#so going and standing there at staring at the sky and hearing the geese and going numb from the cold

[skitskatdacat63]

There's something very romantic about the outdoors...

[dee-the-red-witch]

Would you do me the kindness of reading this thing I wrote?

I walk out to the edge of the lake and stare at the burning horizon, a perfect autumn evening. I watch the Canada geese cut a V across the sky. He walks up behind me, laces his fingers with mine. Today is the last day I will see him for a very long time. He is going to college in another state. I am going to apprentice as a welder. We hold each other closely and appreciate the feeling of one another's palms, the way the joints and lumps don't quite line up comfortably but fit all the better for it. It is three years later. I've got some time off, and I call ahead to tell him I am coming to visit. He has a little time, too; classes haven't gotten too busy, and he's in the planning stages with the group he intends to collaborate with for his senior research. He is always ahead of the curve, where as I always feel like I'm playing catch-up. But today, I have caught him, and we stand at the edge of the duck pond. His hands feel the same; mine have grown hard and calloused, but he doesn't mind. We embrace, and we feed little bits of corn and lettuce to the birds. He says they get too much bread, that they get fat and that the uneaten bits rot in the water. I'm happy to hear him speak. There is no place more comfortable that we could share than the crunchy brown leaves that cover the grass. Another three years have passed. We were supposed to reunite after he earned his Bachelor's, but he got a research offer out on the coast he couldn't pass up. I understand; I got a good job in Detroit, fixing all manner of things for cheap and commuting to help with sculptural projects at all manner of art school in the area. A welder's work is always needed. Today, he's very busy, but we've made time anyway; he's in his last year of his Master's program, we hope — the research is promising, and he doesn't mind teaching so much. I ask if the next college he studies at will have an arts program; maybe I can go to school there, too, and stay closer to him. He hopes so too. We are at a little bar in the gay district of the city he works and researches in; it's nice, and we're the only couple our age; everyone is fresh as morning dew or seasoned and glad for space to be. I have a ring in my pocket; I've been meaning to give it to him for too long. I made it myself, with help from a few art students, who I can't stop talking about him to. It's autumn again; we only seem to meet in autumn. He sips his hot drink. I get ready to go on one knee. But I do not. He has beaten me to it. He takes a knee next to the table and pulls out his own ring, and he asks me to put it on my finger. I say I will, and I do, and it's a little tight, but he says we'll get it fit. My hands are calloused from the work; he still remembers them as they were six years ago, soft and delicate, laced between his own as we watched the geese flying south and the sun set behind the trees at the far side of the lake on the most perfect of autumn evenings there ever was.

I have to admit, I nearly cried the first time I read over this one before recording it. Anyways, again, it's beautiful- thanks for letting me do it.

[dumdumsun]

The Loveliest Lies of All

A/N: Welcome back ❤️

Warnings: none that I'm aware of

Word Count: 3599

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Chapter Two: Hard Times at the Huskin' Bee

The chirping of crickets, gobbling of turkeys and the honking of the soaring geese above indicated the morning creeping up on the trio (or quartet?). The sound that accompanied the early morning chat of the nearby animals was Greg blowing raspberries to feed his short attention span. Scout was mildly surprised that Wirt hadn’t yet snapped at him, but then again, the teen boy was skilled at blocking out his younger brother.

For the fourth time in the last hour, Scout’s leg had given out on her slightly, causing her to stumble a bit. What she would give to have a chair, a couch, a bed to rest her wounded leg for maybe half an hour. A full one, perhaps? Maybe even two?

“You know what? I think we’re gonna find a town soon,” She chirped. “I can feel it.”

“Well, we need to,” Wirt sighed, staring up at the sky that rained rays of sunshine upon them. “It’s almost morning. We should’ve found one by now. This is the way the Woodsman told us to go, right?”

“Yes, Wirt.”

Greg blew another raspberry before glancing up at his brother with big eyes. “Have you listened to anything I’ve been saying? For the last couple hours, I’ve been saying… Pbbt! Pbbt! Pbbt-”

“Well, that settles it,” He finally snapped. “I’m gonna walk up ten feet ahead of you.” He frowned and walked past the two. Scout sighed and shook her head at her friend in amusement. She failed to notice the boy stop his walking when he heard a voice call out to him.

“I hear something!”

Scout turned to Greg and started towards him. “Wirt, Greg heard something!”

“It’s probably nothing. Hey, look,” Wirt crouched down in front of a sign nailed to a nearby tree. “‘Pottsfield, one mile’. A town! Let’s go this way.”

“Okay. After this, though.” She turned away from him and joined Greg’s side. The boy had been digging into a bush and talking into it. Behind her, she heard Wirt’s footsteps before he was by her side.

“Greg, stop talking to a bush.”

“Okay.” The boy shrugged before reaching into the bush again. Seconds later, the same bluebird from the previous night flew out of the bush and flapped her wings above them.

Scout widened her eyes at the bird. “You!”

“Thanks! I owe you a favor. So, um, you guys are lost kids with no purpose in life, right?”

“Uh-huh!”

“Um-”

“How about I bring you to Adelaide of the Pasture, the Good Woman of the Woods? She could help you get home!”

As the two boys stared at the bird in awe, Scout narrowed her eyes and crossed her arms. She didn’t trust this bird for one second. “Adelaide, huh? How’s she gonna help us?”

The bluebird scrunched what would’ve been her brows. “She has powers.”

“What kind of powers?”

“Powers that’ll get you home.”

“Why can’t she just show us the trail that leads us out of here? And why does no one else seem to know the way?”

Wirt exhaled and waved his hands about. “We don’t need magic talking birds leading us to fairy godmothers in the mysterious- I’m going to Pottsfield.”

“Yes. Pottsfield. C’mon, Greg.” Scout grabbed the boy’s hand and followed behind her friend.

“What about the favor?” The bird called.

Greg turned to her with a bright smile. “I’ll think of my wish later!”

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

Scout irritably sighed at the feeling of claws softly digging into her left shoulder. “Hey,” The bird softly started in her ear. “I think we got off on the wrong foot here. What’s your name?”

“Just call me Scout.”

“Wait, seriously? Scout?”

The girl snapped her head to look at the bird. “Wanna get off on the wrong foot again?”

“Whoo, someone is sassy,” She gently tapped her cheek with her wing. “Well, Scout, you seem like a very capable young lady. What if I say… we ditch these goons and you come with me to Adelaide?”

Scout rolled her eyes and batted the winged creature off of her shoulder. “Then I say no. Never.”

Rolling her eyes, the bluebird huffed and flew next to Greg, no doubt attempting to convince the poor boy to ditch his brother and walk off with some stranger. Scout knew that Greg was smarter than that, better than that, so she didn’t bother scolding the bird. Noticing her now flapping above his shoulder, the boy brightly smiled. “So, let’s small talk. My name’s Greg. What’s yours?”

“Beatrice.”

“My brother’s name is Wirt.”

“Who cares?”

Wirt frowned and glanced at them over his shoulder. Scout sighed and shook her head.

“And my frog’s name is Wirt Jr.” Greg gently rubbed his frog’s back. “But that may change.”

“Okay. That’s great,” Beatrice lowered her voice as to not alert the two teens in front of them. “How about you and I ditch your brother and his girlfriend?”

Greg hummed in uncertainty and looked away. “Maybe later.”

Scout nearly tripped over a large pumpkin nestled within the patch they walked through. Wirt didn’t notice this and kept his gaze forward. “So, Scout, you’ll do the talking when we get there. Right?”

Huffing, the girl placed her hands on her hips. “If I must, you big wuss.”

“I-I’m not a wuss! I just- Aha!” He cheered and raised his fists triumphantly, the four now standing just above a town. “Civilization, see? Now-”

Scout tried to warn him, but the teen had walked right into a pumpkin. She watched silently with narrowed eyes as he kicked and wiggled his leg out of the vegetable before flinging it to the side. Regaining his composure, he turned forward and set his fists on his hips. “Alright. Let’s rejoin society.”

The “society” the group had walked into lacked one element. A society. There were plenty of houses littering the land, yet not a soul in sight. Rounding a corner, they walked between two houses as Wirt called out for any residents. “Hello? Hello? Hm… See anybody?”

“No,” Greg scanned the area before his eyes landed on his brother. “Oh! I see you!”

Without gaining the others’ attention, Scout slipped away to check inside the houses. They seemed… cozy. Each house was the same; small, single-roomed, and nearly empty. “These townsfolk need to invest in… well, everything…” Scout whispered as she shut the door to the fourth house she inspected.

“Scout!” Wirt called from beside a haystack. “Find anything?”

“Poor interior design, but nothing to help us.” She sighed before joining her friend at his side. “Where’s Greg?”

As if on cue, the young boy poked his head out of the haystack. “Do you hear that?”

From a barn within the distance, cheerful singing could be heard. Scout gasped and helped Greg out of the hay, frowning at the small pumpkin he must have stepped in a while ago, still on his foot. Shaking off her confusion, she let the boy keep his new shoe and followed Wirt into the barn. Peeking in, the group set their sights on something otherworldly.

The townsfolk- is that what they were?- were pumpkins. Well, their bodies were made of pumpkins, string, and actual clothing like hats. Each person had a distinct face drawn onto their pumpkin face, which sent a chill down Scout’s spine. Within the barn, the folk participated in all kinds of activities. Dancing around a tall string object, bobbing for apples, peeling apples, unhusking corn. The likes. They seemed lively, carefree.

“Oh, pardon me there.” A figure spoke as they shoved themselves between a frozen Scout and Wirt. Turning, one of the pumpkin townsfolk faced the group. “Say, you folks ought to don your vegetables and celebrate the harvest with us.”

“Uh… Oh! You’re wearing costumes!” Wirt realized.

“Well, sure. Pumpkins can’t move on their own. Can they?” He shrugged before walking away. Scout gripped Greg’s hand as she watched the pumpkin man go.

“Huh… Well, good thing you’re still wearing that pumpkin shoe, huh Greg?”

Said boy grinned up at Scout. “Yeah! I’m dressed for the occasion!”

Beatrice blinked. “You guys find this place as creepy as I do, right?”

“Absolutely.”

Wirt shrugged as if to reassure himself. “So, it’s some kind of weird cult where they wear vegetable costumes and… dance around a big thing. They seem nice enough.”

Feeling the hollow eyes of one of the townsfolk on her, Scout absentmindedly shuffled closer to Wirt. “There’s something off…”

“Well, maybe I can find someone here who will give us a ride home,” Wirt patted her shoulder comfortingly. “Scout, watch Greg. Greg, listen to Scout. Beatrice, thank you, but you can leave.” He waved the bird off.

Beatrice sighed. “I can’t leave. I’m honor-bound to help you since you helped me. That’s the- bluebird rules.”

Scout raised a brow as Wirt hummed and walked away. Greg’s eyes trailed up to his tea kettle hat that Beatrice sat upon. “Beatrice, did you know that Scout is the best dance partner ever known to man?”

“Awe, shucks, Greg…” Scout chuckled and let the boy lead her onto the dance floor.

“I’m not dancing with you.” Beatrice snipped, but Scout only grinned.

“Yes, you are.”

“No, I’m not.”

“It’s too late,” She giggled as she and Greg twirled to the music. “We’ve already started.”

Beatrice rolled her eyes and watched as Greg and Scout joined hands with the frog before dancing in a small circle. The bird noted that there was no way she was going to separate the girl from the young boy. She clearly cared about him, if she was willing to dance around like a fool in the middle of a festival hosted by pumpkin people. And not giving any lip about it, at that. Instead, she threw her head back and laughed joyfully with Greg just before a voice broke out and silenced the entire room.

“Leave Pottsfield?! Who wants to leave Pottsfield?!”

The second the townsfolk began crowding around them, Scout pulled Greg into her side, whipping her head in every direction. Greg, oblivious to the danger, smiled casually. “Oh, are we leaving already?”

“Let’s leave immediately!” Beatrice yelled just before the barn went dark. Someone had shut the doors, trapped them in.

“I’m just trying to get home.” Scout heard Wirt’s shaking voice just before he bumped into her side.

The townsfolk backed the group into a wall of more pumpkin heads and bodies as they whispered out,

“They’re not supposed to be here.”

“Maybe he’s here to steal our crops.”

“To ruin our party.”

“Or take off our pumpkin shoes!” Greg chirped, gesturing to his trapped foot.

Wirt widened his eyes and shook his head. “Uh, no. I, uh-”

A deep voice from above chuckled. “Now, hold on, everybody. Heh. Let’s not jump up to any conclusions.”

It appeared that the tall stringed object had not been an object at all. In fact, it was a body for the most menacing-looking pumpkin-folk in the entire barn. He had to crouch just to peek through the shadows, his face drawn to show a large grin of wide teeth, hollow eyes staring into the souls of the children before him.

Wirt and Scout instantly joined hands out of fear.

“Enoch,” The townsfolk who ratted them out called. “What shall we do with them?”

“Now, let’s see here, children,” Enoch detached two strings from the ceiling to act as his arms. “How’d you end up in this little town of ours?”

In a jumbled mess, Wirt and Scout spoke over each other,

“We needed to get home-”

“We were lost in the woods-”

“Then we saw your farms-”

“And your very interesting houses and thought that this was a normal place to ask for help.”

“And we all stepped on pumpkins!” Greg grinned before Scout shook her head.

“I-I didn’t! I didn’t step on any pumpkins!”

Wirt tightened his hold on her hand. “Yeah! Well… Yeah! A-And then we heard the music from the barn, and well… uh…”

“What if we just left?” Scout tried.

Enoch chuckled yet again, contradicting the very tense atmosphere within the barn. “Now, let me get this straight: you come to our town, you trample our crops, you interrupt our private engagement, and now you wanna leave?”

She blinked. “Well, when you put it like that, it makes us look bad…”

“You’ll never convict! You have no proof!” Greg shouted, almost tripping on the pumpkin his foot resided in.

The same elderly townsfolk walked over to the group, a struggling Beatrice in his hands. “This one’s trying to escape!”

“Let me go!” She cried out. “I don’t know these clowns!”

“Children,” Enoch started. “It saddens me that you don’t wish to stay here with us… particularly because I simply have to punish you for your transgressions.”

“I knew it,” Scout whispered in Wirt’s ear. “I knew they were messed up here.”

Enoch started out his next words in a sing-song tune. “So, by the order of the Pottsfield Chamber of Commerce, I find you guilty of trespassing, destruction of property, disturbing the peace… and murder.”

“Murder?!” The teens shrieked.

“Oh, no, not murder,” Enoch snorted. “But for those other crimes, I sentence you to…”

Scout held her breath.

“A few hours of manual labor.”

And then slowly let it out.

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

“Is that the last of it?” Scout asked after plunging her rake into the ground.

“Yup. That’s all the hay.” Wirt wiped a line of sweat from his forehead. “Guess that means we move onto… picking the pumpkins, right?”

“Girl!” A voice shouted out. The group turned to see a townsfolk walking up to them. “Not so fast, young lady. We need you for a special job.”

Scout and Wirt shared a look. “What… kind of special job?”

“We need a scarecrow. Need someone with nimble fingers. Gather this hay here and follow me.”

“Uh, yes, sir.” Scout quickly dumped the pile of hay into a wheelbarrow and pushed it behind the retreating pumpkin figure. She sent a reassuring smile over her shoulder at her friends. This seemed to almost do the job for Wirt, the poor boy wringing his hands together.

“She’ll be fine…”

After picking pumpkins, loading them onto a wagon, and then being bullied by turkeys (this was specifically Wirt), the group minus Scout was directed to the cornfield, baskets in hand. When approaching the clearing, the three reared back at the horrible figure displayed before them.

Its haunting grin stretched across its straw face, gangly limbs made of hay and straw, the body propped on a wooden pole. The top of its head lay open, some hay trickling from it. Beside the scarecrow was a ladder, now being climbed by Scout, who beamed at the boys and Beatrice. “Hey, there!”

“Whoo, that thing sure is ugly.” Beatrice whistled.

“He’s my pride and joy.”

Wirt wordlessly started picking the corn as Greg ran up to his friend. “Scout! I missed you so much! You missed it! The turkeys took Wirt’s hat right off his head and wore it! You should’ve seen the way Wirt jumped all around to get it-”

“Alright, Greg, that’s enough.” Wirt muttered. When Scout cackled, he snapped his head up to her. “Hey, what’re you laughing at? Your scarecrow’s head isn’t even closed! He looks like… like he’s lost his mind! Ha!”

“Stop worrying about my scarecrow and worry about your corn!” Scout pointed at him just before a stalk of corn Greg let go of had smacked the teen in his face. Wirt cried out and fell onto his back. He turned his head to the side to see Beatrice smirking at him. “Hey, guys?” Scout quietly called.

“Yeah?” Wirt turned to his friend, who stared off in the distance.

“They’re watching us like hawks…”

Once their work in the cornfield was finished, the four were sent to a large mass of empty land. Their only instruction: dig holes. Seeing as Greg was a very young and short-spanned kid, Scout took it upon herself to help the boy dig his hole and Wirt dug his own. “Scout?” Greg quietly called out, slightly winded from the work. “What if we find buried treasure?”

The girl hummed. “You think that’s why they’re having us do this? To find treasure?”

“Could be,” He shrugged before gasping. “Wait, that means we’re doin’ all the hard work and they get the pay!”

“The ways of the world, Gregory.” Scout tapped his nose. “But I’ll let you snag some.”

The two shared a laugh before Scout plunged her shovel into the ground, coming into contact with something. “Oh, hey, I found something!” She gasped.

“Buried treasure! Wirt!” Greg called out, catching the attention of his brother and their bluebird companion. “Scout found buried treasure!”

“Whoa, really?” Wirt awed as Scout ducked down to check what she found. “See, Beatrice? What’d you find, Scout?”

Wirt and Beatrice hadn’t expected to hear the girl’s frightened scream. They both flinched at the sound as Scout’s head popped up. “Greg, don’t touch it! Oh, god, get me out of here!”

“What?! What is it?!” Wirt widened his eyes and watched as Scout scrambled her way out of the hole. Greg smiled and shifted his body to reveal the skeleton laying in the hole.

“A skeleton!”

“Don’t touch it, Greg!” Scout warned. “We don’t know who that is!”

Wirt moved back and cried out in fear as Beatrice raised her brows, slightly amused. “We’re digging our own… I-I-I was wrong. I was wrong all along. I-I don’t know how to get us home. U-Use your little feet to pick our locks!”

“Oh, ho! Now you want my help?” Beatrice sassed.

“I don’t want your help-”

“Yes, he does!” Scout shouted. “Beatrice, please! At least get Greg out first!”

Any other words of plea died on her tongue at the sight of Enoch’s form moving towards them from a distance. Wirt whirled back to Beatrice, terrified. “Yes, she’s right, I want your help! Beatrice, serio-”

“Your time is up!”

“Aah!” Wirt screamed at the whole town who now crowded them once again. Scout sank back down into the hole and pulled Greg close. Shaking in his spot, Wirt stared up at Enoch, who only glanced down at the holes.

“Have the holes been dug?” A townsperson asked.

“Uh… yeah.”

“Splendid! Well, then-”

“But no.”

“No?”

Wirt blinked down at his feet before snapping his head back up to the townsfolk. “Right! Yeah… Uh, you know, we were digging, and there were too many rocks. You guys don’t like rocks, right?”

Scout narrowed her eyes as they all agreed with Wirt. “What is he doing…? We need to get out of here.”

Within the next second, Beatrice flew down into their hole, her foot free of its chain. As Wirt continued to babble, she freed Greg and then Scout, the three (plus the frog) booking it out of Pottsfield. By the time they were back in the woods, Scout’s chest burned and her leg pulsed in pain. Leaning against a tree, she sighed out and scanned the area around her. “W-Where’s Wirt?”

“Uh… Back with the pumpkin people?” Beatrice shrugged.

“What- Why?! Did you free him?!”

“Yes! I don’t know what that fool is doing!”

Scout let out a grunt of frustration. “Okay, okay. Just… watch Greg, don’t move. I’ll be right back!” She turned on her heel and rushed back towards the empty field. Cutting through the grass, she found her friend lying on his side. “Wirt!” She whispered.

He whipped his head to her, eyes wide and angry. “Where the heck did you guys go?!”

“We escaped! Why didn’t you?!”

“You guys just left me!”

Scout rolled her eyes and pulled Wirt to his feet, the boy realizing his ankle was free of its chain all this time. Dumbfounded, he let her lead him back into the woods. When he snapped back into reality, he broke into a sprint, eventually making his way to his brother and Beatrice. Bracing his hands on his knees, he took very deep breaths. “Are they chasing us?”

“No.”

He let out one last breath before standing up straight. “I-I thought you guys-”

“You’re welcome.” Beatrice smiled a bit. Wirt bowed his head.

“Thank you… I guess we’re even now, huh? You aren’t honor-bound to help us anymore?”

“I wish,” She rolled her eyes. “But you weren’t actually in any danger with those weirdos.”

Wirt grinned. “Oh, yeah! Then you still have to help us get home!”

“I got it!” Greg picked up his frog. “I wish Wirt Jr had fingernails so he could play the guitar better!”

A beat of silence passed before a voice cut through, “An odd time to tune in.”

The three turned to Scout, who approached them with a limp. Wirt frowned at this. “You weren’t running with me?”

“No, I told you they weren’t chasing us.”

“O-Oh…”

Beatrice hummed and turned back to Wirt. “So… yeah! I’ll bring you to Adelaide. I mean, that’s where I’m going anyway.”

As they began their journey ahead, Wirt wrapped Scout’s arm around his waist to support her. “Oh, yeah? What’re you going to Adelaide for?” The girl asked with a small smile.

“I guess, in some ways, I’m trying to get home, too.”

“That’s vague,” Wirt tilted his head. “What does that mean?”

“I don’t have to tell you anything.”

Scout sharply inhaled. “Touchy…”

“Well, I sure hope Adelaide is more helpful than that Woodsman was. I think his directions were… not very good.”

Scout nodded her head in agreement, leaning into Wirt’s shoulder as they continued down the autumn-decorated wood.

—————————————

Taglist: @kirishimas-manly-eyeliner

[flawedamythyst]

On the Sixth Day of Christmas

1648

The wind had died down overnight but the rain was still coming down, keeping the sky dark even with the sun rising above the horizon. As Josef walked past the barn, he could hear the geese inside softly honking at each other as they started to wake up.

Andrea was standing on the cliff, staring out at the rough sea below. She didn’t say anything as Josef came to a stop beside her and for a few minutes they both looked out at the waves they’d been staring at for months now, from the decks of ships, from docks and beaches, from anywhere that might give them the faintest clue where to look for Quynh.

And yet they still had nothing and, after the storm yesterday, they didn’t have a ship any more either.

“Our host says he knows a man two villages over who is selling his boat,” offered Josef, when it became clear Andrea wasn’t going to speak.

She nodded in acknowledgement. “We’ll need money,” she said, in the flat, dead tone she’d been using ever since Josef and Nicky rescued her from that dungeon.

“We have plenty of gold and silver,” said Josef.

That finally made Andrea turn to look at him. “You don’t need to sell your jewellery,” she said, glancing at the rings clustered on Josef’s fingers. “We can go and find one of my stashes.”

Josef shook his head. “The nearest is days away,” he said. “The winter weather has already delayed us enough.” He managed a weak shadow of a smile. “Besides, you know Nicky will just buy me more.”

Ever since that first pirated ring, Nicky had taken to buying Josef rings on a regular basis, bringing them to him with an excited smile, a kiss, and a whispered repeat of one of the many vows they’d made to each other over the years.

She didn’t smile back but something in her eyes softened as she nodded, before she looked back out to sea and they hardened again.

“Andrea, we’ll find her,” said Josef, because he wasn’t willing to admit to any other possibility.

“Don’t patronise me,” she snapped, and then turned and strode away without another word. Josef just watched her go, trying not to sigh.

“How is she?” asked Nicky, and Josef turned to see him walking over with an empty basket on his arm.

Josef shrugged. “The same.” Nicky’s jaw clenched, and the look of misery on his face was almost more than Josef could bear, except that it reflected back what he felt in his heart. “What’s the basket for?” he asked, trying to distract them both.

“I told our host I’d gather the geese’s eggs this morning, as he has been so generous as to put us up overnight.”

They’d arrived at the farmer’s door yesterday soaking wet in the middle of a storm, and he had welcomed them in without question. It was good to be reminded that not everyone was like the cruel bastards who had tortured Andrea and stolen Quynh away from them all.

“I thought you might like to help me,” added Nicky.

Josef let his eyebrows raise. “You thought I might like to be attacked by geese first thing in the morning?”

“You don’t know they’ll attack you,” said Nicky, and Josef just gave him a pointed look.

“They’re geese, Nicky. Attacking people is what they do.”

Nicky had to concede that one. “I thought it might remind you of our first kiss.”

Josef let out a half-laugh. “You sly fox,” he said, “using romance against me.” He glanced at the barn, thought about how much it hurt to be jabbed by a goose beak, and then sighed. “I just wish it wasn’t going to work.”

“I’m sure they’ll be friendly,” said Nicky as they both started towards the barn.

“I’m sure they won’t,” said Josef. “I’ve never met a friendly goose.”

Nicky shrugged. “Well, our host said he’d be slaughtering one later, for their New Year celebration tomorrow, so if any of them are particular rude to you just let me know and I’ll tell him to kill that one.”

“New Year?” repeated Josef, and cast his mind back to try and remember the date. Days at sea doing nothing but search for a metal coffin had driven all sense of time passing from his head. “Is it January already?”

“It will be the day after tomorrow,” said Nicky.

A new year, and they were still no closer to finding Quynh.

Another thought occurred to Josef. “Oh, we missed Christmas, habibi, I’m so sorry. Perhaps we can have a belated one before we set out again.”

Nicky shook his head. “It’s fine, I knew it had come but it didn’t feel like something worth celebrating this year.”

There was a heavy silence. Josef thought about last year, when they had been alone together in Malta and Josef had fed Nicky pear slices while they were naked in bed, or even the year before, when all four of them had been together and Quynh had presented Nicky with a new bow she’d made for him herself, and then promptly destroyed him in a competition using her old bow.

“Next year,” said Nicky as they reached the barn. “Next year, we will have her back, and we will all celebrate together again. Somewhere miles and miles from the nearest ocean.”

“In sha'Allah,” said Josef with feeling, then took a deep breath as Nicky opened the door to the barn and the sound of honking rose in the air. “The things I do for love,” he muttered, and then followed Nicky inside, already braced for attack.

[katnissmellarkkk]

Gravity

Hi! Okay, so here’s chapter two of my growing back together story, inspired by the prompt “I won’t hurt you” @rosegardeninwinter sent me. I also posted this fic on AO3 under the title Gravity (like the Sara Bareilles song), if that’s where you prefer to read. And here’s a link to chapter one of this fic if you wanna read and haven’t yet.

Also I know I said in my first author’s note that there will be three chapters, but there might be a bit more.... we love an over-writer, right? 🤷🏼‍♀️🤦🏼‍♀️

I don’t know if you’re “supposed” to post every part of a multi chapter fic on here? Or just post the link to it on AO3? But for now I posted it in its entirety on here 😊.

Anyways, hope you like it! And thanks to anyone who reads! 💖💖💖

/

A couple months later.

We slide back after that. I don't know if that night-the night he had a nightmare that I died and we slept locked in each other's embrace-moved too quickly for Peeta or if he thought he was protecting me from him, but when morning light came, he was gone from the bed.

I didn't see him again until the following evening, helping Haymitch feed his rambunctious geese in the yard. He didn't speak to me for four more days after that, and when he did, it was to ask what kind of bread I wanted him to bring for lunch the next day.

I pretended to his face that it didn't hurt. That waking up in a cold, empty bed, in a house he all but abandoned until I had evacuated, that sleeping in his arms and awaking so abruptly alone, didn't hurt. I did what I had taught myself to do as a child and I turned my features into an indifferent mask, shutting off all access to my emotions. Destroying any possibility of anyone witnessing my vulnerabilities.

But I knew deep down, it did hurt. It hurt badly.

I didn't speak to him directly the first week he showed up for lunch and to work on the memory book again. I got by fine without addressing him directly, as Haymitch somehow sensed the bubbling tension between us and stayed sober just enough to remain alert for all our shared meals. He helped with the memory book, helped by adding in a snarky comment here or there to reel our focuses onto him instead of each other.

I wanted to say thank you but I never knew how. I doubt Haymitch needs me to verbalize it anyway. One night, as he follows behind Peeta to leave, his hand grazes my shoulder and gives it a squeeze and I know he's much more aware of the dynamic between his old tributes than he leads on.

But weeks after the night in question, the night that set Peeta and my friendship back months, we receive a telegraph from Effie. A telegraph that shakes the small amount of stability we've managed to build in the time since the war.

Apparently President Paylor has decided to move forward with arena destruction, an idea mentioned a few times by Plutarch on Caesar's talk show. An idea I didn't take seriously until now.

Paylor has decided to build a memorial for each of the arenas, for each year the games ever took place, to immortalize our history, so Panem can never forget how cruel and inhumane things once were. But first, she wants to eliminate the actual Hunger Games arenas, once and for all, before putting the memorials in their place.

My initial thought, months ago when Delly showed me Plutarch and Caesar discussing the idea, was that this would takes years to happen.

I was, once again, so clearly wrong. The plans have been expedited and the order in which each arena will be decimated has been swiftly decided.

All that alone doesn't sound terrible. I'd like to see those death pits crushed, burned, torn down, eradicated, or all of the above, by any means necessary. Only downside, initially, is that this will extend me—and Peeta and potentially all the other victors—remaining in the forefront of the public's mind.

Since the war, all I've ever wanted was for everyone in the country to forget who I am. I don't want to be known anymore. I just want to be left alone, to a quiet and peaceful and relatively simple life, without anyone ever recognizing me again. Without anyone thinking of me as the girl on fire, as the Mockingjay, as the sixteen-year-old who volunteered for a sister who was doomed to death anyway.

But, of course, there's a catch. There's always a catch.

Plutarch thinks it would be great to have the living victors be there—televised—in the Capitol and see the arenas before they're bulldozed.

Even with this dreadful proposition, I thought I had time to think of a way out of it. When Effie first sent the telegraph, I thought that I would have years before having to worry about going back to the places where my nightmares started.

Well, some of my nightmares, that is.

After all, it takes time to destroy something as large and as vast as an arena-excluding the way I destroyed the one in the Quell, that is. I figured-I rationalized, really-that by the time they got to number Seventy-Four, I would have a solid excuse to get out of attending.

I guess though they wished to start with the big years and the first decade of the Hunger Games wasn't very eventful, apparently—lucky them—so the first arena they wish to bid farewell to is the one from the second Quarter Quell. The Fiftieth Hunger Games. The one that was so strikingly beautiful and almost entirely poisonous.

The year Haymitch Abernathy, from the lowly District Twelve, won.

And being also from Twelve, my presence, along with Peeta's, suddenly became of the utmost importance as well.

At first, I still try to opt out of the event. Even after Effie chastises me over the phone, like not a day has passed since she was my escort, and even after my mother claims in her letter that it could be cathartic for me, I do not relent.

Delly and Thom and a few of the others in the community, like Kanon who runs the candy shop two stores away from the bakery, and Greta, who helps with the dusting and mopping all over town, try to say that it could be good for me. Greasy Sae claims it can't be worse than actually living through the games, and I silently appreciate her much more blatant statement than the comforting platitudes others try to provide me.

But it all falls on deaf ears in the end.

Because the only person I truly listen to is Peeta. Even bitter and wounded, the only person I really hear is him.

Unfortunately, as irritating as it is sometimes, his voice will always reach me when others can't.

But we don't ever have an actual conversation about it. Five days after Effie calls to announce the news, to tell me unequivocally that my presence is requested, Peeta sways me to go with just a look.

He comes over later than usual and brings extra bread and pastries to go with the deer meat I hunted. We feast silently, the air between us still incredibly awkward, when, without warning, our old mentor comes crashing through the door unceremoniously.

I don't know how much alcohol he consumed, but it's enough to knock even someone with Haymitch's tolerance off his feet.

By the end of the hour, the older man is practically beating his head into the wall of my dining room, screaming the names of dead children and about force fields and axes. And from across the kitchen table, Peeta touches my arm—the first time he's voluntarily touched me in weeks—and my eyes meet his, blue pouring into gray, and silently he begs me to go for the goodbye ceremony to Haymitch's arena.

And I give in. Not just for him. But also, in large part, to repay the caustic, miserable drunk that kept us alive. To support the unpredictable, temperamental man that I do consider my family somehow.

The ceremony is set to take place weeks later and the time does little to alleviate my anxiety. Peeta and me still don't speak much, but come time for lunch or dinner, there he is, in my house like clockwork.

When I point out, a few days before we're due at the train station, that there's a very realistic possibility that the Capitol won't let me go to the ceremony, Peeta casually says, "I already cleared that with Effie and Plutarch."

I shoot him a look of surprise. "You did?"

Shrugging nonchalantly before turning back to the rabbit on his plate, he murmurs quietly, "Thought it'd give you one less thing to worry about."

The ceremony is nothing like I expect. Somehow I figured there would be an obnoxiously large television crew, loud speakers, prepared speeches on written cards, awkward directions and crowds upon crowds of people surrounding us, asking pointed questions, shooting invasive stares and pressing for reactions to their nosy accusations. I expected those accusations to be directed at me and Peeta especially.

Instead, there's none of those things. There's no crowd at all, it's just us victors. Just Enobaria, Johanna, Annie, the three of us from Twelve and Beetee—who I still can't make myself so much as look at, reminded of my sister's absence and his role in it every time we so much as stand in five feet vicinity of each other.

The camera crew consists of Mitchell, Pollux and Cressida, along with two unfamiliar, but seemingly non-threatening faces. There's no directions, no prompting, not close ups or reshoots.

All that happens is Paylor makes a statement that the crew films, stating that the arenas will be destroyed one by one, and in the place of each there will be an individual memorial made, as we victors stand in an unorganized, crooked line that will surely make Effie cringe when she sees the footage on television later.

It's almost peaceful, I think to myself in surprise, as I look around at the location. The sky is a stunning cobalt, even more brilliant in person than in the video Peeta and I watched on the train so long ago. The meadow looks like the grass is fresh, like it was just watered yesterday. The mountain is so breathtaking I have to physically tear my eyes away from it and even the woods look rather cozy. Or maybe that part is just me.

There's also arraignments of flowers, just like in the footage we watched, that spill every which way, filling our noses with soothing, floral scents. It feels unnatural to say about a place set up for murder, but with the deadly poisons lurking at every turn eviscerated, I almost can find this arena truly beautiful.

Of course though, it's not my arena.

It's Haymitch's and he looks like he's about to be sick. He's white-knuckled it for a few days without any sort of drink—to my, Peeta's and, even Effie's, visible shock—and I can see plainly now that he's absolutely regretting it. His eyes are hallow and wild at the same time and I can see his shaking palms beneath the sleeves of his jacket as he stares out at the source of his every nightmare for the last quarter century.

It shocks me that he didn't find a way out of this. Actually, it shocks me still that these ceremonies are even possible.

I never knew they kept arenas after the games were over each year. I never realized they kept all seventy-four death pits, haunted by child sacrifice, the way you keep old vases on a shelf.

At this point though, it's just another thing to add onto the growing list of horrific and unthinkable issues that the Capitol doesn't even grasp. Keeping the haunted graveyards of children as souvenirs shouldn't sit right with anyone, I don't care how you're raised.

I tell myself to not be so quick to judge, as I can't know who I'd be if I had been born in the Capitol instead of the districts. Still, the idea of condoning the things they have without remorse or shame seems unthinkable.

I'm torn out of my thoughts when Cressida speaks. "Is there anything you'd like to say, Haymitch, before we finish filming?"

Once again, catching me off-guard entirely—he's full of all sorts of surprises evidently—Haymitch clears his throat and looks down at his leather boots before speaking. "Ardor. Garnett. Dolan. Silver. Ryker. Artemis. Slayte. Pistol. Lex. Mac. Lumen. Gig. Brook. Aqua. Mary. Ripley. Lyme. Watt. Rocky. Gio. Belle. Raven. Kia. Mecko. Barker. Jack. Holly. Briar. Essie. Stitch. Coco. Paul. Mira. Miller. Coop. Harvey. Butch. Cutter. Bea. Skinna. Basil. Sunny. Rip. Spring. Oaker. Terra. Maysilee." He lists off the names in a way that is so matter-of-fact that it would almost be robotic if it weren't for the hoarseness in his tone that grows stronger with every name he utters. He hesitates for only a moment before adding, "Corentine. Alannah. Alastar."

There's a long stretch of silence, where no one speaks, no one blinks, no one even breathes. We all know instinctively who these people are—I know solely from Maysilee Donner's name being called—but we still wait until Haymitch speaks again, to confirm our assumption.

"Those are the names of all the people this arena killed." His eyes grow glassy and his brow furrows in anger as he fights desperately to repress his emotions, and suddenly I have the strangest urge to hug my mentor, to make him feel better like he tried to do for me once when Peeta was stuck in the Capitol and I was distraught. But I know it wouldn't be appreciated or wanted, and quite honestly I'm glad for that, because I don't even know what to say.

The last three names Haymitch said stick in my head for some reason I can't explain other than an odd gut feeling. But then he speaks again, an in a voice growing gruffer by the second, he says right into the camera, "that's every single person who was killed because of the second Quarter Quell."

And, like I should have known all along, it hits me the last three names are the names of his family who were murdered to punish him for the stunt with the forcefield.

The last three names are the murders of the last people he loved. Until me and Peeta came along.

As if his thoughts matched mine, Haymitch suddenly shakes his head and his eyes widen again as he stares past all the rest of us, as he continues to take in the exact place in which life as he knew it, twenty-six years ago, was altered forever.

His reaction is more understandable and genuine than I imagined he would ever allow it to be, especially on camera, and I want to say something but me and him both aren't good at saying anything, and I find myself looking to Peeta, hoping he'd know what to do.

Peeta doesn't meet my gaze though. He's solely focused on our mentor and just when he opens his mouth to speak, the older man to suddenly shake his head in our general direction and clears his throat.

"I'm done. Tell Plutarch I'm done with this crap. Just hurry up and bulldoze this place so I can go back to Twelve," is all he says to Cressida as he storms off, but his voice is rough and caustic once again, and I can only hope he recovers from this event soon enough.

Somehow, witnessing Haymitch relive his games, even through the shield he so obviously puts up to the outside world, triggers me though. For some reason, I feel my eyes begin to water as I look around at the meadow, at the mountain, at the golden cornucopia, and wonder how anyone could build a place where kids would eventually go to die? How could anyone have ever been so inhumane? How could a country just accept it? How did we live for so long with the Hunger Games overtaking our lives and still remained complicit? I don't understand. The more time passes, the more days I'm separated from the war and from the old world and the old way of life, I just can't comprehend anymore how we ever lived in a place so horrific.

I feel my eyes spill over and I'm grateful that Cressida has stopped filming already, because if Plutarch saw any tears on film, he would make certain it ended up on television.

I wipe my tears with the heel of my hand, trying to go about it as subtly as I can, hoping no one else notices. For the most part, I'm golden. Enobaria is already exiting, with Beetee following not far behind. Jo's back is to me while she speaks to Annie, though as per usual, she seems to be irritated.

Of course, it's too much to ask for everyone to remain oblivious to my waterworks. Even as I rid myself of them before they become widely noticeable, I feel Peeta's eyes train on me and know, despite the distance between us for the last few weeks, he isn't going to ignore my upset.

To my surprise though, he doesn't speak. He doesn't utter a single syllable.

Instead, I feel his large, warm palm slip into mine and squeeze tightly, lacing our fingers together, in a way we have done thousands of times before. Like two puzzle pieces coming together to complete a picture, like two indivisible teammates that will fight against anything that is thrown their way, like two halves of a whole finally finding each other, his hand grasps mine with a vengeance and I know I won't be the one who let's go.

He's still holding my hand when we board the train, hours later.

//

A couple weeks later.

"Yes, Mrs. Greenstead, I will get the chocolate nut loaf and a platter of the cranberry cookies wrapped up for you... Yes, it will be ready by the time you arrive... No, I promise they won't be cold," Peeta assures through the bakery telephone—a new addition that Thom and his wife thought was necessary to run a proper bakery. So necessary they bought it for Peeta as an opening gift.

It's not that the gesture wasn't nice or that Peeta didn't deeply appreciate it. I personally saw that he did, wholeheartedly.

But seeing it on the wall every day was just another reminder to me of my own personal vendetta against the integration between the Capitol's way of life and the districts'.

The only place telephones used to exist, outside of the Capitol limits, was the houses in Victor's Villiage, and if I'm being honest, I wish it would have stayed that way.

Maybe I'm being selfish, as I happen to still reside inside a house that once belonged to the said village, therefore I already had experienced this luxury prior to the new world. But I just can't make myself break the association between the items that had recently become readily available for all and the horror that was the Capitol.

Still though, the change was inescapable Telephones, cameras, heating pads, curling irons, quick bake ovens, cars and so many other items, were all growing in popularly across each district. Not that I was able to see a lot of these changes personally. But letters from Annie and my mom, and the occasional—unprompted and yet still begrudged—call from Jo, all kept me informed. Sometimes more informed than I wished to be.

Maybe I would feel entirely different if these inventions were brand new to me. But they aren't. I'd seen and used every one of them before. Their novelty had always been lost on me, perhaps because my only experience them was while inside the Capitol, surrounded by tacky colors and strong rose scents and itchy materials, headed for a death match, my life and the lives of those I cared always at great risk.

Of course, the new item in the bakery did make some things easier. Days like today are a perfect example.

Harvest Day is only one day away and everyone is coming in for their breads and their desserts. Peeta says it was always one of the most popular days, for as long as he can remember. Only difference is, before the war only Peacekeepers and town folks could afford to purchase anything. And generally, most citizens who even did come in, could only purchase a limited amount of items.

Not now. I don't know where everyone in Twelve was coming up with the money or if Peeta's prices are just a drastic drop from that of his mother's, but today, I swear I've seen every citizen in town inside the bakery.

Makes me glad that the portrait of me is hanging in the back, where no one else can see it. As pretty as it may be, as talented as Peeta is, I don't want a giant version of me displayed for all to see.

"Here you are," I politely say, handing two loaves of warm bread to a man who must be new to Twelve, as I've never seen him before. I'm debating on asking if he moved here recently when he passes a bill to me over the top of the pastry display.

"Thank you, hon." He smiles at me, looking at me a little too closely for my liking, as he swiftly walks out the door. His exit is met with the arrival of Val, a boy Peeta and I went to school with, who definitely was more Peeta's crowd than mine.

Val is a regular customer at the bakery, having always genuinely liked the Mellark family. His parents owned a small carpentry shop four spaces down from the bakery, and even with both them dead, he and his two sisters rebuilt the store, taking over their parents' legacy.

Peeta though is more focused on me now than Val's order. "Give me a second," he calls to his old friend, a little less polite than he had been all morning. "Katniss, what's wrong?" He asks urgently, seeing the look in my eyes.

I shake my head and push away the anxiety threatening to close in on me. "Nothing, just..." I hesitate, not even wanting to say it. Peeta's gaze refuses to lessen though and I sigh before finally mumbling, "That guy. He creeped me out. The way he was looking at me so closely..."

Peeta's hand touches my arm for a brief moment before pulling it away, making it obvious that he regrets the small act of even so much as touching me. But his words are still calming and they relax me a little. "He's gone now, Katniss. And if he scares you, I won't let him come back, okay? There's nothing anyone can do to you or me anymore. We're safe."

I nod, knowing the words like the back of my hand at this point, as it's the same mantra we always repeat to each other, every time one of us begins to panic or flail. But still, I open my mouth to refuse his offer. I don't want Peeta to turn away any sort of business. Not with the unpredictability and uncertainty this new world still rests on. We never know if the bakery will sell anything tomorrow or if all sort of income will soon dry up.

And we're the lucky ones, financially speaking, who were rich before the war and allowed—in a generous declaration by President Paylor—to keep the entirety of our money after. I don't have to imagine the anxiety others in the country must be in, knowing the curse of poverty all too well. I wouldn't wish that feeling on anyone.

"I don't want you to turn away people," I say quietly. "Not on my account. You need business to keep this place afloat."

"I have plenty of money, Katniss," he reminds me, a little darker than I expect. "And I'd rather you feel safe than own a popular shop."

His words unexpectedly touch me, unexpectedly cut right down to the depth of my bones, exposing my soft underbelly. I'm about to do something stupid, like touch his hand, when Val makes his presence known again. "Your shop is already the most popular in the district," he points out, not even a little ashamed for having listened to our conversation. "And besides, why don't you just look at the guy's name? Maybe you can look him up, see if he's alright or not."

Peeta gets a glint in his eye. "That's a good idea, Val, thank you." As he moves towards the register to, I can only suppose, look for the man's receipt with his name and signature, he gestures to his school friend. "Katniss can get your order."

I shoot him a glare, only half kidding. I did come to help out, here and there, today but I did not intend to be an actual expected employee. For free, no less.

Instead of saying anything though, I just grab Val his three cinnamon rolls, his two snack cakes, four bagels, white chocolate donut and a loaf with raisins and cranberries.

Val, like Delly Cartwright, was always one of the few people in Twelve who had a few pounds to spare.

Peeta has a type of friend.

"Found it," Peeta now calls, bringing over a slip of paper to where I'm handing Val his three bags of treats. "His name was Rod Catamaran."

Me and Val, for the first time perhaps, exchange a look between us. "That's an odd name for Twelve."

"I've never even heard that name before."

"He may not even be from Twelve, guys," Peeta says.

I roll my eyes. "Because a bombed out district is really a tourist attraction."

"Hey, none of that," Thom calls as he walks through the front door of the bakery, with Kanon Bagley on his heels. "We've rebuilt this place beautifully and negativity is not appreciated here."

"Yeah, Katniss," Peeta chimes in, teasing me. I'm about to kick him in his only real leg, as we're the only two behind the counter and no one else will see, when Kanon speaks up.

"Can I buy a couple of pastries?"

"Of course," Peeta says kindly, walking around me to personally grab the two items Kanon requests.

Kanon is new to Twelve. One of the few new additions this place gained after all that went down. He's a large man in his early twenties, with dark skin and dark hair and eyes to match. But the only times I've ever interacted with him, he's quiet as a mouse, his eyes a little forlorn at all times and he offers more discounts then he should at the candy shop he recently opened next to the bakery.

He's from District Eleven originally and it takes no real critical thinking to realize he had a hard life, even before the war.

I'm far too familiar with the look of scars etched across the eyes. So is Peeta.

That's why, when Kanon looks down at the money in his hand and realizes he doesn't have enough to afford both pastries, Peeta immediately brushes it off. "That's okay, they're on the house," he instantly promises, handing the small bag over to Kanon with a gentle smile.

"No, I don't want to take it without-"

"I made way too much," Peeta insists, lying outright to make it appear Kanon would be doing him a favor. I know he didn't make too much, because we've been flying through everything today and keeping the ovens hot in case more is needed.

Still though, I back up the fib. "He did. We've been wondering all day how we were gonna sell enough stuff so we don't have to feed the leftovers to Haymitch's geese."

Kanon glances between us shyly, before taking the bag from Peeta's hand and slipping the few dollars he does have into his pocket again. "Thank you," he says softly and turns to leave.

Thom pats Kanon on the back as he passes him, before turning to follow. When the other man isn't looking, he turns back to us subtly and mouths, "thank you."

I wanted to tell him not to thank me. I only watched Peeta make this food, I didn't assist by any stretch of the imagination. I didn't own the bakery or do anything with the money or finances. It was not my choice to give things away for free.

But I'm far too focused on the boy in front of me to say any of that. The boy with the bread, the boy who isn't really a boy anymore. The boy who just gave away food for no reward at all, even on the most demanding and strenuous day all year for his business. The boy who just showed Kanon Bagley the same kindness I begged someone-anyone-to show me at eleven-years-old and not one single person did.

Except for him. He did for me all those years ago what he did for Kanon just now, and I suddenly have the most inexplicable, irrepressible urge to kiss Peeta right then and there, in the middle of the bakery.

I don't, however, and it's for once not because I lost my courage. It's because the door swings open again, just as Val exits right behind Kanon and Thom.

It's the same man from earlier. "Hi," Peeta greets, this time not at all sweet. Clearly recognizing the man as the one who made me nervous before. "Can I help you?"

"Yes," the man affirms, his tone brighter than you'd expect given our chilly reception. And our blatant wariness for anyone new. "I forgot to get a pecan butter cake before?"

There is a beat where me and Peeta exchange a look, before I awkwardly move towards the display case and begin to pack up his item. Peeta waits for me to decide to help the man before starting to ring him up.

"That was a nice thing you both just did," the man says as he patiently watches me fold the white waxy paper over his pastry. "For that guy."

"You were watching?" Is the only thing that comes out of my mouth.

"Only for a moment," he explains, his tone still friendly. Either he doesn't know how to read people at all or he's the most even keeled person in Panem.

Because I know I'm being rude, to a man who maybe doesn't even deserve it, I force myself to say one thing conversational. "This is my mom's favorite dessert," I offer, gesturing to his cake.

The man raises his eyebrows in an act that looks almost feigned. "Really?"

I instantly regret trying to be even slightly pleasant. Even his mannerisms seem fake. I'm contemplating if I should say anything else or go hide in the back room with the warm ovens and my portrait, when Peeta presses a button and the register dings.

He's about to say the total when the strange man shakes his head and hands to me directly an unfamiliar bill over the display case. "Have a nice day, you two," he calls, grabbing his cake and swiftly walking out.

It's not until he's gone, not until I have a moment to process the second weird encounter with the odd person, that I even glance down at the crisp bill he handed me.

It's a bill with a larger number on the back than I've ever personally seen before. I knew these kinds of dollars existed—I'm sure I could have gotten plenty after my first games—but I'd never seen one in the flesh.

Peeta sees my reaction. "What is it?" His voice sounds alarmed and he's stepping closer to me, but all I can do is gasp out his name.

"Peeta, look." I hold up the bill and point to the number on the back.

His eyes widen too, taking in the amount with a dizzy smile. Of both relief that nothing's wrong and excitement at the digit.

"Do you think it was a mistake?" I ask suddenly, looking over my shoulder towards the window, wondering if we should track the man down and give him his money back, before he evaporates into thin air.

"No?" Peeta shakes his head, the wheels in his mind turning quicker than mine. His face turns to that of elation, as the large bill takes some pressure off the bakery's sales. "No, he said he saw us give Kanon a break. He was giving us something in return."

I'm about to say something else, I don't even know what, but it all flies out of my head when Peeta suddenly wraps his arms around my waist and swiftly pulls me into his embrace.

My entire body goes into lockdown and hypervigilance at the same time. I can't move an inch but it feels like every nerve in my body is abruptly tingling and on fire.

My sweater lifts up slightly and his bare arms graze my lower back, eliciting a shiver to run involuntarily down my spine as his face buries into my hair.

I wrap my arms around his neck after a beat when I can make myself move again, and I feel him smile against my skin. I'm so glad at that moment he's holding me up, because if he wasn't supporting my weight I'd probably crash to the floor, unable to even feel my legs beneath me.

And, as a rush of heat shoots out from the place where Peeta's lips brush my collarbone, I suddenly feel only gratitude, not irritation, at the strange Rod Catamaran.

//

Four days later.

The world surrounding me is green. Green and brown and fire-bitten and scorched. Every which way I spin, there's embers soaring from that direction too, waiting to lick me with their burning flames, ready to decimate me once and for all.

But through the smoke and haze, I still can see between the trees two blonde braids. I still can see a small figure standing on the other side of the fire. I still can see her shirt that's come untucked in the back, creating a duck tail that I desperately want to fix.

Just as I notice her, she whirls around to face me, her blue eyes big and bright and terrified. "Katniss!" She screams, the same way she did the last day she was alive. "Katniss, help! They're coming!"

I don't know who's coming or what's happening or where we even are, but all I feel is relief somehow. Relief that she's here, that I'm in her presence again, that she's almost within my reach. Instinctively I call out, "Prim!" Just so I can finally get a response to the name I've been shouting into oblivion for almost a year now.

"Katniss, help me!" She cries again and then looks over her shoulder. She's not talking about the fire between us, as it doesn't seem too intent on heading towards her.

I don't know what's coming or who she's afraid of, but my instincts now go into overdrive. My body suddenly snaps into alert and I whip my head around, to see if I can find an opening in the fire closing in on me, if I can find a way to get to the sister I lost what feels like only yesterday, if I can find a way to save her this time.

There's no gap in the fire though. It's crowded around me, front, back and side to side. The more seconds that pass by, the closer the fire folds into my proximity, and I have to brace myself before making a split-second decision.

But it's not really a decision at all. Prim needs me and I cannot fail her. I have to save her this time.

I take a bold step directly into the fire, with every intention of running through it somehow. Of running past the wild embers, scorching myself no doubt, but still making it over to my distressed, frightened little sister. But it doesn't work like I expect.

But really, does anything?

These flames are nothing like the fires I've encountered before. And I've been around more fire in my life than anyone ever should.

No, these flames don't burn me. They don't hurt me or put me through agony or singe me to pieces. They don't melt off my makeshift coat of skin and they don't further decimate it either.

Instead the fire feels like almost nothing. Like something almost itchy, something almost irritating, something almost painful. Something that make me want to squirm and scream and escape all at the same time.

Which is real ironic considering what else it seems these flames do.

They seem to hold me into place. The second I'm in their hold, instead of the horrific pain I thought I'd be in, I'm trapped in a series of almost nothing.

I'm not in excruciating pain physically, but seeing my sister standing ten feet from me, and not being able to move any closer, not being able to protect her from whatever she's terrified of, is worse than any amount of injury this fire could have inflicted.

"Katniss!" Prim screams now, her voice only growing in its frantic nature. "Help! Why won't you come help me?"

I try to scream, try to tell her I want to but I can't move. But it turns out that these flames also paralyze vocal muscles.

"Peeta's dying!" Prim yelps out, looking behind her again, her hands beginning to shake in a way she almost never let them in life. She always tried to keep it together, to remain calm and rational in a crisis.

Her words elicit something entirely new inside of me though. "Peeta?" I yell in confusion, my voice suddenly no longer paralyzed.

"They're killing him! Katniss, please, why won't you come here? We need you!" Prim is close to hysterical now and frankly, so am I.

"I'm trying! I just," I move my hands down my body, trying to push the flames away as they rises up to my chest, trying to just break free from these fiery chains once and for all. "The fire, Prim! I can't get out of the fire."

Prim's voice drops then, loses all source of fear, every ounce of panic. Loses any semblance of emotion. "Katniss, there is no fire," she states blankly, her eyes looking directly at the embers covering my stomach and legs. "There's nothing there."

I just look at her for a moment, completely speechless. Her words are inconceivable, her eyes are haunted now, her facial expression is unrecognizable. Even her voice doesn't sound like hers anymore.

Before I can comprehend what's happening, in the distance a gunshot goes off.

Prim delicately glances over her shoulder now, her blue eyes cold as ice. "He's dead," she informs clinically, before sighing deeply, her tone almost disappointed. "And so am I."

I don't know what happens next or how it occurs, but I fly upwards in my bed with such a start, I give myself whiplash.

I hear a loud screeching noise hanging in the air, a hoarse trepidation that almost makes me feel better. I don't know why but someone else screaming in the middle of the night gives me hope, as sick as that may be.

Only it's not someone else, I realize, as my throat burns raw. I realize with startling clarity that I'm the only making all the noise. I'm the one shaking so tremendously. I'm the one who is sobbing.

"Shhh," a voice whispers against the darkness, and I flail involuntarily at the shock. "Sorry, sorry," Peeta instantly apologizes, his hands gripping my arms with a little too much intensity, trying to still my shaking. "It's okay, Katniss, you were just having a nightmare."

His words do precious little to calm me down though. "She was there," I cry, the image, the feeling, of Prim standing only ten feet from me and not being able to reach her too painful for me to unsee.

"Who was there?" He asks tenderly, his hand coming up to cup my cheek. "Katniss, breathe."

I don't even bother listening to his advise. I haven't exhaled since I was eleven. "Prim was there. She was begging me to save her and then I couldn't, I was trapped but-but," I cut myself off, unable to form coherent words and thoughts any longer.

Peeta gets the gist though. "Come here," he whispers and pulls me into his arms, like he used to on the train, when my nightmares woke us both three times a night. "I'm so sorry, Katniss," he says softly now, and rubs my back in a way that elicits goosebumps. His way of trying to soothe my shaking. "I'm sorry you had to see that."

"You died too," I blurt out then. I don't even know why I feel inclined to tell him.

"What?"

"I was stuck and I couldn't speak and then Prim said you were going to die and I got scared enough that I could talk again and I thought-I thought," I stumble breathlessly, my tears pouring out against his shoulder now.

I feel his lips touch my cheek and I'm too upset to revel in the feeling of blood rushing there. "It was just a nightmare," he promises.

But my sentiment is unfinished. "I thought I could break free, that I could-"

"Katniss," he halts, still holding me in his embrace, rocking me slightly. "It wasn't real. I promise you, it wasn't real."

Those words, the words so often said to him by me, ring a bell that I didn't want to ring. It snaps me back into reality abruptly and without warning, I feel like my chest is going to collapse.

Because this means Prim wasn't really there, that she still is as dead as she was yesterday, that I still watched her explode into pieces all over the bombsite in the Capitol.

I still failed to protect her.

Peeta pulls back slightly then and rests his forehead against mine. "It's okay, Katniss," he says again, trying to calm my trembles by rubbing my arms up and down.

"How are you in my house?" I realize, with an intense sudden clarity. "How are you here? Are you real or am I still-"

He quickly puts me out of my misery. "You gave me a key, remember? A long time ago? We gave each other keys to our houses."

Oh. Right. I forgot all about that when he had his nightmare, didn't I?

Good thing he's an idiot who keeps his door unlocked at night.

He's explaining further before I can think to ask. "I heard you having a nightmare from my house. That's why I rushed over here."

I'm caught between embarrassment and gratitude. "Sorry, I really don't know what brought it on."

"Hey," he quietly reprimands, lifting my chin now to meet eye contact. "Don't apologize. No one understands nightmares like me."

I nod, accepting his words, though still a little uncomfortable with screaming for all the district to hear at two in the morning.

Then again, our entire neighborhood is Haymitch and the two of us, and our mentor was drinking like a fish last night so really, the only person who could have heard me is already sitting directly in my eye line.

To punctuate his words, when I don't respond verbally, he lifts my hand up and brings it to his lips tenderly.

And I don't know what comes over me or why. I don't know if it's because we've been growing closer again lately or if I just haven't felt his arms around me since days ago in the bakery and I miss the feel of it desperately, but I find myself abruptly throwing my body around his before I can talk myself out of it.

He catches me easily, like he anticipated my reaction and sways me for a long moment, until my breathing begins to even itself out.

"Will you stay?" I rasp into his neck, as I feel his hand tangles in my matted locks.

"Always."

[charlotte-balfours-garden]

even more oc lore! (part 1, part 2)

~~~

He goes north, always north, until the spruce trees are dusted with snow and the air burns in his lungs.

The snow swallows all sound, no railroads, no wagons, just Pepper’s breathing and the jingle of her tack. The sky is smaller up here, cut and framed by the sharp edges of the mountains, and as they go on and on, it disappears altogether, hidden by a thick layer of clouds that makes it almost impossible to determine where rock ends and sky begins. Not a single soul out here, except for another lone rider who’s going south and shouts a hoarse “Good luck out there!”.

Eli tips his hat.

Hours pass, and when he finally pulls the reins and brings Pepper to a halt, the silence is deafening. He dares a look at his compass and the map, but it’s pointless. He doesn’t have a destination anyway, and he certainly won’t go back now, so north it is.

Although the clouds may mask it, he knows night is fast approaching. They’ve been on the road for the better part of the day, the horse is exhausted and Eli’s flank throbs relentlessly. They ought to find shelter soon.

And food. To give Pepper a break, he ties her to a tree and sets off on foot with Alba. They return with two rabbits and the certainty that the next few meals are safe, at least. It takes a lot of bribery in the form of oatcakes and soft whispers to get Pepper to move again, and when she finally does, the progress is painfully slow. But what did he expect, coming into the mountains in the middle of April? The snow’s piled up too high for Alba to run now, so he lifts her up to where she nestles safely between him and Pepper’s neck, all of them grateful for the additional warmth.

They trot on, the sun is clearly set now, and with his scarf covering the lower half of his face and his hat pulled down low, Eli nearly misses the wooden cabin in the shadow of a group of particularly tall-standing spruce firs.

Granted, even at midday it would have been easy to miss, with the roof sloping low and the whole ramshackle structure half-hidden behind a snowdrift. It’s a shack really, but it’s certainly better than just setting up a tent out here, and besides Eli knows himself good enough to know that it’s only for a night, that tomorrow he’ll be on his way south again, into harm’s way.

He dismounts, followed by Alba, and leads Pepper to the half-open shelter that’s attached to the cabin. A little fence keeps most of the snow out, and the cabin’s wall with the chimney forms one of its sides, so as long as he manages to get a fire going, she’ll be nice and warm. He gives her the remaining oatcakes, takes off the saddle and shoulders the saddle bags, his bedroll and the rifle. A last pat on her back, a quick plea that this isn’t wolf country (though it most likely is), and then he and Alba enter the cabin through the front door, ignoring the weathered Keep Out-sign.

It’s exactly what he’d expected: a bed, a table, two chairs. A bricked fireplace and an additional stove in the kitchen corner, both with a small amount of logs piled up next to them. In the corner a broken wash basin with a broken mirror and a once-green wardrobe. A decent hunter’s cabin. While Alba still sniffs around the room, he wastes no time to gut the rabbits and hang one of them outside to be preserved by the cold.

It’s gone completely dark now and he’s relieved to find the two lanterns in the room are still in working condition. He gets a fire going and spreads his bedroll on the floor in front of it, claimed by Alba without hesitation.

He feels numb.

It’s good to keep busy, to have a distraction, so he melts some snow in a pot he found in the kitchen and prepares the other rabbit in a way that’s guaranteed to make his mother spin in her grave. The melted snow tastes like moss and gravel, and so does the meal, but Alba gladly accepts and it’s good enough for him.

Water begins to drip from the ceiling as the temperature slowly rises. The sound is unnerving, but there’s nothing he can do about it now. Outside, it has started to snow again, only a little bit at first, but the size and number of flakes quickly increases. Eli watches from a window for a while, enamoured with the way the snowflakes reflect the light coming from the lantern next to him, and the contrast to the endless darkness they’re slowly fading into. Somewhere in the Grizzlies a thunderstorm rages and illuminates the nearest mountain range with sudden bluish light at seemingly random intervals. It doesn’t take long for him to hear the mighty thunder as well. The storm is fast approaching and he thinks of Pepper in her windswept shelter outside, she’ll be fine, he hasn’t heard a sound from her yet, and she’s usually not shy to make her discontent known.

The next thunder tears through the air and resonates somewhere deep in his belly. He has gotten so used to the throbbing that it had been easy to ignore it for the past two hours or so, but it’s clear that a whole day of riding will likely have done more harm than good. Might as well get it over with. He takes off the sheep’s wool jacket, ignoring a silver coin that falls out of the pocket and onto the table. Lem’s shirt is already soaked through. He gets a more or less clean bandage from the saddle bag, together with a bottle of whiskey. As he slowly unwraps the stained bandage around his abdomen, the pain is both very far away and incredibly close. All attempts to breathe in a regular pattern fail miserably, so he opts for a swig of whiskey instead. It helps a bit, and it also helps to soften the areas where the gauze has gone crusty with dried blood and clings to his skin. The alcohol’s sting is sharp and relentless, makes his eyes water and extends down into his legs and up into his ribcage. Good lord.

He blinks a few times until he can see clear again, then finally dares to look down. The actual wound is ridiculously small. A tiny black hole surrounded by half-washed away brown scabs. More whiskey.

While he waits for the whole mess to dry, his gaze falls on the coin on the table. He takes it, turns it between his fingers, feels the relief of the seated liberty on one side and the bald eagle on the other. It’s a silver dollar, stamped 1870, the year he was born. A keepsake he’d thought long lost. He remembers his mother’s voice, remembers her hand rough and soft in his, Go buy yourself a new shirt, or save it for harder times. Harder times came and went, and here it is, a silver shimmer in a bloody hand. He takes another sip and lets the coin slide into his pocket. It’s been a weird few days.

He carefully bandages his stomach again and puts on the dirty shirt and his jacket, then the scarf. Lightning and thunder have moved on, but the snow is still falling, almost horizontally now due to the storm. The clatter of the window shutters and the constant drip drip drip thud in his ears and he suspects it will be a restless night. He tosses the old bandage into the fire. Looks into the shards of the mirror and flinches when a ghost stares back at him. All sunken eyes and transparent skin, collarbones protruding sharply.

What now, what now.

Not for the first time he wishes he could read better. Get lost in a strange world without having to decipher every single letter, every word. It seems a handy skill for when you’re stuck in a hunter’s cabin somewhere in the Grizzlies. He remembers his father falling asleep in front of the fireplace, always an open book in his remaining hand. Remembers his sisters teasing him for spelling his own damn name wrong, again and again. Elija. Eljiah. He hadn’t cared back then. Not until Ned had started reading to him during the long nights in the prospectors’ encampment, and he didn’t have anything to offer in return. He’d felt ashamed then, and the feeling lingers on.

He takes ink and paper from the saddle bag, carefully writes a handful of slanted, upper case letters, DEAR N, then sits back again. Didn’t he come here to avoid exactly this?

Pen and paper are left on the table as he turns to look out the window again. Alba joins him, her head a familiar weight in his knee, enjoying his unconscious ear rubs. There’s howling outside, wind or wolves, and another sound he can’t quite place. A scene like this seems to put everything into perspective -- his little life, the great snow, it’s hard to fathom.

Might as well go to bed.

It doesn’t take long to extinguish the few lights. He adds two or three logs to the fire to keep it going for another hour, then lays down on his back on the threadbare bedroll. Alba snuggles up to his good side, sighing heavily.

Eli grins. “Tell me about it!”

The fire throws strange shadows across the crooked room, and for a long time he stares at the ceiling as if it was an abyss.

He blinks. Until today, despite all, he had never felt quite lost. Something ruptured today, and it feels irrevocable.

He curls up on his side and savors the warmth on his back.

He remembers his fractured reflection.

What makes a ghost a ghost?

It’s bound, he’s not.

Thunder has returned, it’s going to be a long night.

He wakes several times, thinking he heard something scratch at the door or sneak around the house, maybe it was a bad idea to leave the rabbit to bleed out outside. But Alba is always calm beneath his arm, snoring gently, and it never takes him long to fall asleep again.

He dreams of wild geese, going north, going south, chased by the sun, chased by the moon.

[katehuntington]

Title: In Bad Waters - part fourteen Word count: ±4360 words Episode summary: Still in possession of the Winchesters’ belongings, Zoë meets up with the hunters on her next case. When it turns out to be a little more complicated than anticipated, she accepts their help in order to make an important deadline. Part fourteen summary: Laura needs to come to the surface in order to move on, but come hell or high water, she will fight the hunters. Episode warnings: Dark! NSFW, 18+ only! Descriptions of domestic violence/child abuse. Drug use/addiction. Angst, gore, violence, character death. Description of blood, injury and medical procedures/resuscitation. Swearing, alcoholism. Supernatural creatures/entities, mentions of demon possession. Descriptions of torture and murder, drowning. Illegal/criminal practices. Mentions of nightmares and flashbacks. Author’s note: Beta’d by @winchest09 and @deanwanddamons. Also a deep bow to @fangirl-and-medstudent-help​ who was very patient with me when I asked about a hundred medical questions. Thanks, girls! 

Supernatural: The Sullivan Series Masterlist

S1E02 “In Bad Waters” Masterlist

     The moon is full and shines a mystical light upon the lake. Rippling water reflects the shimmer, playfully and silent. Silhouettes of trees mark the slightly hilly horizon under a clear sky. The only thing to break the sound of silence in this calm area just out of town are some geese, bobbing on the surface, their heads under their wings. But those who observe closely, will spot movement on one of the docks. Three figures do what they do best in the still of the night.

     “I could be hunting wolf in Texas right now,” Dean complains, as he drops a bag on the end of the dock, staring up at the moon.      “Could you stop whining? If we hurry it up a bit, you can still make it in time for your heart-removing-beasty.”      Zoë gets down on one knee next to the duffle and starts rummaging through their gear. She feels the wooden planks of the dock vibrate and looks up; Sam is walking towards them.      “The Shire family locked themselves in the house. All the windows and doors are salted and the water has been shut off. There’s no way Laura will be able to enter,” he informs them.      “Good, enough have died over this.” Without further consultation Zoë takes out a pair of goggles and a snorkel in order to fit them.

     “Whoa, what do you think you’re doing?” Sam questions, disapproving.      “That body isn’t gonna come floating up to the surface by itself, is it?” she returns smartly, while adjusting the rubber headband.      “You’re not going down there,” Dean states as he grabs the goggles from her.      “Yes, I am.” Zoë yanks them from his grip again.      “You’re hurt,” Sam argues.      “Oh, would you two fucking stop that already? I’m fine!” Zoë cries out as she shrugs off her leather jacket, not wanting to ruin it when she takes a swim.      “Shhh!” Sam hushes, annoyed, not wanting to wake the entire neighborhood.      “Don’t you ‘shhh’ me. I have to go down there, don’t you see? And so do you,” she says, nodding at the older one of the brothers.      “Me?” he returns, surprised, pointing a finger at himself with a puzzled expression on his face.

     “Sam said it himself; you and I have to stick together, or we’re dead meat. One in the water, two on the dock sounds like a certain death to me, with a vengeful spirit watching our every move. So unless either of you knuckleheads has thought of a plan B...”

     Awaiting a reaction from the boys, her focus bounces from one to the other, her hands placed on her waist. They both keep quiet; there simply isn’t a second option.      “That’s what I thought,” she responds somewhat victoriously, and glances at Dean. “Get into your Hawaii shorts.”      “Wouldn’t you like to see that,” Dean smirks, shedding his leather coat as well. “But, sweetheart, I don’t do shorts.”      Zoë tilts her head and eyes him, but cannot help but to imagine it for a brief moment and suppresses a grin. Then she turns to Sam, addressing the job again.      “Make sure that you’re ready to torch whatever we bring to the surface. Laura might have changed tactics now that we’re closing in on her.” She looks deep into his eyes to make sure he gets her point.      “Fuel, salt and fire standing by. Got it.” He holds up the jerry can, the bag of seasoning and his lighter, which he just got out of his backpack.

     She tosses Dean another pair of goggles and a snorkel. “Good, now let’s get this over with.”      “Ah, come on. Do I have to?” he sighs, dangling the equipment in front of his face.      “If you don’t use them, you’ll be up at the surface more than you are down searching the bottom,” she counters while putting hers on.      “Charming,” Dean grins and hints at the goggles.      “Are you gonna get in the water, or are you afraid to get wet?” Her eyebrow perks up, challenging, before she walks over to the edge and jumps in, coming up again a second later.      The hunter smirks widely, mischief reaching his ears. “Oh no, I’m not afraid. Getting something wet is kinda my specialty.”      Zoë rolls her eyes skyward. “Grow up already and get a move on.”      Grinning, Dean puts his equipment on and glances over his shoulder at his brother for a moment, who can’t help to chortle as soon as he does. Immediately, the older one’s initially gentle gaze turns into an annoyed glare.      “Dude, not funny,” he makes clear.      Sam thinks otherwise. “It’s kind of funny.”      “Let’s see if you still have that smile on your face when you have to burn the smelly swamp kid,” Dean brings to mind.

     With those words he plunges into the water and surfaces next to Zoë. The water feels cold, causing their movements to be slow and heavy. Dean doesn’t like it, never did; he’s out of his element. Zoë on the other hand, seems to feel like a fish in the water. She floats around, the weightlessness more comfortable for her battered body.      “Here, you’ll need this,” Sam tosses them two waterproof flashlights.      Skillfully, they both catch the torches before they sink to the bottom, and Zoë puts her snorkel on her mouth. Sam looks down on them from the dock. He seems worried.      “Be careful, okay? Stay together--”      “Yeah yeah yeah, and be home before five,” Dean intervenes, both dismissing his brother’s concern and reassuring him that it’s going to be fine.      “I’m serious.” He takes a rope out of the duffel as well and throws it in. “Tie yourself together so that you don’t lose each other, this water is turbid.”

     With a sigh, Dean wraps the rope around his waist as Zoë does the same.      Then she glares up at the youngest brother on the wharf again, not amused with the precautions. “Satisfied?”      “I feel bonded already,” Dean comments sarcastically. “Let’s bring her up.”      He bites down on the mouthpiece, takes a deep breath and disappears in the dark waters, followed by the huntress.      Apprehensive, Sam slowly paces up and down the dock while keeping a sharp eye on his surroundings. Everything seems quiet. Lights are on in the several houses which surround the lake, but no one notices them during these dark hours. It feels like ages before his brother and Zoë surface again, but when they do, they’re further away from where they started out. After getting some air they almost instantly go under again, continuing the search. This routine repeats several times, as they comb out the bottom of the lake. Sometimes they are so far off that Sam doesn’t even see them, he just hears the swell of the water in the distance. 

     Impatiently, he tests his lighter as he scans the surface. Then both come up again, but this time they don’t dive under. The sound of splashes carries over the flawless water and soon he sees the two figures swimming towards the dock, dragging something behind them.      “One smelly swamp kid coming right up,” Dean comments, after he removes the snorkel from his mouth.

     Sam is relieved to see that Laura’s remains are still packed in the black body bag. Gracefully, Zoë lifts herself out of the water and sits on the edge of the dock, facing Dean, who’s still in the water. With a sigh she removes her goggles and snorkels as the water runs down her face. Long lashes cling together, her brown hair stuck to her skin as droplets down from her nose and lips. A little out of breath, her chest heaves, the black tank top airtight against her slender body. Even though her cheek is blue, now that her make-up has washed off, she still looks smoking hot and Dean can’t help to notice that.      “What?” she comments when she picks up on the ogling.      “Nothin’,” he recovers quickly. “Let’s fire it up, I thought you were in a hurry.”      “Pass me the bag.” She reaches out, beckoning him to hand over Laura.

     Dean swims to the wharf and grabs the edge while he holds up the heavy body bag, which Zoë pulls ashore. Even through the fabric, they can smell death. She gets up as Sam helps her drag Laura’s body further on the dock, as Dean hoists himself on the dry surface. He slowly approaches them, walking like a bow legged cat who just got home after a heavy rainstorm, while the look on his face can be compared to one of a baby who just ate a slice of lemon.      “You’re so dramatic, know that?” Zoë scoffs.      “What can I say. I adjust to my company,” he bites back.

     Sam shakes his head and doesn’t bother to comment; those two won’t ever stop. He unscrews the cap of the jerry can when suddenly the geese, who were fast asleep on their nests a minute ago, fly up as they honk a warning. The warm night turns cold in a matter of seconds, noticeably dropping several degrees. Dean is confound when he notices his humid breath lingering in the air visibly; Laura is here.

     Alert, he scans the area and then turns to Sam. “Step to it.”      Just as Sam is about to pour the gasoline over the body bag, the jerry can flings from his hand. It flies through the air and lands in the water, several yards from the dock and drifts there, the fluid spreading oil rings on the surface.      “What the hell?” he stammers.      Quickly, Zoë looks over at Dean, but it’s something in the water behind him that catches her attention. Two hauntingly dark eyes stare straight into hers, just over the edge of the dock, right behind where the hunter is standing.

     “Dean, WATCH OUT!” she shouts.

     But it’s too late. As soon as Zoë lets out those words, a pale child’s hand grabs Dean’s ankle and pulls with a strength that wouldn’t be possible even if she was still human. With a loud bang he slams on the dock face first. Staggered by the ambush, he does his best to get a grip on the planks.      “Son of a bitch!” he curses, fighting the strong pull.      “Dean!” Sam hollers.

     Instinctively, Sam rushes towards his brother as Zoë tightens the rope that still connects her to Dean. Deep down she realizes she can’t outdo the spirit’s powers, but she has to try. As fast as she can she tries to reinforce herself by wrapping the rope around an iron bollard, which is normally used to tie boats to.

     In the meantime, Sam reaches the end of the dock and skids across the slippery wood towards his brother. Desperately, the youngest Winchester grabs both his arms, locking his big hand around them. The oldest peers into Sam's eyes as he grinds his teeth, using every bit of strength he possesses to hold on.      “Don’t let go,” Sam presses as he tries to pull his brother out of the water.          “Outstanding advice, Sammy!” Dean comments, frustrated.      The incredible force that’s trying to haul him under the surface seems to build, and it feels like it’s about to dislocate every joint in his leg. Sam’s grip slips from Dean’s lower arm to his wrist and it only takes seconds before all that the hunter is hanging from is Sam’s fingertips. Unlike others in this situation, Dean doesn’t seem scared whatsoever. His piercing green eyes focus on his brother, before he lets go.

     “Burn her,” he tells him bravely.      It’s the last thing Dean can say before he slips from Sam’s hold completely and is dragged into the depths of Reynolds Park Lake.      “Dean!!!” Sam exclaims, struck by terror.

     The rope still connected to Zoë unwinds rapidly, one end shoots down after Dean. For a very short second of time Zoë stares at the bundle, and realizes that he’s going to drag her right down with him.      “Fuck,” she curses.

     Then the rope tightens and with one single blow the bollard is ripped from the dock. Both the bollard and Zoë slide across the wooden planks, pulled towards the edge at tremendous speed. Zoë has to act fast to save herself and draws a knife from her belt. In one quick streak she cuts herself loose and comes to a stop right before the end of the dock. There’s not much time to be relieved, though, because Sam is about to dive in after his brother.      “Sam, don’t!” she warns.      “Burn Laura!” he orders.

     Staggered, she watches him disappear into the dark abyss, then snaps her head to the side to the jerry can, floating on the surface. She needs to find gas, right now. As fast as she can she gets up and makes a run for land, adrenaline pushing down the pain that her broken ribs would have normally sent through her body. Her footsteps bounce off the water under the landing until she reaches solid ground, making a break for the Impala. Frustrated, she tries to open the trunk, but the man who is currently drowning locked it. Stupid son of a bitch! She glances back at the wharf, spotting Dean’s leather jacket, assuming the keys to the Impala are in his pocket. But running back would cost her a valuable minute, a minute she doesn’t have.      “Fuck, fuck, FUCK!” she curses, looking around her for something to open the trunk with.

     Then she spots a shovel, leaning against the boathouse. She bolts to the tool, grabs it, and heads back to the Impala. Forcefully, she jams the shovel right between the small opening where the lock is positioned. With one skillful twist she turns the iron plate and the lid breaks open. Dead or alive, he’s gonna haunt me for this, Zoë realizes as she searches the trunk.

     It contains an entire arsenal of weaponry, enough for a small army, but she has to dig deep until she finally finds a jerrycan. As fast as her legs can carry her, she heads back for Laura’s remains on the dock and pours the gasoline and salt over the body bag. As a last ingredient to the ritual she hurriedly picks up her leather jacket, takes out her zippo, flips it and throws it on the remains. Within moments the canvas catches fire, and so does the body inside.

     Out of breath, she watches the rustling flames for a second, then turns around in time to watch a pulse coming from the depths of the lake to ripple the surface, pressure hitting her eardrums. The temperature noticeably rises again, the bad vibes passing; she knows Laura has moved on now. The silence remains eerie, however. All she hears is her own respiration, the thumping of her heart, and the water dripping onto the wood.

     Anxiously, she scans the calm surface, waiting for a sign of life from either one of the boys. Splashing of water has her snap her head in the direction of the sound, but it’s only Sam who surfaces, taking a deep breath before he submerges again. For the first time in quite a while a deep fear comes to her; is it too late?

     Not wasting another second, she takes two determined steps towards the edge of the dock, launches herself off and dives into the treacherous waters. The cool reservoir swallows her whole, darkness engulfing the huntress. With steady strokes she navigates to the bottom, unable to see, but trying to find Dean by touch. After a minute and a half she comes up for air, frantically looking around over the mirror of the sky. She’s about to go under again, when Sam breaks through the surface, and thankfully, he’s not alone. But when Zoë notices the lifeless body in his brother’s hold, her own breath is stolen away from her. Sam gasps for air, but Dean doesn’t.      “Zo!” The younger Winchester desperately calls out, very much aware that his brother is unconscious, and quite possibly even worse.

     She swims back to the dock, hastily climbing the ladder, and reaching for Dean when Sam brings him to the landing. After hooking her arms under Dean’s, she tries to pull him out of the lake with all the strength that she has, but water has added to the weight of the brawny hunter’s clothing, and Sam still needs to assist.      “Is he breathing?” he asks, petrified for the answer, while he hoists himself out of the water.      Zoë has laid Dean down on his back, her hand on his chest, waiting for it to rise while hovering over him, listening for a breath. Then she shakes her head. “He’s not.”

     Every second counts now, and the instincts of the former med student kick into gear. She tilts his head back, opening his airway, pinches Dean’s nose shut and seals her mouth over his, giving him four breaths. When he doesn’t breathe on his own, Zoë then places the heel of her left hand over the center of his chest and covers it with her other, lacing her fingers together, before she positions herself above him. With her arms straight and shoulders directly over her hands, she starts chest compressions.

     “Oh my God…” Sam stammers helplessly, unnoticeable tears brimming in his eyes and joining the drops of water that come down from his brown hair.      “Sam, listen to me,” Zoë says, strictly, not stopping the CPR. “Get my phone, it’s in my jacket. Call 9-1-1 and go to the boy scouts,” she nods at the camping facility across the lake. “They will probably have an AED there. Go!”      The younger Winchester springs into action, pulling the Nokia from the pocket of the Harley Davidson jacket left on the docks next to the burning remains, before he dashes to land.

     Zoë returns her focus to his brother, who remains unresponsive, despite the first aid. Her knees are painfully bruising against the hard wooden surface as she uses her entire body weight, her ribs and abdomen aching every time she pushes his chest hard and fast. Keeping a steady hundred beats a minute pace, she counts, making sure to allow his chest to rise completely before she follows through with another one. Wishing she hadn’t, Zoë glances at the young man’s handsome face, his expression slack, skin pale, and green eyes hooded.      “C’mon, Dean. Not on my fucking case,” she mumbles, more to herself than to him.

     After thirty compressions, Zoë pauses her actions and gives him air again, two breaths this time. She knows that even though time is limited, as long as she keeps the blood flow going, he might still have a chance. The huntress continues to give him CPR, but when she has pressed down on his chest again, something happens. He stirs only slightly, water spilling from his mouth. For a second Zoë thinks he’s gasping, a spasm reaction of the body in its final fight to live, but when she quickly turns Dean on his side, more liquid begins to flow out of his lungs, followed by a weak gurgle. After putting him in recovery position, she takes his wrist and feels for a pulse. A thready thump beats against her fingertips and she exhales relieved; he’s alive.

     Water runs down his cheek, and with every amount he throws up, he has more room to breathe. Her grip leaves his wrist and slides into his palm.      “Squeeze my hand if you can hear me,” she says, her request answered by him with a slight increase of strength on their hold.      Somewhat at ease now that Dean is conscious, she rights herself, spotting the younger Winchester running up the street towards the boy scout cabins, phone to his ear.      “Sam!” she calls out, catching his attention.

     The younger Winchester stops dead in his tracks, listening to the steady tone coming from Zoë’s Nokia, telling him he’s being put through to the dispatch emergency center. When he detects movement on the dock, his brother now rolled over on his side, he dares to hope that Dean came to, but it’s only when their hunting partner confirms it, that he lets out a shuddering breath and lowers the phone.      “I got him back,” she states, beckoning Sam to return. “He’s okay.”

     Meanwhile, Dean begins to cough, fighting to get the water out and air back in.      “That’s it, clear your lungs,” Zoë encourages, rubbing his back comfortingly. “Spit it out. You’re alright.”      Motivating him helps, because he hacks violently now that he regains his strength, throwing up more water than one could ever imagine. Thankfully, this isn’t the first drowning the former med student has experienced. She spent most of her life by the beach back home in California, where swimmers and surfers would get in trouble all the time.

     After Dean settles, she reaches for her jacket and folds it into a ball, carefully lifting his head and placing the clothing under his head to serve as a pillow.      “Show off,” Zoë jokes, lightening the mood. “You just had to hold your breath longer than I did, didn’t you?”      “Shut up,” he returns, his voice raspy and barely audible, a hint of a smile pulling at the corner of his mouth.      She rubs his shoulder, monitoring him while giving the hunter who was inches from death the time to catch his breath. Her hand slips to his neck, checking his pulse again; it’s a lot stronger now.

     “Dean?” Sam runs up the landing, his last steps slowing before he reaches them. “You okay, man?”      Zoë’s patient nods, giving him a thumbs up. “Aces.”      His brother crouches down, a concerned frown knitted between his eyebrows. “Dude, you scared the shit out of me.”      “What took you guys so long?” Dean replies hoarse, the words triggering another coughing fit.

     The huntress scoffs. Typical, he was well on his way to the afterlife only moments ago, and he’s already smart-talking them. “Hey, I went through a lot of trouble to get fuel to fire up that little brat. Next time, don’t lock up your car, moron.”        He grins with his eyes closed, but then tries to sit up.      “Whoa whoa, stay down, Dean. For fuck’s sake, take a minute,” Zoë orders sternly, gently pushing him back into recovery position.

     Reluctantly, Dean listens, laying his head back on the makeshift pillow. His breathing is still fast and shallow, his body quivering, fighting off the cold. Zoë knows his core temperature has dropped during his near death experience. It’s unethical, but Zoë is glad that Laura’s remains are still burning, offering him some warmth at least.  Dean might be breathing again, but he’s not out of the woods just yet.

     “Give me his coat,” Zoë tells Sam, nodding at the heap of leather that lays on the dock a few feet away from them.      Without question, the younger brother rises to his feet and picks up what used to be his father’s jacket, and hands it to the huntress. She lays it over the man who it belongs to now.      “Do I still need to call that ambulance?” Sam wonders, worriedly glancing down at the two.      “Wouldn’t be a luxury,” Zoë admits.      “No,” Dean objects, his eyes a lot less hazy than they were a minute ago. “C’mon, guys. I’m fine.”      “You need to get yourself looked after, dumbshit,” she bounces back, not impressed with the tough guy attitude.      Sam agrees with their female colleague. “You almost died, Dean.”      “I’m gonna correct you here.” She turns from the younger sibling to the older one. “You didn’t almost die. You were clinically dead for a good minute.”      “I’m not going. If you wanna give me a check up, fine. But we have a case in Texas and I can’t afford to be admitted in a hospital,” the hunter decides, hard-headed, carefully sitting up again.

     His brother sighs, while Zoë sits back on her heels and shakes her head, gazing into the distance. Stubborn asshole, she thinks to herself, but agrees to his terms nonetheless. She has a couple of hours left on the clock anyway, and although she doesn’t have the equipment or the knowledge of an actual doctor, it’s better than sending him off without any form of evaluation.      “Fine. But we need to get you back to the hotel. Staying here in those wet clothes is only gonna bring down your temperature further,” the huntress compromises. “Sam? Can you start the car and crank up the heat?”

     The youngest Winchester nods, but reaches out and helps Dean on his feet first. A little unsteady, Dean steps forward, testing his legs. He puts on his leather jacket and hands his brother the keys that he digs up from his pocket. Not even asking if he needs a hand, Zoë wraps her arm around his back and pulls his over her shoulder, letting him lean on her might he need to.      “You good?” she checks.      “Yeah.” He nods, even though the drowsiness in his speech and his movements give him away.

     Before they make their way down the wharf, they halt by the fire. Flames flicker in their eyes and shimmer an orange glow on their features.      “Rest in peace, Laura Shire,” Zoë comments with a soft voice.

     Although the little girl tried to kill them, the huntress never felt that the ten year old was truly evil. All she became, was an angry and frustrated spirit, fighting for the truth to come out, longing for rest and redemption. It’s strange how this case wasn’t just about the good and the bad. It wasn’t black and white, it was one grey mess. What Ronald Shire did was wrong, what everyone involved didn’t do was wrong, but did they deserve to die for it? Some may think that they got what they deserved, others might think differently. Zoë's certain about one thing though; Laura was just a victim of her own environment. The child was right when she spoke to her this afternoon; she knows what that feels like. And unlike the poltergeist they put down today, those memories will haunt Zoë for the rest of her life.

Thank you for reading. I appreciate every single one of you, but if you do want to give me some extra love, you are free to like or reblog my work, shoot me a message or buy me coffee (Link to Kofi in bio at the top of the page). 

Read chapter fifteen here

[korporxie]

Prompt 2: Sway

For Elowyn, it felt like the whole world had blossomed vividly into color all over again. 

After being on board the Forte, the idea of going home was more unappealing than it ever had been. She had been so close to the stars in the airship - close enough, on some nights, that it felt like she could reach out and touch them. They glistened silver, flickered blue, shimmered gold, without a sliver of polluted light to diminish their glow. Gabe needed to sleep at night to be up early to help with the ship, but Elowyn would stay up, either curled up on his chest and watching the sky through the porthole, or going above deck to simply watch it all in awe with a blanket around her shoulders.

And the Sea of Clouds had been... indescribable. It looked like her train of thought did, with all of its strange flora and fauna and crystals littered across the isles. For the first time in a long time, her soul had felt truly at peace. 

All good things, though, must come to an end.

The return to Dravania was inevitable. She had to go see her parents and check up on them. Jareck needed to go back and trade his goods with the locals. And so it was with a heavy heart that Elowyn kissed Gabe goodbye - just for a little while, with the promise to call him each night, to be back soon. 

He didn’t say aloud that he would miss her, but the way his arms lingered around her, and the way he ran his fingers through her ringlets, the way his lips pressed against hers... Well. It told her everything that she would need to know. 

“Call me if y’need me, ma petite,” Gabe murmured, and Elowyn smiled before Jareck called her away. Her eyes lingered on Gabe’s of meadow and of sea before, finally, relenting, and following after her uncle. 

Thankfully, the trip back to Dravania was quick, with Gabe not around to chide her for aether travel - even if her head was spinning once her and Jareck’s feet hit the path leading up to the old house secluded in the forest. A wild chocobo eyed them as Elowyn got her bearings before letting out a ‘kweh!’ and meandering on its way, yellow feathers ruffled up. 

Elowyn eyed up the old mansion as they walked the wooded path to it, trees heavy with foliage hanging overhead. The scent of sweet flowers drifted through the air, with the slight bite of cold around them promising that autumn was just around the corner. It was a peaceful place, Elowyn thought. She could hear the babbling brook, could see the gardens she had tended to so carefully as they crested the hill, watching as servants dipped in and out from the back entryway leading into the kitchens. 

Chickens and geese and ducks trotted around as they were fed by the hand of a young, pretty Elezen girl, who beamed when she saw Elowyn. The young Miqo’te had to wonder why her parents hired more staff once she went adventuring, really. They never had a particular need for extra hands before, save for a couple of maids and a cook and a groundskeeper. Why begin with all this fanfare now? 

Gabe would find it all absurd. 

“I’ll take your bag up to your room, Elo-child, if you like,” Jareck said, shaking Elowyn out of her thoughts. “Go take a warm bath. You are still pale.” 

“Ah... Yes. Yes, right. Thank you, uncle,” she replied, smiling up at him, and he smiled back, gently ruffling up her hair. 

“Elowyn!” a voice called from the heavy oak doors - adorned with stained glass and handsome, dragon head iron knockers. Elowyn glanced upwards as her fluffy ears twitched, and she found herself smiling again when she noted that it was her mother waiting in the door, wearing a gown of deepest blue. Her reading spectacles were low upon her nose until she removed them, letting them dangle from around her neck on a thin silver chain.

Gwyneth did not smile back, however. Jareck frowned at the way the woman’s jaw ticked as her daughter ran towards her, still dressed in a pinafore that was covered in soil, her braids wild and untamed, looking...

Looking more a farm girl than the daughter of a wealthy Sharlayan scholar. 

“Mother, it’s good to see you!” Elowyn said brightly, Jareck still watching silently from behind her as he approached. The younger woman’s arms were outstretched to Gwyneth, as if she had forgotten that the woman didn’t hug.

That she never embraced.

No, Elo-child, Jareck thought to himself. You are thinking of Gabriel’s mother.

“Mm,” Gwyneth noised, eyeing up her child with her lips pressed into a thin, disapproving line. “Come in. And wash your hands. I must needs speak with you. It’s a matter of some urgency.”

Elowyn’s arms lowered to her side, her smile wavering for just a moment before she bobbed her head in confirmation. Jareck glared at Gwyneth as her daughter took off running to wash herself up, and Gwyneth only cast him a withering sort of glare before turning.

“If you two are going to return to my home looking so unkempt, then it is only right that you begin to use the servants’ entrance to come inside,” she said coldly, barely even glancing over her shoulder, before whisking off down the long hallway - and letting the doors get shut on Jareck, her husband’s most beloved and oldest friend. 

---

Swirling, wooden staircases and glass ceilings, marble hallways, greenhouses blossoming with life that wouldn’t otherwise be sustained in Dravania, stables with the finest black chocobo money could buy, and a library that rivaled some in major cities, a ballroom waiting to be filled, tapestries of the best silks and endless places to hide and to study...

The Nollett home was like something out of a fairytale book, including the spiral tower that housed the only child, with every creature comfort she could ask for to keep her content and complacent. 

Every creature, however, will grow restless in captivity, sooner or later. Gwyneth chided herself for not realizing as much sooner. Her daughter was obedient, but even an obedient pet can grow rebellious if it falls out of step with its training - if it’s taught something else, encouraged to no longer listen to its master. 

Gwyneth watched out the window as a slow drizzle began, sipping from her cup of tea. Her husband was away on business, to Ishgard, though he hadn’t bothered to meet Elowyn while she had been there. Gwyneth felt a tic in her jaw as she recalled what the hunter who had arrived to her home in muddy shoes had told her, a quiver of arrows hanging over his shoulder.

Elowyn, and an Elezen man with a limp, and a Temple Knight that had sent her running off into the night after her handicapped friend. 

“Mother!” 

Gwyneth didn’t look up when she heard the breathless call of her child. Still slow, she simply took another sip of her cup before slowly placing it upon the table with its saucer. Elowyn watched her with wide eyes and reddened cheeks from her haste, changed into a clean dress, her hair loose save for two thick locks smoothed back into a braid behind her head.

“How long have you been getting courted, Elowyn, without telling your parents?” Gwyneth asked softly, without much pause, and Elowyn blinked those silver eyes at her in surprise. 

The girl never could lie. 

“I’m sorry, I don’t--”

“Do not play dumb, Elowyn. It suits you too well.”

Gwyneth rose from her chair, midnight blue skirts rustling behind her as she rounded the couch her daughter was standing behind. Elowyn watched her with parted lips, like a deer caught in the lantern lights of a wagon. 

“How did you find out?” Elowyn asked, her voice tiny, and Gwyneth resisted the urge to lift a hand and smack her across the cheek for admitting so readily to it - and for being so disgustingly meek over it, too. Instead, the older Miqo’te took a breath, staring her daughter down.

“A young hunter came to speak to you about it while you were away, but alas. I was forced to have such a conversation without my own flesh and blood alerting me to the fact that she had found herself a beau,” Gwyneth said, smiling, as she rested her hands lightly on the back of the couch. “A young Elezen gentleman, I was told? Of Ishgard? May I ask to which family he belongs, Elowyn?” 

Elowyn swallowed a sudden lump in her throat, reaching a hand up to touch the locket that was hanging around her neck. Her mother’s eyes drifted to it, an eyebrow raising, before she looked back to her daughter’s face. 

“Of... Coerthas... ma’am,” she said, softly, not quite making eye contact. “Not of Ishgard. And of... the Beaumont family.”

“The Beaumont family...” Gwyneth clicked her tongue and hummed. “The cousins of the Durendaires? Distant as they may be, but I know the father has quite the reputation as a rather zealous minister of Halone.” 

“...No, ma’am. I am... unaware if there is any relation to any of the High Houses, minor or otherwise. They were driven to Ishgard after the Calamity,” Elowyn continued, glancing down at her feet briefly. 

A hunter? The only hunter who has seen me with Gabe was Alec. Why was he coming looking for me? What does he want? And why would he tell my mother any of this at all--?

“I see,” Gwyneth mused softly. “But pray tell, child - what is it they did before the Calamity? What is it that they do now? I should like to invite your beau over, but one must know what to expect and how to cater. If they are not of the High Houses of Ishgard, perhaps someone else of high rank...?”

Mother, why are you doing this?

Elowyn swallowed again, and she mustered up all the spine in her steel that she could in order to meet the woman’s cold and piercing eyes. Of course she hadn’t been met at the door because Gwyneth was happy to see her. Of course. There was another reason. Alec had let the cat out of the bag - and, Elowyn assumed, had made it clear that Gabriel Beaumont was not a man of wealth, of power, or of influence... But why?

“They were farmers,” Elowyn replied, her tone steady - much steadier than she thought it would be. “And now, the mother works as a seamstress, and the eldest girls as servants to High Houses. My... beau... picks up odd jobs. He was contracted under me to assist me in dungeon diving.”

A sky pirate. The most beautiful, wonderful sky pirate. He doesn’t have much money, but he loves me and respects me. His family is poor, but they love me, too. They treat me like one of them. They mean the world to me, is what she wanted to say, but... It didn’t seem like quite the time for it.

“And the father?”

The deck is creaking overhead. The room is filled with laughter and music and the scent of spilled booze. Arnaut Beaumont spun her around the room as their laughter joined everyone else’s, with his scarred face and light feet and mind that was not always his own. 

No. Not Arnaut Beaumont. The Capitaine. 

“Dead,” Elowyn said, meeting her mother’s eyes directly and hoping that her face wouldn’t betray that she was lying, just this once.

Gwyneth let a silence settle in the air between them, heavy and pregnant. Elowyn tried to keep her head lifted, her jaw set, but... She wasn’t a fighter. She did not know how to cut someone with her words, much less her own mother - her own mother, who had words as her weapon of choice. Elowyn didn’t push back. She was soft. She didn’t angry.

But if she was going to get angry because of anyone... Well. It was, and always had been, because of Gabriel Beaumont. 

“I suppose every girl must have her flights of fancy. I was not immune to the charms of men of lesser classes than me,” Gwyneth murmured, finally. “But this will not go on for much longer, Elowyn. You will end things with this young man soon. You serve only to set yourself up for heart break. Men like him want someone they can relate to, and you don’t quite live up to that, do you, our dear little princess?” 

She said it so sweetly that one could easily believe she was simply being a doting mother, and gods, how Elowyn wanted it to be true.

“I anticipate you’ll be going back to Ishgard to see him and his brood again soon,” Gwyneth continued, while Elowyn felt that unfamilair heat rising on the back of her neck, in the pit of her stomach. Her mother stepped around her, adjusting the chronometer on her wrist and looking at the time as she spoke.

“End it with him before you return home. If you’re ready for romantic ventures, then your father and I will find you someone more suitable than a young man who takes... odd jobs.”

“No.”

The word fell from Elowyn’s lips fast and hard, and even she was surprised at her tone. Gwyneth stopped in her journey towards the door leading out of the sitting room that Elowyn had been called to, raising a brow, before slowly turning back around to face her daughter. Her expression had changed into something amused, albeit annoyed, into... cold and angry. 

“I beg your pardon?”

“I said no, Mother,” Elowyn said, swallowing, willing her voice not to shake. “No, I will not be ending anything with him. I love him, and he loves me, and--”

“If you believe that a man who has come from nothing could truly love a young woman like yourself, with no ulterior motives, then you are even more of a fool than I thought you to be.” Gwyneth’s voice was like a knife, slicing harshly through the air as she stared at her daughter. “You think he has no interest at all in your fortune, child? He loves you? Don’t be absurd. He has no father, and it sounds as though he has quite the family to feed. Of course he’ll tell you that he loves you. Do not be so naive.” 

“Mother, it isn’t like that,” Elowyn insisted, stepping closer, surprised at how strong her own voice was, how her hands weren’t shaking. “It isn’t like that at all. You have to understand-- I will not be swayed from him--”

“Then when your stomach is swollen and heavy with a bastard, and he has made off with your finery and your pretty things to sell... Don’t dare come to this house, crying. Stay in the gutter he leaves you in,” Gwyneth says softly, leaning in towards Elowyn. “You will not have any help awaiting you here.” 

Leaning back, Gwyneth sniffed before turning and fully exiting the room. Elowyn watched her retreating back before buckling over the couch, not realizing just how much she had been holding her breath until she was able to properly exhale - not realizing just how angry she was until she was in that ornate room alone with it consuming her. 

[meangirlsx]

Stupid With Love

Pairing: Cady Heron x reader Word count: 1947 Warning(s): None Request: “Would you mind doing a Lydia x Reader (or Cady x Reader if you still write for Mean Girls) during the holidays? Christmas perhaps? Also, happy October 3rd!” and “This isnt technically holiday themed but, could you do Cady x reader with Cady seeing and playing in the snow for the first time?” Note: Here is a Cady piece in honor of Erika’s final day.

——

You and Cady hadn’t known each other that long. She was new to school, and school had only started a few months ago. But you were close with Janis and Damian, so when they befriended her, so did you.

You spent some time together when all four of you hung out. But after a couple weeks, she’d started asking to hang out just the two of you, too. So you’d gotten pretty close over the last few months.

And you had been crushing on her pretty much the entire time, but you hadn’t told anyone. Not that you really needed to. Janis and Damian figured it out in about three days and always found a reason to bring it up when it was just the three of you. They always encouraged you and got excited every time you and Cady hung out alone.

The closer the holidays got, the more excited they got. So when you invited Cady over on the first weekend in December, your group chat with Janis and Damian was blowing up.

You did your best to ignore it while you and Cady talked. You forgot all about your texts coming in when you saw her run to the living room window

“Is that snow?” she asked, her voice full of enthusiasm.

You followed her to the window and saw that the first snow of the year was, in fact, falling.

“It is! Is this your first snow?”

“It definitely is. It’s even prettier than I imagined.” Then she turned to face you. “Can we go outside?”

“Of course we can!”

Without another thought, she was racing for the door.

“Cady!” you called and grabbed her arm quickly.

“What?”

“Don’t you want to put your coat on?”

She laughed lightly. “Oh. Yeah.”

Her parents had made sure they bought winter attire when they moved. But as you got dressed up to go out into the snow, you noticed that Cady only had her coat and boots.

“Cady, did you bring a hat or gloves or anything?”

“No. I didn’t expect it to snow.”

“No problem! You can borrow some of mine. We have plenty of extras.”

You brought out the box your family kept of gloves, mittens, hats, headbands, and scarves. She picked out a pair of mittens, a hat, and a scarf.

You opened the door and watched as the look on her face turned to awe. She was bounding into the snow with a grin before you could blink.

“It’s so soft!” Cady shouted.

“This is the good kind of snow. We call it packing snow. It’s softer and easier to play with. For example…” You picked up a handful of snow and balled it up.

Cady’s eyes lit up. “Snowballs!” She immediately started making one, too, then backed up and stared at you. “Wait. Isn’t this supposed to turn into a fight?”

You couldn’t help but smile at that. “It doesn’t have to.”

She seemed to think about it for a moment, and then her snowball was flying through the air. You continued to throw snowballs at each other until you heard geese honking overhead.

Cady gasped and looked up at the sky with wide eyes. She watched silently for a moment before throwing herself backwards into the snow. You laughed as you joined her.

“They’re so beautiful,” she said. “My mom and I used to play this game, back in Kenya. We would close our eyes and name all the birds we could hear. We don’t do that now, but moments like these…I don’t know. It sort of feels like a piece of home.”

“That’s so sweet.” You looked at her.

She looked back at you, then down at her hands with your mittens. “Thank you for letting me borrow these. My hands would be so cold right now if you hadn’t.”

“Of course. It’s really no problem.”

“Oh! But we need to take a picture!” She removed one glove and dug her phone out of her pocket.

You moved closer for the picture, and Cady leaned against you. As she took a few photos, you noticed just how happy she looked.

To you, it was a normal day at the start of winter. It wasn’t terribly cold, but you were definitely starting to feel it. The sun only peeked out from behind the clouds on occasion. Even the geese were a normal occurence to you.

But it was all new to Cady, and she loved every second of it. Especially the geese.

“We should go inside,” you said, standing and holding your hand out to help her up. “We can make hot chocolate, if you want.”

“Oh!” Cady grabbed your hands. “That reminds me! Can we go to Starbucks sometime? I’ve always wanted to try their Venti Chai.”

“Of course! Do you want to go now?”

“Not really.” She smiled at you. “Hot chocolate sounds perfect.”

So you spent the rest of the day talking, watching movies, and drinking hot chocolate.

On Monday, you got up early so you could stop at Starbucks before school. You wouldn’t have minded being able to sleep later, but Cady was more than worth it.

When you arrived at school, you found her at her locker. She smiled when she saw you, then got confused when you held a coffee cup out to her.

“You said you wanted to try a Venti Chai, right?” you asked.

She made a sound that was a mix between a squeal and a gasp and threw her arms around you. You did your best to hug her back while holding two cups and trying not to spill.

“That’s so sweet of you!” she said, taking her cup from you. “Thank you!”

“Just be careful. It’s hot.”

“How much do I owe you?”

You shook your head. “Nothing. It’s on me.”

“What’s on you?” Janis’s voice came from behind you.

You turned to see her and Damian joining the group.

“Is that fancy coffee?” Damian asked. “At this hour? Someone loves you.”

Cady bounced on her toes and smiled. “It’s a Venti Chai from Starbucks. Y/N got it for me.”

“You’ve been wanting to try that,” Janis said and sent a small smirk in your direction. “That’s so nice.”

“That is so thoughtful,” Damian added, leaning against Janis and emphasizing every word.

“Isn’t it?” Cady said. “I should get to class. But thank you. Seriously.” She gave you a kiss on the cheek and headed down the hall.

You stood there frozen for a second.

You couldn’t quite make out what they were saying, but Janis and Damian were anything but calm.

In your second class of the morning, the candy cane grams began, with Damian in a Santa suit. He handed you one with a wink before handing out the others.

You opened the little note addressed to you.

Thank you for the Venti Chai! I loved it! We should get more sometime. Maybe this weekend? xoxo, Cady

You smiled up at Damian before he left the room, and he smiled back. Before your teacher could finish calming everyone back down, you pulled out your phone and sent a text to Cady.

Friday after school? Homework and Chais?

She texted back almost immediately. It’s a date!

The words It’s a date echoed through your head until lunch, where you found Janis and Damian and thankfully not Cady, yet.

You showed them Cady’s note and text.

“Is it a date?” you asked.

Damian scrunched up his face. “Oh, that might be my bad. I just taught her that expression and she loved it. So I think we could take it either way.”

Cady began walking over, so you didn’t have time to say anything else.

You tried not to think about it too much before Friday. You didn’t want to assume and get your hopes up if it wasn’t going to be a date, but you didn’t want to ask and embarrass yourself if it wasn’t, either. The closer it got to Friday, the more Janis and Damian insisted they thought it was a date, but you were pretty sure they were just trying to be supportive. So you figured you would follow Cady’s lead and see how things went.

Things had seemed pretty normal all week leading up to it, and even on your way to Starbucks after school on Friday.

You found a table and began to take out your homework.

“Um…” Cady said quietly.

You looked up and noticed that she suddenly looked nervous. “Are you okay? Is something wrong?”

You tried to ignore the thought in the back of your head saying that it was supposed to be a date and she was starting to regret that.

“I’m fine,” she said, and smiled, easing your tension. “I just wanted to give you this before we start.” She reached into her backpack and pulled out a small canvas painting that seemed to be one of Janis’s.

You took it and turned it over. It was the two of you in the picture she’d taken outside the previous weekend.

“I had Janis paint it. Two, actually. One for you and one for me. It just felt like such a special moment. And I felt bad so I wanted to try again.”

You looked up at her. “What do you mean?”

“Last Saturday, I felt like we maybe...connected...more? And I got really excited about that. And when you brought me the Chai, I thought maybe you really did like me back. So I wanted to send you something cute in the candy cane gram to ask you out, but I got scared and I tried to be cool and casual because I realized maybe I should be asking you in person and I ended up sending you something totally unclear and I just... “ She gestured to the painting in your hands. “This is us. This is going to be one of my favorite memories ever, and one of my favorite memories of us. I want to remember that as some sort of start for us. Not me getting scared and trying to backtrack.”

Your could feel your heart racing. “You don’t have to feel bad about anything.” You looked down at the painting, then back up at her. “So you did mean for this to be a date?”

She nodded. “I wanted it to be. But I’ve never really done this before and I really like you and I don’t want to mess it up.”

“I really like you, too. And I don’t want to mess it up, either. I was scared to ask you if this was supposed to be a date because I didn’t want to make you feel bad or make things awkward or embarrass myself if it wasn’t supposed to be one.”

“So we were both too nervous to be honest?”

You nodded. “I don’t think we’re messing anything up. We’re just...really nervous.”

Cady smiled and seemed to relax. “So, this is a date then?”

You leaned in closer to her. “Are we totally lame if we do homework together as our first date?”

“Maybe,” she laughed. “But that seems pretty us.”

“It kind of does, doesn’t it?” You laughed, too.

“I’ll get the Chais?” Cady said as she stood.

You reached for your wallet, but she waved her hand at you.

“No, no. Let me.” She gave you one more smile before heading toward the counter.

You watched her for a moment, then pulled out your phone to text Janis and Damian.

You knew?!

Damian replied first. To be fair, I didn’t know until this morning when Janis gave Cady the painting.

Then Janis. Enjoy your first daaaaate!

——

Tag list: @reader-ships, @anxiousankylosaurus, @msmith74, @broadwaymusicaltrash, @you-thinks-wrong-romeo, @theatricalwriter, @be-more-heidi-hansen, @peachy-jolly, @g1ngersp1ce, @trumancheerleadermaui, @dancewyou, @percabeth15, @coral-cat-iris, @madameboxhead, @elaineygrace, @theolwebshooter, @dontgotothenetherworld

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[he-is-mine-i-am-his-blog]

Wild geese 3/18

Fandom: Painter of the Night

Pairing: Baek Nakyum/Yoon Seungho

Ratings: M

Word count: ~1800 words

Story summary: When Nakyum enters an arranged marriage with Lord Seungho, he does expect to find himself in a situation where he does, fighting for his life. ***An arranged marriage AU, set in the Joseon period like the canon.

Warnings: This story contains graphic depictions of violence. These scenes are not terribly gory, excessive, pointless, and violence is not glorified in anyway. I will not give warnings with specific chapters as not to spoil the plot.

Read below or on AO3.

***

Nakyum wakes up the following morning alone. He dresses in the clothes that a servant must’ve left for him on the dresser the previous night. The clothes are much finer than he is accustomed to wearing, but a lot of things are very different.

When one of the household servants comes to inform him that the breakfast is served, he joins others for the meal at the common room in the main house.

It’s a silent affair, only his father making polite discussion with Seungho’s father and brother. Nakyum doesn’t speak much, and his husband is noticeably missing, although no one comments on the fact.

After, he follows his father and mother to the gated entrance of the residence where the servants have already brought their horses and belongings. It has come time for them to leave. His eyes fill with tears when he bids his goodbyes to them, too devastated to see them go, but he knows he can’t cling to them.

Perhaps a few tears fall on his cheeks, as he embraces his father for the last time. He hides his face in the soft fabric of his winter jacket before anyone sees them. When an audible sob escapes from his lips unbidden, his father only holds him tighter.

He follows them outside to the road and watches after them, as they ride off. He stands there for a long time, even after he can barely see them anymore.

Seungho’s personal servant comes to find him there. He lowers his eyes apologetically.

Nakyum feels embarrassed, knowing that it must be obvious, visible from his face how he has shed tears. He is just glad that Seungho is not there to see him like this.

He greets the older man politely.

The servant lifts his eyes, and he says, his voice soft, kind, “I will show you to your room, the one that is your own.”

Nakyum nods and follows after him.

He is given his own private sleeping quarters. The room is near Seungho’s in the same building, but still separate. It’s almost symbolic of his new life here, with his husband.

Nakyum – belongs to Seungho, but he is still to be apart from him, cast aside.

If this is what Seungho wants, Nakyum can only abide by his wishes.

With slight apprehension, Nakyum settles into the room, into his life at the Yoon residence in the days that follow.

He barely sees Seungho, and his father doesn’t engage much with him either during their shared meals. When Seungwon leaves for Hanyang to handle some family matters, Nakyum doesn’t have much company at all. He finds himself rather alone.

Nakyum spends much of his time painting. It’s a dear hobby of his that he has not had much time or opportunities to cultivate in his father’s house. He could not bear the guilt of spending his father’s money on the supplies either, so he could never indulge in it as he can now.

He paints mostly images that remind him of his home. He does sceneries of the creek where he used to go for a swim with the other youngsters, of the fields surrounding the village, of his father’s shop.

When, a week after the wedding, Nakyum finds himself alone once again after the morning meal, he settles down on the floor of his sleeping quarters near the opened windows. He paints for a long time, getting lost in his work. He doesn’t even know how time has passed until a young female servant comes to knock on his door.

“There is lunch in the common room, Sir.”

“Thank you,” Nakyum replies.

He gets up from the cushion on the floor, stretching his back, before he moves to retrieve his outer jacket from the built-in hidden cabinet in the corner of the room.

As Nakyum is getting dressed, the servant asks if she may clean his room while he is away. He nods and flashes a grateful smile at her. Having finished dressing, he promptly makes his leave.

When he steps out of the house, Nakyum sees Seungho’s servant, Mr Kim, passing through the inner courtyard on his way to run whatever errands he may have. The older man doesn’t seem to have noticed him though, so he doesn’t call for him.

He looks up at the grey sky above, and he leaves for the main house.

Nakyum has barely taken a step or two outside before he hears a terrified shriek from the house behind him. He looks back, his eyes widened at the surprise. When he realizes that it must be the young woman cleaning his room, he rushes back inside only to stop at the door, his heart pounding wildly in his chest.

Mr Kim races to his side too.

The young woman is standing in the middle of the room. She is staring at the floor with a look of terror in her eyes.

Nakyum follows her gaze.

“Salmusa,” he hears the old man say before he can even fully realize what he is seeing.

A poisonous snake has slithered from underneath a pillow on the floor, the same that Nakyum sat on while he had been painting only a moment ago. Not just poisonous, but deadly, at least to children, the elderly, and the weak.

Nakyum feels breathless upon the realization.

  ***

  Nakyum lingers in his bed for a long time. He doesn’t wish to start his day. His mind is still twisting and turning around their discovery from a few days ago.

Mr Kim had got rid of the snake, and they had thoroughly checked his sleeping quarters as well as the rest of the house to ensure that there were no more in hiding. They deemed the house safe, and so Nakyum could remain in his room, even if he has trouble sleeping at ease there.

It still bothers him, because – the snake should have not been there. The type of snake they found is usually only seen in wet areas, near rivers, lakes and swamps, but the Yoon residence and the town is far from any of those. Moreover, it’s late into the season, and the weather has already taken a turn for the cold. As he understands, the snake should’ve already found a quiet, peaceful resting place ahead of this winter that is looming ahead of them. It should’ve done it days ago.

Nakyum pushes the thought off his mind, for thinking only raises more questions without answers, for it raises an eerie feeling that he cannot shake off.

He gets up from his bed. He slowly dresses on his own, as he has become accustomed to doing in the careful absence of his personal servant. He combs his hair that is still on the short side, setting him visibly apart from other nobles.

When he is ready, he slips on his thicker jacket and puts on his boots. He has undoubtedly missed breakfast, given the late morning hour. He leaves his room with the plan of heading to the kitchen to see if some of the female servants may be there. Perhaps he could coax them into letting him eat there with them, instead of setting a table for him alone in the common room.

He steps out of the building to a cool late fall day. The ground is covered in light frost, and his exhales pillow into airy white clouds before him.

Before he can get any further, Nakyum sees two figures standing towards the edge of the courtyard, not far from where he is. They are largely hidden from view by the structures of the building. They seem to be engaged in what looks like a private conversation based on their proximity, on their hushed voices.

It is Seungho and one of the young noblemen. Nakyum recognizes him as the man by the name of Jihwa, with whom he had briefly discussed at the wedding.

Nakyum freezes upon seeing them. He can’t move without the fear of being noticed, and he doesn’t want to be seen as intruding upon them. And so, he remains standing where he is.

He does not wish to eavesdrop on their conversation, but then he cannot hear what they are talking about from this distance. He can only see them.

The man, Jihwa, is staring at Seungho with a look of intensity burning in his eyes. His hand is curled into a fist, resting at the center of Seungho’s chest.

Seungho shakes his head at the young lord. Nakyum can’t hear his reply from where he is, as he is talking in a lowered voice. He can’t see his face either, as the man is mostly turned away from him.

Jihwa doesn’t seem satisfied with whatever his friend had said, as is clear from how his expression changes as a result of the words spoken. He tilts his head, as his eyebrows scrunch down. His eyes are relentless on Seungho’s.

“We still can,” Jihwa tries to argue, his voice strong and pressing.

It’s loud enough that Nakyum can just make out the words in the silence. He watches as Seungho leans in closer to the man and murmurs something in response.

“No, you can,” Jihwa says, his face twisting as if he is hurt, betrayed by his friend in some way, “You promised.”

Seungho pulls back, shaking his head, as he replies. It is then that Jihwa loses his temper. His face suddenly distorts in unconcealed anger. He withdraws his hand back before slamming it on Seungho’s chest with a muted thud against the outer robes.

Seungho quickly catches his wrist before Jihwa can hit him again.

“You promised,” Jihwa repeats, more forcefully this time.

Seungho lets go of his hand, and he moves back away from the man in front of him. He tilts his head, and he looks at him. He says something to him, slowly and carefully. His voice is louder, his words sharper. Nakyum can almost make out the words, almost, or at least the tail end of them.

“…-es to you.”

“You don’t decide, I decide,” Jihwa spits out, before he storms off, stalking towards the gated entrance.

Seungho looks after him for a while, before he shakes his head once more. He then shifts on his feet, and he glances over his shoulder. He looks directly to where Nakyum is standing, where he is still frozen at the doorway of the house. It is as if he could sense him being there, as if he knew he was there all along.

Their eyes meet. There is something in Seungho’s eyes, something different, something unnamed. He looks away too soon though, and he walks away too, heading in a different direction than Jihwa had.

[damienthepious]

oh, well, this is unexpected. Not a tuesday offering because... well, it’s not about that. Casey, Sky, & Ria, y’all are. partially responsible for this one. i love you sorry for the angst.

Mirrors Keep Our Reflections

[ao3]

Fandom: The Penumbra Podcast

Relationship: n/a

Characters:  Sir Damien, Sir Damien’s Father, Original Male Character

Additional Tags: Second Citadel, (as usual i do not know how to tag), Damien's family, (i am mildly unpacking damien's father), (also i have given the boy a sibling), (whom i love now), (and... whooops.... uh), Implied/Referenced Character Death, (at least twice over actually), Loss of Parent(s), Family Dynamics, Siblings, Grief/Mourning, Angst

Summary: If there had been a third child, he would have been named Ferdinand.

Notes: Whoops. Context: there's a patreon bonus guide to the second citadel thing that talks about names and naming in the 'verse, and apparently it is very common for children to pick a new name for themselves. Combine this with certain headcanons I have about Damien's family and you get.... a mess. Title from Domino by Squalloscope.

~

It is a cruel anniversary for all three of them. Aaron is unsure what their father thinks Damien will accomplish in his studies today, but neither of them argue when they are each assigned their tasks before their father locks himself away again with his holy texts.

Aaron is unsure as well, if their father is mourning, in this way, or if there is some other answer he seeks in the words of the Saints. It doesn't particularly matter, he decides, if it means that he and Damien will be left to mourn on their own, in peace.

When Damien's shoulders sag over his own reading, when he rubs at his eyes, Aaron steps up beside him, reaches forward, and closes his book.

"Aaron-"

"Come down by the pond with me."

"But father said-"

"A few minutes, Damien. Clear your head, give your poor scholarly eyes a rest, inhale some air that isn't half composed of dust."

His brother glances back down to the closed book again, guilty and reluctant, and then he scoots his stool back. "… Alright. Only for a little while."

The walk is short, and though the day is oppressively hot, the shade and the breeze are cool enough to guard them from the worst of it by the water's edge. Damien settles on the moss with a sigh, and he closes his eyes for a long moment as Aaron stares out over the glassy surface of the pond, watching the lines rippling out behind the family of geese on the far side.

"Do you… remember much about her?" Damien asks, after what seems like quite some time. His voice is very quiet, and when Aaron blinks and glances towards him, Damien still has his eyes closed, though his expression is tight and anxious.

After a long moment, Aaron sinks to sit beside his brother. "… less than I once did," he admits, and Damien opens his eyes so that he may watch Aaron's face instead. "Less than I wish I did. Memory is an unreliable creature. If you look away from it for too long, it will transform, or decay. I remember… I remember that she had clever eyes, a rare smile but easy humor… I do remember that she enjoyed mornings just the same as you, Damien."

Damien's smile is noticeably watery, but it is genuine. "Did she shove you from bed as I do?"

"When I needed a good shoving," Aaron grins, "yes."

"I wish-"

Damien's words come too fast. Too abrupt, and they cut off into the silence of the thrumming hot day just as quickly.

"I know," Aaron says, when the silence has drawn long. "I wish too. I miss her, and… and I miss the man that father was, when she was still here."

"Was he… was he-"

"He was still himself," Aaron says gently. "But- happier. Less unyielding."

"I think… I cannot help but think, how it could have been, if-" he inhales sharply, his brow furrowing. "The four of us, together. Or- the five, I expect."

"Five- ah." Aaron presses his lips together for a moment. "Right."

Aaron, and Damien, and-

Their parents would not have named them as they did, of course, if they were not anticipating a third with which to complete their reverent set.

"Another brother," Damien says, both sad and wondering. "We could have had another… another piece to our family. Some brave little boy we never had the chance to know-"

"You cannot know what another child would have been like, Damien. Simply because father would have named him Ferdinand does not mean anything about who he would have been. Or she, for that matter. A name such as that…"

"A name such as ours?" Damien asks, one eyebrow raised and his lips pursed into a pout.

Aaron eyes his brother in return, considering, and then he nods. "A name such as ours. The more I think on it, the more I know that it is a wretched thing to do. If we had another brother, if they named him as they clearly planned- likely he would toss the name on the next fire as soon as he was old enough to choose one for himself. Saints know how often I've been tempted to do the same."

"You- you have?" Damien asks, obviously incredulous, his eyes wide, and Aaron attempts to keep his expression only wry.

"It's only... it's quite a lot for any child to live up to," he says. "You understand that, don't you?"

"I... I suppose so... but- but you do live up to your namesake! You are steadfast, sturdy-"

"Damien-"

"Resolute! And if you can live up to your name, certainly if I work hard enough, study long enough-"

"You shouldn't have to, Damien. Neither should I. No child should. If we had another in our family, it would be kinder to leave them free of such a weight.

Damien frowns, a delicate web of incomprehension. "Are you... are you going to change yours, then?"

Aaron looks aside, sighs. "I haven't decided. It's... it is a heavy weight, but... it means so much to him."

And their father's good humor is the unsteady framework upon which their home is built.

"... what... what would you even change it to, if you did?"

"I could change it to Damien, simply to annoy you," Aaron says with his wide, easy grin.

"Aaron. I am being serious."

Aaron laughs. "I could simply change it to Ferdinand myself, and then you could take a turn as the elder brother."

Damien huffs. "That," he says stiffly, "is not how that works. And besides- if you were Ferdinand, that certainly would not solve your problem. Your very first point was that bravery would be an equally heavy burden."

"That is true," Aaron says with a sigh. "So. Not another Saint name, then."

"Obviously not," Damien agrees. "That would limit you quite severely." He pauses, his uncertainty so poorly concealed that Aaron can't help but smile again. "Did... clearly you have put some thought into this... did you have any potential names in mind? Any that were not in jest?"

"Any..." Aaron echoes. "I suppose that is just the issue," he says slowly. "If I were not Aaron, I could be anyone."

"But were there any anyones in particular," Damien insists. "Come now, I don't think you would have brought it up had you nothing already in mind!"

"Perhaps I had some trouble, summoning potential names to my own mind. Perhaps I was far more curious to hear your suggestions," he says, tilting his head with a grin. "You are much quicker with this sort of game than I, after all.

"Oh!" Damien clasps his hands together, grinning, and then he schools his expression, his brow furrowing as he considers this task for a long moment. "You could be... hm, perhaps Lucan? No- Rience! Or perhaps Owain, or Claudas, or Balan-"

"Evaine is rather elegant," Aaron murmurs, and his face is very still as he watches the equally still water.

Damien pauses. "Wh-what was that?"

Aaron says nothing for a long moment, and then he stands, his easy smile spread across his face again. "It's past time we returned you to your studies, I think."

"But-"

"I will thank you for indulging me, and beg your pardon for distracting you for quite so long," he says. "But we should... we should return to where we belong, Damien."

Damien stares up at him, still unsure for a strange, stretched-out moment, and then he reaches a hand out so Aaron may help pull him back to his feet.

They do not speak, on the walk back to their home. They do not speak of names ever again.

They do not see another cruel anniversary together.

If there had been a third child, he would have been named Ferdinand. Unlike his namesake, Damien who will be Pious has only one brother, and his name was only ever Aaron.

After Aaron dies, Damien's father mourns this newest cruelty by packing up what remains of their lives and taking young Damien to the realm where death looms the closest. He takes them to the Western Wastes, the woods of death themselves, and there Damien's father proselytizes. The names of the Saints on his tongue, surrounded by death and nonbelievers. Their names, again and again, and echoed in and echoing his family, in his son who never was, in his son who no longer is, in his son who is not enough.

When Damien is old enough to choose his own appellation, he thinks of Aaron.

He thought of Aaron in the water, as well. He thinks of Aaron often, though he is discovering to his sorrow that Aaron had been right, about memory, and transformation, and decay. He remembers that easy grin, still, and sturdy embrace, but he has forgotten the precise pattern of his freckles. He has forgotten the name that he whispered like a secret beside the water. He has forgotten moments small, and large, and they have left him so easily that he will not even recognize their lack.

Damien could choose another name, but once beneath the water his namesake reached within him, and helped him breathe.

Damien could choose another name, but once a boy named Aaron had a brother named Damien, and Damien does not wish to be anyone else.

[lsbaird]

The Devil’s Luck - Chapter Three Preview!

I’m a day late, it’s true, but hopefully you’ll forgive me. Today Etienne rallies to give it the old college try one more time, but he’s beginning to realize his target may not be quite so murderable as he appears...

It was the D'Grassa, in fact, that proved to be the next opportunity for dispatching Frey.  In the morning Etienne dined alone, again, as Frey was tied up over his breakfast meetings, where he held court with his tenants and resolved grievances between them.  There was a sticky situation involving a sheepdog and some geese, Frey had told him, and it would be quite boring for Elsa.  Etienne heartily agreed.  Not to mention, of course, that Elsa's presence at Chancelion was supposed to be something of a secret for a week, unofficial until her aunt had time to accept her niece's elopement, and the engagement was fixed.  Or, in terms of the Order, when Frey was dead and the Lady Elsa vanished into thin air.  

So Etienne made his way though another round of oatmeal and bland tea, and then retreated back to the library.  Maybe he couldn't steal the D'Grassa yet, but at the very least he could read the damn thing.  

But once he had settled in the window seat, Etienne opened the tome to its first illuminated page and stared at it without comprehension.  His mind was not on the Binding of the Archdemon, centuries past.  It was on the prevention of that same Archdemon's return. His easiest opportunity to do his sworn duty had ended in failure, but there were numerous other methods to be tried. After all, it was only the second full day of his stay.  

He had no idea how long he was there, lost in thought, staring out the window.  The rain had let up, but it had stripped all the autumn glory from the trees, and Chancelion's forests were skeletal frames with flecks of red and peach clinging to them. The timber hills, whose evergreen wombs birthed the hulls of Verlia's merchant vessels, were a dark-green smudge in the distance under a brilliant sky.  In the stone courtyard below, past the lacy ironwork points under the windows, tatty leaves chased each other back and forth like schoolchildren let off their studies, whirling into circles and then breaking apart.  The sudden sound of Frey’s voice scattered Etienne’s thoughts in a much less poetic fashion.

"I would have said my library lacked for nothing, but I see now what it most needed is here at last."  

Etienne started.  Frey was standing in the doorway, his eyes only for his betrothed, love lending him an added appeal that his already fine figure did not need.  

"Frey!"  Etienne said, even as he scolded himself for letting someone—a target, even!— sneak up on him.  He hurried to rescue the book that was falling out of his lap before its fragile binding could crash to the parquet floor.  "I didn't even hear you come in."  

"I could not bear to disturb you, in whatever thoughts you were having."  Frey smiled. "Dare I hope that I was in some small part of them?"  

Etienne liked nothing better than when Elsa could be honest and full of lies all at the same time.  It was so gratifying.  "Why, yes, I do confess that you did feature rather prominently," he said, and neglected to elaborate.  It wouldn't do to tell Frey that those lush, private fantasies had all involved Frey's murder.  "Did you think I would be thinking about the lawns, or the sparrows on the roof?"

"The mystery was so much of the appeal," Frey sighed, happily.  "I should have you painted just like that, tilted away from the frame, so I could always watch you daydreaming."  

Etienne put the book to his mouth to hide his expression.  He breathed deep the reassuring smells of old leather and parchment and felt calmer at once. "Really, my lord," he said, pleased with the teasing note he'd managed, "one would think your thoughts might be ungentlemanly."  

"They are," Frey said, with a dark little smile that made him look far too much like his Great-Uncle, "entirely ungentlemanly.  And if my lady insists on calling me lord, and thinking me so chivalrous, I might have to remind her that I was born a bastard, in a cattle barn, to a tavern wench."  

"So long as your elusive father was not one of the cows, I'm hardly concerned," Etienne said, lightly.  "After all, you are Lord Reichwyn now, are you not?"

"So everyone insists on telling me," Frey said.  "And he has come to ask his betrothed if she would like to go out for a ride."

Horse-trampling, being thrown from the saddle, neck-breaking, falling down a gully, drowning in a creek, impaled on a broken branch, oh yes.  All the things Etienne's dreams were made of. "I would adore the chance for some fresh air."  

Frey held out both his hands.  "As I hope you adore me?"  

Etienne had to rush up then, and take his hands, and be scooped up into another kiss.  It was an easier lie than saying yes, Etienne supposed, but he disliked how it set his lips buzzing and made his heart so loud.  A dull thump from the window put Frey off his affections, but not enough to release his lady.  "What was that?"  

"Ah, damn!"  Etienne said, with feeling.  "It’s the D'Grassa.  If I've broken the binding I'll never forgive myself."  The book, left teetering on the edge of the window seat in Etienne's wake, had toppled over onto the floor with its pages splayed.  

"Not to worry," Frey said, bending to pick it up.  "It's been all right for centuries, it looks like it can take a knock or two."

"Still, I hate to abuse a book—oh!"  Etienne broke off, because Frey, kneeling there over the book and looking so wonderfully vulnerable, had just given him an idea.  

"Something else wrong?"  Frey asked, looking at his lady in confusion.  

Belatedly, Etienne clapped a hand to his ear.  "Yes!  Ah, I've lost one of my earrings.  It was one of the pearls you had in my wardrobe for me. I hope it's not gone for good!"  

Frey put the D'Grassa safely on the window seat, and as Etienne hoped, went back down on his knees.  "Not to worry, it must be around here somewhere, as I saw you had it when I came in..."  

Etienne hastily took out one of his earrings and chucked it away in the direction of a distant bookshelf, while Frey flipped up the edge of the carpet by the window seat, peering at the floorboards beneath.  "This library eats things, I believe.  Just the other day I lost one of my pen nibs, and I was rather fond of how that one laid down ink...  Oh look!  Here it is."  

Etienne's hands froze on his collar, but Frey had only found the pen nib, not the earring.  "I hope then my pearl will turn up," he said, and as Frey went back to searching, Etienne yanked a length of fine, deadly wire from the net of stiffened black lace that rose up from his collar.  The handles were gilt toggles that looked like common decorations, and the wire whispered a high, thin note in Etienne's hands.  What would one more red line be, among the many already lacing Frey's body?  

Frey sat back a little to look under the cushions of the window seat, and then, Etienne sprung.  

It was beautifully simple.  The invisible wire looped around Frey's throat, drawn tight in Etienne's hands as the assassin used his entire body to leverage his force.  It was quick, elegant, bloodless.  With Frey's windpipe blocked, there was only a moment's silent struggle, like a fish dangling at the end of a line.  Frey's grasping hands reached out blindly for aid and knocked over the ink-pot on the writing desk, upsetting a candelabra and igniting the desk papers with a breathy roar.  The heat of the rising flames licked Etienne's face, relaxing the false curls of his wig.  Soon the conflagration would take the entire room, and Freyton Reichwyn Landry with it, along with all the Archdemon's desires.  It was a shame about the books, but it was a mission, Etienne's mission, and it must be accomplished at any cost.  

...except that it wasn't.  

Etienne did not, in fact, get much further than looping the wire around Frey's neck.  The rest happened with glorious brevity in his imagination, until Etienne pulled the wire taut, and it snapped. The unexpected lack of murder sent him staggering backwards a step, bewildered. The finest garroting wire in Ivanis City, specially made for him by a master craftsman in the tools of death, broken in two as though it were no more than a cobweb!  

Frey fell back on his heels with a surprised cough, and Etienne stuffed the broken garroting wire down into his bodice.  

"My lord?"  he asked, shoving his own annoyance aside to radiate mild concern instead, wondering if Frey had chanced to see the wire flickering in front of his eyes.  Perhaps he'd thought it only a stray hair, one of the ones that so often escaped from his queue.  "Are you all right?"  

"Ah—yes, I think so," Frey said, patting his cravat in some confusion.  "For a moment I thought...  It must have only been this pulling tight, though."  

"This?"  Etienne said thinly, bracing for accusations.  But Frey only pulled an object free of his waistcoat.  Twirling on the end of a silk ribbon was a miniature painting of Etienne dressed as Elsa, the one that had been sent along with his letters. Ephaseus had painted it himself for the ruse.

"I put it round my neck this morning, you see, and wound it twice as the ribbon was a bit long.  It must have just pulled tight when I bent over.  The locket's gold, so it's quite heavy."  Frey rubbed his throat, laughing ruefully.  "For a moment there I thought you were trying to strangle me!"  

"Aha ha ha heh!"  Etienne's laugh lacked any humor at all, at least to his own ears.  Surely Frey must know it was false?  "But why would I do that!  I haven't even gotten my ride with you yet."  By the time he got to the end of his protest, Etienne had managed a decent grasp on his facade again.  Still, the word ride came out in far more of a provocative tone than he planned. Frey looked startled and pleased and a little bit breathless at it, though the last was probably more from the near-strangling more than from his lady's advances.  "I mean," Etienne fumbled, and looked around in desperation.  "I, er—oh, look, there's my pearl!"  He hurried over to retrieve the earring, and to do what he could to repair his disguise. "Would you put it back in for me? I'm afraid you startled me so that my hands are shaking.  I wouldn't want it to be lost again."  

"Your least wish is my highest command," Frey said, and with a deftness that belonged to the card-player more than to the manor lord, Frey slipped the gold earring wire back through Etienne's ear, and admired it there a moment.  "I'm so pleased you like them, and your dresses.  This is another you're wearing today, is it not?  From the ones I had here for you?"  

"Ah, yes," Etienne said, trying not to squirm away from the things Frey was doing to his ear.  He detested being tickled.  "They really are lovely.  And the jewels...  You are too generous."  

"I'm nothing of the sort.  Chancelion's fortune is your fortune, and they are yours by right.  I've worked hard to bring the family wealth back here, and to provide things suitable for the lady of the house."  Frey's hand slipped down to Etienne's jaw, and suddenly it was worth the pain Etienne had gone through to have his beard yanked out with hot sugar tallow before the mission.  The least roughness would have been unfortunate, so close.  Damn the man for being such a warm-hearted suitor.  "It pleases me to see you in them."  

Etienne felt a flicker of surprise. "You chose my jewels and things?"  

"I did, though Tobias saw to the fitting of your rooms.  He said you would be more used to extravagance, coming from the southlands."

"Ah."  Gracious adoration, Elsa my girl, he told himself.  You are a woman in love with a rich, handsome man, remember. "It's… so kind of him," he finished, and for once was grateful to be kissed, because it meant not having to talk.  I am going to throw that accursed cherub in the duck pond when I go.

"I would give you all that and more," Frey said, when they parted again.  "But first, I think it best if you try that riding habit on for fit, and meet me down in the courtyard?  Say, a quarter of an hour?  I'll see to some hawks for us, and mounts."  

"I can think of nothing finer," Etienne breathed, kohl-darkened lashes fluttering.  

"Good."  Frey ran his thumb under Etienne's lower lip.  "Till then, my love."  He kissed Etienne's knuckles and then was out the door, whistling again, a besotted and happy man.  

Etienne sprawled back in a spindly chair not meant for sprawling in, his legs splayed wide and his skirts in disarray as he allowed himself one moment of utter and complete disgust with the world.  

"...Fuck."  

[a-jumped-up-pantry-boy]

The Secret Stealer

Trees took graceful waltzing steps and swayed their leaves as the breeze hummed a secret tune, while striped and spotted dresses lackadaisically bobbed from one side of the street, which was coloured only in varying shades of brown, to the other, much like ducks on water - only without any purpose. They brought a much needed shock of colour to the otherwise miserable location, although many would insist that the plain street was charming, rather than personalityless. Inside the whimsical tea-shop, the interior of which was far more resplendent, and generally more pleasant, than the exterior, teacups danced between their owners’ hands and the saucers they paired with, creating an orchestra of clinking crockery, delicate spoons tapping against the sides of cups as the beat, and the main melody being the hums of appreciation from the grateful customers as they sipped their drinks. 

“Thank you, sir, but I’m rather sure this topic is just far too complex for a woman to understand, no matter how competent you are at explaining it. Might I propose moving onto an alternate field of conversation, instead?” An asinine creature giggled and twirled a lock of honey coloured hair around a perfectly manicured finger she spoke, leaning across the table under the guise of reaching for the sugar pot to send a simpering smile at the way of her companion. 

“Of course, Miss Alward. I understand completely; this topic is very complicated and you’ve far too much to think about without me trying to make you ponder something much too difficult for your brain. I imagine all your time is spent choosing new dresses, yes?” Her companion spoke considerably louder than she did, his arrogant tone attracting glances from many people at other tables. 

“Well, what other activities would I be partaking in?” The young woman readjusted her skirt, flashing her ankle at the man who sat across from her for only a second, and giggled, a light sound that could come only from a head filled completely with air, glancing at him to make sure he took notice of her guilty show of ankle, looking satisfied when he continued to stare down at her feet. Drawing small circles with her left hand on a small piece of paper covered in patterns, she used her right to stir her tea as she continued to smile at him, seeming to have no aim other than to win a touch of her hand or a predatory leer disguised as an adoring smile from him. “The weather is very pleasant at the moment. I imagine your mother has been having many garden parties at the moment?” She continued to glance up at him from under her eyelashes every few seconds while he spoke. 

“Unfortunately not. She’s been rather sick recently, and has been confined to the house, but she’s sorely missing all her parties.”

“Perhaps I could pay her a visit soon, to lighten her spirits?” He nodded and smiled at her again, as if she'd said something particularly endearing, and began talking extensively at the poor girl, making the mistake of assuming she held any interest in the least important aspects of both his and his mother's lives, simply because she'd made a polite inquiry, and incorrectly presuming her vacant smile, which was actually just covering her wandering imagination as she completely ignored every word the verbose man threw at her, was a sign of deep interest. As he began to talk about his third butler’s recent antipathy to the ducks in his lake, she felt overcome by a deep lassitude and began nodding in time to his lilting speech, contemplating how long it would take her to drift asleep that evening if he sat beside her bed later, still talking, and she observed the shambolic tweed jackets that contained women heaving stacks of books along the street, leaning against Picasso painted parlours and shooting sardonic smiles at the candy coloured dresses who stared with horror at their hair, clothes and literacy that they displayed with shocking confidence. Soon his stream of conversation, although really it was like a vicious river that never ended, moved onto a new topic, and she repressed a sigh, wishing she was imprisoned anywhere but that tea-shop. 

A dress, made of light fabric where blues mingled in with browns, wandered along pathways that would be impossible to navigate, had the wearer not basically grown up in those woods, whilst the girl trapped inside it fiddled with her gloves and parasol as she wandered, staring at the sky and trees. Eventually she strolled into a clearing, flinging her arms open wide, dramatically greeting the other girls who resided there, hanging from trees and perched on rocks. The only woman there who was older than 25 made her way towards Clarissa, while a girl followed from behind her, shooting a grin towards her friend. 

“Why, pray tell, does your dress have the contents of a teacup over it?” The woman asked, her eyes running over the stained dress a few times before she stepped forward and began scrubbing it with a handkerchief that seemed to have appeared out of nowhere. 

“Mr. Lowood was the most tedious character I’ve ever had the misfortune of meeting, and I had to spill my drink over me just so I could escape his company. Oh, Anne, why did you send me there?” Clarissa cried, stepping back from Anne’s rough hand and gently scrubbing at the dress herself, scowling at the persistent stain. 

“Away with the dramatics, for Goodness’ sake. I’m hoping you found out something useful before you decided to jump ship?” Anne just gave the girl a disapproving look as she began to dance around the clearing while humming, then singing her message.

“His mother is sick, so I shall pay her a visit soon, and hopefully in her delirious state she’ll accidentally give us some information. And his butler, the third one, hates their geese and ducks, so perhaps if we threaten him with some aquatic birds he’ll-” 

“Any other helpful information?” Anne’s question was greeted simply with a fast shake of Clarissa’s head and a disgruntled look at being cut off before she could finish her duck-based proposal. “Then I suggest Miss Reid accompanies you to change out of your dress,” she finished, then glanced at Clarissa once more and swept off to go and discuss matters, most of which were secret, with one of the other young women. 

“This role is insufferable!” Clarissa muttered, stalking through the trees until she reached a sheltered spot, stopping underneath and struggling with the fastenings on her dress. “Whenever I gather secrets, I’m treated as nothing more than another silly little creature they can exploit and then abandon. Of course, I’m not, but it’s demeaning to have to pretend to be dim just so that I’m considered pleasant company.” She finally undid the buttons and pulled off her dress, glaring at it as it sank to the muddy floor in a depressive heap of heavily starched fabrics as if it was the sole reason she was forced into something that made her so unhappy, immediately stepping into another with no care for its delicacy, only being more careful with it after she heard snapping threads. 

“Surely you realise what you do is important? Without you, I doubt we’d be able to...persuade men to do what we want. A business of secrets is barren and useless if there’s not a soul collecting the secrets. What did you discover today, at tea?” Catherine calmed Clarissa’s intense fury almost immediately, her soft breeze, which matched the soft ringlets that framed her face and light colours she always wore, putting out the fires Clarissa’s tenacious temper wouldn’t fail to set alight. 

“At the expense of my happiness, peace and feeling of any emotion other than eternal boredom, I collected a few secrets. Nothing on their own, of course, but paired with the facts I’m sure I’ll discover during my meeting with Mr Lowood’s mother, there’s not a single situation I can imagine in which we fail. I don’t want to dwell on the possibility that we might fail; this is an important mission, even I understand that, for all Anne doesn’t trust me, and there’s an awful lot that seems to be resting on my shoulders. Mr Lowood seems about as harmful as a spaniel, but I’m sure his acquaintances could damage us if they saw fit, which they would if we threatened him. Truly, there’s no room for error.” Clarissa had by now fasted her dress and was pacing around the clearing, gesticulating wildly, while Catherine sat on the edge of a rock, smiling slightly. 

“I’m certain nothing will go wrong; you’ve prepared for this mission for so long now, you have a plan for every possible error. And besides, Anne trusts you, you know she’s awfully fond of you, and she doesn’t trust many people. You’re truly a special creature if she has faith in you. However, she has nothing but stern feelings towards me, that must be why I’m still only allowed to sort through correspondences, the most tedious task of them all! But, tell me more about Mr Lowood’s misdemeanours,” Catherine answered, more eager about Mr Lowood than she had been about any of Clarissa’s previous cases, although she was sure that was just because she’d complained more about him than anyone else, and so of course her friend would be more intrigued by him. As she quietly uttered the secrets, careful nobody else could hear, she began tugging on her gloves, which seemed to be bound to her skin, mindful of the delicate spot by her thumb where a hole had broken the last time they had an argument, and which had been shabbily mended just after they made peace with each other. After Clarissa had finished discussing the “insufferable, eternally mundane Mr Lowood'' with Catherine, her friend suddenly dashed off, and she was left standing in the woods alone. 

Rain, laced with knives shot down, soaking Clarissa to the skin as she ambled away, alone. 

The secrecy was difficult for the women of the society to live under, as the pressure often suffocated them, which wasn’t unexpected, as they were forced to leave the entirety of their lives behind to become someone new and help the movement. This secrecy, a burden that all of them carried, flowed through their veins constantly, becoming a part of them, until it was difficult for even them to be able to tell the difference between the lies in their lives and the parts that were true. This secrecy had broken families as easily as dried leaves, their cracks on display to everyone else in their circle to observe, for as good as these women were at hiding, they could hardly hide from people who were as good at lying as them. This secrecy had caused women to pull away from their families completely because of the lies which comprised them so entirely, they were nothing but a series of stories.

Anne sat in a different clearing to the one all the younger women congregated in, bathing in the melody of the river tumbling over the rocks that inhabited it, thanking the stars that were just emerging that she didn’t have to assimilate any more information about the most fashionable style of dress, or listen to anymore mindless chatter that the girls pertinaciously assured her wasn’t utterly inane. Clarissa stumbled into the clearing, soaking wet. 

“Why is it that I play this role, rather than someone else?” Clarissa’s voice was soft, not with anger - her anger was blazing and impossible to miss, it scorched the Earth and nothing was left untouched - but with confusion. Her hair, wild after sprinting through the trees in the way she so loved, curled around her face, not framing it as a beautifully decorated picture frame would a masterpiece, but surrounding her face as a cloud of smoke would an explosion. 

“Many of the other girls want this role because they want to feel important. You, however, care nothing for the opinions of others. You wanted this, although you don’t anymore, because you wished to change things. These girls, of course they hope to witness and cause a change, but your sole purpose is to set things alight and rebuild cities after the flames, and this is a fact you’re well aware of,” Anne stated, her focus shifting from her umbrella to the girl stood in front of her. 

“What about Catherine? Is she not filled with a flame, as I am?”

“Catherine...possesses a warmth, not a fire. Her wish is to change, but she has not the drive, nor the passion, that you do. A role, any role, isn’t suited for her any more than a life of complacent marriage is suited to you. She resents me for my observations, and yet she doesn’t aim to disprove them. That’s how I’m sure she’ll never burn as bright as somebody with a scorching soul will.” At Anne’s words, Clarissa nodded her head, never arguing with her statements about her friend. Catherine was dear to her, the closest companion to her soul she suspected she’d ever have, but she wasn’t tempestuous, possessing no storm behind her eyes, no wind to stoke the embers in her heart, no soul that seemed to drive her every move. 

“When we first started this, my dearest friend and I, we thought it would work perfectly. We fit together as opposite pieces of the same puzzle. But there was a fantastic upset between us, and we discovered we weren’t from the same puzzle at all. Her shades of blue for the sky was actually the colour of the sea for me. We were so contrasting. She wanted to use the information we found to ruin gentlemen’s public image, while I wanted to use it to...convince them to do as we pleased. An enormous case, the one that finally snapped the last threads between us, was with a middle aged gentleman on a big council, with a plethora of people he could influence. We’d made it known to him that we had news of a scandal concerning him, a very secret one I doubt even his wife knew about, and my wish was to use this information to persuade him to add three women onto the board of the council, and to publicly support our ideals for equality so people would listen, for without a voice-”

“We can never gain equality. Anne, that expression seems to come out of your mouth more and more these days,” Clarissa’s tone was jesting, but her countenance had turned grim and there wasn’t a hint of a smile anywhere except her mouth. 

“I say it because it’s true. As I’m sure you know, because your work does a great deal for us and our case.,” Anne shot Clarissa a meaningful glance, but she was too busy glaring at the river as if it were responsible for all her troubles to notice the look coming her way. “While I was eager to be more persuasive, my companion simply wanted to blacken the name of the mayor. I suspected she wanted to seek revenge, as opposed to making a legitimate change, and I said as such to her. My accusation excited her greatly, and before we knew it we’d spoiled the entire plan by causing a rift in our friendship. The mayor was unaffected, because our force wasn’t enough to make a difference as just one person, and it was many years wait before another chance came in which something could be done.” Throwing herself up again, Clarissa began striding across the river, alternating between kicking dirt into it and pulling leaves off the tree that shadowed over it, her mouth set in a firm line the entire time. Without either of them realising it, the rain had stopped, and as suddenly as the drops had stopped pummelling the Earth, her face cleared again, divested of all worry and anger that had overtaken her just seconds before. 

“How can it be that what I do is important? Surely-” As she spoke, her clear expression remained, and her tone was thoughtful rather than virulent. 

“We use information we’ve gathered to prevail upon authority to make the right decisions. There have been arguments that what we do is culpable, that threatening to sully a gentleman’s reputation for our own gain is unladylike or disreputable. But in such circumstances where we have no power, we must use whatever opportunity that comes our way to gain some semblance of authority, which we cannot do without means of control. By collecting the secrets, you give us a way to enforce that control.” Clarissa nodded throughout the entirety of her guardian’s speech, sitting uncharacteristically still.

“I suppose I should pay Mr. Lowood’s mother a visit and gather some secrets. I do enjoy this, I admit. It sometimes feels irrelevant, almost, what I do. But, I suppose you’re correct, and it can be of some importance, even if it doesn’t seem it.” Although she was prepared to leave, pulling her hat back onto the mess of curls and pushing her fingers back into her gloves, she remained in the clearing, some matter of deep thought overtaking her features and causing her expression to look even more vacant that it did when in the company of Mr Lowood. “What happened, after your disagreement with your companion?” 

“Although we tried to come to peace with each other, we were far too different, and we ended on unhappy terms. It’s wrong, but I can’t say I’m upset with what occurred. We only caused each other vexation.” Anne glanced at the girl, who was once more lost in thought, as she strolled out of the clearing, her expression betraying nothing other than cogitation. 

Many weeks later, seated in the parlour Mr Lowood’s estate, listening to his unsought after explanations as he began to sort through a shambolic bookshelf in search of an illustration of a butterfly she had no interest in seeing, Clarissa adjusted her hair and surreptitiously peered at the clock, praying more reverently than she had ever done before that it was finally 3 o clock and Catherine was close to arriving, so she could persuade, or blackmail, Mr Lowood to publicly condone the women who protested for jobs and equality, and to publish complementary features in his newspaper about their doings. An echoed ringing of a bell was heard by Clarissa, and no sweeter sound existed in that moment, and only seconds later an efficient housekeeper bustled in, announcing the arrival of Miss Catherine Reid. 

As her friend walked in, Clarissa felt more confident, standing up, although nowhere near the height of Mr Lowood, and searching his face for a sign of confusion or fear as she spoke, but finding none. Still, she persevered, darting a glance over to Catherine to check that she was indeed saying the correct things. 

“My dear Mr Lowood. I have heard recent news which rather shocked me, entailing details of your dealings with The Times Newspaper. Of course, I don’t suspect any accusations which charge you with publishing false, slandering reports of your rivals to be true, but it would be an awful shame if this information was heard all over respectable society. One could say your reputation would be ruined, just as your competitors’ were. I should hate for this to happen, and I dare say such trouble could be avoided with just a few simple acts from you.” Although Clarissa was threatening the man, he seemed awfully complacent, and she risked a glance over to Catherine to try and see if she had an explanation. A feeling of suspicion and inevitable trouble bloomed inside her at the smile Catherine was giving Mr Lowood, a suspect grin shared between people with a plan.

“Unfortunately, such accusations definitely are false, my dear Miss Alward,” Mr Lowood laughed, not sinister in any way, but disconcerting, taking into account the situation, nonetheless. “However, I also have heard what I’m sure are untruths concerning your relationship with important members of society. Dare I say you are a secret seller? Or a secret trader, whichever term takes your fancy. Your companion, Miss Reid over here, has been having very interesting conversations with me. How much you can learn when talking to somebody. Just as you learnt so much about me when you visited my mother, an elderly sick woman whom you manipulated. Your methods are rather sly, aren’t they? Of course, you’ve convinced yourself it’s for a good cause, but taking advantage of vulnerable members of society and then blackmailing people such as myself isn’t particularly virtuous.” Here he broke off, staring at Clarissa as she watched her world crumble. Catherine, a girl she was utterly assured was her friend, had betrayed her, selling her secrets on. She searched throughout her mind for answers as to why she would betray her as one would search for a missing sock: desperately, and to no avail. Although she was in an undoubtedly serious situation, in which it would be incredibly inappropriate to laugh, she found the irony of the situation amusing. A secret seller, having her secrets sold on to the very person she stole them from? 

“Catherine?” Clarissa muttered, and staring right at her with no remorse on her features, no sentiment of apology, Catherine just nodded at the silent allegations and questions of guilt. 

“I never was of any use. You complained about your role continually, but at least you were important. I was disposable, utterly forgotten in the tide of everyone else,” she said, a humourless laugh escaping her lips, although the only one smiling was Mr Lowood. 

“Now, we can’t have women strutting around, believing themselves to be important, or superior-”

“We don’t wish for superiority, only equality. Surely that’s an admirable motive?” Clarissa interrupted Mr Lowood, her temper suddenly switching from hilarity at the irony to fury at the injustice. 

“Maybe admirable to you, but if I’m to be tainted in your quest, then I disapprove. Now, I’m sure we can come to an agreement and you can forget your trade of stealing secrets, yes? Get married, live life as a mother rather than a rebel,” Mr Lowood continued to grin as he spoke, enjoying the situation far too much for Clarissa’s liking. “Of course, you can choose not to agree, but by doing that, you’ll be resigning yourself to a life of imprisonment. I have great influence over judges, and I’m sure a jury wouldn’t take kindly to your case. Do you agree?” All Clarissa could do was nod, but as she did so, she noticed that her glove, which she’d been pulling on nervously, had ripped, a hole breaking out in the exact spot it did the last time it broke.

@sharing-a-room-with-an-open-fire Thanks for reblogging the November prompts list because I wrote this using it (the prompt I chose was historic)!

[plumblossomkun]

idk how this exactly works or what r your other rules lol but here we go: 17, 35, 41, 95, 108, 109, 189 - this could be in no particular order and if it’s too many you decide :) if there should be a member then i suggest jaehyun or taeyong you choose! >

• take your pick from this prompt list and tell me which member you’d like!

• i want to write ALL of these. but for future reference: if you have more than a couple you want to see, put them in multiple asks so it’s easier for the both of us to organize and see them! ♥

• if you’d like to see these in a specific scenario let me know, otherwise it’s up to my wild imagination ♫

17. “I wish I’d never met you.” - “No…you don’t mean that.” + Taeyong

• context: your relationship is being tried by the test of growing up

You reach for Taeyong’s hand, but he pulls away, and the movement stings you just as much as it would have if he had slapped you.

“I don’t want to do this anymore,” he whispers, and he tugs at the chain around his neck, breaking it without a second thought. The promise ring you’d given him nearly a year ago still dangles on it, silver and bright. Unlike the two of you.

Crying is as foreign to you in this moment as he is. You don’t know these gaunt eyes, the creased brow, the pursed lips. 

Instead, you close your eyes, and pray, taking the cold ring into your palm. The love you’d had seems so far away, the easy laughter, all of it. With college on the horizon, with his parents and yours bearing down on it all, it all seems too little, too late, too much, too heavy.

“I wish I’d never met you,” he says, voice breaking on the last word. A sob racks his body as he collapses into himself, those dark, shadowy eyes filling with tears. 

“No… you don’t mean that.” You sink to your knees beside him, wrapping your arms around his shaking form. It’s all you can do to hold him together like this. It’s all you can do to keep him from shattering. 

35. “You shouldn’t have seen that.” + Jaehyun

• context: contract-assassin!Jaehyun sent to kill a mark and you witness it [high school au? god can you imagine a romance in this setting lmao]

Jaehyun’s brown eyes burn into yours as he tucks the empty syringe into a pocket. He’s always been lovely, like a flower in spring, but like this, the impassive beauty of his features terrifies you in its coldness. You stagger back towards the door of the classroom, away from the prone body of the substitute teacher. There is no blood or sign of struggle.

Who would have known that the ASB president was a contract killer?

(Although, in this economy, with the price of a college education, you weren’t that surprised.)

“You shouldn’t have seen that,” he murmurs, wiping his hand on his sleeve, casually removing a pistol from its sheath on his hip. He flicks off the safety and waves it at you, motioning you away from the door. 

“Are you going to kill me?” Admirably, your voice stays even although every inch of your body shivers in fear as you stare down the barrel. “Fire a gunshot in the middle of the day, in a school? The police station is a mile away.”

He considers you carefully, and a slight smile crosses his face. Then he chuckles, and flicks the safety back on. “Alright, princess. What can buy your silence?

41. “I know the signs…you can’t hide from me, (Name).” + Taeyong

• context: a playboy is in love with you but you’re in denial

You’d spent the whole day running from Lee Taeyong, after catching wind that he was planning to ask you to prom. And this was no easy thing, considering he was in so many of your classes. In 5th period P.E., you ran the mile two minutes faster than you normally did, just to avoid talking to him. 

But he still caught up with you at the end of the period, as you were walking out of the locker room. He takes you by the hand and leads you into the weight room, away from prying eyes, and spins around to face you.

“Why are you avoiding me?” he sighs, running a hand through his hair. This week, it’s back to his natural hair color of black-brown, and you like it best this way, though you’d never admit that to him.

“I’m–” you start, but he covers your mouth with his hand, rolling his eyes. This close to him, you can smell the lavender body spray he always wears, and feel the thrum of his heartbeat in his fingers against your lips.

“Stop being coy,” Taeyong groans. “I’ve been trying to ask you out, y/n.”

You wriggle free of his hand. “Wait, what?”

“I know the signs… you can’t hide from me, y/n.” He traps you against the wall, arms caging you in as he stares at you. You turn your eyes away, to the ground. “You like me too, don’t you?”

“…too?”

He exhales softly, and his voice trembles as he confesses, “I like you.”

95. “Loving you has never been so easy.” and 108. “And I love, I love, I love you.” +  Jaehyun

• context: just you and Jae in love

Jaehyun kisses along your jawline, holding you close as the two of you watch the sun begin its descent along the horizon line, crimson, carnelian, and cream spilling through the fluffy white clouds. A faint breeze tickles your skin as a formation of geese cross the sky. 

“I like this,” you murmur, knocking your head into his affectionately. “If we’re going to skip class, let’s do it for this, and only this.”

He laughs, headbutting you right back. “Is this all it takes to make you happy? Me and a sunset?”

“Of course.” You kiss his cheek, reveling in the warmth of his body and the setting sun. “Girls are less complicated than you think.”

He sighs in content. “Loving you has never been so easy.”

His heartbeat sings against yours as you turn around to hug him, inhaling his scent and his voice as best as you can, committing all your senses in this moment to memory. 

“And I love, I love, I love you,” you reply.

109. “I don’t think I ever want to be parted from you. I don’t think my heart could take it.” and 189. “You have my heart. I don’t think I could get it back even if I wanted to.” + Taeyong

• context: putting a ring on it ;) a happy ending for that first little drabble.

Taeyong shifts beside you as you watch the stars twinkle just above the glitter of the moon’s reflection in the water. The waves lap gently against the shore, and from the pier, you can barely hear the faint sound of the fishermen talking as they work.

“Do you remember the last time we came out here?” he asks, picking up your hand to kiss your palm. His eyes shine with a kaleidoscope of emotions. “All those years ago, when you first gave me that promise ring.”

“I remember you almost lost it in the sand,” you laugh, squeezing his hand good-naturedly. “But I found it.”

“You’re always doing that, you know.” He gulps, and his voice grows rough. Curious, you look up at him as he stands, rifling through his pockets. “Helping me find the way, even when I think I’m lost and can’t ever be found.”

“Why are you being so weird?” You tug at his hand. “Sit back down. I’m cold. Shield me from the wind.”

“I want to make good on that promise I made then.”

And then he pulls a little velvet box out of his pocket, and he goes down on one knee.

Oh.

“I don’t think I ever want to be parted from you. I don’t think my heart could take it.” He shakes his head, gazing up at you with a rueful smile. “What am I saying?You have my heart. I don’t think I could get it back even if I tried.”

“Lee Taeyong, are you saying what I think you’re saying?” you gasp.

He opens the box, and inside is a gleaming golden band, with a heart-shaped diamond glittering in its white cushion. 

“Y/n, will you marry me? I love you, and I–” He starts to go off on a tangent, but is cut off when you throw yourself at him, almost knocking the box out of his hand. 

“Yes, I’ll marry you!”

Laughing, he takes the ring out of the box and slides it onto your finger.

“I love you,” he whispers against your lips.

“I love you too.”

[thinkingagain]

They were fighting for the right for animals to live as animals in a world in which Beasts tried to yoke every creature, no matter how large or small, to their irresponsible wills.

Sir Sleepy of the Bunny Nest (A Novel of the Revolution) Book Two: Empire Chapter 27

Also just after dawn, the same morning that the Commandant attacked the Demesne, in one spot near Interstate 65 in the state that Beasts called Alabama, grackles, flying on their morning rounds or perching on trees, fell out of the sky onto the road dead. Hundreds, within a few feet of each other. The same thing happened to grackles in Louisiana and Kentucky.

Similar occurrences started taking place all over the world.

In Arkansas, blackbirds fell out of the sky, nearly a thousand, all dead before they hit the ground.

Across the Atlantic, near Faenza, Italy, hundreds of doves dropped dead in country fields, their beaks stained a mysterious blue.

In Brazil, catfish died, in massive numbers. Beast reporters eventually identified the amount of loss—in terms of the total weight of dead catfish—at around 100 tons.

In the Chesapeake Bay, thousands of fish, many kinds, also died.

In the Florida Keys, turkey vultures drowned by the hundreds.

In Minnesota, thousands of ducks died, killed by something that would later be identified as a “parasite.”

In Texas, thousands of bats died from rabies.

In California, thousands of seabirds died, their bodies washing up on shore for several weeks afterwards.

A plane taking off in New York City rammed into a flock of geese, killing nearly a hundred geese and almost crashing. Beasts reported that the geese had rammed the plane.

In Chile, the bodies of sea lions, cormorants, and penguins, more than six hundred total, washed up on the beach near Punta de Choros, a small fishing town, when a group of boats planted explosives in the water and detonated them.

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

All this news reached the Demesne a day later, after their fight against the Commandant’s feint. News came through the Beast Media Room or from Magic Animals. Hearing the reports, one after another, Sir Sleepy of the Bunny Nest grew furious and desperate. “I don’t believe it’s a coincidence. Leo?”

That large, jovial, philosophical bunny had an uncharacteristically pained expression. “All Beasts are capable of punishing the weak as revenge against those they wish to punish but can’t. The combination of uncertain causes is remarkable. Even those that have identifiable causes raise questions.”

“It’s a good thing we’re ready to move now,” the Sir said, “even if some of these occurrences may not be his doing.”

Leo agreed. “As we know though, the larger dangers that Beasts pose to animals go on every day, in a much less high profile way, and on a much larger scale than this. Still, I agree. It’s time to act.”

Soon after, the expeditionary team had gathered: the Sir and his henchman Muffin, Jack, Young Mountain Goat, the Madam and her totem friends. All prepared themselves to travel.

Lucky was staying in the bunker to handle electronics. Basil and Green Bear joined him, bringing some devices they had created specifically for high level espionage.

Ling Ling was set to handle party to party communication from a hidden spot in a hilly corner of the Demesne where she always had particularly powerful empathetic reception. With her would be Leo, so that he could take in all necessary information and provide important input. They could also provide extra Demesne defense in a difficult situation. They prepared themselves a spot there to sleep in, so they could be available whenever needed.

Olivia and the Aquatic Teams were in place at the right spot in the ocean. They had full information on the location of most of the Commandant’s fleet, warships of various sizes, including his prized submarines.

Everyone anticipated further direct assaults on the Demesne, so another team was assigned to guard the Demesne base. Little Sy, ready to put into action again his own understanding of the Sir’s approach, would coordinate. Frank was beside him. Matilda was ready and prepared, as were McAllister and Smoochie and the frog and koala teams and those fearsome tigers, El Tigre and The Rattler.

Maximillian the Emperor Penguin would take his place on the edge of the Demesne Lake, where he could keep in touch with those in the nearby Beast Media Room, overlook the central Demesne grounds, or portal out to the ocean if needed.

The Sir disappeared for a while to prepare himself for what was to come. When he emerged from the trees, the Madam beside him, the animals gasped.

He had changed out of his gold suit with blue stars, which had grown faded from many battles.

Instead he was wearing a blue sweater, with strands of white in the fabric, over a pair of blue silk pants embroidered with white flowers. The sweater had three buttons, each of which pictured a seated bunny on a throne, holding a basket of flowers. The large bow tie tucked under his chin had the same design as his pants. Under the luxurious curls of his tie and tucked into the top of the sweater, Thomas the grizzly looked out, regal and defiant at first, but soon calm and droopy-eyed and ready for a nap.

The Madam told everyone, “Sir Sleepy’s new suit was designed by one of my friends, who specializes in clothes for Magic Animals. We have learned that the Commandant pictures the Sir as a haughty, self-glorifying and power-hungry rabbit. The picture suits the Commandant’s own self-image, of course. We shall give it to him, because the Commandant can see through all pretensions but his own.”

The Sir adjusted the buttons on his sweater. “The Commandant has stared at its own mirror too long. It is time to smash it.”

He looked at all his companions. They had come from hidden spots across the world to help him, for however long they wished to and could. They were fighting for the right for animals to live as animals in a world in which Beasts tried to yoke every creature, no matter how large or small, to their irresponsible wills.

“I offer you all my thanks,” the Sir bowed in his bright blue sweater, “for your aid and friendship. That is not much to offer for all you have done, but a small bunny often has little more. Our toughest battles will soon begin.

“I stand firm with all of you in knowing that as Magic Animals, our power is immense, though our numbers are small in comparison to the vast armed throngs of Beasts. It’s time to split up and take on the struggle again. Though we may be divided in space, we remain undivided as the Demesne Team, all of us. I know you will fare well, my fine animal friends. We shall all see each other soon.”

He fell silent. All the gathered animals cheered.

Then they went into action.

[dreamss-of-boston]

Rise - ch7

link on AO3! hello! for some reason this chapter was so hard to write hahah, but i like that i was able to do a little bit of character study in this one. i hope levi was as in character as possible (: thank you for reading love u bye! “...and you’re a fool if you think otherwise!” Hange sat back-- or rather she was pulled back by Moblit-- and before Nile Dok could respond, Darius Zackley slammed his gavel down in order to bring some kind of order to the courtroom.

“Order!” He thundered as the soldiers settled down.

They were going on hour three of the debate; Sonya had been awoken before the sun rose by Hange, who was obsessively reading over her arguments for the upcoming trial. Tensions were very obviously running high. While Nile Dok didn’t seem to be much of a hothead, he was certainly passionate about this particular topic. Everyone in the room was, and Sonya could understand why: the prospect of bringing a titan inside the walls was terrifying and, frankly, stupid.

“Nile Dok, your statement.” Zackley sighed, rubbing his temple.

“While I see your point,” Nile began with forced patience, “I still feel that the cons outweigh the pros. A titan is monumentally powerful, as we can see based on the Survey Corps mortality rates. Even one inside the walls would cause general unrest among the citizens, if not widespread panic.”

“How can we be sure you have the means to contain a titan properly?” One of the MPs, Hubert Vonnegut, spoke up with crossed arms.

“I’m so glad you asked,” Hange grinned, and gestured to the large double wooden doors, which opened to reveal Garrison soldiers wheeling in large equipment which Sonya had never seen before.

Hange stepped into the center of the room, walking towards the equipment confidently. “One of our new recruits,” she said grandly, “mentioned her anxieties about capturing a titan, for precisely the reasons you just mentioned.” Hange stepped up to the equipment: large barrels with calculated holes in them, and a pulley trigger behind them. “Keeping that in mind, I contacted the engineers and asked them to whip up this little prototype… If you’ll allow a demonstration, Zackley.” Hange bowed respectfully.

Zackley sighed. “Very well.”

Hange, grinning from ear to ear, motioned to the Garrison soldiers, who wheeled a large rectangle, supported to be standing upright as a sort of target, in front of Hange’s equipment. Upon closer inspection, Sonya recognized the material to be made of the same sort of stuff which was used in training as a substitute for titan flesh.

Once the target was in place, Hange explained: “This in front of me is what we require our soldiers to use when training to defeat titans. It is a specialized material which best resembles the tough flesh of a titan-- in other words, regular swords or guns have a hard time causing any real damage.” She held the pulley in her hand to show the court. “This piece of equipment has been specially designed to not only pierce titan flesh, but to anchor itself within titan flesh and into the earth, successfully pinning the titan to the ground, thus enabling us to perform experiments and the like on it. Observe,” She said, and gave a mighty pull. With a loud bang, multiple speared metal barbs shot out of the barrel at frightening speed, puncturing the material in front of it severely. Sonya jumped at the demonstration, but was nonetheless impressed. Just imagining those barbs piercing a titan, pinning it to the ground so that they could slice it open seemed like divine justice to her.

“Try not to look so excited,” Levi muttered, glancing at Sonya out of the corner of his eye. She sat back, forcing the little smile off of her face.

“Well, now I’m sort of excited to bag one of those bastards.” She murmured back.

“Oh?” Levi raised his eyebrows. “And here I thought you were shitting yourself at the thought of it.”

Sonya cast an irritated glance at Levi, but she couldn’t completely conceal her amusement.

Nile Dok seemed to be slightly swayed at the performance in front of him; he sat back, muttering with the other MPs alongside him as they discussed this new information.

Zackley pounded his gavel on the desk. “One hour recess.”

[-]

The debate continued well into the night; all three branches of the military were simply restating the same arguments at that point, neither one listening to the other. The Garrison regiment was particularly concerned with the damage a titan could do to the walls, if it were brought that close to them and antagonized by Hange’s experiments. The Survey Corps argued that titans had not destroyed the walls from the outside so far, and so it would be no different on the inside. Additionally, titans didn’t seem to display any signs of intelligence, but gee, it sure would be nice if they could somehow perform tests on them to find that out for sure.

And so it went.

Eventually, Zackley called the debate to a close; he said that he would let them know tomorrow morning if he required more debate from them, and Sonya prayed to whatever divine being there was up there that he wouldn’t request more debate.

By now, it was rather late at night, and Sonya couldn’t get to sleep despite how exhausted she was. Her mind was incredibly tired but her body was restless as all hell. She glanced at the snoring Hange across from her, and slowly accepted the fact that perhaps tonight sleep was just not meant for her.

With a sigh, Sonya quietly rose from her bed, slipping on her sweater, and tiptoed out of the room. The cold stone floors sent a chill through her body as her bare feet padded down the hallway, illuminated only by the light of the moon. She could hear voices at the end of the hallway, and silently approached the source of the noise: a brightly lit room, with the door cracked ever so slightly open. As she stared inside the room, a yellow sliver of light sliced across her face. It was just a group of MPs, sitting around a table with wine while playing cards. They seemed to be having a good time; laughing and teasing one another. What a shame that most of them were complete assholes.

Sonya quietly withdrew from her peering spot, and continued around the corner, which she thought at first was a dead end, but upon closer inspection, she found that there was a spiral staircase that went up, up, up. Curiously, and without much regard for her safety, she ascended the dark steps.

As she came to the top of the staircase, Sonya discovered that she had made her way to the roof. The stone turrets lining the edge of the building cast dark shadows over the moonlit stones, and every couple of feet there was a quietly burning torch which gave the whole atmosphere a sort of romantic hue. Well, almost everything was romantic to Sonya above ground.

As she scanned her surroundings, she noticed a figure sitting on top of one of the turrets, gazing out at the terrain before them. It wasn’t until she moved closer that she realized it was Levi. With a little smile, she gently cleared her throat to make her presence known; but as he turned to look at her over his shoulder, he didn’t seem surprised in the least to see her there.

“Can’t sleep?” Sonya said, sitting herself down next to him.

“Usually, no.” He said, turning to look out at the horizon again. Sonya nodded, and followed his gaze, enjoying the quiet stillness of the night. Her eyes trailed up into the sky, until she was leaning back to look at the stars.

“What did you think when you first saw the sky?” She asked.

Levi paused, glancing at her before looking up at the atmosphere. “I thought it wasn’t bad.”

Sonya laughed. “That’s beautiful.” She said sarcastically.

“What about you?”

“Hm?” She straightened her neck as she turned to look back at Levi.

“What did you think when you first saw it?” Levi brought his eyes away from the sky to land on her.

“I thought it was the most free thing in the world.” She smiled, remembering how the sun had nearly blinded her when she first surfaced. “At first, I hated the sun; training was a real bitch. I really couldn’t understand why you all didn’t just sleep during the day and then become active at night-- but then, I remember one day,” Sonya glanced at her hands, “Anna and I were getting water, just filling up the buckets from this well, nothing special. And I noticed Anna wasn’t doing anything to help, but when I looked at her, she was staring up at the sky even though it was the sunniest day of the year.” She pulled her legs up, crossing them in front of her as she propped her head up on the palm of her hand. “So then I turned to look at whatever she was looking at, and it turned out there was this flock of geese flying up there, in that pointed shape they have. Anna said to look at the sky, and look how beautiful it was.” Sonya bit her lip, feeling tears spring into her eyes at the memory. “That’s when I fell in love with the world, I guess. It sounds stupid and it probably is, but after being cooped up Underground… everything up here is the most beautiful thing.”

Levi didn’t say anything; he couldn’t help but gaze at Sonya as she spoke, feeling the slightest bit envious at her outlook. He knew that he couldn’t bring himself to look at the world that way-- it felt hollow and unrealistic to see his world as beautiful.

“It's not stupid.” He said.

Sonya glanced at him, waiting for him to elaborate-- but clearly he wasn't going to. So, she just turned back to the horizon, appreciative of the view and the company.

“Sometimes I kind of wish I was back down there.” She confessed quietly, lowering her eyes to gaze at the city below. Perhaps it was the late night making her particularly emotional; and she wasn’t quite sure why she felt so comfortable around Levi at this moment. He scoffed.

“Well, that’s stupid.” Levi said, and Sonya rolled her eyes. “Everyone down there was either a criminal, or in the service of criminals. You should know better than anyone what that’s like.”

“What’s that supposed to mean?” Sonya tensed, turning to glare at him.

Levi raised an eyebrow, unimpressed by her defensive attitude. “Well, you were a whore, weren’t you?”

There was that word-- and that word associated directly with her. Sonya sucked in a breath and set her jaw, standing up to leave. She needed to remove herself from this situation before she did something she would regret. Her gut was on fire with anger and her chest was tight, and as Levi stood, grabbing her arm to stop her, she almost punched him in the face-- but as she whirled around to face him, he had placed his index finger over his lips, indicating her to be quiet. Sonya bit the inside of her cheek, and tilted her head ever so slightly to hear whatever Levi had heard.

To their left, she heard hushed voices-- obviously, something was not right. Levi and Sonya exchanged a glance: should they investigate? The voices got sharper, but still hushed. Sonya gave the tiniest shrug as if to say, “If you go, I’ll go.”

Levi nodded, and the two turned, stepping ever so quietly towards the voices, hugging the wall behind them. There was a small corner being illuminated by a few held torches, and as the two came closer, they saw that there were three Military Police soldiers, and two Garrison soldiers. Sonya and Levi ducked behind a large crate, successfully avoiding being seen, while they were close enough to eavesdrop.

“We paid you, and yet still, things didn’t go according to plan.” One man said in a low voice.

“They must have fixed it before it went in or something, I don’t know!” A girl’s voice; she was clearly terrified.

“Are you saying it’s not your fault?” An older woman said.

The girl must have nodded, because there was a palpable silence.

“So, what do you want us to do?” A familiar man’s voice drawled; Sonya was sure she could recognize that voice, but she couldn’t place where she had heard it. “Clearly, someone must have found out, otherwise the malfunction would’ve worked…” He laughed to himself. “Isn’t that a funny thing to say?”

“Not in the slightest.” The older woman hissed. “If someone found out, then we’d be behind bars already… maybe they caught the mistake and fixed it without another thought.”

“Hange did say it was a prototype-- maybe she checked it before it went in.” The girl said timidly.

Levi and Sonya exchanged a glance. Who the hell were they and why were they speaking about Hange?

“Well, we did our job.” The familiar voice said. He didn’t seem to have a care in the world. “Where’s the rest of our payment?”

Some shuffling of feet, and the sound of someone being shoved against the wall.

“You forget your place, Romanova.” The first man growled.

Sonya tensed up, and her gaze shot up to meet Levi’s. He clamped a hand on her shoulder, pinning her to the spot in case she tried anything stupid. That was… that was her name. The one her mother told her never to forget. The one thing her father gave her: her name.

Maria had kept the name Romanova-- stolen it-- from the man she most believed to be Sonya’s father. She would always lament about how she didn’t know who her father was, and how it didn’t matter because her only family was here Underground; but sometimes, she would be so sure of who her father was-- she would mutter “Romanova,” over and over again. Still, Maria would reveal nothing more about the man besides his name and complain about his absence. Sometimes Sonya thought that Maria had just made him up so that she could have an extra vessel to place blame onto when Sonya was full.

She had accepted long ago that the only semblance of her father that she would be able to have were her eyes-- bright yellow-green in contrast to her mother’s warm brown-- and her name. Her father’s name. And there it was, being spat in the face of whoever owned her father’s name, too.

“We’ll keep the second portion of payment, considering this was a failure.” The older woman sighed. “Let him go, Hubert.”

A moment-- and then some shuffling, and Sonya assumed that Romanova had been let go.

“Maybe it won’t be so bad,” Romanova mused-- the familiarity in his voice coupled with the name he had just been baptized with was sending chills up Sonya’s spine. She was absolutely itching to peek over the crates they were hiding behind, but Levi’s grip was so fierce on her that she knew that was impossible. “Maybe having a titan in here will spice things up a bit-- Lord knows we could use some excitement around here.”

Footsteps receded; the three MPs must have left the two Garrison soldiers without another word. Sonya’s heart thundered in her ears, and she hooked Levi with her most pleading gaze: please let me look at whoever shares my name.

He narrowed his eyes: no.

She would have liked so much to have punched Levi in that moment-- but the Garrison soldiers began their own journey back to the sleeping quarters. They walked past Levi and Sonya, hidden in the shadows, without even realizing they were there.

And as the two soldiers passed, Sonya finally got to see who it was that shared her identity: Dimitri, the pianist.