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luminescencefics · 4 years ago

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fade in, fade out - part four

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The Catalyst

December 2009

During her fourth and final year at Townbridge, Nora is hardened. She spent her summer reviewing her college applications in between shifts at the beach, picking through each individual essay and making sure her grades were the highest they could be.

Nora was sick of small towns. Newport would always be home, but with growing up comes the all-encompassing need to find a new home somewhere else—which was why Nora was applying for schools in New York City. A place where she can start over without the stinging burn of high school rumors following her every step.

Luckily, Nora still had Lydia and Margot and a few other girls on the swim team, and that was all she really needed at the start of her final year. She didn’t even look at Harry and his friends in the hallways, and whenever they would snicker behind her back or approach her if they were feeling bold, Nora would just spin on her heel and completely ignore them, similar to the way they treated her at the beginning of her first year. And when she would share a classroom with Harry for their AP classes, she would make sure to sit in the back corner of the room where she couldn’t feel his lingering gaze on her frame.

On her eighteenth birthday, Lydia and a few girls took Nora out to dinner at Margot’s family’s restaurant on the water in East Lyme. They paid for her meal and took pictures out on the docks by the ocean and it was the happiest Nora had felt all year at Townbridge.

Nora was riding that high all the way up until Christmas break where she was actually excited to go home and spend the Holidays with her mother. But just like most things in her life, Nora’s high came crashing down when her mother informed her that she couldn’t come home for break, leaving her to spend her ten-day vacation away from school completely alone in the empty halls of Townbridge.

“I’m so sorry, Nora. Mrs. Clemonte is really sick and Warren is already on his way to Aspen with Willy. I can’t just leave her alone! Especially during Christmastime. Please don’t hate me,” her mother grievously said through the speaker of Nora’s brand new LG Rumor cell phone.

“I could never hate you, mom,” Nora replied honestly, curled up in her comforter on her twin bed on the eve before her mother was meant to pick her up from school.

“You’ll be okay though, right? Other students will be staying on campus with you?” Nora could sense her mother’s worry from over one hundred miles away, and before Shannon could hear her daughter sniffling through the phone, Nora took a deep breath and convinced her that she’ll be fine—even if she wasn’t completely sure of it herself.

In all honesty, Nora wasn’t even certain if any students stayed on campus during break, considering her classmates usually booked trips to Aspen or Vail or the fucking Swiss Alps for all she knows. So after confirming with her guidance counselor that the facilities will be open and she’ll be safe to walk around the practically barren campus, Nora’s shocked that the first person she runs into is none other than Harry Styles.

Nora had to blink a few times in the entryway of the dining hall to make sure that the figure hunched over the wooden table sipping a porcelain cup of tea and shoveling scrambled eggs into his mouth was actually him. But when she squints and takes into account his discernible curly locks, his signature black trench coat, and his cotton grey soccer sweatshirt with his last name embroidered on the front layered underneath—there’s no denying that it’s him.

She looks around and notices that there are a few other students scattered about, eating their breakfast wearing thick sweatshirts and conversing amongst themselves. Before she can be detected, Nora buries her chin in her thick knitted scarf and walks around the edges of the room towards the kitchen to grab her own helping of eggs and pancakes.

Nora’s gotten quite good at keeping a low profile, so when she finds an empty seat in the corner of the room, completely far away from Harry’s slumped figure, she lets herself breathe for the first time. She unwraps her maroon scarf and unbuttons her navy parka before digging into her breakfast, flipping through her battered copy of The Princess Bride. Every year, Nora rereads her favorite books that were turned into films, and she figured now was as good a time as any to pick up where she left off.

Halfway through her breakfast, Nora realizes a moment too late that she picked the seat that’s closest to the tea and coffee station when she hears her name gruffly fall past Harry’s lips as he stands over her, a completely shocked look on his face.

“Nora?” Harry repeats after a minute has passed with the two of them just staring at each other, wondering what in the hell the other is doing spending their winter break at school all alone.

“Hi,” Nora says awkwardly, avoiding Harry’s gaze and choosing instead to look at the rolled-up paperback sticking out of his jacket pocket. She can’t quite make out the title of the book from her position, but the light blue coloring of the title page is familiar to her for some odd reason.

“What are you…” His words fall from his mouth without any clear purpose. She realizes then and there that the last words she spoke to him were a broken “fuck you” one year ago in Dr. Forrester’s AP Chem lab, and that thought is enough to cause her to stand up abruptly from the wooden bench, grabbing her tray in one hand and her parka in the other, trying her hardest to get out from under Harry’s intense gaze.

“Wait, Nora!” Harry calls after her as she scrambles towards the trash bin to clear her half-eaten plate. She ignores him, the need to get away from him much stronger than her urge to stick around and hear what he has to say to her. And before she knows it, she’s running through the snowy campus with her parka barely buttoned, recognizing a moment too late that she left her maroon scarf on the table in the dining hall in her mad sprint to the exit.

For two days, Nora skips out on breakfast—too terrified to run into Harry again. She eats the rest of her meals by the old fireplace in Millikan Library at odd times in the day, growing far too comfortable with the eerie solitude floating through the towering ceilings.

Most of her afternoons spent in Millikan are quite peaceful, considering the foot traffic is practically nonexistent save for the two librarians working the research desk and the small handful of students searching through the fiction aisle for a new book to read to keep them preoccupied during the break. Her spot near the fireplace is hidden in plain sight, somehow giving her the perfect view of the lower floor of the library while staying comfortably concealed from wandering eyes.

Luck isn’t on her side, though, and while she’s finishing up the last quarter of The Princess Bride, her focus is broken when a familiar maroon scarf drops in the middle of her lap, obstructing Nora’s spot on the page.

When she looks up she sees Harry, dressed in familiar black jeans and a simple white t-shirt underneath his trench coat. Snowflakes dust the tips of his curly hair, and when Nora squints she can make out the purple bags underneath his dull green eyes.

“You left that in the dining hall,” he says slowly, sitting down in the chair across from the matching one Nora is currently curled up in.

“Uh, thanks,” she mutters, scrunching the thick material up and shoving it into her backpack resting on the floor below her. A crinkled Pop-Tart wrapper comes fluttering out of her bag as she attempts to zip it up, and Harry notices it instantly.

“Have you been living off of those instead of eating real food?” he asks. Nora can’t tell if he’s actually concerned or if he’s teasing her, because his eyes are still dull and his face is still blank and she can’t read Harry Styles for the life of her.

When she doesn’t answer, he states simply, “You’re avoiding me.”

“Can you blame me?” Nora responds quickly, looking at him with a layer of sadness hidden underneath her cerulean eyes.

“No, suppose I can’t.” He’s quiet for a few minutes, shifting his gaze towards the carpeted flooring below them. He looks as if he’s thinking very hard, and Nora wonders if he’s trying to figure out how to apologize to her. And when he’s still sitting there, a massive indent in the middle of his eyebrows while his lips pout downward in a frustrated frown, Nora thinks that a person like Harry has probably never had to apologize for anything in his entire life.

That realization is enough to keep her from running away from him again.

Harry lifts his eyes from the floor then, moving his gaze from Nora’s face to the book in her lap. She looks comfortable, wearing thick leggings and a woolen turtleneck, her blonde hair twisted into a low bun behind her neck, allowing her fringe to fall wildly against her forehead. He notices that her snow boots are on the floor, and her socked-clad feet are tucked underneath her thighs on the big chair she’s nestled in. For the first time in a long time—probably ever, if Harry really sits and thinks about it—he feels as if he’s looking at Nora Priestley for the first time, observing every freckle on her pale skin and every line and curve of her face. He’s not quite sure what that means entirely, but he’s sure that it has to mean something, in the grand scheme of things.

If she’s grown uncomfortable under his stare, she doesn’t show it, and Harry’s a bit grateful for that. Without really thinking about it, Harry reaches inside his jacket pocket, revealing his curled up copy of The Call of the Wild.

“D’ya mind if I sit here and read with you?” he asks quietly.

“No,” Nora says, her voice pitch wavering, “Not at all.”

What normally would take Nora less than an hour to read, ends up being much longer, because she had suddenly grown extremely distracted with Harry’s presence across from her. It first started when he took off his black trench coat, revealing a threadbare white t-shirt that didn’t seem appropriate with the falling snow outside and the frigid temperature in the air. But it wasn’t the thin material that captured Nora’s attention. Instead, it was the various etchings of black ink swirling up and down his left arm. She tries not to stare, but she honestly can’t help it, because the images of shaded roses and thick anchors and anatomically correct organs is causing her head to spin. Nora never thought that picture-perfect Harry Styles, with all his splendor and daddy’s money, would brand his skin with outrageous tattoos. But it somehow fits, and Nora finds that she suddenly wants to know what every picture means, and its significance to the boy adorning them.

She tries to bring her attention back to her book, but it’s practically no use, considering her eyes keep falling towards his, watching the way he reads the old book in his large hands. From this position with the big bay windows behind her and the light flooding through, Harry’s green eyes almost seem blue. She’s not sure if he’s aware that he’s doing it, but his fingers keep constantly picking at the dry skin on his lower lip, and if there’s nothing left to pick, his fingers just push and pull at the skin as he flips to the next page. Whenever he seems to read a particularly interesting passage, Harry’s brows furrow as he concentrates on the words bleeding off the page. And just when Nora thinks she’s gotten used to his presence, he would absentmindedly fidget in the seat, changing which leg would be crossed over the other, bringing his foot up to rest on the seat so that his elbow can lean on something new, or even moving his body completely, so that his legs fall over the arm of the chair and his head rests against the other.

And when Nora’s no longer distracted by Harry’s existence, she finds that her thoughts linger on the hundreds of questions floating through her brain. She wonders what he’s doing here, all alone during Christmas break when he spends his summers in the south of France or the Hamptons or some other luxurious location. She wonders why, of all places to read an old copy of The Call of the Wild, he chooses to sit near her, a girl he’s supposed to hate. And she especially wonders why she doesn’t mind his proximity to her body, considering he’s done nothing but hurt her since they first met.

Nora finds this entire afternoon to be distracting, and without even finishing the book (even though she acts like she has, because let’s be honest, Nora’s read The Princess Bride enough times to recite the last page), she closes it and throws it in her backpack, exchanging the paperback for her maroon scarf and beginning to lace-up her snow boots. Harry looks up from his book and notices her getting ready to leave, and without saying anything, Nora watches as he dog-ears his page and begins to pull his arms through the sleeves of his coat.

“I’m gonna head to the dining hall,” Nora explains, even though she’s not entirely sure she wants Harry to follow her. But when he stands up from the chair and slips his book into his pocket, Nora finds that she doesn’t really have a choice in the matter, other than to follow him down the stairs and out the front door into the snow.

Townbridge covered in a thick blanket of snow is quite a sight to behold, and momentarily, Nora can forget that Harry Styles is standing near her. Because the snow is falling lightly from the sky, dusting the tips of her nose and the apples of her cheeks, and she thinks it’s probably the calmest she’s felt in a very long time.

But then Harry’s elbow knocks against hers as he shoves his hands deep into his pockets, and suddenly all of the distracting thoughts and the endless questions from before come rushing from her brain to the tip of her tongue, and Nora finds that she can’t hold it in anymore.

“Why are you talking to me, Harry? Aren’t you supposed to hate me?” Nora’s words aren’t spiteful in the slightest. In fact, there’s barely any emotion behind them—just a statement that’s been at the forefront of her mind ever since he first approached her in the dining hall two days ago.

“I don’t hate you, Nora,” Harry chooses to say, looking down at her briefly as they continue the short walk to their destination.

“You certainly don’t like me,” Nora replies back, keeping her head down to avoid more snowflakes accumulating on her eyelashes.

“If this is about last year, I really am sorry. You were right to say those things to me in Dr. Forrester’s lab, I deserved it. All of it.” Nora waits a minute to speak, because she’s curious if Harry Styles will grovel in front of her, if he’ll beg for her forgiveness the way she’s dreamt about him doing for the past twelve months. He stays quiet, kicking his boot through a particularly thick segment of snow, and when Nora chances a look towards his face, she can see through his eyes that this conversation is torturing him. The dullness is tenfold, and his lips are in a very straight line and she’s never seen a jaw so clenched in her entire life. And even though he doesn’t say anything else, Nora accepts his apology, because although words have failed him (as they usually have in the past), his eyes give everything away.

The word pushover comes to mind, but Nora doesn’t think it’s a negative aspect of her personality. She was always taught to find the best in people, and if Harry’s apology consists of a handful of words and green eyes twisted in utter agony, she’ll take what she can get.

He holds the door open for her as they approach the dining hall and she gives him a quiet “thank you,” and Harry’s not sure if it’s for his chivalrous act or his bare-bones apology, but he takes it in stride. They grab chicken noodle soup and turkey sandwiches and steaming cups of tea and sit at the table near the large row of windows and for the first time, Nora doesn’t mind sitting across from him.

“So, why The Princess Bride?” Harry asks after a mouthful of soup, watching the way her mouth quirks at the mention of her favorite book.

“It’s one of my favorite movie adaptations. Movies are kind of my thing, I guess,” she explains, holding her warm cup of tea against her hands and she looks so damn cozy.

Harry nods, a ghost of a smile on his lips.

“What about you?” Nora counters, watching the way his head tilts in confusion.

“What about me?” He echoes.

“Why The Call of the Wild?”

Harry grins, taking a long sip of his tea before replying, “I like classic literature. Guess it’s kind of my thing.”

Before Nora can say anything else, or tease him about copying her phrase, Miss Flaherty approaches their table with a bright grin. She’s one of the guidance counselors at Townbridge, an older woman who reminds everybody of their Nana. So when she places a hand on Harry’s shoulder and squeezes, Nora’s curiosity is piqued to the fullest.

“Harry! There you are, lovie. Will you be joining us tomorrow for the Toy Drive again? I’m sure everybody will be happy to see you.”

Sheepish has never been a word that Nora would think to associate with Harry Styles, but when his cheeks begin to flush and his eyes look anywhere but at Nora’s, she can tell that he’s nervous. And when she thinks back to Miss Flaherty’s question, more importantly, the word again, Nora’s wondering who on earth the boy sitting across from her truly is.

“Yeah, I’ll be there,” he tells her, smiling awkwardly.

“Amazing! How about you, Nora? Will you be joining us as well?” Nora’s suddenly aware of two sets of eyes on her, and when she glances at Harry and sees that his face is void of irritation, she nods her head and looks back towards Miss Flaherty.

“Of course! Count me in.”

Miss Flaherty smiles brightly and looks between the two of them happily. “Lovely! I’m sure Harry here will tell you all about it. We’ll see you tomorrow!”

After she walks away it’s quiet again, just the two of them slurping from their bowls of soups, trying to figure out how to address what just happened. Surprisingly, it’s Harry who speaks first.

“Uh, you don’t have to come if you don’t, er, want to.” He’s anxious and Nora wishes he would stop looking at the wooden table and would look at her, instead. Because she’s never given him a reason to be nervous around her, and the fact that he’s suddenly grown so small in front of her is all too confusing for her to understand.

“I don’t mind, really. Sounds cool, actually,” Nora admits, meaning every word.

Harry looks up at her then, observing her to see if there’s any teasing on her face. But when she looks back at him with nothing but a warm expression, Harry can tell that Nora actually means it, and he gives her a gentle smile in return.

Once they finish their lunch, they begin to walk back to their dorms. Nora lives on a different floor of Granary Hall and Harry lives in Quinby House, which is just across the small quarry outside of her building. It’s a comfortable silence, and Nora really wasn’t expecting him to walk her to the front door of her building. She’s not at all mad that he does, though, and when she turns towards him to say goodbye, he looks as if he’s trying to say something to her.

“I can drive you tomorrow to the Youth Center if you want. Easier than taking the bus,” Harry says, pushing his hands against the bottom of his pockets as he shuffles on the pavement in front of her, avoiding eye contact.

Nora nods, smiling softly before saying, “Sure, sounds good. Thanks, Harry.”

Before she can even mutter a goodbye, Harry’s already spinning on his boots towards Quinby House, and Nora’s left watching his figure disappear through the snow, thinking that out of the four years she’s known him, this is the most words they’ve ever spoken to one another.

Nora’s not even sure if she’s aware of it, but when she wakes up the next morning and chooses her nicest pair of jeans and applies a generous amount of mascara to her eyelashes, the idea of impressing Harry is barely even a thought in her mind. But there’s a reason for everything—and the fact that she brushed through her knotted hair and stuck her cherry-flavored lip balm into her pocket before rushing out the door, means that subconsciously she’s thinking about him.

They meet in the parking lot near his black Range Rover, and when he offers her a small smile and opens the door for her, she’s not quite sure what to think. He’s wearing his trench coat again with a grey thermal top underneath, and his curls are stuffed under a bright blue knitted beanie and he looks unbelievably warm. They don’t really talk much but they do listen to Big Star, and when “Thirteen” comes on and Nora starts to sing the words to herself, Harry snaps his head over in her direction with a wide-eyed look of astonishment.

“You listen to Big Star?” he asks, flitting his gaze between the road and Nora’s face.

She smiles, content that she’s shocked Harry, before adding, “Yeah, they’re one of my mom’s favorites.”

He nods, an impressed look on his face. “She’s got great taste.”

The rest of the ride is filled with more of Harry’s musical repertoire to which Nora sings along to the songs she knows. And if she listens close enough, she can hear the low tone of Harry’s singing voice, and she almost finds herself leaning closer towards him so that she can listen more clearly.

When they reach the Youth Center, Harry pops open his trunk and reveals two boxes filled with toys. Nora helps him and grabs the other, peeking inside and seeing wrapped presents of various sizes. They enter the room and greet Miss Flaherty, who immediately delegates Harry and his strong arms to deliver all of the presents underneath the tree, and Nora is sent to pass out homemade cookies and milk and read to the younger children.

It’s a blur of activity, and in between reading A Christmas Carol and making sure the younger children don’t choke on their cookies, Nora almost forgets to watch Harry. She mainly notices him in passing—a quick glimpse of a grey long-sleeved arm passing out presents, an electric blue beanie bouncing up and down in her periphery, a peek of brown suede boots running around behind her. It’s only once Nora’s begun reading the fourth stave, in which the Ghost of Christmas Yet to Come visits Scrooge, when she notices denim-clad long legs sitting cross-legged in front of her, with a five-year-old blonde girl perched on his lap.

Harry sits there and listens to Nora finish reading the book, watching the way she acts out each character so that the kids in front of her are completely entranced. Her hair looks shinier today than when they were nestled in the library, and her blue eyes glisten whenever she hears a small child “ooh” and “aah” at the sentence she just read. And whenever her gaze falls on Harry’s, he can’t help but mirror the grin on her face.

When it ends, the little girl in his lap whispers into his ear, “Can we give Nora a cookie? She did a good job reading,” and Harry begins nodding excitedly.

“I think that’s a great idea, love. Up you go, let’s go pick out the prettiest sugar cookie on the table, yeah?” When she latches her small hand into his, Nora can’t help but watch in adoration as he lifts her up and brings her to eye level with the cookie tray, pointing at certain ones and waiting for her little nod of approval.

And when the pair approach her, the little girl holding up a paper plate with a snowman sugar cookie on it, Nora’s smile couldn’t be wider. “Is this for me?” Nora asks, bending at her knees so that she’s eye-to-eye with the small girl.

She nods, bashfully. “To say thank you. Harry said you should get the prettiest cookie.”

When Nora grabs the cookie, she looks up at Harry to find that he’s already looking down at her, shrugging his shoulders as if it were nothing. But to Nora, it was practically everything, and she spends the rest of the afternoon in a blissful state, a smile permanently gracing her features.

When they get back to campus with both their stomachs filled with cookies and eggnog and Christmas breads, the sun is just starting to set past the horizon. Harry pulls into his parking spot but waits a moment to shut off the ignition, noticing how Nora’s gaze is focused on the sky as it turns from a cornflower blue to a prepossessing tangerine hue. The snow reflects the sunset perfectly, and even though it’s one of the prettiest winter sunsets Harry’s seen in a long time, he can’t stop looking at the girl sitting in his passenger seat.

She finally turns to him just as the sky changes from violet to indigo, “I had fun today.”

Harry nods, agreeing instantly. “Yeah, it was a good day.”

“Do you do that often? Is that why you stay here during Christmas break?” Nora’s not quite sure if she’s overstepping, but when Harry’s jaw doesn’t clench and his eyes stay rooted on her own, she can tell that he’s not as nervous to tell her things anymore.

“I’ve been doing it the past two years. My dad’s been going on work trips during the Holidays, so I just stay here.” It’s a version of the truth that he feels most comfortable sharing, and he’s grateful that Nora doesn’t push him.

“I’m assuming your friends don’t know,” Nora offers quietly, watching as Harry chuckles to himself, the sound being anything but funny.

“Yeah, they think I’m in the Alps.” He looks sad all of a sudden, and Nora wishes she hadn’t said anything. Because the fact that Harry’s father chooses to work during Christmas, thus leaving him no choice but to stay at Townbridge by himself, is a shitty thing to do. But instead of moping, he chooses to donate presents to children so they can have some sort of a normal Christmas, even though he doesn’t get the same in return. That’s quite admirable.

If it were Nora, she would be bragging to her friends about the Toy Drive, begging them to join her and spread more awareness. But Harry—Harry can’t do that. Because his friends would never understand, and that realization strikes Nora hard in her chest.

Giving him one last glance, she asks him, “Have you ever seen The Princess Bride?”

He looks at her, his eyebrows furrowed and his nose scrunched up in confusion. The sudden change in conversation is a bit jolting, and when he tries to figure out her intention, she giggles uncomfortably before rambling. “I nicked the DVD player from our common room and set it up in my dorm. Nobody really noticed, so I’ve been watching movies on it all semester.” He’s still looking at her, but instead of confusion written across his face, his lips begin to form a smirk and Nora begins to squirm in her seat, much like the first time they met three years ago in the Great Hall. “So, uh, have you seen it?”

He shakes his head once, twice, the smirk growing into a smile.

“Would you like to?” Nora’s not quite sure why she’s nervous, or more importantly, why she’s even inviting him up to her room in the first place. Maybe she pities him in the slightest, or maybe, just maybe, she’s found that she actually enjoys his presence for once in her life.

“Sure,” he replies easily. Nora watches as he turns the key in his ignition to shut the car off, before hopping out and waiting for her by the trunk. They walk inside Granary Hall together, ride the elevator up to the eighth floor in silence, before entering the fourth door on the right.

The room is moderate, practically identical to the one he had last year with Will, but for some reason, it just screams Nora Priestley. He can already tell which side of the room is hers due to the mix-matched comforter set, the thick homemade quilt, the generous stack of books leaning precariously against the wooden desk, and the collection of polaroids stuck to the wall above her bed nestled in the corner. While she takes off her parka and snow boots, Harry leans towards the photographs, smiling to himself when he sees the happiness radiating off of each one.

His eyes seem glued to the images of Nora and who he assumes to be her mother, with their arms wrapped around each other and their long hair tangling in the ocean breeze. They seem to have done everything together—various images of the two of them on beaches and hiking trails and in the front seat of an old car. Harry’s never seen pure happiness before, and he wishes he could burn these images underneath his eyelids so that he never forgets what that feeling looks like.

“That’s my mom,” Nora says from behind him, almost startling him. He turns around with flushed cheeks, an apology at the tip of his tongue for so obviously intruding. But when he sees her face and notices that she’s not angry at all, he feels his shoulders relax.

“You guys seem to do everything together,” he says softly, choosing his words carefully as to not overstep. The topic of family has always been a difficult one for him in the past.

But for Nora Priestley, she seems to have no qualms about the topic, with the way she’s nodding easily with a nostalgic grin on her face. “Yeah, it’s always been that way. Just the two of us.”

Harry doesn’t say much else, but the look on his face says it all. Some mixture of sadness and jealousy, because even though Nora only has one parent, it’s more than the two he’s known his entire life.

Nora fills her arms with the pillows from her mattress and creates a makeshift pallet on the floor against the end of her bed. Harry takes the seat closest to the door and watches amusedly as she begins to microwave popcorn, opening the door with ten seconds to spare so that she can mix in a package of M&M’s.

When she joins him moments later, she flicks the light off and hits play on the remote. Just as the opening credits begin, she plops down next to him and holds the bowl out in his direction.

“What’s this?” Harry asks, completely serious. He’s looking at the bowl with fascination, wondering what sort of salty-sugary concoction Nora just created.

“It’s the ultimate cinema snack,” Nora explains, grabbing a handful of chocolatey kernels and dropping them into her mouth, munching quietly as Harry looks at her with a glimmer in his eye.

When he pauses for a second time, looking between the movie and the bowl in Nora’s outstretched hands, a sudden realization falls over her.

“Have you never done this before? Gone to the cinema and eaten enough sugary sweets to give yourself a guaranteed stomachache?” The opening scene has already begun but Nora’s too focused on the boy next to her who shakes his head solemnly and looks into the bowl, avoiding Nora’s gaze. She wonders what else the boy she thought had everything in the world has seemingly missed out on.

She turns back around to face the screen, unknowingly scooting closer towards Harry so that their sides are nearly centimeters apart. He can feel the heat of her body against his own, and just when he’s about to say something, Nora announces, “Well, Harry Styles, there’s a first time for everything. Eat up.”

And he does just that.

The next morning at breakfast at their usual table, Harry finds that he’s nervous. And not in the way that makes him angry and quiet and want to run away, but the kind that usually is caused by a girl. His stomach feels fluttery and his palms are sweating and he’s consistently overthinking, and he’s not even sure why—because he’s Harry Styles, for fuck’s sake. And the girl in question is none other than Nora Priestley.

But she’s wearing a beanie with a bobble on top and her cheeks are pink from the cold and there’s still snow clinging to the ends of her hair and he can’t help but feel out of his element. And he shouldn’t, truly, because he’s been with enough girls to know that these feelings don’t exist and that he’s probably fallen ill or something, most likely caused by the cookies they ate all afternoon and the popcorn-M&M monstrosity he inhaled during their movie.

They haven’t really said much, and Harry finds that he doesn’t mind, because he’s not really used to comfortable silences. Alyssa talks enough for the both of them and Grace and Erin are practically human echoes. Carter always has something new to say and Will answers him because he knows Harry won’t, so the fact that he can sit in the dining hall with somebody and read from each other’s books and talk about things that actually matter—it’s refreshing.

“These buildings are quite eerie when they’re completely empty, don’t you think?” Nora asks after they’ve disposed of their dirty plates.

“I think it’s kind of cool. Have you not been anywhere else besides here and the library?” Harry asks, grabbing his scarf and knotting it around his neck.

When Nora shakes her head, Harry’s hand reaches out to grab her own and he’s dragging her through the exit before she can even button up her parka.

“Harry!” Nora squeals, nearly tripping over her own two feet when she tries to keep up with his obnoxiously long strides. His hand still has hers in a vice-like grip and he doesn’t seem to be letting go any time soon, and it’s only once they’ve appeared in front of the English building when Nora digs her heels into the ground, causing Harry to turn around abruptly.

“What?” he asks, noticing the way her head shakes aggressively and her eyes are blown out as if she were completely and utterly afraid.

“No way. We’re not going in there, are you crazy?! It’s the most haunted building on campus, and it’s empty. No fucking way, Harry,” Nora says, standing her ground.

But with one roll of his eyes and some gentle prodding falling from his lips, Nora finds that she’s somehow ended up inside the stairwell of the empty building, laying next to Harry on the marble staircase. It’s silent, save for the sounds of their hearts beating in their chests and their even breaths falling from their parted lips. The window over the second-floor landing paints a pretty light through the surface, and Nora finds that she’s oddly comfortable in this haunted building she’s so terrified of.

She wonders if it’s because of the boy lying next to her.

“Where are you off to next year?” Harry asks suddenly, his head tipped towards the ceiling four stories up.

“Columbia, hopefully,” Nora says, focusing on the rays of light creating illusions along the stone walls.

“New York City?” Harry asks, sounding quite impressed.

“Yeah. How about you?” she asks, twisting her fingers absentmindedly in her lap.

Harry’s quiet for a moment and when Nora looks over, noticing the way his eyes close slowly and his jaw clenches harshly, she wonders if he’s okay. “Oxford,” he finally spits out, his eyes blinking towards the ceiling once more. “As expected.”

Nora thinks of how to respond, but before she can string together a cohesive thought, Harry suddenly turns his neck so that he’s facing her. “I hate expectations. I wish they didn’t fucking exist, if I’m being honest. How are you supposed to grow if you’re forced to do certain things that are already mapped out for you?”

Nora looks back at him, unexpectedly understanding a good chunk of who Harry is. How even though he’s Townbridge’s Golden Boy, the perfect boy who seemingly can get whatever he wants, he’s missing one thing. Happiness. Pure, unadulterated happiness.

“What do you want to do when you get to Columbia? Like if you had the choice, and nobody was making it for you, and you didn’t have to worry about anything else—what would make you happy?” Harry asks, a shocking hint of vulnerability laced in between his words.

When Nora stops and thinks about it, the answer is literally right in front of her face. It’s what she’s always wanted to do, what she wishes she could do—but knows deep down that she can’t do. Because it’s not stable and it’s not why Nora went to Townbridge in the first place.

“Scriptwriting. I’d want to write screenplays and work on sets and help construct films that people like me can watch over and over again and never get tired of,” Nora whispers, thinking that if she says it quietly in the stairwell with just Harry around, she can still keep it locked up buried deep inside, away from people who would ridicule her over it.

“What would you do?” Nora asks before Harry can comment on her dream. She’s still not sure she’s ready for that.

His answer comes easier than hers. “I’d want to teach. English lit, preferably.”

Vulnerability is a scary thing. It’s even scarier when it’s shared between two people who, up until five days ago, were practically strangers. As they watch each other, heartbreakingly realizing that these dreams of theirs are just something they’re supposed to chase—a sudden sadness washes over them on the stairwell.

“I can’t do that, though,” Harry says, turning towards the ceiling just as his voice breaks. “Because it’s not in the plan.”

“What is the plan?” Nora asks curiously, eyes still locked on Harry’s side profile, watching the way his jaw moves as he speaks.

“Business Administration at Oxford. An internship at my dad’s company during my second year, and then a full-time job there once I graduate. Board of directors by twenty-five, until I fully take over by thirty. That’s it. That’s my life.” Harry’s voice has never sounded so broken before, and Nora feels her heart splinter a little for the boy lying beside her. Because right now, he’s eighteen, and he’s not supposed to be feeling this inordinate amount of pressure. But he is, and that thought makes Nora incredibly sad.

“And you?” Harry asks suddenly, looking towards her again.

“What about me?” Nora asks cautiously.

“What’s stopping you from becoming a scriptwriter?”

It’s a simple question if Nora really thinks about it. But things aren’t always that easy, and explaining to Harry how his anguish is not too far off from her own is quite a terrifying thought. Because they come from two separate worlds, and finding common ground in the fact that the things they truly yearn for are just not tangible is a sobering experience.

“My mom has higher expectations for me. I mean, I’m The Scholarship Girl. I’m not even supposed to be here. But my mom pushed for me and Mrs. Clemonte supported my application and before I even had a say in it, Townbridge was my plan,” Nora starts, feeling Harry’s eyes on her as she looks anywhere else but in the green of his. “My mom had me young, so she never got to go to college. She’s always telling me to do the things she couldn’t do, make better decisions than she made, be the best version of me I can be. And I do try, constantly. Because she works endlessly and she does everything she can to make sure I don’t end up like her, and that’s a lot of pressure for one person to take, because how can I repay her by studying performance arts and joining an industry that’s already extremely difficult to get into?” Nora’s eyes fall from the ceiling towards Harry, and there’s an unreadable expression on his face. “I can’t do that to her. It would break her heart.”

Harry nods like he understands, and for a brief moment, Nora thinks that he truly does. Because even though their situations are different and they come from two completely separate walks of life, they both have fallen victim to an excruciating amount of pressure.

“I’m sorry,” Harry says, sounding more sincere than he ever has in his entire life.

Nora just shrugs, turning her face back towards the ceiling. “Not your fault.”

“I’m sorry for a lot of things, I guess,” Harry whispers, and Nora almost misses it over the sound of her own breathing. But when she feels his eyes warm her left cheek, she looks back at him and sees that he’s suddenly overridden with guilt.

“It’s okay, Harry—”

“—No, no. It’s really not.” He’s staring at her intently, and Nora’s suddenly found that she can’t look anywhere else. “What Carter did was wrong, and I didn’t do anything about it. And you lost all of your friends and he just went on the same as he always did, and the whole thing is just so fucked up.”

“I didn’t lose everybody,” Nora adds sheepishly, wishing this conversation would end. She doesn’t want to relive last year, she wants to forget its existence entirely.

“Still, it was wrong,” he frustratedly repeats. “You shouldn’t have just one friend at school.”

“It’s okay, though,” she says one last time, her voice urging him to understand her so that they can ultimately end this dreaded conversation. “I’d rather have one true friend than a bunch of fairweather ones.”

Harry nods and turns back towards the ceiling, and she knows that he isn’t going to say anything. Because this conversation is over, and what Nora said is unquestionably true. But he doesn’t want to face the harsh reality of his empty friendships, so instead, he stares at the ceiling, wondering how his life would have turned out if he fell into a different group instead of the one he has now.

Once Nora’s back starts to ache against the stone stairwell, she sits up and peers through the window on the second-story landing. The snow is falling down a bit harder now, coating the campus below in a thick, billowing white blanket. She thinks it’s beautiful. She thinks it’s far too inviting. So without thinking (something she’s been doing a lot of this week), she reaches for Harry’s hand and heaves him up, dragging him out of the English building and into the empty quad.

“What are you doing?” Harry asks, confusion and amusement weaving together beautifully in his voice. Without answering, Nora reaches down and makes a snowball through her fingerless gloves, before hurling it straight towards Harry’s chest.

He looks at her with his jaw practically on the floor, faking his anger even though Nora can see right through it. She’s giggling loudly, almost hunched over at the shocked expression on his face. And before she can even comprehend it, Harry makes a snowball faster than her own and hits her right in the shoulder.

“Hey!” she calls back, wiping the leftover snow off her parka. Harry’s mischievous grin is clear as day through the thick snowfall, and when she mirrors it back, they’ve suddenly found themselves in a snow war.

Their laughter echoes through the quad and bounces off the stone buildings, and once Nora’s beanie is submerged in the snow and their jeans are soaked through and the only sound they can hear is their teeth chattering together, Harry calls a truce and drags her towards the direction of Quinby House. It’s closer than Granary Hall by at least five minutes, and when he holds the front door open for her, Nora enters without really thinking of the repercussions.

“Our floor’s empty and we have a private bathroom, so, er, if you want to shower first you’re more than welcome to. I’ve got warm clothes you can change into,” Harry offers quietly, rubbing his palm against the back of his neck. Nora can’t tell if the blush coating his cheeks is from the snow clinging to his body or something else entirely, but she doesn’t push it. Instead, she nods, following him to the last door on the left of the third floor, removing her snow boots in the hallway outside and beginning to walk towards the adjoining bathroom.

Nora closes the door without turning the lock, and immediately turns the shower on to its highest setting as she removes each soggy layer of clothing. She steps in just as the steam is clouding the small room, and when she notices the citrus body wash in the corner, she grabs that one instead of the Irish Spring bottle, knowing that it’s Harry’s.

Just as Harry’s pulled out a tight pair of joggers and his freshly washed soccer sweatshirt, he hears the distinct sound of the door creaking open. When he looks over his shoulder and finds that Nora isn’t peeking her head out from behind, he immediately gulps, knowing that the old door and the hot room caused the hinges to loosen.

As he approaches the door to close it securely, he can’t help but look up and notice Nora’s bare back through the mirror. Luckily he doesn’t see anything else, but still, he finds himself not being able to look away. Her milky skin is slightly red from the hot streams of the shower hitting her back and her blonde hair is sudsy and a part of him hopes that she picked his shampoo instead of Will’s. And when she moves her hair from the nape of her neck, Harry notices four black letters tattooed into her skin, and suddenly he closes the door before he can make out the blackletter script.

He sits on his bed across the room, his elbows resting on his thighs with his head in his hands as he tries his hardest to regulate his breathing. It’s a fucking back for Christ’s sake! Harry’s seen far more amongst other girls, and the fact that her hidden tattoo is causing his heart to beat erratically is giving him a migraine. Because it’s Nora fucking Priestley behind that door, and he’s Harry fucking Styles. And he needs to remember that before he embarrasses himself any further.

But when the door finally opens fully and she’s standing there in a tiny towel barely covering her legs and her wet hair framing her blushing face, Harry knows he’s fucked. Because it’s Nora fucking Priestley. And she’s standing there naked underneath terry-cloth and he doesn’t try to ignore the fact that his thumping heart and his staggered breathing are all because of her.

“So those, uh, clothes you were talking about…” Nora says awkwardly, staring at the carpeted flooring of his room instead of his face. Because she’s very clearly naked and very clearly uncomfortable, and when Harry points towards Will’s bed where the articles in question are resting, she barely mutters a thank you before the wooden door is shut again and she can finally breathe properly.

When they exchange places, Nora’s grateful that Harry has the decency to bring his change of clothing into the bathroom with him, because if she had to stare at his wet torso, she’s not quite sure she could bear it.

She snoops through his dorm room once she hears the water running, and finds that his side is practically barren. There are no pictures of his family, no personalized anecdotes to distinguish Harry’s side of the room from Willy’s, nothing except a collection of books in the open section underneath his nightstand. She reads through the titles, realizing that Harry does, in fact, have a thing for classic literature.

Just as she’s moved on to Willy’s desk, observing the stoic photograph of him and his parents that must have been taken recently, Harry emerges from the bathroom in comfy sweats and wet curly hair, and Nora looks away before she’s caught admiring his figure.

“What are you looking at?” Harry asks, dropping his wet clothes into his hamper before turning towards Nora’s position against Will’s desk.

When she holds up the frame, Harry looks between the picture and Nora’s face. As Harry studies her expression, noting the way her eyes are clouded with familiarity and a hint of sadness that lingers underneath, he can tell that she knows this family quite well.

So he asks, “You know Will, don’t you?”

“Knew would be the appropriate term,” Nora says quietly, placing the frame back where she found it before leaning her backside on his desk so that she can face Harry properly. “My mom was his nanny.”

Before Harry can comment, Nora quickly adds, “But please don’t tell him that. I don’t want him to think I’ve ruined his reputation or anything.”

“Why?” Harry asks, stepping towards her slowly. When she looks up at him with confusion, he continues, “Why would you let him lie to everybody?”

Nora just shrugs. “He obviously didn’t want anybody to know. But I know the truth, and Willy knows the truth, and he’s the one who has to live with that, not me.”

Harry looks at her from the middle of his room, thinking it’s quite remarkable that her brain works like that. Because Will had embarrassed her clear as day in front of all of his friends, and not only that, he lied, too. Harry thinks that if he hadn’t said those words, and if Alyssa and her friends hadn’t reacted that way, and if he just had a moment to talk to Nora before they had interrupted—maybe things would be completely different.

But Harry doesn’t like to think about what if’s. So instead, he grabs his laptop from his desk and powers it on, laying down on his twin bed in the spot closest to the wall, pulling up his movie library and patting the empty spot on his mattress.

When Nora lays down next to him, her back propped up on his headboard as her left side is flushed with Harry’s right, she asks, “Are we watching your favorite this time?”

Harry grins, shaking his head. “No, I’d rather watch another one of yours.”

Blushing, Nora grabs the computer from his lap and types in Ferris Bueller’s Day Off, a classic that she’s sure Harry will enjoy. And when she hands his computer back to him, she tries to ignore the fact that Harry was watching her face instead of the screen.

“Have you seen this?” Nora asks, trying to break Harry out of whatever weird trance he fell into.

“Nope,” Harry admits, balancing his computer in the middle of their thighs so that they can both view the screen properly. Nora tries to ignore the fact that she had to move closer towards him to fill in the gap, but the redness flushing up and down her neck practically gives her away. “Why is it one of your favorites?”

His question is simple in hindsight, but it makes her heart bubble when she realizes that he’s actually interested in the little things about her that seem meaningless. “Well, it’s a classic, and I know that’s sort of your thing,” she says, smiling when she pulls a chuckle from his mouth. “And it’s one of my favorite examples of breaking the fourth wall in a screenplay.”

“What on earth is that?” Harry asks, clicking play once the movie has finished loading.

“It’s sort of like metafiction in literature. Basically, it’s a plot device that scriptwriter’s use when the main character speaks to the audience. Ferris does it, like, all the time.” When Nora realizes that she sounds extremely nerdy divulging scriptwriting plot devices and intricacies about film that nobody really cares about, she shuts her mouth, turning crimson.

Harry doesn’t say anything though, and she’s grateful for it. Because even if he thinks it’s weird and nerdy (which he doesn’t, of course, but he’d never tell her that), he turns his head towards the screen and tries to hide the smile on his face.

And when the opening monologue begins and Ferris is in the shower talking to the camera, Harry whispers into Nora’s ear and asks, “Is that it?” She tries to cover the shiver running through her skin at the feeling of Harry’s lips brushing against her earlobe, but Harry notices it, like he notices everything about her lately. So for good measure, when Ferris breaks the fourth wall again at Cameron’s house, Harry leans over and mumbles, “And this, yeah? This is it, too?”

Nora knows he’s teasing, so when she turns her face in his direction so that Harry can see her rolling her eyes in good humor, he tries to ignore the warmth on his shoulder from where her chin rests.

Around halfway through the movie, Nora finds that she’s suddenly grown tired. She sneaks a peek at Harry and notices that he’s captivated by the movie on the small screen, and she really doesn’t want to interrupt him. After her third stifled yawn, Nora can feel her eyes drooping, and without really thinking, her head falls against the fleshy part of Harry’s bicep. Harry doesn’t say anything, but he does flinch for the shortest of seconds, before looking at her and realizing that she looks far too content dozing off on his arm. So he keeps quiet, trying to ignore the fluttering in his chest.

The next morning, Nora wakes up and finds that she’s not in her room. She also finds that her left cheek is smushed against comfy cotton material that keeps rising and falling steadily. And when she finally comes to, she finds that the comfy cotton material belongs to Harry, and the rising and falling belongs to his chest, and when she notices her right arm wrapped securely around his lower stomach just above the waistband of his joggers where a sliver of warm, tattooed skin lies, she freezes. Before Harry can wake up and go through the same motions she just did, Nora springs up, a stupid decision that results in Harry stirring abruptly.

He seems to have realized the compromising position they were just in, and before Nora can run out of the room in a panic, he mutters, “I’m sorry,” in his incredibly scratchy morning voice and Nora finds that it really doesn’t help matters.

Because Harry Styles in the morning is something special. He looks good in every lighting, if Nora is being brutally honest, but there’s something about his puffy face and swollen lips and crackling voice that makes her appreciate him a little bit more than she probably should in the early hours of the day.

“It’s, uh, my fault. I was the one who fell asleep,” Nora offers lamely, raking her fingers through her matted hair to try and alleviate the awkwardness in the room.

And when Harry mutters, “I didn’t mind” at the same time Nora says, “I should probably go,” they both freeze and look at each other timidly. Harry’s wondering why he doesn’t want her to leave and Nora’s wondering why she wants to wrap her body around his again, and it’s all too much for nine in the morning.

But he’s still looking at her, and she’s still looking at him, and somehow they’ve both landed on solid ground for the first time. Harry’s finding out that he quite likes the look of her burrowed in his soccer sweatshirt and Nora’s discovering that she’s never slept better than when she was lying next to him, and when he asks her if she wants him to save their usual table at the dining hall for breakfast, Nora nods, thinking it’s the greatest idea in the world.

An hour later, after Nora’s gone back to her room to change (begrudgingly) into her own clothes and freshen up, it’s almost second nature when she falls into the seat across from Harry with a steaming plate of waffles and fruit. He has her coffee ready for her just the way she likes it, a splash of cream with one sugar cube, and she can’t help but match the grin covering the lower half of his face.

Even though Nora had the best sleep of her life, and waking up next to Harry was something she wishes she could do over and over and over again—she feels guilty. Because Harry is with Alyssa and Alyssa isn’t here and the whole thing makes her head throb painfully.

So, regretfully, Nora apologizes for what feels like the hundredth time that day.

“Nora, you’ve nothing to be sorry for. Please stop apologizing, it’s driving me mad,” Harry jokes, stealing the syrup from her hands and pouring a generous amount over his stack of waffles.

“It’s just—Alyssa’s your girlfriend. And I know she doesn’t necessarily like me, but that still doesn’t make it right to share a bed with you,” Nora explains even though she knows it’s driving Harry crazy.

Harry nods, dropping his silverware against his plate so that his attention is focused solely on the girl across from him. “I know, but as I said earlier, I didn’t mind. If I didn’t want you to stay, I would have said something,” and before he resumes eating, he adds quietly, “It’s not like Alyssa’s really my girlfriend.”

“What do you mean?” Nora asks, noticing the way Harry exhales out of his mouth slowly.

“For all intents and purposes, I guess you could call her that. But it’s really only surface level, because if our parents didn’t summer together every year and force us to be together, it probably never would have happened in the first place. But it did, and we put on this show and everybody thinks we’re this happy little couple. And maybe we were, for a short while. But I haven’t really been the nicest boyfriend to her and she’s strayed on more than one occasion, and it’s all sort of scrambled,” Harry admits, staring at his tray to avoid Nora’s eyes. If he did look up, though, he would have noticed the sadness floating through her eyes and the frown swooping over her lips.

The rumors about Harry flirting with other girls and the occasional sneaky kiss in back corner’s of parties have been brought to Nora’s attention on multiple occasions. And even the ones last spring about Alyssa sneaking out of Carter’s dorm room trickled down to Nora’s group of friends, but she did her best to ignore them. Because she knows better than anyone how the rumor mill works, and even though Alyssa, Carter, and Harry did nothing to help Nora, she still couldn’t bring herself to stoop down to their level.

“Sounds like an incestuous mess to me,” Nora decides to say, trying to bring an air of lightness to the sudden uncomfortable topic of discussion.

It works, and Harry finds himself chuckling loudly across the table. “Yeah, it’s all about labels. Kind of a shitty thing to admit, but I’ve never really loved Alyssa. Can’t say I see that happening in the future, either.” He’s willingly giving Nora information that he hasn’t even told anybody before, and she’s not quite sure what to do with that revelation.

“That’s quite sad,” Nora says softly.

“Why’s that?” Harry asks, curious.

“I don’t know. Sounds like you’re just wasting your time, I guess,” Nora pauses and Harry can tell she’s trying to figure out how to phrase her next thought. “Maybe I’ve watched one too many movies, so ignore me if I’m wrong, but being with somebody isn’t supposed to feel like a chore. It should be fun. Exhilarating, even. What you have with Alyssa just sounds—exhausting.”

When Harry’s quiet for a few moments, Nora suddenly realizes that what she had just said was probably completely out of order. “Sorry if I’m overstepping, that was probably rude of me.”

Noticing Nora’s distress, Harry gives her a small smile and just shrugs his shoulders. “You’re not overstepping. You’re probably right, if I’m being honest. But at this point, there’s no use in switching things up.” There’s a brief pause in which Nora breathes out a sigh of relief, reaching towards her coffee and taking a generous sip. Before Harry realizes what he’s saying, he asks her quickly, “Have you ever had that feeling?”

“What feeling?” Nora asks.

Harry grins shyly. “Being with someone and having it be fun and exhilarating.”

Nora nods slowly, thinking about Connor. “I think so. For a little while, at least.”

“What happened?” Harry’s not sure if he’s the one who’s overstepping now. But when he notices Nora’s cheeks blush ever so subtly and her lips quirk up into sentimental half-smile, he suddenly feels an uncomfortable knot form in his stomach. It’s twisting and turning and he’s never had this feeling before—not when he found out Alyssa was sleeping with Carter, not when his parents decided to go to St. Tropez without him, not ever. But with Nora sitting across from him looking wistfully in the distance, Harry’s found that he’s practically consumed with jealousy, and he fucking hates it.

“He moved away, and I had to come back here for school,” Nora explains, breaking out of her daydream and looking back towards Harry. When she notices the unreadable expression on his face, she decides to change the subject. “So, what do you want to do today?”

Harry tries his hardest to forget about Nora’s mystery man for the rest of the day, but he can’t help it. The jealousy is like a seed planted in the depths of his stomach, and he feels it growing and growing inside of him until he’s practically turned green with envy. And he has no fucking idea why it’s bothering him so much.

Hours later, they’re back in Nora’s room for another movie night after a day filled with exchanging their favorite novels and talking about things Harry’s never even discussed with his own friends. Nora chooses Notting Hill, thinking that out of all of the movies in her favorites list, this one has got to be one that Harry’s seen before.

But when he shakes his head when she holds up the plastic DVD cover in his direction, Nora’s mouth is already on the floor and Harry can’t help but laugh at her shocked expression.

“How have you never seen this?! You’re British! You should be ashamed! I’m calling Gordon Brown and asking him to revoke your citizenship,” Nora exclaims, setting up the DVD player and inserting the disc inside the tray. She’s changed into leggings and chose Harry’s soccer sweatshirt over the worn-in Townbridge one she’s owned since freshman year, and Harry feels giddy with pride at the thought of it all.

“I already apologized for it! Give me a break, Priestley!” Harry calls back, amusement lacing his words.

Nora finds herself giggling in response, and once the title screen is displayed on the television, she peeks over her shoulder and finds that Harry is getting himself comfortable on her bed. He’s wearing track bottoms and a cream-colored henley, and when he claims the spot near the wall and burrows underneath the quilt her mother cross-stitched for her last Christmas, Nora can’t wipe the silly grin off her face.

“This movie makes me want to visit London,” Nora admits, pressing play on the remote and walking towards her bed. When Harry opens up the blanket for Nora to slide into, she does so easily, feeling the most comfortable she’s ever felt in her entire life.

“Yeah?” Harry asks, dropping the blanket underneath Nora’s chin and throwing an arm around her shoulder.

Nora surprisingly doesn’t flinch. Instead, she curls closer to his body, resting her chin on the planes of his chest and her hand just below. “Yeah.”

“I think you’d like it,” Harry whispers against the crown of her head just as the opening scene begins.

The first few scenes of the movie pass by in comfortable silence. But just after Hugh Grant meets Julia Roberts in his bookstore, Nora can practically feel Harry’s brain whizzing because he’s thinking too hard. And just when it starts to become distracting, Nora asks, “What’re you thinking about? I can hear your brain churning from here.”

He exhales out a laugh and admits truthfully, “I keep thinking about your exhilarating crush.”

Nora feels stunned all of a sudden, her body freezing against his own. “Why?” she somehow chokes out through her dry throat.

Nora can hear the gulp Harry takes from above. “I dunno. Suppose I’m very interested to know what kind of guy swept Nora Priestley off her feet.”

She sits up with her back to the television, completely ignoring the movie playing behind her. The quilt falls from her shoulders and pools around her waist, and she’s suddenly grateful for the cooler air of her dorm room whipping against her neck, because she’s grown increasingly warm. Harry slides his body up on the bed until his torso is flushed against the headboard, staring at Nora with those green eyes that for the first time, aren’t dull. Instead, they’re almost twinkling in the dim lighting of her room.

His gaze is focused solely on Nora—on the messy fringe falling against her forehead, the gentle slope of her nose, the plushness of her pink lips, the angular curve of her jawline. The way she looks buried in his sweatshirt with the sleeves falling past her fingertips causes his heart to beat loudly inside his chest, and the overwhelming urge to kiss her has never been more prominent before in his life.

“I think I’ve always thought about it,” Harry admits quietly, his eyes never falling from her own. Because if they did move, he would have missed the way her mouth parted slightly, a small inhale slipping down her throat. He would have missed the way her eyes widened almost comically, the blueness reminding him of the sky on a pleasing, clear day. And when he takes all of that into consideration, he comes to the conclusion that Nora Priestley is undoubtedly beautiful, and probably always has been. He’s always just been too stupid to realize it.

“You never said anything,” Nora whispers back, staring at Harry with the same ferocity. “You never say anything.”

Harry nods, “I know.” And when he inches his body closer to hers and notices that she doesn’t back away from him, he adds, “I’m saying it now. Am I too late?”

Nora watches the way Harry leans towards her, his body being held up by his hands that are anchored to the mattress in front of her knees. Even though the movie is still playing from the television behind her, she can’t hear anything except for the accelerated beating of her heart racking against her ribs and pounding against her chest.

He’s so close to her now, the tip of his nose brushing against her own so tactfully that Nora’s not even sure if it’s actually happening. At this proximity, Nora can see inside his eyes and she finds that they’re not as green as she once thought. Instead, they’re almost a turquoise color, with golden hues circling his pupil and when she looks closely, she can see her own face in the reflection. And suddenly, that’s the only answer she needs before she’s wrapping her arms around his neck and crashing her lips against his own.

Even though Harry Styles is Nora’s third first kiss, it’s the best one she’s had yet. It’s slow at first, just the gentle pressure of two sets of lips pressing against the other’s. It’s hesitant, timid, nervous, until Harry wraps his arm around Nora’s back, pulling her closer towards him so that their fronts are completely flushed. After that, it’s intense, passionate, frenzied.

His teeth nip at her lower lip until she opens her mouth ever so slightly, allowing his tongue to slip through. Once Nora gets the message, she opens her mouth wider, angling her head to the side so that she can slip her own inside of his mouth, the two fleshy organs tangling together causing a reverberating hum to break from the back of Harry’s throat.

The sounds cause Nora to still, and when she breaks away and notices the dark hue in Harry’s eyes, the exasperated breaths causing his chest to rise and fall sporadically, the bright pinkness of his lips—it’s all Nora needs to push Harry back into his seated position against her headboard, crawling over on her knees until her legs are straddling his hips. She slinks both hands through his wild hair until they connect at the back of his head, and their lips connect for a second time.

This time, Nora’s not shy to let her teeth clink against Harry’s in a mad rush to gain dominance over their kiss. This time, Harry’s not reticent to let his hands roam the expanse of her back, slipping them underneath the bottom of his baggy sweatshirt so that his fingers can dance against her flushed skin without a barrier in between.

Nora’s hands fall from Harry’s hair to his neck, to the chain that rests against the middle of his chest that’s exposed through the unbuttoned part of his henley, all the way down his stomach until her fingers play with the hem of his shirt. When her nails lightly scratch against Harry’s lower stomach where Nora knows the tips of two tattooed ferns lie, he gets the hint and unlocks their lips, reaching his hands over her own and pulling his shirt up and over his head.

Nora sits back on Harry’s thighs, watching how Harry throws his crumpled shirt somewhere on the floor of her dorm room without care. His hair is mussed from a combination of Nora’s fingers and the quick way he removed his henley, and when Nora’s eyes ogle at the two identical swallows underneath his collarbones, the small definition of his chest, the butterfly permanently drawn in the middle of his stomach, to the small trail of hair below his belly button that disappears beneath the waistband of his track pants—she’s hot all over.

Her eyes lift back to Harry’s and find that he’s suddenly nervous. He’s blinking up at her with an indecipherable expression on his face, and when the hands that rest against her hips start to fall ever so softly, Nora grips the bottom of Harry’s sweatshirt and lifts it over her head, throwing it against the floor.

She’s sitting there, against his hips wearing a simple nude bra, and Harry feels his breath constricting in his throat at the sight of her. Her lips are swollen and her fringe is frizzy and when her teeth sink into her bottom lip and her cheeks begin to flush, Harry’s hands reach behind her neck to bring her down to his face. And just before their lips meet for the third time, he whispers, “You’re beautiful,” against her mouth, sealing it with his own so that she never forgets it.

Nora’s never done this before, but when Harry’s mouth falls to her neck and she accidentally grinds her hips into his own below in surprise, the groan that emits from his throat is practically feral. So, she does it again, her throat hitching when his teeth sink into the fleshy juncture of her shoulder and neck. One of his hands is tangled in her hair, and the other is resting on her hip. But when she grinds into him for the third time, he brings that hand up to the clasp of her bra, removing his lips from her neck and breathing against her mouth.

“Is this okay?” he asks, his voice sounding more strained than ever before. Nora finds that it’s unquestionably the hottest thing she’s ever heard, and when she brings her hands to rest on his searing chest, her nails scraping against his skin, the whine that falls from his lips might just be hotter.

“Yes,” Nora whispers back, holding her breath when his fingers easily undo the clasp, the straps sliding down her shoulders as the cups covering her breasts begin to fall. When she lowers her arms so that her elbows are no longer bent, the garment falls easily from her body and onto the mattress below.

Cautiously, she looks at Harry and finds that he’s looking into her eyes to make sure that she feels safe with him. The thought alone makes her nerves completely subside, and when she nods ever so slightly, Harry finally lets his eyes fall towards her chest. She watches him as he sits up, bringing his lips to the base of her throat as he places gentle kisses along the expanse of her neck, down to her sternum, until his lips are centimeters away from her breasts. When her fingers tangle into his curly hair, Harry peeks up at her briefly before placing his mouth around her right nipple, his hand softly massaging her left.

Nora’s head falls back and a moan tears through her throat, and it’s the first time that’s ever happened in her life. Harry stills, his lips moving slightly so that he can watch her, and it’s enough to make the bulge in his pants grow until it’s practically unbearable. His tongue continues to move down her body, kissing along the lines on her stomach until his hand moves to rub the fleshy part of Nora’s hips, hesitantly moving towards the front of her body. And when his right hand cups her legging-clad core, Nora’s hands halt in Harry’s hair, and he removes his lips from her body and looks at her.

“I don’t think I’m—” Nora pauses, her confident streak breaking. “I don’t think I’m ready for that.”

“It’s okay, I wasn’t planning on having sex with you,” Harry says softly, bringing his hand up to take a piece of her blonde hair that’s fallen in front of her face and tucking it behind her ear. “We can do something else if you’d like. But the second you’re uncomfortable, tell me and I’ll stop. Okay?” He’s never been this patient with somebody before in his life, and somehow Nora can sense that. She’s incredibly grateful for Harry then, and once her breathing has regulated and she’s no longer anxious, she nods, pecking him softly on the lips.

Harry pecks her back once, twice, thrice until cupping his hand back against her front. He rubs her slowly then, and when Nora feels the stickiness from inside her underwear permeate through the thin material, she shudders against his body. His fingers curl into the waistband of her leggings, and after asking her for permission, she lifts her hips and her knees so that he can pull the black material halfway down her legs, leaving Nora in just her simple baby blue underwear.

Harry resumes his ministrations, causing Nora to wrap her arms around his neck, her elbows resting against his shoulders as her body quivers again. And when his fingertips sneak underneath the material, a long finger gently stroking her slit, Nora’s hands use Harry’s hair as an anchor as her forehead rests against his own as she emits a blissful sigh. Just before his finger slides in, he brings his lips against hers so that he can feel her moans hit the back of his throat.

It’s uncomfortable and awkward at first, and when her breath hitches in her throat and her lips break away from Harry’s, he pauses, looking at her with concern. “Do you want me to stop?”

Nora looks at him, her hand ruffling his hair tenderly as she shakes her head. Grinning, Harry brings his lips back to hers, resuming pumping his finger inside of her.

After a few strokes, Nora starts to feel her rigid body unraveling, and suddenly she’s matching Harry’s rhythm as she grinds down onto his finger. When his wet thumb starts to circle her swollen mound, another moan rips from her throat, causing their kisses to halt.

“I love that,” Harry whispers against her mouth, sucking her lower lip between his own and beginning to move his hand faster.

The stickiness is accruing inside her underwear and Nora can feel sweat brimming at the nape of her neck. She feels hot to the touch, and when Harry changes his thumb strokes from clockwise to counter-clockwise, a fluttering like no other vibrates through her lower stomach as she whines into his mouth.

“I think you’re close,” Harry says, bringing his hand that isn’t inside of her around her lower back to keep her steady. And when his finger curls and presses against a spongy spot inside of her, Nora feels the fluttering turn into a full-blown explosion, and suddenly her eyes close shut at the ferocity of it all.

Nora stills on top of him, feeling the stickiness begin to coat her inner thighs as a loud moan rips from her throat. Her hands move from Harry’s hair to his shoulder blades, and when she opens her eyes and realizes that her fingernails have carved crescent moons into the flesh, she immediately removes them.

The warmth has gone, and in its place, a numbing sort of calmness. Harry removes his hand from inside her underwear and when he looks up at her and sees her irises blown out and her cheeks pinkened and her lower lip indented by her front teeth, he grins smugly and kisses her softly.

“Alright?” he asks once her eyes have opened fully and she no longer is panting against his cheek.

Nora nods, a bit shy considering she just had her first orgasm and she’s not quite sure what to do next. She looks down and notices the bulge in Harry’s pants, and smiles at him unsurely. “If you tell me what to do, I can, er, help you out?”

Harry smirks, running a gentle hand through her hair and shakes his head. “Don’t worry about it, babe. Just, uh, give me a mo’. I’ll be right back,” he says softly, placing two hands on her hips and lifting her slowly so that she’s no longer straddling his waist.

When she pulls her leggings back on, the stickiness is far too uncomfortable between her thighs. Harry notices her wiggle on the mattress and chuckles to himself, finding it all too adorable. When he gets up from her bed, shifting his pants so that his erection is less painful, he turns towards Nora before crossing the hall into the communal bathrooms.

“Where do you keep your linens?” Harry asks from his position by her door. Confusedly, Nora points towards the wardrobe near her desk and he opens it slowly, grabbing a folded hand towel and passing it to her. She smiles softly, thanking him before watching him retreat into the hallway.

After Nora’s changed her underwear and put on a pair of sleep shorts, sliding Harry’s sweatshirt back over her body once her skin has cooled down, she gets back under the covers and turns her attention towards Notting Hill. Harry comes in a few minutes later, the front of his pants lacking a distinct bulge. He looks over and notices her lying comfortably in her bed, and when she moves her eyes from the screen to his figure standing in the doorway, a cute grin covers the lower half of her face.

“You coming to bed?” Nora asks, patting the spot on the mattress beside her. With a quick smile, Harry walks towards her, lifting his body over her own so that he can resume his position by the wall. And just as his arms are on either side of her body, his shirt still somewhere on her floor and his pants low on his hips, he sneaks a kiss from her lips before plopping down next to her, wrapping an arm over her shoulders tightly.

“Think we can start this movie over?” Harry asks, playing with the ends of Nora’s hair that falls inside the hood of his sweatshirt.

Nora hits rewind, wondering if it’ll hurt falling asleep with a grin permanently stuck on her face.

The next morning, Nora wakes up feeling far too warm. Her backside is flushed completely with Harry’s front, and he’s spooning her tightly. His arms are wrapped securely around Nora’s stomach and she can feel his breath against the side of her neck in hot spurts, his nose brushing the spot underneath her ear. His curly hair is tickling the sides of her face and his legs are slotted between her own and Nora’s never been so tangled up with somebody else before.

And while it’s comforting, there’s no denying that Harry’s body heat is pervading through her skin, and when she wiggles to try and figure out a way to lower the duvet from underneath her chin, it causes Harry to wake up.

As his eyes flutter open, he subconsciously brings Nora’s body closer to his own, and when he finally does open his eyes fully, he notices how close they’ve gotten in the middle of the night. Harry’s not quite sure how it happened, but somehow being wrapped up with Nora Priestley has caused him to have the best night’s sleep of his entire life.

“Morning,” she whispers, her chin resting on her left shoulder as she peeks at him behind her. Her blue eyes are foggy in the morning and her lips are beautifully swollen, and even though her hair is knotted and her cheeks have red jagged lines from her pillowcase all over them, he can’t help but grin back at her, finding her perfect.

“Hi,” he says back, his voice cracking from lack of use. They both roll over so that their backs are flat on the mattress. And just when Harry’s about to swing his arm over Nora’s shoulder to bring her closer to his body so that they can fall back asleep, his Blackberry rings loudly from the nightstand.

Before he can let it go to voicemail, he reaches around Nora’s body to grab it, gulping when he sees Alyssa’s name across the screen. Apprehensively, he brings the phone to his ear, ignoring the heat of Nora’s gaze against his cheek.

“Hello?” he mumbles halfheartedly.

“Baby! Wake up, sleepyhead! We’ll all be back on campus in, like, two hours. Our flight just landed. When will you get in?” Nails scraping down a chalkboard would be a better sound than the one he just heard through the speaker of his mobile. Because suddenly, his Nora Priestley bubble has popped. Their ten-day vacation has come to an abrupt end, and Harry can feel the panic begin to spread throughout his body.

“Harry? You there?” Alyssa asks, and it’s only then when Harry realizes he’s been deadly silent.

He coughs into his fist uncomfortably, before saying, “Hey, sorry. Uh, sounds good. My flight got in a few hours ago. I’m actually, er, pulling into campus now,” Harry lies. The familiar feeling of shame washes over him, and when he feels Nora slide out of bed beside him, a puzzled look falling across her face, he’s never felt worse in his life.

“Perfect! Can’t wait to see you, baby!” Alyssa squeals, and before Harry can respond, he hangs up the phone, tossing it purposelessly against the end of her bed.

It’s silent between the two, and not the sort of comfortable silence that they’ve grown accustomed to with each other. Instead, it’s heavy, weighing them both down until they feel fatigued under the burden of it all.

Nora knows deep down that this is it. The Harry she’s grown to adore the past ten days is no longer there. In its place is the cold, disheartening, lifeless Harry that she’s hated ever since he casted her out during the First Year Mixer almost four years ago. Just like with Connor, her romance with Harry is fleeting. It has an expiration date. And sadly, they’ve reached their end.

He doesn’t say much, and she doesn’t expect him to. He’s clearly tormented by all of this, getting out of her bed ploddingly as he scans the floor for his clothing from the night before. He’s distracted as he puts on his wrinkled Henley, slides on his boots without tying them, slips his arms inside his trench coat, and places everything else he can try to remember inside the pockets. And just before he leaves her room, he stops and turns, looking at her with those dull, green eyes from before.

This is it, Nora thinks, watching the way his eyes fall from her face towards his big sweatshirt on her body to her long legs hidden underneath her tiny sleep shorts. He’s going to apologize. He’s going to come back to bed. He’s going to—

“Can I have my jumper back?” Nora feels as if she’s just been kicked in the chest, air ripping from her lungs and falling into the space between her and Harry. She’s never felt so small in her life. And when his eyes are still dull and his foot begins to tap impatiently and he looks as if he’s about to burst, Nora knows this is truly it. The Harry she knows is officially gone.

Or maybe this is who Harry really is. And the version she got was just a figment of her imagination, an imposter Harry, a Harry that only existed within the ten days of Holiday break inside an empty Townbridge Academy.

With shaking hands, Nora rips the sweatshirt off her body, ignoring the fact that she’s only wearing a sports bra below. She flings the material at Harry’s chest, and she hopes that it diverts his attention from her trembling lips and tear-filled eyes.

He sees everything, though. And without another word, he pivots on his foot, his back towards Nora as he enters the hallway and closes her door tightly, trying his hardest to ignore the sound of her crying through the heavy oak.

Nora should have expected it, in hindsight. But it doesn’t make it hurt any less.

This time around, it’s not like Carter Donnelly. Instead of spreading rumors to their classmates, Harry says nothing—not even a lie to his friends, not even a subtle brag about how he was the first person to ever see Nora Priestley come undone—nothing. He keeps quiet, barely looks at her, and goes about his life the way he always has—as Townbridge’s Golden Boy, the prodigal son, who always gets whatever he wants.

And that’s what hurt the most.

Harry has enough pressure in his life—pressure from his father, pressure from his friends, pressure from fucking everybody who looks his way. It’s enough to break somebody in half, so succumbing to both is easier than fighting them.

So when his friends come back to campus and resume their lives the way they always have, Harry can’t help but follow suit. Because telling them that he spent the past ten days with Nora Priestley is simply not an option, even if they were the best ten days he’s ever had. And it’s a heartbreaking realization, because even though Harry doesn’t really care for his friends that much, he still doesn’t want to disappoint them.

Whenever he passes by Nora in the hallway, he doesn’t bother looking in her direction. When he can feel her gaze on his back in AP English, he doesn’t turn around. And when he sees her sitting at the table in the dining hall that they deemed their own for ten days, he doesn’t say anything. He just feels his heart freezing over until it’s an icy block inside of his chest.

And when he’s taking pictures with Alyssa at prom and notices Nora’s pretty blue dress that makes her eyes shine, he almost feels the ice crack. But then she looks at him, for only the briefest of moments, and in that minuscule period of time, he can see the disappointment and anger in her eyes, and it’s enough to make the ice harden.

Harry tries to convince himself that when he’s standing on stage with Alyssa with a plastic crown on his head, he doesn’t notice a flurry of blue exit through the front door. Because when he looks out in the crowd and sees an empty spot near Lydia and Margot that Nora once filled, he knows for sure that the flurry of blue was her. And halfway through his dance with Alyssa, when he’s looking at her strawberry-blonde hair and hazel eyes and makeup-filled face and expensive purple dress, Harry feels empty inside. Because he doesn’t want this anymore. He doesn’t want to be around her or his shitty friends anymore.

So he leaves.

But it’s too late—of course it’s too late. Because second chances don’t come to people like Harry, and it’s in Nora’s best interest for him to leave her alone. He’s caused enough hurt in her life, he’s done enough irreparable damage to last a lifetime.

During graduation, Harry tries his best to not look two rows ahead of him and stare at Nora in her red cap and gown. And when her name is called, he tries to ignore the singular cheer from the back of the Great Hall, the cacophonous finger whistle echoing off the walls following shortly after. He wonders if he’s the only person who can see the glimmer of pride in Nora’s eyes when she locates her mother in the back of the room. And when Alyssa scoffs under her breath from the row behind him, muttering a, “How fucking embarrassing,” to her friends, Harry turns around and tells her to fuck off.

As he’s stoically taking pictures with his mother and father in the quad after the ceremony, he sees Nora and her mother in his periphery. He’s never seen her look more beautiful than when she’s smiling with her mom, clinging to her so that they can share this moment together. And when he notices her mother’s matching blue eyes filled with pride, he looks at his own set of parents and wonders if they’ve ever looked at him like that before.

It’s almost enough to make the ice melt. But then his father is taking a business call and his mother is whisked away to talk about society functions with Alyssa’s mom, and Harry’s left standing there completely and utterly alone.

“That boy’s looking at you, Nora,” her mother says, eyes falling on somebody over Nora’s shoulder. “Do you know him?”

When Nora turns around and sees Harry standing there, green eyes full of hope and yearning and wonder, she doesn’t spare him a second look. Her head whips around just as quickly, looking at her mother with a small shake of her head.

“Nope, I don’t know him at all,” Nora says, meaning every word.

And when she drives away from Townbridge for the final time, she’s suddenly brimming with happiness at the fact that she’ll never have to see those people again. And more importantly, she’ll never have to see Harry Styles for as long as she lives.

*** A/N: When I started writing Fade, it sort of ended up playing out in three acts. So with that, this is officially the end of Act One (and officially my favorite chapter of the entire high school years.) Let me know your thoughts and predictions, my inbox is always open for those who want to scream at me. It’s probably going to happen a lot with this story.

To make room for editing and ensuring I have enough written ahead of time for Act Two to keep with the weekly update schedule, (and because I sort of like the idea of separating things into acts because I’m annoying like that) I’ll be taking a week to sort everything out. Therefore, the next chapter and start of Act Two will be posted on Friday, March 12th. Until then, stay safe and be kind! x

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agentrouka-blog · 4 years ago

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Tyrion and Tysha murder mystery hints - first mention in the text

This thing just keeps tugging at me, and this recent thread made me ambitious to examine it in more detail. So I’ll look at hints for an even darker edge to the story of Tyrion and Tysha in the parts of the text that actually mention her.

Since I have limited time, I’ll do several posts. This one is about how we learn about Tysha in A Game of Thrones.

We head into AGOT, Tyrion VI via a chapter transition from AGOT, Jon V, where Jon talks Maester Aemon into choosing Samwell as his assistant. In the presence of his current assistant Chett, who - it is revealed later in the ASOS Prologue - murdered a girl he liked for rejecting him.

Chett gave a nasty laugh. “I’ve seen what happens to soft lordlings when they’re put to work. Set them to churning butter and their hands blister and bleed. Give them an axe to split logs, and they cut off their own foot.”

“I know one thing Sam could do better than anyone.”

“Yes?” Maester Aemon prompted.

Jon glanced warily at Chett, standing beside the door, his boils red and angry. “He could help you,” he said quickly. “He can do sums, and he knows how to read and write. I know Chett can’t read, and Clydas has weak eyes. Sam read every book in his father’s library. He’d be good with the ravens too. Animals seem to like him. Ghost took to him straight off. There’s a lot he could do, besides fighting. The Night’s Watch needs every man. Why kill one, to no end? Make use of him instead.”

Maester Aemon closed his eyes, and for a brief moment Jon was afraid that he had gone to sleep. Finally he said, “Maester Luwin taught you well, Jon Snow. Your mind is as deft as your blade, it would seem.”

“Does that mean …?”

“It means I shall think on what you have said,” the maester told him firmly. “And now, I believe I am ready to sleep. Chett, show our young brother to the door.”

(AGOT, Jon V)

The chapter is followed by AGOT, Tyrion VI, where Tyrion and Bronn rest on the high road after being kicked out of the Gates of the Moon, after he won his trial by combat:

They had taken shelter beneath a copse of aspens just off the high road. Tyrion was gathering dead-wood while their horses took water from a mountain stream. He stooped to pick up a splintered branch and examined it critically. “Will this do? I am not practiced at starting fires. Morrec did that for me.”

The entire conversation between Jon, Aemon and Chett sets up Tyrion. A lordling, bad with manual labor, but smart and a reader. Yet we know he is no Samwell Tarly in his sensibilities, and the last sentence is dedicated to Chett.

Chett...

The only women Chett had ever known were the whores he’d bought in Mole’s Town. When he’d been younger, the village girls took one look at his face, with its boils and its wen, and turned away sickened. The worst was that slattern Bessa. She’d spread her legs for every boy in Hag’s Mire so he’d figured why not him too? He even spent a morning picking wildflowers when he heard she liked them, but she’d just laughed in his face and told him she’d crawl in a bed with his father’s leeches before she’d crawl in one with him. She stopped laughing when he put his knife in her. That was sweet, the look on her face, so he pulled the knife out and put it in her again. When they caught him down near Sevenstreams, old Lord Walder Frey hadn’t even bothered to come himself to do the judging. He’d sent one of his bastards, that Walder Rivers, and the next thing Chett had known he was walking to the Wall with that foul-smelling black devil Yoren. To pay for his one sweet moment, they took his whole life.

But now he meant to take it back, and Craster’s women too. That twisted old wildling has the right of it. If you want a woman to wife you take her, and none of this giving her flowers so that maybe she don’t notice your bloody boils. Chett didn’t mean to make that mistake again.

Like Tyrion, Chett is rejected by others for his appearance, has a violent father and a lot of resentment that comes out in the shape of murdering “slatterns”. He also mixes it up with the idea of marriage. Like Tyrion, the cold night reminds Chett of the girl in his past.

He could see Bessa’s face floating before him. It wasn’t the knife I wanted to put in you, he wanted to tell her. I picked you flowers, wild roses and tansy and goldencups, it took me all morning. His heart was thumping like a drum, so loud he feared it might wake the camp. Ice caked his beard all around his mouth. Where did that come from, with Bessa? Whenever he’d thought of her before, it had only been to remember the way she’d looked, dying. What was wrong with him?

Chett killed her in a rage, but the truth is layered and haunts him.

But back to Tyrion.

Tyrion VI emphasizes Tyrion’s cleverness as he converses with Bronn, explaining his strategy in the Vale for how to steal Bronn from Cat’s service and make use of his practical talents, and his strategy for their travels in the Mountains of the Moon. Tyrion talks, Bronn listens and agrees to serve him.

The point is, Tyrion is very observant and smart. Reader, trust Tyrion’s judgent and words, is the message. Then we get more personal.

As they light a fire and eat a goat, Tyrion remembers his goaler Mord who treated him cruelly in the sky cells.

(Mord, btw, translates to murder in many a germanic/Scandinvian language.)

“And yet you gave the turnkey a purse of gold,” Bronn said.

“A Lannister always pays his debts.”

Even Mord had scarcely believed it when Tyrion tossed him the leather purse. The gaoler’s eyes had gone big as boiled eggs as he yanked open the drawstring and beheld the glint of gold. “I kept the silver,” Tyrion had told him with a crooked smile, “but you were promised the gold, and there it is.” It was more than a man like Mord could hope to earn in a lifetime of abusing prisoners. “And remember what I said, this is only a taste. If you ever grow tired of Lady Arryn’s service, present yourself at Casterly Rock, and I’ll pay you the rest of what I owe you.” With golden dragons spilling out of both hands, Mord had fallen to his knees and promised that he would do just that.

The image of coins spilling from hands is picked up later.

Tyrion was hoping to lure in the mountain clans, but they take their time showing up, so he tries to be even more conspicuous.

Tyrion chuckled. “Then we ought to sing and send them fleeing in terror.” He began to whistle a tune.

He chooses the “terrible” tune himself. It leads straight to his memory:

“Myrish. ‘The Seasons of My Love.’ Sweet and sad, if you understand the words. The first girl I ever bedded used to sing it, and I’ve never been able to put it out of my head.” Tyrion gazed up at the sky. It was a clear cold night and the stars shone down upon the mountains as bright and merciless as truth. “I met her on a night like this,” he heard himself saying. “Jaime and I were riding back from Lannisport when we heard a scream, and she came running out into the road with two men dogging her heels, shouting threats.

Myrish, as in the Myrish lens. The object Lysa sends Catelyn, which has a false bottom hiding the real message in a secret language, a message of murder and conspiracy. A secret language, a foreign language, like Mord.

"A lens is an instrument to help us see." (AGOT, Catelyn II)

Bright and merciless as truth.

My brother unsheathed his sword and went after them, while I dismounted to protect the girl. She was scarcely a year older than I was, dark-haired, slender, with a face that would break your heart. It certainly broke mine. Lowborn, half-starved, unwashed … yet lovely. They’d torn the rags she was wearing half off her back, so I wrapped her in my cloak while Jaime chased the men into the woods. By the time he came trotting back, I’d gotten a name out of her, and a story. She was a crofter’s child, orphaned when her father died of fever, on her way to … well, nowhere, really.

Where Tysha went will become a theme. @une-nuit-pour-se-souvenir examines that beautifully here.

But even right here, the tone is ominous, and GRRM goes out of his way to emphasize it with the ellipses.

We get the story of Jaime chasing after the outlaws and Tyrion and Tysha falling into bed at an inn after drinking, eating and talking, and the story of their marriage, and its end.

Tyrion was surprised at how desolate it made him feel to say it, even after all these years. Perhaps he was just tired. “That was the end of my marriage.” He sat up and stared at the dying fire, blinking at the light.

“He sent the girl away?”

“He did better than that,” Tyrion said. “First he made my brother tell me the truth. The girl was a whore, you see. Jaime arranged the whole affair, the road, the outlaws, all of it. He thought it was time I had a woman. He paid double for a maiden, knowing it would be my first time.

NOTHING about this makes sense, which is ridiculous when you consider we were just hammered over the head with how smart Tyrion is supposed to be.

Since when is Jaime prone to setting up complex schemes? Why would feel the need to push Tyrion to have sex at thirteen, and why would be ever do it this way? Why would be hire him a virgin for his first time? We don’t question it because GRRM has told us not to question the smartiepants. But as we later learn, that was all. not. true. So maybe other things aren’t true, either.

“After Jaime had made his confession, to drive home the lesson, Lord Tywin brought my wife in and gave her to his guards. They paid her fair enough. A silver for each man, how many whores command that high a price? He sat me down in the corner of the barracks and bade me watch, and at the end she had so many silvers the coins were slipping through her fingers and rolling on the floor, she …” The smoke was stinging his eyes. Tyrion cleared his throat and turned away from the fire, to gaze out into darkness. “Lord Tywin had me go last,” he said in a quiet voice. “And he gave me a gold coin to pay her, because I was a Lannister, and worth more.”

The parallels to his memory of Mord are striking. Silver and gold, coins spilling from hands, a “price” beyond expectation... and a promise of something very sinister at the next meeting.

After a time he heard the noise again, the rasp of steel on stone as Bronn sharpened his sword. “Thirteen or thirty or three, I would have killed the man who did that to me.”

1) Nice how Bronn makes it about Tyrion’s pain. Tysha’s pain does not exist to them. And so the reader is also drawn away from it. Poor Tyrion.

2) Another reference to killing. It foreshadows Tyrion’s murder of Tywin over this very matter, of course, but at the same time...

Tyrion gestured impatiently with the bow. “Tysha. What did you do with her, after my little lesson?”

“I don’t recall.”

“Try harder. Did you have her killed?”

His father pursed his lips. “There was no reason for that, she’d learned her place … and had been well paid for her day’s work, I seem to recall. I suppose the steward sent her on her way. I never thought to inquire.”

“On her way where?”

“Wherever whores go.”

Tyrion’s finger clenched. (ASOS, Tyrion XI)

I don’t think it can be emphasized enough that this happens right after he murders Shae. Shae the whore.

“Did you ever like it?” He cupped her cheek, remembering all the times he had done this before. All the times he’d slid his hands around her waist, squeezed her small firm breasts, stroked her short dark hair, touched her lips, her cheeks, her ears. All the times he had opened her with a finger to probe her secret sweetness and make her moan. “Did you ever like my touch?”

“More than anything,” she said, “my giant of Lannister.”

That was the worst thing you could have said, sweetling.

Tyrion slid a hand under his father’s chain, and twisted. The links tightened, digging into her neck. “For hands of gold are always cold, but a woman’s hands are warm,” he said. He gave cold hands another twist as the warm ones beat away his tears.

And just before he asks him about Tysha, Tywin assures him he was meant to be sent to the Wall. Whether or not that’s a lie, we’re looking at another Chett parallel. Murdering a “slattern”, facing life at the Wall.

We close Tyrion’s memory of Tysha:

Tyrion swung around to face him. “You may get that chance one day. Remember what I told you. A Lannister always pays his debts.” He yawned. “I think I will try and sleep. Wake me if we’re about to die.”

He rolled himself up in the shadowskin and shut his eyes. The ground was stony and cold, but after a time Tyrion Lannister did sleep. He dreamt of the sky cell. This time he was the gaoler, not the prisoner, big, with a strap in his hand, and he was hitting his father, driving him back, toward the abyss …

Like Chett, his thoughts return to the girl. He turns into the goaler, Mord, his rage comes through, his capability of great violence. In ASOS, his lashing out at Tywin is preceeded by directing his violence toward the “whore” who allegedly betrayed him. Which is preceeded by a truth about Tysha.

“Thank you?” Tyrion’s voice was choked. “He gave her to his guards. A barracks full of guards. He made me … watch.” Aye, and more than watch. I took her too … my wife …

“I never knew he would do that. You must believe me.”

“Oh, must I?” Tyrion snarled. “Why should I believe you about anything, ever? She was my wife!”

“Tyrion—”

He hit him. It was a slap, backhanded, but he put all his strength into it, all his fear, all his rage, all his pain. Jaime was squatting, unbalanced. The blow sent him tumbling backward to the floor. “I … I suppose I earned that.”

“Oh, you’ve earned more than that, Jaime. You and my sweet sister and our loving father, yes, I can’t begin to tell you what you’ve earned. But you’ll have it, that I swear to you. A Lannister always pays his debts.” Tyrion waddled away, almost stumbling over the turnkey again in his haste. Before he had gone a dozen yards, he bumped up against an iron gate that closed the passage. Oh, gods. It was all he could do not to scream.

(ASOS, Tyrion XI)

The turnkey here is interesting. Once again, Tysha’s memory is associated with a cell and the presence of a turnkey. In his anguished memory, Tyrion almost stumbles over him. The last turnkey was Mord.

So, just looking at Tysha’s first mention, there are so many ominous connections. Murder murder murder.

The chapter ends with Tyrion meeting and “hiring” the mountain clans. How? To avenge himself on Lysa Arryn, he promises them the entire Vale. Really driving home that “a Lannister pays his debts” is all about disproportionate retribution.

A few chapter later, to create some distance to this dark tale, Tyrion meets Shae and sets up to re-create his entire Tysha trauma. The two are intertwined, so why should their ends not be?

That’s fodder for a different post, though.

#asoiaf #anti tyrion lannister #tysha #murder mystery #long post #Shae #tywin lannister #bronn #mismemory #memory edit

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hushedhands · 4 years ago

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Challenge 71

@everbeenminee

*Maxon, America, and two-year-old Addy visit the bakery from Chapter 30 of The Laws of Inheritance

“Please, Maxon?”

“Ames.”

“Please?” America pouted just a little, this time cradling her enormous baby bump for added effect.

Maxon sighed heavily and pinched the bridge of his nose. America was still a couple of weeks away from her due date, but that was exactly when she’d given birth to Addy. She was liable to go into labor at any second, and the stress was already gnawing away at him. Now she wanted him to authorize a family trip into town?

“Hey! Daddy’s sad!” Addy came toddling up to her father from where she’d been playing with her dolls on the other side of the common space between her parents’ bedrooms and her nursery. “No crying.” she ordered.

Maxon chuckled, “I am not crying, Birdy. See? No tears.”

Addy studied him carefully, but he was right.

America added, “Daddy’s not sad, baby bird, he’s worried.”

“Worry?” Addy wasn’t sure what this meant.

“Scared.” America clarified.

“Monsters?” Addy’s eyes widened, returning her attention to her father.

Maxon chuckled and swept his two-year-old off her feet. “No monsters. Not anymore: Daddy, Uncle Aspen, and the guards defeated them all.”

Addy was too busy giggling at finding herself suddenly horizontal in mid-air to pay much attention to his words.

Maxon returned his attention to America, “But Ames, that baby could come at any second. I don’t want to have to deliver our next baby in the back of a car.”

America tilted an eyebrow at him, amused, “You think I want to deliver our next baby in the back of a car? Wouldn’t that be worse for me than you?”

“Yes, of course—“

“Maxon, I’m not proposing a road trip across the country! It’s fifteen minutes away—“

“There could be traffic! We could have to go into lockdown—“

“So we should hide away inside our Palace in case of my immediate onset of advanced labor, combined with epic mid-afternoon traffic, and a sudden resurgence of zombie Southern Rebels?”

“I’m serious, America!”

“It doesn’t sound like it—“

Maxon frowned, ready to argue with her, when Addy started squirming in his arms. “Fly me!” she encouraged.

Maxon sighed and stood, Addy still cradled to his chest, then he started tossing her body up a foot into the air and then catching her in a cradle again. She laughed riotously. After a minute, he sat her down and asked her to play dolls a little longer while Mommy and Daddy finished their conversation.

Maxon collapsed back down on the sofa, slightly out of breath, and returned his attention to his wife. “Any trip that involves the entire royal family is a risk to all of Illéa.”

“This is a good risk. The proprietors of the shop have served the royal family for centuries, the guards know how to secure the location because I visited there a couple of years ago, and it’s very close to home.”

Maxon eyed her and her stomach with suspicion.

“Gavril thinks it would make great press. The royal family on one last outing before the arrival of a new baby…”

Maxon still wasn’t sure. For all he knew, America was in labor right now and just hiding her contractions so that she could get her way. That was exactly what she’d done with Addy.

“Maxon, if anything goes wrong we’ll cancel, of course. If it doesn’t seem safe, or if I go into labor, we’ll just come home.”

“Hmph.”

America giggled at him and reached out for his hand. She placed it on her stomach and held it there. “Come on, Max. Don’t you want some chocolate cake?”

He did want chocolate cake. He was very stressed, and chocolate cake would help tremendously.

“Are you certain the baby wants strawberry tarts?” Maxon asked, one last effort to change America’s mind. But she’d been craving these very specific strawberry tarts all week, and he already knew the answer—

“Yes.”

Well? What kind of man would he be if he denied his wife and unborn child such a simple joy?

***

Addy still couldn’t get over the fact that they weren’t going to Gramma’s house. That’s what cars were for, in her mind, because the only time she rode in one was when she was going to visit Gramma. Her parents said they were going to get treats, but Gramma had treats, so why not just go to Gramma? It was all very confusing.

Addy rode in her safety seat with Elephanty, and her daddy sat beside her. Across from her, Mommy stared out the window at the city as they rode, fingers absentmindedly stroking her stomach.

“Ames? Are you okay?” Maxon was convinced she was in secret labor.

America furrowed her eyebrows, annoyed that he’d asked her that question so many times in the same day. “You really think I could hide labor from you? You must think I’m very tough, or labor isn’t really all that painful. Which is it?”

“Tough, of course.” Maxon hurried to save himself. “Obviously I’m concerned about the pain of labor, Love, that’s why I’m so worried about you.”

“Mommy hurt?” Addy attempted to join the conversation.

“No, my little Bird. Mommy is fine.” America reassured her daughter, then glared at her husband. “Maxon, we’re on the same team. You have to trust me. I will tell you when I have anything to tell.”

Maxon looked sufficiently chastened.

“You think I’d rather have desserts than hospital-grade pain relievers when I go into labor?” America challenged him.

“Sometimes.” Maxon teased.

America shook her head at him, but she was smiling. He wasn’t entirely wrong.

“Mommy, we please go to Gramma?” Addy was getting antsy. The car was essentially a Gramma machine in her experience, and all this no Gramma was really wearing on her.

“We’re going to get some yummy treats at a very special bakery in town, my lovely.” America reassured her. “Then we’ll go back home and play with Astra and the twins.”

“Why?”

Maxon leaned over and pressed a kiss to Addy’s hair, “A long, long time ago, the very first King in all of Illéa ate at this bakery. And every single king, queen, prince, or princess has eaten there ever since. And now, you get to go for the very first time and have a yummy, yummy treat. What kind of treat will you get, Adrienne?”

Addy kicked her legs in thought, accidentally making contact with America’s knee. “Oops, sorry Mommy!” Addy rushed to explain that she hadn’t meant to wound her mother.

“That’s okay, baby.”

“Ummmmmm…” Addy drew her thought out, returning to the question at hand. “I want…” There was so much to consider.

“They’ll have cake, cookies, cupcakes, cinnamon rolls, stawberry tarts—“

“Cheese.” Addy decided.

America laughed, her big round belly bouncing in a way that made Addy giggle too.

Maxon chuckled, “They won’t have cheese, but they might have cheesecake.”

Addy turned to him, eyes wide, astonished, “Cheese… cake?”

“Yes, my little milk baby.” Maxon was thrilled to have blown her mind like this. “Does that sound good?”

Addy nodded excitedly, all thoughts of Gramma forsaken in exchange for cheesecake.

The car slowed down to reveal a rope line full of people eager to meet their king, queen, and princess. Uncle Carter said some words into his radio and then Uncle Aspen appeared beside the car and opened the door.

America required extensive help to get in and out of the backseat of the car, so Maxon went first, waved to the crowd, and then helped his wife up. While America got to work signing autographs and posing for photographs, Maxon unbuckled Addy from her safety seat and scooped her up on his hip.

The crowd was loud, but they were all smiling. Paparazzi yelled Maxon’s name, but there was a rule that they weren’t allowed to yell at Addy, so she didn’t feel scared of them. Maxon signed autographs with one hand and kept ahold of Addy with the other.

“Do you want to try signing, Love?” Maxon offered Addy, much to the delight of the woman whose paper was being signed.

“I write?”

“Yes.” Maxon handed her the pen.

Addy scribble-scrabbled on the paper, her very first signature. It didn’t have any recognizable letters, of course, but it was still a momentous occasion.

Shortly after, Addy lost patience with the repetition and asked to be released so she could go to Weaver. Maxon agreed, setting Addy down and watching until she’d dashed the distance back toward the car, where Officer Weaver stood waiting. He had a small toy car in his pocket that she immediately started playing with. She pretended the car was going to cheese-cake’s house, zooming it in circles, driving it up Weaver’s arm, and putting it in airplane mode so it could fly over to the real car and drive along the back door.

“Bird?” America called for her daughter. “Time to go inside.”

Addy handed the toy car back to Weaver and hurried to grasp her Mommy’s hand, then they led the way inside, followed by her daddy and the guards.

Inside the bakery, Roseabelle stood waiting in front of the display of desserts, her son and granddaughter next to her. All of them sank into curtsies and bows at the sight of the royal family. The only photographer allowed inside was the royal photographer, and he clicked away as Maxon shook hands with each proprietor. When it was America’s turn to greet them, Roseabelle welcomed her warmly, “It is an honor to serve you again, your Majesty.”

“I’m so glad we were able to squeeze this into our schedules.” America grinned. “I’ve been craving your strawberry tarts for weeks, I think this little one was trying to remind me of the promise I made you the last time I visited, before Addy was born.”

“You came here, Mommy?” Addy chirped.

“Yes, when you were in my tummy we both came here.”

“I don’t remember.” Addy admitted.

“That’s okay, honey.” America laughed, giving Addy’s hand a squeeze.

“Is now time for treats?”

“Are you hungry, your Highness?” the kind old woman asked, amused.

Addy wasn’t so hungry, but she was always ready for sugar. She shrugged, not wanting to lie.

Roseabelle’s son took charge, “Why don’t we get a picture for our wall and then we’ll hand out desserts?”

It took some negotiation to fit everyone into the frame, but the photographer managed it quickly enough. Roseabelle took a seat in a chair in the middle, with her son standing behind her and her granddaughter to her side. On her other side, Maxon held Addy on his hip with one arm, his other arm around America.

They said one, two, three, “cheese”, except for Addy who said one, two, three, “cheesecake”. When they were satisfied that they had a good image, one for the history books, Maxon took America’s hand and guided her to one of the empty tables. He pulled her chair out for her, and then asked Roseabelle’s granddaughter for a booster seat for Addy.

When the royal family was seated comfortably, with glasses of cold water in front of them, Roseabelle herself came out to take their order. Maxon wanted some of his favorite chocolate cake, America wanted one strawberry tart (to start with, and maybe more later), and Addy ordered for herself, “Cheesecake please”.

There were a few more pictures taken once the food arrived, which gave Addy time to study her toddler-sized slice of cake. It didn’t look like cheese, but her dad promised there was lots and lots of cream cheese inside, and Addy also loved whipped cream, so she assumed cream and cheese would make the best cake ever on earth. She also had a beautiful, bright red strawberry on top to match her mom’s dessert.

America bit in first, and made a dramatic “mmmmm” sound.

“C’I have a bite, Mommy?” Addy immediately started hustling for extra dessert. America obliged her with a fork full of strawberry tart. Addy mimicked her mom’s “mmmm” sound. Then she turned to her father, who had just taken his own first bite. “C’I have some, Daddy?”

Maxon offered her a fork full of chocolate and she “mmmm”ed again.

“Here, baby.” America helped Addy cut her cheesecake into small, bite-sized pieces and then used a disinfectant wipe to clean Addy’s hands. “Now you can use your fingers instead of a fork, okay?”

Addy preferred her fingers to a fork, because she usually dropped half her food onto the floor when she was using a fork. Aunt Silvia said she needed to practice, so she should use forks most of the time, but secretly her mommy and daddy let her use fingers if her hands were clean, to avoid the mess.

Addy pinched a piece of cake delicately between her thumb and pointer finger. It was cold and squishier than her dad’s cake. She popped it into her mouth, eyes wide as she tasted the creamy, cinnamon-y sweetness on her tongue.

“Good, Birdy?” Maxon asked, chuckling at his daughter’s rapturous expression.

Addy nodded, mouth still full, and held out a piece for him to try. He let her feed him, and “mmmmm”ed appreciatively.

“What do you think, Bird? Should we order some extra slices to take back to the Palace and eat with Astra and Meri this weekend?” America suggested.

Addy nodded again, still in the middle of her life-changing experience.

America smiled across the little round table to Maxon, who smiled back at her affectionately.

“You know, Ames… this is the best I’ve felt in weeks.”

“Me too.”

“You were right as usual, my love. I’m glad we came today.”

“Me too.”

“Feel free to remind me of this the next time I allow fear to cloud my reasoning.”

“Oh, don’t worry Maxon,” America chuckled, “I will.”

#laws of inheritance #the thing with feathers #challenge #DemocracyHands

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coyotesongwriting · 5 years ago

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When It Rains, It Pours - Ch. 10

Avengers - Bucky Barnes/Reader

Chapter 10 - Welcome Home

Story Summary: Things are going great between you and Bucky, until one day they aren’t. He dumps you, not knowing that what you’d wanted to talk to him about was the positive pregnancy test you held behind your back.

Chapter Summary: It’s time to face what you left behind in New York

Author’s Note: Thank you guys for reading this! All mistakes are my own! Also, there are officially 16 chapters to this story so it’s gonna keep coming one a day until it’s finished!

Disclaimer: I don’t own the characters so don’t sue me please. I just really like them haha

Tag List (if you want to be added or removed let me know!): @he-is-chaotic-she-is-psychotic @queenoftheunderdark @samsgoddess @redfoxwritesstuff @iheartsebastianstan @alexakeyloveloki @fookingmuffins @yasnooshka24 @redfoxwritesstuff @amazon-belle @shootingstarsaretearsofheaven @kinkywitchy @superwonderwholock @redhairedfeistynerd @paranoiadestroyah @cool-kids-cant-be-dead @sarcastic-and-cool

Previous Chapter

An hour or so after Bucky raced out, you strolled into your room, Aspen sleeping against your chest. You’d tried to get Loki to walk you back to your room, but he’d refused. No matter how hard you’d asked, he’d refused. Honestly, Loki had been acting odd around you ever since Bucky came to Asgard and you weren’t sure why? Loki seemed more wary around you, and whenever he could, he would leave the room when Bucky walked in.

You opened your door to find it empty. You pulled your eyebrows together as you looked around, trying to figure out where Bucky would be if not here. As you laid Aspen down in her bed, you spotted Bucky standing out on the balcony, looking out over the cold, dark world. You grabbed a blanket off the chair and stepped outside to join him.

Bucky didn’t turn to look at you, his gaze searching something out in the distance as he leaned on the railing. You said nothing as you joined him, standing close enough to touch. You could see the regret and sadness in his eyes, and it felt like someone had stabbed you. You’d never wanted to really hurt him, just upset him a little. Maybe it would hurt a little less being where you are now if you could just make him a little bothered, but you’d never wanted to be the reason for that look on his face.

“I’m sorry” he refused to look at you.

“I know” you shivered as a cold breeze blew past.

“I shouldn’t be jealous. I know. After everything… I know. But I never knew it would hurt so bad” his soft laugh was humorless, “I’d rather you pick anyone else, literally. But I get it…”

You sighed, “Bucky, look, I don’t need to defend myself but I need you to know, I’m not. I mean, I’m not picking Loki. Loki and I? We’re friends. Hell, he’s my brother, okay? There’s nothing there.”

“I just want you to be happy” he whispered, turning to look at you for the first time.

“Then tell me the truth about that night, Bucky. Please” your voice was low, begging.

It was so easy to forget that Bucky had ever broken your heart when he looked at you like that. His sad smile and the moonlight reflecting in his eyes captivated you. He said nothing, and a long moment passed before you moved. You draped the blanket you’d brought out with you around his shoulders and headed inside.

~~~~~~

The next day, you’d packed a small backpack for you and Aspen and were waiting anxiously at the Bifrost with Bucky, Loki, and Thor as Heimdall finished his end. Loki had tried to back out of going on the trip, but you’d begged and if there was one thing that he’d always cave to, it was your pleading. Thor rested his hand on your shoulder and shot you a small smile as you tightened your grip on Aspen. And then, you were there, back on Earth.

Your stomach rolled as nerves took over, you weren’t looking forward to this reunion. While you at least didn’t have to worry about Nat and Clint, what was Steve going to say? Tony? Banner? Thor had asked Heimdall to drop you just outside the city again, giving you time to adjust to the craziness of New York before you had to meet back with your old team.

The trip to the tower passed relatively quickly. You’d spoken to no one but Aspen, doing your best to keep her entertained during the hour commute. At one point, Bucky’d reached out to take her, thinking it might help you. You’d merely pulled her a little closer and turned to face away from him, she was your only lifeline and the only thing keeping you relatively calm right now. There were too many people and too many sounds. You longed for the relative peacefulness of Asgard as you waited to arrive, wondering how you’d ever lived here to begin with.

The elevator doors opened on the top floor, and you forced yourself to walk out into the main room. It was early evening, meaning the others were all just sitting down to dinner. You’d asked Friday not to tell them you were coming, and it meant that for just a moment you got to see everyone back in their element. Clint was joking around with Steve, and Bruce and Tony were talking fast, surely about the new project they were working on.

Thor, Loki, and Bucky stood behind you. They knew you needed to be the one to go first, so they’d wait with you as long as it took. You were taking a shuddering breath, preparing to step forward and let them know you were here when Steve looked up and caught your eye. He froze, looking down at Aspen before up to you and over to Bucky. It didn’t take long before the others had realized something was going on and noticed you as well.

“Hey, guys” you cleared your throat, “Long time, no see?”

“Hey [Y/N]” Nat smiled softly at you.

Clint raced over to you, sweeping you and Aspen up in a big hug, “How are you?”

You laughed at Clint’s antics and hugged him back with one arm before stepping back, “I’m good - We’re good.” you looked at Steve, Tony and Bruce before continuing, “This is Aspen. My - our - daughter.”

Bucky shot you a grateful smile as you called Aspen ‘our daughter’, and you flashed him a quick smile in return. You’d meant it when you said you didn’t want to keep him from his daughter, and that meant you wouldn’t shy away from admitting he was the dad, even though you’d become so accustomed to always just calling her yours.

“You guys hungry?” Steve asked, motioning to the table full of food behind him, “We never know how much to cook anymore, never know who's going to be here or on a mission, so we usually make a lot.”

~~~~~~

Over dinner, you’d caught up with the group. You had been worried they’d treat you differently or you’d feel like the odd one out, but it was like you’d never left. Even after everything, even after all the time apart, it felt like coming home. Sure, you loved how your life was now but you’d missed this. It had always felt like something was missing, and here among your old team, you realized it was this. Pulling pranks with Clint, teasing Tony about his latest creation, talking about anything and everything with Bruce, and hearing Nat’s stories.

As the evening wore on, Aspen fell asleep in your arms and you asked if there was somewhere you two could sleep for the night. Bucky began to lead you down familiar halls until you realized where you were headed. As soon as it dawned on you, you stopped in your tracks and looked at him, shaking your head quickly. Staring down the hall, only a few doors down was the old room you had shared with Bucky.

“I can’t go there Bucky” you whispered, “Please?”

He paused for a moment, “What about that one?” he pointed to the room across the hall from his own and you hesitated for a long moment before you nodded.

You slowly settled Aspen on the bed, smiling down at her peacefully sleeping. You turned to find Bucky staring at Aspen. No, not starting at Aspen, his eyes were on you. You ducked your head slightly, blushing gently as he smiled at you. He nodded his head towards the open door and you followed him out into the hallway.

“Thank you, [Y/N]. I’m glad you came back.”

“I’m not back, Bucky. I told you, Aspen and I are only visiting” you reminded him, frowning.

“I know” he nodded, “But it means a lot that you’re willing to visit at all.”

“Like I said, I want you to be a part of Aspen’s life and considering where we each live, well, we’re both going to do some traveling.”

The two of you were like magnets, always gravitating towards one another, and as you stood in the hall, halfway between your past and future, it was like you couldn’t stay apart. His hands found yours slowly, and you traced the ridges in the cold metal with your fingertips. Neither of you spoke.

You were looking down at his hand in yours, but when you looked up into his face you couldn’t help the small hitch in your breath. He was smiling at you with a lopsided grin, his eyes darkening as he slowly leaned in towards you, waiting to see what you’d do.

Despite yourself, you’d begun to lean in towards him. The light sound of approaching footsteps brought you to your senses just in time to spring away from Bucky, out of his reach as Loki rounded the corner. Bucky cursed under his breath and watched as you and Loki hugged before he retreated into his room, leaving the two of you alone. You spared a quick glance at Bucky’s door before retreating back into your room and locking the door.

You’d almost kissed Bucky, almost given in to him. For a moment, you’d forgotten why you were here, maybe fifteen feet from the bed you’d shared with him. Cursing yourself, you fell into bed and a night of restless sleep, dreaming of Bucky.

~~~~~~

The next morning, Loki had awoken you at dawn by slipping into your room. He told you he was needed back in Asgard and since you were doing okay, he felt fine leaving you with just Thor to watch your back. As he opened the door to leave, you’d wrapped him in a tight hug and kissed his cheek, thanking him for being there for you, again.

You were just settling back into bed when you heard a low thud and raised voices in the hall. Slipping your favorite dagger from its place on your calf, you cautiously slipped out the door. You shut the door behind you and turned, freezing at the sight in front of you. Bucky had Loki pinned tight against the wall, his metal arm pressing against his throat.

“What? I wasn’t good enough for her but YOU are?” Bucky snarled, pressing harder on Loki’s throat.

Loki made no move to fight back, “It’s not what you think. It wasn’t supposed to be like this!”

You quickly returned your blade to its holster and threw your arms apart, shields slamming the two of them apart and pinning them to opposite walls. Quickly, you stepped between them, eyes flashing in anger as you maintained your shields.

Your voice was low and dangerous as you spoke, “Start talking. I’m done playing games and being played with.”

Next Chapter ->

Find This Story On AO3

#bucky barnes x reader #Bucky Barnes #Winter Soldier x Reader #Winter Soldier #marvels the avengers #marvel the avengers #Marvel's The Avengers #Marvel #The Avengers #Avengers #loki #Thor #Clint Barton #Natasha Romanov #Steve Rogers #fanfic #writing

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frisbee-camp · 5 years ago

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What’s Hidden Can Be Found|Tyrus Summer Camp AU

AO3 link/Wattpad link

Camp Lowland sleepaway camp is an hour drive from Shadyside, where tensions and disagreements have been left for time to mend. But what will Tj and Cyrus do when the past comes chasing after them? Follow the Good Hair Crew and The Good Boys through their annual two-month stay in the wilderness where nature does not care for petty arguments and time has only worsened their situation.

Chapter 1: Deja Vu

///*takes place about one to two years after the finale**summer after freshman year of high school bcs idk if they're in 7th or 8th lol thx disney//

Disclaimer: ive never been to summer camp lmao but I did go to camp in sixth grade so forgive me if my knowledge of summer camp culture is off. FOR TYRUS WEEK!! ////

TJ squinted when the hot forest sun hit his eyes. It was hot. Actually properly hot. Another degree up and the pine trees would have kindled and Camp Lowland would have burned down. TJ’s duffle bag pinched his shoulder as he walked towards the main camp lawn where the rest of Sunnyside teens congregated around the flagpole. He always enjoyed this weird annual tradition where parents sent their kids to the middle of nowhere to annoy other slightly older teenagers. Anyone who was anyone went to Camp Lowland, this meant all of his school friends would be there. His smiled widened as he was met with hugs from William, Lucas, Grant and his other basketball friends. There were about a hundred or so campers this year, a little less than last year thought TJ.

“YO, TJ!!” Someone to his right called out to him. It was Marty, trailed by Jonah. Marty’s hair had gotten fluffier, he had grown taller since middle school. Jonah had also gotten taller and now had a soccer players body since he switched from Frisbee to the more recognized sport. TJ jogged to his friends and gave them hugs.

“Hey guys, what’s up? Where are we this year?” He dropped his bag around the compact grassy field and looked around. Camp Lowland was set in a valley surrounded by tall prickly pine trees. There was a river on the east side and a lake in the north, and a soccer field and basketball in the west. There were four cabins at Camp Lowland: Redwood, Aspen, Oak, and Willow. All situated on the edges of the grassy field in a rhombus layout with Redwood in the north, Aspen in the east, Oak in the west, and Willow in the south. They were big and luxurious as someone had recently donated an excessive amount of money to them. TJ loved it. No school. No teachers. No stress. Just him, his friends, the wilderness, and fun. He felt like a dog let loose in a flower field.

“We’re Redwood, all three of us. Cool right?” Jonah smiled his classic smile. Tj, Marty, and Jonah had formed their own little posse Andi had named The Good Boys. Tj didn’t even remember how they became such good friends, one day he just found himself in a group chat with the three of them and no one else. In a year they were inseparable. He had a feeling they had been set up by Andi and Buffy, but no one complained. They were some of the only people TJ could completely trust.

“Yeah, cool,” TJ said cooly and looked around in the crowd. He couldn’t see Andi or Buffy or even…

“You looking for Cyrus?” Marty had noticed him looking around, “he’s already in WIllow with Andi and Buffy.” Marty gave him a sympathetic smile. He always kept an eye on Cyrus since he was still with Buffy. Tj returned with a shy smile.

“You ready to go?” Jonah said as he dragged his bag towards Redwood.

“Yeah let’s go,” TJ said without looking back.

Tj loved the new renovations, now it meant that there were four people per room in each cabin with ten rooms in each cabin. Five for boys and five for girls on opposite sides of the hall. By some glorious luck, the Good Boys were all in one room. There were two bunk beds but no one came to claim the last bed. Marty and Jonah took the top bunks, leaving TJ alone on the bottom. Once they settled in, TJ opened the window that overlooked the lake. It was glistening and alive and it took all of TJ’s will to not jump in right now. It wasn’t as hot as it was when he got to Camp, but it was still enough to cause his t-shirt to cling to him. At least the breeze cooled as the sun started going down.

Later that evening, when the camp counselors had introduced themselves and their ridiculous camp names, Tj found himself searching the mass of teenagers for a boy with dark hair. Each cabin had their own fire pit and was roasting marshmallows and introducing themselves to each other, but that didn’t mean Tj couldn’t see the other campers in adjacent fire pits. During high school, TJ had tried to move away from the mean jock stereotype but it was impossible to control how people saw him. He still played basketball, was the best on the team and the captain of JV, but that didn’t make him any less self-conscious. He didn’t have much more to hide really, except maybe his dyscalculia, but everyone knew he was gay or questioning or whatever you want to call it. But they still didn’t know him like, like him. Tj found the back of Cyrus’ head on Andi’s shoulder around the Willow fire. He knew he probably hated being outdoors, probably hated the dirt and the sun. He gave himself a sad smile and burnt his marshmallow on purpose.

After introductions and camp songs Tj had sung a million times, the cabins were allowed to mill about and socialize. The Good Boys and the Good Hair Crew immediately found each other in the crowd.

“Hey!” Andi said, “Aren’t the renovations awesome! We all get our own bathrooms now!”

TJ zoned out after that. They laughed and talked while Tj hid his hands in his pockets. He tried to catch eyes with Cyrus, but he kept looking away from him at the last second. Tj decided that he couldn’t be there anymore and said, “I’m gonna get some chocolate.”

Tj found himself mindlessly chewing on a gummy bear at the snack table. There were all sorts of goodies laid out in front of him, sour candies and chocolate bars, a big bowl of fluffy marshmallows, strawberries, crispy mountain apples, and lots of chips and popcorn. Any other day and Tj would have devoured the entire table, but not today. He reached for a marshmallow to roast and brushed hands with someone familiar.

Tj’s eyes fluttered up.

“Hey,” Cyrus said shyly.

“Hi,” Tj said just as quietly. Tj had his glasses on, the flame from the fire reflected over them and half of his face making him look a little warmer than usual.

“Um,” Cyrus looked down at their still touching hands and inched his way. Tj missed the sensation. “I think there are enough marshmallows to go around,” Cyrus joked. It was nice to hear him laugh, even it if was just a small one.

“Yeah, but who knows. You know I could eat an entire bowl of this stuff,” Tj said.

“Yeah I know,” Cyrus was staring at him. It made him shuffle his feet and look towards his friends.

“How’s your room?” TJ asked trying to ease the tension but if Andi came over right now she’d be able to cut it with scissors.

“Probably not as nice as yours,” Cyrus blinked once. Tj thought he saw his cheeks pinked, but it could have been the heat from the fire.

“Well, you are in Willow…” Tj teased. It was camp tradition that the opposite cabins were rivals. This meant Redwood rivaled Willow and Aspen rivaled Oak. At the end of the summer, whichever camp amassed the most points would have a tree named after the cabin leader. Tj was sure it was just an excuse to plant two trees every year, but it wasn’t about who won at the end, he just loved the competition. Sometimes the cabins would form alliances, last year Aspen won because Redwood helped them during a scavenger hunt, and in return, they let rabbits loose in Willow. Not the fluffy cute rabbits, these ones had rabies. The camp almost shut down because of the scandal but no one found out that it was all Amber and Tj’s idea.

Cyrus laughed a little, “Whatever cabin leader, don’t let the power get to your head.” Being cabin leader meant TJ and the other cabin leaders, Amber for Aspen (again), Iris in Oak, and Buffy in Willow, could choose what days the cabin wide competitions would be held. It may seem small, but every cabin had a strategy. Even the ones with alliances.

“Oh don’t worry Cyrus, it already has,” Tj knew he was looking for too long. He probably had that dumb grin he got around Cyrus.

Cyrus hummed softly and poked a marshmallow through his marshmallow skewer and walked back towards the group. TJ’s heart rate finally calmed down when he left.

The next day began cabin competition or ‘Cabin Comp’ preparations. One competition worth 200 points held at the end of each week and culminating in the final competition which was yet to be determined by the cabin leaders. But during the week each cabin could win up to 50 points, two max for each cabin member that exhibited good behavior, excellent camping skills, or any other skill that the counselors felt deserved an award. That meant there was a maximum of 2,000 points. Tj’s cabin last year had won 1,582 but Amber’s had won a perfect 2,000. He didn’t care though, because he still beat Willow. It was sort of like Hogwarts, except the only magic came from the adrenalin rush he got from playing basketball with his friends.

Tj spent most of the week playing basketball and soccer with the Good Boys. He tried concentrating on figuring out a strategy for the first game: capture the flag. It seemed like Buffy was working on a strategy too since she kept giving him cold glances during morning announcements and in the mess hall. Last year she had gotten only 50 points less than Tj, a little too close for Tj’s taste. He had a feeling she was keeping her cabin members away from the Redwoods, which was understandable since he was doing the same with the Willows. During the first week, campers usually stuck to their own cabins and through the summer tensions calmed until a couple of weeks to the last Cabin Comp.

“Yo T!” He heard Jonah call to him, “you good dude?” Jonah held the basketball on his hip, his blue eyes the same color as the river he was staring into.

“Yeah, I’m good just thinking,” He said absentmindedly.

“Yeah? About CC1?” Marty said a little out of breath. CC1 stood for Cabin Competition One.

Tj just sighed and nodded. “Bro if you need help thinking you know you can ask us right?” Jonah added. Tj’s lip quirked up. For some reason, he thought he could do it alone. He tried not to get caught up in the cabin leader mentality where he only thought the competition was between him and the other leaders.

“How ‘bout now?” Tj said, surprising even himself.

The rest of the night Tj, Jonah, and Marty spent sitting on the floor of their room. Tj had to step out to do room inspections with the cabin counselor Luke, a 20 something with way too much energy and who always smelled like some illegal substance. TJ liked him nonetheless, he was cool and never talked down to his campers.

“Hey, TJ. Don’t worry about all that CC stuff I know we’ll win like last year” Luke whispered as they tiptoed around the cabin with flashlights making sure all the campers were accounted for.

“I don’t know Luke, this year feels different, like a bad version of deja vu or something,” Tj breathed out.

“Just think positive and you’ll attract those good vibes,” Luke said. He had a habit of trying to give everyone he met a psychic reading. Let’s just say that he was 0% psychic.

“I don’t even know why I’m cabin leader again,” Tj was surprised when he was voted as cabin leader around the campfire last night. This would be the third year in a row he’d been elected. Same with the other cabin leaders.

“Just think of it as the universe rewarding you, you know you can always give it to someone else,” Luke trailed, “like I don’t know, Jonah or even Marty or something. I know you guys are basically the same person.” Luke gave an airy laugh and clicked his flashlight off.

“I don’t know dude,” TJ said, “I guess they trust me or whatever.” Tj actually thought his cabin members were just playing a trick on him. It wasn’t that he was mean anymore, he just thought that they thought he was still a jerk. Maybe he had been wrong. Maybe he was leveled and a good leader.

When he got back to his room Jonah and Marty had perfected the strategy. Tj smiled as it was laid out in front of him in his friends’ messy boyish handwriting. “Perfect” he finally said after examining it.

When CC1 day came, the mess hall buzzed with excitement. Everyone was nervously chittering away as TJ slurped down two bowls of cereal. He found himself staring at Buffy’s table, more specifically to Cyrus who looked tired but content as he bit into a slice of bacon.

“Tj,” Jonah said to him, “Focus, we need you.”

“You’re right, sorry” Tj felt his nose pink just as Cyrus met his eyes and quickly looked away.

Tj stood on the steps of the Redwood cabin as he explained the rules and strategy of CC1: capture the flag. The plan was simple. They would not ally themselves with either Oak or Aspen, they were to directly look for Willows flag. Half of them would defend and the other half would go searching spread out evenly and with whistles to use as signals and to blow if any of them were in trouble. A third of the searchers would run at full speed and while Willow was distracted another third would follow and when they least expected it the last third would storm. Tj had only a faint idea of where the flag was. He knew that Redwoods' flag was on the dock in the middle of the lake, Aspen’s would probably be on the other side of the river, Willows would be somewhere around the willow tree they were named after, and Oak’s would be on the top of the hill their cabin was in front of. This meant that all the flags would be behind the cabins, they’d have to run through the open field. Once they ran, Willow would know their plan.

He looked out at his cabin members, kids he had known since he was a toddler. They knew him and trusted him and Tj felt his heart soar like when it does when he captains the basketball team. He took a deep breath and looked out at the other cabins. The sun was just as hot as the first day they were there. Hot. Not warm or steamy but a humid sticky hot. Here we go he thought.

“Change of plans,” Tj said suddenly. “Searchers, go in your ambush groups but sneak behind Aspen and Oak before going into Willow’s territory."

It was a good thing he changed the plan because Buffy had chosen to use the strategy he abandoned at last minute. He didn’t know how she had learned it, but once the whistle blew from Head Counselor Moose she and 10 other cabin members stormed. TJ laughed knowing that his cabin would know exactly how to get them out. Marty had volunteered to guard the flag himself. Tj lead one of the ambush groups behind Oak and Jonah behind Aspen. They were sneaky but even then some of them were tagged out leaving only Jonah and Tj to quietly look for the Willow tree. And then it was there. After what felt like thirty years of walking and a gallon of sweat, Tj saw the enormous and beautiful Willow tree. Andi’s sculptures could never compare to the real thing. This one was tall, with branches that hung low and swayed in the wind. It was incredibly green and lush and just slightly tinged pink along the borders. The suns' heat didn’t even phase this part of the forest. It’s rays gently seeped through the leaves, leaving a fuzzy warm light. The grass was taller than normal here, rising above Tj’s ankles. Wildflowers dotted the base of the tree, light purple, and yellow and pink. TJ crept closer to the tree, it must have been a trick, this was too easy. He saw the flag peaking around the corner of the trunk, it was neon orange and foreign in such a natural environment. Tj went to grab it but someone also poked their head around the trunk.

“You didn’t think you’d be able to just take it did you?” Squinted up an already sunburnt Cyrus. Tj jumped back. He wasn’t expecting to talk to Cyrus today, especially not have him holding the flag that could get him 200 points.

“I uh-“ Tj blinked in surprise as Cyrus stood up to his full height. He wasn’t holding the flag, he was the flag. Buffy had tied it around his waist. Not against the rules but fowl play. Of course she would do this. She knew Tj would come himself and she knew he couldn’t just snatch it from Cyrus’ body. Tj vowed to take revenge.

But Cyrus looked so cute in the Weeping Willow tree’s soft light. He had a blue wildflower behind his ear and had tried weaving himself a flower crown. It was crooked on his head. He must have been here for a long time. Probably before the cabin leaders even explained the rules.

“Yes?” Cyrus swayed slightly, he seemed proud of the predicament he had put Tj in.

“I uh,” Tj swallowed and saw Jonah out of the corner of his eye, “I came for the flag.”

Cyrus considered this for a moment and then saw Jonah in Tj’s line of sight, “Tell Jonah that if he comes any closer I’ll tag you out and run. You know you can’t afford that because Buffy is probably just as close to your flag.” He was right. Geez. Cyrus was enjoying this, his eyes glinted and he had a small smile.

“Marty’s guarding ours.”

“Yeah, she knows,” Cyrus sighed slightly, “do you think she cares?” Tj knew Marty and Buffy were so in love it disgusted him, but he also knew Buffy would take the flag without hesitation.

“So what do you want me to say that will make you give me the flag?” Tj blurted. He hated this weird tension they had.

Cyrus looked angry now, “I don’t want you to say anything. Why are you being a jerk?”

Tj grunted in frustration, his win was a foot away from him but he couldn’t get it because of his feelings.

“I don’t know Cyrus?! Why are you so weird around me?!” Tj could tell that his voice had raised. It made Cyrus cower a bit, but he quickly regained his angry face.

“You broke me TJ! You know that.” Cyrus was about the cry, TJ could tell by the way he spit out every word.

“What? Wh-“

And then Camp Counselor Moose’s whistle blew. Buffy had won.

#tyrus #andi mack #tyrus fanfic #tyrus week #im doing it yal #its a little late but im doing it #ambi #muffy #jonah and sports #whats hidden can be found #lets get this bread yall #three more chapters after this #angst to the max #also lots of water imagery lol

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misssophiachase · 6 years ago

Note

Can you write a Peter Kavinsky hot tub scene with Klaroline?

Hey! Thanks anon and Happy Holidays! I really loved this scene in the movie. I’ve changed it though and put a Klaroline/Christmas spin on it. The title and italicised lyrics are from the song playing during the hot tub scene in TATBILB, which I’m sure you already know.

Lovers

25 December - Aspen, Colorado - 1:03am

I’m in the dark….

“All by yourself, huh?” Caroline murmured, making her presence known. She wasn’t quite sure how long she’d been standing inside at the window watching him from afar but Caroline was fairly certain it might constitute stalking to some.

If anyone caught her she’d say it was all his fault.

And it was.

She was pretty sure anyway.

She’d been unable to sleep, his crimson lips taunting her every time she closed her eyes. As if it was bad enough he haunted her during the day she also had to contend with his unwanted presence at night.

“You say that like you’re surprised or something, Forbes,” he replied stoically, his eyes focused on the small ripples forming on the surface of the hot tub.

“Well…”

“You are unbelievable,” he growled, slicing his hands through the water and disturbing the ripples he’d apparently been so captivated by moments earlier. “Who else would I be with?”

“I don’t know,” she began. “The waitress at dinner could barely keep her eyes or hands off you.”

“Sounds like someone was also distracted,” he shot back, a slight grin tugging at his lips but it was gone before she could admire just how much it brought out those disarming dimples.

“Well, it was a little hard not to notice,” she baulked.

And it was.

Caroline could barely contain herself during dinner but decided to blame the foreign feelings on indigestion. Now she wasn’t so sure.

“You realise you’re not my girlfriend, right? I don’t answer to you.” He asked, his blue eyes finally meeting hers. Although it was dark, the lights emanating from the hot tub couldn’t hide his frustration.

“Trust me, I’m aware,” she huffed. “And for that I am grateful. It’s difficult enough having to pretend with such an egotistical, arrogant jerk.”

“Say what you really think,” he muttered.

Caroline couldn’t miss the hurt registering on his face but only for a split second. Klaus Mikaelson could be so frustrating but there were moments. albeit brief, she would catch a quick glimpse into some hidden world where he wasn’t the arrogant jock he purported to be at college.

October 31st - Stanford College, California - 9:59pm

She remembered the first time they met like it was yesterday. Two years her senior, Klaus was well-known around college, almost as much for his womanising ways, as head of fraternity Alpha Delta Phi.

Caroline had pledged Beta Sigma Phi not knowing just how connected the two organisations were. It was Halloween and Caroline had found herself at their fraternity celebrations, mainly because her best friend Katherine had forced her to attend.

She was actively trying to avoid Stefan Salvatore, a guy from her English class who’d taken a rather unhealthy likening towards her. He was part of Alpha Delta Phi and this was the last place she wanted to be. Tightening her white feathered mask, Caroline was happy to be at least partially disguised to avoid detection.

Katherine had disappeared to get some punch but she’d been taking her sweet time returning, no doubt flirting with someone. Caroline found herself distracted by some artwork on the nearby wall.

It was gorgeous. An array of abstract dark blues and greys. Upon first glance it seemed angst filled and dark but there were a few, brief white and silver touches that signified something completely different.

“Do you like it?” A voice asked behind her. It was low and gravelly over the loud music, his breath tickling the hairs on the back of her neck and making her shiver.

“It’s complex,” she murmured. “So many layers, so many emotions.” Caroline didn’t consider herself an art expert but she knew what she liked and this was it.

“How so?”

“The artist,” she began, wondering briefly why she was conversing with a complete stranger she hadn’t even seen but found herself too lost in the painting to stop. “They’re drowning in fear and sadness, but these lighter colours show they aren’t completely lost. There is hope buried amongst all the despair.”

There was a long silence, Caroline almost worried she’d interpreted it wrong and the stranger was preparing to argue with her assessment.

“Caroline, is that you?” Unlike the stranger, that was a voice she knew and dreaded at the same time.

“Stefan,” she groaned, trying to sound like she cared but failing miserably. She could still feel the stranger behind her wondering what he was thinking right now. “You’re here.”

“Well, of course it is an Alpha Delta Phi party. I’m so glad you came, it feels like I haven’t seen you in ages.” If by ages he meant spying on her from behind a tree yesterday afternoon in the quad.

“I’ve been busy,” she lied. “With homework and…”

“Me,” the stranger finally spoke again, now coming into view. Of course he was dressed as the devil to her angel. Rather than being weirded out she was actually relieved he’d stepped in, whoever Lucifer was.

“Yes, we’ve been seeing quite a bit of each other actually,” Caroline babbled, wondering how her night had taken such a turn. “We even wore matching costumes for the occasion, isn’t it cute? He just loves that kind of thing.”

By the way he stiffened against her, Caroline could tell matching costumes wasn’t really his thing. But he did start it.

“You and…” Stefan baulked, his surprise not lost on Caroline.

“Yes,” she confirmed, wondering briefly why he was so shocked but not caring as she pulled him closer for a kiss. Might as well make this believable.

She’d noticed those crimson lips under his mask but never imagined they’d feel so supple. The stranger was still at first letting her do all the work as her tongue ran along his upper lip. The least he could do was play along, she thought.

But it didn’t take long before he opened his mouth slowly welcoming her tongue and intertwining it with his. He tasted like a combination of whiskey and mint and she only registered that he’d dipped her backwards when he finally pulled away.

She could make out his blue eyes filled with something unrecognisable as he pulled her back up to full standing mode. Given the fact her legs felt like jelly she was glad his arms were still firmly fastened around her waist. But if Caroline was being honest holding her balance wasn’t the sole reason for that.

They held each other’s gaze before he let her go and lifted his mask. It took all her composure not to lose it. It was Klaus Mikaelson of all people and she’d just unwittingly thrown herself at the egotistical idiot like one of his many sycophants.

“You’re welcome, love,” he smirked, those dimples making an untimely appearance.

“Excuse me?” She insisted, deciding she had nothing to be grateful for, well except maybe for Stefan’s hurried exit.

“It’s only a snowflake by the way,” he offered pointing to the artwork in question on the nearby wall.

“Is your interpretation really that literal?”

“I suppose it is,” he murmured, a brief frown creasing his forehead before walking away, leaving Caroline open mouthed.

“Roomie,” Katherine squealed excitedly as she approached. “You’ll never guess what happened to me.”

“It can’t be as crazy as what happened to me,” she mumbled taking the plastic cup from her friend’s outstretched hand and downing it in one go. “I’m going to need more drinks to get through this party.”

13 hours later….Beta Sigma Phi House

“Go away,” Caroline groaned, trying to appease the excruciating headache the incessant knocking was causing.

“I can’t do that,” Katherine shot back, throwing open the door and jumping onto her bed like an excitable child on Christmas. “He’s here to see you!”

“Katherine,” she whined, throwing the pillow over her head and trying to ignore the pain ripping through her cranium. “I don’t care.”

“You’ll care when you know who it is,” she chuckled. “The whole house is in a frenzy.”

“Great, let them greet this mystery guest that I have no interest in seeing in my current state.”

“Care,” Katherine chided, peeling away the pillow and throwing off the covers. “You must have made a real impression on Klaus Mikaelson for him to show up here.”

“Klaus Mikaelson?” She asked, suddenly somewhat conscious. “What does he want?”

“Well, how about you stop whining, change into something much more attractive than these ghastly, flannel pyjamas and get your ass downstairs,” she insisted. “He usually loses interest in a girl the moment after he’s kissed her but you must have made an impression.”

“Oh wow, my mission in life,” she growled. “To be of interest to the biggest, womaniser on campus.”

“Stop with all the compliments, love, you’re embarrassing me,” another voice offered from the doorway. She buried her head in the pillow as the previous night came back in all its weird glory.

Caroline felt the mattress bounce, realising Katherine had left her with the smug idiot. She was going to have words with her supposed best friend later. She sat up, albeit reluctantly, noticing that her hair was sticking up in different directions and had taken on a bed-like appearance and not the sexy type.

She took a moment to focus on the intruder, all sexy in dark jeans and a grey henley, no signs of a hangover in sight. Bastard. Meanwhile she was clothed in her most unattractive but equally warm she would argue, red tartan.

“What do you want?” She asked, deciding that in her current state she needed to get to the point before a bathroom visit was necessary.

“Now, that’s not the way to talk to the person who saved you from your clingy, ex-boyfriend.”

“He’d have to have been my boyfriend for that ever to be true,” she grumbled. “And you didn’t save anyone, I’m more than capable of doing that on my own.”

“Fine,” he agreed. “I’ll accept your version of events, Forbes.”

“Says literal Mr Snowflake,” she shot back remembering his close minded interpretation of the painting. “What do you want, except ruining my sleep patterns?”

“I have a mutually beneficial proposal for you, love.”

Looking back Caroline realised it was the most stupid thing she’d ever agreed to given the fake endearment that accompanied it, but decided to blame it on the fact she was probably still drunk.

Present Day

Show a little loving…

“Why am I here, Klaus?” She asked shyly, making her way towards the edge of the hot tub. “Really.”

When they made their arrangement it was designed to deter Stefan and any unwanted girls that swarmed around him on a daily basis.

Caroline had been surprised given she assumed he loved all the attention. But as soon as they shook on their deal the only person he seemed to want to swarm around him was her. And Caroline was struggling not to like being in his constant presence.

It was as if they got each other but Klaus still remained a little distant. When he invited her home for Christmas at his families ski chalet in Aspen, Caroline was confused given the terms of the arrangement. However for some reason she’d said yes.

But meeting the Mikaelson family yesterday had been confronting to say the least. Mikael was a dictatorial, judgmental father who didn’t think anything Klaus did was good enough. Esther, while being kind for the most part, just let her husband behave that way.

His siblings Elijah, Rebekah and Kol, she noted, were all similar to Klaus; cocky and apparently immune to their parent’s treatment. Although Caroline could see straight through them all. She was frustrated, wondering why Klaus didn’t bite back, why none of them did.

Dinner at the nearby restaurant last night had been the final straw, watching as the waitress shamelessly flirted with her supposed boyfriend. Caroline had told herself numerous times that she didn’t care but standing here in the darkness it was all too much to deny.

Klaus hesitated for a moment his glance now returning towards the water. For a guy who was usually so self-assured he was having a lot of trouble making eye contact. Caroline didn’t stop to think, just removed her coat and waded into the water in only her white nightie.

She decided to address the fact that her nightie would be completely see through later.

She could see him inhale sharply while his eyes traced every inch of her body as she submerged herself in the hot tub. There was no chance of him avoiding her gaze now and their connection was as intense as ever through the steam rising up from the water.

“I know you’re a stubborn ass but talk to me,” she insisted. “It’s just you and me.”

“I didn’t get to give you your Christmas present yet,” he murmured, reaching outside the tub and producing a brightly coloured, wrapped gift.

“You didn’t have to…”

“But I wanted to, Caroline,” he smiled. “It might also explain a few things.” Reaching for it and tearing away the paper, Caroline recognised it straight away.

“You gave me a snowflake,” she asked, her eyebrows raised curiously.

“It’s not a snowflake turns out,” he admitted sheepishly.

“You don’t say,” she teased, taking in the painting she’d fallen in love with all those months ago at his frat house.

“Everything you said that night it just hit me,” he explained. “You saw everything; every stroke and every emotion I poured onto the canvas. I was happy but also scared that you noticed and interpreted all my vulnerabilities.

“The fear and sadness…”

“My father has never hidden the fact I’m a disappointment,” Klaus shared, his voice breaking slightly. “I’ve worked my ass off to be what he expects but apparently it will never be enough.”

“And the light?” Caroline asked purposefully changing the subject as she traced the silver and white streaks. He didn’t respond immediately. Caroline, meanwhile, placed the painting on the side of the hot tub then made her way towards him.

Shine a little light on me….

“I knew there was something on the other side but it wasn’t until I met you that night everything finally made sense,” he murmured, pulling her closer so that she was straddling him and snaked his arms around her waist. “You get me, Caroline Forbes. All of me.”

“Is that so?” She teased, running her hands along his toned shoulder blades and revelling in the feeling of his bare skin against her touch.

“That is so,” he grinned, nuzzling his nose against hers.

“Hang on,” she replied, pulling away abruptly from his warm embrace. “You tricked me, Mikaelson?”

“Well…”

“You only made this deal because…”

“Because I am utterly and ridiculously in love with you, Forbes,” he smiled, pulling her closer. “Even before we kissed I was a goner.”

“Well, I do have a certain irresistible appeal,” she giggled. “But just so you know I sometimes speak without thinking. And now that you’re my boyfriend….”

“I am?”

“Don’t tease me,” she groaned, pulling him closer so their lips were within inches of each other. “I might feel the need to tell your father what an ass he is over Christmas lunch, just a warning.”

“Just another reason I love you,” he feathered kisses along her jawbone, Caroline losing herself in the sensations it was causing below.

“Oh and while I’m admitting things,” she began, pulling back again and gazing into his eyes. “My nightie is probably see through by now.”

“You’re killing me, Forbes,” he groaned, his hands moving lower and pulling her flush against his body. And suddenly nothing or no one else mattered now they were finally in each other’s arms.

In my Crossroads FF collection HERE

#misssophiachase #klaroline drabbles #to all the boys i've loved before #fusion #klaroline #lovers

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fae-fucker · 7 years ago

Text

The One: Chapter 26-27

Chapter 26

America mopes around at home. Just a couple of things to note:

I didn’t even want [Lucy] serving me, and it seemed she was mostly fine with helping Mom however she could or playing with May.

I don’t know if I’ve mentioned this before, but there’s something icky about the fact that America accepted people serving her so easily. She’s supposedly someone who’s super poor, I feel like she’d be more squicked out by the idea of having servants, since that’s a rich people thing. Especially considering that Lucy admitted that they’re basically slaves. WHICH YEAH, WHY DID I SUDDENLY FORGET ABOUT THAT. Probably because the book did, but WHAT THE FUCK.

But I guess since America harbors no ill will toward the upper class, because they’re actually all good and precious and can’t help that they’re creating this caste system, she probably thinks that servants are totally cool. Maybe she’s such a NATURAL LEADER that it’s in her nature to have people wiggle around like worms at her feet.

Anyway, because KCass is a hack and TWU WUV can only happen once, we find out that America suddenly thinks that her thing with Aspen wasn’t real love, unlike what she has with Maxon. Which I call bullshit, because she describes her “love” for both exactly the same way. But I guess when your TWU WUV shows up, you realize that all those other times you’ve been in love was actually fake and worthless and terrible. (Sideyes SJM, too.)

You know what pisses me off though? We’ve spent three books with America as she tried to figure out which boy’s dick she wants to sit on the most, only to find out that one of the dicks wasn’t even a real seat in the first place.

Like, we all knew that Maxon was going to win from the first time we read the blurb, but the fact that Aspen didn’t even mean shit to America herself (not as much as Maxon apparently does anyway) at all makes this whole thing feel even cheaper.

Anyway, America talks to her older sister about the fact that she can’t admit to Aspen that she doesn’t love him anymore, despite also never having loved him for realzies in the first place. Why?

“What if Maxon picks someone else? I can’t walk away from this with nothing. At least if Aspen still thinks there’s a chance, maybe we could try again when everything’s over.”

She stared at me. “You’re using Aspen as a safety net?”

I buried my head in my hands. “I know, I know. It’s awful, isn’t it?”

THIS IS SOMETHING THAT’S A LEGIT CHARACTER FLAW THAT SHOULD BE BROUGHT UP AND EXAMINED AND RESOLVED. NOT SOMETHING YOU THROW IN ALL WILLY-NILLY AT THE END OF THE BOOK.

HOLY SHIT, KCASS, WHAT’S WRONG WITH YOU?!

This isn’t anything new, we all know America is a selfish twat, but still. What the actual fuck?

Whatever. The chapter ends with Aspen trying to talk to America about something (the fact that he’s in love with Lucy I bet), but because KCass doesn’t know the concept of having mercy, America nonsensically shuts him up and tells him to fuck off before he can spit out the truth.

Chapter 27

America returns to the castle and all the other Selection girls have a surprise party because Maxon is announcing his engagement tomorrow!

The room exploded with cheers, and I was so confused. Emmica, Ashley, Bariel . . . everyone was here. I hunted, but I knew it was pointless. Marlee wouldn’t be invited to this.

“This celebration that isn’t meant for me is POINTLESS because my personal dick-sucker isn’t here!” Cry me a fucking river, you selfish little bitch.

Apparently Celeste and Elise were kicked out and only she and Kriss are left. If Maxon really wanted to show America that he’s chosen her, picking her only real rival to stay as the last girl is ... suspicious. Why didn’t he just kick her out too? Oh right, because KCass can’t fucking live without idiotic last-minute drama, so Kriss has to stay for when Maxon and America inevitably break up again so he can pretend he’ll marry her for “tension”.

SJM (claims that she) lets her characters control the plot and steer it to nonsensical levels of idiocy, KCass forces her characters to do shit that makes no damn sense for the sake of the plot.

Both exremes are bad, children.

America confronts Kriss about being a rebel (because she’s wearing a dumb star necklace around her neck like an idiot) and acts weirdly pissed about it?

“I haven’t done anything illegal. I’m not mounting protests anywhere; I just support the cause.”

“Fine,” I spat. “But how much of your part in the Selection is you wanting Maxon and how much is your group wanting one of their own on the throne?”

Why the fuck is America being an uppety bitch about this? Her dad, whom she supposedly loves so much, was a rebel. Why the fuck is she suddenly so anti-rebellion? I know she loves to suck rich dick but what the fuck?

Oh wait, is she worried that poor Maxi Pad will be UUUUUSED for POLITICAL REASONS and not marry for TWU WUV. Poor Maxi-Waxy!!! Spare him from this horrible fate!!!

KCass, what’s wrong with you?

I wanted to tell her that Maxon and I could do great things, too, that we’d probably already done more than she could guess.

Oh, really? Tell me one thing. ONE THING, BITCH, CAN YOU DO IT?!

Besides, she and I had a lot in common. I came here for my family; she came here for a family of sorts.

You came here for your family? Lmao what? Don’t give me that bullshit, America. You were always motivated by men. You came because Aspen rejected you, and any time Maxon rejected you, you wanted to leave.

KCass, don’t try to pull this. I know you didn’t expect someone who can actually think about what they’re reading to read your schlock, but this retroactive motivation patch won’t fool me.

Should I keep my mouth shut? Should I at least let someone know? Was this even a bad thing?

Well, Kriss is a rebel sympathizer and remember how you refused to sentence one to prison even though he was already sentenced? Or do you not care if it’s a woman and she’s a rival competing for your maaan?

Fuck off.

Kriss also says that she won’t “back down” even if America tries to sell her out or blackmail her, but she’s like ... in no position to make such statements. We know how the rebels are punished. America could tell the king and have Kriss arrested and she’d become the princess because there would be no one left. I’m not saying America would do such a thing (but she obviously considers it), because that would require being proactive and ambitious and we’ve already established that America’s greatest strength is her being a passive doormat, but I’m saying that Kriss is overestimating her power here.

If there was something real between Maxon and Kriss, any attempt to expose her would look like a desperate last effort to win. And even if that worked, that wasn’t how I wanted to get Maxon.

I wanted him to know I loved him.

It’s all about Maxon. Everything revolves around Maxon.

Speaking of which, America leaves the party to mope and Maxon comes into her room to suck her dick some more.

“I’m glad I at least got to meet [her dad]. I can see bits of him in you, you know.”

[...]

“Your sense of humor, for one. And your tenacity. When he and I spoke during his visit, he grilled me. It was nerve-racking, but kind of funny at the same time. You’ve never just let me off the hook either.

“Of course, you have his eyes and I think his nose, too. And I can see your optimism beaming out sometimes. He gave me that impression as well.”

Sense of humor?? What sense of humor?? What tenacity?? Optimism??

Sense of humor: Where???

Tenacity: *anything goes slightly wrong* OH NO I’VE FAILED BETTER GIVE UP.

Optimism: *boy does something slightly mysterious* OH NO HE DOESN’T LOVE ME ANYMORE!! EVERYTHINS IS RUINED!!

Sure. Uh huh. KCass is just pulling these traits out of her ass at this point.

Anyway, Maxon apparently has bought her family a house. So that’s ... great.

He did this so they could live closer! But??? Why???? What does it all mean!!!! America is still as dumb as ever, I see.

They start making out but because they’re GOOD GOOD CHRISTIAN CHILDREN, we don’t get any dick-in-vag action.

I was going crazy, wanting so much more of him, aching to know if he’d let me have it.

FEED HER THE LITTLE PRINCE, MAXON. SHE NEEDS IT INSIDE HER.

He doesn’t. Instead, they finally exchange I love yous and:

I wanted to stay up all night with him, to explore this new feeling we’d discovered.

“New”? NEW? BAROLD, ROLL THE CLIP!!

Before long we were tangled together on the dirty, thin rug. Aspen pulled me on top of him, and I brushed his scraggly hair with my fingers, hypnotized by the feel. He kissed me feverishly and hard. I felt his fingers dig into my waist, my back, my hips, my thighs. I was always surprised that he didn’t leave little finger-shaped bruises all over me.

We were cautious, always stopping shy of the things we really wanted. [The Selection, Chapter2]

BUT I GUESS IT WASN’T REAL HORNINESS WHEN YOU WERE WITH ASPEN, RIGHT?! IT WAS ALL JUST A LIE!! ANYTHING THAT HAPPENED WITH ASPEN WAS IN THE MATRIX, THIS IS ALL IN THE REAL WORLD AND YOU AND MAXON ARE CURRENTLY MAKING OUT IN ZION WHILE THERE’S A HUGE RAVE OUTISIDE!!

There’s some noise outside (the rave probably) and Maxon freaks out and tells America that he can’t fuck her right now, because he’s so stressed out.

“Don’t be sad. I want to take you on a proper honeymoon. Someplace warm and private. No duties, no cameras, no guards.” He wrapped his arms around me. “It will be so much better that way. And I can really spoil you.”

[...]

“You can’t spoil me, Maxon. I don’t want anything.”

[...]

“Oh, I know. I don’t intend on giving you things. Well,” he amended, “I do intend on giving you things, but that’s not what I mean. I’m going to love you more than any man has ever loved a woman, more than you ever dreamed you could be loved. I promise you that.”

“I’m gonna dive in your cooch for so long I’ll develop gills, babe.”

I sighed, promising myself that we’d talk about Aspen tomorrow. It would need to happen before the ceremony, and I felt sure I knew how to explain things in the best way. For now, I would enjoy this tiny bubble of peace and rest securely in the arms of the man I loved.

Good fucking night.

#eff reads: the one #book rants

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clothworker · 5 years ago

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“Questioning in Sevenths,” or “The Pale Horse.”

In this, I write about seven times I met the pale horse. Not “The Pale Horse,” no capitals, no title. She is just a horse.

First

I was seven years old when I first met the pale horse. It would not be the last time. It was November of the year two-thousand. I had woken up in the middle of the night with a hard clot of air stuck in my windpipe. I seized upright, groping beneath my flimsy pillows for my prescription inhaler. The doctor had given it to me a month ago. At first, they thought I had asthma, then bronchitis, as my breathing worsened I was diagnosed with pneumonia. My mother showed me how to use it.

“Like this.” She mimed depressing the cartridge and inhaling.

“Then hold it.”

“Then let it out through your nose, like a dragon.” She pushed jets of air from her nostrils.

I tried it, mimicking her example.

In the half-dark of the moonlit room, my small hand found the inhaler and held it to my lips. I pressed in the cartridge and breathed, my lungs crackled with phlegm. Cold flowed into my lungs and sat there at the bottom as I counted. I waited quietly in the depression I had formed in the red and green paisley mattress. It sat sheet-less on top of a matching box spring in the living room of my childhood house. The bedroom I would have slept in was unfit for occupation, the roof and windows having been staved in by a fallen pine tree. I slept in the living room facing the basement door which I stared at with wide-eyes every night until I was too exhausted to be afraid.

I breathed out through my nose, the medication fogging out of my nostrils. I coughed, first from the tickle of medicine, then from my ragged lungs. I coughed hard, my entire body seizing with each violent contraction. I finally stopped coughing and sat there trembling. I couldn’t sleep, I held the deep belief that one night I would fall asleep and my deflated lungs would strangle me from the inside. I didn’t think the medicine would work. I didn’t think I was going to get better. I took another puff anyway, the cold mist soothing the raw flesh inside me.

Unable to sleep, I slipped out of bed and crossed the green carpet, passed the TV, and shambled to the sliding glass doors. We lived outside the city in a beautiful canyon. I spent most of my free time exploring the wilderness behind our house. However, the physical properties of the canyon meant that television reception was near non-existent. The only channel that came in — fuzzy and distorted — was WWE. Even as a child, I knew professional wrestling was dumb. It was only later, as an adult, that I would understand that professional wrestling is dumb, and that is what makes it so magical. That night though, I did not turn on the TV, because there was nothing else to watch and I didn’t like wrestling. I stared through the wide glass doors and exhaled unevenly, the inhalant riding subdued air currents to the floor.

Through the window, I saw the pale horse. She saw me. I took another puff on my inhaler and choked back a cough. The horse paced to the window. Her shoulders were nearly even with the roof. She stooped to my eye level. Her languid head formed an antumbra with the pre-dawn sky. I had seen a bull moose in this same place and pose the previous summer. Its thick lips flopped as it sniffed at the delicate glass that separated us. I put my small hand against the glass and it flinched back. It shook its massive antlers in impossibly slow motion. With a huff, it then turned and receded into the woods behind our house.

I looked into the horse’s eyes. In the half-light, they were no particular colour, just two slick orbs of grey. My lungs laboured.

“What are you?” I asked her.

“A horse.”

I knew she had spoken, but could not remember a sound. The words had been discreetly deposited in my memory. She didn’t move save for a slight tremble that ran down her spine from neck to flank.

I stared. She blurred out of sight as our twin breaths fogged the glass.

I stepped to the side, her head tracked mine. She blinked wetly.

I told her she looked sad.

“I am sad,” I remembered her say.

“Why?”

“Why shouldn’t I be?” I frowned.

“Are you cold? It’s cold outside. You could come inside. It’s warmer.”

She cocked her head, ears flicking at invisible pests.

I felt my lungs spasm and bent double as the coughs tore at my ragged throat. The coughing subsided, the pain didn’t. I shook the inhaler, rattling the tiny marble that disturbed the medication, made it miscible with air. I sucked down another dose and counted heartbeats. When I looked out the window again the horse had gone.

Second

I had many dogs growing up. I was with every single one of them when they died. When they were too old or too full of cancer to live without pain, my parents would load them into the back of the car with a final treat of something they should not normally eat. Then my father, my mother, my brother, and I would drive to the veterinarian on twenty-one-hundred south. We would all be in the room then while the vet would lower a needle into the dog’s flank, the dog would sigh deeply, and we would weep. On these occasions, the horse was absent. We would then drive home and I would go outside and walk. I allowed my eyes to switch off, my feet carrying me by their unknowable whims. I would continue to walk until I felt good and tired and only then would I allow the fog to leave my eyes and determine where I was. It was then, and only then, that the muted breathing of the horse would return.

“Because I don’t need to be,” she had already replied.

“Why aren’t you ever there?” I asked anyway, it felt rude not to supply the perfunctory question.

I asked her this while I walked the bank of the stream that flowed through the gully in my backyard. The stream was girded on either side by groves of aspens so thick with leaves that there was perpetual twilight even at the peak of summer. A gust of wind rattled the leaves and the horse drifted, head over tail before delicately landing on the surface of the stream.

I plopped a rock into the stream, the ripples quickly blurred and intermingled with the whorls and eddies of the flowing water. The horse bobbed up and down on the diminutive waves but remained rooted as if she were sewn to the surface.

“I’m tired,” I murmured. I meant tired of petting the heads of dead and dying dogs. I meant that I was tired of digging graves on the hill overlooking my house. Tired of the shovel rebounding from the pates of bleached sheep skulls. The house had once been the location of a sheep ranch. I don’t know what had happened, but I would often find bones and skulls scattered across the entire range of property. Some unknown sickness had likely stalked the flock, dragging them to the dirt or necessitating a purge. Either way, the ranch had never recovered, and the owners had moved on and allowed someone else to live amidst the piles of bone.

The horse took a step upstream. “Me too,” she would say. The flow of water slowed, came to a standstill as she closed her eyes. When the burbling resumed she was gone. An aspen leaf, curled into the perfect facsimile of a canoe, drifted down the stream in her place.

Third

I met several different horses while working on a ranch in Idaho. The oldest horse was named Blue Duck. He was nearly white save for several off-colour splotches that made him look dirty even after a hard rain. He had lived a long life and was smart enough to retreat to the other side of the pasture any time he heard the creak and jangle of a saddle being moved. He knew we liked him. I lived on the ranch in a small yellowed camper. I survived almost exclusively on eggs, beef, hot dogs, and macaroni and cheese. Despite now being a food snob, I still sometimes make hot dogs and macaroni and cheese. The nearest town was a sidelined tourist attraction. Only four-hundred people lived there. The best restaurant in town was called The Chuck Wagon. The grocery store still rented VHS tapes. I did not have a VHS player (or even a TV) but I would still occasionally browse the movies after buying eggs and hots dogs and macaroni and cheese.

The ranch was nestled between competing mountain ranges. A slow but sure river ran the length of the valley. You could take a kayak and paddle against the current and hardly even notice the effort. The unique geography conspired to create a microclimate of perfectly placed clouds and a breeze that never seemed to end. To this day it is the most beautiful place I have ever lived. I think it will continue to be the most beautiful place I will ever live. I try not to think about that too much. I woke up every morning before dawn (it would be too hot to work past noon) and fed the chickens. I would bring them their usual feed along with whatever table scraps were left. Sometimes the chickens ate better than me. After feeding the chickens, I greeted the cattle, started the coffee maker and went to the outhouse. I would use the outhouse with the door open while staring at the mountains that sloped away from the upper pasture.

The nearest town was thirty minutes away and more people drove by it in a day than lived there. The nearest real city was Pocatello. I would sometimes stay at the ranch owner’s house in Chubbuck, a suburb of Pocatello. The house was on a simply titled road called Three-and-a-Half Mile Road. Several years ago, they extended the road and connected it to an arterial. I’m not sure what they call it now. I preferred to stay at the ranch. If you have never seen the stars while knowing the nearest human is at least thirty miles away then I can’t explain it, but I recommend trying it if you can.

At night I would look up at the splash of the Milky Way. A thousand billion points of light stared back. Tracing the stars with my eyes I found I was staring up into the belly of the horse. Her sides sloped away towards infinity. Every dot was a freckle on her coat. Each constellation a scar left by circumstance and whatever innate pattern recognition we are born with. I would look up every night until my eyes watered and my neck ached and waited for her answer to a question I was still forming. I and everyone else will have the answer in four and a half billion years when the Andromeda and Milky Way galaxies collide.

That ranch in Idaho is where I got some, but not all, of my scars. I helped mark the property lines with neon-orange nylon string. I did this from the passenger seat of a Husqvarna HUV4414 Utility Vehicle. I let the spool of nylon run out through my hand as we drove from one corner of the pasture to another. I was not wearing gloves. At one point, the string snarled. It jumped from the palm of my right hand, made a circuit around my thumb, passed along the back of my hand, and then twisted around my index finger before the friction pulled it tight. I shouted. We stopped driving. The string, pulled taut by a fourteen horsepower engine at twenty miles-per-hour, had worn a deep groove around the circumference of my thumb. There was no blood; the immense friction had simply burned through the flesh leaving it glossy and hot. Similar marks formed where the nylon had rubbed my hand and index finger. The pain came. I remembered being a child playing in my father’s restaurant when I had reached for a pancake and first discovered that the stove was hot. My hand pulsed. I picked at the dead, crisp skin. I cursed. I put a glove on and kept working.

That night I stood on the bare concrete foundation that would later become the garage. I raised my right hand over my head. In the dark, it formed a five-pointed silhouette against the sky. Even so, I could still see the wounds as surely as I felt them. I found an empty patch of black and slotted my hand in. My scars disappeared among several unnamed constellations.

Fourth

When I was nineteen, my heart nearly stopped. That’s not true, it was the opposite. I was in college. I had gone out to dinner with my family at a vaguely Italian restaurant. We sat in the main dining room, in a corner where the large windows formed a crease. Lamps hung low over the white-clothed tables and the room vibrated with conversation. We talked about my classes. I said they were fine. They were fine. I was not. I had spent the better part of a semester sequestered in my room or the far corners of the library. I had not gone to class in weeks largely because I had not gone to class in weeks and was afraid of what my professors might say about my long absence.

We ate slowly. I had beef stroganoff — I had never ordered it at that restaurant before, usually, I chose one of the baked pastas that came out in thick clay dishes, always too hot to hold but I would test the temperature every time anyway. I would then press my reddened fingertips to the glass of ice water to the right of my plate.

The stroganoff was good. I ate and tried to fill the conversation with what I imagined would be going on in class if I had gone to class. I was fortunate: when I did eventually return to classes the professors either hadn’t noticed, didn’t care, or were so concerned they were willing to give me the credits anyway. I did not tell my parents any of this.

I took the train partway back to my dorm and walked the remaining distance. It was a long walk up a steep hill, and I would usually open my jacket to vent heat so I did not notice that I felt warmer than usual. I trudged past the Huntsman Center Stadium where I had watched my university’s gymnastics team that same week. Seeing the banners of gymnasts somersaulting and leaping nearly made me vomit. My stomach sank like an anchor into my pelvis. I got into the elevator of my dormitory. I started to sweat. I felt like a slice of cheese left on the kitchen counter. My then-girlfriend was at my place. She spent most nights in my dorm. She would eventually completely abandon her dorm and we would move into a terrible apartment on the corner of Broadway and Four-Hundred East.

As I chatted with her in the living room I felt despair. I felt the walls begin to crumble and crush and pin me between them. I felt myself free-fall through the floor, down through the laundry room in the basement, and plummet into the blackness and stone beneath the foundations. This, doctors would later tell me, was a symptom of my condition: a feeling of impending doom.

At the same moment, I felt all the blood of my body go “glug”. I wilted to the floor. My limbs fell around me. I acutely felt the position of every one of my organs as gravity tugged them into my ribs and spine. Everything was grey. I willed my eyelids to open only to find they were, in fact, already open, I just couldn’t see. In that grey, I felt a modulation, a grey that was not the grey of my seeking eyes. My head lolled to the side. I felt a muted sensation of flesh on keratin. I could smell grass.

“Call an ambulance.” I was conscious enough to speak, but my brain could not write to memory. “Call an ambulance,” I repeated, unaware I had said it the first time. This continued until the ambulance arrived.

I was carted down to the lobby. Other students had filed out of their doors to watch the procession of medics. I grinned dumbly, unable to achieve control of any other muscles. One medic draped a blanket over me as we passed the automatic double-doors. I blinked. The gurney was shuddering to the vibrations of the ambulance. I felt a dull sting in the crook of my arm followed by a sweet, round taste that seemed to originate from inside my tongue. “Banana bag, I get it,” I thought to myself.

My vision swam back into focus and I torqued my head backward and stared out the small ambulance windows. The horse loped behind, her legs stretching the necessary length to keep lazy pace with the speeding ambulance. I looked into her eyes. She looked into mine. She nodded. All the angles of her face converged on the vanishing point of my forehead.

I was kept overnight, for observation they said. I felt fine. I felt good, even. I have had only five IVs in my life, but every time I am astonished by how quenched my thirst is with that mix of electrolytes trickling into my arm. The doctors found nothing medically wrong with me, they could only agree that some had indeed gone very wrong previously. As visiting hours ended I was left alone in the hospital bed. The room was uncomfortably bright even with the lights off. I winced at the glare from the various instrument panels that blinked and strobed. I stared out the window.

The air was clear, a recent storm had swept away the inversion. On a clear day you could see out past the Oquirrhs, find the smokestack on their northern ascent, and even the mountains beyond. I stared out the window as the horse meandered through the valley. From my perspective, she stayed the same size from the moment she left my side until she towered past the mountains beyond mountains. Finally, I fell asleep. I didn’t know you could sleep well in a hospital bed, but I did. My dream was a flat grey.

Fifth

My brother was born in September. I had to verify this detail on Facebook. We were not, in a metaphorical sense, close. The last time I saw my brother was the fifth time I will tell you about seeing the horse. It was the winter before he did what he did.

It was after midnight, we were lying on the street out front of my childhood home. I had my right forearm wrapped around his throat and strangled him until he stopped struggling. Like I said, we weren’t (figuratively) close.

Hours earlier he had called me asking for a ride home. He was drunk. He often drank but was seldom drunk. That had changed over the past year. I agreed because I did not want him to be drunker. I and my best friend arrived in time to see him thrown out of another bar. He was smiling and laughing, and it set me on edge.

I told him to get in the car. It was a ninety-five Jeep Wrangler. It was a soft-top with plastic windows that did not meet the frame on any side. It was frigid. It is, to this day, the best car I have ever driven.

I told him to get in the car. He stumbled and sat on a planter. I sighed, I didn’t want to wait in the cold. We parked the car and got out of the car. I listened to him speak. Speak is not the right word. His mouth opened, his lips moved, sounds emerged, words even, but he did not speak.

“Hah!” He often made the exclamation, lowering his voice into a baritone.

“Hah!”

“Kicked out. I didn’t drink and out!”

“Wouldn’t even give me a you know I barely even that wasn’t even a good place”

I sighed. I rubbed my face. At the end of the block, within the intersection of State and Broadway, the horse lowered its head and nibbled at the asphalt.

“Just get in the car. Let’s get you home.”

A switch flipped. A synapse fired like a gunshot.

“NO”

“NO HOME”

“I HATE THEM”

The horse looked up.

“Who?” I asked.

“Them. They never cared, they never even cared!”

“What?”

He had grown a beard. Flecks of spittle clung to it now as he cursed and hissed and growled. He bent at the waist, rocking back and forth as if trapped in a straight jacket.

“Them they never cared they never asked and if they did they didn’t mean it and if they did they didn’t.”

He held his glasses in his hands. He gripped the lenses. He twisted. The bridge twisted, became opaque white, twisted more, and snapped.

“I could become terrible.” He continued rumbling.

He discarded the broken frames.

“I could become worse than any of them could even imagine.”

He held his phone now. He twisted. The phone did not twist. He flexed it, bent it until the top and bottom met before throwing it into the plants behind him.

“I could be the worst.”

“What are you talking about?”

“THE EYES.” This was a bellow that echoed between the empty office buildings around us. It was full of spit, and vocal fry, and likely some fundamental piece of my brother that wound its way up and into the night.

Behind him, the horse paced the boundaries of the four crosswalks that marked the intersection.

Another friend of mine came to help. My brother had calmed down now and agreed to go home. He got in my friend’s car, I followed behind. Occasionally, I would check the rear-view and see the receding streetlights disappear in a bobbing shadow.

We parked in front of my parents’ house, my friend pulled in behind me.

I got out of the car.

I waited.

I looked at my friend’s car.

It shook, the Chevy Volt’s chassis shuddered side to side.

The horn honked erratically.

I ran to the passenger door and threw it open.

My brother had taken an iPhone charging brick and was attempting to gouge out my friend’s eyes.

I grabbed him from behind. He was a bodybuilder. He was thick, and heavy, and stank like a beer-flooded ashtray.

I planted my feet on the running board and strained. One arm fought for control of the makeshift shiv, the other locked on his neck. The horse circled the car.

I ripped him out of the car, the both of us collapsed onto the asphalt.

He tried to stab me.

He was chanting now.

“The eyes the eyes the eyes the eyes.”

He kept saying that until I shut his windpipe and he passed out unconscious in the street. I lay there, breathing hard, afraid to let go. My breaths came in deep, ragged gulps. I stared up at the ancient maple tree that grew in my parents’ front yard. It was bare and grey. The next major storm would strip it of its one mighty limb and the city would come to remove the damaged tree not long after. My friend was silent, my parents were shouting. I was tired. I felt the loose detritus of the road dig into my shoulder blades as I maintained my grip. I remembered it was January in Utah and shivered. I scooted upright, careful not to let go of the limp body on top of me.

The pale horse knelt in front of us. I gritted my teeth and glared. Her ears flattened along her skull. They rested there like clouds clinging to a mountain top.

Finally, the police arrived. They were polite. They asked if everything was OK. They escorted my brother to their car.

He didn’t struggle.

He begged them not to shoot my parents’ dog.

“He’s a good boy,” he implored, “Don’t hurt him.”

I drove with my friend to the hospital. I could tell he was angry. I’d like to think he wasn’t angry at me, but I wouldn’t mind if he was. I was worried about him. His face was swollen, lush gashes glistened under the passing streetlights. We pulled into the parking lot of the University of Utah hospital. I had been here many times before, mostly as a patient, usually in an ambulance. I knew the way to the emergency room. It was oddly quiet. Sometimes, there is the small, desperate quiet of a parent with a pale-sick child waiting for the only on-call doctor. Sometimes, there was the terrified, thick quiet of friends waiting for news. Today, there was no one else in the emergency room. It was just quiet. We explained the situation to the nurse. My friend had just had laser eye surgery. We had to make sure his eyes were OK.

“I’m sorry,” I told him.

His eyes were OK.

We hugged. He drove home. I drove home.

I would not see or hear from my brother again before he did what he did, which was hang himself.

Sixth

It is February twenty-eighth, two-thousand-and-eighteen. I am alone in my flat (I say flat not as an affectation but because it is the word I am now accustomed to) in Mannheim Germany. I am packing for Hawaii. I like packing. At times I feel overwhelmed by the quantity of possessions and stuff I have. I imagine having to move and am filled with acidic dread as I mentally conduct the heavy logistics of transporting life from one living space to another. I have moved eight times in the past four years, I do not want to move again soon. Packing is simpler. I can only take The Essentials which, feasibly, could be taken anywhere at any time, with all the rest left behind.

I am going to Hawaii to see my friends and their friends and their family. I have known my brother is dead for a week now. I have not been informed in a formal sense, but I have known it because it seems correct. I have not spoken to my brother in months. I had last tried in December. He changed his number regularly now and had blocked me on any form of social media I had access to. My parents asked me to get in touch. I told them I didn’t know how. They said to try anyway.

I ferry clothes from my dresser to my deteriorating suitcase. It will not survive many more trips. The horse nestles in a corner, retreating into herself so completely that it is her stillness that draws attention. I do not look at her. I have lived with her for twenty-five years now and am accustomed to her muffled presence.

My phone rings, the caller-ID says it is my father. Without stirring the horse speaks to my past, “Your brother killed himself.” “I know,” I reply in my present. I know this before I pick up the phone. I know this before my father starts speaking, while he’s still choking back sobs as I answer. I know this before he tells me, “I found Chance.”

“I know,” I say. I shake my head, he probably didn’t hear.

I finish the conversation and call my mother. She is with my aunt, they are both crying, I can hear this even without her phone on speaker mode.

“I don’t know how this happened.” My aunt’s voice cracks.

“I know,” I say. It is almost a joke, but the double meaning is lost in the moment.

I call my friend. I am not sure if I should. It feels inappropriate, although the scars near his eyes have healed. We talk briefly, neither of us has much to say.

I call another friend.

“Shit.”

“Yeah.”

“Shiiiit man.”

“Yeah.”

We’re both quiet for a while.

“Shit.”

I put down the phone. I pick up the phone. I scroll through my contacts. I put down the phone. Somehow it feels rude — that I am intruding into other peoples’ otherwise pleasant days to tell them something horrible has happened. It feels selfish. The horse is smaller now, a mote of dust that circles me in a probabilistic orbit. I open my laptop and stare at the paused video. It is a bootlegged episode of Parts Unknown by Anthony Bourdain. I had been thinking about Tony, who had also hanged himself, and was rewatching old episodes. It’s not a coincidence, sometimes things just happen the way they do.

For most of my adolescence, I had been a picky eater. It would be more accurate to say I had a poor relationship with food. I despised it, I loathed it. The idea of eating would at times make me so sick that I would starve myself for days at a time before finally giving in and binging the nearest high-caloric food I could find. I hated food, I saw it as a malevolent force that served only to make my life worse. It was not until I was older (taller/fitter) that I appreciated food as something more, that it became as consumable as games and literature. I try to watch the program, but my eyes won’t focus. I am staring through the screen. I am turning on screensaver mode in my brain. I see Anthony Bourdain, alone in his hotel room, dead. I see my brother, alone in his apartment, dead. I stop watching and collect my phone. I call the woman I now love. She comes over without hesitation.

I sit and look through the floor, my eyes focusing on a point long past and at a great distance. The horse accelerates, a phosphorescent blur that casts no shadows. I am buzzing. I am an amplifier with the gain tuned past any reasonable limit, awaiting the first tug on the guitar strings.

“Stop,” I say, my eyes shut tight. The horse freezes. She takes an absolute position and hovers one foot in front of my face, just below my left eye.

I heard a knock on the door. I open the door to the woman I love and stare at her. The silence breaks like a dam, like a bone.

Seventh

After my brother died, I went to Hawaii. Kauai, to be precise. This may seem selfish, I understand if you think so. I went there with my best friends in the world. In the past, our friendships had, at times, been dark and sad, but we were still friends. We stayed in a plantation house on the Southwest coast of the island. The house was massive, a remnant from a historic coconut plantation. The idea of staying anywhere called a plantation made me uncomfortable. There were six bedrooms. I shared with Ian, a friend’s nephew who was becoming disillusioned with his time in the Marines. We slept with the windows open. Clever louvred slats allowed the sea wind to penetrate the entire house. The last night I woke to the sound of hooves on the wooden wrap-around porch. I blinked myself awake. Ian lied in his bed. He managed to keep it perfectly tidy and square, even while sleeping. One morning, after he’d made his bed and left for breakfast, I had tried an experiment. To my eternal surprise, I could bounce a quarter on his sheets.

I tossed my blanket aside and crept through the door. The horse waited for me but did not acknowledge my presence. We walked the length of the salt-rotted porch. I put a hand out but did not touch her. I could not bring myself to bridge that gap. We walked down the manicured lawn, following the concentric circles left by the daily mowing. From above, our geometric circuit would resemble everything left unsaid. An equation, a regression line for experiences I had not yet understood. I did not log my steps, but I know that if a mathematician were to retrace them they would find the R-squared zero out; a perfect fit, a perfect explanation for everything that I knew or could know. I abandoned my statistics major only two semesters into college, so luckily that certainty of math was lost on me.

Our formula solved to the beach. I had walked the shoreline several times already, sometimes alone, sometimes with everyone I consider a friend. It seemed a fitting place to return to my thoughts. Cycle through your mind’s processes, circle the shoreline, and you would eventually find yourself back where you began: a tautology of grief. That night I didn’t walk the shore. I sat on the pale sand and stared through the ocean, imagining all that is hidden rising from the bottom. The horse sidled alongside me.

“I’m sorry,” I remember her saying.

“It’s not your fault.”

“I know.”

I nodded. I pawed at the sand, inspecting any piece of sediment or detritus that felt out of place. I imagined combing through the beach, identifying and sorting through the innumerable grains. I imagined every piece of sand an answer to a question that was still being asked, would continue being asked until it was no longer necessary.

I tore myself from the thought and turned to the pale horse.

“You look sad,” I told her for the second time in my life.

“I am sad.”

“Me too.”

I considered the horizon. The horse laid her head across my lap. I breathed slowly, afraid that the slightest movement would make her start. To my surprise, she was warm. I didn’t move, but if I had I would have put a hand on her granite neck. I didn’t speak, but if I had I would have asked where she came from. In my memory, I would have found the answer. “I’ve always been here.” I didn’t reply, but if I did I would have asked where she was going. I didn’t need to ask, because the answer was waiting for me. “To the ending.”

“Is there an end?” I might have asked.

“I hope so.”

She would then rise softly. I would let my hand fall away, already forgetting the touch. Her ashen limbs would straighten and she would stand. She would stand taller and taller. Until the Moon rested on her back. Until the tides pulled inexorably towards her. Until the stars, lured from their perches, would gather. Would accelerate and collide in a castrophany and she would have her ending. But of course, that did not happen yet.

Instead, she broke the circle, crossed perpendicular to the tangent, and walked over the horizon. I did not say goodbye, there would be no point.

I have met the pale horse many times in my life. I know I will meet her again, will keep meeting her until I find a place where all stories have endings.

End

#short story #writing #fiction

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sarissophori · 5 years ago

Text

Hither Yonder, Chapter 9

Two is Company

It was later that evening, when the stew was hot, that Luxwannen returned from the fields to the longhouse, where Halli and the others were waiting. They told her everything about Halli’s decision to leave, her looking into the tarmaril, and Noma’s choice to go with her. She sat and listened, never interrupting, intent to the story’s end. She then stared off to the forest in thought, watching the fireflies flit through the branches. Slowly, she turned to Halli and spoke.

“Were you my child, I would forbid this. The feeling is no less for a foster-daughter. Is there nothing I may say to dissuade you?”

“I’ll be gone by morning” Halli said.

“Will you come back?”

“If I can.”

Luxwannen embraced her, tears streaming down her face.

“Never go where Noma cannot follow you. She looks after you now.”

“Yes, Dasslin.”

“And never let her leave your sight, Noma.”

“Not if the Roof of Night should crash and fall down upon us” Noma said.

Supper, despite the mood, was a fairly happy thing. They laughed and reminisced, talking about past humors, lazy springs, and mild winters. Halli talked about Yuta in detail, the good memories and bad, and they understood then the depth of her resolve. Near its end, she finally told them of her visions in the tarmaril, lingering on the ship at sea.

“It may mean that others made this journey too” Halli said. “That it isn’t impossible, or forbidden.”

“Did they return?” Luxwannen said.

“I wasn’t shown that.”

“Then we will put our faith in being the first of them” Noma said. “You crossed those mountains alone, right? Through sun, rain, storm and hail? I doubt the gods themselves can throw much worse at us –risking a jinx, of course.”

The supper ended with Halli going to bed, but the others stayed awake through the night to prepare her as well they could: dried foodstuffs, water for her water-skin, boots of doeskin and leather, a blanket, a coil of rope, a small kit of cooking utensils and a flint for fire starting. One luxury only would be missing, Sador’s purification tablets.

Halli tossed and turned, touched by impatience and a restless mind. She gave up after a while and lay face up, listening to her heartbeat. Suddenly there was howling away in the gardens of the longhouse, not predatory, even familiar. The shepherd dogs were in gathering, giving Noma her sendoff in ceremony, for come sunrise they would be in the fields again alongside their herdsmen, carrying on without.

Halli peered through her window at the assembled pack and watched as each in turn gave her their farewell under the stars. What started as howling grew into a melody, a song, but what they sang was lost to Halli, being a lament of no words. It rose and fell like breath as each took their part in the rhythm, rich at first in sadness, then gradually stronger; the tone became confident, if tinged with reflection.

It reminded her of Yuta’s pyre, and how heavy that night also felt. She folded her arms on the windowsill and rested her chin, closing her eyes and seeing again the flames, the smoke, the embers thrown skyward, coming down like burning snowfall under those same unheeding stars. Sorrow was there, yet also a serenity that cooled her thoughts, soothed them, as she listened, and she remembered Noma’s words, we can never return. We can never go back.

“We will come back” Halli whispered.

Morning shone, warm but crisp. Cooler days were on their way, if slowly yet. Amerrotecus, Amerrotaieu and Luxwannen stood ready to see Halli and Noma off, each taking their time, dressed in their finest furs and raiment. They knelt and held both, kissing Halli on her brow. Amerrotecus, being the last, handed her something round wrapped in cloth.

“It is the tarmaril. We have no more use for it. Please, take it with you to those lands where it belongs. Keep it or discard it as you wish.”

Halli pocketed the tarmaril, said goodbye, then followed Noma from the longhouse to a trail by the hills, winding through the forest first south along Meadow-home, then west, going deeper into the Wood, passing from sight as the village was waking. Halli glanced over her shoulder at the smokes already rising from breakfast fires, then went on behind Noma.

“This is the third family I’ve had to leave; my village in Hanan, then Sador and Yuta, and now Meadow-home. You’d think after a while it would stop hurting, but it doesn’t.”

“If it be any consolation, they remain with you in spirit” Noma said. “And I am with you.”

“Of course” Halli said. “I mean not to despair. It’s just that, I’ve left so many behind for what all said was a fool’s hope, I started believing it better to be alone. I was alone, for a while.”

She walked beside Noma and patted her head, smiling.

“I’m glad to have you with me, Noma.”

After a few miles the trail stopped at a trickling forest creek, the accepted boundary of the peoples of Meadow-home and the other middle Nosi tribes. Crossing it meant forsaking the safety of their laws, and risk the mercy of whoever should find them wandering.

“Are the other Nosi friendly?” Halli said.

“Friendly and wary” Noma said. “Or so I assume. I’ve never been this far into the forest before, yet I doubt we’ll meet many on our way. The Gallenwood’s heart is sparsely inhabited. If we are lucky, we might go by unnoticed.”

“If not?”

“Then don’t let on that you’re part Westerlander.”

The trees here were beeches, tall and smooth, mingled with ash and aspen. There wasn’t a single robust trail to walk, but several meandering footpaths half lost in underbrush. They stayed on, then switched to, any path that seemed to keep west. It proved difficult finding a proper way, since many that looked true at the beginning wound on to circle around again. Some simply ended, forcing them to retrace and try another path. With fair guesswork, Halli and Noma picked their way through to the Gallenwood’s west eaves in good time, so far unbothered. They walked until the sun sank past the tree tops, hiding the paths in night, making them set up camp where they were stopped. By morning they resumed, eating lightly, stepping swiftly, sure now that the forest’s end was nearing as the groves lost their density. Beeches, ashes and aspens were supplanted by willows, and meadows began to open.

The morning was late on their second day since leaving Meadow-home when they came to the shores of the Middlesea, made blue by a clear sky. The banks were smooth and grassy, dotted with patches of marshlands, reed beds, and mangroves. Halli wandered to the water’s edge and gazed afar, reminded of the Sea of Ahn in all its vastness, and of her cautious respect for it as a plains-dweller. Herons and egrets grazed the shoreline for crickets and small fish, following tracks beaten through the grass made by larger animals; dragonflies zipped through patches of cattails and weeds.

Halli looked over the map, tracing it with her finger. The way around the Middlesea was at least forty leagues to the south, to the Gwaldenneth river (named Galdon on the map) before the border to Tarmaril was reached. The other way, to the north, was just as long, but would be made more arduous by the coming autumn rains. The climate would remain warmer further south, and offer perhaps the easier road.

So south they went, finding the ground firm and earthy for a few furlongs, then marshy the next, then back again, and so on, for many miles, then many days. The mornings were still and pale, often foggy with steam from the water until the sun’s light shone out over the forest, giving warmth and stirring whatever lay hid in the shadows. Wildlife in the open remained sparse, save for the birds leaving their summer homes, and the odd squirrel or turtle. People were nowhere to be seen; not so much as a hunting party, or even footprints, to suggest the Gallenwood was populated. This was how it was when they came to the Paxannet river, the boundary between the southern and middle Nosi tribes, nine days since leaving Meadow-home.

“Not that I complain” Halli said. “But it seems that the Nosi avoid these shores.”

“They tend to avoid open places” Noma said. “Especially those facing the Westerlands, one imagines.”

Crossing the river, which was shallow at its mouth, Halli and Noma plodded on through yet more marshlands fed by stagnant courses studded with pampas grasses, connecting the driest ways they could find under swarms of aphids harrying them step by careful step. It was slow going, for the marshes of the Paxannet stretched wide along the Middlesea, adding hours to miles that otherwise would have swiftly passed. Halli donned her cloak despite what was an almost unseasonably warm day, preferring to swelter than leave herself for the clouds of mosquitos now shadowing them. She swatted at her arms, back, legs, neck, then arms again; still, the little pestilences managed to find a mark.

“How I long for the treacherous Mistgap” Halli muttered. “When the greater worry was starvation, not being eaten alive. You are lucky to have your coat, Noma.”

Noma shook her fur, releasing the mosquitos embedded onto and within, shaking again, then again.

“It is less protection than you imagine it.”

Slogging on, they were relieved when the ground hardened and the bogs began to dry, finally ending constant aggravations big and small, especially small. The water lost its brackish tinge, and its occasional wafting odor. Making up for time, they moved on in a hurried pace for most of the daylight left to them, shorter now due to the waxing of autumn. They resumed before dawn for much the same reason, and progress was steady, even expedient. Eating was done on the go, and rests were few and short, save at night.

Four days since leaving the marshes, the vegetation gave way to sedimentary beaches made warm by the sun, level as a ruler but for small rippled dunes buffed by the forest, and the sandbars offshore. Here the Middlesea’s southern coast began its gradual curve westward, meeting with its eastern side as a narrow and sandy outlet to form the mouth of the Gwaldenneth, the river itself carrying on in a southerly course to empty in the Bay of Arlon.

It was a cloudy afternoon when Halli and Noma came to this river, the final claim of Nosi territory, and what they found surprised them: a line of border-stones stood on the beach halfway between the water and forest, similar to those that marked the herding boundaries of Meadow-home, except these were etched with runes and spells to keep evil away from the Wood, now weathered and worn. Beyond the stones were the remains of quays, platforms, and tidal breaks, obviously Tarmarillian in make, eroded, swallowed by the river, or partly dismantled by the Nosi. Buried in the sand were the fragmentary remains of the boats and mooring pillars that once made the Gwaldenneth a thoroughfare, bleached by the sun and left by those who crafted them, though that very craftsmanship assured their salvaging even after centuries of neglect, something not lost on Halli.

Digging out the planks with her bare hands, she pried them loose using her cooking spit, laying down a first layer on the beach, then a second atop at an opposite angle. She bound this makeshift raft together with the rope from her roll-kit, making every synch tight, every knot firm. She pushed it to the water’s edge and tossed on their supplies. Noma hopped on as Halli slowly drifted it in before climbing on uncouthly herself. The raft tilted, forcing her to try and evenly spread her weight. She scrambled, breathing sharply, almost sending Noma off the side. A few more hasty adjustments and she finally settled, exhaling softly. Her arms were shaking.

Noma cocked her head. “Are you alright, Halli?”

“I’m fine” Halli said. “Just nervous, is all.”

“Of what?”

Halli hesitated to say, looking away and muttering.

“Halli?”

“Promise you won’t laugh?”

“Of course not. What’s the matter?”

“It’s the river” Halli said. “It’s so deep here, and wide. The middle is so dark, I can’t see the bottom, and we have no choice but to cross it anyhow. That’s why my nerves are high.”

“You cannot swim, you mean?” Noma said.

“Well” Halli said. “It’s like what the elders used to say in the village, if folks were meant to swim as the fishes, we’d have gills all the same.”

“Dogs have no gills” Noma said. “And we still swim.”

“That’s because it’s part of your instinct” Halli said. “Humans have to learn how.”

“Swimming isn’t instinctive for bipeds?”

“Why would it be?”

“Why wouldn’t it be?”

“I know not why” Halli said. “The gods willed it so. Would you sit more to the other side, please?”

“Of course” Noma said. “As long as this piecemeal thing doesn’t fall apart from under us first.”

“Not with my knots” Halli said. “Every knot I’ve ever tied has held true, from cots to bridles. It will hold.”

Even so, for ease of mind, Halli pulled on the knots on her side of the raft to check their tautness, amusing Noma.

“If you’ve jinxed us” Halli said. “I’m grabbing you by the tail, and taking you down with me.”

Paddling with her hands, Halli ferried them across without incident. The raft indeed held, beaching nicely and intact on the opposite shore, on Tarmaril; and yet, despite all the stories she had heard and read, all the legends she knew, the sand was just as warm as it was on the Nosi side, the far pines were every bit as green as the Gallenwood, and the wind as crisp as it was on cool Hananin mornings. It had the quiet loveliness of an unspoiled wilderness, a peaceful loneness of beauty undimmed. Mountains were in the distance, past the trees.

“Here we are” Noma said. “The Westerlands. It always seemed so far away, hearing how it was spoken of, as if its very history gave the land a greater distance –yet here it is, after only fifteen days from Meadow-home.”

“My journey began in Dumbria” Halli said, breaking the raft apart to retrieve her rope. She draped the coils over her roll-kit and hefted it to her shoulders.

“Were it so short from there.”

As they started to move on Halli stopped and glanced to the north, taking a second long look at Meadow-home’s direction, seeing in her mind the smokes of morning fires again, though now many leagues lay between. With a sigh she turned away, her heart deepened, having no words to say.

“I know, Halli” Noma said. “I miss them too. Banish the despair, child. Dwell on the warmth of their feelings, not on the chill of an afterthought.”

“I’m trying, Noma” Halli said. “I’ve been trying ever since I ran from Thargorod.”

Noma brushed her nose against Halli’s hand, licking her fingers. Halli smiled, and petted behind her ears.

“Dear, faithful Noma.”

“Let us go” Noma said. “While the sun is still up.”

Before they did, Halli once more consulted her map, crouching so Noma could also read it. The mountain range ahead of them, the Grayrim, was less in scale than the Sheerim, but still gave little option for easy travel. To the far north, it met with a jumble of mounds called the Icerim Hills, likely with good reason. Southward, it sputtered out into a collection of sharp hills halted by numerous scattered bogs that fed into the main marshes of the Gwaldenneth’s seaward mouth.

“Both paths look equally terrible” Noma said.

“What of this?” Halli said, putting her finger on a Middlesea tributary called the Gatewater, where a thin line was drawn through the Grayrim Mountains.

“Can it be a pass?” Noma said. “No roads lead to it.”

“It must be” Halli said. “Why else call it ‘Gatewater’ if it leads not to a gate, or at least another way?”

“I don’t know why you bipedals name half the things you do” Noma said.

“Either we find out” Halli said. “Or we go through the swamps south of the mountains.”

To that logic Noma relented, and they resumed their venture going north with a slight bend west. The mountains, now beside them, hid the setting sun behind their flanks, bathing the sweeping grasslands and broken forests in a pale orange dusk that gleamed sunrays over the darkling peaks before night wholly subsumed them, brightened by the arc of the Glittering Swath.

They woke before dawn, making ready while the east still slept. All that day they marched, sprinting at times, at unyielding lengths through the hours with sparing rest. If pain or weariness hampered them they didn’t show it; after many months of trudging and slogging Halli was quite used to the strain, and Noma, being a shepherd dog, had stamina in abundance, with more to spare.

Closer the mountains loomed, rising ever higher over the depression of the Middlesea. They reached the furthest outliers of the mountain foothills, inexhaustible, until a brief but heavy rain fell and forced them to seek cover under the eaves. Noma slept a little, and Halli used the rain to refill her water-skin.

The clouds still brooding they went off, going from meadow to meadow, their pace slowing as the ground steepened toward the mountains, and faces of bare rock began to show. Boulders broken away from overgrown bluffs were becoming more common obstacles. An outthrust shelf from the range stood in their way, yet rather than go around they decided to climb it. Many parts were fresh, and offered good holds. Halli adjusted her roll-kit to hang at her waist, then they began their scramble to the top. Noma took the lead, being more nimble and lighter in step, but Halli was ever on her tail, stubbornly clinging on.

“Noma, you cheat!” Halli laughed. “You’ve neither pack or kit!”

“You’re the one with thumbs, dear” Noma said.

That being so, Noma won the race to the top. Ever a good sport, she grabbed Halli’s collar with her teeth and helped pull her up, until both stood on the precipice looking west, to the frowning Grayrim yonder, five miles distant. They made camp as evening settled in, somber with cloud fronts lying over the range like a heavy brow, denying all but the most pallid light. Shadows fell long against the slopes, and into the valleys. The first touch of autumn had come to the Hitherlands, and most of their journey lay behind them. The most difficult parts, however, were still ahead.

#story #fantasy #hither yonder #sarissophori

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