#perchance a parchment

[justaz]

s1ep13 merlin, believing he will be dead by morning, goes to say goodbye to arthur and he leans against the door of arthur’s chambers and watches the glow of the fire light his skin golden, full of color and life that it had been sorely lacking while the prince was injured. he stares at the softness of arthur’s features and pressed the line of his profile into memory for while he passes he will wish for nothing more than to see arthur one last time, his smile and blue eyes one last comfort before he passes on to the otherworld. arthur turns to stare at him and frowns at whatever expression merlin is making. the prince kicks a weak foot out at the chair next to him and motions for merlin to join him. merlin slowly shuffles over but ignores the chair completely. he stops in front of arthur who watches him with wary confusion. the tug of his lips and the furrow of his brow sickeningly endearing and merlin allows himself to be selfish and leans down to press his lips to arthur’s.

the prince is sat frozen under merlin’s touch but he can’t find himself to care much about that, not when he finally knows what it feels like to kiss arthur. he hopes that will be his last sensation before the ever consuming nothing, he hopes he will close his eyes one last time only to find arthur grinning at him and calling him an idiot before leading him into paradise where he can watch arthur smile, hear him laugh, and feel his touch for all eternity. he pulls away and leaves before arthur can gather himself to form a response, dropping the letter explaining everything on the table as he passes. so he allows himself to be selfish twice - to take from arthur and to give, to let himself know what is feels to kiss the man, to embrace his feelings for him, and to have the man know him for who he truly is. he wishes to pass peacefully with no regrets. somehow that revolves entirely around arthur.

only…he survives the whole ordeal and yeah has a gnarly scar on his chest but is otherwise fit to return to his duties. which include taking care of the prince. of arthur. who he kissed. and who most definitely know about his magic by now. yeesh.

[zestialmorde]

If a contract is what you desire than it shall be done

(The heart beats for thee anon)

@lovesinthedarksthebestlove

I'll stay anon tho

“That was… surprisingly easy, even for one of my persuasiveness. I suppose infatuation is a curious draught, is it not? Or perchance thou art simply unaware of the gravity of such a situation?” Zestial summons a piece of yellowed parchment, already signed with his name at the top. The text is written in an elegant, flowing cursive that’s difficult to read, especially due to the archaic language used.

[lifeofkaze]

Lullaby for a Stormy Night

Happy (non-UK) Mother's Day to all mothers, aspiring mothers, people who lost their mothers (my heart goes out to you), and basically, all of us. We rock 💛

A/N: Ethel and Florence Hexley (in mention) belong to the best of the best @the-al-chemist

The library of Fraser Hall lay plunged in shadow. A few hours ago, pale sunlight had still touched the oaken shelves, but now, the only sources of light were the lightning bolts splitting the sky in half and the pearlescent glow of the lithe little ghost hovering next to the woman sitting by the window. 

Selene Fraser’s brows were drawn together in a concentrated frown. In her hands, she was holding the tassels of the curtain, strands of its fringe interwoven with her fingers. Her eyes flickered to the letter lying in her lap, and, with a huff, she let the tassels drop again. 

“I must be doing something wrong, Alan,” she muttered to the ghost of her pet ferret. “Mrs Hexley has spelt it all out for me, but I can’t seem to get it right. Why must this be so hard?” 

“As usual, you do not lack in understanding. Only patience,” replied a voice that sounded as if it came from far away. From behind a bookshelf, a second shimmering figure emerged, its feet floating inches above the burgundy carpet. Alan’s ears twitched at the sight of his undead companion, settling contentedly on Henry Lovecraft’s shoulder as he came to a halt next to Selene. He cocked an inquisitive brow at the darkness of the room. “Why haven’t you started a fire?”

Selene startled, as if only now realising how dark it had become. “I must have forgotten. Mrs Hexley sent her response about my plight with Caitlin’s hair. I couldn’t wait to put her suggestions to the test, but they turned out to be a lot more complicated than I thought.” She gave Henry a pleading look. “Can you, perchance, make sense of it?”

Raising the letter in Henry’s direction, it took the flicker of defeat crossing his face for Selene to remember that he wouldn’t be able to take it. With a sting of remorse, she turned the parchment of him to read in the little light he and Alan were exuding. 

“Why must plaiting a little girl’s hair be so impossibly complicated?” she said glumly as Henry’s eyes flew over the lines. “I barely manage to contain it. Why can’t she just keep it down, like me? It’s all I ever wanted when I was her age, but she seems to despise it.” 

Henry paused. The beat it took for him to answer filled the room, the storm howling outside appearing all the louder for his silence.

“Caitlin is not like you, Selly.

But I wish she were.

Guilt rose in Selene’s chest upon thinking it. She knew what it felt like not living up to a mother’s expectations. Caitlin maybe was tenaciously stubborn in her wish to be prim and proper, but how could Selene love her any less for it? She was her daughter, after all.

“When I was her age, I always had to be presentable, no matter the circumstances,” Selene frowned, her eyes resting on the shield with the painted golden stag above the fireplace. She thoughtfully turned the heavy gold ring on her middle finger. “It was stifling, Henry. I hated it. It’s not what I want for Caitlin.”

“You and Caitlin are not the same, and neither are your lives,” Henry repeated softly. “You were a bird afraid of being caged. Caitlin is a bird afraid of finding it has nowhere to land.”

“But she has me. She has all of this,” Selene insisted, indicating the vastness of the estate surrounding them. More quietly, she added. “And she has you.”

“I’m happy to provide her a place of comfort when she needs it.”

“She loves you,” Selene said, looking at the rain pattering against the glass rather than at Henry. “You’re the closest thing to a father she has.” 

Henry’s face was unreadable. “She has questions. If only you -”

“No.” Selene’s voice was sharp. “I won’t have her dreams crushed like this. It would be too cruel.”

“To her or to you?”

Selene’s answer was drowned by the sound of rolling thunder. A blinding white flash cut through the night, a vein of bright light connecting the storm-heavy sky to the surface of the nearby lake. The walls of Fraser Hall seemed to shudder under the impact, and Selene was almost sure she could hear the window panes ringing. She rushed to the window, pressing her fingertips to the cool glass, hoping to see another lightning bolt following the first.

When it did, a sound from within the estate made her freeze. Someone was screaming.

Caitlin.

In less than a heartbeat, Selene was out of the library and running down the hallway. She had already taken the first flight of stairs when the next lightning cracked, almost stumbling as she skitted around the corner and burst into her daughter’s room.

Caitlin sat upright in her bed, huddled against the wall and hiding her face between her drawn-up legs. The wind had pushed the tall window right beside her bed ajar. Icy raindrops whipped inside, the curtains billowing like dark, ghostly creatures reaching for the terrified, sobbing child. 

Bracing her shoulder against the window, Selene closed it again, drawing the curtains tight. Lighting the candle on Caitlin’s bedside, she carefully approached her trembling daughter.

“Caitlin?” she asked softly. “What happened?”

Slowly, Caitlin raised her face from between her knees. Tears were streaming down her cheeks, and she was hugging the stuffed cow her godmother had given her tightly to her chest. Alan floated past Selene towards her, but when he touched his cold nose to Caitlin’s cheek, she shivered and moved away.

“Where’s Uncle Henry, Mummy? I need him to come.”

Selene did her best to not let her disappointment show. She looked behind her to signal Henry to take over but found he wasn’t there. She frowned. She could have sworn that he’d been right behind her. In fact, she had passed right through him in her rush to get to Caitlin. Where had he gone?

“I don’t know, sweetheart,” Selene said slowly, turning back to Caitlin. “Maybe he has gone to ask the thunder about new stories. Actually, I bet that’s where he’s gone.” She hesitated. “Will you make do with me until he returns?”

Caitlin said nothing, resting her chin on top of her cow’s head like she had done since she was big enough to hold it. Every moment of her silence made Selene’s heart sink a little further, but when a heavy gust of wind made the shutters outside rattle and Caitlin jumped in terror, she closed her arms around her daughter anyway.

“There’s no shame in being afraid,” she murmured, gently rocking back and forth. “Thunderstorms are scary.” 

Again, Caitlin remained silent. She sat stiffly in her mother’s arms, shrouding herself in a silence Selene didn’t know how to read. When she was almost convinced that Caitlin wouldn’t answer her at all, she quietly said:

“You’re not.”

Selene tilted her head. “I’m not what?”

“Afraid. Of the thunderstorms. How is that?”

Selene had never thought about this. As long as she could remember, storms - especially here, in the Scottish Highlands - had always glued her to her window. There was something fascinating about them, both empowering and humbling. The very air seemed to be alive, thrumming with energy. She had often sat in her bedroom after her parents had gone to sleep, looking at the patterns the lightning would draw on the sky, imagining how the rain would feel on her face and the wind in her hair.

“I think,” she heard herself say,” I like thunderstorms because you can’t confine them. No matter what you do, a thunderstorm will not be tamed.”

“I wish they would. They’re ghastly.”

The little quiver in Caitlin’s voice made Selene’s heart squeeze. Tentatively, she placed her hand on Caitlin’s back. 

“Why didn’t you call for me earlier? This is only an autumn storm. There’s no reason for you to be afraid.”

“Of course you would say so!” Caitlin suddenly lashed out, angrily shaking off her mother’s hand. “You’re not afraid of anything, not ever. You wouldn’t understand!”

Rendered speechless, Selene blinked several times. Caitlin was shaking again, but it wasn’t from fear. When she turned away, Selene recognised the flash in her daughter’s eyes. She saw the anger, but more importantly, something else Selene remembered all too well - helplessness. 

“Do you know what Granda Angus used to say?” she said softly. “He said, when it thunders, the gods of yore beat their drums to dance. Doesn’t that sound merry to you?”

Caitlin didn’t look convinced but tentatively nodded. Encouraged, Selene continued. 

“He never seemed to run out of stories. They were the most fantastic ones, even more fantastic than Uncle Henry’s, but you mustn’t tell him I said that.” 

Caitlin wrinkled her nose, but her chokehold on the stuffed cow had eased. “This can’t be, Mummy. Uncle Henry’s stories are the best.” 

“It’s true, I promise. Granda knew stories about this land, and ghosts, and fairies, and every creature you can possibly imagine. No one knew more about our home than him.” 

Selene smiled sadly at the memory. Angus Fraser, who had been more of a father to her than her actual father, had passed away just short of two years ago. She still missed him terribly. 

“Every night before I went to bed, Granda would tell me one of his stories,” she continued. “He claimed he was Dream Angus, come to bring me all the adventures I could possibly dream of. And after, Grandma would sing to me.” She paused. “Would you like me to sing for you, too?” 

Caitlin considered her offer for a moment. She nodded.

“I think I’d like that.”

“Come here, then.”

Selene held her arms wide and waited for her daughter to nestle against her chest. Softly, she began to sing.

Dreams to sell, fine dreams to sell, Angus is here with dreams to sell. Hush now, wee bairnie, and sleep without fear, For Angus will bring a dream, my dear.

The familiar melody made a smile appear on Selene’s face. Without meaning to, she slipped into the soft accent her grandmother had spoken with, not as hard as her grandfather’s and uncles, but softer, enveloping her like a blanket that felt like home. Dream Angus had been her favourite lullaby growing up, but she hadn’t sung it in a long time; not since Caitlin had decided she was old enough to go to bed alone. 

The sound of her grandmother’s voice singing her to sleep was probably what Selene had missed most every time she had to return home to Edinburgh. Her mother had never sung to her, not that she could remember. Even now, years later, the thought seemed absurd, but it didn’t matter. The time for Selene and her mother had passed.

Despite herself, the thought of Lucretia Fraser lingered, stirring a familiar sadness in Selene’s heart. How often had she hesitated, not daring to ask for what she truly wanted when she bade her mother goodnight? How often had she wished she’d reach out and hold her, stroke her hair and murmur soft words of motherly affection? She had imagined it, so many times, hoped that once - just once - things would be different. That she’d be loved for who she was and not for who she was raised to be. 

Over time, the feeling had changed. The yearning in her heart had been filled by others, but never entirely. Her grandmother, Mrs Hexley - her best friend’s mother - and, of course, Ethel herself; they and so many others had loved Selene for herself, and Selene had loved them back. She’d let them inside her heart, but somehow, they had never quite fit. The hole at its very core had never been completely closed. 

She looked down at Caitlin’s wild curls as she sang, the notes dropping from her lips heavy with the love she felt for this little, stubborn girl, who was so much like her and yet so little. Caitlin had broken her and made her whole again, in ways Selene had never believed possible. Maybe it wasn’t what she’d wanted, but whatever Caitlin had done, the scar on her heart barely hurt anymore. She had healed her, and Selene would do everything in her power to thank her for every hour of every day. 

Maybe she wasn’t the mother Caitlin wanted or needed, but in this moment, with the wind raging outside, and the thunder rolling, and the wood of the home Selene had made for them creaking comfortably around them, she felt that maybe - just maybe - she could grow into the mother Caitlin deserved. She would never let her feel as unseen as she had felt growing up. She didn’t know how, but Selene wasn’t scared of rocky roads. She always found her way.

Dreams to sell, fine dreams to sell, Angus is here with dreams to sell. Hush now, wee bairnie, and sleep without fear, For Angus will bring a dream, my dear.

The last of the notes sunk into the peaceful quiet of the room. Selene let it linger, enjoying the wistfulness wrapping around her for a moment longer. 

“It’s not true, you know,” she breathed softly. “I am afraid. More often than you might think.”

Her admission was swallowed by the stillness. Caitlin had gone still in Selene’s arms, her chest rising and falling steadily. Smoothing down her messily plaited hair, Selene lowered her back onto her pillow, covered her and her stuffed cow with the duvet and blew out the candle. 

Rising carefully, Selene stood by the window. The worst of the storm seemed to have passed; the wind had made a gap appear in the heavy blanket of clouds, and through it shone a sliver of the moon. Everything looked different in its silvery light; the old leaves, the dust, the dirt of the past few weeks, all of it had been swept away by the storm. Tomorrow, the sun would rise again in all its glory, and the world would glow fresh, and bright, and beautiful.

That was what she loved about storms, Selene realised. The way they made things new.

Tearing herself away from the view of her beloved valley, she turned to leave. In the doorway, she could see the pearly white silhouette of Henry. She didn’t know how long he’d been there, but he gave her a slight nod, which Selene answered with a grateful smile. She looked back at her now peacefully sleeping daughter. 

The storm outside had passed, she thought to herself. Maybe one day, theirs would, too. 

Tagging: @endlessly-cursed

[ryusxnka]

gently slides her phone towards him ; the dimly lit screen displays two tickets for hansel and gretel at shakespeare's globe. " it's the only show on this month, but it should still be fun. their actors are fantastic. joyeux anniversaire, capitaine. "

     " I appreciate the sentiment, but I'll never be caught dead attending one of those theatre musicals. " He can just barely tolerate, by a hair's breadth, humans as singularities as is, and she anticipated him, undoubtedly, to obligingly and collectively incline in a subdued posture, forthwith yielded to perch into a seating configuration, in an undesirously compacting space overcrowded with not only capsulized individuals but with a boisterous cacophony of multifarious psalms of melodious retellings and narrative vocalizations; spectacles amounting to naught in the livelihoods of Shinigami. -------- A preposterous idea for an excursion, he thinks, reckoning she had only considered her own partialities, recreational interests, as she oftentimes enacted. " - I already have an insufferable embodiment of over-dramatics in my everyday life in the office. - Good luck finding someone else to accompany you. " he bears witness to her benign countenance expeditiously withering into unmistakable conspicuous dissatisfaction, a reactive product of his outspoken declination. Brows furrow, their sheer edges set in unison, symbolizing a medley of remorse and internal aggravation. - He abhorred harming others regardless of categorization and, henceforth, ponders over a solution where both would depart this locality equally contented. " I'll be working that night, anyway." he discloses. " - I have a proposition, however, if you'd be willing to hear me out. " He could perchance hearken the performance through a Video call whilst brushing coal-hued ink athwart parchments.

[gemkun]

@raytm said: one muse traces the other’s scars — blade & dan ↪ 100 INDULGENT TROPES

      —       EONS   bygone,   trailed   with   endless   pursuit   for   reasons   unbeknownst,   is   the   tragic   fate   for   two   slaves   woven   among   the   stars.   the   very   thread   of   starlight   that   trickles   in   jagged   directions   perhaps   serves   as   a   dastard   reminder;   canvased   on   the   once   short-lived.   burdened   now   with   the   throes   of   immortality.

  immaculate   and   unsullied   is   the   other.   elusive   with   the   finery   of   clouds.   perchance   destiny   —   in   all   its   malevolence   —   upholds   the   abject   figure   to   be   the   embodiment   of   an   insult   towards   the   flawed   and   fragmented.

  whorls   meet   serrated   edges   as   if   to   challenge   the   binds   of   predetermination,   testing   the   waters   to   seek   whether   he   may   be   cut.   to   beckon   spider   lilies   to   bloom   from   the   slice   in   perfection.

  as   flawless   as   he   was   —   in   outward   appearance   —   there   was   an   invigorating   substance   that   dripped   from   cracks.

  but   in   this   moment,   focus   fixes   itself   into   the   scarce   breath   of   tranquillity   that   had   been   thought   to   be   impossible   in   the   company   of   one   another.   until   walls   crumble   and   reality   pours   in,   falsifying   the   semblance   of   something   akin   to   peace.   whereupon   the   underlying   eddies   of   tension   ROAR   to   deafen.

  forgotten   to   dan   heng   it   seems,   that   caution   was   to   always   be   exercised   around   this   particular   individual.   

❝   the   person   you   seek.   .   .   ❞   fortress   rebuilt,   fending   off   all,   his   tone   befalls   sombre   as   the   tides   at   dusk   itself.   ❝   is   no   longer   here.   ❞

  as   motions   drift,   he   is   acutely   aware   that   this   hadn’t   been   a   voluntary   choice   on   his   part.   he   was   being   directed   and   swayed   (   guided   was   too   kind   a   word   ).   the   squeeze   of   a   hand   at   last   reminds   him   this   ISN'T   enacted   in   goodwill.   

  that   a   threat   looms   as   his   index   wanders   down   torn   parchment   stitched   by   flesh   and   bone.

[antienjoyspoetry]

Late Night Love Ponderances - by Joseph Muyuela

Am I truly loved as they say I am?

Do I deserve the love others impart upon me?

Impart. Impart.

Impart.

The word resonates with you, doesn't it? Like it

does with me?

What is it about that word I find so enamoring?

Is impart the appropriate word? To describe the action

of giving love?

Do I deserve the love others give me?

No, impart's definitely the right word. Give sounds

too... too normal.

No, this is a special type of love others give.

Sweet, succinct love. Sweet, succint, tangible love.

Love is a tangible thing, no? Like a berry, it can be

plucked from a berry bush and indulged in. Yes,

the love others impart upon me is a delectable, short,

to-the-point type of love. Here I sit by candlelight, quill

in my hand and parchment in front of me, reminiscing

about the smallest things, ruminating about semantics of

"impart" vs "give", leisurely romanticizing love.

What is love?

Is it the kiss you give your partner as you go to work?

Is it the fresh smell of morning coffee your partner brews you?

Or is it

a simpler thing

one which cannot be expounded upon

in long sentences

without injecting pauses between

extravagant thought?

Have I earned love?

Or is love something that... must earn me? Preposterous,

I know.

But, be reflexive, and ponder with me for a moment: what

if love was a living thing, and like all living things it

needed to make a living wage, and the wage was human

souls it touched? What if, as humans make money, love

makes humans? What if, as humans earn momey, love

earns us?

But does this not mean some humans are unattainable? Are

these the most hateful among us? Whom among us is:

unattainable of love?

above love's reach?

a paycheck love can only dream of?

Surely we are all worthy of love, are we not?

Perhaps... no, perhaps this: love earned us all from the start.

Sometimes we, like money, get misplaced, fall out of love's

pockets, are swindled by the con man that is hate.

We don't need to earn love; love earned us.

But did love earn me? And why do I have the

constant desire despite

never needing to earn love,

to constantly yearn for it?

Am I a paycheck love dreams of, or a paycheck love hopes

to never recieve in the mail? One so

unimaginably slim from a parsimonious boss that

love might one day quit its job?

Am I worthy of love, is love worthy of me or

has love come to the utmost tragic conclusion:

amongst other options, I'm simply not worth yearning for?

Perchance love, despite loving people, deems me unworthy.

Is love, then, a guinea pig: relentlessly experimented on,

more a commodity than primal entity?

am i

among other things

a defiled bill in love's pocket, meant to be cast aside, tossed away, seen as useless currency, placed with a superficial recognition of worth into love's hands despite having no inherent value and having even my superficial quality and all emotions attachments to me stripped away when placed into love's cradling grasp, a single and lonely strip of cotton of debilitatingly tattered conditions that's tentatively called paper and nominally worth one two five ten twenty fifty or a hundred things, a crinkled piece of hemp that's passed from corrupt businessman to evil banker, a George the middle class stores in a piggy bank and never uses, a Benjamin that's pocket change to the bourgeosie, a thing to be mocked and played with, a thing to be flexed that doesn't truly bring anyone happiness and on that note do i actually bring people happiness or impart happiness?

Do I actually make people happy?

Is love, simply put, happiness?

I'm not. I'm not happy. I'm not happy either. I'm not

happy. I'm not.

[evelovestar]

How To Write The Perfect Valentine's Day Love Letter – Express Your Deepest Feelings And Appreciation For Your Partner

Perchance thou art seeking the art of inscribing a missive of love this Valentine’s Day, fear not, for with this guidance, thou shalt master the craft of composing the most perfect love letter to thy beloved. As thou initiate on this journey of pouring thy heart onto parchment, let these words be a testament to…How To Write The Perfect Valentine’s Day Love Letter – Express Your Deepest Feelings…

[auburniivenus]

❛  here, you look like you're freezing.  ❜

As   the   sun   commenced   its   sophisticated   descent   beyond   the   horizon,   its   fervent   embrace   upon   the   terra   firma   cooled   into   a   poignant   stroke,   a   mellow   SOUVENIR   of   heat   disintegrating   into   the   evening's   oxter.   Ensconced   in   the   venerable   arms   of   a   chair   reverberating   with   chatter   from   yestertide,   her   physique   was   projected   as   a   delicate   silhouette   upon   the   staunch,   timeworn   leather.   Air,   now   a   volatile   harbinger   of   autumnal   onset,   conjured   an   intricate   fresco   of   impending   desolation   throughout   the   vista,   its   icy   tendrils   adorning   the   world   with   a   delicate   veneer   of   poignant   frost.

Within   her   secluded   sanctum,   she   found   tranquility   in   the   silent   fellowship   of   whispering   lore   and   ink-spun   escapades.   Her   exquisite   fingers,   pallid   as   the   luminous   moon,   waltzed   over   the   aged   parchment   of   her   voluminous   manuscript   with   the   poise   of   a   prima   ballerina   circumnavigating   through   history's   hallways.   Each   page   turned   was   a   sonnet   of   allegiance,   an   endearing   caress   that   documented   the   oscillations   of   memoirs   long   wrapped   in   slumber.   Despite   the   embracing   warmth   of   her   bibliophilic   domain,   a   tremor   choreographed   its   passage   down   her   vertebral   column,   an   intricate   minuet   of   frost   weaving   its   SPECTRAL   FILIGREE   through   her   sylphlike   frame.   This   tremor   bespoke   the   encroaching   chill's   manipulative   fronds,   yet   she   stood   unyielding;   so   captivated   by   the   narcotic   canticle   of   lassitude   that   she   dismissed   shelter   from   the   cold's   insistent   courtship.   Then,   as   if   materialized   from   hushed   incantations,   warmth   suffused   her   shoulders   with   the   auroral   splendor   befitting   a   sunrise   after   prolonged   nightfall.   A   blanket   presented   itself   to   her—a   silent   vow   of   solace   and   camaraderie.

She   pivoted,   unfurling   like   a   lotus   bloom   in   daybreak's   embrace,   to   glimpse   the   benefactor   of   this   novel   comfort.   Her   eyes   widened   in   a   conflation   of   astonishment   and   happiness,   shimmering   like   a   serene   lake   caressed   by   zephyrs'   affable   touch. "Your   generosity   warms   me."   Intoned   in   an   orchestration   of   thankfulness,   the   soothing   timbre   encircling   her   charismatic   countenance   in   a   halo   of   serenity.   A   serene   smile—smooth   as   glassy   waters   and   as   lustrous   as   dawn's   inaugural   rays—adorned   her   expression.   "But   if   I   may   inquire,   did   you   penetrate   my   mind,   perchance?"   Ventured   with   mirthful   inquisition,   a   giggle   unfurled   with   it—the   chime   of   a   rapture   too   ebullient   for   concealment.   Inoue   maneuvered   an   unoccupied   chair   into   her   vicinity.   "Let   us   seek   refuge   here   together;   this   coverlet   is   our   bastion   against   the   cold's   ferocious   siege—a   fortress   for   two." @shentacles

[vousmereve]

𑣪 Darling mine, in this very breath, you are invited to the realm that is Mine. Thereby, I shall be your Virgil and show the path. ♥︎

In a realm beyond our earthly existence, perchance, she shall become the muse of the verse, relinquishing her role as its wordsmith. Each titled entity shall bear its own significance. The significance of a title is inherently intertwined with its bearer, forever imbued with personal meaning.

─ ┈ Shann Kiar Valliese.

ㅤ𑣪ㅤThat is the name by which she is known. It is a name specifically reserved for her, and she prefers to be called Shallie, Kiar, or Kiki as a shorter version. Her passion for literature has been deeply ingrained in her since childhood. She believes that immersing herself in the storyline of a novel is a highly therapeutic method. Being born under the Taurus sign and possessing an INTP personality, Shallie is a regular resident of the Ravenclaw wizarding dormitory. Given that she has already attained the age of legality, there is no cause for concern regarding engaging with her. At times, she questions the existence of love and affection, other times, yet, she discovers that the world is a mere loving place because she is full of adoration within herself.

ㅤ𑣪ㅤSHALLIE: A name previously unfamiliar, will soon become a ubiquitous presence in every corner. For she embodies the timeless principle of “aspire to inspire,” a beacon of hope in a world yearning for fulfillment. A true lover of the arts, Shallie’s definition of this word extends far beyond the conventional; it encompasses the art of infusing life with romance and beauty, the delicate melodies of soft music, meaningful paintings that stir the soul, the creation of mesmerizing traditional dances, the artistry of culinary excellence, well-preserved historical museums, residing in a tranquil environment, heartfelt poetry, and the profound appreciation of every minute detail that weaves to the greater narrative.

ㅤ𑣪ㅤIn addition to her passion for vintage items, Shallie has been described by her friends as a girl who exudes the elegance and charm reminiscent of parchment paper. Documentary videos are among her favorite things to watch, as she finds great enjoyment in learning about various topics through this medium. When it comes to music, Shallie gravitates towards melodies and quiet tunes that are accompanied by poetic lyrics, creating a soothing and introspective atmosphere. Just by this information, you will be able to discern her musical preferences. Due to being a devoted Taylor Swift fan, her life is intertwined with the very existence of her songs. A significant portion of her narrative revolves around the connection she feels with Taylor’s lyrics. As her companions would put it, Shallie emanates the essence of the girl portrayed in the evermore album. However, her taste in films takes a sharp turn towards the intense and adrenaline-inducing genres, such as action, mystery, thriller, horror, and survival.

ㅤㅤㅤ

[ladamedemartel]

The Twelve Days of Christmas.

~Aurora Edition~

Fourth day.

Four calling birds.

“One can never be certain what kind of filched discovery may arrive at your hands by the mercurial flight of blackbirds. For the firmaments they know are immense and unforeseeable. Dark as midnight, sometimes they land with unseen shadows of yesterday.”

The evident possibility of expanding Aurora's flock wasn't chosen as such. Instead a single black feather, a writing feather, presented itself surrounded by a quartet of different sets of paper. Ranging from old parchment to modern sheets.

“Perhaps a peculiar tendency for someone of my vocation.” Secret society leaders may not be known for their revealing displays. “Most of my personal writing occurs in my head. And yet, once every blue moon perchance, even my hand succumbs to the pleasure of redacting something simply because it is the throbbing, inescapable truth.”

Ancient as a portion of the material may have looked, all of the writing gifted to her was a new personalized version and the product of the same feather. Intended as a collection for her. The transcriptions were meticulous and in each set Tristan summoned back word for word the flourishes his writing exhibited at its point of origin.

“Four different accounts of my vision of you. Four improvised attempts at capturing your importance and revelry, interspersed throughout the ages. These aren't letters. They held no intended reader. They were the exclusive product of what inspiration you ignited upon my nocturnal wanderings. As such, they could be deemed the purest form of truth there is.” It knew endless facets, the beast named truth. Tristan regularly relished in playing with its shades and grays. These texts represented the opposite. Wild truth, unmeasured and purposelessly feral. An unreachable form of sincerity he would only ever choose to share with Aurora.

“If I were to venture a guess as to why calling birds might have visited you with this reading material... Perhaps they yearn for you to confirm, beyond the faintest shadow of doubt, that you are the most loved person this or any other world has ever known.” That was his casual suggestion. His eyes travelling from the parchment to more recent paragraphs with forms that insinuated not prose but poetry and then to her.

“The author offers no apologies for the rambling stroll one of these may contain when describing your smile.”

She wondered if the day would mark a return to birds. Thus far, her aviary had been filled with harmonious song, but she wasn't sure if a new flock would add to the symphony like strings to an orchestra. She needn't have worried though. Today Tristan offered music of a different sort. The tip of the feather brushed beneath her chin as she began reading each parchment in turn. She could recognize Tristan's hand, recognize the old languages, some of which now lost to time to any ear but theirs. Aurora pulled Tristan in close and kissed his cheek. "They're beautiful. Thank you."

[ardentmuse]

Perchance a Parchment (George Weasley x Reader) - Part 7

Harry Potter - George Weasley x fem!Reader

Wordcount: 3k

Summary: Series finale! With the business sold, George pursues a friendship. But with a friend like George, and a lover like Rhubarb, what is a woman’s heart to do? 

Series Masterlist // Masterlist

A/N: Apologies this too me years to actually finish. I’m glad it is done, though I do have vision for an epilogue. I love George and I want to do more one-shots with him since this story just lost steam for me. Also since this story is based on You’ve Got Mail, we had to include the final kiss gif! 

“I think that’s the last box,” Patty says from the living room of your new flat. Cardboard and tape cover the floor in a spread that denotes only chaos. You throw the last shipping label onto the package and let out a breath.

“Every last unsold book, boxed and ready to head to a home that needs them,” you smile.

“How you managed to connect with so many schools and children’s programs, I’ll never understand.”

You let out a laugh, “You don’t have to wonder. George reached out to his brother Percy who works at the ministry. He basically just printed me out a list and I sent some letters.”

Patty falls down onto your couch and raises an eyebrow your way.

“Just George now?”

You turn to her with a hand on your hip.

“What’s that question supposed to mean?”

“I’m just saying, that’s a big change from a month ago when he was just Weasley and you said it with such venom I thought you were speaking parseltongue.” 

Heat spreads across your cheeks, and you know Patty sees it. But she isn’t wrong. It’s been a big change in such a short period of time. It started with George showing up the day the closed sign was officially placed on your store, offering any help you might need with moving out the last of your things. At first, it felt a little patronizing, like he was simply trying to get to your space more quickly. But one look at his smile and the way he kicked at the ground, nervous you might say no, made it clear he was really only trying to be helpful. And George has yet to fail you on that front. He moved boxes and furniture. He sat with you over tea as you debated your next step and hunted for a new flat. He used his family of contacts to get these books to new homes. And all of it he did without any air of superiority you always assumed the Weasley twins would have. He was open, honest, kind, funny, distractingly handsome, and worst of all, exactly what you wanted. He wasn’t complacent like Tom. He didn’t fill space the way he seemed to around everyone else. No, with you he gave you space to grow to meet him. He stepped back so you could step forward— always there, always listening, always supportive. And while you could not be sure you were ready for love again, you were having a hard time picturing that future with anyone else.

“Do you just want me to admit it, Patty?”

She smiles sweetly at you, playing with a rogue curl that fell in front of her face. “I’d love nothing more, darling.”

You let out a long sigh, “I’m falling for him, okay? But—”

“No buts, Y/N. None. Life doesn’t happen on some arbitrary timeline. You don’t have to wait some set amount of time to be over Tom—”

You shake your head at her, “I don’t care about Tom. It’s just…”

Patty frowns, her expression confused. “Rhubarb?”

You nod and sit down on a box, your head between your hands.

While George had been everything you wanted in his actions, Rhubarb had been everything you wanted in words. Falling for George meant having to acknowledge the reality that everything George was doing was simply friendship. And if you interpret his actions as more, that wasn’t because he did anything to make it so. Every coffee date ended with a smile, a “See ya later,” and a quick hug, one that didn’t linger and didn’t presume. Sure, maybe some of it was flirting, but George Weasley making a woman laugh was not some great seduction tactic, it was merely George being himself. You were just victim to his naturally charming personality.

But with Rhubarb, there was no guessing. Rhubarb spoke all the things you would love to hear from George’s ears. Words of passion, desire, longing, interest. Words of a man who wished for something real and deep, to know you heart and soul. But he had also stood you up before. Words were nothing without actions.

It was becoming hard to decide where you should invest your energies: the man who is present but may not see you as more than a friend, or the man who is absent but who wants you with conviction. Why couldn’t you have both?

Suddenly, there was a knock at the door. With a quick look at Patty, you answered. 

“Sorry for intruding,” George said, his hand running through his hair and the shoulders of his jacket wet from the sudden showers. “But when it started raining, I thought you might need a hand getting those boxes to the train.”

He lifted his face, granting you the sight of that breathtaking smile surrounded by those rosy pink lips and that skin covered in a constellation of freckles. Your hand was raising to touch them before you could stop yourself.

“Y/N?” George asked as your fingers grazed his cheek.

You caught yourself, feeling the awkward intimacy of the moment immediately. Your fingers brushed his soft skin. Your faces were far too close together. Your eyes were locked on each other in curious question. 

Your pulse quickened as you managed to stutter out, “You’ve got some rain on your cheek.” You brushed the invisible droplet with the pad of your thumb, George’s inquisitive eyes trained on you the entire time. And when your finger finally left his cheek, he smiled.

“Told you the rain would be a problem.”

You laughed, and somehow George moved closed. He didn’t pull away, leaving your body electric with the need to touch him again.

Only then did Patty hum.

“George, thank you for helping her. I’ll let you two get to it.”

She walked over and kissed my cheek before slipping out the door behind George. She winked at me as she turned down the sidewalk.

George stepped into my flat fully and took in the boxes. 

“Wow, you really are doing a lot of good. You’re far too kind for this world, Y/N.”

When he turned around, he took me in his arms, making me gasp. He held me tight, his voice close to my ear.

“I know I’ve said sorry a million times, but I hope you know how truly impressed I am with you. You’re gratuitous and giving, hardworking and smart. You’re sassy and sensitive. I know whatever comes next, you’re going to be just amazing.”

He breathed into my neck and suddenly it all snapped. Every feeling of friendship dissipated with that single breath and the goosebumps it created. 

You pulled away, looking up into George’s eyes. Once again, his only shined with curiosity. But when you began moving your face towards his, he didn’t pull away. And when your lips touched, those goosebumps only spread, moving with them a shiver that radiated from your fingers to the very tips of your toes. And when he kissed you back, nothing could have felt more kinetic.

“Y/N…” George whispered against your mouth before pursuing yours once again. And as you met him with the same enthusiasm, you had to pull away. 

George’s eyes grew with confusion as he slowly regained himself, his grip on your back loosening.

“George…” you tried to explain, but there weren’t words yet. 

He gave you a smile, somehow understanding without even needing to hear a word.

“How about I take a few of these boxes and we can talk again tomorrow?”

“That’s… thanks, George.”

You couldn’t even lift your head to watch him leave, but you heard the door close. With a stabilizing breath, you went over to your writing desk. Letters from Rhubarb over the past few weeks littered the top. You read a few, trying to understand the swirling emotions inside yourself.

Cherry,

I thought about you today when I picked up my morning paper. The woman at the counter was reading a book about the Knights of the Round Table— a serious historical breakdown, not the adventures you’ve shared with me. And somehow it seemed so silly that something that could be filled with such magic was being boiled down to facts and figures, devoid of life and meaning. 

It’s kind of like love. You can analyze it forever, work out your pet peeves, your pleasures, take all the right steps to finding the perfect person. But the adventure — the magic — that’s what makes a love story worth reading. 

We may have not had the perfect path. Hell, we may not even be the perfect pair. But you are magic, Cherry. Perfect magic. 

Your Rhubarb.

My sweetest Cherry,

I know things are tough right now. I also know things are incredibly exciting. You have the world ahead of you, and no one is prepared for what you’re going to bring. If you open another store or use your cultural skills with the ministry or try something completely new, you’ll do it because you’re a capable woman. The possibilities are endless and that’s as scary as it is thrilling.

That’s what I felt that night we were supposed to meet. Fear and exhilaration, anxiety and anticipation. What a complicated set of emotions. You stole my heart, you did, but you also took away every safe barrier I’ve ever created for myself to keep the hurt away. 

You are my greatest potential pain. My greatest potential gain. And just like you now, standing at the precipice, there are so many possible directions, some good and some bad, some with joy and some with pain. But knowing joy is possible is a beautiful thing.

Whenever you’re ready, I’m here to take a step off the precipice with you. I’m ready to fall, no matter where we land.

With love,

Rhubarb

Tell me Cherry, how are you liking the new apartment? Are you making the space all your own? I can picture your living room filled with your favorite books, but also a ton of materials for hosting others. What does that sentence even mean? What are materials for hosting parties? Pillows? A bar cart? I don’t know, but I’m sure you’ll find a way to make it inviting for everyone.

I believe I told you I have quite the large family, and my mother loves to host parties, even though we never have the space for it. Her biggest secret to hosting success is to keep everyone well-fed. I’ll send you a serving tray once you let me know the color scheme you’re going for in the kitchen. Maybe someday you’ll let me attend one of your parties. I can’t wait until the day that I can hold my arms around your waist, kiss your head while you greet guests, telling everyone how delicious your pastries are. I’d be a very proud man having you on my arm. So, so proud.

And even proud now,

Rhubarb

With a heavy sigh, you took your quill in your hands. Diomedes rubbed his face into your knuckles, pushing the ink towards the paper.

Dearest Rhubarb, 

Your support over this past month, as my world came crashing down around me, has meant so much. While you haven’t been able to be here in person, the words you have penned have made me feel seen in a way I didn’t realize I needed, that I didn’t realize I had missed for so long. You’ve given me confidence, and for that I am thankful.

But I also must be honest, not having you here in person… it has made it hard for my heart to know what it wants.

Let’s meet. Tomorrow at 6PM in Queen Mary’s Rose Garden in Regent’s Park. I can’t promise anything, but I need to know who you are. I need to see your face. I want to see what could be… I just need to know.

Cherry 

“Fred, god, what do I do?” George screamed at his brother while shaking your note in his hands.

Fred shrugged and stoked the fire. “I told you lying was a bad idea.”

“That’s precious, Fred, when lying is basically the only reason we have a business.”

Bill stood in the corner, looking out the window where your Diomedes had just entered, flying only a couple blocks from your flat. Bill chuckled to himself at the realization that if you had just watched your bird as he flew out into the night, this all would have been solved without any chaos.

“And what’s so funny over there, William?” George asked, his voice still laced with desperation.

“You know I’m going to tell you what I’ve always told you. This isn’t your decision alone. It’s Y/Ns. You have to put yourself out there. If she reciprocates, great. If she’s absolutely fuming and never wants to speak to you again, well, you have to take that, too.”

George fell onto the couch, his arm thrown over his head dramatically. 

“I’m supposed to just walk into that park tomorrow and let the woman I love with every fiber of my being — a woman who just kissed me today and blew my mind with how good she made it feel — just walk away from me forever?” “If she wants to, yes.” 

George let out an angry grunt before stomping over to his desk.

His quill moved over the paper faster than he thought possible. But he didn’t want to second guess himself. He just had to do it.

My Cherry,

Wear red. And I’ll be carrying my copy of the Merlin Adventures.

See you at 6PM.

All my love,

Rhubarb

George hadn’t reached out yet today like he said he would, which was odd for the George you had been coming to know. George was chaos, yes, but only in the frantic way his mind sometimes worked. In the practical, George was consistent and steady, more like a river than a monsoon. Strong and powerful but peaceful and predictable, not nearly what you expected when you first met the twins. 

But maybe not hearing from George was a good thing. It took away a lot of the conflict you felt about today’s meeting. You had feelings for two men in completely different ways. And the feelings for both came with their own complications. Rhubarb was a ghost, a phantom who could mold himself to be just who he needed to be to please you. George was real, warts and all, but a new friend and a previous enemy. It was tenuous at best to assume that George might feel the same way, even if he did reciprocate the kiss. But that could easily be brushed aside. Men like when women kiss them, even if they don’t necessarily want to be emotionally involved with them. 

But god, did you want it. The kisses, the emotions, all of it…

Pulling you from your thoughts was the sound of footsteps. It was close to dinner time now and families could be seen using the park to cut through to their homes for the night, or to play games with friends. A breeze blew through the trees and as you wrapped yourself tighter in your red slip dress, a tweed jacket fell on your shoulders.

“Don’t go catching a cold on me now, Cherry.”

You turned your face upward to spy the warm freckled cheeks and beautiful smile of George Weasley.

“Thank you, George,” you said with a smile, only then processing what he just said.

Your eyes traveled down to his arms, which hold a copy of your favorite book close to his chest.

“It’s you…” Your voice was a whisper. George looked in your eyes, unsure what you would do next. The fear and doubt you saw there hurt.

Soon you were up from the bench and tossing yourself into his arms.

“It’s you,” you breathed into his neck, “Merlin, I had hoped it was you.”

George dropped the book, his arms wrapping snuggly around you as his voice let out the biggest, most beautiful laugh.

“And here I was thinking you were going to punch me in the face.”

He kissed the top of your head and you could feel how unwilling he was to let you go. And all it did was make you hold tighter, cry harder, pull his lips to yours with passion.

“You never stood me up.” “No, I didn’t. And I never would.”

So many elements of the past few months fall into place. George was both the man with the words and the man with the actions. He was heart, body, and spirit. He was yours, without question. And while something about him spending the day with you in person and writing letters to you at night felt a little mischievous, what was George but mischievous? And what choice had you given him when the one time he tried to reveal himself, you gave him such a strong tongue-lashing that you felt guilty for weeks.

“Rhubarb,” you whispered against his wanting mouth.

“Yes, my love,” he said between kisses.

“Is this the red outfit you were hoping I’d wear?” you lifted your eyes to George in playful question.

“Absolutely not,” he said with a frown.

Before you could speak in protest, he held a hand to your mouth.

“I made dinner plans. Figured we might have something to celebrate. And if we didn’t, I’d have a nice quiet place to drink away my sorrows.”

The corner of George’s mouth lifted roguishly. 

“But this dress, this dress isn’t making me want to take you to a restaurant. It’s making me want to take you home.”

You leaned up to kiss him again. His strong arms lifted you off the ground, glee and peace and sensuality mingling together in a cocktail of overwhelming emotions.

“Take me home, George. Take me home.”

And that’s a wrap all! This isn’t how I initially envisioned the ending. It was planned as 8 episodes, but oh well. I think I like it, and I hope you do too.

Epilogue hopefully out later next week.

-Lia

All tags: @fangirlandnerd, @aerdnandreaa, @thisisbullshytt,  @cancerousjojian, @whovianayesha, @themarauderstheoutsidersandpeggy, @luna-xxxxx, @sleepylunarwolf, @starryrevelations, @potter-thinking, @all-by-myself98, @bananafosters-and-books, @cutie-bug, @igotmadskills​, @hazelandcoconuts​, @yallgotkik​, @amberkay284​, @13ofjuly​, @daft-not-punk​, @sapphireorchid​, @geek-lass​, @ietss​, @garbdump​,

Harry Potter tags: @tessimagines, @0-lost-in-stereo-0, @whysoseriouspadfoot, @eldritchscreech​, @luckyvirgo​, @hellizhelusive2​, @lexrius​, @sapphireorchid​, @amazingwonderlandnapkin​, @garbdump​

Perchance a Parchment tags: @cucumberinmyass, @justducky0423, @thequeen-ofnerds, @yuaasa, @comic-creature, @hermionebennet, @semicharmedkindofali, @sugerquill, @can-i-fangirl-yet​, @doct0rstrange, @igotmadskills, @otherthingsinhead, @olixerwxxd, @caramiriel, @gryffinclxw, @lizmar20, @indicisive-af, @confettidreameryouwhoreo-blog, @hellizhelusive2, @kaitsubaki, @dooriha, @justfollowtheroad, @memogorgon, @xxsophie-raabxx, @madamcadaver, @bookscoffeeandracoons

[ladyespera]

First Lines

Request: List the first ten lines of the last ten stories you published. Look to see any patterns you notice yourself, and see if anyone else notices any. Then tag some friends.

Nobody tagged me in this but I saw @sakasakiii doing it and wanted to pass it on to my frens. and well uhhhhh after looking at this i can certainly say that boy i just love dropping people right into present action with ZERO context and also i love to be general and abstract!!!!!! who needs concrete background 😌😌😌 weird mix of generic essay openings vibes and surrealism my beloved?????? also I've just realized that people just stand and stare and overthink and PanicTM a lot in my fics ehehe I wonder where they get thAT-

perchance

Commodore Karyn Faro stands on the bridge of the Chimaera, hands neatly cinched behind her back, her eyes looking out past the viewport at the swirling vortex of hyperspace. The atmosphere is silent, almost calm; despite the urgency of their dispatch back to Lothal and the fiasco of the gralloc mission, for now, nothing can be done to either speed or slow their journey. Her eyes focus back on her faint, pale reflection in the viewport. “This is a dream,” she whispers to her other self.

bright star (cheated on this one by 1 line 🤫)

There is a moment, in the middle of the chaos, when Maedhros suddenly senses the faint scream of danger. He cannot place it, cannot discern why, and yet... He dodges a shower of stones as the entire mountain trembles, the roar of the sack of Angband nearly too great for mortal ears. The Silmarils. If the Valar are too occupied with Morgoth, he must get to them first—he must be getting close to the entrance. A cry close by, past a pile of bodies, and in amongst the shadow of the mountain, he glimpses a flash of white hair emerging, wavering—and then a familiar dark-headed figure, running to help, extending a hand—

than never to have loved

So many say he has the gift of foresight. But it is not always a gift. Some days, it is a curse, a smog of uncertainty that clouds his thoughts and shadows his soul with horrible possibility. When Elrond throws everything he has into working towards good, into protecting the best in people, into saving what he can of Middle-Earth, it is also because he has seen the worst. So when he dedicates his heart and soul to this one cause, this one Hope, he also knows what his payment might be.

to have loved and lost

“Do you have a father?” Elrond looks up from his parchment stiffly, startled. The child is fixing him with a piercing gaze of curiosity that reminds him briefly of a younger self; stamping down the brief spark of pain at the thought, he smiles graciously instead. Today is the anniversary of their coming to Rivendell, of what Aragorn probably associates with Arathorn’s death; of course he might have thoughts. “Yes, Estel, I have a father.” “But is he still in Middle Earth?”

the tides of the heart

“Sometimes people don’t want to be saved. Sometimes it’s time to die. ” . The summer air is warm when Grace Holloway steps out the door on her way to work, but humid too, with a hint of fog, like the grey sea air is already planning to roll in before the day is out. Grace doesn’t mind the fog—she likes it, even, the mystery of it—but she hates the humidity. It makes her hair frizzy.

greatest privilege

Commodore Karyn Faro had just had the longest 96 hours of her entire life, and she hadn’t slept for any of them. From escape pod to emergency evacuation craft to med bay to debriefings to more debriefings to waiting in hallways to finally being released into this bland Navy office. On Coruscant. Where she’d intended to be anyway - just not quite this hectically. Now she was sitting, her eyes fixed on the empty space in front of her as her mind buzzed lazily. Not even recollecting anymore. Or regretting. Just...empty. “Commodore Faro?” a voice called from behind the desk.

just a phone call away

The Doctor stands in the train station and stares at the ringing phone. He isn’t going to answer it. Of course he isn’t. His mind has already done the mental calculations a thousand times this day, the hypotheticals, the guesswork, comparing his lists of goodbyes to his lists of losses, finding that section of the Venn diagram within which fall the people who have left him and whom he never said goodbye to and-- He can’t not. His fingers tremble slightly as he pushes the little accept call button.

forget me not

Every morning, he wakes up and wonders whether it’s going to be a good day. Of course, that all depends on a few key metrics. First things first. He opens his eyes. Does he ache? Sometimes there is nothing at all. Sometimes sitting up immediately reminds him that ouch, he had better be careful today. Sometimes it’s just something odd, like the aftertaste of bile on his tongue or a weird lingering sensation in his blood, as if his antibodies are trying to yell at his brain like “ Hey! Red flag, idiot! Stop doing what you’re doing !”

breathing space

Liv had said that all the emotion before must have drained him dry now, left him with only a hopeful energy. After all, there’s not much lower to go emotionally than weeping on a street, too pained to even crawl. Here, there’s no ravenous monsters or maniac Timelords. No end of the world to worry about. It’s only up from here. Only up. The rain flecks his face. Only up…

uhhhhh tagging @fortes-fortuna-iogurtum @as-dreamers-do @swinging-stars-from-satellites @lilac-vode but really anyone plz feel free to have at it! :)

[sixpossums]

Dear Cat,

We are able to communicate in a way thats mostly telepathic, as you're correct, our bodies' anatomies aren't meant to make the complex sounds and facial movements required for humanity's verbal languages. From what we've gathered, since we don't technically have voices per-se, when we speak telepathically to someone, the voice that speaks to them is very similar to their own. It's good that you asked now, as that might've been a touch worrying or off-putting whenever we go climbing and I respond with a close approximation of your voice in your head...

As for the book, it may have been a little misleading to say it smelled food-adjacent. We were true rubbish scavengers before this, so there wasn't much that didn't smell of something that could possibly be eaten. It didn't smell as most old, thrown-out books do— which is like all of the rubbish around them, and only once investigated would they smell faintly of paper. We unfortunately didn't pay much attention to how the book had looked, but it did smell of— now that we have been in a place with a similar scent, we can put words to it— old parchment, or sort of akin to old feathers (which is why I thought there might be something inside of it while I had nosed it open.) There was... the faintest hint of some sort of chemical, but we haven't found anything that matches what I smelled. Something in the back of my mind whispers that it was ink, but that has yet to be proven or otherwise.

We have not listened to much— if any— music, but we would love to! Usually, sneaking about on the daily isn't the best for hearing and properly listening to music. We'll make sure we do not forget the bands you've recommended so that we can listen to them whenever we have a chance to choose what music is playing.

The picture of the plane you sent has only heightened my excitement towards climbing that tree and experiencing the sky's expanse so closely. I remember now that you said planes are bigger than city busses and it makes me enraptured to think of how large and how high up it must be if it's so small in the photograph. But... yes, it would be rather cramped if the others had any inclinations on somewhat visiting the Vast. I'm sure— I hope— they'll each find that thing that takes their interest besides the Watcher.

Once we find names, and by extension, pronouns we would like to be called by, I will be sure to inform you posthaste— oh, and thank you for telling us your pronouns— we're sorry; we should have asked sooner, but we aren't used to thinking about much of any personal identifiers yet.

We hope your days are peaceful and offer you wonderful flying— or falling— conditions wherever the winds have brought you today,

Oh, one question! Do you happen to have any book recommendations, perchance? Those might be a touch easier to get ahold of than a music player at the moment.

– The Possums

It started innocently enough, Archivist, we promise. Though we now understand we nosed around things not meant for us.

It started with a few strange cloud formations after we had snuffed around the bins of a library, like wisps of smoke twisting and curling in the breeze. We thought nothing of it until the sky began to whisper. At first, the whispers were faint, like a distant radio signal barely breaking through the static. But they grew louder, more insistent, and soon we couldn't ignore them any longer.

The words were nothing we could understand at the time, a quiet cacophony of noise and syllables, yet as the days went on and we sought refuge in any place we could, to try and distance ourselves from the noise, the words began to form ideas and pictures in our heads we couldn't comprehend.

We huddled together one night, trembling, terrified, and distraught, thinking it our last one alive before we were consumed by the noise. We felt as though the air were as heavy as a human pressing down upon us– suffocating us. Beneath our very bodies what we thought of the world, of our simple reality, crumbled and came undone. In its stead with those strands of what once was, our eyes were opened to what always has been.

We do not know how long we will be allowed to live, if what granted us this hideous knowledge has that power.

Thank you for listening, Archivist... We are so scared to be in this sprawling world we have been forced to know. We can still hear its whispers, though it chooses to still use a tongue we do not understand.

How fascinating… I believe you are an example of a fairly rare manifestation of my Patron; so many fear being known, but fewer realize the true horror of knowing what you weren’t meant to… Books are dangerous, you know. Sometimes even when you can’t read.

I’m sorry, for what it’s worth; this is a cruel burden to put on such small, fuzzy shoulders. I don’t believe you will die, though. It would be uncharacteristic of the Watcher. Though there is, also, a chance that the Madness is involved, or will swoop in later, if you cannot withstand what you now know… my advice to you is to follow the path of least resistance. You cannot shield yourselves from this, but you can make yourselves useful to it. You know too much, and you could learn more; did you know, quite a lot of people worry that the bright eyes of little things like you really can understand what they witness, really can judge, maybe even tattle… you are no longer as you were, but you’re resilient creatures. I’m sure you can adapt.

[sennextheassasinkingoflight]

To My Grave

Geraskier Rated T to be safe. Cross posted to Ao3

Prompt: I told you I love you, I thought I was dying, but I lived and now I have to deal.

Summer was of course Jaskiers favorite time of year. Not to say that he did not miss the opulence of the city, or the balls, or even the conversation and study of the arts while he was away. To say he did not miss the shade of the trees in the courtyards of Oxenfurt, or the breeze that often blew off the river would be a lie. And yet, summer brought with its adventure, travel, inspiration, and of course, his friend Geralt of Rivia.

Despite the excitement that summer brings him, today Jaskier is quite miserable as dust rises into the air with every hoof fall of Roach and Pegasus against the dried, cracked soil of the road. The sun hanging high in the sky drowns them in wave after wave of stifling heat as he follows behind the Witcher heading towards Vizima. They’ve easily another day beyond tonight before they reach their destination, but word of a winged beast has reached Geralt and he is insistent on finding out what it is. Jaskier for his part can’t bring himself to mind. There are plenty of winged beasts that wreak havoc, and he can’t wait to find out what it is. He’s certain it will make for another great tale. Beyond that, there is rumored to be a bardic competition beginning in the next few days, and Jaskier desperately wants to compete.

“Geralt?”

The barest shift in his friend’s demeanor encourages him to continue. Where it was once hard to read the Witcher it is now a language in which he is more fluent than he believed he would be.  Shifting in the saddle to ease the discomfort in his lower back, a side effect of aging, he continues his speech.

“How long do you think we may be in Vizima? You see there’s this competition and I was hoping to, well, compete while we’re in town. I know, of course, that it will depend on what kind of “winged beast” it is that we find upon our arrival, but have you perchance any ideas on our time frame?”

“I could leave you there.”

“Come now Witcher, I’m being serious.” He laughs out. Geralt hasn’t threatened to leave him behind, seriously, in almost a decade.

“So was I, bard.” Geralt tells him with a slump in his shoulders that indicates he isn’t serious at all.

“Hmm, I don’t think I believe you.” Snarks Jaskier like it’s the easiest thing in the world to do. And for him, it might as well be. Perhaps he is too comfortable with his companion. Still, he wouldn’t change this for the world.

“I won’t stop you from competing with Jaskier. In fact, maybe you’ll be too busy to get in my way.” Geralt grins over his shoulder and any retort Jaskier had dies in his throat. He rarely sees those smiles, so he focuses, captures the moment to memory and smiles in return. The lapse in conversation is hardly a new commonality for them. Instead of being uncomfortable it has become a token of their friendship, and Jaskier has learned how to put the silence to use for him at some point in the last fifteen years.

As the sun continues to glare down at them, Jaskier drinks water skin and then pulls out one of his many notebooks and a broken piece of charcoal. He has yet to master playing the lute and riding a horse at the same time, but he can take down notes, even if they are a bit of a mess. Messy notes are much better than no notes at all. Absently he wipes sweat from his brow, unintentionally leaving a streak of charcoal dust across his forehead. With the same movement, he unbuttons the top of his doublet. It is unusually hot for this early in the summer he thinks as charcoal meets parchment again.

The rhythmic clip clop of the horse’s hooves is melodic in his ears as he continues brainstorming. Certainly, he could start another conversation with Geralt, but sometimes it was best to save that for around the campfire. Instead, he watches Geralts back, jots down some ideas and notes, and then watches his surroundings. A slight rustling in the bushes to the left catches his attention. Geralt is saying something but he can’t make out what it is over the cacophony of shouting surrounding him, or the burning in his stomach.

Gasping he falls from Pegasus. The trees look lovely from the side, canopying the road like they may actually cast it in shadow from time to time. With a thud his shoulder comes into contact with solid earth and he groans. Unconsciously he curls into the fetal position on his uninjured side and grits his teeth against the sharp pain below his ribs. Squeezing his eye shut against the ringing of steel in the air and the sun above him he tenderly seeks out the wound with tips of his right-hand fingers. There is an arrow lodged below his ribcage, just below his left lung. Well, that’s lucky isn’t it.  He thinks to himself as he assesses the damage as much as possible without the use of his eyes. Slowly he forces them open, blinks against the white in his vision and tries to observe his surroundings.

He watches despondently as Geralt disappears into the woods chasing something, bandits, his brain supplies as he forces himself to roll onto his back and breath as deep as he can. It hurts. It hurts worse than anything he has felt before. Whimpering he considers what he needs to do and blinks back tears trying to keep them from sliding through the dust on his face and turning to mud. Shaking he manages to get to a sitting position, his head spins wildly and he presses his eyes closed so hard he can hear the fluttering of his eyelids. It doesn’t take long for nausea to set in and he vomits to the side.  

When he has caught his breath, he looks down and tries to ascertain the extent of the injury. Due to its location he can’t tell exactly how bad it is, between his doublet getting in the way and the poor angle. Exhaling a long, low whistle of air he looks around and notes Pegasus nearby and Roach grazing peacefully to the side, waiting for Geralts inevitable return. Which, Jaskier admits to himself, could be a while if he’s found reason to kill them all.  Unlikely, but a good beating, certainly. Hesitantly he tries to stand and fails. Pain like fire rips through his side and the wound begins to bleed worse. Instead he uncrosses his legs and scoots, and starts and stops to the side of the road.

When he finally makes it to the grass he moans. He aches all over and he is shivering cold, despite the heat of the sun against his skin. Sweat beads across his brow, down the nape of his neck and across his back. The station of the sun tells him some time has passed and the only feasible explanation is that he passed out. It doesn’t surprise him. He can’t remember much beyond falling to the ground and Geralt giving chase. Trying to relax his body he lays back feels at the wound, the arrow has been jostled in his movement and it comes loose without much prodding. He inhales too sharply and grimaces, clenching his teeth as air tickles his insides. With a groan he rolls onto his good side and curls up. There is little he can do on his own. He knows he should try and stop the bleeding but he can’t as black shapes swirl in his vision.

+++++

When he comes to the throbbing in his head and side are enough to make him grunt in pain. He can’t seem to formulate words, and despite the darkness that surrounds him when he tries to open his eyes, he is burning up. He lets his weight shift to the right and feel his forehead come into contact with something hard and cool. He moans, pleased and leans further into the item. Leather?  His tired mind supplies and he sighs.

“Hold on Jaskier. Just, hold on.” Geralt says nearby, voice rough like gravel, and all he can do is form a strangled sound in response.

++++++

When he wakes a second time, there are two voices whispering urgently somewhere nearby. The first is melodic, clipped and paced. Designed to be listened to, informative. He wonders if the face that belongs to it is soft? If the lips that form words are plump? Are her eyes gentle? The second voice is familiar, like gravel beneath boots. It puts him at ease. He’s to tired to try and open his eyes, though he wants to. Everything burns and aches. Fire courses through his veins, and his side is the source of its fuel.

He tries to speak, but his tongue is heavy in the pit of his mouth. It feels as though someone has poured sand into it while he has slept. His lungs, too, feel as though they are dry as the deserts to the east. He tries to move, to make any sign of life and it is impossible given how barren every part of himself is. If the fire continues to rage, he knows he will not wake up. The thought terrifies him, puts him on edge. Something is placed on his forehead and it feels like boiling water, the cloth like horsehair against his skin. It makes him want to squirm, to lift his hand and throw the blasted item off.

“Jaskier, rest.” The voice like gravel says and so he tries.  No. You cannot rest now, Julian. There is something you must tell him before you go. A voice inside his head tells him, and he’s tired enough to listen to it. Aching to fall into oblivion and never return. He is in agony.

“Ge- Grlt.” He manages through parched lips. He tastes blood on his tongue, and in some sick way it is soothing, his mouth finally feels wet, like it should.

“Jask. Sleep.”  Geralt says, and he can’t. How could he possibly sleep when he has something this important to say? He tries to swallow, fails, coughs weakly and chokes.

“I.” He wheezes. These words are mummified deep within the caverns of his body. They are dust in his lungs; never meant to be pushed up the dried canal of his throat, never meant to pass through the forbidden gate of his vocal cords, over the desert plateau of his tongue, and carried by hot air through the cracked dunes of his lips.

“Love you.” He finishes voice rough as a sandstorm, before the call of darkness’ cool embrace drags him into the depths of her inky waters.

+++++

He wakes to cool air against his skin, darkness surrounding him when he manages to pry his dried eyes open, and the smell of rosewater and ivy encompassing him. Altogether it is a pleasant change from the last two times he woke up. Of this he is certain. There is very little pain in his movements as he pushes himself into a sitting position.

The bed beneath him is soft, comfortable, expensive. The pillow he shifts behind him is down, and he almost grins, then remembers he has no idea where he is, and in the darkness, he cannot see anything. There are no candles, or fires in the room, and the faint starlight shimmering at the edges of what appear to be heavy curtains does nothing to illuminate the shadows dancing around him. He opens his mouth to call out and whimpers when his lips crack. Tentatively he licks them and finds them bloodied. After a moment he swallows and tries again.

“Hello.” It’s hoarse, and coarse, and too quiet to have been heard, and yet the air to the left of the bed stirs. He shifts to listen more attentively and is surprised when he receives an answer.

“You’re awake!” Its melodic voice and he can’t help but smile at the joy he hears in it.

“I. Yes.” He manages.

“You must be thirsty, let me get you something.” The disembodied voice says and he smiles.

“Thank you.” He blinks away the tears that form when there is a sudden burst of light in the room. Several candles lit themselves across the expanse of the chamber. He watches as the woman moves to the table and pours water from a pitcher, likely there for that very reason. She is lovely, brown hair in ringlets and dark skin shining in the flickering light. When she brings him the water he accepts it gratefully and sips at it.

“Geralt?” He asks after the silence has stretched too long.

“He went out after your reveal. He hasn’t been back yet, but he left Roach so I’m sure he will be back at some point.” She grins, eyes revealing nothing but amusement and understanding.

“I’m sorry, but my wh— oh.” The word comes out of him like he’s been punched in the gut by a witcher. “Please, tell me, it was more than three words?” He begs, voice very quiet, eyes turned towards the cup in his hand as he tries not to spill it. He focuses on keeping his hand from shaking as the woman giggles and then speaks.

“Well, four if you count his name.”

“Lovely. I’m sorry, I don’t know your name.” He mumbles and then smiles up at her.

“Triss, Triss Marigold.” She says with a smile and refills his water.

 “Thank you for staying with me while I recovered. And for the water, I feel as though I could drink a lake dry.”

‘After the fever you had, I’m certain it feels that way. Are you feeling hungry at all?”

It takes him a moment to process the question, and when he does he simply shakes his head no. He doesn’t have much in the way of an appetite, but he is exhausted.  Tentatively he brings the glass cup to his lips and drinks the rest of the water. Triss smiles encouragingly at him and he can’t help but return it.

“Miss Marigold, perhaps this is tactless of me, but did you use magic on me? I seem to notice a lack of hole in my gut.

She laughs and her eyes crinkle with glee, “Yes, some. Though I specialize in plants, which is what cured your fever. My magic and Geralts potions did the rest.”

“Witcher potions. He used, a potion on me?”

“Before you got here. He was… concerned you would not make it. You’ve been out for a while, but you haven’t been resting. Try to go back to sleep and we can speak more in the morning.” Triss stands, takes the cup from him and returns it to the table. When she reaches the door she turns to look at him one final time.

“If you need anything, I’m down the hall on the right. Good night Jaskier.” With a wave of her hand she plunges the room back into darkness and the door closes behind her with a soft clunk.

Sighing to himself, Jaskier snuggles down into the thick duvet and curls onto his side. He’s alone with his thoughts and the knowledge that his best kept secret is in the air. He would scream if it didn’t feel like it would drain him of every drop of energy he has. Instead he growls into the pillow with frustration and lets out a long winded sigh. Well Julian, He thinks, this is great. Look what you’ve gone and done now. Ha! You weren’t even awake to see his face. Cowardly now aren’t we. Of course, when haven’t we been? Then again, this wasn’t something we counted on right? No. No it wasn’t. This is fine. This is completely fine. I was dying, right? Yes. I was dying, and feverish. Geralt can’t blame me. We’ll…. We’ll just pretend it was never said and that will be that. Yes, that’s all there is to it. I’ll just pretend not to remember. Geralt probably won’t bring it up and that will be the end of it. Or so he tells himself as he drifts off to sleep in an oversized, overstuffed bed.

Bright light filters through his eyelids and wakes him the following morning. With an unamused groan he rolls over in bed and pulls the duvet over his head. Whose idea was it to open the blinds without warning him. Did they want him to go blind? The smell of food draws him from the cave of warmth he’s created. Sitting up he looks towards the table where Triss is sitting amusedly waiting for him.

“You’re in good spirits this morning.” He grumbles, the effect somewhat ruined by a yawn.

“Of course, I am. You're alive. Geralt is back. The king listened to me for once. It doesn’t get much better than that around here. Now, eat your bread and broth. Nothing heavier for a few days. You’re still recovering.”

Languidly he stretches before slipping from the bed and joining her at the table. In the light of day he can see that the room is smaller than it appeared in the dark. The table is situated a short distance from the hearth, there is a finely woven rug between the table and the bed, a chest and wardrobe against the far wall, and an end table beside the bed and the chair which yet remains beside it.

“Well then, it seems as though everything is going to plan for you today.” He smiles and sips at the steaming beverage in front of him. It soothes his throat on the way down and tastes sweet.

“For now.” She agrees. They eat in companionable silence until heavy footfalls pull them both from their thoughts. He doesn’t have to look up to know that Geralt has entered the room. He can feel eyes on the back of his neck. Triss smiles at him, then looks passed him.

“Well I have some tasks to attend to. I’ll check in on you later, Jaskier.” She says politely and makes her way out of the room.

Jaskier chews his bread slowly, waiting. He will let Geralt speak first, let him decide where this conversation is going to go. Straightening his back, he takes another gulp of his drink and finally Geralt comes into his line of sight. With obvious discomfort the witcher sits across from him.

“You’re awake then.”

“Obviously, Geralt. I am sitting up and eating, or is this a dream?”  His lips pull up in a half-hearted smile. He’s too tired to pretend but he will do what he needs to to put Geralt at ease.

“Right. Yes.” Geralt coughs and oh gods, he can’t do this.

“You seem…. Unnerved, my friend.” He winces internally as Geralt makes eye contact with him and just as fast breaks it. Well Jaskier, way to act normal. He closes his eyes and scrubs at his face. 

“You almost died.”

“I remember and its far from the first time.”  Geralt stares at him and the words catch up with him. He comprehends them and wants to go hide in the folds of the blankets. The silence stretches long and tense between them. It’s uncomfortable in a way it hasn’t been in a long time. Jaskier catches a glimpse of himself in a mirror and notes the slight wrinkles around his eyes, the way his hair is gathering grey at the temples. He shifts, winces at the slight pain, and thinks, better to have said something now than live to regret it, I suppose. He watches Geralt watch him from time to time, face impassive and unreadable, and finally he drops his gaze from golden irises. Geralt will speak when he is ready, and in this Jaskier will not push him for an answer, only… he can’t quite keep his mouth shut.

“Like you said, I was dying, and I know I was feverish. We can pretend nothing was said if you like. We're good at that. At pretending. So why don’t we just move on? It’s not like we haven’t pretended in the past.” He manages, and his voice sounds weak, disappointed, even to him.

“It did happen.”

“Yes, but I’m saying if you want to pretend it didn’t then say so. Look, I was dying, I didn’t really think I’d be alive to deal with the repercussions of my words.”  He flicks his eyes up to Geralts and freezes. Geralt looks vulnerable, like he’s battling something inside himself and he thinks he should look away but he can’t make his eyes obey.

“Did you mean it?” Jaskier almost misses the question, caught completely off guard by the earnestness in Geralts tone.

It takes him a long time to answer. Not because he doesn’t know the answer, but because he is trying to choose his words wisely. He opens his mouth and closes it more times than he likes to admit and holds up his hand to stop Geralt interrupting him when the witcher tries to speak. Finally he does speak, slowly, as though he doesn’t really know the words he wants to say and hopes that they will instead flow from his mouth.

“I did. I do.” He takes a breath and perseveres, “But I think, what you mean is: How do I love you? What makes you different from any of my dalliances?” Geralt simply nods noncommittally.

“You are who I think of when I think of home. If you ask me where I want to be at any given time, the answer is always; with you. When we began traveling together, I counted the days to when I would go back to Oxenfurt for the winter to work on finishing the manuscripts I start in the summer. Now, at some point along the way, that shifted. It came full circle and all I can think about when I’m supposed to be teaching is where we’ll be going next. It’s consuming, and it’s not fair. It’s an ache and a longing, and a hope. I don’t know how to best answer you, for that much I am sorry.”

Geralt nods slowly at him, hums in understanding and they lapse back into quiet. It’s not as tense or uncomfortable as before, but it stretches nearly as long.

“And if that feeling were returned?” Geralt asks, looking right past him.

“I would have died happy.”  It’s the best he can offer. To say more risks never traveling with the Witcher again. As it is, it wouldn’t completely surprise him if Geralt packed up Roach and took off. Told him to go back to Oxenfurt and never come back. He hopes that won’t be the case, that at worst Geralt goes along with pretending. At best, he hopes that the feeling is returned, that the question isn’t just cryptic, and curiosity fueled. Geralt sits straighter and rolls his shoulders.

“Triss says you need a few more days to recover and I still need to deal with the gryphon. You missed your competition.” Geralt says briskly as he stands.

“I imagined as much.” He responds dutifully, tries to keep the bitterness from his voice as Geralt leaves the room. He lets his head fall back and stares at the ceiling. It could have been worse, he tells himself, he could have sent you back to the university. For now we pretend, and that has to be enough. With a mournful sigh he gets to his feet and makes his way to the window, his food forgotten. Leaning against the wall he watches as Geralt prepares to go on his hunt. Idly, he wonders how long it will be until this all crumbles around him, tries to console himself to contentment as he soaks in the morning light. Summer is his favorite, but he worries this will be the last one that fits into the category as he watches Geralt ride out.

Happy (ISH) Epilogue:

The summer had continued in a kind of stale peace. They’re actions, hesitant and second guessed at every turn. Neither comfortable around the other. Awkward in each other's presence in a way they hadn’t been in years. Every dance and rhythm they had gone, replaced with missteps and uncertainty.  More than once, Jaskier wonders if he should return to Oxenfurt, but he is greedy and if Geralt isn’t actively asking him to leave then he will stay. June fades into July, and July bleeds into August before they know it, and still they’ve only just begun to return to the familiarity of longstanding friendship.

The sun is setting, and the smell of their supper has settled heavy over their campsite when Geralt speaks softly across the fire. The Witchers voice is soft enough that Jaskier doesn’t realize he’s being spoken to right away, over the sound of his lute. He fumbles the strings at the oddity of it and blinks rapidly at Geralt. It was unusual for him to start the conversations, they had reverted back to Jaskier being the chattery one and Geralt being the monosyllabic one since their conversation.

“I’m sorry, what?”  Geralt stares at him and shakes his head in what appears to be amusement. Jaskiers heart somersaults in his chest and he can’t help but be happy about it. Maybe normalcy is returning to their relationship.

“I said, there is a competition in Redania. Do you want to go?”

“Yes. Yes! Of course I want to go, Geralt!” He grins and strums a bold chord. Geralt shakes his head and rolls his eyes at the boisterousness of it all.

“Good. I thought… it would be nice. Since you missed the last big event.” Geralt mutters to him, as he stokes up the fire, carefully avoiding Jaskiers eyes.

“Wait,” He begins slowly, uncertainly, “You don’t have a contract that’s taking us to Redania? You’re offering to go simply for the competition? You’re not a doppler are you?” a laugh bubbles out of him by the end. Geralt glares, unfortunately, Jaskier grew an immunity to them almost immediately.

“I am not a doppler. Not that you would know one if it bit you on the ass, Bard. I’m certain I’ll find contracts as we travel.” The Witcher sighs and lies back on his bed roll.

“Why?” Jaskier asks, voice quiet. He knows Geralt has heard him, but he also knows maybe it’s pushing the boundaries a little. When no immediate answer comes, Jaskier lies down for the night too, watches as the stars come out and light the night sky. His eyes have grown heavy and he lets out a small yawn. When he’s settled and nearly asleep, Geralt finally answers, voice steady in the dark of night.

“So, you can die happy.”

He grins into his bag, Geralt was never one for words, but Jaskier has always been good at understanding what he means. It’s no secret to either of them, that Jaskiers days will end before Geralts unless some freak accident happens. And maybe, mentioning death isn’t the best way to say “I love you”, but nothing about them has ever made sense to anyone else.

[little-ideas]

Once Upon a Fantasy

Invitation to The Mystic Dance hosted by @little-butterfly-writes here

This was so much fun to do! Thank you for having me :3 I started writing and the story just took on a life of its own resulting in my longest piece yet ^^;

I know I don’t usually write OCs, but this story centers around Vanderwood and my CMC Ao (though Saeyoung also features a bit). The setting is supposed to be in an older time, but I have no sense of history’s fashions, technologies, and music, so please just consider this either a fantasy world or some hodgepodged amalgamation of decades/centuries

Hope you enjoy! ^ w ^

Lengthened shadows flickered about the fringes of paper, the glow of lantern flame warm yet small in the dawn of night. Said paper was of fine quality but wanting in splendor next to the companion twould respond. The clinking of metal nib against glass dotted silence, followed by the soft scratch of pen on the paper’s surface.

Dear Mister Vanderwood,

the letter began, each character drawn slow and exact, crafted with as much precision their writer could muster. Before her leaned a slate, smudged with chalk and the scribbles of drafted note from which she now copied. Ao much preferred the flow of ink on parchment to the drag of chalk on rock, but paper cost a pretty penny and could not be wasted on the idle ramblings of initial thoughts, so the slate had done until she knew precisely what she would write. She only wished she knew where to send her letters instead of waiting for Saeyoung to take and deliver them; but no matter, such were simply the ways of the rich, she supposed.

Glancing at the box upon her shelf, she wondered when she might receive another letter from the gentleman.

~*~

He came the week the invitations were delivered. Town abuzz and bursting with excitement for the Mint Palace Ball, Ao had nary a hope she might see Saeyoung’s companion once more before the festivities began, yet he had appeared at her door in lieu of his friend.

“Saeyoung’s busy with the dance, then?” Ao questioned, pouring two cups of coffee. “Couldn’t escape with you?”

“He’s under extra watch after sneaking away too many times.” Vanderwood responded.

Ao flinched, had it been her fault? Vanderwood must have noticed for-

“He likes to skip his tasks to play with the town’s strays,” he explained, sipping from the cup she handed him. Ao smiled, where once Vanderwood had hesitated to drink, now he waited no longer.

Taking her own sip, Ao mulled over Vanderwood’s recent tidings. Saeyoung would be unable to visit until after the dance -her cats would be displeased at that for he always brought them delightful treats- and she would be unable to send any letters. A shame, but she understood and selfish she should not be. Not now, for if Saeyoung was busy, then surely her guest must also be, yet he was spending time here, with her.

“Vanderwood,” she began, trying to keep her tone light, “is it really ok to be here? Surely, you must be busy, too.”

At this he grinned, and for the briefest of moments, Ao felt her heart stop.

“Whose work do you think Saeyoung is doing?”

She blinked, answer unexpected. Then, slowly, his words sunk in and Ao, too, began to smile. Then giggle. Then could not help but laugh alongside him, tears dotting the corners of their eyes. Through Vanderwood’s letters and his own boasts, Ao knew that Saeyoung -their energetic, brilliant, rapscallion of a friend- had a habit of absconding to destinations unnamed and, though she knew not what it might be, forcing Vanderwood to do their work instead. How appropriate, then, that Vanderwood act in kind for the busiest event of the year. They both knew Saeyoung would not learn his lesson.

As the laughter lulled and soft silence settled betwixt them, Ao could not help but admire her friend- the ease of his countenance; his acceptance of her “tiny beasts” pawing at his sides -creatures she and Saeyoung adored but he was not particularly fond; the divide between his conversations both oral and written -the former dictated by necessity, the latter far more relaxed. Upon their first meeting, Ao had found Vanderwood to be terse and intimidating, despite Saeyoung’s introduction, but through months of correspondence, she had grown to know him -far more verbose in letter- and thought him endearing. She feared not the silence amongst them anymore.

It was he who spoke first.

“Will you be going to the dance?” His voice startled her, causing her to jump, and he hid his smile behind the rim of his cup.

“Pardon?”

“The Mystic Dance at the Mint Palace, will you be attending?”

Ao paused before responding. She supposed she should, the whole town would be off, the food was sure to be delicious, and she might even perchance to see her two friends; however, people were different in the eyes of society, and she wondered if the night might end what little relations they currently had. An event open to all, free of status on paper, did not mean such conventions would be adhered to in practice. Looking at Vanderwood, though, she shook head of such notions; he and Saeyoung would not do such, and to think as so would despair their reputation. She smiled at him.

“I will if you teach me to dance.”

~*~

The counts had been easy; the closeness, movement, and posture, not so much. Vanderwood had come several times since his last visit, true to his promise of being her instructor, and Ao might have felt bad were it not for the heat flaming her cheeks whenever she recalled Saeyoung’s laughter at her miserable attempts at turning during their last visit (how he escaped, she knew not, only that she pitied the poor soul waiting on him). She would learn, she’d vowed, if only out of spite.

Determined not to become a spectacle again, Ao’s evenings had been filled with enough practice that her head was now constantly counting off 3s, her shoulders held a dull ache, and the furniture had been misplaced for days. Yet as Vanderwood now led her around the room, she had not glanced at her feet and had only stepped on his once. Maybe twice. Alright, three times, but in her defense, she had tripped! Or so she insisted to Saeyoung, whose rapid applause came the moment they separated.

“Marvelous, indeed! Would have thought you a different lass!” He teased.

Ao stuck her tongue at him, and Saeyoung leaned against his friend, arm draped across his forehead. “Forsooth, Mary, our lady doth wound me!”

Vanderwood sighed at their antics, yet his smile betrayed his amusement.

“Perhaps you’d care to dance with the lady?” He gestured to Ao; brow quirked.

“And risk my toes?” Saeyoung gasped, “I’d never!”

“Saeyoung Choi!” Ao shouted, attempting to stomp on his shoes. “You absolute heathen!” She missed and the two began a chase about the room, jerking knees and squashing stones, until Saeyoung ran back towards Vanderwood.

“Help me, Vandy!” He cried. “A demon gives chase!” His attempt to hide was thwarted by Vanderwood’s arms surrounding his own and holding him in place, grin stretched across his face. Saeyoung gasped in mock betrayal -twisting to get out- before slumping forwards and extending a foot in defeat. A firm press upon the top of his shoe and Saeyoung was freed, rejoining his friends’ sides to complete an afternoon of mirth and merriment.

~*~

Laughter echoed down the streets as people clapped and cheered -fiddlers skipped along the cobblestone roads whilst onlooking peddlers tapped rhythms with the boxes of their wares. Shops were closing, but with the dawning of the ball in a few days’ time, taverns opened early, seeking to make coin from their many guests. In town, nary a room twas available at any inn, yet still the folk kept coming.

Parading after the fiddlers, people poured into the streets, bouncing with the beats as they sashayed along towards open spaces. All this Ao and Vanderwood had witnessed through her windows yet remained inside. Now, rocking upon her heels, Ao grabbed Vanderwood’s hand, tugging him towards the door and the festivities beyond.

Initially, Vanderwood had no intention of participating in such jovialities -his latest letter from the week prior apologizing for his previous and most likely continued absence- but Saeyoung had pulled him from his desk, knocked upon Ao’s door, thrust him at her, and vanished within the throngs of people scurrying about. Graciously, she had offered him welcome and rest in her abode, but Vanderwood had caught her gaze frequently flit to the outside merriment. Having arrived unannounced, it would not have done to kept her from whatever plans she may have had, or so he told himself. Truthfully, he, too, wished to join the crowds -the carefree and lively spirits of the townsfolk were always a welcome reprieve from the stuffiness of High Society. As Ao sternly told her cats to mind the house and behave, before pulling him with her into the party beyond; however, he wondered if perhaps that were not his only reasoning.

*

It was not his only reasoning, Vanderwood realized, watching his friend dance about, the fires illuminating her smile as a new tune picked up. He saw her beam when her eyes met his own, then beckon him over, but he shook his head, lifting his goblet. She rolled her eyes and huffed at him, yet quick as her smile had fallen, it returned, and she twirled around once more.

Vanderwood took a swig of drink, attempting to ignore the beat which seemed to thrum louder now in his chest. He should rest while he could -Ao would soon drag him out to join her, of that, he was sure.

*

True to form, she had sought him out after a few more songs had pass, laughing as she spun and planted her feet firmly in front of him.

“Mary Vanderwood!” She panted, grin undermining her admonishment. “One does not simply turn down an invitation to dance!” Vanderwood merely watched as she struggled to regain her breath.

“Drink?” He offered at last, holding out his cup as the notes of a new song began. He chuckled when Ao frowned at him before downing its contents.

“Well,” she sighed, “one song can wait.” Then, as though realizing what she had just done, stammered a “thank you” and handed back his cup.

When the music began anew, Ao tugged Vanderwood towards the crowd of dancers, weaving betwixt the bystanders, pattering along seemingly as though she had missed not a beat of song. And as she kicked up her skirts and twirled about, pulling him deeper in with her, Vanderwood was glad the fire’s glow concealed his cheeks’ blush.

~*~

Well, tonight was the night. Donning the dress before her, Ao prayed it would be nice enough -what little remnants of her wages she had after necessities and paper, she had saved for the fabric to sew a proper, formal dress. Though simple in design and decoration, the dress fit her well and complemented her complexion -vibrant red to catch the eye, with a silhouette that tapered in towards her waist before flowing out about her once more. Practicing a few steps, Ao found she rather liked the way it fanned around her when she spun.

Against her neck sat not pearls, but a ring -a memento of family long gone- and she gripped it tight, wishing for all to go well. Drawing her cloak about her, invitation in hand, Ao left for a fate unknown.

~*~

Ao blinked once. Twice. Pinched her hand and -ow! - this was real. The gentleman before her -noble of birth, correspondent of the treasured letters she kept within the box upon her shelf, beloved friend- stood now with hand outstretched and crown atop silken, brown locks. He chuckled at her reaction.

“Well?” He asked, nudging her hand. “I believe one does not simply turn down an invitation to dance.”

Timidly, Ao placed her hand in Vanderwood’s, and he pulled her closer -left hand closing around hers, right palm tucked against her back- before leading her about the floor.

“You never told me!” She hissed, gaze flickering to his crown before eyeing those around them. He laughed, a familiar sound in so foreign an environment.

“You never asked.”

Ao frowned, about to retort when they spun and she tripped, stepping on his foot. For a moment, they both froze. Then, slowly, they giggled, chuckled, laughed, roared -voices filling the room, and their eyes with tears. Vanderwood took Ao’s hand once more and continued leading her around the space, and for the first time that day, she relaxed.

And if Saeyoung saw the pink that tinged both their cheeks? No, no he did not.

[lady-plantagenet]

A Bygone Era - Chapter 11

This is the newest chapter of a long-term fictional project of mine. It is a story centering around the lives of Lady Isabel Neville, George of Clarence and Richard Neville 16th Earl of Warwick (heavily also featuring Anne Beauchamp 16th Countess of Warwick and Anne Neville). It is told alternating between their POVs, occasionally dipping into that of others from the outside eg Cecily Neville, Margaret of Anjou’s. It is based on history, as opposed to TWQ series!

Points of views so far include: Anne Beauchamp Countess of Warwick, Lady Anne Neville, George Duke of Clarence, Lady Isabel Neville, Richard Neville Earl of Warwick,Cecily Neville, Dowager Duchess of York and Margaret of Anjou

This chapter is through Margaret of Anjou’s POV:

[Text]:

10th July 1470

Among roses red and white presided the daisy - or so she had taken to inwardly correcting herself when whispers of her unenglishness would close around her like mocking rattles shook by the fauntkins that once haunted her nights. And then Edouard was finally born to her and those nightmares were assuaged only to be replaced by newer, more detestable faces: York, Warwick, Salisbury. And so the rattling returned after eight years, but it was that of armour.

At Angers she was now Marguerite again, although every time she would look back to her hands, she could believe it less. The long, white fingers that had once flashed brilliantly over parchments, whether it was a charter she penned or a match she wove for whichever gentlewoman of hers was yearning that week, would never straighten out as they once did. At times when she held her reins, she would cringe for their finery. Ma mère Isabelle, sage Yolande, to which end will your memory guide me when not even you have known exertions such as these?

But before her stood only her father, René with as many chins as he had titles. It was only in his presence that she would even dare examine her wrists or roll a fallen hair into her lap, checking how it greyed. Behind him the ‘Mary in The Burning Bush’ sizzled with the draft, bellowing forever through those red halls of her childhood. Even after the longest absence, she could still point to curls of orange paint and placings of ultramarine which Froment let the Duke of Anjou add by his own hand. Beauty in devotional dialogues as in verses he exchanged with the renowned Charles D’Orléans, the sarcenets and masks whirling in every colourful performance of the Passion of Angers, would there ever again be a place for her there? She would sometimes wonder - if, for all the families with men riding out, grizzling in battle squalor so to keep the brute from their ladies’ doors, whether god had played a twisted experiment on the men and women of her house. Twisted still, how the contrary courted every generation.

He was now looking at her, crossing his fleshy arms in a manner so familiar that she anticipated his tact from a league away ‘When I rode at Jeanne D’Arc’s side in the crusade of Orleans, she- ‘ strange of him to resurrect La Pucelle like this, helped to the flames by the Earl of Warwick’s very own father-in-law. She lifted her hand. Those same granddaughters of Warwick would come in her presence with their ancestor’s banners mingling in their skirts as in their overmighty subject blood and pack into her own robes as their grandmother of Salisbury had done some March procession ago. May they burst like the blistering skin of a snake. ‘Whither you come again father to sacrifice your own daughter in the interests of the country, only now this is to be made my own doing?’

Réné’s hands fell to the side, the sound broke her thoughts. Velvet was not supposed to make that sound when it met, she looked back and saw the black had faded from the fabric, not unlike the scarlet sunsetting the halls - at least now that she chanced another look. Mary in the Burning Bush, her father’s gaze followed hers to the painting. She burns but is not consumed, La Pucelle...

Her father’s rings were boring (digging/gripping could work) into her shoulders, however they did not dig much. Gentle impoverished man, I see I shall fight for you too. ‘The divine mystery’ he whispered behind her as if he himself beheld it now ‘jesu, her only son, ma fille, likewise as he, our only light. Marian’s sacrifice’

‘Sometimes, I think my king husband is much like the spirit of Most High’ she murmured not unkindly, for Henry’s was not the beacon laying the flame that would make ashes of the heart. Longing, in the end, had but one care, to cocoon, stifle and transform that which was unruly. Not yearning, the yearning that brought with it no peace; the gaudling of her London court for which the fashionable youth adored her, daughters of Chaucer down to her gilded ladies would forsake the altars for their Guinevere. Had the Yorkists only the craft to have seen that tale through complete materiality... She gave out an unbalanced sigh, while her mind addled on whether monsieur Warwick’s imagination coming to them would leave the brutes with naught else but smashing the cocoon, however snuggly lain in its stony bower.

July beams lingered, heat shattered off the floors, and so she tried to pull at the linen that clung to her wrist, more that it was unfashionable it was a grey that summer suns liked to singe ‘Have my thoughts wound about your tongue, mon père? you do not appear to have any words for response’

‘Ah?’ He turned her towards him raising an eyebrow ‘I was not aware you sook any, was there are question I did not note?’

‘Yes’

His amusement faltered when he saw her unamused ‘Ah, yes, your sacrifice. It was ever your way Margaret, though whether it is for France or your son I do not know’

Her robe drew their shadows when she fell back, black thistles on grey from the gallery’s corners. ‘I’ she shook a crooked finger ‘you ask me this? I who- have you any idea why it is that the English so hate me father? It is not for I traded tin and wool; it is not for my founding of colleges...’

Now it was he who raised the hand ‘Indeed ma marguerite, your kingly husband rules over a nation of merchants huddled in village kingdoms. They who would cast the white of a lady’s hand anywhere but in council. The jealousy of the English is legendary, I know’.

‘Not that either’ her voice was terse while she took her seat on the stone bench. It was much more worn than she had found it years ago, if rock would splinter rather than burn. ‘It is because they think like you and my cousin le roi. Henry and Edouard’s people, once they were also mine - descendants of Charlemagne as are we? They have never forgotten how I had Maine and Anjou surrendered, all for you et comme ça I became France’s agent. Not a queen for England was I: mercantile where their English roses are industrious, that was, before I was the wastrel of a lavish court where their ladies stayed stately patrons steeped in pious splendour... and yet the Yorks are not England, not more than Pembroke, Somerset, Suffolk, Exeter’

Réné stepped back and huffed a laugh, the way his lips sat after, thin and waved would have looked shrewd in other men’s faces, never in his, sat among his folds of pink and white skin ‘But the Monsieur le Warwick is’. He shuffled next to her, the pale blue of his eyes renarrowing as he concentrated on setting down his fleshiness on the little space, she could concede him on the bench ‘Not as us, ma marguerite, kings of Jerusalem, rulers of Majorcas and Minorcas...

‘Must he too make them different’ she realised she sounded like Henry, looking up with eyes rounded and rimmed so darkly by unsleep that she did not notice the footsteps approaching ‘Can crowns and people be so? The English and the French? Ah to stoop l’Agneau into an alliance with a subject, to have my posterity sat on thrones built on concessions, to they themselves be so as well?’

‘And so, you helped them to it when you gave Berwick back to the Scots. An act singing of the auld alliance’ Father and daughter looked up, it was something said with all the bitterness of an erstwhile groom of such a match. ‘I cannot say I minded that much’ Louis XI of France had just returned from mass, crossed himself and twitching his long Valois nose, Margaret was reminded how this was a man who went to prayer mechanically as in all manner of things; mimicking other’s gestures with the mind’s thoughts separate. Perchance all ceremony was indeed same to him, the prie-dieu of vespers though softer than the stone under his breaches and spurs when he had knelt with his Stuart dauphine at an alter times passed. She had died and he had burned all her poetry Margaret was horrified ill-befallen queen to be.

He was prudent, like Salisbury’s prudence but York was now a house of alchemists. Why have at Boccacio’s matter when bare re-anatomization could make for Lydgate’s fall of princes? Sometimes not even names need be changed. Her wandered to Queen’s College with a sigh; she could be angry no more.

He did not walk as much as swept with the blue heaviness of his robes as they cooled the sun off the flagstones, atop his head comically lay only a black skull cap which made his face smaller, less discernable.

‘and Carlisle’ she feigning her approval ‘France never breathed while England was strong’ behind Louis, Réné stood up shooting her bewildered looks. Just as nor would my son buttressed in from the North and South. But sectioned up part and parcel from within?

‘You now speak like a prince madame. A prince of France’ he spoke barely moving a lip ‘good did it you this spell at Angers, I see we are past ravings for vengeance’ he stayed the way he also did but now swung his eyes from one side to the other like a pendulum ‘I always know when to come, as does Warwick it seems. Two days ride they tell me’

‘Him? He’ she grabbed at the column grilling the window behind her as though she meant to wield it ‘here?’

Her father shrank away and Louis’ voice curled in amusement as he flicked a speck of dust from his collar ‘St Mary would do well, resplendent enough for an oath, the floors need no bending from our treasury without offending Monsieur’s apparent newly exalted tastes’

His confusion at her silence could almost have been taken for indignance, he now turned to her father with the same look. ‘I told her, nephew, we are agreed, Fortescue would not write to you without her consent you know that. She noticed how he hated being called that. ‘Marguerite-‘

‘That was in May’ she gathered her thumbs in an inward gesture and under her chin ‘before I knew they made a mockery of our assistance; all he did these months was spend all that Bourrée had given him and without profit. A lord without profit, think sire think.’

‘Leave the costs of their presences to me’ he retorted ‘all his sailors and had they ten children each are the poor’s bread sat next to you and yours all these years’

‘Maine and Anjou were scores that’ Margaret hissed ‘and you forget that by even deigning to compare your obligation to us as that towards Warwick. Edouard is a prince of France too - remember that.’

He huffed laying both hands on the counter-table. His sleeve’s fleur de lis pattern dragged to clarity when he stretching, lit the three candles that lay atop although it was daylight. The servants were sent away, he seems a very practiced man in these respects. ‘So I hope that you remember that when you prevail over that idiote de York’

‘Believe you in the right of Lancaster then?’ she heard an ounce of hope in her father’s voice ‘That Lancaster is good for the country? Warwick is either to be turned water crossing to his ruin or turn for my grandson? Advising a York had always been futile’. Had he not heard what had just been said?

‘Yes -oncle’ he narrowed his eyes, chaffed his heel while he spoke ‘rather... good for the world as well I think’

Margaret approached him, catching his sleeve when he tried slightly turning his back ‘it is good you see, for Pembroke will be governing besides your friend Warwick and we can insure an even goodlier reign over England under an even redder rose’. He looked over his shoulder with features pointed in irritation, The King of France was but around her age, yet he looked as those old English bankers that bit their coins and and found they were not gold.

Nearly two years ago, Jasper’s enterprises had cost Louis much, but now he had come back with only little accounts of assizes and short-lived sieges. Inwardly, Margaret felt pleasant. Apart from her, no one angered them as he did, he was now to Champagne, on his continuous quest. With every return she felt she could reclaim new pieces of her old court, and unknowingly his gallantry rebuilt her court of chivalry, regarbing her a Guinevere when he knelt. Regarbed, for the love they both bore Henry was second only to that for Edouard. As did Catherine de Valois, faithfully, as her welsh suitor longed, yearned and served. Wedded and then to die for his step-son’s cause. She once wondered whether such a musing could ever cross a busy mind like his, the welsh do have their romances, as do the French. But even though England pools them all to herself in the end, lovely waters of red and blue they stay.

‘It is good of you’ Réné said, patting his gut in a manner going with his satisfaction ‘that you also hold that an alliance between these two kingdoms is an ideal. You may yet grow to be known as the Europe’s bringer of perpetual peace, le prudent est la meilleure que l’universelle aragne, non?

‘Oncle...’ his dark eyes dropped to his simper and Margaret was beginning to realize was something Louis used to mock, ‘yes, yes. I also happen to know men like the Monsieurs Warwick and Clarence and they do not fall easily and will always know where to find me at every exile, especially now that Edward will never allow them to the force of Calais again. Though I had their wives housed with my Queen and gave the princeling a bolt of pretty green silk to appease him, one month since landing at Normandy they have caused me nothing but trouble. They did not spend all the coin Bourrée gave to them to affront you but to bade me recognize them, and loudly enough to bring Burgundy in his throes of idiocy, to tell me how I am breaking our treaty of Péronne by not attacking them for what they did to his ships. Attack? Ack all these men think about is hitting one another with their sticks of steel - dense as their skulls’

She raised an eyebrow Craven ‘Then you would not object to having Warwick kneel during the audience. He who bespoiled us, your treasury and my virtue- ’Many hard hours had been wasted like this. she felt herself being grabbed by the shoulders to which she responded by looking back at him in confusion, he proceeded to slip down and now she felt more shocked. ‘Marguerite, belle cousine, I beseech you. We need Warwick to invade and you need him most. France will not bear war with Burgundy, think on your hatred for those carver princes of your kingdom, just so is my wrath for Charles le Temerraire, he is like your York for me. The father and son merged in an even greater traitor. England has not razed to the ground, but if France falls, I split, just as my father had when he betrayed the maid of Orléans to them - the English and the Burgundians. Marguerite, I am not my fool father, I will not betray you and so you will not betray me. Do not trifle, dissimulate instead, I urge you as one sovereign to another. Take this as my kneeling in lieu of Warwick, as repayment for my father’s debt towards the maid’ And an England divided would suit you just as well, if not better than an alliance. Far less costly. His words sounded well-chewed, but such thoughts were overborne and unheard, thoughts paling to those for spirit of the Maid ‘who had raised Charles to throne’ and how it had ‘renewed in the Queen’. You who once followed a peasant girl follow now a queen, soft sprang the echoes, Captain Margaret.

‘Maman!’ her son came bounding in like a sprig, a tall, stately boy whose features were never left by the serious air that his childhood hung about them. His father’s blue eyes were squarely cut in his face and shone whenever in the presence of men with whom he could prove his mettle - he had the leanness of someone who never grew too easy. Just so, upon sight of Louis his tone dropped and he pecked her on the lips before sitting himself at the edge of the stone bench. ‘Comme les anglais’ her father joked and even the king managed a small smile ‘like the English princes’. She knew well that they were too old for this custom, but how many mothers so raised their sons so alone and unattended by others, the lord’s manger had straw for warmth where St Michel only stones.

‘I met the lady Anne’ started Louis ‘a vivacious girl, t’was her proud sister’s wedding festivities, but she did not strike neither me nor my brother le duc as one much saddened by much’

Your beloved Monsieur must be ever in god’s gratitudes to have found in you the wedding land for all his daughters and woes. And so now Margaret would lean onto his marital prowess as he unto her martial, for she knew Warwick had no third daughter, no alter avenues for alliance.

‘It is a shame cousin’ she said stroking her son’s cheek, faced away she could still feel some disaffection forming itself in that proud head ‘how you let harbour the joining of Isabelle to that shaking boy’ at that Edouard removed his cap while his mouth twisted in a callous smirk, the fringes of his yellow hair, had long been growing over his face and the concealment was timed perfectly for Louis not to see. The universal spider hated recall for parts in webs he left to the wind for miscalculated threads layed and they both knew that well.

‘Yes, Clarence still shakes but for quite something else, but that blunder is of no account, for remember - the sisters are co-heiresses one is as good as the other, the stately Isabelle may be marble, but Anne is the clay, with perceptive eyes, childhood and better French’ his face softened while he paused, as if readying for the next persuasion. ‘Do you know? She had approached us at the second day festivities, coyly to ask us if now that her sister is married and her English suitor had forsaken the match, if we now had a French prince for her, so that she may honour her sister, and remain apace. Her father had laughed, and not long after her mother - it was that which rather shocked me’

It was a little girl’s boldness that Louis would not know to invent. Margaret smiled, close-lipped but slipping involuntarily like a streak from the fireplace strays to a nearby pot, leaving in its wake a black but warm smudge as its patronage. If god have given her all her father’s spirit, we may harness her boldness to ours.

‘Perceptive?’ Edouard peaked one eye as he slipped back his blue skull cap. He could not image what would have to twist in a fourteen-year-old girl’s eye for anyone to see such moods. In hers he had only known the same that dwelled in all other men’s eyes. It is he who is most like la pucelle Margaret thought a little tinged with guilt.

She approached Edward in his bright brocades with the shift of her faded ones, she cringed at the sound as she regathered her skirts over to her knees, waiting for the dust to settle ‘So what say you my son?’ From the corner of her eyes Louis raised an eyebrow to her father’s fidgeting.

He held them all paused a minute, and then scrounged up his nose. ‘One may be good enough for a pretender’s traitor brother but not for us’ he raised his chin in a way that never before so struck the image of a Henry looking up at mass, and proclaimed ‘we will not be compromised, concede to servants who so tear our country asunder, those who injure our person so with illicit raisings of arms and slander’. My son, our son.

Réné had long slipped off from their side, so he made his way forward to finally speak ‘mais petit-fils, can you not see how Warwick’s acceptance of this marriage would be the strongest declaration to the world that he retracts his statements?’ Such was ever his wont- playing bubbling grandfather, but while gently nodding his head with her son, blue eyes smiling on blue, Margaret wondered if there was another tact she had not quite noticed before.

Edouard slipped away with disappointment and suspicion forming into one of his pouts, little matter as they were all rosebuds to Margaret. His look to her was unshaped and she knew the thought that what stood behind those heavy-lidded eyes remained unsure ‘Édouard, if I may brook those insults levered at me, then you must learn to as well. Your justice must bend to compromise’ perhaps you may transfer some of this Marian devotion to your wife, lose some for me if you will. When she store at the painting again, the flames no longer appeared to flicker, nothing moved but an orange light, muting all with the mark of the day’s descent. She wondered if this new girl’s hair hued the same, held any of the colour’s warmth, would at least for Edouard.

Louis lifted one finger and thrumping it on Edouard’s shoulder, the youth looked up ‘do know something else, you may have an annulment should the union outstretch its use. Without consummation there can be no bind, papal dispensation notwithstanding’

‘She is all but fourteen, it is true’ her father murmured ‘Monsieur appears to have a woman’s heart when it comes to his children. Or so that is the impression you have given me’

Louis nodded ‘I know better than to presume to know his mind, but he readily shows himself willing for a delay. Of what cause I do not know’

‘Ah now the dog insults us!’ Edouard blurted

‘Hushhh’ Margaret did not hide her grimace ‘he is now to be your father-in-law, lay him before you as a shield, for soon we may have no more swords’

Find the rest of the story on AO3… (link in the reblog)