#the breeze and the rain and the murmur of the wind and the birds singing

[iwhoneverbelievedinwar]

this might sound silly but when people share pics they took on walks with me i kind of believe in beauty and humanity again like oh? you noticed a small creature? you were in awe of the deep blue of the sky? the way the light touched the houses and reflected off the windows? my heart sings we are alive we are alive we are alive

[thatonetimetraveller]

ooooh I would love to know about 'Barduil Month 2023' for the wip game! mooooore bi widower dads yay! <33333

thank you for the ask 💜

i have all the fics for last year's prompt list in there idk why I did it that way

I haven't really worked on it in ages but as a treat and an apology I have the last section i typed up here (last year, help where has time gone) idk if you remember this fic but it was supposed to be the 2nd chapter

As summer waned and autumn slowly took over the air cooled and rain became more common. It was a slow transition with the wind becoming chillier and the days slightly shorter, but the temperature remained warm for the most part. The leaves lost their vibrancy before turning yellow and orange. Animals began collecting food for their hibernation and the melody of the birdsong changed as the summer birds fled and winter ones came to replace them. The small hidden fields of golden crops mature and harvested, which was always a cause for celebration.

 The first harvest feast marked the first day of the season, it was always a rowdy affair. Work for the preparations of the feast swamped Thranduil and he did nor have time to really think about his summer encounters with Bard. The Forest always took to this transitionary period with trepidation since as the air cooled, its defences weakened and so did the strength of the blight increase. Thranduil went out to enjoy the company of the Forest and make sure it was ready for the colder months.

The feast was a merry occasion for his folk with singing and dancing around campfires as soon as the sun set. The last rays of the setting sun filtered through the yellowing leaves casting the clearing in golden light. The faint murmur of Sindarin put Thranduil’s mind at ease and even the Forest was calm today. Leaves swayed and rustled with the cool breeze and the birds began their customary evening song. Fireflies came out for the last time bathing the glade in green light as the sky greyed. Exclamations of wander followed as the fireflies settled on the grass and in their hair. Thranduil smiled to himself as he was the one who asks the Forest to wake the fireflies one last time.

The trees split with groans revealing a path from which a figure a figure stumbled through. His arrival was loud; leaves and branches crunching with every step he took as he waded through the thick underbrush. Soft gasps echoed through the clearing followed by anxious murmurings in Sindarin. It took a moment for Thranduil to remember and when he did, with an exasperated nudge from the Forest, his heart soared. He did not think Bard would come. The elves shifted behind, few brought bows for the Forest hid them in times like these. When Bard finally came into the clearing Thranduil took an unconscious step towards him only to stop when the distinct sound of someone drawing their bow reached his ears.

“My lord!” Someone exclaimed in Sindarin and Bard’s face instantly filled with mild confusion and fear as he glanced about the nervous elves. He held up a hand with a grimace.

“It seems I am interrupting something?” he asked glancing at Thranduil. A few sharp murmurs tore through the elves before Thranduil held up a hand to silence them.

“Welcome!” he said to Bard who gave a relived smile in return. Galion came up to him and gave a confused look.

“Are you sure? Letting an outsider in?” he asked in Sindarin his eyes searching Thranduil’s face worryingly. Thranduil huffed in response.

“Calm yourself, I have met Bard before.” He said loud enough for the rest of the gathering to hear. After a moment of hesitation, they returned to setting the bonfire up with great haste for the sky had darkened rapidly. Galion stayed by his side shooting suspicious looks at Bard.

“Do you really trust him?” he asked softly and Thranduil bristled as he rounded on his advisor.

“The Forest trusts this man,” he said sharply, and Galion grimaced but held his tongue. Thranduil sighed and walked up to Bard who was glancing at the elves.

“Do not worry, I did invite you after all.” Thranduil murmured with a faint smile. Bard glanced at him and the bonfire blaze to life its warm glow reflecting in his brown eyes. The light of the bonfire bathed the clearing in a soft glow chasing off the shadows to depths of the Forest. It lit Thranduil from behind, casting an orange shine to his pale hair giving it the faint impression of it glowing. His blue eyes danced with mischief in the flicker of fire and Bard’s breath hitched as he gazed at Thranduil.

“Come, we have a whole night of merrymaking ahead of us,” Thranduil said guiding Bard towards the fire. Bard’s eyes widened at the words and a soft blush darkened his cheeks.

“Right…” he squeaked out.

Soon the dancing and singing began with loud and cheerful music played by several types of instruments from flutes to drums. The leaves swayed in tune and the birds joined in after a while. Thranduil munched on some Lembas hanging back near the edge of the Forest happy to bask in the cheer of his people and the warmth of the fire. Those who spoke Westron eventually warmed up to Bard laughing at his tales and Bard listened to Eston talk about his life in the Forest with just as much attention as he did with Thranduil.

As midnight neared and the half moon peaked into the clearing the energy of the party doubled and Thranduil re-joined the proceedings by leading the dance. They formed two sets of circles of loosely connected arms around the fire and began weaving around it changing spaces in a complicated but seamless pattern in beat with the lively music. The light reflected on each elf and their shadows cast the pattern of their dance onto the ground. Energy surged through Thranduil as he moved and for a while, he forgot his pains. Those few on the side lines clapped along to the beat and cheered the dancers on. Thranduil spotted Bard glancing at the dancers unsurely as he talked with Eston, whose face was flushed with wine as he thumped Bard’s shoulders in a friendly manner. Thranduil’s footsteps faltered just for a second before he tore his eyes away. As the dance slowed its pace, he grabbed Bard’s hand and dragged him into the fray. Bard let out an undignified noise as Eston cheered in the background.

“I don’t know how to dance,” Bard exclaimed with a flush as Thranduil guided him through the first steps.

“It is not hard,” Thranduil murmured, lying just a bit, “Just follow me.” Bard nodded and held onto Thranduil’s hand as they moved through the circle. It took some time before Bard got hold of the complicated pattern of movements, sometimes coming close to being flush their chests heaving and the firelight reflecting beautifully in his dark eyes before the rhythm of the dance tore them apart. Bard’s eyes became more intense and his blush darker as the dance went on. Still, a grin sat on his face as they were pulled apart again and Thranduil knew he was enjoying himself. Slowly the energy of the music increased, followed by clapping and cheering as the speed of the dance intensified before it ceased with a crescendo. Bard and Thranduil finished the dance chest to chest, staring at each other in the low firelight. Their heaving breaths mingled as a magnetic force pulled them closer, Bard’s eyes shimmered and Thranduil couldn’t tear his own away. A pointed cough broke through the thick tension between them, and they drew away from each other. For a moment he thought he spotted a flicker of disappointment before he turned away to face Galion. They exchanged a few words in Sindarin but when he glanced back at Bard he was gone. He sighed in dismay and hoped at least Bard enjoyed himself.

oOo

The weather deteriorated soon after the harvest festivals. Rain soaked through the ground and the bite of the wind chilled his skin. Leaves slowly turned from golden yellow to deep shades of orange, red and brown before they fell and littered the Forest floor in a miasma of colours. Spider attacks became more common once again though their severity decreased so at least Thranduil could still function. But the attacks did take their toll, he could already feel his meagre energy supplies depleting, it started out as simply going to bed earlier or needing more energy than usual to complete everyday tasks. And as the weeks passed, he grew more fatigued by the day, even sleep did not replenish him, and the exhaustion just lingered behind his eyes. Soon he knew even the simplest tasks would require him to evaluate his energy levels so he did as much as he could for the Forest before he reached that point.

The sickness had already begun to spread again poising the smaller rivers that run through the Forest, the air grew thicker and hotter in an attempt to fight off the infection, and any unwelcome travellers would be disoriented and confused in order to keep them causing further damage.

Thranduil met Bard again in the middle of the season, the air was crisp but not cold and the sun miraculously punched through the clouds though it did not leave enough energy to warm the ground. Bard was carrying his bow and arrow this time when he stumbled across Thranduil.

“Hello again.” Thranduil greeted with an amused smile. Bard startled and almost drew his bow before he spotted Thranduil.

“Gods! I could have shot you!” he exclaimed with a sigh of relief, Thranduil huffed.

“What are you doing?” he asked gesturing to the bow.

“Hunting,” Bard shrugged, “not very successfully” he added with a wry smile. Then he paled as if realizing something.

“Oh! Is this okay with you?” he asked and Thranduil blinked in confusion despite the heart filling with warmth, he cleared his throat.

“Hunting in moderation is fine” he said, Bard let out a sigh of relief. Thranduil glanced around and asked the Forest if there was any wildlife around, the leaves shook in negative.

“Though this may not be the best area for it,” Thranduil added and Bard sagged in defeat.

“Oh, the Master will fire me” he murmured his face twisting with anxiety. A path began to open up as an idea began forming in Thranduil’s mind.

“Come, I’ll show you a better area” he said and Bard’s head perked up and his eyes sparkled with gratitude. The Forest knew exactly what Thranduil had in mind opening the before them and the followed with an easy conversation between them. Thranduil hasn’t experienced this kind of ease with someone in an Age at least.

[the-crimson-crows]

The Symphony of Silence

Ask the stars what they think of humanity, and you will be met with silence. Beg the ancestors for hope, and silence will be your answer. Ask the trees what they have seen, and silence is what they’ll give. Whisper to the sand of the desert the secrets to the universe, and only silence will be given. 

There is the silence that is alive, the silence that permeates the air when you’re alone in a forest. The silence that is the creek murmuring, the birds chirping, the cicadas singing, the trees whispering. The silence that is leaves caressing the sky from its earthly domain of branches and soil, the silence that is the ebb and flow of waves tenderly creeping over sand before drawing back, the silence that is the wind whistling through the delicate music of bamboo stalks swaying. It is the silence of the night when there is nothing but the dark blanket of shadows draped over the sky, the small pinpricks of light that is the stars your only company. The silence of golden sunbeams that spill into a clearing and warm your skin until you smell of sunshine. The silence as the gentle song of a dove fills the air. 

And then there is the silence that is soft, the silence of you and I sitting together, the silence of thought and introspection. The silence of watching the sunset, hand in hand. The silence of your head resting on my shoulder, the silence of the quiet warmth that you bring. It is the silence of solitude, when I’m sitting here in the living room by myself. It’s the silence when we sleep in our bed, bodies entangled as we breathe as one. It’s the silence before you murmur your love for me, the silence as you listen to me speak. It’s the silence as the breeze plays with the wind chimes into an elegant melody and we gaze into each other’s eyes. 

But then there is the silence that is cold, the silence that is frigid and stiff. It’s the silence when you don’t call my name; the silence when you miss a beat before saying I love you. It’s the silence when you turn away from me coldly. It’s the silence that freezes the air when we lay far away from one another in bed, backs turned and looking away. It’s the silence when you come home and we don’t speak. It’s the silence when I come into the house and you do not call out welcome home, the silence when all of your belongings are gone and the house is stripped completely bare but for your grand piano. It’s the silence that lasts for a heartbeat, then two, and then stretches like a lifetime. It’s the silence when I read your note and the ghost notes of your piano plays in the air. 

It’s the silence when I’m at the graveyard and rain silently pitter-patters upon my umbrella, rolling down in fat droplets that fall and hit the freshly churned ground. The silence as water trickles down the gravestone slowly, painfully slowly, clinging to cold marble like my heart does to the memories of you. The silence when the well-wishers and mourners murmur their condolences even though they all know that what we’d had had become silence. This silence, it’s a cruel joke this universe plays on me, played on us, a grandiose orchestra that plays its swelling song in climax for this tragic play. The silence from you as I press my ear into the cold, lifeless mud in a desperate attempt to reach you, as those phantom notes, play a hauntingly beautiful melody—Chopin’s Nocturne in C sharp minor, No. 20, your favorite song to play. The silence of the void I scream into as the symphony of silence is still playing, playing its macabre song of death. 

Forever, in silence. 

[apoetsinkling]

Somedays

Somedays I wonder what I have become. From a bottle of milk to a bottle of knowledge, I’ve grown somehow. 

So I had to ask myself, What am I? The following is what my mind replied.

“Somedays I’m a fire, burning through the pages of life, racing along, untamed, unchallenged, and unfettered. I feed off of everything that comes my way, experiences, music, books, food, fights, love, lust, peace... I consume it all. I enlighten, warm, burn, char, and explode every inch of the way. Extrapolating myself into exhaustion, I’ll bend everything into a shape of interest and chaos.” 

I pondered and asked, What about when the fire goes out? This time my body replied.

“Somedays I am the pulsing of a thousand atoms, the charge of energy that ripples through  people, places, events, space, time. A thousand particles of unintellectual motion whose flowing follows the bellowings of a natural wind, a call to the beating heart of life. I move with solid purpose, a purpose of impulsiveness and unrefined conversation, beckoning to the globe to stop trudging about and rush to everything that may fabricate the wills of a walking corpse.”

I thought about this awhile, then in an unsure murmur I wondered, But what about when the world is still? My emotions took to the stand, shouting with conviction

“Somedays I’m the paint of the artist, the stroke of his brush on a canvas of pure zeal. I am  the sound of the choir, the hum of their voices. I am the product of a lifetime and the subject of a moment. I can be present at any moment and gone at the sound of a breeze. I am a garden for humanity, so that anyone may learn of the wonderful and terrible things that rest  in my surroundings. Being a creature of expression, I am the hammer and the anvil, pounding life away, molding it into a lamp that lights the souls that linger in the shadows of their melancholy.”

This time I inquired without hesitation, urgency and fear in my wake. But who am I when the rain falls? Who am I when the sea pulls back and crashes on the shore? Who is it that moves the fabric of change and calls the wild and savage night to be tame? Who is it that can hear the sounds of birds, but cannot bear the cries of a woman or child? Who can rush to the aid of a victim of tragedy, but stand alone when the fight comes home? Who is it that attacks the citadels of doubt and brings her walls to his knees? Who can sacrifice his own livelihood for the sake of someone who has nothing, but cannot force himself to weep at pale figure of a friend descending into the ground? Who am I when you are all silent?

My soul whispered

You are simply yourself, given and beholden to whomever you choose.

Be strong and manifest your heart through word and deed. It’s been quiet for so long and the world longs for sound, so speak, shout, scream, murmur, whisper, cry, or perhaps even sing, but whatever the cost, stay silent no longer. You are the tempest and the morning dew. You are whirlwind and the breeze. You are anything and everything this world needs if only you of yourself are no longer silent.

Somedays? Somedays I’m alive.

[snackhobi]

pairing: jimin x reader / word count: 11.8k / genre: tea witch!reader, nonwitch!jimin, growing up and finding your place in the world; fluff

summary: be careful, his mother would say. witches don’t care for mundane humans. be polite, do your business, but then leave. don’t linger. it’s not safe.

park jimin feels lost and alone and he’s still looking for home. but something unspoken leads him to your door—a witch who brews tea to match the stories and sadness that spill from his lips. a witch who gives him a question that he has to repay with an answer. (after all, you always have to pay a witch their dues.)

warnings/rating: SFW - talk of negative self thoughts, but that’s it I think! (so I suppose it’s a little angsty but it clears up dw :) )

a/n: thank you to the lovely @hobi-gif​ for beta reading this, ily queen!! the majority of teas mentioned are by the company bird & blend, and where possible I’ve inserted links to the exact teas I’ve included (so I suppose you could buy them yourself if you wanted to 👀)

edit [24/09/20]: please see the end of the story for an extra author’s note. -- Jimin is wet.

Jimin is tired, and sad, and lonely, but these are all things he's intimately familiar with, monochrome burden curled around his limbs and his heart, dragging him under their relentless weight. A familiar Sisyphean torture. Struggling against gravity only to be brought hurtling down once again. Yes, he's used to it by now.

But the wetness? That's new. Rain paints him with messy strokes, laid slick and cold across his body, soaking through clothes to skin to bone, reaching and curling chilled fingers into the heat of his insides. His shivers are full-bodied, every atom of his soul dripping rainwater, and Jimin—

Jimin wants to go home.

(He just doesn't know where that is, now.)

(Doesn't know if he's ever going to find it here.)

People rush past him. A sea of lifted hoods, unfolded umbrellas, crumpled newspapers— an array of protection from the downpour, some effective, some less so, but each offering at least a modicum of shielding. Hasty armour against the heavens. 

Jimin is not so lucky. His pockets are empty and his jacket has no hood. Sodden blond hair guides tributaries down his face, the back of his neck, rainwater rivers that touch him so soft, so cold. Just more weights on the scale that are tipping him down, down, down.

(He's so tired.)

(He's so lost.)

The city becomes a different beast in the rain, grey and hazy, heaving with bodies, and Jimin has been swept up and spat out, road signs useless, phone dead, passersby more intent on their own destination than his. Too busy to spare a glance for the soaked boy who stands aside, out of the shifting tides of people, out of place.

(He's used to that, too.)

But then: a touch. Feather-light. A breath of wind, the gentlest curl of fingers as it brushes over his rain-slick cheek; a summer breeze, dappled sunlight and rose tinted warmth.

He turns into that touch, turning his head into that ephemeral hand, chasing the sensation of sun-hot air, and then, it hits him—

the smell.

(Sea salt and pale waves, a view that stretches on forever and falls into nothingness, endless skies and deep waters; cold across his skin and in his nose as he breathes in Songjeong beach, fills his lungs with the mellowed chill. The sand is a familiar soft roughness under his feet as he stares across the horizon, out to the world beyond, so close he can almost touch it.) 

(Frying pastry, sticky street food, the smell of hot oil as the vendor flips the ssiat hotteok; air sweet with brown sugar and warm yeast, round and plump and full of seeds, a delicious crunch against his teeth. Laughter fills his ears and his lungs, as sweet as the sugar on his fingers, his lips, warmth and happiness and light.)

(Fish tang, salt and wet; the bustling yell of the fish market, fat shrimp and slick squid and rough oysters, fresh from the sea; everything breathing and shuffling and so alive, air full of the brightness of it all, edged with brine, sharp. He cuts through the choppy waves of people, treading a path that’s drawn by his steady feet, guiding him through this place he knows so well.)

Here, Jimin stands in the rain of Seoul, and all he can smell is Busan, Busan, Busan.

All he can smell is—

All he can smell is home.

(Home, that place of comfort, carved out in the heart of his memories, when he was younger and smaller and burned brighter; rose tinted and past perfect, unchangeable.)

Something stirs in his stomach. Something far reaching, but light, that soft curl of salt air brushing past the cold rain that's filled him.

He follows it.

(After all, it couldn't possibly take him somewhere that's worse than where he already is.)

--

Jimin has only met two witches in his life.

For the first, he was young, all chubby cheeks and small hands—he’s lost the round cheeks but the small hands have stayed.

He can easily recall the grizzled edges of the witch’s face and the deep solemnity in his voice. He’s a cliffside of a man, unbending and awe inspiring in his earthly solidness, almost terrifying; skin with pockmarks like crags, sandstone rough and chipped, eyes flint-hard and unchanging as he squats down to look at Jimin. The only thing that keeps him from bolting is his mother’s presence at his shoulder, hand warm in his, holding him tight and safe.

The witch is a monolith, and that scares Jimin. But whatever concoction the man passes over to Jimin’s mother—after she gives him jars of their family-recipe kimchi, spice and salt and sour—finally clears up the cough that’s been lingering in his throat for weeks, squeezing his lungs and throat, so he’s happy. (Even if his lips taste like sickly sweet aniseed and something deeper, something he still can't name).

For the second, he was all pubescent awkwardness, limbs still so short and yet so ungainly and gangly, a cygnet still shedding the grey plumage of his youth—desperate to reach the signature elegance and grace of a swan, all curved neck and crystal feathers and perfection.

This witch is all hard, perfect edges, glittering diamond, beautiful, untouchable; hair a dark waterfall around her face, lashes long, lips red, perfect curves and yet still so sharp. Terrifying. She eyes Jimin with something bordering on disdain, but disdain would require him to be worth her time. (He’s not.)

But he comes with payment, bundles of samphire he picked from the coast with bare hands, fat and green and salty, and so she deigns to give him a moment of that time. The metal charm is cold in his palm, ice and fire, but it works—Jonghee finally notices him, sees him, smiles at him. (Even if their relationship only lasts two weeks, a short lived school romance, she never would have looked at him twice without the charm that’s tucked in his pocket, drawing her gaze.)

Both witches had carried power like a cloak about their shoulders. Heavy around them, magic weighty and dark, smoke and fumes. Both were so different, but cut from the same cloth; clouds in the distance, sparking with lightning and weighty with rain.

Never cross a witch, they say. Always pay your dues, they say. Never approach a witch without knowing what you want, and never approach a witch without appropriate payment, ready to strike an accord, reach an agreement. One thing for another, tit-for-tat, keeping the scales even.

Witches are dangerous, they say.

(Be careful, his mother would say. Witches don’t care for mundane humans. Be polite, do your business, but then leave. Don’t linger. It’s not safe.)

(But witches keep their word. A promise from a witch is ironclad and unbreaking, written in stone. They’re dangerous, and you should always be wary, but there are rules they cannot and will not break. 

In a way, it’s easier to trust a witch more than anyone else, because they’ll always honour an agreement. Jimin might not have spoken to a witch in years, now, but he knows this: if a witch gives you their word, it’s worth more than its weight in gold.)

--

Jimin’s feet—so skilled at treading the sea slick sands of Busan’s beaches—are unsteady on the firm concrete of Seoul’s streets. But still, he follows them. They tread a path he doesn’t know, tracing directions he cannot see, but it’s impossible to ignore and even harder to resist.

Ley lines cross. They settle here, a soft X drawn in smudged pencil on a finger-worn map, and Jimin stops. 

The sign in the window says closed. At least, Jimin thinks it does, but then he blinks, and it’s almost like the words have rearranged themselves: open. 

The building is unassuming, nestled between two others, a stunted tree surrounded by towering redwoods, but it’s this shopfront door that draws his eye—duck-egg, blue green, the colour of new life, the morning sea, the ebbing tide. The sign that hangs above is wooden, a little faded, but in a way that suggests comfort and not disrepair; like an old jumper, worn soft with age, but still warm, still loved.

Aurora. 

A spark of light catches his eye. A glint, a dazzle, pulling his gaze towards it: below the sign, windchimes, circling a piece of quartz, catching the sunlight that's swallowed by clouds. It glitters at him through the rain. Even in the harsh breeze, the chimes are almost still, gently singing, soft voices whispering under the sound of falling water.

The door seems to swing forward at the lightest touch of Jimin’s gaze, already open, opening further. Beckoning him in. 

The smell of sea fills his senses.

The quartz throws refracted light over him, lines between each colour sharp and defined despite the rough hewn edges, a rainbow that shines even brighter on the dark wetness of his clothes as he steps through; the windchimes ring out, a crystalline murmur, and then the door eases shut behind him.

It’s warm. It’s warm, and dry, and serene. Light slants in through the windows, dulled by the rain but still painting the room in white and gold. Everything is in its place, neat and quiet and cheerful, a spray of pastel crocuses in a lopsided, handmade clay vase on the counter. The counter is clear while the rest of the room is full; busy shelves and wall hangings and a garland that has the shifting phases of the moon, crescent-quarter-gibbous-full; glittering geodes, polished crystals, water smoothed pebbles; half burned candles, jars and bottles and shells, all crowding against each other.

The whole place hums with magic. But unlike the magic Jimin has felt before, sulphur sour at the back of his throat, burned tobacco in his lungs, this is gentle, all encompassing—like a kitchen warmed by a busy oven, full to the brim with bread, filling the room with its scent and heat. 

Jimin feels out of place. He’s wet and dark and sad, drip-drip-dripping dirty rainwater on the hardwood floor. Hair hangs into his eyes, and he’s small and cold, almost bowing under the wet of the weather that clings to him. He shivers, caught up in the chill.

“Jinnie? Are you back already?”

A voice calls to him, out of sight. Jimin looks away from the mug and open book that lies on the counter, ring mark caught by the sliced geode coaster, sparkling copper green and jade.

“Did you forget to bring your charms? I told you to double check your bag before you left. I’m not done yet, anyway, I—”

Blink, blink. Wide eyed, soft and slow, surprised into stillness.

You look like comfort. It’s like someone’s taken a soft winter’s evening and turned it into a person—jumper big and thick weave warm, hair a softened mess, dangling earrings that look like little cherries, bare feet, skin touching the warm wood floor, mug in hand that coils with steam. Like a fireplace that flickers warmth and light in the cold.

Your pretty mouth is a little open, poised to speak another word that fails to come as you blink at Jimin.

“You’re not Jin,” you say, instead.

Drip, drip. Shying away from that doe-eyed gaze, Jimin looks down at his feet.

“The sign said open,” he mumbles, wanting to fold in on himself, a sodden origami crane that collapses under its own weight.

“It did?” There’s a tinge of surprise in your tone, but then a drip of rainwater trails down Jimin’s nose and falls, a teardrop of crystal. Your voice turns soft. “Oh, dear. No, of course it did. You’re soaking. Come on, come in. Take your shoes and coat off, leave them by the door. You look like you need a cup of tea.”

You leave no room for argument, disappearing back the way you came. Jimin is shocked into stillness, but then you reappear with a soft cream towel, an uplift to your eyebrows that looks expectant. Jimin pulls his worn shoes off, leaving them in self-created puddles at the door, jacket hung on the curved arms of an old coat rack.

The towel is warm around his neck and in his hair, cotton soaking up wetness with unnatural ease. The warmth of his surroundings is seeping in, chasing away the chill that’s settled in his bones, and when Jimin perches on the chair you’ve pulled out for him, he feels a little better. Not much, but a little, and that’s more than he can ask for.

The tea room is cluttered, racks of glass jars, some full to the brim, others almost empty, washed-out white and green and brown, some bright with full flower buds, some muted with dried berries and fruit; strings of dried orange slices hang from the ceiling above, surrounded by scatterings of bundled flowers and leaves. And yet, somehow, under the smell of bubbling water and dried tea, that tang of salt lingers, light on Jimin’s tongue.

“You look like you’ve had a long day. Would you like to talk about it?”

(In Seoul, no one has time for Jimin. Their eyes are closed off, hard, absorbed in themselves, their own problems—Jimin understands. Life is difficult, and it can be an uphill struggle, everyone so hungry, starved. Just like him. Trying to scrabble for a foothold in a mountain that’s been worn smooth by generations of grasping hands before him.)

The look you give Jimin is soft, and warm, and open; the look a mother gives a child when they fall and scrape open their knee. No pity, no judgement, just empathy.

“No,” Jimin says. Then: “Yes.” Then, after a long, lingering silence: “I don’t know where to start.”

You let out a little hum, patient, encouraging, reaching for two mismatched cups; one, soft camellia pink, the other, dark blue, bumpy ceramic, deep ocean waves.

“How about you start with how you’re feeling?”

How he’s feeling?

(How is he feeling?)

(Lost. Lonely. Alone. Like he’s caught in a riptide, and no matter how much he swims, the shore is growing further and further away; adrift and out to sea, swallowed by merciless waves.)

(Like he should have listened to the cautious words of everyone back home. Like he’d set himself up for failure from the moment he’d set his sights on Seoul, on success.)

(Like he’s never been good enough, will never be good enough, and he should have known that.)

Jimin doesn’t—Jimin doesn’t want to show you this raw, aching part of him, fit messily between his lungs. 

He doesn’t have to tell you anything. He doesn’t have to peel back the skin of his chest and lay himself bare.

--

But for the first time since he’s stepped foot onto Seoul’s soil, Jimin feels seen.

--

His words are slow and faltering.

Jimin is out of practice, talking about himself, the things that he keeps small and folded away in quiet corners of his heart, but you listen. You hum and shift and move, opening jars, closing jars, weighing out loose leaves, eyes intent on your work.  Maybe that’s what makes it easier. 

You’re not staring at Jimin, watching as he strips himself raw. You’re watching the fire that flickers on the small burner, water bubbling and almost boiling, but not quite. Not yet. You’re watching your careful hands as you scoop the blend into a cast iron pot, burnished darkness. You’re not watching him, but you’re listening: how he’d come to Seoul to pursue his passions, his dreams, how it’s left him lonely and lost and aching. A ship on a course without map or compass, sky overcast, no stars to guide him.

“Sometimes I feel like I should have stayed in Busan,” Jimin murmurs. His head is bowed forwards, eyes caught in a knot on the wood of the table, lines coiling together. “Everyone was right. I’m never going to make it.”

The cup set in front of him is empty.  Your fingers are curved around the handle as you turn it towards Jimin, and he notices little clouds on your nails, fluffy white against pastel blues. You hum lightly at his words, lifting the iron pot from its woven mat, steady as you pour.

(This is unlike any other place he’s ever known.)

“Do you want to go back to Busan?”

The tea smells lovely, a little floral, a little sweet, mellow and warm. It flows over the sharp salt that’s coating Jimin’s senses, sweeping away the last drops of rain that cling to his bones; washed fresh and clean. It settles in the pit of his stomach, lies light against his tongue, warming him from the inside out. 

(A blanket that’s tucked over his shoulders and wrapping him tight.)

Suddenly, Jimin wants to cry.

He swallows down the tears, the rising tide that threatens to spill from his eyes. He thinks about his answer—does he want to go back to Busan? Back to the salt and the sea? Back to the world he knows so well, misses so well?

“No,” he admits. “I miss it, but… no. I want to find my place in Seoul.”

I want to be good enough. I want to find a new home.

The answering smile on your face is a small, tender thing.

The tea stays hot, no matter how long Jimin takes to drink. Rooibos, coconut, lavender, cocoa, earthy and delicate flavours mixing across his senses. His hands wrap around his cup, the shifting blue waves steady around the liquid inside, cotton towel around his neck crowding even closer as his shoulders bow inwards. 

He notices, then, that he’s dry, somehow—every inch of him, from his skin to his hair to his clothes, whisked away by some unseen, ephemeral hand. Like he’d never been in the rain at all. His hair is soft on his head, clothes unwrinkled, and he smells like citrus and light, a shimmering garden. Not like rainwater and muted sorrow.

“You’re a witch,” he realises, suddenly. 

He knows this place must be home to magic, but he’d figured you some sort of assistant, apprentice, as soft and unassuming as you are. 

But, no. The magic he feels in the air, butter rich and sugar sweet, isn’t from the building. It’s from you.

He shouldn’t have told you anything. Witches are dangerous. He owes you now, undeniably so—for the tea he’s drunk, cup empty and cooling in front of him.

No one ever denies a witch their dues. No one would dare. But he has nothing to give you.

“I don’t have anything to give you.” Jimin’s eyes are wide. “I don’t have any money.”

“Jimin.” Your voice is a murmur, but it does nothing to quell the spike of worry in his heart, the realisation that he’d never told you his name, not once. But of course you know it. Witches see the unseen. Witches read the unknown. “You don’t owe me money. Please, don’t panic.”

Jimin tries to swallow down that panic.  There’s nothing in his pockets but his phone, dead as it is, an old bus ticket stub, his keys, plain and unadorned save for the tiny puppy keyring he’s had for years, but doesn’t remember the origin of. Nothing a witch might be interested in. “Then what can I give you?”

“You’ve already spilled your heart to me,” you say. “That’s half of the payment. A confession of feelings.”

Jimin’s lashes flutter. He can’t help his eyes darting over you, reading the signs he’d missed before—you might not stink of magic like coal dust and smothered fires, but instead it rests like a garland of flowers about your head, woven into the wool of your jumper like silken thread, gossamer. Delicate and light but undeniable, a fleur-de-lis that blooms over hard marble, strong and steady.

“What’s the other half?”

“That’s up to you.” You tilt your head, little cherries in your ears swinging with the motion. “A secret. A memory. Something you’d like to share. That’s the price; a story you want to share. The final half of the transaction.”

“Do you… keep it?” He’s heard of witches stealing the memory from people, leaving them hollow shells, but you shake your head with a soft laugh.

“No. You share your story, Jimin. You don’t give it to me. Your words and history are yours, not mine. I promise you: anything you give me remains your own.”

A witch’s promise. Unbreakable truth.

(What does he have that’s worth a witch’s time?)

A memory. A good one. 

Climbing the trail of Geumjeongsan, warmed by the sun overhead, filtered by the arching trees, his brother beside him, his parents behind. He was still young, too young to climb all the way up the mountain route, bundled into the cable car that had lifted them towards the heavens, world spread at his feet, a feast for his hungry eyes. Their dinner had been roasted duck, fatty and crisp, leaking oil over his lips and cheeks as he’d eagerly bit in after a day of hard work. His family had been laughing, surrounding him with their love, liquid sunlight spilling over him. Happiness.

Your chin rests in your palm as you listen, hair a soft frame around your softer eyes, smile lingering at the edges of your lips. Jimin’s words trickle and slow, and for a second he wonders if it was enough, if this years-old memory, fuzzy around the edges, pays his dues—but as his mouth curves around the final syllable, listing the room back into warm quiet as he smiles at this remembered joy, he knows. Something in his heart knows. It is. It’s enough.

“Thank you for sharing that happiness with me, Jimin. It was lovely.” 

For the first time in a long time, Jimin’s heart feels less like a broken thing. It feels like someone’s starting to take liquid gold to the cracks in his heart, protective resin that brings his broken parts together, the soft touch of kintsugi that shows his flaws but also lets him see that his heart can work despite them. 

Broken and imperfect but still here. Still whole.

(He may have paid off his debt, but Jimin feels like he’s taking away something that’s more than just a cup of tea.)

His shoes are dry when you return to the door, and when he reaches for his jacket, it’s like he’s just peeled it off a washing line, smelling of sun and fresh laundry. His trainers fit better on his feet, not rubbing at the heel like it should. Small, little things that change so much.

“It’s still raining,” you say. “There’s an umbrella in the stand that you can have.”

The umbrella is a long, sturdy thing, plain black, but when Jimin lifts it, there’s a small charm tied to the handle. A tiny string of rose quartz beads, polished pale pink.

Witches never give things away for free. Jimin knows this. 

“The price is that you have to share it with the first person you meet who needs it.” The words fall from your smiling lips before Jimin can ask. “You’ll know who it is when you see them.”

The arms of the umbrella spread so wide above him, engulfing him in protection, keeping him dry and safe. He turns to look at you. You're leaning against the doorframe, still barefoot, fingers that bear the sky barely peeping out of the sleeves of your jumper. Untouched by the rain and grime of Seoul, a lit candle in the night, vanilla scented wax, dribbling hot and sweet. So unlike any other witch Jimin has ever heard of.

There’s no smell of sea, any more. No lingering memories of Busan. Just petrichor, rain and concrete, an undercurrent to the fresh smell of his clothes, his hair, washed clean by a magic that’s softer than anything Jimin has ever known. 

The only thing that’s softer is the smile on your face, the curl of your fingers as you wave goodbye. The door swings shut as you step back, windchimes trembling at the gentle parting, quartz throwing glitter over Jimin’s cheeks and catching in his lashes.

(The sign in the window remains untouched.

As Jimin turns away, it says closed.)

The rain has lessened, a drizzle that threatens to sweep over him, but the umbrella keeps him safe, draped over the air around him, warding away the cold that tries so desperately to claw back into his chest. Jimin doesn’t know where he’s going, just like before—but he steps onto the street and immediately stops.

The string of rose quartz pearls swings into his wrist. 

“Hello. Would you like to share my umbrella?”

Jimin has to hold it up high, shorter than the long-limbed boy who stands in front of him. His eyes are dark and almost solemn, sliding across Jimin’s face as he seems to pull himself out of some faraway, unseen place. He doesn’t seem to notice the rain that’s starting to soak through his clothes, peppering his handsome face with small, cold kisses, but then he smiles, gratitude written across his grinning teeth.

“Hello.” His voice is so deep. “Thank you.” And then, after only the briefest pause: “My horoscope said I’d be helped by a Libra today.”

Jimin startles, umbrella scattering rain with the motion. “How did you know I’m a Libra?”

--

And so—this is how Park Jimin meets Kim Taehyung. With a witch’s blessing warm in his belly and overhead, umbrella a shield against the heavens.

--

And so—this is how Park Jimin meets Jeon Jungkook. With Kim Taehyung at his side, a witch’s charm around his wrist, rose quartz a soothing calm against his skin.

--

And so—this is how Park Jimin starts to build a home in Seoul, brick by brick, larger hands working alongside his own; Taehyung’s palms large, Jungkook’s fingers steady, laying the foundations to happiness. Together.

--

His feet find their way back to Aurora again and again, a moon that pulls at his waters, caught in its gravity. Quartz to citrine, aventurine to hematite, windchimes singing like bells whenever he passes underneath them, door swinging open at the lightest of touches.

Your wide eyed surprise ebbs like the tides. The second time, and then the third, and fourth, you’d stopped in your tracks at his arrival, hands a tumble of confusion whenever he’d appeared at your door, but now you’re always ready and waiting.

(“How did you find this place the first time?”

Today’s tea is sencha, salty sea-buckthorn, bright spearmint, delicate lemon verbena, tinged blue with cornflower and butterfly pea, the ocean waves in a cup, brewed just for him.

“I followed the sea,” Jimin answers. “The salt air. Didn’t you do that?”

“No.” The same tea lies in your own cup, a shared moment in the past and present. “You called out and you were answered. This shop is older than you or me, and even Jin doesn’t know the magic that lies in its walls. We don’t control this place. We just live here.”)

The stories he pays you with change over time, memories from years past, growing closer and closer to the present, an autobiography that lays out the peaks and valleys of his life; the happy, the sad, the embarrassments, the triumphs. The tea changes every time, too, mellow greens to bright fruits, smoky blacks to delicate whites, whisked matcha and woody lapsang souchong. Matching the timbre of his voice, reflecting his words, letting him dwell on happiness, or pulling him out of sorrow.

Sometimes Jin is there. Oftentimes, he isn’t. The tea room is sacred ground when Jimin is paying his dues, stories and secrets falling from his lips, but otherwise Jin will bundle in, all energy and noise, leaving plates of flaky pastry and tiny biscuits and soft bread, brioche lined with chocolate, melting and hot. They leave Jimin warm and full, no matter how much or how little he eats. Two kitchen witches that give, and give, and give.

Jimin pays for a plate of rose shortbread with a recollection of the time he’d spilled juice over his brother’s homework, only to blame the dog, who was refused his usual after-dinner gravy bones. Jimin still lives with the guilt. Jin laughs, and you smile, flower petals soft and sweet in your mouth as you listen to him speak.

He wants to bring Taehyung and Jungkook, share the brightness with them, with you, the things that make him smile and laugh; lifting him out the deep waters of sadness and towards the sun, light dappled waters, bright coral reefs, a multicolour display of life. But Aurora doesn’t call to them the way it calls to Jimin, which means he goes alone.

Taehyung’s eyes widen when Jimin mentions his disappointment.

“Jimin-ah.” His mouth is round with shock, a sweet pomegranate, red flushed lips. “Don’t you know?”

“Know what?” 

Jungkook’s cheeks bulge with lettuce and samgyeopsal, but he swallows it down in one go, a gannet with the metabolism of a god. (Lucky.) “Finding witches in Seoul is hard,” he says. “You have to actively search them out. Do you?”

Jungkook has met more witches than any of them, a little golden spark of magic nestled deep in his chest, a magnetised needle that points him forward like a compass. But even he can’t find Aurora, no matter how much Jimin tries to guide him.

“I just… walk,” Jimin says, unsure. “I just feel it and I walk.”

“I’ve alway wanted to get a cup of tea from that shop. They say the best way to solve your problems is to share it with a witch, but I’ve never been able to find it, no matter how hard I’ve tried,” says Taehyung. An empty leaf of lettuce lays in his palm, curled up, almost sad in how small it looks. (The same would be a riverboat in the tiny cups of Jimin’s hands.) But rather than jealousy sparking in his eyes, he just seems happy for Jimin, toothy grin appearing on his face. “You’re so lucky, Jimin-ah. I bet it’s incredible.”

--

(Jimin is a nightjar, a singing bird, calling out into the darkness. The dawn bursts over the horizon, light heavy, laden with brightness, aurora shimmering rose and gold, welcoming hands.)

(Jimin sings. You listen.)

--

This time when he finds Aurora—or maybe it finds him—it’s snowing.

Seoul is blanketed in white, pavements worn smooth with a thousand busy feet, roads salt slick and slush. The wind bites at his cheeks, apple crisp and sweet, the air a soft whisper that runs its chilled fingers through his hair and turns his head.

(The rose quartz lies warm around his wrist.)

The winter sun overhead casts short shadows, pale light flushing down Jimin’s face as he leans into that fleeting touch. It’s not Busan that fills his senses this time; it’s the smell of mulled wine, hot cinnamon, melting chocolate, but more than that—dark evergreen and sweet cherry-wood fires, dusty pepper and star anise, sticky caramel.

(Homely.)

Open, the sign says.

Today, the windchimes circle a shard of snowflake obsidian. It trills out a greeting as he touches his fingers to the door, tiny bells that tinkle their hello as Jimin steps over the threshold, Aurora just as warm and inviting as it had been the last time he’d stepped foot here. As warm and inviting as it always is.

(Closed, the sign says.)

He’s warm too, today. He’s wrapped up against winter, hand knitted hat on his head—a recent project by Taehyung—and his hands are nestled in his pockets, curled around the small hand warmers that Jungkook sneaks into his coat without comment. Reminders of the love of his friends even when they’re not beside him. His cheeks are flushed pink from the cold and his eyes are sparking happiness, smile wide as he stomps snow off his feet.

But there’s no one to greet him. No candles are lit, no half-finished drink on the counter, an unintentional offering to the quiet building. It feels like a held breath, light, heavy, ephemeral, weighty.

(Every moon hanging from the garland is waning.)

Jimin’s socked feet are quiet as he steps the familiar route to the tea room, hallway beckoning him forwards; the door is shut, and he hesitates, but even as he watches, it quietly swings open, untouched. 

You’re bowed over the table. A hand rests over your eyes, your body held still, a rictus of—of deep thought, maybe? The weight of decision, indecision. Maybe. Something that hangs heavy about you, usual shimmering magic pulled down, osmium heavy; still glittering and beautiful, but sharper edged, burdensome. 

The cup in front of you is dry, empty, matte ceramic the colour of bone, muted white, brittle cream. There’s no smell of warm tea today. Just still air.

(No matter how many times Jimin has seen you laugh and smile and tilt your head, the truth is that you’re a witch, and Jimin has only just started to map your world. He’s a cartographer with nothing more than his own hands and the aching need to find the stars, to trace those celestial bodies overhead that shine out so bright.)

The floor groans under Jimin’s unmoving feet and your head snaps up.

“Jimin?” Your eyes are wide and startled. All at once the air lifts, sunlight seeping from the floorboards; an open window that’s been thrown open to pull in the summer breeze. “I didn’t hear you come in.”

(The windchimes had been as loud as always, announcing his presence.)

“I’m sorry,” apologises Jimin. “I didn’t mean to disturb you.”

You shift away from the table and straighten, magic coiling around your neck like a scarf, thick and warm. (Covering your mouth and muffling you.) “I just wasn’t expecting any customers,” you say. “You never have to apologise, Jimin. Come on in, take a seat. What do you want to talk about today?”

Jimin had wanted to share his happiness. He’d wanted to talk about Taehyung, and Jungkook, and the dancing job that’s turned steady, all the bright little pieces of his life, glistening opals, precious stones. But he realises, then, that’s not what he needs, really. 

(Not what he wants, really.)

“Nothing,” he says. His voice is soft and sweet, white milk bread, fluffy and light. “I just wanted to see you. How are you?”

The fire under the water flickers, a sun flare that dies as soon as it’s born, settling into its usual ring of tiny flames. The magic around your neck turns into a stole, slipping away from your mouth, settling about your shoulders. You’re silent, for a long moment, as if you’d been in some unseen place and Jimin has pulled you back.

You glance at him through the curl of your lashes. “Busy,” you say, eventually. “Distracted, I suppose. Trying to work things out.”

Why? Jimin wants to ask. Work what things out?

But he knows better than to pry for a witch’s secrets, as open armed and soft palmed as you might be. So he just says: “I hope it gets better soon. I’m sure you’ll find the answer.”

The bundles overhead shift in an unseen breeze, dusty cinnamon sticks and fat berries and handfuls of clove, stirring the spiced smell of winter. Jimin would swear he hears the windchimes singing, a tiny choir of voices that swells and breaks as quickly as a wave crashing against the shore. 

You let out a small laugh. It’s edged with something Jimin can’t put a name to. “Oh, this is the kind of answer that’s given, not found, so I have to wait, even if I think I know what it is,” you say. “And it’s… not one I was expecting. Witches don’t do well with being unable to take control of the situation, but I can’t do anything about it.”

Jimin pauses. He realises then, in a way, he’s been selfish—always speaking, never listening. But you don’t offer yourself up in the way Jimin does. A witch is a library of knowledge and secrets, locked to the outside world; Jimin wouldn’t dare to try and find the key. It would burn his hands, sear itself into his palm. The door has to be willingly opened by whoever’s inside.

He thinks about those words he’s heard you so many times, now, mouth so gentle around the syllables, the lilting question. A flickering constellation that guides his feet. One that he can trace, lines between the stars.

“Would you like to talk about it?”

The smile you offer him is one he hasn't seen before, crooked, a whispered secret. Sending the pages of all those books fluttering, stirring on their shelves. “Do you want to strike a bargain, Park Jimin? I give you a story, and you pay me in turn?” 

A tiny shiver prickles over Jimin’s skin. Your question feels like a test you both know he can't complete, but—there's something inside him that flickers bright at that challenge. 

He’s not a witch and has no magic glowing in his spirit, but a contract takes two people, mundane or not. He’s never considered himself bold, softer and gentler than he wishes he was, sometimes, but—there’s that unrelenting part in him, reckless and brave, hungry for more, that pulled him from Busan and set him in Seoul, that bruises his knees and rubs blisters on his feet from his endless dancing; the part that brings him to a witch’s door, over and over, heedless of the magic that lingers like crystallised sugar about his wrists and ankles, almost painful were it not so sweet.

(Bravery isn’t always about being bold. Sometimes bravery is trying again, and again, even if it seems hopeless.)

“If that would help you?”

The delicate hanging chains of your earrings tremble, tiny sparkling hearts of crystal, your eyes widening imperceptibly in surprise. Witches are forces of nature, relentless, but for a second—just a second—Jimin stops you in your tracks. Not as an imposing seawall built against the crashing waves, but rather, a soft hand that’s lifted, palm first, fingers spread wide.

(Bravery is this, too: being gentle and open where others might expect you to be cold and distant, worn bitter by the cold world around them.)

(Jimin has always known this, but you’d reminded him, when he’d almost forgotten.)

The air smells like mulled wine, heady and sweet, a bonfire of spice and tannin. For a moment, Jimin fears he’s misstepped, craggy cliffs crumbling underneath his feet and throwing him into the merciless waves below—but then you step back, cast your hand at the wall of jars, almost endless in width and height.

“What tea do you think I need today, then?”

Jimin smiles, all full lips and shy teeth, and says: “You have to tell me your story first. That's how the transaction goes.”

And for the first time, Jimin sees you truly laugh. You shed every piece of armour that’s girded about you; you might be quieter, and gentler, but your magic is coiled close, plate metal that shines so bright but falls so soft. Your heavy iron door opens, just a crack, the smell of leather bound books and old manuscripts curling outwards, letting Jimin catch a glimpse of the wonders inside. 

“I can’t tell you a story that hasn’t finished yet, but I have plenty of memories,” you say. “Hm. How about the day Jin and I found this place?”

Jimin doesn’t know how to blend tea. He doesn’t know how to balance flavours, top notes, heart notes, base notes, curling tastes together in a way you do so effortlessly. But he knows how to follow his heart, and as always, Aurora helps guide him.

He listens to your words the way you listen to his, with soft encouragement and gentle laughter, eyes bright as he swallows down the secrets of witchcraft that are banal to you but utterly fascinating to him. A glimpse into a world he’s barely touched. He traces unseen vibrations in the air, reaches for jar after jar, none of them labelled, but perfect each time he pulls them open and breathes in their scent. Almost jumping into his hands. He thinks of a feeling, a flavour to match each memory you lay in front of him, and the magic responds; not under his control, no, but letting him drift in its flow.

He plants a garden: fat rosebuds, yielding petals, bright lemongrass, earthy raspberry leaves, flaky cocoa shells. 

(Jimin doesn’t know these ingredients, but you do, eyes intent and sharp as you watch him move with an ease no one else has ever displayed here, moving around the room that’s entirely yours—a part of your heart nestled safe in Aurora’s walls, one that even Jin could not traverse, if he tried.)

(But here he is. With no magic in his bones, here he is, treading a delicate path through this sanctum, weaving the energy around him without knowledge or thought. Just human, but also so much more.)

The iron pot is heavier than Jimin realised, a solid weight that you always heft with ease. The scent that fills the room when he pours is delicate and light but it washes away the spicy scent of winter warmth, and instead smells like floral enchantment. 

He slips into the seat across from yours. It’s a reversal, tipping the world on its head, an entirely unfamiliar perspective; the wall behind you isn’t lined in the tools of your trade. Today, Jimin sits in the master’s seat. Today, you are silhouetted by the dried bouquets that hang from the crooked branch that coils from the ceiling, muted colours even quieter in the nimbus of your magic, dawn light and warmth, dripping honeycomb, gold and saccharine.

“Would you ever leave Aurora?”

(Even the fleeting thought sends disappointment through every part of him, an echo of loneliness for something that hasn’t happened. Jimin’s always been possessive, in a way, wanting to keep a tight hold of the things he cares about.)

(You’re one of those things, now.)

The smile you give Jimin is answer enough. “Once a witch finds their home, there’s no turning back. No matter how long I’m gone, or how far I go, I’ll always find my way back home.” And then there’s a little glitter in your warm eyes, gold dust under a sun-laden river. “Time for tea, I suppose?”

It’s rosewater sweetness, dark chocolate bitterness, a citrus undercurrent that flows around it all. Biting into Turkish delight, coated in rich chocolate, yielding to the press of your teeth, an explosion of flavour. Jimin has never tasted anything like this— rich and creamy but also fragrant and light.

Judging from your wide eyed stare, you haven’t, either.

(It’s perfect.)

(It takes that indecision that’s been settling around each of your bones, sweeps it away, Jimin’s eyes as large as the moon and just as bright. This cup is so much more than just a warm drink, a hot touch down your throat; it’s the world telling you something, showing you something, something about Jimin, something you thought you'd been wrong about.)

(Jimin has no magic of his own, but he burns so bright. A lovely, sweet, strong, talented boy, stronger than he knows, lovelier than he knows. The world fits around him so well, a backdrop to his beauty, shaping itself to his touch.)

(Your magic shapes itself around him in a way that's as easy as breathing, and it should frighten you.)

(But it doesn't.)

With any contract, the witch sets the price. Your story for this cup of tea should be enough, a parting of the curtain into a world he shouldn’t be allowed to see—but something still pulls in Jimin’s stomach. He feels a little empty. Like he’s eaten a meal and could be content to finish now, but he’s waiting for that final course, that bite of dessert. Something to satiate his lingering hunger.

You still need to pay the final part of the price.

“You need to give one more thing,” says Jimin, reciting the ancient law that he’s never been taught but sings in his bones. 

Your silence is summer lightning. Light sparks in the distance, flashing hot and bright, but without the weight of thunder, without the promise of rain.

“A secret,” you decide. “I’ll give you a secret.” 

If a witch’s word is worth more than gold, then a witch’s secret is worth more than rhodium; stronger, rarer.

“I’ve told you that Aurora answers people who call out, if they need our help?”

“Yes.” Jimin remembers this well, thinks about it every time he’s led back here, the guiding hands that helped him find the path he’s treading now. “You’ve told me that.”

“Witches can find the shop and come here often,” you say. “They come to buy things and leave again; they have to keep their magic safe. You see, a witch’s power is most potent in their own home, and weakest in another’s, so you’ll find witches won’t drink one of my teas, or eat Jin’s food, unless they’ve left the shop. It’s a sign of absolute trust to do something like that.”

You snack on Jin’s biscuits all the time, spread homemade jams over freshly-baked bread, watch Jin drizzle honey into soft camomile, slip lemon slices into hot Earl Grey. Mixing your magic and trust together like a tangle of fresh sheets.

“But humans, without magic? Even if you try, you can’t find this place unless it wants to be found. Neither Jin nor I control that, really, but the sign helps control the flow,” you continue. “If we put it on closed, the shop won’t beckon people in. But if it’s open? People come with their burdens and their sorrows, and I’ll sit, and I’ll listen. My magic isn’t what helps them. Sometimes all people need is a listening ear and that’s what I offer: a single moment of quiet in their busy lives before they leave again. You want to know what the secret is, Jimin?”

“Yes,” says Jimin, eager. Not just as a payment of something that’s owed, but for his own curiosity, digging its fingers into his stomach and lungs. “I want to know.”

The smile you deliver now is the final jolt of lightning, white hot and flooding the air with crackling energy, before the clouds part to reveal the quiet night sky, the vibrant colours of the Milky Way naked for the eyes to see. 

“My secret is this: you shouldn’t be able to keep finding this place. I didn’t realise anyone could, but here you are, again and again. You’re the only non-witch who’s ever stepped foot in here more than once.”

Clink.

“My secret is this: you are the only thing in my life that I cannot answer with magic, and it’s completely out of my control. Even if the sign says closed, you can walk in, regardless.”

Clink.

“My secret is this: I know I won’t be able to find that answer I'm looking for, because it’s not in me, or my magic, or my shop. It’s something in you.”

Clink. 

Three falling secrets that fold into one. A handful of coins tumbling over themselves into the waters of a wishing well, slipping into that liquid quiet. Throwing ripples across the glass surface.

Jimin has always thought that witches were gods of their domain, endless fonts of wisdom, magic cast over the world around them that catches knowledge in its weave, Indra’s net. “But I’m—I’m just human.”

Your eyes are soft. “There’s no just about it, Jimin,” you say. “Witch or not, we all have our place in the world, as small or large as it may be.”

“But I don’t have any magic. Jungkook does, and even Tae does, a little.” He always knows when to say bless you before someone sneezes. “But I’m just… completely mundane.”

“I know you don’t have magic, Jimin. But do you know what the word mundane originally meant? It doesn’t mean boring, or dull. It’s rooted in the world. The earth. There’s nothing more powerful. Don’t you know how brightly you shine?”

Jimin tilts his head away. The truth is that for all the happiness that’s started to grow across his heart like blooming roses, trailing wisteria, some days the river at his feet feels less like sun flecked waters and more like tar, thick and dark, ready to pull him back under. It’s not so easy to cast off sadness once it’s found you. Sometimes his chest feels like it could cave in under the weight of his own failings, each and every one of his flaws stacked up high, pressing on his lungs, his heart.

He doesn’t feel like he shines.

“Oh, Jimin. You really don’t see, do you?” The magic that curls around him is silken, light. Touching the rose quartz around his wrist with recognition. “Remember earlier, when I said the answer I wanted has to be given, not found? It’s because you need to find it. You can give it to me, once you do.”

“What if I never find it?” He looks back at you, back into your eyes, endless and deep. You’re a witch with power that drapes about you, a cascading mantle spun from silver and gold—if you don’t know the answer, how could Jimin possibly find it? “What do I do then?”

“I promise, you will,” you say. “You will. Sometimes the things we need to find appear when we’re not even looking for them. After all, you found your way here, didn’t you?”

“I did,” Jimin answers, truth settling quiet between his lungs. Easing that weight that presses down on them. “I did.”

--

He did. And he does. And he will.

--

You stand in the open door and watch Jimin go, wrapped up once more, a Christmas present of woven wool and thick socks.

“By the way,” you call, and Jimin stops, turns back. “You said that your friends wanted to come here too, right?”

“Yes,” answers Jimin. Taehyung asks him endless questions and Jungkook might pretend like he’s not interested but he’s always nearby when Jimin recounts his tales of the witch’s shop. “They really do. But we can never seem to find Aurora when we try, even though Jungkook is normally so good at finding magical places.”

“Next time, don’t focus on Jungkook.” Above your head the windchimes tremble, obsidian spiralling. “You said he was a compass, didn’t you? But he’s not the one with the map. You are. Don’t forget that, okay? Trust in yourself, Jimin. Be your own guide.”

--

The next time Jimin stands with his friends flanking him, he thinks about the moon. How its silver light is loved so dearly, even if it’s just a reflection of the unseen sun, shining with someone else’s flames. 

He might not have the strength of fire, but he can still shine.

The windchime’s call is throaty as Aurora comes into sight, brushed by a stone of lapis lazuli, door falling open at their arrival, the building filling with sunlight as Jimin steps in. Welcoming him. Jungkook and Taehyung are far more hesitant, staring at Jimin like he’s a voyager into unknown waters, here there be dragons, at risk of being swallowed whole, never to be seen again.

Jimin laughs at them. The lapis swings into the windchimes in a way that sounds like a giggle, too.

“Holy shit,” Jungkook says, once he’s inside. A candle sets alight. “Jimin, what the fuck.” Another. 

“It’s Jimin-hyung,” Jimin says, but Jungkook ignores him, staring at the candles that start to catch flame one by one as he watches them.

“It’s so nice, Jiminie.” Taehyung’s eyes are huge. “Aren’t those flowers pretty?”

On a nearby shelf, the bowl of pansies blooms brighter under Taehyung’s gaze, every plant in the room standing tall, trying to catch his attention.

But of course, the thing that’s stronger than any of the candles or plants or trinkets here—you, stepping into sight, every inch as overwhelming as always, swallowing the room with your magic. Souffle soft and sweet, with all the rich headiness of melted chocolate.

You’re barefoot, as always, cardigan overlarge and draping, nails adorned with tiny butterflies. Jimin’s never met another witch like you, but now that he knows you, it’s almost laughable how he hadn’t noticed from the instant he’d seen you; you’re a witch, through and through, magic dripping through the air like nectar, ambrosia. God touched.

“You finally made it,” you say. “Jimin's told me a lot about you both. Your timing is perfect; I’ve just put the water on to boil. Who wants to go first?”

“Holy shit,” murmurs Jungkook. 

The final candle bursts alight when you smile.

--

Jimin is always surprised at his capacity to find new happiness.

His parents had been heartbroken when he’d announced his decision to leave Busan, and pain had turned to anger, and anger had turned to arguments; he wanted too much, asked for too much, was never happy with what he was given. (All has been forgiven, now, but as always, the memory still lingers.)

Seoul had been so lonely, at first. He’d felt like the bottomless pit his parents had accused him of being, hungry, demanding ceaselessly for more, more, more—his heart had felt like a shrivelled thing, only good for holding onto sadness and bitterness. No room for happiness in any of the weeping corners of his soul.

But, now, Jimin realises that he’s sated. 

He’ll always strive higher, work harder, that little edge of hunger in his core, but life has been given to him in its fullest measure. Unconditional friendship stuffs his heart full, but it can grow and grow, more and more, shuffling around to make room. Taehyung and Jungkook, and now Hoseok, then Yoongi, then Namjoon, each one burning bright, another star in his growing galaxy.

(Things he’d needed to find without knowing, appearing when he hadn’t even been looking.)

He still doesn’t know what answer it is he’s looking for, to give to you, and really, he’s not sure what the question is. He’s been given so much, and he’s so grateful, but there’s still that tiny hollow inside him, waiting for his hands to close around the final puzzle piece. Waiting for him to slot it into place. 

But winter passes, sliding into spring, and then spring rolls into summer, and Jimin realises—he has time.

He has time. There’s no rush. He’s so used to chasing and running and aching, and that momentum will never leave him, but he’s starting to learn that it’s okay not to always sprint forwards. He sparks bright with progress, a glistening shine, but the things that shine out greater still are these: the moments of stillness. Taehyung and Jungkook sprawled around him, cheeks full of takeaway food. Hoseok in the dance studio, all the energy of his limbs brought to a quiet standstill as he sits and drinks water, staring at Jimin in the mirrors and wiggling his eyebrows. Yoongi beside him on the subway, eyes shut as he listens to the music coming from his earphones, tilting his head at Jimin’s questioning touch and taking one bud out to share. Namjoon, brows furrowed as he reads the book in front of him, large hands flipping the pages with such care, but turning his attention to Jimin the second he appears.

You, ankles hooked around the legs of your chair, cup of freshly brewed tea in front of you, letting the steam curl over your nose and cheeks. A cup of the same tea in front of Jimin, sometimes made by his own hands. Not often, but enough to find out more about you, the building blocks that have shaped you into who you are. 

Jimin learns about witchcraft, and magic, and how it’s far less complicated and somehow entirely more complex than he thought. You’ve pulled the library doors wide open and invited Jimin to browse at his leisure, through ancient tomes written in languages he doesn’t understand, vellum covered in calligraphy too faded to be read, but you’re his Rosetta stone, translating it all. He always thought that magic was a secret thing, and it is, but you’re letting him look in. You give him knowledge, and patience, and time. You give him an open door, a place that always welcomes him, no matter the time or weather. 

He doesn’t know exactly when it happened, but Jimin doesn’t have to wait for Aurora’s call any more. He doesn’t have to wait for that crest of that nascent dawn on the horizon. He follows the curvature of the earth and walks towards the sun himself, chases that luminous aureole and finds it all on his own. And there you wait for him, at the base of that shining star, your magic a halo that’s settled in your hair, the north on his compass. 

He still comes empty-handed, no answer to offer you; but you seem content to wait, so Jimin is, too.

He’ll wait.

He has time.

--

Jimin returns to Busan for the weekend. He sleeps in his childhood bed, eats food that never tastes the same when he tries to cook it himself, thinks about how tall he feels compared to his parents now, even if he hasn’t grown at all. He feels a little off kilter, like he’s pulled on an old t-shirt that used to fit him perfectly, but doesn’t anymore; too loose around the neck, too tight around the arms. Wearable, but different. Still comfortable, but not the same. He’s outgrown it now.

(Busan will always have a piece of his heart, but it’s not home anymore.)

(Home is somewhere close, he knows, but he’s still waiting to find that key, final tumbler of the lock sliding perfectly against its metallic teeth. He’s close, so close, but not there. Not yet.)

He’s walking past the fridges in the supermarket, on a quest for fresh radish for his mother, when he catches a smell that dredges up an old memory, smoke and ash. 

Jimin turns his head.

The witch looks just the same as before: ageless and perfect. Long dark hair in perfect curls, nails and lips blood red, eyebrows perfect arches, imperious ice. She’s already staring at him, and once their eyes touch, a flicker of recognition passes over her face, and then surprise, gaze darting over Jimin.

“Well, look at you. You finally grew into those cute cheeks of yours. I thought you would.” Although her words might be patronising, Jimin is shocked at her tone. It’s polite; almost friendly. Nothing like the aloofness she’d shown him all those years ago, when he’d come to her with the reckless desperation of a youth in love. “You’ve clearly done well for yourself.”

Jimin’s jeans are ripped more from wear than fashion, his shirt is from the discount rack at the Lotte mart, and his trainers are scuffed and worn. He might have grown into his face but nothing about him shouts success—and yet this witch is looking at him with something like mutual respect. “Pardon?”

“I can smell the power of the magic on you from here,” the witch says, and Jimin startles. “Like warm banana bread. Or the bark of a maple tree. It suits you.”

“That’s—that’s not mine,” Jimin admits. His heart races in his chest. He hadn’t known that he carries some brightness of your magic with him, some sweetness, motes of light swirling around him even after he’s left Seoul. He hadn’t known that other witches could smell that magic the way he can smell theirs.

(He hadn’t known that he would smell like you.)

The witch tilts her head. Her earrings are interlocking hoops, circling each other, sliding at the motion. “Oh, I know that,” she says. “It’s been given to you. It’s not yours, but it’s a part of you. It just takes a special kind of person to control that flow of power, and I’ve never met a mundane who can do that. Surely you must have realised?”

Jimin’s lashes flutter. He mixes tea, sure, but—that’s not him. It’s the shop guiding his hand. Isn’t it?

It’s been given to you. It’s not yours.

That promise you’d made Jimin, last year, the first time he’d stepped over your threshold, dripping rainwater and sorrow, so sad, so small: Anything you give me remains your own.

You just hadn’t mentioned it was the same for you, too.

(Hadn’t mentioned that you’d given him anything at all.)

(But you’ve given him so much, haven’t you?)

(It’s a part of you.)

(Jimin is changed by every person he meets, the sum of every part that’s ever been given to him by someone else. But he’s also more than those parts; he’s himself, something he’s made, is still making. Working towards being the best he can be.)

(He's himself, controls himself, the world around him. When he lifts those jars from the shelves, he's following his heart. He's his own guide. He trusts himself. Oh, it's not the shop after all, is it?)

(Is it?)

“Ah.” The witch lets out a knowing hum. “Understanding will come with time. Magic can seem such a fickle thing to the mundane, but it’s not. A witch’s magic is a reflection of who they are.”

He thinks of your magic, warm and honey-sweet. Dawn light; sun bright. A reflection of you. One that adorns him with its brilliance, even when you’re miles away from each other. You’re the silver lining to every cloud in his sky, when they’re white and wispy, or heavy with rain, torrenting water, weathering every season that turns in his heart. In the bittersweet death of autumn, the cold loneliness of winter, the emerging life of spring, the buoyant joy of summer. You’re a shelter against the elements. You’re the place Jimin feels safest in. You’re his—

Oh. 

Oh.

(There it is.)

(Home isn’t a place. Home is a feeling. You carry it with you, in your heart; that comfort, that belonging. Somewhere you want to come back to, that you know is waiting for you at the end of the day, any day, every day. That knowledge of love. Your friends; your family. Familiarity. Contentment. Feeling at peace because you know no matter where you are or where you go, home will always be there with you, and waiting for you back where you started, or wherever you finish.)

(Dropping that answer into his hands, feather light, rays of the morning sun cast over his palms, weightless in his grasp.)

(The key finally fits into the lock, and turns, door bursting wide open, letting life and light into Jimin’s heart, filling something that he already thought was full.)

The dark haired witch gives him a smile that’s equal parts pleased and self-satisfied. She sweeps away, leaving Jimin lost, and found.

--

Jimin steps down in Seoul with an utter lack of grace. Like the world has been pitching beneath his feet and has only just turned steady, sea legs buckling on the solid earth.

His bag is heavy with everything he’d brought to Busan for the weekend, and he’s tired after the train journey, and it’s hot, so hot, the summer heat oppressive in its height and weight, pressing sticky hands over his sweaty skin. Even so, he’d spent almost all three hours of travel with his leg jiggling up and down, wound up, pent up, every thread of him coiled around the knowledge he holds. The answer he’s been looking for, inside him all along. 

Part of him wants to run. That hungry part of him, still scared of not being good enough, terrified that if he doesn’t grab something with both hands it’ll slip away like quicksand; that the river at his feet will pull the earth up in its rush, leaving an empty canyon in front of him, lonely and deep.

But another part of him—the part of him that’s grown so bright, watered by the love of everyone around him—quells that fear. It’s the part that gently reminds him that he has time. It’s the part that carries him gently in its current, guiding him through the swell of bodies and busyness that’s all pervasive in Seoul, guiding him north. 

(His north.)

His feet aren’t a stumbling rush. He doesn’t have to hurry, after all. No matter how long he takes, he’ll get to his destination. 

(Home is always waiting for you at the end of your journey.)

The windchimes orbit rose quartz today. The same pastel pink that circles his wrist.

“Hello,” says Jimin. “I missed you.”

The windchimes shiver and spark out a note of happiness, and Aurora’s blue-green door swings open. He’s hit with a burst of cool air that pulls the sweat away from his skin. Stepping into the shop feels like a shot of caffeine in his veins, and, besides, he’s found what he’s looking for.

He has the question, and the answer. (He’s had it all along.)

(Where is your home?)

He sheds his shoes and bag, cast carelessly on the floor, and doesn’t hesitate to step forwards. The door to the tea room swings open before he reaches it, as always, feeling his urgency and responding without being asked.

And there you are.

Your hair is bundled up out of your face, arms and legs bare in the summer heat, tiny pineapples on your nails, a sweating pitcher of tea dripping rivulets of water on the table as you pour yourself a glass, ice tumbling around slices of fresh peach. You glance up at his arrival, and when you smile, Jimin feels how the magic in the room lifts and swirls around him. 

It’s the tart sweetness of fresh-squeezed lemonade; the soft chill of vanilla ice cream; the rich cream of mango parfait. It’s all happiness and tender affection, and Jimin wonders how he’s never seen the depth of it before now.

“Hi, Jimin.” Your voice is brighter than the summer sun outside, stronger still. “Did you just get back from Busan? You must be exhausted. How was your family?”

He answers by stepping forwards and wrapping his fingers around your glass. You watch in stunned silence as he lifts it to his lips, swallowing down the mix of flavours; rooibos, apple, hibiscus, rosehip, orange peel. Peach melba, sugary and mellow against his tongue, cold biting pain against his teeth.

He wipes away a stray drop of tea from his lips. Sunlight ripples in the room as your eyes flicker over his mouth. “Ask me.”

Your eyes tear back up to his. He can feel how the magic in the air slides away from you, pooling on the floor, swirling about your ankles; it’s like the brush of sand against his skin, treading across wet beaches, sticking to the soles of his feet. “Ask you what?”

“I need to pay for the tea. Ask me for a story.”

Jimin can feel the tug in his stomach, that telltale sensation that he has to pay his dues. Still, you seem surprised. “Okay, Jimin. What story do you have to share?”

“I met a witch, once. I was sad, and lonely, but she listened to me, every time I went to see her, again and again.” Jimin can feel your magic rising with each of his words, the gentlest tide. “And one day, she let me listen to her, too. She asked me to give her an answer for an unspoken question. But she didn’t press me for it. She just let me come back, again and again. She gave me a part of her magic. She’s not like any other witch in the world.  I’ve been waiting to find that answer to give to her, but then I realised I had it all along.”

(Where is your home?)

Your mouth drops open, but Jimin speaks over your intake of breath. That tugging in his stomach is still there. That pull towards you. “Ask me for a secret,” Jimin says.

“Okay, Jimin.” Your voice is quiet, but your magic has never felt stronger, spilling out of you like morning dew, shimmering, opalescent. “What’s your secret?”

“I think I’m in love,” he says, feels how the magic in the room swells, but he knows he still has more to give. “Ask me for a confession.”

“Okay, Jimin.” A whisper. Your magic is as bright as a solar flare, glimmering crystal, spun sugar. “What’s your confession?”

“I want to kiss you,” Jimin confesses.

And then he does.

Every window and door flies open, every plant bursts into bloom, every candle catches light, windchimes singing, breeze rushing through every room, but Jimin doesn’t notice any of these things. All he can feel is the warmth of your mouth against his own, the sweet taste of peach, how your magic fizzes on his tongue like champagne, a heady rush. 

Your breath is a flicker of candlelight in his mouth, one that grows into a bonfire, one he readily fans, watches how the flames leap high. One kiss turns to two, then three, your lips fitting so perfectly against his own, parting so readily at the first press of his tongue; your mouth a sweet little curve, dripping honey and syrup, as lovely as the rest of you. The world narrows down to this, to you; your hands warm where they cup his face, run through his hair, soft touches, how perfect those feel. 

He’s breathless when he finally pulls away, resting his forehead against your own. The magic is a heat shimmer, glistening air, surrounding the two of you in its embrace—but it doesn’t shine as brightly as you, your beauty, the sheen on your lips, kiss-swollen and exquisite.

“Oh,” you breathe. “Oh, Jimin.”

You’re so warm under his hands. The summer air that fills the room is swirling motes of brightness, brushing over you both with its delicate touch, and Jimin breathes you in. Not your magic, but you; a little salt, summer sweat, a little sweet, perfume soft. You feel so perfect like this, wrapped up in his arms, a powerful witch that’s opened up for him, the yielding petals of a flower, the sweet nectar at its core. Jimin’s always hated feeling so small, almost dainty, a slip of a thing compared to Taehyung’s height or Jungkook’s strength, and yet you fit so perfectly against him. 

For all the magic that drips from you like liquid gold, divine and powerful, here you are: all comfort and tenderness and affection, open arms, calling him home.

“I’m giving you my heart.” Jimin presses his words into the lovely swell of your cheeks, the line of your jaw, your neck, lips trailing over your skin, drinking down the way you shiver. “It’s still mine, I know, but I’m giving it to you, too.”

The smile on your face is all open happiness, laughter brighter than every star in the sky. “A witch never lets a payment go unreturned,” you say. “My heart for your heart. Sound fair?”

Jimin’s answering laugh is echoed by the windchimes outside, tickling and light. “I think that settles the score.”

--

(Where is your home?)

(Wherever you are.)

--

taglist: @beyoncesdragon​

--

[24/09/20] author’s note: hi, guys. so I’ve recently been on a bit of a rereading binge, digging up old favourite fics of mine and enjoying them all over again, and I was horrified to discover a scene in a fic that’s eerily similar to something I’ve written here: namely, the scene where Jimin first comes across the shop and pays for a cup of tea with a happy memory. 

I genuinely had not read the fic in over two years and don’t recall many details at all, but I must have remembered it without realising and echoed it in my own writing. I was reading the fic and my heart genuinely stopped in my chest and I started to freak out because I would never, ever want to plagiarise someone else’s work, intentionally or unintentionally. 

however, on a reread of both the other fic and my own, the scene in question is somewhat similar but not the same. I just feel uncomfortable at the idea of benefiting from someone else’s time; writing is hard work and publishing things online takes a great deal of courage, and I know people who’ve had their work plagiarised, and how much it hurts. so I want to state for the record that when I wrote finding home it was without reference to anyone else’s story, so any similarities were coincidental. 

[gryffindors-weasley]

Petals and Promises

Ron Weasley x Reader

Summary: A spring evening spent with Ron.

Word count: 2.5k

Warnings: none—fluff, kissing

You must say, the spring season was one that always brought with it a multitude of beauty. Whether it may be the newly blossoming flowers sprinkling colorfully just about everywhere in your slightly overgrown lawn and livening up your house, or the warming temperatures calling for open windows, even the rain showers that arrived whenever they so pleased—you can’t deny how much you love this time of year.

The air was warm yet still brisk enough for a blanket as you lay tucked comfortably within your hammock with Ron, the tattered flannel material draping over the two of you in ruffles of orange and red. It was enough to stave off the chill of the soft breeze that swept over your skin, gentle yet determined to send a shiver through you. Despite that, it brought with it the delightfully sweet scent of the flowers that surround you both, flourishing wildly in the flowerbeds and in the grass. It brought with it the ever so soothing sound as it weaved itself through brilliantly green leaves.

Perhaps the most enamoring thing to be admired out of everything was laying atop your chest, heaps of red hair blowing around softly on his forehead with every gust. The warm sunshine streamed through the branches above you, dancing across your skin, across his flushed cheeks in a golden glow. Ginger lashes curl and splay over the tops of those very cheeks, fluttering each and every time he blinked slowly as he fought valiantly to stay awake. His hand enveloped over top of your own, his grip tightening a fraction each time he needs reminding that you’re still tangled up with him. The unwavering hold on your hand had hindered your ability to turn the pages in your book, but you suppose it was worth the trouble, you knew it was.

It was his idea to come outside and enjoy the weather in the first place, particularly to enjoy it with you, though he simply enjoyed just being with you more than anything else. You knew full well he wouldn’t make it more than ten minutes without drifting off; you were right.

He didn’t entirely fit, his feet dangling over the edge, socks grass-stained and bunched at the ankles. The sunshine and singing of the birds proved to be far more soothing than he’d anticipated, and the way you’d been playing with his hair had him in and out of a slumber. That and the constant tickle of his hair on his face.

Reading the book propped open in your free hand was beginning to become a distracted effort, and you were only distancing yourself from the task the more time that had gone by. The gentle wind had a constant habit of crinkling and creasing your pages each time it’d brushed over them, eliciting an exasperated sigh from you. That, paired with the natural beauty all around you, the setting sun painting the sky in a palette of pinks and oranges; it was reason enough to pull your attention from the pages to elsewhere.

The windows of your sweet little home had been opened to let in the fresh air, the wind pulling the sheer cream curtain over your door blowing outward into daylight as it rests ajar, ruffling freely in the air before fluttering back to the ground for a few moments. Your two cats had wandered their way to the two of you through that very door, sprawled contently underneath your hammock as they relished in the evening sun. Occasionally, they’d paw curiously at Ron’s feet, always drawing a groan from him as he recoiled tighter into you until sleep had its hold on him once more.

You couldn’t have thought of a better way to spend your day if you weren’t honest; it was perfect in all aspects. One might think that the lives of two people with the ability to produce the most powerful of magic would forever lead chaotic lives, and that had been true less than a decade ago. But things were different now.

Magic was still present in your everyday life, it always will be and you would never tire of it. But it was seldom ever used to defend yourselves anymore, never used to harm another. It was used to wash the dishes when you hadn’t felt like it, to startle on another by switching the lights off from another room. It was used to douse each other with water in the backyard in goofy antics before the other could think of something more thrilling as payback. It was used to refill mugs of cocoa and coffee when you hadn’t felt like making anymore, to stir pots on the stove when you were far too caught up in dancing around the kitchen. Ron had learned that one the hard way when he nearly burnt the kitchen down when he’d been far too busy kissing you, admiring you like the lovestruck fool he knew himself to be.

Magic is used after a quidditch match gone wrong, to heal Ron with the most tender of spells and potions as possible. He refuses to go to St. Mungo’s whenever possible, preferring the care of you over anyone else. He claims your magic is much more powerful, though you knew all he’d really been wanting was you.

Magic was used for the fun you’d once imagined it to be as a child. There was far too much hurt and anguish by the hands of that very gift, and the two of you had been determined to use it for good, to use it for the lighthearted ways you’d always loved.

You had a home of your own, filled with moments to be cherished as long as your memory would allow. Filled with dancing in your living room at three o’clock in the morning, and never waking up without each other. To making a mess of the kitchen when baking a cake for the other’s birthday. Of silly anniversaries of things others might consider trivial. It was imperfectly perfect and it was bursting with a warmth and love you’d hoped to have; it was right for the two of you. It was yours.

In time, you felt the tips of his fingers dance tenderly across your wrist and up your arm a few inches more, the gentle touches bringing a soft smile to your face. They trace in unknown shapes for a short while, and unbeknownst to you he’d scrawled invisible ‘I love you’s’ there, his fingers soon splaying over your skin as he grabs your hand once more. You decide then and there that you’d never get any quality reading done beyond that very point, a soft sigh leaving your lips as you close your book and let it fall to the grass below you with a dull thud.

Your other hand brushes through his hair, a bit tangled as your fingers pass through it and you don’t fail to see the way he leans into your touch. Delicate purple flower petals are woven within the ginger locks, cream ones joining in from the two blossoming trees you lay between, and it looked soft and adorable. It was then that he lifted his head and looked at you, your fingers smoothing down his cheek. The smile gracing his lips was nothing short of adoring, and he was still very much groggy with sleep.

“Hey you,” he murmured, a soft laugh leaving his lips at the feeling of his hair sticking to his face. The humidity from that morning’s rainstorm had lingered, curling the ends of his hair.

“Hey, sleepyhead,” you beam, a laugh of your own escaping you as he makes his attempts to move.

His efforts were near futile as the hammock swayed and rocked and proved to be quite unforgiving, mere seconds from sending him tumbling out and onto the ground for what wouldn’t be the first time. But he manages somehow to avoid such a clumsy outcome, the swinging he so ungracefully caused now settling to a stop.

“What d’you mean ‘sleepy head’?” He asks, his words sleepily mingling into one another as his laughter fanned warmly across your lips.

The pad of your thumb brushed over his freckled cheek, the one that’d been significantly more pink than the other from having been pressed against you for the better part of an hour. Not to mention the sleep lines imprinted on his skin. You bit the inside of your cheek in an attempt to stifle your inevitable spill of laughter, thumb now swiping over the drool that had not quite dried at the corner of his mouth.

“You’ve been drifting off this whole time, perhaps the puddle of drool on my shirt will jog your memory,” you jest even though you felt tired yourself, his nose scrunching in protest to your words, “or maybe the snores that could be heard through the whole neighborhood.”

Your giggles intensified when he dropped a flurry of kisses to your neck with the full knowledge of just how ticklish it’d been. Giggles that were quickly muffled when he kissed you, his own having hummed against your mouth. His hair tickled against your forehead, brushing lightly against your cheek. He’d been due for a bit of a haircut; his hair had been dipping over his eyes, nearly dusting over his shoulders as it once had done when he was fourteen.

“Must you always tease me?” He mumbles, the corner of his mouth quirked up in a smile at the sight of yours.

“You make it so easy,” you counter, and he pressed kisses to your cheek. “How could I not?”

“So terribly mean, love,” he sighs, kissing you once more before wedging himself between you and the fabric of the hammock, tugging the flannel blanket up further.

“Yes, but I love you terribly,” you say, your nose bumping his as you look up at him.

The pale pink staining his cheeks is something not from the sunshine on his skin, rather your declaration of love. No matter how often you said it, it would always leave him blushing scarlet—you could say it a hundred times in a row and he’d flush each and every time it fell from your lips. His eyes sparkled blue-green beneath ruffles of ginger, his smile nothing short of beaming.

“I love you an awful lot,” he grins, still sleepy yet still so adoring of you as his eyes flutter closed.

Now it had been your turn to flush a rosy pink, an obvious fact that you tried your hardest to stave off as you leaned up and kissed the underside of his jaw. He tangles his legs with yours once more, pressing a kiss to the top of your head as he basks in the very moment with you. In the very way the sun glimmers over you, golden and glowing, shining upon someone who he feels is the embodiment of that very sunshine. He basked in the way the soft pink petals on the trees above you float down in a floral rain. In the way you loved him as wholly as he did you, and he couldn’t quite believe that wonderfully dizzying fact.

You yawn as you nuzzle your face against his t-shirt, picking at a loose string. Somehow, he always smelled of cinnamon, for as long as you could remember he smelled of just that. It was delightfully sweet and so incredibly Ron, and you couldn’t help but feel comforted.

“Have you finished your book?” He asks softly, the fatigue that still remained heavy having him merely hum his words.

“No,” you mumble, “too distracted.”

His chuckle shook you softly, the feeling bringing a smile to your face as you looked up at him. “What?

You narrow your eyes in a playful glare as you look at him, lifting your head from his shoulder. His smile widened at that, a soft gust of wind blowing his hair in his eyes but he hadn’t bothered to move it. “I’ve heard you reread the same line four times in a row.”

His laughter was immediate to trail after his words, more so when you swatted his chest. He tipped his head back, the action ruffling his hair entirely as he found your expression humorous. It was rather hard to stay mad at him, however, not with the way he looked at you so fondly and not that you were even mad to begin with. You exhale a sigh, finding yourself looking at him the same despite your reddened cheeks upon mention of your blunder. It must have occurred when he’d held your hand.

You drop your head to his shoulder once more, unable to fight your smile. “Not my fault.”

His response is another bout of soft laughter, and no doubt the most beaming of smiles. “Whatever you say, love.”

The same fatigue you had teased him for just moments prior had held its grip on you, your laughter dwindling as your eyelids grow heavy. You hum in a late acknowledgement to what he’d said, “exactly that.”

You splay your hand across his chest, interlocking your pinky with his. His smile went unseen by you, one of awe and knowing all the same. He knew what that meant. It was a promise as most would think of it as, a silent ‘I love you’ as the two of you know it to be. He knew exactly the day it first happened. At the Burrow under the light of the stars, he’d told you he loved you for the very first time. It was that night that you wrapped your pinky around his, joined hands settled in the grass between you. With it accompanied the very three words that made his heart race and his cheeks flush. It was then, that very first time that night, that it became an unspoken action worth a thousand words.

So he smiles, he curls his pinky around yours and he smiles. Your own grin is just as unseen as his, but you didn’t need to see each other to know of it.

“I love you,” he murmurs, pressing a kiss to your forehead, to your nose when you look at him.

“I love you,” you whisper, kissing the corner of his mouth in a tired attempt of a kiss. His smile was soft, and he still felt the tingle of your kiss as if it was the first time. He’s quite sure it’ll always feel that way. He knows it.

It was then that you tuck yourself against him, in the crook of his neck as the tattered flannel blanket settles warmly over top you both, the spring breeze brushing over your cheeks. You lay cradled within the canvas hammock that enveloped the both of you nearly in a cocoon. Your drowsiness was too hard to ignore by then, your eyes fluttering closed as his cheek pressed to the top of your head.

You were perfectly content to sleep there forever in the very arms, the very place you felt safest in. It was beautiful with the setting sun and the chirping of the birds. With petals falling in your hair and pinkies interlocked in a promise.

—

Tags: @vogueweasley @amourtentiaa @hahee154hq @anchoeritic @ch0colatefr0gs @harrysweasleys @snitches-at-dawn @awritingtree @writeroutoftime

[tallstars-rewrite]

Chapter 8

chapter list / previous / next

Tallpaw padded behind Dawnstripe, struggling to see over the long grass and stifling a sneeze as it tickled his nose. “But I’m confused,” he said. “Why did Heatherstar suddenly change her mind?”

Dawnstripe shrugged. “I don’t think Heatherstar ever changed her mind, it hadn’t been decided to begin with. The council makes an official decision the night before the ceremony about how an apprentice will train, and with who.”

“My father sounded so sure about me being apprenticed to Woollycloud…”

“Well, parents always have hopes and preferences, but it’s never definite. I suppose Sandstone decided that on his own.”

“Do you think Heatherstar really only did it because she doesn’t like him?”

“Of course not! Heatherstar would never do that. She made you a moor runner because she thought you wanted to be. You look so miserable trying to dig, and you're such a natural runner. The deputy, medicine cat, and elders must have had an agreement as well.”

I doubt Whitetooth did… But the others...they really thought that? Tallpaw was silent for a moment. 

Dawnstripe paused and looked at him “Do you want to be a tunneler? Heatherstar made the call, but if you really wanted to, she wouldn’t deny you. Cats have changed before. If you want Woollycloud to train you...”

“N-no it’s…” Tallpaw fumbled, still trying to piece his feelings together. “I guess...I’ve never actually thought that much about what I want. I thought it was just what I needed to do.”

“Think about it now. I’d love to train you, I’ve always wanted an apprentice. But it’s your path, Tallpaw. What do you want?”

Tallpaw looked up at her. “I...I don’t want to be a tunneler,” he mewed, a twinge of shame nagging at the back of his head as the words left his mouth. Yet, as soon as he said them, he knew they were true. “I don’t like it...I’m not good at digging. I’m not built like Plumclaw or Woollycloud. I never feel like I’m making progress, and I keep hurting my claws, and I hate feeling cramped in the dark, and...and…”

Dawnstripe purred and rested her muzzle briefly on his head. “Then say no more. This is your first day as an apprentice Tallpaw! Get excited! From today, you start to become a real warrior. Your father may be upset at Heatherstar, but surely not at you. I’m sure he’ll understand if it’s what you want. You are a warrior to your clan, not just to one cat. Now save your worries for later, I want to show you something.”

A real warrior… The thought warmed him from nose to tail tip. It didn’t matter what he specialized in. They were all warriors just the same, that was surely enough.

“Where are we going?” Tallpaw huffed. He hadn’t realized how tall this hill really was until he was climbing it. Dawnstripe shot a wide grin at him as they neared the top.

“The top of Outlook Hill. You can see everything from there. The wind can be heavy without the hill to block it, so brace yourself. It’s blowing hard today.”

Tallpaw leapt up beside her as she finally paused at the top. She wasn’t kidding about the wind. As soon as he’d peaked over the ridge, he was afraid he’d get knocked off his paws as the gust blasted him in the face and flapped in his ears. He ducked back down, fastening his claws tightly into the ground until it died down. 

“Don’t be afraid,” Dawnstripe encouraged. “You’ll be ok, it’s nothing to be frightened of. I’m right here with you. Come see!”

Tallpaw hesitantly straightened back up, braced this time as another gust hit him straight on, he pinned his ears back flat and squinted. When he could blink open his eyes, the sight before him nearly took his breath away. The other apprentices weren’t exaggerating. He really couldn’t believe the world was so big.

 The sun was cresting the horizon behind him, lighting up the parting clouds in brilliant warm hues and bathing the moor in rosy light. The long swaying grass dropped below him in a steep downward slope and spread out almost further than he could see, stretching into a wide expanse of heather and gorse bushes dotting the fields, sparkling and heavy with last night's rain. Hills and mountains he’d never known about lay beyond, tinted blue in the distance, their peaks lit up in gold as the sun's rays touched them. Standing here at the highest point of the moor, he was suddenly aware of how tall this hill really was and almost felt unsteady on his paws at the thought of the wind force sending him tumbling back down.  He found himself wondering if birds felt a similar way while trying to fly for the first time.

“No other cats in the forest can have a sight like this.” Dawnstripe said. “Remember wind isn’t your enemy. It is part of us, and we move with it. It guides our paws over the moor and gives us our swift step. Fierce, but also gentle, a constant presence. If you listen, you can hear her singing.”

As the frightening gust died down a bit, he pricked his ears hesitantly. His whiskers were pinned back and his ears whistled. “I only hear it whipping my ears.”

“Be still for a moment. Close your eyes, and focus on just feeling it.”

He was still as she asked, and just when he was afraid he wouldn’t understand, the gust turned into a more gentle breeze. It whistled down the hill side, ebbing and flowing in strength. A gentle ruffling past his fur, almost like a clanmate brushing along his side. As he closed his eyes, he pictured it moving down the hill, weaving past the sage brush, around the gorse and the scarce scraggly trees. It was all so far away, but letting the scents sink in as they were carried to him, the heather on the far moor sweet on his tongue, a rabbit somewhere foraging in the thistles, it was almost as if he could picture every groove and flower clearly, even the parts of the moor out of sight. All of it connected. And then, quietly at first and then growing in volume, he heard a low whistling. High pitched, and then lower. Almost a hum as it whisked through the fields.

“I think I hear it.” Tallpaw murmured. The moor really was singing to him.

Dawnstripe brushed her tail against him. “It doesn’t always happen, but when the winds are just right, they say the matron of the moors returns to the hills. She lives on in the winds and sings to her children still, always running beside them. You are part of this place after all, the same way it will always be a part of you.”

Tallpaw could hardly believe such a view had been just above his head, towering over camp all his life and he never knew. He only barely heard Dawnstripe laugh over the whistling in his ears. “I never forgot my first sight of the moor. Isn’t it beautiful?”

“How far does it go?” Tallpaw breathed.

“The forest's edge is below those far hills. We’ll head in that direction and then make our way around. I just wanted your first view to be from the best spot, especially since the rain clouds were nice enough to part for us. You can see most of the territory from up here.”

“All of it? This is all ours?” How would he ever memorize such a large place?

“Everything between the tree lines. We’ve got a lot of ground to cover.”

The wind blew from behind Tallpaw, as if it was tugging him forward, and a thrill ran up his spine as he was eager to let it. Fixing his eyes to the farthest point in sight he felt a leap of kit-like energy bouncing around inside him, a near irresistible urge to let that energy out and spring forward, race the wind, let it carry his paws, cross the open stretch and not stop until he reached the other side. This was nothing like looping the camp. Nothing to get in his way at all, he could fly down the hill if he wanted to, and in that instance he’d never wanted anything so badly.

A greeting meow broke him from his trance and he turned to see Briarpaw and his mentor Meadowbreeze trotting towards them. Dawnstripe waved her tail in greeting.

“Good morning, Dawnstripe!” Meadowbreeze called. “We were hoping to join you for a bit on Tallpaw’s first territory tour before hunting practice, if you don’t mind!”

“Not at all Meadowbreeze.” Dawnstripe nodded at the pale tortoiseshell. The two mollies greeted each other as Briarpaw came to touch noses with Tallpaw.

“It’s a lot to take in, isn't it?” Briarpaw purred, looking out at the endless sky. “I almost fell down the hill during me and Shrewpaw’s first day. The wind was much stronger, not to mention a lot colder.”

Tallpaw let his  gaze drift back to the hills. “I feel like I could get lost just looking at it.” Now that he’d seen how big the world was, he was somehow greedy for the sight of more of it. This was only WindClan territory and it looked like so much. 

After a moment's silence, Briarpaw cleared his throat and said, “so...moor runner after all, huh? Who would’ve thought?” Tallpaw’s ears set back in slight discomfort. “Y-yeah, I guess so…”

“I always thought you’d be suited for it, you know. I didn’t say anything because I didn’t think you’d be interested. But you used to be faster than both me and Shrew, even though you were younger.” He paused for a heartbeat. “How, uh...how are you feeling?”

Tallpaw knew what he was referring to, though neither of them wanted to directly acknowledge the uncomfortable spat Sandstone and Heatherstar had in the middle of it all. He tried to remember what Dawnstripe said. Now wasn’t the time to worry. “I’m fine. I’m going to be a warrior, right? That’s all that matters.”

“That’s the spirit.” Meadowbreeze broke in. “We’d all better get a move on if you want to finish by sundown! You're starting at the northern border first right?”

Dawnstripe nodded and pointed her nose to the shorter hill. “Yep, it’ll be just over that rise, up the Swift-Step hills.” She winked at Tallpaw. “You can run there if you like. I know you want to.” 

Tallpaw did want to very much.

“Well then, race me there!” Dawnstripe called as she took off in a flash. 

Tallpaw instantly forgot any lingering anxiety as he streaked after her without a second thought, straight down the steep drop. He reveled in the wind whistling through his whiskers, letting gravity carry him down as much as his legs. The sharp incline of the hill made him feel like he was falling with each bound when his paws weren’t touching the earth, but the feeling was more exhilarating than frightening. If anything, it felt more like flying. I’d like to see Shrewpaw try to outrun me! he thought gleefully. The smug brown apprentice would be in for it now. He didn’t even care that the dew in the grass had left him soaked.

Tallpaw was proud of himself for almost managing to match Dawnstripe’s pace to the next hilltop, even if part of him knew she was probably intentionally keeping pace with him. Not too much farther ahead, the ground sloped down again into a thin strip of woodland. Faint rumbles in the distance made Tallpaw’s fur stand on end.

“Is that thunder?” he looked up in confusion. There wasn’t a dark cloud in the sky.

“That would be the Thunderpath.” Dawnstripe said. “Let’s go a bit closer. It’s important for you to know about it.”

Tallpaw wasn’t sure he wanted to. Briarpaw brushed against his side. “It’s not scary so long as you don’t touch it,” he said.

Once they reached the towering row of trees that Tallpaw had seen from the distant hill, he realized they were much bigger up close. WindClan’s camp didn’t have anything that tall. Tallpaw craned his neck up, but he couldn’t even see the tops of the pines past the snaring branches. Through the sparse undergrowth lay a long, black path of what looked like strange flat stone. A horrible acrid stench reached his nose. A rumble of thunder echoed in his ears, coming closer and faster. Tallpaw cowered instinctively and tried to turn, but Dawnstripe held her tail in front of him.

“Don’t be afraid, we’re safe here,” she said.

A massive shining beast came hurtling across the stones, so fast Tallpaw couldn’t even make it out clearly. It streaked past them and over a rise on the path before vanishing into the distance.

Tallpaw didn’t realize he’d been holding his breath until he let it out.

“That would be one of the twolegs monsters. We understand little about them other than they always stay on their path, and they can kill a cat with their feet if you ever get in their way.” Dawnstripe pointed ahead with her nose. “Do you see that flat smudge on the path? That was what appears to be a small squirrel.”

This close, Tallpaw could almost smell the scent of old rotting prey, but the red of its flesh was blackened and completely flat. If Dawnstripe hadn’t told him it was a squirrel, he wasn’t sure he’d even be able to tell.

“That is why you must stay well away from those creatures' paws. They just run down everything in their way. Even something as big as a deer isn’t safe, and neither are we.”

“Do they eat cats?” Tallpaw’s voice shook slightly as he spoke.

Dawnstripe shook her head. “They don’t eat anything. They aren’t like animals. The good news is they are so loud, you can always hear and feel them coming. But it’s still best to stay well away from this place, and don’t ever chase prey onto the Thunderpath.”

“But...what are they? Are they like the bad spirits the elders talk about sometimes?”

“No, not like that. Even the elders aren’t sure what they are exactly, we only know they are tied to the twolegs somehow, and nothing good ever comes out of anything that's been touched by twolegs. Sometimes you can even see them inside. There was a time seasons ago when the clans never had to deal with twolegs or their monsters at all, and this path wasn’t here, but then they came in noisy droves and after some moons, the Thunderpath and the monsters were here. That's how the elders tell it anyway.”

“If the monsters aren’t really animals, does that mean twolegs aren’t either?” 

“If they had a proper name, we wouldn't dignify them with it,” Dawnstripe curled her lip in disdain. “They’re tall, awkward, and ugly things with no fur. They can’t be killed, as far as we know, and the animals they keep are often as dangerous as them. Dogs, for one. They bring destruction and danger wherever they go and they don’t behave in any way we can predict or understand. They are no friends to cats.”

“I heard cats live with them,” Briarpaw said.

“Some cats do, those are the kittypets you may have heard the warriors talk about.” Meadowbreeze explained. “I feel sorry for them really, they must have been brainwashed to stay docile and locked up the way they are. Twolegs try to capture a cat's heart so they lose all sense of their natural wild spirit.”

“Would twolegs ever come into our territory to try and make us kittypets?” Tallpaw asked nervously. Dawnstripe rested her tail on his shoulder reassuringly. “We are luckier than ThunderClan and ShadowClan that the nearest twolegs to us live on a farm further to the north, beyond that farther treeline. Twolegs have been edging closer to the other clans' territories for seasons, but StarClan has kept us safe from them so far. We never see them or their kittypets come as far as the moor, so you don’t have to worry. Besides, I heard they are very slow, and we can outrun them easily. Tallpaw didn’t need to be told twice. If he never had to meet a twoleg or their captive animal servants for as long as he lived, he would be perfectly happy with that.

“But that’s not the only thing to be wary about here,” Dawnstripe said and flicked her tail motioning for her apprentice to follow her as she padded along the woodland stretch.

 The Thunderpath was high above them now, and underneath the hill was a long narrow opening that led to the other side. The ground in front of it was squishy and wet, dotted with drowned brown plantlife. Through the other side, thick dark trees tangled together. A disgusting scent reached his nose, not as strong as the monster stench, but strong nonetheless. It smelled of wet moldy dirt and soggy prey he couldn’t quite place. 

“This,” continued Dawnstripe, “is our border with ShadowClan.”

ShadowClan. This was where those cats lived, tangled in those shadowy trees. It looked suffocating, almost as bad as how he pictured the tunnels themselves. In the dark undergrowth and tree branches twining together above them, he imagined the air in there was as wet and muggy as the ground at his feet.

“How can cats be content living in there?” Tallpaw asked. He remembered the elders' tale about how ShadowClan was banished to the dark swamp lands. No wonder they had been jealous of WindClan’s moor if that was where they lived. “Can they even get fresh air?”

“Not really. They must like it, I guess.” Briarpaw shrugged. “They’re a weird bunch.”

“Not a nice bunch either.” Meadowbreeze added. “Some say the heart of their territory is so dark, you can hardly tell the time of day. It must be horribly dreary.”

“This border is dangerous to wander on your own right now. We have no idea what ShadowClan is up to.” Dawnstripe warned. “They seemed to be sniffing around some moons ago, but it’s been quiet since. They’re very stealthy, so we have to keep a lookout for them.”

Tallpaw imagined the dark fox-muzzled cats he’d heard about peering at him from the far shadows. He shivered involuntarily and was grateful when Dawnstripe motioned for them to keep going. 

“We shouldn’t stay here long. We’ve got a lot farther to go. But now you know ShadowClan’s scent. Remember it, and keep an eye out.” 

Dawnstripe and Meadowbreeze began padding away, but Briarpaw dragged a bit behind, staring through the tunnel at the darkened tree line. Tallpaw turned back to him. “Briar? What’s wrong? we have to catch up.”

Briarpaw nodded absentmindedly and followed after Tallpaw, his fur prickling along his neck. 

Tallpaw looked at him quizzically. “You didn’t see any cats did you?”

He shook his head. “Not cats no...those woods just give me the creeps. I mean, more than usual. It’s like I can see the shadows of the trees stretching out toward us like claws, and covering the moor territory. I get such a bad feeling from them.”

The sun wasn’t bright enough to cast such dark shadows from what Tallpaw could see. He hooked his long tail around Briarpaw’s and led him onward. “Any sensible cat would get a bad feeling from there. Well lucky we don’t have to live in it. Let’s just get far away from here--and quickly.”

***

Tallpaw’s march around the territory had gone through the day into dusk. They’d only paused briefly for a short break before they were out again. He’d never walked so much in a day and his head was still reeling with all he had to take in. Dawnstripe assured him he would learn it bit by bit over time. 

The other apprentices greeted him and Briarpaw when they got back into camp.

“Sorry we couldn’t see your first time around the territory with you. We’re nose deep in our training right now since me and Fawn are getting ready for the newleaf race.” Fallowpaw chirped.

Tallpaw cocked his head. “The...newleaf race?”

Shrewpaw snorted. “Yeah, duh! They’ve been talking about it for moons! You spent so much time splashing around in the mud that you didn’t even hear about it?”

“It’s a tradition,” Briawpaw explained. “You know, at the start of every newleaf we celebrate the return of the warm winds by having a whole clan-wide race across the territory.”

“Like our old course around camp, except way bigger and the winner gets a feast and doesn’t have to do the bad chores for two sunrises!” Fawnpaw said. “Mostly it’s about being the fastest, though.”

Tallpaw remembered now, he had heard something about the newleaf race. But his father had told him not to be concerned about it. Just moor runner frivolities.

“It doesn’t mean as much to the tunnelers. You’re already mature for your age, I don’t expect you to get caught up in silly games to see who gets to laze around for a day.” Sandstone had told him.

 Tallpaw hadn’t thought about it as being a big deal. But I’m a moor runner now...so I suppose it is something that matters to me? Frivolous stuff... It was right then the thought he’d been putting off came violently pushing its way to the front of his mind. Sandstone. A familiar feeling of unsheathed claws turning his stomach in knots came back to him. I have to go talk to him.

“Tallpaw?” Briarpaw nudged him. “You look like you’ve just stared down a monster, what’s the matter?”

Tallpaw blinked at him with a start. “Sorry. Nothing’s the matter at all. Have um…” He shuffled his paws. “Have any of you seen my father?”

All four of them looked at each other awkwardly. Their discomfort crept into him, intensifying his own all the more.

“Sandstone? Didn’t Heatherstar put him in time out?” Shrewpaw said.

Briarpaw smacked him on the leg as Tallpaw flattened his ears in irritation. Why did Shrewpaw insist on talking about Sandstone that way?

“Never mind, I’ll find him myself,” he growled, turning away.

 Briarpaw hissed at his brother. “Stop being rude!” 

“What? I just said what happened. It’s not my fault he’s such a--” Tallpaw didn’t want to hear the rest. He was tired of feeling like he was being pulled in three different directions. I just want the cats I care about to get along. Is that so much to ask?

Part of Tallpaw was relieved he couldn’t find his father right away. Would Sandstone be angry at him? Surely he would, he practically hated moor runners. Perhaps I should bring him food...That always puts him in a better mood. Moles were his favorite, and Tallpaw prayed there were some on the freshkill pile. To his immense relief, a hunting party had returned recently. He nosed through the pile absentmindedly and picked up the biggest mole he could find. 

He looked around, still unsure of where to start looking. Where would Sandstone have gone? Perhaps to the eastern tunnel he was always talking about. He always said working calmed his nerves. But Dawnstripe hadn’t covered much about the tunneling system, and Tallpaw could only guess the general area it might be in. He was hoping his father would have already made up with Heatherstar and come back by now. Tallpaw hadn’t even noticed he was pacing anxiously in a circle until he nearly ran muzzle first into Woollycloud, causing him to stumble back and drop his mole.

 “Ah--! Sorry Woollycloud, I-I didn’t see you.” Tallpaw struggled to meet the tunneler's face, afraid of what expression he’d see.

But Woollycloud mostly looked tired, and he regarded Tallpaw with more sympathy than disappointment. “It’s quite alright Tallpaw,” he said. “Are you… looking for your father?”

Tallpaw nodded quietly, unsure of what to say. 

Woollycloud cleared his throat “Well, you’re in luck. He’s talking with Reedfeather now.”

“Is he in trouble?” Tallpaw mewed nervously.

 “It’s nothing you need to concern yourself over Tallpaw, its…'' He looked down. “Well, it is all certainly very unexpected. We’re in a rather tough spot at the moment. The project Sandstone and I have been planning for so long has hit a snag, and on top of that Heatherstar just got news again that ShadowClan may have been seen lurking outside their territory on the other side of the Thunderpath. Everyone is on edge, is all. Sandstone and Heatherstar have a bit of a tense relationship, and this came at a bad time. But this is really very normal. Reedfeather and I will smooth things over. Here they come now.”

Tallpaw saw Reedfeather’s brown tabby pelt pushing through the long heather that bordered the camp. Tallpaw dipped his head respectfully as the deputy walked by. Woollycloud started whispering something to him, but Tallpaw’s attention was fixed on Sandstone. 

His father lay stiffly next to the sunning stones near the elders' den. His tail was wound tightly around his body, and his eyes were closed like he was trying to appear at ease, but Tallpaw could plainly see his thin fur ruffled around his neck and his whiskers twitching in the way they did when he got into a bad spat with his mother. Tallpaw knew this look very well, that his father was angry, even if he wouldn’t say it aloud. Like a dangerous undercurrent hidden beneath a deceptively gentle looking stream.

 Picking up the mole he’d dropped and ignoring the heaviness weighing his paws down, Tallpaw forced himself to walk forward. It was like Dawnstripe said, Sandstone was just surprised. Maybe he wouldn’t be angry with him for not wanting to be a tunneler. There would be other cats! He tried to go over what he would say and how to make his father understand, but he didn’t even believe his own encouragement. Before he knew it, he was standing a tail length away with his tongue feeling very dry and useless in his mouth around the mole’s dusty fur. 

Sandstone opened one dark amber eye to regard him. Tallpaw remembered dimly the warmth that used to light up his gaze whenever his father saw him as a kit. He’d lived for that expression. Now those same amber eyes looked fiercely cold and hard, like frost covered stone. But after a couple heartbeats, Sandstone's tail flicked to the side, leaving an open space beside him. Tallpaw let a small bit of relief flood through him. Maybe they could pretend like nothing had happened, and they could just sit and eat together like they often did before.

Tallpaw carefully placed the mole at his paws. “I brought you some prey. I uh...I thought you might be hungry.”

Sandstone eyed the mole, his nose wrinkling a bit. Tallpaw suddenly noticed the slobber that he’d left behind on the ruffled brown fur. He’d unknowingly been anxiously chewing a hole through the side of the tiny animal during his pacing, leaving it looking ravaged and soggy. He winced and scolded himself, Ugh, you useless absolute mouse-brain!

Sandstone cleared his throat and tentatively rolled the mole over. “Did you catch this?” he asked. His tone sounded casual, but there was strain behind it as his whiskers still twitched and his ears were slightly set back with displeasure.

Tallpaw was taken aback. “Well...n-no. We spent all day touring most of the territory, so…” Tallpaw was suddenly second guessing himself. Was he supposed to have been on the lookout for prey during the tour? Was that expected of apprentices? Maybe it was a test, and I didn’t even stop to look once! Did I already mess up my training on the first day?

“Hm.” Was all Sandstone said in response. Tallpaw suddenly wanted to vanish as he wound his anxiously flicking tail around his hind paw to keep it still while his father continued, “If you’d been training in the tunnels with me and Woollycloud, you’d have already caught prey by now. I caught two moles on my first day of training. Mole hunting is a tunneler specialty.”

Tallpaw didn’t reply. He just focused on his tail, curling around his back leg.

Sandstone sniffed. “That’s not your fault, Tallpaw. It’s just how moor runners train. They take things so slow and their apprentices take ages to toughen up into warriors. You got bad luck is all.”

“Yeah, that’s it…” Tallpaw mumbled. “But I can still be a good warrior as a moor runner, right?”

 “You just won’t stand out as much is all, with so many moor runners.” It wasn’t the same as the encouragement he used to give. Sandstone always said his son would be the best warrior in the clan. “But it’s only for right now.” Sandstone added. 

Tallpaw glanced up, clearly confused. His father stared at him like he should know what he meant as he continued, “Heatherstar wants you to start training as a moor runner, and that’s fine. There’s nothing wrong with learning other skills. But you can tell her you want to train in the tunnels with Woollycloud. She can ignore me if she wants, but it’s your training and you’ll never be any good at something you weren’t meant to be.”

Tallpaw curled his tail even tighter around him. “Do you want me to tell Heatherstar that I want to be a tunneler now?”

Sandstone blinked in surprise, then his gaze narrowed at Tallpaw’s hesitant tone. “Isn’t that what you want? You’ve been working so hard practically ever since you first left the nursery!”

Tallpaw opened his mouth, but he just couldn’t think of anything to say that would make this go well. He remembered what he’d told Dawnstripe. I don’t want to be a tunneler, I hate it. It’s stuffy and dark and exhausting, I just want to learn how to run and hunt on the moor.

But Tallpaw didn’t say any of that, instead he said: “I’m just...not good enough to be a tunneler. I’m not as strong as you and the other tunnelers, and my paws aren’t as tough, that’s why...that’s why it’s better for me to settle for being a moor runner.”

Sandstone’s posture immediately relaxed ever so slightly, his familiar rumbling purr rising in his throat that momentarily eased Tallpaw’s dread.

“Nonsense Tallpaw, tunneling is in your blood! Your mother struggled as a tunneler at first too you know, but when she worked at it, she became a fine tunneler! That’s all it takes. Why, if I knew that was what you were concerned about, I would have pushed Heatherstar harder.”

Dumb mouse-brain, you shouldn’t have said it like that, say something else!

“B-but now I've…” Tallpaw faltered, “I don’t want to offend Dawnstripe, she was so excited about getting an apprentice and it’s only been a day. I can’t just leave now, it would be an insult.”

Sandstone rolled his eyes “Oh she’s young, she’ll have another apprentice soon enough and probably forget all about it. But I suppose you’re right…”

Thank StarClan… 

“Even so,” Sandstone continued, “you can’t hold off training for too long just to spare her feelings, it’s better to build your muscles up while you're young.”

He still thinks you want to be a tunneler, just say you don’t! 

Why couldn’t he make the words come out? His father’s eyes were lit up again in that encouraging way he remembered so well, looking more pleased than ever. Tallpaw had to focus hard on stopping his tail from lashing with distress.

“Well I...I will train in the tunnels soon. Shrewpaw’s mentor, Hareflight, told me all apprentices learn a little bit about the tunnels, perhaps...perhaps after the newleaf race?” He said quickly.

“The newleaf race? I’d forgotten all about that silly event.”

“Yeah, er--Dawnstripe wants me to train for it. She thinks I’ll be good at it, and maybe after I’ll have more time…”

Maybe if I show him that I'm just better at being a runner, he’ll give up on the idea and I won’t have to tell him I don’t want to tunnel at all…

Sandstone seemed at least a bit satisfied with that. “After the newleaf race then, we’ll talk about it more. But just remember Tallpaw, born tunnelers usually don’t do so well in those sorts of competitions. It’s just a moor runner's way to show off since they think pure speed is all that matters. It doesn’t do much to show your skill and strength, so don’t let it get to you if you don’t win. I know that little moor-kit Shrewpaw likes to boast about racing and what-not, but it’s just vanity. He really doesn’t have anything else going for him, unlike you. So much like his father in that way.” 

Tallpaw just nodded. Sandstone seemed happier, and he even began to eat the mole Tallpaw had brought. Surely this topic could be held off for a while yet. The newleaf race was at least a quarter moon away, maybe more if he was lucky. He wouldn’t worry about it now. The rest of the evening with his father was pleasant enough as Tallpaw stuffed the clawing grip at his belly further down like he would a thorn under his nest.

chapter list / previous / next

[whitherliliesbloom]

towards a tomorrow

[ ffxivwrite2021 ] ★ [ masterlist ] ★ [ prompt #28 - bow ]

[ illya & kirishimi ] ★ [ 2,062 words ]  ★ [ period drama au ]

for matchi’s period drama au. briefly mentions illyanaud, laurelis and kaye. 

bow-  to bend your head or body forward, especially as a way of showing someone respect or expressing thanks 

kirishimi didn’t care for frilly dresses or etiquette unless it was to make a statement - so she gets lessons from the most ladylike friend she knows

“Gods, shite! How do people breath in this stupid thing?!” 

Amongst the light breeze of the midafternoon wind, the melodic chirping of the songbirds and the sound of water splashing freely from the white marble fountain, Kirishimi’s less than ladylike words pierce through the air as she puffs her chest in with a low grumble and is followed by the soft and gentle bell-like chimes of a younger girl’s giggles a few feet next to her.

“I’m sorry. I don’t think the corset can be loosened any further, I made it as loose as I could for you already.”

“Can I just take it off then?” Kirishimi asks, hopeful even as the shorter lalafellin girl shakes her head calmly with am apologetic frown, her vibrant violent eyes swirling with sympathy.

“I wish you could but... Laurelis designed the dress with your corset in mind.. It just wouldn’t fit if you didn’t-”

“Shite.”

Yet another swear tumbles carelessly out of Kirishimi’s lips, and Illya lets out a soft, barely audible sigh before flashing her taller friend yet another gentle smile.

“How about a short break then? I think you’ll feel a little better if you take a breather.”

“Yes please!”

Without even a seconds’ hesitation, Kirishimi grabs the frame of the hoop skirt beneath her bright orange dress with her hands and marches to the gazebo before slumping down onto the white garden chair and kicking her matching pair of high heels off. She leans down to massage the soles of her feet with a grimace, feeling light indents where the rim of the heels had dug into her feet and wondering if there was going to be blisters forming under her hosiery by the end of the day.

In contrast to the almost unruly way she’d retreated under the shade of the white and purple gazebo, Illya in comparison was the very picture of elegance. With only the tips of her thumb and index finger, the young lady lifts the hem of her frilly lavender dress before climbing the steps up to the gazebo. Despite wearing lacey embroidered heels that seemed like they were even more of a pain to wear than her own, Illya’s balance was perfect, each footstep graceful and deliberate so much that Kirishimi could barely even hear the little tap of her heels against the floor. 

Even the way she sat upon the chair, taking her time to tuck her dress beneath her thighs before sitting herself down and folding her hands neatly upon her lap - it wouldn’t have made Kirishimi felt self-conscious any other time before today. But it was exactly because she was here now, for the exact same reason she’d even agreed to commission an over the top ball gown from Laurelis that she swear to never wear outside of it’s intended use, that she quickly decided to correct her posture. 

The taller woman feels out of place - as she typically does, but especially next to her considerably more demure, ladylike friend. Surrounded by the jewel toned walls of the Skawi mansion, the flawless marble tile paths that circled the garden and practically shined in the sunlight and the bed of delicate spring flowers that filled the air with a light floral fragrance, it would be hard for her not to feel even a tiny bit like a fish out of water.

“Thanks again, Illya. For agreeing to teach me.” Kirishimi opts to speak, breaking the long hanging silence as if in sheepish apology. She knows she isn’t the best student, and so the least she could do was be cooperative and nice to the girl who is graciously lending her her time and efforts. 

“You’re very welcome, Kiri.” With a radiant smile, Illya nods her head, her innocent expression bright and at home with her subtle movements of grace. The birds that sat upon the mansard roofs sing in tandem with the sweetness of Illya’s voice. “I’m honored that you would come to me for lessons about etiquette. Even if it is to...um... break the social construct.”

Mismatched eyes widen in a panic, and the older woman leans forward over the table and raises her voice a tad.

“Hey, I hope you don’t misunderstand me! There’s nothin’ wrong with being prim and proper! I’m not tryin’ to do anythin’ to disrespect you! I just-”

“I know.” Illya speaks, her brilliantly pure white hair fluttering gently in the breeze like a wavy silken veil over her head. “You’re just trying to be you. You have the courage and strength to stand up to people who would try to tell you do otherwise. I like that about you.” With yet another euphonious, soft giggle, Illya raises a hand up to press against her chest. “Besides, you wouldn’t have come to me for a favor if you truly did have malicious intent, would you? The fact that you called Laurelis and I for help means that you trust us.” 

A soft blush rises up to Kiri’s face where speckles of white snow glowed lightly from the heat from her cheeks and the bridge of her nose. Her gloved hand moves up to rub the side of her neck sheepishly, and she cannot help the toothy grin that adorns her face.

“I guess you’re right.” the woman murmurs. “I also... admire you a lot, you know? You’re so sweet, and nice... a bit too nice, honestly. You don’t even get angry when idiots spout lies about you...”

Kirishimi would be lying if she said she didn’t feel an immense amount of admiration for Illya’s ability to stay as calm and collected as she does - even above the seemingly effortless way she’d conduct herself like the society’s perfect definition of a ‘lady’. 

But there wasn’t envy... it wouldn’t be warranted, especially since Kirishimi knew that behind the perfectly immaculate way Illya would hold herself as the young mistress and future heiress of her family name, came a set of troubles and insecurities that she too was struggling with. 

It’s evident by the flicker of melancholy in Illya’s eyes, like a field of delphiniums and hydrangeas that were drooping in the midst of a drizzle of rain and grey storm clouds, even with a forced, stepford smile gracing her delicate and fair features. They were lovely, beautiful even in their imperfect sadness.. but Kiri could not bring herself to feel anything but sorry at the sight of them.

“And I wish I were even half as strong as you. You’re able to stand up for what you want, for who you are... If I had a fraction of the courage that you possessed then perhaps... I could have...” The girl looks down, the silver band that she’d refused to wear hidden deep in the depths of her dress pocket weighing far more heavily than it ever did before. “I could have stopped my uncle from calling for the engagement...”

The Skawi family had well deserved respect from the capital, and with it came a reputation and image they had to uphold. And with their fame, came the inevitable greed from the current head of the family - the man Illya could barely even bring herself to think of as family, the younger brother of the long deceased patriarch, Lachlan Skawi. 

Selling himself and the name of the Skawis wouldn’t be enough for the man - and so he’d sold the dignity of his niece as well by calling for an arranged marriage.. something that Kirishimi knew would not be solved with a few simple social statements and protests. It involved the name of the Skawi family, and worse still, it involved the capital. 

Internally, Kirishimi wonders what Young Master Alphinaud intends to do. Word about mistress Skawi’s engagement to one of the members of the royal bloodlines has spread far and wide by now, and he would undoubtedly be working tirelessly for a way to stop the marriage. 

But if the combined efforts of Laurelis’ family, the Leveilleur household, Hien’s influence as a well respected foreign emissary wasn’t enough to convince Illya’s uncle to call off the engagement, what else could they hope to do?

“You’re stronger than you think you are, Illya.” Kiri reassures, her tone gentler than is usual for her, as is the light, reassuring smile upon her face. “You took the first steps to realize your own dreams, didn’t ya?” 

Kiri gestures to the carnation earring she wore that dangled lightly with gleaming white pearls, and Illya raises a hand up to brush against her ear lightly. The earring was a gift from Master Alphinaud, the man she owes much to... Her mentor, her dearest friend and...

A dust of red rises up to Illya’s cheeks and spreads to the tips of her pointed ears as she nods.

“It’s... It’s thanks to everyone... and especially Master Alphinaud that.. that I finally started to learn medicine. If it weren’t for everyone’s support, I wouldn’t have-...”

Illya holds her tongue, pressing her lips into her fine line as Kiri allows the silence to fester, until she grins at the look of renewed determination upon the young maiden’s face.

No, Kirishimi is right. She certainly may owe much to her friends and loved ones, and she wouldn’t have taken that first steps towards realizing her dream to become a doctor had she not met Alphinaud... but it took great strides of her own too, a strength and new found courage to stand up to the ones who doubted her - one that she felt determined in full to carry on for as long as she needed until her dreams are fulfilled and she can be free from her own social constructs that are weighing her down.

“Once all this is over.. could you teach me how to fence, Kiri?” Illya asks, eliciting a surprised hum from her taller friend. 

“You wanna learn how to fence?” The woman asks... not in dissuation, of course... but in mild disbelief that a girl as sweet and gentle as Illya would be interested in the sport. She’d say yes, of course, regardless of Illya’s reasons. She’d teach Illya whatever she wanted to learn especially since the girl had been kind enough to be teaching her etiquette. But she still cannot help but to be a bit curious.

“I admit I’m not the strongest or physically well built... I’ll probably be a really bad student but-”

With a wave of her hand, Kiri dismisses Illya’s words with a hearty, loud laugh that echoes throughout the garden, warm and bright in the midafternoon sun.

“You’ll be great, I guarantee it. You’re quick on your feet and I think you’re a lot more fit than you give yourself credit for.” If Illya’s ability to function without fault all way in tight corsets and high heels are anything to go by, at least. 

With a bright smile of gratitude, Illya thanks her friend warmly with a bow of her head before standing herself up from the chair, circling around the table and gesturing to the haphazardly abandoned orange heels that laid on their sides next to Kirishimi.

“Let’s continue, Kiri. We still have much to practice for the day!” Illya shrugs her shoulders when Kiri groans, slipping her feet back into her heels before reluctantly standing herself back up. “You remember what I said about the proper way to curtsy is, right?”

To demonstrate, Illya holds the sides of her dress, barely pulling the hem up from the ground and crossing her legs before dipping herself down gracefully like a ballerina... and Kiri could only let out a lazy grumble in protest.

“Can’t we rest for a little while longer? I hate this curtsying shite.”

“The faster we get this part of the lesson done, the faster we can move on to table manners.” Illya’s innocent smile is bright and radiant, belying the little hint of mischief laced under the tone of her knowing voice. “I’ve already asked for the pastries and sweet tea to be prepared, you know? Kaye should be arriving with them any second now.”

“Curtsy? Got it. Left foot behind right???” Mismatched blue and red eyes fly open, and the woman does a full curtsy that elicits yet another light and airy giggle from Illya. 

“It’s the right foot behind your left. Not too quickly, now. Let’s try that again.” 

[pureamericanism]

In Praise of Johnny Appleseed

by Vachel Lindsay

In the days of President Washington, The glory of the nations, Dust and ashes, Snow and sleet, And hay and oats and wheat, Blew west, Crossed the Appalachians, Found the glades of rotting leaves, the soft deer-pastures, In the forest. Colts jumped the fence, Snorting, ramping, snapping, sniffing, With gastronomic calculations, Crossed the Appalachians, The east walls of our citadel, And turned to gold-horned unicorns, Feasting in the dim, volunteer farms of the forest. Stripedest, kickingest kittens escaped, Caterwauling “Yankee Doodle Dandy,” Renounced their poor relations, Crossed the Appalachians, And turned to tiny tigers In the humorous forest. Chickens escaped From farmyard congregations, Crossed the Appalachians, And turned to amber trumpets On the ramparts of our Hoosiers’ nest and citadel, Millennial heralds Of the foggy mazy forest. Pigs broke loose, scrambled west, Scorned their loathsome stations, Crossed the Appalachians, Turned to roaming, foaming wild boars Of the forest. The smallest, blindest puppies toddled west While their eyes were coming open, And, with misty observations, Crossed the Appalachians, Barked, barked, barked At the glow-worms and the marsh lights and the lightning-bugs, And turned to ravening wolves Of the forest. Crazy parrots and canaries flew west, Drunk on May-time revelations, Crossed the Appalachians, And turned to delirious, flower-dressed fairies Of the lazy forest. Haughtiest swans and peacocks swept west, And, despite soft derivations, Crossed the Appalachians, And turned to blazing warrior souls Of the forest, Singing the ways Of the Ancient of Days.

And the “Old Continentals In their ragged regimentals,” With bard’s imaginations, Crossed the Appalachians. And A boy Blew west, And with prayers and incantations, And with “Yankee Doodle Dandy,” Crossed the Appalachians, And was “young John Chapman,” Then “Johnny Appleseed, Johnny Appleseed,” Chief of the fastnesses, dappled and vast, In a pack on his back, In a deer-hide sack, The beautiful orchards of the past, The ghosts of all the forests and the groves– In that pack on his back, In that talisman sack, To-morrow’s peaches, pears and cherries, To-morrow’s grapes and red raspberries, Seeds and tree-souls, precious things, Feathered with microscopic wings, All the outdoors the child heart knows, And the apple, green, red, and white, Sun of his day and his night– The apple allied to the thorn, Child of the rose. Porches untrod of forest houses All before him, all day long, “Yankee Doodle” his marching song; And the evening breeze Joined his psalms of praise As he sang the ways Of the Ancient of Days.

Leaving behind august Virginia, Proud Massachusetts, and proud Maine, Planting the trees that would march and train On, in his name to the great Pacific, Like Birnam wood to Dunsinane, Johnny Appleseed swept on, Every shackle gone, Loving every sloshy brake, Loving every skunk and snake, Loving every leathery weed, Johnny Appleseed, Johnny Appleseed, Master and ruler of the unicorn-ramping forest, The tiger-mewing forest, The rooster-trumpeting, boar-foaming, wolf-ravening forest, The spirit-haunted, fairy-enchanted forest, Stupendous and endless, Searching its perilous ways In the name of the Ancient of Days.

Hear him asking his friends the eagles To guard each planted seed and seedling. While the late snow blew from bleak Lake Erie, Scourging rock and river and reed, For Jonathan Chapman, Johnny Appleseed, Johnny Appleseed, As though his heart were a wind-blown wheat-sheaf, As though his heart were a new-built nest, As though their heaven house were his breast, In swept the snow-birds singing glory. And I hear his bird heart beat its story, Hear yet how the ghost of the forest shivers, Hear yet the cry of the gray, old orchards, Dim and decaying by the rivers, And the timid wings of the bird-ghosts beating. By the hour of dawn he was proud and stark, Went forth to live on roots and bark, Sleep in the trees, while the years howled by– Calling the catamounts by name, And buffalo bulls no hand could tame, Slaying never a living creature, Joining the birds in every game, With the gorgeous turkey gobblers mocking, With the lean-necked eagles boxing and shouting; Sticking their feathers in his hair,– Turkey feathers, Eagle feathers,– Trading hearts with all beasts and weathers He swept on, winged and wonder-crested, Bare-armed, barefooted, and bare-breasted.

The maples, shedding their spinning seeds, Called to his appleseeds in the ground, Vast chestnut-trees, with their butterfly nations, Called to his seeds without a sound. And the chipmunk turned a “summer-set,” And the foxes danced the Virginia reel; Hawthorne and crab-thorn bent, rain-wet, And dropped their flowers in his night-black hair; And the soft fawns stopped for his perorations; And his black eyes shone through the forest-gleam, And he plunged young hands into new-turned earth, And prayed dear orchard boughs into birth; And he ran with the rabbit and slept with the stream, And he ran with the rabbit and slept with the stream, And he ran with the rabbit and slept with the stream. In the days of President Washington.

(Hear the hoof-beats of deer in the snow. And see, by their track, bleeding footprints we know. See conventions of deer go by; The bucks toss their horns, the fuzzy fawns fly. Faint hoof-beats of fawns long gone From respectable pasture, and park and lawn, And heartbeats of fawns That are coming again When the forest, once more, Is the master of men.)

Long, long after, When settlers put up beam and rafter, They asked of the birds: “Who gave this fruit? Who watched this fence till the seeds took root? Who gave these boughs?” They asked the sky, And there was no reply. But the robin might have said, “To the farthest West he has followed the sun, His life and his empire just begun.” Self-scourged, like a monk, with a throne for wages, Stripped like the iron-souled Hindu sages, Draped like a statue, in strings like a scarecrow, His helmet-hat an old tin pan, But worn in the love of the heart of man, More sane than the helm of Tamerlane, Hairy Ainu, wild man of Borneo, Robinson Crusoe–Johnny Appleseed; And the robin might have said, “Sowing, he goes to the far, new West, With the apple, the sun of his burning breast– The apple allied to the thorn, Child of the rose.”

Washington buried in Virginia, Jackson buried in Tennessee, Young Lincoln, brooding in Illinois, And Johnny Appleseed, priestly and free, Knotted and gnarled, past seventy years, Still planted on in the woods alone. Ohio and young Indiana– These were his wide altar-stone, Where still he burnt out flesh and bone. At last his own trees overtook him, at last his own trees hurried past him. Many cats were tame again, Many ponies tame again, Many pigs were tame again, Many canaries tame again; And the real frontier was his sun-burnt breast. From the fiery core of that apple, the earth, Sprang apple-amaranths divine. Love’s orchards climbed to the heavens of the West, And snowed the earthly sod with flowers. Farm hands from the terraces of the blest Danced on the mists with their ladies fine; And Johnny Appleseed laughed with his dreams, And swam once more the ice-cold streams. And the doves of the spirit swept through the hours, With doom-calls, love-calls, death-calls, dream-calls; And so once more his youth began, Johnny Appleseed.

Then The sun was his turned-up broken barrel, Out of which his juicy apples rolled, Thumping across the gold, An angel in each apple that touched the forest mold, Each red, rich, round, and bouncing moon That touched the forest mold. He saw the fruits unfold, And all our expectations in one wild-flower-written dream, Confusion and death sweetness, and a thicket of crab-thorns, Heart of a hundred midnights, heart of the merciful morns. Heaven’s boughs bent down with their alchemy, Perfumed airs, and thoughts of wonder. And the dew on the grass and his own cold tears Were one in brooding mystery, Though death’s loud thunder came upon him, Though death’s loud thunder struck him down– The boughs and the proud thoughts swept through the thunder, The vista of ten thousand years, flower-lighted and complete. Hear the lazy weeds murmuring, bays and rivers whispering, Listen to the eagles, screaming, calling, “Johnny Appleseed, Johnny Appleseed,” There by the doors of old Fort Wayne.

In the four-poster bed Johnny Appleseed built, Autumn rains were the curtains, autumn leaves were the quilt. He laid him down sweetly, and slept through the night, There by the doors of old Fort Wayne.

[drowning-in-dennor]

A Washed-Up Fool

Many an interesting thing washes up on the beach, brought to the land by the wayward waves of water and fate. Whether the sea brings in a shell, a piece of driftwood or a girl with lessons on how to truly live, it cannot be denied that much can be learned from these aquatic deliveries.

[Warning: This is nine thousand words long so buckle up folks] [This work contains mentions of blood, as well as slight violence.]

  The sea’s radiance hurts her eyes.

  Off the waves, which bob and roll with the breeze, fading sunlight glows, glimmering like tiny sparks upon their watery blanket. Kiara looks away from them, but green spots still bounce around in her vision. She tries to blink them away.

  Against the shore the waves roar, a dull whooshing sound with every ebb and flow, leaving white foam fading on golden sand. It echoes, over and over again, in her head. With a grimace, she tries to drown the noise, if drowning water were possible. The attempt fails. Kiara grits her teeth and walks faster, determined to escape the sound of rushing water as soon as possible. If not for the factory yielding a decent pay, she would’ve moved somewhere quieter far sooner.

  But a few paces from her house, the sound of the waves but a dull nagging in her mind, someone begins to sing.

  It’s the pointless sort of song, the type that repeats over and over again with no indication to where it will end. It is soaring, trilling, like the warbling of a bird at the most inconvenient of times. Kiara’s ears almost ache at the sound; after eleven hours in a factory surrounded by low, whirring machines, the song cuts through the still-present white noise in her head like a hot knife through butter.

  She ponders on whether she should turn back and ask the singer to stop before they become more of an annoyance than they are already being, but then Kiara looks at the sky, steadily darkening with every nonsensical verse that comes from the beach, and decides to just leave it be. When she finally reaches home, slamming the door shut and closing all her windows, she sighs. The song, as idiotic as it is, keeps repeating in her head. Kiara pinches herself to try and shut herself up. 

  While cleaning the living room, Kiara sweeps sand out from between the floorboards, opening the door and depositing them onto the ground outside. Her shoes, worn-out from walking to and from the factory every day for three years, never fail to track sand into her house. She sets down her broom after her floor is clean and grabs her shoes, sweeping the sand off their soles and shaking the cloth out her door. It seems the ocean follows her everywhere.

  Dinner is, as usual, a simple affair; the rough rye bread and blandly-cooked array of carrots, potatoes and fish are no strangers to Kiara. She finishes her meal quickly, rinsing her plates with water, drying them off and pushing them into her plain cupboard. The evening is, as usual, unremarkable. 

  Almost immediately after dinner Kiara changes into her plain nightclothes, walking upstairs on stairs with dull floorboards. She looks out the window, at the distant sea, which now looks like an inky swatch of silk in the darkness of the night. The curtains slide shut, leaving only Kiara’s lantern as the only source of light.

  Clothes for the next day are laid out on the bedside table. Kiara folds up her day dress, untangles the laces on her corset, shakes out the sleeves of her cardigan. Then she extinguishes her lantern, plunging the room into darkness, and crawls into bed.

  As her eyes close, the sound of the sea floods her.

  The next morning, Kiara’s alarm-clock slaps her awake at five in the morning with its shrill, tinny cry. She turns it off, yawning, and slides out of bed. The sun is just starting to rise, weak rays of warm gold reaching in from between the curtains. 

  Fully dressed, Kiara slips on her shoes and walks downstairs, her worn heels clicking dully against the steps. A slice of last night’s loaf of bread serves as her breakfast as she leaves the house and walks to the factory. Barely anyone is out on the streets at such an hour, when the sun has just begun to breach the horizon with its golden glow, and all is quiet. Kiara treads quickly, chewing on her bread, and sweeps past a few passed-out drunkards sleeping on the streets, past a few dogs curled up on the cobblestone. On the other side of the street, where stone fades to sand, the waves lap at the shore. 

  Thankfully, there is nobody singing in the morning, no irritating noises to grate on nerves that are already frayed from an early waking. The walk to the factory does not take long, and soon Kiara is surrounded by the familiar, almost soothing noises of machinery. She reaches her station, dispels all thoughts of the sea and of songs from her mind, and begins to work.

  She runs home once the day is done, ignoring how unbecoming she must look, letting the sound of her shoes pounding against the path and her rapidly-pounding heart surpass any other. When Kiara reaches her house, she is gasping. A stitch is in her side. 

  She repeats the routine of the former evening. The assortment of clothing that she lays out on her bedside table before she goes to bed is almost identical with her morning ensemble. Kiara winds up her wretched alarm clock to wake her exactly seven and a half hours later, turns out her sheets, snuffs out her lantern and sleeps.

  The morning is the same. So is her breakfast, and her trek to the factory. By lunch, when she goes to the same vendor and buys the same pastry, her eyes are strained from operating the loom. Kiara looks to the sea; little people are there save for a few fishermen preparing to sail. The obnoxious singer from two nights before is thankfully not among them.

  The afternoon sees six more gruelling hours on the loom, but she takes the burden. Once she returns home, she will have dinner, and sleep will replenish what energy she has lost. When the long workday is over, Kiara pushes her hat onto her head and trudges her way home.

  To her utter dismay, somebody is singing again.

  For the second time, her ears protest at the sounds, and she doubts she can handle a third. Looking around her, squinting at the glare of the setting sun, Kiara finally finds the person oh-so inconsiderately causing the ruckus, who is perched nonchalantly on a rock. Kiara rubs her temples and approaches them.

  Nearing them, Kiara realises that they are female. She leans back, relaxed and rejoicing, her porcelain hands clutching the rough-hewn stone, creamy unstockinged legs crossed at the ankle and half-dipping into the water. The waves lap at her feet, beads of water glinting on impeccable skin like tiny crystals. 

  She tosses her head back and down bounce glossy ringlets so well-groomed they look as though shaved from varnished wood; they fall in front of azure eyes so wide and happy they seem to reflect all the sky and sea. Her lips are stretched into a smile as slight and sweet as the branch of a quince tree, pouring out some inane little ditty that could be calling out to the seagulls soaring above the beach. 

  And her voice, soaring and surreal, is the low murmur of rain, the deep sigh of a coastal wind, decadent and sweet at the same time; if one were to drink the world’s richest wine and eat the darkest chocolate while walking past gently babbling waves, then somehow turn that to sound, that would be her voice.

  Kiara reaches the rock, where the girl is still singing. She raps her knuckles on it, clearing her throat. “Excuse me.”

  The girl looks down, her song wavering slightly. Kiara raises her voice. “Excuse me,” she repeats.

  She stops singing, and in place of words is a lazy smile. 

  “Your singing is a disturbance,” Kiara says. She ought to be more polite, surely, but the song has grated away at what little niceties she had remaining. “I ask you to stop, please, for the good of everyone around you.”

  She speaks.

  “Oh, but I cannot help it.” Even in speech, the girl sounds as though she is singing, her voice deep, melodious and elegant. “The ocean is singing, see, and it longs for accompaniment. And it’d be a shame to not take the chance to sing a duet with the ocean.”

  The girl is probably mad, an undiscovered escapee of an asylum. Or perhaps she is a poet — arguably, that is worse. If she is a poet, or a writer, or any of those other literary types, she will keep Kiara here and blabber on about metaphors and symbolism. She will never be able to escape her.

  “Your singing is not a duet with the ocean.” Kiara looks at the girl’s smiling face, gazes upon the strong, yet delicate hands that have surely not worked a day in their life. “It’s a nuisance and an annoyance, and I would greatly appreciate it if you stopped.”

  “But can’t you hear it?” The girl gestures to the ocean. “Can’t you hear the song that the ocean sings? That can’t be a nuisance. It could only make you wish to sing along, to run into the ocean and feel the cool water around your feet.”

  Kiara sighs. “The ocean is not singing. The ocean cannot sing. And just because you can does not mean you should.”

  The girl tilts her head, and another shiny, oak-dark lock of hair falls into her eyes. “I see. I thought you might like some music to listen to while walking home, that’s all.”

  “What’s your name?” Perhaps she can report this raving lunatic to the police station tomorrow morning.

  “My name now, you mean?” She picks at her dress. It is beautiful, striped pink-and-white with lacy blue bows sewn along the hem. She has made the scandalous decision to not wear a crinoline. Kiara pinches herself. She must not forget the girl’s name. “My name now is Lilje.”

  “Your name now?” Kiara repeats incredulously. “What do you mean? Will your name change when the sun goes down, and change again when it rises? What are your names then?”

  The smile on Lilje’s face wavers slightly. “I will not tell you my names from other times. You know my current name, yet I still do not know yours. Is that not enough?”

  “It is enough.” She forces herself to twist her lips in a semblance of a placating half-smile. “I’m sorry for pressing, and now I will leave. And if you must know, my name is Kiara.” A wave splashes the shore, and she darts backwards to avoid it. On the contrary, Lilje allows it to wet her feet and her gown without a care in the world. “Have a good evening, Lilje.”

  “Likewise.” Her full, bright smile returns. “I hope to see you again.”

  “I do not,” Kiara mutters as she turns away. Her hat is precariously close to flying off her head, for it has been fighting the good fight against persistent seaside winds the entire conversation. She will have to get herself a new hatpin soon. She can hear Lilje humming quietly even as she steps back onto the road. At least she is not so loud now.

…

  While eating her usual dinner, Kiara’s mind wanders back to Lilje. She is so different from all the other ladies she knows from work. She lets her long hair fly free in the wind, her gown is shorter than what is deemed acceptable by most and she does not even wear a shawl to cover her bare arms. Anyone would think her peculiar, to say the least.

 Her teeth bite down on something hard. With a jolt, she realises she has been chewing on her fork. Her plate has been long-emptied. 

  Kiara sets her fork down and carries her plate to the washbasin to clean it. She winces slightly at the still-hot water, rinsing her cutlery with her bar of soap quickly. Though her washing-up could not have taken more than five minutes, her hands are red when she wipes them dry. 

  Before she goes to get ready for bed, she takes her wash bucket outside and throws the soapy water within it onto the stones. Kiara carries it to the well in the city centre. Nobody is there, fortunately; she has hardly any energy left to have a conversation. She pumps water into the basin, standing a good distance away to keep her dress from getting wet. While the basin is being filled, she looks around. Apart from a few night-workers trudging home, the street is empty.

  Ever-present, the rolling waves are the only sound she can hear. Her street tapers off into the beach, and not a day goes by when the cobblestone is not half-covered with sand. Perhaps she should have moved out of her seaside house long ago.

  The basin is still not full. Kiara keeps looking. The tide is high, and the water threatens to splash onto the streets. The rock Lilje was sitting on is almost entirely covered. The girl is nowhere to be seen. 

  Cold water sloshes onto her shoes, soaking into her stockings. Kiara jumps, turning towards the well, and realises that she has been pumping so long that the basin has overflowed. Shaking her hands dry, she carries the now-heavy basin back to her house.

  After setting it down, Kiara heads upstairs to her bedroom and gets ready for sleep.

  The next morning, she opens her cupboard only to realise she has run out of bread. She will have to go without breakfast this morning.

  Stomach growling, she leaves her house and begins her walk to the factory. There have been tales of starving workers collapsing after skipping meals and being sacked by their ruthless employers, but she will not be one of them.

  “Oh, good morning!”

  Lilje is standing on the beach, a few meters away from Kiara. She is dressed in blue today, a brilliant azure that seems to blend in with the cloudless sky above. The hem of her gown only comes halfway down to her calves, leaving her ankles and feet exposed. Many a man would throw a fit if he saw her. “Good morning.”

  “Off to work?” She walks unsteadily towards Kiara, toes digging into the sand. Her unsteady gait looks like that of a newborn colt. “It is quite early, after all.”

  She nods. Her having to talk to this irritating nuisance of a girl at six in the morning must be a punishment of sorts. What did she even do wrong?

  “You look hungry.” Lilje sways back and forth like a reed in the wind, continuing, “I don’t think you had breakfast today. Wait here.” She hobbles away from Kiara and closer to the sea. Only her conscience keeps her from abandoning Lilje.

  When she returns several minutes later, wobbling so much that she seems just one misstep away from falling, she is holding a shell. “You can eat this.”

  It turns out to be a scallop, pale-pink and glistening slightly. Kiara has only eaten scallop once, but it did not look anything like the one that is resting on the cream-and-white shell Lilje is holding out. It is not steaming-hot, nor covered with a peppery butter sauce like she remembers. In fact, it does not look cooked at all. She cringes. “Is that raw?”

   “Yes.”

  “I am not eating that.”

  “Why not?” 

  Her stomach churns with hunger, but she forces herself to say, “it looks repulsive.”

  Lilje laughs. “Now, don’t say that! If we judged all foods by how they looked we would starve. I promise you this tastes perfectly fine. I just had one for my breakfast.”

  Which is worse — forcing down this peculiar thing, or risking a humiliating collapse in the middle of work? She has not eaten anything in twelve hours. “Fine,” Kiara huffs. She takes the shell from Lilje and, bracing herself, picks up the scallop with her hands and eats it.

  It tastes of the sea, cold, light and savoury with just a hint of sweetness. It is softer than she expected. At the very least, it is not repulsive, like she thought it would be.

  “Well?”

  “It’s all right,” she admits. “Thank you.”

  Her face lights up. “I’m glad to hear that.” Lilje coughs, and Kiara takes a step back. “If you so wish, I could bring you more food. Since you liked the scallop, I know of some other dishes you might also enjoy.”

  “I never said I liked it.” At the disappointment passing over Lilje’s face, she quickly adds, “but I will consider your generous offer. Thank you once again.” Kiara notices a cluster of her colleagues walking down the streets towards the factory. “But I must go now.”

  Eyes twinkling, Liljes bids in that deep, sing-song voice of hers, “I hope to see you again.”

  Kiara does not answer her.

…

  There is no more singing when she walks home from work, and the tide is rising. To her surprise, Lilje is sitting on her rock. It is half-submerged in water, but she does not seem to care. She dips her feet in the water, kicking them up from time to time and sending droplets of water flying into the air. The spray catches the light of the setting sun and flashes like hundreds of tiny, ephemeral crystals. She catches Kiara’s eye and grins.

  She nods back, but does not get any closer. The seawater would surely destroy her shoes.

  By the time she reaches her house, the sun is nearly gone. Kiara looks back towards the beach. Lilje is no longer there.

…

  The factory is closed on Sundays. Often, her colleagues gather on Saturday evenings to discuss what to do on their day off, suggesting a swim or an afternoon of needlework. Kiara has never joined them. Her Sundays are usually spent sleeping in, then going to the general store to buy food. Like the rest of her days, it is nothing special.

  While walking home from the store, her satchel full of cans, Kiara finds herself instinctively looking towards the beach in search of Lilje. Sure enough, she is standing knee-deep in the water, the bottom half of her gown dripping wet. Unlike the bathing gowns she sees her colleagues show off sometimes, this one resembles a chemise from the olden days and exposes her bare arms. Lilje steps further into the water, and her pure-white gown swirls around her legs.

  Kiara nears the beach, but she does not notice her. The wind is especially loud today, sending tiny grains of sand swirling up from the beach and blowing her skirt about. Only her crinoline prevents her legs from being shown.

  In the water, a particularly large wave knocks into Lilje and soaks her side. Her gown clings to her every curve, and Kiara cannot help noticing how she has that silhouette most ladies yearn for, even when she wears no corset. She forces herself to tear her eyes away and step onto the beach. The heels of her shoes sink into the sand. She grimaces.

  Lilje continues walking into the sea, completely oblivious to her soaked bathing-gown. Another wave crashes into her. Ensuring that nobody is around to see her, Kiara takes another cautious step and calls out her name.

  Those mesmerising blue eyes light up at the sight of her. “Hello!” With unexpected speed, she runs to shore to stand before her, dripping water onto the sand. Her hair has been tied back with shell-pink ribbons. “And what are you doing today?”

  “I just bought some food.” She lifts her satchel. “I will be heading home soon.”

  “Why don’t you stay here for a while?” Lilje offers. “It must be so boring to stay at home on the only rest day of the week.”

  There is little more to do, anyway. “I will stay, I suppose,” Kiara says begrudgingly. “What have you been doing?”

  “Walking around. Singing. You know, what I do every other day.” She shrugs. “I like to swim on warmer days.”

  “Sounds interesting.”

  “Better than being holed up in a house,” Lilje quips. “You ought to go get some fresh air more often.” She points at a rickety old thing floating a few paces away. “See, that over there is my boat. If you like, we could take it out to sea.”

  She does not notice the boat at first, only sees her companion pointing at a particularly-large pile of planks. Kiara holds her tongue and grits out, “it does not look very safe.”

  “It is, I promise.” She sweetens her vow with a sugary smile. “Come now, have you never wondered what it felt like to be at sea?”

  “Actually, I have not,” she replies honestly. “Unlike you, I am not particularly interested in the sea. But,” she adds grudgingly, “I suppose I can give this boat idea a try.”

  She beams. Lilje takes her hand and leads her towards the boat, humming cheerfully. Her hand is cold from the seawater.

  The rough wooden seats of the boat are miraculously dry, and Kiara sits down on it cautiously. Nothing breaks. Lilje sits in front of her, takes hold of the battered oars and begins to row.

  They float lazily on the crystal-clear water, waves lapping against the boat. The wind has calmed down a fair amount, just enough to keep them cool but not to make their journey turbulent. Lilje’s ribbons flutter like butterflies. “See, I told you the boat was safe.”

  “Mmhmm.” 

  “I realise now that we do not know much about each other,” she says. “We have talked a few times, yet all I know about you is your name and where you work!”

  “And I do not even know the latter about you.” Kiara folds her hands in her lap and asks, “so what do you do for a living?”

  “I sing. I think about things. Not the way a philosopher does, though, I have no need to think about the meaning of life and all that.” She dips her hand in the water for a moment. “I like to think about the temperature of the water and what type of rocks I might find in the sand. That’s all.”

  “Is that what you’ve always wanted to do?”

  “I guess so,” Lilje says. “And you? Have you always wanted to work in the factory?”

  She shakes her head. “Nobody truly wants to be there. When I was a girl, I just wanted to sail around on a big boat, on which I could have my own farm to provide for myself, and never actually work. But of course, that is not practical at all.”

  “Practical!” She repeats incredulously. “Humans throw that word around all the time these days. What does it even mean? If it means being like those company owners who lust after money and never dream, or the fools who only care for ‘useful’ things and not those that are beautiful, then I do not ever want to be practical.”

  Kiara shrugs. She looks behind her and sees the city fading farther and farther away. “Practicality puts the food on the table.”

  “It takes everything else in exchange,” Lilje remarks waspishly. “All practical people care about is surviving. Not one of them wants to live.”

  “And if I call myself practical, am I like them?”

  “Yes, you are. If you would like to be practical even though that word scarcely has a meaning, you are just like those humans.” She looks back and winks. “But I do not think you are. Deciding to get on a boat and sail to who-knows-where is not very practical, after all.”

  “You say ‘humans’ like you are not one.”

  “Am I human?” Lilje mulls. “I think that depends on how one defines a human.”

  “A scientist a while ago gave us the name ‘homo sapiens’. A philosopher from two thousand years back called us ‘featherless bipeds’.”

  She laughs, low and sweet. “So those plucked chickens at the butcher’s are humans also?”

  Kiara cannot help the giggle that escapes her lips. “Of course not, that’s why that theory was debunked.”

  The city is but a tiny speck now, and there is only water around her. The boat bobs up and down.

  Lilje looks back again, and Kiara notices a tiny, almost-invisible scar across her cheek. “Do you live alone?”

  “Yes,” she answers. “Why do you ask?”

  “Nothing much, really. I was just curious. I thought someone as pretty as you would have someone to go home to.”

  “Not yet.” It is suddenly difficult to look her companion in the eye; that azure gaze seems to pierce too deeply. “I am only one-and-twenty, though, so not yet a spinster. And I am not pretty.”

  “Yes, you are!” Lilje stops rowing and turns around to face her fully. “I like your eyes, for one. They look like the chocolates that I hear people like. And your hair is pretty, too.” She fiddles with one of the ribbons in her hair. “May I try braiding it?”

  Kiara touches her hair, running her fingers through the dirty-blonde locks. “All right.” She turns around so that her back is facing her, and soon she feels Lilje undoing the pins in her bun. 

  With a touch far more tender than what her hands seem capable of, she combs her hair with her fingers and twists it into patterns. Her hands fly, as though she is braiding rope instead of hair, and soon she is done. Lilje undoes one of the ribbons from her hair and ties it into the braid, right next to her right ear. “There!”

  She looks at herself in the water. A few locks of hair frame her face, but the rest have been coiled into an elegant twist. It does not pull her features back as much, and the ribbon at the side of her head makes her look younger, almost girlish. 

  “What do you think?”

  “It’s quite fetching.” Kiara touches the smooth silk ribbon. “I look quite different.”

  “You do not look as sharp,” Lilje agrees. “Not that it makes you less pretty, of course, I think you look as nice as ever.” She peers over the side of the boat. “Oh, look.”

  A school of minnows are darting away in the water, sunlight reflecting off their silvery scales. They dip lower and soon disappear into the depths of the sea. 

  “Do you ever wonder what lies beneath the surface?”

  She turns back around. “Not much. I have never gone so far out to sea.”

  “I have seen it.” Lilje’s eyes seem to grow brighter, a wild shade of blue that gleams in the afternoon sun. “And though you might not have the chance to see it today, I will bring it to you anyway.”

  Her stilted sentence has Kiara frowning. “What, are you going to swim?” She asks.

  “Precisely.” She reaches into the pocket of her bathing-gown and pulls out a gleaming silver knife. Kiara scrambles back before realising that she is trapped. “Give me a moment, won’t you?”

  Before she can say anything, Lilje hitches up the skirt of her gown and reveals her toned calf, its pale skin covered in tens of silvery scars. Unflinching, she draws the blade across her calf.

  “What are you doing?” Kiara lunges for the knife, edged with blood that looks a tad darker than normal. Lilje drops it, slips her gown off and half-dives, half-falls off the boat into the water.

  She hisses with pain when her bloody wound makes contact with the seawater, and her head dips below. When she surfaces, her hair is plastered to her face and her arms move to keep her afloat. Her legs cannot be seen, even in the clear water.

  Then something glimmers. 

  Kiara peers into the water and sees what she is below the waist. Her legs have knitted together, merged into one almost grotesquely. The undulating, flexible mass is covered in silvery scales, from the sides and end of which protrude paper-thin, waving fins. “A tail,” she realises aloud. 

  There are a number of slits on Lilje’s bare chest, opening and closing every time she takes a breath. She smiles up at the boat and points at her gills. “See, however you define a human, I am most certainly not one.”

  It takes a while for her to remember how to speak properly. Lilje looks ethereal in the water, her tail waving softly and her hair swirling about her. There is surely a name for people like her, something depicted in children’s stories and written off as fiction. These beautiful women of the sea, with gills and fishtails below the waist and must be called something. Feeling rather childish, she inquires, “are you a mermaid?”

  Lilje shrugs. “Maybe that is what humans call us sea-dwellers. But I am one of those who can live on both sea and land.” Her pale skin is ghost-like, glowing softly in the sunlit water. “Are you surprised?”

  “Well, it explains why you love the sea so much.” Kiara cannot tear her eyes away. 

  “Just stay here. I will be back soon.”

  Before Kiara can question her, she dives deep into the water again and disappears.

  The boat bobs up slightly at the splash Lilje’s tail makes. She peers into the depths of the sea, where she is already nowhere to be seen. There is not even a fish in the water, at least as far as she can see, let alone another sea-dweller like Lilje. Perhaps they are like humans, with a massive civilisation on the seafloor. Or maybe they are nomadic, moving from sea to sea with no fixed home. She will never know.

  After what could have been five or fifty-five minutes, Lilje rises to the surface and pops her head up. Her fists are clenched, and she leaps out of the water in a sudden, stunning show of strength. Droplets of water rain from her fins and onto Kiara’s head. 

  She rather inelegantly flops onto the boat with a crash. “Hand me my knife,” she says breathlessly. She snatches it from Kiara’s hand and slashes at her silvery tail. Blood seeps from the wound and sparkles on her scales, tainting its clean glow with a dark, angry red. She grits her teeth, one webbed hand clutching at the side of the boat.

  As though ice in fire, the scales melt away, fins wilting into nothingness and gills closing up. Slowly, slowly, the tail fades until Lilje’s legs return, as though it was never there in the first place. A new, pink scar is among the many others on her calf. She gasps softly, one white-knuckled fist still clenched.

  “Are - Are you all right?” Kiara asks.

  She nods dismissively. “This is just how we travel between sea and land. We spill our blood and mingle it with water in exchange for a tail, and with air for legs.”

  “Does it hurt?”

  “I’m stabbing myself in the leg, of course it hurts,” she huffs. “But it is a small price to pay for the privilege of living in two worlds.”

  Kiara stares at her legs, at the many scars it has. How many times has Lilje gone through this pain simply to swim or walk? The sting of saltwater in a bloody wound is bad enough once, let alone tens of times. But she cannot keep herself from wondering aloud, “can all sea-dwellers do this?”

  She nods again. “Not many of us shift so often — the pain turns most away. And there is always the danger of being found. But I still do it.”

  “How does it work?”

  “Always ‘how’ with you humans. So technical!” She kicks up one of her bare legs. Kiara tries to keep herself from looking; for some reason Lilje has not put her gown back on yet. “You always want to know how and not why. But to answer your question, I truly do not know. Maybe I will one day, though.”

  The sun is beginning to set, painting the water with its beautiful shades. The waves continue to rock their boat, and they do not sound as annoying as they used to. Lilje wrings water out of her hair. The morning seemed just seconds ago.

  “We should leave soon,” Kiara says. “Neither of us have had dinner yet.”

  Lilje gestures to her satchel, forgotten under her seat. “We can just eat here.”

  “Eat cold, canned food on a boat in the middle of the ocean?”

  “Exactly!” She grabs the satchel and pulls out a can. “I think it will be fun.”

  Why does it seem like she can never deny Lilje anything? Kiara rolls her eyes in half-defeat as her companion wrestles with the container. She manages to twist the cap off after a while, placing it on her bench victoriously. “There we go!” She bends the cap to make a crude spoon and hands it to Kiara. 

  As she expected, the food is cold. But the lovely view makes up for her meal’s blandness. Lilje opens another can and picks out a chunk of carrot with her bare hands, ignoring her disdainful look. “Come on,” she wisps, “there is no need to be refined on a boat.”

  Once they have finished their meagre dinners and cleaned their hands in the cool seawater, Lilje picks up the oars and begins rowing back. It is almost completely dark, the water rippling like a massive pool of ink. Her eyes almost seem to glow with how bright they are.

  Kiara starts when they near the town and the faraway street-lights bathe them in their glow. “Put your gown back on. Goodness help us if someone sees you like this.” She averts her eyes as Lilje dresses. 

  It is unusual to stand on solid land again, where things do not rock and sway. She stretches her legs out, feeling her knees crack, and rolls her shoulders. Hours of being seated have made her feel like an old woman. Now presentable, Lilje stumbles out the boat and runs her fingers through her still-damp hair. “I very much enjoyed our afternoon together,” she murmurs. 

  “So did I.”

  Her heart leaps to her throat when Lilje approaches her and gives her a wet hug. Kiara looks around her, ensuring that nobody is looking before wrapping her arms around her. She can feel the warmth of Lilje’s skin despite the cold water soaking it.

  When they pull away, Lilje tilts her head. “Oh! I almost forgot. I found something while diving just now.” She opens her palm, revealing something small and shimmering. “Catch!”

  Reacting too slow, she lets the small item bounce against her chest before it rolls down the sand and towards the sea. Lilje chases after it and scoops it up before it can disappear. “What did I tell you?”

  “I am too old to be playing games like this.”

  “There is no such thing as ‘too old’. What is maturity but an excuse to give people responsibilities? Now catch!” She tosses it again.

  This time Kiara manages to catch it in her hand. She looks down and her eyes widen. Lilje has thrown her a pearl, a beautiful, perfectly-round sphere of silvery off-white. It is warm from being in her hands, tough and tiny and more expensive than anything she owns. “Goodness knows how much this is worth,” she breathes.

  “Oh, don’t you sell it. You would not be so ruthless as to sell a present from your friend, would you?”

  “No, I suppose not.” The sky is now fully dark, the only light coming from the street lamps along the road. “And I really must go, I need to sleep.”

  “Sweet dreams, then.” Lilje twirls around, toes digging into the sand, and says, “and I hope to see you again.”

  She smiles. “So do I.”

…

  Work in the factory is a downright nightmare after the excitement on Sunday. The harsh lights and mechanical clicking of the looms feel like an insult, a reminder that despite her euphoric afternoon she will still have to return to work. It is only eight in the morning and she can already feel that familiar ache in her shoulder from hunching over. 

  The monotonous work leaves her with plenty of time to think of Lilje — whimsical, carefree Lilje; beautiful, smiling Lilje; Lilje who is unafraid and enduring, who understands humans well even though she is not one herself. Her song fills the dull nothingness in the factory, no longer an annoyance, and Kiara can feel herself smile. The pearl she was given yesterday is in her pocket, stored safely inside a rough pouch. After work, she will take it to a jeweller and have them make it into a pendant.

  Her eyes are strained when she is finally allowed to leave for a short lunch. The cool sea breeze soothes her cramped muscles. Belly growling, she begins her search for the vendor who sells her regular lunch. But before she can lay eyes on them, she sees Lilje, limping up to her on bare feet. 

  The first thing she notices is that she is still barefoot, despite walking on the road. There are no new wounds on her legs, she sees with relief. She leans on her shoulder, giving her a strained smile. “Hello.”

  “Good afternoon.” Kiara shifts her weight so she does not fall over, either. “Are you all right?”

  “Yes, I’m fine. I just did not expect human roads to be so rough.”

  Her knees are buckling. She takes Lilje’s wrist and leads her to the rock she is usually found sitting on, asking, “why were you off the beach, anyway?”

  Lilje sits down and answers, “I wanted to try more of those human foods. They are so different from what us sea-dwellers have, see, and I would never turn down a chance to try something new. In hindsight, I should have covered my feet like you humans do.”

  “So did you manage to find something to eat?”

  She pulls a pouch out of her dress pocket and opens it, revealing two slices of pound cake. “I bought some for you too.”

  Kiara’s mouth waters. She picks up a slice of cake and bites into it, savouring its rich sweetness. The taste of butter fills her mouth. 

  Lilje is picking at her cake too, daintily breaking off small pieces as one would with bread, and nibbling on them. Crumbs scatter onto her skirt. “How is it?”

  “Excellent.” She pats her mouth clean with a handkerchief. “I don’t remember the last time I had cake.”

  “I ought to buy you more, then,” she says.

  “How did you manage to buy them? I do not think you get paid for sitting here.”

  “You’d be surprised how many coins you find in the sea.” Lilje pops another chunk of cake into her mouth. “This is very good. Too bad it would not even last a minute in the sea, though.”

  They move to sit closer to each other once they have finished their food, close but not yet touching. Kiara stares at her friend, who has cake crumbs at the corner of her lips. She has a splash of freckles across her nose. She would be content to stare at her all day.

  “What did you do this morning?” Lilje asks. She does not seem to notice her gawking.

  “Oh.” She starts. “Well, er, I was just working in the factory. How about you? Have you been up to anything productive?”

  She huffs, “now there’s another word I hate. It is used all the time, thrown around meaninglessly even though nobody really knows its true definition. Tell me, Kiara, if one person works all morning and another plays, what makes the worker more productive than the player?”

  “Er…” This is the sort of thing taught in a university to philosophy scholars, surely not something asked to a common woman. “The worker earns an income. The player earns nothing.”

  “Of course the player earns something! They would gain leisure and joy from their activities. Is that not as valuable as money?”

  “Joy does not pay the rent.”

  Lilje groans audibly, dramatically swooning on Kiara’s shoulder. “Always about money with you. If I were to look into your heart, would I see your hopes and dreams, or just a paycheck?”

  The heat of her skin is almost distracting, and she has to pinch herself as a reminder to answer. “If being productive is not about earning something, then I think it is about working towards a goal.”

  “And what goal would slaving away in a factory achieve? You save your pay for rent and for food, but there is nothing else waiting for you. You sell your freedom to a rich man. That’s it.” She tilts her head so that her chin is resting on her shoulder, and grins. “To play, however, is to reach the goal of making yourself happy. Is that not more productive?”

  Weighed down by Lilje and her warmth, she cannot think of a way to answer. 

  “I think the answer is in the word itself,” she says slowly, “pro-duc-tive. There is ‘produce’ inside of it. To produce is to be productive, regardless of target or gain.”

  Her tongue finally unties itself, and Kiara sputters, “do they teach you these clever things under the sea?”

  “No, but us sea-dwellers see the difference between land and ocean all too clearly.” She snuggles into her side, kicking her legs. “Under the surface, nobody would look at an idler and tut, ‘why aren’t you doing something more productive?’. Nobody razes another’s dream by jeering, ‘that is impractical.’. It seems to be something only land-dwellers do.”

  “Interesting.”

  “That is one way to describe it. Really, you humans are so clever but so stupid at the same time. It amazes me.”

  “Tch.” Kiara flicks her nose indignantly. “If I did not have to go back to work right now, I would argue with that.”

  With an unladylike snort of protest, Lilje rises from her shoulder and instead collapses down on her lap as a noblewoman might do on a fainting couch. “Working hours are a sham.”

  Her heart is pounding so loudly it might well burst through her chest. As though by instinct, her hands go to play with Lilje’s hair. She must go, she simply must, but the idiotic part of her wants to stay on the rock and look at the sea and let Lilje lie on her and laugh and joke until one of them falls asleep, then they can wake up the next morning and perhaps have breakfast together. But most of her colleagues are already heading back to the factory, and she cannot be late. Kiara runs her fingers through her hair, careful not to pull too hard, and sighs, “I will be in trouble if I stay.”

  She pouts. “Then promise to come by after work.”

  “Fine, fine, I promise.” She eases Lilje off her and stands up. “I will see you this evening.”

…

  To both her delight and horror, Lilje is waiting for her right outside the factory, dressed properly but still devoid of shoes or stockings. A few passing pedestrians throw her a look that is equally annoyed and disgusted, and Kiara does not realise why until she sees the bloody footprints on the floor.

  “You went to sea again, didn’t you?” She asks as she once again leads her towards the beach. “Why do you shift so often if it hurts?”

  “I love both sea and land; I simply cannot stay in just one.” Lilje practically sits in her lap, white skirts sinking around her like sea-foam. “I’m used to the pain anyways.”

  “Would it not be better to avoid the pain entirely? Better have harmless stability than painful change.”

  “Always — ”

  “Always about harmlessness with you humans?” Kiara finishes drily. “Or something along those lines, at least.”

  She lets out a huff of laughter and tosses her head back to rest beneath her chin. “You know me too well. But I digress. If the world refused to change for fear of pain, nobody would get anything done. Isn’t it worth it to struggle now and rejoice later?”

  “I am starting to think all fish are philosophers,” she mutters.

  As though she didn’t hear her, Lilje continues, “you see me change form nearly every day. Even before that, I changed my home, my name and my very being. All those transformations hurt me on some degree, but now I am happier than ever.” She turns her leg and runs a finger over her new wound. “I am happy now, even if the price I pay for happiness is my blood.”

  Pinned down by the weight of both her body and her words, Kiara scrambles for a response. But she cannot find one, so she settles for burying her nose in Lilje’s hair. She smells of salt. 

  The sun is setting. It shows its brilliant, fading face in both the rippling sea and Lilje’s eyes, blue and bluer, before it will drown in the depths and disappear for the night. Kiara gets to work trying to untangle the knots in her hair. “You know,” she finally says, “I want to know more about sea-dwellers. You know humans so well, yet I know almost nothing about your folk.”

  Lilje lets out a puff of air and nestles into her chest. “‘Sea-dweller’ is an umbrella term,” she starts. “It refers to those like me, with fishtails and human torsos, but there are sea-dwellers with the lower half of a crab or an octopus. Nereids are also sea-dwellers.”

  “What are nereids?”

  “Maidens born of silt and sea-foam. They have legs, so they don’t look as strange as us, but if they try to leave the ocean and breathe air they will dissolve into the sand they are made of.”

  Kiara picks at a particularly annoying clump. “That is rather tragic.”

  “Well, they enjoy the ocean. Most nereids have no need nor desire to leave.” She closes her eyes. “Careful now, don’t tug.”

  “Sorry.”

  She kicks at the advancing tide, and a few droplets soak Kiara’s stockings. “I know that many humans ask about sirens. They do not exist.”

  “Really?” She asks. “But I hear stories of ships that sailed into rocks or into a foe’s ambush because of sirens that sang and told them to do so.”

  “There is no such thing as the siren species. That is just a term we use for sea-dwellers who like to sing to humans, whether or not they mean ill.” Lilje hands her a pair of blue ribbons, content to laze around and have her hair styled. “Before they knew which name to refer to me by, my friends called me ‘Siren’.”

  “It suits you.” Kiara weaves the ribbons into her bun, and adds, “but I think ‘Lilje’ does too.”

  She giggles, tilting her head back so that she’s looking right into her eyes. “I made sure to choose a name that fit me. It is a wonderful thing to have your life in your own hands.”

  “To be free, you mean.” She prods Lilje on the forehead. “You have the strangest habit of refusing to use a simple word and using a ten-word term of the same meaning instead.”

  “It is prettier that way.”

  “But it is not prac — ”

  “Don’t say it.”

  “Practical?”

  Lilje makes a face. “You’re the worst.”

  She laughs. “I’m sure I am.”

  The tide is rising steadily, white-capped waves beginning to surround the rock. It will be submerged soon. The sky is darkening.

  The water ascends halfway up the rock before Lilje finally says reluctantly, “you should go.”

  “Yes,” Kiara agrees, “I should.”

  They awkwardly shimmy off the rock and into the shallow water, soaking the hems of their gowns. Kiara trudges towards the streets, weighed down by her wet dress. She asks, “where will you sleep?”

  “In my boat. It is more comfortable than you think.” She gestures at it, floating miraculously in place a few paces away. “I would sail away forever if I could, but that would mean leaving this city — and you, of course — behind and that would be quite awful. Now I should stop rambling and let you go.”

  “I will see you tomorrow.” The fading sunlight is painting Lilje’s fair face gold. “Goodnight, Lilje.”

  “Goodnight.”

  She forces herself to turn away and walk home.

…

  Kiara cannot sleep.

  It cannot be the sand tracing her floors that is keeping her awake, nor the sound of the sea outside. Not any more. Her muscles ache and her eyes droop, but the soft embrace of sleep does not come to her just yet. She rolls over, burrowing under her blanket. Maybe she has gotten used to lounging around with Lilje squashing her, and now she cannot rest alone.

  Oh, Lilje; that pretty sea-dweller with her casual philosophies, bearing everyday pain that she exchanges for joy and belonging. Her soft, deep voice echoes in her head. Kiara curls in on herself and exhales sharply. The two of them have known each other for barely a fortnight, yet their lives have already become hopelessly entwined. 

  How would life be if they lived together? They could live on a boat so Lilje would not have to shift so often and be two lady sailors traversing the seas to sell fish and pearls. They could stop at every other harbour they pass, to buy new clothes and stock up on food. Or maybe she could grow crops on the boat like she’s always wanted to, so they would not have to survive on things in cans. They could anchor the boat in the middle of the ocean, and Lilje could go spend time with her fellow sea-dwellers, then they could watch the sunset together.

  Fantasies, all of them. Kiara lets herself indulge in them, smiling to herself as drowsiness finally takes over.

  The next morning, she hesitates in front of the factory. Why must she work for half the day, until she is so exhausted she can hardly think? Why must she give her time to a job she hates? Before she can stop herself, Kiara turns away from the factory and runs for the carpenter’s store.

  She spends nearly all the money she has saved, buying so many planks of wood and tools that she can hardly carry them. People throw her strange looks as she stumbles out of the store, half-buried under all her shopping. Arms trembling, she takes the supplies to the beach, tripping over her feet to reach Lilje’s rock.

  Sure enough, she is there. She jumps off her perch and helps Kiara set her load onto the sand, inquiring, “what’s all this?”

  “Supplies,” is all she can say.

  “Yes, I can see that, but for what?”

  “Your boat.” She doubles over, panting. “We are going to use all these supplies to make your boat bigger, and give it sails and anchors and all that, so it can sail far away.”

  Lilje crosses her arms. “I told you, I have no intention to leave this city alone.”

  “Then let us leave together!” She bursts out. “We’ll renovate your boat and travel the seas together, and I am suggesting this is because I like you very much and even though we haven’t known each other very long I think being stuck on a boat with you for a long time would be far better than working in the factory for another day, and now I realise you might not like me back and will call me an idiot for saying all this.”

  For a moment, the only sound that permeates the awkward silence is that of the waves, eternally soothing. Then Lilje steps closer to her and takes her hand. She laces their fingers together, smiling. “I like you just about as much as you like me, which I hope is a lot. And to sail away from here with you would be a dream come true.” She kicks one of the planks and adds, “one thing, though — do you even know how to build a boat?”

  “...no.”

  “So you’re telling me that you bought all this with no idea how to work with them?”

  “Yes.”

  “Well,” Lilje says teasingly, “that is not practical at all.”

  She laughs. “Why, thank you.”

  “See, you are learning.” She rummages through the tools and emerges with a hammer as well as a box of nails. “We ought to start building. We can learn how along the way.”

…

  It took them one year to finish the boat. Once the year was up, and their little vessel was ready for sailing, Kiara walked into the factory for the last time and announced that she was to leave. Precisely the day after, she packed all that she needed from her house, sold it and sailed away with Lilje. It was difficult, as they didn’t build the boat on a harbour, but they managed. The sight of the city, growing smaller and smaller as she left it forever, is one that she will never forget.

  They have been at sea for five months now, on their little dogger-boat that Lilje decided to name Seafarer. It is, perhaps, the most cliché name one can give a boat, but she insisted. The cabin is small, and sometimes on peaceful days they sleep on deck to get fresh air. The sails rip and the mast snaps during storms, and it can smell unbearably of fish on hot days, but it is paradise nonetheless. 

  Kiara crosses the deck of the Seafarer now to check on the pool of oysters they raise. Lilje found a way to slip a bead inside of them to have them create pearls, so that she does not have to go through the danger of diving for them. Once the pearls, round and beautiful, are collected, they turn them into jewellery and sell them wherever they have docked. She changes the water in the pool, plucks a few dead leaves from their tiny farm and pecks Lilje on the cheek. She is seated next to the oyster pool, busy setting a pearl into a brooch.

  While rushing back to their cabin to count their day’s wages, she passes the contraption Lilje built, made to turn seawater into freshwater. Kiara lifts up the waxed paper on top and removes the bowl of freshwater, adding it to their large bucket. She splashes some of it onto her face.

  Once the wages are counted and the brooch complete, the two of them sprawl on their bed to sketch new designs. Lilje wiggles her pencil, swinging her legs up and down as she draws. Despite having never learnt how, she is talented at creating art.

  Kiara glances at her kicking legs. The number of wounds on her calves does not grow too quickly these days, with her content to swim as a human instead of a sea-dweller. Now, Lilje mostly uses whatever magic she has to make the oysters produce pearls in weeks instead of years. 

  “Look, we can use four of those smaller ones for a snuffbox, and the big ones for bracelets.” She touches the pearl hanging from her neck and resting at the bob of her throat, matching Kiara’s necklace. “Maybe we can use some for headdresses. I hear those are rather popular here.”

  “Put some on a hatpin,” Kiara muses. “That would look quite stylish.”

  “Oh! That’s clever.” Lilje starts to roughly sketch a pearl hatpin. “By the way, did you remember to water the tomatoes?”

  “Of course. I watered the cabbages, too.” The patch of vegetables was the most difficult addition to their boat. It has been destroyed twice during storms, but they managed to fix it both times. “How much longer ‘til this batch of oysters are ready?”

  Lilje hits the bed while thinking. “I reckon one more week or so. We will have fresh pearls just in time for our next port.”

  The boat bobs up and down slightly, swaying them like a cradle would a baby. Outside, the sun is beginning to set. Lilje finishes her drawing of the hatpin and stands up to leave the cabin. 

  The sea is painted pink and orange, glittering here and there from the fading sunlight. Waves lap softly against the hull of the Seafarer. Kiara holds her hand as they walk, shoes clicking softly against the deck. They look out at the sea, at boats that are sailing away to somewhere else. Tomorrow, they will lift the anchor out of the water and join those boats, leaving this city for another whose name they do not know and whose language they do not speak. Not knowing where they will go next is half the fun.

  “What are we having for dinner today?” Lilje mumbles.

  “Those strange little pies we bought from the market today. And if that is not enough, we still have those canned fish things that smell like death.” She wrinkles her nose at the thought of them.

  “They’re good, they really are.”

  “Whatever floats your boat, dear.” 

  Lilje lets out a puff of laughter and prods her side. The sun is setting further. 

  As the sun sinks beneath the horizon, she begins to sing. Kiara pulls her closer, letting the sweet song mingle with the sounds of the sea and envelope her with bliss. 

  The waves roll. Birds call. She stares right into the waves, where the last sunrays glimmer, and does not look away.

[adrrianraines]

how to feel alive • adrian x mc

kisses with meaning—tummy: you will always come back to me. song inspiration: somebody to die for—hurts

disclaimer: i’m still emo about that tapestry fragment where mc died so here ya go another fic nobody asked for

ADRIAN STOOD OVER the edge of raines corporation’s rooftop ledge, eyes dark, jaw clenched and mouth in a thin line. the broken pieces of the metropolitan area were sprawled before him, asking to be fixed but not knowing where to begin. shadows slowly drowned the city buildings as it blazed, the morbid image much like a mirror of his own misfortunes.

harsh winds crashed against skin as he raised a hand towards twilight, staring at the contrast his flesh made against the black canvas. he closed his eyes for a moment, senses swallowing each detail he can taste, absorbing each sensation he can feel. the ashes that floats in the air, the stench of blood coating the breeze, even burning debris above everything else. then, he can feel himself getting dragged far, far away as he closed his eyes.

“adrian!” he immediately knew who it was the moment her voice filled his ears as it pulled him away from a dreamless sleep. his arm shoots out to pull her close, their limbs tangling together under the covers with lips finding its way towards each other.

“mmm... five more minutes, please,” he murmurs as he nuzzles closer, enjoying the sensation of skin against skin—a warmth he’s too familiar to forget.

“come on! we still have work to do!” he felt a light tap against his chest as she laughed and wriggled herself away from his embrace.

his vision welcomed a face so alluring that he produced the warmest of smiles. he loved seeing her on his bed, hair a mess, cheeks flushed, and lips a shade of cherry red plumpness. it reminded him of how happy he was and how full his heart had been.

“may i have a kiss?” he asked with a smirk as he laid against the soft sheets with arms wide open. she laughed and climbed on top of him as he pulled her closer, never ever wanting to let go.

adrian thought he couldn’t be greedier than he already was. he kept wanting more than what he can hold, what he can grasp. but he knew it’s all he’d ever been when it came to her. then he succumbed to his desires, hands pinning her down as he showered her with all the love he can give, each touch a searing fire—the heat engulfing and burning. he wanted to feel her flushed against him, her voice crying out his name—like a whimper of bliss, a song of sweet surrender.

but she fades away before his very eyes. then he finds himself in his office, sitting alone with lights dimmed, bathing the room in somber luminescence. he ponders quietly with thoughts scattered about when he heard a soft knock at the door. sooner than later, he saw her again, vivid as day, strutting inside with a steaming cup in hand, lips curved in a saccharine trap.

“coffee? you’ve been working hard since vega’s failed coup.” somehow, somewhere deep within, his heart yearned and ached so badly at the sight of her. adrian motioned her to come closer, her presence providing a temporary lull of escape in a brazen wall of illusions.

“i don’t need anybody else...as long as i have you by my side.” he whispered as he wrapped his arms around her waist, head resting against her chest. he planted a tender kiss on a small spot above her tummy, the intimacy stretching his sanity to a thin line. when he felt her fingers brush his hair, it tormented him so much for the sensation felt real enough to warrant goosebumps all over his body.

“what’s gotten into you? you know i won’t leave.” she cooed against the embrace as he tightened his hold, afraid that if he ever dared open his eyes this time, she’ll disappear once more.

but he woke up with a start, vision greeted by a foreboding emptiness as panic bubbled in his system. he jerked his body up in a dumbfounded awestruck when he realized he’s not alone. he wasn’t sure how long he stayed rooted on the spot when finally caught sight of a figure holding him tight.

adrian’s breathing hitched as he slowly laid back down, careful not to wake her up. though she stirs a bit on her sleep but it was only to tighten her arms around his body, making sure he was within what her touch can hold. he turns and it pains him to look at her, each sight his eyes laid on an elaborate torture. for he couldn’t look away, he couldn’t close his eyes and his fingers couldn’t help itself but yearn to caress her inch by inch more and more. the flame within him that’s slow and subtle flickers alive.

in that moment, he realizes as he thinks to himself, that she’d always been too bright for him to desire. he’s suddenly too afraid—afraid of what his reality came into—that everything his hand ever touched only burned. and he’s reminded of the pungent smell of death, a sharp wake up call, all the memories fading away to the wee hours of the night.

foolish, his mind would say. what a foolish, foolish man, his inner demons would argue. it’s easier to ignore the pain. it’s easier to forget, it was never ending—like a broken record, a song on repeat. and he swallows it all—the ache, the longing, the regret, the torture, the loss. because forgetting her would be akin to leaping headfirst into the sun.

his resolve hardens as he finds his answer by stretching his arms wide open without hesitation, like wings spread out for its first flight. his emotions were drowning his logical senses with thoughts of her and only her. his mourning became evident each time reality sinks its teeth to his neck, sucking the life out of him, draining him to the core.

he knew deep inside that he didn’t want to love someone else, that no matter how many times he may wish he can forget, he’ll never get enough of her smile, the sound of her voice and the feeling of her lips against his own.

and he’d remember her in everything—of how the first light of dawn chases away dusk, of how the gentle early morning dew smelled, of how he plays music in his car stereo with her singing along as they drove across the lively city streets and even down to how his coffee tasted like. he’d remember her each time he closes his eyes, her memories staying fresh and alive for more years to come. he’d suffer remembering her but it was the only thing he could do to feel her close, to keep his sanity from teetering away.

he looks up, finally noticing the change that painted vivid colors on his dark, empty canvas. then he leaps from his feet, welcoming the feeling of soaring high and free, the wind whipping his hair, clothes and emotions away. then he perfectly lands to the next building’s awning just in time as the morning sun peeked from the clouds.

then he remembers. he remembers how it felt to live with her right next to him. he remembered how exhilaratingly happy it was, how much of a blood rush it’s been, how happier he became.

she was the wind engulfing him with open arms as he soared in the air like a bird circling the skies.

and he had never felt more alive.

dedicated to: @isabella-choices & @itlivesbeneath suffer with me ladies

[jungkookiebus]

Komorebi | kth

Genre: fluffy fluff, sensory drabble Pairing: lowkey strawberryfarmer!Tae x reader Word Count: 1.1k+ Summary: This is another sensory fic, so it’s more immersive that it is plot and dialogue. It’s much like my Jungkook drabble that helped with anxiety. This one is meant to bring peace to anyone who reads it. 

The warm spring breeze blew through the trees; the smell of honeysuckle wafted into your nose and a thrush sang somewhere above you. Your body felt weightless, having fully relaxed in the hammock you had been in for the better part of an hour. But that wasn’t the only reason you were totally relaxed; your head rested on the chest of Taehyung. His heart beat steadily beneath your ear and you sighed deeply as you melted into him even more. One of your legs was slung over his, arm around his waist, as his wrapped around your back, allowing him full access to rub his hand over your scalp and through your hair. The breeze picked up and the rush of leaves blowing against one another sounded like waves crashing on the shore. You brought your knee upwards while squeezing him tighter in a sudden urge to just swallow him whole with your body; you hadn’t felt so relaxed in a while. The hammock swayed lazily as the late afternoon wind picked up. Around you, dandelion seeds blew on the current of the breeze, a few catching in your hair and on your face. Jutting out your bottom lip, you blew upwards to send a wayward one on its way back to repopulating the floral community. Tae’s fingers periodically massaged the crown of your head, spreading his fingers outward, pressing firmly, and drawing them back in before starting over again. Occasionally, he’d move his hand as much as his wrist would allow to massage the base of your neck sending goosebumps washing over your skin. His other hand occupied itself with the one slung over his waist, intertwining his long fingers with yours, rubbing his thumb across the back of your hand.

The sun was warm, rippling across your skin as the trees moved. In the distance, you did hear the waves crashing on the shore, as your home was close to the coast. Beneath you, Tae took a deep breath and exhaled slowly, your view changing slightly as your head traveled upwards and back down to its original position, peering out over the open field that lay beyond your little retreat.

“You okay?” you asked.

“Mhmmm.” His was voice deep, almost in a trance-like state and you could tell without looking at him that his eyes were probably closed; a look of serene complacency cast across his face.

Cicadas started to sing around you as the wind began to die down a little. The sun set under the horizon, casting the world in a purple, gold, and orange glow. The smell of a distant thunderstorm filled the air and the pressure seemed to build gradually. Birds began to quiet for the evening and when you opened your eyes you saw the tiny lights of fireflies dancing among the buttercups that bloomed in the field. Tae had fallen asleep some time ago, breathing steady, firmly, always a constant in your life that you could depend on. His heart slowed to a steady rhythm, one that you could identify out of hundreds if you had to. His hand came to rest on your neck, fingers softly spread from your jaw to the base where his pinky barely touched your skin. You shifted slightly to look at him and saw that his mouth had opened a little, soft snores escaping as you watched his eyes move back and forth as he dreamed. The smell of rain got stronger and you looked beyond the trees to see dark rain clouds approaching. The last golden rays of sunlight started to give way to the clear, starlit sky in the distant, opposite direction of the rain clouds. Orion could be seen twinkling over the dark hills that blocked your view of the shore.

“Tae,” you whispered. You dug your fingers lightly into his side and shook him.

His hand on your neck tightened momentarily before relaxing once more and a small sigh escaped his lips, but he didn’t stir.

You tried again. This time you heard him swallow as he re-wet his dry mouth, pulling his hand from yours to wrap his arm around you and hug tightly. He groaned as he buried his face into your hair.

“It’s getting dark and it’s going to rain soon,” you murmured against him.

“Is that so?” His voice was deeper than before, thick with sleep.

Crickets chirped around you, a nightingale took the place of the thrushes, and the space around you seemed to swirl with an otherworldly feeling; you felt caught between reality and a realm just beyond your reach. Thunder rolled through the sky, deep, like rocks in a landslide. The wind picked up in the trees and a shiver ran through you since the warmth of the sun was no longer kissing at your skin. Tae’s lips came to rest on your forehead, breath fanning against your skin. Heat lightening lit up the sky momentarily before shrouding you both in darkness once more.

“It’s beautiful this time of year,” he stated.

“Like you.”

“Saying I’m not beautiful every other time of the year?”

You giggled knowing full well you didn’t need to defend yourself. Thunder seemed like a drumbeat, delved deep from the earth, as it rumbled overhead. A stray drop of rain landed on your cheek as the clouds came closer.

“I’m in the mood for strawberries and cream anyway,” he said rolling to the side to exit the hammock, making sure to keep a hand on you to avoid you from coming with him. Once he was upright, he held his hand out to yours as you swung your legs around. He held you close around your waist as you both walked back to the house. The sky lit up in rapid succession as if nature were holding its own celebration. Thunder cracked closer and more powerful than before. The small fireflies still danced in and out of the tall grass and flowers, trees swayed wickedly in the wind, and the drops fell a little faster. Before you were able to reach home, the sky opened upon you. You both tumbled, laughing, into the back door of your warm home, hair dripping with water, and clothes clinging to your bodies. Tae’s face was bright, and warmth spread through your veins at the sight of him. He cupped your jaw, kissing you lightly, small laughs leaving his lips as his hair tickled you, causing you to scrunch your nose. He sighed contentedly as he gazed as you, your hands tight on his wrists as you both stood in the hallway. Your shoes squeaked on the floor as you shifted your weight to the other foot.

“Let’s get dry and then we’ll have those strawberries I picked today.”

And with that, Tae led you down the hallway, taking you further into the depths of your warm home, into that familiar feeling, letting it settle deep into your bones, committing it to memory, and storing it away.

Drabble Masterlist

[dcschain]

NONVERBAL RP STARTERS. | selectively accepting.

@cllgood​ said: Touch my muse’s shoulder while they are crying in secret.

Still. He is so unused to the sight of smoke allowed to be. 

Still. 

The tenderness it lifts, the way it climbs soft and slow and steady. Not the quick dark smoke of a campfire, the scalding coffee drunk before it’s even allowed to steam, the food that has no time to cool down before it’s eaten. Not the throwaway cigarette butt crushed under the heel before the walking recommences, nor the cigarillo smoked with some lover, unnamed, in bed uncaring of the ash.

This is smoke of a ceramic mug, mint tea, of hot water poured from an old enamel kettle, of the breeze from an open window. Where the wind kisses, it bends, curls, dances and spells, in siguls he can still remember sometimes how to read: an-ma’sun. Chest of the heart. 

Home. 

Were his language any less dead in the ground he’d be able to speak it. Would he long for it less it would no longer taste of ash whenever he tried to.

But here the sunlight bends in the sound of the wind through the rice paddies. Flowing, in waves. Green against blue against green, water and sky, clouds and tall grass. 

The front door was left ajar, and in the wind it creaks on its hinges. The banging, intermittent. Wood against wood, cracked dry. A squeak. A bang. A bang. A squeak, a squeak, a squeak. A bang.

A house’s heartbeat is never regular. 

The tapestry of its circulatory system always a movement towards restlessness beyond the still exterior: mice skittering across the pantry floorboards, and the baby birds demanding food, safe in the nest underneath the upstairs windowsill. The imperceptible sound of creaking old nails, hammered crooked and holding up foundations (the wind picks up, their singing louder then), breathes low beneath the churning of the water pump outside. 

And deeper: voices, the laughter from the other room, the smell of food as it cooks. 

Oxygenation. 

He could move from the couch into the kitchen if he wanted to, but that would demand a sacrifice he’s not ready to make: he’d have to interrupt. And from where he’s sitting now, he can watch three-quarters of Cuthbert as Cuthbert says something to Rosa and reaches over her shoulder (the hand disappears beyond Roland’s line of sight) and she smacks his forearm with her wooden spoon to stop him, but he is gunslinger and all resistance is futile. And he dips his head back to lick his fingers clean of the sauce he stole. Deftly. Raises his eyebrow to laugh. 

The sunlight comes like candlelight, behind him. If he closes his eyes the open window closes and opens again beyond rice paddies, into orchards and apple trees. 

Once, he was a boy, and he lifted his hand to the sun. 

He did it with no clear intention nor purpose, and did it because he was alone, and because in that moment in the Baby Forest all things were quiet and peaceful and not dead. 

The sun fell, through the green leaves and the thick smell of grass after rain, and past the shadow of the branches it broke apart and scattered along the forest floor, in fragments like glass from a broken window.

These shards would not cut him. 

The light pressed against his open palm warm and heavy like Ringo’s snout, and traced bits of his hand with red: the space between the fingers, mostly, the inner edge of his thumb. In the light he saw his own hand become something else, just beyond the veil of things he understood. The knowledge was not an easy thing to hold as truth and he did not have the sharpness to understand it fully, but he saw it, with those keen eyes and that quick hand, and knew, if nothing else, that it was important. 

He would only understand it years later, in the Great Western Forest between Gilead and Tull: that he had seen in that clearing in the Baby Forest, quiet and alone and stilled for a moment, the inherent beauty of all things alive, which had been lost by the time Tull came into his life anyway, but which for a last bitter moment had rested against his hand as he held it up to shield himself from the sun, and he had seen that red again. 

With his back to the kitchen, Roland lifts his hand against the Calla sun, pouring in from the Père’s window. 

This time, there are only three fingers he can trace in red. The joints have started to swell. He feels them tight beneath the skin and bends them with difficulty. Still they tower above the remnants of his right index and middle finger, where his father would wear the rings that were siguls of his power and all Roland has to show are scars. Siguls of their own make and of their own righteousness.

Whatever power he exchanged on the beach, flesh for companions, was well beyond the power his father had ever held or understood. Beyond the red fingers and the scarred remains of knuckles, the wind still bends the Calla green, and makes it press against the cloudless sky, and the blue, the endless blue that stretches as far as hearts can hold it, is starting to turn purple with sunset. With his missing fingers extended past the reality of stillness, immersed as it is in the wind at the foot of the hill. Beyond it the song of the house welcomed by the end of the day only now just beginning.

If he looks away from those imperceptibly trembling fingers, he sees the clouds turn dark with rust, and then he blinks, and his blinking is like smoke: it blurs the lines, makes things made from a dream. 

There is a creaking in the floorboards, weight that favours a side that sees. He knows those footsteps, now, and knew their ancestors a thousand years ago. When Cuthbert’s hand sneaks on his shoulder to give it a touch, nothing more, he drops his lifted hand, and finds Cuthbert’s fingers to intertwine with his. He gives a squeeze like an answer. Cuthbert wraps his arms around him, and rests his chin on Roland’s shoulder.

“Hullo, dear.”

He turns his head, presses his forehead to Cuthbert’s temple, eyes closed. Cuthbert knows this is from Roland as much of an answer as he’ll get, and it is more than enough. A lifetime spent learning, and a father who knew his way with tongues: he can read him like a book, and always has. 

He turns him around, so they’re face to face, and Roland’s framed by the setting sun. 

“Sweetness,” Cuthbert whispers. His dark eye along Roland’s soft lips. He wipes a wayward tear from Roland’s cheek with his thumb, and does not move his hand but instead adds a second, on the other cheek. 

Mirror mirror. 

“So much sweetness under all that desert sand.”

Roland scoffs and does not pull back or away, not when Cuthbert holds his face, not when Cuthbert leans forward to kiss the tears from his cheeks. One, and then the other.

The ghost: the kisses Cuthbert gave him when he swore his tet-oath. He is still not used to having someone kiss him now that does not have to reach.

“Old.” Roland murmurs, “old and rusted and sentimental.”

“That makes two of us, then, dear heart.”

The smile’s all crooked.  Roland kisses it before it makes him cry again. 

[c-clarkia]

Blackbird

He finds her on the hillside, sat amongst the wildflowers. She’s picked a few, woven them into plaits and twists and braids. Red and white and blue, wrapped like an old flag around her fingers. Listening, her head tilted just a little to one side, lips parted, lungs full of summer air that doesn’t taste quite so sweet these days.

“Funny, ain’t it,” he rumbles. “That the birds still sing.”

“Blackbird.” Cheek lifts a little as she turns her head toward him; like dawn-light, that glimmer of a smile. “Take more than the end of the world to shut him up.”

Cocks a brow. “That right, ma’am?”

“That’s right, officer.”

“Officer wouldn’t argue with a good lady now, would he?”

“Damn right he wouldn’t — be wasting his time anyway.”

“Mmm, true. Good lady’s always right. Then, now... always.”

Something soft behind the smirk he hefts. Bleeding shadows in his dark eyes, smoothing out the lines furrowing his brow. He sits beside her, sinks into the wildflowers, the red, white and blue. Her fingers find the nape of his neck; tips of them tapping against the shorn hair, the sun-browned skin. Leans into her touch, closes his eyes a moment. Hears her sigh — then feels it, lips skating the shell of his ear, the pulse-point just beneath it.

“Still singing,” she says softly. “Aren’t we, Shane?”

Opens his eyes, hooks a hand on her jaw, gently levels her face with his own. Breathes her breath, tastes the sweetness of her sigh on his tongue. Pulls back, brow to brow, as the blackbird whistles out his tune.

“Still singing, baby girl.”

                                                           *

Summer rain, soft as falling leaves. You watch it pitter-patter at the window, wind wet trails that your fingers itch to chase. Some relic of childhood, long-dormant want to guide the raindrop down the glass, feel like it’s you deciding its path, choosing its fate. Stirring beside you in the bed. You slide the blind shut, look over your shoulder.

Combat boots still on. Shirtless. Half-hanging off the bed’s edge, gun in his hand, cradled to his chest. Ball of one foot braced on the floor; creak at the door, crack at the window, he’d be up and out and ready, gun cocked, half-grumbled shout to make you stay put. Warrior, he is. Body of one. All blunt edges, hard clean lines. Face of one, too. Rugged nose, square jaw, squint to cut you in half — all of that toughness blighted by the little twist of red, white and blue tucked behind his ear.

You smile, trace the wildflowers with a fingertip, remember the glower he gave as you slipped them into place once he’d come back from perimeter-checks last night. Laugh now, can’t help it. Soft as the summer rains; still, it wakes him. Screws his face up like a newborn seeing light for the first time, rubs a hand across his eyes, grumbling. You lean over, rob the sound from his lips, knees parting as you sit astride him, fingers sinking into the quilt as you brace your hands either side of his head.

“Time is it?”

Little edge to your voice as he strokes a curl behind your ear. “Late. Still dark. Dawn’s a while off.”

“A while off, huh?”

Roll his lip between your teeth. “Mmm-hmm.”

“You hungry, baby girl?”

“Then, now... always.”

Threads his fingers into your hair, gives a gentle jag that sets you mewling. Push up from the bed, hands trailing to his chest as you rock back to sit across the hard lines of his hipbones. Follows you, fist still wrapped in your hair, then pushes you onto your back; hot, hard belly pressing against you, free hand slipping the shirt up over your ribcage. Bends to sear a kiss where the two sides splay apart. Breath hitches in your throat, rattles the bones caught between his kisses. Tongue now — white-hot roll of it — sliding the underside of your left breast, sweeping across your nipple.

“Shane,” breathe it, voice begging. “Mmm, Shane.”

Doesn’t say anything; rumble of laughter as he parts his lips, plays and purses and plucks till your nipple is hard as ice. Other one aching for his mouth. Can’t ask, can only moan. Sweeps across as if he hears your thoughts, sucks and swirls his tongue round the tip till your head is tipped back amongst the pillows, legs parting wide beneath his bulk, fingers at his jaw, his chin, his cheeks, his ears. Lobes rubbed between finger and thumb, belly knitting as he groans against you.

“Feel good, honey?” he whispers. “That feel good?”

“Feels good, baby. So good.”

“So fuckin’ perfect, ain’t you?” Rubs his nose back and forth as he kisses and sucks; pulls back from your nipple a moment, meets your eyes over the rise and fall of your breasts. “So fuckin’ perfect. My girl. Mmm, my baby girl.”

“Want you.” Rough in your throat, voice rising up as you struggle to your elbows. “Want you inside me—”

“Not yet.” Leans you back with the weight of his body as he rests on his forearm beside your head. “Late. Still dark. Dawn’s a while off.” Glimmer of laughter in his eyes to match the smile pulling at your lips. “So not yet, sweetheart. Not yet.”

Nod slightly, drunk on the fire in his eyes. “Not yet.”

Soft sound in his throat at your whispered agreement. Hazy gaze, cheeks flushed as if you’ve sunk a quart of whiskey. Feels like you have. Skin is burning; heat spreads fiery fingers in your belly, blooms white-hot between your thighs. Hand lying limp on the pillows beside your head, but now your fingers stir to touch. Like a butterfly, the way they flutter up, trip along the ridge of his cheekbone, slide down over his parted lips.

“I want you.”

He closes his eyes at your murmur. “I know, baby. Want you, too.” Opens them again; they flicker from your mouth to your throat to your eyes resting lazy on his own. “Just lemme look for a while. Mmm, just lemme look at you.” Fingers pull free from your hair, splay across your heart. “So good. And warm. And mine.”

“Yours.” Like a prayer, the way you whisper it. “Then, now... always yours, Shane Walsh.” Lift up a little, cant your hips so you press against his belly: mark it, hot and wet. “Just like you’re mine. Long as that damn blackbird keeps singing. Long as there’s breath in my lungs.”

Kisses the air from them, just for a moment. Leaves you gasping a little as he pulls back, sinks down your body, drops to his knees beside the bed, pulls your hips to the edge. Legs looped over his shoulders, breath barely clawed back before it billows from you in a moan as his mouth closes on that white-hot bloom between your thighs.

Want to curse — fuck, mmm, Shane, fuck — but you can’t form words. Not yet. Can only feel. Plush mouth on your pussy, tongue dragging between hot wet folds, lips closing on your clit, sucking it slow and soft and sloppy till an empty keening sound cracks your throat. Can hear, too. Him humming against your hot flesh. Rain at the window, soft as falling leaves. Somewhere — somewhere — that damn blackbird, trilling out a happy little song even as water washes away all the colours — red and white and blue — of the wildflowers blooming on the hill outside.

“Still singing.” He pulls back a little, warm breath misting, making you tilt your hips, scrabble at his scalp with your fingers. “Ain’t we, sweetheart?”

Can’t speak. Can only hum and sigh and trill your own little tune as he sucks you back into his mouth. Fighting with the blackbird now, the song you make as you grind against that teasing, probing tongue, fall apart beneath the strong fingers gripping your thighs. Answer to his question — yes, Shane, yes, yes — the only lyric that makes sense now waves of heat are cresting, bursting through their banks, ebbing every inch of your body till you’re warm and full and thick as whiskey set on a campfire to bubble and blister and burst —

“Attagirl.” Grins against your hipbone, thumb circling where his tongue has whipped up the flame, soft, so soft, till you’ve come down from your climax, thighs quaking against his head. “That’s my sweet girl.” Sticky kisses on salty skin. “What do we think?” Glances up to look at you as you make a grab for his jaw. “Dawn still a while off?”

“Yes.” Wrestle a grip on him as he ducks and laughs; gives up with good grace as you squirm your way back onto the bed, drag him along, too. “Inside. Now, Shane.” Fingers scrabbling at his belt, eyes closing as he helps: thumb brushing your wrist, chuckle soft in your ear over the jingle of the belt-buckle, the rasp of your palm against his jeans. “Please. Baby, please.” Keep singing it even when you’ve wrapped your thighs round his back, fingers digging at his nape, his shoulder as he pushes inside you. “Please, please, please.”

“Still singing.” Crooned in your ear, breath hissing past his teeth as he sets his pace: slow and deep and full. So full you feel fused to him, slotted together, welded like metal-melt: key in a lock, palm to palm, mountains to the sky. “Mmm... you sure do make a prettier sound than that damn blackbird.”  

Look up at him through half-closed eyes. “That right, officer?”

“Uh-huh.” Meets your searching lips; you feel his smile widen as you open your mouth to his kiss. “That’s right, ma’am.”

                                                             *

Leaves her sleeping as dawn breaks over the hills. Turns her to honey; sunlight slipping through a gap in the blinds, limning the drops on the rain-streaked glass. Watches her a moment as he slides his belt back through the denim loops, pulls a shirt over his head. Flinches as something brushes his neck. Hand on his gun, feet braced to turn and fight — but it’s not a foe.

Flowers. Red and white and blue. Little braid she pushed behind his ear before the rain-clouds dimmed the starlight. Turns it in his fingers. Old flag, the way it slowly unfurls: red and white and blue. Closes his fist.

Grass is damp when he steps out of the RV. Dew-trails follow him as he cuts a path to the hillside she sat on yesterday. Sunlight on her patch of wildflowers, stems shivering free of waterdrops as the air slowly warms. Blackbird singing somewhere in the trees. Opens his fingers, lets the breeze pick up the petals from his palm. Red and white and blue. Flag unfurled, colours carried on the sky, scattered on the hillside.

“Wish we didn’t have to leave.. I like it here.”

Doesn’t turn, just holds out his arm, smiles as she nestles in beneath it. “Me too. Quiet here. Peaceful.” Rasps his thumb across the bare skin of her shoulder. “Almost like the world’s the way it was. No walkers... mmm, no wars between brothers.” Noses at her piled hair, presses a kiss to her temple. “But I got you, baby girl. I always got you.” Slips his hand onto her cheek, pushes at her chin with his thumb till she’s looking up at him, sunlight sparkling in her eyes. “You got me?”

“Long as there’s breath in my lungs.” Lifts to her tiptoes, rubs her nose against his own, smile tilting her cheeks. “Long as that damn blackbird keeps singing.”

“Take more’n the end of the world to shut him up.”

“That right?”

“That’s right, baby girl... c’mon, time to go.”

Fingers linked between his, tug on his wrist that keeps him from turning. “Not yet, baby. Let’s stay a little longer.” Bright eyes, sun cresting the hillside, wildflowers blooming at their ankles: red and white and blue. “Just... not yet. Not yet.”

“Not yet,” murmurs his agreement, lifts their interlocked fingers to his lips, ghosts a kiss across her knuckles as the blackbird sings. “Not yet, sweetheart.”

you can find this (and me!) on ao3 if you so desire. ✨

[ukdamo]

The Will to Life

Abu Al-Qasim Al-Shabbi

If, one day, the people wills to live Then fate must obey Darkness must dissipate And must the chain give way And he who is not embraced by life’s longing Evaporates into its air and fades away Woe to one whom life does not rip from the slap of victorious nothingness Thus told me the beings And thus spoke their hidden spirit. The wind murmured between the cracks Over the mountains and under trees: —If  to a goal I aspire, I pursue the object of desire and prudence obliviate Neither the rugged canyons will I shun Nor the gushing of the blazing fire He who doesn’t like to climb mountains Will forever live among the hollows The blood of youth in my heart roars And more wind in my chest soars So I hearkened, and listened to the thunders’ shelling The winds’ blowing and the rain’s falling And Earth said to me—when I asked her, “O mother, do you hate humans?” “Among all the people I bless the ambitious And those who taking risk enjoy Those who don’t keep up with time I curse And I curse those who lead the life of a stone. The universe is alive; it loves life And despises the dead, no matter how great they are The horizon doesn’t embrace dead birds And bees don’t kiss dead flowers. Were it not for the motherliness of my tender heart These holes would not have held the dead Woe to those whom life has not ripped From the curse of victorious nothingness!” On one of those autumn nights, With sorrow and boredom burdened, I got drunk on the stars’ light And sang to sadness, until it too was drunk And I asked darkness: “Does life bring back Youth to what it had withered?” Darkness’ lips did not speak And the dawn’s virgins did not sing The woods told me with tenderness Lovely, like the fluttering strings, “Come winter, foggy winter, Snowy winter, rainy winter, Dies the magic, the branches’ magic, The flowers’ magic, and the fruits’ magic The magic of the soft and gentle evening The magic of the luscious and fragrant meadow Branches fall along with their leaves And flowers of a dear and blooming time The wind plays with them in every valley, The flood buries them wherever it goes And all die like a marvelous dream That in a soul shone and disappeared The seeds that were carried remain A reservoir of a bygone beautiful era A memory of seasons, a vision of life, And ghosts of a world steadily vanishing; Embracing, while it is under the fog, Under the snow, and under the mud, Life’s untedious spirit And spring’s scented green heart; Dreaming of bird songs, Fragrant flowers and the flavors of fruit. As time goes by, vicissitudes arise, Some wilt, and others live on. Their dreams become wakefulness Wrapped in dawn’s mystery Wondering, “Where’s the morning fog? Where’s the evening magic? and the moonlight? And the mazes of that elegant bed? The singing bees and the passing clouds? Where are the rays and beings? Where is the life I am waiting for? I’m thirsty for light over the boughs! I’m thirsty for the shade under the trees! I’m thirsty for the spring in the meadows Singing and dancing over the flowers! I’m thirsty for the birds’ tune For the breeze’s whisper, and the rain’s melody! I’m thirsty for the universe! Where is existence? When will I see the anticipated world? It is the universe, behind the slumber of stillness In the tunnels of the great awakenings” It took only a wing flap Till her longing grew up and triumphed The Earth shattered those above her And saw the world’s sweet images Came spring with its melodies With its dreams, its fragrant juvenescence And spring kissed her on the lips kisses That return the departed youth And said to her: you have been given life And through your treasured progeny immortalized Be blessed by the light, and welcome Young age and life’s affluence. He whose dreams worship the light Is blessed by the light wherever he appears Here you have the sky, here you have the light And here you have the blooming dreamy soil Here you have the undying beauty And here you have the wide and glowing world, So swing as you like over the fields With sweet fruits and luscious flowers Whisper to the breeze, whisper to the clouds Whisper to the stars and whisper to the moon Whisper to life and its longings, To the charm of this attractive existence Darkness revealed a deep beauty That kindles imagination and thought inspires And over the world extends a marvelous magic Dispatched by an able magician The candles of the bright stars illumined The incense, the flowers’ incense perished A soul of singular beauty flickered With wings from the moon’s luminosity Life’s holy hymn resounded In a temple dreamy and enchanted And in the universe it declared: Aspiration Is the flame of life and the essence of victory If to life souls aspire Then fate must obey.

[redroseinsanity]

Ōmagatoki

@daisugaweek2019​ | Day 1 - Journey/Technology

Chapters: 1/7 

Summary: In the Kamakura period, a fallen samurai undertakes a journey to pray for the mountain god’s mercy as a famine threatens his people, but instead meets an enchanting tree spirit. Daichi knows that the kodama is possibly the most dangerous being he has ever encountered, and yet, he falls.

—

“What if I told you that there’s a price to pay for saving your people?”

“What kind of price?” 

“A sacrifice.”

One | Two | Three | Four | Five | Six | Seven

Ōmagatoki (逢魔時 or 大禍時) : In the darkest stage of twilight, the moment that all light disappears. According to Toriyama Sekien, it is “first “the time of meeting yōkai, yūrei, and dark creatures”; and second, “the time of great calamity”.” 

Daichi's leg did not hurt. Sure, it ached a little, but it did not hurt. Not in the savage, burning way that it had when he had first gotten injured, not in the itchy, needle-like manner of the first few months of recovery and not even in that sharp stab of anguish when he had been told he would be able to walk but never run again.

What use was a samurai if he was nothing more than a liability on the battlefield?

The whispers of 'What a shame, to lose such a promising warrior' and 'At least he's not first born, just the third son of a powerful family', had stung more than anything.

So no, Daichi's leg did not hurt in the slightest.

It did protest a little when he had to balance on it to hoist himself up a particularly steep incline, but that was negligible.

At this stage, he was more concerned about the fact that he had been walking for hours and still had not found what he had been looking for. The rocky mountain trail was slippery from the rain and so overgrown that he was half convinced that no one had ever used it before and he was just stumbling along a random path in the forested green.

Still, it was soothing, somewhat, to be away from the stifling sympathy of the village and the masked, yet suffocating disappointment of his house. Here, all there was to contend with was cool mountain air and seemingly endless birdsong.

Under wide, seemingly continuous canopies, Daichi felt dwarfed and yet, protected by the mammoth trees that he walked among. Despite the arduous trek, he found himself smiling slightly as he made his way through the forest, put in a good mood by the fragrance of flowers in bloom and mixed scents in the air.

Put in stark juxtaposition with the fields on his land, Daichi was acutely aware that the forest he was in was what spring was meant to be like, rather than the jarringly yellow grass and wilted crops that his people were faced with. With this thought spurring him on, he picked up his pace, anxious to find a solution.

Tripping over a root for what seemed like the billionth time, he caught himself, one arm flung around a tree trunk and the other hand planted in the dirt, fingers digging into gravelly soil. Bent over and struggling to find his balance, he was completely unaware of the watchful gaze that rested on him, bright eyes in the thick of trees that were keen and contemplative.

Keep reading on AO3 or read after the cut

The sun dipped low in the horizon which made the blazing orange ball seem almost level from where Daichi was on the face of the mountain, signalling that Daichi needed to make camp and soon. While Daichi was perfectly capable of fending for himself in the wilderness, there was a reason people avoided this mountain.

The accounts passed down from elders had long become old wives' tales and yet, the people lived in fear of unnatural encounters beyond the boundaries of the Sawamura territories; where eerie singing was heard and the trees stayed green, regardless of the fact that the rest of the land was barren.

It was for this very reason that Daichi had decided to go up and search for the mountain god's shrine, to pray for their blessings and ask for the protection of his people in the face of a devastatingly poor harvest that threatened a famine in the coming winter.

Daichi needed to try this, and he needed this to work.

Sweat trickled down his neck and seeped into his sensible hitatare as he righted himself, patted the trunk and moved on, humming a melody that a bird had sung.

Looking very much as though it was melting into the clouds, the sun was sinking in a pool of pink and orange when Daichi staggered through the heavy undergrowth and burst out onto the mountain's crest.

After hours of uphill walking, he had acquired scratches across his forearms and ankles, a smear of dirt across his face from where he had wiped it after falling, and a deep, dull ache in his left leg.

Looking back at the path he'd taken, Daichi's village seemed to be the size of his palm, almost obscured from view by the lush crowns of trees. Although he could have gone on, with his stamina honed thanks to years of training, he knew that he would probably have to settle somewhere before it got too dark.

The faint rays of sunset curved and scattered across the tableau of the mountain, bathing the clearing that he was in with a radiant gold.

With a sense of serenity, Daichi surveyed the surroundings, feeling a wave of calm settle over him, and immediately froze. Drawing in a breath and steeling himself, he performed the same sweep of the trees ahead.

There.

Near the tree that was diagonally nearest to him. Daichi frowned as he focused on something that definitely was not a tree. With one hand on the hilt of his katana, he set his jaw and headed to the pale green figure half-hidden behind a strong trunk.

To his surprise, the figure seemed to hesitate before moving towards him. Daichi could see bare feet treading the field, but all he could think about was the way the mystery person seemed to move lighter than the wind, drifting almost in an elegant fashion. Around them, the birdsong cut off abruptly, rendering them in stark silence save for the whistle of the breeze.

Within seconds, they were close enough to call out to each other and still, Daichi advanced. It was in that moment that the last of the sun’s dying rays decided to cast themselves on the stranger’s face, and Daichi drew up short, stunned.

It seemed as though all of the sunset’s incandescence had been concentrated solely on illuminating a face lovelier than anything Daichi had ever seen. Luminescent skin set into brilliance with a beauty mark near his eye, sparkling hazel eyes that looked like all the colours of the forest in a single blink and lips that curved in a gentle smile. The wind flung up pale hair that caught in the sunlight like a blazing halo.

Like a veil pulled over the land, the darkness that had been encroaching swiftly descended across the sky, as did it behind Daichi’s eyelids as his knees buckled and he crumpled to the ground where he stood with a solid thud.

He awoke to stars and a soft voice murmuring at his side.

“Are you alright?”

Never before had Daichi heard a voice that sounded like wind chimes and drizzled honey at the same time.

Scrambling into a sitting position with one hand flying to his blade, he blinked as his eyes adjusted to the dark and located the stranger a small distance away.

“I am fine,” Daichi supplied cautiously, it must have been the change in air or the strain of walking so long.

“Why are you here?” The stranger eased closer, the moonlight picking up a curious gleam in wide eyes.

“I come looking for a place to give offerings to the mountain god,” Daichi slowly released his katana while shifting into a guarded position.

Silence greeted that answer and Daichi was able to convince himself that he had imagined the whole thing although he could still make out the dark silhouette of the stranger, unmoving. Around them the night sounds of insects and birds seemed to hover in a muted chorus, as though they also waited in anticipation to see what the beautiful stranger had in response.

“What makes you so certain that what you’re looking for exists?” The question was hushed, barely carrying over the stalks of grass between them to land at Daichi’s feet.

“I am not,” Daichi’s honest answer came immediately, and he continued steadily, “I do not know if it does. But it has to. And because it has to, it will.”

He could have sworn he saw a glint of teeth in the darkness and the desire to actually see the stranger’s smile seized him.

“And what is your name?” An amused note had found its way into the stranger’s voice.

“Sawamura Daichi,” The words were out even as Daichi recalled an old servant’s warning not to give his name so freely outside the Sawamura borders.

“Daichi.”

In the shadowed distance between them his name was spoken like a caress, and Daichi’s ears were filled with a roaring before it dropped, the way a strong gust of wind threatens chaos then dies in an instant.

“What else do you believe, Daichi?” Daichi found himself closing his eyes, trying to savour and memorise the exact way the stranger spoke his name. He knew there was nothing they would ask that he would not answer, not when their voice sounded like clear skies and summer sun.

“I believe that I will be able to ask the mountain god to look kindly on my village, to spare them from this poor harvest,” Daichi admitted in a low tone.

“It is not as easy as asking and receiving, you know,” The counter lilted across the shrinking space separating them. Daichi took a deep breath, hands clenching into fists atop bent knees.

“I know, I… I have not much to give, but then again, I also have not much to lose.”

For a moment, Daichi truly thought he had said too much. He had not had such a long conversation with anyone since returning from the battlefront and in the drawn out, stagnant pause, he berated himself for being too tactless.

As he looked up, he was startled to find the stranger a handspan away, eyes flickering and expression too dark to discern. Then, so soft that Daichi almost mistook it for the whisper of the forest:

“So be it.”—

MY SOURCES ARE WIKIPEDIA I apologise if anything is wrong, please let me know if there are any glaring inaccuracies.

Hitatare - A two piece outfit consisting of a jacket top with long sleeves and hakama trouser bottoms. Originating as common people’s clothing, it later was worn by most people (especially of Daichi’s standing) in the Kamakura period. Nobility wore it to look practical while using expensive fabric so idk man, it’s like expensive streetwear in the 1200s. 

Katana - Traditional Japanese sword that was most often used by samurai.