#that stack of books gets uglier the longer i look at it

[tsubasaclones]

i think they should get to be friends too

[lazywonderlvnd]

Hi, if you are still taking prompts; A magically powerful Harry not noticing that his magic does things to make Draco happy. This can be pre-relationship or established relationship. Like it starts of with his tea being exactly as he likes and always the right temperature. Then evolves to rooms changing colour or weather changing or people being unable to invade Draco’s personal space due to an invisible barrier or something ridiculous. Btw Draco doesn’t notice as well.

anon.....you really killed me w this one. i’ve been so emo over this wyugeahrwiw might end up writing smth longer tbh bc this concept is literally the only thing that matters to me!!!!!!! i hope u enjoy i had so much fun with it ❤️❤️❤️

“Harry, you do it. Please.”

“No.”

“Please!”

“We’re fucking watching something, Draco!”

“So just pause it!”

Harry grabs the pillow on his lap and slams it onto the sofa next to him. Hermione can see dust rise in its wake. He pauses the telly. 

“Are you doing it?” Draco asks hopefully. Harry scowls at him. 

“Well you won’t shut up until I do, will you?”

“Definitely not.”

Harry disappears into the kitchen and Draco sits there looking smug.

“It’s kind of sick how you get off on bossing him around,” says Ron, his tone one of simple observation. His fingers are idly playing with Hermione’s hair, but she doesn’t think he notices he’s doing it. 

“If I’m not mean to him a few times a week I break out in a rash, Weasley,” Draco says blithely. “Besides, he makes it perfectly. I don’t know how he does it, it’s always exactly the right temperature and sweetness and all that. I s’pose his years as a house-elf for those Muggles gave him plenty of time to perfect the art.”

“You’re a twat,” says Ron. “And my mum makes tea better than him.”

“Well you’re just a pitiful little mummy’s boy, aren’t you, Weasley? We can hardly trust your opinion.”

“Hark who the hell’s talking,” Ron scoffs. “Least I’m not twenty-three and still calling my mum ‘mummy’ like the world’s biggest bloody ponce.”

Draco splutters but before he can retort Harry’s coming back into the room hovering four cups of tea that float placidly to each of them. Draco looks exactly like a satisfied cat as he takes his and Harry drops back down onto the sofa next to him. Not too close, but certainly not too far, either.

“Literally exquisite,” Draco declares after he’s taken a sip. Ron rolls his eyes.

“It’s just tea, Draco,” says Harry, and he grabs for the remote to turn the film back on. “You’re such a demanding little brat. Merlin’s fucking tits.”

But Draco looks happy and Harry looks suspiciously content as well. Ron turns to her and makes a silent gagging face. Hermione snorts and puts a finger to her lips. They’ve decided not to say anything yet.

*

“Wasn’t this place a lot … uglier last time?”

“What?” Harry says absently. He’s not listening — he’s got all his attention zeroed in on a stack of parchment he’s holding. They’d only barely dragged him along to lunch; earlier the captain of the English National Team had apparently owled him a great number of brand-new Quidditch plays and required Harry’s extensive thoughts and notes before their next practise, which was tomorrow morning. 

“Uglier,” Draco says emphatically, and Ron mutters something she doesn’t catch. “Remember? The walls were that tragic egg-yolk colour.” He shivers. Hermione thinks it might have been an honest-to-god shiver of revulsion. She also thinks she knows what’s happened, even though the extent of it surprises her.

“Maybe someone heard you whingeing and changed it,” Ron apparently can’t stop himself from saying with a snigger. Hermione elbows him hard and he shoots her a glare, mouthing, he doesn’t know!

Harry would usually be the one to take the lead and get them a table when all four of them go out to eat together but today he’s too wrapped up in his Quidditch plays, so Ron steps forward and does it, which makes Hermione’s chest flutter pleasantly. He’d blush down to his bones if she ever said it aloud but he’s quite capable of being a leader in Harry’s absences. 

“Whatever happened,” says Draco pointedly as they’re led to their table, “it’s a great bloody blessing, I was genuinely unsure I’d have the mental fortitude to survive another assault like that on my delicate senses. And, I mean, this —” he gestures to the walls, which are now an admittedly pleasing dark teal above a white trim “— is stunning. It’s my favourite colour.”

“Is it? So weird they picked your favourite colour completely by coincidence,” Ron says, and Hermione elbows him again. Draco notices nothing and neither does Harry, although he does finally set the plays aside once they’re seated at the table.

“Are you complaining about the wall colour again?” he asks drily. They would both be extremely displeased to know they sound like an old married couple. Draco snatches haughtily at the paper napkin on the table and unfolds it to place over his lap. The first time he’d ever done this at a regular, decidedly not upscale restaurant Ron had taken it upon himself to spend the entire meal adopting a posh accent to match Draco’s and saying things to the waiter like “Don’t you have crystal?” while holding up a glass cup full of Pepsi and then commenting “These aren’t real silver, you know” after making a show of inspecting the titanium utensils. 

“I can complain about hideous design choices if I want to,” Draco tells Harry with his nose in the air. “Thankfully they’ve rectified it this time.”

On the other side of the restaurant, Hermione sees two employees talking, one of them gesturing at the wall with utter bewilderment. She doesn’t point it out.

*

“Twelve o’clock,” says Ron, nodding past Draco’s shoulder. “Some bloke staring you down hard, Malfoy.”

Draco looks excitedly behind him, but what Hermione takes more notice of is the way Harry’s face falls a little. She can’t help but wonder if he even realises it’s happened. She’s almost certain he’s aware of his feelings for Draco even though he still hasn’t said anything to her (and she’s been waiting months now, the effort of holding her tongue growing only more difficult by the day, and she knows Ron’s always seconds away from shouting at him) but she doesn’t think he knows how obvious he is. Draco doesn’t seem to know either, but she thinks that’s because Draco feels exactly the same way. She’d have called them morons, but she remembers too well how long it had taken her and Ron.

“What the fuck, Weasley,” Draco hisses, turning back around with a scowl that makes Ron laugh and Harry perk up again a little bit. “He looks like he hasn’t washed his hair in weeks.”

“Now, now,” says Ron, “mustn’t judge books by their greasy covers.”

“Then you go shag him if you think he’s so fit.”

“Maybe I will,” Ron says airily, as if he really is considering it, and Hermione can’t help chuckling and kissing his cheek. Then his expression changes to one of wicked amusement, which makes all of them look round to see the bloke coming their way. Hermione glances at Harry to find that — oh yes, he looks flustered and vaguely upset.

“Hullo,” says the greasy bloke to Draco as he comes up beside him at their table. He’s really not terrible-looking, but if she’s learned anything about Draco in the last couple years it’s that his standards amount to models and Harry Potter, so this man has almost no chance.

“Hello,” Draco drawls, reminding her fiercely of his younger self at Hogwarts. “I’m not interested.”

“Right little narcissistic bugger, aren’t you?” the man says. And now, finally, he’s begun to look as revolting to Hermione as he’d done initially to Draco — a repellent personality can do that. “Maybe I just wanted to come and have a chat.”

“Then why aren’t you looking at any of the rest of us?” Ron asks, sounding halfway between amused still and a little put off.

“Can you leave, please?” Draco interjects, cringing away from the man encroaching slowly on his personal space. And suddenly, as he looks on the verge of antagonising Draco further, he shifts his feet and slips, landing right on his bum with a yell of surprise. All four of them get to their feet to see, but there doesn’t seem to be any liquid or even slimy food for him to have tripped on.

“The fuck ...?” the man says, getting back to his feet. But when he moved towards Draco, he only slips again, on absolutely nothing at all. Something clicks and Hermione looks at Harry: he seems as confused as anyone else (if obviously pleased).

She looks at Ron then, who catches her eye and lifts his brows like he’s thinking the same thing.

Draco’s suitor gets up once more and steadies himself, looking a bit dazed. Some deep animal instinct seems to tell him to stop trying, and with a wary glance at Draco he finally leaves.

“Well that was a bit of a fucking scene,” says Harry. Draco, coming out of his own startled daze, laughs.

“Yeah,” Ron says sarcastically, “wonder what could’ve possibly happened.”

*

“I really thought it was going to rain,” Draco mopes where he’s standing at the window. It’s grey outside but it definitely doesn’t look like rain and Draco appears so upset about it that Hermione actually feels badly, even though she’s quite glad for the clear weather. 

“Just shut the curtains,” Ron suggests from his place on the floor. He’s sorting through Harry’s collection of VHS tapes, trying to decide on a good Halloween movie. Not that he’s ever seen any of them, and Hermione suspects he’ll end up choosing whichever cover he likes best.

“It’s not the same!” Draco wails. “The thunder and lightning is all part of it, you uncultured pillock! The atmosphere is all wrong.”

“It’ll be just as good when we shut off all the lights and draw the curtains,” she assures him, but it doesn’t remove the look of disappointment from his face. It’s a pouty sort of thing that echoes the brattiness of his youth; she imagines a five-or-six-year-old Draco giving his parents similar looks when he wasn’t getting what he wanted.

 At that moment the front door opens and Harry walks in carrying two grocery bags, one of which contains alcohol, which Hermione can tell by the way the plastic is bulging around the cans.

“The fuck are you all doing here?” he says by way of greeting.

“You said eight o’clock, fuckhead,” Ron tells him without looking up. “But it’s fine, I’ve had time to pick a film and Malfoy’s had time to moan about the weather.”

“What’s wrong with the weather?”

“I wanted a storm!”

At that exact moment, a flash of lightning lights up the sky behind Harry where he hasn’t even closed the door yet. Seconds later a downpour begins, and then there’s a rolling crash of thunder.

Hermione’s eyes widen and once more she finds Ron’s gaze, who looks about as shocked as she feels. Draco, meanwhile, has his hands over his mouth and looks like a child on Christmas morning.

For the first time since his magic had begun picking up on Draco’s wishes and granting them of seemingly its own accord, Hermione sees Harry look suspicious. He peers behind him at the storm suddenly raging outside his house before slowly closing the door. When he turns back he looks directly at Hermione, who looks away quickly.

They set up the food Harry had gotten — all kinds of Halloween-themed sweets — and once everyone has their drinks (“Make mine,” Draco tells Harry, “you do it best”) and is comfortable on the two sofas in the room (Harry and Draco are, as usual, as close to each other as they can get without actually touching) they start the movie: The Thing, which Harry swears is one of the greatest horror films of all time.

Funny thing is, an hour and a half into it she looks over and, with a jolt, realises the two of them are kissing half-covered beneath a blanket. She elbows Ron, who positively beams when he notices.

“Fucking finally, dear sweet Merlin,” he whispers, the sound muffled by the continued rain and thunder. “I nearly hit him upside the head when he made it rain, are you fucking kidding me?”

“Shh!” Hermione hisses, though she’s smiling. “They’ll hear you. We’ll rag him about it tomorrow.”

A soft sound of laughter comes from the other sofa that Hermione identifies as Draco’s, and when she risks another peek after a moment she sees that Harry has a hand on Draco’s jaw, and that he’s smiling.

[echoes-of-the-clockwork]

Book One: Death (Noctis x Reader) Chapter Twenty-One

A/n: As you can tell, I lied! Not intentionally, though. I was hoping to have this story wrapped up by the twentieth chapter, but that didn't happen. Therefore, here's chapter twenty-one! Love you all!!! •••••••••••••••••••• (Y/n) guided Noctis, Gladio, and Ignis back to the sleeping quarters where she left Prompto only ten minutes ago. Once inside, Death closed the door behind her as the trio wandered over to the sleeping blonde. She was a little surprised to see he was still asleep, but she was glad to see him at peace.

The Horseman's (e/c) eyes traveled between the newly arrived trio with a stern glimmer. "You three should also get some rest. I seriously doubt we'll be attacked here."

"Yes. (Y/n) is correct. We should repose for a short while as we will need our strength in order to obtain the Crystal and flee," Ignis stated as he used his cane to search for another bed. He laid in the one beside Prompto and leaned his cane against the metal bed frame.

"Yeah. Could use a quick nap from all the shit we've been through today," Gladio said as he made his way over to a vacant bed. Before laying down, he eyed (Y/n) sternly. "You got our backs?"

"Yes. Just rest, Gladio. Not like I could sleep if I wanted to," the Horseman sighed, sitting in the chair beside the door. Hearing her resolve, the brute tried to get as comfortable as possible and rest.

Noctis was the last one awake, besides (Y/n), and claimed the bed beside Gladio's. He sat down, but he didn't lay down to rest. Death crossed her arms and legs, peering questionably at her boyfriend. "Can't sleep?"

"Something like that," the boy muttered in response.

Death noticed the intense stare she was receiving from him and snickered. "Just tell me what you want."

"N-No. It's completely embarrassing..." Noctis hid his face with both hands and refused to look at her any longer.

(Y/n) snorted with laughter as she stood up and approached Noctis. She leant down, peeled his hands off his face, and stared into his glistening pools of lapis with a gentle smile. "Tell me the truth, Noctis. I can't help you if you won't talk to me."

Without a word, Noctis' arms snaked around (Y/n)'s waist and he pulled her down onto the bed. A gasp of surprise left her lips as she fell on top of the boy. She tried to roll off of him, but it was impossible with the grip Noctis had on her waist. She placed her hands on his chest and pushed her upper body up. Staring into his lapis eyes, Death's (e/c) eyes narrowed. "There's no way I can't keep a lookout in this position, Noctis."

"Don't care," he responded, resting his head against the pillow.

"And it's freezing in here. I doubt you can sleep with my horrid body temperature added to the equation."

"Don't care," he repeated. "Shut up and let me sleep."

(Y/n) sighed in defeat and remained where she was. One of Noctis' hands slithered up Death's back and to her head. He pushed her head back down to his chest as he closed his eyes. The Horseman rolls her eyes with a faint smile as she turned her head to keep an eye on the door.

<------<<<<<<<<<

After another hour passed, the four boys were all sleeping peacefully. As (Y/n) was enjoying Noctis' embrace, an eerie sound was heard from the hallway. Her head shot up off the sleeping boy's chest at the noise, eyes glued to the door. Death eased her body out of Noctis' arms and quickly but quietly approached the door. She placed her ear against the frigid metal and listened closely. The sound she heard was a mix between a chuckle and a hiss. Then, a familiar odor assaulted her nose. Her eyes widened as her body became petrified.

Shaking away the paralysis, (Y/n) opened the door and peered down the hall. The cacophony amplified, signaling the monster was approaching. A large shadow could be seen on the wall, the dark silhouette growing as it stalked closer. The Horseman promptly closed the door and shook the boys awake. "We've got trouble."

The boys stood from their beds and pulled themselves out of their twilight state from just waking up. (Y/n) knew of Noctis' sealed powers and provided Prompto, Gladio, and Ignis their weapons. Luckily, Noctis had found his father's sword and wouldn't need his engine blade.

When Death handed Ignis his daggers, Gladio spoke up with a disapproving tone. "The hell are you doing?"

"This isn't the time to argue, Gladio," (Y/n) growled. "Ignis can handle himself in battle and if you can't see that, you're the one who's blind."

"Much appreciated, (Y/n)," Ignis said, gripping his daggers tightly.

"You four will search the Keep for the Crystal and hopefully, find a way to fix Noct's powers."

"You seriously think we're gonna let you wander around this place alone?" Noctis rebuttals.

"Yes, I do. You still have the summoning orb?" Death questioned.

"Yeah," he replied.

"If I don't regroup with you all in an hour, summon me." Without another word, (Y/n) summoned her scythe and dashed out of the room.

Rounding around the corner at the end of the hall, the sight and scent that greeted her caused fear to fester in her being. Death's (e/c) eyes widened at the sight, unable to believe it. "Dear Astrals above..."

A chuckle left the man/monster that stood before her. "It seems my new appearance has you flabbergasted, my dear."

The creature that loomed over (Y/n) was no longer a man nor fully the putrid monster she was all too familiar with. Her mouth was agape at the horrid sight as she took a few steps backwards. "You fused your body with the Wendigo's... Why on Eos would you do such a thing?"

"The capability of such an other worldly being combined with my own attributes makes me invincible!"

"Guess being immortal wasn't enough for your crazy and deranged ass," Death retorts with a snicker, her fear wiped away. "Now, you've merged your body with a monster that is mortal. Was that really a good move?"

Ardyn's response was to swing down his arm, which was a Wendigo's appendage. (Y/n) dodges with ease, her smirk growing. "Y'know, there is one way for an immortal to be slain."

"Oh?" The hybrid hums. "And how can such a feat be achieved, Horseman?"

"That's my little secret." Death raised her scythe and aims the blade at the hybrid. "Bring it, you putrid atrocity. I'll make sure you're wiped from Eos and never remembered."

"Such a burly statement. It's a shame your dear prince won't be around to see your downfall by my hands."

(Y/n) ignored Ardyn's taunt and shook her head with a small smirk. "I was just thinking about how you actually look much better this way. You were way uglier before."

The chancellor was irked by the insult and charged at (Y/n). Death was able to dodge and run down the hallway, wishing to lure the hybrid into a much more open area. Turning down multiple hallways, she reached a large, open room with a few metallic crates stacked. She ran over to a single stack and hid behind the crates. Peering from her spot, she saw Ardyn hadn't caught up. While she was weaving through the hallways, she hadn't realized she would lose Ardyn so easily.

A few minutes passed and the hybrid finally reached the large room. (Y/n) remained in her hiding spot, wanting to buy more time for the boys to search the Keep. If she could keep the man/monster on her tail and away from them for at least an hour, that'll give them enough time to search the parts of the Keep they haven't. She could hear Ardyn taunting her as he dragged his disgusting body around. By his movements, Death could tell the chancellor was having difficulty with controlling the Wendigo's arms and legs. The head, which eyes still radiated crimson even if its body was fused to Ardyn's, seemed to have life of its own.

Taking a closer look at the hybrid, (Y/n) noticed the Wendigo side was slowly beginning to take control. Ardyn's once golden eyes were turning red to match the monster's. "The fusion... It's turning him mortal. Guess I just need to buy a little more time and he will be completely mortal and be an easy kill."

The hybrid hissed and groaned as it slowly dragged its body across the room and began searching behind the crates. (Y/n) dispelled her scythe and decided to run instead of fight. She moved from hiding spot to hiding spot, making the hybrid search every corner of the room. While Ardyn was in the furthest corner, Death maneuvered to a nearby ladder and scaled it. Up on the catwalk, she crouched to hide her form behind the railing. It wasn't the ideal cover, but it was all she had to work with.

From (Y/n)'s perch, she saw the frustration grow and the Wendigo slowly consume Ardyn's immortal body into its mortal one. As the chancellor gave into his anger, his hybrid body saw it as a weakness and the monster infused with him saw it as an opening to slowly consume him. The Wendigo was sentient and wouldn't allow Ardyn to control their merged bodies. Anger boiled in the man's/monster's veins as he growled and swiped its claws at the metal crates. Death remained on the catwalk as the rage consumed Ardyn and went berserk.

Suddenly, one of the Wendigo's arms impaled Ardyn's chest. Its claws ripped at his chest, but it appeared the man felt nothing. (Y/n) winced at the sight, knowing the Wendigo was trying to tear Ardyn's body from its own.

Tearing her eyes from the scene, Death meandered down the catwalk silently. As the struggle between man and beast continued, (Y/n) reached the end of the catwalk and left the large room.

The Horseman didn't make it far down the hallway before she heard the hybrid's body slam against the metallic catwalk with a thud and a sinister cry. Without looking back, (Y/n) ran as fast as she could. When she turned left, she was greeted by a stairwell and ran up the steps with the monster close behind.

<------<<<<<<<

After running for what felt like hours, (Y/n) hid in a closet to catch her breath. She wasn't sure how much longer it would take for the Wendigo to take over Ardyn's body and turn the man into a mortal, but she hoped it wasn't too long.

"I need to tell the others," she whispered to herself. Closing her eyes, Death inhales slowly as she used her mana to locate the summoning orb. It would take a tremendous amount of magic to teleport to the boys, but she needed to tell them of Ardyn's horrific condition. Within a few seconds, the Horseman appeared in front of Noctis and sighed. A small dizzy spell caused her to feel nauseous and she placed a hand against her temple. She blinked profusely, shaking her head lightly. "Ugh, everything's spinning..."

"Where'd you come from?" Noctis asked.

"Not sure. I wasn't keeping track of where I was going. There's something urgent I needed to tell you all and decided to use my mana to summon myself."

"What's wrong?" Gladio questioned.

(Y/n) let her vision steady and her world stop spinning before answering. "Ardyn's fused his body with the last remaining Wendigo."

The boys were shocked at the news and confused as to why the chancellor would do such an extreme tactic. Prompto peered from behind Noctis and eyed the Horseman with worry. "What does that mean for us?"

Death's lips quirked up in a smirk. "The Wendigo side of the fusion is overpowering Ardyn. With time, he'll become mortal and an easy kill."

"Guess we're making our final stand here," Gladio stated.

"It seems the Astrals are smiling upon us," Ignis said.

Noctis nodded in agreement. "Good. That bastard deserves whatever's coming his way."

[lafemmedefandom-blog]

Trollhunter!Strickler AU

A Snapshot

Based on original art by @changepherr0x, and writing by @fika-forever

Walt keeps journals.

It started when English dripped as ink onto a page and gained a mouth in young Walder's​ mind. He wrote for practice, then for pleasure, then to bleed his humors into an order the barbers failed to achieve. Words gurgled out of his head like sick, and afterwards, just like his first misadventures with too much wine, made him feel better. For a while.

He finishes the first slim volume in a few months. In a year, he has filled another. More human languages gain speech through letters in his head. (“Latin! Greek! Marry, Walder would be a scholar!” say his friends, to which Blinky and Dictatious puff proudly and say nothing–except hand him more primers.)

Centuries pass. He writes a library, kept by Dictatious, then Blinky, stashed safely in Trollmarket, found by Barbara during one long night of troll studies. She stretches her legs, stepping to one of the high stacks, and touches the name in familiar Roman capitals.

“Are these yours?”

Walter rolls his head round on his shoulder, heavy eyes snapping open when he sees what she’s holding.

“Ahah, I see you’ve found my journals,” he says, rising quickly, grinning with just too many teeth as he gingerly takes the book from Barbara and pretends to leaf through it. “I haven’t seen these in ages,” he lies.

She catches on, and lets go (keeping enough to remember), slowly tracing the gilded letters on the spine of another volume.

“How many are there?”

He puts back the one she took.

“Too many, ironically, to remember.”

“Do you write them all in Troll?” she asks. (Those parts she’d glimpsed were all sloppy, slanted, and pressed hard into the page, like the letters had fallen from a height and broke where they lay; the journal she’d picked was almost completely in Troll.)

“Not all.” He selects a book from a higher shelf, brightening as he flips through its pages. “This one is from my travels. See here,” he tilts it her way and points to a passage, “I spent some time touring Italy–before it was Italy,” he chuckles through his nose.

Barbara traces after his fingers, taps a word. “You were in Verona?”

“Fair Verona, yes! And Milan, then Venice, then Florence and Rome. The Renaissance was blooming, you see–even Gunmar took interest, though much less, I think, in the arts, than the arms. Ah!”

Walter lifts both pointer fingers and scrambles across the room to a high cabinet. Inside are tall, skinny sleeves of loose papers, some gilded, some wrapped in cloth, some held together by straining ribbons. He hums, trailing a finger over the many-colored spines, then slides one out and fairly hops back to their table.

“Grant, I was–am not–an artist, but on a few occasions I made the acquaintance of apprentices from certain workshops, who, when plied with enough vintage and company, were happy to share their master’s secrets!” 

He opens the wide cover and page upon page of sketches, and diagrams, and scribbled, wine-stained notes flutter out of the sleeve. Some are signed, in tiny letters, in Troll.

“Oh,” sighs Barbara, ghosting her hand across the old parchment. “Walt, these are amazing.”

His eyes twinkle as he lifts one up, a sketch of a horse and rider with a wicked, bladed device attached to the saddle.

“Milan, 1485.”

“Da Vinci?”

He nods, and raises another, an architectural draft.

“Rome, 1518.”

Barbara bites her lip. “Miiicheeelangelo?”

“Yes! You know your Masters!”

“These can’t be–”

“Originals? Heavens, no! Copies, as close as I could get them.”

Barbara grins and shakes her head, turning to the rest of the collection.

“I can’t believe–I just can’t believe it! All the history you’ve seen…” Her eyes darken and she frowns, reeling in what she’d earlier caught and let swim, now pulling it firmly up where she can see it. “Walt…so much history. Not all of it– I mean, how much of it…?”

“Was bad?” he finishes, and a cumulus mass, of a darker, lightning-lit kind passes quickly over his own face, before he brushes it away and smiles at her, sad, but not too sad, charming and full of comfort.

“It’s history,” he says, gathering up the sketches and folding them back in their sleeve. “Not ancient history, mind you,” he laughs, “but a turn of the wheel as wonderful and horrible as any century.”

He puts back the art book and returns his journal to the shelf. Barbara follows, still holding onto her catch. (The longer she looked, the uglier it grew, captivating and terrible; trying to look away, its image morphed in her mind, twisted and bloated to something she felt was realistic, and feared hardly approached reality.) 

She plants her feet behind him, curling her fingers into twitchy fists at her side. He starts at her closeness when he turns around, lifting his brows, then knitting them as she open her mouth as though to speak, closes it, and again, like she has been reeled in on a hook and cannot get the words out to demand release.

“Barbara,” he says, touching her arms, rubbing tentative lines over her scrubs with his thumbs. “Darling, what’s wrong?”

She bites her lip, pulling her arms in ‘til she can touch his hands with her own. Meeting his eyes, her thoughts flood against her closed lips and threaten to seep into the air between them.

How long have you had nightmares? How often do you not sleep? How many wars have you had to fight in? How many battles? How many injuries? Are you ok? Please, promise me you’d tell me if you were ever not ok. 

“Promise to…read them to me sometime?” she asks. 

Walter smiles, sad, but not too sad, takes her hands and squeezes them. 

Nomura, tiny Nomura, in a tattered, pink kimono, holds onto him for dear life and begs him not to go. “Let the big ones fight! Don’t leave, big brother!” 

Blinkous, waving a scrap of destroyed training dummy, blocks the portcullis and refuses to move. “Walder, you must speak to someone! If not me, perhaps Vendel. Draal! Nomura! Anyone!” 

“Someday, darling. Perhaps someday.”

Barbara’s line jerks, snaps, and something large uncoils and draws a wake across the water. She blinks, and lets Walter lead her back to their table. He picks up the amulet and shines it on a page.

“Now, back to the care of troll versus humankind.”

“I thought we were talking about changelings?”

“We were, yes, but the text keeps them separate.”