#they may end up being a fixture of a cloak or something

[egginfroggin]

Royal drip in progress.

Things I like about these designs:

red-brown sash

shoulder pads and attached looped danglies

crenelated pattern around cuffs and hems

Not a fan of:

simplicity

collar cut

Hesitant about:

color of said danglies attached to shoulder pads

I'll get there someday (hopefully).

[peoplesgraves]

Imagine being a Royal who can’t escape obsession

Yandere Knight who’s been trained for the honor of protecting the royals their entire life. Who’s had any semblance of self beaten out of them instead being filled with nothing but reverence for their favorite. At first their obsession is devoid of romance, solely based on their divine duty to protect you. They’re happy just to stay by your side and content with forgoing their own life in favor of yours. That would all change the moment they actually get hurt protecting you. They expect to be broken just like when they were a kid, destroyed and remade stronger, better for you. Instead you are gentle and kind, you help nurse their wounds and their obsession transitions from one of duty to one of love. No longer content to die for you, now they must live for you, their beloved royal. No matter how many people they have to cut down your knight will never forsake their love.

Yandere Advisor a few years older than you but much much younger than your other advisors. They were a prodigy, groomed from a simple stable hand to the person they were today. Their incredible intelligence, tactical mind and people skills make them invaluable to the kingdom but they find themself laying awake night after night. Not worrying for the people but for you instead. They care not for the opinion of other royals or their peers but only of yours. They view everyone as below them, sure their friendly and compassionate on the surface but below the skin lies a bubbling darkness. Every meeting with you that’s interrupted by some silly problem or royal ball they’re forced to miss due to work, they find their facade cracking. They contemplate abandoning the wretched kingdom you loved, whisking you far far away so they can finally have what they love. For now though they’ll wear their cracked mask and guide you as gently as they can, both in your role as a royal and towards your devoted advisor.

Your families resident Yandere Wizard is a strange creature. Equally out of their mind as they are terrifyingly cunning. They slip between the two states so easily that it’s not quite clear which is their true self, maybe they’re both just hiding what truly lurks below their calculating eyes and outrageous outfits. Despite being perfectly capable of turning whatever enemy crossed their path into nothing more than a pile of dust, the prefers to use his magic in more…joyful ways. Turning your dress into whatever color you fancied at the moment or making flowers appears out of thin air whenever you seemed down. Some may call it a waste of their gift but they knew the truth, knew that nothing was a waste if it was done for love. They turn their tower into an inviting place for you and makes sure you know you’re always welcome, that they’ll always have time for their royal. They contemplate keeping you up in their tower forever and using their magic to bring you bliss until the end of days. They would give you whatever you wanted because all they wanted was you.

A Yandere Witch who’d started as a simple forest witch. Content to live in her small cabin among the trees and animals, only ever going into the royal city when they needed supplies or to sell off potions at the marketplace. Sometimes people would come to them for help with their maladies or to try and observe their strange skills for themselves and usually they’d abide before sending them on their way and going back to their solitude. Lately though their solitude wasn’t the great comfort it had once been. Something was missing or rather someone. They found herself going into the royal city more and more, not just flitting in and out of the market place but becoming a frequent fixture. So frequent in fact that under cover of night and a cloak you’d come to seek them, hearing of their skills on one of your visits to greet the subjects. They indulged you, allowing you to watch their work until the sun starts to peak through the horizon and to their joy you keep coming back whenever you can. They becomes so fond of your company that they consider getting rid of that pesky wizard of yours and offering themself for the royal court instead.

A Yandere Maid and your closest confidant, a fact she very much likes to rub in to anyone who will listen. She’d been raised for this since birth, the knight was raised to protect you sure but she was raised to serve. To handle every tedious, boring or undesirable aspect of your life so you’d never be anything less than content. It was a job they took very seriously, keeping detailed lists of what you liked and didn’t like, paying the shadiest people to vet any new people you came into contact with before you ever met them and of course helping in more normal ways too. Because you trust them so implicitly it’s startlingly easy to get rid of any favors of affection from anyone else, after all you didn’t need anyone else. Only they could take care of you the way you needed, it was their purpose, you were their purpose.

The Yandere Jester is perhaps the least assuming of yanderes. Always joking and smiling and laughing and prodding oh so subtly. Telling you stories of when they were sent to the gallows and their escape even fantastical tales of robbed royals, mysterious murders and other various crimes and misfortunes. Ultimately these were assumed to be humorous fibs from a misguided jester but still some nobles would whisper theories while looking at the jester fearfully, saying they were an escaped madman or perhaps a demon in human form. Truthfully no one but you seemed to like them much, always acting as if they were a rabid bloodthirsty beast and they were, to anyone else at least. To you they were a lapdog, hungry only for your laughter and joy. Eventually their stories get to be less about the past and more about the future, talks of how funny it’d be to steal away their beloved and leave all these silly nobles heads spinning. They don’t sound quite as funny telling that one, but still you smile politely and they love you even more for it.

Yandere Suitors sent from other kingdoms, mostly weaker ones seeking to form an alliance but also a few from stronger kingdoms, even empires who simply had a spare and figured it couldn’t hurt or needed agreements on something specific from your kingdom such as a rare resource. Eventually as more and more suitors came and then refused to return home even after rejection, they ended up as more of an unwanted harem situation. Constantly making and breaking alliances with each other to try and gain favor, flitting around the palace ordering servants around to make sure everything perfect all the time for you. Each trying to be seen as the best spouse for you, dreaming of the day you pick them and send the rest home, in pieces if required. Always whispering gossip in your ear, offering to warm your bed or accompany you out of the palace. Theyd do anything to be your favorite, just one step closer.

Throngs of adoring, Yandere Royal Subjects, even people from the far away villages and outer edge territories make their way to the royal city when you make a grand appearance in town. Cheering and waving colorful flags made from scrap, some huddled in groups giving blessings for your safety and health hoping they’d be extra effective with you so close. Parents hold up their kids as high up as they can hoping you’d bless them through the carriage window as they’d seen you do before. People insist on giving gifts and offering, although not to you directly once the royal entourage passes many march to the castles gates and leave them there, in place for your return. While many have negative views on other royals or monarchy in general, none ever seem to extend to you, their beloved royal. Any citizen led attacks or rebellions to the crown always seem to happen when you’re away and never touch your preferred parts of the castle or castle grounds, the very worst that’d ever happened to you was when a small outlier group raided your room and stole a few things. Those same outliers were later found bled out in the middle of town,in the middle of the day, with absolutely no witnesses. Everyone in town knows what happened of course, justice was served.

Yandere Assassin who was the best, never once caught or suspected for the hundred deaths they’d directly caused, so disconnected from themself and from the world that every new identity and culture they found themself ingratiated in felt just as much like home as anywhere else, nothing felt real or right so what did it matter who they were or who they killed. Not until they were assigned to your kingdom, to your family, did they finally start to understand what it meant to be alive and just how precious life was. Years of blood on their hands hadn’t taught them to live but a week with you and their heart was beating for the first time. They mostly watched from the sidelines, acting as just another servant. They watched how the other royals misuse their power to mistreat the people, each other and most egregiously, you. They watch as the others ignore and placate you, watches as they lie and cheat and subjugate the masses and they’re disgusted. It’s amazingly easy to poison their wine, everyone who could possibly be a threat to your ascension. They know you’ll be upset for a while at the loss of your ‘family’ but they promise to be there for you and now that they’ve taken a permanent position in the castle they’ll have all the time in the world to look out for you.

A local Yandere Dragon who kidnaps you every few weeks or so. Of course the first time you’d been terrified, a huge thundering monster snatches you from your visit to the courtyard and just flies off, with you in its talons. Though once back at their surprisingly not horrible cave, you come to understand them a bit. At least more than any other human had ever bothered to. Some knights from your kingdom had stolen from their horde and they wanted whatever it was back, sure being kidnapped wasn’t great but at least they were negotiating instead of just destroying the place in revenge. They are gruff and unpracticed but ultimately harmless to you and after a guarantee of their stolen treasures return you too are returned home. Though every few weeks the dragon seems to have some new grievance that requires the beloved royal as collateral and in that time they grow to be more and more comfortable around you, their little human. Should your kingdom ever wise up to their trick and try to fight against the dragon for you it wouldn’t be pretty. Last time someone stole from their horde they negotiated, that time, they’d burn the kingdom to the ground and take what was theirs, permanently.

[alldayangst]

gold rush (Tom Holland)

All of my fics are LGBT and PoC friendly. Inspired by gold rush by Taylor Swift. Everybody wants Tom, but you don’t like a gold rush. WC: 2.7K words. 

“Y/N, I just wanted to say again, thank you for coming in today and doing this for us.” Tom’s dad, Dominic, said as he displaced papers across desks, earl grey swaying like an angry lake in his mug. Approaching footsteps hinted that the star of the show was soon to be hold. In other words, Tom was running behind.

The door creaked and light from the corridor crept through like Sun peeping through curtains of the Night. It refusing to shut after Tom budged and pushed was maybe divine punishment for him being so late, and maybe provided the bit of laughter you needed after rolling out of bed at 6am for this, for him. When the door eventually did close, Tom turned around and saw you in all your glory; much taller than he remembered, more assured than he’d imagined, and more gorgeous than drowned out and half forgotten memories of you could ever fabricate.

You and Tom ran in the same social circles, but hadn’t seen each other since Tom’s career imploded when you were both nineteen. As much as Tom felt he owed his heart and soul to the UK, he maintained an almost permanent fixture on the States. It started to feel like his trips back to England were in fact actual holiday. At one point, you were in love with Tom, but meeting became a constant battle of ‘here, not there’ and your heart grew tired of the duck and goose chase. The gravity of the situation was too much for you, whom hadn’t even tasted their twenties yet. 

“Y/N!” Tom launched at you and held you in tight embrace. You let go of the hug, but he didn’t. And his dad watched on in momentary awe as you wrapped your arms around Tom once again, who breathed in every part of you with unwavering adoration.

“Tom!” You rubbed along his back as he hummed. “When I was told we were gonna have a ghost writer, I had no idea it was gonna be you.”

Tom and his dad (being an author) were collaborating on a book, a million dollar idea that’d been years in the making. Tom had stalled it, his dad told you out of simple insecurity. Now that the world was a stage, he was worried people would criticise his dyslexia with every line he wrote, that every stroke of his pen would reveal him as a rare type of monster that lacked intellect, he pondered that he wasn’t insightful enough in some way. His dad may have written a book about Tom outfaming him, but Tom felt like he’d always live in Dom’s shadow in this respect. Fresh from Oxford with an English Bachelor’s degree, Dom employed you to get grease on the gears to commence writing. Tom had always come out of his shell when you were around.

Your writing session lasted from 8 til noon, when Tom had promo with LadBible or Entertainment Weekly or whoever had bid the highest from his presence that day.

The door swung open and three men in all black and mics saddled around their waists called for and led Tom out of the room.

“Tom, session’s over. We need to get you to your BBC promo in 30 and we’re already running behind schedule.’ One cloaked Tom in a jacket you were sure was more expensive than your own home and another whispered something into a walkie talkie: “Holland is on the move. Check the back entrance is clear.” With that, Tom rose to his feet and left completely opposite of the way you came in. Without a word, no goodbye.

You and Dom left the building together around ten minutes later, where ten men with large cameras stood, lenses focused on you, glaring at you, not sure what to make of you. One of the men screams “Hey! You dating Tom Holland” and after that all you hear is clicks and all you see is bright flashing lights and Dom clenches your hand and leads you to your taxi cab.

The next time you see Tom is sooner than expected. The Hollands were hosting a last minute dinner party and you found yourself sitting opposite Tom, feeling his hard, hot and heavy gaze on you. The tension in the room was so thick not even a chainsaw cut through.

“Next topic,” You picked up a card from the deck and read it aloud. “Politics!” You said devilishly as you sip on what was left of the white wine in your cup, and now that your thought process is blurred; Tom’s longing gaze puts you at dismay.

“Fuck!” Harry exploded, and you hear their mother hiss. “Fuck I hate politics, there’s no making it out alive!” he remarked as he drummed on the table cloth, drunken excitement brewing a new energy in the room.

You go on like this for hours until dinner party is dinner party no more. And while Dom, Nikki and all of Tom’s siblings have chosen to exit stage left, it’s 1am and you and Tom have yet to leave the scene.

Tom sets down your deck of debate cards in favour of a genuine moment.

“What are you doing these days, Y/N?” Tom’s not looking at you, he’s looking at your knee as he rubs circles on it. You want to look down there too, see what he finds so intriguing; but you decide against it in fear you might spontaneously combust. You don’t know if this moment’s supposed to be intimate or innocent and you’re not sure if you want to find out.

So you put up a wall.

“I should be asking you the same thing, Holland.” You say sarcastically. “What have you been doing these days? I haven’t seen you around.” Your eyebrows scrunched up together but you’ve got a big, idiot grin on your face that’s more than telling. Tom giggles at your facetiousness.

Tom scratches his head in mock thought. He never clocks out, always putting on a show. “I don’t know - uh.” You’re laughing before Tom has even told the punchline, ‘cause I guess anything’s funny when it’s said by the one you love.”I’m kind of -” He snatches an old Spiderman comic off the floor. “I’m kinda doing this acting thing at the moment. Playing, y’know, this guy.”

“Well I wish you better luck in the future.” Tom has stopped rubbing circles but instead places his two hands on your knees as you rock back in laughter.

“I’m serious, Y/N. What do you do now?”

“Um.” You suddenly forgot your entire career as Tom, with no shade of subtlety, stares right into your soul. “I got my degree. I write like little stories, y’know? Have you ever heard of folklore?”

Tom shook his head.

“They’re like these little, old beautiful myths. And I write them for a living. And if I’m lucky, they get published in The Times. If I’m even luckier, I get to work with my old best friend - ” You feel your world stop temporarily as you call Tom your ‘best friend’ and you pause for all of 0.3 seconds to register Tom’s reaction but his face doesn’t flinch. “-Writing a book with him and his dad.” And that makes Tom smile. So he doesn’t have to tell you he missed you, you just know.

‘Undivided appearance’ and ‘undivided attention’ don’t necessarily mean the same thing in Hollywood as they do in real life, and you learn that the hard way in your writing session.

Tom may have been sat right next to you, but he was miles away. He was doing press with Cosmo, who hadn’t stopped tagging him with blue hearts on his Instagram, Twitter and Snapchat stories, causing his phone to go off every two seconds. You looked at the phone and then at him who then got the hint and put it on silent. Then there was a knock on the door. Tom rushed to open it, expecting that Dom had sent down a food delivery to egg you on finishing this chapter. You rehashed his childhood like a million times - in fact, you were part of it - so when it came to writing the parts that hurt, where you took a more supporting role in his life, you needed his help. The fact is, the knock at the door had come from one of Tom’s men (Tom liked to call him Man In Black no. 3) who hadn’t said as much as a ‘hi’ before he made his announcement. “Tom, you’re on the line with Cosmo in 10.” The man stepped back and pulled out his walkie talkie, “Holland knows he’s on the line with Cosmo at 10.” And then continued to pace around the hallway.

Cosmo called as he said they would and you almost felt for. second like tom might enjoy an entertainment magazine’s company more than yours. The interviewer made glaring comments and passive flirts at Tom who just blushed and chuckled and sipped his water like the woman on the phone calling him ‘hot’ was just too much to handle. At one point, she says: “What must it be like to grow up that beautiful, Tom? With your hair falling into place like dominoes.” You’re not expecting it when Tom tilts the phone so you’re in view. “Well I’m with the most beautiful being on Earth right now so..” Tom looks at you as if to ask ‘is this okay?” and you know it’s too late for these kind of questions, because that moment is headline fodder, so you smile not to make him feel bad for opening Pandora’s box. But Tom is merciless and likes to rub salt in the wound. “This is Y/N! Y/N’s helping me write the book with my Dad! We go way back.” He covers his mouth as soon as he says it. “Shit! They’re not supposed to know about the book yet.”

This is the moment, you think, where you believe when they say your first love is the one you never let go.

And you can’t think of anything purer than the love you have for him.

Tom thinks being on land is boring. He likes being strung from chords 30 feet in the air, and drowning in despair through scenes of emotional turmoil. You want to tell him you’re an arrow from Cupid’s bow about to reach him, but you couldn’t recover from the splinters if Tom shut you down. After all, Tom was a gold rush. A treasure that everyone had discovered but nobody owned. How precious is a jewel that anybody could take home with them?

Tom had invited you to a visit to Brighton with him, a city near the coast, for some inspiration on writing his section of the book. 

You accepted. And because you did, you found yourself at the beginning of the end, on Tom’s boat in Brighton. “We don’t have to talk about the book right now.” Tom throws a stack of blue tinted paper on the floor. His dyslexia meant that spelling and reading was so much easier when done on blue pages, and you could only guess that was the reason the body of water around you brought him so much peace. So when you saw that something might compromise your best boy’s happiness, you point it out. To give Tom a little bit of time to exit before things got ugly.

“Tom, I see someone in the bushes.”

“Yeah. It’s a pap.” Tom mumbled nonchalantly. 

“They’re here to get pictures of me,” He turned to face you. “and you.”

“Me?”

“Yeah, the fans ship us. Think we’d be a good couple after that Cosmo stunt. We would have been a good couple when we were like, 18.” He laughs.

“Huh, yeah.” You look down.

“The best one around.” And you can’t tell if he’s serious.

You rip off one of his blue sheets. “I’m coming. I got hit with inspo.” And you trail to a different section of the boat. A very obvious click of the camera from a shrub nearby coaxes your pen to write without a second thought, How is he so accustomed to this? Fake private moments, protected by sheer glass curtains?

You scrunched your paper, well his paper, into a ball. 

Your mind had turned his life into folklore. You weren’t sure if that was crossing a line, so you just put the ball into your bag and hide it until he hits you with the spark again.

“Let me see it.” Tom says.

“No.”

“You ran off to write it and won’t let me see it?” 

You held your bag at your hip in defence. “No, Tom. Drop it.” 

Tom’s face drops a little bit, but then he reaches into his own bag and reveals a deck of your debate cards. “I know what will cheer you up, good ol’ Y/N.” He sets a card on the wooden table between you two. 

“Do you believe in a higher power?”

You toyed with the pendant around your neck which revealed your faith. “Do you?”

“I don’t. But I believe in soulmates.”

You look to the left to really ponder on what Tom is saying, and a paparazzis captures another photo of you in the corner of your eye.

“And you don’t think there’s a higher power that manufactures our souls to make our soulmates?”

Tom feigns a scowl. “That’s ridiculous.”

You scoffed. “How very contrarian of you.”

“What the fuck does that mean.”

“It means you contradict yourself, Thomas.” You laugh as he holds his chest in fake hurt.

“Are you implying I’m anything less than perfect?”

“Never.”

Never. Because you didn’t believe that to be true. 

“Good. Cause you’d have to be punished.” Tom picks you up and throws you in the water below before jumping in with you.

On your way home you stop at the yours and Tom’s writing booth, scavenging through your bag to drop off Tom’s notepad, some scrunched up blue and white papers you and Tom thought could still help you write his book. You’d made an addition to your love-hazed scribblings about Tom and reckon you’d die if he found it. You managed to throw the other in the water, excusing yourself with “It’s utterly awful.”, to which you and Tom agreed you wouldn’t throw any more paper in the ocean cause the poor fish already had it hard enough.

You and Tom had a session the next day. Tom was excited for the day, and you could tell because he’d given his phone to one of his big babysitters for the time he had you.

“I think that’s all of yours.” You and Tom made a business out of unscrunching your paper balls to see if they had any useful ideas. You were certain you reached the end of Tom’s. All of his notes had ‘T.H’ written on the back in big and were scribed on blue paper. When it came to your little ‘secret admirer’ notes you weren’t worried - you had an English degree and were quick to think on your feet and was ready to make something up when it came to opening it. 

“No, this one’s mine.” He’s confident, so you let him have it. He goes to pick up your tea and then realises it’s nowhere near warm, and was the one you made for yourself when you crept in yesterday evening. Tom has a smile on his face, and then he doesn’t. Before he goes to read it aloud, his eyes tell you he’s reading it again and again and again. “At dinner parties, I’ll call you out on your contrarian shit, and the coastal towns we wondered round will never see a love as pure as it.”

The look on Tom’s face gives you the splinters. He tries to look at you but you know he can’t. You don’t blame him. You can’t look at him either. “I really thought this was a good friendship.”

You hum and nod your head in agreement, pull your lips into a thin straight line as streaks of tears abandon your eyes. This was worse than Tom rubbing salt in your wounds. He’s rubbing dirt in your painful fucking gashes and you are reminded of why this didn’t work before, why it will never be.

And you wouldn’t dare to dream about him anymore.

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[sepublic]

Agony of a Witch...

           …This episode. It BROKE me.

           I was afraid this episode would be intense, but my heart is GENUINELY beating, like Belos’!

           Where… where do I begin.

           Lilith cursed Eda. She really did. She said there was more to the story, and asked Eda to explain herself first… I remember speculating that if it HAD been Lilith, what would’ve been the motive?

           Either way, Luz is OUT FOR BLOOD in this episode. Can we… can we appreciate that she felt like she had to pay back Eda for anything, as if just being in her life wasn’t enough? And that in her last moments conscious, Eda made this clear to Luz? Luz is someone who’s always thinking about what she can do for others, that sometimes she forgets herself. She underestimates how much she can mean to OTHERS, and now…

           She KNOWS how much she means to Eda! And it’s tearing her up inside that she FAILED Eda, that she wasn’t good enough… She must feel like a failure, because her attempt to heal Eda got her captured and cursed! And she must hate herself, and King waiting for her… That cold twist on the ending title! I knew this episode was Agony of a Witch, but it really was TRUE agony.

           I feel like I’m hyperventilating, I almost feel faint… I feel like CRYING, I can’t remember if I’ve ever felt this intense before! The intensity of that duel with Eda and Lilith, Eda really IS the most powerful witch in the Boiling Isles! What’s interesting is that Willow doesn’t directly dispute this, she merely states that Belos is the most skilled…

           Does this have to do with ‘wild magic’, not being restrained by a coven binding? Or is it something more… Eda is glowing with a golden power and summons some sort of Owl Deity, is this the effect of the curse? Is the curse her physically manifesting the power of this being that she’s the avatar of? But Lilith caused the curse, but then again we don’t know WHY the curse was placed… Was it just to restrain her magic? What was Lilith doing…

           This episode was a fucking nightmare for me. The intensity, the FEAR in my heart seeing that flashback of Eda, asleep and so happy… Only for her older sister to open the door, the FEAR in my heart… The BETRAYAL, of a little sister being cursed by her older sibling, it was like something out of a horror movie… This episode BROKE me, I’m shaking I really am I swear…! It’s almost hard to breathe, I…

           Why Lilith, WHY?! You clearly cared so much before, was it just guilt? What was your reasoning?! Why the HELL would you curse your own sister?!

           And Belos! Emperor Belos himself… He’s got a coldly mechanical, yet viscerally biological feel to him, I know I keep invoking Bionicle but it really IS like it, that biomechanical aesthetic! I was right, I WAS RIGHT, that the chasm in the titan’s chest, that the subject of its heart would come into play… It seems that Belos himself penetrated the titan’s sternum and built this mechanical, iron-lung castle around its heart, having total control.

           Why? Is it control the power of the titan’s bile, the magic flowing from its heart? When Belos gets agitated, the heart starts beating faster… Is he the Titan, reincarnated? Or is he a usurper, seeking to control the Titan? To direct the flow of its magic… Could he stop the flow entirely? Does he control bile, or ALL magic, period…?

           I love his mechanical voice, something about him is just… It’s CREEPY, it’s eerie, like he’s barely holding himself together, when he cracks open that creature and gets back his sight… Is he dying, is he incredibly ancient? Has he attached himself to the titan’s own heart and bile to survive? Why does he want control, he claims to be able to speak with the Titan…

           …And so can Luz. More parallels between him and Luz, no doubt. Does he mean well, his VA called Belos ‘misunderstood’ in a sense… Regardless, he is WONDERFULLY creepy, and the way he’s drawn, the shots of him watching silently, it was TERRIFYING… He claims to be the most skilled, does this relate to knowledge from the Titan itself? What of its BRAIN…?

           Oh, god. What if the Titan is DYING, and this Iron Lung castle is meant to keep it alive? Or worse… What if he’s trying to resuscitate the Titan, but with himself in control? Just like Makuta from Bionicle… And he needs BILE to do that! Bile to power its veins, to course through… And what of that furnace, that chimney? What is it burning…

           …Oh god. Remember those jokes about witches being burned? And what Belos alluded to rogue witches without a coven, and what would happen to Lilith?

           Is he harvesting them for bile? Burning them as fuel, as energy to power something?!?

           This episode TERRIFIES me, holy fucking shit. What’s interesting is that the Coven System itself is apparently new, relatively speaking, only about fifty years or so… Eda describes bile magic as having been around long enough for glyphs to be forgotten, but was it really? Did Belos… Did Belos harvest the titan’s bile and graft it to the hearts of others as well?!

           And the atmosphere, the mood around his castle is just so HAUNTING and foreboding… My heart is still racing, people.

           Anyhow, I… I like the beginning, we get to see how messed up Hooty can be beneath it all! And it’s funny that King gets to pop out of the cake first, but not Gus! Eda was making the cloak for Luz, was it in preparation for the day she’d be unable to take care of her? I love the touch of Luz not wanting to go the castle because of the kind of person Belos is, but going just for EDA… And poor Amity! Her broken leg really DID stop her… Maybe that was for the best, though. I don’t think her heart could’ve taken seeing her crush defy the very order she strives to join. On a side note, maybe I’ll need to update my Boscha fic to include the detail of her leg still being broken…

           Belos calls the pre-Coven System the Savage Ages, but was it really? This reeks of colonialism. Whatever he is, I feel like if the mask were to be peeled back, it’d be a scenario of a robot being punctured and explosing FLESH inside… Flesh, I suspect, may not be so well-put together. Flesh barely holding itself together, cooped up inside a metal exoskeleton, more a tin container and a prosthetic than anything… There’s something so disgusting about Belos’ vibes just from this brief clip, like he’s both organic and mechanical, I love it!

           I like the touch of Luz having been in an eating contest, she’s always so wild like that! And jeez Lilith… Her elitist bias really shines here, with how she regards Luz and just tells her to go back to her own world…

           Also, the chest gem is finally acknowledged! Apparently it’s connected to Eda’s magic, after all, or an indicator based on how much the curse is advancing. What do gems do? Are they merely a fixture of the bile sac, or something more? Could Belos’ castle be his attempt at recreating one?

           What’s interesting is that the relics from the ‘Savage Age’ are deemed useless by Lilith, and the Healing Hat so quickly burns and she just dismisses it! Given how she sees this but isn’t at all concerned about Eda not being able to be healed, I imagine Belos had another method and she knew of it…

           And JEEZ Lilith, I had a feeling that you had the flaw of feeling like Eda’s true family and prioritizing what you knew for her as an older sister, feeling more entitled to Eda than Luz!

           I wonder why the relics are weak… ARE they weak, the Greenthumb Gauntlet seemed somewhat powerful? Or did Belos just drain them of power, or maybe they’re fakes? I thought it was sweet for the Oracle orb to say that Gus is always his best self, but now I’m afraid its guidance may not have been so accurate after this revelation…

           Goodness. I’m WEAK. This episode had an increasing sense of foreboding that made my heart race, more and more, slightly easing only to go back to full-pumping! Which makes sense, given the heart-motif of this episode and the setting…

           I’m… I’m done y’all. Peace. I am BREAKING.

[fallenrepublick]

Submission by @danger-xylophones

So, @denimwingsface this is what I got -

There were rumors of a ghost. A spirit that wandered the long winding halls of the Coruscanti opera house in the dead of night. It had never been spotted save for by a few unfortunate souls that happened to chance a glance at the darkened windows when no shows ran. They’d see the flicker of movement, maybe the warping of candlelight, but it would be gone too soon to discern between reality or a truck of the mind brought in by fear of being out so late. But people claimed to have heard it.

The dormitories weren’t located in the opera house as was standard but in a separate building barely down the street that connected to the theatre through a long private garden. It was there, journeying between buildings that many staff claimed to hear the sound of organ music. Dark and devastatingly beautiful that were the hearers not stricken with such immediate fear that they might have stayed to listen to the haunting pieces that poured through the garden.

But, there was one staff member that claimed they heard diffently. They were a dancer for the opera house and it was one night when they were journeying back to the dormitories late and alone (having made the mistake of forgetting one of their belongings in the dressing room and, not wanting to risk the wrath of Madame Pryce for discovering their memory lapse, they rushed back in to fetch it) when they heard what they failed to recognize as singing.

It made them pause, feet away from the door to the dormitories, as the sound drifted out of the Coruscanti Opera House and onto their awaiting ears.

The song hung heavily around them despite being barely audible - it wrapped around the dancer like a vice, freezing their movements completely. They were scared, their mind instantly recalling the tales of the specter that haunted the theatre and they were stricken by the sudden, stabbing thought that this would be the way they died. Lured to the afterlife by a siren they could not see.

The song continued and the dancer dared to turn around thinking that if they were to perish they would at least like to see what led to their downfall. Their eyes trailed up the towering wall of the west end of the theatre, searching for what was going to cause their demise. They were drawn to the third window on the second story, one they had always known to be stuck shut (they should know, once a fellow dancer had played a cruel trick by throwing their ballet slippers off the roof. They had snagged on a light fixture that hung just beside the window they currently looked at. Yet when they tried to open the window to fetch them, they were unable to and they’d been forced to abandon their slippers there to await what would surely be the e most embarrassing conversation of their life with Madame Pryce. But when they returned to the dressing room to confront the madame, they were pleasantly shocked to find their slippers occupying the same bench the dancer always did).

But, they could see it was open. The curtains that frames either side of the window billowed in the chill night breeze which assured the dancer their eyes did not lie. Which was why it was even more startling to discover the silhouette of someone perched in the window. Their shape was hard to identify, cloaked in shadows and hindered by the lack of light beside that which shined from the half-moon overhead. But there was no denying that the figure the dancer saw was indeed human-esque .

The dancer stood frozen once more though for a different reason now. Their eyes remained trained on the figure in the window, not daring to look away lest they vanish or leap from their perch to slay them.

But, how could I creature that sang so enchantedly be something to be feared? Surely, if they sang then they must possess the heart of an artist as the dancer did?

They remained, transfixed as the figure’s mournful singing continued. The words were foreign to them, spoken in some alien tongue (further distressing as non-humans were not allowed to set foot, tentacle, or whatever extremity they may possess near the opera house) yet the dancer knew in their heart that they were beautiful.

They lingered longer, the safety of the dormitories all but forgotten as they remained transfixed.

Suddenly, the figure stopped and silence settled over the garden. The dancer dared not move.

Slowly, as though time itself decreed that this moment be held longer than any one before it, the figure turned their head. And the dancer saw glowing red eyes.

The door slammed open behind the dancer, startling them so thoroughly that the object they’d gone into fetch from the theatre flew from their hands and landed a little ways a ways the dancer snapped their attention towards the door. “Y/n, what are you doing out here? It’s freezing!” Karyn Faro, a fellow dancer spoke in an agitated whisper, an exaggerated shiver emphasizing her annoyance.

“I-I was-“ the dancer stammered, reality slamming into them as their body began to violently shiver. They chances a glance over their shoulder, back to the window which had now been shut - the figure had fled. “I-I saw the phantom!” The dancer gasped out, suddenly feeling very faint. They turned to Karyn once more whose face had gone deathly pale at the revelation. “I saw the phantom.”

“You saw the-...” She couldn’t finish, terror had taken its hold of the young woman as it had the dancer previously. A crash sounded from inside the theatre and both dancers startled. Karyn, thinking on her feet, dove forward to collect the neglected belonging the dancer had gone to fetch and immediately began to pull them inside the dormitories eager to learn about the phantom of the opera.

[prophecy-is-inevitable]

Indulgence of Divinity: Chapter 1

Michael Langdon x OFC

Four months after the events at Outpost 3, Michael begins to grow restless in the Sanctuary. His powers continue to grow seemingly without a purpose, and the Cooperative is clamoring to know his next move. Help arrives from an unlikely source that changes everything Michael thought he knew about being the Antichrist.

Rebuilding the world requires a delicate balance-destruction and creation, death and life, dark and light. Thankfully, he doesn’t have to do it alone.

Chapter Warnings: Mild Language (we’re just warming up)

Word Count: 3846

So excited to finally have the first chapter posted! Hope you enjoy! (Also posted on AO3 under the same title.)

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

Chapter One: Court of the Divinity

Water droplets traced the lean outlines along his torso and thighs while others collected in the hollow at the small of his back. The aqueous kisses briefly reminded him of caresses that yearned to memorize each dip and swell of a lover’s form. His eyes drifted closed as he tipped his head back, lips drawing apart to pass contented sighs, in an attempt to savor the sensation. How long it had been since it was more than an illusion… His head lulled with a deliberate slowness to feel the tension ebb and flow from the corded muscles across his shoulders, up the base of his skull, and down the center of his spine. A delicate floral note occasionally touched his senses that he couldn’t quite place as past or present, simply familiar; nonetheless, it momentarily quelled the chaotic swarm of thoughts plaguing his mind. Even kings deserved a reverie now and again.

Michael’s gaze flitted about the room as he stood from the bathing pool and retrieved his towel hanging from the decorative iron gate.

Flickering candles lined the stone alcoves and shelves carved centuries ago out of the grotto rock and filled the room with a serene luminance. Their reflections danced and swayed on the surface of the water only to writhe in the wake of his languid movements. The sheer array of burning wicks had produced a surprising warmth in the chamber–a warmth that drew memories from the rugged stone and imparted the scent of incense from pilgrimages long-forgotten into the air. A shrine to the Lord and his archangel Michael that once stood proudly at the front of the holy cavern had been reduced to nothing more than an opulent light fixture. It brought him a sense of satisfaction in no small measure, and a smug curl of his lips accompanied the thoughts of sacrilege.

‘How fitting that the Sanctuary of Saint Michael Archangel, his oldest shrine in Western Europe and a holy destination for centuries, would become the seat of power for the Antichrist of the same name. The Sanctuary of the Apocalypse,’ Michael mused while patting himself dry. The infernal heat thrumming through his veins made short work of any dampness left to his skin. The grotto he stood in had once been the location of a church. Since coming into the possession of the Cooperative, the pews had been removed to make room for a stepped recess to be carved into the floor and filled with water in the style of an ancient bath–an extension of his personal chambers. ‘Someone clearly thrives on irony.’ Of course, it was not to be lost on him and his smirk of satisfaction only grew as he pulled on the sleek black fabric of his pants.

The journey back to his rooms saw the return of Michael’s incessant thoughts of uncertainty. The existence of the Sanctuary had been somewhat of a surprise even to him. Then again, the best lies were always built from a foundation of truth. What had begun as a ruse to incite panic and chaos amongst survivors was apparently very much an actuality. An actuality that he had been living in for the last four months.

Outpost 3 had been the last for…liquidation. Once the task was completed, the Cooperative had sent him a communication informing him of an automated jet waiting to take him to a “safe place”. They didn’t want to risk the use of Transmutation, despite his ever-growing powers. The flight was long and turbulent from the dramatic air currents and storms swirling in the wake of the cataclysm. A coastal mountain topped with a medieval structure loomed outside the window as the plane started to descend. The Sanctuary.

Noticeable architecture and the few remaining geographical features alluded to a location somewhere most likely Mediterranean. Michael’s lips stretched into an open-mouthed grin, and his eyes burned from how widely they were opened as he looked at the landscape of his making. Previously turquoise oceans undulated in new scarlet waves onto a gray shore. Bare branches strained against the raging wind–their leaves decimated long ago. Armageddon had truly come, and it was by his hand. Sure, he had seen first hand the result of his handiwork in America, but the satisfaction of seeing the effects clear across the world… Michael remembered the way his chest swelled and his shoulders straightened with pride.

That had been four months ago . Fucking hell… What great accomplishments had he achieved since those glorious days of revelation? Once again, he had been left to do his father’s will with no direction, no help of any kind. The remaining Cooperative members were breathing down his neck like hellhounds, either trying to curry favor with absurd and depraved behavior (which he may or may not have accepted on occasion) or hovering for a command. How could he lead his people when he had no means of navigating the future himself? Even the stars were silent behind the eternal midnight cinders cloaking the sky.

He dropped onto the lush mattress and draped his forearm over his eyes. In times of stress, Michael’s mind conjured up images of a world that no longer existed and perhaps never had. The sense of familiarity surrounded him once again as he stood amongst the tall pines and colorful oaks. He remembered these woods. Birds trilled happily above as if pleased by his return. His blood no longer marred the earth in a ruby pentagram; sprigs of white bell-shaped flowers sprung up from the circle and perfumed the air with their sweetness. They were larger than last time. Michael crouched to slowly reach out a hand, palm up, to cradle one of the drooping blossoms.

“Do you like them? I’ve been practicing.” A soft voice reached his ears just as the scalloped tepals dusted the tip of his middle finger. The uncertainty in the voice made his brow crease. He turned his head with a frown to face the shimmering specter, their radiance shrouding any distinguishable features aside from their feminine figure. She was always there, stood in the same space his frantic young mind had hallucinated an angel while begging for his father’s aid.

“You thought I wouldn’t?” It was much more a statement than a question. Had his own imagination turned against him, too? Was this a subconscious manifestation of his own doubt?

“White and delicate isn’t exactly your style,” the figure said. Her tone had relaxed a bit at the sound of his disappointment.

“Perhaps that’s all the more reason for me to like it. A palate cleanser to the world before my eyes every other minute of the day.” The flowers captured his attention again when they began to bob in the breeze. “Beautiful,” he breathed. He couldn’t see a smile, but he got the distinct feeling of happiness from his companion. Curiously, his own heart beat a bit easier as the aura permeated his space. Michael straightened again to take in the full effect of the flowers and surround woods.

“Something’s bothering you, Michael. You’re never here otherwise,” she mused. The light shifted as she moved to sit on a mossy rock. He titled his head to look at her without turning his body. Long strands of golden hair fell over his shoulder and framed his face in the sunlight. A shrug tugged at his shoulder as he spoke.

“What comes next? Have I done all I was meant to do?”

“Is fire, blood, and chaos all you were born for?” A tight nod answered her question. “Doubtful.” She rose and stepped into the ring of flowers with him. The hair hanging in his face was pushed behind his ear by misty tendrils he perceived to be fingers. A slight chill tickled his cheek from the contact and caused the hair at the base of his neck to rise. “With each breath, you grow in strength and purpose.” One of the flower stems was placed in his hand. “Why do you think these have flourished? As you grow stronger, so do I. It would be pointless to give you more power with no purpose behind it, especially since you already hold more power than any being left in the world.” A dark chuckle bubble in his throat at that. Her words satisfied him when similar grovels from those in the Sanctuary would find his ire.

“Then why -” The presence of a frosted hand directing his gaze back towards the glowing woods stopped him short.

“Patience, Michael. Having power does not mean you have to be omniscient. It simply means you will be more than capable of whatever is required in time. You’ve given them what they wanted–there’s no reason to believe you would fail at that in the future.” Phantom fingers slid up his cheek and into his hair in a gesture of comfort and Michael closed his eyes with a sigh. “Patience, my king.”

The stone ceiling of his bedroom greeted him when he next opened his eyes. Goosebumps still prickled his skin as a reminder of his dream. For a few moments he did nothing but stare blankly, wondering if he could close his eyes again and return to the simplistic visions of his mind.

“Patience…” he grumbled, dragging a hand down his high cheeks and chiseled jaw. Could the Antichrist possess such a heavenly virtue? Michael couldn’t remember any recent time he was met with less than near-instant gratification. Several soft yet pronounced raps on the door put an end to his wishful thoughts of mental escape. That would be Ms. Mead, and he certainly didn’t want to keep her waiting. It wouldn’t do to treat the one person here that was truly on his side so poorly, and certainly not after she’d undergone such extensive repairs from the events at Outpost 3.

A rare, genuine smile graced his full lips when he pulled the door open to reveal the woman. The deep furrow of her brow and the shift of her eyes promptly removed the carefree expression from his face.

“You’re needed in the great hall.” The muscles around Michael’s eyes twitched in scrutiny. Only incredibly important or special occasions called for the use of the great hall, and he certainly hadn’t issued any grandiose decrees. She wasn’t pleased to be ignorant about whatever situation had arisen, either.

“I will be with you shortly once I’ve made myself presentable.” Michael acknowledged her request with an elegant incline of his head. Ms. Mead nodded quickly and turned on her heel to await him outside his chambers.

Michael quite enjoyed catering his looks to maximize the effect of his presence. Without knowing the purpose of this engagement, he would have to work with what previously resulted in the most success. Within three minutes, he was walking through the halls with Ms. Mead and rather pleased with his appearance. He had donned his usual black dress pants and tucked button-up, the buttons of the cuffs trailing well up his forearms. A luxurious black side button dress coat accentuated his broad shoulders and lean stature; Michael enjoyed the feeling of the fabric conforming so perfectly to his body.

Many survivors admired the thought that went into the Sanctuary’s design each time they walked the halls. Displays had been embedded into the mountain walls where the builders encountered the fossilized remains of prehistoric flora and fauna–lingering reminders that all origins were followed by the same undisputable end in time. Rivers of fire ran down trenches parallel to the walkways for sufficient lighting. Without access to the outside world, they set the fire to cycle intensity and mimic the path of the sun. At night, minerals were added to the oil to make the fire burn blue in homage to moonlight. Large fireplaces dotted the hallways for added warmth and light in the deeper parts of the mountain.

Today, residents of the Sanctuary that had found themselves a partner were happily clinging to each other in alcoves or corners. Some exchanged gifts they’d either made or traded for tied with red ribbon. Someone had poorly scribbled hearts decorating their package, and Michael’s eyebrows jumped momentarily in realization. Of course. It was February. Many of the survivors had chosen to observe the old holidays in a vain attempt at normalcy. If it gave them reason to remain happy and kept morale high, then he would allow them to cling to their absurd traditions. They smiled and waved, some bowing their heads in respect, as he passed them. An occasional brave soul wandered his way with the intention of handing him chocolates or paper flowers. Michael held up his hand to stop them with a small, appreciative quirk of his lips but shook his head.

“There’s no need for that. Your loyalty and support are enough.” They held eye contact for a moment until the person scampered away to a cluster of others standing by a fire pit. Almost immediately, Michael’s jaw squared and returned his expression to simmering annoyance.

“Ms. Mead,” he drawled, “why am I on my way to the great hall for an obligation that I can’t seem to recall arranging?” Her head shaking slightly was barely visible off to his side.

“This wasn’t arranged at all. These…people–Court of the Divinity they called themselves–just showed up and wanted to see you. Wouldn’t say what for, but I recognized the man in charge as a member of the Cooperative. Some high ranking clergyman or some bullshit.” Ms. Mead continued to shake her head and gave him a sidelong glance. “I don’t know where they get off thinking they can make such demands of their king. It’s impertinent if you ask me.” Her voice dropped to a conspiratory level. “We shouldn’t trust them.” Michael’s head tipped back with a pleased laugh.

“Oh, not to worry, Ms. Mead. We must attend to the needs of our people.” Michael stopped outside of the oversized mahogany doors and turned to the older woman. His hands came to rest on her shoulders as he fixed her with a pointed gaze. “And if they waste my time, it will be the last time that they do so.” Ms. Mead returned his look with a smile and watery eyes, one of her hands reaching out to delicately stroke the long curls resting over his collarbone before she replied. The pride rolled off of her in waves nearly as strong as the electronic pulses of her fabrication.

“That’s my beautiful boy.” Michael would always hold her affection in highest regard. With a deep breath, Ms. Mead returned to the moment and smoothed down his hair. “You go in ahead. I’ll retrieve your guests from the auxiliary hall. My king.” She left with a bow and beaming smile so Michael could take his rightful place in the extravagant throne chair at the front of the hall. He certainly cut an imposing figure. One leg rested crossed over the knee of the other, his elbows firmly on the arm rests to allow his steepled fingers to remain steady in front of his chest, and his jaw clenched with a minute grinding the longer he waited.

Several minutes passed before the heavy doors were opened and Ms. Mead, now wielding a stern expression, led in a bizarre group of men. Michael couldn’t help leaning forward a fraction in interest. Each man was dressed in different holy garb. A Buddhist lama, a Hindu sadhu, a Jewish rabbi. Those were only the ones in clear view. Still more troubling, not one of them did he recognize beyond the cardinal standing at their front. He had worked as the Cooperative’s source inside the Vatican for decades under the guise of a faithful God-worshipper. Michael lifted his chin out of habit at the man’s approach, heightened even more as the small congregation bowed before his dais.

“Cardinal Vicente Santori.” The name dripped off Michael’s tongue like saccharine wine. “To what do I owe the unexpected pleasure of your audience? For your sake, I would hope it’s something of the absolute utmost importance.” The cardinal bowed again. The tone in their king’s voice left no conflict regarding his displeasure.

“My king, as you know, we are more than 20 months through your prophesied reign,” Santori began. Michael’s intrigued gaze turned to that of ice, and he brought his chin to rest on his bejewelled fist.

“I am aware. So…what is this?” He opened his palm up towards them inviting silent answers. “As you said yourself, we are beyond the halfway point of the Apocalypse. It’s a bit late for any religious intervention.” Michael’s patronizing chuckle reverberated in the vaulted room, “Especially from you, Cardinal.” The man quickly shook his hands to brush away those notions.

“No. No, we are here for quite the opposite.” The slight tilt of the king’s head drew the cardinal’s attention before he continued. “You have done well in cleansing the stain of humanity from the world. You’ve also grown stronger since coming to the Sanctuary, haven’t you, my king?” When he did not receive a denial, Santori delved into further explanation. “We are the Court of the Divinity, tasked with a special purpose. We have the answers to that phenomenon: there is still more work to be done. Work that you cannot be expected to complete on your own. What we have experienced is only the beginning of your father’s great plan. Preparation of a canvas about to become your greatest masterpiece.”

“What would you know of this ‘work to be done’?” His father had refused to answer his own questions, yet these heretics claimed to have knowledge of his purpose? All Michael had ever wanted was answers. Would it be washed-up clerics that gave them to him? Michael ran his tongue over his teeth. The most irritating aspect of it all was that not a single one of them held a lie within their heart or mind.

“Satan was cast into the fire and chained amidst the burning lake against his will. Would you wish to remain in a prison for all eternity? Is that what you would base your greatest wish from? It is one thing to condemn others to share your fate, but it’s something else to rise above it. There has always been a deeper longing for Paradise, and what better way to secure his claim on Earth than by his son creating something that surpasses that of God. However, you will not succumb to such hubris as God, my king, for you won’t be alone.” There was a pause in the cardinal’s ramblings to let the information settle. Silence hung heavy in the air for so long that some of the men began to shift uncomfortably. Even Ms. Mead seemed to be holding her breath off to Michael’s side.

Their king stood, each vertebra aligning themselves one by one, until he reached his full height. His descent from the dais was marked by the crisp, measured knocking of his heeled shoes on the stone floor. Arms clasped elegantly behind his back, Michael approached the cardinal and looked him up and down. The older man was in his choir dress for what he must have deemed a special occasion; vibrant scarlet cassock with matching scarlet trim, red elbow-length cape over the lace-trimmed white rochet, and a red cleric’s skullcap. One item was notably missing; Cardinal Santori no longer burdened himself with the symbol of the cross. Michael stopped directly in front of the man to give him a sardonic smile.

“Will it be you, Cardinal, and your men that seek to help me with this task of surpassing God? The one you once promised to worship and honor with every breath and whom you have now forsaken?” They were so easily swayed by a little show of power. Michael had won their faith by hardly lifting a finger. The cardinal stepped aside and issued a beckoning wave back to the others. The group parted, three men on either side, to form a passage for the remaining associate at the back of their cluster.

“Unfortunately, the act of creation has always been a divine gift. We have never been blessed in such a way, though we have been given the honor of upbringing for the one who has. Our glorious purpose.” Soft heels clicked across the thin carpet runner approaching the dais. “God failed because there was no balance, which he now knows. There cannot be creation without destruction, no life without death, no light without the dark. To force one into extinction is to condemn the other. Someone once called you ‘the Alpha and the Omega,’ correct? Well, they were halfway right.” A slim hand settled into the one the cardinal left outstretched.

“My king.” Michael’s eyes quickly darted to the speaker when they stepped into his view, dipping into a low curtsey.

She was his opposite in every way. Delicate feminine features and form contrasted his strong, masculine bone structure and build. Her lustrous amber eyes met his aquamarine, and both pairs widened at the sudden jolt they received. Fire and ice. Twisting. Turning. Climbing from earth to sky. Something about her called to him. Something quietly familiar. Michael stepped forward with a creased brow while she allowed him to continue his observation. He swept a wave of her silken obsidian hair over her shoulder. Her breath shuddered momentarily, but her smile widened when their gaze met again. She waited patiently, allowing him as much time as he needed. After all, she had been patient long enough in waiting to meet him, and this gave her an equal opportunity to drink him in as well. His skin held the warmth of the fire he was born from in both color and temperature. She, on the other hand, seemed to be risen from the first winter snow. Could it be true that he wouldn’t be left to rebuild the world alone? Their proximity caused a breeze to weave through the room that centered around them. Years of waiting and begging and training…would this be the beginning of their purpose?

Clothed in flowing white, the crystalline vine embellishments captured the firelight to give her a glowing illusion. Chiffon draped from her shoulder straps and down her back in a delicate cape veil that did nothing to obscure the expense of her open back. More of the gentle fabric was braided across her chest to protect her dignity. A large portion of the bodice remained sheer except for more sparkling embellishments designed in the same intricate vine pattern. In place of a slit, the sheer fabric continued from the bodice, over her left hip, and down the entire left side of the otherwise modest, floor length skirt. It was a look meant to make an impression while still conveying the purity within her body and blood. Sensual yet sinless. She wanted him to be pleased, to be intrigued. And he certainly was in both respects. Cardinal Santori’s voice broke through Michael’s considerations.

“This… is the Divinity.”

[lisarichardsonbylines]

How to Tell Your Husband You’re a Witch

Witches we need you. Now more than ever. In the time of COVID-19 we can find respite in place-based reverence, plant magic and the divine feminine. So writes Lisa Richardson, who came to witchiness with nothing but white hetero straight-lacedness and a crush on a yoga teacher.

Lisa Richardson | Longreads | April 2020 | 15 minutes (4,084 words)

On a Friday afternoon, pre-COVID-19, my husband dropped some ice-cubes into glasses, ready to make us screwdrivers and cheers to surviving another week of working/parenting/wondering where the hell the years were going, only, the vodka bottle was empty.

“Oh yeah,” I said, my eyes sliding sideways, trying to not cause a fuss, “I used it for medicine.” The previous week, the kitchen counter had been cluttered with a giant mason jar full of oily plant matter. “Balm of Gilead!” I explained, brightly, as he wiped away the breakfast crumbs around it.

“But what is it?”

“Cottonwood tips in oil.”

His eyes had flicked, then, over to the brand-new bottle of extra virgin olive oil that was now nearly empty, as I enumerated the medicinal benefits of this old herbal remedy (and all this from a tree in our backyard!). Twenty-four years together means I could hear the abacus in his brain clicking, as he wordlessly calculated the cost per milliliter of a gallon jar of plant matter masticating in top-shelf olive oil, against the cost per unit of a bottle of generic aspirin tables, overlaid with the probability of me losing interest in this project.

First the olive oil. Now the vodka for dozens of little jars of tinctures — garden herbs and weeds soaking in now-undrinkable booze. My midlife quest to attune more deeply to the rhythms of the natural world was starting to incur unexpected, but real, costs.

He was quiet, as he opened the fridge and pulled out a beer instead.

* * *

In my defense, I could have pointed my finger at Natalie Rousseau, a yoga teacher living in my 5,000 person village, who I’d first encountered leading a solstice yoga class billed as a way to survive the madness of the holidays (in slightly more gracious language). Thanks to her offerings of insight I did survive the commercial horror of the “festive” season, and a few months later, as the new moon entered Aries (whatever that actually means), I plonked down $200 to subscribe to her online 13 Moons course — my foray into “slowing down and being more present,” as I pitched it to my husband when he inquired about the strange entry on the credit card statement.

But I did not deflect the simmering tension between us by naming Natalie as the instigator of these “kitchen witch” experiments. Even though I am not a member of any kind of coven or cult, (I don’t think book club counts), I know deep in my bones to never throw another woman onto the fire for helping you. That has been done too many times.

But there it is. The word. Witch. The wound.

* * *

Every day, after COVID-19 entered our world, Natalie Rousseau has responded with an offering, a teaching — a meditation, an ancient mantra of protection, a yoga practice for managing anxiety, a how-to video on harvesting poplar medicine. It’s as if she’s been resourcing herself for this moment to develop the richest arsenal imaginable, to navigate, not the public health crisis, but the billion personal crises each of us is forced to confront as life as we know it slams into pandemic mode. It’s not what I thought a witch would do, if I ever thought about them at all.

Natalie doesn’t look like a witch either — not in the way I conceived it for last year’s Halloween costume, with my long black skirt, dollar-store pointy hat, and heavy black eyeliner, walking alongside my 6-year-old vampire-werewolf. Natalie is petite, just a few inches over five feet, her long blond hair still evoking the decade she spent living in a west coast surf town, her chest and lean muscled arms bright with full sleeve flowery tattoos and Mary Oliver quotes. She moves like a dancer, demonstrating yoga poses as if she’s transcending gravity. As a teacher, she speaks exactly, even in Sanskrit, and guides movement precisely, padding gently and soundlessly through the room, making an adjustment here, offering an instruction there.

So, I was surprised when she used the word “witch” to launch her new online offering, The Witches Wheel. The lure was irresistible. Natalie was claiming the word “witch” without flinching, without anger, without provocation, not as a way to reclaim feminine power and stick it to the men, warranted as that may be: It was essentially an invitation to observe the cycle of the seasons.

A threshold beckoned.

* * *

Natalie, a recent empty-nester, lives with her husband Paul and two dogs in a modest townhome, with a creek and a dozen rogue gardens installed by various residents running behind it. The garage is full of motorbikes. The porch is swept clean on the day I visit, six months into the 13 Moons program, wanting to talk with her about this radical word and why, in a world still unsure what to do with powerful women, she’s not afraid that she’s exposing herself to pitchforks and fires, haters, and trolls.

Even though I am not a member of any kind of coven or cult, (I don’t think book club counts), I know deep in my bones to never throw another woman onto the fire for helping you. That has been done too many times.

A tea blend of her own mixing — vanilla chaga chai — is brewing on the stove in an open saucepan. She tends to it, as I settle in, sneaking glimpses around the room, looking for evidence of witchcraft — pentagrams, cloaks, bottled frogs. Nothing. The space is uncluttered, a throw-rug on the armchair, a couple of stark white deer skulls are mounted, European-style, on a wall against a reclaimed barn board — definitely more Soho chic than occult-goth. Her husband returns from town, where he has picked up fresh croissants for us. He’s tall and strong, with a tightly cropped red beard — he looks like a guy you’d run into at the gym, at the surf break, at the hardware store.

“So, what’s it like living with a witch?” I ask him as Natalie attends to our tea, a light-hearted question sprouting out of the great compost of fears I am thinking. Is it impossibly hard to be with a woman who comfortably claims her own power, magic, cycles, voice? What kind of a man can love and honor a witch? And lurking deep beneath it all: Will my husband be one of them?

Paul rolls his eyes, overly-dramatically, pointing up to the light fixture in the kitchen — light bulbs housed in mason jars of all sizes, evoking summer cabins and fireflies and Kinfolk magazine dinner party lanterns. “I made this for her because everything ends up in jars. Have you seen inside these cupboards?” He walks around the house, in faux-exasperation, opening doors to reveal neat stacks of jars, full of dried petals, leaves, syrups, tonics, salves, salts. “And there’s more upstairs!” If it hadn’t been for the dinner party they’d hosted the previous night, most of their apartment’s horizontal surfaces would be covered in jars, he tells me, and the front porch would have housed a dead raven and a dead Cooper’s hawk.

“She’s always sending me out in search of dead things,” he jokes. He picks up roadkill in case she can salvage feathers or skulls.

“When he first met me, I was already a skull collector, and now he goes and finds them for me and brings them back,” says Natalie. “He’s gotten really good at living with witchy stuff.”

The two of them are remarkably self-sufficient — an animal lover (“he loves animals more than people”), Paul realized veganism left him tired and undernourished, so took up hunting to procure his own meat humanely; one of the deer skulls mounted on the wall was harvested this fall, its meat now fills their freezer. They grow a garden, wildcraft, eat well. There is an ease between them — a tidal push and pull as they navigate their modest shared space and the morning routine, without evidence of fake niceness, of power trips or struggles.

Witchcraft, in Natalie Rousseau’s mind, is too non-dogmatic and non-hierarchical to submit to a single all-encompassing definition. “As a practice, it’s so highly individual,” she says, “but across the board, it is very place-based, land-based and body-based. For me, it’s about cultivating a relationship with your own body, your own mind, your emotions, and subtle sensing faculties. It’s learning how to trust your intuition. It’s about reclaiming your own instincts, but also being able to feel: this is what stress feels like in my body, this is what relaxation feels like, this is what it feels like to say yes to something out of a sense of obligation or pressure, this is what it feels like to have a boundary. This is what it feels like when I’m safe. These cues come to us from our bodies. It has to be, for it to work well, otherwise, you’re always reaching outside yourself for another authority.”

This is what she wants to help women, particularly, to reclaim: their sense that they are the first authority on themselves, that they can trust their bodies’ wisdom.

“The biggest thing I want to share with people,” says Natalie of her teaching and online courses, “is how to trust themselves. Everyone can very easily make the medicines that their household would need for common household complaints — colds and flus and chest colds and menstrual cramps — so many basic things that anyone can make very simply, quite affordably. I’m not anti-pharmaceutical. There are many medications people have to take daily to live. And if I have a serious infection, I’m going to take antibiotics; if I am seriously ill, I am going to go to the doctor; if I have any kind of trauma, I’m going to be so grateful for that form of medicine. But I believe the role kitchen medicine has is in the maintenance and prevention of illness.”

One of her biggest laments, though, as she makes videos and handouts and shares them with her online community, is that even people who have paid to do her course don’t feel that they have the time to take it into their kitchens. “Making a tincture is literally pouring vodka over plant materials and leaving it on your counter for four weeks!” she says. But it is easier for most people to just buy one online and have it delivered to their doorstep. “I am saddened by how easily women give their power over. This is the biggest thing I’ve noticed as a teacher in the past couple of years — how quickly women will say, ‘but how do you do this? I don’t know how to do this! I’m afraid to try this because I might not be good at it, I might be doing it wrong. I’m an imposter.’ I really struggle with this. Where is it coming from?”

But she knows. We have relinquished our power, over a thousand years or more, of wounding, of witch-burnings, of patriarchy either convincing us we have none or forcibly stripping it away, (hello Harvey Weinstein), until all we feel empowered to do, now, in 2020, is consume. And we’ve been doing that with all our might.

We override the listening, we ignore the nudges, we push through, like good soldiers. “Most people are running so hard,” observes Natalie. “Our culture is so focussed on productivity. We are so overly heroic — it’s all or nothing. I can’t do something unless I’m an expert. I don’t want to try. But this is a craft. It’s a path of education.”

Natalie’s invitation is gentle, and she’s crafted her online course to serve that: Start with one plant and learn its taste, its smell. Spend five minutes a day on meditation or in conscious ritual and begin to notice what’s going on in your nervous system, in your mind, in your body.

“When he first met me, I was already a skull collector, and now he goes and finds them for me and brings them back,” says Natalie. “He’s gotten really good at living with witchy stuff.”

Don’t get so distracted by the word witch, that you fail to notice that it is connected to craft. Witchcraft, for Natalie, is a path of learning “how to trust and problem solve, from within, knowing that we are in a system of power that, for better, for worse, will strip us of any ability to trust ourselves and to always feel empty so we have to keep buying more stuff.”

When she says this, a deep thrill of recognition hums in me, accompanied by a shiver of fear. Those are revolutionary things to say out loud, to cast into the open air. I recognize it viscerally as the kind of talk that gets people in trouble.

* * *

Last summer, before I met Natalie, I had stepped from my backyard patio stones onto freshly cut grass and spied the sinuous form of a wandering garter snake. I leaned in quickly, excitedly, about to call my 6-year-old over to glimpse the garden visitor before it shimmied away. But it was eerily still. Ugly slash wounds marked its body. It was dead. Innocent victim to the ride-on lawnmower. Obliterated by our oblivion.

“Oh no,” I muttered. “I’m so sorry!”

I had already begun to wake up to the natural world, it’s rhythms, it’s offerings of medicine, it’s otherness, but it had come with a shadow side, a growing despair at what we were doing to the world. Even without a malicious intention, I was causing death and destruction — just mowing the lawn, drinking my coffee, wiping my ass: My actions, all our human activity, had compounding impacts that were destroying the snakes, the ocean, the atmosphere, the forests, the icecaps — beyond repair.

I wanted my garden to be a habitat. I wanted the bees to waggle-dance directions to my sunflowers to their hive-mates, I wanted the wandering garter snakes to nest in their hibernacula through the winter and bask in the long grass in the summer, I wanted to lie on my back and watch butterflies dance through the flowers and the hummingbirds zoom in and out, I wanted to inhabit innocence again.

I’m so sorry, I’m so sorry. My penitence froze me in place, scared to make a move for fear of ruining something else. Then, regret overriding my squeamishness, I fetched the flat-bladed shovel and edged it under the dead snake. I carried her body over to the vegetable patch, and in a space between the beds, where the mower never goes, I laid her down. I picked marigolds and calendula from around the garden, where they’d been planted to keep the snails away, and lay the bright orange blossoms in a circle around her.

Grandmother snake, I whispered, hoping that some force that exists beyond the definitively dead snake at my feet, might spread the word among the entire species, “I’m sorry. We didn’t mean it. I will try to be more careful.”

It was a made-up ritual, the kind that a kid might perform deep in her dream world at the bottom of the garden, and it made my 44 year-old-self feel a little bit better. At least I’d made a gesture of repair, had expressed my desire to return into balance with the living world around me. If it had any effect, I’d never know. I went back inside, said nothing.

A few days later, out in the garden, my husband tripped over the skeleton of a decomposing snake, ringed by wilted flowers, half consumed by ants.

“That was spooky,” he confronted me. “What’s going on? Are you some kind of witch?”

* * *

* * *

Natalie has always been comfortable with the word. Now she’s having fun inviting people to consider the archetype, circle it, unpack it, stumble upon some kind of recognition: Wait a second! Maybe I am a witch!

“It’s cool how people in the western world can take a description that has been used mostly as a slur, and turn it around to use as something empowering,” she says.

For thousands of years, witch was a term used to incite violence against women. By the most conservative estimates, half a million people, mostly women, were executed in the European witch craze between 1300 and 1650. Accusations of witchcraft were used against women, says Rousseau, “in ways that were extremely dangerous and terrifying. It was really about getting power from them, and getting land back. So, to use a word like that in an empowered way, even today, you have to know you’re safe to do it. And it’s important to realize that in many places in the world, it’s still not safe for women to say that. But if we can, in safe places, take that word and turn it around, that, to me, is extremely powerful.”

I wanted the bees to waggle-dance directions to my sunflowers to their hive-mates, I wanted the wandering garter snakes to nest in their hibernacula through the winter and bask in the long grass in the summer, I wanted to lie on my back and watch butterflies dance through the flowers and the hummingbirds zoom in and out, I wanted to inhabit innocence again.

Natalie herself embodies empowerment. Not in the traditional way I have come to recognize power — as someone standing over, dominating someone else, her source of power comes from within.

She doesn’t need to take any from her partner.

“Do you find this relationship at all emasculating?” I joke to Natalie’s husband.

“I don’t. Not at all. No,” he replies.

“We’ve always given each other space to be ourselves.”

But that’s not always a guarantee of safety.

If it is dangerous to be an empowered woman in the world, then it’s dangerous, too, for the men who love them.

Lyla June Johnston is an author and activist of Diné and European heritage. Her inquiry into her disowned European heritage led to a realization: The millions of women burned alive, drowned alive, dismembered alive, beaten, raped and otherwise tortured as so-called, “witches,” were not witches at all. They were the medicine people of old Europe. Her lens, as a contemporary indigenous woman, and as a survivor of sexual violence, helped her identify that those were the women who understood the herbal medicines, the ones who prayed with stones, the ones who passed on sacred chants. And the all-out warfare of the witch burnings didn’t just harm the women. It had a profound effect on the men who loved them, their husbands, sons, brothers. She recognizes the echo of this in the story of her own time, of her own people. “Nothing makes a man go mad like watching the women of his family get burned alive. If the men respond to this hatred with hatred, the hatred is passed on. And who can blame them? While peace and love are the correct response to hatred, it is not an easy response by any means.”

How many men have kept their women down, tried to keep them at home, have become the handcuffs that the women fought against because they were answering to their own unarticulated primal instinct to keep them safe?

Natalie Rousseau speculates, “I am sure historically you had lots of husbands telling their wives to tone it down, not because they didn’t respect their power, but because they were genuinely afraid. I’d apply that to any women described as uppity — getting involved politically, or getting involved in local stuff that’s happening, fighting for the environment: Stop getting noticed so much. This could be dangerous.”

Some dangers are too great to be able to protect each other from. And so we turn the fight on each other — little domestic power-trips that distract us from the fact that we’ve relinquished all our power any way to the Great Machine.

* * *

My tentative inquiries into witchcraft, becoming fluent in my own moods and emotions, and paying attention to the seasons, barely prepared me for the abrupt slow-the-fuck-down order that came when COVID-19 landed in British Columbia, in my village, as school broke for spring break. The emergency handbrake was pulled. Everything came to a squealing stop — all my plans, canceled; all the stores, closing; the whole damn world, under house arrest and in a panic. The whiplash from the stunning speed of that shift has left my whole being hypersensitive to any sudden movement, to being jerked around. But the first things I have staked my trust in, in that space of uncertainty, were Natalie’s teachings: First, trust your body. Pause. Listen.

In self-imposed isolation with my husband and just-turned-7-year-old, I dance with anxiety and curiosity and disconnection and too-much-information. The well-trodden pathways we have all been racing along, flexing our power and exercising our entitlements as consumers, are suddenly bordered up with emergency tape. This invitation that Natalie has been dripping out, month after month, takes root. There is far more potency available to us, than shopping, driving, holidaying, consuming, endlessly moving around the planet.

There is potency in all the feelings that have been showing up at my door. Oh, good morning frustration. Ah grief, yes, I suppose you’d like a cup of tea. Hello there, existential terror, I wondered when you’d pop by. There is potency in sitting with my back against a huge cedar tree and listening, in slowing down so much that I can give my 7-year-old my full attention. There is potency even in my words, when I soothe him down from a tantrum by saying, “you know, this is a really hard time for everyone in the whole world right now because no one knows what’s going to happen and no one can play with their friends. I’m really proud of you.” And I can feel his body relax into this space of being acknowledged in his struggles and his efforts.

I don’t know if there are any medicinal properties in the tincture of St John’s Wort and valerian that I drop into water and hand my husband, to gentle his nervous system. Or in the jar of immune-boosting oxymel, that I brewed up with grated ginger and turmeric and orange peel, and shake every day. But even if it’s a placebo, there’s a relief for me in feeling I can do something, can offer my people some kind of healing intention in a little glass, that I can acknowledge that this is hard for my husband too, and that acknowledgment isn’t a concession that takes away from my own sense of struggle.

For decades, we’ve bought into the illusion that our power is as consumers. Now that stores are closing and the shelves are emptying and we have to stay home and not immediately indulge every whim that arises, we all feel powerless. But that was never our truest source of power. There’s another source that we can all plug back into, our deep relationship and interbeing with the life force. Maybe, this is our threshold moment. Maybe, this is a chance to craft a few little spells, to speak the words of the world we long to inhabit — a place where the currency of kindness and wonder flow, where humans return to a deep memory of belonging among the plants and creatures, and to brew up a cup of tea, light a candle, and dream it into existence. Maybe it’s an invitation to say, “I’m sorry, we didn’t mean to, I will try and be more careful,” and to build a little altar, even if you feel kind of cray cray doing it. Let your nervous system settle as you invent some small ritual, (just ask your inner 5-year-old for guidance, she probably remembers exactly what to do), and make a gesture of repair.

“I can’t think of anyone I’d rather have on my Apocalypse team,” I tell my husband, the night the global virus countertops 400,000. He’s been chopping wood, auditing the pantry, getting our kid across the finish line of the LEGO project that has absorbed him for four days. My husband was a farm kid. He’s always been practical, my polar opposite. Even when we have battled each other, (am I giving up too much of my power to him? If I acknowledge his pain and his needs, will that cancel mine out?) I’ve always known he would do anything to keep me safe. “Not that I can request an upgrade now,” I joke. “But I bet you’re glad to be stuck with me. One always wants a daydreamer at your side in a pinch.”

“Oh yeah,” he spoofs me: “’ The stock market is collapsing, let me just go check my Tarot cards.’”

We laugh. And hold each other. We can’t buy our way out of this. None of us. Our entire species, our global community, is being vividly reminded that we are all in this together, inextricably connected, epidemiologically entwined, in our vulnerability and our sweet potential. We didn’t need Amazon and airlines and online shopping to know what the witches have been telling us all this time. All the power we need is right here — between us, around us, within us. We just have to remember it.

* * *

Lisa Richarson

is a senior contributor to Coast Mountain Culture magazine and a columnist for Pique newsmagazine and edits the hyperlocal websites,

TheWellnessAlmanac.com

and

TracedElements.com.

She’s deep into a decade-long mission to slow the fuck down, but still optimize life for happiness and productivity. Born and raised in Australia, she has lived as a guest on the unceded territory of the Líl̓wat Nation since a ski vacation went rogue 20-odd years ago.

Editor: Carolyn Wells

Posted by

Lisa Richardson

on

April 8, 2020

https://longreads.com/2020/04/08/how-to-tell-your-husband-youre-a-witch/

[shes-an-oddbird]

So I’ve been working on this AOS fic basically on and off since season 4 and its massive and intricate and at some point I basically gave up on it all together because I didn’t think I’d ever be able to finish it. But then season seven rolled around, gave me inspiration to tie together some bits and I was motivated to try again. I still may never finish it, I’m going to try but even if I don’t there are bits and pieces I love and want to share. The month of October seemed appropriate given the theme of the fic so ideally I’ll post a little drabble from the fic each day.

This bit, which is less of a drabble and more of a prologue, if May’s P.O.V. as the arrive to the masquerade. And the whole thing is sort of a season 4 AU/Canon divergence

Welcome, to the Mad Science Masquerade!

You can never be sure if rain on the day of an op is going to be the key to success or the shovel they bury you with. As May tries to hear anything over the rumble of thunder or get a visual on anything through the sea of large umbrellas being held over the guests’ heads by an army of young men in matching tuxes, she decides that in this case it’s the latter. She smiles kindly at the kid who is doing his best to keep her and the train of her dress dry; although the umbrella does start to slip when he sees Daisy step out of the car behind them and it’s hard for her not to roll her eyes.

She tugs on Coulson’s arm where her hand is resting, looped gently through his elbow. He has started a conversation with the valet about Lola and she can hear his concentration slipping. “Honey, I’m getting wet.” She hates undercover. Somehow, they always end up like this.

Coulson wraps up his conversation quickly, apologizes to his ‘favorite girls’ and waves off the umbrella handlers who are prepared to escort them to the front entrance. “No need gentleman.” He hoists his arm above them and the prosthetic projects a shield, sans the SHIELD logo after Fitz had done some fiddling with it.

The shield expands to cover their party of three and May can finally get a clear view as those closest to them back up. “Better?” He asks her.

“Much.” She starts to pick out familiar faces from their research. Coulson is not the only one showing off their tech. FitzSimmons had said before that when minds like these get together they like to show off and, in the spirit of glamour, many had incorporated their tech into their attire for the evening. Expensive watches outfitted with forcefield projectors like Coulson’s. Metallic jewelry that reflected the low lights and distant lightening. Even her own dress had been designed to incorporate the cloaking tech and Daisy’s gauntlets, while scaled back and mostly hidden under the flowy sleeves of her dress, had been modified with subtle tech should the need to impress arise.

Just ahead of them she recognizes Fitz. Unlike others, and despite the fact that he’s cleared to be at the event, he already has a mask firmly set in place. She recognizes his stance though, and the particular way he fidgets. He’s fretting over something Radcliffe has said but that was a near constant state for them. There is a woman in a simple white gown standing next to them that she guesses is the assistant he insisted on bringing with them.

She turns her attention on to the building. The architecture is modern, white concrete and glass, and on a nice day against a sunny sky she is sure it impresses but in the warm rain and against the dark cloudy sky it looks like a tombstone.

They enter a grand foyer, Coulson’s shield flickers out above them and Daisy lets out a surprised gasp. The interior is comprised entirely of concrete and marble, glass and iron. Its sharp and innovative but something about it still feels rich and indulgent like no expense was spared on the materials and fixtures. Perhaps it’s because it’s been decorated to emphasis the eerie elegance of the mad science theme or its simply everyone in their masquerade gowns and glittering, glowing masks, regardless it’s still the most extravagant event she’s ever attended and she’d been to more than a few.

There is a heavily crowded bar to their left and a wall of windows and glass doors leading to an empty balcony on their right. Amongst the crowd by the bar she spots Simmons and Hunter. She thinks their decisions on how to team up had been wise. Certain pairs were meant to draw attention and others to fly under the radar, it was a strategy she believed in, but she worries over them in particular. Simmons, while an improved liar was everything prim and proper and logic and reason. Hunter on the other hand was a wildcard, emotional, crude and inappropriate but he was loyal and reliable. They might not be ideally suited to work together, the clashing would be inevitable, but at least she didn’t have to concern herself with Simmons wellbeing. They would protect each other, she suspects, the same way the siblings they would be portraying would.

“We should get a good look at the ballroom before everyone is in there.” Daisy suggests. May nods in agreement. Coulson steps ahead of them to push open one of the magnificent double doors. The ballroom is as vast as the entry is grand. From the entrance it seems to go on forever. Directly across from them is a large staircase leading up to the balcony that runs the perimeter of the room. Halfway up the stairs there is a landing that splits off into two. To one side, more large windows like those in the foyer, the outside balcony seems to wrap around that entire side of the building and overlooks the ocean.

Coulson bumps her wrist with his own and looks pointedly across the room. There are not many guests yet, but they are starting to pour in behind them, likely realizing there are more liquor and appetizers inside. Yo-yo and her team are already there, in a shadowy corner at one of the elaborately dressed tables. The three seem to be in conversation and May watches as Yo-yo points up at the ceiling. Above them is a magnificent chandelier that spans nearly the length of the ballroom’s dance floor. Its frame is wrought iron and geometric to match the rest of the contemporary design but it’s still draped in thousands of crystals. As they move across the room, a different angle on the fixture reveals different shapes and from just below she can see the double helix shape of a DNA strand.

Elena, Piper and Davis are playing their part well. Piper and Davis sit to either side of Elena in matching attire, while she sits between them looking unimpressed. Yo-yo’s disdain for formal wear is no secret and its working in their favor. Her futuristic jumpsuit looks more fashionable than robotic, but it is a fine line. They draw just the right amount of attention. Guests walk past their table and share whispers. They are curious but not openly so. Its exactly as they wanted.

May hears a collective gasp run through the room. Yes, things were definitely going as planned, despite her earlier concerns. She turns her eyes back on the grand staircase and at the landing, towering above the crowd are the last of their team. Mack and Bobbi are an intimidating pair to those who do know them and to those that don’t, well the star struck crowd spoke for itself. Mack stands tall and solid in his perfectly tailored tux. There are subtle hints of tech incorporated into his look but not in the gaudy way most of the men had gone for. Mostly he looks as though he is acting as Bobbi’s tether. Everything about her looked light and airy, as though she may float away in her voluminous white gown.

They are meant to draw the attention openly and loudly. It’s risky. Bobbi, like Hunter, should still be in hiding, but she had been more than happy to take the risk. Boredom of being on the run, May assumed. She’d keep an eye on her. That eagerness could lead to rash decisions but otherwise she felt good about the mission.

[gambissanctum]

PART 2 Black Lighting: The Book of Fortitude:Chapter one:Brandon’s Duplicity

Authors note: Here’s part 2 guys! I don’t know how long this “book” will be but everything within “ThebookofFortitude” will be tagged as such so you can find it.Ignore typos and weird wording I got kinda tired lol Enjoy!

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

Brandon’s apartment 

“Aye, you got a hoodie?” Jennifer asks as she stands up ready to investigate. “Yeah” Brandon replies running over to his closet grabbing two hoodies. He throws one over to Jennifer. They both zip up and put on the hoods trying to conceal their identities. Brandon opens the door and its chaos.Residents in the apartment complex  are evacuating while Brandon and Jennifer are going the opposite way. Brandon nods his head directing Jennifer to a staircase towards the end of the hall. They keep their heads down as they rush to the floor above them.Once they reach the floor its completely abandoned. There’s debris shattered around the halls and broken light fixtures. Jennifer takes the lead and walks forward looking for the location of the sounds. Brandon follows behind her. She walks two doors down and apartment 301’s door was completely kicked in. 

Jennifer motions for Brandon to come forward. She sees soldiers sprawled out on the floor.” Yo, Jenn be careful” Brandon says as Jennifer gets closer to one of the bodies. A few of the soldiers have their helmets missing. Jennifer inspects their faces. Their eyes are completely black and there seems to be prominent black veins covering their faces.”Looks like Markovians”she says. “Maybe we should go” Brandon insists.”Hold on” Jennifer stalls as she squints to get a better look.”It looks like some kinda venom” she says turning to Brandon. “Jenn” Brandon says trying to get Jennifer to come back to his apartment with him. “You scared?” Jennifer asks chuckling. “No!” Brandon says unconvincingly. “It’s just not safe, how do you know they are really all dead?” Brandon questions. Jennifer lets out a sigh.”I can see electrical impulses, trust me I know the difference…...I can feel it”. Brandon looks saddened by that new insight. A vibration comes from Jennifer’s back pocket. She reaches back and grabs her phone. “ Ugh, it’s my dad” Jennifer huffs. “I gotta go but you think you’ll be okay without me?” she questions. “Come on, you’ve seen what I can do” he assures her. Jennifer rolls her eyes “uh huh”.

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

Anissa’s Loft

Anissa and Grace are in the kitchen area. Anissa is holding Grace from the back as she cooks some breakfast.”Shonda, play Never Too Much by Luther Vandross”.Anissa tells to her smart house. The record starts to play throughout the loft. Grace chuckles as she places a lid on the food she cooked. Anissa starts to sing along to the track holding Grace’s hands. “oooooohhh my love....a thousand kisses from you is never tooo muchhh”. Anissa sings. They both start to dance and laugh. “Let me see what you got! Grace  says as she shimmies her shoulders.”You don’t know nothing about this!” Anissa breaks out the robot and turns around in a circle. “Woooowww! I hope don’t!” Grace laughs. Their gazes are fixed on one another while Grace bites her lip. Grace felt safe and happy....very happy.... so happy that at times she was scared to be so happy.She felt like as soon as she really got into the groove of being comfortable in the feeling, it might get taken away. But for now she was trying to just live in the moment. Anissa pulls her closer grasping Grace’s booty. “Don’t start nothin you can’t finish” Grace teases. “Oh you know I can finish it” Anissa says confidently while kissing Grace’s neck.

 The music turns down as there’s a knock on the door.” Gambi knocks on Anissa’s door again. “ Anissa, your uncle Gambi is at the door” Shonda announces. Anissa and Grace roll their eyes as their moment is interrupted. ”Shonda, pause music, open front door” she says. Gambi walks through the door with a briefcase and looks at them both. “Am I interrupting something?” Gambi asked. Anissa and Grace glance at each other and smile.They consecutively and sarcastically say “Nope”. Gambi gets the hint. “Sorry to interrupt but I have some important news but first Anissa how are you feeling?” Gambi asks. Anissa is looking much healthier than before her run in with painkiller. Anissa responds  “Honestly a hell of a lot better, between whatever it was you gave me and Grace helping me... I’m feeling a lot more like myself.” 

 Gambi nods and brings the briefcase with a computer inside over to the table. “I’m glad to hear that because it seems that we might have a problem that hits close to home that we may need you to help with.” Gambi explains. “What do you mean?” Anissa questions. “Remember how I said the venom was ten times more potent than a sample I had before? Well it took some time but I was able to match the samples.” Gambi taps the screen revealing information about the sample and a digital photo of Khalil. Anissa hesitated with her response.”Why is there a picture of Khalil?”.“Khalil like your sister’s boyfriend that passed?” Grace furrows her brows. “That’s what I mean.... I was able to match the molecular structures with the sample I already had from one of his darts. Anissa it’s match.” he explains.” “But we buried him!” Anissa shakes her head in disbelief.“ And I know that, so heres the other thing.... I went by the graveyard Anissa... and.... he’s not there.The plot is empty.” He explains sternly. “Someone dug him up? Why would he attack me?” Anissa’s mind thinks of a million questions. “Not just someone, my thoughts point to Odell, and the why I’m still trying to figure out.More then likely with what he did to you, Odell has weaponized him to do his bidding.” He explains further.” “Does Jenn know? My dad? Mom?” Anissa asks. “ Your mom and dad know. I haven’t had it in me to tell Jennifer, your mom said she would talk to her today.I just wanted to warn you and Grace. Although Odell is still recovering I’m sure he has contingency plans so be very careful.

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

Brandon’s apartment

Brandon sits at his computer desk looking at a map. He presses the escape button and there’s photos of Khalil and Jennifer. As if he’s been doing some research on them, particularly Khalil. He gets a text message from Jennifer.

 TEXT BEGIN

Jennifer: Hey, you good?

Brandon: I told you, i’m good.I can handle myself lol

Jennifer: hmmm Just checking. It’s been like a week.Didn’t know if whatever that was came back looking for you or something.

Brandon: Nope, I’m good. You still coming by today?

Jennifer: I can’t. My mom wants me to do something but maybe later if it doesn’t take forever.

Brandon: Aight, bet

TEXT END

-------

Pierce Residence:

Lynn walks in as Jefferson is headed down the stairs. The tension is heavy between them. He looks over at her wanting to talk. “Lynn-”Jefferson is interrupted. “Jefferson, if this is not about our daughter, I don’t wanna talk about it. I already have to have a very difficult conversation with her today. So this... whatever this is between us is gonna have to wait.” She snaps. She walks further in the house. “Jennifer!”she yells out. Jefferson rolls his eyes and throws up his hands. His face is almost healed from the beating he took at the school. He didn’t want to argue with Lynn at-least not now. She gets closer to the staircase and calls out “Jennifer” once more. Jennifer yells “coming” from her room upstairs. As Lynn turns to head back towards the door a small valve falls from her pocket. She doesn’t notice but Jefferson does. Jefferson reaches down to pick up the valve as Lynn is looking towards the door awaiting Jennifer. Jennifer rushes down stairs. “Ready?” Lynn asks Jennifer. “Lynn?” Jefferson says confused about all the recent animosity coming from her lately.Lynn ignores him and rushes Jennifer out the door. Jefferson looks at Lynn and Jennifer get in the car wondering how things got back to this point. He closes the door and bangs his fist angrily. His eyes illuminate and the lights in the house flicker.He inspects the valve with a green substance inside in his hand. “Is this....?”

-----------

Car

Jennifer and Lynn walk towards the car. Jennifer see’s a figure in the backseat. “uh, mom?” Jennifer says. “It’s okay, it’s Gambi.” Lynn explains. Since Gambi is still thought of as dead to the outside world he is using the cloaking device he created allowing him to take the form of a ASA agent. “Mom, what’s this about?” Jennifer questions. “I’ll explain, just get in the car”Lynn says checking over her shoulder. They both get in the car and Lynn starts to drive.

 “ You guys are acting super weird, what’s going on?” Jennifer asks searching for a motive. “Well sweetie-” Lynn stops, searching for the right words to say. “What? Did someone else die? That seems to be an every day thing now. Just tell me I can take it.” Jennifer affirms. “Jenn, It’s not that.....”Gambi takes a breath.. “.Lynn you have to tell her.” “Well, you know I’ve been working a lot at the lab and how your sister had a run in with a meta trying to bring back Tavon. Well we connected the venom sample to someone.”Lynn explains .“Okay?” Jennifer shrugs. “We connected it to..... Khalil......The DNA matches..it took some work but Odell has been hiding him at the lab for some time now.I hadn’t seen anything like it before.” Lynn struggles to get it out. “What! Mom, Khalil’s dead! Is this a joke?” Jennifer snaps. “Baby calm down,I...know...this is alarming news but were being 100 percent  honest with you...I haven’t quite figured out how they did this but what I do know is Khalil isn’t like he use to be.There’s a chip thats been implanted in him and I haven’t figured out how to remove it without damaging his brain or whatever’s left of it. “So, he’s alive? I can’t handle this right now” Jennifer yells. “Yes and....I’ve finally stabilized him enough for him not to try to kill us”.Lynn expresses. “What?!”Jennifer eyes light up.”Baby girl, I know...I know... this sounds crazy. It’s like some Lazarus project, gone wrong but try to calm down, at-least until we get to the lab.” “That’s where we’re going? you’re taking me to him?!” Jennifer questions. “Yes, put this on, you may be his last hope. ” Gambi replies with an empathetic tone. He hands Jennifer a cloaking device.

-----------

The lab

“While agent Odell is in the hospital I have a little more free rein in the lab.We still have to keep this under wraps though.” Lynn states to Jenn and Gambi. “This hall is secret and the only area that I know the ASA agents don’t have access to without Odell.With him in the hospital I made sure the cameras in the room aren’t functioning.”

Gambi and Jennifer turn off their cloaking devices.

Lynn takes Jennifer to the side briefly. “Are you sure you can handle this?”.Jennifer nods taking a deep breath. “I just wanna see him.” Lynn gestures okay as she presses a button on her lab pad opening the door. 

Painkiller is laying down in a relaxed state wearing nothing but grey shorts.They walk in and he sits up. It was like he was in a trance. “Dr.Stewart” he says nonchalantly.

Jennifer couldn’t believe it. The initial sight of him sent a surge of feelings through her. It was like she was seeing a ghost. She felt like she was waiting for her heart to catch up to her eyes .Her heart was in a dark place and she wanted to make sure this wasn’t a dream. She didn’t know if she could handle it if it wasn’t.Jennifer and Khalil stare at each other briefly. His glare was cold and almost lifeless.Jennifer gets teary eyed as she approaches Khalil. “Be careful” Lynn warns her. “I gave him something to subdue him but the chip is still functioning,” she explained.Even the way he blinked was robotic. Jennifer touches his face. “I can’t believe this” Jennifer cries observing his face. Lynn and Gambi look at each other empathizing for Jennifer.Jennifer’s tears flood her face. “What did they do to you?” Jenn voice cracks. Khalil looks puzzled at the emotional reactions of Jennifer. Khalil stares at her trying to gather any memory of her. “Do I know you?” Painkiller asks with a slight attitude. Jennifer’s heartbreaks at his words.She knew he wasn’t himself but this was a lot to handle.The disappointment read strong on her face. She had hoped maybe their connection was strong enough to trigger something for him. “You really don’t remember me?” Jennifer inquires.

photocredit @blacklightningriverdalerants​

Will Jennifer be able to help Khalil? Is he gone forever? What’s Brandon up to? find out in part 3.

Thanks for reading! Remember comments, reblogs and likes are appreciated!

[amethyst-noir]

If you want to create a bit of a mini story with the cuddling - 8, 9, 10 (like a progression from 'tolerating each other' to 'friends' to 'partners'). I'm not 100% sure if that beginning interests you but I thought I'd throw the idea out anyway :) (and no worries if it doesn't!)

Oh, I’m very interested! I have tons of ideas of the two of them starting on not quite friendly terms but still getting together in the end. I just haven’t written one of those yet. I hope you like this little thing. 💝

💫

8. Reluctantly

Tony didn’t want to, he really didn’t. Apart from a few harsh words there hadn’t been any contact between the asshole wizard and him since the day Thanos was finally dead and gone for good. A couple of accusations, a rather one-sided screaming match where Tony let out his frustrations of the last few decades of his life and a rather withdrawn Strange asshole who had taken the verbal abuse with a stoic face and barely any reaction. Apart from a cold “there was no other way”. The memory alone made Tony’s blood boil all over again.

But… there was more to Strange than the asshole persona he projected almost as skillfully as Tony himself. Looking at him right now, exhausted after using his magic to save the Avenger’s collective asses, he was just a man. A man who looked rather more beat-down than he should, considering the had just saved the day and a ton of people. Instead of taking his well-deserved praises and thanks he was huddling as far away as possible from all the others, wrapped up in his mysterious Cloak and looking rather miserable.

And nobody but Tony even looked into his direction. It was unfair. Everything in Tony screamed to get his ass over there and ask the guy if he was okay. He once again checked if anyone else was available to do it but no. As always, the unpleasant task fell to him.

Let’s get this over with, he told himself. “Hey, Strange!” he wanted to call. “Hey, Stephen, you okay?” came out of his mouth instead. He could have kicked himself but the surprised and wary way the man looked up told Tony that he’d said the right thing for once.

“Tony?”

He sounded so small and almost broken that all misgivings fled in a heartbeat. “What’s wrong?” Tony noticed how his voice got automatically lower and more soothing, just like it had done back on Titan, years ago. “You’re not hurt, are you?”

A shake of the head. “Just exhausted,” Stephen whispered. “This,” he vaguely gestured around, “took a lot out of me.” It had, he looked like hell, something Tony hadn’t really noticed before.

Tony had seen him do more with less aftereffects. Hell, the guy was even shivering, despite it being rather warm. Cold or shock? Tony asked himself, already moving. “Hey, don’t collapse here. It’s gonna be hell on your back.” Stephen just watched him lethargically as he sat down beside him. Fuck it, Tony decided after moment. Why not?

There wasn’t any protest as he put an arm around Stephen’s too thin waist and gently drew him closer. There wasn’t one when Tony shifted them around and put his other arm around him. There was barely any reaction when Tony finally embraced him fully. Finally, after some moments of tense waiting, Stephen took a deep breath and relaxed into the hold.

“Sorry.” Tony could barely hear him speak, despite their nearness.

“Shh. Don’t be. We all need this from time to time. That’s what friends are here for.” Funny, he’d never even thought about Stephen in a friendly way but now he couldn’t imagine to not want to comfort the man when he needed it.

There were no more words. Tony watched the sun set, while Stephen shivered in his arms and calmed himself down from whatever horrors haunted his mind.

💫

9. Totally platonic

“Yes!”

The loud shout was the first thing Stephen heard after FRIDAY had opened the door into Tony’s workshop for him. It still blew his mind that he was on the “let him in any time he wants, doesn’t matter if I’m around or not list”. A very carefully selected group of people like Colonel Rhodes and the one and only Pepper Potts. Plus one lonely sorcerer who shouldn’t be on it but had been more or less dragged there by Tony himself after the man had decided to adopt Stephen as a friend.

Sometimes, he still looked around in search of the wrong turn he’d taken to land in another dimension that was pretty much like his original one - only better. Because Tony Stark couldn’t accept a no (or ten) Stephen now had friends apart from Wong and a place to hang out apart from Kamar-Taj and the Sanctum. It was pretty great, actually.

“What have you done now?” he called in greeting. “Solved the mysteries of the universe for good?”

He got a laugh for that. “No, I’m leaving that one to you, oh mysterious Master of the Mysteries. Here, let me show you.” Tony was by his side and dragging him towards the big holographic screen that dominated the workshop. “Look,” he breathed.

Stephen did. The looked, he stared, he saw traces of his own work and he understood. The next thing he did was hugging the breath out of Tony. “You did it!”

Tony clung back just as hard, laughing along with Stephen. “We did it,” he corrected breathlessly. “This is going to change so many lives.”

Stephen took half a step back to once again look at the display and the promise it held. “Restructuring and re-growing damaged nerves,” he whispered in awe, not noticing that his right hand was still gripping Tony’s underarm or that Tony’s left arm was still around his waist.

💫

10. Totally romantic

“Who’s going to lead?” Tony was already breathless, hair mussed and beautiful eyes glassy with alcohol and happiness.

“Does it matter?” Stephen asked, feeling carefree and happy like he hadn’t in years. Possible decades.” In the middle of the dancing floor he could see May lead her brand-new husband into their first dance together. Happy lived up to his name like never before, Stephen decided.

In answer, Tony put his hands on Stephen’s hips while Stephen put his on Tony’s shoulders. The elevated position was better for his hands and besides, Tony loved to hold him like that. Like in so many other things it was a match made in heaven.

“I love you,” Tony murmured, letting go of even the pretense of dancing, snuggled closer to Stephen and put his head on Stephen’s shoulder. “So damn much.”

Stephen drew him closer into an almost protective embrace, determined to keep him safe forever. “I love you, too,” he whispered back, resting his cheek against Tony’s head.

It wasn’t a dance, just some swaying while being entwined as tightly as two separate bodies could get.

The picture of his two friends and almost-father figures being happy and in love was still one of Peter’s favorites. The print he gifted them with became a fixture in the Sanctum, protected by layers of magic to keep it pristine for centuries to come.

🦋

Oh, this was a fun one! Thank you for the challenge. There’s an outtake (that shows the transition from friends to partners/lovers) concerning Tony’s discovery and Stephen’s hands that will be posted soon. I have to figure out the ending first.

I’ll get to all the cuddling asks you have sent my way, never fear. I’ll try to do one per day until I run out of asks and depending on how many of the list are still left by that point I might do the rest. Thank you for indulging me and my extreme love for Tony and Stephen cuddling with each other. 💗

[mirrordoppelganger]

[Drabble]: Stone Mother

It was the dead of night as Corven approached the temple doors. He wore a heavy cloak, hiding his wings away under the fabric to avoid people’s eyes. His jewelry had been tucked away as well, making himself look as small as he could. The from knocker was clacked to the metal three times as he waited, hoping someone would answer. But he wasn’t expecting for anyone to, it was so late.

So it was a surprise when a young woman did answer, peeking out from behind the heavy door. Her robes were a familiar deep purple, her dark hair in an unbound braid over her shoulder. “Ehm, hello child,” She began, “What brings you to the Temple of Medusa at this hour..?”

“Sanctuary and prayer.” He said, as he’d recited it earlier, though it made him gag to say he’d be offering a prayer of all things. “May I enter, Priestess?”

The door was tugged open, the woman waving him in. “Of course, please enter!”

Corven looked about the stone temple--a structure half carved into a cave, with torches filling the whole place in a warm, lavender glow. Perhaps that was the goddess’ touch on this place. He wouldn’t know; he never cared much for temples. Eyes looked onward, where he could see a statue missing it’s head, with near completely missing wings. Seemed to have been a woman by the body, as he stepped closer.

The priestess closed the door, adding on an iron slat that covered it over. She approached the teen, hands folded close to her chest. “...Her statue wasn’t like this three decades ago. It was once quite glorious, I’m told…” She appeared to wipe the beginnings of a tear from her eyes. “She is still with us, but she was...her form was destroyed in battle a short while ago.” Her hands met again, “Give her time; she shall answer your prayers, even in her weakened state.”

Corven just nodded to the woman. A show of understanding. “Right,” She went towards the area behind the statue, with a gesture to follow. The angel did so at his own pace, tailing towards a more…”homey” room, he supposed. Fewer flames, yet it was just warm enough to sleep comfortably. There wasn’t anybody else present.

Except for the snakes, and statue of Medusa.

Corven looked just a little concerned. “Ah, don’t fret--they’re all non-venomous,” The priestess plucked an awake one from the ground. It flicked it’s tongue at him. “See? Harmless.”

She began to leave, letting the snake down. “As there’s just yourself and I tonight, please make yourself comfortable. If you require food, there’s jars in the corners. And if you need any assistance,” She gestured towards a bit down the hall, “Just come and knock, alright?”

“Of course.” Corven looked around the room. “...Thank you.” Was added a moment after. The woman just smiled, closing the door as she left. Now he was all alone, here in the temple of a goddess.

Corven let examined the statue before him. He knew it was Medusa. Though unlike the stone fixture in the front of the temple, this one still had her head--bowed, with a soft smile as she looked out over the room. Thin “strands” of marble obscured a bit of her face. Her arms were placed on her lap. And, too, just like the front, her wings were broken.

He took a seat next to the statue--as if he would ask to be seated--and he let his dark wings stretch out as he pulled his cloak off, folding it in his lap. Corven’s lips pursed as he tried to think.

“...I...don’t know why I came here…”

What was he even doing here then..?

“...I think it’s a closure thing. Or…”

Maybe it was deprivation? Like he was deprived of something important.

Corven put his face in his hands, taking a few deep breaths. His wings shook a bit.

Why was he letting himself open up? To a statue of all things?

“I…” He turned his head, shining eyes looking at the marble face beside him. 

“...I don’t hate you.” He knew he didn’t--he didn’t hate the goddess who had a hand in his very being. “...I hate…” Unwavering obedience. Obeying. Pit’s unwavering obedience and blind, directionless life. “...That name. ‘Dark Pit’. And...Pandora…And that you...expected me to obey you. Both of you did, and...” He hate it. He hated Pandora.

They were who put that name in his head. Medusa put the history in his head. Pandora injected her expectations in his head.

“...I’m Corven,” He ran his fingers through his hair while staring down the statue, “not a Pit.”

Vague memories of angels long past.

“...Your angels were rebellious and free. Is that why you didn’t hunt me down..?” He looked at one of the torches. “...Pandora tried to make me just like Pit. A parrot. Did you want that..?”

He was gutsy, asking all of this. But what did he have to fear? She couldn’t do anything if she wanted to, if she was even there; her body was destroyed. Her powers were reduced.

Besides, Corven had never been afraid to be upfront. Why start now?

The dark angel squinted his eyes as he started to feel tired. The warmth of the room was getting to him, and he’d been awake for a while, traversing here on foot. It hadn’t felt necessary to call Phos and Lux. He was regretting that a bit now.

Corven leaned back against the wall, taking a deep breath as he tried to let the tension out of his body. He was tired. Tired of today. And tomorrow would be even more tiresome. Approaching Viridi and becoming a Force of Nature...it made a knot form in his stomach just thinking about it. He didn’t want to be in service to her. He didn’t want to be in service to anyone, and yet…

The angel brought his legs up close while his head went back. A few tears burned his eyes before they rolled down his cheeks, drifting off to sleep between silent sobs.

…. …….. ……………..

“Fly me to the moon~ Let me play among the stars~ Let me see what spring is like~ On Jupiter and on Mars~”

...The voice was soothing. As gentle as the hands that brushed through his hair, as he’d imagined a mother would to her panicked child to bring them ease.

“Fill my heart with song~ And let me sing for-ever more~ You are all I long for~ All I hoped for and adore~ In other words, please be true~ In other words, I love you~”

She was humming to him, a break in the song. A thumb lightly pressed against his cheek, wiping away traces of tears. He felt so tiny, yet...safe.

“Fill my heart with song~ Let me sing for ever more~ You are all I long for~ All I wished for and adore~ In other words, please be true~ In other words, in other words~ I Love You…”

……

Corven slowly was roused from sleep, feeling stiff as anyone would be by sleeping on stone.

...Or in his case, slowly rising and realizing he’d ended up on the statue’s lap at some point in the night, his cloak a makeshift pillow. Had...Medusa willed him to there..?

Was that who sang to him?

...Made sense.

The angel got to his feet, moving about and taking a bit of the food the priestess had mentioned. Must have been offering food they’d preserved.

Wings were tucked down once again as Corven slipped on the cloak, feeling the Lightning Whistle dangle under his toga. Viridi. Off to Viridi. It felt like a death march, like he was going to get stuck, maybe he wasn’t going to be allowed the freedom he sought as soon as he entered. What if Viridi turned on him. What if…

Red eyes darted around as anxiety and dread filled him. He couldn’t, he couldn’t, find a focus, something, he was going to, and he didn’t--

He met eyes with the stone statue. Calm eyes that suggested patience. Be calm, they said. I’m watching, they said.

Corven slowly steadied his breathing. Cracks had long since formed across his skin. Repair before he went to Viridi. He would be alright. He would be alright.

He began to step towards the doorway, pausing immediately to turn to the statue of Medusa. He...hesitated, before lightly, barely touching the statue’s arm. “...Thank you.” Was said quietly before the angel hurried off, saying a brief goodbye to the priestess. When outside of the city limits, the Lightning Chariot was summoned, streaking across the early morning skyline.

[aeivyen]

Master and Apprentice

Okay, so I know I'm only on chapter 10 (Asra's route) of my first play through of The Arcana but like, I'm really feeling this theory/headcanon of mine that MC was Asra's Master before they lost their memory, and that it took a little bit before they were both in the same place and Asra could see what happened to them. So, to that end, here are a few scenes I keep thinking about with them.

Asra hung his head, morose as I went through my bag one last time before heading out again. The expression sent pangs of guilt off in my chest, but I took a breath and forced a soft smile. "Are you ready to head back to the palace, Asra?"

"I want to go with you." He answered back, arms crossed lightly over his chest, avoiding my eyes. This brought a sigh to my breath, and I set the satchel aside before closing the distance.

"Asra," I touched his arm, but his posture didn't change, so I decided to cup his face instead and bring his gaze to mine that way. I could feel the blush under my fingertips as he went red from his cheeks to his temples. "I know you do."

"I'm ready, Ivara-"

"I know that, too," I sighed, interrupting his protests and squishing his cheeks, just slightly. "I've known longer than I care to admit. I was just -- afraid. I don't want you to get hurt." I bit my lip, shaking my head, then released my hold on him. "But you're strong, I know you are."

"Then why can't I come now? I want to be with you."

"I know. But with everything that's going on -- Asra, you're the one I trust most to keep an eye on things here. I'll be back, soon, and once everything has calmed we'll head out together. I promise."

I offer a wan smile, but he doesn't seem consoled. I run my hands over his shoulders, smoothing the fabric of the tunic Nadia insisted he wear for his stay. "Before we go, I would cherish a reading from you, and that deck you made. Just to get an idea of what to expect before we meet up again."

"Okay." He nods glumly, guiding me into the back room and retrieving the Arcana from their velvet pouch, shuffling and laying the cards out to read. I watch his aura as he does so, and he's about to flip the first card when I stop him.

"Asra." As always, he chills and freezes, nervous, and I take his hand to soothe him. "Its alright. Just tell me -- what question are you asking them, hm?"

"I -- about your journey, like you asked," he answered back, then frowned and sighed when I kept my gaze level on him. "If things will be alright, if you'll keep your promise, if I'm going to disappoint you,"

"Its alright. Take a deep breath, Asra; you are not going to disappoint me."

"But --"

"Trust yourself, and trust your intuition. You're a great magician, and I know you're ready for this." He does as I ask, a few times, and I watch his aura calm. "That's it. You may continue, so long as you're honest about what you're asking."

Death is a worrying answer, no matter which question he ended up asking. Asra takes it with frayed nerves, but I spin it to calm his apprehension. A fresh start. We only need to keep our eyes open for some truth we didn't have before -- something that will change our mission so drastically that it will require a new start, a different approach.

His nerves haven't calmed much by the time we part, but I cannot delay longer. I trust my intuition. However rocky things may be in the interim, I know they will turn out alright.

Even though it is still morning, the market is already bustling with activity, sending chaotic waves to spin inside my head. I feel sick, but I can't be certain if it's the crowd's doing, or simply my empty stomach. I count out the few coins left in my pocket -- just enough for bread, I hope. I don't know what I will do if it isn't, or after I spend them, for that matter. How did I earn these, anyway?

Steeling myself, I venture in, tucked inside my threadbare cloak for any semblance of protection, trying to follow the smell of baking. It feels like forever passes with no sign of a baker, and my head starts to hurt from the endless barrage of foreign energy.

Then, something familiar. A strong energy finds me in the crowd, but this one steadies me on my feet, drawing me towards rather than away from it. I follow obediently to a nook set slightly away from the rest of the market, curtained with velvet and resplendent with light-catching fixtures and delicate embroidery.

A fortune-teller? Hopefully, at least, someone kind enough to direct me to the baker, or let me sit and rest a moment away from the din of the market.

I part the curtain cautiously, peeking inside in case he has a client, but the only one I see is a young witch with curled, pearlescent hair, dressed in colorful, draping clothes. He looks up as I let myself further in, eyes going wide. "Ivara?"

The cards collected in his hands tumble away in his shock, and I freeze where I am. How does he know my name? I can't find my words, so I get down to help collect them, trembling. They radiate so much energy, and even though it's the same eerily familiar type that drew me here, it almost hurts to touch them.

I want to remember this place, if I might have been to see this fortune teller before, but even the thought of trying sends a stabbing pain radiating through my temples, and I can't even try to be helpful anymore. 

When I can think again he’s beside me, rubbing my back, coaching me through breathing with a soft, comfortable voice. “Are you okay?”

I shake my head. I am not, but it takes another moment still to find my voice; how long has it been since I’ve spoken aloud, I wonder? “P-please, I -- can I stay in here for a moment? I don’t have any money, but it’s so -- I’ll leave as soon you have another customer, or cannot bear me, please,”

“It’s alright.” He soothed, face deep in a frown when I glance up at him, only to fall neutral once he sees me looking. “Stay as long as you need, Ivara.”

“H-How do you know my name?” I ask, “have we met before?”

He retreats. “I’m, well, I’m a magician.” He says, and it’s the only answer he offers. Since he’s being hospitable, I don’t press the issue, lying my head against the ground, listening to him clean up the rest of the fallen cards as I let the warmth of this place radiate through me -- like a warm blanket for my frazzled aura. “I’m Asra.”

“It’s a pleasure to meet you.” I croak back, eyes closed.

“Can I get you anything?”

“If you have water to spare, I would be eternally grateful.” I answer, and next I know I hear him set a cup down next to me. Sitting up, I can’t help but drink with relish, downing the glass almost in one gulp and hearing my stomach gurgle at the sudden influx. “Thank you, Asra.”

“Do you need more? Or food?”

Biting my lip, I glance away, “I -- please,” my face goes hot up to my ears as he turns to dig in a satchel of his, and I shake my head. “No, I mean -- I can’t pay you, I don’t want to be a burden.”

“I have plenty.” He answers back, offering a strained smile as he sets half a loaf of cold bread, and some gathered berries and nuts in front of me. “Please.”

I pick at a berry gently, before taking it; I’m too hungry to turn down the offer, now that the food is right here. “I could never thank you enough.” 

“It’s not necessary.” He shakes his head, watching me closely. “What brought you here?”

“I-I don’t know. It just felt -- right,” I admitted, struggling to attach words to the sentiment. “I’m sorry if I’m --”

“You’re alright. It’s alright.” He nodded quickly. “You can stay longer, if you want. If finding me felt right, well, maybe there’s a reason? You should trust your intuition.” He nods, bites his lip.

“Thank you, but I -- I really don’t know.” There’s a rustle of the velvet, and I hear two people just outside, arguing about whether or not to get their fortunes told. “I’m sorry, I’ll leave, so I don’t --”

“No, please. You’re here for a reason, I --” he shakes his head, catching me by my wrist but not holding on, energy chaotic and sending a bout of dizziness through me. “Please, you could -- be my apprentice?”

He attempts calm, but there’s something beneath the semblance that blazes through me painfully, and I’m not sure what’s going on before I reflexively mutter an answer. “I -- okay.”

“Really? Good, good. Please, I’ll tell them we’re busy with lunch.”

“Okay.”

[acenancy]

I Think It’s About Old Friends

This is literally a week late and I am SO sorry. I’m legit the worst Secret Santa ever. But work and family has finally freed me (for now, anyway), so here is the fic I owed you days ago, @jerememeknox! Beware: I haven’t read or written Jily in years, so who knows if this makes sense. Also, I wanted to add a lot more and at least edit this, but alas! Time is not on my side. Maybe I’ll go back and clean this up on my day off? I hope you like this, despite everything, babe. Heads up, @thewritingcrew!

(ao3)

Rated: T Word Count: 7,961 Fandom: Harry Potter Pairing: Jily

1971

Not once since she met him has Lily found James Potter funny. Not when James convinced Emmeline Vance brooms are ridden bristle-side front, not when he jinxed his own friend Sirius’ feet to dance all through History of Magic, and certainly not any of the times Severus was caught at the wrong end of James’ buffoonery.

Lily has never even chuckled. Never even cracked a smile.

But when she steps into Charms the week before Christmas and candy canes are floating around the classroom, dangling themselves over light fixtures and fingers and long hooked noses, Lily can’t help the tug that pulls at the corners of her lips; nor can she stop the breathy laugh that escapes her when a candy cane loops itself behind the shell of her ear.

“Isn’t this wonderful?” Marlene asks, sidling up beside her

Lily’s eyes follow Frank Longbottom as he jogs between desks, a candy cane chasing after him. The shrieking laughter of her classmates cottons Lily’s ears. The sticky skin of crystallized sugar bumps against her hand.

“It’s...” Lily blinks at the sight of her classroom, dressed red and white around her. She can’t think of a word to describe the warm feeling this small bit of magic has filled her with.

“It was James,” Marlene tells her, nudging Lily with her elbow, “and Sirius and Remus and Peter. But it was James’ idea.”

And as though his name alone conjures him, Lily meets James’ eye across the room, through the throng of sugar he’s made dance in the air. He grins at her, lopsided, and only then does Lily remember to wipe the smile off her face. She replaces it with a scowl that she knows does not meet her eyes. Her small act of defiance is only cause for him to grin wider.

“It’s a nuisance,” Lily mumbles, pointedly averting her gaze from James. She pushes the candy bouncing in front of her out of her way before marching to her desk. “How are we supposed to get anything done with these things flying around?”

Marlene groans behind Lily, then snatches a candy cane from thin air and points it at her. “You need to stop being such a Snooge, Lily.”

“Do you mean Scrooge?”

“I mean you need to lighten up.” Marlene sticks the cane in her mouth and continues to speak around it. “You don’t have to hate good things just because James Potter made them happen.”

Lily responds by flicking a candy cane from her desk to the floor.

Marlene rolls her eyes, groans again, then slinks away.

Lily tries her hardest to ignore the candy cane debacle all throughout class, but it can’t be avoided when they’re dismissed and something taps her shoulder. Turning around, Lily comes face to face with James, who is looking at her from over his glasses, smirking, holding out a candy cane.

“Forget to take one, Evans?” he asks.

Vision trained on his offering, unimpressed, Lily shakes her head. “Nah, I didn’t.”

She almost laughs again when she walks away and hears James yell “you’re a real Snooge, Evans!” after her.

*

1972

It’s always been obvious to James that Remus is a werewolf.

He eats his meat dripping blood, becomes sickly one week each month, disappears during every full moon, and, while he isn’t a terrible liar, he can only make up so many stories to cover his tracks before the excuses become outrageous.

“Tell me again why you won’t be around next week?” James asks, careful to keep his voice low in the empty corridor.

Remus tugs James’ invisibility cloak more snugly around his shivering form. “We’re celebrating Christmas a week early,” he says.

“And why’s that?”

“Family tradition.”

James huffs. “What kind of tradition is that?”

“I just told you,” Remus says. “A family one.”

James snorts, disturbing the piece of cloak falling across his face. It bothers him that Remus doesn’t trust him with his secret, but James doesn’t push the subject. If Remus chooses to tell him and the others, he’ll do it on his own time. Until then though, all James can do is enjoy his friends awful fibs and sneak him to the kitchens for chocolate when he can.

And sneaking to the kitchens is exactly what they’re doing.

As they lurk along the halls, the topic of conversation changes to quidditch, then pranks, then how much oil they could wring from Snape’s hair; then, before they know it, they’ve tickled the pear and stepped into the kitchens.

Their conversation comes to an abrupt halt, however, when they snuck inside and see Lily Evans sharing a plate of gingerbread cookies with a house elf. At the creak of the door, she spins around from where she sits atop a bar stool. Her eyes narrow when she sees no one there.

“Hello?” she calls. Her sight is set dead upon James, and he swears the intensity of it will burn a hole straight through his cloak.

“Dinky thinks it just be a ghost, miss,” says the house elf. “The ghosts always opening Dinky’s door.”

Slowly, James closes the door behind them. Remus chuckles at the suspicious expression Lily wears as she watches it seemingly shut on its own.

“I think there are some things about this world I’ll never get used to,” she admits to Dinky, eventually turning back to the elf with a frustrated sigh.

“Dinky thinks Miss Lily is just fine. Dinky thinks Miss Lily is the best witch she knows.”

At that, Lily laughs, and James wonders how he could have spent almost two years around her, never having heard it before. The sound of it vibrates in his chest, tickling his heart, igniting sparks of confusion in his twelve year old boy brain.

“I didn’t know Evans knew how to laugh,” James whispers to Remus.

Remus shakes his head, fixing James with tired eyes. “She’s the smartest witch in our year,” Remus reminds him. “She knows how to do a lot of things.”

Frowning, James elbows Remus in the side, urging him to skirt the edges of the room. They proceed to raid the kitchens as discreetly as possible, searching for chocolate that evades them. All the while, James keeps an ear open to Lily’s conversation with Dinky the House Elf, listening to her speak in a way he never has before.

Lily has only ever spoken to James with agitation and biting words, but he still knows she’s a good person, in a vague sort of way. She looks after Remus when he’s not feeling well and patiently tutors Peter who can be thick as a rock when he wants to be; apparently she spends her nights sharing gingerbread cookies with house elves too, which is thoughtful if not a little lame. And she only has nice things to say about Marlene McKinnon who’s a real crab to most people, and Mary MacDonald who is so sugary sweet it makes everyone hurl; she even has nice words for her sister Petunia, who once sent Lily droppings in the post that she claimed her owl left on their doorstep back home.

It’s a side of Lily James never had the chance to see; a side of herself she refused to show to him.

He wonders how Remus seems so unperturbed.

“Maybe because my attention is focused on not knocking every pot and pan in the room over,” Remus mumbles.

James huffs in response. He’s only knocked over two pans when Lily’s stories distracted him. Five pots tops. He’s not going to apologize when she is really the one bungling up this mission.

Especially when James stubs his toe and curses, and Lily has the indecency to blow their cover.

“My friend Remus is lovely too,” she tells Dinky out of the blue. “I wish he were here to try these gingerbread cookies.” At that, she looks away from Dinky and directly at James and Remus, still hidden by the invisibility cloak. “But he’s more of a chocolate person, anyway. He would really love the chocolate that’s stored in the dessert freezer.”

James and Remus turn to each other, defeated. Beaten, they inch their way to the chocolate in the freezer while Lily continues on rambling to Dinky. They don’t even bother with subtly as they open the freezer, snatch the chocolates, head back to the ticklish peach, and steal a gingerbread cookie on the way out.

The next morning, James approaches Lily at breakfast, only the slightest bit embarrassed. “Those gingerbread cookies were good, Evans. If you can’t think of anything else to get me for Christmas, more of those will do.”

Lily doesn’t spare him a glance when she says “the only Christmas present you’ll be getting from me is some advice: check to see who’s in a room before you enter it. You may just barge in discussing how to collect oil from someone’s hair in front of their best friend.”

James feels the pull of a grimace setting on his face but he catches himself, pushing any guilt he may have aside. Instead of apologizing like he knows he should, James changes the subject to something more pressing than Snape’s personal hygiene. “Aren’t you going to ask how you couldn’t see us?”

“No.”

“You’re not the tiniest bit curious?”

“I am.”

“But you don’t want to know?”

“Potter,” Lily starts, setting down her toast. “You’re either going to tell me or you’re not. Since we aren’t exactly friends, I’m going to assume you won’t. So, this back-and-forth between us? It’s pointless-”

“I have an invisibility cloak.” Before he can consider it, James blurts the secret out, low and hushed, a confession. Watching Lily’s eyes go wide, he wants nothing more than to slap himself for being such an idiot. Why would he tell someone about his cloak? Why would he tell Lily Evans about his cloak?

Maybe because he wants her to talk about him to Dinky. Maybe he wants Lily to tell house elves he’d risk a month’s detention for being out after hours and the confiscation of a rare treasure just to get his friend sweets. Because James wants her to experience the same thing he did last night, when he learned her laugh and saw her heart for the very first time in the kitchens. He wants Lily to know who he really is, too.

“Why did you tell me that?” she asks him.

James lifts one shoulder, glancing around to make sure no one else heard him. “Because I want you to know, I guess.” He continues scanning the Great Hall. He can’t meet her eyes. He feels hot and raw, as though he’s stuck beneath a spotlight.

“I’ll talk to you later, Evans, yeah? The cookies really were good.”

He doesn’t risk looking at her when he speeds away.

Not until that afternoon when she sets a gingerbread cookie on top of his coursework in the common room. “Merry Christmas?” She says it like a question.

James nods. He smiles, small and sure. “Merry Christmas.”

*

1973

A suitable punishment for James and Lily’s disruptive bickering would be to separate them, Lily thinks.  Put James in one corner of the Potions classroom and stick Lily in the exact opposite; remove them from one another’s lines of vision; make it as difficult as possible for James to jinx Severus or for Lily to fume at James so violently that his cauldron bubbles over onto his lap.

Professor Slughorn had other, less practical ideas.

Which is why Lily found herself partnered up with James for the foreseeable future, until they learn how to get along.

It’s tremendously stupid, both Lily and James agree. Not only do they have more ample opportunity to be at each others’ throats, but now they’re more of a distraction to their classmates than ever. James doesn’t mind the latter since his engine is fueled by attention, but Lily has always loathed being a nuisance, which James has undoubtedly made her.

Lily must admit, though: they’re a tremendous team. Between the snappy remarks and petty pranks since they began working together, they’ve managed to develop a partnership that is unparalleled to any of the others in class. With Lily’s uncanny knack for brewing potions and James’ willingness to get down and dirty, the last three potions they’ve brewed together have been near perfect. If they hadn’t already had high marks, Lily is sure hers and James’ grades would be soaring higher than ever.

It’s not something Severus if fond to discuss, especially when they’re assigned to brew Christmas Spirit for the holidays... and one of the main ingredients is mistletoe.

“You know Potter is going to pull something...funny,” Severus warns her. It takes everything in Lily not to roll her eyes.

“Potter is an arse, but I doubt he’d go so far as to corner me under mistletoe,” she assures him.

“You’re right, he and his dumb little cronies never go far,” Severus seethes. “Not when they charmed your hair green for two months or when they left dungbombs in my shoes or when they literally tied your friend Marlene’s tongue into a knot.” Lily does roll her eyes at Severus’ last point. He thought what happened to Marlene was just and funny until he realized who’d done it to her. “But no,” Severus continues, “Potter wouldn’t go so far as to catch you under mistletoe.”

“Oh, for Merlin’s sake,” Lily groans. “I’m not saying he’s an angel, Sev. I’m not trying to defend James Potter. All I’m saying is I highly doubt he’ll try to kiss me under some mistletoe just because it’s at hand and just because he thinks it would be funny.”

“He likes you, Lily.”

The wings of her heart flutter against her ribs. Lily ignores the feeling like she does every time Severus brings up James Potter’s supposed crush on her.

“I know you think that,” Lily says, “and you know I think you’re wrong. But if you’re right and Potter does like me, why would he do something that he knows would only upset me?”

“Because he’s dense as a stratus cloud?” Severus suggest. “Because he has no respect for anyone, including you?”

James can be foolish and he is undoubtedly a bully to some, but in the three years she’s known him, Lily has found that neither of Severus’ statements are necessarily true. James is smart when he chooses not to be dumb and his heart is big and open to everyone, even Lily, unless you’re a Slytherin. She understands wholeheartedly why Severus can’t stand him, but she refuses to entertain untruths because her best friend refuses to acknowledge every facet of a person’s personality.

“I’m not having this conversation,” Lily says. But she can’t help but reconsider her stance when she enters Potions and sees Sirius and Peter hanging mistletoe over Severus’ and Slughorn’s desks.

If they would pull pranks with mistletoe, wouldn’t James do it too?

But for the remainder of their project, everything is business as usual. The only thing James does with their mistletoe is grind it into pretty flakes and sprinkle four cups into their brew, pestering Lily while she stirs it clockwise 25 times.

They’re the first pair to finish, and when Slughorn announces their Christmas Spirit is flawless, he allows them to take a spoonful each as reward. The classroom feels cozy and warm then, everyone surrounded by a warm, cheery glow; the scent of cinnamon and holly hangs heavy in the air; Lily is excited for the holidays at once, and thankful for her friends, and her family, for Slughorn, and for her potions partner.

Lily and James peer at each other from the corners of their eyes. They smile. And for the rest of the lesson they have a pleasant discussion about the intricacies of fruit cake.

However, it all goes South when, from behind them, they hear an obnoxious cough and the snickering of their classmates. They turn in their seats. Standing there is Sirius, hanging mistletoe over their heads, sporting a devious grin spread ear to ear. “Well go on,” he tells them. “Show us what a real Christmas miracle looks like.”

Lily’s jaw falls halfway to the floor. She looks to James to gauge his reaction, only to see he’s already staring back at her, forcing down his laughter. “What do you say, Evans?”

It turns out the quickest way to defuse Christmas Spirit is to find someone to fill you with disgust and disappointment. The Potions classroom is dingy and cold again; her laughing classmates don’t flush her vision with affection but dampen her mood entirely; James Potter isn’t the best potions partner she’s ever had and a surprisingly decent conversationalist but the same old ugly bully he’s always been.

Severus was right all along.

“What do I say?” Lily fumes. Her voice is low so only he and Sirius can hear her. The heat of fury steaming from her is so strong that the mistletoe hanging over them sizzles and burns. Flakes of ash fall like snow onto both Lily’s and James’ heads. “I say I can’t believe I thought you were decent enough not to embarrass me like this and make me feel uncomfortable in front of half our year. I thought you were better than to have your best friend set us up like this, just so you can say you got Lily Evans to kiss you. I say Severus was right – you are an indecent human being.”

“Evans, wait a second,” Sirius interrupts. Lily barely listens to him. She’s fighting down the guilt rising from her stomach like bile at the wounded look on James’ face. She shouldn’t care if she hurt his feelings. He hurt her too. “James had nothing to do with this,” Sirius tells her. “I just thought it would be-”

“Funny?” Lily guesses. She turns her attention to Sirius, who looks annoyed at this turn of events but also just the smallest bit embarrassed. “Am I laughing, Black? Is James? Are you? Is anyone in this room laughing?”

The room has, in fact, fallen into an uncomfortable silence. Lily is sure her classmates are straining to hear whatever it is she is whispering. She refuses to give the Marauders the satisfaction of an outburst.

“I mean, they were-”

“Mate,” James groans.

“It doesn’t matter,” Lily tells Sirius. “I don’t believe you anyway.” She stuffs hers things into her pack, ignoring James’ quiet pleas for her to look at him. Sirius continues to stand awkwardly behind them, only speaking to tell the kids around them to sod off and stop eavesdropping. “The only person at fault here is me for letting my guard down and trusting you.”

She leaves the classroom then, ignoring Slughorn’s inquiries as to where she’s going and the whispers as she storms away. She ignores Severus too, who doesn’t look pleased but doesn’t look too angry either. He told her so, after all.

Lily doesn’t see James again until they return to Hogwarts after Christmas break. Luckily, Slughorn has smartened up in the meantime.

James and Lily are seated at opposite ends of the room.

*

1974

This last full moon has been particularly rough. Something to do with its size and the alignment of stars and mercury being in retrograde, which sounds like a load of unicorn shit until it isn’t. The strained political climate doesn’t help; neither does the stress of Christmas.

It’s all culminated in Remus tearing himself to sheds, slashes marring his already scarred face, tendons cut, bumps and bruises disguising the Remus James knows.

This time around, his pain is so severe that Madame Pomfrey gave him a sleeping drought to keep him under for days. He’s been in such a deep sleep, he didn’t even wake when the rest of the Marauders accosted Pomfrey and demanded to know why she couldn’t magic him back to health the way she usually does with everyone else and they had to be escorted out when her answers weren’t to their satisfaction.

But really. How can the woman set broken bones with a flick of her wand and not be able to vanish the scratches of a wolf? It’s illogical.

And the older Remus gets and the more the world changes around them, the worse his full moons are becoming. It’s devastating to witness. It’s frustrating not to be able to help; even more so when James thinks about how long it’s taking him and the others to become animagi. It’s been two years, and the most they’ve managed to do is give themselves snouts.

He doesn’t think that makes them terrible friends, but. They should probably be trying harder.

James has set up camp at Remus’ bedside for the evening, ignoring Pomfrey whenever she’s warned him about the time.

Visiting time ends in three hours, Potter. In two hours, Potter. In an hour and 43 minutes and 12 seconds, Potter.

He would supply her with a healthy dose of attitude if he were paying attention to her nagging at all. As it is, James is focused on his friend, beaten and bloody by his own hand, unconscious on a lumpy mattress.

He doesn’t even register when the doors to the hospital wing creak open and Lily Evans tiptoes inside.

“Visiting time ends in an hour, Ms. Evans,” Pomfrey informs her.

“I’ve just come to wish Remus a Happy Christmas,” Lily assures her. “I won’t be long.”

“You and every other rebel rouser who has caused a scene in here today,” grumbles Pomfrey, marching angrily back to her office.

James only spares Lily a glance when she sits beside him, returning his attention back to Remus just as quickly.

“How is he?” she asks.

James shrugs. “Well he won’t be skipping through daisies anytime soon but,” he smooths a hand down his tired face, “he’ll live.”

They sit in silence for a moment, James taking stock of every one of Remus’ injuries for the thousandth time and Lily examining his wounds for the first time, in horror. James can practically hear her heart breaking beside him.

“What happened?” she asks.

One thing Lily is not is an idiot. James is positive she knows Remus’ secret, even if Remus hasn’t told her himself. It took him almost two years to tell the Marauders after all, and while Lily is a good friend of his, she’s not nearly as close to him as they are. But she’s smart. She’s observant. And she cares with her whole damn heart.

James knows she knows. So he simply looks at her, steady, and doesn’t say a word. An understanding passes between them. Neither of them will admit the extent of their knowledge concerning Remus and his ailments but they will sit there, together, and put their differences aside to help him anyway.

“Thanks for stopping by,” James says instead.

Lily almost look offended. “Of course,” she says. “Remus is my friend.”

James nods. “I know.”

Awkwardly, she fishes something from her satchel, then sets it on the table at Remus’ feet. “I brought him chocolates, for when he wakes up,” she says “whenever that will be.”

“Pomfrey says not for another few days,” James tells her. “He’ll miss the Express back home. Probably sleep through Christmas.”

Heavyhearted, Lily exhales deeply, eyes closed. “He’ll be here all alone.”

“No,” declares James, aghast at her assumption. “No, he won’t be. I’m staying here over break. And so is Sirius. Peter, too. We canceled our trips home.”

James can feel Lily staring hard at the side of his head. His heart stutters in his chest. He refuses to meet her eyes. It’s no secret that James and Lily aren’t friends. Anyone could tell you that. But no one can tell you about the moments, like this one, when they take off their armor and reveal their hearts on their sleeves, only to each other. When he proves he’s not always the dick he acts like, and she studies him with shining eyes, parted lips, awe. When she shows him compassion, radiating from her so brightly, it hurts his eyes to look. That is the thing no one knows – the way they melt around each other, for each other, until their truest selves are on display.

“Right,” Lily says, blinking hard and looking away. “Of course. Sorry.”

“Don’t be sorry, Evans. It’s easy to forget what a great guy I am.”

She snorts, and they glance at each other, sharing a smile.

“You’re a good friend, James.”

He frowns, but nods. He could be better. “You are too, Lily.”

They sit there, at Remus’ side, discussing nothing and everything all at once, until Pomfrey gives them a ten minute warning. James ignores her like he has the rest of the night, and he hopes Lily will do the same. She doesn’t though, and she stands to leave, but not before placing a soft kiss on James’ cheek.

The skin her lips touched tingles and stings. He can hardly believe she’s real.

“Happy Christmas, Potter.” Her voice is a quiet hush, a lullaby. “You’ll figure out how to make this better. I know you will. Because you love him.”

James can feel tears sting his eyes. His throat shuts so tight he can’t even answer her. All he can do is smile, grateful, and watch her walk out the door.

*

1975

Lily doesn’t have much Christmas shopping to do. She bought a kettle that whistles actual tunes when it comes to a boil for her parents, a simple blouse for Petunia, and small trinkets for her friends. The only people she really has to get something for is Severus and Benjy Fenwick.

Severus is easy enough. He always gives her something sentimental but prefers receiving practical gifts himself. Since he’s burned a hole through the bottom of his cauldron, she figures she’ll buy him a new one. Benjy, on the other hand, is more difficult to find something for.

Lily has been seeing him for two months. He’s incredibly sweet, and caring, and kind. Everyday he walks her to her classes, sits with her during meals, kisses her goodnight. He makes her smile. Lily is incredibly fond of him and his company.

It doesn’t matter that he never gives her butterflies; Lily doesn’t think you should feel nervous about liking someone, anyway. It also doesn’t matter that she’s never particularly eager to see him, or overly comfortable around him either. All of that comes with time, doesn’t it? She’s sure she’ll get there with Benjy eventually.

For now though, she’s only focusing on getting him something for Christmas and remembering to meet him for an early dinner later in the afternoon. Until then, she’ll mosey around Hogsmeade with Marlene, Dorcas, and Mary, and perhaps even sacrifice some time to the Marauders if her friends see fit.

Which, Lily assumes, they will. Marlene and Dorcas have had their eyes set on Sirius and Remus, respectively, so Lily has found herself in their company more often than not as of late. Lily wishes she could say it’s been torture spending time with the Marauders but it’s actually...not.

They really are genuinely fun to be around; Sirius with his outrageous schemes, Remus with his quiet wit, and James with his all-around wonderful sense of humor. Even Peter can crack a joke now and then. Lily has never denied that those elements of their personality were there – they’re the most blatant traits the Marauders possess – but she’s never allowed herself to indulge in them either. Now that she has...well, she’s never laughed as much in her entire life as she has this semester with them.

Much to Severus’ chagrin.

And, sometimes, much to Benjy’s too.

Lily supposes that’s only natural. Severus is an old friend, but a possessive one, and he often becomes jealous when Lily spends time with other people. The fact that she spends more time with the Marauders than him now surely hasn’t gone unnoticed.

Benjy’s jealousy is more specific. While Severus is resentful towards every person Lily hangs out with that is not him, Benjy has his sights set specifically on James Potter. Lily can’t say she blames him. She and James have always had the most palpable tension, and now that they get along, the nature of their relationship has become gossip fodder for the entire castle. It doesn’t help that James teasingly asks her out every chance he gets despite the fact that he knows she’s with someone else.

Though, to be fair, he’s been asking her out longer than Lily’s been seeing Benjy.

It’s not like James is serious, anyway.

“Of course he’s serious,” Dorcas insists. She and Lily along with Marlene and Mary are strolling around Hogsmeade’s town square, enjoying the crisp air and crunchy snow beneath their feet. “He wouldn’t keep asking if he weren’t.”

“He’s a jokester,” Lily reminds her. “He’s only joking.”

“Sometimes I wonder if he’s not,” Mary chimes in. “Like the other night, when we were in the boys dorm drinking firewhiskey-” Lily whines at the memory “-and he was staring at you with such adoration. Merlin, I’m getting gooseflesh just thinking about it! And he just whispered, so sweetly, ‘go out with me, Evans.’” Mary clutches her chest dramatically. “If only a boy looked at me the way he looks at you.”

Lily purses her lips. “He was drunk, Mary. Peter also accused Marlene of plotting murder against his toad that night.”

Marlene shrugs. “He wasn’t wrong.”

“My point is you’re all making something out of nothing,” Lily concludes. “Just because we laugh with each other instead of fighting now doesn’t mean he’s in love with me.”

“Au contraire, Evans.” The sound of James’ voice rings from behind her, and the girls spin around to watch the Marauders saunter up to them. “You’re my sun and my moon and my stars, and I adore you.”

“Almost as much as he adores me,” adds Sirius.

“Almost as much as Sirius adores detention,” Peter says.

Remus snorts, patting Peter on the back. “Nothing can compare to the romance between Sirius and detention, Wormtail.”

“You have me beat there, Paddy.” James stops right in front of Lily, toes of their boots nearly touching. He grins down at her, wide as the sky, and Lily can’t help the smile she gives him back. “Where are you ladies off to this fine afternoon?” he asks, eyes never leaving Lily’s.

Marlene, who has looped her arm through Sirius’, is already trying desperately to drag him away from the group. “I want to show Sirius that new Nimbus I was telling you all about,” she says.

Lily can’t recall Marlene ever mentioning anything about a new Nimbus to her, but she bites her tongue and plays along. “Mhm...”

“New Nimbus? I would have heard about a new Nimbus,” Sirius grumbles. “Did you hear anything about a new Nimbus, Prongs?”

“There is no new Nimbus, Padfoot.”

“James Potter says there is no new Nimbus, Marlene.”

“James Potter isn’t half as educated about brooms as I am,” Marlene says. She tugs on Sirius’ arm some more.

James guffaws. “Absolutely blasphemous.”

“I don’t know,” says Lily, “Marlene has never been wrong about a broom as long as I’ve known her.”

“Well!” Sirius exclaims. “If Evans says so...” He blows a kiss to James, “sorry, Prongs,” and allows Marlene to whisk him away. “Come along, Moony!” Sirius calls behind him.

With a shrug, Remus jogs after them, Dorcas and Peter trailing in his wake. It’s just James, Lily, and Mary then, until Mary jabs her thumb in some vague direction.

“I’ve got shopping to do for that person,” she announces, sly grin plastered across her face. “I’ll see you two later?”

Mary doesn’t wait for their response. She scurries away faster than a mouse after cheese, leaving James and Lily by their lonesome.

“You think she wanted to get us by ourselves?” James asks, rolling onto the balls of his feet.

“You noticed that as well?”

They snort in unison, then continue to walk around town, no destination in mind.

“So what shall we do while our friends look for this Nimbus that definitely does not exist?” asks James.

“Well, I have to buy Severus a cauldron-”

“Ooh, another expensive gift for Snivellus that the slimy bastard doesn’t deserve-”

“Shut up, Potter,” Lily scolds him, almost as an afterthought. “I have to buy a gift for Benjy, too.”

At this, James remains silent, simply bobbing his head in thought.

“I have no idea what to get him,” says Lily, filling in the silence.

“What does he like?”

“I don’t know?” Lily glances at James, grimacing when she considers how little she actually knows about her boyfriend. “I’m a terrible girlfriend.”

“It would seem that way,” agrees James, and he nudges her playfully when she scoffs. “You’re not a bad girlfriend, Evans,” he assures her. “Fenwick is just a dud. Nice bloke and all, but a dud. He probably couldn’t tell you what he likes if you slipped him a truth serum.”

“Don’t be mean,” Lily chastises, though she’s afraid James just may be right.

“Is it mean if it’s the truth?”

“Potter.”

“Sorry.”

They stop in front of The Three Broomsticks, James holding the door open for Lily to step inside.

“Buy him some liquor,” James suggest, pulling out a seat for her in the middle of the room. “What he really needs is to loosen up a bit.”

“He’s not uptight.”

“Just a bore. You’re right, Evans, there’s a difference.”

“You really don’t know how to be nice, do you?”

“Yes, I do! Did I not call you my sun and my moon and my stars before? Was that not nice?”

A group of students a year below them pass by the table as James says this, sharing wide eyes and whispering scandalously to one another.

Lily groans, rubbing at her temples. “The whole castle is going to be talking about our torrid love affair by sundown now. You know that, right?”

“Then Fenwick will break up with you and you won’t have to worry about what to get him for Christmas.”

“Thank you for your positive outlook, Potter.”

“That’s what I’m here for, Evans. Butterbeer?”

They order their drinks, and they talk, and they have a wonderfully pleasant time in each other’s company.

And, just as Lily predicted, by sundown everyone is talking about how she is cheating on Benjy Fenwick with James Potter. The icing on the cake is when Lily loses track of time and completely forgets about dinner with Benjy. So she’s truly not surprised when he storms into The Three Broomsticks, catches sight of James and Lily in a fit of uproarious laughter, and stomps right up to their table.

“Lily?” Smoke is quite literally billowing from Benjy’s ears. The sight sends James and Lily into another bought of laughter. “What is this?” Benjy seethes.

“I’m sorry I’m late, Benjy,” Lily apologizes. “I was just listening to a story James was telling me about-”

“Why are you with him to begin with?” Benjy snaps. His eyes flick between the pair of them, sitting across from each other, onto their third butterbeers of the night.

“We were just hanging out, Benjy,” explains Lily. “We’re...” Despite how splendidly they’ve been getting along, Lily is still hesitant to call her and James friends.

“You’re what?” demands Benjy

Lily glances to James, looking for a possible answer to Benjy’s question. James only shrugs, casually pushing his glasses up his nose. “Dunno,” he supplies.

Lily turns back to Benjy, shrugging the same way James had. “I don’t know.”

Benjy shuffles from foot to foot, gnashing his jaw and glancing around the room to see who is watching them.

Everyone is.

Lowering his voice and leaning into her space, Benjy hisses. “You’re telling me you don’t know the nature of your relationship with James Potter?”

Lily considers his question thoughtfully before giving him an honest answer. “Yes.”

Leaning away from them, Benjy casts his eyes between James and Lily once more before taking a slow, deep breath. “Alright, Lily,” he concedes, eyes cast down at his feet, rage barely under wraps. “I see how it is.”

“Benjy!” Lily cries, reaching out a hand. “Oh, please. It’s not like that!”

But the damage is already done. Benjy is flying out the door, humiliated, and Lily is left with her head in her hands, equally embarrassed.

“Like I said before,” James offers, bumping her shin with his foot beneath the table. “One less gift to buy.”

“Shut up, Potter.”

*

1976

James is in love with Lily. He’s not sure how long his heart has been hers, but he thinks it has been since sometime in Second Year, after the kitchens. She’s always been a part of him, the same as his friends, and his glasses, and the organs in his body. James wouldn’t be James without her.

It’s as simple as that.

It’s just a shame he didn’t realize it until after he made a fool of himself by the Great Lake.

It kills James to think of all the time he wasted fighting with Lily, teasing her, thinking all they could be was adversaries who sometimes got along. He could have been her friend, or more, or at the very least there for her when she could have used him the most.

It takes a summer of groveling and three months of being nothing but the most wonderful friend he could possibly be for them to even get to where they are now: sitting in their handmade igloo, a jar filled with fire between them, passing a mug of hot cocoa back and forth.

It’s strange to think only last September they truly became friends, when he held her shaking frame in his arms as she cried over Snape, and her sister, and her sick father, and the terrible names thrown her way like confetti; when James mouthed his apologies into her hair, rocking her back and forth, drying his own tears in her waves; when they fell asleep wrapped up in one another in the common room, waking up grateful that they’d finally made their way to each other.

So James thinks it’s safe to say he’d do anything for Lily, and she would do anything for him. Sometimes the things she needs from him are just so incredibly torturous that he fancies himself an idiot for ever falling in love with her.

“You need me to be what?” James balks, shoving the cocoa her way.

“My date to Slughorn’s Christmas party,” Lily repeats. “The only other person I know who’s going is Severus, and I know it’s only so he can corner me again.

“Lily,” James groans. He conks his head against the wall of their igloo. His eyes are squeezed shut as though he’s in physical pain. “Slughorn’s Christmas party? Really?”

“I mean, I can ask Remus if you don’t want to,” Lily grants him, “Or even Sirius or one of the girls. You’re just – well I would rather take you, is all. But I understand if-”

“Lily, you already know I’m going.” James laughs when he catches her pouting. “It’s just...Slughorn.”

“I know.”

“And Christmas.”

“I know.”

“And Snape.”

“Yeah,” Lily sighs, “I know.”

“Right. Well.” James claps his hands in front of him, rubbing them together mischievously. “When is it?”

The party is the weekend before Christmas and their last week before winter break. Lily wears a flowing navy dress that sets James’ blood running and a smile that makes his heart sing when she sees him. She holds his hand when they enter the party, and only introduces him to a handful of people. When Slughorn targets them for small talk and gloating, Lily allows him to step away for a while, and when Snape tries to capture Lily on her own, James swoops in and guides her onto the dance floor.

They make a dashing, unsocial, avoidant team.

Just like they always had.

“Thank you for coming with me tonight,” says Lily. James has one hand on her waist and the other wrapped around her smaller, softer one; her smooth cheek is pressed against his stubbly one; her breath tickles the skin of his ear. If anyone should be thanking anyone, James should be thanking all the Gods he can name, and Lily Evans for being in his arms. “I don’t know what I would have done without you,” she admits.

James tsks, guiding her across the floor. “Taken Remus or Sirius, like you said you would. Or Marlene or Mary or Dorcas. Or Peter if you were really desperate.”

“Not nice,” says Lily, and he apologizes.

“My point is, you had options,” James reminds her.

“Okay,” she allows, “but Sirius would have set Severus on fire if he came near me. Remus would have felt obligated to talk to Slughorn and driven himself mad with boredom. Peter would have scurried away hours ago-”

“Not nice,” says James, and Lily apologizes.

“My point is, no one else could have saved the day like you did.”

James presses a smile into her cheek. “The nights not over yet, you know.”

She hums, untangling her hand from his and wrapping her arms around his neck. He follows her lead, heart swelling and soaring, and wraps his arms around her waist.

“We can leave whenever you like,” she tells him.

James only holds her closer, feeling her heart beat in time with his own. “No,” he breathes, his voice barely a whisper. “Not yet.”

*

1977

“Are you scared?”

“No.” James is practically bouncing out of his skin, nervous energy setting his entire body on edge. “Are you?”

“No.” Lily is nibbling at her cuticles, beads of blood pooling around her nails.

“You’re a terrible liar,” James tells her, and Lily drops her hand, smiling at him as if he’s the greatest thing she’s ever set her eyes on. And he is, she realizes. He really, truly is. “So are you.”

James grins back at her so wide that Lily is afraid his face is going to split in half. “We’re cowards and terrible liars together, then.”

“I suppose we are.”

They break into a fit of anxious laughter, not stopping even when James pulls Lily’s face to his chest. “Why are you scared?” he asks her, resting his chin atop her head. “Are you having second thoughts?”

“No,” say Lily immediately, shaking her head into his sweater. She tilts her face up to look at him. “I’m just nervous they’ll say we’re rushing into things. Give us problems. You know our friends don’t keep their opinions to themselves.”

James presses a firm kiss to her forehead. “Sod ‘em if they think we’re wrong,” he mumbles into her skin. “But I don’t think they will. They’ve wanted this longer than we have.”

“And how long have we wanted this again?” Lily asks.

“Second year for me. Fourth year for you. You were a little slow to catch up to the rest of us.”

“Guess that’s why I never made the quidditch team.”

“That, and your lousy arm.”

Lily nips at his collarbone, causing James to squeeze her body to his tighter.

“Why are you scared?” Lily asks. Her arms are wrapped around his waist, ear pressed right against his slow, happy heart.

“Because saying it out loud makes it real...and I never thought it would be,” James confesses.

Lily shuts her eyes, breathing the smell of him in deeply. “No second thoughts?” she checks.

James snorts, as if the answer is obvious. Lily supposed it always has been. “Absolutely fucking not.”

“Right.” Stepping away from his warmth, Lily laces her fingers through James’, then turns them towards the Fat Lady. “So are we ready?”

“As we’ll ever be.”

The Fat Lady rolls her eyes. “Just get a move on, will you? I can’t wait here all day.”

Frowning, James tells her the password, then opens the door with a little more force than necessary.

In the common room, their friends sit around the fire, chatting amongst themselves, enjoying the last of one another before they all go their separate ways for the holidays. Sirius is the first to spot Lily and James, and he throws his arms in the air and cheers when they squeeze their way into the group.

“Long time no see, lovebirds,” says Dorcas, smiling adoringly at the sight of them. “Ready for the holiday?”

“Hardly,” Lily tells her. She shares a frightened, secret smile with James, who kisses the back of her hand, still entwined with his.

The exchange does not go missed by their friends, who glance at each other suspiciously, then knowingly, then with big stupid grins.

“Why?” asks Peter, the only one still oblivious.

It’s Marlene who grabs Lily’s left hand, gawking at the simple band slipped over her ring finger. “Get out!” she yells, jumping to her feet. “Really? Really, really?”

Surprised by her friend’s reaction, Lily blinks, then smiles, then nods her head emphatically.

Marlene shrieks, followed by Mary, silenced when they’re pushed to the side as all the others gather around Lily to admire the engagement ring on her finger.

Peter continues to stare at them all with a furrowed brow. “What?” he asks.

“Lily and I are getting married, Wormtail,” James explains to him, minutely.

Understanding creeps upon Peter. “Oh!” A slow smile spreads across his face. “Oh, congratulations! What a happy Christmas this makes.”

James ruffles his wispy blonde hair. “Thanks, mate.”

“You don’t think it’s too soon?” Lily asks the group. Her eyes, however, are trained mostly on Sirius and Remus. “We’ve only been dating four months.”

“Too soon?” repeats Sirius. “You and James have been seven years in the making, Evans. I don’t know what about that reads as too bloody soon to you.”

“I guess that answers the question,” she deadpans.

James nudges her in the side with his elbow.

“I have to agree with Padfoot, unfortunately,” says Remus. “This has been a long time coming. The two of you together, now more than ever...it just makes sense.”

The smile Lily spares him is small, but whole and nothing but grateful. “That’s how we feel too.”

“My only concern is your surname,” says Marlene. “You’re going to keep Evans, right?”

“Well, no.”

Sirius hands fly to his scalp, tugging mightily at his shaggy locks of hair. “Oh, but Lily Potter sounds terrible, Evans. Don’t change your name just because you’re marrying this dolt. Please. I beg you.”

“Shut up, Padfoot, or you’re not invited to the wedding.”

“Like hell I won’t be.”

And they continue on that way for the rest of the evening, reveling in the company of their friends, their family, and most importantly, each other.

It’s not until everyone’s gone to bed that Lily and James are alone again, sitting in the light of the Christmas tree in the Gryffindor common room. James tugs a decorative candy cane from one of the tree’s branches, holding it out to Lily beside him. She takes the offering from him, memories of floating candy canes and a different James dancing across her memory. Lily takes his face in her hands, kissing him, her old nemesis, her best friend, the love of her life with all the love she can hold in her heart.

When they part, James smiles against her mouth, whispering what she knows now has always been true. “I love you, Lily.”

She smiles back at him, their past flitting through her brain, their future waiting on her mind’s horizon. “I love you too, James,” she tells him. She loops her candy cane over the shell of his ear, and they laugh, falling against each other. “Happy Christmas.”

[caveartfair]

“We Buy Gold” Brings a Piece of the Venice Biennale to Bed-Stuy, Brooklyn

Portrait of Joeonna Bellorado-Samuels by Derryl Richardson. Courtesy of We Buy Gold.

Nestled between a dry cleaners and a realtor’s office on Bed-Stuy’s Nostrand Avenue, in Brooklyn, an unassuming white cube space named “We Buy Gold” is currently hosting artwork from the Venice Biennale, in an exhibition titled simply “Two.”

The straightforward title of the show, the roving gallery’s second since it launched in March, contrasts starkly with the complex and loaded nature of the pop-up exhibition space itself. Run by D.C. lobbyist-turned-Jack Shainman Gallery director Joeonna Bellorado-Samuels, it both stands as testament to the quick evolution of cities and suggests something of a challenge to gentrification.

But Bellorado-Samuels is hesitant to characterize the gallery as commentary on gentrification as such, even though the impact such art spaces have on their surrounding environments, as well as the relationship of the art world to people and spaces of color, are not lost on her.

Installation view of “Two.” Courtesy of “We Buy Gold.”

Borrowing its name from the popular signage for pawn shops familiar to low-income neighborhoods, “We Buy Gold” is intrinsically linked to concepts of value and commodity. The gallery is, however, surprisingly welcoming. With its doors perched open all day and a neon sign reading “Cash for Gold” hanging in its window, it’s seamlessly integrated into the surrounding neighborhood.

“I felt that, as a person of color, I needed to be taking up more space,” Bellorado-Samuels explains. “I was thinking about how I could be a part of existing systems, but also embrace the exasperation of that and create a space that doesn’t already exist.”

Bellorado-Samuels is leveraging her presence across the New York art world and the community of Bed-Stuy (where she has been resident for some 10 years) by bringing work currently on view at the South African pavilion in Venice to her shopfront space. Among the works featured in “Two.” is the South African artist Mohau Modisakeng’s highly produced and haunting three-channel video work Passage (2017), about the traumas of the Middle Passage. In the context of the traditionally black neighborhood of Bed-Stuy, the work bridges the gap between the art world elite and the local population.

Installation view of Mohau Modisakeng’s Passage, 2017. Courtesy of “We Buy Gold.”

Elsewhere in the exhibition, viewers find a large vintage TV monitor sitting on the ground. Crouch down to get a better look at the screen and you’ll find your own body mimicking the movements of the bodies in Modisakeng’s Ga bose gangwe (2013), in which an endless loop of black bodies pull themselves up only to fall back again, never quite able to stand fully erect.

Deeper in the space, Dineo Seshee Bopape’s single-channel video the beautiful ones are not yet born (2007) is shown on two screens, installed side by side. The video is framed tightly around a woman’s arm, which is ornamented by a stack of pearl bracelets. Her hand points and shakes, in a frenzied, rhythmic gesture. On an adjacent wall, Kamal Nassif’s Accountability (2016) is composed of 11 protruding white hands that point sharp gold fingernails out into the space. This ubiquitous gesture holds viewers responsible for the ways in which they may play a role in upholding or challenging prejudices about people of color.

In the backyard, a brick wall is covered with a redacted New York Times article that has been cropping up around Brooklyn for several weeks now, wheat-pasted onto walls and in subway stations. A project by artist Alexandra Bell, the photo of Michael Brown cloaked in an emerald green graduation gown covers the entire page. Above it, the headline reads, “A Teenager with Promise.” This humanizing image of the 18-year-old black boy who was fatally shot by a white police officer in Ferguson replaces the blurred photo of him that was published by the New York Times in a sensationalizing article that described him as “no angel.”

Installation view of Mohau Modisakeng’s Ga base gangwe, 2013. Courtesy of “We Buy Gold.”

The show encapsulates Bellorado-Samuels’s interests in the convergence of art and social justice. In challenging the implicit racial biases demonstrated by the media and presenting a more nuanced depiction of the black body, the show presents a striking and somber meditation on the gestures, both physical and metaphorical, that have formed a language for the oppressed. And she has shown that socially engaged art doesn’t need to stress engagement or accessibility.

“I was a little bit resistant to showing work that I felt would be approachable,” says Bellorado-Samuels, explaining that she hoped to create a space with exhibitions that were on par with the sophisticated shows one might see in Chelsea. She rejects the notion that she would need to make an exhibition accessible to a viewer who’s not accustomed to thinking about or seeing art. Instead, she suggests the possibility of pushing the boundaries of “accessibility” altogether.

Installation view of Dineo Seshee Bopape’s the beautiful ones are not yet born, 2007. Courtesy of “We Buy Gold.”

And the responses Bellorado-Samuels has received from the community show that her intuition was right. People from the neighborhood who had never entered an art space before have become regulars. What’s more, their disappointment in the space only being a temporary fixture has reminded Bellorado-Samuels of the importance of continuity for communities that have often been neglected.

Originally intended as a five-month-long traveling art space, Bellorado-Samuels is now in conversations about taking the space to L.A. and Johannesburg. As a longstanding resident of Bed-Stuy herself, however, she shares the neighborhood’s desire for “We Buy Gold” to grow more permanent, local roots.

For now, though, Bellorado-Samuels prefers that “We Buy Gold” remain an open-ended project—in keeping with the gallery being not a place for resolutions or answers, but rather a space to generate questions and dialogue.

—Yelena Keller

from Artsy News