#this was from the zine...it seems like forever ago

[justminawrites]

Satellites

AO3

1 | 2 | TBC

Summary: Six years after the Lunar Revolution, everything has changed for Crescent Moon Darnel. Now a top notch Lunar government official, Cress spends her time sifting through Lunar databases identifying the millions of people who went missing during Levana's reign, when she comes across a glitch that holds the fate of the entire country in its code. With the help of former lunar guard (and current recluse) Jacin Clay, Cress races against time to uncover a dangerous plot that could change the increasingly volatile tensions between Earth and Luna forever.

“UNFORTUNATELY THIS UNIT IS UNABLE TO PERMIT VISITORS AT THE MOMENT—“

Cress pressed the buzzer by the door for the fifteenth time and resisted the urge to swear into it.

Anyone who didn’t know better would assume that the occupants of the unit were merely out for the night, but she couldn’t be fooled that easily. She’d tracked down the IP address of his port-screen which had led her to this motel at the outskirts of the capital city, Artemisia, and remained unchanged for a week. 

He hadn’t left his unit in a week.

“UNIT NUMBER TWO-FOUR-TWO—” The automated voice was cold and unfeeling, as was the sudden breeze that swooped in out of nowhere and stung the back of her neck.

“Jacin— let me in!” She nearly squeaked into the built-in microphone by the buzzer, as another gust of wind ran right through her flimsy apparel. Today was not a good day for yoga pants.

“—STATE YOUR NAME AND PURPOSE OF VISIT TO CONTINUE.”

“Crescent Moon Darnel” she repeated, “Here on official Government business”

“UNFORTUNATELY THIS UNIT IS UNABLE TO PERMIT VISITORS AT THE MOMENT. PLEASE LEAVE YOUR LUNAR ID NUMBER TO BE NOTIFIED OF THE  EARLIEST AVAILABLE APPOINTMENT DATE TO SCHEDULE YOUR VISIT.“

“Jacin Clay, I swear to All the Stars I will break this—”

“It’s hard to take you seriously when you say things like Government business” 

Cress blinked and stepped back as the door beeped and slid outward to reveal a fraction of a scruffy blonde beard and one blue-gray eye that somehow managed to look both disapproving and exasperated at the same time. 

“What do you want, Cress?” 

She crossed her arms.

“A ‘Hello Cress, haven’t seen you in a while. Sorry for leaving you outside to freeze off your ass’ would be nice to hear.” 

“Hello Cress,” Jacin said through gritted teeth, “What do you want?” 

“Did you get my email about the job-“

“Yes, and I clearly stated in that email, that I don’t want it.”

“But the-“

“No.”

“But we’ll be-“

“No.”

“Just give me five-“

“No.”

Cress pinched the bridge of her nose and released a breath to keep from losing her temper. If she’d known Jacin would be this uncooperative she probably would’ve been better off risking her luck alone. Or with the state approved guard she’d been so quick to refuse, Liam something…  Caine? Kinney? 

“If that’s all you wanted, then you should leave.”

Cress scrambled for a solution as the door began to slide shut once more.

“It’s about Princess Winter,” she blurted, and the beeping stopped. A long silence seemed to stretch between them and she had the strange urge to hold her breath. 

Everyone knew that the lunar princess and her bodyguard had broken up almost half a year ago; it was plastered across all the tabloids and net-zines, creating quite the scandal. Nobody knew why, of course, but Jacin quit working at the palace soon after. Cress had heard the news from one of the team members in her department and commed Jacin immediately. He never opened it.

“You said it wasn’t about Winter” Jacin said finally. She could hear the frown in his voice and realised she’d written herself into a corner; automatically reaching out to tug on a lock of her hair for comfort. 

The job had nothing to do with Princess Winter really, but she’d finally gotten the council to approve her solo mission under the condition that she be accompanied by a trained agent, i.e., former lunar guard Jacin Clay, who’d been missing for the past six months. So she’d chased him down with a single lead, stood outside his unit all evening and probably acquired some kind of new moon-frostbite in doing so and wasn’t about to give up without him at least hearing her out.

“Right,” she began as the door slid open a little farther, now revealing a faded white t shirt, “Yes, right, I did say that it wasn’t about Princess Winter in the email.. because I didn’t want.. it to.. um, get compromised?”

Not her best execution but it seemed to do the trick. The door slid open completely and Cress stepped into the unit, warmth flooding her from all sides and seeping right into her skin. She released a shudder as Jacin typed a few buttons on the touchpad by the doorframe which automatically lit up the room. 

Cress immediately wished it hadn’t. 

Calling the unit messy would be an understatement of massive proportions. She smelt the alcohol before she saw it. Rows and rows of reusable cans were scattered around the unit in a weirdly precise manner; some were stacked up against one another, some were carefully placed beside one another in a semicircular pattern, under and over the furniture and some were simply unopened. 

It was a controlled sort of chaos and she didn’t know wether or not to bring it up as Jacin walked past her and plopped down on the grey sofa. At least now Cress knew what he’d been doing all week.

Wisely, she chose not to bring up the room and simply sat down on the closest thing she could find— a coffee table adjacent to the sofa. Jacin winced as she accidentally displaced a can and rubbed his face irritatedly. Now that she could see him better in the light, it was clear that he hadn’t slept in a while. The bags under his eyes were rubbed raw, his eyelids were puffy and he was still in his boxers. 

Cress would’ve normally been embarrassed; he was so different from the polished, professional lunar guard she’d met a few years ago, but now she couldn’t bring herself to feel anything but pity. The breakup really did a number on him.

“Would you quit it.”

“Quit what?”

“Stop it. Stop looking at me like I’m some kind of charity case.” 

But still the same snarky Jacin. 

“I’m not!”

“Look, Cress, your face is an open book alright? Just cut it out. I’m completely fine.”

 Cress rolled her eyes. He did not look fine. He had never looked less fine in all the time she’d seen him and she’d seen him nearly die multiple times— but she pursed her lips and turned away. 

It’s not your business, It’s not your business, she repeated the words her therapist had her memorise, in her head. Jacin and you might’ve been friends once but a lot has changed now and it. is. not. your. business. 

“So,” she said out loud, “Cans huh?”

Jacin looked at her in disbelief. 

“If you ever need to talk,” she tried again much to Jacin’s chagrin, “I know someone that can—”

“The only thing I need to talk about is how this job has anything to do with Winter” he snapped. 

‘You idiot.’ Cress mentally scolded herself, Dr. Miriam would be disappointed in her. She really should’ve minded her own business.

“Well, it’s about that glitch I found in one of the databases regarding Lunar immigration—”

“I read the email Cress,” he sighed, “You think it’s some kind of encryption.”

“Exactly, and just last week one of the council members received a notification with the same base code as the glitch—“

“Wait— council members?” Jacin looked at her, surprised, “The Lunar Council’s behind all this?”

“Yes, but just the surface level stuff—” Cress opened her mouth to backtrack but his eyebrows narrowed immediately.

“Is that why you contacted me? Because you needed someone to advocate for the council again?”

Jacin’s relationship with the newly appointed Lunar Council was precarious on a good day, but after everything that happened at their last Annual General Meeting it had derailed into outright hostility. 

Cress chewed the inside of her cheek guiltily; she was partly to blame for that debacle, after all.

“Jacin, this wasn’t Nova’s call—“ 

But he wasn’t listening to her anymore– Jacin had risen to his feet and begun pacing around the room in brisk, controlled strides, keeping well within his can-stacked path. She watched him walk into the kitchen and walk back out, somehow not upsetting a single aluminium-alloy can from its position despite his animated monologue. 

“I knew it! I knew leaving the council to her was a bad move. Let me guess, she wants me to grovel at her feet again. I bet she would just love it if if I came crawling back—”

The ‘she’ in reference to Jacin’s tirade was, of course, the newly instated Lunar Head of the Biochemical Research Wing, Sybil Nova. Daughter of the late Sybil Mira (Head Thaumaturge and Cress’s personal tormentor), and having established a fairly positive reputation within the Lunar community for being a shell herself, Nova was, on paper, the perfect candidate for the job. 

Except for the fact that she opposed the existence of lunar guards. 

Jacin was on a roll.

“Whose stupid idea was it to nominate the daughter of Levana’s old lapdog as the face of the new Lunar Democracy anyway, they’re the real idiots here–”

“Public vote,” Cress chimed in, but he steamrolled right through her, talking to himself now.

“And why appoint ME of all people, with such a futile mission– oh, I know damn well why. She just wants me to come back empty handed so she can rub it in my face; ‘see this is why the lunar guard is so outdated.. now if we sent a mecCorp to do his job’–“

“IT WAS ME, ALRIGHT?!” Cress yelled finally, unable to take much more of his ranting.

“What?” 

She swallowed slowly, nails biting into her palms as she curled her fists.

“It was me. I asked for you to be assigned to the mission.”

Jacin sat back down. 

An awkward silence shuffled between them until Jacin finally leaned forward to try to meet her eyes. Cress’s gaze, however, was stubbornly affixed to the floor. 

“Cress..” He trailed away, unable to find the words.

“I know you’re still mad at me for what happened.”

“I’m not—“

“And,” she pressed on, “That’s fine if you are. I won’t apologise for what I did that day. But this could be bigger than the both of us.”

Jacin shook his head and looked up to his white-grey ceiling. 

“What are you doing, Cress.”

It almost felt like a rhetorical statement when he said it but Cress bristled all the same. 

She considered kicking one of the can dominoes out of pure spite but refrained after seeing Jacin’s expression.

“I’m trying to save my country, Jacin, our country— and I need your help.”

This finally got his attention.

 Jacin rose and helped her up; Cress took his hand confusedly but before she could say anything he’d already guided her to the door and slid it open. 

“Goodbye, Cress.” he said with a note of finality, and locked her out.

______________________________________________________________

Ah. 

Cress debated punching the metal but decided that she wasn’t going to go back with both broken knuckles and a broken promise. They’d just have to settle for one. 

Sighing, she trudged back to her hover and pulled up the notifications on her portscreen. It read: 3 unopened comms. 

Wow. Three already? Carol must be in a bad mood if she sent her three comms within the hour, Cress frowned as she held out her arm, scanning her wrist to open the hover doors. Usually her stringent supervisor refused to go over one, extremely long vidlink that often involved public scolding for a rise in budget costs, even though Cress was sure that they were paying hourly and not per comm. She’d held her tongue anyway, she didn’t need to give Carol yet another reason to hate her.

The hover beeped and deducted 50 univs from her chip but before the doors could flick open, Cress felt something hard and cold press into the back of her head. She didn’t need to turn to know it was a gun. 

She slowly raised her arms in surrender. 

Stay calm, she thought to herself, you’ve been trained for this. But her heart was beating so loud that Cress might have completely missed what her assailant said if they had not punctured each word with a jab to her head. 

“Get. Down. Now.”

Cress obediently dropped to her knees. Unfortunately, the hover was shielding both her and her attacker from the windows of the apartment complex so even if someone had conveniently managed to look outside, they wouldn’t be able to see her.

“What—” She began.

“Be quiet.” 

Cress tried to steady her breathing and focus. 

This must be a robbery, and seeing as her attacker didn’t attempt to use any glamour, they were most likely a shell. The voice sounded muffled, so the attacker was probably wearing a mask— an escaped convict maybe? Someone who didn’t want to be immediately caught and handed in to the guard. Her fingers twitched; it would take all of four seconds to reach into her hover and pull out the standard-issue taser she’d left in the front seat. 

Cress knew she should’ve had it on her at all times, but she didn’t want Jacin to think she’d taser him into submission if he didn’t agree. 

The attacker seemed to be rummaging around for something behind her and swearing quietly, giving her enough time to discreetly flick her wrist. Nothing happened for one second, two and then the hover doors clicked open smoothly, opening outwards like insect wings, blinding the attacker for two infinitely precious seconds and Cress quickly lunged to the side just as the gunshot resounded all around her. 

“Shit— Shit!”

She rose quickly. Now that she had a clearer view of the perpetrator she was taken aback by how young they seemed to look. 

Big brown eyes were their only visible features, with both their hair and the lower half of their face, as Cress had guessed, concealed under a black hood and mask. They were clothed in an inconspicuous outfit, with pale, freckled arms jutting out of an oversized vest, grey pants and hiking boots. She ducked behind the hover again as another gunshot ripped through the night. 

Cress just had to reach into the hover for her weapon and it would all be over, but this kid was making it way more difficult than it needed to be. 

“Hey!” She called out, trying to distract the attacker, “You don’t want to do this.”

“Shut up, Ungifted.” The attacker spat.

Well, okay then. Cress scooted closer to the unlocked hover and blindly reached inside, mentally cursing her lack of foresight. She should’ve expected that someone would’ve recognised her, even though it’d been nearly six years since the Lunar Revolution. 

Their faces had been broadcast over and over like celebrities and there was even a time where she couldn’t walk to her hover without getting ambushed by paparazzi. This was probably some kind of ransom situation.

Her fingers closed around a hard, box like device just as the attacker turned and pointed the gun right between her eyes. 

Cress held her breath. She would’ve been scared if she hadn’t noticed the slight tremor in the attacker’s hand. Her hands had shook the same way when she’d first held a gun. 

“Get up.” 

She quickly scanned the area around her for a distraction but found nothing. She was facing the units directly now. Frowning she tried to discreetly pull the taser out but the attacker narrowed their eyes in suspicion and brought the gun closer. Just as she was about to consider conceding the taser in favour of a well-timed kick, the door to a unit slid open and the last person she’d expected to see walked out. 

Jacin?

Noticing the sudden shock in her eyes, her attacker turned quickly giving Cress enough time to pull her hand out of the hover and pull the trigger on the taser. Two thin silver wires shot out of the device and caught the attacker right in the neck, immobilising them and causing them to drop the gun. 

Cress quickly kicked it away as they crumpled to the ground, and it slid across the paved road, spinning and spinning until it came to rest at Jacin’s feet.

Cress waved at him awkwardly— he looked too shocked to wave back, before she pressed the trigger again and the wires reeled back into her weapon. 

A small part of her was grateful that he’d walked out at just the right time but an even smaller part of her was proud he’d seen her fight and win. It probably wouldn’t change his mind about the job but it would change his mind about her. See, she wanted to say, I’m not weak, I can take care of myself. 

“Cress! Move! ” 

She dropped the taser, alarmed and looked up to see Jacin clutching the gun tightly, pointing it right beside her head. 

“What—“ she began but never finished her sentence. 

The last thing Cress remembered was the sound of glass shattering as the hover door beside her exploded and feeling a tiny needle prick the back of her neck, before her world turned dark and she passed out.

[kumeko]

A/N: For the cancelled NorEmma fairy tale zine. I got assigned Snow Queen, which was a bit of a challenge to twist because there are so many good options for who should be the Snow Queen. though the biggest challenge was trying to get a fairy tale/children's book feel in a tiny word count. Goodbye, Ray, I wanted you to join the whole adventure but alas.

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1

Once upon a time, in a land far up north, there were three children. You might have heard this fairytale before. It’s a story of courage, friendship, and love. A story where you have to conquer your fears. Even so, listen to this tale of Emma, the girl who didn’t surrender.

Emma, Ray, and Norman were three children from the Grace Field village. They were raised like family until they were as close as can be. They ate together, played together, and slept together. On cold nights, they’d huddle close and count the stars. On hot days, they’d lazily find shapes in the clouds. Their village was a small, sleep one, and as far as Emma was concerned, they’d stay here forever.

But that didn’t make for a good story, nor an interesting life. Fate had other plans for the trio.

On their sixteenth summer, it snowed one day. Tiny flakes floated through the air, melting as they landed on ground. Emma laughed as she ran through the freak storm, spinning in circles as she tried to catch the flakes on her tongue. Ray rolled his eyes and chided her, though he seemed to like it all the same. Norman studied the skies, as though to find the answer to the weather there.

A stray flake landed on his eye. It chilled him through the bone, borrowing into him until it lodged like a shard of ice in his heart.

The next day, a stranger rode into town. A tall, thin man named Ratri with eyes as cold and clear as winter. His carriage was drawn by horses as white as snow. “Where is the smartest child in town?” he asked as he went from person to person, house to house.

“Norman,” they all replied, not sensing the sinister purpose behind his smile. “He’s at the orphanage.”

Yet, even if the adults failed to catch it, the children didn’t, and Emma and Ray were no fools. They bundled of Norman as though he were five and he’d caught a cold. They hid with him in a barn, using the hay as a bed.

The only problem was that Norman had been acting strange ever since the snowstorm. He would say cold, cruel things. He would push her away whenever she touched him. He would turn down books and food he used to love.

It would pass, Emma was certain. It would disappear like the snow and he’d be back to the kind Norman she’d always known. She slept that night with that knowledge secure in her heart.

When she woke up, Norman was gone.

“That guy—Ratri, he’s gone.” Ray gritted his teeth. “He must have taken him.”

It was a kidnapping. Emma stared at the bale of hay. She could still see Norman’s impression. They hadn’t been gone long. “I can follow the trail.”

Ray lifted his head. “They can’t have left that long ago—if we hurry, we might be able to catch up.”

“No, not we. I.” Emma clasped his hand and squeezed it. “I’ll go alone.”

He recoiled. “That’s too dangerous!”

“What if Norman escapes and comes back? What if Ratri comes back to steal another kid?” Emma pressed, shaking her head. “You have to stay.”

Ray took a step back. “That…”

“I’m the better tracker.” She winked. “You don’t know these woods half as well as I do.”

“Fine,” he sighed, giving in. “But be careful.” Ray pulled out a small, folded photo from his breast pocket and pressed it into her hands. “Don’t do anything stupid.”

“I’ll try.” She rested her forehead against his and smiled. “Don’t worry, Norman’ll be back in no time.”

He scoffed. “That’s what makes me worry.”

2

With a picture in her pocket, supplies in her knapsack, and a fire in her soul, Emma left her friends and family behind, heading into the unknown. She was a good tracker, the best in her village. Over hills and valleys, through dales and villages, Emma followed the carriage. Days turned into weeks, but she plodded forward, pushing her aching feet to take one more step.

One day, the heavens opened and rain poured. Emma huddled under a tree, tired and wet and hungry. Her backpack had run out of supplies and the further north she went, the harder it was to catch her food. The tracks were still there, but the road felt endless.

Would she ever find him?

“Hello, dear.” A kind voice broke her thoughts and Emma looked up to find a woman standing next to her. Her eyes were kind. She held an broad-brimmed umbrella. “You’ll get soaked if you stay out here. Run along home before your mother gets worried.”

Emma shook her head. “My home’s too far.”

The woman smiled. “Mine isn’t. Follow me, dear, and we’ll get you warmed right up.”

The woman’s home was small and cozy. It smelled of baking, of tea and roses. Through the windows, Emma caught glimpses of a garden in the back. With little fuss, the woman procured a towel and gently dried Emma’s hair.

“There, much better, isn’t it?” The woman chuckled. “Oh dear, there I go again. My children might have grown up, but I’m still a mama.”

‘Mama’ was the right word to describe her. Like a mother, she gave Emma freshly made cookies and a hot bath. Even when the rain let up, Mama refused to let Emma go.

It was dark outside, she’d explained. At least wait till the sun came out.

Emma slept in comfortable bed for the first time in days. Tucked in a warm blanket, it was easy to forget all the troubles Emma faced till now. There was no pain, no loss in this house. Only a mother’s love. And when she opened her eyes in the morning, Emma forgot about everything but Mama.

“Good girl,” Mama murmured, holding her close. “You’ll stay with me forever, right?”

“Yes, Mama,” Emma replied, hugging her tightly. And if there was a niggling in her brain, a reminder of something important, she ignored it. Mama was always right.

In that comfortable world, all Emma had to worry about were the chores. She had to help make dinner and dust the shelves. She had to mop the floor and organize the supplies. And once a week, she had to do the laundry.

Her fingers turned her pockets inside out before tossing them into the soapy water. As Emma slipped her fingers into her own pockets, she felt a small prick as she got a papercut. Pulling out the offending object, she found a folded photo.

Ray’s photo.

Inside were her, Ray, and Norman, all smiling at the camera as they celebrated Emma’s birthday. Her memories flooded back and Emma almost dropped the paper in surprise. Norman, she had to save Norman.

With the rose-coloured glasses off, the house took on a more sinister feel. The garden in the back had small mounds. The kitchen knife looked too sharp and clean. The spices on the rack reminded her of magic. This was a witch’s house.

Emma dropped the laundry and ran, leaving behind everything but the clothes on her back as she escaped the witch’s clutches.

3

The second she passed through the door, Emma was hit with a cold breeze. Somehow, during the short days she spent inside the house, the season had changed to fall. Leaves crunched underfoot as she kept running.

By now, Norman’s tracks had gone long cold. Too much time had passed. Just as Ratri had done so long ago, Emma went from person to person, house to house, asking if anyone had seen a carriage pulled by snow-white horses.

“They’d gone north,” was the answer.

She was lucky. The carriage was hard to forget. Emma forged northward. The weather grew colder, hunting grew harder. The villages were far and few between. Her shoes had holes and her clothes were in tatters.

By the time she reached Goldy Pond village, Emma was desperate. Yet, no matter where she went in town, the people kindly rebuffed her approaches, telling her to leave before the sunset. After hours, only a pair of hunters took pity on her and helped her, providing her with clothing and food, before also telling her to leave.

“Why?” she asked, for she was a curious teenager.

The scarred brunette, Lucas, sighed. “There’s a troll in these parts. He sneaks in at night and kidnaps children.”

“He won’t for much longer,” promised the surly, dark-haired Yugo. “Now, scram.”

Emma almost listened. She knew Norman was yet further north, up in the mountains. She knew that she’d lost a lot of time and Norman needed her now.

She also knew she couldn’t turn her back on those who needed help.

Emma instead stood her ground, “Use me as bait,” she told them.

She could fight. She could hide. And when faced with a troll, she could run. While Lucas looked troubled, Yugo readily agreed. They needed all the help they could get.

That night, Emma wandered the streets of Goldy Pond, playing with a ball. Her laugher echoed through the village. For a troll wanting a midnight snack, she presented an easy target. With teeth like a tombstone and eyes as yellow as the sun, the monster terrified her to her core as she ran away.

But the children here needed her.

Norman still needed her.

Emma ran though the village like planned, until she reached a dead-end in an alley. As the troll lumbered in after her, Yugo and Lucas cut off its exit. The troll met a grisly end, freeing the town from its clutches.

4

The mountains were colder than anything Emma felt before. Winter had set in as she journeyed on, and the chill hit her bones. The snow is deep in place. Her clothes had been replaced at Goldy Pond village, a thick coat forced onto her as a thanks for her help, but even that couldn’t protect her when a snowstorm hit.

Unlike the snow from when the tale first started, this was a fierce storm. It bit her skin, leaving her freezing. As the temperature dropped, so did Emma, the snow providing a cold bed as she lost conscious.

When she woke, Emma found herself in a cave. It smelled lightly of herbs. A small purple-haired woman sat next to a fire, humming to herself as she stirred a pot. Next to her, a red-haired man watched her protectively. When they noticed she was awake, the woman beckoned her over to join them.

As they shared a hot stew, Emma learned her saviours were Sonju, a knight, and Mujika, a good witch. Not a bad one like Mama. They had been banished into the caves by the Snow Queen, the ruler of the north.

And Ratri was her trusted, right-hand man.

“Your Norman was given to the Queen as a present,” Mujika told her sadly. “She collects beauty and intelligence like a bird collects twigs. That snowfall was her casting a spell on Norman before sending Ratri to collect him.”

“A spell?” Emma’s eyes widened. “How can I break it.”

“Easy.” Mujika leaned closer and pressed a kiss on each of her eyelids. “The power is already within you.”

Emma didn’t understand.

Mujika smiled. “Don’t worry, you’ll figure it out when the time comes. Sleep. In the morning, we’ll take you to the castle gates.”

“But the guards—”

“Don’t worry.” Sonju smiled, as sharp as knife. “We can handle that.”

5

Emma slept more peacefully that night than she ever had before. In the morning, at the crack of dawn, they reached the castle. Outside, guards surrounded the gates, Ratri leading them. True to his word, Sonju immediately jumped into the fray, drawing all eyes to him as Emma ran inside.

The castle was beautiful but cruel, all ice and sharp angles. The further she ran in, the colder it got. Eventually, she reached the throne room. Inside, she found a tall, beautiful woman lounging amused on a throne. In front of her, Norman was fiddling with math problem, writing and erasing answers on the snow.

Emma barged in, making a beeline for Norman. “Norman!”

The queen looked up. “Who’s there?” When she saw the young teenager, she sneered. “I don’t need another toy right now.”

“Norman’s not a toy!” Emma growled, grabbing him. “Let’s go.”

He didn’t move. The queen laughed. “Does he even want to go? I’ve promised him freedom if he’d solve this problem and I think he doesn’t want to go.”

“I don’t.” Norman shook his head.

You see, the spell cast on Norman’s heart by that snowflake made all that he found beautiful, all that he loved, felt like ash on his tongue. They repulsed him. And there was no one he loved more than Emma.

And so there was no one he hated now more than Emma.

Another person would have turned back now. Yet, even as Emma’s heart cracked, she pushed on. It was love that had brought her here—Ray’s Mujika’s, Yugo’s, Luca’s. Her own. And it was love that helped her force her foot to take a step closer.

Emma crossed the room, ignoring the queen’s laughter. She held out her hand. “Come back, Norman.” When he didn’t take it, she wrapped her arms tight around him. “Come back.”

Hot tears dripped down her cheeks, landing on his neck and chest. Her warmth pierced him like sunlight, melting the ice that wrapped his heart like a cocoon.

“Emma?” Norman gingerly wrapped his arms around her and buried his nose in her hair. “Emma!”

The Queen grew furious, unable to handle the scene before her. She slammed her fist on the throne, causing the earth to shake. “He’s mine,” she declared, summoning her guards. “Mine!”

“Not if I solve the problem,” Norman retorted, his eyes clear as he looked at the might problem once more. His left hand clasped tightly in Emma’s, he leaned forward and scrawled the right answer.

As soon as he wrote the last number, the snow glowed. It turned brighter and brighter, until Emma had to closer her eyes. She gripped Norman tightly, refusing to lose him a second time. When she opened her eyes once more, she was outside the palace gates, standing next to Mujika.

“I knew you could do it.” Mujika smiled. “Now, go home before she chases after you.”

Hand-in-hand, they did. By the time they returned to Grace Field, it was summer once more.

And this time, they were going to enjoy it.

[ennaku-sirri-da]

Hii i just wanted to say!! Thank you soso much for your wonderful tags on my piece for the smile for me zine! im still all mushy about it :'-) s4m is important to me as a whole, but Trencil has a particular special place in my heart!! the main idea I wanted to try and convey was Trencil tending to his overgrown garden, much like his heart, in an attempt to change and grow and move on (i see him as a widdow!), taking the last flower he and his partner planted together and getting ready the pot he now always carries it in. so he's got his reminder of love with him, and he'll always be taking good care of it

Of course!! You get what you deserve!!!

That's a lovely interpretation :") ( smiling emote with tears) thank you for sharing.

Hmm...I feel I should share something in return....well there's this MLP fic very very special to me called The Mare At The End Of Forever by Obselescence...

--

(Withered and weak, she sat with the tree, guarded only by the dwindling magic of a million-year-old spell. Somehow, it seemed fitting. She was ancient by then—beyond ancient—but the tree was ancient too. She had seen to that much. It had grown older and grayer with her as the years had gone by, and was practically fossilized now, despite her preservative magic... Soon it would die with her too. Neither of them would be forced to face the end alone.

"There isn’t much time left, Sister," said Luna, suddenly sitting beside her as well. "Are you sure there is nothing left that you wish to say? No final words?"

Of course. Celestia sighed. She couldn't be left to die in peace. "Leave me alone, Luna," she croaked. "I've said all there is to say for you. I've done all I could do—" a hacking cough interrupted her and her eyes drooped downward as her energy began to flag. Even the mere effort of speech was starting to take its toll on her. It almost hurt to talk. "If there's anything more... I don't care to hear about it."

Luna moved in close and draped her wing over her. It seemed bigger now, to Celestia. Or perhaps, in her age, she had simply shrunk. "I never asked that you do more," said Luna softly. "You have done so much, Sister. Far more than anyone could ever have asked of you."

"Then... why do you keep coming back?"

"To remind you," said Luna, "so that you would not forget."

"I don't want to remember," Celestia rasped. "I shouldn't have to remember."

Luna said nothing to that, but drew her wing in, nestling a bit closer to her big sister. She felt warm, Celestia realized. Warmer than anything she'd been able to feel in a long time.

"It was often said that the moon needs the sun," said Luna, after a time, "for the moon could not shine if it did not reflect the sun's light."

"When there were still those who could say that..." said Celestia, her eyes turning back to the ancient tree behind her. "When there was still a moon..."

"But I think it true also," Luna continued, "that the sun needs the moon, to keep its light shining when the night is at its blackest, and all is dark."

"It hasn't been dark for a long time."

Luna hugged her tightly, tears starting to flow from her eyes. "You think it meant nothing because it came to nothing," she said. "But it did mean something. We all meant something. To you. If ever, even once, a subject, a student, or a sister, mattered to you—if you still cherish what time you did have with them—that is reason enough for them to have lived in the first place."

Celestia coughed again and shuddered. The sand glowed with heat from the flickering sun. She wouldn't last much longer, she knew. Not like this. She didn't have to deal with Luna’s shadow forever. The chill of death, slowly welling up inside her, would save her from that fate. "I keep telling you: it doesn't mean anything to me now," she said. "Maybe it did... Not anymore. I’ve grown past that."

Luna smiled at her, her eyes bright through the tears. It wasn’t the disappointed, piteous smile from so many millions of years ago, but that adoring, unconditional grin she'd always worn when she’d looked up to Celestia in life. Celestia could barely remember the last time she had seen that smile, and she wondered how, after everything she had said, Luna could still wear it while looking down on her in death.

"As you wish, Sister," she said. "But you are wrong: if it truly meant nothing to you, the tree above us now would not still be standing."

With that last parting shot, Luna vanished, and the feathery warmth of her wing faded into the air around Celestia, leaving her alone to spend what little time she had left.

And with only a few hours left on the clock, Celestia turned her head upward one final time. Through the withered and leafless branches of her tree, she looked to the looming red sun that she was destined to die with. She leaned just a bit to the side, to rest her head against the tree that was her baby sister’s gravestone, and mustered just enough of her remaining strength to smile.

"Fair enough, Luna." She closed her eyes. I'll see you soon.)

--

It may not be a 1:1 with your headcanon, but I do not mean it to be. I simply see that, they both carry the same beauty and thought in them. It's wonderful what we can do for the people we love. It's wonderful how the feeling I got from a fic I read more than ten years ago, author's left the fandom, can be brought back in just the 5 or 6 sentences where you have passed on your story. Celestia moves on from all-encompassing grief, and so does Trencil. Both shall rise like new stars in the wake of the dark left behind.

[themomsandthecity]

American Girl Releases New "Historical" Dolls Set in 1999 - and Millennials Are in Tears

Those of us born in the 1900s were shocked, appalled, and dismayed when we found out American Girl released new dolls for their historical collection - twins growing up in 1999. Don't strain yourself by doing the math, because yes, 1999 was 24 years ago. As you might predict, the internet is screaming. Until now, American Girl's historical collection has spanned from Kaya (whose story is set in 1764) to Courtney (set in 1986). While Courtney was pulled from recent enough history to inspire some raised eyebrows, it was nothing compared to the responses to the Mary Kate and Ashley look-a-likes, who were officially introduced on American Girl Doll's website as Isabel and Nicki Hoffman, twin sisters from Seattle. To be fair, some took Isabel and Nicki's debut in stride. But others had a slightly . . . stronger reaction. Think: GIFs of Jamie Lee Curtis screaming, "I'm old!" in Freaky Friday, or frantic searches for "nearby Botox" and "best night serum for mature skin." It got to the point where American Girl was officially sweating a bit, Tweeting "Didn't mean to hurt so many feelings today 😅 as if they didn't know what they were doing to our psyches. The dolls' descriptions only twisted the knife for many Millennials. Isabel's cropped cable-knit sweater and plaid skirt are giving total "Clueless" vibes (was it really released almost 30 years ago?). And Nicki's hobbies were stolen straight from our youth, but written about as if they were actual historical artifacts. "A full line of the doll's description goes into explaining that zines 'are like homemade magazines'🤦‍," writes Twitter user @SarahRheaWerner. At least they didn't try to define what magazines are. In case you haven't signed off from the internet forever yet, there are two more add-on accessories that you won't want to miss. Firstly, Isabel and Nicki's Computer & Desk Set ($145) complete with CD towers, floppy disk drives, and, of course, a desk monitor that brings back memories of the screeching dial-up sounds we all suffered through while logging onto AIM to chat with friends. And a Pizza Hut Book It Set ($32), a reference to the Hut's reading program from the '90s, which includes the cup. If this article could be written completely in emojis, it would be comprised of a series of skulls, because we are officially deceased. The only people who seemed to win today was the queer community. "From the hyper femme Isabel and her tiny kitten, to the very cool, very soft butch Nicki and her alien pillow," wrote Analyssa for Autostraddle. "'The L Word' would have come out when they were 15! Callie and Arizona get together when they're in college!" We can't wait to see American Girl Doll's first "coming out" storyline. Now that would be historical. https://www.popsugar.com/family/american-girl-doll-1999-49097499?utm_source=dlvr.it&utm_medium=tumblr

[my-funky-little-cowboy]

Cowboy Couture

Yeehawgust Day 11 Words: 1,585 Characters: Arthur Morgan, Charles Smith, Albert Mason Pairings: Implied Charthur Warnings: Fluff

This was part of an collab piece with @peacesentinel​ that we both kind of forgot about, but at least now it’s getting some light. You can find more of his work on his twitter

Arthur dropped the buck heavily next to Pearson’s wagon. He stared at it as he cleaned half dried blood off his hands, discarding the small rag before cracking his neck. 

“Good thing you dropped this off! I don’t think I could have, in good conscience, used the supplies we had left. Thank you, Arthur.” Pearson clapped him on the back before he dragged the carcass to the back of the wagon for dressing. 

Arthur sighed and returned to untack Ulysses, the sun slowly dipping beneath the horizon. He eyed the stew pot lazily simmering over the fire as he passed and decided to opt out, considering that the deer wouldn’t be properly butchered until morning. 

“Letter came for you.” Tilly caught him by the elbow as he passed.

“For me?” Arthur stopped, confused.

“From Saint Denis. Real fancy.” She cocked an eyebrow. “You got someone special out there we don’t know about?” 

“This old fool? Nah.” Arthur dismissed, but Tilly’s coy expression remained.

“It don’t look like that Mary girl’s handwriting, so who is it?” Arthur shot her a glare and she sighed, exasperated.  

“Fine," she pouted, "I left it on your table. It’s just so boring around here, Arthur. This looked exciting!” 

Arthur shook his head, “If it’s some secret admirer, I’ll be sure to let you know.” Tilly scoffed and waved him off dismissively before wandering over to the music that had started near the fire.

He quickly finished untacking Ulysses and headed to his tent, curiosity piqued despite himself. He picked up the letter, the handwriting unfamiliar, flipping it over in his hands a few times before gently sliding his knife along the fold to open it.

Mr. Morgan,

I hope this letter finds you well. I have gotten myself into a bind and I didn’t know who else I could turn to. I am in need of two able bodies for a project. I’m in St. Denis, ask for me around the Bastille. 

I hope to see you soon!

A. Mason 

“Ah, shit.” Arthur sat down on his cot. He sighed heavily, pinching the bridge of his nose.

What's Albert gotten himself into now? He promised to stay away from wildlife the last time they'd parted. He laid down on the cot, what's he gotten into that he’d send me a letter? Kneading his knuckle into his eye until he saw stars, he sighed. Saint Denis is the place to find out. Angling his hat over his face, he decided, the city's only about half a day’s ride. I'll swing by tomorrow with someone, just to check it out.  

                                                           ---⤱---

Arthur blinked the sleep from his eyes, the dull pinks of the rising sun blearily shining through the canvas ceiling. He stretched and stepped out of his tent, crossing over to the fire. Hosea adjusted the percolator near the flames before turning to face Arthur.

“Morning, Arthur.” 

He offered a little wave in response, grabbing an apple from the wagon and kneeling near the fire. 

“Coffee will be ready in a bit,” Hosea took a seat at the table, picking up the paper and thumbing through it. 

“I gotta check on a lead in Saint Denis later. You hear anything else that may be worth investigatin’?” He took a bite from the apple and Hosea lowered the paper.

“Saint Denis? What’d you find out that way?”

“Ain’t quite sure, but I was gonna bring Charles along.” He poured them both a cup of coffee.

“Bring me along where?” Charles rounded the wagon to join them, a can of peaches in his hand.

“T’check on a lead in Saint Denis.” Arthur tossed the apple core into the fire and stood up, taking a sip from his coffee. “Was just going to look for ya. Ride with me?”

“Don’t draw too much attention.” Hosea shook out the paper, returning to his reading as Charles nodded, already heading to the hitched horses. 

They rode south for a while, briefly stopping to water the horses at a small farm outside of Rhodes. Arthur pulled the letter out of his satchel, re-reading it. 

“So what is this lead?” Charles asked, his eyes flicking down to the letter in Arthur’s hands.

“Checkin’ up on a friend. Got this letter in the mail. Sounds like he may be in a bit of a situation and needs some help.” He held the letter up in a hand. 

“Old gang member?” Charles pressed, suddenly cautious.

“Nah, just a stranger I helped out a few times. A photographer. Wanted to take pictures of all of the untamed wilds of America, before civilization destroyed it. If I hadn’t come along, nature would have surely destroyed him first.” He shook his head, exhaling a laugh.

“You think he might be in trouble? Why?” 

“I ain’t sure, but he asked for help and it ain’t that far, so I thought I’d investigate.” He shrugged. 

“Why’d you need me?” Annoyance peppered Charles’ voice.

“He said he needed two people.” Arthur tucked the letter away, whistling for Ulysses and swinging himself up onto the saddle.

                                                          ---⤱---

They pushed the doors to the Bastille open and were greeted by the bartender and a handful of patrons looking up as they made their way to the bar. 

“What can I get for you fellas?” The bartender leaned against the counter.

“We’re lookin’ for someone.” Arthur said, “Was told to ask around here. He’s a photographer- Albert Mason, you know him?”

“Maybe I seen him around. Ya’ll bounty hunters or something? Can’t imagine that boy in any sort of trouble.”

“Not exactly- he sent a letter for us to ask ‘round here for him.” Arthur pulled said letter out of his satchel and put it down on the bar. The bartender eyed it lazily before turning his attention to another patron.

 “He rents a small apartment above the tailor. That’d be the best place to start. Ya’ll gonna order anything?” Arthur glanced at Charles, who shook his head.

“Nah, thank you kindly.” He dropped a couple coins onto the bar and they headed back out into the street.

                                                          ---⤱---

Albert opened the door, a huge smile making him practically glow as he recognized the familiar face.

“You came! I wasn’t sure the letter would reach you! Come in! Come in!” He waved them both inside. Charles looked at Arthur, who shrugged and followed Albert inside.

“'Course we came, you said you was in a bind. Everything okay?” Albert spun around, his face painted with confusion.

“Of course I’m okay, I’ll explain everything when we get to the studio. But first you both need to change.” 

“Change?” Charles interjected. Albert nodded and rummaged through some things on his desk before producing a couple brown paper packages.

“These might be a bit large.” He handed a package to each of them. Charles held up his hand.

“Change for what?” Charles’ tone was laced with apprehension and Albert furrowed his brow, confused.

“The photoshoot?”

“The what?” Arthur raised his eyebrows, “You said you was in a bind!” 

Albert turned red, realizing only now how his letter came across. He threw his hands up defensively before covering his mouth in embarrassment. 

“Oh! Oh no! I am so sorry. My letter.” He drew his hand across his face. “You...thought I was in danger...”

Arthur nodded, his lips pressed together in frustration.

“No, no, no, no. I got this photography job, on the recommendation of my acquaintance Algernon, to do a photoshoot for a catalogues new clothing line. It’s to be the first use of photographs in the Wheeler Rawson.”

Arthur exhaled slowly, his grip on the package tightening, frustrated more-so with himself for reading too much into the letter. Charles shook beside him and Arthur felt a wave of embarrassment wash over him, fueling his anger. 

A masked chuckle broke the tension, both men turning toward the sound. Charles broke, letting out a chorus of raucous laughter. Arthur flushed, turning to face Albert; he sighed heavily and shook his head.

“Got anywhere with a bit’a privacy?”

                                                          ---⤱---

The studio was set up when they finished changing, Albert directing them on how and where to stand. The starched clothes dug into them, Lemoyne heat making it nearly unbearable to stand still, bright studio lights only making matters worse. Albert tittered about, posing them.

“Just like that, perfect, don’t mo-” Albert sighed from behind the camera. “Stop messing with your shirt.” Arthur pulled at the stiff collar, unbuttoning the top two before Albert swatted his hands away.

“Ain’t no one really gonna wear this shit.” He grumbled.

“I don’t know, that shirt suits you.” Charles quipped, scratching at his own shirt before tying his hair in a loose ponytail to cool down. Arthur scowled at him

Albert straightened out Arthur’s collar and stepped back surveying the shot. He leaned in and unfastened Charles’s top button and stepped back again. The boys discomfort grew as he continued to stare. He checked the viewfinder on the camera. Sweat trickled down Arthur’s forehead, before he could think he pulled his hat off and wiped the sweat away with his forearm, slicking back his hair with and replacing the hat firmly on his head.

“No, no hat.” Albert exclaimed from behind the camera. Arthur froze. 

“Give it to Charles.” Arthur plopped the hat onto Charles’ head, his hand hovering as he waited for Albert to respond. 

“Perfect.” Albert whispered. Arthur returned to his pose, glancing down to see Charles grin before he heard the soft click of the camera.

[verytendou]

OTL

[aziraphales-library]

Hi! I'm sort of new here and have enjoyed poking around on your blog! I wonder if you or your followers have any recommendations of unknown fic? I mean fic with like 100 kudos or fewer. Any ratings, any tags. I want to see what hidden gems are out there.

Here are a bunch of amazing fics from my bookmarks that all have <100 kudos (at time of compiling! Some are fairly new so the kudos count may increase before this posts)...

Liturgy of the Hours by Nadzieja (M)

Crowley is not a priest anymore, he has buried that part of his past long ago. Yet, fate brings him back to Tadfield where he'll have to confront a ghost from his past he hasn't seen in a very long time (but whose facs might as well be carved onto his heart). ----- Melancholic, full of depressing autumn imagery, and a very long waiting fic. This is about rejection and loneliness that crawls under your skin, yet that only makes you cling to it even more.

Reclamation by miraworos (T)

Years after the failed apocalypse, Aziraphale struggles to come to grips with his unintentional role in inspiring a centuries-old religious sect. It hardly helps that he only sees Crowley once a year on the anniversary of their Arrangement. The more time goes by, the deeper he slips into a mental fog he can't seem to climb out of. Can he find peace with himself after so long? Or will his inability to accept who he truly is cause him to lose Crowley forever?

Don't Go Where I Can't Follow by cheerios_and_wine (M)

"Are you saying that you believe me to be in love with you, romantically, and you don't feel the same?"

Aziraphale nods miserably.

Or, Crowley and Aziraphale have started having sex, but they need to have the dreaded discussion about feelings. Only it doesn't go as either of them aniticipated.

Written for Aromantic Spectrum Awareness Week 2021

Blooming Affections by GreenCat42 (G)

Azira enjoys going to the farmers market each Saturday when she spots a new stall full of gorgeous plants and flowers. Antonia J. Crowley has finally gotten a coveted spot in the farmers market and meets a soft bookseller. Slowly they circle closer together during their weekly meetings.

De Amore by Aethelflaed (G)

Aziraphale has come to Paris to find the answer to an important question:

What's it like to be in love?

Crowley's not sure why he wants to know, but he's willing to discuss it to make his angel happy...

Written for the 2021 Ace Omens Zine!

The Scottish Play by Supergeek21 (T)

Everyone knows it's bad luck to say the name "MacBeth." Only Aziraphale and Crowley know why.

Transfigured So Together by EveningStarcatcher (G)

He had a date. A date with the most handsome man he’d ever seen. A date with the most charming, generous, clever, fun, kind man. A date with Anthony Crowley. A first date. His first date.

Aziraphale and Crowley see a production of Midsummer Night's Dream. Feelings are had and expressed

- Mod D

[anxiouslittlecarrot]

Imagine you are twelve and develop a bit of a crush on a friend. Just a little one, you just think they’re neat. It’s one of your first crushes and honestly you don’t even call it a crush. You think you manage this fondness pretty well, they don’t notice it, none of your other friends seems notice it, neither do the adults. It’ll pass and it’ll be alright! You are a bit socially anxious and you would like it to stay secret forever more.

And then tens of thousands of people you never even met before start talking about it. They put up posters with photo collages and manips of you and your crush all over the country, with little hearts and scribbles and song lyrics around them. They make video edits to put on digital billboards that highlight every time you look at the kid, smile at them, interact with them. In slow motion, zoomed in, rewinded thrice, love songs playing in the back. They make illustrations of you two together. They drop hints about it and even outright ask you about it when they meet either of you on the street. They do it in the spotlight, in front of a sea of other people you likewise have never met before. They create little zines to distribute around the country that prints articles and montages of how precious you two are and why you should be together, despite not even knowing either of you, and even get into arguments about it. When either of you spends time with other friends, it’s news and it divides opinions. Whenever you meet someone who already knows who you are, half of the time you can see in their eyes they are thinking about this. Despite your young and beating heart, you two are now like fictional characters to everyone.

There’s no way in hell your friends and family haven’t seen it, no way the kid hasn’t seen it. You want to fold into yourself out of existence from embarrassment but you can’t. And you can’t run away because it’s everywhere your name appears, and you can’t distance yourself from them and hide because you two have a duty to remain around each other, and this goes on for years, no matter how long ago you stopped this innocent thing of liking them, or how much you two have grown and changed, or how much it hurt you, or how much it affected your close friendship,

Anyway, I feel like that’s what people did to Finn Wolfhard and Millie Bobby Brown

[pink-flame]

Our Song

A peak into that missing songwriting weekend where Luke and Julie finished Stand Tall.

Julie hasn't touched her songwriting notebook in a year, hasn't seen the point when she can't imagine herself finishing those songs without her mom. She never thought there would be anyone else she could trust with them. But with Luke? With Luke she just knows.

Written for the @jatpzine zine Bright Forever.

Julie clutched a notebook close to her chest, the butterfly stickers adorning its surface forming familiar shapes under her nervously gripping fingers. It was a notebook she hadn’t touched for more than a year, not since the last time she had worked on a song with her mom. She couldn’t believe that she was even considering showing it to anyone else. But that was just it...Luke wasn’t just anyone else. And ridiculous as it might seem to be so sure of that when he had just poofed into her life, Julie knew it to be true. She had known it ever since he found her in her kitchen, determined to motivate her with a wave of metaphors and almost violent compliments, a piece of his soul folded carefully in his back pocket as a gift.

Julie had known what it meant to him, “Mr. No Musician Would Ever Turn That Down”.

So after they had spent the last two days writing songs, it had suddenly occurred to Julie that maybe he was someone she could trust with the words and melodies her mom had left behind.

So she had excused herself to the house, making up an excuse about being thirsty but really making a beeline straight for her room and the forcibly forgotten back corner of her bookshelf where she had shoved her notebook a year ago. Now she was hovering just outside of the garage doors, anxiously shifting her weight as she tried to work up the courage to step inside and invite him to see a part of her even she hadn’t been able to look at for so long.

She forced a shaky breath into her lungs and stepped into their studio (when had she started to think of it as theirs). Her eyes immediately landed on Luke who had taken advantage of her absence to make himself comfortable on the couch, his back against the cushions, his legs stretching up towards the wall, his acoustic balanced precariously on his lap as he tapped out a rhythm against its body.

And just like that some of her nerves melted away as an involuntary burst of laughter escaped. His eyes snapped up to hers at the sound and a grin that definitely didn’t leave her breathless spread across his face.

“Comfy?” She asked, biting her lip in a futile effort to keep her expression neutral.

He continued grinning at her and let out a huff of air that blew one of those curls that rested against his forehead up and back to lay gently against his skin.

“I had this idea for a beat for the chorus of Great. I’ll have to run it by Alex obviously but what do you think of…”

His fingers paused mid-tap, his attention on the notebook still clutched in her hands.

“What’s that?”

Julie fought the irrational urge to hide it behind her back.

“It’s a song I was working on…before,” Julie admitted. “I thought we could look. Maybe.”

Luke’s eyes lit up and he was setting aside his guitar and leaping to his feat almost instantly. Before she could fully register his movement he was at her side, plucking the notebook from her fingers gingerly, already flipping it open and crossing to sink onto the piano bench across the room. He was getting way too good at holding solid objects and it was incredibly inconvenient.

“Stand Tall,” he practically hummed the title. “You wrote this for the piano, right?”

He smoothed out the pages while Julie walked over to sit next to him.

“Uh, yeah, we did.”

To his credit he froze at her words, glancing over first to the hands she was wringing together in her lap then up to her strained expression.

“We?”

Julie nodded, avoiding his soft gaze,

“My mom and I started it.”

There was a moment of silence during which Julie braced for the inevitable expression of sympathy, the offer to talk about her loss, the conversation that would carefully slot her back into her box as the “girl with the dead mom”.

“We should finish it,” Luke said simply, reaching behind his ear to grab the pen he had stashed there earlier (defying all logic about how ghost rules should work in the process).

The weight pressing on her chest slowly disappeared.

She had known he was someone she could trust with her mom’s last song.

But now she knew.

They worked on the song for almost an hour tossing ideas back and forth. The chorus had been pretty much finished between Julie and her mom, it was the verses that they never got around to. Luke had lots of great ideas, words that flowed around the melody in her mind perfectly. The problem was they still didn’t feel right.

Julie sighed.

“I don’t know, it's like…the song is supposed to be about never giving up, right? But…I did give up,” She forced out, trying to put the lingering ache in her heart into words. “More than once, and every time I thought I was making progress letting go it was back to the beginning.”

“So we start the song with that,” He told her eagerly, tapping the pen against the paper and bouncing a little in his seat. “One thing and it’s back to the beginning, cause everything is rushing in fast.”

“And it’s one, two, three, four times…going out of my mind…” Julie added, singing the words that had popped into her head and trying not to let herself get distracted by Luke’s slightly awed look when she did.

“Yes!” He snapped his fingers enthusiastically. “If standing tall was easy the song would be pointless. It’s about how hard it is and doing it anyway!”

He seemed to realize he had gotten carried away and reached up to rub awkwardly at the back of his head.

“Sorry, it’s your mom’s song. I shouldn’t be telling you what it’s about.”

Julie leaned over to bump her shoulder with his, the contact impossible in the end.

“It’s our song too, yours and mine.”

He bit his lip then graced her with one of those nods he only handed out when he really liked what she was saying.

“Our song,” He echoed.

It wasn’t the first song they wrote together and Julie had a feeling it wouldn’t be the last.

But it was the one when she knew.

And now that she knew…she would never forget.

[gureishi]

paper moon, make-believe stars

✧ — Summary: Eunji never dreamed of weddings or promises or eternity, but Saeyoung did—and at the precipice of forever, she remembers a long-forgotten wish. It’s not too late to see the stars.

✧ — Pairing: Saeyoung x Eunji (CMC)

✧ — Rating: T

✧ — A/N: I wrote this for the @nostringsdetached​​ zine, and I’m honestly prouder of it than just about anything else I’ve written. Eunji isn’t me, but there’s a lot of me in her—and so I feel like the fic is intimate and personal in a way that’s new for me. I’m so excited to be able to share it!

Check out the absolutely stunning artwork by Vacorn that accompanies this fic here.

Certain moments, Eunji thought, were suspended in time—as if everything that had led up to them, and everything that would follow, spread out in all directions around her like ripples on clear water.

If she were a different kind of person, tomorrow would be one of these moments: an inflection point in the trajectory of her life. But Eunji was who she was—and because of this, she was focused not on the day that was coming but the day that was already here.

For her, it was never the thing itself that felt important, but the moment before the thing arrived. It was about the fire in someone’s eyes right before they tell you to get out; the silent air in advance of a storm; the heart-shattering stillness that always seems to precede a kiss.

She felt it then, standing in the middle of the unreasonably large kitchen for which she’d developed such an inexplicable fondness: the sensation that time had stopped; that her past, present, and future were all somehow converging into one single moment of transience.

“Huh,” she said out loud.

Her voice echoed strangely off of the industrial appliances and stone countertops; she’d frozen, she realized, in the middle of brushing sauce onto the filleted fish spread out on the cutting board before her. Shaking her head, she drew a knife from the rack beside her and started to slice a lemon into neat, juicy wedges.

Just then, she heard a familiar knock: two gentle taps on the wooden door frame that connected the kitchen to the even larger living area. He had started doing this ages ago, when she’d told him she couldn’t stand the way he was always appearing at her side without warning. He was silent without meaning to be, for the very same reason that Eunji was alarmed when he took her by surprise: when you’ve lived your life one way, it is not so easy to make changes. It takes time; it takes compromise.

The knocking was one such compromise. He could not, perhaps, re-train himself to make more noise as he moved around the house—but he could let her know when he was coming. Still holding the lemon slices, she turned halfway to peer over her shoulder at him.

Saeyoung stood in the doorway, a lopsided grin on his face, one hand positioned to knock again. There was something about him—a sort of buzzing on the very surface of his skin that told her that he, too, felt the coalescence of time. She set the knife aside and opened her arms; he catapulted himself into them, nuzzling her shoulder—begging to be petted.

So she obliged him, tangling a hand in his disheveled curls. He made a low humming sound that was almost a purr.

“What are you making?” he trilled, his breath warm on her neck. With a hand that was still slightly sticky from the lemon juice, she brushed his bangs off his forehead and kissed the skin just above his eyebrow. He did taste a little bit like lemon, now.

“Who knows?” she said, shrugging—and she felt it in her whole body when he laughed. “I’m experimenting.”

“Only you,” he murmured. He drew back to look at her, and his hands fell automatically to her waist. She inhaled deeply, letting the familiar spicy-sweet scent of him envelop her.

“Only me what, baby?”

“Only you’d insist on doing the cooking tonight,” he said. “We could’ve gone out, or—” He leaned around her to eye the sauce-slathered fish spread over the cutting board. “It looks delicious, though. Whatever it is.”

She laughed and pushed him gently out of the way; he whined as she turned her attention back to the fish.

“It makes me calm,” she said. He chuckled and wrapped both arms around her waist, his scarred fingers skimming over her skin.

“What about the thought of everybody we know all in one place is making you not calm?” he teased. Eunji sighed, arranging the sliced lemon on top of the pieces of fish. He rested his chin on her shoulder and she wiggled her lemony fingers in his face.

“Never thought I’d see my mom back in this country,” she said, feeling a familiar rumble of anxiety, like a little beast crouching behind her ribcage. The beast was always there—but since she’d picked her mother up from the airport three days ago, it had felt bigger and fiercer than usual. “I’m trying to imagine her—and my dad—and all of our friends…” She shuddered, taking a fistful of the spice blend she’d already made and dusting it over the fish. She was over-seasoning, she thought, but the anxious creature in her chest insisted that her hands needed to be busy. Saeyoung’s fingers tapped insistently against her hips, and she wondered if she’d picked this habit up from him: the need to be constantly in motion, her hands active when her heart was troubled.

“I know,” he said. He held her a little tighter.

And this was one of the very first things that she had loved about him: Saeyoung never offered platitudes—he wouldn’t say don’t worry so much or everything will turn out fine. Eunji had spent her whole life striving for a sort of perfection—in her behavior, her work, her relationships—that was not only unattainable but also harmful. Saeyoung never asked this of her.

He knew what it meant to rifle through endless versions of yourself till you found one that fit—to create a phantom that you barely even recognized in order to fill the expectations the world had set for you.

Eunji twisted in his arms so she was facing him, holding her spice-soaked hands out to the side so she wouldn’t get them both covered in seasoning. There was a special place on his chest for her head: if she turned to the side, her cheek fit just right, and she could hear his heart. She felt it echoing—somehow as much inside her own body as it was in his.

“What are you scared of?” he asked.

Merging, she thought. Existing in a space with people who knew different and almost irreconcilable versions of her. Navigating the perilous waters of family (old and new and found). Giving this beloved boy the kind of day she knew he’d dreamt about (even before he knew he was allowed to dream).

“Not scared, really,” she said—a half-truth (and the way he huffed, breath ruffling her hair, showed her that he knew—as he always did when she told a lie). “I never fantasized about things like getting married and having a wedding. But you did.”

Saeyoung laughed in the quiet way that still, after all this time, she was the only one who got to hear.

“If you’re worried about fulfilling all of my fantasies…” He pulled back so she could see his face and wiggled his eyebrows at her. She rolled her eyes and kissed the tip of his nose, and then she left his side—went to the big cabinet by the stove where the pots and pans were stacked perilously high (chaotic, always on the verge of falling apart). Just like me, she thought.

She pulled out a big roasting pan, and Saeyoung hopped up onto the counter, somehow making space for himself among the ingredients. Eunji almost scolded him, as she usually did when he got in the way of her cooking.

But he had a funny look in his eyes—that sort of strange sheen that told her there was something he wasn’t saying—so she let him be.

“My parents,” she said, “haven’t seen each other in ten years and might literally kill one another tomorrow.” She shook her hair back off her face and wiped her hands on a paper towel. It wasn’t fear of her parents’ animosity that had put that look in his eyes, she knew—but she wasn’t going to press him to tell her what he was thinking. He would say it when he was ready.

This was another thing she’d learned long ago: if she pushed too hard, he would hide himself away—if she was patient with him, he would always get around to telling her what was on his mind. It was a delicate tower made of tissue paper, their honesty: new to them both, fragile and pieced together with promises kept and broken—with secrets whispered late at night and a patience that was born of deep, unwavering devotion.

“That would be memorable,” he said. In a moment of inspiration, Eunji grabbed the aluminum foil; Saeyoung raised his eyebrows. “What, are you gonna make armor?”

“Armor wouldn’t be a bad idea,” she told him. “But it’s for the fish, goofball.”

She wrapped each piece of saucy, soupy fish in a little boat of foil, lining the edges with slices of lemon. He watched her attentively—as if committing it all to memory: the way she folded the foil over the fish, the way she nibbled her bottom lip as she arranged the food in the large roasting pan. He did this often: gazing unabashedly at her as she did unremarkable things—like he was capturing each moment and filing it away in the recesses of his magnificent mind.

“Was that something you always wanted, then?” she asked. He hummed curiously as she put the pan in the oven and set the timer—a tiny little robot hamster (his design, of course), which perched on the edge of the stove and squealed when the time was up. “A wedding slash battle,” she clarified. He giggled.

“I’m not opposed to it.”

Eunji went to the sink (Saeyoung dropped a kiss to her shoulder as she passed him). It was as she was washing her hands—steam and suds rising all around her, forming soap bubble spirals before her eyes—that she remembered.

How could she have forgotten?

“Saeyoung,” she said slowly. She felt him spring to attention beside her.

“Yes, princess?”

She watched the steam from the hot water unfurling before her: twisty-turny. A whirlpool, she thought—or a spiral galaxy.

“Do you remember what you said to me when we’d only known each other a couple of days?” “I said a lot of things to you back then,” he said, laughing. “Did you have something specific in mind?”

God, it felt like a lifetime ago.

She’d been more alone, back then, than she’d ever been before: she’d felt like a stray animal, sleeping curled around herself and hissing at anyone who got too close. And how was it, she wondered now, that she’d known right away that this strange, silly, brilliant boy was just like her? She’d heard it in his voice the very first time he’d called her: oh, she’d thought. He’s just looking for somebody to hold his hand.

“You wanted,” she said (letting the hot water rush over her hands, loving the way it sounded—like rain, or wind, or a heartbeat), “to get married in space. Do you remember that?”

For a moment, he didn’t say anything. So she turned the water off; let her hands drip; looked at his face.

“Yeah,” he breathed. “I, uh…I was thinking about that too.”

Of course he was.

Eunji felt, as she looked at him, that she could see the ghost of the child he’d been once: painfully bright, full of fantasies of the future he believed he could build for himself. And she could see the boy he’d been when she’d met him, too: ready to run away without looking back; obsessed with finding a place where no one could reach him.

She also saw the man he was now: every bit as bright as the child he’d once been, and just as full of fantasies as the boy who she’d fallen in love with in the first place. The Saeyoung she knew now was strong—but the small boy who’d dreamed of flying through the stars was there, too.

She could do this for him, she realized. She couldn’t possibly control how tomorrow would unfold—but this she could do. She could do it with her own two hands.

“It’s not too late,” she said. “Let’s get married in space, baby.”

Saeyoung peered into her face like he thought he could unravel her mind if he just stared hard enough.

“I may be a genius,” he said slowly, “but even for me, twenty-four hours isn’t enough time to figure out how to get us onto the space station.”

Eunji went to him (still sitting on the counter) and laid a hand on his thigh; he squirmed contentedly—delighted, as always, simply to be touched.

“Not literally,” she told him. “Trust me.”

Suddenly, she felt full of energy. She darted from the kitchen and Saeyoung padded patiently after her; she led him down the long, dim hallway to his office, turning on the overhead light as she threw open the door.

This room was wonderful, she thought: full of him. There were odds and ends on every surface: diagrams and broken pencils and gears and wires and a half-built bird robot that screeched when she got too close. If she didn’t know him better, it would’ve been hard to find what she was looking for—but she understood the pattern of his chaos.

“Ta-da!” From beneath a precarious stack of metal sheets, she pulled a bin of colored paper: something she’d never once seen him use, but which she knew he’d acquired at some point for a project he’d either never started or already finished. He waited, eyes wide, as she dug through the desk drawer; there was tape here, and string, and wire in various shapes and sizes. “Help me!” she said at last—and he sprang into action, a wide grin spreading across his face. He’d caught on, she thought—as she’d known he would.

“Got it, commander,” he sang, giving her a breezy salute.

And before she knew it, he was piling the strangest assortment of items into her arms: long bits of wire and scraps of metal and tangled cords.

“Saeyoung!” She could hardly see over the pile of mismatched objects; he laughed at the sight of her and scooped most of them back into his own arms.

“That’s enough,” he said. “We’ve got a lot of work to do before your oven timer goes off.”

Eunji’s heart shivered. He never hesitated; she adored this perhaps most of all.

“Lead the way,” she said.

So he led her back to the kitchen, and they sat side by side on the floor, their strange pile of tools spread out around them. Saeyoung took up a length of wire and began bending, twisting, shaping; Eunji looked around at the items they’d gathered.

She couldn’t imagine how to use most of these things—but she knew what she could do. Grabbing one of Saeyoung’s pencil nubs (always nubs—she’d never once seen him use a whole, new pencil), she started to doodle star shapes on a piece of thick, shiny paper. She wasn’t particularly good at drawing—but she’d spent enough time staring at the glow-in-the-dark stars on the ceiling above their bed that she could make a reasonable approximation.

For a while, they were quiet. Eunji cut out her paper stars; Saeyoung was using pliers now, doing something Eunji didn’t understand with the piece of wire and an electrical cord. Eunji doodled Saturn—it was a little lopsided, but she thought it looked alright.

“Do you wanna know,” Saeyoung said suddenly (in that quiet voice he used occasionally—the one that meant this is just for you and me), “why I thought about all that stuff so much?”

“What stuff?” Eunji cut out her little Saturn and taped a string to the top of it. She held it up to the light: it dangled like a mobile; if she squinted, it almost seemed to shine.

“Going to outer space,” he said. He had done something to make the wire in his hand light up—it was glowing a warm gold, and it reminded Eunji of the way the stars looked out here: soft and almost impossibly close. “Running away to the farthest galaxy and never coming back.”

“Yeah,” she said. She decided to make a full moon (and perhaps it would just be a white blob, but she would know what she meant by it). She traced a circle on a piece of cardboard. “Tell me why.”

Saeyoung stood. She waited as he crossed to the living room and returned with one of his laptops. She waited as he booted it up—waited as he typed, too fast for her to follow. From amidst the pile of items, something started to shine.

“I thought,” he said slowly, “that I wasn’t made for this world.”

Oh, Eunji remembered this: the way his voice had sounded in the early days when he’d called her late at night. He had spoken, with counterfeit cheer, of how undeserving he believed himself to be—and even then, she’d wanted to rip the stars from the sky and give them all to him.

“The only time I felt safe,” he continued—calloused fingers flying over the keys (the glowing orb in the middle of the room changed color, casting glitter across the ceiling)—“was when I closed my eyes and imagined myself in another galaxy. Somewhere I couldn’t do anything bad, and no one would ever find me.”

Eunji could still picture how he’d looked the very first time he’d allowed her to hold him: eyes wide as the full moon she’d just cut out of cardboard. You look like no one’s ever held you before, she’d told him, shaking her head (tearful, heart full). He’d laughed an empty laugh that had told her more than he ever could have said in words. She’d squeezed him tighter.

“I used to fantasize about floating on my back on the ocean,” she told him now. “In my imagination, I’d close my eyes and drift farther and farther from shore. Then I’d open them to find there was only water on all sides: no land, no people, just me all alone in the waves.”

“That’s a much scarier fantasy than mine,” he said. His typing paused, and she glanced up at him: the orb he’d been programming reflected glimmering specs of light onto his face. He looked, she thought, almost otherworldly like this—sitting cross-legged on the kitchen floor, his body covered in sparkling wires.

“It’s the same,” she said. She crawled to him; he set his laptop aside and opened his arms, and she folded herself into his lap.

“When you told me you wanted to take me to the space station, was that your way of making me part of your fantasy?” she asked.

“You’re too smart for your own good,” he said, chuckling. No, she thought. You are.

Eunji remembered the very first time she’d realized he didn’t want to run away anymore. She’d woken in the middle of the night and gazed at his sleeping face on the pillow beside her: his breathing had been slow, and he had been smiling.

“Let’s hang the stars,” he whispered in her ear.

So they did. Saeyoung climbed back onto the counter to drape his glittering wire over the cabinets; Eunji passed her paper stars up to him, and he taped the strings to the ceiling—perching precariously at the very edge of the countertop, cackling as she watched him with wary eyes.

“Don’t you dare hurt yourself today,” she warned. Her arms were full of cardboard planets.

“I may not be in the kind of shape I was when you met me, but I can still take care of myself,” he crowed; he was crouching on top of the refrigerator now, hanging his glowing orb from the tallest shelf. It cast light over the entire room; the paper stars seemed to spring to life.

“If you say so, danger boy.”

Saeyoung leapt to the ground. Eunji winced, but he landed—as always—on the balls of his feet.

“Your turn,” he said.

And then his hands were on her hips and—before she could protest—he was lifting her; she stretched a hand up to reach the ceiling, and the cardboard moon swung from its string like a pendulum.

“Don’t drop me,” she gasped.

Saeyoung laughed. “I’ve got you, starshine.”

Eunji hung the moon in the very center of the room.

Then: a shuffling of footsteps in the hall; a heavy sigh. Eunji tried to twist in Saeyoung’s arms, but he held her too tightly.

“What,” said a quiet voice, “are you doing?”

Saeyoung turned, setting Eunji on her feet. Just as she had suspected: Saeran was standing just outside the kitchen, his expression unreadable as he took in the mess of glittering lights and paper stars.

“We’re making space!” Saeyoung declared. He spread his arms wide, as if to say be proud of me.

“I can see that.”

Eunji took Saeyoung’s hand and smiled an apology for his exuberance. Saeran, she thought, would surely retreat to the other side of their massive home—shaking his head, perhaps, at the idiocy of trying to turn the kitchen into a planetarium.

But he didn’t.

“We’re getting married right now,” Eunji said quietly. Saeran raised his eyebrows.

“I get that neither of you has any sense of time,” he muttered, “but you’re getting married tomorrow, actually.”

Eunji laughed—she couldn’t help it. She was sure that she saw a hint of a smile on his lips: he was teasing them, she thought. That was new.

Saeyoung must have noticed it too, because he had stopped breathing.

“We’re doing it now, then again tomorrow,” Eunji said. “Wanna come to our first wedding? You’re the only one who’s invited.”

Saeran didn’t answer her right away, but he took a few halting steps into the kitchen. Under the artificial moonlight, the brothers looked more identical than ever, Eunji thought: tousled red hair and star-bright eyes.

Saeran leaned against the counter and crossed his arms.

“If I have to,” he said. Ah, but there it was again—a ghost of a smile on his pale face. Eunji grinned.

“Saeyoung,” she said, turning to him and lifting a hand to his cheek. “Our family’s here. Marry me now, okay?”

He looked into her eyes and she thought she saw the whole galaxy reflected back at her: effervescent and endless and expanding.

“I’m ready,” he said—in that quiet, breathless voice that was just for her.

“Sorry we couldn’t do it in space for real.”

“I don’t wanna go to space anymore,” Saeyoung said. His voice was hoarse; he squeezed her hands like they were the only thing tethering him to this planet (and they were—they had been). “Not when everything that matters is here.”

“On earth?” Eunji asked. Saeyoung shook his head.

“No,” he said. “In this kitchen.”

Eunji threw her arms around his neck. The paper planets danced overhead; his heart seemed to echo the song of the stars.

“Love you,” she whispered; his hand was in her hair, and he was drawing her close; she tasted the future in the still air just before he kissed her.

“I will love you,” he said solemnly, “until the end of the universe.”

“And after that?”

Saeyoung beamed.

“Then I’ll just love you more.”

He kissed her. And Eunji had always loved the moment before—had preferred dreams to reality, anticipation to satisfaction. But the thing itself, she thought now—whispered words, or the wind in her hair, or a kiss so tender the world stopped turning—was not nothing, after all.

Saeran made a sound and time moved forward again; Eunji turned to look at him and was surprised to see a certain quietude in his eyes.

“Are you married, then?” he asked.

Eunji looked at the bright cardboard moon—at her silly lopsided planets—at Saeyoung’s eyes, which held a fire brighter than all the stars (real or make-believe).

“Yeah,” she said. “I think we are.”

Saeyoung took her hand—but he was looking at his brother.

Merging, Eunji thought again. Coalescing.

She had never dreamed about marriage. She had been scared of its permanence—terrified of the togetherness, the tenderness, the very idea of forever. And Saeyoung had pictured fleeing into the emptiness of space: a fantasy of infinite solitude.

But here they were, with the family they’d fought for. Time spread out in all directions around them.

The paper stars shimmered overhead.

[miss-tc-nova]

Events Unchanged - Xehanort x Eraqus

So THIS is my final piece for the @checkmate-zine. I had a blast writing it and it’s probably one of my favorite pieces I’ve ever written. Please check out the other creators on this project because they are all absolutely amazing.​

Music Inspiration: End In Tragedy and MIssing You by Set It Off

Art by my queen @kingdomcarrots​

~~~~~

               The castle looms over the young man. This being his first stop, he’s not entirely sure he’s in the right place, or rather, the right time. The description of the place matches up, but he could be anywhere from minutes to decades off with no idea how to tell. Additionally, if he’s jumped even a minute too far, that complicates the whole plan.

               With really no other choice, he climbs the steps to the front door, letting himself in. He’d heard a little of this place, seen a few paragraphs in books, but the Land of Departure is such a small world compared to Scala Ad Caelum. However, this is very obviously an off-shoot of the Scala training school; the only real difference lies in the missing inhabitants. Such spacious halls lack the chatter of students and staff despite the well-kept appearance.

               “Identify yourself.”

               He stops. That gruff voice rumbles with the faintest hint of familiarity. Curiosity piqued, the young man turns back.

               It has to be him; it couldn’t be anyone else. Aside from that traditional style and the Master’s Defender prepared to strike, Xehanort could never mistake those eyes and no amount of hostility could mislead him. There’s no doubt now that Xehanort is far into the future, not while he stares at the aged face of the man Eraqus is to become.

               He looks worn, as if the years have been long and hard and those scars prove nearly as much. That welcoming cheer from their very first meeting has been replaced by sheer apprehension, likely caused by his arduous life. It seems he’s become the soldier his parents always pushed him to be; and yet, surely, he can’t have forgotten his beloved.

               Cautious hands lift to push the hood back and reveal the face hiding beneath.

               Shock takes over the old warrior’s expression. “Xehanort?!”

               “Eraqus.” It’s all Xehanort can come up with in his uncertainty.  

               “How is this possible?!” Resumed suspicion reaffirms that fighting stance.

               First and foremost, Xehanort has a mission, one that could potentially fix everything that went wrong in their lives. They could have everything they lost, including the happiness stripped from them far too soon. Additionally, this is Eraqus, the one who saved Xehanort from self-destruction and gave him the motivation to do all these incredible things. There’s nothing he wouldn’t do to ensure Eraqus’s happiness. However, the stubborn blueblood often disapproved of Xehanort’s methods as of late and perhaps that’s only gotten worse as the years passed—perhaps plans should be kept quite even from one’s most precious. Having been caught here in the future, Young Xehanort must pick carefully which truths to divulge.

               A soft exhale calms the nerves. “I’m from the past,” the traveler confesses. “Brought here by the version of me from this time.”

               “How? What for?” Eraqus demands. “What proof do you have for any of this?”

               “I can’t say how or why but…”

               A well-seasoned Master Eraqus is probably not a fight Xehanort wants to pick, but he’ll need something personal to convince this man of the truth. He knows just the memory, but it’s not pleasant.

               Xehanort’s gaze drops to the floor. “You once caught me on the roof of the citadel. You told me…that if I couldn’t find a reason not to step off, then you would make one.”

               Eraqus’s mouth presses into a thin line; they never told anyone of that incident.

               “So what are you doing here?”

               Shaking off morbid memories, Xehanort replies, “Like I said, I can’t tell you that, but I need to find myself from this time. Is he here?”

               Eraqus wears a heavy pity that agitates Xehanort—he may still be young with much to learn, but he’s never taken kindly to pity.

               “You don’t know anything. You just left, didn’t you…”

               “I left Scala several hours ago,” the youth says. That empathy grows. “Why?”

               “You…Your older self doesn’t come by often.”

               This is unexpected. Even as he left, Xehanort fully intended to visit his significant other once he got things set in motion. Besides, Xehanort is greedy—he knows it. He’s got only the sparsest restraint when it comes to indulging in his partner’s presence, so this statement by the man at the heart of that avarice makes no sense.

               “Why not?” Xehanort is not going to remain calm if that look of condolence continues. “When does he come by?”

               There’s a solemn shake of the old man’s head. “He doesn’t.”

               “What do you mean he doesn’t?!” Xehanort barks, leather creaking with tightened fists. “He has to come visit you! He wouldn’t leave forever—not when you’re the person most important to him!”

               The outburst does nothing against Eraqus’s empathy. “I’m sorry. Once you left, we started to view things differently. There were things we simply couldn’t agree on.”

               “Then why didn’t you stop me?!”

               “Nothing I said would’ve convinced you to stay.”

               “No!” he shouts. “There’s no excuse! You should have stopped me! If me leaving made you so miserable, you shouldn’t have let me go! You should have cried or begged or even beat me over the head—whatever it took to make me stay!”

               Tears form in the man’s eyes and that unwanted compassion pushes Xehanort past his threshold. With renewed determination, he stalks past the elder to resume the search for his future self.

               A strong fist catches around the young man’s wrist. “Where are you going?”

               His answer is short, sharp. “To do what I came here to do.”

               For the third time, Eraqus presses, “And what would that be?”

               Xehanort glowers. With a vague restraint in his voice, he spits, “I’m a time traveler; what do you think I’m doing here?”

               “You can’t do that! There must be consequences to meddling with the timeline!” protests the elder.

               “YOU THINK I DON’T KNOW THAT?!” the young man roars. “YOU THINK THIS IS JUST SOME STROLL IN THE PARK FOR ME?! OF COURSE I’M TRYING TO CHANGE WHAT HAPPENED AND I DON’T GIVE A FUCK WHAT IT COSTS! IT COULD COST MY LIFE AND I WOULDN’T GIVE A DAMN! THEY DESERVED BETTER! YOU—” Fury falters as the words catch in his throat and the edges of his vision blurs. “You deserve better.”

               Guilt resonates on that marred face; this is why Xehanort never told him. Eraqus had said a million times over that what happened wasn’t Xehanort’s fault, but a deep sadness settled in Eraqus’s heart that was clear to the Seeker. For Xehanort, the loss of his friends was already unbearable enough, but to have the love of his life stuffing down his turmoil behind a flighty façade tipped the scales. So now he’s here.

               With a look of defeat, Eraqus pleads, “Don’t do this. Please.”

               “I’m doing this for you.” Again, the older master begins to argue, but the younger has had enough and pulls away. “You couldn’t stop me then, and based on what I’ve seen today, you can’t stop me now. Take care of yourself.”

               With that, Xehanort leaves.

                 It’s been a few hours since the confrontation, but Xehanort still hasn’t found a single clue to the whereabouts of his present self. He’s hopped a few worlds and even double checked those he’d been drawn to in the past, but nothing comes up. Worst of all, something is pulling him back to the Land of Departure. He can’t shake the feeling that, no matter what Eraqus says, Xehanort would return to him eventually. They must still love each other or else he wouldn’t be here.

               His arrival is noiseless and unnoticed, but with each step closer to the castle, he hears the escalating sounds of a battle. Peering around a pillar across from the castle steps, Xehanort sees Eraqus squaring off with a young, brunette man.

               As he watches, Xehanort notices enough between the two to speculate that there’s a clearly straining relationship. Considering the use of darkness by the younger man and Eraqus’s violent abhorrence of it, Xehanort assumes that’s the cause of the clash. The winner would be an easy call if it were a simple fight, but that boost of darkness significantly closes the gap; so it comes as a surprise when the younger warrior rushes past Eraqus, causing him to stumble. It takes every bit of self-control Xehanort has not to act on protective urges as the Master’s Defender falls from its wielder’s hand.

               Terra, as named by Eraqus, is upset with his success. He cries over it, but his master is the one to apologize, admitting that his own heart is full of darkness. That declaration plays in the gray area of Xehanort’s mind. He already knows Eraqus is a good man with his heart bound to the light. What he doesn’t understand is that light, too, can make mistakes—mistakes which may beget darkness. Xehanort has tried explaining this before, but the noble would have none of it.

               A dark figure at the top of the stairs catches Young Xehanort’s eye too late. A blaring ring fills his ears seeing that man aim a familiar weapon. There’s no time to react; he’s too far away to do anything. Before Xehanort’s very eyes, the man he loves, and should have always loved, fades.

               With the reality of what happened beginning to sink in, his eyes focus on the man strolling down the steps. Anger ignites in his heart until he hears Terra question the stranger.

               “Master Xehanort! Why?”

               Master Xehanort—that man, the very person who killed his beloved Eraqus, is Xehanort himself.

               A dark storm swallows the sky, mirroring the wrath churning in the young man’s chest. With nothing but that rage guiding him, he rushes after the assassin into the dark portal. This new land is empty and barren save the mass of foreboding keyblades strewn about, but Xehanort has other concerns right now. Waiting just outside his attack range is the murderer.

               That man’s voice is filled with the gravel of age, but no remorse can be detected. “I wondered when you would arrive.”

               “You killed Eraqus.” Fists tremble at the young man’s sides, that quivering creeping into his chest.

               “I did.” Only a man scorned like Young Xehanort could withstand those chilling yellow eyes.

               Furious, he yells back, “That’s it?! That’s all you have to say?! How could you?! He was the only reason I didn’t throw myself off the citadel! HE’S THE REASON YOU STILL EXIST!”

               “Ah, the foolishness of my youth.” His casual dismissal drives the young Seeker’s heart rate up.  “It’s true he’s the reason I exist today, but Eraqus’s departure was necessary. You know firsthand how loyal his heart is to the light.”

               The response tears from his throat. “AND THAT’S JUSTIFICATION TO MURDER HIM?!”

               “He just didn’t understand that this is all for him, to create the life that he should’ve had. You knew there were consequences to meddling with time.”

               With no comeback, the young adult sneers, but the old master has one last remark that cuts to the quick.

               “As you said: they deserved better—he deserves better.”

               The words spoken just hours ago, shoved back in his face, incite the anguish burning in his heart. Rationality devolves and Young Xehanort charges his future self.

               All his life, Xehanort let his mind dictate his path. Moves were not made without thought to the consequences, but this—this is something beyond even the purpose of this mission and everything in him is screaming for revenge. Grief and anger cloud his judgement and spur attacks too straightforward to connect, however, that sloppiness doesn’t discourage him.

               Old Xehanort swipes, successfully disarming his younger self, and with the same ruthlessness shown to his former love, he eliminates the man from the past.

               Golden eyes meet gold; even as he’s being dragged back into his own time, the young man emanates his fury.

               Unbothered by the turn of events, the victor simply states, “One day, you will understand.”

~~~~~

               The elder watches his past self disappear among the shadows. It’s unfortunate how naïve he was, but this was to be expected—he and Eraqus had been so in love. Xehanort still possesses those feelings, which is why the decision had been so difficult. There’s a hole in his heart but he understands that sometimes things must be broken for them to become better and that’s the sort of thing the Seeker is betting on.

               In lieu of these unfortunate circumstances, he’s going to have to prepare a backup—to persuade his young self into venturing into the future a second time.

               As the thought occurs, darkness flares from the ground, creating a portal from which steps the young man that just tried to smite him. He’s more prepared than he gave himself credit for. He beckons the young man to follow to discuss the details of their plan. Even as they speak, the senior can see a spark in the new master’s eyes. There’s a curiosity that he will no doubt seek answers for.

               “How is Eraqus?”

               He should’ve known.

               Enacting his hard-earned skill of smothering his emotions, the old man answers, “Eraqus is dead.”

               The youth freezes, clearly distraught. “How?”

               A deep breath conveys true sorrow while concealing the lie. “The same as the others.”

               Hard determination grows on the young man’s face. Knowing that look and knowing himself, old Master Xehanort has ensured his ignorant self’s unquestionable devotion to the mission.

~~~~~

               Despair shakes his heart, waking the young man. Opening heavy eyelids, Young Xehanort finds a room illuminated with soft moonlight. Although this is not his room, it’s still familiar. Normally this place would bring him some solace but the discomfort he feels is intense.

               Whatever this is, it’s akin to a nightmare, slipping from his grasp as he tries to remember; it’s confusing and upsetting and damn near painful. Xehanort has had days where getting up for training was hard, he’s been injured so badly he’s been unable to stand, and he’s suffered unending fatigue at the hands of depression; but none of that compares to the sheer heartache of this moment and he doesn’t even understand why.

               Gentle humming draws his gaze lower and he immediately chokes down a whimper. Pressed flush against him is the love of his life, peacefully snoring away. Even with his messy hair and a little drool, he’s absolutely beautiful. No sight could be more stunning and yet, it’s also the most painful. Whatever vice is clenching down on Xehanort’s heart has to do with Eraqus.

               Of course, Xehanort’s always had those fears that maybe he can’t make Eraqus happy or that maybe he’s not good enough—as quoted by the noble’s parents—but even those feel so trivial compared to this dread. It breaks him more than anything ever has.

               His quivering is impossible to stifle and sniffles begin sneaking past his defense. To make matters worse, his sleeping partner stirs.

               “Xehanort?” Such a sweet sound worsens the turmoil. “Xe, what’s wrong?”

               There it is: the first hiccup that destroys the weary dam holding everything in and he breaks down right there.

               Eraqus doesn’t press for an answer but instead holds his sweetheart tightly. With the unknown sorrow flooding his system, Xehanort sobs into his boyfriend’s chest, desperately hoping to get this misery under control before he has to say goodbye to Eraqus in the morning.

[chatonne-rousse]

Three Kids and a Hamster

This was my contribution to the @adrienettezine.  I joined the zine as a beta and ended up as a pinch hitter - this sweet little fluffy story was the result.  I hope you enjoy it!  I just love these two so much.

Read it on Ao3 here.

                                           **********************

The same full moon that lit their way over rooftops and across the Seine an hour before shines through the hatch above the bed, illuminating their entwined legs in its gentle glow and casting shadows on the room below. Even if she weren't tucked beneath his arm with her cheek against his chest, this would be a place of perfect peace, awash in a sense of rightness and comfort and home. It makes his chest constrict all of a sudden, his next inhale a sharp shudder that rouses her immediately from near-sleep.

"You okay, Chaton?" she murmurs, eyes wide and worried.

He reassures her with a soft, genuine smile. "Yeah, I'm fine. Just...thinking."

Bending forward to press a kiss to her forehead, he pulls her back down to his chest and starts up a purr for her. The breathy giggle he gets in return is always worth the twinge of embarrassment and the weird tickle in his throat.

"About what?"

The purr dies down, replaced with a contented hum. "How much I love you, of course, Princess. What else?"

As expected, she swats him playfully and laughs, but a moment later he feels her hand stretch across his torso as she cuddles closer into his side.

"I mean it," she whispers into his shirt. "Your breathing got all weird. What's wrong?"

"Bugaboo, you know you take my breath away!"

"Adrien."

Her voice is all no-nonsense Ladybug, but it just makes him grin wider.

"I'm actually not kitten, Marinette."

She groans and lifts her head again but when she meets his gaze after an exaggerated eye roll, her features soften in response to his. She begins to duck her head shyly before changing course and pressing her lips to his instead, soft and sweet and warm. His eyes slip shut and he melts beneath her, his ever-romantic heart singing her name over and over in a three-beat cadence.

"I love you, too," she whispers against his lips, finally breaking away after a long, slow kiss that leaves them both breathless.

After a quick kiss at the corner of his mouth and another on his jaw, she settles back into the crook of his neck, her breath warm and tickly and perfect against his skin.

Logically, he knows he needs to transform and head home, but the stark difference between his bedroom prison and Marinette's warmth is enough to keep him here just a little longer, stretching time and tempting fate.

Wouldn't it be wonderful, he thinks, as the sleepy calm drifts over them once more, to stay here forever, just like this?

He imagines waking up this way, morning breath and snoring kwamis and a warm tangle of limbs illuminated by a new day's dawnlight instead of the quiet moon. Perhaps there would be a purring cat asleep on the bed with them. And one day, maybe, he'd wake to find a toddler who had crawled up onto the bed and wriggled between them in the night to be close to maman and papa. A family. His heart squeezes with emotion again, but he keeps his breathing steady and Marinette doesn't seem to notice this time.

Dreaming of what the future might hold seems like an extravagant luxury in a world where a supervillain regularly terrorizes Paris and threatens to rend the very fabric of the universe and its delicate balance. Then again, isn't that all the more reason to dream?

Even with the freedom being Chat Noir grants him, the responsibility of avoiding that fate is a heavy weight across his shoulders, and a far more cumbersome yoke on his Lady's. Imagining a day when they can transform for fun instead of necessity, cook dinner together, fall asleep just like this, and not have to wonder if an akuma alert will rouse them before the sun—well, that just makes him fight each battle harder and despise Hawkmoth that much more. After all, the fate of humanity includes the fate of Adrien Agreste and Marinette Dupain-Cheng, too.

Her fingers glide feather-light at his wrist, so he knows she's still awake, and before he can think twice about it, he's murmuring a question into the dark.

"Hey, Bug?" He takes a deep breath and lets it out slowly. "Do you ever think about...the future?"

Her hand stops its gentle, soothing motion against his arm, and he misses the feeling immediately.

"After we defeat Hawkmoth, or...?" she trails off.

"That could happen tomorrow, so let's start with tomorrow and go from there."

She resumes her caress, though this time her hand trails higher, up and under his t-shirt sleeve to the warm skin of his bicep. He smiles against her hair and hugs his heat-seeking little bug tighter.

"Well, tomorrow we have a calculus test, then you have a piano lesson after school. I really didn't plan anything beyond that, but if we're going to squeeze in an epic final battle with Hawkmoth, I suppose I should work on my history project at lunch to get ahead."

"Cheeky bug!" He tickles her in retaliation, and she giggles into his chest. "I was being serious!"

"I know, Minou." She laughs for another moment but says nothing more.

He waits through one deep breath, then two, before he whispers her name, questioning, against her hair.

She cranes her neck to look up at him, her gaze shy but warm. "It's just...can I be weird?"

Ah, that explains her reticence. The delighted half-smile that crosses his face is pure Chat Noir, but he can't help it. He loves this.

"Of course, My Lady. Always."

Five months and four days ago (yes, he's counting—it was the greatest day of his life, so far), after more than three years of superhero partnership and civilian friendship, an unplanned reveal, and the awkward nine day aftermath (yes, he counted—it was awful), they'd finally made it official. Adrien and Marinette had, at least. Ladynoir was still under wraps for now to avoid suspicion, but he looked forward to the day when a real kiss they could both remember would grace the front page of the Ladyblog.

At the beginning, between blissful kisses and timid touches, they'd taken the time to really get to know each other—with no secrets between them, a whole, beautiful picture emerged. It was amazing and thrilling and freeing. It was also a bit embarrassing.

She'd seen him in his Ladybug pajamas one evening when she'd stopped by his bedroom for an unplanned visit. Another afternoon, he'd opened a drawer in her room looking for a pen and discovered approximately two dozen photos of himself looking back at him. Plagg had unceremoniously dropped Adrien's Ladybug and Chat Noir action figures onto Marinette's lap while they watched a movie and proceeded to tell her that Adrien sometimes played with his dolls and made them kiss. He'd never been so mortified in his life (and he once fought an akuma wearing a banana costume, so that was saying something), especially when Marinette had laughed until she cried.

He'd have sentenced the tiny magical agent of chaos to eating Velveeta for a week if Marinette hadn't caught her breath, removed his hands from his beet-red face, and kissed him silly.

Afterward, lovestruck, he'd asked, "So I'm not...weird?"

Cheeks still stained with the sweetest blush, eyes soft and bright and full of love, she'd responded, "Of course you are, kitty. I already knew that," and kissed him again for good measure. "It's a good thing your Lady is just as weird."

And just like that, it was okay. His pajamas, her photo collection, his action figures, her calendar.

Can I be weird? preceded his admission of being unable to sleep if his Marinette lucky charm wasn't beneath his pillow. It was asked before he learned she slept with her handmade Chat Noir plushie beside her every night.

The question is rhetorical, of course. Permission to be weird is simply indemnity from embarrassment, a solemn vow of understanding between them. It's been the lead-in to many shared secrets and it still gives him a little thrill every time, just knowing that he's about to learn another closely-held tidbit about his Lady.

Tonight, he's especially curious—the question he asked was about the future, after all.

"I used to think about it a lot," she begins quietly. "And I mean, a lot. I'm a planner, you know."

Oh, he knows. Thank goodness one of them is.

"You've seen my sketchbook. You saw my wedding dress designs and all your possible matching tuxes. Alya's dress and Nino's suit..."

"And they were beautiful, Bug. I loved them all."

He can feel her smile against his t-shirt collar.

"Thank you, Chaton. But...it's not just that. I, um...I chose the flowers for my bouquet, I planned the menu for the reception dinner—"

"And your parents will make the croquembouche," he whispers, suddenly entranced.

She nods, but goes silent once more. He wants to hear about everything—the venue she imagined for the service and reception, what they'll wear at the civil ceremony prior, whether their guests will throw rice or rose petals or wheat as they exit as newlyweds. It's all so beautiful, his heart is positively singing; how could she ever think this is weird?

"I named our children."

The song in his heart comes to an abrupt stop when the rhythm falters before restarting at hummingbird speed.

Dazed, he breathes, "Our..."

"I know!" she groans. She covers her eyes with one hand and buries her face in his shirt. Her voice is muffled, but he's hanging on every word. "I told you it was weird! I named them! I thought about who would be youngest, oldest, middle--"

"Three?" He chokes on air. Is he even breathing?

"I designed the little outfit we'd bring each of them home from the hospital in. Their nursery had a theme! Our hamster had a name! I imagined our house, our garden, the layout of the kitchen, the color of our master bathroom!"

"What color?" he asks weakly.

A pause.

"Blue."

"I love blue."

"I know."

Silence descends again, as he attempts to regulate his breathing and bring his swirling, scattered thoughts under control. She hasn't moved a muscle, and neither has he. Honestly, he's thankful to be moored to his steadfast port in the storm right now, so he can't float away or slip under.

"Adrien?"

He hums questioningly in response.

"I'm sorry." Her voice is small and tinged with sadness, slicing directly through his current bubble of overwhelmed euphoria in an instant.

Sitting up so quickly that she's dislodged from his side with a startled squeak, he pulls both of her hands between his and brings her close enough to really see her face in the shadowy moonlight.

"Why are you sorry?" he asks, baffled. "That was..." he trails off, shaking his head as he searches for the correct word, wanting to convey his feelings properly. Incredible doesn't seem like enough. Perfect, perhaps? A dream I didn't know I had until you said it, and now I want that exact thing more than I've ever wanted anything in my life?

"Crazy, I know. Selfish."

"What? No!" he exclaims, and her wide eyes snap to meet his. "Marinette, it sounds amazing!"

"Amazing?"

He lets go of her hands to gather her in a hug instead, happy to feel her arms wrap tightly around him in turn.

"Amazing," he murmurs against her hair, hoping she can hear the sincerity in his voice. "Why do you think it's selfish?"

"Because...because I never thought about what you'd want, not really. Maybe you don't want kids—"

"I want kids," he interrupts.

"Or maybe you don't like hamsters."

"Mari, I love hamsters."

She smiles against his skin. "I'm glad. I thought you'd want a cat."

"Oh, I do," he says, nodding.

"I knew it!" she laughs. "But I didn't know any of that back then. I just dreamed my own wild dreams and brought a fantasy of future you along for the ride. It wasn't fair to you." She leans back, settling her wrists over his shoulders and searching his gaze with her own. "You deserve to have a say in your own life, Adrien. For once."

A wave of stunned gratitude wells up within him and he swallows around the sudden lump in his throat. No one, not even his beloved mother, has ever extended him the courtesy of autonomy, much less apologized for not considering it in the first place. The way Marinette loves him, with a selfless, gentle kindness, is like nothing he's ever known, and it overwhelms him sometimes.

Oh, he loves her so much.

"Marinette," he says, when he's able to. "Do you want to live on a desert island with me and eat only fruit for the rest of our lives?"

She blinks, confused.

"Because that was one of my dreams," he continues. "You—well, Ladybug—me, our hamster, and a ton of fruit. Silly, right?" He shrugs. "I was a lovesick teenager. I have a feeling you know something about that, don't you, Bugaboo?" His cheeky wink and Chat Noir smirk are rewarded with the blush and giggle he'd hoped for. "My point is, I wasn't thinking about what you wanted when I daydreamed about that, and I never worried about it. You have nothing to be sorry for, Bug."

Her smile is bright even in the shadowy loft. "Thanks, Minou. Those were fun dreams."

"Were? You don't want the hamster and the blue bathroom anymore? I was just getting excited about our house and three kids."

"What do you dream about?" She asks, clearly dodging the question with one of her own.

He doesn't even have to think on it to know the answer.

"A family. Hugs. Eating dinner at a little table together. Going to the beach and seeing you in your bikini."

She snorts. "Tomcat."

"I'm only human, Mari."

"Adrien, you can purr."

"Touché."

They can only laugh. Their lives really are ridiculous.

"Princess?" He asks after they've settled into silence again. "What are their names?"

"Who?"

"Our kids."

She takes a deep, deep breath, and it feels like an eternity before she speaks. "Emma, Louis, and Hugo."

"I love them already," he breathes, imagination awhirl with scenes of bedtime stories and blanket forts and the myriad other childhood joys he only knows about from movies and tv. It's so beautiful, they're so beautiful, that he has to clench his teeth for a moment to keep from crying. "Have you drawn them?"

She nods, brow starting to furrow in concern at what must be one hell of an expression on his face.

"And their clothes? The nursery? Our kitchen?"

"Yes, I told you I was—"

"You're amazing, Marinette. I can't wait to see them. I can't wait to meet them."

Before he knows it, she's pulled him into her embrace, whispering her love against his shoulder. If a few tears escape into her hair, she doesn't say a word. They stay like that for a few long, sweet moments, until a thought pops into his mind.

"Mari? Why didn't Plagg find those drawings when he found your sketchbook of wedding ideas?"

She pulls away from him and giggles. "Because that sketchbook is hidden under the mattress."

"Along with how many of my photos?"

The mock-glare she levels at him would be terrifying if she weren't so adorable. He leans in and watches her stern expression slacken just before their lips connect and his eyes close, and her soft sigh tells him he's forgiven once more for teasing her.

They fall back against the cat pillow and soft pink sheets once more, rearranging their bodies to that perfect fit that reminds him every time how phenomenally lucky he is to have found his soul's other half as a teenager via ancient magic and fated proximity. The kiss deepens, his hands clutch at her back, and he thrills at the feel of her fingers in his hair. This is everything, everything—love and light and power and freedom, the chance for a future, a home, a family.

It's just another late autumn Tuesday night in Paris. Marinette will convince him to stay for another hour, he'll set an alarm. They'll go to school again tomorrow and, though it's certainly possible they'll defeat Hawkmoth before the day is over, it's more likely they'll simply fight and cleanse another akuma before returning to the library to work on that history project.

But it's suddenly different. He's always fought for Paris, for the safety of his friends and family, for his beloved partner. Now? A new and different feeling of protectiveness rises in his chest, even as her tongue brushes the seam of his lips and his purr rumbles gently between their bodies.

Hawkmoth will rue the day he tried to take Emma, Louis, and Hugo away before Adrien could meet them. He makes the promise right here and now, with his Lady in his arms and their kwamis sleeping on the desk below: Every akuma from now until he can punch Hawkmoth in the face and rip the misused miraculous from him, Chat Noir will fight for Paris, the world, and that shining dream of the future. He's one half of an unstoppable team. Together, they can, and will, do anything.

He and Marinette have three kids and a hamster to look forward to, after all. And it's going to be amazing.

[lyrabythelake]

Dear Malon

I wrote this short fic a while ago for an LU zine but realised I haven’t posted it anywhere else, so here you go!

Dear Malon,

I can only hope these letters are finding you. Admittedly, I haven’t had much experience with time-travelling postmen before, nor do I know anyone who has, so my faith in his reliability is limited. However, I do like to imagine my words have reached you, that you know I am safe and well and that I am on a wondrous journey with friends by my side. I know how you worry.

It seems like months since I last wrote, though I know it’s been only days. Our ultimate purpose on this quest is still unclear but the boys never lose hope. They fight with a determination unparalleled by anyone I’ve met and every day I become prouder of them still.

Occasionally I am filled with dread at the way they look up to me as their leader. It’s a great honour that they see me that way, but I am terrified I won’t fulfil their expectations of me. I wake in a cold sweat each night, the afterimages of each of them in harm’s way because of my negligence burned into my mind…

“He’s writing again.”

Eight heroes sit under the cherry blossoms in the still afternoon. The trees are in full bloom and the pink petals fall gently into the deeply grassed meadow and the trickling stream, washed away in a rush of fresh silver water.

They look to the ninth at Four’s words, hunched over the paper with his hair falling over his face, shielding him in his concentration towards the words he writes. Petals rest in his hair, on his clothes but their gentle presence doesn’t catch his notice, nor do the other heroes’ muttering only meters away. His sword is within reaching distance, always prepared for an attack, but otherwise he is a picture of peace, one the others dare not disturb for its rareness.

“Where do you think he sends them?” Hyrule asks in innocent curiosity. It is a question -among others- they’ve all asked themselves at one time or another. They have their theories, even discussed them at times when Time himself isn’t around.

“I bet they’re love letters,” Sky muses, his wistful gaze undeterred from the Hero of Time and the scratching of his quill.

“What? No way,” scoffs Wind. He is not quite as versed in love as some of the others, but he is practiced in the art of longing and desire.

Warriors is the first to raise his eyebrows.

“I wouldn’t be so sure.”

“He’s never talked about anyone before,” Wild argues.

“So?” interjects Legend, “not everyone likes to flaunt their love affairs like the Captain.”

“I don’t flaunt anything!”

“The old man keeps his emotions close to his heart,” murmurs Twilight, drawing the attention of them all despite the softness of his words, “Love is beautiful yet fleeting, like the cherry blossoms in spring. He’s right to treasure it and keep it close.”

“Uh oh, the ranch hand’s off again,” snorts Wild and there is a ripple of laughter in response.

“I think it’s nice he has someone to write to,” states Hyrule and the others agree. They’ve all known the wasteland of loneliness at some point in their lives and it has left its scars on them all.

It is a while before Time, lost in a world of his own, puts his quill down and gets to his feet. He folds the paper neatly into four and slips it into the deepest of his pockets, away from prying eyes and ready to hand over to the postman whenever they might see him next.

His thoughts drift and swirl like the blossom petals that fall around him, content and serene with just an ounce of sorrow like that which comes with the ephemerality of spring. The others’ lighthearted chatter dips and bays as he treads along the bank of the rushing stream.

He thinks of his wife, worlds away, and wonders what she is doing. Wonders if he’ll ever get to see her again.

Dear Malon,

This time of year reminds me of you.

It was around this time, many years ago, that I married you with a promise that the worst of my adventures were over. That from then on, my life would be simple, wrapped in safety with the woman I love. I think you knew back then that it was a promise I could never keep. I could run from it forever, but adventure always seems to find me.

This adventure is different to the others I’ve been on. With the boys here each battle comes with a new terror I never felt when fighting on my own, though I am certain I wouldn’t be alive today without them.

The responsibility I feel for them goes beyond just our age difference and the mutual respect we afford one another. I never called myself a hero. That title has been forced upon me despite my assurances that I couldn’t be further from it. I look at Hyrule and Legend sometimes and the others that have suffered, even if not directly, from my hand and feel all their suffering and sorrow tenfold in the form of heavy guilt…

“I think we should go south.”

Legend’s statement is met with confusion from most and narrowed eyes from Time, an expression missed by all but Legend himself.

“Why south?” asks Warriors curiously. Legend is grateful his words are not dismissed immediately. He supposes it’s not often he makes bold suggestions such as this one without proper reason to do so, so it’s bound to draw their attention. He may have the experience, but he has no qualms in leaving the day-to-day leadership and tactics to Time, Twilight and Warriors.

“I have a good feeling about it,” he replies confidently, like the argument he’s giving isn’t totally redundant.

“You have… a good feeling…”

“Yes. It’s not like we have anywhere we particularly need to be.”

“Don’t you think we should go to the castle?” suggests Twilight, prompting a collective look to Time for the final decision. He knows this land best after all.

Time’s frown has become increasingly more pronounced throughout the brief debate, his eyes fixed on Legend suspiciously.

“Let’s go south,” he decides eventually, his gaze not leaving Legend, missing the way Twilight raises his eyebrows but otherwise holds his tongue. As they set off, Time falls into step beside Legend, his gait revealing nothing of the emotions Legend expects he is feeling.

“You had no right to read it,” he says after a while, and his voice is not angry but rather fiercely neutral.

“I have no idea what you’re talking about.”

“Perhaps I would have believed you if the letter hadn’t mysteriously disappeared from my jacket this morning.”

Legend says nothing. He was sure he had got away with it. His curiosity had momentarily surpassed his guilt long enough to sneak a glance at the heartfelt (and very private) scribbled note before returning it to the old man’s jacket when he was distracted.

It took a simple question to a merchant in the castle town after that to determine the whereabouts of one ‘Lon Lon Ranch’.

Dear Malon, the letter had said, and in his haste to read it, Legend had almost mistaken the scrawled name for someone else’s entirely.

We moved between worlds again last night and the nine of us have found ourselves somewhere very familiar to me. My first thought was to drop any heroic duties and run to you there and then before it struck me how selfish that would be.

You see, homesickness is a perpetual ailment among the boys (and myself) and they have given up so much to embark on this journey with no discernible end. I cannot in good conscience refute that to return to our Lon Lon Ranch. It kills me to do so, particularly as all I can think of is seeing you again…

 The boys are inevitably curious about the purposeful path Time leads them along, but he can’t quite bring himself to answer their inquisitiveness with a succinct answer. He has a one-track mind, all thoughts geared towards the relief of his destination and all other sounds fade into the background to make way for it.

They reach the ranch before nightfall, his companions’ confusion only increasing at the sight of the woman standing outside it. The way he falls into her arms is answer enough; the warmth of her embrace has never felt so inviting.

The others’ voices are a mere echo of disbelief, hilarity and the ending of bets behind him as he focuses on the relief and utter contentment that comes with being home after far too long. The stress of the past weeks, the constant worry for the boys and their respective worlds, melt from him immediately, leaving him as light as a feather.

The Hero of Time has never been one for excessive emotions, but as he clings to the familiarity of his wife, he almost thinks he could cry.

“Did you get them?” he asks, hesitantly, “the letters?”

Her smile is like the sun as she whispers back.

“I treasure every one.”

[patricia-von-arundel]

Rêverie

I can finally share my piece that appears in Sunrise With You, the Edeleth wedding zine! You can still purchase a digital copy (PDF) right here. All the stories and art in it are absolutely amazing. 

Rating: G 

Dedicated, as always, to @lysissisyl, who knows what it all means. 

“She asked me to marry her,” Edelgard said.  Softly--if it was possible for them to hear her at all, the volume of the words seemed likely incidental.  “Byleth, I mean.  She was… very emotional.  I hope you can imagine that!” Edelgard shook her head, smiling again, remembering it.  She herself had probably looked like a gasping fish.  “She has truly changed so much, since…  Well.  Let us not dwell on that.  I just… wished you to know.  She smiles often, now. And laughs, as well!  She has a wonderful, carefree laugh…” Edelgard folded her hands before her, solemn once more.  “I want to offer my promise, today, to strive always to make her smile.  I said yes, of course.  We’re to be married as soon as this mess of a war has been cleaned up and finally discarded.  I…”  She looked down, to the lush grass at her feet, rather overgrown these days.  “I hope you would approve of her choice.”

Silent as the grave--there was a reason, of course, for such an expression.  And no response, now, to her words.  She would not allow herself the presumption of knowing what their answer might be. She had known Captain Jeralt only briefly, and Byleth’s mother, of course, she had not known at all.  She could not be certain of approval from either of them, only hope that it might have been offered.

She had read Jeralt’s diary entries--with Byleth’s permission, of course--and knew of the love and sorrow that radiated from his words. To have found someone, and to lose her so soon after…

 “It’s a pain I have shared,” Edelgard said, speaking once more to the still, silent stone.But for her, such pain had been eased--all but erased. Wisps of it remained, swirling up at times unexpectedly, but there was almost a sweetness to them.  She felt similar pain, at times, thinking of her own parents--of their love for one another.

She had not understood--not truly--what that love might have been like, when she first told Byleth of them. As a child, and even more so as a teenager, she had clung to such a tale, romanticized it, to feel a brief, warm happiness: a hope that such love could exist. Even with her father still a part of her life (albeit an often ephemeral one), she had felt… disconnected from being a child of anyone. Such feelings had only been exacerbated by the loss of her siblings--and by what she had become: no longer a child at all.  A living weapon… and sometimes, perhaps often, feeling the living part hardly at all. 

Contradictory, almost: even as she had longed to believe the stories to be true, she had doubted the very existence of such love except in those stories.  Perhaps an element of that had been protective: could one mourn the loss of something that had never existed?

Until Byleth.

Until she could no longer deny the truth of her feelings. 

All those clumsy attempts to learn if such feelings might be reciprocated…!

She could look back on them with a slightly embarrassed fondness now--and look, as well, at the ring upon her finger.  Proof that there was love in the world.  Good love.  Romantic love.  It fit well, the ring. And it left her a connection, truly, not only to Byleth, but also to the people whose graves she now stood before. 

“Would it be presumptuous of me to think of myself as… part of your family?”  She felt ridiculous even saying it, but it needed to be said, in some curious way.  And it wasn’t as if she needed to worry what the response might be.  And yet, worry she did--which made her feel more ridiculous still. But despite the flushed complexion of her cheeks, she pressed on: “I fear I… once believed I no longer had any desire to have a family.  I… I lost my own… a very long time ago.  And…”  She paused.  Shook her head.  “No.  I must speak truthfully--something I am unfortunately rather rusty at doing.  But who deserves the truth more than those no longer able to question it?

“It was… not that I believed I no longer desired a family, after losing my own.  It was that…. I no longer felt that I deserved one.  My own family--most of it was sacrificed, that I could become what I was.  What I still am, at least for the moment.  And at times, I do still struggle to feel worthy of it.  A family, I mean.  Strange to say, I’m sure--I never doubted my abilities on the battlefield or on a throne, but I doubt my worthiness to be loved in that manner--perhaps because it feels almost a weakness. I dislike showing such vulnerability, and yet…”

She looked up, then, and out over the wild land that stretched what seemed forever, below the towering monastery.  It bore none of the scars of war.  It was untamed--free.  As she might one day be?  She had felt something akin to freedom, the first time she had walked through those woods.  The day she met the woman she now intended to marry...

Would it feel freeing, to be someone’s wife?  To have a promise of forever, and no doubts at all that she would have it?  What would it feel like, she wondered, on the day that they were wed?  And on every day after?  Promises kept: most of those offered to her had been dark ones.  Dark, and frightening, and sometimes still visiting her nightmares.  This was… this was so beautifully the opposite of such things.  Memories of the wedding day seemed likely to be the sweetest she might ever have, the dreams ones she would cling to in the darkness--just as she could now cling to Byleth.

She would never know, now, what the wedding of Jeralt and his wife had been like. There was little in the diary about it. He had likely had other things on his mind, and quite understandably so!  Her own parents had had no wedding at all--not to one another, anyway.  In both cases, flames of passion had so quickly been snuffed, leaving only cold ash remaining.

Love--family--had seemed always such a risk, just one more danger in such a dangerous world.  A cruel world.  And yet… people had still loved.  People had still made families.

She could not rid the world of all dangers--she was not naive enough to believe she might even attempt something as preposterous as that.  But she could allow herself--perhaps--to do as others did, for a change…?

A strange feeling.  Alien.  It had not always been so.  She would attempt, though, to welcome it back.

As a child, she had always been aware, though she had no memory of who had told her, that she would be married off to a person of her father’s choosing.  Politically valuable solely by accident of birth and blood.  She had thought about it, late in the night when sleep proved elusive: unbidden thought, and difficult to purge.  The idea of it angered her--but it also, in no small part, frightened her.  The idea of being sent away from home, possibly even to another land entirely, sent away from her brothers and sisters to live with a stranger: it was horrific. 

She knew later those fears had not been unfounded, though the circumstances of that realization had not, in the end, been related to a marriage of her own. 

She had not even thought of marrying anyone, truly, after that. When had there been opportunity?

And certainly, she had not imagined she might one day be daydreaming of what it might be like if their families were there.  All of them: their parents, all her siblings, her uncle as the kind, pious man he had truly been…  They were all but strangers to her, or would be, yet still, she wondered about it.  She thought of her sisters helping her to do her hair, as they had done when they were all children.  Of the mother she had lost so early, whose face and voice and mannerisms were completely lost to her, smiling and adjusting the veil over her face.  Would there be tears?  Laughter?  Both?  The thought of gruff, stoic Jeralt Eisner laughing through his tears was an amusing one, certainly.  Though Edelgard suspected many would find her much the same, when the day finally came… 

She did, though, wish desperately all of them could be there. 

“Perhaps you will be there in spirit,” she said.

“Be where?”

She jumped and spun--and found Byleth standing quite close, and looking quite smug.  “Don’t startle me like that!”

“You should pay more attention, El.  I wasn’t being quiet.  Not at first, anyway.”

“Regardless.  Though I suppose I was rather lost in my own head…”

“Thinking about what?”  Byleth’s hand slipped casually around her own. 

Casual intimacy--that, too, was a very alien feeling, and Edelgard could not help looking down at it, as if she needed to confirm for herself that their hands were entwined.  “Family,” she said.  “I was thinking about… family.”

The hand around hers squeezed--and when she looked up, Byleth was smiling that familiar Byleth-smile.  “Do you want to think about family with me?”

With you…  Edelgard allowed herself a smile in return.  “Yes, my love.  Yes.  Let us think about family… together.”

[academla]

Guys, I made it!

Wow, it’s crazy to be back on here. I don’t know if anyone still follows me and/or remembers I exist, at this point. I came here because I finally let go of my domain name. It was a really difficult decision which felt like leaving a part of my life behind me and closing a chapter, but I don’t use this blog enough anymore to justify the cost. 

I created this blog over FIVE years ago. It’s associated with so many memories - primarily good, but also some of the shittiest times of my life. Regardless, my time in the studyblr community was pretty formative and I’m so glad I was able to experience it. I have zero regrets and never will.

Even though I’m leaving it behind indefinitely, my blog will forever be a part of me. I’m still getting emails and some comments on the fanfic that somehow stirred up controversy and drama in 2017, I actually sent The Academic Zine to one of my account leads at work the other day, and in my interview for my current job I talked a lot about how running my blog influenced and reflected who I am, my strengths as well as my weaknesses. I’m still in touch with the company that reached out to me about collaborating on a self-help book so you never know... maybe someday the stars will align and that will pan out!

This is more for my own closure than anything (so please forgive my rambling) but I know I have periodically come here and posted brief updates. If I recall correctly, they are usually also associated with empty promises/declarations of an inevitable return, which I can safely say is most likely not going to happen anytime soon.

Hard to believe I had just graduated high school when I first joined. To those who still remember me and my journey - trying to juggle mental health, school, and paying my way through college - here’s a final (for now... I’ll probably be on here in another 5 years when all the people I used to follow are like, getting married and having babies LOL) update on my achievements in the past year or so. I’m by no means perfect and I have a long but exciting road ahead of me, but put in the context of the person I was even 2 years ago, I would say with cautious optimism and pride that I did indeed make it.

Updates below, in case you aren’t reeling enough from the wall of text that just unexpectedly popped up on your dash...

- I graduated summa cum laude from the honors college in May 2020 with my psychology BS and the 4.0 GPA that my mental health sometimes seemed destined to make an impossible achievement. Even in the end I had to take an Incomplete for one of my courses because I was unfortunately in the midst of a relapse. This shit is real, guys. But even in spite of it, I was able to succeed.

- I paid for 6 out of all 8 semesters, as was my goal all along - through working my ass off and trying to be somewhat responsible with money. Donations I received through here were a massive help as well and I’ll be forever grateful for each and every person who contributed. I also applied for and received a few merit scholarships, which helped. I graduated with $15k of debt, which is less than half the national average. So, I did pretty well for myself.

- I’ve undergone some tough mental health challenges and hurdles. Some of the darkest times I’ve ever sustained, where I was scared for/of myself and was so much worse than I was when I was 15 yet had so fewer resources. Somehow I made it through - and will continue to. I made that pledge in 2015 and I still stand by it.

- I’m now working for a market research company. I knew by graduation that I didn’t want to be in academia, but I didn’t know if I had enough passion/commitment to a clinical career to undergo the financial, mental, and academic burden of a graduate program. I had a minor existential crisis over that all summer. Fortuitously, I emailed one of my favorite psychology professors from my freshman year and her son-in-law was able to refer me to this market research company. Everything came together and I love my job more than ANYTHING. Work is (most of the time) incredibly fun and something I look forward to every day. 

- EDITED TO ADD: I’m also living on my own in the city, hooray! I thought the day would never come, but luckily it did. It’s painfully expensive (because city) but for the amenities, location, and quality of the 1-bedroom apartment relative to many other options I looked at, it’s worth it. We can reassess whether or not I’m broke in August when the lease is up.

Listen, I’ve made a lot of mistakes. I’ve dealt with a lot of adversity and trauma, too. And at the same time I am fortunate: I was raised in a (mostly) loving household, I was afforded educational opportunities that not everyone is lucky enough to have, I was able to get the help and support I needed when I was unsafe. I won’t invalidate my own struggles because the hard work I’ve invested, the literal blood, sweat, and tears, all of that - that was real and valid. But I don’t take a single thing for granted.

I made it, and you can too. If you are a stranger wondering who the hell I am, you can go here if you want to be assaulted by a wall of text, or here for a more concise and recently updated synopsis.

That’s all I’ll say for now (did anyone miss my novel-length posts?) but I do still manage my email address (academlastudyblr@gmail.com) if for any reason anyone is looking to connect. 

Just for the hell of it, I’m also updating some of my pages. Catch you (I’m talking into a void right now, I know) on the flip side!

[kumeko]

Title: shadows of the past

A/N: For the Yona Tarot zine. I really need to write a Hak/Yona/Su-won piece.

…

…

…

…

Son Mundok didn’t like going to the capital these days. No, that implied he liked visiting at some point, that he’d once found it anything but an annoyance. That was a blatantly untrue fact. The capital was filled with headache-inducing bureaucracy, obvious brown-nosing, and miles of red tape. He hadn’t liked it as a young man and he certainly didn’t like it now that his hair was grey.

Grimacing, he stared up at the castle gates. Despite the changes in emperors throughout the years, this view had remained the same. Imposing steel gates stared down at him, slowly opening only once he’d announced himself. Mundok had once hoped he would never see these gates again, barring a wedding celebration or two.

Life, it seemed, had a way of making plans go awry.

As he strolled onto the castle grounds, a woman called out his name. “Chief Mundok!” He looked up in time to catch a young, energetic woman running down the stone path toward him, eagerly waving her hand in the air. Her yellow robes flowed behind her like a bird’s feathers. Panting as she came to an abrupt stop in front of him, she gasped, “T-thank…you for…coming.”

Mundok chuckled. Clearly, she was new to this. “Take your time.”

Her expression turned sheepish and she took a deep breath. Straightening her posture, she clasped her hands and bowed her head slightly. “Chief Mundok, thank you for coming. I know it was a long journey.”

Ah, there was a title he’d hoped was gone forever. At this age, he was supposed to be comfortably retired and spoiling his grandchildren, not watching them war with one another. Scratching his jaw, he replied flatly, “I’m not a chief anymore.”

“R-right! You handed over the title last month.” Flustered, the woman turned red. She tucked a stray lock of hair behind her ear apprehensively. Gathering her wits, she tried again. “Ex-chief Mundok, the emperor has been expecting you.”

“Of course he is.” Mundok snorted and raised a brow. “He’s the one who called me.”

“T-that’s true.” The woman clasped her hands in front of her and nervously scuffed the ground as she considered it. Troubled, she shook her head. “Well, um, it’s good you got here safely.”

Good for who? Eyeing her, Mundok sighed. That was unfair. She was probably Yona’s age and the whole affair felt like bullying a child. “What’s your name?”

“Me?” she squeaked, surprised. When he only gave her a dry look in response, she fiddled with her fingers. “Min-Ah.” She bowed deeply. “My name is Min-Ah, ex-Chief Mundok.”

It was all very polite and he never thought he’d long for Hak’s missing manners, as crude as his greetings were. “Min-Ah, when did you start working here?”

“Just a few months ago.” Min-Ah straightened her back and puffed her chest with pride. “Just after the Emperor’s coronation.”

“Is that so.” He glanced around the courtyard. The guards were a mix of familiar and new faces. How many were involved in the coup? He had drunk with some of them, trained others, had treated them like they were part of his clan. Which ones had pointed their spear at Hak? At Yona?

Which ones had stood up for them and quietly disappeared in the upheaval?

Mundok was no stranger to war, no stranger to its consequences. That didn’t make this betrayal hurt any less. He really was getting too old for all this nonsense. A sense of fatigue washed over him. “Where’s the emperor? Might as well get it over with.”

“Oh!” Min-Ah rubbed her neck, her brow furrowing. He could almost see the candle lightning up when she got an answer. “He’s in the garden.”

Mundok brushed past her as she turned to lead him. “I know the way.”

“Are you sure?” she asked.

“Yeah.” He looked down the path he’d threaded hundreds of times, flanked on both sides by a grumpy Hak and a chatty Su-Won. In the summer, flowers lined the route, filling the air with a sweet fragrance. Mundok had never considered this place home but it had felt as comfortable as one. “I’m fine.”

He had never considered this place home, and now it felt as alien as a stranger. His shoes clacked against the granite slabs, a solitary sound. Now that it was fall, wilted plants were all that remained and his fingers brushed against a yellowing rose, the petals crinkling before falling to the ground. As he strolled past buildings, his mind assigned them meanings that no longer existed.

Here was where Hak lazed about, faking idleness while keeping guard. Here was where Yona fell asleep in his arms. Here was where Su-Won had whispered in his ear, Thank you, gramps.

Here was where the three played, fell sick, loved one another.

Part of him expected to see a flash of red in the corner of his eye, hear a chorus of childish voices call his name, to feel a small hand slip into his. However, he hadn’t seen red once while he’d been in the capital and perhaps it wasn’t only him who was having problems adjusting to the new status quo.

As Mundok turned the corner to the garden, he spotted a familiar mop of light brown hair. A young boy dressed in blue turned and smiled bashfully, hoping for praise. Yet the boy was a man now, dressed in the royal yellows of royalty, and the smile was a sad one. “Chief Mundok,” Su-Won greeted him.

“I’m not the Chief anymore,” he corrected, looking away. The Zen garden was as idyllic as it used to be. Oddly shaped rocks jutted out of sand pits and calm pond, promising a peace of mind. The only thing missing was a kind, middle-aged man.

“My apologies.” Su-Won lowered his gaze, his lips a thin line. His hand curled into a tight fist before releasing. “You picked a successor.”

“For the second time.” Su-Won flinched at his words but there was no malice behind them, just a simple truth. “I am not picking a third.”

Su-Won shook his head. “I’m sure you won’t have to.” He gave him a wry smile. “Tae-Woo is quite capable.”

“So was Hak.” Mundok grunted in response. He didn’t miss how Su-Won’s jaw tightened in his response, the shadow of grief that crossed his face. “What did you call me for?”

“I needed your assistance on some matters, particularly those pertaining to our borders.” A gentle breeze stirred, playing with his tresses, and Su-Won pushed the stray hairs out of his face. “Tae-Woo will not have your knowledge on these issues yet.”

He couldn’t deny that. Surviving three different emperors left him more intimately acquainted with the country’s politics than he liked. “Fine. Let’s get on with it.”

“We’ll discuss in the planning room.” Su-Won smiled. It held none of the radiance of his youth. “The aides have set up several charts for us to go over.”

Without another word, Mundok turned around. The sooner they got there, the sooner he could leave. If he was lucky, it would be a simple in and out operation. Unlike Fuuga, the air here felt stifling and suffocating.

“Mundok.”

The tone halted him in his tracks. Glancing over his shoulder, he found Su-Won looking up at the sky, his arms crossed. Softly, Su-Won asked, “Do you hate me?”

There was a faked nonchalance in his posture, a sense of detachment in his words. As though his fingers weren’t trembling, as though his jaw wasn’t clenched. As though a sense of sorrow didn’t pervade his every word.

Hate. Mundok closed his eye. If only it were so simple. If only he could divorce the young man in front of him from the cheerful boy he’d watch grow up. There were some emotions that love and hate couldn’t cover, some feelings that went beyond description.

“Does it matter?” he asked instead, studying Su-Won.

Su-Won looked at him now. For a brief, unguarded moment, his expression turned troubled, before smoothening back into his usual calm expression. Shaking his head slowly, he gave a depreciative laugh. “No, I suppose not.”

Part of him wanted to believe in that sadness. The other part of him knew better.

Son Mundok didn’t like going to the capital these days. It was filled with too much heartache.