#riverwater

[swan2swan]

Absolutely exquisite that Chaos Theory ended with Brooklynn being forced to choose between her five smelly friends who had to bum a ride halfway to the airport and wanted her to take care of a baby, or a wealthy woman with a private jet and a job offer.

[bonefall]

OHHH OK now im curious. bc of this ask: https://www.tumblr.com/bonefall/729548700508160000/could-be-like-my-cousin-shes-100-percent-deaf-in?source=share about dovewing being deaf. do cats in the BB AU have a signed form of clanmew? or is it basic gestures/just the written form of clanmew for deaf/HOH cats?

signed,

someone who really loves languages (hoping to god i spelled everything right/actually used the right words. ive been rewatching 3 hour psych lectures sine 6am...)

They have a rudimentary writing system! Clan glyphs be upon ye

It's not phonetic Clanmew, it's glyphs. Snowkit, before his tragic death saving Tawnykit, was actually OBSESSED with these. If he'd survived, he would have built these out into something he could use to communicate with. He was actually a really interesting kid.

But, unfortunately... that passion went with him. Whitewing is the next cat born with a hearing problem, and she's really uninterested in them. She isn't the same creative person that he was, and struggled with the fact that her family seemed to imply she had to "live the life he couldn't."

(note: in BB, dovewing is lionblaze's adopted daughter and bio-niece.)

I think there's going to be a big of a tragedy at play, here. Whitewing has figured out her own methods of communication. It's not a full language, but she's able to communicate basic intent with "rudimentary signs" she's created on her own.

She was only ONE degree of separation away from Dovewing (as Birchfall's, Dove's mentor, mate), but...everyone was forcing Dovewing into what THEY felt she needed. More hunting practice, more glyph practice, more lip-reading. Dovewing wasn't allowed to set her own pace or learn in her own way.

And her response was to bolt, taking all the possibility with her.

IT was the right choice for Dovewing, I think. She thinks that too. But, it wasn't the ONLY choice, you know? There's always things left unsaid and things you'll never be able to try when you make such a big decision. Who knows what could have been?

Maybe Dove and White would have ended up creating the start of a brand new dialect of Clanmew Sign Language, or changed the glyph system in a way that fit them better. Maybe that's not what matters; maybe they would have just been able to make each other feel less alone.

But as it is...

Every deaf, HOH, and mute cat in BB is currently disconnected from each other. They can't pool their skills except at Gatherings.

So Fallowfern, Dovewing, Whitewing, and Stoneclaw all have their own unique way of communicating.

There are tail signs which are used for battle, and glyphs which are used for writing.

Info: Those who go deaf later in life are still usually able to speak. Those who were born deaf often have a harder time. (Clarifying because this is apparently not common knowledge?)

OH! Bonus! Here's how each of those four tend to communicate!

Dovewing

She's REALLY frustrated by everyone forcing solutions on her. I think part of her actually really likes that she can say whatever and then not hear the response. It's like, "Deal with it. Show me you care with your actions if it's so important."

ZERO patience for people who just try to talk over her. She will immediately respect you if you listen to her carefully; only then will she give you the time of day to try and talk back. She kinda treats it like a privilege to talk to her, and she WILL revoke it without remorse.

People who have earned this privilege;

Heartstar. Naturally. And all of their children.

All of the Guardian cats, especially Antfur who is her best friend.

Violetshine, weirdly enough. She visits ShadowClan now and then and Dovewing is very fond of her and her wife and husband.

Strikestone and her new family

Squirrelflight

Briarlight

Alderheart and Sparkpelt

Twigbranch

Fernsong (BUT HE IS ON THIN. ICE. As Ivypool's husband.)

Her preferred method of being talked to is glyph writing. Heartstar is really creative with them, and it's super endearing. She improvises signs a lot and draws full pictures, making whole "doodle pages", even writing little "love letters" in the dirt before Dove wakes up. Literally peak romance, Dovewing loves her wife so muchhh

Whitewing

Also has low patience, but in a more "quick" way. She doesn't like people who take a lot of her time trying to phrase something simple and act awkwardly around her. Time is prey to Whitewing-- cut to the chase and communicate what you need her to do.

Interestingly, this leads to her really disliking Bramblestar as a leader. He's very inattentive to her needs when he organizes patrols on his own. She has very strong opinions and bad synergy with some of her Clanmates, and if she's forced on a patrol with them it ruins her day.

(She's really relieved when Squilf is reinstated post-BOTTE, Squilf knows about this quirk and accounts for it.)

Her love with Birchfall was actually a long time in the making. He really sees her, and something about the way they communicate just clicks. It's easy. They were friends, then partners, and then eventually mates and have been close their whole lives. Their body language just makes sense to each other.

She's been deaf her whole life and only knows a few very important words, but won't "speak" words if she doesn't have to. She does have a habit of making noises when she's happy though, beeping, meowing, and meeping when she's surprised and "not in work mode."

Whitewing is the kind of deaf cat in those videos who sees their human is home and goes "MEEEEEEEEEA." She would walk into a bathroom and wail so she could feel the vibrations on her paws. Vocalizing feels good. She is NOT a quiet person unless she's hunting.

Her preferred method of communication is mostly modified tail signs, but ThunderClan broadly uses glyphs, but she doesn't want to correct them on it. She feels bad telling them it's frustrating that they take so long to draw.

Stoneclaw

She has selective mutism. Her vigil was the night of the WindClan Massacre, and while sitting outside the camp with her temporary silence, ShadowClan attacked and killed her sister Thrushwing in front of her.

At first, WindClan thought it was nobility, that she'd "carried out her vigil to the bitter end." But it never healed. It's not a choice, it's trauma. She can speak when she's extremely relaxed but it's a really rare circumstance.

But, the legacy is to her benefit. She's the granddaughter of Tallstar (through Flylight, his adopted son), has an honorable story, and is a strong and confident warrior... in the daytime. She never hunts at night, when the sun sets, so does she.

(Clan cats are crepuscular, working in the morning and in the evening, but Stoneclaw only takes daylight shifts.)

Glyphs serve her fine, but she really dislikes using tail signs to communicate... brings up really bad memories.

She would REALLY benefit from someone making an effort to "legitimize" some sort of CSL, it would be like a support club to her. SO if it ever happened, Stoneclaw would jump at the chance to join. She's probably friends with Fallowfern though, once SkyClan arrives. Stoneclaw lives to become a very old girl.

Fallowfern

Mom of the Road Safety Man, guy who knows a million words for vehicles, Rabbitleap, and best friend and co-parent with Hawkwing, Plumwillow, Fallowfern is an old cat who ends up losing her hearing later in life like Dovewing!

I'm actually not entirely decided on her personality, but I'm feeling that she'd make a really good "glue" to hold everyone together. Like some kind of organizer-type person, someone who's very good at networking. She's really upset to be losing her hearing, it signifies a lot of really negative things to her.

She suddenly can't talk with a lot of people... even the ones who are reaching out to her are doing exactly that. Reaching out to her.

She likes being the reacher-outerer. It feels like being old and washed up.

SkyClan is a very good, connected Clan, with bonds notoriously VERY strong in comparison to the other Forest Four because of shared persecution... but

She's got this awful feeling that everyone's just coddling her, being nice to her, sending her to the elder's den like a trinket on a shelf.

"Does this mean... does this mean I'm going to lose music? Will anyone dance with me ever again? Do my babies want me to join them, or... or are they just tolerating stinky old mama <:( ?"

They're NOT, btw. Of course not. She's Fallowfern and she means a lot to them.

So I think at the VERY least, she finds a fondness for Stoneclaw at Gatherings. Elder friends, girlies who bond over making little grandma bracelets, but I'm not sure if it's HIT them yet that they can do something very cool together.

In fact it would be kind of funny if they weren't even aware of each other's disabilities at first, like they just started hanging out quietly. Fallowfern assumed that Stoneclaw just doesn't have anything to say and Stoneclaw figured Fallowfern was respecting her silence.

Like something just gravitated them to each other in the most natural, orbital way.

And then Snapstorm, Stoneclaw's wife, bumbles up like "Hey babe who's your friend :) ?" And Stoneclaw smiles, nods at Fallowfern to introduce herself, and then Fallow's like... "Oh I can't hear you, honey."

Stone: !!! (Taps self and makes a crossing motion over her throat)

Fallow: O_O "Ohhhh"

BUT, anyway,

Her preferred form of communication is unequivocally glyphs. I imagine SkyClan might have more written characters than other Clans, simply because they used them a LOT during their time apart under Spiderstar's Plan. Plus, they used to see a lot of road signs which they may have just adopted as glyphs.

Hmm... yeah, seems very cute that The Road Family's traffic theme continues, lmao

[upmala]

time to take a nap in the lake. drown the ticks, feed the leeches

[tenpintsof-sundrop]

Omg I’m so excited someone is taking Harry Potter requests in 2023!! Definitely gonna be obsessing about your blog for the next few days❤️ if you would like, could I please request a Fred Weasley x fem gryffindor reader where the 2 of them sneak out at night to go to a bar in hogsmeade and Fred defends her from some shady men? Would love some fun tipsy shenanigans as well🩷 either way I’m so excited to see what you end up writing!!!

The fic is now posted!!!

I really love this idea omg <3

Also I am so happy to be accepting requests for Harry Potter and writing for HP again, because like I said - it was my first ever fandom back when I started writing fanfiction on Quizilla and I am so excited to get back into it again

I really love this idea and I am gonna have so much fun working on it

Harry Potter Requests - Open

[judassamara]

location: chri’s place with: @chris-elkar​

“Can you meet me? At my place? I gotta take a shower or something… Yeah, I’m- I’m physically ok. Some crazy elf just attacked me… No I didn’t do anything… Can we just talk in person?”

It wasn’t what he expected to hear when he picked up Chris’s call. He’d been attacked?! Judas was filled with a wave of fear, worry and anger. How did Chris manage to get himself into these problems? They didn’t waste any time, not even bothering to put on a clean shirt, the one he was wearing splattered with paint. It wasn’t long before he was pushing his way through the door, not bothering to wait for him to answer the door. 

“Chris?” they called into the apartment, looking around for him a little frantically.

[lexydakitten]

trying to stack my rocks on top of marceline cuz i'm bored they are sliding off her and i'm not even sure she's noticing. live laugh love i guess

[judgingbooksbycovers]

Nostalgia Doesn’t Flow Away Like Riverwater

By Irma Pineda.

[roughghosts]

Even the birds have gone away: Nostalgia Doesn’t Flow Away Like Riverwater by Irma Pineda

A drop of salt on paper is silence killing us Where have your footsteps taken you? In what corner of the world do they hear your laughter? What shard of earth drinks your tears? – from “A drop of salt on paper” **** I traveled the path from the south my feet blistered with memories so tired from dragging all my people’s dreams – from “I travelled the path from the south” The migration…

[dreamdragonkadia]

As Written Above, So Shall It Be Below Part - IV.I Word Count: 5.8k A/N: Meanwhile, Estella’s out here living her adventure, while her Mama is most definitely having a full-blown meltdown in a court away. Feedback, comments, thoughts, and theories are always appreciated! Main Pairing: Rhysand/Reader/Feyre Prev - Next ✦ Ao3

She had never done this before. Not by herself.

Winnowing was supposed to be a grown-up thing. A Mama-and-Auntie-Vas thing. Estella didn’t know how it had happened—one second she was so scared, thinking someone might try to take her away from Mama, and the next, the shadows had wrapped around her like a too-tight hug and whoosh—gone.

Vanished.

Her stomach still felt funny from it.

The shadows had meant well. She knew they were trying to help. She hadn’t meant to leave. She just didn’t want to be taken. She hadn’t wanted the new man to say something that would make the world tip sideways again. And now…

Now she was here.

Alone.

Estella stood tucked into a narrow alleyway, pressed between two stone buildings that smelled like sun-warmed bread and riverwater. She hugged her arms around her chest, her back slightly hunched so her wings were tucked tight.

A way to comfort herself.

Because no one else had wings.

Not out there.

She’d peeked. Peered out from behind a barrel earlier and watched the strange, glittering city go by. The people here walked with laughter on their lips and flowers in their hair, wearing clothes in every color she could name and some she couldn’t. There were children chasing paper kites, and fae lounging on balconies with books and wine, and music—music—floating up from somewhere close by like the city itself was humming.

But none of them had wings.

None.

Her fingers curled tighter into her dress. Mama always said to be careful. To be smart. To never, ever let someone see what made you different unless you were ready.

Estella wasn’t ready.

And she was all alone.

But… this place. It was pretty. It was like a storybook Mama used to read to her at night. It smelled like cinnamon and sea salt and something a little like starlight. It felt like something important.

Like maybe she was supposed to be here.

Her boots scuffed softly against the stone as she crept to the edge of the alley, peeking around the corner again. There was a fountain nearby, carved from white stone, glimmering in the afternoon light. A little girl was tossing flower petals into it while her mother looked on. A fae male with brown hair painted lazy strokes onto a canvas in the shade.

It didn’t feel like danger.

It felt like… waiting.

Something in the cobbled stones and golden air tugged at her. A quiet pull, just beneath her ribs, humming like Mama’s magic. Like she had come back to a place she had only ever known in dreams.

Just like the mountain.

Estella blinked, the memory stirring like a ripple across still water. That other place—high and old and cold, where snow clung to the stones and the wind howled like wolves at night. That place had felt like this, too. Scarier. But, like it had waited for her. Like it had recognized her.

And the boy—no, not a boy. A little one like her, but older. Wiser. With eyes like the sky and a voice like old trees. She had known, deep in her chest, that he was someone different. Not like her, not really. Not like Mama.

But he hadn’t hurt her.

He had tried to help.

And he hadn’t locked her away again.

Not like the first one had.

This place felt… like belonging. Like it remembered her. Even if Mama had never spoken the words, even if the ache in Mama’s eyes had said we can’t go back, Estella had known. Mama wanted to be here. She ached to be.

But she was scared.

Scared to hurt Papa. Scared to unravel something precious and fragile that she’d worked so hard to protect. Estella hadn’t asked. Not once. Not when Mama cried in the garden at night. Not when Mama stared at the stars too long.

Because she didn’t like seeing her sad.

And this place, it felt like the same kind of right. The same kind of memory she didn’t have but felt anyway, tucked beneath her skin like a song she hadn’t learned but somehow knew.

She didn’t know the name. Not really. But it thrummed through her anyway, deep and quiet.

A home. If they wished for it.

She felt her shadows curl up her legs, tugging her softly to the right. She tried to tell them off. There was nowhere to hide. It was all streets and restaurants and many people. But they were relentless.

So, Estella tried to stay small.

Tried to shrink her steps as her boots moved softly against the cobblestones, keeping to the edge of the street where the shadows clung longer. The buildings towered on either side of her, painted in soft pastels and bathed in gold from the sun overhead. Laughter echoed from storefronts. A male with gleaming earrings strummed a lyre beneath a flowering archway, his music dancing alongside the breeze.

Everything was bright. Beautiful.

It was nothing like Scythia’s palace halls.

She saw a river—broad and glittering like a ribbon of stars winding through the city. She crept closer, passing painted doors and flower boxes, and stared with wide eyes at the flowing water. The scent of bread, lilacs, and warm stone filled her nose. The hum in the air buzzed along her skin. Magic. But soft. Warm. Not scary. So similar to hers and made her wings itch to unfurl. To Fly.

Yet people were beginning to notice.

Whispers followed in her wake. Fae with pastries in hand, shopkeepers sweeping steps, artists and children and couples strolling arm in arm—they all paused. Some turned to look. Some did a double take. And others—

“Is that…?”

“She looks like the High Lord.”

“No—impossible. But those eyes—”

“That scent—”

Estella’s wings clenched, tight and trembling, and in a burst of fear, she pushed them inward, folding them close to her back, wrapping a glamour around them like Mama had taught her in case of emergencies. She hadn’t perfected it—but it was enough. Enough to make her feel small again. Hidden.

She wanted Mama.

She didn’t like this. Didn’t like the eyes, the murmurs, the way the city was too big and the people too close.

Home. I want to go home.

She turned to bolt, head down, too-fast footsteps drawing her toward the alleyways, toward any place that felt quieter—but as she rounded the corner, she slammed into someone. Hard.

Estella stumbled back, breath caught, only for hands to catch her by the shoulders.

“Woah,” a female voice said coldly. “Watch it.”

She looked up.

And stopped breathing.

The woman was tall and fierce and beautiful in a way that made Estella feel like a mouse looking up at a silver flame. Her golden-brown hair was swept back in a braids, and her posture radiated strength. Cold, like a mountain—but the kind you could shout into and hear secrets echo back. And something about her... something stirred in Estella’s chest.

She stared at her, and whispered, “You.”

The woman blinked. “Excuse me?”

This feeling. Estella was sure of it. The ghostly feeling of Mama was faint but there. “I know you,” 

The woman blinked again, frowning. “What?”

“You’re… You’re in the dreams,” she said, stepping back just enough to look up fully. “You’re with my mama. A lot.”

Something flickered in the woman’s eyes—confusion, maybe even concern. She crouched slightly, lowering herself just a fraction. “I think you’ve mistaken me for someone else.”

“No,” Estella insisted, shaking her head. “You’re in her dreams. I know it.”

“Dreams?” the woman echoed.

A new voice entered then—male, low and rough, shocked and disbelieving all at once. “Estelle?”

Estella stiffened.

She turned around slowly, finding a towering male with broad shoulders, hazel eyes that sparkled like firelight, and wings—real Illyrian wings. Like hers, like Uncle Azzy’s. He looked surprised. Shocked. He looked like he knew her.

But she didn’t know him.

It was that name.

“No!” She shouted, and the sound cracked down the quiet alley like thunder. “I’m not! I’m Estella!”

And as if her body couldn’t hold it in anymore, her wings burst free from their glamour—snapping open behind her in a flare of midnight violet, brushing the walls on either side. Powerful for someone so small. Beautiful. Unmistakable.

The woman gasped softly.

The male’s mouth fell open.

Estella was already breathing too fast, her little fists clenched at her sides. “I’m not her! I don’t know you! I want my mama!”

And then she did the only thing she could think to do—she turned, and clung to the fierce woman who felt safe. Her arms wrapped around her legs, face pressed against her thigh, tears slipping down her cheeks now that she couldn’t hold them in.

~ ✦ ~ ✦ ~

It had taken a long time to calm her down.

The poor woman hadn’t known what to do—torn between snapping at the Illyrian brute (her words, not Estella’s) and crouching to soothe the little girl’s tears. Her voice had been mean at first, clipped and exasperated. But then gentler, more uncertain, as she crouched in front of Estella.

That was how she’d learned the woman’s name was Nesta. And the male with the wings and muscles and loud voice was Cassian.

Something in her memory tugged at that name—Nesta. She had overheard it before. But she couldn’t remember clearly, and that made everything worse.

Especially when Cassian mentioned taking her to someone named Rhysand.

Nesta had recoiled like he’d slapped her. “I’m not going anywhere near there,” she’d snapped. “If you want her brought in, you do it.”

That had made Estella panic again. Full-on, breath-gone, throat-closing panic.

She didn’t know this Rhysand. She didn’t know any of these people. Except… maybe Nesta. A little. In that dream-way that made no sense and yet felt like everything.

“Please stay,” she’d begged her. Quiet, shaky, eyes wide and terrified. “Please don’t leave me.”

And Nesta had sighed, deep and long and full of the kind of tired Estella had only ever seen on her mother’s face. But she’d nodded. And held her hand a little tighter.

The walk was strange and quiet.

Estella kept her small hand firmly in Nesta’s, casting a wary glance every time the tall Illyrian male—Cassian—drew too close. Nesta didn’t speak much, not to her and certainly not to him. Her jaw was set in a way that made Estella think of Mama when she was very, very annoyed, and her eyes were distant, like she was somewhere else entirely.

She didn’t look happy to be going wherever they were going. In fact, she looked like she’d rather walk barefoot through the snow than enter this pretty house perched along the river.

And Estella… Estella was overwhelmed.

The house was huge and glowing and beautiful in a way that made her chest feel tight. Like she might break something if she breathed too hard. Like if she wasn’t careful, it would vanish—and take her with it. And there were people inside—people who smelt powerful and important and… familiar.

Then her attention caught when they entered. Her eyes caught on a painting in the hall.

It stopped her heart.

A lady. Elegant and tall, draped in twilight, golden thread curling along her sleeves like constellations. Her eyes… her eyes were the ones that looked at Estella with all the love in the world everyday. The same calm power. And she was smiling, just barely, in that way Mama did sometimes when she thought no one was watching.

It was her. Her mother.

Not as Estella knew her—tired and stubborn and beautiful in quiet, secret ways—but as someone the world had once seen. Someone who had been honored. Painted. Belonged somewhere.

That was Mama. That had been Mama. Before.

Before the hiding. Before the fear.

Before her.

The painting radiated something old and proud and heavy. Something sacred. She couldn’t tear her eyes away.

Then the doors to another room opened and Cassian stepped in first, and the quiet inside the house shattered.

Voices stilled mid-sentence. Chairs shifted. A tea cup gently clinked against porcelain as someone set it down. All heads turned toward the doorway.

Estella stood very still beside Nesta, who still hadn’t let go of her hand. Even gave a small squeeze. There was a woman who looked like Nesta—kind of. Not in the scary way, but in the soft way. Like looking at the moon after seeing the sun. Her hair was golden-brown, her lips parted slightly like she might speak but couldn’t quite find the words. Estella blinked at her.

And then her gaze shifted.

And froze.

Because standing just beyond the nearest couch and fully still, was a male with her eyes.

Not similar. Not close. Identical.

Violet. Deep and endless and brimming with stars. The same tilt, the same flicker of intensity beneath his lashes. The same quiet pull she saw in herself when Mama brushed her hair in the mirror and said, “There you are, Starling.”

He wasn’t smiling.

He was staring.

And something inside her—a string too tight for too long—snapped. Not painfully. But like something that had been locked had finally come loose.

She ducked behind Nesta before she knew she was moving. Her small fingers twisted into her dress, crumpling the soft fabric as if that would shrink her small enough to disappear. 

She did not need to name him to know who this was. For how many times had she been told she was her father’s daughter.

‘Anyone who truly sees her will know. She’s not just his daughter. She is him. In miniature.’

No one spoke.

The silence was a vacuum. One that sucked all the air from the room and left behind only static.

Then a voice. Soft. From the black haired woman near the fireplace, eyes of silver. She whispered, like seeing the dead come alive again, because there was only one explanation for who this could be. “Estelle?”

Estella flinched.

Her wings twitched in warning. Something flared inside her. Like she had to run, to leave, danger. But something in her wanted to tell them, no, she was not her aunt. 

“That is not Estelle,” the male with her eyes said suddenly, his voice wrapped in velvet. Stunned. Distant. “That is not my sister.”

And it made her want to run. Or cry. Or scream. Or—

Her eyes slid to the shadows at the edge of the room. To the male half-wrapped in them, darker than the rest, quieter than any of them. His scarred hands were folded loosely before him, his eyes shadowed, unreadable.

Uncle Azzy.

Her heart fluttered at the sight of him. He hadn’t told them. He’d kept the secret. Her Mama’s secret. Their secret. Estella did not call out to him. She did not run to him. Even though every piece of her ached to. She looked away quickly, like if she looked too long, the others would see what passed between them. See what she knew. See the truth.

She turned her face toward Nesta’s skirts again, burying herself in them. But even that wasn’t enough. Her panic was rising like a tide she couldn’t stop. And then her hands moved on their own, tugging—soft at first, then more urgently—at Nesta’s dress. She stepped backward, just an inch. Then another.

Nesta looked down at her, confused, but Estella’s eyes pleaded.

They had to go. Now.

But no one else noticed. The room had erupted. The voices were getting louder. A blur of questions. Cassian’s voice rising above the rest, saying something about bringing her here—telling them her name.

Estella’s ears rang.

“We need to leave,” she whispered up to Nesta, the words barely more than a breath. “Before they know. Before Mama gets found out.”

Nesta tensed. Her mouth parted, as if to say something, but then someone from across the room made a comment she didn’t catch—something about Estella’s wings, or who she could possibly belong to, or why she was with Nesta. 

“I am not asking her to cling to me!” Nesta snapped suddenly, her voice dangerous enough to cut the room clean in two. “She won’t let go!”

The silence that followed was worse than the noise.

Estella’s chest stung. Her eyes burned, hot and full and miserable. She hadn’t meant to cling. She hadn’t meant to cry. She hadn’t meant to make this into something big and awful—but it was too late for that. She hadn’t meant to cause trouble. Hadn’t meant to pull so tightly to the female who felt safe. 

She just hadn’t wanted to be left alone. Not here. Not like this. Not in this glowing house with all these people and all those eyes, not when her Mama was so far away, and they were all looking at her like she was a ghost. Like she was someone she wasn’t supposed to be.

That familiar tingle slid across her skin. A soft warning. Like silk brushing over her arms and legs, brushing against her thoughts. Her breath caught in her throat. She knew that magic. Knew it in her bones. Knew it the way she knew her mother’s laugh, her smell, her lullabies. Knew it like sunlight on her skin. Her heartbeat jumped.

It curled around her ankles, climbing up her calves in lazy, knowing spirals. Their whispers were not with words but with feeling. Gentle brushes across her own magic. Comforting. 

Do you need help?

Yes.

Do you feel unsafe?

Yes.

Do you want a part of your mother with you?

Yes. Yes. Yes.

She didn’t even realize what she’d agreed to—who she’d agreed to—until the moment the room shifted.

The shadows responded to her desperation before she could even blink. Before she could warn them. Before she could stop to ask if this was a good idea.

The other one—the woman who looked like Nesta, whose wide, shocked eyes made Estella blink twice every time she looked at her—she moved. The spell of confusion shattered across her face in an instant, her body launching upright, knocking something over in her rush to stop what she somehow knew was coming. Her voice broke through the silence, panicked and startled, a single desperate plea flung across the space between them.

“Wait—!”

But it was already too late.

The shadows exploded outward. Not dangerous or harsh, but purposeful. Protective. A wall of magic pulsed from Estella’s core, curling around her like wings, like armor, like love itself had taken shape. The air thickened. Shimmered. The room dimmed around the edges.

And then it appeared.

A creature made of starlight and smoke. Massive, horned, shaped like a wolf but glowing with threads of deep twilight—purple and grey with glints of gold like the stars were hiding in its fur. Its eyes were two golden suns. Calm. Watching.

It stepped between Estella and the others without a sound. A line drawn. A warning given.

Her mama’s magic in living form.

The creature huffed, almost lazily, as if deeply unimpressed by the panic. Like it had been roused from a nap only to find this mess. As if the mere presence of these wide-eyed Fae, even the High Lord himself, warranted no more than a sigh. 

The beast tilted its head—not at them, but at her. As if puzzled. As if asking why she’d called for help when these were people its mistress had once fought beside. Had trusted. Had bled with. Why her daughter was afraid of them.

She barely caught it through the roaring in her ears, through her thudding heart and the way her feet were already preparing to flee—but the voice pulled through the noise anyway.

“—that is her beast. Rhys, that’s her magic! Nocthera could not exist without her.”

The words rang like a bell. Emotional. Desperate. A plea and a confirmation and a storm of disbelief all tangled together.

Estella didn’t wait to hear anyone’s response. Didn’t dare. Because now it would all come spilling out. The secrets. The truths. Her mama’s name on their lips like a spell finally remembered. And if they knew—really knew—then they would come for her. They might not let her go back.

And Mama must’ve sent it. Or at least—she had left something behind to protect her daughter if this moment ever came.

And so Estella ran.

She didn’t wait to explain. Didn’t look back. Her legs carried her fast, faster than she ever thought she could run, through the hallway and out the front door. Back into Velaris. Back somewhere no one could find her. 

She did not know this place. But Estella was very good at hiding. 

~ ✦ ~ ✦ ~

It felt like a long time before Nocthera found her in the quiet corner of that little alleyway—tucked beneath a sagging awning, knees hugged to her chest, tears long since dried on her cheeks. Estella had felt the shadows move before the creature arrived. They flitted past her like fish in a stream, soft and cold and wordless. They didn’t speak. Not really. But when she whispered to them—please don’t tell—they had paused. Hummed. Skated past without a sound. Without a promise, but without a betrayal either.

That was enough.

And—pat-pat-pat.

Not loud. Not heavy. Just a quiet tread, impossibly gentle for something so large. Then a snout nudged beneath her arm, warm breath huffing against her neck. The scent of stars and stone and something green and endless, like the middle of the forest during a new moon. Estella blinked once before lifting her head.

Nocthera.

Towering and terrible to anyone else, maybe. But not to her. Never to her. To her, the beast was safety. Sanctuary. It pressed its snout into her shoulder again, as if to say I found you. I’m here. You’re safe now. She sniffled, one small hand curling into its thick fur, the other rubbing at her face.

“Can we go home now?” she whispered.

But Nocthera didn’t answer in words. Instead, it huffed—low and soft—and nudged her ribs firmly, the same way her Mama did when she overslept. Up, it seemed to say. Get up. We have to move. Then its head snapped slightly to the side, one ear twitching like it had caught a sound she hadn’t. Something distant. Someone still searching.

Estella didn’t ask how it knew. She didn’t ask where they were going. She just followed.

She was tired. And hungry. And her feet hurt. And her chest hurt worse. The whole world felt too big and too loud again, and her magic kept wanting to crawl up her throat like it could take over if she let it. 

Nocthera walked slow enough for her to keep up, circling back when she lagged too far, pausing to sniff the air before they crossed busy intersections of cobblestone and light. The city was quieter now, the sun dipping lower and casting soft shadows across painted storefronts and quiet gardens. But even the silence made her bones feel heavy.

And then, finally—they stopped.

A townhouse. Small compared to the River House, but still grand. Still full of something old and careful and important. Magic shimmered across its stones like a sheen of dew, like the wards were alive. Estella felt it before she stepped close—something brushing against her skin, against her magic. A hum of question. A cautious tug.

Who are you? it seemed to ask. What are you doing here?

She stumbled back half a step—but Nocthera didn’t pause. It simply stepped forward and through the threshold without hesitation, without resistance. The wards parted for the beast like reeds around a boat.

And—welcomed her.

The magic reached for her again, gentler this time. Curious. Confused, maybe, but no longer wary. She could feel it trying to place her—trying to recognize something in her. In her blood. In her presence.

And it did.

She didn’t know how she knew. But she felt it the moment the wards shifted. As if they’d said: She’s theirs. She’s ours.

They let her pass.

Inside, everything was warm. Dim and quiet and warm. As if the house had been waiting. Nocthera padded through the front parlor like it knew every corner, every thread of the rug, every creak of the wood. It found a blanket first—tugged it from the back of a couch with a flick of its snout and dropped it beside the hearth before circling and laying down.

Those golden eyes blinked at her once, then twice. A silent check-in. A you are safe now. And then its head lowered to its paws, and those sunlit eyes dimmed until they were nothing.

Like it had done what it was asked and now, finally, could rest.

Estella stood there. Torn. She almost climbed into the blanket beside it, into that warm fur and safety, but something about the house tugged at her curiosity.

She wandered instead.

There was a dining room with a long, red wood table big enough for alot of people. A small library tucked behind velvet curtains. A cozy sitting room with soft chairs and pillows too pretty to sit on. And the kitchen—her favorite. She lingered there the longest, opening cabinets and sniffing at jars, delighted when she found a basket of bread and slices of dried meat. She took a handful and nibbled at it quietly, perched on the edge of a stool like she might get in trouble just for existing.

She was wiping breadcrumbs off her mouth when it happened.

A sound.

The front door.

Estella froze.

Her heart slammed into her ribs, the half-eaten bread falling to the floor with a muffled thud. Her body moved before her thoughts could catch up—rushing back to the parlor, feet whispering against the wood as she slid behind Nocthera’s still-sleeping bulk. She crouched low, clinging to its side. Holding her breath.

The door creaked open.

Footsteps followed—soft, cautious. The kind that didn’t want to startle, didn’t want to scare.

Estella didn’t move.

Nocthera stirred.

Its head lifted slowly, golden eyes narrowing—not in threat, but in question. The beast did not growl. Did not bare its teeth. It looked. It smelled. And then it breathed in deeper.

Huffed.

Like a sigh through its nose.

It tilted its head and looked toward the doorway—but its body remained relaxed. As if the answer it had found in that scent was enough. As if the scent carried a familiarity it didn’t understand, but trusted all the same.

The beast blinked once, then dropped its head back onto its paws and promptly fell asleep again.

Like whatever had entered the house was no threat at all.

A woman stepped through the doorway.

The one that looked like Nesta. 

She wore a simple tunic and pants, though her fingers fussed with something gold and silver on her hand. A ring. Spinning it around her finger like it was a nervous habit.

She didn’t come close.

Not at first.

She paused just inside the room. Her gaze flicked briefly to Nocthera, perhaps still processing the fact that a glowing, half-starlight wolf was curled up on the rug like it owned the place. But then her attention settled on the little Fae.

“Hello,” she said gently. Her voice was low, warm like sunrise after a storm. “I didn’t mean to scare you.”

Estella only peeked out from behind Nocthera’s thick fur, fingers still tangled in the soft curls along its ribs. She didn’t answer.

The woman hesitated, then slowly lowered herself to her knees a few feet away, careful not to make any sudden movements. Her hands rested on her thighs, open and relaxed. Like she was trying not to look bigger than she was.

“I’m Feyre,” she said, voice still quiet. “Nesta is my sister. She said you… seemed to know her.”

Estella’s brows pulled together, just slightly. She didn’t know how to explain it. She looked at Feyre longer. There was something else in her. Something Estella didn’t have a name for. Something in the way the air around Feyre felt familiar. Like warmth in the cold. Like moonlight on river water.

And like Mama.

Not exactly—but close. Like this Fae carried a piece of it. Of her.

Estella blinked again. Her lip trembled, and she buried her face into Nocthera’s fur for a moment, pressing herself tighter into its side.

“I know this is scary,” Feyre continued, not moving closer. “You don’t have to talk to me. But I wanted you to know… we’re not going to hurt you. I know Cassian can be loud and how Nesta can be…very straightforward.” 

“...She didn’t let go, either.” Estella muttered, her wings twitching once. “She kept me from being taken away alone.” 

Feyre didn’t smile—but something in her eyes softened, as if those quiet words had settled somewhere deep in her chest. “No,” she said gently. “Nesta doesn’t let go. Not when it matters.”

A pause.

“You’re very brave, you know,”

Estella scrunched her nose, skeptical. “I don’t feel brave.”

“Bravery doesn’t always feel like roaring and flying and sword fights,” Feyre told her. “Sometimes it feels like hiding until you can breathe again. Sometimes it’s holding on until help finds you.”

She didn’t know what to say to that. Her wings gave a little twitch, then drooped again. She finally sat up a little straighter. She looked at Feyre again. The woman didn’t press her. Didn’t reach for her. Just waited.

And that… that helped more than anything.

Feyre’s head tilted gently. “Do you know where you were? Before you came here? Do you know how you got here?”

The little Fae just nodded. But said nothing more. No elaboration. Just the barest flicker of acknowledgement in her wide violet eyes.

The older Fae exhaled, pushing her hands into her thighs, leaning forward ever so slightly. “I think…” she started, carefully, “I think I know who you are.”

“I’m not Estelle,” Estella huffed, her nose wrinkling with childlike irritation, like this was a conversation she’d already had too many times today. It startled a soft laugh from Feyre, who shook her head lightly.

“I know. Rhys said you weren’t. But I think the other alternative is something he doesn’t understand yet. Something none of us really do. But I’d like to understand. Will you help me?”

Estella blinked once. Shifted. Thought about it. Her small hands twisted in the hem of her dress, and she drew in a shaky breath. “I want my mama,” Her voice cracked just a little. 

“Do you know where your Mama is?” 

Estella nodded. But gave no answer.

“Can you tell me at least what she looks like?” 

That was a question. But it felt like a safe question. There had been paintings of her mama in that house—the big one with all the powerful Fae.

So she started to describe her.

She spoke of her mama’s hair—Of the way it curled at the ends when she didn’t braid it, and how sometimes it shimmered like starlight had gotten caught in it.

Her eyes, Estella said, were always serious when they needed to be, but full of sparkles when she told bedtime stories. They could be stormy, too. Not like thunder, but like something deep and powerful. Sometimes sad.

“She wears a necklace,” Estella added, almost proudly, like it was her favorite part. “A black moon. Like a crescent. With a little star that hangs from it.” She reached to trace her own collarbone. “Mama says it’s very special. She never takes it off. Not even in the bath. She says it’s the most important thing she owns. A gift from Papa.”

Her voice was calm at first. Soft. But the more she talked, the harder it was to stop the tremble in her throat.

“She always smells like books. And ink. And sometimes... lavender when she’s sad. And she sings sometimes, really quiet, when she thinks I’m asleep.”

Each word was like brushing color onto a memory. Each syllable painting her mama in the air, until it felt like she was sitting beside her again.

And as Estella spoke, she didn’t notice right away—but something in Feyre changed.

Her hands had gone still, completely still. And her eyes, blue-grey like clouds before a storm, or like the boy’s in the mountain, were suddenly dimmer. Not with tears, exactly. But something deeper. Her breathing, too—slow, like she was trying not to feel whatever it was she was feeling too fast.

Estella blinked, sensing it. The shift. The tightening in the air around them. Like the room had stopped breathing.

Her own small fingers clenched in the hem of her dress again. She didn’t understand what she’d done. What she’d said.

“Did I say something wrong?” she asked, barely more than a whisper.

Feyre snapped out of it almost too quickly. “No. No, you didn’t,” she said, her voice gentle but strained. “You just… reminded me of someone I’ve never met.”

That didn’t make sense.

Estella frowned, her brows crinkling. “How can I remind you of someone you don’t know?”

The older Fae’s throat bobbed with another swallow. “Because I’ve seen her in paintings. I’ve heard stories. And now I think... I might have just heard the truth.”

A pause stretched between them. Quiet and careful.

Then, Estella sat up straighter, like she was gathering all her courage in one big breath. “I want to go home,” she said, her voice cracking on the last word. “I want my mama. Can you take me back?”

There it was.

The plea.

The truth wrapped in tiny, trembling words.

Feyre didn’t respond immediately. Her lips parted, then closed again. Estella’s heart pounded harder, the silence between them stretching too long.

But finally, Feyre gave a small nod. “If I can,” she whispered, “I will. I promise. We’ll figure this out. Okay?”

“Okay,” Estella murmured.

“Do you know where your mama is?”

A nod.

“Can you tell me what it’s called? Or where it looks like?”

Estella hesitated, then shook her head. Her little fingers twisted together, her wings giving a small flutter. 

Feyre offered the smallest of smiles. “That’s fair.”

Then she stood, slowly brushing the dust from her knees, playing briefly with the ring on her finger, again. Estella watched the motion carefully. The way her shoulders were held straighter now, the air around her taut.

A new scent hung in the air. One Estella didn’t know how to name. Not fear. Not anger. But something like realization.

Feyre was hiding something. Or had just figured something out. But the little Fae didn’t press it. She didn’t want to talk about Mama anymore.

“But,” Estella said suddenly, her voice soft—softer than a secret, really. Like she was still deciding if it was okay to share. Maybe just a little. Maybe just enough. “Uncle Azzy might.”

[tonythepizzaguy]

sunlight and riverwater - a crooked touch

nsfw version in the server

happy valentine's day everyone!

[kitpikz]

Riverwater

[mediocrecowboyhat]

Set in sand - Chapter 2

We mark the year 1934 and a peculiar journal falls into your hands. It's telling the tale of an outlaw and the downfall of a gang. Some pages are torn and others are downright unreadable, but nevertheless, you are still able to make out some parts of the tragic story.

With the help of a certain time traveler friend of yours, will you be able to safe the author of the journal or will you be the cause for his demise?

Previous chapter

Next chapter

Word count: 2768

Disclaimer: This is based on the side quest "Geology for Beginners" so the reader is from the future and aware of some things that happen, but not everything. The reader will also have she/her pronouns and this fanfiction follows the story of RDR2. Also English is not my first language so pls forgive me for any grammatical mistakes!

TW: end-game spoilers will be mentioned very early on in the story, 18+ MDNI, sexual themes, violence, gore, death, misogynistic themes (anything that happens in the game as well)

It's an early morning for you. A cold morning just like the one before and the one before that. Everyday seems to be the exactly the same. You wake up, sit by the fire most of the time with the others and get work given to you by Miss Grimshaw every now and then.

The tasks are a welcome distraction from the fact that you all are just sitting ducks while slowly dying of starvation, but unfortunately they don't last that long. The others don't seem too happy with this situation either.

Every face you look at has the same miserable frown on it and while you don't have a mirror on you, you're pretty sure you got that expression by now as well.

In the corner of your eye you see a woman with dark hair approach you with a young boy following closely behind her.

"Hey.", she greets you and you offer her a smile. You see her around a lot and her name appears in Arthur's journal every now and then. Abigail.

"I haven't properly thanked you for helping John. He can be a moron sometimes, but...you know..."

As you stand up from the crate you're sitting on, you place your hand on her shoulder and give it a gentle squeeze.

"It's okay. You don't have to thank me for anything."

She returns your smile and before any of you can say another word the front door of the house is being swung open. Miss Grimshaw is standing in the doorway and waves you over to her. Ah, another welcoming distraction.

The moment you take a step out, a wooden bucket is being shoved into your arms and she motions towards the woods.

"We need you to get some water from the river. Arthur and Charles brought home some game so Mr. Pearson needs all the help he can get to prepare dinner."

"Sure thing, Miss Grimshaw.", you yell over your shoulder while fighting your way through the snow towards the river.

It's a clear and sunny day. No snowstorm, no clouds, no wind. Those are your favorite days and picking up water by yourself is one of your favorite jobs. The walk takes a while so you take the opportunity to clear your head a bit.

Sure, you don't mind talking to the others, but it's still tough to be the new person. There is a certain suspicion hanging in the air, but you don't take it too personally. These people have a lot of enemies and you gotta be cautious with folk in this line of work you suppose.

No one has really told you why they're on the run and you only pick up some bits and pieces here and there when you overhear people talking. Some riverboat job that went wrong in a place called Blackwater is the only thing you know so far and that they lost some people.

You try to avoid eavesdropping and snooping around too much to not attract any negative attention this early on. Obviously you can't make everyone in the gang like you, but keeping a neutral reputation shouldn't be that hard.

Some of the freezing riverwater splashes on your hands and arms as you submerge the bucket, but you're almost used to that by now. This life out here is rough. Rougher than you could have imagined.

You have read a few westerns and seen a couple plays that set in the wild west and both of them tend to romanticize this lifestyle. To struggle is something you had expected when Francis sent you away, but you didn't think that every single day was gonna be a fight for survival.

From the distance you spot Arthur's blue coat at Mr. Pearson's makeshift cooking station. He is in the process of hanging up a skinned deer and you pick up your pace, careful not to spill any water.

There hasn't been any good opportunity to have a proper conversation with Arthur the past couple of days. Actually, now that you think of it, the day where they found John and you was the first and last time you have exchanged words with him at all.

It's strange considering he's the whole reason why you're doing all this. With a grunt you place the bucket on a table and hold your hands over the fire.

The watersplashes from earlier have seeped through the material of your gloves and it feels like something is cutting into your hands. Your eyes fall on the second deer that Arthur places on the with blood covered counter.

"I didn't know you were such a skilled hunter, Mr. Morgan.", you comment in an attempt to strike up a conversation.

Showing some appreciation might make him open up a little to you.

"Ah, you should thank Charles. He did all the trackin'. All I did was shoot it."

Grunts fill the air as he cuts open the deer and removes the skin. His hands move with a certain confidence that indicates that he has done this a million times before. You have never witnessed a deer being skinned, but watching Arthur do it is almost fascinating.

A metal pot is being shoved into your hands and you're being ripped out of your thoughts once again. Mr. Pearson takes a swig from the whisky bottle in his hand. Half his mustache is drenched in alcohol and you grimace at the sight.

"Heat up the water.", he commands gruffly and flumps down on one of the crates.

---

Thanks to the game that Charles and Arthur caught you get to sleep with a full stomach for the first time in days. All in all the luck seems to be turning in general.

Dutch took some of the boys to rob an O'Driscoll camp and they had stumbled upon plans to rob a train. Everyone seems pretty psyched about this except for one person.

"I thought we were supposed to lie low, Dutch."

Hosea has his hands on his hips as he looks at the gang leader with furrowed eyebrows.

"And we will once we have some money.", Dutch responds in a matter of fact way.

Your eyes fall on Arthur who is standing a few feet away, leaned against a wall with his back and a cigarette tucked between his lips. You join to stand next to him and watch the two bickering men.

"So after you guys do this train job, we'll leave this mountain?", you ask with your voice laced with curiosity.

"That's the plan.", Arthur answers plainly. It doesn't seem like he's in the mood to talk at the moment, but then again he never seems to be.

Everything about him, from his appearance to his tone, makes him come off as the most unapproachable man you have ever met. It's a vast contrast to how he sounds in his journal, but you guess it makes sense.

He doesn't strike you as the type to act like best buddies with a stranger like yourself.

"Are you excited?", you ask to keep the conversation going and turn your head to look at him.

His gaze is fixed at something in the distance and he takes a deep breath from his cigarette.

"I guess."

You try to mask the disappointment that is swelling up inside you. These short sentenced answers are surely frustrating.

"Where will we head to next?"

Arthur shoots you a quick side glance before throwing his cigarette to the ground and stepping on it.

"Hell if I know. Hosea mentioned somethin' about a town called Valentine I think. Never heard of it though."

"I can't wait to be amongst people again. Maybe even see some friendly faces for a change. No offense of course."

An amused huff escapes out of Arthur's throat and it gives you a sense of victory.

"None taken.", he answers. "We're not really the friendliest bunch out there."

You let out a soft chuckle and trace a pattern into the snow with your foot.

"But I do honestly think that you guys are quite nice. Aside from the whole law breaking stuff that is."

"Law breakin' stuff?", he repeats with yet another amused noise. "That's a mild way of puttin' it, I guess."

Before you can say a response, Dutch is already calling out to Arthur and waving him over. It looks like they're going to head out for the train job now.

"Good luck with your law breaking stuff, Mr. Morgan.", you say with your lips curled up into a smirk.

His expression is blank as he looks at you, but you don't fail to notice the delighted gleam in his eyes.

"Thanks and call me Arthur, will ya?"

With these words, he mounts his horse and follows the others out of the settlement. The short talk with him fills you with a feeling of triumph. Finally you had managed to grow a bit closer to him.

It doesn't feel like you can call each other friends just yet, but at least you're on a first name basis now. A win is a win and you're happy to take it.

The rest of the day goes by painfully slow as everyone awaits the return of the men who headed out to rob the train. You take the opportunity to walk out to the river again since it looks like this might be your last time.

With thoughtful eyes, you take in the white scenery before you with the crystal clear water and the snowy trees. The temperature has picked up a bit this morning so it doesn't quite feel as if your toes could be falling off any minute.

Your hand slides into the hidden pocket inside your thick winter coat and your finger tips come into contact with a smooth, cool surface. It's a cylinder made out of copper with rounded edges.

There is a slit around it that is so narrow, not even a fingernail can be pushed through. You recall Francis' instructions while you fidget the object in your hand.

-

"You have to push the lid down to be able to unscrew it. It's so it doesn't accidentally fall off and you push the button.", Francis explains and hands the small device to you.

It's fascinating how something barely the size of your hand could allow you to travel through time. Everything about it feels so surreal.

"It will send you right back here only ten minutes after your department.", he adds and you secure it inside your winter coat.

"And it's a one way ticket, you said?"

"Yes. This device only works once."

The prospect of losing that thing fills you with worry, but the two of you have come up with a plan B in case that happens. You'll always be able to send Francis a letter and then he'll simply pick you up. It would be a hassle, but not impossible.

"You said you'd return right after you prevent him from talking to this Thomas Downes?"

You nod. A big chunk of that encounter is missing in the journal so you don't know exactly how Arthur got infected. That detail doesn't matter though, as long as you make sure they don't interact at all.

-

The next morning you are being awoken by the sound of horses galloping and joyful cheering. After shaking off the initial disorientation and confusion you finally recognize your surroundings.

It's still Colter and it's still 1899. A deep sigh escapes your lips and you stumble out of the run down cottage, past the other gang members. Dutch and the others are standing in the middle of the settlement and you walk towards them.

"Quite the lively welcoming committee we got here!", the leader exclaims with a loud laugh and you stifle a yawn.

"So it went well, I assume?", Miss Grimshaw asks behind you.

"Well? It went fantastic!"

More and more people step outside to hear the good news.

"It would have gone even better if Bill hadn't messed up the explosion.", Arthur grumbles, earning a venomous glare from the man.

"Enough, gentlemen!", Dutch chimes in before an argument between the two men could break out. "Everyone, pack your things! We are leaving immediately."

Everyone got busy the moment he finished his sentence and you hurry back to your sleeping spot to pack up your own belongings. Your bag has gotten way lighter over the course of the last weeks and it's a strange feeling to own so little.

Unfortunately you're not given much time to reminisce about your home back in your own time.

"What are you doing here, sitting around? Move!" Ah yes, Miss Grimshaw can be quite the tyrant when she wants to and it's terrifying.

Being verbally abused by her is definitely not a rarity, but it is kind of comforting to know that she treats most of the camp that way. Initially you thought she only had a problem with you until you caught her give Karen the scolding of a lifetime.

After throwing your bag over your shoulders, you look around to see who might need help. That's when you spot Sadie Adler on the other side of the cabin, struggling to tie ropes together.

Abigail had told you that Arthur, Dutch and Micah had found her almost right before they found you and John. You feel pity when you think about what the O'Driscolls had done to her and her husband. Pity and disgust.

What kind of animals would do such things? The thought alone turns your stomach upside down and you join Sadie's side.

"Let me do this.", you offer with a soft tone. Her hands are shaking.

"I know how to tie a knot, goddammit.", she immediately protests and you take her trembling hands in yours.

"I know."

You lock eyes with her for a split second before she pulls away from your hold and leaves through the front door.

It barely takes an hour until everything is packed up and stored onto the wagons. You have to give it to them. These people know how to be quick and efficient when it comes to leaving as fast as possible. They must be used to that by now, you guess.

Your gaze wanders from one wagon to another as everyone climbs onto them and you're not sure which one you should hop on. Then you see a flash of blue in the corner of your eyes.

"You can ride with us. There is space in the back."

You give Arthur a thankful smile which he only returns with a nod and you heave yourself onto the back of his wagon. Hosea is sitting at the front next to him and greets you with a quick wave of his hand.

The ride off the mountain is bumpy, but at least the snow and freezing temperatures are behind you now.

"Careful now, Arthur. Try to get us out of the stream.", Hosea says as you ride through a river.

You let out a startled noise when the wagon suddenly tips to the side and the wheel comes off. Now you know why the ride has been so painfully bumpy this entire time. This will probably leave a bruise or two on your ass, but nothing too devastating.

"What happened?", someone further ahead yells and Arthur throws up his arms in frustration.

"Ah, I broke the goddamn wheel!"

Soon enough Charles jogs over and the three men get to attaching the wheel back to the wagon. By the looks of it, it doesn't seem like they're in need of your assistance at all so you decide not to get in the way of things.

The rest of the ride goes by rather smoothly. No wheels are falling off, no wild animals are attacking you out of nowhere and most importantly there is now cold wind cutting through your clothes.

While Hosea talks about Valentine and the area, you just lean back with your eyes closed and relish in the warm rays of the sun. You don't even notice that you're dozing off until someone shakes you awake by the shoulder.

A pair of blue eyes stare back at you as you blink your sleep away.

"Get up. We're here.", Arthur says and you stumble off the wagon.

You find yourself standing at a cliff side and the sight is practically knocking the air out of your lungs. Trees and mountains as far as the eye can see. You take off your gloves and brush some hair strands out of your face.

This place isn't too bad.

[lullabyes22-blog]

Snippet - Locked Out - Forward but Never Forget/XOXO

Silco goes a step too far.

Forward but Never Forget/XOXO

Tip Jar

"Silco?"

"Hm?"

"Have you considered—" She stops, "—what Vi's death will do to Jinx?"

"I have."

"And? If you can't control her emotions, you won't be able to control the consequences."

"Jinx is resilient." Silco threads a cufflink through one sleeve, then the other. "She'll survive."

"And forgive you?"

"I'm all she has." 

Unspoken: All she'll ever have.

Sevika takes the glass of vodka, and slugs it back. Then she sets it down with a hard clink. Her expression flattens itself. He knows that look too. It's the look that says she's about to bare her throat to him, and she'll take his head off if he dares to go for it. He's struck by the threads of silver that've begun to glint in her pitch-black hair, and the crinkles at the corners of her eyes. Numberless days of combat, closeness, counsel, sewn together in a single thread: one that binds him to the past, and keeps the future in his crosshairs.

And yet she has not changed. Not at the core. Thirteen years of loyalty, heaps of bodies, and a steady acceptance of every fatality in between.

This time, he understands, the acceptance may not be as steadfast. 

"If Nandi showed up again," Sevika says. "Right now, right here, alive as the day she died, I'd have two reactions. One: I'd be so goddamn happy I'd break down crying. And two: I'd gut anyone who tried to put a hand on her again. I'd do it for her. I'd do it for me. Because it's taken me this long to get over it. It's taken me this long to even imagine a future without her in it."

Silco's scarred features are etched in the neon-striped gloom. The rest is shadow. Preternaturally still.

"I know you," Sevika goes on. "I know you'll never forget what Vander did to you. What it cost you. I know that, after all these years, you've built up a rage like nothing I've ever seen.  But what if he came back?  Would you still go through with it? Would you still want him dead?"

Silco says nothing.

He thinks of Vander as he'd seen him last: a hulk of spoiling meat. He thinks of Vander before the drowning: a blurred silhouette in red riverwater. He thinks of Vander on the Day of Ash: a behemoth in a backdrop of flames. He summons the memories up with tenderness and no hatred, even as he knows that if Vander were to resurrect now, try to threaten Jinx, he'd stab him ten times over. Wouldn't stop until the man was a corpse.

Again.

That's what the rage says. But the residue of man says: No, and no. It's a truth buried deep. Too deep to be excavated. So he leaves it alone, beneath the layers of sediment. Beneath the body of a dead man, and the promise of a better world

One Silco will carve out with his own bloodstained hands.

Crossing the room, Silco pauses at the door. The knob is bracingly cold against his palm. 

"Dead is dead," he states. "It's the living who incur the cost." 

And he'll make sure Vi pays hers.

Stock, lock, and barrel.

In the background, Sevika's stare burns into his skull. But her mouth stays shut. He leaves her like that: the woman who'd watched the dark swallow him whole, and chosen to stay beside him as the shadows lengthened. So long as it meant a city shining bright. So long as it meant home.

Now she's paying her own price: an empty flat, an empty bed, a dead man's silhouette. And a monster who'll never, ever fill any of them.

Huskily, she says. "Watch yourself."

"You know me," Silco answers.

"I do."

The words pass with a grim intensity, like a vow.

Or a renunciation.

Shutting the door behind him, Silco hears a moment's silence. Then hollow click of the deadbolt sliding home.

And he wonders, with a sudden twinge like a blade between the ribs, if Sevika has locked herself in.

Or locked him out for good.

[upmala]

i miss nature so much. i want to be mud

[mythboundcal]

He Never Forgot Her Name Spirited Away Fanfic by MythboundCal

She almost didn’t get off at that stop.

The train was near-empty. The sky, a little too pink. The air, a little too soft. Like she’d fallen asleep and dreamt herself into the wrong place.

But the wind nudged her forward. Not hard—just enough.

She stepped onto the platform, suitcase in hand, shoes echoing against old stone.

Nobody was there.

Just the train humming away. Just the smell of riverwater and dusk. Just the ghost of something she once promised not to forget.

And then—

A ripple in the air. Like light bending. Like memory surfacing.

He stood where the path met the trees.

Older. Not much. Still boyish, but less wild. Still dressed in pale robes, sleeves fluttering even though the wind had stopped.

Chihiro blinked once.

Her heart didn’t skip.

It remembered.

Haku tilted his head slightly. “You came.”

She tried to speak. Failed. Laughed instead—a startled, almost-broken thing. “I didn’t know I was going to.”

“I did,” he said simply.

She walked to him, slow, like the platform might vanish if she ran.

“You look—” she started.

“Like someone who kept a promise?” he offered, half-smiling.

She nodded.

“You remembered my name,” he said, quieter now.

“I never forgot,” she whispered.

But that wasn’t true.

There were days she doubted. Nights she dreamed of trains and tunnels and couldn’t quite recall why they made her cry. There were years where magic felt childish. Where remembering felt too heavy.

But the wind always knew.

And when it curled around her on the train, just so, she followed.

Now here he was.

Not a dragon. Not a mystery.

Just Haku. Still him.

He held out a hand. “Do you want to walk awhile?”

She took it.

And the world remembered with them.

[plasma-studios]

@sillygoofyqueer @anayzdraw ask and ye shall receive

“What are you doing?” 

Cross’ hand froze over the running riverwater, grip tight on the bloodied blade. Bones broke through the ground a few feet away in the direction of the intruding voice.

“Oh?” The voice had turned cold, edged, but a voice still present meant a witness still alive so Cross turned his eyes on them; the magic in him curled up on itself, himself tensing up, ready to attack, but the intruder caught within the radius of the bone attack was sitting cross-legged, calm. Perhaps even relaxed.

Then his gaze fell to the forest floor: a circle of carmine red mushrooms spotted with eerily pure white, and let out an exhale. It was a Fae. 

The bones broke apart into ash, and Cross dipped his head in apology. 

“Pardon me, Sir. I hadn’t noticed you.” He took care to avoid saying the word sorry, or anything adjacent. The Fae did not look all-together appeased, but Cross was still standing on his two feet, so he hadn’t severely offended them.

“Mhm.” The voice held a note of overt serenity: but Cross wasn’t fooled. He had been predator enough times, he recognised one biding his time when he saw it. “I know. But what are you doing, stranger?”

Cross withdrew his hand and turned fully away from the river. He was conscious of the blood dripping from the blade in his hands, and let it drip into the soil. The fae’s gaze carried lazily down, but even then there was a glint of curiosity, of interest.

He was not dying in this forest today. “Just washing up. Don’t pay me any heed.”

“That is not animal blood.” 

He said it delicately. 

Cross forced himself not to tense. 

“I would not disrespect the Fae in such a way.”

“Hmm. And you would, some other way?” Their eyes twinkled. They were startlingly gold. 

“No. Not in any way.” He let out a breath. How far was the path? No, better not to risk offending the Fae by a swift exit. He did not move an inch, and did not look away from the Fae. “Is there anything else of note?”

The Fae tilted their head slightly. “Hm.” 

They considered him. Cross met their eyes with a calm he did not feel; he could almost feel them examining him, peeling layer by layer past his exterior. 

The Fae finally let out a small, sighing hum and leaned back, elbows sinking into the forest floor. “Many things of note, I imagine. How curious.”

He couldn’t afford to respond. He kept still, blade tucked at his side. Even a nod was too much invitation, and the sooner he could get away, the better. He was not interested in staying back for them to untangle whatever they wanted from the threads of his thoughts. 

The Fae’s mouth curled up in the faintest smile. “But,” They said, voice lilting, “Best not disturb your work, no?”

Then, they rose, uncoiling from the forest floor in one fluid motion. 

“Take care, stranger.” Their eyes were gleaming like light off a knife. “Not all hunters in these woods are as merciful.”

Cross inclined his head, careful to keep his movements controlled. Their eyes flickered over him once more. Glittering with a mirth that told him to run.

Then they were gone in a flurry of light.

Only once the silence returned in full did Cross allow himself to let out a slow, steadying breath. His hand flexed around the knife, fingers stiff, and he glanced down.

Cross was many things. He was a hunter, but he was almost someone with common sense. So he was not going to question how the knife was rusting so quickly, ignore the red dust sticking to his fingers, and made a mental note to wear more iron when he came to wash the blood off in the forest stream in future. 

(But you and I both know that won't stop Dream.)