#pavestone

[veshkashaw]

Patio in Atlanta Inspiration for a mid-sized timeless backyard brick patio kitchen remodel with no cover

[olsenmolly]

Pergola in Charlotte Large mountain style backyard concrete paver patio container garden photo with a pergola

[dirkdarmstaedter]

Denver Driveway Design ideas for a huge transitional partial sun front yard brick driveway in summer.

[haizaaki]

Photo of a modern concrete paver outdoor playset.

[sesamenom-sideblog]

do I see BoLT turgon?? (also is that glingol & bansil behind him?)

ok, he’s standing by glingol & bansil, with what looks like part of the palace but not the main tower behind him, and we can’t see the fountain from this angle. so judging from the flowers I’m going to take a guess and say he’s standing by the Trees with his back to the Alley of Roses?

Turgon ✨

[mmostuff]

Oklahoma City Contemporary Pool a sizable modern concrete paver in the backyard and a custom-designed infinity pool fountain

[faebaex]

Tangled in Wonderland - Leonotis Leonurus

author note: second poll's winner! also a plant pun for the title, just because (￣▽￣) i feel like Jade would be proud. speaking of, he has a teeny tiny cameo in this fic, simply bc he just fit the situation so well. so far, its been a housewarden clean sweep on the polls, with Azul winning the Octavinelle poll! new poll is up right now, a bonus one this time! who will be the comeback king? go vote if you haven't already! enjoy~

characters: Leona Kingscholar x GN!Reader

The library was your turf.

By this point, you were on a first name basis with all of the library ghosts, and you had a fairly good working knowledge of every section of the library, with Ace and Deuce often seeking you out at your usual table to ask you if you had any idea where a certain book would be. Of course, more often than not that meant that they would then sit at your table and you wouldn’t really get any meaningful research done, not with all their squabbling and general freshman catastrophic energy. When Grim tagged along, it was even worse, but at least you could keep an eye on him and make sure he was actually doing the assignments he was supposed to.

Despite all the time you had been spending at the library, you were still no closer to figuring out how to get home. Crowley was nowhere to be found, taking avoiding you to an entirely new level. The books and reading list that Riddle had provided you, however, had been very insightful. His recommendations were much easier to read than the previous tomes you had been torturing yourself with, and you were starting to see connections between theories, it becoming easier for you to source further reading without having to consult Riddle first. So yes, the library was your turf.

The botanical garden, however, was not. And you were well aware of who it belonged to.

Leona Kingscholar was one of the students at the top of your list to avoid. And considering his personality, the feeling was likely mutual. So you made a conscious effort to avoid places where you could run into him, not wanting to tempt the already volatile nature of fate to thrust you into his trajectory. You were even doing well avoiding conflict with the Savanaclaw students, especially considering they were always looking for a fight and the school’s only magicless student was definitely high on their lists to torment. But unfortunately for you, you couldn’t always avoid some of Leona’s favourite haunts, because what Crewel wants, Crewel gets.

You grumbled to yourself as you picked through the botanical gardens, a basket on one arm and a list in the other. Crewel had kindly brought it to your attention with a lash of his pointer that good ol’ Grim had been using ingredients from the potionology inventory for his lab work and assignments instead of collecting his own before class, as student handbook guidelines demand. With Grim nowhere to be seen and you being in the wrong place at the wrong time, Crewel had handed you an extensive list of every ingredient that Grim had used since the two of you became a joint student, and ordered you to the botanical garden to retrieve every single one of them, or face the consequences. And with Crewel swinging that pointer around, you didn’t wait around to find out what those consequences would be.

Being so unfamiliar with the botanical gardens made this job harder, and the sheer size of the list had you running around in circles, picking one ingredient only to realise that you needed something similar that was back the way you had just came. It was incredibly frustrating, and you found yourself huffing under your breath as you traipsed around the botanical garden. To make matters worse, you had to keep yourself alert, lest there be a certain lion’s tail draped carelessly on the pavestone.

You were well aware that in the game, the poor main character had accidentally stepped on a certain stroppy lion’s tail, and he had retaliated by threatening to knock their teeth out. You’d rather not find yourself in the same situation. You’d briefly considered moving his tail out of the way with a stick or something, but decided that Leona was hardly worth the effort and would likely get offended at you poking at him either way, so instead you had to dutifully watch your feet as you continued on with your laborious task.

You had been hunting for ingredients for about an hour and a half by now, and clubs were starting to wrap up their activities and head back to their dorms. You, however, still had half of your list to go, so there was no such reprieve waiting for you. You wondered if you would be able to drop the basket back to the potionology lab with your half-completed list and promise Crewel that you’d finish the job tomorrow. Surely he wasn’t willing to wait around for you to find all these ingredients? If there was any professor at Night Raven College who you expected to have evening plans, it would be Crewel.

As you pondered your next course of action, you caught a flash of teal out of the corner of your eye. Walking towards you down the pathway was Jade Leech, and you fought the urge to do something stupid like show weakness by tensing or throwing yourself into the bushes. With his usual contrived smile affixed to his face, Jade eyed you in a way that really did make you feel like a shrimp, suddenly giving you a whole new understanding as to why his twin had dubbed the main character with such a pet name. Him being here was an oversight on your part, clearly you had thought that Leona was the botanical garden’s biggest threat, not even factoring in that Jade would use this place to fawn over his mushrooms. Thankfully he didn’t stop, passing you with an elegant stride that you could only appreciate, considering he had only been on legs for two years.

“Good day, prefect. Lovely weather we are having.” Jade greeted as he passed you, with you only responding with a small, tight-lipped smile back. No sooner had his footsteps faded away did the heavens decide to open up, a surprised cry erupting from your lips as you quickly found yourself becoming drenched, the sprinklers dousing the entire area and you in water. That could not have been a coincidence.

The sprinklers stopped as quickly as they had started, but by that point the damage had already been done, your clothes and hair dripping. The list in your hand was sodden, the ink running and quickly making the contents illegible. You growled in frustration, throwing the soggy list to the floor with a wet thump as you tried to squeeze out your clothes in vain. You were so busy trying to sort yourself out, to scrap back any shred of dignity you could that you almost missed the rustling of bushes next to you. Even if you had, there was no way you’d miss the soaking wet beastman emerging from the foliage, ears flat to his head and tail whipping behind him aggressively.

And he was glaring straight at you. Great.

“You got some nerve, herbivore. You got a death wish?” Leona snarled at you and you found yourself prickling up. “This wasn’t me!” You argued, gesturing to your own dripping form before glaring right back at him, “I might be magicless, but that doesn’t make me stupid! If I was going to set the sprinklers off, I’d make sure I wouldn’t get caught in it.” You huffed, once again trying to squeeze the excess water out of your clothes. Your words seemed to pique some interest in Leona, as he was suddenly all up in your space and sniffing you.

“Hm, you’re right. No magic at all, just wet herbivore.” Leona remarked, scrunching his nose up as he stepped back, as if the smell offended him. “Do you mind? You smell like wet cat.” You said flatly with an unimpressed expression, throwing your basket back over your arm with perhaps a little more force than necessary. You swear you could see an amused glint in Leona’s eye as he stooped down, picking up the soggy list that you’d thrown to the ground just moments earlier. “What’s this?” He enquired, holding the list away from him between his thumb and forefinger as if it was toxic, yet still holding it out of your reach when you tried to swipe it back.

“That is mine.” You said with exasperation, your dignity already running down the drain without Leona making you jump to get your list back, “whatever, its ruined anyway. Have it.” You huffed, resigned to having to go back to Crewel with your metaphorical tail between your legs and plead for a new list. Leona eyed you up for a moment before he stepped towards you again, tugging at the basket on your arm to get a look at the contents before dumping the ruined list into the basket.

“C’mon, prefect,” Leona droned over his shoulder as he started walking up the pathway, “I’ll get you some ingredients. First year ingredients are simple.” He scoffed as he navigated the garden like a seasoned pro, his gait lazy and leaving you no choice but to trail after him with a suspicious expression on your face.

“You’re… Helping me?” You questioned, the corner of your lips downturning warily. The Leona you knew was never helpful, only interested if he had something to gain, usually foisting off any inconveniences to Ruggie. “What’s in it for you?” You asked carefully, watching as he picked some stems from a bush and lob them into your basket, making you sigh as you attempted to tidy up his shoddy packing. Leona’s smile was all fangs as he caught your eyes before continuing along the path, “I’m always in need of another gopher. Having you owe me could come in handy, Ruggie has been nagging me lately and you could be just what I need... Plus, the quicker you’re out of the botanical garden, the more peaceful sleep I’d get without having to listen to your huffing and puffing.”

Ah.

Well, you suppose the original main character was truly onto something when they’d stayed up all night screaming outside Leona’s room in chapter three.

Leona had made short work of finding ingredients, and soon your basket was filled to the brim. “Those are all the common ingredients in first year potions. Any missing ingredients are on you.” Leona drawled as you both walked together towards the exit of the botanical garden, his hands behind his head as he yawned leisurely, “you owe me, prefect.”

“How do you even know what ingredients to look for?” You asked, your curiosity getting the best of you as you both left the garden, about to split off on your own paths as you planned to deliver the basket of ingredients to Crewel, whilst you assumed Leona would head back to his dorm. Leona simply kept walking, and you assumed he’d grown tired of you. But then he paused, looking over his shoulder at you with a smirk that you’d dare to describe as cheeky.

“Because I had to search out ingredients for Crewel in my first year, too.”

Huh. Perhaps Leona wasn’t that bad after all, you thought to yourself as you watched Leona’s retreating back, before setting off yourself to hand the ingredients in to Crewel, praying for fate to grant you some mercy for a change.

[harleyquilt]

Shironeki x Touka ficlet - Wilful Ignorance

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

It was for the briefest of moments, a flicker almost, but Touka had seen him pass by, his sunken, grey eyes meeting hers. The encounter seized her heart, a swirling mix of conflicting emotions rushing through her, and she's left in a stunned silence, not knowing what to say or think. She turns, just as Kaneki does, and she stares at him, wide-eyed, wondering if she's seeing things. But there he is, hidden behind a dark hoodie and eyepatch, his uncovered eye also wide with surprise. Civilians continue to walk pass, avoiding their still figures, and it's like time has stopped for them and them alone. 

But Kaneki breaks the stillness, turning away and hurrying down the street. Touka is taken aback for a second, before she follows him, calling his name. She thinks she sees him flinch, hesitating to take the next step, but it's hard to say for sure. Touka deftly navigates between the river of people moving against her, now determined to reach the boy she once thought of fondly. She's not exactly sure what it is that's driving her onwards, yet she refuses to turn away, like she had done last time. No, this time, she will force him to face her again, whether he wants to or not. 

And what then? Would he even listen to her once she reaches him? Why would he, when he refused to do so before. The exhilaration is soon replaced with anxious pondering, and distracted, she trips on a loose pavestone, falling forward, and landing on her bare knees. 

“Shit,” she mutters, feeling a stinging pain on both kneecaps. She looks up, fearful, only to see that Kaneki is now standing in front of her. “It's you…” 

“Yeah,” Kaneki reaches down and offers her his hand, looking sorrowful as he does, like it pains him to be near her. “It's me, Touka-chan.” 

There's a twisting bitterness in her chest, her arms trembling as she slaps his hand away and pushes herself back up. “Don't give me that pitiful look.” She stands, smoothing down her uniform. The scratches on her legs are quickly healing, but not as fast as they would usually. “What's wrong with you, trying to run off like that?” 

Kaneki doesn't answer immediately, his sorrow shifting into discomfort; he avoids her scrutinising glare, rubbing the back of his head, and pressing his lips together. It's as if he were a child being scolded by his mother. Touka's scowl deepens at the thought. 

Grabbing his shirt, she drags him to a nearby alleyway. He tries to protest, but she shoots back a sharp glare that silences him. “We're going to talk,” she drags him forward and crosses her arms. “Got it?” 

He glances down to the ground. “How're your knees? They were hurt–” 

“Shut up!” Touka snaps. “I couldn't care less about that. What about you? Where have you been? What have you been doing? I…” She grimaces, eyes darting away. “You leave for weeks without saying a single word and…you promised to visit, but you never do.” She lowers her arms, bowing her head, suddenly defeated. “It's not fair.” 

“Touka-chan…” Kaneki's voice is strained when he speaks. “This is for the best.” 

“What?” She scoffs, her eyes flicking back up. “And what do you know about what's best for me?” 

Kaneki winces, his lips pursed together. 

“No,” she shakes her head. “You don't know anything. Not then, and certainly not now. This was a waste of time.” 

She turns on her heels, her hands clenched and her shoulders hunched. Any conflict she felt before has now settled into a boiling spite, a spite she wants to pierce straight into Kaneki's heart, were it not for the fact that they were near a busy street. 

Before she can walk any further, though, Kaneki grabs her wrist, and looking back, she sees him watching her, silently pleading for her to stay, and it's enough to cause her pause, an agonising longing cutting through the bitterness. But the scowl quickly returns and she pulls her hand back, a red glimmer in her irses. 

“Wait, please.” Kaneki says, holding out a hand. She's tempted to turn away again, but something keeps her feet planted on the ground. Something that leaves her feeling pathetic, even while scorning the man begging her to stay. “I'm sorry. I didn't think,” he avoids her gaze, rubbing his chin. “You would feel so hurt. I didn't expect you to react this way.” 

She almost wants to laugh. Hurt? No, she's been completely crushed, again and again, humiliated by life's cruel tricks that rob her of the comfort of a loving embrace, of daily laughter, and a family she can call her own. But how could he possibly understand any of this, looking as pitiful as he is, like he's a kicked puppy. It's insulting, and yet, she remains, the words she wants to throw back lodged in her throat. 

“I told you,” she hugs herself, her words edged with painful malice. “You don't know anything.”

Kaneki swallows, wavering, and his lips parted. He takes a step towards her and she's tempted to shove him back, instead narrowing her eyes. He's close now, close enough that she can hear his unsteady breaths, and slowly, hesitatingly, he moves his hand up and places it on her shoulder, squeezing it. She looks at the hand – the skin rough and his nails black – before her eyes move to his face. He's looking at her, examining her face, taking in her features, and it takes Touka a moment to realise she's trembling. Was it from anger? Fear? Apprehension, even? She wasn't sure what it was she was feeling, but Kaneki continued to watch her, his hand moving from her shoulder to her cheek. 

“You're warm.” He remarks, his voice low. His caress is soft, so painfully soft, and it takes everything within her not to lean into his palm. 

“You're an asshole.” Her words have lost their edge now, blunt from Kaneki's gentle gestures. 

“I know.” He brushes her hair away, staring into her eyes. 

His eyes have a softness she's always admired, reminding her of overcast clouds and light showers of rain. Or the morning frost of an early winter morning. She wants to sink into that softness and feel it surround her, embrace her, but she draws away before she allows this illusion to steal her away from the harsh reality. 

She pulls back, his fingertips brushing her cheek as she moves her face away. He flinches, pain shrouding his expression, and before she allows the sight to prick at her consciousness, she runs off. Out of the alleyway and past the crowds of civilians, she keeps moving until her legs burn and lungs ache. She eventually topples against a nearby wall on a lone street, and she presses a hand over her mouth, holding back a sob. Hot tears begin to run over her fingers, her legs trembling. She suddenly feels incredibly weak, as if her body is minutes away from collapsing into itself. It just might. She hopes Kaneki hasn't followed her – she doesn't want him to see her heart breaking, the way she saw his heart break moments ago. 

[jyou-no-sonoko19]

Taster for a Laura/Shelley zine-fic I'm working on...

"Is this really good enough for you? For the rest of your life?"

Shelley froze -- though not before her slender hand completed the motion from the fallen man's pocket to her own, now another bill-fold richer.

People didn't sneak up on her; she snuck up on them. That was her Knack (as the other, younger kids called it), it was what had kept her alive this long, and able to provide for the rest of them; allowed her to have nice things, despite how many people would prefer she have nothing but dirt in her mouth.

"What's it to you?" she asked cautiously. Her knife was in her boot, if this had to turn brutish, but words were always better. You could get a stranger to fall in love with you, instead of rat you out, with the right words.

"Not very much," the woman replied, unmoving as Shelley slowly turned and appraised her. "And if you'd like to tell me that I'm wrong, and that being a petty, backstreet thief is the peak of your personal ambitions, then so be it. I'll take the next train out of London and mark on my little form that this was a wild goose chase. That there is no Ghost of Bromley who makes men hallucinate themselves into a stupor, before having their pockets pillaged and their finer clothes removed."

The woman's Scots accent was as neatly tailored and effortlessly elegant as her outfit: gigot sleeves and slight puffs at the shoulders of her midnight-blue blazer made a stern silhouette even sterner, the nipped waist and fitted hips of her bell-shaped skirt indicating a being of intense self-control.

Pale, piercing eyes tracked Shelley as she stood, arched brows set in neutrality, strict lips set in a polite smile that kept her teeth concealed.

"The Ghost of Bromley is a fantasy toffs came up with, to cover up for gambling away the household's savings," Shelley retorted. With cat-like fluidity, she stepped to put the stupefied-but-breathing man's body between them. "But say that it wasn't… which of its jolly chuckaboos sold it out?" The question stung to ask, but it had to be done; friends who spoke to strangers -- especially charming, out-of-town strangers -- were Judases to the Code and must be amputated.

The severe woman's lips twitched at that: a brief smile of sympathy. "Worry not, my girl. Your compatriots didn't sell you up the river. The people I work for don't need to parley with street urchins; we've got our own ears, far closer to the ground." Ever so slightly, she indicated to the pavestones with her jaw. "Some of them, beneath it."

"I take it we're not talking mutton shunters, then," Shelley nodded, finding no comfort in it.

"The darling wee bobbies?" She gave a single trill of amusement. "They don't even know we exist. And if you'd like," she held out a hand wrapped in fine, dark suede, "they won't know you do either. You'll be scrubbed from every log-book, past and present. In all practical terms, you will be a ghost, free to live however you'd like."

Shelley stared into her palm, tempted but sceptical. "I might not be a day over nineteen, but I know a catch when I smell one."

"Oh, of course there's a catch," the woman chuckled, and Shelley felt herself charmed by the laugh lines that sprung up by her eyes, the genuine warmth that momentarily revealed a sharp canine tooth. "This is reality, I'm not whisking you away to the Elysian Fields."

"Appreciate the honesty."

"It wouldn't serve us to mislead you. After all, wouldn't do much good if we should train you to grasp the full potential of your powers, only for you to turn them against us, now would it?"

"Then that's the sort of place it is? You pull strays off the streets and train them to be show-dogs?"

The woman's brows raised meaningfully. "Not just any strays. Strays with hidden pedigrees."

"And the show-dogs part?"

"Not quite accurate either."

Shelley hmphed. "Why do I get the feeling that it's more likely 'guard-dogs'?"

"Because you're smart. And my superiors might not like smart little whippets around, but I do. And if you stick close to me, you'll find I can offer you something you'll never really have on these streets. Where everyone's too afraid to be truly honest with each other." Through her civility, earnestness was slipping through, extending another hand, right into Shelley's heart...

[ely--sia]

08: amor vincit omnia

amor vincit omnia - love conquers all; miguel o'hara x reader fantasy au in which miguel is a powerful, famed knight of the queen and you are but a lowly commoner he rescues out of the blue. when everything is threatened to become uprooted, what is left?

<- previous chapter next chapter ->

snow covers everything, the green of summer and the following red-orange of autumn now nowhere to be seen. patricia tells you that the year is almost over.

you two had become even closer since that night, teetering on the line of becoming lovers. however, neither one of you have the courage to lift the soft veil separating one from the other. you can see a shadow of him, faint and blinking in and out of sigh tlike a small flame. every time you reach out, you swear that this time, your hand will touch warm skin, but it grasps at nothing, the outline of miguel, broad and tall and beautiful, gone as if it had never been there.

still, it is undeniable that miguel cares for you, and it is undeniable that you care for him as well. even a blind man would be able to tell. for instance, miguel insists that you do not know how to dress for the cold, so you ask him to dress you instead. every morning, miguel comes to your room a little bit earlier to choose your dresses for the day. he swears that he does not think you pleasing to look at, but you notice how his eyes linger, how his gifts become more frequent. then, when miguel heads to his study, sometimes you go with him. miguel works while you sit by his window to keep him company. sometimes, lyla sits with you, and the two of you speak quietly as he works. and sometimes you fall asleep, giving into the lulls of the afternoon sun or the rising moon. every time that you do, you wake up on the sofa instead, with a coat of his as a blanket. miguel insists that you are a nuisance, that you should return to your room and rest next time, but you have gotten too good at reading the true meaning behind miguel’s words to truly believe that he is annoyed.

and sometimes, miguel takes a few of his men on short campaigns, lasting three days at most. he goes to slay the few stray beasts that wander into town. he always returns victorious. after all, he is the renowned and feared sword of the queen, her crazed hunting dog. they say that he is the reincarnation of achilles himself. you think that it must be true. both his battle prowess and beauty are unmatched. no one else is more fit for that title than miguel, but whenever you bring it up, he snorts and insists that you do not indulge in such old myths, that he is nowhere near worthy of that title. and while he is gone, you are left alone. whenever you are left like this, the manor somehow feels colder. before, you would have paid no mind. there is always too much to do, from cleaning to cooking to washing. but now, you have grown tame and free under the care of miguel’s people. you do not have anything to busy yourself with. you simply wait, and wait, and wait until you finally hear the familiar thudding of furious hooves against pavestone. 

one day, miguel comes back, but he is nowhere to be seen when you run down the halls to the large doors. you feel a pang of disappointment and worry strike your heart. the worry lights a fire in you when you see the maids hauling miguel’s armor, one-by-one, covered in blood. your eyes widen and you can feel your fingertips getting cold in fear. 

“is that,” you start, mouth getting drier by the second, “is that miguel’s blood?”

you dread the reply that is to come, but a knight simply laughs. 

“no, he would never fall victim to something as small as this,” his eyes twinkle as he speaks of his leader, “that is ogre blood. he was covered in it, head to toe.”

you let out a breath as your hammering heart begins to calm. but if he is safe, then where is he? why is he not here, polishing his beloved armor himself?

“the lord is outside, at the small well in the garden. he insisted on cleaning up before he came in,” a maid says, holding back a small giggle as she looks at you. 

it is a cold day. you are almost shivering inside the manor, so you cannot even imagine how cold it is outside. you do not understand his actions. you had half expected the well to be frozen with how cold it had been recently. before you can even think, your feet take you to the small well, where you know miguel is. he is exactly where the maids had told you he had gone. miguel is shirtless and glistening with the cold water from the well. his bare body is sculpted so beautifully, rippling with muscle underneath his tan skin. just looking at him, you can almost feel the sun burning against your skin as it had surely done his. there are mountains of words that you would use to describe miguel, but the one word that you would choose if you had to would be pretty. miguel is a pretty, pretty man. and perhaps you had missed him more than you had realized, because your face burns bright when you are met with the sight of him. his eyes widen in surprise as he sees you. 

“why are you outside? is it not cold?” you ask. your own face stings from the harsh winter wind. 

“i am fine. you are cold. go back inside. i will only be a moment,” he says, scrubbing at his skin and hair. 

“you should have just gone inside for a bath,” you do not understand why he chooses to be outside. 

“i was covered in ogre blood. it is a disgusting thing, and smells even worse. i did not want to bring it into the manor.”

“but the maids seem fine with it. they were hauling in your bloodied armor. stop being stubborn and come inside,” you wish he could just listen to you sometimes. but miguel is miguel, and if he is anything, he is stubborn. 

“no,” his answer is short and clear. 

but you have lived with miguel for so long now, and you know how to be just as stubborn and bull-headed as he is. 

“then i will not go inside either,” you respond, pulling your dress up slightly to sit down on the ground. you wrap your shawl around you tightly to emphasize how cold you are. 

“what? what are you doing? go inside,” his face contorts into one of frustration and annoyance as he looks down at you. 

you simply turn your face from him, refusing to listen. he will go inside, and you will stay outside with him until he does. miguel groans as he realizes this himself.

“this blood is sticky and stubborn and disgusting. i was sticky and disgusting. i did not want you to see it,” he sighs as he finally confesses the truth, “so go inside. you are shivering. i am nearly done,” he tries to explain to you, hoping that you will give up at his sincerity. 

it does not work. 

“do you think me so weak that i will faint at the sight of blood? am i so haughty that i will not allow you in your own home because you are bloodied?” you glare at him from the corner of your eyes. you are growing colder by the minute, but you still hope that he will give in. 

miguel looks at you incredulously. 

“what does this have to do with any of that?” he cries out. he groans. perhaps he should consider being less stubborn. around you, at least. you learn too quickly for his liking. 

you glance up at him, waiting for the moment he will sigh and finally break, trying to seem as unwilling as possible as he does whatever you ask. 

“i am getting cold,” you say.

“fine. you are so annoying,” he rolls his eyes. he chooses to leave his tunic on the grass, the white of it darkened by blood-red. 

you grin as you jump up, cheeks red from the biting wind. miguel grumbles as he walks, and you walk quicker to match his wide gait. he tries to keep up his annoyed facade, but he cannot help the small smile that forms on his lips as he looks at you. 

“you must be freezing,” you laugh as you take your shawl off and put it around him. 

he tries to push you off, but your touch is gone before he knows it, replaced by your flowing shawl around his broad, bare shoulders. 

“you must keep it on,” you pout as he frowns, “otherwise i will not go inside,” you fight back a laugh at his expression. 

his face is incredulous, as if he cannot deal with you anymore, but he still complies. you laugh as you run after him, your shorter legs naturally falling behind his almost inhumanly longer ones. miguel finally enters the manor, still shirtless and, despite complaining, with your shawl still wrapped around him. your heart sings with joy as you find yourself in miguel’s presence once more, and regardless of how much miguel feigns annoyance, you know that his does too.

then suddenly, in the middle of the coldest month of winter, miguel is called to lead an expedition. you do not know for what, and miguel hardly tells you either. he says that you do not need to trouble your mind with such violence. but regardless of what he is called to do, miguel has to leave, and you worry. yes, for yourself, but mostly for miguel. you had heard him say that it is the most dangerous time of the year now, with beasts growing hungry and territorial. all of his other men are equally confused: this is the first time that they had been called to action in the colder months, during the coldest days of winter, at that. miguel himself seems perplexed by the sudden campaign as well, but it seems that he cannot deny his queen. still, miguel reassures you that it will be fine, that he is the miguel o’hara. he tells you that he has slain giants and harpies and dragons with ease, but this does not mean anything to you. when you tell him this, his face falls slightly, as if he knows that he cannot console you, but it is gone before you can say anything. miguel is not afraid of the quest itself. he does not worry or doubt; it would not matter even if he did. miguel is upset because he does not want to leave you for so long. even if he pushes on with everything he has, he knows that it will still take him until the end of the year for him to return home. he does not know if he can bear it: despite how hard he tries to push it down, to ignore it, the absence of you seems more harsh than the harsh winter snow or the angry winds or the snapping jaws of any creature or beast combined.

the night before he leaves, miguel comes to your room. it is so late that the stars are nearly gone. you are not asleep, however. not yet. you sit quietly, alone, next to the window, as you rub the sleep away from your eyes in hopes that miguel will come. and he does. the door opens and your head snaps towards the sound. a multitude of emotions fill your heart, but in your mind, there is only a single thought: miguel is here. it echoes in your head until it is the only thing you can think of. miguel walks towards you. he is still dressed in his black tunic and equally dark pants. the swell of the muscles of his chest peeks out from underneath the tunic, highlighted by the soft night. he must have been working until now. 

“miguel,” you say, your lips curving up gently. you do not realize that you are smiling. around miguel, it is as natural and sure as breathing or blinking.

miguel’s lips part slightly, as if there are so many things that are pushing to come out of his mouth that they force it open. he pushes it all down and comes to sit in front of you. miguel closes the window. 

“it is cold. why do you never listen?” he chides gently. it seems that out of everything that he holds delicately on his tongue, this is the one he chooses. miguel quietly berates himself for never being able to say what he means. he wishes desperately to be soft, to have the courage to do so. but he is a coward, and he is always too harsh and too rough. he worries that one day, you will find yourself cut one too many times by his thorny words and leave. however, contrary to his words, his face is so soft when he looks upon you that any stinging thorns are turned into nothing but sweet feathers that tickle and tease your skin.

“if it was too warm, i would have fallen asleep,” you reply, still smiling. his words, unintentionally biting and fierce, do not affect you at all. 

“you should be asleep. it is late.”

“you worry too much. i can sleep tomorrow, or the day after that, or the day after that. but i will not be able to see you for quite a while.” your smile grows sweeter.

a silence flows between you for a while. both you and miguel simply indulge in each other’s presence, trying to commit the feeling of the other to memory. every gaze, every breath, every rise and fall of the chest. you try to consume all of it, all of him, to drink him in and keep him hidden and safe and close against your chest. even now, you worry that when you close your eyes, you will begin to forget miguel, piece by piece, until nothing is left.

“when will you be back?” you finally start to speak again. there is a sort of emptiness when you try and imagine your days without miguel. 

“soon,” miguel replies. 

his voice is nonchalant. then, he looks away and swallows hard, and you already know that it will not be soon. you have listened to miguel for so long that you know the truth behind even a single breath. but you let it pass. perhaps you want to believe it yourself, that in just a few days, the gates will open like always as he leads his cheering men victoriously back to their homes.

silence falls once more. there is too much that wants, needs, to be said. then, miguel speaks first this time. 

“and you. do not step foot outside of the manor,” he says, voice quiet and rough. he makes sure that you understand that what he is saying is final, but he suddenly worries that it is too much. too much to ask, to demand. too much bite in his words. he does not mean it, not in the way that he had said it. he grows quiet again for a moment. 

“please,” he adds, this time more quietly than before. miguel is a fearful man deep inside, and sometimes, the fear that he tries to hide grows to consume him. he hopes that you understand.

“okay,” you smile. you see what he is saying underneath the rough exterior, “i will be safe. do not worry about me.”

if anyone should worry, it should be you, you think. you do not understand why he is so wound up tightly for you. 

miguel takes a look at you, gaze filled with fear and longing, then sighs as he looks back down. 

“you do not understand.”

you can only smile as he says this.

“it is okay. i do not understand, and that is fine. because i will be okay, regardless of what happens.” 

a part of you wants to be selfish, to beg him not to go. he has never denied you before, and you think, hope, that he will indulge you once more. no matter how many times you swallow the ugly feeling down, it rises back up twice as strong as before. 

“and you,” you begin, mouth becoming dry suddenly, “you have to come back, okay?”

miguel’s face falls for a moment to betray his true emotions, but it is gone quicker than it comes. 

“i will,” the words sound foreign as he says them. his throat bobs as he repeats the words, more surely this time, “i will.”

“because if you do not return, then i swear to the heavens that i will never eat with you again,” you say, an empty threat meant to lighten the mood, “and i will never accept your presents, and i will never let you see me.”

miguel laughs. you wish to keep this moment with you forever. 

“then i will have to be back. i have no other choice,” miguel smiles, face illuminated by the dark blue of the night sky flowing through the window. 

the night sky slowly brightens until the moon and the stars disappear. they leave glistening tears of farewell upon the flowers and the moss and the leaves. you and miguel continue to talk, and then it is time for him to leave. before you know it, you are standing in front of the huge oak doors of the manor with lyla and the maids. miguel and his men do their final checks and begin to mount their steeds, one by one. you can see that miguel is ready to leave now, but he does not. there is an expression on his face that you cannot quite place as he looks at you. suddenly, you are a small child again, trying to hold back your tears as you watch your father leave your home once again to journey to the city. you know that miguel will be back, and you know that he will be safe, but you still do not want him to leave. you simply stand there, a storm of feelings shadowing over your heart as you clasp your hands tightly behind your back. you do not know if you will be able to stop yourself from reaching out to him if you let your hands go. you worry that they will latch onto him like vines and never let him go. there are words that threaten to burst out of your chest. you try and swallow them all down as miguel finally tears his gaze from you and mounts his black steed. 

“miguel, wait,” you call out. his name falls from your lips before you know it. 

miguel turns to look at you, as if he had been waiting for you to say something. lyla and the maids bow and rush inside before you can do anything else, and miguel’s men begin to head towards the gate. it is just the two of you now, once again. 

with fingers numb from the cold, you carefully untie a ribbon from your hair. it flows brilliant white in the wind. you grasp it in your hands as you silently whisper a prayer to the winds. then, you hold it up to him so that he may take it. 

“i am sorry that this is all i can give you,” you say. 

miguel takes it from your fingers, touch softer than a feather. the ribbon looks so small in his hands that you worry that it will disappear. he ties it around the hilt of his sword. the ribbon glows softly against the black leather. 

“i swear it to you that i will return this to you unsullied. i will tie it into your hair myself when i return,” he says. his voice is soft. 

you cannot say anything more. you are sure that if you open your mouth again, you will beg him to stay. you bite your tongue and stand in silence. 

“and i have something to tell you. when i return,” he is more resolute now, and his gaze is filled with a fire that you do not know. 

“i only wish that you return safe,” you smile, “you do not have to swear anything else.”

“but i already have,” he replies, a smile in his voice. 

he opens his mouth like he wants to say something more, but he stops himself before he can. instead, he reluctantly says his final farewell. as his men join him at the gates, you can feel the thudding of their horses beneath your feet. it is as if the ground speaks to you. when it is finally gone, you return to the manor. and inside, there is an emptiness that chills you to your bones. it is nothing like the cold of the winter; instead, it seeps into you slowly, like a cloth dipped in water. it makes your body feel heavier and heavier with each passing day.

you try and keep yourself busy. you beg the maids to help them around the manor, and they let you sometimes, albeit reluctantly. it reminds you of before, when your home was not this huge manor, but a house on the verge of breaking down. you cook sometimes as well, and you read. lyla had been told by miguel to not let you do any menial chores, for he had worried that your hands would grow rough and calloused, but she takes pity on you and lets you do some of the paperwork with her instead. she says that you are quite skilled, and you are happy to be able to help out. but you worry that there are too little chores to finish and too little books to read, and you will run out before miguel ever returns. you worry that if that happens, the emptiness will consume you until you are nothing more than a statue. being lonely is a luxury, one that you had never been able to experience. to be able to bask in such feelings had been something that you could never afford to do. the life of a common person is far too busy to dwell on the past. there is always money to be made and work to be done, and if you had been asked about being so lonely in the past, you would have laughed out loud, for you had never experienced such a thing before. but now, you are forced into it, and you desperately lack the experience to be able to face it. 

sometimes, when a breeze crosses your path, you swear that it brings with it parts of miguel. sometimes, you swear that you can feel a gentle touch on your shoulders, exactly where miguel had touched you whenever he lent you his coat. on days like this, you smile and pray that he is well. you pray to the gods that the winter treats him well, for you know how unforgiving it can be. you wonder if he thinks about you as much as you do him. does he dream of your touch as well? does he sometimes hear your voice in the howling wind? does he pray to the gods for you as you do him? does miguel hold you dear to his heart as well? you hope that he does. and that is all you can do, hope. 

but when days turn into weeks, which then turn into months, it is hard to keep hoping. it is hard to only rely on prayers and hopes alone to keep you afloat. the year passes as if it is such a small thing, to move into a new year. you do not even notice it until lyla points it out. still, miguel is nowhere to be seen. and then one day, two moons since the beginning of the new year, the horns ring throughout the town. you had not realized that this sound had become so welcome to you, but the moment you hear it, something in your chest is lifted off. but you cannot afford to feel so happy, not yet. from the distance, you hear the townspeople cheering before you can see the men on their horses riding through the streets. their flag, navy and red and proud, waves in the wind victoriously. finally, a wave of relief washes through you. you rush outside, and the large gates of the manor slowly push open. you can feel the thudding of hooves against the ground. before you know it, miguel is in front of you once more. he is miguel, same as you remember, from his skin to his hair to his face to his body. the entire manor is bustling once again, with maids frantically hauling pieces of armor from the soldiers. miguel tells them that they can head to the town for the return festival or remain at the manor to rest. soon, everyone is rushing inside the manor to get everything ready. and for a moment, in between all of the bustling, miguel simply sits atop his horse and looks at you, gaze unreadable. warmth fills your body, overflowing onto your cheeks and the tips of your ears. miguel is back, and he has brought spring with him.

“welcome back,” your voice sounds foreign amidst the beating of your own heart in your ears. 

wordlessly, he dismounts, taking off his worn leather gloves, and from the hilt of his sword, he unties a ribbon. it shines a pristine white, a huge contrast against the bloodied leather. he towers over you, but you do not feel even an inkling of fear. rather, you can feel nothing but his gentleness. it thaws your frozen skin deep down to your bones. it makes flowers bloom upon your own cheeks. in your chest, you feel as if you are being tickled by a feather. you try to make it stop, but it does not: it only leaves you breathless and laughing and red. there is such irony in feeling only gentleness from a man who kills thousands. he reaches out a hand and ties the ribbon into your hair. it is messy and rough and childish. 

“sorry,” his voice is gruff. 

“i have waited so long. you have more to say than an apology,” you smile. 

“i do,” miguel hums, and you almost keen into him, his voice. 

“then you must tell me. i cannot read minds, after all.”

miguel opens his mouth, but closes it as if he cannot say it. not yet. his face is dark, as if he still has something left to finish. what more is left? you cannot bear to see him leave once more. 

“are you leaving again?” you almost whisper. you are worried that if you say it too loud, then the gods will hear it and make it true. 

his face twists as he grits his teeth. you swear that he growls for a moment. in that moment, you see a miguel that is different from the one you know. you wait, and wait, and wait, but he does not deny it. 

“please, just tell me.”

“no,” he finally spits out. in that moment, you think that miguel might rip himself apart. 

“it is okay. i can listen. do not worry,” you try and console him, a hand reaching out and touching his arm. but it does not meet warm skin. instead, all you feel is hard iron, cold and unfeeling. 

“no, you do not understand,” his voice is like thunder. it is so, so loud that you swear it rattles your bones. for a moment, he breathes heavily, eyes clouded with fear. then, he becomes quiet once more, “you must come to the capital. it is by order of the queen.”

he detests himself for having to tell you all of this. he detests himself for letting the wotan learn about your existence. he had never wanted this to happen. he had hoped and prayed that you could be kept a secret. he had begged to any god or demon or spirit, anyone that would listen, that you be kept out of the wotan’s sight. but how could he hope for such a foolish thing? his hands are forever stained a deep crimson, and his soul is so tainted that even beasts quiver in fear. what god, what demon would listen to his begging? he should have known. she is all-seeing and all-knowing and all-encompassing; it had been drilled into his bones when he had been taken in as a soldier at ten, and again and again ever since. now, these are the consequences of defying her word. he does not know if he can take it, not again. not after what had happened to gabriella. the wotan is a cruel ruler. she does what is necessary, regardless of what it takes. and you will pay for his selfishness. miguel does not even feel sadness or anger or fear. not anymore. it had piled and piled on top of each other until suddenly, miguel had felt nothing. there is just a profound emptiness where everything used to be. miguel is a naturally fearful man. when even his fears cannot amount to anything, like a cornered animal finding out that its teeth cannot bite hard enough, what does he have left?

miguel had learned the answer when gabriella had been taken from him, and he learns it again as he helplessly watches you walk into the wotan’s hands on your own two feet. 

there is nothing left but despair.

-

-

-

-

A/N: WOOHOO NEXT CHAPTER!!! im probably going to have to extend this story by a few chapters (less than five i promis)!!!

also if it isn't clear (it probably isn't sorry!!) i tried to make the queen the embodiment of the spiderverse itself like the entire world do u guys get it?!?!!?!?

i really appreciate all fo ur comments and likes n everything!!!!! im really bad at checking for those but im like so in love w every single one of u i hope u know <333

[fireheartedpup]

Medium fucked up the formatting on the first poem I've written in months so I'm not giving you the link.

...I gotta update my pinned post.

Anyways.

Some of this makes me cringe, but apparently I can only write if I'm like I HAVE TO DO THIS RIGHT NOW so I'm going to just leave it alone. I'm satisfied with the first line. MAYBE the last line. The rest was written just to fill it out.

glass towers make for poor high horses

laden with ivory, they reinforce it

blame us for their poor construction

we don’t care, just want to function

better than barely,

where’s all the barley?

trapped behind a rich façade

rotting in piles while poor ones starve

honor the dead, collect all their bones

scattered to winds by bombs and their drones

“It’s easy if you do what I did,” they say

their ladders are corpses, their pavestones are graves

[whatwewrotepodcast]

Darkness; Silence

In the darkness there was warmth.

She remembers strong arms around her, a barrier against the suddenly terrifying and unknowable world around her. The smell of baking apples in the hot coals of the fire, bright and sharp with cinnamon and sugar. Gentle hands, calloused and worn as they were, holding her hand and guiding her unsteady steps. She remembers the cool, smooth feel of the wood as a staff was put into her hands, as she took those first, hesitant, freeing strides. The clack of the wood over the pavestones, the little jolt each time it tapped against an obstacle. The darkness had surrounded her, but what she remembers most is the sturdy grip on her elbow, and the reassuring words in her ears.

In the silence, it was cold.

He remembers the ringing slap of a blow to the face, the giddy and tilting world and the confusing disorientation. The smell of blood, fresh and stinging as it dropped into the icy snow. The bright contrast of its vivid red against the white, the steaming curl as its heat dissipated. He remembers rough hands grabbing his arms, his face. Shaking him as if that would make him understand their gestures, the way their mouths moved when they looked at him, when they looked at each other. An unknowable secret to which he didn’t have the key. The silence had always been with him, but what he remembers most is the bright white-red flash of pain, and the twisted faces that haunted his dreams.

She remembers the fear, the taunting voices circling her like wolves circling their prey.

The disorienting feeling of being surrounded, of not knowing where she was, where they were. She remembers the heart-racing pulse of her blood singing in her veins, the moment before the pain. The blows like white-hot exhalations of breath. Of grunt and gasp and the heavy-weight thud of fist on flesh. And she remembers the soft feel of the blankets on her skin. The warm water bathing her wounds. The brush of a thumb across her cheek, and the quiet reminder that she is loved. That she is protected. That she will be kept safe. She remembers a soft kiss on her brow, and the first taste of blood in her mouth.

He remembers the fear, the teeth-bared, burning-eyed faces leering down at him.

The way their muscles moved beneath their skin, taut with threat and with danger. He remembers the moment he knew the pain was coming again, the full-body bracing for the blows. Raining on him like hail, pounding against his flesh. Feeling it through to his bones. The familiar copper-iron tang of blood in his mouth. The snow icy cold against his face as he fell. The distant recognition of the blood sinking into the icy crust, briefly hot before the chill. His blood. He remembers the darkness drifting in and out as his skin slid across the icy ground, the bite of rocks and stone. He remembers awaking to the flicking of firelight on a rush and timber ceiling, and heat against his cheek. He remembers the familiar taste of blood on his tongue and the wondering of where the next blow will come from.

In the darkness she found her strength.

Firm hands guiding her, showing her how to stand, how to move, through touch and word. A hand on her elbow, guiding it up, a foot tapping her ankle to shift her stance, a soft word of instruction to tighten her muscles. The huff of breath and the scuff of feet on sand. The sound of her footsteps running laps around the walls, and the thump-thump-thump of her heart against her ribs, giving rhythm to her strides. The slow, steady words of her mentor guiding her meditation, teaching her to reach out with her remaining senses. The brightening of her ki as something in her shifted and touched the lives around her. The brightness of her laugh as she felt the darkness become a part of her. Not sight, but a way to place herself. Not sight. But a way to see.

In the silence he found connection.

A kinship formed in awkward exile. Learning by watching, by careful repetition. Of worn, cold roughened hands showing each step and showing again. To dig for roots, to gut a fish from an icy mountain stream. Of painstaking letters scratched in the dirt, of recognising the shapes of the words if not the way they sounded. The steady connection of the written letters to the movement of a mouth, the key found at last, the secrets unlocked. The growing of understanding, in time with his confidence, the discovery of a way to interact with the world around him. Not hearing. But a way to communicate.

In her horror, she found herself becoming.

The quiet whispered conversations overheard in the halls. The stiff-held grief hidden in funerals and ceremonies. In bodies lowered into graves, in the smell of blood and death that still clung to their shrouds, no matter how well they were cleaned. In the feel of paper-thin skin over age-knobbled joints and the recognition of time passing faster than she knew how to handle. In the announcement that rocked her world to the core, the tearing down of walls and the realisation of vulnerability. All that she thought eternal shaken to its core. Warm arms holding her, a familiar voice telling her to be brave. To be strong. That she had what it took. A footstep on the road, a home left behind. Her strength only growing with every support taken from her.

In his horror, he found his purpose.

Bodies filled with hate, shoving through the door. The flickering flames of the firelight deep in their eyes. The dance of their fists, sinking into flesh. The movement of their mouths, too jerky and fast for him to follow, distorted by the unsteady firelight and their own violence. The tearing in his throat as he screamed a scream he could not hear. Their hands like iron bands around his arms, the realisation of his weakness and his helplessness. The heat of the flames and the destruction of hope. The lonely march into the mountains, the cold biting his skin, even though he could still feel the fire. The darkness calling him, drawing him near. The chill in his soul, the breath harsh in his lungs. The figure in the hall, surrounded by the dark and long held secrets of the mountain. That ice-black stare, those dark-frozen eyes. The voice shattering the silence he had known his whole life. His footsteps leading him forward as he discovered his strength in the dark.

A field in a valley. Mountains like teeth chewing the storm-tossed sky. The long grass a lashing sea, whipping as the wind howls through the crags. He sees the lightning split the horizon, a white-hot streak through the clouds. She hears the thunder crack and roll down the mountain’s slopes like a tumble of boulders.

The wind whistles in her ears, tossing her white braids across her face. The wind caresses his skin, its voice unknown to him, but its familiar fingers tracing the tattoos on his body. He sees her mouth move, effortlessly forming the words that had so long been denied to him.

This is not the first time he has faced her. He knows it will be the last.

At last, her mouth forms, and he steps into the familiar stance, feeling his muscles twitch and quiver with readiness. She hears the shift of his body, the creaking of his knees as they take his weight, the rustle of the grass stalks as he plants his feet. She senses the thrum of his ki, the crawling-flies-on-corpse buzz of it. The humming of the thousand tiny wings as his intention registers. The hairs down the back of her neck rising in response. It is not the first time she has faced him. She knows it will be the last.

He doesn’t reply to her call, not with his words. She can’t see him, and he can’t hear her. But they both know this fight will be to the death. He sees the lightning flash again. She hears the crash of thunder again. She smiles, and lifts a hand. A language they both understand.

[alexseanchai]

Trick or treat!! 👻 🎃

I had actual plans at one point for a full story in the fairytale AU depicted in 4x09, but this is all I actually wrote down of it, and I can't remember if I had Adrien genderbent or crossdressing:

.

Once, a king sent messengers throughout the land to ask everyone from renowned wizards to village jokesters, from the most learned scholar-mage to the humblest baker's daughter, to come to the capital city and see if they might unravel the curse or ease the grief that meant the son of the king's most trusted advisor did not laugh. The boy was as dear to the princess as her own brother, his sadness paining her worse than her own ever could, and no reward was too small for one who could bring a smile to the princess's face by bringing laughter to her friend's lips—no reward, even if it were the crown of the heir to the throne.

"Well, that's ridiculous," said Marinette, moving into a forward lunge. "Since he'd have to take that from Her Highness's head to do it." Back to neutral stance. "Why not just say her hand in marriage?"

"She'd never," said Athanasia, the sound overbalancing Marinette's next lunge.

Marinette picked herself off the training courtyard pavestones, face burning, and collected her practice sword before turning toward her fellow knights-to-be and, on the far side of a woven safety barrier, fellow mages-to-be, not one of whom had mentioned the presence of a certain golden-haired mage student whose house colors were purple and gold on white. Not one! Someone could have warned her! Someone could—wait, why was Athanasia threading her way through the barrier?

To press a jar into Marinette's hand, apparently. "Sorry, I didn't mean to startle you," said Athanasia, earnestly enough it was still clear she hadn't noticed her own existence continually startled Marinette. Or that that was a good thing, when it didn't end up with Marinette's blood highly visible through her skin. "I made you some bruise balm? To apologize. For still doing that."

Uh.

[midnightprelude]

Major Arcana: Fool, Reversed

Written by @oftachancer and I for the @30daysofdorian event!

Masterpost | First | Previous | Next

The stones scraped his palms as he skidded to a stop. His ears were still ringing, but slowly the sound of laughter reached him like waves. Rings of laughter. Ringing. 

A show.

The blast had thrown him clear across the courtyard. His chest ached from it as he climbed to his feet, eyes stinging. He blinked back the tears quickly, gritting his teeth. No weakness, he heard Halward Pavus’ voice in the back of his mind. No failure. 

Dorian raised his chin and threw his hands out, thinking of that day on the beach. The chess game. The lightning that had set the sails of the ship on fire being summoned into his father’s wine glass like fireflies. Electricity surged from his scored, bloody palms, crackling louder than the chatter and laughter. 

Silence. 

The scream of a bird of prey circling overhead. 

Sandals slapping pavestones at a dead run. Away. Towards.

Dorian rubbed his eyes. His hands were hot to the touch and came away damp with tears. 

There was a pile of smoke and fabric where Bruto Herminius had been standing. The other students were fleeing the courtyard. The Praetor was crossing towards Dorian- long strides and flowing robes. Everyone was in motion. Ebbing and flowing. All but the silent shadow standing beside the statue of Sauvere: tall for his age, but lanky, a frown curving his mouth, ink staining his full lip from where he’d chewed a pen tip, eyes the color of moss watching Dorian. Watching. Waiting.

For what?

Praetor Rudeo took Dorian by the elbow and marched him out of the courtyard as the healers ran to Herminius’ aid.

The grip on his arm burned even more than the sting in his eyes. How dare he call Dorian’s parentage into question? How dare Herminius and his cronies sling insults, day after day, and not expect any sort of retribution? Dorian hoped there would be scars on his horrible, smug face.

They arrived at the door to Praetor’s office and he was unceremoniously pushed into the seat in front of the imposing desk. His feet touched the ground, but only just.

“Six months, Pavus, and you’re already causing problems. I told Halward there was a reason we don’t accept children younger than ten. I told him.” Rudeo stared him down. “You’re going to give Bruto and his family a full apology.” He flicked his wrist and a piece of parchment and pot of ink flew from a cupboard, landing on the desk right in front of him. 

Dorian rubbed his lip with his sleeve, the silk coming away stained ruby. He pursed his lips, shoving the paper away. Apologies were for the weak and Herminius didn’t deserve it. “No.”

Praetor Rudeo blinked, then sighed. “The boys have already come to me, saying you’ve been bullying them. We do not tolerate bullies or duels in our halls.”

Of course they would act the victims. Cowards.

“If you want an apology,” Dorian sniffed, “you’ll need to write it yourself.”

Rudeo’s countenance darkened, shadows stiffening and chilling the man’s features. “You will make an apology to every pupil of this Circle that you have threatened or maligned or made any move against. You will do this, my young lord Pavus, or you will be removed from the premises permanently. Do you understand?”

“I understand that you have no idea what’s going on in your own halls.” Dorian crossed his arms at his chest. “I’m not lying to cover your failures.”

The Praetor’s lips pressed into a thin line. “You leave me little choice. You will remain here or in the company of a proctor until your father can collect you.”

His father.

Expelled from Carastes Circle before he’d even begun. His eyes stung more sharply, but he didn’t shed another tear. He would face his punishment without giving them the satisfaction.

His father would hate him.

“You might as well lock me up.” Dorian met his gaze steadily. “There’s nothing left for me to learn here.”

The runes of the magical suppression cuffs glinted as soon as the Praetor pulled them from his pockets and for the first time today, Dorian was scared. He yelped as they closed around his wrists. A crack of lightning behind his eyes, worse than any pain, and then nothing.

Nothing at all.

[late-to-the-magnus-archives]

Madrigal - a Malevolent Fanfic

Madrigal: a complex polyphonic unaccompanied vocal piece.

In other words, many voices, with their own tune, singing at once.

Part of the Surrogate series. Written by me, @sparklyandheroic, and @sepiabandensis.

AO3

--------

It rose like a dream in the distance, and though it didn’t really look different, she almost could swear that it did.

Of course, every other time she’d come to Celephaïs, she’d done it coming out of the sky, in Hastur’s arms, so this was new on a number of levels. She’d never thought before about the fact that it had no walls.

It was a bold choice, and spoke much of Celephaïs’s culture.

Once, the city had been known for not changing—which had been a rumor spread by those jealous of the ageless city of Celephaïs. Implying that the city wasn’t that good, and that it was old-fashioned compared to something novel that simply had to be better for being newer. 

Some people would always try to recreate the wheel. New was not always better.

There were tall, flowering trees in the city, and when Faroe arrived, the breeze was a gentle whisper. While the magnolias were blooming, Kuranes kept the winds to a minimum and the temperatures inviting. 

Along the Street of Pillars, trees with leaves that looked like smoke were planted at frequent intervals between the onyx pavestones, and if Faroe looked to the west, she could clearly see where it ended at the seawall. Bright white sails of pleasure ships gleamed in the harbor. Small stores, street food, and a couple of questionable inns beckoned, and vendors hawked their wares on either side.

Nobody looked twice at Faroe. A lot of children were Dreamers, and if something too scary happened, they simply woke up. 

She could hear music as Nibbles carried her near, and already felt better. The Dreamlands had been… strange without her father by her side. She’d known they would be. She lived here, for crying out loud, and had read about what could happen.

But nothing much had happened. Her sleep felt odd, off; she woke consistently upset, as though captured by a bad dream she could not then recall. Well, if that was the worst of it, this would be easy, and she’d be back before her predicted fortnight. Anybody could handle some bad dreams.

“I still think it’s wisest to be open about this,” she said as though Nibbles had been holding a rousing debate with her. “He’s going to find out I came this way, anyway—it’s dad —and I’d rather maintain good relations with the city. Also, it’s Celephaïs. And I…” She sniffed imperiously. “Am not some thief in the night. ”

Nibbles made a dubious sound.

“Well, we don’t have to announce ourselves fully,” said Faroe. “Maybe we can just find Lori?” Nibbles gave her a look, head twisting unnaturally on her neck. Faroe nodded. “Right. Let’s start with Lori.”

Nibbles seemed to like this, and kept them to the shadows. 

It was so different from Carcosa. Still familiar; she’d been coming here since she was a little kid, and knew the Naraxa which wound like a silver-blue ribbon through the Valley of Ooth-Nargai, knew the shimmering gingko groves at the base of Mount Aran, knew the turquoise temple of Nath-Horthath and the Street of Pillars crowned with their bronze statues… and then Kuranes’ home, the Palace of Seventy Delights, where he held court. 

She liked it. White stone and bright golden domes, gleaming in the sun. So different from Carcosa’s dark gold and ebony intimidation.

She knew where to go.

Nibbles knew how to get her there, too.

#

The city was fairly safe, and the sea glittered in the sunlight. Lorraine was having… a long day. A long week. Portal travel never agreed with her, but she supposed that was the trade-off for getting sick in an airplane.

She wore a casual pair of slacks, a simple blouse, and her hair in a bun at the back of her head. Lori was deep in thought, drinking something from a thermos. In this place, with Kuranes here, Lori let her guard down. She looked almost ten years younger. 

There was, perhaps, no world in which Lori was prepared to hear Psst! from the bushes.

Lori paused, considered, and then slowly raised her eyes but not her head. “Mmm?” 

And with as much dignity as was possible to achieve when stepping out from a bush, Faroe stepped out from the bush.

The goat was with her. She looked fine; her cloak—dark, hard to focus on—would definitely help keep her safe from some of the smaller beasties out there. She looked absolutely imperious, as though Lori were her supplicant. “Greetings, Ambassador Rosewater. We would request time of you.” 

There were twigs in her hair.

So Dis had been right. Lori had to play this carefully. If Faroe thought that Lori was going to yell at her, or turn her over to her father, Faroe would get out of Dodge. “Princess Faroe,” Lori said, managing to sound a little surprised but not too much. “This is a lovely surprise. Is it just you and your companion today?”

“Indeed.”

“Shall I let Kuranes know you’re visiting, or should I just get enough refreshments for the three of us?” Of course, she’d included Nibbles. Lori wasn’t stupid. 

Faroe was trying so hard to be proper. “That would be lovely—though we would prefer our visit to remain out of the public eye.”

“More than reasonable. Alright, one moment.” Lori called over C’thlr, one of the employees, and said, “I’m heading to my social office for a little while. Short of loss of life, assume I shouldn’t be interrupted. Please inform Kuranes to meet me there, whensoever he has the opportunity.” “Anything else before I leave?” says C’thlr. “Mm, get a selection of things that you’d prepare for afternoon tea. Anything that isn’t eaten by us is up for grabs later.” The civil servant nodded, smiled at Faroe and dipped their head, and took off. 

Lori rolled her head a bit, popping something. “Not a far walk. My social office is nice and roomy—plenty of books and knick-knacks from my days causing trouble. This way.” 

Faroe followed.

Nibbles was getting very good at being unseen; she was a moving fright in the corner of one’s eyes, and almost completely silent. Almost. Gazes slid off of her, either unable or unwilling to focus on her for long, leaving her little but a faint memory of an odd shadow.

Faroe remained silent, too. She kept her hood up; she could just be another Dreamer like this, albeit a young one. 

Lori’s social office was comfortable, both functional and lovely. Aside from her desk, there were books, two couches facing one another, and a coffee table with plants on it. The plants flourished, and despite the social office being clearly an office, it didn't feel cold. Lori had been here long enough to make it her own, and flavor it with parts of her history and herself.

“Feel free to look and touch. Nothing in this room is irreplaceable—mostly foolish trinkets.” Lori walked over to the couch closest to the books, which provided a clear view of both exits. “I hope you had no trouble on the way in. Usually the weather is very tame around this time.”

“None at all. To be frank, we expected more trouble upon our journey.” Some of the imperiousness dropped away. “Ambassador… I’m on a quest.” 

Faroe clearly expected Lori to understand whatever she meant by those words—which confirmed the book had definitely been part of her reasoning.

If the King in Yellow ever had any idea what had set Faroe off on this journey…

No.Thinking about that now would being panic and prevent what mattered, which was helping a little girl—powerful, but still a child—to stay safe. Lori’s tone went gentle. “Are you? How remarkable! I’ve had a few of those.” 

With a faraway look, Faroe quoted: “‘The best thing for being sad is to learn something. That's the only thing that never fails. You may grow old and trembling in your anatomies, you may lie awake at night listening to the disorder of your veins, you may miss your only love, you may see the world about you devastated by evil lunatics, or know your honor trampled in the sewers of baser minds. There is only one thing for it then—to learn.’ That’s my quest, you see: to learn.” 

Here it was. “What is it you’re seeking, Faroe?”

Her little face crumbled. “Information. I need someone who can see beyond what is obvious.”

Lori tilted her head. “The future?”

“No, Ambassador. Explanations of things in the present.”

Lori’s face softened. “Ah. That kind of thing. I might know a couple of people who I trust enough to send you to. There is one named Atal, who is a mage and a priest from Ulthar.”

“Ulthar?” Faroe exchanged a look with Nibbles for some reason, but didn’t elaborate.

“He’s very good; the former patriarch of the Temple of the Elder Gods, he’s also the successor of Barzai the Wise.”

“Patriarch of Elder Gods?” That would include the King in Yellow. Faroe sounded a little nervous. “Would he tell my…” She stopped, but Lori could guess: Would he tell my father where I am?

Lori had never believed in coddling children, and did not do so now. “I think it would be safe to say he will let your father know that he saw you.” She sighed. “May I speak frankly? Not as an ambassador to a princess, but as two people having a conversation? I want to be as honest as I feel I can be.”

Faroe’s eyes were absolutely huge. “Yes. You may.”

Lori leaned in a little so she was on Faroe’s eye-level. “I’m not silly enough to think I can stop you. I’m also not a snitch—but that doesn’t change the fact that I will, at minimum, have to tell Dis that I saw you, honey. This is just what happens when you love someone, and they leave your sight. They worry. So I’m going to tell them I saw you, but… I don’t have to tell them I saw you yet. Is this fair enough?”

Faroe was pale, but she took this for what it was—an assumption of maturity. “That’s fair,” she finally said. “If you lied, dad would be angry, anyway, so don’t do that. But as long as he doesn’t find out right away, that gives me time to do what I must. Thank you. We will— I will remember your aid.” Her little mouth quirked. “And I don’t think you’re a snitch.” 

Smart kid. “I’m glad to hear it. We have a deal, then.” And she smiled. “I remember being young and having quests. I don’t miss my youth, though. Don’t let people convince you that getting older isn’t a triumph.” Then, “Alright, I thought I could resist doing it. I’m gonna get those twigs out of your hair. Hold still a second.” 

Faroe blinked.

Faroe blushed.

Faroe leaned forward, then muttered through the corner of her mouth to Nibbles, “You could’ve told me.”

Nibbles made an innocent sound.

Faroe sighed and tilted her head to Lori. “I’m sorry for dragging you into this. You won’t get in trouble, though.” She sounded quite certain Lori—and Celephaïs—would be fine. 

Like her father would never harm an innocent city.

Lori was very glad that Faroe couldn’t see the blink-and-miss-it expression of ‘really?’ It reminded her to keep her face under control. 

Faroe was still looking down, letting Lori free the tangled twigs. “I want to be everything dad wants me to be. I will be. But I think… maybe he doesn’t understand this part.” She paused, having possibly come to the heart of her quest. “When I succeed in this, he’ll understand better. I think he’ll be proud of me.”

“I think he already is proud of you,” Lori said. “A lot of people are. Maybe don’t worry about what you will be, just yet.” She set aside a couple of twigs. “Maybe I can get those to take root in a vase later. So, tell me: how goes your quest, then?”

But Faroe was chewing on something she’d said. “What do you mean, don’t worry about what I will be?” She sat back. Subtly, she’d already scarfed three finger sandwiches. Less subtly, Nibbles had downed an entire bowl of cherries. “I already know what I will be.”

Ah. Great. More traps. “Most people aren’t born into something so planned out.” She made a note to get more cherries (and possibly a larger bowl.) “When I was a kid, everyone would ask me ‘what do you want to be when you grow up?’” 

Faroe blinked. She blinked again. “They asked you what you wanted to be?”

“Yes.” 

Lori felt like she could hear a pin drop. 

Faroe stared at her a moment more. Finally, she produced one, single question: “Why?”

“To get me thinking about the future, I believe.” 

“So you didn’t know?”

“Nope. Not for a long time. Most people—and I do mean people, not just humans—don’t know. And sometimes you get what you want and realize that it wasn’t at all what you thought it was. That’s okay. People change. So do the things they want as they grow older.” 

Faroe nodded. “So we do need quests.”

“Quests, or at the very least, something to go after. The pursuit is often as important as reaching the goal.” Lori paused. “Think about the Street of Pillars. It could have just been a boring, functional walkway in, but why not have something enjoyable between point a and point b?” 

“I like that street,” said Faroe.

“I think that you’ll definitely benefit from talking to Atal,” Lori said. “He likes philosophy from many different kinds of worlds.” 

Faroe nodded, brow knit. Clearly, she had a lot to chew on with this information; and at least at the moment, she wasn’t sharing it. “I thank you. Perchance, could we peruse your supplies before moving on? Also… where is Atal in Uthar?”

#

“She was unharmed.” 

“That much is good—though if she’s going to travel that far… all right.” Dis seemed to be calculating precisely what Faroe might run across— might being the crucial thing. Faroe was human. The Dreamlands would respond to her—and she had neither lack of imagination, nor power. “I’ll try to send word to his majesty. Fair warning: he blew into Krepkut like some damned tornado, but it seems he’s done less damage since then.”

So he was already smashing places. Unsurprising. “She understood I wasn’t going to lie to her father. Which I won’t; hopefully, that’ll be enough to protect us. I just hope that by the time they catch up to her, she’s willing to stay put and not try to run again.” 

Dis sighed. “They’ll have to figure that out on their own. This is family shit. Not your circus, not your monkeys, Lori—but you did a good job. I knew you could handle it.”

Lori sighed. “There’s only so much I could do, anyway. She really seems like a good kid.”

“She is.” Dis didn’t hesitate on that. “It’s partially why this little stunt has thrown her dad so much. Both of them.”

Lori knew, after all.

“I know the kid is looking for answers. I’m worried she’s going to get them from the worst people.” 

“She’s going to,” Dis confirms. “We always do. Part of growing up is choosing what advice to trust.”

Unfortunately true. “I won’t keep you. But thank you, Captain.” 

“Take care, Lori. Call if you need.”

#

Faroe frowned as she took in the Celeste, a magnificent three-masted ship that rocked gently in Celephaïs’s calm harbor. It was beautiful, as many ships of the city were—blue lacquer, gold paint, the gorgeously carved figurehead of a fisher-bird. She looked incredibly safe. Faroe had been assured by the captain that she had been on dozens of trips thus far, and emerged victorious from the waves every single time.

If only the water weren’t so horrifying, no matter how her dad had tried to prepare her.

Luckily, Nibbles was giving her the perfect excuse to delay. She was all lowered head and pinned ears, dozens of eyes fixated warily on the ship, and she let out a huff.

“She’s a fine ship,” Faroe said, raising her chin. “No squall has ever delayed her.”

Nibbles huffed again.

It was a comfort to know that Nibbles was nearly as apprehensive as she was. Faroe remembered, long ago, one swimming lesson in which she had thrown such a violent tantrum that Nibbles had stepped forward to help. She had been squirming in Dad’s arms, kicking and screaming, but she remembered Nibbles sniffing the edge of the water, and then plunging in.

Nibbles was not made to swim–Faroe doubted any of the Dark Young were. There had been an uncomfortable beat as she’d sank, but with some kicks of her legs her head had emerged from the water, eyes huge, and she’d shaken the water from her ears and paddled awkwardly around the pool.

“Your companion is here with you,” Dad had rumbled then. There was maybe a touch of amusement in his voice. “Shall we try again?”

In the present, Faroe spoke. “It will be fine,” she said, voice hushed. “Kuranes keeps the weather around Celephaïs calm and smooth for sailing. And it’s only a four day journey across the Middle Sea. We’ll be in Hlanith before we know it, and then all we have to do is follow the edge of the Enchanted Wood to the River Skai, and it will lead us right to Ulthar.”

One of Nibbles’ ears perked up, swiveling forward.

“You can sleep the whole way. Captain Pollard said he’s done this trip a thousand times.” Was she convincing Nibbles, or herself? Faroe paused. “Please?”

With one final huff, Nibbles walked up the gangplank, sailors stepping respectfully out of her way.

“It’s just four days,” Faroe said, and feeling very brave and grown-up, she boarded the Celeste.

#

Hastur did not arrive like a tornado. He did not even quite arrive like a storm. The impression Lori would have—and hopefully never reveal—was that of a bright yellow hot-air balloon, floating magnificently (and ponderously) from the sky. 

He simply flew over the city, circled twice, and very slowly came down toward Kuranes’ palace. He gave them plenty of time to respond appropriately. Really.

Respond they did, although Lori was looking forward to this about as much as one looked forward to getting a joint reset. 

Kuranes looked good. Lorraine looked good. None of the servants passed out in fear. Nobody was locking their knees. Lorraine reminded herself not to lock her knees.

Hastur landed, and nobody died. This was probably good, too.

His anger was… palpable. It was like an electric aura around him, buzzing, heating the air. He was also carrying Arthur like some kind of doll, and Arthur’s lack of shock at this behavior (the man didn’t even look embarrassed ) was a whole kind of environmental storytelling.

Hastur passed gracefully between the rows of servants all offering things on silver platters—refreshments, shiny jewels, and the like. He ignored all of them. Was he taller than usual? Maybe. “Greetings from Carcosa to the lovely Dream-City of Celephaïs.”

“Many welcomes, King in Yellow,” Kuranes said with a gracious nod. Neither he nor Lori revealed guilt or nerves.

It took effort.

“Is present company… trustworthy?” said Hastur. Translation: Can we talk?

“Of course, great King,” said Kuranes. “Naught that passes here will slip outside, even in whisper.”

And shockingly, startlingly, Hastur just skipped the rest of the formalities. “My daughter is missing. Have you seen her?” 

This wasn’t done, especially not by the Peacock King. He must be truly afraid.

“She arrived earlier and came right to the palace,” Lorraine said. “She sought me out, hid until she was certain that we were alone, and then asked to speak with me. She was unharmed. I made sure she had something to eat. The Dark Young was with her the entire time.” Lorraine suspected that, however everyone might feel about the goat, having Nibbles nearby would at least make them all feel somewhat better. 

Hastur was impossible to read.

Arthur was not. “Oh, thank God.”

Hastur made a movement, shifting Arthur against himself as if to say, hush. “What did she speak to you about, Ambassador?”

Lori was ready. "She told me she was on a quest, seeking information. I told her that when you arrived, I would not lie to you about our conversation, and she found that acceptable." Lorraine took a slow, calming breath. “She told me that she was hoping her father would be proud of her at the end of her quest.”

Hastur shifted the tiniest bit, though again, he was impossible to read clearly.

Again, Arthur was not. He looked ready to cry.

“Faroe knows you’re looking for her,” Lori continued. “She thinks that this is something she ‘has’ to do. She didn’t want to talk very much about it.” 

In the silence, there was birdsong and the sound of waves crashing on a sandy beach. Lorraine tamped down on the desire to add, ‘I’m sorry’ when she didn’t need to, just to fill it. 

Hastur was still for one long, fraught moment. “It seems, Arthur, you were correct.”

Arthur did not say I told you so —though it was interesting to watch that sentiment pass over his face. 

He’d changed quite a bit from the broken scarecrow he’d been when Lori first saw him. A lot had been going on in Carcosa, even in the last week.

“Where does she believe her quest will take her?” said Hastur.

“I told her about Atal and Ulthar,” Lori said. “I thought that those were good places to look for information. Relatively safe, as well.”

“We did not, of course, restrain your own, lord Hastur,” Kuranes added. “Assuming we even could do such a thing, we would never offer such disrespect.”

This part was a gamble.

It paid off. “Yes.” And Hastur nodded to himself. “You have done well. When was she here?”

“About two days ago. It’s not much of a headstart.” 

“I trust you have not shared this information with anyone else.”

“Correct.” It went without saying that any and all of the servants standing by were loyal to Kuranes and Lorraine, to the death. 

“I require a favor,” said Hastur, which was the second shocking thing he’d done today.

Lorraine and Kuranes exchanged a look. “We can speak even more privately,” Lorraine begins, “If everyone is… amenable?” 

“At once.” Hastur looked like he’d come to some kind of decision, possibly before he even started floating over the city like an oversize aerial advertisement.

“We’ll go to my office,” Kuranes said. He had been more than happy to let Lori do most of the speaking, but it could be noted that Lorraine didn't walk until he did, and then it was a half-step behind and to the side. 

Secretly, both hoped that the office would be neat enough. Worrying about small things like whether the pens were in order meant not worrying whether one was about to be murdered.

#

Hastur shrank as they approached, eventually putting Arthur down to walk beside him. He floated in, tentacles defying gravity, and waited until the door was shut before speaking. 

Kuranes’ office was quite comfortable, honestly. There were places to sit that humans and nonhumans could both use, and there were enough personal touches that kept it from feeling lifeless. While it was tasteful, the colors were subdued. This was a place where business was done.

Kuranes made a slight gesture with his hand, exercising his will. What was said in this room would stay in it, for better or worse. 

“Carcosa will be in your debt. You understand the enormity of this,” said Hastur.

“It will be our honor to help in any way,” Lorraine said. 

“My concern, as you can imagine, is her safety in the face of my enemies.” 

Kuranes nodded. “Right now, her identity is her greatest threat. But from what Lorraine told me, she understands that.”

“She might, yet she still came to you, revealing herself,” said Hastur. “She is a child, and unable to grasp the true danger she is in. To that end, we are going to attempt a… more subtle approach. I would—as that favor—appreciate an effort on your part to make it seem as though I have found my daughter and returned home. I will reward you very well.”

Well, well, wasn’t that clever?

Kuranes nodded. Lori reached into a hidden pocket and proceeded to pull out a folder. “I had assumed the conversation would turn towards finding her,” Lori told Kuranes. “These are the agents I have in certain cities that I have already contacted, are willing to assist, able, and actually can do a decent job at not scaring the hell out of a runaway. All they know so far is to stand by.” 

Hastur nodded. “If your agents can let it be known that I have found her and returned home, that will do her more good than anything else.”

“As soon as possible, or within a certain time frame?” 

“If possible, immediately.” 

“We’ll get people on it to make it look legitimate.” Lorraine placed the folder back into her pocket. 

Hastur didn’t bow; he wouldn’t do that, in any case. But he did sort of… nod, which was a remarkable thing. “I will bless your kingdom. Shall we make it official?” he said to Kuranes, since now there would be some spilling of blood and fancy words and spells cast to bind everything, because he could never do anything halfway.

Kuranes did the nod right back at him—perfectly gracious, comfortable and calm. “I would be honored, Lord of Carcosa. If you’ll follow me?” He headed for the other door—the one leading to an inner room without windows, where magic could be done without interruption or spying eyes.

Arthur shifted.

“Stay,” said Hastur, and then they were gone, door closed behind them.

#

Arthur looked about as out of place as it was possible for a man to look. “Is she still here?” he murmured.

And yes, Lori could hear the other voice: Yes. She’s watching us.

Arthur hunched a little. “Hello,” he finally said. “Haven’t seen you in a while. At least a whole week.” He smiled.

It was utterly transformed from the miserable look he’d had years ago. He seemed like an entirely different person. 

Lori smiled. “I enjoyed seeing you against the songbird. That was a hard battle, well won. Once she’s not sore over it, she’ll see it too.” 

She smiled as she spoke, friendly.

Arthur’s left hand reached over to gently caress his right. “Thank you. It was honestly fun.”

Lori sighed. “They’re going to be gone for a good while now. An hour or two at least. We can drop formalities. Mostly because I think I’m going to die if I have to keep it up much longer.”

Arthur laughed lightly. “That’s fair. Faroe really likes you. So does Dis.” Then he realized what he’d said and reddened. “I mean. Trusted you. Um.” 

Lori made a short, choked giggle. “Well. I knew about Dis liking me, but it’s good to hear that Faroe trusts me.” 

John snorted.

Arthur cleared his throat. “Sorry, this is awkward. It’s been a while since I spoke to someone who wasn’t a god or a child.”

“Getting stuck in certain circles and drifting a little bit when you leave them can be challenging.”

Arthur looked away. “‘Stuck.’ Sure.”

She paused. Lori took a moment to study him, really study him. “If I gave you my word that I wouldn’t talk about what we say in private, would you trust me to keep to that? You can say no. We can make small talk instead, and I can… well, I personally think you need traveling clothes. We can say it’s a gift and be insistent, if that wouldn’t cause friction.” 

I think we can trust her. And you need clothes. This court robe just isn’t going to cut it. 

“Gods, yes, I’d love a change of clothes. Something that blends in. This is fine for court, and he keeps this thing clean, but still.”

She nodded. “Okay. Sit down, if you know your measurements I can send someone out with instructions.” 

Arthur laughed. “I don’t know my measurements anymore, sorry. Been a fair while since I did my own shopping.” John directed him to his seat while Lori considered her options. 

“So are we doing real talk, or small talk?” she said.

What do you want to do, Arthur? I think I trust her. Not just because of Dis, either.

“That was ridiculous jealousy, anyway,” Arthur mumbled.

John huffed.

Lori waited.

“Yes,” said Arthur. “Let’s do real talk.”

She’s smiling. It’s friendly.

“Glad to hear it. I’m just worried about a kid that could get in trouble right now, and… I heard her call you uncle. I know you’re deeply concerned, too.” 

“Fuck, I’m scared for her.” And he covered his face. “I’m so scared.”

Lori reached out a hand to pat his right arm. “I’m not going to tell you about the things I did when I was her age. But kids are surprising. I wouldn’t bet against her.” 

He looked almost pained. “I wouldn’t, either. Hastur… he’s…” He sighed heavily. “He’s prepared her. Damn it.” 

Yikes. “I can only imagine what that means.” 

Arthur looked like a sad puppy.

Lori decided to redirect. “I hope I’m not asking a prying question,” she began, “and you’re welcome to want to change the topic. But where are you from? Any city names you’d share that I might recognize?” 

Arthur perked up. “Arkham, in Massachusetts. I went to Boston for university though… gods, years ago now. What about you?”

“Oh! I know where Boston is. Well, the closest city to me that most people recognize… Sedona. In Arizona, though I met a Dreamer who swore up and down there was a Sedona in New Mexico, too.” She chuckled. “The town I used to live in was fairly small.” Her smile is pensive, thoughtful, a little sad, John said. “I miss the desert, sometimes,” she said, “but I’m very happy by the sea.” 

His eyes were wide, though they weren’t focused on her. “I’ve never been out there. I suppose I never will, now—but that sounds fascinating. Is it really all… cowboys and indians, horse thieves, all of that?”

Lori foolishly, assumed it was safe to drink, then nearly snorted it out her nose. Cowboys and indians? Horse thieves? Really ? “Arthur—what, uh… year was it? When you were last on Earth?”

“1938.”

He wouldn't even know there’d been a second world war. 

She looks as shocked as though you smacked her upside the head.

“Did I say something wrong?” Arthur said.

Lori pursed her lips. “No. Oh boy. Oh. Mm. This might come as a bit of a shock. We’re clearly from Earth at… different times in its history? Because I’m not from that decade.” 

Arthur blinked a couple of times. “Oh.”

Different timelines. I told you before.

“Right, but I… when are you from, Lori?”

She has a wry smile on her face, and her gaze is distant with memories.

“The year 2034,” she said. “My hometown was… odd. Even disregarding the difference in century.” 

Arthur looked about as stunned as one might expect for such news. He took a moment to answer. “Odd how?”

“Oh, that’s opening up a can of worms,” Lori said. “How about let’s start here: did you always know that there were more worlds than the one you were born in? Or was it a rude shock?” 

Arthur perked up. “I had no fu- sorry, no idea. I mean, I knew there were nine planets, at least as of 1930, but that was about it.”

“That’s what most people from Earth  have told me,” Lori said. “My background was a little different. We were warned about certain places in my hometown—that we might end up somewhere else if we got too close.” 

“Certain… places in your hometown?”

“There were old oak doors that would just appear. No threshold. No hinges. Some of the braver kids I knew would go up and listen to them. The thing was, if you found a way to open them and step through, the door vanished behind you.”

“Shit,” he said, looking horrified.

“I suppose you never heard of a place called Night Vale. Or Desert Bluffs.” 

John gasped. So Arthur’s passenger had.

Arthur kept his face calm. “I’m afraid not. It sounds like something of a crazy place.”

“It was. Those doors were from another dimension—a dimension where a powerful and dangerous being was trying to get into our town,” Lori said. “Things were… difficult, toward the end. Anyone who wasn’t born in Night Vale had to leave, and anyone who had been born there had to return—sort of like a reset, game pieces back into position.” 

Fuck. Arthur, I know what she’s talking about. The world that town was in ended, but this crazy goddess went haywire trying to keep her town in existence. She shattered reality. Made tons of timelines, none of them stable. This woman’s lucky to be alive—and sane.

Arthur swallowed, pale. “So what happened?”

“It’s complicated. The dimension that the doors lead to—it wasn’t a terrible place. It wasn’t intrinsically evil, but it wasn’t home. Oh… there was so much that happened. Visiting scientists who helped, and well-meaning but confused gods…” 

Arthur looked a little lost. He also looked fascinated. He would make a terrible spy. “This sounds like a lot.”

She’s grinning like a gremlin.

“I was part of the resistance. I helped take control of a radio station, to get information out to everyone.”

Arthur grinned, too. “That sounds exciting.”

“It was. Though it’s funny—whenever I speak about home with other Dreamers, they act like Night Vale was part of the Dreamlands, a dream someone had, or a story someone wrote. Whatever else home was, I was able to hit the ground here running because of it.” 

“Did the doors lead to this place? To the Dreamlands?”

“Ah—no,” she said. “I came here because I’m a Dreamer.”

Her gaze is distant and sad. Arthur, whatever version of Night Vale she knew ended a long time ago.

“I can’t help but notice you’re talking about your town in the past tense,” Arthur said.

Smart kid, smart dad.

Lori sighed. “Arthur, what do you know about Dreamers? Like me and Kuranes?” 

“Honestly, not much. Faroe’s talked a little about it all, but… I wasn’t exactly invited to her lessons.” He hesitated, then volunteered interesting information. “I never got here by dreams. I was thrown here by cultists.” He paused. “The first time.”

“Geez,” said Lori, barely resisting the urge to dive into that bag of traps.

“Yeah.” He rubbed the back of his head. “It’s been a journey.”

“Well, that’s certainly one way to get here,” Lori admitted. “My entry was a little easier. I was an innate Dreamer. I would fall asleep and wake up here, in the Dreamlands—a week of time here per hour of sleep. Kuranes was much the same. I had a place with a lot of other Dreamers, which we’d set up together.” 

“You had a… a sort of family here?” Arthur sounded amazed. “A community?” He looked at the drink in his hands. 

Beat. “Well, for what we had, it was nice. We made sure of it; most people there had rough lives back home.” She’s rubbing her jaw, thoughtful, smiling. “I’ll tell you about it sometime. But ah. One of the perks of how I got to the Dreamlands was if something was getting dangerous, I could just… wake up back home. It was a level of safety.”

“That sounds very convenient,” said Arthur, not hiding his envy.

I’m sorry, Arthur. Dreamers seem to enjoy what they have.

Lori had to pretend she hadn’t heard him, but the King in Yellow’s voice sounding compassionate was blowing her mind. “Well, one day, I realized that something had changed. That I couldn’t leave the Dreamlands by waking.” 

His eyes widened. “What did that mean?”

Nothing good.

He was right. “Everyone knew as soon as I couldn’t wake up. Something had happened to my body. I had no place to go back to.” 

You’re not a Dreamer. Funny… I wonder if we even would have met if you had been one. He exhaled. Technically, the chances were higher—but it wouldn’t have been through that book.

Arthur gripped his left hand with his right. “Then it was the right way for us.”

“Pardon?” said Lori, innocently.

“Sorry,” said Arthur.

To anyone who didn’t understand what they were seeing, it would be odd to observe a man holding his own hand like that. But with the knowledge she had, it said so much about the two sharing that body. There was a sweetness to it—just passion responding. no thought or plan involved.

“So  I suppose that means your body died?” Arthur asked quietly.

“Yes.” It was a very simple, soft answer. “And I knew it would be unwise to find another world where my town had been, where my own life had been. Yes, there were many other worlds with my town, and travel between them was possible, but… it had already shattered reality enough. Night Vale had problems with doppelgangers.”

“Doppelgangers?”

“Doubles.”

“Other versions of you from other worlds.”

“More often monsters masquerading as, but yes.”

Arthur certainly looked like he had a lot to chew on. “I never knew all this. About Dreamers. Night Vale. All of it.”

“The King in Yellow likely does,” she said. “It made quite a splash.” She settled back into her seat. “You know, for a good while, I kept trying to tell myself that maybe I wasn’t dead. Maybe it was a coma! Or a sleeping sickness or spell that had been cast over the town. And the scientists and the sheriff’s secret police were trying to solve it, and I just had to be patient. Things like that happened in Night Vale. I kept telling people that’s what it was—it was just a small thing. Until one of the other Dreamers took me aside, took me by the hands, and gently asked me if I was trying to convince everyone else, ormyself. ” 

“Ah,” said Arthur. “I know this kind of conversation.”

“I suspected you would.” She sighed again. “And I needed to hear it, it just stung like hell. Well—my body is gone, and I’m here now, and I am very fortunate to be happy with my job and my life. Once or twice I’ve run across someone from a town like mine, but Arthur, finding someone from Earth is a really lovely treat for me.” 

“I’m glad I could return your kindness,” said Arthur sincerely, which was the exact moment servants entered, carrying clothes.

They’ve got outfits for you, and a small bag to carry them.

“Thank you for this,” said Arthur.

“I told them that you would likely be doing a lot of traveling, so they brought things that would be suitable for different places in the Dreamlands. I’m sure Hastur has you covered for formal clothes, but you needed things you can run in. Try these on—Dorona, please set up a screen for privacy? Thank you—and tell us what you think. We’ll get you at least a couple of things, for comfort and variety.” 

Arthur reached, and Dorona placed them directly in his hand. He felt them while John described them. These look good; they’re colors that won’t show most dirt. Might even hide some blood. Lots of pockets.

“I don’t have anything to put in pockets,” mumbled Arthur.

John huffed. You should. I’ll talk to him.

 “The Ambassador takes clothes very seriously,” Dorona said.

She’s winked at Lori, teasing.

Arthur wore a tiny smile again, but followed John’s direction to move behind the screen.

“This had better not be the sock thing. I explained the sock thing,” said Lori in the tone of a fond debate. 

Arthur laughed from behind the screen. “Do I want to know about the sock thing?”

Your arm—there. The zipper—yes.

“I was complaining because I got socks as a gift, and Lorraine overheard me,” said Dorona. “Next thing I know, our Ambassador is telling me about the virtues of dry socks and why they’re so important. This was at a holiday party.”

“I had possibly had a glass of wine too many,” Lori said, voice light and hiding a laugh. 

“When she sobered up, I told her that I still did not agree with her about socks being a quality present, and she groaned and shoved a pillow over her head.”

Arthur clearly found this very amusing. “Dry socks, you say.” He stepped out.

It was transformative. He’d taken out the braids and just gone with a simple ponytail, and the look as a whole was solid: he looked like an adventurer. In fact, with shoulders that defined, he looked ready to do some damage.

His expression, on the other hand, was positively shy. “Does it fit?”

I… I can’t tell. There aren’t mirrors in here. John sounded slightly upset by this.

“Dorona, will you—” before Lori finished, her agent moved to a corner of the room, pressed a smooth slot in the wall, and a panel moved to reveal a mirror. 

Ah, said John, absolutely relieved. This does look good. It fits you pretty well; it looks like it won’t overheat you, either, but it gives you a lot of coverage. You know what? I’d say you almost look like someone not to fuck with again. Almost.

Arthur’s smile was quiet, as if with old pain.

“I’d say it looks very nice on you, Arthur,” said Lori.

“Thank you,” said Arthur. “I really mean that. I don’t have a means to pay you back properly.”

“I’m glad you like them,” Lori told him. “Listen. Not everything needs to be transactional, but if you still feel like scales are unbalanced… have another conversation with me, someday.”

“I can do that.” And he was far too deadpan when he said, “Next time you come to Carcosa.” No mention of Dis. He really would make a terrible spy, but he was sweet about it.

“Of course,” Lori said. “I imagine I’ll be visiting sometime soon.” 

Heh, heh, heh, said John, and Arthur grinned.

Dorona slowly raised an eyebrow but said nothing. 

#

The ceremony was done. Hastur’s blessing—no small thing—would be extended over Celephaïs for the next solid year. Protection, extra fertility for crops and livestock, flourishing orchards, and even extra fish would all be theirs.

It would put them more on the map, politically, than Kuranes liked, but he believed the benefits would outweigh the trouble.

It was only after they were done that Hastur spoke again. “If anyone does harm her…” He hesitated. “No. That is not what I wanted to say. Kuranes. Lord of Celephaïs.” The words echoed as their blood dripped, still sizzling in the symbols they’d traced on the ground in will and word. “My daughter will need allies. I would like to assume you will be one for her, when the day comes that she chooses to rule.”

Well. The King in Yellow was full of surprises today. “My ambassador has spoken highly of her, and I recall her in your shadow when you brought her to visit—she seems smart, and resourceful. I believe an alliance would benefit us both.” 

Hastur seemed relieved. Had he been nervous about Kuranes’ response? What the heck was happening in Carcosa?

Kuranes could be smooth, too. “It’s been an honor, Lord Hastur. I look forward to our future cooperation.” 

Clearly, that had been the right response. Though it was Kuranes’ home, Hastur led the way back out to find their people all laughing, and that was about as good a result as anyone could have hoped.

[90shouseboat]

Lot’s Wife (Don’t Look Back)

Cobwebbed black clouds finally broke behind her eyes

Lightning-fire revealing

Quick anger spilling

Deep in the hidden distance

The first searing drops abandoned her face

Darkening the stained pavestone at her feet

Leaving behind only salt and sorrow

Failing sunlight glancing through the growing dark

Lighting the cold fields of her heart

With its own sunset

Moving on and her still trying to turn away (poor thing!)

And taking the rain with her

Both light and cloud gone

As quickly as they had come

Like sweet summer rain

Like god’s own mercy

Leaving behind only salt and sorrow

——————