white people - and he with his constant redhead attachment - racism is in an all-time high for such a northern state.

Percy starts paying attention in other minorities - and is not surprised when he finds almost nothing in this nazi paradise. If there's anyone anything other than cis straight, they're in the closet.

He rarely sees any of the girls in the pants version of the uniform if it's not for sports. There are one or two rebels - but it's mostly emo rich kids with no significant problems.

Rachel tells him she's not sure if she likes boys or girls. Six months into their friendship, they kiss - It's weird and wet. They try again - it gets better.

Rachel is still not sure if she likes anything at all. Everyone thinks they're dating - they don't deny it.

Most of them are catholic or protestant, Jewish people live in silence, and there's not one Muslim person in this whole school.

It's 2007, but it feels like 1940. Percy is fourteen - fifteen next August - but he feels like a hundred.

He meets Demeter in the Underworld twice. He is not impressed, and really happy they didn't cross during summertime.

Demeter is like most gods, a super-powered being throwing a tantrum. She is not happy that Hades married her daughter - even though it has been a thousand years and she cursed their marriage with barrenness. She looks at Perseus once - and force-feeds cereal to him.

He hates cereal.

But she doesn't tell any of the other gods Perseus and his father are meeting - so props for her.

He ignores any Iris Messaging that doesn't come from Persephone or Hades. He has no idea what's happening with the war - and right now, he doesn't care.

Perseus receives two calls from Yancy saying that weird people were there, after him - he doesn't care.

He isn't having visions - so everyone is just fine. They'll deal.

His powers grow. Hellish fire, earth, stone, skeletons, metal, gems, shadows - he does it all. Some better than others, and he is always tired, but he is managing.

Rachel and he grow closer and closer. She meets Persephone once. He hasn't heard from Camp in a year and a half now. It's been six months since he talked to Luke.

Persephone and Rachel start weaning him off the gloves. He still uses his sweaters, but his hands are freer now. He has control, and his touch isn't poisonous - he isn't a bringer of death.

Percy has a vision of Luke talking to Kronos about preparing his body and the Labyrinth. He can't lose Luke for an all-powerful being.

A month before his finals, he finds the entrance to the Labyrinth. Persephone tells him about Ariadne - but he can't risk Rachel with Luke. Luke is unstable, he might kill her.

He passes all his classes. Some with A+, some with C-, but it's okay. He'll be on AP Maths next year. It's going to be just fine.

Perseus goes home - he hugs his mother, eats some cookies, packs a bag and goes to the Labyrinth - if anyone can navigate it, it's him - Percy Jackson, son of Hades.

He wanders. Perseus passes by Alcatraz - and there's nothing he hates more than people who can do something and do nothing, and he isn't powerful enough to free Briares alone. So he goes back to the Labyrinth.

Perseus meets Hermes. He has no idea what the god is trying to do. He pleads for Percy to save Luke, he tells him he'll find help in the way, and points him the direction to a place connected to the Titan's war effort.

He pays Geryon a lot of money. Perseus knows he is being double-crossed, but whatever - he has a Stygian Iron ax, a Warhammer, could win in a wrestling match against Eurytion - probably - and has a giant hellhound at his beck and call.

Perseus asks about Luke. They tell him what they can - or else, the basic of the basic. He learns Luke has an army, that he is marching to CHB and that he is recruiting.

Percy lies - he says he is after Luke to join him. No one doubts him - not Geryon, not Eurytion, not some of Luke's minions who are loitering there - after all, he is lying low since December of 2006 - and it's summer of 2008. He is fifteen in August - he was thirteen and a half when he left.

No one knows that he hasn't talked with Luke since November of 2007, except Ethan and Alabaster. And they're not here, so it doesn't matter.

Perseus is not vain - but he is a child of the Big Three, the oldest mortal one. He is realistic: They know who he is. They keep tabs on him.

He is in Triple G Ranch for two weeks - still trying to pry where the hell is Luke - when Annabeth, Nico, Grover, and a freaking cyclops appear from the same entrance he did.

Percy is not there when they come out - he is talking to a son of Morpheus about Alabaster.

He is having lunch - Sun Cows hamburgers, because he really couldn't care less - when Eurytion brings them in.

They don't recognize him at first - he has his back turned to them, he is taller and larger, his gloves are gone, and his hair is fuller. Persephone says he looks a lot like his father now.

"Long time, no see," He thinks Annabeth is going to punch him. She comes to hug him - but it's been a long time, and he is not ready for it yet, so she just sits near him.

She tells him that they looked everywhere for him, that their hope lied on Grover's empathy bond, that Percy didn't even know existed. Nico doesn't look at him - Perseus thinks he still blames him for Bianca's death.

Percy doesn't trust the cyclops. They tell him Tyson - because the monster has a name - is Thalia's brother. He can't judge much, because he has a hellhound, but he does it anyway.

And the fact that most cyclops answer to Poseidon? Explains a lot.

Grover is the one to kill Geryon this time - they don't clean any stables. Annabeth pleads Percy to come with them since they have the same mission.

Oh, how he missed the way she assumes.

"I'm not after Daedalus Workshop"

And she just keeps on assuming. She can't blame her - it's her mother's curse.

"Luke is alive" She tells him.

"I know, I'm here for him" It feels like a betrayal, but he lets them think what they will think.

Nico tries. It's cute - Percy thinks - how he starts by saying he doesn't blame Percy, and that the Camp misses him, but a second later is using his sister to try and guilt him into complying.

Grover asks him how could he, after everything Luke has done.

"He is my friend"

"So was I"

They think he is going to join Luke - he doesn't disagree. They barely know him anymore.

And he loves them, but Luke needs him.

They go back to the Labyrinth. Percy does too - alone. He follows a group of demigods to Antaeus' arena.

Luke isn't Luke anymore, not where it matters. He welcomes Percy with open arms - but he isn't the Luke that Percy loves.

He says that he has to prove himself. The son of Hermes caresses his cheek and calls him Perseus - Percy hates him.

Ethan and Alabaster are there too. They are never together - Ethan tells him he is afraid the monsters will discover they matter to each other.

Luke Castellan - Lucas Castellan, one of his oldest friends, his first mentor, his first love - makes him fight for his life. Against monsters, like the gods that he fights against do.

And Percy does. Percy kills cyclops, dracaenas, empousai, hellhounds - anything Luke throws at him. He is tired when he meets Annabeth again - her little quest has fallen into their hands.

Luke pits them against each other - and Percy hates him. Something festers inside him - this time, it's not guilt.

Annabeth cuts him - but he doesn't care. He wins quickly enough - and instead of killing her, helps the four of them escape.

"Why did you do it?!"

"I thought I could save him" He confides in her.

They sit somewhere in the mess that is the Labyrinth, and they talk. He tells her about the Underworld and Rachel - somehow avoiding any details about the nature of their relationship - and she tells him about Chris Rodriguez and Tyson, and he still doesn't like the cyclops - but what can he do.

Nico apologizes, but Percy's heart was made for holding grudges, and Nico's throat was full of pride. It doesn't seem like conciliation - but it feels like a start.

Nico tells him about Lotus Hotel. Tells him that he discovered that Hera killed his mother in 1942 - and Zeus hid him and Bianca from her ever since. He talks about meeting her in the Labyrinth - and the way he hates Hera but doesn't blame Percy anymore for Bianca - his sister made her own choices.

Annabeth says they have an automaton that can take them to Hephaestus Forge, but they were unable to follow it. She tells him that they need his help to navigate the Labyrinth.

He can only do so much. They go in circles for a while before they reach the Forge, and then they separate - Grover and Tyson go one way; Nico, Annabeth, and Percy go to Mt. Etna.

Everything goes the same - Percy is mildly resistant to flames - he has his own. The telekhines try to kill them.

Percy feels it in his gut - the strength of this mountain, the earth beneath him. He sends Annabeth and Nico away.

Annabeth kisses him. It's weird - he doesn't have anything with Rachel, not for real, and he has been tong-tied around Annabeth for a long time now - but it's still weird. He has just lost any hope on Luke, they're about to die, it's a very adrenaline-fueled situation.

Nico looks strangely forlorn, he notices, as the two of them leave. It's weird because they barely know each other and every single one of their interactions is filled with resentment.

He doesn't have time to think about it. Percy gives them fifteen minutes - and then the world explodes around him.

Being dead never hurt so much. He wakes up for a second - and there's a beautiful girl there. Oh, Persephone must be visiting him in Elysium.

He wakes up again - that girl is not Persephone. She tells him to rest - and rest he does.

Perseus wakes up in Ogygia. The first thing he notices is that his chest is almost bare - the only thing covering him at all is a loose chiton.

He panics until the girl touches him softly and tells him she is immortal - he can't hurt her. She tells him her name, and she tells him she can feel death in him - but also life.

He knows the story - he knows Calypso.

Calypso is a Titaness. She touches and touches and touches him - they roll in the soft grass and they play on the mud like kids.

Their connection is above Annabeth, Rachel, Grover, Charles, Clarisse, Connor - these are his friends, no matter how much time has passed, but he didn't trust him with touch - he thinks he should start to.

It's above Ethan, Alabaster, and Luke - these are also his friends, even if they betrayed him. It pains him to think of them, even if he understands somehow their motives.

Calypso teaches him to trust. It's a very difficult thing to teach to a son of Hades, but he is more open now - there are still grudges pressing at his heart, but he trusts now.

Hephaestus come, and he can't stay. He loves Calypso (although not in a romantic way), and he has stayed for a month.

She gives him moonshade and kisses his forehead. He can't take her now - but he'll be back for her, gods be damned.

He doesn't bother to cover up when he takes the raft - Perseus still hates the ocean, by the way.

Percy shows up at Camp Half-Blood with no sweaters, no gloves, no barriers. He knows which side of the war he is on, and it's time for him to trust.

Camp is empty. He sees smoke curling out of the amphitheater - and Perseus walks to it. It's a bit earlier for a bonfire, did someone die?

He fears it was Annabeth or Nico. Or both. Percy runs to the amphitheater.

There's a black burial shroud. Something is warm at the bottom of his stomach.

Nico is crying on Will Solace's shoulder. Clarisse and Connor are holding hands. Annabeth is sobbing. Charles is hugging her - and finishing a eulogy for him. Percy is in the door, semi-naked, and really confused.

"He was my mentee and an amazing friend to all of those who knew him. He was-" Charles doesn't finish it.

"Don't bother with my presence, continue please" And Percy chooses this moment to be cheeky.

Everyone gapes at him for a second. He is almost Charles height, he is as muscular as Clarisse, he is wearing only a chiton and his weapons. There's a flower crown in his head.

Then, he is tackled by a very furious Charles Beckendorf.

"TWO YEARS"

"NO PHONECALLS, NO LETTERS, NOT A GODDAMNED SMOKE SIGNAL"

"AND THEN YOU DIE"

"AND COME HERE WITH THAT CHEEK"

Percy has no sense of self-preservation.

"It was only a year and a half"

Clarisse punches his arm, and Connor slaps him upside the head. Nico looks like he is about to murder him.

"Where were you?" Asks Annabeth, but he just shakes his head. He is not ready to talk about Calypso.

Will Solace manhandles him to the infirmary - his touch still startles Percy. The boy didn't really talk with him since he was claimed, after the whole Golden Fleece situation.

The son of Apollo apologizes. Perseus is surprised it still hurts - but keeping grudges is his specialty.

People keep looking at his bare chest and the flower crown he doesn't get off the whole week he is in Camp. They tell him they didn't tell his mother - and for that, he is grateful.

They go back to the Labyrinth with Rachel, who looks really cool in gold. It's weird. It was pretty easy to convince her, but there's this tension between Annabeth, Rachel, and Nico that he doesn't care about right now, and doesn't want for it to inflict on his mission.

They're all teenagers - Nico is thirteen (or eighty, buy who is counting) and the rest of them are fourteen - Drama is expected, but not welcome.

He has no idea the reason for it either.

Perseus has his own drama going on - or at least, there's a lot of drama being directed at him - and he is still confused why.

Annabeth stole a kiss from him - big deal, if she didn't mention until now, he was not going to - and is now acting like a headless deer every time they talk.

He and Rachel kiss sometimes - but she said she was still confused about her sexuality. Percy researched a bit - he thinks she might be ace, but that's a realization she has to make herself.

Nico and he have a lot of bad blood between them and very few interactions to drawn upon. The boy is an oyster - but Percy thinks he might like Annabeth. He seems a little envious of Percy's arms - it's really strange the way he looks at them sometimes.

They get caught in Antaeus' arena again. This time, there's no chance they can escape - there's a dagger pressed very close to Rachel's throat.

Luke says his champion is back, full of mockery. Something rages inside of Percy - he hates the blonde, even if he also loves him more than he can explain.

Luke pits him against Ethan. Percy can't kill one of his best friends.

He does kill Antaeus though. The giant has a lot of power over the earth, but Percy sends him straight to the Underworld.

Perseus calls for Blackjack, Nico calls for his own hellhound (Perseus had no idea he had one), and then he shadow travels them as far as he can. They find Grover and Tyson - and Pan. Percy loves the feeling of life all around him this time because it reminds him of Persephone.

They eventually find Daedalus Workshop. Annabeth recognizes the man: she says he is Quintus, that his body is metal, that she has been dreaming about him.

Daedalus betrays them, the Workshop explodes, Rachel, Grover, Tyson, and Annabeth fly in mechanic wings. Nico flies without any help, and takes Percy with him - Percy thinks Zeus will be less prone to kill him if he is with his son.

He feels a little like a damsel in distress - and they have to land quickly, because Percy is twice Nico's weight, even if the boy says the wind drafts help.

Turns out Rachel is richer than Perseus' first thought. She basically clicks her fingers and they have a limo. It's weird, but he is grateful.

Percy kisses Rachel cheek and promises her that he'll call her if he survives - he knows her number by heart after a year of knowing her.

Annabeth and Nico keep being weird - he doesn't even try and understand anymore.

In the middle of battle preparations, he sends two Iris Messages - one for his mom, one for Persephone. They cry, but - for very different reasons - can't interfere.

Perseus thinks it's wrong the gods can't help with their battle. It's their war the demigods are fighting - this battle is in their name.

He uses his drachma in the bare privacy of the empty Cabin 11, the drachma, their drachma. He still has faith - the last summer, when they all held hands and walked in the suburbs of San Francisco, it's burning in his mind - in Luke, in his protection of other demigods. He wants to convince him that his enemies are the gods - CHB has only half-bloods, pawns, children.

The rainbow shows what it seems like a horror movie. Ethan pledges his loyalty to a golden sarcophagus. Luke isn't anywhere to be seen - and when he is, it's not Luke anymore. It's Kronos.

Kronos desecrated the body of his friend. Kronos took pieces of Ethan's and Alabaster's souls. Kronos is making children fight his battles, just like the gods. Kronos is going to kill his friends.

Percy knows, right there, that he has chosen the right side.

They draw their battle lines. Percy raises skeleton armies from all centuries and all sides - Clarisse helps. He gets extra happy when he raises his half-brother soldiers - and they have to answer to a black person.

The fist of Zeus opens - and hundreds of monsters come through. Percy is mounting Blackjack - the ground shakes and stone spikes kill the first round of empousai. People rally behind him.

Nico flies around, thunder brimming in his hands. Sometimes, a monster dies and there's no one there - it's either Annabeth or one of Hermes children able to run faster than the wind.

Tyson saves him from another cyclops - Percy thinks there's an exception for every rule.

Everyone on their side has earplugs made by Cabin 9 - they filter the dangerous sound waves the Apollo children are making. Dryads and naiads defend the forest together - The river nymphs protecting the trees from damage.

Both the Demeter's and the Dionysus' kids use vines to keep the monsters at bay - only a few can come at a time. The Aphrodite Cabin rallies together with the best strategy ever: The stronger lure the monsters with their mother's charm, and then make them turn around and impale themselves in the spears and daggers of those whose charms are weaker.

Not all undetermined children deserted - He sees Lou Ellen kill a monster with a burst of fire magic, most of her siblings right beside her. Clovis is half asleep - no monster can get within five meters of him without falling asleep.

Briares comes and fights alongside Tyson - and they kill Kampe. Grover screams - it's the worst thing Percy has ever felt, and he has seen his father's Helm.

The monsters flee. This time around they had more time to prepare - and more time to rally. Fewer people die. Some are inevitable: Castor is gone, killed by Ethan's hand - something in Percy is filled with guilt - If he had killed Ethan, Castor might be alive.

He would never be able to kill Ethan.

Lee Fletcher is not dead - but he is missing an arm now. He is in shock - but the Hephaestus Cabin is rallying around to build him one.

Quintus - Daedalus - is there. He should be dead - it's disgusting to be near him. Percy isn't good with the spirit/ghostly part of it - but he picks up the last of his energy and sends - banishes - Quintus to the Underworld.

Nico and Percy can now bond over having hellhounds - well, they could. But Percy is not staying. He just listened to the Prophecy. He still has one more year before he is sixteen, and he wants to live.

"You have a place in camp, you know" Nico says, but Perseus shakes his head.

"I have school"

Annabeth, Nico, Clarisse, everyone thinks he is joking. He is very much not. He stays for the burning of the shrouds, and leaves.

This summer, he was a leader. Perseus Jackson, son of Hades, it's the leader of Camp Half-Blood - and he'll lead them to victory when the time comes.

Until then, he has sophomore year, a summer road trip with Rachel, garden visits with Persephone, training with his father, and movie nights with his mom and Paola.

And, of course, now he has to come to Camp once a month so everyone knows he is alive. One would think you can't disappear for a year and a half without everyone on his ass about it.

His birthday is a blast. Charles, Connor, Nico, Annabeth, Grover, Tyson, Rachel, and even Travis, Will, Lou, and Silena are there.

Percy sees a hole that no one else does, one filled by Alabaster, Ethan and Calypso, and Luke - but he doesn't complain. Moonshade grows at his windowsill, and the others made their own choices.

Percy eats blue cake and wonders - Four years ago, he had no friends. Now, he has a dozen - a dozen people who care about him, who care about his well-being. A dozen people who touch him, because he doesn't have the plague.

He is a leader, and a friend, and a hero. And it's totally awesome.

[dork-empress]

The Coinside Pantheon

This is a pantheon of goddesses I created for a D&D-esque universe. This is the universe my OC’s Haze and Prosperity are in. It is VERY religion based, the goddesses are involved in every portion of their lives. Many have their main goddess, (or maybe angel!) but will respect the others

Each Goddess has a counterpoint, the opposite/reflection of who they are, but in some ways they are the same (sun/moon, plant/animal, etc.) Each have different relationships with their doubles, and they have a combined name as well as separate names. (for instance, Sun and moon have the shared name Kys, and separate names Orlas and Urlan) 

There are 5 levels of deity, the most important on the outer edges, and going down inwards towards the Material plane (see chart below cut) Each goddess is master of their own plane, though each plane also has angels, denizens, devils and demons (Angels support the goddess, Devils and demons use the Goddess gift to hurt mortals) Tieflings, Aasimar, and Genasi can come from any of the planes (Genasi in this world are just children of Denizens)

Each goddess also has an associated animal, plant, and weapon, and maybe something else. They also have their unique worshippers, prayers, temples, and Ceremonies. 

Level 1 

Kys

Sun-Orlas/Moon-Urlan

Light/Dark, World/Dreams

Goddess appears as a dragon or Dragonborn

Animals:  Insects, 

Other: sunflowers

Weapon: Glaive

Colors: Gold/Silver

Worshippers: Rulers, Philosophers, Astronomers, generic

Ceremonies: sunrise, sunset Solstices, equinox, eclipse, any astronomical event

Temples: At high points, Village centers, outside

Prayers: A song for the astronomical event.

Solar plane is bright light, impossible for most beings to see, let alone maneuver. The stars are the denizens of the world and wander around. 

Lunar plane appears to be a barren frozen wasteland (moon surface) until you fall asleep, and find the dream world, where they create the illogic of dreams. The denizens are dreamcrafters.

Level 2

Meti 

Life--Elfi/Death--Tehad

Birth, death, medicine, time

Goddess appears Human

Animals: Birds, especially doves (pigeons) and Ravens

Plants: Willows 

Weapon: Sickle\

Colors: Black and White

Worshippers: Doctors, midwives/Morticians

Ceremonies: baptism/funerals

Temples: Hospitals/graveyards

Prayer: Silent contemplation

Life Plane nearly pure white, filled with silvery pools, where new souls are fostered. Denizens are soulweavers. 

Death plane: Black and grey stone caves, with dark pools of souls of the dead. Denizens are Reapers.

Dworl

Earth--Terah/Sea--Aneco

Dirt, stone, mountains, earth/water, nature

Goddess appears Elf. Sea elf or land elf. 

Animals: Amphibians, like Frogs.

Plant: Lily

Weapon: Triton/Pitchfork

Colors: Blue and Green

Worshippers: Farmers, sailors,

Ceremonies: During harvest/fishing, sailing

Temples: Open fields/ocean

Prayers: Quiet muttered prayer, keeping things cleaned

Earth Plane: Nearly solid dirt, caves and mountains. Denizens are Earth Elementals and tunneling creatures

Sea Plane: Ocean. I mean duh. Denizens are water elementals and fish creatures

Level 3 

Atrinoce

Mind--Idn’m/Body--Ybdo

Knowledge, creation, plans, crafting

Goddess appears as a dwarf

Animals: Monkeys

Plants: Cherry Tree

Weapon: Hammer

Colors: Pink and Brown (flesh tones)

Worshippers teachers, artisans, librarians, builders

Ceremonies: Beginning or ending a project

Temples: Schools, craft shops, libraries, forges

Prayers: Blessing on project

Mind Plane: Clockwork pink metal disks/mazes, etc. Denizens are robots

Body Plane: Rock mazes, need to move them. Denizens are like, Goliaths.

Laentigm

Civil--Ilvic/Wilds--Ildws

Chaos, order, Civilization, government, 

Goddess appears as an orc.

Animals: Snakes

Plants: shrubs

Weapon: Spear

Colors: Grey and purple

Worshippers: Kings, judges, lawmakers/barbarians.

Ceremonies: Beginning of lawmaker services/looking for luck.

Temples: offices, capitol buildings/wilderness

Prayer: Chanting prayer/song.

Order Plane: marbled towers, just endless towers like graveyard stones. Denizens are a hive mind clone system. 

Chaos plane: Thick wilderness, have to fight way through brambles. Denizens are monsters.

Tiomoen

Love--Velo/Hate--Taeh

Emotions, bringing people together or breaking them apart. 

Goddess appears as a fairy. 

Animals: Swans

Plants: Roses

Weapon: Scimitar

Colors: Red and Pink

Worshippers: Soldiers, wedding leaders, family leaders,

Ceremonies: marriages/beginning of battles,

Temples: Wedding ceremonies, taverns/battlegrounds

Prayer: Join hands with loved ones, dancing/kill an animal

Love Plane: Lots of silks, bedding, full of luxury and baccanal pleasures, dancing, wine. Denizens are Concubi

Hate Plane: Endless warzone. Denizens are soldiers

Level 4 

Noocyme

Trade--Draet/Thief--Fihte

Economy, moneys, Gems, greed

Goddess appears as a gnome

Animals: Rats/Rodents

Plants: Mint

Weapon: Dagger

Colors: Gold and Wine Red

Worshippers: Bankers, shopkeepers/Thieves

Ceremony: When bank opens, before a job, big transactions

Temples: Banks

Prayers: sacrifice a coin to an alter

Trade plane: The biggest damn bank in the world, full of bureaucracy and offices. Denizens are Bankers

Thief plane: Elaborate city full of nothing but shadowy corners and hidden treasures. Denizens are all sorts of thieves. 

Teruan

Plants--Lafor/Animals--Unfaa

All plants, all animals, hunting, gardening

Goddess appears as a satyr

Animals: Deer/Antlered animals (but all really)

Plants: Vines (grapevines especially)

Weapon: Long Bow and Arrow

Other: Pan Flute

Colors: Green and Brown

Worshippers: farmers, hunters, gardeners

Ceremonies: At planting, harvest, hunts

Temples: shrines at Farms, Gardens, Forest entrances

Prayers: Burn old matter—leaves, feathers, fur, etc

Plant Plane: jungle full of every plant imaginable, denizens are plant people

Animal plane: A hunting ground, lots of dirt and obstacles, denizens are personified animals

Srat

Comedy--Decymo/Drama--Mraad

Arts, especially performative, expressing emotions

Goddess appears as a halfling

Animals: Dogs

Plants: Berries

Weapon: Rapier

Colors: Orange and Purple

Other: all instruments, but especially mandolin

Worshippers: Artists, bards

Ceremonies: before a performance

Temples: Stages, taverns

Prayers: Songs

Comedy plane: Artists paradise, full of laughter and light

Drama plane: A somber reflection of the Comedy plane. Denizens for both are masked audience members

Fystae

Travel--Dasor/Hearth--Ahreth

Safety, safe travels, homes, warmth

Goddess appears as a goblin

Animals: Cats, horses

Plants: Weeds, especially dandelions

Weapons: Club

Other: Shoes

Worshippers: housekeepers, travelers

Ceremonies: When arriving home or leaving for a trip

Temples: Hearths, Crossroads, hostels and other community living spaces

Prayer: when encountering a shrine, place a stone or other relic from journey on top, and take one for the next stop. 

Level 5 

Sanoses

(note--Sanoses is rare in that she is 4 goddesses, not 2, encompassing all 4 seasons)

Spring--Gsrinp/Summer--Mursem/Autumn--Untaum/Winter--Trinwe

Weather, Seasons, etc. 

Goddess appears as a giant

Animals: Bears, turtles

Plants: Trees, especially oak and pine

Weapon: Quarterstaff

Worshippers: Anyone, especially farmers

Ceremonies: Start of new season, during bad weather

Temples: In the open

Prayer: drink water from a special goblet

[terravoidghost]

Cedric and Anna Maria

Wrote about my favorite Greek god, Hades and his wife Persephone but a couple of changes here and there. ENJOY!

------

Anna Maria liked dead things. She liked the stillness of them, the pristine, unnatural lack of movement. It wasn't like sleep where you could see a chest rise or perhaps a finger or paw twitch. Death was mesmerizing. Her mother had a large garden, during the warm seasons she expected Anna Maria to help out. Anna Maria tended to her areas; pulling weeds, pruned leaves, and sowed seeds. It was tedious and boring. The same repetitive tasks day in, day out, week after week, until finally, you could harvest, only to prep the soil again for the next year. The soil was always slightly damp and sticky, pushing itself under her fingertips and no amount of scrubbing or cleaning ever cleared up the dark half-moons of dirt lying beneath her nails. Anna Maria's seasons were fall and winter, when the leaves and foliage started desiccating, turning yellow and brown. The ground under her feet would get crunchy and loud. She liked to walk through the forest as the days turned colder and the nights came earlier and earlier. She waited until the leaves dried out and then picked handfuls, crumbling them in her hands and watching the small pieces fall to the forest floor. The forest became calmer, quieter in the cold months -no incessant chatter of birds or rustling of woodland creatures which always assaulted her ears. The trees were more beautiful in the winter when they were bare and stark. Their twisted limbs stretched out unencumbered without leaves or mossy growths clinging desperately to them. Brown, grey, white and black, they reached up to the barren grey sky. The autumn she turned thirteen, she was out in the forest, watching her breath as it left her body in the cold air. The plume of her exhale was visible as it flowed past her lips and the dissipated into the sky, unseen and forgotten. It was when she looked down at the ground that she saw it. The remains of some animal - twisted, furry, broken and bloody. She felt a longing deep and solid in the pit of her stomach. She moved forward without thinking, wanting to be closer. Large birds perched on the corpse, pecking at it, breaking through the fuzzy pelt into the soft tissue beneath. They squawked in surprise and possible fear as she moved closer, flying off into the crisp air. The beat of their wings loud and sharp in the cold air, drowning out the sound of her heart in her ears. Anna Maria wasn't afraid or disgusted by the small corpse. She felt a sense of almost homesickness as she drew closer. It had been a rabbit, patches of its brown summertime coat still showing, not enough time for white to bloom over its tiny body before its life was cut short. She wondered how it had died and, thinking back on it, she realized she hadn't seen many rabbits around over summer and early fall. Perhaps it died of loneliness. She touched the fur, petting the cold softness. She pulled her hand back, seeing dark red patches on her fingertips. Blood. She rubbed her fingers together taking note of the sticky-thick texture. She sniffed it almost delicately, cataloging its sweet iron scent. She sat down on the ground, cross-legged, ignoring the cold and waited. She wanted to see what would happen when the birds came back. After that, it became something of a hunk to walk through the forest and find things that had died. She found small birds, more rabbits, some squirrels, and once, in all its glory, a stag that had been pulled down by a pack of wolves and had been gutted to the bone. It was stunning. Long-limbed and stark, its sightless eyes glassy and dark. They were open and wide in a way she had never seen. She liked to watch the animals gnaw and tear at the flesh, foraging for small bits of nutrients. She loved that the stag would visit its corpse often until other small scavengers pulled and tore at it, breaking it apart until there was nothing left.

Spring started violently pushing through the solid, frozen ground. The sowing and prepping season were upon them far too soon for her liking. Starting at dawn, Anna Maria went to the garden with her mother and followed the same instructions as every year. Dig, turn, till, sow. She filled buckets of water from the well, lugging them to the seemingly endless rows upon rows of seedlings. Even there home was not left alone. Small pots littered the entire abode, so many that Anna Maria thought she would fall over them and break her neck, with her mother only bemoaning the broken leaves and stems of her precious blooms and not her daughter. Anna Maria spent as much time as she could in the forest now, knowing that there were always things to find lying dead, hidden under rocks or buried under foliage, she found she could more tolerate the endless tedium of the growing season. As long as she had her time in the forest.

Her mother's garden was always bountiful and she would load up baskets full of fruit, vegetables, and grains for them to take into the village and trade for goods and services. Although the walk to the village was long and the baskets heavy, Anna Maria liked the trip. She liked the winding road, stretching out before her. On the way there, she could pretend that she was going somewhere new, somewhere unknown that she'd never seen before. She liked never knowing who they would run into once they arrived. She liked seeing the colorful fabrics and smelling the fragrant spices of the market. Each time was different and exciting and broke the tedium of life on the farm.

Although, the market always meant she ran into men, young and old. Anna Maria was green, like the spring forest, but even she could see the way they leered at her with dark eyes and sideways glances. While she often found her mother overbearing and strict, the marketplace was when she was grateful for it. Her mother turned away men with a sharp glare or sharper word. It didn't stop some of the more adventurous boys from trying to steal a kiss when Anna Maria was alone. Anna Maria wasn't afraid of the boys, nor of the men, truthfully. She found their ham-fisted attempts to touch her skin, to brush against her hips or her breasts wearisome and irritating. Their sweaty hands wrinkled her dress, their grubby fingers leaving marks against the fabric that would take time to wash out and press clean. She saw the other girls her age- saw how they tittered and chattered, laughed and giggles at the boys. How they looked from under their lashes at the men, turning away shyly. How they would pretend to dodge away from pressing lips and eager hands but in reality, would slow down enough to be caught - squealing and yelping like caged birds. Anna Maria didn't understand it.

She tried once or twice to be like the other girls. She asked her mother if she could join a group of girls playing a skipping game off to the side. Her mother agreed and Anna Maria joined the girls, learning the rules of the game quickly and doing it well- her years of tending the garden and walking in the forest giving her enough athleticism to excel. When the boys showed up, as they always did, Anna Maria tried to join in with the girls, mimicking their excited chatter, their laughs, their yips of laughter and joy. She felt false and strange when one of the boys had managed to get close to her and then pressed his lips against hers, Anna Maria squirmed away from his wet, hot kiss. It felt slimy on her own flesh and she pushed him away hard, wiping her hand across her mouth, trying to get rid of the lingering feeling. The boy was startled and got angry, storming back toward her, his face twisted and mean. He tried to grab her, to pull her closer again, Anna Maria kicked him hard in the shin and then punched him soundly on the jaw. He staggered backward, his face ugly and he called her names. She didn't care what he called her as long as he didn't try to kiss her again. Anna Maria ran back to the market, where her mother was and stayed close to the remainder of the day, trusting her mother's sharp tongue to keep anyone else at bay. She was fifteen years old the first time she saw him. It was fall, the leaves just starting to turn, the ground going hard beneath her feet.

He seemed impossibly large in the forest, as though even the trees should bow down under his presence. She spied on him as she walked back from a hollow of dead rabbits where she'd spent the afternoon reading. Anna Maria saw a flicker of blackout of the corner of her eye- a flap of fabric and she turned toward the movement. He moved soundlessly through the woods, fluid, and fleet of foot. A pair of shoes munched on the drying leaves of a tree going fallow. They didn't;e startle or move as he approached until he reached out his hand. His long-fingered, almost clawed hand settled on one of the deer's head and it stomped it's foot and fell over. The other bucked wildly and ran off, thrashing madly through the forest. The first one lay dead at his feet, open-eyed and still.

"Cedric."

He turned at his name, his dark hood hooked up and over his head, cloaking his face in shadow. She could make out the sharp white bone of his jaw, the protrusions of his teeth, his lipless mouth and hollow, skinless cheeks, the bleached nose of his skull. He was beautiful. She took a step toward him. He didn't move- his form the pristine stillness of death and decay. She slid closer to him, feet clumsy on the floor of the forest, hand outstretched. She didn't stop until she was in front of him, feeling the cold chill of his presence press against her body. She looked up into the semblance of his face. Austere, cold- expressionless except for his macabre skull-grin. Cedric tilted his head toward her, looking down on her with his empty sockets- deep dark and fathomless. Her outstretched hand slid across his jaw, her fingertips going cold and numb against his jawbone. She stepped in close and then close still, feeling the line of his spine against her fingers, the crack, and dip of his vertebrae. Pulling him close, she pressed her lips against his sharp teeth. He wasn't warm, moist with sweat or flushed with life. He didn't stink like perspiration or flutter beneath her hands and lips- flailing with over exuberance or messy desire. He was a perfect statue against her- motionless and cold.

Her heart thumped madly in her chest. "Take me with you." She felt the bony claws of his hand wrap around her waist, encircling it and in a blink, she was there. Underworld. She had never seen so many shades of steel, grey, and silver. Shadows jockeyed for position in the dim light, half shapes flickered in the corner of her eye. They disappeared when she turned her head to look. The sky was low and dark, an indigo-grey that shifted and changed as she stared. Tall, thin, barren tree limbs curled toward the sky, beckoning the darkness closer. They twisted and turned in on one another, snarled up, embracing each other. A shock of lightning lit the sky, burning her retinas and staining everything afterward in black and purple. She heard a low clanging bell and turned to see a ferryman bringing his charges ashore. He had a low, green-cast lamp hanging from an iron hook on his small boat. As she watched, somber, silent souls climbed from the boat; their faces grave and solemn in the sickly light. The light fluttered as each other passed; the ferryman rang his bell for each passenger- a doleful parade of the dead. She never wanted it to end. She felt a tug, beneath her ribs and she turned to see Cedric walking away from her, the back of his cloak seeming more alive here, in the underworld, that it had above. It swirled around his feet and his skeleton, fluid and volatile. His steps were silent as he moved, though she heard her own footfalls on the ground as she hurried after him. The scenery shifted and moved around them at the same time they moved through it until finally, she saw a looming before her a large citadel. A fence of skulls, tibia, fibula and rib cages. Encircled the fortress and as they approached a snapping, snarling three-headed dog lurched forward. Anna Maria held her hand out, unafraid and the dog heads whined in a trio. One of them bowed down, one sniffed her hand and the other licked at her legs. Cedric led her past the gates, into the forest. The air was hollow and thick; the sounds of her footsteps didn't reach her ears. It was akin to being underwater. Once inside the dark castle, Cedric unraveled his cloak from his shoulders. As he threw it off, it slipped and stuttered, becoming shadow itself. His face was more like a man's now- though he was still hollow-cheeked, skin stretched tight over his bones. His eyes were gold and black and when he turned to look at her, she felt as though he expected her to startle back or perhaps avert her gaze. Anna Maria was not afraid of him. It was Cedric who turned away first, showing her the knobby protrusions of his scapula and spine as he walked. She followed him to a large, cavernous dining room where plates of foods were appearing slowly, coalescing out of shadow and mist. She recognized the items as those regularly left to the gods at their temples. Meats, sweets, fruits, gold coins, brightly woven fabrics- all items left to curie the favor of the god of Underworld and keep him at bay for as long as possible. But like the fall of night, he was inevitable and no amount of bribery nor trinket would stave him off forever. His chair was adorned overhead with a set of antlers, arching up and splitting into curved limbs that seemed moments away from collapsing down and embracing him. As he sat, he watched her carefully, eyes unblinking. Anna Maria remained as still as possible, meeting his gaze again, unafraid. Cedric inclined his head slightly toward the chair at the other end of the table and she set her shoulders proudly and stepped toward it, taking a seat. It was an unadorned chair, unlike his own. It was simple and bare. Until she sat. As soon as she settled herself in the chair, other tendrils snaked out, spawning smaller branches, reaching up and out forming antlers much like the ones on Cedric chair. She watched them grow and melt outward from the hard-backed spine of the chair until with a mighty groan, as though they were stretching for eons of being caged up, they finally settled and shook once. The chair vibrated with their movement and then stilled. Anna Maria pulled her eyes from the large, spindly appendages and looked back at Cedric who appeared somewhat startled by the sudden protrusions. She was about to ask him what it meant when she heard the scream. She would know the timbre and intonation of that voice anywhere. It was her mother, howling at Anna Maria's disappearance, calling on the gods of the sky, earth, water, and air in search of her missing daughter. Anna Maria curled her hand into a fist, her fingernails making angry half-moons in the palm of her hand. The floor shook, the room shimmered and there was a sudden and angry 'pop' of pressure that causes a shock of pain to shoot through her eardrum into her brain. "Brother Death." The voice came from the foyer from which Cedric and Anna Maria had just left and she turned her head to see a white-robed figure hulking in the doorway. His massive frame seemed impossibly large in the small space, giving the impression if he flexed hard enough the entire structure should crumble down under his bulk. She flicked her eyes back to dark Cedric at the far end of the table. Cedric did not look away from Anna Maria as Zephyr strode further into the room. His limitless eyes bored into her even as Zephyr moved closer to her, coming so far as to rest a hand on her chair. "Brother Death," Zephyr repeated. "You have taken that which does not belong to you." "I challenge that I took nothing that belonged to anyone. The birds in the sky and the fish in the sea are not owned by either. Neither are people above world tethered to each other by possession." Anna Maria closed her eyes in pleasure at his voice- thick and dark, like molasses in the winter. "You may quibble with the language, Brother Death, but the charge is the same. The Underworld is for the dead and the dead alone." Cedric spun his wine glass between his fingers. "I also challenge that death is not only a state of body and that a mortal may die thousand times over, every day, before ever once crossing Styx." Anna Maria opened her eyes again, meeting Cedric gaze. Zephyr's presence towered over her out of the corner of her eye. His voice reverberated in her rib cage as he spoke, "You cross the Fates with this act and they are not forgiving." "I cross no one," Cedric countered, his eyes seeming to drill into the heart of her even as he spoke to Zephyr. "I granted a request. A wish. Nothing more." Cedric had not moved from his seat and indeed did not appear to be troubled by his brother's presence. Anna Maria had the sudden feeling that he would do nothing to keep her in the Underworld, nothing against his brother. She reasoned he could not, at the risk of angering the Fates, who surely were the most dreaded of creatures in the universe, second only to the Furies. Anna Maria feared to return to the Over-world, feared to see her mother and having to explain her journey. Feared to return to the market season after season and avoiding the sweaty, fleshy boys with their hot hands and damp clutches. Feared to have to be with the chittering, chattering girls- their foolish games and inane discussions. Feared to return to the unending, relentless monotony of the harvest. Dig, sow, till, reap. Dig, sow, till. Reap. Dead sat like a cold, heavy stone in her stomach. She could not go back. She would no go back. Zephyr was speaking to Cedric, ignoring her, even though she was the center of his speech, the sole purpose for his arrival. His attention was focused on Cedric and was but a speck in his vision- an object to be barred over. His voice was like a drone in her ear- unintelligible, wordless, incomprehensible. Anna Maria's eyes never left Cedric as she reached forward to one of the plates of fruits, offered up to Cedric- to garner his approbation, his benevolence. She snatched a handful of pomegranate seeds. They were cold and wet in her hand and felt like freedom and happiness. Cedric, hollow-cheeked and sunken-eyed, watched her carefully- the skin of his lips almost curling into a grin over his sharp teeth. As her hand reached her mouth, at the last moment, Zephyr finally chanced a look at her and saw, too late, as she devoured the pomegranate seeds. She smiled at them both- her teeth stained red from the juice, her jaw cracking down on the bitter, hard seed. She could not be made to leave now. She could not be made to leave ever. Cedric smiled, canines white in the light. His teeth glistened fierce and razor-edged. It was Zephyr who spoke next. "Stupid girl, You know not what you've done." Anna Maria turned to him, her red-stained grin macabre and knowing. "Tell my mother, tell everyone in the Over-world, Olympus and beyond, I have finally come home. Should they wish to enter the Underworld, they must seek my permission first. That includes you, Zephyr, ruler of Olympus. You have no power here." "Foolish Anna Maria," Zephyr began. "Do not speak my names. No one shall speak my name lest they wish me to come for them in person," she countered, feeling a flush of power. The antlers of the chair withered and twisted, turning black and purple, giving a horrible screech that even mighty Zephyr stepped away from. "It would appear the Underworld has finally gained a Queen," Cedric spoke from the end of the table. "Send the missives out on Olympus, Anna Maria has come home."

[fortunatelylori]

The Winter Rose - A Jonsa fic

So, I have decided to post my @jonsasecretsanta2018 fic today. This is a Jonsa one-shot for @thescarletempress0208. 

I don’t know about you guys but I love Christmas. I love the tree, the ornaments, the caroling. I love waking up on the 25th and running to the tree to see what presents Santa left for me. I love it all. It’s the time where I really connect to my inner child. And there’s nothing my inner child loves more than fairy tales. Since this is placed within the ASOIAF/GOT universe, I didn’t center it around Christmas, as they have none but I sill wanted to make it really festive so I hope that shows through. 

I will post it here in its entirety but it will also be available on AO3, if you prefer that format. 

A special thank you to  @jonsasecretsanta2018 for this initiative. I had a really great time writing this and I can’t wait to see what everyone else comes up with. Lastly, Merry Christmas  @thescarletempress0208! I hope you have a great festive season and that you enjoy this! 

* word to the wise: I play around with the rules of medieval tourneys in this fic and also the magic elements are far more whimsical than in the source material. My excuse: this is a fairy tale! :)))) Also, this gets long, so sit down comfortably, grab a snack and enjoy!

                                          The Winter Rose

She stumbled over the stairs, struggling with the thick coat of ice that covered the stone and as she came out into the cold, winter air she breathed deeply, happy to have escaped the dank and musty crypts below.

All around her the charred and blackened ruins of the once great castle of the North laid bare and empty, covered in thick layers of freshly shed snow and, as she walked through the court yard, it scrunched beneath her feet, giving out hollowed echoes. It was a desolate place, to be sure. Even more so as dusk was fast approaching and she found herself alone, all the other tourists having long since left.

But as snowflakes danced all around her, nestling in her hair, melting on her cheeks, she had to admit there was also a strange kind of beauty to it. In front of her was the last of the towers that had remained tall and whole, aside from the caved in roof that had given it its name. It was like a sentinel among the crumbled ruins, with thick vines that encircled the ice laden stone, covering it with lush green foliage despite the time of year. Sprinkled throughout were the most beautiful blue roses, the shade of which she had never seen before, come into full bloom, their soft petals covered in thin shards of ice that sparkled in the reddish sunlight.

She drew a deep breath and inhaled the sweet floral scent that hanged thick and fragrant in the air.

“Do you know the story of the Broken Tower and the winter roses?”

She smiled at the sound of his voice, leaden with the thick Northern accent she had grown to love. She had left him in the crypts, pouring over the inscriptions even though he must have seen them a hundred times before. Yet she knew it wouldn’t take long for him to come looking for her. After all, they had only met three months before and leaving each other’s sight from that day had proved an impossible task.

She looked at him as he came by her side, and smiled. “To hear you speak,” she said, “you’d think every rock in the North has a story to tell.”

He laughed and shook his head. “You shouldn’t be so dismissive of your own people’s history.”

She rolled her eyes at that, even though he did have a point. She had been born here after all, though she held very few memories of the North. Her family had moved when she was ten and from that time, it was Braavos she had called home. She doubted she would even be here if she hadn’t met an utterly charming and all too handsome Northern archeologist on a train ride to Volantis and promptly married him.

“Is this another one of those stories of the ice zombies and three eyed ravens you’re so fond of telling me right before I go to sleep?”

“No,” he said, coming closer to her and taking her hands between his own. He started rubbing them and blowing hot air between her cupped palms, warming her frozen fingers. Her smile widened, still surprised at the care he showed for her in such small ways that she wouldn’t have been able to think of.

“This is a story that takes place after the Long Night had ended and the Night King was defeated,” he said, his voice low. “It was the time of the Long Summer when the Targaryen queen had taken the throne and ruled the Seven Kingdoms on the back of her dragon. She was hailed as the savior of the realm and all soon forgot about the bravery of the Northern men against the army of the dead, of the warrior that mounted a dragon and beheaded the Night King with the aid of his cousin, The Three Eyed Raven. All had forgotten but one … because in Winterfell, there was still one that remembered and held fast to those memories.”

“Who?” she asked, trying to contain her curiosity although she knew sooner or later she would fall under the spell of his deep voice.

“A princess,” he said, kissing the tips of her fingers. “Beautiful and brave, with long flowing hair that shone like fine polished copper. Her name was Sansa Stark and she was the Lady of Winterfell.”

“Sansa …” she said in mocking disbelief. “Her name was Sansa …” He was good, she had to admit. Very good indeed.

“After the Long Night had ended, winter was soon chased from the lands and with the coming of the dragons, summer settled over Westeros. At first the people rejoiced, as they set upon the task to rebuild what the war had destroyed, rising their holdfasts again and planting crops. But, in time, the earth grew hard and dry and the rains did not come to quench them. Crops began to wither and die under the scorching blaze of the sun, rivers shrunk and lakes all but vanished.

It was this that brought the great sorrow upon the princess. Justly and ably she had ruled for ten years, from the ancient seat where her father had once stood. But the North was a barren place and summer did not take kindly to the little food it had to offer. As times grew hard for her long suffering kingdom and men’s bellies went empty, her bannermen began to pressure her to marry.

“Marry, my lady,” they said. “Join the North to a great house that will bring prosperity back to our lands.”

The princess refused at first. She had been a child of summer songs and love once, wishing nothing more than to marry a handsome prince and bare him sons. But life had snatched those dreams from her and left only sorrow in their place. Twice she had been forced to marry before and twice she had been humiliated and abused.

But her bannermen’s voices grew ever more insistent. Each day they would find her and gave her no peace, proposing one high lord and then another. In time, the princess’ resolve began to falter under their unrelenting assault.

“If I am to marry,” she told them, “let it be to a strong and capable man. Do not forget, my lords, that he who shall be my husband will also become your liege and lord and such qualities are not easily found.”

The bannermen fell over themselves exalting the virtues of the man they proposed, one voice giving way to another until they seemed but a hive of agitated wasps, flying ever more dangerously close to her. She fought them as best she could.  

“I will not take the word of other men on the qualities of my future husband,” she finally said.  “I will see them for myself. We shall hold a tourney at Winterfell in 3 moons time. All those fit to bare arms are invited to join and the victor shall have my hand in marriage.”

Let the fates decide, the princess thought with a heavy heart. Let him be brave and strong and, if the Gods are not silent, let him be gentle too.  

But her bannermen were wily men, that could not be trifled with and for whom fates were but a child’s fancy. They pretended to accept the princess’ decision but in secret they sent out invitations only to the highest born of the land, their kin and allies, men they thought would rise their standing in life were they to become their lady’s lord and husband.

Winterfell had always been a beautiful place, with its sprawling court yards and glass gardens. Tall, proud walls of white stone rose high into the sky, springing rounded towers where they adjoined. Large, clear glass windows were cut deep into the walls, reflecting light and buried deep into the stone, a labyrinth of pipes pumped water towards the bathing house, giving the stone life and filling the outer walls with lush moss and ferns even as draught had dried all the greenery in the land.

The princess had loved it here once. When she was kept away, suffering at the hands of strangers, the thought of Winterfell had kept her hope alive, dreaming and praying to see it once more. But now, with all her family gone, with her bannermen watchful of her every move and the impending arrival of the Dragon Queen, who had insisted on joining the festivities, the hallways of her beloved castle seemed to close tightly around her, suffocating her. It was no longer a place of safety and refuge but a prison that kept her chained, at the mercy of other people’s whims.

As the contenders gathered in Winterfell, their high and esteemed coats of arms flung defiantly into the air when they passed through the gates, her bannermen’s ploy became clear. Still, as she stood in the court yard awaiting the Dragon Queen, her heart leaped into her chest anytime a new contender passed through the gates. Her eyes searched every new face to see if she could recognize the form that she hoped to find hidden beneath the armor. But all the men were strangers, some fair of face, others merely boastful and grinning with excitement. It made no difference to her.

The air was dry and hot that day. The trees of the ancient godswood twisted and shivered horribly as a gust of wind blew past. High above, the first screech of the dragon was heard, loud and piercing, and all the souls down below looked up to see the terrible sight before them. Black webbed wings that covered the sun flapped lazily as the great beast descended bringing its mistress down to the ground, making the earth shake beneath its huge talons. As it came down it gave a loud roar that had the people of Winterfell back away from its huge mauls and jagged teeth. Only the princess remained in place, her face marked in steel, holding her chin high against the raging mouth of the dragon.

As the Dragon Queen descended, the men and women of Winterfell bowed before her. But even as she bowed, the princess’ eyes roamed through the court yard where the queen’s retinue assembled behind her large, winged beast. Her stomach turned in painful knots. Surely he will come with her, she thought. The image of the long lost warrior standing once again in the court yard where he had grown and fought, filled her with longing but also despair for he would come to see her wed another.

Knights dressed in armor and savages wearing leathers came down from their great horses and the three headed dragon banner casted its large shadow over all of them. But her warrior was nowhere to be found and the princess’ heart grew heavy once more.  

As the first day of the tourney came, not even the skills of the puppet masters invited especially for the occasion could lessen her sadness. She sat on the dais, in the middle of the erected stands and watched as the tragic love story of Queen Naerys and her brother, Prince Aemon, the Dragonknight, was being played out.

The lords of her court knew of the princess’ love for the old tale and had brought the most skilled puppeteers in the land to honor her. But the whispered declarations of love and the Dragonknight crowning his love with the gilded flower crown held no more fascination for her now, for she knew the stories were false. Such things were to be dreamed of by the young who had not known loss or suffering.

All she could see were the men, high above the pretty colorful dolls, pulling on the strings in jerky movements, making the wooden creatures move about the stage in a ghastly dance, swoon and fall to their deaths with such aplomb as to make her shudder.

Still she did her duty and smiled, clapping now and again and chatting as amiably as she could to the Queen sitting next to her who seemed charmed by the spectacle of color and stiff dolls.

“One day, they will write songs of your own tourney, my lady,” she said.

The princess looked on as the stage was taken down and the limp dolls were carried off and nodded. “Perhaps … Let us pray I have equally skilled puppeteers to pull my strings when my time comes.”

The Queen was not wrong to note on the momentous importance of the Winterfell tourney. Tales of the princess’ beauty as well as the careful entreatment of her bannermen had brought no less than ninety-nine knights to the festivities. They were grouped according to rank and station, the noblest of them all competing against those of minor rank.

As the groups took to the field, standing on their horses on opposing sides, one sight, in particular, caught the attention and mirth of the audience. For standing alongside the lesser knights, was a fool. Dressed in steel as the rest he assuredly was but his motley patterned armor was colored in bright blues and reds and upon his head he wore a two horned helmet, adorned with bells at the tip. How he had managed to sneak in between such respectable company no one could say for sure. But fools were tricksters by nature, everyone agreed, and their amusement at the sight and the antics they would be likely to expect made them all agreeable to let the poor creature have his way.

Upon the signal of the trumpets, the knights spurred on their horses and rode to face off against each other, riding hard and fast until they clashed in the middle of the field in a frenzy of hooves and steel. Upon impact, many were thrown from their horses, their day of glory ended before it had begun but for those still mounted the fight went on through the afternoon.

The ground beneath them was dry and their fighting was so fierce and rough that dust rose all around them, engulfing them to the point where it was hard to tell man and beast apart. The sound of their horses was echoed by the grunts of the men and their cheers of victory every time they managed to defeat an opponent.

As one after another exited the tourney, the sounds dissipated until only the sporadic clinking of steel would announce the defeat of yet another contender. Finally, the dust began to clear and settle and to the audience’s great dismay only five knights remained mounted.

There was Ser Tywald Lannister, a man past his youth and strong of arm, who donned the red and gold armor of his house, one he had been raised to lead after the demise of his cousin Tywin and his children.

Ser Aegor Baratheon was also among them, a matter that enraged the audience although they did not dare voice their disapproval outright for they knew him to be the queen’s own preferred champion. But in hushed tones and whispers they called him by his proper name of Blackfyre, remembering that it was the queen that had granted him the ancient Baratheon name in order to take it from the bastard, Gendry Waters.

Lord Olymer Tyrell was as skilled with a lance as he was beautiful, with long golden hair and blue eyes that sparkled mischievously as he took down his helmet to gaze upon the princess as if he had already won the tourney.

The favorite among them was, without a doubt, Ser Harrold Hardyng, Lord Paramount of the Vale. The Knights of the Vale had steadfastly supported the North for centuries and their prowess in battle was legendary. The Young Falcon was handsome and charming, striking a dashing figure upon the field, to the approval of the ladies in attendance.

But the most outstanding turn of events was the identity of the fifth mounted knight. For it was none other than the fool. He stood tall and proud, with barely a scratch on his armor. As the five knights charged at each other again, meaning to settle the victory once and for all, the fool’s bells dangled in the air and clinked, causing the audience to burst with laughter.

But as soon as he raised his sword and fell upon Ser Aegor, all laughter seized. There was nothing amusing or awkward about the way the knight moved. He stood up in his stir-ups with ease and wielded the long sword as if he had been born to it. Ser Aegor was left with no choice but to retreat, holding his shield up to protect himself while he hunched over in order to stop himself from falling.

The fool’s ability and courage had even the princess gasping at his every movement. Enthralled, she watched him lean over the side of his saddle and cut the leather binding off of Ser Aegor’s horse. He then swiftly brought the pummel down upon the bewildered lord who came crushing to the ground with a loud thud that sent the crowd on their feet, cheering.

She found herself cheering as well, as her heart beat out of her chest only to freeze with horror as she saw Ser Tywald charging from behind, meaning to crush the upstart fool.

“Behind you!” the princess screamed, standing up from her seat. Her cheeks turned red as everyone in attendance took note of her reaction and sat down quickly.

“My lady favors the fool, I see,” the queen said with amusement, forcing the princess to swallow the choice remarks that were stinging her tongue. Yet she could not contain her sigh of relief as the brave fool heard her warning and turned around to face his foes.

In truth, she couldn’t quite tell what had sparked her reaction or her interest. Only that, perhaps, she was certain he had not come there at the bidding of her lords. Watching him as he rode in, fending off the lion’s charge with agile, almost effortless abandon caused her blood to sing and for a moment she was no longer the Lady of Winterfell, the daughter of murdered parents, the sister of fallen brothers or widow to untrue husbands. She was a young girl again, dazed by songs of chivalry and romance, watching a brave knight fighting to win her favor.

And fight her fool did until Ser Tywald’s strong arm began to slow. But just as he was about to claim victory, the great dragon began his dreadful song. He flew past the field, turning light to darkness and causing the dust that had settled to rise once again from the ground.

His piercing song continued loud and unabated and the princess saw with horror how the fool’s whole body began to shake. His sword slipped from his hand just as it was about to strike Ser Tywald from his horse and his arm fell slack at his side.

Seizing his moment, the Lannister fell upon the fool who desperately tried to fend off his attacks and pull on the reigns of his horse with his one good hand, trying to extract himself from the entanglement. If this was allowed to continue, the princess knew, he would be thrown into the dirt.

Without thinking, she rose once again from her seat and wordlessly bid the trumpeters to signal the ending to the day’s proceedings. They looked confused at the request but did their lady’s bidding nonetheless. The trumpets rang throughout the field three times putting an end to the fighting and drowning out the screeching of the dragon.

All four knights remaining looked up at her then but it was the fool she regarded most of all. “You have all fought bravely, my lords,” she said. “Rest now and enjoy the festivities. I look forward to your exploits tomorrow.”

Her decision had greatly displeased her bannermen and it took the better part of the afternoon to placate them. The Queen’s voice, however, drowned out all the rest in her displeasure at the princess’ decision. In secret she sent her men to search for the fool. As far as Hornwood and the Dreadfort they searched and yet could find no traces of him.

As for the princess, guards were instructed to escort her back to her chambers. For her safety, she had said. But as they urged her on through the corridors of her own home, she did not feel safe.

It was only when she locked the door to her chamber that she could breathe in relief. Despite it all, she could not help but think of the brave fool who had defied the high lords of Westeros for her.

She reprimanded herself for the thought. She did not know who the fool was, after all, and she had learned enough of men’s deceit to know that they are rarely who they appear to be. But still her mind wandered back to his deep and solemn bow to her from across the field. There was so little joy in her life now. What was the harm in dreams after all?

He did not remove his helmet as the other lords did, she noted and it intrigued her. A stubborn thought persisted in her mind but she chased it away as quickly as it came. It would be unwise to even dream of such a thing, she decided.

Soon the feast would begin and she needed to make ready. She busied herself with picking out her garments, settling on a long and modest Northern dress of green velvet embroidered with the direwolf sigil of her house. She had not worn it in years but she refused to dwell on why she decided to do so now.

As she went to her desk to pick up the pins she had discarded the night before, she noticed a most peculiar sight. Sitting on top of documents and books, was a beautiful, blue rose dripped in sparkling dots of ice. The princess picked it up with trembling hands.

Blue roses had grown in the glass gardens of Winterfell for centuries but she had thought them all gone since the dragons had returned. She brought the soft petals up to her nose and inhaled deeply. The sweet smell invaded her sense, almost making her dizzy.

It was perhaps the shock of seeing the flower again or a slip of her unsteady hands but one of the tiny thorns on the rose pricked her finger. The tiniest of blood drops fell upon the blue petals and it was as if the flower came alive. Fine silver threads snaked upwards, engulfing her. They moved and weaved around her, dancing in the fading sunlight as the princess looked on in amazement as what were only threads moments before became cloth.

When she turned to look at herself in the looking glass, she was draped in a magnificent silver cloak, so light that the slightest gust of wind made it bellow around her, the color so fine that it seemed as if the moon was floating above a sparkling lake. Entranced, she pulled the hood over her head to see what it might look like but before she could admire the sight, she found herself pushed towards the door, as if the cloak had a mind of its own.

Past the guards stationed at her door it took her, through the narrow hallways and into the Great Hall. Servants were quietly lighting up the last of the candles, bathing the room in pale silvery light that flickered and cast shadows on the walls. The long tables had been set up around the room and all manner of meats and vegetables placed upon them, their savory smells lingering pleasantly in the air. High up in the balcony, the minstrels were tuning their instruments as the guests began arriving, in groups small and large.

And yet, under the hood of her cloak, no one took note of her. The silver cloth carried her quickly through the hall as if she were a bird, floating and flying away, into the court yard and then further still until she found herself before the Broken Tower.

A single candle was flickering high above, from the last window atop the tower and the princess gave herself over to the cloak as it carried her through the winding staircase. By the time she arrived at the top she was breathless.

She moved about the rounded room trying to discern her surroundings. She had never liked it here and her stomach twisted as her shadow grew upon the wall. There was no light, save for the candle in the window and the moon above. It casted pale pools of light through the caved in roof.

“Hello?” she said, her voice echoing through the empty space. “Is there anyone here?”

There was no answer at first but when it came, the voice that spoke it sent shivers down her back. “I did not think you would come,” he said.

Her eyes searched frantically through the darkness, trying to find him. Next to the window, she saw a shape moving and she tried to focus on it but she could not make him out.

“Step into the light!” she commanded, trying to keep her voice steady.

He did as she bid and when the moonlight shone about his fair face, the princess’ resolve crumbled. It was the same, she noted. Long, solemn and guarded, a deep scar on his left side. The hair was the same as well: a pitch black unruly mane she had once run her fingers through.

But his eyes gave her pause. She had expected warm and gentle brown pools to gaze upon her but they were bright and fiery, as if flames were dancing inside of them. They frightened her and she stepped back.

“Do not go!” he pleaded. “I must ask you something.”

Ask her? What could he possibly have to ask her? He had abandoned all of them to leave with the Dragon Queen, never to be heard from again. Ten years had passed and he had not sent one word to her.

Not even when her younger sister, Arya, who had been as dear to him as any true sister could be, was threatened with death by the Queen for refusing to forsake her betrothed, Gendry, had he gone against her. When she ordered Gendry’s execution, fearful that his king’s blood marked him as a threat against her rule, he did nothing. And later when Arya had married her Baratheon bastard and fled Westeros, and the dragon had scoured the lands high and low looking for them, he remained silently at his Queen’s side, doing her bidding.

“You have no right to ask me anything.” Even as she spoke confidently, she could feel treacherous tears stinging her eyes, threatening to overcome her.

“I know. But I must ask.” He looked outside the window for a moment before turning to her. “The enchantment won’t last long. You can ask me three questions as price for one of mine,” he offered.

I have nothing to ask you, she wanted to scream. Nothing at all! But she found herself speaking nonetheless. “Who are you?”

“I am Florian the Fool,” he said, standing there in his motley armor.  “As great a fool as ever lived, and as great a knight as well.”

She remembered the story well. But it was only that: a story and she was no longer the young girl who believed in such tales. “Why are you here?”

“Because my curse must end where it began. A long time ago I stole a dragon. Took hold of his mind, used his fire to kill the Night King. When his brother discovered it, he bathed me in flame.”

She remembered well enough and her heart still twisted painfully at the memory. The black beast had seared the right side of his body. Left the skin bubbling and raw. Three moons it had taken her to nurse him, changing his bandages, holding his hand as the Maester peeled the dead skin away, sitting with him through the night as the fevers threatened to take him away only for him to leave as soon as he could get up from his sick bed.

“What you saw today on the field,” he continued, “happens whenever the dragon is near. My sword arm grows weak, the skin burns threatening to rip off my bones.”

He grimaced and the princess’ tender heart still softened, hearing of his pain. “What do you want of me?” she said, fearing what he might ask.

“Only what you are willing to give,” he reassured her. “Will you come away with me? Be my Jonquil and I will pledge my life to your service if you will but have me.”

The words washed over her, hot and cold at the same time, touching parts of her that she had hidden away long ago. Her whole body sprung with need but she did not move. “You are as brave as you are foolish, my lord. But I am the daughter of Lord Eddard and the lady Catelyn. I cannot give myself to a fool.”

She could see the pain that her words had caused in the lines on his face, the tightness of his jaw but he did not ask again. “You must help me then,” he said instead. “If I am to fight on the morrow, you will need to break the dragon’s curse.”

“I … I don’t know …”

“A kiss will break it.” He bowed his head and clenched his fist tightly. “If you can bare it.”

She regarded him for a long while, watching him clenching and unclenching his burnt fist. The skin wrinkled horribly and even in the pale moonlight, she could see the ugly pink and purple gashes. She remembered, too, his screams in the middle of the night, all that time ago and the deep red mark in the palm of his hand. Smoke would come out of it until the whole room smelled of burnt flesh. No, she did not wish that pain on him.

Slowly, she came by his side and took his hand. He flinched at the touch but did not pull away. His fiery eyes watched her as she turned his hand in the light of the window candle. The red mark was still there, sharp tendrils of smoke coming out and drifting into the air. She put her lips against it and, even though it burnt hot, she kissed it softly.

When she pulled away, the mark was gone and the fool sighed in relief, as if a great burden had been taken from him.

“Thank you, my lady,” he said, solemnly. “When I win the tourney, will you sing for me?”

She lifted her chin and spoke as coolly as she could: “Good fortunes, Ser Florian.”

She pulled her hood up and allowed the cloak to take her away, back to her chambers. As brave as the fool was, it was not he that the princess wanted.

That night the skies parted and the rain began to pour. It did not stop. As the second day of the tourney began, canopies had been erected to protect the high lords in the stands. Through the heavy vale of water, two knights came forth. Incessant and indignant at the fool’s audacity to defy his betters, Ser Tywald Lannister and Lord Olymer Tyrell had thought it only right to join their forces and crush him once and for all.

The princess sat on the dais, her hands digging into the arms of her chair, waiting for her Florian to appear and praying that his arm was strong enough to withstand his foes. But the fool did not show.

In his stead, a king dressed in armor of black and red, a three headed dragon emblazoned on his chest made his way towards the middle of the field atop a great black horse. His helmet was adorned with a simple, golden crown.

As soon as the trumpets signaled the beginning of the fight, Lannister and Tyrell charged ahead with murderous intent. The Dragon King did not move, waiting for them to come at him. The rains had the ground drenched and black water splattered everywhere as hooves dug deep on their charge.

The harder they pushed, the deeper their horses became entangled in the pools of black until they could advance no longer. Pulling as hard as they could on the reins, the knights tried to get their horses to move onward but all they managed was to cause them to slip, as they held on for dear life.

That was when the king fell upon them, punishing their pride and treachery. He drove his great black beast straight in between his two adversaries and moved swiftly, his sword arm striking again and again against their feeble attempts. Lord Olymer was the first to fall, as a wilted flower might drop from a shrub when the king used all his might to strike him in the chest. He used the length of his sword, wounding the lord’s pride more than his ribs as he came tumbling face first to the ground.

Such a shame, the princess thought smiling as Lord Tyrell struggled to stand up, mud dripping from his head. He was so very proud of his hair.

Ser Tywald proved a worthier opponent, managing to strike the king’s left arm as he turned to face him. His long sword left a gash in the armor and to the princess’ horror a thin stream of blood trickled from the slash.

As if it could sense this moment of vulnerability, the dragon appeared once more, circling the field, his song louder and harder than the day before. But it did not matter. The king payed it no minf as his sword clashed with Ser Tywald’s. As he pushed back against the Lannister’s brute force, the princess could not help but take pride at the thought that it had been her kiss that had given him the strength to fight as ably as he did.

It only took a small skirmish for the lion to attempt an ill-fated retreat. The king pursued him to the edge of the field of battle, striking him down in front of his own tent.

He rode his horse at leisure back towards the dais where the princess sat, while the crowd watched silently, some unsure of how to react, others, undoubtedly, disappointed at the loss of gold that they had incurred with the defeat of their champion.

But as the king passed in front of them, it was the Dragon Queen that rose to her feet to stare him down. Sansa’s breath hitched in her throat at the violent expression in her eyes and the fire that assuredly burned on the inside, threatening to overcome her.

“That is enough! Dismount!” the queen commanded, in a thunderous tone and as mighty and strong as the king was, it took only those words for him to submit.

“Lay down your sword and kneel!”

If the princess had any hopes that he might refuse, they were soon dashed as her king laid his sword on the ground and fell to his knees, as limply as a puppet cut off from its strings.

“Seize him!” she ordered at last.

Get up. Run! the princess urged wordlessly but it was no use. He remained kneeling on the ground, as if chained in place while the queen smiled victoriously. From the stands, guards rushed to the field ready to take him away. And he would have gone with them, as a lamb might go to slaughter, if she had not spoken.

“My queen,” she said. “The knight is attending the tourney under guest rights.”

The dragon queen turned to look at her then, suspicion and surprise etched on her face.

“No knight that attends this tourney,” she went on, addressing the guards, “may be taken unless he has committed a crime. To break guest rights is a grievous sin, sers.”

The queen had changed many things in the realm once she had conquered it, but she could not change men’s hearts or fears. They all knew the princess spoke the truth and were reluctant to damn themselves over a foolish knight whose only crime had been to wear a crown.

Angry, the queen turned on her heels and left. But once the crowds were dismissed and the princess made her way back to the castle, she came at her, probing and asking so many questions that it became all too clear that she had guessed the knight’s true identity. She, once again, sent her men to search for him. This time they went further than in search of the fool. The Last Hearth itself they reached but could find no traces of him.

When she arrived safely back to her chambers, the guards heavy on her heels, the queen’s words still rang in the princess’ ears. Why would he wear the colors of my own house and pretend himself a Dragon King unless to defy me? She feared for his safety and her own but the fragrance of the winter rose called to her as sweetly as a lover’s whisper and her nerves quieted as she found it laid on the desk before her.

She readied herself for the night in a dress of misty blue silk, adorned with rubies as would befit an audience with a King. When she was done, she took the rose and pricked her finger without hesitation, for now she knew that no magic ever came without a cost.

The small droplet of blood disappeared through the petal folds and in its stead a fine golden dust rose. It settled on her chest, her neck, it ran down her arms as gentle as summer rain, pooling on the ground beneath and rising once more until it formed a cloak of glittering gold, more magnificent than any cloth the princess had ever seen.  

The moon was already high up in the sky as she glided through the castle as swiftly and silently as a ghost. Past the guards singing a bawdy song and the kitchen maids fetching water for the guests she went, until she entered the Great Hall.

The music rang loudly and people danced all around her, spinning and jumping heartily, bathed in the golden light of the iron wrought braziers. The princess carried a sad sort of smile looking at the happy faces of young girls being picked up by their suitors and spun into the air, her heart longing to feel such lightness again. At the long tables the high lords sat, fat and satisfied, as they feasted on choice meats and roasted vegetables and the cup bearers filled their mugs with ale.

The cloak did not allow her to dwell, however, whisking her away outside, through the court yard. The rain poured all around her making her cloak glisten in the moonlight but she did not feel it. As the Broken Tower came closer into view and she saw the flickering candle perched in the window, she found her heart beating to the rhythm of the distant drums of the Great Hall she had left behind.

The long walk up the stairs felt like an eternity but finally she arrived back in the rounded room. As she walked towards the window, the darkness and the movement of her shadow upon the wall did not frighten her as much as it had done the night before. Nor did she call out for she could see the shape moving in the darkness just in front of her.

The King stepped into the pale moonlight, the simple crown still atop his head and gazed upon her, his posture hard and his eyes burning aflame. Her breath hitched in her throat at the sight of him. His hair was slick with rain and his beard covered in shimmering water drops. She longed to run her fingers through the curls at the back of his neck, trace the skin upon his fair face with her fingers but his fiery, red eyes gave her pause.

“Who are you?” she asked, breathless.

“I am Aegon Targaryen,” he said.  “The rightful King of the Seven Kingdoms.”

“Why are you here?”

“Because I made a choice and that choice was taken from me. Winterfell was my home once. There was no place in the world I loved more. No other place where I wanted to be and I swore that once the war was over, I would never leave it again. But on the last night I was here, the queen came at me as I lay in bed. She said that, as punishment for deceiving her and taking her dragon, she would take something from me. I did not know what she meant then ...”

Tears pricked the princess’ eyes as she remembered the Dragon Queen hovering over his weakened and burnt body. She had sent her away from the room with a curt command but she has lingered behind the door, fearing the queen might hurt him. She could have never imagined that a few hours later, he would rise from the bed and follow her South without so much as a farewell.

“When morning came and she told me I was to come with her, I found that I could not refuse her, my body and my mind no longer my own.”

As his words registered, relief overcame her. He had not left her after all. Not willingly at least. Her heart leapt as she asked: “What do you want of me?”

“Only what you are willing to give,” he said, his voice tinged with hope. “Will you come away with me? Be my queen and the whole of Westeros will kneel at your feet.”

Part of her wanted to go to him then, curtsy as she had been taught to do as soon as she could walk and thank him for the honor of his proposal. But her feet would not move and she bowed her head sadly. “You are as brave as you are noble, Your Grace. But I am Sansa Stark, blood of the North and of the First Men. I cannot be a Dragon’s queen.”

His eyes closed sadly against her implacable words. “She knows who I am now,” he said. “Grant me your kiss so I might fight on.”

That she would do gladly for he was never meant to be chained. As she approached him, she remembered their last night together, the specks of ash that had come out of the queen’s breath and the way he had rubbed at his left eye all through the night, until it turned red and swollen.

Her hand cupped his cheek then and he leaned into her touch just enough for her knees to go weak. She kissed his eyelid softly and tenderly, feeling him tremble beneath her touch. A single black tear fell upon his cheek and when he opened his eyes, the fire in them had been extinguished.

She smiled for she recognized those eyes now: warm and kind, gentle pools of brown and amber that gazed upon her so intently as to make her quiver.

“Thank you, my lady,” he said, bowing to her. “Will you grant me your song if I am victorious on the morrow?”

Her voice was but an uncertain whisper: “Good fortunes, Your Grace.”  

She lifted her hood and gave herself over to the cloak that carried her back to her chambers. She had wanted to be queen once and wear a beautiful crown upon her head, sitting on the left side of her beloved King and husband. But as magnificent as the Dragon King was and even as the feel of his warm skin lingered on her lips, it was not he that the princess wanted.

During the night, the first of the summer snows fell. By morning, the field was covered in a heavy blanket of white. All the world, it seemed, had fallen still and quiet as the lords and ladies huddled in their furs for warmth, waiting for the final battle to commence. The queen shivered on her throne, her face barely concealing the discomfort.

The princess, however, did not mind the cold. She looked around in wonderment at the thin sheets of ice that formed upon the wooden stands, the icicles dripping from the canopies and the pure white snows of her childhood memories that glittered in the sunlight so beautifully. It was all so perfect that she thought it an enchantment.

Soon her untouched snow was tainted by heavy hooves marking the ground as Ser Harrold Hardyng advanced, dressed in his polished steel armor and helmet adorned with the falcon and the half-moon sigil of his house. Proud and tall he stood upon the field as he waited for his opponent.

When the man showed, he was no longer fool nor king. He was a warrior drabbed in a simple armor of stiff brown leather, save for his steel breast plate marked by two direwolf heads facing each other. His head was uncovered for all to see him, his hair tightly pulled at the back but none of the lords in attendance seemed to take note of it.

No one but the princess and the queen knew him and while one regarded him with warm, blue eyes, the other burned and seethed with barely contained rage.

As soon as the trumpets rang, the two men charged at each other, swords unsheathed. When they clashed in the middle of the field, the ringing of their steel pierced through the air as thunderbolts. They circled each other again and again, hitting shield and sword alike, in a dangerous dance that had the princess terrified.

When Ser Harrold pushed his sword forward it landed inches away from the warrior’s cheek and it became hard for her to breathe. Thankfully, he jerked his horse at just the right moment, avoiding the blow and quickly striking hard against Ser Harrold’s shield.

So hard was the blow, that the Vale knight’s shield broke in two and he staggered back loosening his grip on the reins of his horse. As the warrior came at him again, the animal spooked and rose on his back legs to defend himself, sending the Young Falcon to the ground unceremoniously, his helmet flying off his head.

The audience gasped at this sudden turn of events. Was the tourney over? they wondered. Their favorite had been dismounted and yet they were not prepared to give up their claim.

The princess’ rejoiced, preparing to stand up at once and declare the warrior the victor of the tourney and of her hand but, as always with brave men, things were never simple for the women that loved them.

A moment passed and the warrior dismounted. “Stand up, my lord,” he commanded. “I will not let a horse claim my victory.”

Bewildered, Ser Harrold scrambled to his feet, retrieving his sword from the snow. The warrior waited until the knight was good and ready but when he finally came at him, he parried his attack with ease, striking at the sword and swiftly moving out of the way as the Falcon drifted forward, hitting at air. Again and again, he tried to catch him but his sword met only the falling snow.

Only when he tired, his sword heavy as lead in his hand, did the warrior strike back. His response was hard and brutal. The white wolf pummel of his great Valyrian sword hit Ser Harrold flush in the stomach and he fell to his knees. He stood over him and asked: “Do you yield, Ser?”

The Young Falcon still had some fight in him and he stood up, on trembling legs, pushing forward with a loud grunt. So weak was his assault that the warrior pushed him back with one arm while the length of his sword hit at his calves sending the knight on his knees once more.

He placed the tip of his sword against Ser Harrold’s neck, forcing him to look up. “Do you yield?”

The proud lord’s eyes still held the look of defiance about them but when the warrior lifted his sword, meaning to strike him again, he grew desperate enough to lift his hands and scream. “I yield!” he said, terrified. “I yield!”

Ser Harrold was spared that final blow and the warrior lowered his sword slowly, before turning to face the princess.

Even from the distance, she could feel his eyes upon her, warm and full of longing and she smiled wildly. He had come back to her and she would never more be alone.

She wanted to ran down to him that very moment, embrace him and welcome him home but before she could do just that, the queen spoke out, in a hard cruel tone.

“That was quite the performance,” she said. “But the time for tomfoolery is over, ser. Kneel!”

The warrior stood still, his frame proud and unbending. “The only queen I plan on bending my knee to sits beside you,” he said.

“Why have you come here?” she barked. “What do you want?”

“I want only what was promised,” the warrior said, looking at the princess. “Lady Stark’s hand in marriage.”

A cruel smile spread across the queen’s face. “But that is impossible, ser. You are not worthy of such an honor.”

As her bannermen joined the queen in voicing their protests, the princess stood up quickly and faced them. “I have made a pledge, my lords, that the man who won the tourney would become my lord and husband. Upon my word as a Stark, I will honor that pledge!”

Her bannermen came at her then, speaking and whispering in her ear. “You must reconsider, my lady,” they said. “This man is not worthy of you. Who is he to deserve such a prize?”

“Do you not remember, my lords?” she said, smiling tenderly at her warrior. “He was your king once. He ended the Long Night and saved you and your children from the army of the dead.” With pleading eyes, she beseeched them: “Do not forsake us now, my lords, as we did not forsake you.”

But the bannermen were blind to their lady’s entreatments, all memory of the warrior long gone from their minds. “This man is nothing to us,” they said.

“Listen to your lords, child,” the queen said, her cruel smile still dancing upon her lips. “This man is nothing but a cur and a liar. It was surely deceit that won him the tourney.”

“The queen speaks truth,” the lords agreed. “It must have been his vile tricks that defeated the brave Ser Harrold. Otherwise how could one like him win against the Lord Paramount of the Vale?”

The princess could barely contain her disgust at the treachery of her vassals. Her last hope rested with the Young Falcon and she turned to the man who stood upon the field, still doubled over from the blows the warrior had handed him. “Is this true, Ser Harrold? Were you defeated by tricks and deceit?”

The Falcon hesitated for a moment but when he looked up at her, his face was a mask. “It is, my lady. I am quite certain of it.”

She swallowed back the bile at his untrue words and she regarded him coldly. “I had always thought you an honorable man, ser. I see now that I was mistaken.”

“I am sorry to hear of your low opinion of me,” he said, standing up straighter, his dull, blue eyes filled with pride. “I hope that once we are married, I will be able to remedy that.”

The princess swore as loud as she could that she would never marry him but the queen’s power seemed stronger than her will. “The lady is tired,” she announced, signaling her guards to come for the princess. “Please see her safely back to her chambers. She must make ready for her betrothal to Ser Harrold tonight.”

As the guards grabbed hold of her, her bannermen stood to the side and allowed them to drag her from the stands.

Only her brave warrior spoke out. “Unhand her!” he commanded and unsheathed his sword, running towards the dais.

“He means to attack the princess!” the queen shouted for all to hear. “Stop him!”

Before he had managed to reach the stands, soldiers and lords alike ran towards the field, intent on capturing him. As she was being dragged away, the princess looked back. Run, she thought. Run!

The warrior hesitated for a moment but, as she slipped further and further from his grasp, he finally turned and ran back towards his horse.

She could hear the clicking of steel as he fought to get away from the field and through the corner of her eye, she saw him ride away, as the queen’s men gave chase.

The princess did not struggle against the vice like grip of rough hands that dug into her flesh, when the guards pulled her back towards the castle. It did not matter now. They could lock her up behind a hundred walls. A thousand locks they could put on the doors. It did not make a difference. When night came, she would go to him and he would be waiting for her.

The sun had already set when the guards pushed her inside her chambers and instructed her to make ready for the feast. Unable to wait a moment longer, she went to her desk and picked up the blue rose that had been left for her. She caressed the petals gently before pushing her finger against one of the small thorns peppered along its stem. She let the drop of blood fall unto the silky folds, leaving a trace of red upon the blue as it slided downward.

She waited for the magic of the rose to rise and engulf her but as moments turned into hours, tears feel on the petals where the blood had once been.

Cry as hard as she could and stare at it for as long as she did, the rose still would not yield. There is no magic left, she thought, bitterly. She had healed his hand and his eye, lifted his curses and he had given her but a rose for her troubles.

When the guards pushed the door open, they found her sitting on her bed, dressed in her maiden clothes. Dutifully she had labored for months on them, with an unwilling hand. The heavy light grey cloth of her dress rustled and moved as she stood up, the weirwood branches embroidered on the skirts, glittering in the candle light from the mother of pearl beads she had patiently sown into the stitching.

Upon her shoulders she wore her maiden cloak. It was not cloth of silver or gold, but the white furs that encircled her neck gave her a dignified pure look that queens would envy. A large direwolf head was embroidered with silver thread upon the back, so determined was the princess that she should walk a Stark to her unwanted wedding. And in her hands she still held the small blue rose. It burnt her, scorned her and yet she could not let go of it.

As the guards escorted her to the Great Hall, her feet dragged upon the stone floor like a prisoner before an execution. But walk she did, holding her head high, her face still and quiet, unwilling to show her pain.

The queen and her bannermen had taken great pains that night to turn the austere Stark hall into a truly joyful, lavish place. Sumptuous silks had been placed upon the long tables and the chairs were decorated with wreaths of pine and winter flowers. Guests feasted on exquisite golden plates filled with delicacies brought from all corners of the seven kingdoms and so many candles had been lit that the whole room seemed bathed in warm light. The best minstrels in the North had been commissioned to play that night and their sweet songs filled the Great Hall, beckoning the guests to dance and swoon to the rhythm of lute and drums.

But as the princess was made to sit on the left side of Ser Harrold, the man whom others had proclaimed to be her betrothed, she found no beauty in any of the finery. Stiff she sat, feeling as if it was all but a cruel joke, one to be enjoyed at her expense. And none was more hateful to her than her betrothed. Proud and fawning as a peacock, he laughed and cheered with the lords around him, looking back at her from time to time with dull, blue eyes.

She turned her face from him, staring blankly ahead, not wanting to look upon his lying lips or think of what would come once morning broke.

The feast went on and the guests began to forget that she was even there. Her mind drifted as she aimlessly toyed with the rose in her hands, bruising her fingers but feeling nothing at all. Her thoughts turned to the Broken Tower where the fool and the king had waited for her, imploring her to come away with them.

Will you grant me your song, he had said. It was the one question she had not answered. I don’t know any songs. But she had known them once … A long time ago, her heart had been filled with them.

His question lingered in her mind, melding to the tune of the minstrels. Your song … grant me …Will you grant me your song?

Her feet seemed to know what to do before her mind did and she stood up, drawing the attention of the guests on her. Slowly the music died down as she made her way to the center of the hall. She looked up at the minstrels, sitting in their alcove. “The Winter rose,” she said.

The soft, winding tune began and for a moment she feared her voice would break but as she began to sing, a steady, crystal clear sound came out, so sweet and tender as to make grown men weep.

The spring was clear and it was here

Where Bael took his lady of the Winter

Her spirit wild, heart of a child yet gentle still

And quiet and mild and he loved her

 As her song began in earnest, the fragrant smell of the rose she was holding began to rise and float about the room. It settled on the silky table cloths and on the choice meats. Men ate it from their plates, and drank it with their ale, breathed it in their lungs. So sweet a flavor it was that they could not get enough.

And he would say:

“Promise me, when you see

A blue rose, you’ll come to me.

I love you so, never let go.

You will be my Winterfell rose”

 Lulled by the princess’ song, they stretched their limbs and laid back in their chairs. Even when the minstrels’ instruments began to creak and then fell silent, they did not notice. Their arms grew heavy and they sighed in contentment.

When all was done, he turned to run

Fading with the rising sun, as she watched him.

And ever more she thought she saw

A glimpse of him upon the snows forever.

 The princess’ voice grew stronger and bolder, like the gleeful song of a skylark in spring and she smiled as she saw her bannermen and all the queen’s men stretching out before her, heads on tables, drifting blissfully to sleep. The queen herself struggled to remain awake but finally gave in, her head gently laying against her pale white arms, an innocent, childlike expression on her face.

And she would say:

“Promise me, when you see

A blue rose, you’ll come for me.

I loved you so, a long time ago,

When I was your Winterfell rose.”

 Her voice echoed through the silent Hall long after her song had finished. All around her, the lords and ladies of Winterfell lay on the stone floors, spread out in their finery. Guards had fallen asleep on their posts, servants had laid down their serving trays and huddled in corners. On her golden throne, the queen slept, sighing from time to time as if in the midst of a sweet, summer dream.

 The princess pulled the hood of the furred cloak over her head and ran out of the Great Hall. In the court yard, squires and stable boys, horses and dogs alike slept in the frozen hay and not a sound was heard, save for the snoring of the dragon, coiled atop the Hunter’s Gate.

 Man and beast mattered not to the winter rose. All of the North slept that night as the princess ran towards the Broken Tower, gentle snowflakes dancing all around her, guiding her way.

 As she came upon the tower, she looked up towards the last window, expecting to see the candle flickering. But the window was dark and for a moment a sharp jolt rumbled in her stomach. It wasn’t until she heard the snicker of a horse, that her senses return to her. She ran, encircling the tower until she found him on the other side. He stood dressed in his brown leather armor, the sigil of their house still upon his breast as he gently patted his horse.

 When he heard the scrunching of the snow, he turned around and finally gazed upon her. His face lit up in such happiness that the princess felt as if his eyes alone could keep her warm and safe for the rest of her life. His arms stretched out and he ran half way towards her before she stepped back, smiling at him demurely.

 “Don’t I get three questions?” she asked.

 He stopped in his tracks, his arms falling at his sides but an easy smile rested upon his face and his eyes glimmered as he answered: “Of course, my lady.”

 “Who are you?”

 “I am Jon Snow, the Bastard of Winterfell.”

 “Why are you here?”

 “I am here for you,” he answered, his voice strangled with longing. “You are my heart and no man can live without his heart.”

 “What do you want of me?”

 “Only what you are willing to give.” He came closer then, talking all the while in a low, hushed tone that made her tremble with joy. “Will you come away with me? I have no lands or titles but if you will have me, I will spend the rest of my life loving you.”

 Tears fell down her face as he came to wipe them away, his warm callused fingers gently tracing down her cheeks. “I am Sansa Stark, the Daughter of Winterfell,” she said.  “I have no need of lands or titles as long as I have you.”

 He sighed a ragged breath dropping his forehead to touch her own while his hands cupped her face. “Will you let me kiss you then?” he asked. “As you did on that last night?”

 She closed her eyes and nodded slowly, remembering the sweet taste of his lips on the night before he left when he had told her he was hers forever. He sealed his promise to her once more, as he tasted her lips, melting the snowflakes off her skin. He lingered in his gentle kiss until she felt weak in the knees and her hands wrapped tightly around his neck to pull him close, the blue rose she was clutching falling upon the snows. She made a promise of her own then. She would never let him go again.

 When morning came and the people of Winterfell awoke, the North remembered. They remembered their brave king and the Three Eyed Raven and how they had ended the Long Night. In vain they searched for their beloved princess and her warrior and great was their sorrow when they could not be found.

 None was as sorrowful as the queen, however, and none as angry in their grief. Her guards were dispatched across the seven kingdoms to find the lovers but none ever came back with news of them. So great was her fury that she took to her dragon and bathed Winterfell in fire, knocking down its white walls, flinging open its gates, raining blazing storms upon it until it fell in ruins and ash.

 But try as hard as she might, she could not bring down the Broken Tower. The place that had been her bane and her shame stood proud against her dragon’s flames and from the snows where the princess’ rose had fallen, strong, thick vines spread across the stone, blue roses blooming from fire and ice.

 From that day until this day, the blue roses bloom in Winterfell and, as long as they are here, the North will always remember,” he said, at last, dropping another kiss to her fingers as he finished his story.

 His voice still held her in its spell and she was unwilling to break it just yet. “And what of the princess and her warrior?”

 “All traces of them disappeared from Westeros but, further into the North, in the Lands of Always Winter, the free folk still tell stories about them. Of how they hid them in their caves and warmed them at their fires and how on a winter’s day, much like this one, their king, Tormund Giantsbane, took them to the place where the last remaining weirwood tree stood, to be married.”

 “So they lived happily ever after?”

 “They did.”

 “That’s nice,” she finally said, her arms curling around his waist. Her head rested against his chest and she hummed. “I liked this story.”

 He pressed a kiss to her forehead and held her close. When they parted, he stretched out his hand and plucked one of the blue roses from the tower’s vines. Carefully he picked off all the thorns before placing it in her hair. “The blue looks pretty with your red hair,” he said.

 She rewarded him with a wide smile and grabbed him by the waist again as they began to walk away from the tower. “Let’s go home, Jon,” she said.

In their wake, a chink of ice fell from where Jon had picked the flower and a new blue rose bloomed to take its place, filling the air with sweetness.

* a final disclaimer on this: I’m absolute crap at poetry! I can’t write it, my brain explodes when I attempt the simplest of rhymes but I really, really wanted Sansa to sing in this and I wanted to show what she was singing. So I used the song below as inspiration and just changed a few words around to fit with the story of Bael the Bard. So I essentially used it wholesale! :))))

Please check it out. It’s a beautiful song and Ritchie Blackmore is a freaking genuis!

[lady-o-ren]

The Hunger of My Heart

To those odd fellows who are not shackled by all-consuming desires, their hearts never ripped apart to fester hopelessly from that gaping rotting wound, days passed by unremarkably in their small quiet lives. 

 Never were they beckoned to a strange old apothecary's cottage disguised from their untroubled eyes as nothing more than an abandoned building - fraught with weeds and rampant with decay. Only the weary-hearted in need of the impossible to heal their sorrows could see and beg a wish of the mistress who lived there. A healer with a supernatural gift only as great as her spirit's eternal light. 

 However, a wish for her skills always comes at a price. An exchange of something precious from the desperate soul. 

 Nothing more, nothing less.

 And today she had a visitor who paced and paced outside her gates of slate, his bleary eyes disturbed as a mourning sea.

 ———

 Past the facade that shrouded the apothecary from prying eyes, was a surrounding, endless garden thriving wild as a forest, where all that grew reached up, up to soak in the golden rays of the cloudless spring sun. Even the young apprentice, Elias Pound, kneeled with a spade digging through the verdant earth, found himself high in spirits despite his nose twitching as a hare's from the inquisitive dragonflies dancing on the wind.

 He kindly swatted away at their shimmery beating wings, back to his task of rooting for the treasures buried deep with the earthworms, when his hand came dangerously close to a patch of prickly violet plants that stirred in anticipation for his blunder to be their gain. Before he could move another inch closer the lad felt a touch, warning and familiar at his shoulder. 

 The mistress of light. 

 Simply clad in a thin white button-down rolled up her slender forearms and tucked into her well-loved trousers, stitched here and there from age. Further down she wore a pair of shoes that had never known a day without a stroll through the grass, while her hair was an entity unto itself, curling warm as a halo about her face.

 "Careful with those," Claire cautioned, with a gentle squeeze of his shoulder, and crouched down beside her apprentice to the dirt that was like her second skin but her heart was owned by the wild around them.

 "The juice from a split stalk will slowly eat away at your skin, baring the white of your bones."

 Withdrawing his hand to his dirtied lap, wide-eyed Elias curiously studied the dangerous plant that smelled of citrus, tangy and crisp. "Why grow such a wretched plant at all then?" 

 "Because too many folk in the early days of ale and mead knew its leaves held a cure for a bruising hangover and squandered it, leaving the earth barren of its name and very nearly its seed except for here in this patch of earth." 

 She fondly thumbed the fuzzy underside of one sharp-edged leaf that had saved her from many a dark and pleasurable bender.

 "They also keep the vermin and insects away but sadly not the untrained eye." Claire gave the lad a pointed, yet not unkind look of reprimand. "Keep to your studies, Elias, if you value your fingers."

 "I shall, mistress," the lad assured her with a nod, as his round freckled cheeks pinked under a mop of russet hair. The color deepened as he sputtered a chuckle when Claire thumped him, shoulder to shoulder, at the title he addressed her by. 

 As he forever would do no matter the years, decades. A century or two. 

 When his mistress kept herself perched beside him, taking inventory of his withy basket filled with heaps of medicinal herbs and pungent wild garlic (along with a bitty red ladybug roving lost atop them), Elias wondered aloud, 

 "Wasn't Mr. Fraser supposed to call on you today, mistress?" 

 Mr. Fraser was a friend of hers that had kindled months before and was never one to keep the lady of the house waiting.

 Before she could answer where Elias would hear the disquiet in her voice, note the concern in her eyes, a bell clear as birdsong echoed through the air, signaling the company in question had arrived. 

 Claire rose from the ground as if she'd been plucked by the breeze and quirked a brow at her apprentice, a faint smile at her mouth. "Do keep yourself in one piece, Elias. It'd be a shame to lose a fine hand such as yours." 

 He gave her a cheek grin, rubbing his nose with a sooted knuckle that painted him more speckled than he already was. "Don't bother a worry with me, mistress. And send my regards to your man for me."

 Claire ignored the last comment, if it was even heard, as she was already off towards the fading bell chime.

   _____

   Claire hurried down the hallway of her inheritance from long ago, the power enchanted within the apothecary walls having given her years beyond the promise of a creator high above. Where rooms were neatly cluttered with every curiosity that had ever caught her eye, itched at her hands, had the power to heal the human soul. 

 There were shelves enclosed with folding glass doors, twice the height of a man extending from floor to mahogany beamed ceilings. They held bottles of bitter thick liquids that could coat a mouth a frothy bluish-green, others sweet as fruit just tumbled from a vine, fallen from a tree. 

 Cabinets held charms big as a man's fists, smaller than thimbles, to ward against dark spirits that lurked in the shadows, stalking the unknowing until their touch was upon them, claiming flesh and mind. Mirrors too were scattered among the bric-a-brac of another room that gleamed reflections of other realms, and time, but draped with sheets to shield any unfortunate from falling through, leaving nothing but a wisping breath of who they once were behind.

 And one room left undisturbed held tear-stained belongings that had been sacrificed to purge a spirit of its relentless suffering. 

 As would be done today.

 Claire slowed her stride to gather breath to lungs, combing from her cheeks a tickling of errant curls. She had cut her hair a bit too short, above her proud shoulders, during an impulsive battle of struggle and defeat where she broke several brushes to a shamble of splinters. 

 Her Mr. Fraser - Jamie, had to coax her from her room and at first sight fondly tugged her dark locks, promising they were lovely still. 

 "As a tangled bushel of curly dock weeds," he had said, provokingly with a snort. Claire had flicked his nose in glaring retaliation (even as she was mildly impressed he recalled any of her chatter on the botanical), then readied her elbow for a jabbing as his wide mouth pursed for another compliment that sputtered into rib-shaking laughter.

 However, that joyful tease in his lilting voice had been smothered to a haunted rasp when days after he called upon her at the solemn hour of dawn's first light.

 "I beg for yer hand to heal me, Claire. To bleed my misery, gift me peace."

 Unspoken was the why and reason when questioned from her tightened throat. The call falling dead when uttered that she would do all that was possible for him.

 Claire vowed to do just that as she turned a final corner to the front of her shop that doubled as her home, finding Jamie faced away from her, edged over the long oak countertop. He was rigid as stone from shoulder to toe, except for his fingers tapping a raving beat against the hardwood until he heard his name whispered, breaking his anxious trance to glance her way.

 His eyes, rimmed with bruising shadows, were a fleeting rush of mingled relief and fear, with a flicker of intensity undefinable. Then gone behind a mask of stillness cracking at the seams as he averted his gaze to the empty space between them. 

 Claire felt the whole of her seize to see Jamie sickened with such an affliction and a chest gnawing guilt that she, a healer, hadn't seen the signs of distress before now. And that he didn't trust her with his woe before it came to this. 

 At her approach, she raised a palm to touch him - whether it be his hand soothed between hers or to clutch her dearest friend with all she had until his ill seeped to herself - only to let it falter to her chest as the very motion caused Jamie to clench his jaw and flinch. 

 Another crack breaching his mask. 

 He bowed his head in apology, waves lusterless as rust and Claire's own features gentled in response, wanting to appear unfazed.

 "You're late." She tried to sound casual enough. "Not having second thoughts are you?"

 "No," was Jamie's curt and raspy reply. "If ye please, I would like to be rid of this -" He tapped a long forefinger to his temple. "Now and forever."

 Claire inclined her head, resisting the urge to thread her arm with his. A habit from their first stumbled upon meeting, a ritual now rebuked. 

 "Of course, come with me."

 She led Jamie to a room that was nearly wall to wall windows, obscured by plants hanging from the walls and wooden rafters that filled the room with the fragrance of herbs and jasmine flowers. Claire held the arched door open for Jamie to pass through but he paused at the doorway and questioned,

 "Is the lad wi' ye today?"

 Claire assured him they would have no interruptions as Elias was in the garden. "Probably singeing his poor fingers as we speak and rueing the day he ever crossed my path."

 She hoped to spark a chuckle, no matter how small, to lessen his gloom, but Jamie merely strode past her (mouth pressed into a numbing white line, ducking low to avoid a smack from the doorframe), sitting at the small round table in the middle of the room. In the past the two had tea there, possibly spiked with a heavy hand of brandy, whisky more often than not, telling each other's fortunes of fantastic demise and toothless hunchbacked lovers from grubby leaf bottoms and the crumbled bits of chocolate biscuits.

 All that dressed it now were brown bits of flower petals.

 Taking her seat across Jamie (his attention absorbed in the wood grain of the old table), and needing to dispel the disturbance clinging to him, Claire began her speech recited thousands of times before to those like himself.

 And once spoken to her by the old master of the apothecary, her own Maitre Raymond, when she sat in his very seat.

 "Your thoughts are yours alone. The memories, good and bad, are protected from my sight. But I can feel them, all that plagues you. You only need to free your mind to be healed." 

 The words sinking in, Jamie flicked his dour gaze uneasily to hers.

 "I have yer word I willna remember all that ails me, Sassenach?" The name he gave her that filled along forgotten hollowness beneath her breasts.

 "I promise. Even if I must rip its possession of you." 

 So with a heavy exhale, Jamie pulled from inside his coat's breast pocket a small cherrywood snake. He rubbed his thumbs against the ridges carved down its coiled spine with a reverence that one would give to a holy cross and deep from his throat said something haltingly in gaelic (Claire thought it must be a goodbye) then laid the snake carefully between them.

 "To honor the mistress of the house."

 Claire wished she could refuse him but she was bound to the rules of give and take carved in the wood of the house. All she could do was give it the same reverence as Jamie, her fingers gingerly stroking it from head to tail. Memories flooded her senses, ones spent frolicking in glades, hiding in barns beneath the hay, shivering to the bone in unforseen rain.

 But brightest of all was of a departed brother's love carved on the flat underbelly of the snake, a name her fingers softly traced. 

 Sawny

 Swallowing thickly, Claire gently placed it aside and held her palms up. Jamie noted with an aching affection streaks of green, scented strongly of mint, marked a few of her fingertips. 

 "I'll need to touch you now. It's the only way for me to do what must be done. " 

 Color finally flushing his pallid skin, Jamie breathed almost shyly, "Ye may. It wouldna be proper if I were to go wi'out smelling like yer wee herbs."

 They shared a smile, however small, as Jamie's gone in a flash.

 Without thought, needing to be near him, Claire pushed her chair closer to his (not missing the sharp inhale that left his mouth) and tentatively cradled his face where she couldn't help but stroke against the scarred lines of restlessness. Beneath his greyed eyes under long lashes, down to the stubbled thin cheeks stretched tightly over sharp curving bone, and then the corner of his wide mouth that twitched, parting softly in a haggard sigh. Or was it a sob?

 Jamie was quick to brace her wrists.

 "There's nothing to fear, Jamie," Claire soothed, her breath of honey, tang of whisky, kissing at his lips. "Trust in me to care for you." 

 He managed to muster a half smile, crooked and true, but his gaze of her was mournful. Regretful even. "I always do, Sassenach. Always." 

 But he kept his grip on her that whitened his knuckles and she refused to let him see the worry creeping up every notch of her vertebrae as she pressed her thumbs to his temples. "Now, focus on the source of the pain."

 Jamie's eyes fluttered closed and Claire delved into his mind with a touch that glowed just as the flowers of devotion, a radiant forget-me-not blue.

 She was enveloped with the pieces of him that blared like the mighty sun - That bull-headed stubbornness. The bone deep loyalty of a knight. His insufferable sense of humor, vexing her even as she bubbled over with laughter. And Jamie's pure hearted goodness, so forgiving and impossibly kind. 

 Oh, how she admired him so. 

 But underneath that beautiful aura, Claire felt an agonizing blood red pain slashing apart his flesh, crying out in despair that misted her eyes as her hand fell to his breast, clasping the source of it all.

 A burning heart so divine in love. 

 "Oh, Jamie."

 His eyes flew open in gut clenching panic. "You said ye couldna see."

 "I can't. I only feel what consumes you and I do as if it were my own heartbeat throbbing, shattering." Her pulse was indeed rising with his dizzying passion, hunger and such unspeakable love blazing like wildfire. 

 "How can this person not reciprocate?" Her voice cracked.

 Jamie lowered his chin and covered both his broad palms over hers making the fragile bones quiver from the mounting pressure as he pressed them against his hammering heart, slowly killing him.

 "She kens nothing of how I feel, nor could she ever bless me with what I yearn to have. She haunts my every dream to where I fear to sleep. I canna breathe when I see her, am near her - even if I only think of her my heart's blood leaves me as if to perish."

 Mouth twisting in pain he whimpered, "Now please free my soul of her. "

 Claire dug her nails through his shirt, swallowing the salty sting of tears.

 "You will feel a coldness towards this woman. No love or warmth will she ever be to you. You'll remember her but she will hold the same place as a stranger in your heart. Can you handle that?"

 "That's what I want. What I need." Tears freely trickled down his wasted face and Claire knew that no words would sway him. Pressing her forehead to his, she sought once more to grasp that wild perfect flame he wanted her to smother.

 "Speak her name aloud."

 Jamie pressed his trembling thumbs to the jumping pulse at her wrists, breathing once, then other and once more again, he sobbed.

 "Sorcha."

 "A pretty name who will be no more to you."

_____

I rewrote another thing. And I honestly could rewrite this forever and ever and ever.

I don’t know if I made it better or worse.

Thanks to @smashing-teacups for giving this a look-see.

[whatdoyouthinkmyjobis]

Hunters on the Hellmouth

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AN: Originally, Hunters on the Hellmouth was 42 chapters, but I decided to cut the final chapter in two. Inspired by events in BTVS 7.21 “End of Days,” SPN 5.19 “Hammer of the Gods,” SPN 5.20 “The Devil You Know,” and SPN 5.21 “Two Minutes to Midnight.”  Here’s a cheat sheet for keeping track of the Potentials. Warning: Character death.

Chapter 42: A Thing with Feathers

The flowers stung Bobby. In movies, the end of the world meant a barren wasteland of ash and rock, skeletal trees, failed crops. In reality -- both in Sunnydale and Sioux Falls -- nature plugged along without a care for who was living or dying. Dandelions mocked sidewalks. Manicured lawns turned into thickets. Honeysuckle and morning glories swallowed the houses.

Karen’s flower beds had never grown back though. One spring in a fit of guilt, Bobby had even tried to restore them, but his own personal Apocalypse was too complete for nature.

The new, modern building before him had several blacked out windows and overgrown flower beds. The vampires inside probably weren’t interested in gardening, yet they’d still shown more of a green thumb than Bobby. The question was: How many vampires could the building hold?

Robin Wood stroked his goatee. “We ran around eight hundred students, plus staff.”

“Give or take a massacre,” Buffy added.

Bobby snorted, half amused, half horrified. Sunnydale High: a school on a Devil’s Gate.

“That don’t mean anythin’.” Bobby adjusted his cap to keep the sun out of his eyes. “That’s all crowd control and student-teacher ratios. Question is, how much space do vampires need? And how much shit will they put up with for Lucifer?”

Bobby had been busy since his boys took off. He had a whole new world to learn about after all, and Giles, Willow and the rest and proved themselves virtual libraries of information.

Thankfully, the street went two ways. Bobby had experimented with a few of his own monster-hunting tricks from back home. The things he’d learned would be useful in the upcoming battle. Not to mention, the several houses they’d taken over needed constant repairs, and his construction and engineering experience far outstripped that of Xander Harris.

So it was that Bobby found himself seriously considering blowing up a high school. “If this seal is all the way down in the basement with as many twists and turns as you say, there’s no way we can bend the sunlight inside.” Xander’s plan. “Daylight lamps would be a fool’s gamble. Best plan is to either cut a hole in the roof or blow the whole damn thing up.”

“Might as well,” Robin sighed. “If the board ever reconvenes, I’m pretty sure they’re firing my ass.”

“There’s no way they can blame you for this,” said Buffy.

The principal offered her an unconvincing smile. “You underestimate the power of bureaucracy. Someone is going to have to take the fall for this. When you blew up the last school, they simultaneously blamed it on a gas leak, shoddy wiring, and ‘the poor leadership of Principal Snyder.’”

When you blew up the last school.

Bobby knew his first impressions of Buffy -- lovesick and worried -- weren’t her whole identity. When Dean had looked at her, love melted his features, erasing the hard edge years of hunting had cut into him. With each passing day, Bobby saw that Buffy was fearless. She was decisive. And unlike most hunters he knew, Buffy was overflowing with love and connections.

Bobby’s lips curled into a smile. If they could close this Devil’s Gate, if they could trap Lucifer and Michael, if they won, his boy could have a happily ever after.

Assuming Dean came back.

It was like riding a comet, teeth-rattling at speeds that threatened to peel skin from bone. When the Winchesters landed, rolling across the overgrown Sunnydale lawns, Cas was already glowing, fissures of pale blue light criss-crossing his skin.

“Run!” the angel warned.

The brothers bolted toward Buffy’s little white house, some of the Potentials already streaming out to greet them.

“Get back inside!” Dean screamed. “He’s gonna blow!”

Dean took the downstairs, Sam the up, where they yanked people to the floor, shouting, “Cover your ears! Don’t look!”

A blinding light filled the house. Dean squeezed his eyes shut. Then a boom rattled the house, cracking a few windows.

“Everybody okay?” Dean asked as he got up from the floor.

“They’re alive!”

“Sam and Dean are back!”

“They killed Death!”

Ellen barreled out of the kitchen, eyes already wet with tears. “Don't scare me like that, boy.” She squeezed Dean then smacked him in the chest. “I came back to life, and then you took off without a how-do-you-do.”

“Good to see you, too, Ellen. Sam’s upstairs if you wanna slap him around.”

She smiled slyly and dropped her voice to a whisper. “And what the hell is this about you of all people havin’ a girlfriend?”

“Speaking of, where’s Buffy?” he asked, looking around.

“Out doing her hero thing. She’s a catch.”

He grinned. “I know.”

The smile faded quickly, however, as Dean headed outside, hoping against hope that the explosion hadn’t meant what he knew it meant.

He didn’t get very far before the sight of her stopped him in his tracks. She was across the street, eyes locked on him. All blonde hair, attitude, and a winning smile.

Jo Harvelle.

She bounded over to him, her smile growing ever brighter with each step, but she stopped just short of his reach. “Hey.” Jo looked him up and down. “You’re alive!”

“Same to you,” he said, giving her a bear hug.

Before she let go, Dawn, Xander and several Potentials piled on. Sam was the center of a similar hive lead by Willow and Giles. It was good to be back in Sunnydale, back in the packed house, back around his chosen family.

But the trip had not been free. Dean, Sam, and a curious entourage headed down the street where a block of houses were leveled. Those nearby were peppered with shrapnel, the windows broken, shingles missing. In the middle of it all, a red spot stained the street.

Giles inspected the mess before asking the Winchesters in a soft voice, “Is that your angel friend?”

“Technically, no,” said Sam. He pursed his lips as he surveyed the remains. “Cas used all of his energy to bring us here and, I guess, had nothing left to maintain his vessel. That, uh, spot was Jimmy Novak. Cas is somewhere in the ether.”

“The pretty angel is dead?!” one of the Potentials wailed.

Pretty? “No,” Dean said, needing to hear himself say it, “Castiel is fine. He just doesn’t have a vessel anymore.”

“Not much ‘elp as angel dust though.” Spike, not a part of the warm welcome crew, had quietly joined the crowd around the stain in the street. Lower, so only Dean could hear, Spike added, “I’ll take care of this. You’ve dealt with enough bodies.”

“Thanks,” Dean said. It felt wrong somehow, though. His friend, Castiel, was fine. Dean knew that in his gut. Jimmy Novak was a stranger. Another stranger who’d died helping him fight the fight. “We can burn the remains. Give Jimmy a proper hunter’s funeral.”

“Whatever you want, mate.”

“What about the Trickster?” asked Ellen.

“Dead,” said Dean.

Lucifer had found a crack between worlds he could slip through, though not with a vessel. The markings on their ribs broken, the Winchesters had been easy to track. Cas had fixed their warding, but it was too late. Lucifer was there in some Indiana no-tell motel slaughtering gods and angels alike. Though they were no longer trackable, Dean had no doubt Lucifer would soon be returning to his new playground in search of them.

“But you did the thing, right?” asked Spike. “You went to Mordor to get the rings?”

Andrew held up a finger in protest. “That’s not how --”

“Shut up,” Spike said.

Dean plucked two rings from his pocket and tossed them to Giles. “Collected all four.”

Willow leaned in by Giles and inspected the rings. “Huh, I expected some more all-powerful pizazz,” she said to no one.

Giles dropped the rings in Willow’s outstretched hands. Her hand immediately sizzled. She screamed and dropped them. “Power’s definitely on,” she said through gritted teeth.

Giles picked up the rings in a handkerchief. “Gabriel’s plan was to get the rings, allowing us to reopen Lucifer’s cage, correct?”

The Winchesters nodded.

“What’s the lure for our trap?” he continued.

“That’s the million dollar, life-or-death question,” Sam replied.

Robin slowed his car when they turned onto Revello Drive, now ground zero for an explosion. A cluster of people gathered in the street around what must have caused the blast.

Buffy bolted before the car stopped.

He was there. Tall and handsome as ever, standing on the edge of whatever was going on. Joy welled up inside her. Buffy was too choked up to even call his name.

Dean looked up and ran to her, picking her up as she leapt into his arms. She wrapped her legs around him, his strong arms cradling her thighs as she planted a kiss on his beautiful mouth. In his arms, she felt like they doubled, tripled in size to contain all the feelings tripping from her lips to his. They grew until they were giants. They grew until the world shrank away, all worries, all demands, all destinies became less than grains of sand. Cradling his face in her hands, she tore herself away for air and got lost in his mossy green eyes.

“Hey Girly,” he said softly.

She kissed him again, drunk on the sweet sting of his whiskey mouth, until someone coughed loudly behind them.

“Okay, lovebirds, other people here,” said Bobby.

Dean set Buffy down, keeping one arm around her while pulling in Bobby for a three-way hug.

“Um, so what happened here?” she asked, noticing the red smear on the pavement for the first time.

“Cas blew his vessel,” Dean said, somberly.

“Oh God!” She covered her mouth in shock.

“But Cas is fine,” he added, hurriedly. “He’s fine.”

Bobby furrowed his brow at the mess. “We should pick up what we can. Give him a real hunter’s funeral.”

Dean nodded. “That’s what I said. Spike offered to deal with this.” He gestured at the spot.

That seemed odd for Spike, who Buffy spied milling on the edge of the circle looking every direction but theirs. Maybe he’d bonded some with the angel, but that seemed unlikely, too. It struck her that she didn’t know who he talked to lately. Her, yes. She thought she’d seen him talking with the Harvelle’s a few times. With Sam gone, was there anyone else Spike felt comfortable with?

She hadn’t noticed that the the crowd had started moving back toward her house. She leaned into Dean, taking in his gunpowder and leather scent, listening to his small talk with Bobby.

Then somebody screamed.

They group rushed over to a brick house, one of their several expanded homebases. On the sidewalk lay one of the girls, eyes burned in their sockets.

“Steph wanted to see an angel,” one of the girls said through tears.

“I got it!” Jo shooed away the rubber-neckers. “We'll do a service tonight before sunset. You all know the drill.”

“You need a hand?” Sam asked. The Winchesters had cleaned up every other body.

“Nah, you guys go. Tell your story. I'll catch up. Besides, she's from my house.” There was something stiff about Jo's smile.

No one else wanted to volunteer for body clean up, so the whole group left Jo and Spike to their grizzly task.

Two bodies -- one of which had basically turned to goo -- weren’t the most appetizing site; nonetheless, Andrew had just pulled the last pizzas from the oven when the Winchesters returned. Soon, the somber attitude of fresh deaths melted to a buzz of excitement as everyone waited for the Winchesters to stop eating and tell their story.

Buffy surveyed the options in the kitchen. “Is it all pepperoni?”

“It never goes bad!” Xander said around a mouth full.

Anya patted him on the shoulder. “Yes it does.”

“Can you let me have this?” he begged through a spray of food.

“Ellen, my new Jedi master, and I made them,” said Andrew. “She has dough powers. Anyway, I insisted on cheese. It’s in the living room.”

“SAM’S GOING TO TELL THE PESTILENCE STORY!” someone shouted from the dining room.

Buffy held still as a rush of people flowed around her. Once the crowd slowed, she ducked into the living room, where Dean sat at the study table with a plate full of pizza.

“First, you need to know about the Croatoan virus…” Sam began.

She sat beside Dean, hand on his leg, head on his shoulder. He leaned into her, their bodies humming. Buffy wanted to tell him a thousand things: how she’d killed Caleb, how Lucifer had invaded her dreams, how much her heart ached in his absence. Sitting beside him, a comfortable smile curling his lips, none of it felt pressing.

They listened to Sam in the other room, his bilious tale of swine flu bewitching the crowd. “So we’re on the floor, writhing with who knows how many illness, and --”

“Which illnesses?” Xander asked.

Sam mumbled and continued with the story.

“Did Pestilence give you an std?” Buffy whispered to Dean.

“Clean bill of health, I swear.” Dean took another bite of pizza.

“Dean!” the crowd in the dining room called.

“Everybody wants to hear the Death story,” Sam added.

Taking his hand in hers, Dean smiled at Buffy. Together, they walked toward the eager audience. “You tell it,” Dean said, grabbing a slice of cheese pizza.

Sam shook his head. “I wasn’t there. Besides, I already told the Pestilence story.”

“So cool,” said one of the Potentials, smiling and bobbing on her toes.

“Ew gross,” whined another, who had nonetheless pressed in with the rest to hear the story.

Grinning playfully, Buffy tilted her head to the side. “Did he have a robe and scythe, or was he more stylish?”

“Suit,” Dean replied. “So this big storm was brewing. We’re talkin’ black skies at noon. Hail. The whole nine. And it was about to wipe out Chicago.”

“Nooo, not my Chitown,” gasped Margo.

“Death was there...eating pizza.”

Several people put their slices down.

“Death likes pizza?” asked Maya, eyebrow raised in disbelief.

“Deep dish,” Dean replied.

“The only proper pizza,” added Margo.

“I didn’t even get a chance to use the weapon Gabriel gave me, but lucky me, Death ain’t a fan of having Lucifer yankin’ his chain. He gave me his ring and spared the city. Equal parts easy and terrifying.” Dean turned to Buffy and said in a clear voice, “He says, ‘Hello,’ by the way. Apparently Death’s a fan of your work.”

Buffy grinned. She wasn’t surprised Death knew her; their work was tied together. Creatures of the night spoke her name in a hushed whisper as if she could be right around the corner, but she was in a house full of naive children who had mutinied right before Dean had left. He wanted the audience to know she had Death’s respect.

“The end. Go frolic or stab things or whatever kids are into these days,” Dean said with a dismissive wave to the groans of the crowd. Leaning over Sam’s chair, he whispered, “Where’s the bag?”

Sam pointed to an army duffle by the stairs.

Turning back to Buffy, Dean asked “You wanna take a walk?”

Lacing her fingers with his, she replied, “I’d like that.”

Boyish glee shone from Dean’s face. “See ya, Sammy. Don’t wait up.”

Jo patted Steph’s cold body, wrapped in a sheet, and resting in the back of a hotwired pickup. “Was it worth it, kid?”

Slamming the tailgate shut, she noticed Buffy and Dean leaving the house hand in hand. She turned away. Down the street Spike was shoveling spades full of goo into a bucket. It looked like he was talking to himself. Deciding he needed company, Jo headed his way.

With nothing better to do than drive herself crazy over facing the Apocalypse again, Jo had bided her time in Sunnydale, getting to know its few remaining residents. Aside from goddess vessels, (Willow the Witch frankly freaked her out,) and goddess vessels-in-waiting, there were a few bonafide hunters in the mix.

First, there was the how-are-they-still-alive camp. Andrew, who mystifyingly claimed to be Buffy’s former arch nemesis, had promptly started following her mom around like a puppy. Then there was affable, goofy Xander and his indifferent-to-the-whole-thing ex Anya.

One the other hand, there were the more serious hunters. Giles was Sunnydale’s answer to the previously unthought question, “What if Bobby were refined?” Jo liked to listen to them talk shop. They were even funnier together when she kept their glasses topped. The son of a previous Slayer, Robin Wood reminded her most of hunters back home -- quiet, focused, reluctant to be with the group. Of course, he looked like a downright social butterfly next to Spike.

Spike -- a great fighter and keen researcher -- was doing that self-imposed hunter-in-exile thing. Keep people at arms length because their damage is special damage. At least that’s how it looked to Jo. Dawn had admitted, “He used to be a friend, but… he got ugly for a while. Evil. I know he’s changed, but the hurt is still there.”

Hurt or no hurt. Damage or no damage. It seemed to Jo that the whole crew should be using Spike’s skills better.

He did, however, talk to Jo. He was funny and sweet with this gentlemanly air under his rock and roll shell. They’d spent more than one evening joking over a bottle of wine, measuring their new life in sips. They were two creatures newly reborn, teetering on the edge of extinction.

Then there was the rumor that Spike was Buffy’s ex.

Spike was still talking to himself. “--let me teach it to you. It starts, ‘’ope is a thing with feathers.’ (See the irony?)” He sploshed another small piece of Cas’ vessel into the bucket.

“Maybe you need a wet vac?” Jo said.

He looked up at her, not even a hint of surprise on his face. “Thought you’d be a bit more broken up about your friend.”

“Castiel? I didn’t really know him,” she confessed. “I'm more of a poltergeist girl. This angel business is way above my pay grade.”

“Castiel was good, especially for a bleedin’ angel.” Spike stood and stretched, his white t-shirt popping up over his belt. “But this wasn’t Feathers, at least according to the Winchesters. Just the body. Angel’s in the wind.”

Spike surveyed his work. The street was still stained red, but at least the chunky bits were gone. He made a face at the contents of the bucket, then began to search the grass.

“I didn’t realize you ‘ad it so bad.” He shot her a glance, his mouth upturned into a knowing grin.

Jo felt her cheeks flushing hot. “Got what bad?”

“I saw you rush out of your ‘ouse, ‘ot and ‘eavy to see Dean Winchester again. I knew you ‘ad a crush, but not the ache.”

“I don’t know what you’re talking about,” she said in a rush. She felt like he could see through her.

Spike cocked his head to the side. “Come now. We didn’t volunteer for body duty out respect for the dead. Warm corpses ‘ave more appeal right now than watching your ex in someone else’s arms.”

“Dean's just a friend.” Her voice modulated oddly to cover the lie.

Spike shrugged. “Tell yourself what you want, pet, but the pining will eat you alive.”

Jo pounced on the opportunity to turn the tables. “Like you pining for Buffy?”

“I'd like to think I'm past pining. Buffy needs me like the Titanic needs an iceberg.”

Jo bit back a laugh at his self-importance. What is it with men? “If you’re her iceberg, does that make Dean her James Cameron?”

“There was so much room on that bloody door!” Spike said with the earnestness of a true fan.

“Near! Far! Whereeeeeeeeever you are!” Jo sang loud and off-key.

“God dammit, woman!” Spike threw his spade into the grass. “Now you’ve given me the earworm!”

She laughed. On his own, Spike was easy to talk to. In fact, he was downright fun -- a rarity among hunters. His personality didn’t come through in the group.

A thought struck her. “So Spike, honest to God truth, why are you in Sunnydale? I mean, other than the Battle Royale.”

“I came for Buffy. I stayed for Buffy.” He said it with finality -- a giant red CASE CLOSED stamped on the file.

“Come on, man! She doesn't want you!” Heat rushed to Jo's face as soon as the harsh words tumbled out. “I mean, she doesn't seem to respect you. Even Xander is in charge of his own little goddess squad, and he's a joke of a hunter.”

“There’s the rub,” Spike whispered. He looked away from her, pretending to inspect something in the grass. “Couldn’t leave. Shouldn't stay.”

“I’m sorry. I didn’t mean…” Jo wasn’t sure what she’d come there for. Commiseration? Hard to wallow in their shared left out status if she couldn’t even admit to her feelings. “Look, my nerves are kinda raw right now, and you stepped right on it. I’ve pined, yeah. A lot. Not school girl hearts on the notebook sort of pining, but thinking that maybe, just maybe…” She shrugged, and bit her lip. She wasn’t ready to expose her most private dreams about Dean Winchester.

“It’s one thing to meet Dean’s perfect superhero girlfriend. It’s another to see them together. Romance movie kisses and soaring music. Happy for them. Sad for me. I want to throw confetti in the the air and then set it the fuck on fire, you know?”

Spike nodded, a far away look on his face. “I know. God, I know.”

Body duty was usually a lonely affair. Spike liked that aspect. Time to think, or in this case, chat. He hadn’t anticipated Jo crashing the party though, and she could only be crashing for one reason. So he pushed aside thoughts of the world’s end and flipped over his lonely hearts club card.

“I know. God, I know.” After gently setting down his bucket of expired-vessel, Spike stared up at the sky. Jo stared with him.

He pressed his hands to his lips a couple times, longing for a cigarette. “Thing is, I feel new, like some wobbly-legged deer. I didn’t want to be in charge of things until I felt in charge of me. You’ve seen me on good days, but I used to be a monster.”

Jo’s face twinged a bit at the word monster. She probably thought he was being dramatic. No one had told her, then. Blessed innocence.

He continued, more to the wind than to her. “I did terrible things. Sometimes I loved it. Sometimes, the evil pushed me aside, but I was running the show more than I'd like to admit. They may hold grudges, but I hold all the guilt.”

“Hunters are champion guilt-swallowers,” she said. “Kind of our thing.”

“Been doing a lot of thinking. What does guilt make a man? An alcoholic husk? A paralyzed thing? So I ‘ave to let the guilt go. I may ‘ave done terrible things in my past, but I’m better than that now. I’m brave and I’m brilliant.” He smile at her. His decision was made, and he felt good.

Jo knocked him playfully with her elbow. “You know, alcoholic husk is a time-honored retirement plan for our lot back home. Assuming we live that long.”

Spike didn’t plan on living that long. He just needed to stay in control until the end. “Recently, I’ve been thinking about leaving. ‘aving Dean ‘ere makes me ‘opeful, believe it or not. ‘e’s a git sometimes, but ‘e’ll look out for ‘er. She doesn't need me anymore.”

Hope was a thing riding in on a comet of Feathers. Spike didn’t think he needed a sign of such garish proportions. He knew what he needed to do.

“Make sure Dean gets that.” He pointed at the bucket. “Wants to do a proper send off.”

“Where are you going?” Jo asked as he started walking up the street.

“I’m going to ‘elp save the world.”

Buffy and Dean walked in silence, enjoying how their palms brushed together, the rhythm of their steps. She wanted to savor the moment -- walking beside him, the late morning sun drawing out the freckles scattered over his skin.

Once they turned a corner away from any prying eyes, she said, “I’m sorry about Castiel.”

Dean bit his lip, grief settling into his eyes. He stopped and drew her into his arms. Resting her head on his chest, she listened to the small hitches in his breathing as he processed the loss of his friend.

“He’ll be okay. Gotta keep reminding myself he’s not dead. He just has to find a vessel in a world without angel vessels.” Dean bit his lip, puzzling through his friend’s situation.

Buffy held him as tightly as she dared. “Where’s Gabriel? Why did Cas--”

“Gabriel’s dead. Long, trippy story. Cas, uh, he wanted to keep a promise.” Pain brimmed in his eyes.

“He wanted to bring you back to me,” she realized with horror and gratitude.

Dean nodded and resumed walking. The topic closed for now.

“How long was I gone?” he asked.

“Three weeks. How long was it for you?”

“Same.”

A knot in her stomach loosened. One of her many worries while he was gone was time passing faster for one of them, losing more years together.

“Things seem better with the girls,” he said.

Buffy shrugged. “They agreed I’m in charge.” “How generous.”

She’d thought a lot about the Potentials. Buffy had tried to be their Watcher, but that was too didactic. She’d tried to give them space, but that made her too aloof. Then she learned that she and all of the Slayers before her were prisons for a goddess.

Then it clicked.

Of course, Buffy had noticed how alienating power was. It bred controlling jealousy in others, as with the Watcher’s Council (and occasionally her friends). The Power made relationships difficult; most men were too delicate for her strength. The Power called for hard choices made quickly. The Power came with Duty, like an anchor around her neck, allowing her only the most narrow of paths: cut yourself off in order to save as many people as you can. It was the path nearly every Slayer had walked.

The Slayer was truly a golden cage everyone was scrambling to rule. A perfect prison.

She wondered if Hecate had shrieked the day Buffy decided to hang with Willow over Cordelia.

“They don’t have to like me,” she said. “They just have to follow me. I think we’re there. They’ve stopped second guessing me, at least.

“By the way, I’ve been staying at your place.” Buffy smiled at Dean, revelling in the comfort of him. “It was the closest I could get to you. My house just doesn’t feel like mine anymore, especially without you there.”

Dean kissed her hand. Her entire body buzzed with excitement.

They’d walked far enough to find themselves on the edge of the rich neighborhood. Dean let out a low whistle as they passed a starter mansion. “Forget your place or mine. We should have just moved over here.”

“Why not now?” she giggled, leading Dean by the hand into a gated pool.

They peeled back the pool cover before stripping. Her blouse, his button down. Her bra, his t-shirt. She paused before sliding off her pants to admire his broad shoulders, the way his powerful muscles rippled under his skin. He pushed down his jeans and boxers together, and she bit her lip to keep from moaning over his already stiffening length.

Dean dove in, a clean line of muscle and sex, only to bob up seconds later with a cry of excitement. “Woo! Colder than I expected.”

She dove in anyway, the chill shocking her. He was there, and she wanted to feel every inch of him against her, inside her. The most intimate they’d been in weeks was holding each other after she’d been possessed.

They swam toward each other, enjoying their weightlessness while their hands slowly explored each other’s bodies as if touching something rare and priceless. She wrapped her legs around his waist, happy with the familiar thickness of him between her thighs. Dean kissed her long and slow, gently sucking on the tip of her tongue, his fingers caressing her breasts. Each kiss felt like he was tugging on a string, unbinding her, setting her free.

His smile wide, he hoisted her up on the side of the pool and teasingly licked up her inner thigh. Clamping his arms around her legs, he buried his face in her. She could barely breathe as he traced circles with his tongue. Fingers twisted in his wet hair, she bucked against his mouth, her need increasing with each lap of his tongue. Soon, she arched her back and cried out as pleasure washed over her, wave after wave of missing him, of needing him. Her body still humming, she laid back in the sun.

Pushing himself up on the edge of the pool, Dean lay beside her, grinning, his arm draped over her stomach. “You look happy.”

Buffy sat up, pulling him with her. “I’m not done with you,” she purred as she pushed him onto a poolside chaise lounge.

Her body pulsed and pleaded to have him inside of her. She froze for just a second, the memory of the demon cackling that word -- baby -- reverberating in her brain.

“You okay?” Squinting at her, he shielded his eyes from the sun.

“Enjoying the view.”

She dropped to her knees. He could still fill her lungs, her hands, her mouth. Buffy placed her hands on his thighs, covering up his running list of the dead (a list soon to grow longer) tattooed there. Covering up the J. H.

Dean moaned softly as she took him in her mouth inch by inch. He grinned at her, his tongue caught between his teeth. She increased her pace, watching his lust-blown eyes until she stroked a shuddering oooo from his pink lips still glistening with her.

When they were both satisfied, Dean pulled her into his arms. They laid together on the lounge, the sun warming their skin, dreaming of an imaginary future. Buffy traced his tattoos with her fingers and idly tapped on his freckles. A pleased hum popped in her throat as he played with her hair.

“I was mulling over what you said the night before we left. You said the longer we’re together, the more you want.” Dean paused to kiss the top of her head. “I want that too, whatever shape it takes.”

Buffy propped herself up on her arm and looked him in the eye. His naive hope made her heart ache. Their future was too complicated. “But we can’t have that, Dean. When this is over, I go back to nightly patrols. Those are our nights out: killing vampires. The job hunt is going to start up again, and with that on my plate, I don’t think I can keep up with college. We don’t have the time for more.”

“Bullshit!” he said, his face pained. “The Watcher’s Council is dead, Girly. Who do you think makes the rules now?”

“I can’t abandon--”

“Who said anything about abandoning anything? The Council was in England, right? Now you got fifty plus girls in your house that need Watchers and training. You got Giles and Sam. I’m sure a few more will step up. Who says they have to go back to England? Who says the Potentials can’t get hands-on training doing patrols once a week? Who says all the fighting has to be on your shoulders all the time?”

It just sounded like more to handle. More to worry about. She’d been in such despair since the slaughter at the winery, she hadn’t thought about life after the Apocalypse. “Let’s lock up Lucifer, then plan for the future.”

Dean kissed her on the forehead. “Okay, darlin’. How about a present instead?”

He retrieved his duffel bag from where he’d dropped it by the gate. “Death said he was the one who reaped you both times. You wouldn’t leave the first time, when you drowned, but the second time you were happy to go.”

Anyone else would have deemed her suicidal to face death as she had, but Dean understood sacrifice.

“Anyway, he gave me something for you.” Dean unzipped his bag and pulled out a golden bow, the string fine like spider silk and glowing like silver, and a quiver of six golden arrows.

They were hers. Artemis’s. They were as familiar to her as her own reflection. The grip formed to her hand as if her hand had formed it. The tension on the string perfect.

Throwing Dean’s shirt over her nakedness, she dashed onto the front lawn. The former owners of a house at the end of the block had an affinity for yard decorations. Within a minute, she’d shot a fake deer, a small battalion of lawn gnomes. Seven shots, but there was still an arrow in her quiver. She pulled it out. One golden arrow in her hand, and one in the quiver. She raced to the end of the block to retrieve her arrows, and when she returned them to the quiver, there were six again.

Something inside her began to wake up.

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