#those who don’t know this their mouth will be filled with mud

[itsabouttimex2]

Eclipse Kings

Part One: Mountain Monkeys

(Part One: You Are Here) (Part Two: Barbed Dusk) (Part Three: Wild Dawn)

(Extra One)

(The eternal kings of Flower Fruit Mountain certainly did not expect a thief smelling of their lost son to invade the palace on the day they intended to mourn his disappearance.)

The people in your village don’t go hungry.

But they’re never full, either.

Abundance is a word whispered only in longing, yet never a reality to be tasted.

Plates are modest—never empty, yet never brimming. Bread and fish are the staples, filling enough to survive but just shy of satisfying. There’s no indulgence here, no clinking glasses of wine or wedges of cheese. The villagers say this is the way of life for those who dwell beneath the gaze of the demon kings of Flower Fruit Mountain.

Once every month each family is expected to deliver a “tribute” to the two demon kings who reign over your village from

And if you “play your part” to the kingdom and make your proper tributes, the kings of Flower Fruit Mountain WILL protect you, your family, your property- that is not a privilege many demons are willing to provide.

Some families choose the customary fruit offering for the little long-tailed monkeys around the mountains. Young, tender fruits like mangoes, starfruits, and papayas are diced into neat chunks, artfully arranged on freshly washed taro leaves, and tied up with twine. The leaves are then hung from the branches of the flowering trees at the mountain’s base, a silent signal for the little monkeys to descend.

These creatures are far from simple animals; they are spirits of the mountain, bound to the Kings, with eyes that shine with uncanny understanding. They clamber down with hungry, chittering excitement, ravenous for the colorful spoils. Villagers know to keep their distance, watching from afar as the monkeys gnaw on the bounty, tearing at the fruit until nothing remains but juice-stained leaves and the echoes of satisfied squeals. The villagers believe the monkeys carry whispers to the Kings, tales of each family’s offering—or lack thereof.

Some of the craftier types (usually those with several little mouths to feed) in the village whittle toys from wood and decorate them with feathers or colorful strips of fabric and leave those about in the woods, saving more food for themselves and their children.

Some villagers, either brave or foolish, choose to journey directly up the mountain with their tributes. This is a long, exhausting up a path that was treacherous, steep, and wild, twisting through the ancient woods that seemed almost alive with the spirits of the many mortals who came before.

They would inevitably be hounded by monkeys and insects, trying desperately to sample the goods before they were given to the mountain lords to be devoured or given as gifts to those few other demon lords that the vaunted simian had compiled as allies.

And though the tribute was mandatorily gathered each month, and every family’s name was marked and closely tracked in a ledger by the sable king, with sufficient enough explanation tribute can be delayed or even outright pardoned- as the Eclipse Kings were fathers themselves, they took mercy upon struggling parents and orphans.

…they probably wouldn’t bat an eyebrow at you, honestly.

Living in a ramshackle hut sank half into the earth and insulated with straw and mud that you had smeared into the ever-growing fractures, it was just enough to tide you safely through the year.

When it grew hot you would pull out all the dirtiest blankets and clothes in your possession, sitting for hours in the shade of the many flowering trees of Mount Huaguo, feet dipped into the cool waters of whatever lake you found first- and you’d shred those tattered fabrics to long strips and bundle them up for kindling in winter.

They would be the last thing to go, only after the dried grass and wood you had gathered months prior were gone, used to melt ice for water or ease the ache of deep chills.

You had accustomed yourself to this cycle- prepare for winter all through summer and fall, then take spring as a chance to relax and live a little more freely.

You had accustomed yourself to it for a while, at least.

And then little MK had come tumbling through your door, sniveling and shaken.

Back then he had been almost too young to speak, too small to voice whatever his fears were, too utterly weak to cry for more than a half-minute before the tiny thing collapsed in your arms.

He hadn’t needed to explain.

The pounding footsteps and booming hollers had told you enough- he was being hunted.

Months prior you had dug a little shallow ditch in the soft mud of your home, then hid it under the stiffest rug you could find, reinforced with bark and smeared with mud for camouflage, praying that it would hold and go unnoticed in the event of a raid such as this.

You hadn’t expected to share it with a toddler, though.

But it had held firm and gone unnoticed even as everything else in your home was overturned and thrown askew, ripped apart by invaders with cheap leather armor and fishing knives- an hastily gathered army, clearly.

Before leaving in anger, the lot of them had shredded through your broken house and thrown their frustrated fists through the crumbling walls, leaving dozens of holes that you would have to patch with naught but straw, hay, and mud.

Winter would be harder this year, and every year after.

Especially with a baby in tow.

You hadn’t the heart to throw MK out, or leave him to the elements, but you hadn’t been brave enough to seek out his parents, either- if someone wanted him dead, then you would be on their list for harboring him, too.

“Y/N,” the young boy squeals, breaking you from reminiscence as he runs up to you with a smile. “There’s monkeys outside again!”

“…huh. Usually they don’t come around here. Make sure you stay away from the door, buddy.”

You turn to face him, only to sigh at his blatant disobedience- he’s toddling straight towards the broken hole you use as an entrance, only covered by a thick sheet of wool- it had been a sweater that grew too dirty for further use, leaving you to use the rancid thing as a weighted tarp to keep out chills.

Soap was a luxury you could rarely get your hands on, which meant it was better used for personal bathing than clothes-tending.

If you or MK; whom you tiredly sweep up into your arms, needed new clothing, you could always head down to the cemetery on a windy night to snatch up all the fabric left as offerings- they could easily be repurposed into makeshift garments.

The boy squirms in your lap, tugging on a lock of your hair to steady himself as he stands up.

“Why can’t I go out and play with the monkeys? I’ll be good, I promise!”

“Monkeys like to eat babies, kiddo. They might snatch you up and throw you into a pot,” you return, poking his squishy little cheek.

“I’m not a baby, and monkeys don’t use pots! Cause they don’t have kitchens!”

“Yeah? I hear they get to use the whole palace on the top of the mountain,” you lie, leaning in to kiss his forehead. “And I hear they take itty-bitty babies up to the ovens to be cooked.”

“…liar.”

“Am not.”

“Are too.”

MK, in spite of his age, is a pretty good sport when it comes to teasing and jesting. He doesn’t hold grudges and doesn’t ask for much. He eats what you give him and never asks for a second plate.

…really, he’s just a good kid.

You’ve done what you can for him. Warm clothes and clean bedding, and the occasional toy when you could scrounge it up. He eats before you do, and you make sure he has the softer portion of whatever meal you’ve scraped together. At night, he sleeps close by, wrapped up in the cleanest blankets you have, his little head nestled against your shoulder. Sometimes, his tiny fingers tangle in your shirt, holding on tight as if, in sleep, he’s afraid of being lost.

You’ve made it through rough times with him at your side, never without purpose as long as you could return to him.

You can make it through anything, you think, as long as you have MK.

But this year, you worry. Winter feels sharper already, creeping into your bones even though it’s only autumn. The flowers on the mountain haven’t died off yet, but the chilly bite warns you that cold days are coming fast. Supplies have been meager; the mountain rains came early, spoiling at least some of the crops before they could be harvested and gathered.

But MK—little, bright-eyed MK—he’s full of life, unafraid, and curious. Where you see danger in the forest’s shadows, he sees playmates and adventure. His world is small—just your home, the patch of trees nearby, and the lakes you risk bringing him to in the break of dawn. He doesn’t yet understand what it means to live with less. To him, the world is a place of wonder.

And you, for all your struggles, feel lighter with him around. His laughter fills the little corners of your life, and his bright chatter fends off the loneliness that once crept in on quiet nights.

“Y/N?” MK’s soft voice pulls you from your thoughts again. “If the monkeys go back to the kings, maybe they could tell them to bring food down here.”

You raise an eyebrow, smiling. “Oh, you think the demon kings will listen to a bunch of monkeys? They’re big and mighty, MK. They don’t worry about little things like the people below.”

“Maybe…” he murmurs, thoughtful, “But maybe if I ask really nice, they’ll listen. Then you wouldn’t be hungry.” His face scrunches up, serious and brave. “I can be nice. Really, really nice.”

Your heart squeezes a little at that, seeing the determination in his young eyes. “Oh, buddy,” you murmur, stroking his hair. “You’re plenty nice. But there are some things we can’t ask for, even from the kings.”

He frowns, thinking it over. “But…maybe if I brought them a really, really good tribute, then they’d listen?”

You stifle a sigh. MK’s generosity knows no bounds—he has so little, yet he dreams of giving. “Let’s not worry about the kings,” you say gently, redirecting his thoughts. “The best thing you can do is keep me company, just like you always do.”

He considers this, nodding, and a smile breaks out on his face again. “Okay!” He hops down from your lap, already chasing after a stray insect that has wandered into your home, flitting in and out of the small rays of sun that pierce through the cracks in the walls.

And you know, as you watch him, that no matter how harsh this winter might be, as long as MK is with you, there will be warmth to hold on to.

“Y’know, I hear that today is the lost prince’s birthday!”

“Really?!” he gasps, his tiny hands clasped in excitement.

You nod, a sly smile playing on your lips. “Yep. Word is, there are grand feasts in his honor, all the way up in the palace on Flower Fruit Mountain.”

His eyes widen, filled with wonder, his mouth forming a perfect ‘o’. “Wow… Can we go see it?”

“Ah, but it’s only for royalty and their guests,” you reply, ruffling his hair. “They guard that palace like hawks. Only those with a golden invitation can even get close. But, this year… I hear that before they eat, they’re going to the village a mountain over to visit their friends this time… and that their guards are going with them.”

He perks up immediately, eyes wide and gleaming- a little ray of lustrous light to match even gold.

“Y/N… are you going to sneak in?”

“I’m gonna rob them blind,” you confirm, squishing his cheeks between your hands. “That’s why I need you to stay inside today, buddy-“

“I’m going up the mountain.”

Those had been the start of your parting words to your surrogate little brother, instilling a brilliant radiance into his wide, innocent eyes. The thought of a belly full of food fit for kings… what orphan didn’t dream of that?

The trek up had been strikingly simple- all the usual simian distractions had retreated to their dens to mourn the lost prince, leaving you with only the occasional fly or gnat to swat away.

No guards. No soldiers. Nothing to stand in your way.

In hindsight it had been foolish to expect things to be so easy, but… the journey up to the peak hadnlulled you into a false sense of security.

The climb grew colder as you neared the palace. The lush forests below gave way to sparse, twisted trees and jagged rocks, their edges sharp enough to draw blood if you weren’t careful. Shadows lengthened as the day waned, and the silence grew thick, broken only by the occasional whistle of the wind through cracks in the stone.

At the top, the palace loomed—a grand structure carved from dark stone, adorned with gilded statues and red banners that snapped and waved in the mountain breeze. It was as silent as a tomb, its towering gates shut tight.

As you reached the summit, a dense mist clung to the air, and the grand stone gates of the palace loomed before you—ornate and ancient, their carved simian figures seeming to leer down with knowing eyes. Despite your heart thundering with the thrill of what you were about to do, you felt a strange weight settle in your chest. The palace was silent, and the eerie hush made it feel like a place caught between realms, haunted by whispers of an ancient power that was never meant to be trifled with.

But in spite of that internal warning you had crept easily enough to the side, and popped open a glinting, golden-framed window, then slid your legs through the maw- and started your thieving crawl through the palace.

The kitchen is laid with a spread so luxurious it makes your stomach clench with hatred and greed- golden plates piled high with delicate fruit, honeyed meat strung from a dozen racks, wine jars glittering with jeweled necks, the air itself thick with the scent of expensive incense and exotic spices.

All for the birthday of the lost prince, you reminded yourself, a prince who had likely never known hunger or hardship.

“Qi Xiaotian,” he had been named, was lost as a babe to a rebellion led several years ago by the discontented people of your village, those who decided that dying by their makeshift blades was better than living under royal heels.

After he had been; presumably, kidnapped by one of the rebels who had broken through the palace gates, the kings had grown cold and harsh, retreating from the world at large and leaving their lavish dwellings only to accept tributes and settle riotous disputes.

…that wasn’t enough to make you feel bad for them, though.

Tray after tray you scout, going through rows of jars, sacks, and baskets overflowed with preserved fruits, dried meats, and delicate pastries. Your hands tremble as you fill a small bundle with as much as it could hold- a handful of salted meats here, a mooncake wrapped in delicate paper there—enough to sustain you and MK for… maybe a month.

Just as you were finishing up, a strange sensation prickled at the back of your neck. You turned, heart thudding, but saw nothing. Just shadows. The silence, however, had shifted, as if holding its breath. Then a voice—low, smooth, and dripping with amusement—broke the stillness.

“Well, well, well… what do we have here?”

You froze, and before you could even think to run, a figure stepped out from the darkness. His robe flowed like liquid night, embroidered with threads that gleamed in the faint light. A crown of twisted vines adorned his head, casting intricate shadows over a face that was as beautiful as it was terrifying.

Beside him is a simian bearing fur the color of sunlight, radiant fur flecked with beads of gold and wound with strings of glimmering citrine. His garments are wrapped with shimmering threads, emphasizing each muscle bulging from below the silk.

The Eclipse Kings of Flower Fruit Mountain: Sun Wukong and the Six-Eared Macaque.

The sable king steps closer, eyes narrowing as he looked down at your small, trembling form. His lips curved into a smirk. “Stealing from the kings of Flower Fruit Mountain. Bold, and… foolish… unless you were planning to pay us back for it?” Prods the long-tailed macaque, poking your crumb-stained cheek with his forefinger.

“I don’t have anything to give,” you whimper, tears of fear and pain beading up in your eyes. “I don’t-“

“Hush hush hush!” Coos the brighter of the kings, moving to lightly swat his mate’s hand from your chin with a dramatic flourish of his claws. “Moonlight, look at this little one!”

As the king who had caught you steps back to make space for his husband, the golden monkey snatches you by the waist and lifts without so much as straining a muscle, clearing your feet well from the ground. His golden tail wraps lazily into an approximation of a heart, bouncing around happily.

“Just look at you, dumpling! Such a cute little thing rummaging around in our cabinets, hmm? Were you too hungry to stay away?”

“…you shouldn’t give grace to such a naughty thief, Peaches,” says the umbral king, holding his hands out to you. “Let me see them.”

Although this one is clearly the icier of the two, he holds you with care in spite of needing to exert more effort than his mate.

“Usually,” the golden simian chirps with glee, “we would execute thieves on the spot! My mate’s cleaved more than a few right down the middle for snatching from our castle.” His face is pulled into an easygoing grin, tail still excitedly wagging.

“I stopped doing that a long time ago,” snaps the darker monkey. “It takes forever to clean bloodstains, and maids are hard to come by, Peaches. I don’t need them wasting their time scrubbing down my carpets.”

“Our.”

“Shut up, you damn-“

“And speaking of what’s “ours”… what do we do with this little thing?”

The two monkeys look over you with varied looks, one grinning ear to ear as he pokes at your cheeks and strokes your hair, the other more restrained with only a cocked eyebrow.

“…what we usually do to thieves and trespassers.”

The feeling in your gut isn’t unlike a falling icicle, coldly sundering any hope you had of making it out of this castle alive. You were going to die. You were going to die and never see your brother again, and then he was going to starve all alone in that awful little hut.

You were going to die alone.

You were going to die unloved.

The golden king sounds a pitying gasp as tears begin to spill over your cheeks and trickles down your chin, splattering onto the polished marble floors below.

The air in your lungs begins to quickly fade, replaced with sharp gasps for breath interspersed with desperately babbled apologies. Sorry after sorry after sorry after-

“Little one, little one! Shh, shh,” the Great Sage pleads, scooping you into his powerful arms. “Shhhh, shhh, there there… it’s okay, dumpling… please, no more tears… you’ll just break this old monkey’s heart, you know that?”

“Stop fussing,” demands his mate, reaching over to card through your messy hair. “You aren’t going to manipulate us.”

“I- I’m not- no, I’m not- that’s not-“

“Shhhh! Be a good little mortal and shush! No more words, little one!” Macaque, what are you even-“

“Haven’t you noticed how they smell?”

The golden king freezes, glittering eyes going wide as his mate points out something he sincerely hadn’t noticed at all- that your scent is indeed strikingly familiar in a way that shreds out his heart and leaves him weak.

Sun Wukong, Great Sage Equal to Heaven, Handsome Monkey King- buries his face into the top of your hair, cradling you like a babe as his lips ghost the crown of your scalp, not unlike a father bidding his child goodnight with a kiss. He breathes in deep, taking the scent into his lungs and chest and holding it tighter than he holds you, only gasping it back out when breathless tears prick his eyes.

“…you smell like our son,” he whispers, holding you tighter and tighter. “I thought I was never going to- I thought I was going to die before I ever felt this- I- no, it- it’s like… gods, it’s like he’s here with us. Macaque, what do… what do we do?”

“…mortals don’t have the same scents as demons. They’re not as complex or strong. The only way a mortal gets the same scent as a demon is to spend hours with them.”

“So he’s alive”, Wukong croaks, the air in his lungs warbling with the effort to stay steady. “Our baby boy is alive. Macaque, he’s still here. Gods, he must’ve been lonely. He was so little, Macaque! He… he’s still alive.”

Wukong drops sharply to his knees, setting you on the ground with the downwards crash. The gold-veined marble cracks under the force of his movement, a testament to well-hidden power.

“Sweetie,” he coos, speaking to you as one speaks to a startled toddler,” “tell me- tell about all of your friends. Start to finish, okay? Can you do that for me, sweetie? I need to know who all they are.”

There’s a deep, desperate pleading in his voice, golden eyes scrunched to hold back tears.

“Please, please. Please tell me you know where my baby is.”

He’s so brokenly hopeful, so pleadingly anguished, so despairingly optimistic that give in to the welling guilt and admit-

“I only h-have one- he- his name is… it’s MK. He… he has brown hair and black eyes, and he’s… his favorite color is orange. He-“

Macaque screams.

He screams louder than the winds howl atop the mountain in winter, louder than tornados roar in the dry spells of summer, louder and louder and louder with each consecutive shriek until gilded windows shatter and silver braziers are snuffed.

“THAT’S HIM,” the sable king wails, throwing a fist through a solid sheet of the gold wall before him. “THAT’S MY BABY!!”

He rips his bleeding arm from the opulent ruin and tackles Wukong in a fit of relieved tears and broken openness, leaving the two tumbling in an eclipse of hues, gold and ebony rolling together on a red carpet.

They embrace in a moment of sheer, mind-numbing relief, wailing together that their beloved son hadn’t been lost, so utterly allayed that they almost forget there’s a world spinning around them.

You take your chance, and dart from the room, footsteps dulled by the luxurious carpet below.

They’ll realize that you’re gone any minute, and raise a din and raise their army- you can imagine them in the village already, desperately offering armfuls of gold and silver to any who can find you or drag you from whatever hiding place you’ve snuck to, to anyone who can return their last ticket to reuniting with their precious little cub.

You don’t even turn a single corner before what sounds like four steps of footsteps sound, racing close behind- too scared to look back, you simply fling yourself from the nearest broken window and pray you’ll land safely.

Sure enough, there’s a peach tree just below you, providing an uncomfortable cushion that prevents any fractures or breaks, thought not without shredding your arms and knees against the rough and untrimmed branches.

But losing a little blood wasn’t much when you were already afraid to lose your life.

The night air feels is oppressively thick, bitingly cold as you scramble down from the branches, your whole body aching from scratches and bruises.

It hurts, but not as much as the thought of losing MK hurts.

Every cut burns, but fear drives you forward as you push through the dark orchard. Peaches litter the ground beneath the trees, bruised and rotting, filling the air with their sickly-sweet scent. You can still hear the faint echo of anguished screams from the castle above, and you know you have to keep moving, no matter how heartbreaking the noise.

Branches continue to scratch at your skin as you hurry through the orchard, weaving between the twisted trunks of ancient peach trees. The cries of the two kings haunt you, but your heart pounds with a different terror—a need to survive, to get back to MK and keep him safe.

Swallowing hard, you push onward into the forest, where the air turns colder and the ground is uneven, littered with stones and roots. It’s dark, and the towering trees block out even the faintest hint of moonlight, leaving you to stumble blindly forward, each step a gamble.

Your lungs burn, each breath sharper than the last as you push through the dense underbrush, your only light the faint silver of cloud-breaking starlight piercing through gaps in the canopy. You can’t help but glance over your shoulder, half-expecting to see the flash of golden eyes in the shadows.

You’ve had your fill of gold and silver- that gleam has quickly lost all luster.

In your scramble down the mountain path, you nearly trip over a root hidden under the leaf-strewn ground, catching yourself just in time. You can feel a faint ache in your chest as you think about MK, probably huddled up alone, waiting for you to come back. You bite back the surge of guilt for leaving him and going so far in the first place; there’s no time for regret, no time for anything but survival.

So you fervently press on, slipping and sliding overrocks and mud, your hands numb and cold as you cling to branches to steady yourself.

You’re going to feel like hell in the morning.

Every step feels heavier, but the thought of MK—waiting, maybe scared and hungry—keeps you upright. You cling to that memory like a lifeline, using it to drag yourself forward when exhaustion claws at you, urging you to collapse into the moss and leaves.

Just as you’re ready to push on, you hear something rustle behind you, faint but distinct. Your heart skips, and for a split second, you’re sure it’s them—the kings, tracking you, maybe already upon you, with Wukong’s wild desperation and Macaque’s icy agony close on your heels. You whip your head around, pulse thundering dangerously fast in your chest. But there’s nothing there, only shadows that play tricks on your eyes.

It’s just the wind, you lie to yourself.

Yet, no sooner have you relaxed than you hear another sound—a soft murmur, almost like…laughter? It’s chilling, unnervingly familiar, a low chuckle that seems to drift from the very darkness around you. You start running, branches whipping against your cheeks, the laughter echoing in the trees like mocking ghosts.

As you push further, the underbrush begins to thin, the ground leveling out into a narrow path long worn into the mountain. Relief fills you as you recognize it—the way back to the village, back to MK. But just as you think you’ve escaped, a figure steps out from behind a nearby tree, blocking the path ahead.

It’s Macaque.

The dark-furred king stands there, arms crossed, his piercing gaze fixed on you. His tail lashes behind him, giving away a tension that his otherwise calm expression doesn’t. “Running away, little rabbit?” he purrs, voice smooth and soft, velvet hiding a dagger. “You thought we wouldn’t find you?”

Panic coils tighter around your heart. You don’t answer, can’t answer, with your breath shallow and eyes locked on his, searching for any hint of mercy. Yet, even in your fear, you see the pain in his eyes, the raw, unhealed wound that losing a son has left behind.

He takes a step closer, and you instinctively back up—until your heel catches on a loose stone, and you stumble. Macaque moves in a flash, catching you before you can fall, his grip like iron around your arm. There’s a flicker of something unreadable in his eyes, almost as if he’s hesitant, but it vanishes just as quickly.

At that moment, you feel a warm presence nearby, and a golden glow illuminates the path. Wukong appears behind Macaque, his expression far softer than his husband’s. He looks at you with tearful eyes, earlier desperation simmering beneath his clouded gaze. “We just want to know where our son is, sweetie,” he says, voice coaxing. “Help us find him, and we can put all of this behind us.”

For a moment, you’re trapped between them, their eyes—glowing —boring into you with the weight of ages, burning on either side of you. You are prey, trapped in the gaze of ancient predators, creatures who could tear you apart if they chose.

You feel a lump rising in your throat, guilt twisting in your chest. You want to help them, to tell them more, to ease that raw grief carved into their souls. But how could you? MK didn’t remember them. He’d never once spoken of a family, of a past like theirs.

Would it really be a betrayal to bring him to people who could no doubt care for him better than you ever could?

You rip from his clawed grasp with a sob, blood spilling from your arm where his nails were clutched tight- and then step back.

Air whistles around you through the sharp plummet, blaring out the wails of the two kings. It’s not too long of a fall, it won’t break or kill you- it’s just one more thing that’s going hurt tomorrow, when you wake up next to MK -and you will wake up next to him- and bid him “good morning”.

As you fall, the world blurs around you, and for a moment, there’s only the rush of air and the distant cries of the kings above. The impact comes suddenly—a jolt that rattles every bone in your body as you hit the shallow puddle below, your vision sparking with a burst of white. Pain blooms in your side, sharp and searing, but you manage to roll onto your hands and knees, gasping for breath. Everything aches, but you’re alive. And more importantly, you’re closer to the outskirts of the village, closer to MK.

You rise shakily, wiping a streak of blood from your face. The path ahead is illuminated by starlight growing ever fainter, barely peeling through even the sparsely dotted trees.

The half-hovel is only a short walk away, barely three meters from your spot of impact, leaving you to start crawling; hands and knees alight with pain, to that little refuge.

Every inch forward feels like a mountain climbed, your breath coming out in ragged gasps, as you drag yourself closer to that pitiful excuse for a home. The hut is run-down, its roof half-collapsed, with walls patched by whatever scraps you could find. But right now, it’s the only place that feels safe, and the only place where MK will be waiting for you.

Your fingers scrape against rotted as you pull yourself up onto the threshold, bracing against the shattered doorframe, steadying your shaking limbs. The inside is dim, with just the faint embers of the fire you lot in that little stone pit, the weak light casting long shadows against the walls. And there, curled up on a ragged mat, is MK—sleeping soundly, his tiny form bundled up in a blanket far too thin for the chill in the air.

You feel relief rush over you like a wave, washing away the pain and exhaustion, if only for a moment. You swallow back tears as you carefully lower yourself beside him, reaching out a trembling hand to brush a lock of hair from his face. He stirs at the touch, eyes fluttering open with a groggy mumble, his gaze unfocused at first before he realizes it’s you.

“You’re back,” he whispers, his voice small and sleepy, a hint of worry melting into relief as he reaches for your hand. “I… I thought you weren’t coming back this time.”

“I’d never leave you, MK. Not for anything.” Your voice wavers, and you squeeze his hand tighter, trying to push down the overwhelming flood of emotions. “I’ll always come back for you.”

He smiles—a soft, innocent smile that nearly breaks you. You can’t tell him what happened, can’t bear the thought of burdening him with the danger you faced tonight, or the kings who would give anything to find him.

Instead you settle beside him, draping an arm over his small shoulders as he curls up against you, his warmth seeping into your aching bones.

“Did you get any food?” he asks tiredly, eyes drooping shut again.

You reach for the cloth bundle on your back and pull it off, watching all four corners unravel and flutter open as it’s tossed into the ground-

It’s all still there. Busted, bruised, some of it mangled, but it’s still there. Fruit, veggies, nuts, meat, and even sweets.

Just like you promised.

The boy (a prince, you’ve learned) squeals with delight, clambering over to sample the spoils of your hellish night. He settles for cramming his little face with an assortment of the pilfered banquet, accidentally crushing some bit of it into crumbs with how badly his hands shake from excitement.

It’s only when he’s full enough to pause that MK looks over to you with a frown, clambering over with a mooncake held tight in his little hands- and then he pushes it to your mouth.

“Say ‘ahhh’!”

Even through the agony pricking through your skin, a smile forms- such a sweet little thing he’s grown into, even in these… limited circumstances.

“…aaaah”, you acquiesce, allowing him to nudge the pastry between your parted lips, eating half of it in one go.

“…good?”

“Really good, buddy.” You take another bite, swallowing the rest with some small satisfaction. “I’m gonna take a quick nap, okay?”

“…promise you’ll wake up.”

Oh, gods. That hurt. Sometimes you forgot how perceptive the boy was, how eager and clever. How could you think he wouldn’t notice the suffering crawling all through your body?

“Oh, kiddo. I will wake up, I promise. I’m just tired. I’ll wake up and start a fire, and we can roast the meat and nuts to warm ‘em up, okay? I promise.”

He doesn’t seem too convinced, but settles into a hushed state as he polishes off a mango and ties up the bundle again.

“You better,” the little one huffs, looking over to see that you’ve already fallen asleep. He shuffles to his little chest and pulls out the cleanest blanket he has, draping it over your shoulders before starting to crawl in with you-

Right until a knock sounds on the outer wall of the hut.

MK freezes, clutching the edge of the blanket, his wide, black eyes darting to the door. The thin walls do little to muffle the gentle, deliberate tapping. His face twists in confusion and fear, and he inches back toward you, pressing himself close against your side, trying to make himself as small as possible. He can hear his own heartbeat hammering in his chest, the room so silent that each beat feels like a drum signaling his hiding place.

The knock sounds again, a steady rhythm that’s somehow polite but insistent, as if the person on the other side knows exactly what lies within and won’t leave without answers. The thought tightens MK’s chest with dread. He glances at you, wanting you to wake, but exhaustion has claimed you too fully. He shifts, leaning close to your ear, whispering with all the urgency his little body can muster.

The matted wool curtain is pulled aside, and a long shadow falls over the two of you.

It’s Wukong.

He’s not dressed in the regal robes from before, his crown and adornments discarded somewhere along the journey down the mountain. He looks oddly… humbled, vulnerable even, his golden fur matted and streaked with grime. He too has trekked through brambles and mud to find this place.

In that moment, the fierce, untamed warrior, the Great Sage Equal to Heaven, reduced to a father—nothing more, nothing less—just a father, lost and found in the presence of his child.

“My son.”

MK stiffens, eyes going wide with confusion and a strange, nameless feeling that curls tight in his chest. The voice calls to something deep within him, something he doesn’t understand yet can’t ignore. He doesn’t remember this voice, but he feels it as though he’s always known it—like a lullaby, like the whisper of leaves in the wind.

MK clutches the edge of your blanket tighter, his face a mixture of uncertainty and fear as he looks up at the stranger in the doorway. Wukong’s gaze softens further, and he steps into the dim light, eyes filled with a desperate hope tempered by patience. He’s careful, his movements gentle and measured as he crouches down, bringing himself to MK’s eye level.

“Do you know me, little one?” he asks, voice trembling slightly as he waits, searching MK’s expression for any glimmer of recognition.

MK tilts his head, brow furrowing as he studies Wukong. There’s a flicker in his black eyes—a hint of familiarity that he can’t quite place, something ancient and deep inside him stirring, like a faint memory from a distant dream. But he shakes his head slowly, his lips pressed together as he shrinks back a little, still clutching the blanket.

Wukong’s face falls, his shoulders sagging with the weight of his grief. He swallows, fighting back the tears that threaten to spill. “I… I thought maybe you’d remember.” His voice is barely a whisper, so soft that it sounds like a confession, a plea.

But Wukong quickly straightens, forcing a small, trembling smile. He can’t bear to scare his child, can’t bear to make him feel any more uncertain than he already does. “It’s okay,” he says, his voice still gentle, though there’s a glimmer of resolve in his eyes. “It’s okay if you don’t remember, little one. I’m here now, and I’m not going anywhere.”

He glances down at you, still asleep beside MK, his expression softening with gratitude. Despite everything, despite the fear and pain you must have faced, you had cared for his son, protected him in his absence. There’s a flicker of respect, maybe even admiration, in his gaze.

But then, before he can say anything else, the curtain shifts, and Macaque steps into the hut as well, his dark, intense gaze zeroing in on MK. His movements are slow and deliberate, as though afraid that anything too sudden might frighten the boy. He stops just inside the threshold, his usual sly demeanor replaced with a vulnerability that’s almost startling.

“…my baby.”

The weight of those two words settles over MK like a blanket of warmth, a feeling he doesn’t quite understand . Still, it stirs a pull in his heart that defies reason. He glances at you again, hoping for some guidance, some sign of what to do—but you’re still sound asleep, completely oblivious to the quiet storm raging in his heart.

After a moment, MK opens his mouth, and his voice, so soft and uncertain, trembles through the space.

“Why don’t I remember you?”

The question, so small yet filled with an innocence that pierces both kings, brings a quiet gasp from Wukong. He reaches up to touch his chest, struggling to contain the ache there. He can’t meet MK’s eyes for a moment, his gaze fixed on the floor as he takes a shuddering breath.

“That’s… that’s because you were very young when we… when we lost you, my little peach,” Wukong finally whispers, his voice hoarse. “You wouldn’t remember us, not after so long, but… we’ve missed you every single day.”

MK steps forward for a moment, wanting and wanting and feeling so very loved-

But then the boy pulls his hand back, glancing at you beside him, his expression suddenly filled with uncertainty. “But… I already have someone,” he says softly, nodding to your prone form. “They take care of me. They’re… my family.”

“We’ll take them too,” Wukong spits out, dropping to his knees and becoming his lost son forward. “All four of us can go home together, Xiaotian. Like… like a big, happy family.”

Macaque steps forward shaking with the effort spent to not rush him immediately. “That’s right, baby. We’ll take you, and… and we’ll take the little thief, and we can go home. Together.”

MK looks back at you, so broken and worn that he fears you might not make the night without someone else’s help- the thought straightens his brow, and sets his little head into a stiff nodding motion.

Finally, he could help you, just as you had helped him so long ago.

“Ok. Let’s go home- all of us, together.”

[hemipenal-system]

Coin

They say when you travel to take a bag of coins. When you have to wade through a river, they say, you should toss a coin into the rushing waters to pay toll to the river spirit, bringing good luck and calming the waters enough to allow you to cross safely.

Of course, a bag of coins can only go so far, but the spirits are forgiving. Show them an empty bag that once contained coins, and they understand you have crossed many rivers, and to them, that earns you favor. They will be happy to help you negotiate a different form of payment, should you find yourself unable to pay the toll.

They’re good at mimicking humans, practically indistinguishable save for never-dry, strangely incorporeal androgynous bodies with blue-toned skin and deep sea-blue eyes that sparkle with inhuman power. You could almost be fooled into thinking they were just another human. Almost.

It’s always strange the first time, watching them pull themselves from the water, leaving damp footprints behind them in the mud, and shape the water that composes them into a cock or a hole that seems to perfectly mold with your own. They know you better than any human ever could, pushing you down on your back in the grass with the gentle but persistent force of flowing water, making sure you’re comfortable before showing you why explorers practically never have enough coins by their own count.

Your satisfaction is enough payment for them. Knowing they’ve satisfied you in a way a human never could and never will is more than enough.

Of course, there are those who are arrogant and don’t feel the need to pay tolls. They soon find that their tolls will be paid one way or another, and learn first-hand that nature spirits are not to be trifled with.

They don’t just mimic humans, as an unfortunate explorer quickly learns when they’re confronted with a serpent-like creature with glowing eyes and a toothy mouth, longer than a rope and thicker than a tree.

The lucky ones are simply pulled within the mouths, held within a fluid body as the spirit dives back into its river, dashing its victim against rocks and tree roots before releasing it, injured and with a valuable lesson.

Less lucky explorers may be grappled, the massive watery body coiling around the tiny human as the spirit noses at their skin, teasing a selected hole with a gargantuan prehensile cock before working it deep into them, filling them with pure essence of spirit and a primal, inhuman need to go to the nearest river.

Once they arrive at their destination, frenzied with instinct, they are simply coiled again as a second spirit draws the essence from them before depositing them weak and unconscious upon the river bank to pay toll when they wake, the river beginning to fork as a new spirit is created from the process…

[ranticore]

just wanted to say i absolutely love ur characters. each and every one of them is such a joy to follow. genuinely cant say how many times i've reread ur books at this point. i love them and i would hate being around any of them (special mention to my boy erica for being both the coolest and lamest person alive and jean for. being jean)

thank you so much for sending this 🧡and also for so completely understanding eri's character

here is a snippet (might be used, might not) from one of the openings of the third book i've written:

“What is it that we call you these days, anyhow?” Erica went on, falling into step beside him. His fingernails were black, as if he’d been scratching coals. “And why am I needed?” “We found explosives at the Spurs barracks,” Félix said. Any remnant of resentment or anger that might have showed on Erica’s narrow, shrewd features was wiped away in an instant. He practically bounced on ahead, leaving Félix to wrestle with the mule who pulled one of the emptier supply carts. “Wait just a moment!” Félix called, finally getting the animal to pull into a trot. Erica mounted one of the steps at the back of the cart as it passed by. “What kind of explosives?” “The kind that explodes, how am I to know? You’re the expert.” Félix settled himself into the driving position, finally, wincing as the movement of the cart rattled up through his knee. “It was wrote on the box, 'N I T R O-'” “Nitroglycerin?” Erica looked elated at that. “Ah, I know you were sent for Jean but you should have asked for me first, Ortega. You’re less wrong than usual; of the two of us, he may be the physicist, but I am the chemist.” “I don’t give a fuck what it is,” Félix said, stubbornly, “and I don’t care to know. We only need to transport it.”

“Naturally. Do we know why it is there?” Erica was speaking directly over Félix’s shoulder, suddenly, his tangled black mane brushing against Félix’s perfectly clean chestnut brown hair. It was a reasonable question and one at which Félix could only guess. “Isn’t it obvious?” he said, rather than admit ignorance. “They’re storing it all away from the townsfolk so that they don’t set it off by mistake.” “Evidently,” said Erica, “but why have it at all? This is not a mining town.” “It ain’t an army town, either,” Félix said, “but they managed to drum up a firing squad for those rangers.” Erica’s black eyes turned to the distant grey-brown line made by the sea on the western horizon. The sea had always struck Félix as something very ugly, as much as he would have liked to have believed in the romanticised vision of foam and waves in many of the books he’d read. His first association with it had always been the filthy armpit of Amhan bay, mud flats that seethed with salt flies and threatened to trap him as he dug for whelks and razor clams. He recalled the excited voice of Cypress exclaiming over the northern sea past Aberharain, how beautiful it was, how vast. Félix had been able to forget the truth and believe it then. He’d made quite a habit of forgetting the truth, where Cypress was concerned. Now he followed Erica’s gaze and glared at the ugly brown smear, and wrinkled his nose against the distant reek of rotten seaweed and mud. “I’ve heard of a fishing method,” Erica said, “whereupon a fisherman lights a blasting cap and drops it overboard.” Félix snorted. “Where’d you hear that? Jean? What he knows of the real world couldn’t fill a thimble. That goes for you, as well. I could tell you any aul bullshit and you’d believe it.” “I would try,” Erica said, a tiny, ironic little smile hovering about his lips. “Indulging in fiction could only bring me relief.” The shape of the fortress filled the end of the road again with its attendant smell of burning death, and opportunities for light-hearted conversation died with it. The open graves lining the bottom of the wall were still being fed with soil and bodies. Some of the rangers had tied cloths over their mouths, but most had just got on with the work, up to their elbows in mud. “The place was burned,” Erica remarked, as Félix steered the cart as close to the store-room entrance as he could go. “And the explosives remain miraculously intact. Are you certain you can read?" “They were put there after the fire ended, genius,” Félix said. He set himself back down on the ground, with as much grace as could be managed, and still felt it when his bad knee took his weight. The stray dogs had grown less cautious about the graves, and one now lay motionless with an arrow in its chest put there by the ranger on guard. Félix stepped gingerly over it.

[eleanore-delphinium]

The Life of A Vampire & A Witch in the Woods

Disclaimer: Not smut more on domestic fluff. Mature.

Happy Sauce Weekend Folks: Vampires

Word Count: 8500 (I know it's so satisfying)

A03 Link for those who read there.

~.~.~.~.~.~.~

Sauce Weekend 2023 Day 1 Vampires

The Life of A Vampire & A Witch in the Woods [ M ]

It was a moonless night; a long black-haired woman made her way through the darkness of the woods. She was cautious but nervous as evidenced by her constantly checking behind her. Lightning struck from a distance just as she turned her head, moving forward.  

From the brief flash of the light, her eyes instantly widened when she saw a figure just before her. A hand covered her mouth as she muffled her scream.

The man before her studied her with interest. And as amethyst eyes met emerald ones, time appeared to slow down as they quietly stared at one another.

The man seemed indifferent; he wore black pants, and a white shirt under his black coat. His clothes seemed to be of the highest quality and he was in pristine condition even though the entire place was wet with dew. 

Why was he here in the woods? He seemed rather out of place.

On the other hand, her long hair was a mess despite the braids that started from above her ears that crossed at the back of her head and kept most of her hair off her face. Her long black hair had become wavy as her hair had escaped the bun that she had on previously. 

The hem of her dress was the dirtiest from soil and mud and her overall attire was a mess. Her hands were filled with dirt too and it didn’t help that her dress was made of an ivory shirt, a brown skirt with a black apron and to top it off from the cheapest quality linen. She really looked cheap in front of him.

Water started to fall from the sky and the woman could not help but look up. She had lost her bonnet as she ran through the forest.

The man looked up, “It will only rain harder.” The man extended his hand, “I found an abandoned cabin over there, we can stay there as we wait for the rain to pass.” He cocked his head to his left– her right and she stared at him.

Lightning struck again, and she was able to see his black hair and tan skin in that instance, then the thunder followed. 

The woman nodded slowly as a shaky hand reached out for him. And as their skin touched, she couldn’t hold in the breathy exhale that came out of her lips. Her heart was pounding so loudly in her ears. 

Just when she wanted to pull away, his fingers wrapped around hers. The exchange drove her mad.

“Come, I don’t want you to get sick.” He gently said and she noticed how deep his voice was. She nodded like a little girl as she let him gently drag her through the forest. 

Her mind was elsewhere as he weaved through the forest, eyes locked at their connected hands. When she came to, the rain poured and she wondered why she wasn’t drenched. She studied her surroundings and was surprised to find herself inside what seemed to be an abandoned cabin.

How could she be so careless?

“You should be more mindful,” he said as he studied her in the dark and she frowned. But his thumb was caressing her tenderly, “We’ll have to work on that.”

But with each stroke of his thumb against her skin it just made her heartbeat and breathing even more erratic. 

“You are mine.” He spoke clearly. “As I am yours.” He paused.

“I didn’t think I would have a Destined.” He spoke in a sad tone, which did not go unnoticed by the woman, however, her mind was more focused on his words. Which made her shudder, not out of fear, but because he knew, just like her, the moment they laid their eyes on one another– they were Destined. 

Soulmates so to speak. 

Two people who are destined to be together.

“I promise you; I will treasure you.” He spoke eagerly and he watched how her long black lashes fluttered over her beautiful eyes. He enclosed the hand he held with both of his hands.

Quite a gentle touch, she noted.

“Damian.” He whispered his name so enamored by her beauty. 

And it took the woman a moment to realize that he was introducing himself to her, “Raven.” She shyly replied, her cheeks turning rosy. 

His smile was bright even though they were surrounded by darkness. And she couldn’t keep her eyes off his lips.

Perhaps a natural thing due to what they are to one another.

“I have to tell you, I’m a vampire.” He confessed softly and he watched her lashes flutter again.

She nodded, “I’m a witch.”

An amused smile and then a chuckle came out of Damian’s lips, “Well, this would be interesting…”

And that was how they met, quite unconventional, they supposed, but they fell in love as it was natural for Destined to fall for one another. They then built a home in the abandoned cabin, where they exchanged names.

And that was where the two were the happiest. 

It took time but Damian worked hard to rebuild the cabin and currently, he was repairing the roof due to a leak that he had noticed yesterday. 

Raven was tending to the garden they made at the front of their house. She paused and looked up at the roof, “Please be careful.” She gently reminded him, her husband from his work on the roof. 

The sweat from his torso dripped down his black pants as he glanced below and wiped the sweat off his forehead with his arm. 

“Of course, beloved.” He answered back with a soft smile and she smiled back as she went back to tending the garden.

When he was done with his repairs and went down from the roof, his wife was no longer there and he frowned. The wooden door opened to reveal his beautiful wife and he instantly lit up, then noticed that she had on her brown wool robe.

“I have to go to town. I will go and sell some of my potions and buy us some ingredients and other necessities.” She told him and Damian was clearly sad.

He took a step closer, cupped her face, and kissed her forehead, “Alright, be safe. While you are away, I will go and gather some herbs in the mountains for you.”

She nodded and swiftly kissed his lips as she stood on her tippy toes and he was briefly startled but happy, “Be safe.” 

He nodded with a smile in response.

“Be very careful, please.” She softly begged with doe eyes.

They had been together for three years but he was still absolutely smitten with her. She brewed her potions, ointments, and charms which she sold in the nearest town or village. He would help gather the herbs, especially the hard ones for her. Often their dates would be them picking herbs in the woods or other forageable items. And he treasured the simplicity in the act alone.

“I should go if you want me to come home before the sun fully sets,” Raven said and even though they have been together for years, she still gets rather shy around him. But he enjoyed it.

“I’ll get those herbs you need."  He said and Raven glanced at him.

“You don’t have to…” Damian brushed his thumb against her lower lip making her stop.

“I’m a vampire, you are unnecessarily worrying.” He calmly told her.

“I’m your wife.” She stared seriously and he embraced her tightly. “I don’t want to be a widow.” She squeezed the words out of her mouth.

“I would never make you a window, beloved.” He pulled his head away to stare down at her. 

Her face was red as she pushed him away, “I should go.”

“I'll be alright, be safe please, you know what to do if you need me.” He instructed and she playfully rolled her eyes and shook her head.

"I can take care of myself." She whispered and he smiled.

"Be safe. I will get you all the herbs I find." He said kissing her forehead again.

"I hope they will be herbs." She teased.

"I was taught by the best, is my wife not certain about her skills?" He pulled her closer.

"Of course, I’m certain!" She huffed and crossed her arms and he chuckled.

He reached out for her hood and adjusted it on her head, "I will return home. Don't worry, beloved."

She nodded and held his hand as they walked the pathway through their garden.

They stopped at the end of the path that merged into a slightly bigger path. 

"Well, I have to go up the mountains," Damian sighed and she gave him a tight smile.

"And I need to go down." She answered back.

"See you in a bit." He squeezed her hand and she nodded and turned around. 

Damian watched her go and stayed in his spot till she was long gone before he turned to go up the mountains. And in the shadows of the trees, the expression of a loving husband immediately disappeared.

“If my wife finds you, I will kill you myself.” He suddenly said with a cold voice.

And then two men stepped out of the shadows. 

“Understood, young master.” One said as the two newcomers bowed.

“We do not mean any disrespect.” The other replied.

The two were wearing casual wear for commoners but Damian knew better. They were just trying to look unalarming in the case that his wife was to stumble upon them among other people. It was just simply to draw suspicion away.

“Young master, your mother has sent us to bring you back home.” The man in a blue shirt said.

“Home?” He gave them a cold glance. “I am home.” 

The two pressed their lips together as Damian continued his way to the forest.

“Young Master, we insist. Lady Talia has demanded you be brought back immediately. She has stated that she is reaching her limit with your excursion.” Damian gave the man a deadly glare which made the man gulp to a stop.

“Pity, you will be going home empty-handed. I will not return with either of you. Don’t make me send your heads back to mother. It is quite sad that it took you this long to find me.” He glanced at them for a moment as he continued on.

One of them sighed and then the two both bowed.

“Young master has simply showcased his great abilities to be a master of staying in the shadows.” Another respectful bow. “However, young master, Lady Talia, said that you may bring the young lady home with you.” Damian stopped in his tracks upon hearing this. He turned and glanced at the one talking.

“Nonsense, my wife does not know who I am. And I have built a life with her here.” He narrowed his eyes warning them not to pry any longer and to ensure that the secrecy about his heritage remains a secret.

The two fell on their knees, “Young master, you are a Prince–”

“Enough!” Damian roared, “I swear this to you, if my wife finds you in these woods, I will not help you I will get rid of you myself.”

The two bowed even lower, placing their foreheads against the ground.

“We swear, young master, the young lady will not detect us.” They spoke in unison.

Damian turned around, “Well if you two insist on staying, I might as well make use of you two.” 

Damian then gave them his instructions. He was going to utilize them to garner more affection from his beautiful wife. 

When the sun was starting to set, he gathered the herbs from the two men along with what he had gathered himself.

“Well then, now that I’ve made use of you, you may go and report back to my mother,” The two bowed, “Oh, and if mother sends someone again, do know if you come as a threat, I will treat you accordingly. But if she insists on sending someone back here as anything other than a threat, I would love it if you bring me a couple of things. It would greatly help in putting me in the good graces of the young mistress.”  

Damian smiled as the two listened to their master’s demands.

When Damian went back to the cabin, he had a lot of herbs and he felt proud of himself. He knew his dear wife would be very happy with his harvest. He opened the door to be immediately tackled by the small feminine figure.

“Did you miss me?” He chuckled but did not waste the chance to hug her in his arms.

“I do not.” She tried to pull away but he did not let her go.

“It’s okay to miss me.” He whispered into her ear and she shook her head.

“I just thought you would appreciate a welcome home hug after combing through the forest.” She said and was about to pull away but his strong arms latched onto her tightly or rather quite stubbornly.

“I would like a welcome kiss too.” He sincerely asked and she frowned as she tried to push him away. 

“No.” She whispered, putting her hands on his chest to push him away. “I have known you for long enough to know that the kiss will become even more.” She rolled her eyes and he chuckled.

Damian leaned into her, his tongue brushing the side of her neck that she left exposed and her body stiffened, “Where else shall I seek to calm my desire? Are you telling me to look for someone else, my dear wife?” 

His wife visibly frowned and pouted at the idea of him with someone else as he gave little kisses on her neck. 

“My beloved, you smell so delectable.” His hand pressed and brushed the curve of her butt. His lips sucking on the skin of her neck. 

She couldn’t control how her knees shivered and he held her firmly with his other arm.

“I need to check the herbs you brought.” She whispered helplessly.

“You can do it later…” He licked her skin again, his fangs retracting. “Beloved, I want a bite.”

She sighed and turned her head to him, making him pull away and he looked at her quietly. 

“Fine. But you cannot look for someone else.” The pain was clear in her eyes and he cupped her face, brushing the corner of her eye with his thumb.

“Of course, I won’t, my wife is right here.” He studied her face and was hurt seeing her upset. “I’m sorry, I won’t make that joke again.”

She glanced at him and nodded, “I will check what you brought me later. You can have your bite.” She bore her neck for him by pointing her chin to the side.

He smiled then brought his lips near his, “But I want more than just a bite.”

She looked him straight in the eyes, “It’s always like that with you.”

“What can I say, my wife is rather irresistible.” He whispered, the lust in his eyes clear.

“I am more than your wife. I am your Destined.” She narrowed her eyes at him but the playful glint was obvious and it brought him joy to know that she respected their Destined bond even though it was clear that she was teasing him. 

He smiled at her, feeling pride at her words, “That’s right, my Destined is irresistible.” 

He seamlessly lifted her and brought her to their wooden dining table, placing her atop. He grabbed the hem of her ivory skirt, flipped it towards her, and hooked one of her legs with his arm as he leaned forward forcing her to lean back.

“So, irresistible.” His fangs appeared to shimmer. He wasn’t a werewolf but he still had a heightened sense of smell and he could smell her arousal. 

He bit her neck which elicited quite the moan from her tender lips. He excreted the venom that was both an aphrodisiac and a chemical substance that made the victim more complacent and susceptible to suggestion. A good weapon for hunting for his particular subcategory of vampires.

Sometimes his wife would ask or ask more of the venom because the high was nothing short of intoxicating. She even said it made the sex even more intense. 

He pulled away from sucking her blood and kissed her small wound and the general area of it but in a rather provocative manner. His saliva healed the puncture wounds. “I don't want to drink you dry.” He kissed her temple and she closed her eyes with a sigh. 

The venom, even though quite little, settled into her veins. Damian was careful when using it as he had told her before, some of his kind would make their victims addicted to it. He didn’t want that for her.  

Then his other hand hooked her other leg and with one pull brought her crotch against his, “I do want something else from you though.” 

She bit her lower lip and his eyes stared at those lips. 

He smiled waiting for her to finish chewing her lower lip before capturing her bitten lips for a kiss. And as the kiss progressed so was Damian’s advancements. He enjoyed his evening– or rather enjoyed the taste of his wife that was propped on the table. He enjoyed her moans, her soft whimpers, and taunting her to make her beg. And she would beg.

When the main event of the night was done, he brought his exhausted wife to bed. 

His lips kissed her skin passionately, “I wish to put you in the finest of silks.”

She chuckled in return, “Only Kings can afford such a luxury.” Her pale fingers ran through his hair as she studied the man before her. He had pinned her to the bed which gave her the most perfect spot to admire his face, that is if he wasn’t kissing her body.

Her husband was quite handsome and she found that she could never get tired of looking at that face.

He stopped kissing her skin to look at her lovely face but she could see that he was unsatisfied with not being able to give her the best.

Raven’s small hands cupped his face, “But I love what we have built here. It isn’t much, I know and I’m sure you want to give me the best, but I am more than happy here.” His gaze on her was enchanting and she smiled at him sincerely. “As long as you are here, I am more than happy, husband.”

His eyes crinkled at hearing her call him husband and he leaned to kiss her jaw just below her ear, “One day, beloved, I will put you in the finest of silks and give you the best of everything. The world would be under your feet.”

She giggled and placed her hands on his shoulders, “Well, then I look forward to that day, beloved, but for now, let us enjoy our time here, just you and me.” She pulled his face to hers and kissed his lips, making him moan.

The evening was filled with more moaning and groaning as two already sweaty bodies continued their enchanting dance of intertwining in each other’s arms. 

The room was small and so was the bed, but it was enough to fit the couple. The cabin was rather small itself too. At first, there was no separation between the bedroom and everything else in the wooden cottage but he added a wall with his sheer hard work to give them privacy. It helped separate them from the kitchen, the dining area, her potion-making area, and the small hearth. 

She was fast asleep and he brushed her black hair off her face, “One day, I will give you a palace.” He kissed her temple and he heard her sigh.

He then brought her into his arms, her back against his chest as he leaned his head onto her shoulder giving her another kiss, “For now, I am happy where we are too…”

When morning came Damian was long awake before she was. 

“Good morning,” He greeted her, kissing her shoulder and she rubbed her head on his arm that she was somehow resting on. 

She then turned and looked at him with sleepy eyes and a faint smile, “Good morning to you too.”

The two smiled at each other and shared a morning kiss. 

Raven attempted to get up on the bed and he frowned, “Can’t we stay in bed a bit longer?” 

She shook her head, “The garden will not water itself, and besides I have yet to check what goods you have brought me from the mountains.” Her eyes twinkled at the mention of the herbs and he reached out and brushed the corner of her eye.

“It seems like you’re more excited about the herbs than spending more time with your husband.” He pouted and she rolled her eyes playfully and shook her head. 

She sat up, revealing her naked skin littered with his marks made of passion and he sighed following her lead. Since he was the closest to their small wardrobe, he directly went to it. Grabbing a white chemise dress first as she went to go around the bed to him. 

“Here, let me help you get dressed first.” He said gathering the hem of the dress to help her put it over her head. 

She complied as she said, “Wear your pants and shirt first.” The dress falls to just above her ankle. And she saw his objection on his face before he could say a word. “Dressing me will take some time, at least be decently clothed, I don’t want you to catch a cold.” She cupped his face.

“I’m–” He stopped as she raised a brow at him and he sighed. “Alright.” He grabbed his pants and a loose ivory white linen shirt. She watched him put them on and when the shirt was on him, her hand caressed his chest where his heart beat.

Raven was more familiar with the kind of blood-sucking creatures that were more dead than alive, but her husband did not fall into that category.

“When we first met you wore expensive clothes I–” She stopped when he cupped her face suddenly.

He shook his head, “It wasn’t that expensive.” 

Truth be told, they didn’t know much about each other's past. What mattered was they met at the forest and their future after their first encounter with each other. She wasn’t sure who he was or what he did and it was hard to pinpoint when he seemed to be a jack-of-all-trades.  

She knew that he was, as he placed it, 'the perfect vampire' and now he just wanted to forget about it. She knew that he went through genetic modifications to be the ‘perfected vampire’ that he was. It must have been traumatizing, though he doesn’t mention it. But it was clear that he was very different from the common vampires that she had met or read about. He even appeared and acted quite human and his bloodlust– aside from taking regular bites from her– was rather controlled. He could practically live with animal blood for months at a time. 

“You had them remade for me…” She recalled. 

Damian had taken the clothes he wore that night they met and reused the cloth for Raven, a gesture that had touched her heart.

“It was worth it.” He whispered back, brushing her cheek. “Now, let me help you finish up.”

She sighed but let him help her. Once he got her outer dress on her, he started threading the holes of her girdle that were at the front of her chest, “You know I can tie them myself.”

He stared at her seriously and she pressed her lips tight. “I like doing this for you.” He carefully laced the girdle and gently pulled the string. “Is it too tight?”

She shook her head but studied his face, “You’re staring.” 

He moved his gaze to her eyes, “I can’t help it, it pushes your breasts really nicely.”

She chuckled, “Is that why you like helping me dress?”

He shook his head with a serious frown, “No, it isn’t.” He whispered his answer as he continued to attend to her girdle, tying the ends of the string neatly.

“I believe you.” She smiled at him and he smiled back.

"While I tend to the garden, I'm sure you will play with your stick." She teased and she was suddenly pulled toward him by the waist.

"Oh?" He asked her and she tried to pull away, rolling her eyes.

"You know what I mean!" She huffed and he chuckled letting her go.

"Let me help you with your hair." He stated, changing the topic. 

And she sighed and turned to sit on the bed. He grabbed a hairbrush and carefully brushed her hair. He was adept with braiding her hair and after that, he gathered it all up at the back of her head.

"That will keep the strands away from your face while you garden and do other things." He smiled as he tied a white silk ribbon on her hair. 

She turned to face him and gave him a quick kiss on the lips, "Thank you."

He gently smiled at her, "Well, the least I can do after last night." He teased and she shook her head giggling. "Oh, don't forget to check the herbs I painstakingly gathered." 

At the mention of the herbs, her eyes lit up. And he couldn't help but feel jealous.

“But first let's put on our shoes.” He added softly trying to dispel the unreasonable jealousy that he was feeling. His wife hummed in agreement. 

As usual, as it was something she was used to, Raven sat on the edge of the bed waiting for her husband to get her shoes while she lifted her skirt to her knees. 

He smiled when he saw her and knelt on the floor as he always does. He lifted a foot and kissed it.

“My feet are dirty.” She whispered helplessly, just out of habit. He never listens to her remarks.

He chuckled and kissed her foot again simply shaking his head as he placed her sock on her foot. And he did the same with her other foot. 

“Even if you are covered with mud, I can't help but worship you.” He whispered as he looked up at her with gentle eyes. A soft blush on her face.

Raven watched her husband put on her shoes quietly and he tied her laces with gentleness. She watched him put on his shoes and recalled how he didn't like it if she attempted to do the same for him, so instead, she'd watch him as he haphazardly put on his socks and his shoes as he always does.

He'd place his foot on the wooden edge frame of their bed and that was when she could tie his laces for him. Something she had to fight very hard with so that he'd allow her to do it.

“I don't like you serving me.” He told her.

“I'm your wife, who else should serve you?” She asked back and, in his eyes, there seemed to be so many things he wanted to tell her, but he ultimately sighed and that was the end of the argument.

She won her right to lace his shoes, just as long as she remained seated.

He would never allow her to kneel before him unless of course, it was for a very specific thing that only she could do for him. He used specific words as he brazenly pointed out to her– the only way she’d get to be kneeling between his knees.

When she was done, she got up happily.

"Oh! Let's see what you got me!" There was a jump in how she ran out to find the bag and he sighed, following her out casually.

Raven was quickly putting her mind elsewhere because it started to stray on how her husband likes her between his knees. The only way he'd allow it. And it was making her feel a little flustered and admittedly hot. 

She had already started pulling out herbs and laying them on the table designated for her potion-making. And with each herb she pulled out of the bag, her eyes sparkled brighter and so did her smile. You'd think he gave her gold, jewels, and all the riches he could get his hands on.

Then suddenly it stopped which made him frown. She turned to look at him with watery eyes. He was confused.

"Where did you get this?" She asked with a purple plant in her hand. "This is so hard to come by." She placed the herb on the table and ran to him giving him a big hug.

He didn't expect it and took a step back at the sudden embrace. He steadied them as he pulled her to his chest. You'd think he just gave her the world.

Raven squealed, "The potions I can make with this– of course, once we sell it, the money can last us for months." 

"Oh. That is great news." He smiled down at her.

"I can plant the roots in our garden as it's intact and use just a bit of magic to help it grow." There was worry in his eyes and she smiled at him. 

Raven is a witch but she had to control her magic because of the people she was running away from when they met. She didn't say who she was hiding from and simply told him what matters now is their life together.

The same thing he told her. He supposed it just showed just how compatible they are with one another because they seem to be very similar in their secrecy and preference not to pry.

"Just a bit, the people I'm running from won't find me. I promise." She pouted at him and he sighed, brushing her hairline.

"Your husband is well capable, if they find you, I will handle it." He kissed her forehead then pulled away with a playful smile. "Like you said, I am good with my stick."

Although all he knew was that she was running from someone. Still, that won't stop him from defending her with his life if needed.

She laughed and when it ceased, he stole a kiss from her lips.

"Don't I get a thank you?" He asked, winking at her.

"Was last night not a thank you enough?" She asked him and he sighed loudly, implying that indeed he wanted more. "Besides we have chores to do, later help me go to the river to wash our clothes. We won't have any change of clothes if we don't."

"Yes, wife, your wish is my command." He bowed to her and she shook her head at his teasing.

"Oh, heat the porridge on the hearth, would you?" Raven instructed as she arranged her trove of herbs.

"I should hunt for meat," Damian commented but still went to the hearth to heat their pot of porridge.

"Tomorrow." Raven glanced up at her husband kneeling on the wooden floor. "We have our chores for the day already. And I think we need to bathe; you smell rather sour now."

He chuckled, "You can wash up first then, after we wash the clothes, and I will stand guard."

"Or you can wash up with me?" Raven asked with a demure smile on her lips, though the suggestion was not innocent.

"How could I say no to such a suggestion?" He smiled at her. "I will hunt tomorrow."

Raven was tending to her garden while Damian was on the main path with a long stick and shirtless practicing his blows. A sword rested against their wooden fence. He called the sword a katana. She thought it was a rather odd-shaped sword. But she cannot deny that he was well adept with it.

She was just straight out staring at him and his sweat-filled body. She had many guesses about what he could have been before they met. Judging from his clothes he was a wealthy man. But then he was way too good with his hands.

"If you keep staring, I won't be able to concentrate." She heard him say and she blinked at him and went back to removing the weeds, her ears red.

She stared at the silver-colored ring on her finger. He had crafted it himself. He was certainly skillful with his hands. He repaired the cottage and the fence, he hunted, and he was good with weapons. And there was an air of prestige even when he was just standing around. 

Raven tended to her garden of herbs and vegetables as she recalled how her Destined came home one day covered in dirt.

“I found a cave with some minerals; I can make some jewelry for you. I don’t have gems–” She had run to him and dusted him off, thinking that he had been attacked, and carefully studied his body.

“I’m sorry to worry. I’m not hurt.” He immediately comforted her obvious worry.

“Me? Worried?” She pulled away glaring at the ground, but carefully stole a peek before he could find the words to say anything more. “You can make jewelry too?”

His face lit up when he saw that she wasn’t so upset to the point that she would outright ignore him. 

“Nothing fancy, I can melt this and probably only be able to flatten this up and make a bracelet, but I would love to craft one for you.” He enthusiastically explained. He noted the smile on her lips.

“Let’s set that aside, for now, I do not need jewelry. But which cave did you find this at?” She asked and he told her everything. 

"I'm done here." She got up and he froze from a thrust with his staff.

Even the way he practiced his combat was precise and it was clear that he was well trained.

"I believe most men do not train daily like you." She couldn't help but say, it wasn't the first time she did.

He smiled at her and grabbed his shirt, "Well, I have a wife to protect at home."

Damian attempted to grab her for an embrace which she easily evaded, "Well, now you smell worse!" 

He chuckled and she added, "Let's go get the clothes."

"I'll carry the basket." He responded, putting his shirt on.

Damian carried the basket of clothes as they walked to the river a few minutes away from the back of their cottage. They talked as they made their way closer to the river, sharing laughter, kisses, and smiles.

"Oh, be careful," Damian told Raven and she rolled her eyes.

"You act like we haven't gone through this path a million times, every time." She chided but reached for his hand that was extended to her.

"I treasure my wife." He squeezed her fingers and she smiled.

"Oh, I hear the river." Raven's face perked up.

And he sighed. "It seems you love the river more than me." He drawled, sounding like a sad pup.

She turned her head to him, "How can I not love that river? We got married there." 

He smiled at her and the memory. Twirling the ring on his finger that he made with his thumb.

Raven had her guard up with him even after months of being together. And he did his best to flirt and worm his way to her heart. She resisted even with the bond. But eventually, everything would change.

One day he had asked her if there was a way for him to marry her in her witchy ways. And maybe that was what made Raven fully trust and let him in.

"There is a spell…" She shyly told him. "Are you sure?"

"You're my Destined, I want no one else." He told her.

He then shared his desire to be able to reach her if she was in danger and she shared the same desire. 

"There is also a spell for that." She ventured.

Thus, the ore found that one fateful day, the one he initially wanted to use for her alone, was used to craft a pair of rings.

Damian went to the closest blacksmith and asked to borrow their forge or pay if he had to and made the set with his bare hands. Smelting and cutting it himself, it showed that he was serious about her. And she crafted her spells and used the rings to anchor their desire to protect one another.

She asked him many times if he was sure about their shared plans and dreams of marriage and in a heartbeat, he would tell her that he was sure about her and only wanted her to be his wife.

"The rings need to be bathed in water from three separate full moons. And on the fourth full moon, we need to bathe in the waters of that moon. As we say our vows to the Moon itself. The Goddess herself." She told him.

"Sounds like the best wedding." He whispered to her.

No one in their area wore wedding rings, at least that is what Damian started calling them when someone asked about the twin rings the couple wore. Then her husband would go on an animated discussion about why it is important for others to know that they were taken. 

He was proud to make people know that he was a married man.

She was rather embarrassed as it was far from the norm but more particularly how this goliath of a man turns to a child when faced with the topic of his wife.

They got by the river and Raven tied the hem of her dress, her mind recalling how they decided to get married. And her husband recalled that beautiful night as he watched her fuss over her dress.

She wore her chemise dress and he, his pants and shirt, as they stood in the water by their ankles staring at one another with love. This was the first time she let him see how much she adored him. He didn’t think he had such a firm place in her heart until that moment.

He placed a flower crown he made himself on her head, "I'm sorry this is the best I could give you."

"I love it." She said as her fingers touched a flower. 

He smiled at her words, "Shall we get married?" He lifted his elbow to her and she nodded.

"Beloved, where is your mind straying?" Raven tugged his shirt.

"Well, I understand why you love the river." He smiled and she smiled back then his tone changed, "We had many lovely and passionate times here."

She pushed him playfully and turned to stomp down to the river, "Unbelievable! I can't believe we're married!"

He laughed and steadied her the moment he saw her trip a little.

"Let's wash your dresses first." He said and she sighed. "I’ve been thinking. I think we should get you more."

"Damian, no. We should get you more clothes." She scolded him.

"I can mix and match my clothes. But it pains me to see you wear the same dresses. You–"

"Deserve to have so many dresses that you can't possibly wear them a second time." She cut him off. She had heard that many times before. "I don't want riches, just you." She skipped back to him, pulling him to the water.

"Now you better be helpful and wash the clothes with me." He pouted at her a bit and then sighed, letting her pull him with ease.

"Fine. No funny business, beloved." He promised her and she smiled back.

The two started washing and eventually, he discussed his plans to hunt, "I rather you stay home."

"What? I can join you. Didn't you teach me so I can hunt too?" She looked up at him with a frown.

"The forest hasn't been safe recently." His eyes brushed the forest, certain his mother's men were there. They better know not to look when they start bathing.

"Then the more I should be with you." Raven looked at him with genuine concern. 

He sighed, "Alright."

She smiled and he added, "But if there is trouble, run."

"I know, I know." She pouted.

"I want you safe." He said and she looked at him.

"I want you safe too." She rebuked softly.

He leaned to his wife and kissed the side of her face. “I know. And I will always come home to you.”

Raven couldn’t look at him, so she cast her gaze down to the water, but the soft pink color on her cheeks did not evade her husband’s sharp eyes. He smiled at her reaction softly.

When they were done washing their clothes, he placed them in the basket.

"Let's take a bath." She urged him and he kept his eyes on the forest.

"Let me check the perimeter first,” Damian said, grabbing the hilt of his katana.

“You always do that, no one is in this forest other than us.” She reminds him every time he does his checks.

“It’s a habit, beloved.” He started looking at the forest with a frown.

“No one else is here but us.” She begged, but she saw how his hands tightened on his katana’s hilt and she sighed. “Why don’t we go back for now and bathe when the sun sets, I know it will bring you more peace if we do that.”

He sighed in relief and looked back at her, “Yeah, I would prefer that.”

Her hand was raised to him and he smiled as he reached for her hand to help her out of the water. She had become more reliant on him and he was sure that she wasn’t aware of just how much. He was nothing but happy with her reliance on him, it was quite different from the first few months they were together. Her resistance was obvious just as much as how the bond made her feel for him.

And the sparks whenever their skin touched were always there. Most times their minds won’t register the sparks because they have gotten so used to it. But it was always there.

She hopped to his side, “Well, we have to dry our clothes anyway.” 

His eyes watched her breasts bounce and she clicked her tongue at him. He quickly looked away with her disapproval. He recalled always telling her to wear a partlet over her breasts but she insisted that it was too hot to do so and besides they were alone in the forest. He was thankful when she’d cover up more when they went to town. 

He put on his shoes and she did the same, her foot propped up on a large stone, bending down and from his vantage point the upper part of her breast was quite beautiful. 

She cleared her throat, “I can see and feel you watching.”

This time he cleared his throat, “You act as if I wasn’t worshiping your breast last night.” 

She stood up and put her hands on her hips, “And you could be right now if you didn’t insist on checking the area first.” 

He did not respond to her remark, instead, he said, “Well, let’s go back home and hang our wet clothes.” 

Raven pressed her lips; she knew him long enough. If it was her safety involved, he would not budge. He had never broken his habit of checking the area before she bathed in the river. 

“Well, then, let us go home.” She stepped into place, right beside him. And he picked up their basket.

The trek back was the same, a lot of laughter, kisses, skinship, and loving gazes.

“I love the smell of the forest.” Raven said, “Don’t you dear husband?” She turned to look at him.

“Wow, be careful.” His free hand was already on her waist. 

“You always overreact.” She placed a hand on his shoulder. 

“I do not.” He kissed her forehead and she closed her eyes.

“Since we still have a lot of time, I can start and brew some potions. I would need an assistant.” She studied his face.

“It would be my honor.” He gave her a small bow of his head.

She licked her lips and nodded, “Thank you.”

"Let's go, let's go!" She suddenly pulled him by his wrist.

"Okay." He smiled, letting the small woman drag him about.

When the two got home they hung their laundry on the line behind their house. And shared a kiss when everything was done. Held each other's hands as they made their way to the front.

His eyes brushed their garden, "Should I pick some stuff up?"

She followed his gaze thoughtfully and gave him a sideways hug. 

"I can make do with what we have inside." She answered gazing up at him and he smiled, squeezing her back. 

"Okay." He nodded, kissing the top of her head and she giggled.

The two entered their home and got to work. After a few hours, Raven looked up.

"I think I should make more of my contraception potions too, I'm running low." Damian deeply sighed at her words and hugged her from behind.

"One day we won't need it." He placed a kiss on her shoulder. His wife's hand reached out to caress his face. 

"Hmm… one day." She bumped her head a bit against his, an act of affection. "But for now, I need it, especially with your high libido." She loudly sighed for exaggeration, pouting. She felt his chest rumble against her back.

“I am very controlled just so you know.” He huffed while tightly hugging her from the back and she laughed. He then rubbed his stubble against her face.

“Stop that! It hurts!” She wailed with a smile. 

~.~.~.~.~.~

Later when the sun had set, the two went back to the river hand in hand. Damian took the lead in the dark, his katana strapped to his waist, and Raven holding a small basket with their fresh change of clothes.

“I can see well in the dark.” She reminded him for the millionth time. 

His free hand touched the hilt of his sword as he stopped and watched the surroundings before turning to her with a smile, “I know but I love holding your hand and taking the lead and making sure the path is safe for you.”

She squeezed his hand. “Damian, do you get tired of the forest and our small house?”

“What?” He took a step closer to her and cupped her face with both hands. “Why would you say that?”

She smiled at him vaguely, “You always mention big things for me.”

He leaned his head against hers and adored that she closed her eyes as if relishing his presence, “Because I think you deserve all the riches of the world.” He quietly told her.

Damian remembered the night they went out through the same small trek into the forest to the river to say their vows and do the spell. 

He had just checked the perimeter and got the flower crown that he secretly made for her, his other hand holding his katana. And his breath was blown away at the sight of the woman who would become his wife. Although to be honest, the moment he laid his eyes on her, he saw her as his partner– his wife. There is no reason for him to deny destiny. 

Raven had turned to him, hearing the rustling of the leaves from a bush he had passed by. She was almost mid-calf in the water. She lifted her dress a little, even though the hem was already wet as she smiled at him. 

The sky appeared bluer than it usually was. The water seemed to glisten like silver as the moonlight kissed the surface. Her hair was down in soft waves as she had let it down from the strong braids that he had laced for her. 

Raven could have been mistaken as the water nymph of the river. 

And he fell in love with her more that night. He didn’t think it was possible. But every day with her was just falling for her even more than he thought he could. 

Tonight, he had made his rounds to check the area hand-in-hand with his beautiful wife. And now the couple was by the river and he watched her step into the water which reminded him of that night yet again.

“What are you doing?” She looked up and gestured for him to come closer.

“Just admiring my wife’s beauty.” He smiled at her and she rolled her eyes.

“Always the flirt.” She muttered but there was a soft smile on her lips.

He removed his boots, eyes tracing her figure even through the chemise dress. 

“Will you wash your hair?” He asked and she touched the bundle of hair that he had braided atop her head earlier that day. 

“I suppose it is time…” She muttered and he got into the river.

“Let me help you then.” He got close to her and she turned so that the back of her head faced him. His fingers gently undid the braids as he combed her tresses with his fingers too. 

Watching how her hair had become wavy made him recall their wedding night again. Where they placed the enchanted rings on each other’s fingers and shared a kiss under the sky with the moonlight that made her skin glow. 

“Done.” He whispered and she turned to look at him, hands reaching out to his abdomen and she smiled at him.

“Then we should remove all these clothes.” She whispered looking up at him with her hands slipping under his shirt.

Their eyes were locked on one another, a gentle smile on his lips as the two lovingly looked at each other. 

But good things always come to an end.

However, that story will be saved for a different time. For now, what matters is their time in the woods.

A vampire and a witch who met by chance and were destined to be together. Who lived a very blissful life in the shade of the forest that they knew as home. 

Where being in each other’s arms was comparable to all the riches of the world. 

Where the sparkle in their eyes showed the love, they had for one another that was comparable to the finest of jewels. 

A place where two lovers could not possibly be touched by the cruelty of reality. 

Don’t you think this is a great way to end a story?  Just a little before the protagonists could possibly meet a tragedy. 

~.~.~.~.~.~.~

You have no idea how many times I have edited this and then added more little bits in this fic… if it looks and feels Frankenstien-esque, know that it kinda was. Also, Prince Damian had been plaguing my mind for days. You have no idea the kinds of shit he does to Raven. 

And sorry not really smut. 

And if anyone wonders about the spacing, every time I edit in doc from google drive it changes the spacing. I am too dumb to try and figure it out, sorry.

[femfallenangel]

hello! i loved your Tate fic<3 if you write for Violet I was wondering if you could do a fem reader where she and reader smoke togheter? If not, i'd like a pre death Kyle where they have their first kiss in college, after a party?

rather melodramatic , aren’t you ?

( violet harmon x fem!reader )

warnings ; smoking , mature language.

admin ‘s note ; of course i can :) if you’d like , i can work on kyle ‘s fanfic as well , it shall be out soon <3

A cool northern breeze smoothed your cheeks , leaving a warm red stain from the October coldness lately surrounding the entire city. Dark clouds upon your head seemed so heavy , as if the devil took control over the gloomy afternoon sky.

“ God , it looks like it’s gonna rain “ you whispered to yourself , lighting up the tip of your cigarette , inhaling sharp & deep , straight into your lungs.

“ Who cares , rain is cool. “ a voice behind you caused your body to flicker. A soft wave of dirty blonde hair came into your sight , her laugh mixed with the sound of leaves crushing under her massive , black boots.

“ You scared the shit out of me , geez , don’t do it again ! “ your features lighten up , even if meaning of such words might’ve say otherwise.

Placing herself in front of you on a wide , long brick wall , she took a cigarette case out of her mud green bag , offering you one. You shook off your head , letting her know you already have one yourself by blowing some of the smoke onto her corpse - looking face. She laughed , showing those pearly white teeth of hers. Violet seemed to be an angel sent to this earth , an earth filled with dust and suffering. She deserved better , you thought , lowering your sight.

As if the blonde was a mind reader , she placed a warm hand on much colder yours , caressing the skin softly. “ Rather melodramatic , aren’t you ? “ Violet asked your worried mimic , raising one of her furrowed brows effectively.

Your mouth corners curled up into one , soon fading away smile ; the silence was so loud , but not in an awkward way , not at all. You felt peace , for the very first time in your not - so - long lifetime. The gaze of yours locking with hers dark brown pools caused your intensities to squeeze tight , forcing you to sigh deeply , clearing out your throat after such intense smoke inhaling.

“ Just thinking … You always seem so easygoing , Vi , I mean , how are you doing all this ? Always waking everybody with a smile wide glued onto your lips … Are you a magician or something like that ? “ gulping loud your salvia , your piercing eyes analysed her smoking technique ; agressive & passionate , smoking so fast as if the tomorrow’s not gonna come.

Ash fallen to her feet , Violet’s gaze narrowed all of the very sudden. “ That’s the whole point , ( Y / L / N ). I want people to think that. One day I just got sick of people’s shit and decided to paint my own picture. I make them see only the things I want them to see. The rest I keep hidden. “ her monotonous , slight raspy from the constant nicotine usage tone replied right back at you like thunder.

Tiny raindrops forming quickly into much bigger ones irritated the lit up cigarettes , causing the small fire to crack. Looking at each other again , you fought the urge to wrap your hands around her torso and cry to her chest about how much she doesn’t deserve it. How much you don’t deserve. How nobody dies a virgin. Life fucks us all.

[pattydia]

for the post about fic prompts in the inbox - maybe something about tappert? 👀

It’s not something Eugene mentions to the others as he’s recounting the story — its likely something he’ll take to his early grave — but when he first found Tappert sitting there, stock-still and smiling, surrounded with viscera and blonde hair dyed red, he hadn’t felt frightened, or disgusted, not really. Just sorry. Sorry in the way that he feels sorry for the emaciated dogs who descend on the cold battlefield like vultures to lap up the gore, their ribs showing through patches of burnt, hairless skin.

Because Tappert is the smallest guy in the squadron, stature-wise, but his raucous laugh and go-to-hell drawl and skill with a gun all give him the wherewithal of a much larger man. But when Eugene knelt beside him in the dirt, turned to mud by blood and piss, he had looked like a child. Pink-cheeked. Skin and bones. As if Eugene could have folded him inside his coat and carried him away from the wreckage.

So Eugene hadn’t felt frightened until Tappert held up his hands, big and bruised and pulpy, and said your move. He hadn’t felt frightened until he saw the red string laced between his fingers, a child’s plaything, delicate and complex and impossible to recreate alone.

Hey, he’d said, voice thick and faraway sounding, Tappert. Come on. It’s alright. You’re alright.

He wasn’t alright, of course, but Eugene didn’t know it then.

Now, in the attic, Tappert looks the same as he did on the day he killed all those boys. Fragile. Folded into himself. Eyes enormous and wet and gleaming. Eugene looks at his dirty, freckled face and swallows dryly and feels ill.

My father was a milkman, Tappert is saying. My mother was my dead mother, now a memory. When he grabs Eugene by the collar Eugene can feel the heat pouring off him in waves, heavy with the scent of dirt and rot.

“Are you sick?” Eugene asks, pressing a palm into Tappert’s forehead. “You’re burning up.”

“Quit your worrying,” Tappert drawls thickly. “You sound like my wife, nancy boy.”

“You’re married?” Eugene didn’t know that. He doesn’t know much of anything about the guy, even now.

“Not anymore,” Tappert says, grinning. It’s not a nice smile; his eyes are fixed and glazed. “She died with my baby in ‘er belly.”

“Oh, god.” Eugene looks at the ground so he doesn’t have to look at Tappert’s twisted face. “I’m so … sorry.”

“You know God don’t love us, right?” Tappert continues, bony fingers hooking beneath Eugene’s chin and lifting it so they’re nose to nose. Eugene shivers wildly. “You’re dyin’ for your country and He still don’t love you, turtledove.”

Eugene nods. They’re so close that he can smell Tappert’s sour breath, can see the stains on his teeth from years of cigarettes and weak coffee and bile.

“I know.”

This answer pleases Tappert; he pats Eugene on the cheek. His eyes spark.

“That’s good. Real good. Now take off those fuckin’ glasses, pet. Lemme see your face.” Tappert’s voice is low, lower than Eugene has ever heard it.

Eugene’s stomach twists. He feels his face go hot and red.

“Tappert, come on. You’re sick. You’ve got a fever, you’re not well, lay down.” He thinks of calling down to the others for help. He thinks of the rifle slung across Tappert’s lap.

“I’m right as rain,” Tappert says, still grinning. He reaches up and takes the glasses off himself; Eugene hears them clatter to the rotting attic floor.

“What are you —“ Eugene asks, heart jackrabbiting in his sternum, mouth filling with saliva.

“There,” Tappert interrupts, licking his lips. Self-satisfied and cruel. “Knew it. Pretty as a picture, you are.”

“I don’t …” Eugene can’t think. Tappert’s gaze is so intense, pupils blown, tear tracks shining pink and clean through the dirt on his cheeks. Eugene is distantly aware of something terrible happening under his own kit, below the belt.

“God don’t love us,” Tappert repeats, “so it ain’t like you gotta worry about fallin’ out of His favor.”

“Tappert,” Eugene says thickly. “I’m not —“

“Christ,” Tappert groans, irritated, hands massive and deft on the tarnished buttons of Eugene’s jacket. “Neither am I. It’s wartime, pet.” He laughs like that explains it, explains everything. The noise goes right between Eugene’s legs.

Tappert puts down the rifle and gets on his knees. Eugene wonders if he’s hallucinating as Tappert hooks purple fingertips beneath his waistband. Eugene wonders if he’s snapped, fully and finally, when he feels Tappert’s mustache scrape over the skin below his navel.

Tappert reaches into Eugene’s military-issued trousers and takes his dick out; Eugene stares at the ceiling and tries to quiet his breathing. Tappert’s calloused palm is so hot around him that it feels like a brand.

“Oh,” Eugene breathes, and Tappert laughs.

“Anybody ever did this to you before?” Tappert doesn’t wait for an answer; instead, he seals his mouth around the head of Eugene’s dick.

Nobody ever had done it to Eugene before, so the feeling — warm and wet and tight as any woman — forces a shout from him, makes his hands come down and grip frantically at the thick wool of Tappert’s cap.

Tappert makes a little snorting noise and when Eugene dares to look down his shining eyes are crinkled like he’s laughing. His lips are red and his ruddy cheeks are hollowed and he’s gazing at Eugene through his thick blanket of eyelashes as he works his head up and down.

Eugene’s hips buck up; he can’t help it. He can feel himself hit the back of Tappert’s soft palate and the hum that vibrates through him as he gags.

“Jesus Christ,” Eugene whispers. He reaches down and thumbs a tear off of Tappert’s shining face. He feels numb. He feels like he’s watching himself from the corner of the room. He thinks of acrid smoke and bombs and the sounds men make before they die. He thinks of skinny dogs and red string and blonde curls on detached heads. He digs his fingernails into his palms and comes down Tappert’s wet throat.

“There we go,” Tappert says afterwards as he gets up off the floor, wiping his swollen lips. “It’s alright. Don’t you cry, turtledove.”

Tappert shoulders his rifle and disappears down the creaking staircase. Eugene reaches up to wipe his face. His fingers come away wet.

[quietblueriver]

For your prompts, Avatrice, "do you ever regret it?"

Canon compliant and angstier than originally intended but with what I hope is a hopeful-ish ending. Thanks so much for the prompt. <3 Haven't been able to write them in a while for some reason and hoping this gets me back to it.

-

Beatrice sloshes the amber liquid gently, working to cover the artisanal sphere of ice taking up most of the room in the glass. It’s a moderately successful endeavor, but to get it all the way over the top, she’d need to put more force behind her movement, which she won’t do. 

She may be a sad, semi-drunk ex-nun, but she still has her manners. She's consuming outrageously expensive whisky from an outrageously expensive piece of crystal on an outrageously expensive sofa. She knows better than to put any of them at risk. 

She takes another sip instead, giving up on her game for the moment and leaning her head against the leather cushion behind her, turning to face Jillian, who has finished with her own drink and is making her way to join Beatrice. 

The ball of ice in her glass clinks against the wall of her tumbler as she settles on the other side of the couch, folding bare feet underneath herself. Her hair is down, not messy but no longer in its perfect updo, and Beatrice can see her shoes placed neatly against the wall near the small bar where she’d put together their drinks. 

Dipping her head toward Beatrice’s hand, she asks, “Alright?”

Beatrice hums and nods. It tastes terrible, like smoky mud, and it coats her tongue and leaves a film in her mouth, burning at the back of her throat with every sip. She imagines it’s about as far from a lemon drop as one can get, which means it’s exactly what she wants right now—liquor that feels less like an indulgence and more like a punishment. 

And if she has another glass or two, it may provide a separate kind of punishment tomorrow morning, although it’s not like she has anywhere to be, particularly. 

She’s staying at Jillian’s invitation, unwilling to go back to Cat’s Cradle at the moment and uncertain, since she formalized her renunciation, what her place there would be if she were to return. 

Mother Superion had been clear that she had one, if she wanted it, but she’d also said, voice filled with a kind of understanding that nearly broke Beatrice in half, “Take your time.”

So she is. It has been eleven days since Ava went through the portal, and Beatrice has spent most of those days with Jillian, making herself useful where possible, keeping up with her training, and disappearing every once in a while to sit quietly in a dark room and/or cry under the warm water of the shower until she can’t breathe. Jillian never asks where she has gone, and she returns the favor, continuing whatever task or project they are working on without comment when Jillian returns from an absence with red eyes and a raspy voice. 

They’ve discovered in their time together that it’s easier for the both of them to eat with the other, and better for the both of them to avoid drinking alone, so their evenings have processed generally like this: an easy dinner in Jillian’s kitchen followed by drinks in her favorite study. They talk or they don’t, and as one or the other finishes a second or third drink, they reach tacit agreement to say goodnight, leaving glasses on the small table by the door for Jillian’s staff to handle so that they can repeat the process the next night. 

Tonight is no exception. They’d had white wine with dinner, a bottle between the two of them at the bar in Jillian’s kitchen. They’d picked over a spread of bread and cheese and fruit with little interest but enough sense and determination to make it through more than half before packing the rest away. Now they’re sipping alcohol from Jillian’s impressive collection, settled into what have become their standard seats. 

Nearing the bottom of her glass, Beatrice feels curious, masochistic enough to poke at her own bruises, so she speaks. “My father has a penchant for Japanese whisky. Or he did. I have no idea if it’s still true.” She takes another sip. “He taught my cousin all about it. Lined bottles up in his study. He took him to Japan for his sixteenth birthday for a distillery tour. I think he would have done the same with me, if I hadn’t been…” There are a hundred of her father’s disappointments she could use to finish that sentence. She shrugs. “Me.”

Jillian’s watching her, head tilted against the cushion to match Beatrice’s, glass resting on the arm of the couch. 

“It was Ava who first got me drunk.” Her heart pounds as she thinks about that night, the press of Ava’s body against hers, her breath on Beatrice’s neck uneven with laughter. “Lemon drop shots.” And it’s almost easy to smile, to feel the phantom drip of liquor down her chin, see Ava’s head thrown back in delight. 

“Sweet,” Jillian says. 

“Hmm.” She takes another sip of whisky, coats the memory in the bitter present. “She wouldn’t let me start with wine.”

A snort. “I believe that.”

They finish their glasses in silence, Jillian standing and offering a hand, taking Beatrice’s tumbler back to the bar for a refill. Her eyes wander the room, catch as they always do on pictures of young Michael, framed drawings, shelves of colorful board books and thin paperbacks. The Very Hungry Caterpillar. Goodnight Moon. A whole line of titles in The Magic Treehouse. 

Following her gaze, Jillian says, “He loved those.” Beatrice takes her newly-filled glass back and Jillian arranges herself in her corner again, pulling a pillow into her lap, her shoulders a little less rigid than they were half an hour ago. “Read them over and over. He was so eager for adventure.” She meets Beatrice’s eyes and smiles, small and half-over before it can settle, which is how Beatrice knows it’s real. “They were similar that way, I think. Are,” she corrects quickly, but Beatrice doesn’t flinch at the past tense tonight. 

Jillian keeps the present for Beatrice, a kindness she can no longer provide to herself—they had both seen the remnants of Michael’s body on that floor—and Beatrice is grateful, but she also understands the slip. Understands it more and more with each hour. 

“Ava had a map. I have it now.” Tucked in her closet, something they’d brought from Switzerland. A fold-out map meant for primary school students that they’d found mixed into a bucket of postcards at the thrift shop Ava loved. “She put stickers everywhere she wanted to go. Different shapes and colors based on where each place was on her list. The whole thing was covered.” 

Jillian’s lips pull up at one corner, and they ease back into quiet, Beatrice caught in memories of big brown eyes watching the countryside on a train ride, a red swimsuit, gasps and clapping hands at the farmer’s market. Ava, alive and so eager to stay that way. 

She lets her eyes focus on the creased spines of Pirates Past Noon and Dingoes at Dinnertime, High Tide in Hawaii, thinks of gold stars and blue triangles on a brightly colored map. 

She weighs the question, lands on yes, with a qualifier. “Please feel free to tell me to fuck off.” 

Jillian turns her body fully toward Beatrice, resting her glass on a bent knee and raising an eyebrow. 

“Alright. I will.” 

Beatrice puts her glass on the table, pulls socked feet onto the sofa and wraps her arms around her knees. “Do you ever regret it? Letting them go, I mean.”

Jillian finishes her whisky in one long pull, sits the glass next to Beatrice’s. 

“Every day.” 

Later, after they leave their empty tumblers on the table by the door, Jillian goes to the shelf and pulls Dinosaurs before Dark, rests her palm on the cover for a moment before tucking it under her arm. 

In her own room, Beatrice fumbles through her closet to find the box she hasn’t been able to open yet. She still doesn’t, not really, takes a deep breath and lets her eyes slide over the contents without processing them until she sees what she wants. 

She spreads the map across her bed, straightening corners, and looks at the key Ava made in the bottom left, the hierarchy of colors and shapes. By the time she goes to bed an hour later, she has a list, a few possible first stops. She dreams of Ava and of places she’s never been. 

[spacedoutman]

【𝕻𝖞𝖌𝖒𝖆𝖑𝖎𝖔𝖓 | 𝕬 𝖐𝖎𝖘𝖘 𝖆𝖚】

(𝕻𝖆𝖗𝖙 1)

Description: Kiss—A name worthy for the gang who kissed everything goodbye for money, thrills and most of all, to go out in a blaze of glory.

Y/N, a once aspiring actor not only struggles to find their place in all of it, but to save their husband, Paul Stanley, whose desperate to be saved as his feet sink deeper in the mud with each robbery and heist.

Morals are not only tested, but wrecked. Will the members turn on each other before they can even catch a breath or can they work together to deter the cops for just a few days longer? Will one slip up or wrong turn on the road lead to everyone filled with led and their corpses displayed proudly on poster cards?

Can you and Paul lie to each other and pretend that everything’s okay and that none of this is happening?

♥ Paul Stanley x Reader

Note: I'm very new to using Y/N so if it's a bit funny let me know please! I also moved the era up to the 30s. I have so much planned for this fanfiction and I appreciate all of your support MILLIONSSS!!!~~<3

I know Gene won the poll, but when I thought in depth about it, x Paul would open up a lot more doors in this circumstance. Promise I'll do a G x reader though! This fanfic is gonna go a lot of places and I couldn't be more excited for it (or maybe make Gene a mob boss who knows)

Hope you enjoy it as much as I do! Thank you for reading <3

Warnings: None

𝕽𝖊𝖆𝖉 𝖕𝖆𝖗𝖙 2 / 𝖆𝖔3

Silence eased in. Just like her presence. The piano slowed as her face, framed by tight, heavenly curls conquered the screen. Her eyes flitted down. She tensed. A frown painted on her thin lips. Tears welled in her lifeless eyes, sparkling like a lake under the evening sun. Her long, full lashes could’ve hit her cheek. A tear ran down her face, leaving a line in her blush.

Your heart sped up. You leaned close as you could get without hitting the seat in front of you. Tears barreled down your face. Your mother laid a hand on your shoulder, gently pulling you back. Your gleaming eyes were wide and alert. Your mouth hung open. “Y/N.” Your mother’s soft voice filled your ears. “Sit back.”

Your eyes followed the woman, who raced through the black and white mansion like it was some sort of dance. She snatched a suited man’s sleeve. He looked down with a flat gaze as she yanked it over and over with everything she could muster. The burning light from the massive window behind her touched her edges. She glowed like a jewel. Her lips moved. The excited piano spoke for her.

‘Don’t you want something else? Something other than to leave me here to rot?’

White words in a thin frame pasted across a black screen before the man looked down. He frowned. His brows slightly furrowed. He breathed as quick as a rabbit ran. Run he did. He tore away. She stumbled, clutching her chest and toppling into the silk curtains. How you could tell? The way they shone. He stared as she hugged the cloth like it was keeping her from falling. To where? Who knew.

Her legs trembled and buckled. She buried her face in her large fur coat and collapsed. The piano calmed as the screen faded to black. You tugged your mom’s sleeve. “Mom.” You whispered sharply, furrowing your brows tightly. Your mother looked down, her eyes widened a little. “Those curtains are silk.”

“They could be anything, dear. Enjoy the movie.”

Your mother looked up. You tugged her sleeve harder. Her eyes fell. “Do you think I’ll ever be her??”

“Quiet down.” She gently pat your head. “Now, what do you mean by that?”

“Do you think I can be where she is?”

“On the silver screen?” Your mother’s face softened as she looked out. You nodded quickly. Your mother glanced. “Well, you’ve got to be at the right place at the right time. It also depends mostly on who you know.”

“But I could do it nonetheless, couldn’t I?”

“I believe you could.”

Your head calmed like a still sea. The piano faded. Quiet chatter whispered in its place. Your eyes drifted to the screen. Your mother pulled her handbag from beside her and stood up. You looked down. “Dear.” Your eyes widened, shooting to your mother. She smiled softly, holding her bag close. She rested her hand on your shoulder. You couldn’t stop yourself from smiling. Your heart sped up.

“I know you can.”

1931.

Cool mist touched your neck. Roses flooded your lungs like an ocean. You breathed deeply and gave it another good spray. The fancy flower-shaped bottle sat cozy in your palm as you slipped it on your vanity. The little liquid left inside settled in the very bottom. You pulled the necklace from between your lips and put it on.

You fiddled with the clip for what felt like years—all while your reflection judged you. You sighed. A little more perfume. You couldn’t wipe away your smile. What was it even for? You leaned forward. You turned a bit. Your blush was symmetrical. You tilted your chin and applied a little more red to your lips. Your eye twitched.

Your eyeliner wasn’t close to symmetrical by a long shot. Another deep breath. The smell of roses eased your fried nerves. Copper pennies strung evenly around your neck, shining like gold. You fixed your dress collar just one more time before cupping your tight waves. “Wonderful.” You sighed tiredly as you laid back in the wooden chair like it was a bed.

You stopped yourself from laying a hand over your eyes.

Your chest caved as you let out every bit of air left in your lungs. Silence was as golden as cash and as golden as the ring on your finger. You smiled warmly.

“Treasure?”

A voice soft as moonlight interrupted. You slid off the chair, hopping up and rushing through the bedroom. You reached out. The door eased open. There he was. Your heart fluttered in your chest like a bird. Joy washed through your head like it was the first time you met. You swore there wasn’t a moment love held those large, exhausted brown eyes captive.

You melted in his arms, sinking in his chest like butter. He leaned into you. One hand rested gently on the back of your head, the other on your waist. His touch turned that joy into pure ecstasy. He rested his chin on your head. You snuggled into his mud-caked red checkered shirt and overalls. The stench of sweat and probably pig shit scorched your nose. You fought yourself to breathe.

“I’m so sorry.” You murmured. He swept the flat cap off his head, letting it hit the floor. “I.. I still get overwhelmed by your presence.”

You stepped back. There was no way in hell you’d pull your eyes away from his. His little smile turned to a shining airy grin. “I’d have it no other way.” He cupped your hands. The moment your palms touched, you swore a bit of electric buzzed. You popped up, planting a long kiss on Paul’s soft lips. You still felt his smile under yours.

“Ready for bed?” You said softly, pulling away. He chuckled.

“I’ve got to get changed.” He sighed lightheartedly. “If I move wrong, the mud’s gonna fall off.”

You waved your hand dismissively. “Don’t take long.” You playfully corrected.

“And what if I do?” He cooed, tapping your nose.

“Then I’ll be asleep when you get in here.” You smirked. His gaze somehow got softer.

“I knew I had to see you.” His voice lowered barely over a loving whisper. “You’re a blessing.”

“I could say the same for you.”

Your gaze intoxicated him. His gaze herded every worry from your soul. It was like you stood in front of him at the altar all over again. He lightly wrapped his arms around you and pulled you closer tan peas in a pod. You laid your hands on his chest, closing your eyes. His heartbeat surrounded you like an echo. You swore you didn’t need anything else.

“Don’t you need a new necklace?” He teased. Your lips fell to the corner of his mouth.

“I need my Stanley to come back to bed.” You purred. “Tell him that I’ll come down with a belt if he pushes it.”

Paul giggled. “I’m surprised it took you that long to use your mother’s perfume.” He combed his hand over your hair, careful not to mess it up. “What are you all dolled up for anyway?”

“I don’t know. You usually don’t come home this early.”

“Treasure. It’s almost midnight.”

You clutched him, shutting your eyes tightly. “You.. don’t come home till’ Sunday, if even.” You faltered, gloom leaking in. “I wish I could see you more often. I’d do anything.” Paul closed his eyes. He squeezed you.

“I’m working for it. We’ll be together before we know it.”

The words crawled to the top of your throat. You held your breath for a split second.

“You don’t get paid.”

“Seeing you is enough.” He forced in a sprinkle of joy.

“Seeing you is enough for me too. But we can’t live this. You and I both know it.”

“Once I get enough, we’ll be in the city before you know it.” His hand ran down your back, stopping midway. “And before you know it.. you’ll be on the silver screen. Just like you always wanted.”

[elrielbaby]

I find chapter 51 interesting for a number of reasons, high amongst them is that there’s a ton of foreshadowing for Nesta:

“What is that” Devlon asked

…

“Is she a witch.”

I opened my mouth, but Nesta said flatly, “Yes”

And I watched as nine full-grown, weathered Illyrian warlords flinched.

“She may act like one sometimes,” Cassian clarified, “but no — “she is High Fae”

“She is no more High Fae than we are,” Devlon countered

… Nesta… she was a freshly forged sword, waiting to draw blood.

Now, why do I find this interesting for Nesta? Rhys, I think perhaps in ACOFAS, calls Nesta Illyrian. Devlon, says she is no more high Fae than we are. To me that all points towards her role as a Valkyrie, partaking in the blood rite, becoming a warrior & her mate being Cassian who is heavily involved with the Illyrians. The freshly forged sword should speak for itself, she wields a sword as a warrior & also forges her own.

So that brings me onto this… what is said about Elain?

Elain was just blinking, wide eyed at the camp

Devlon just grunted at her

She was a rose bloom in a mud field filled with galloping horses.

If Elain was a blooming flower in this army camp…

These are the obvious quotes but these ones really make me think

‘Mor & I remained on either side of Nesta… We kept Elain half-hidden behind the wall of our bodies’

‘Nesta stared them all down. Elain kept her focus on the dry, rocky ground’

Now again I may be absolutely bonkers crazy but I think we’ll look back at this after Elain’s book & realise that this was clear foreshadowing for her being a spy. Particularly those last two quotes (I’m still unsure on those first four but I’m sure they mean something - I think the juxtaposition of a rose in a mud field is super interesting)

Where else have we seen the phrase half-hidden? When Nesta placed the Rose carving next a figurine of the mother in ACOSF half-hidden in the shadows

Nesta stared them all down (as, perhaps, a general would?) and Elain kept her gaze on the dry rocky ground - she’s trying to make herself unnoticeable- trying not to garner attention.

I’ve mentioned this before but at the end of this chapter we have them going to Graysens estate, which Feyre refers to as a fortress & a prison then we get this line —

‘And the would-be mistress of this prison…’

Now if that isn’t clear foreshadowing I don’t know what is!

[luniellar]

Dain gets a bad rep, I get it. But, give him a chance?

I started writing a Dain's POV fanfic that is a retelling of the canon events from Fourth Wing and Iron Flame. We just made it to events from Iron Flame and some of my favorite scenes are coming up so I wanted to reach out to the Tumblr community to see if anyone might be interested! I haven't kept up with updates here, so I'm here to try to convince you!

SPOILER WARNING! Do not proceed if you have not read Fourth Wing or Iron Flame.

Things to know going into it:

I will not be pushing Dain X Violet because let's be real Xaden X Violet is end game (but I would be interested to see if you guys who you would pair Dain with....👀)

My own interpretations do not venture far from canon events! It follows the chapters from the books and I have chapter references for each chapter in case you wanted to follow along

If you hate Dain, this fanfic may bring you joy as he suffers from jealous syndrome and heartbreak (multiple times)

You get to see Dain's interaction with a sassy (but still caring) dragon personality, Cath

There are 7 chapters out already! (and you heard it here first, the infamous interrogation scene will be coming in 2 chapters!)

If you are suffering from FW/IF hangover, this will help!

Some excerpts:

A sudden lightning storm.

Then a lightning strike hits a window on the third-year floor.

And there was only one lightning wielder I knew. 

I clenched my jaws as my hands curled into tight fists. I tasted nothing but bitterness in my mouth as I tore my gaze from the window that was there just seconds ago. I needed to get back to my room. My legs pushed against the soft mud as I forced myself to walk into the same dormitory building filled with disgust. 

I found her, but I don’t think I have the guts to tell her tonight. Maybe someday, but not tonight.

And fuck, I’m petty.

Chapter 4

Mira stands back and looks around the room. “Who is in command?” She glanced at Quinn and added. “And let’s pretend that I don’t have three years of seniority on even the highest-ranked of you.”

I sat up straight, looking at Mira. “Then I’m in command.”

“Our wingleader is here,” Liam pointed at Riorson. “I would say that puts him in command.”

Gods, can Liam go suck Riorson’s dick anywhere else? 

“We can pretend I’m not here, just for the sake of the exercise.” Xaden lounged back, moving his arm across the back of Violet’s arm. I gritted my teeth as I glared back. “Give Aetos here the position we all know he craves.” 

Chapter 6

If I slightly convinced you, check out Defy on AO3 or Wattpad!

With that, I'm out! If you are following my Garrick X OC fanfiction Breathe Me, I am working on those updates too! Thank you for coming to my TED talk.

[strayzband]

The camera comes to focus on the inside of a car. Sitting beside me in the back is Stuart Pot, dressed in an old hoodie and skinny jeans. His ponytail is even messier than usual. He rubs his head so intensely that his beanie is starting to slip off. I’m not sure he notices.

Alright! Thank you for agreeing to this

.

My hand suddenly comes into view as Stuart shakes it. I don’t know how to feel. I’m not really supposed to be on camera. He lets go and holds his hand up, and I fall silent before asking the first question.

Hol’ on… yew mind if I…?

The camera nods up and down.

Not at all! Go ahead.

Smiling at me, Stuart reaches past Russel to roll down the window and makes a joint with frightening speed. Certainly looks like he made it quickly though. From the front, Noodle looks back at him and frowns as he lights it and takes a long drag, and immediately starts coughing his lungs up.

…Are you alright?

He nods, eyes watering.

Okay… Ah’ve made it past the chokin’ phase, ah’ll be awright now.

He hits it again, and immediately starts coughing his lungs up. Noodle turns back around. Russel slaps him on the back, and smoke blows out of his mouth.

Eh, fanks, Russ…

I clear my throat. The car is rapidly filling with smoke, even with the window down.

Can I start the interview now?

Stuart grins.

‘Course yew can!

I’ll start simple. Anything you’d mind sharing about the upcoming album?

‘m not s’possed to say much… but i’s real good! Trust!

He grins at me, and it’s clear I’m not getting any more than that. I move on.

I need to know – why, after everything that happened, did you decide to join a new band?

Stuart shrugs, a hand in his ponytail.

Got kidnapped. N’ I di’n’t have anyfink better to do, so I though’ I migh’ as well, y’know?

…Interesting. And, what do you think of your bandmates?

If I thought he was smiling before, it’s nothing compared to the reaction to that question. He positively beams at me.

Luv em. The lot’uh em. Noodle’s my favourit’, probably. She’s well cool, she is, love her. We, uh, we play games n’ stuff. ‘S fun. Russ’s great too, though! Don’t talk all’at much, but ‘e’s real real cool when ‘e does. Cool when ‘e doesn’t, too. E’s a listener, ain’t he? We needed on’a those.

He pauses for a moment too long, then grins.

‘N Murdoc’s me best mate. Place would be borin’ wi’out ‘im.

Hmm. Well, this is just something I’ve been wondering… why dye your hair blue? Is there any meaning behind the colour?

I di’nt dye it.

I pause.

Did somebody else?

Nah. When ah was a kid, yeah, I used to climb trees a load. Freaked my mum out, I thought it was a right laugh, I did. Always liked trees. Nice t’ have sumthin’ bigger th’n yew about. ‘Neway, so one day ah was up in one by me house, n’ I tripped n’ fell on me arse, totally cracked me head against the street. Wild. All my hair came straight out, n’ it grew back this colour. Hasn’t gone away yet. Whole thing’s mad wicked.

That didn’t make any sense, so for my own sake I assume he’s high. I file the whole thing away as interesting trivia.

I notice Stuart has been looking at me expectantly every time I start to ask a question. I’m not sure what exactly he wants.

Stuart? Are you hoping I’ll ask something specific?

He shrugs, a boyish smile on his face.

Well, y’asked Muds abo’ those rumours ‘bout us. Thought yew might ask me too, dunni?

I hesitate for a moment, before remembering that Stuart is far less… dangerous than Murdoc. Maybe he’ll actually give me something I can use.

Well, are they true?

He just keeps smiling at me. From up so close, I can see the chip stuck between his teeth. Murdoc, who’s been driving, is carefully watching. I’m honestly tempted to tell him to keep his eyes on the road.

Yeah.

Murdoc nearly crashes the car. He glares at the both of us.

Murdoc: He’s a liar!

Stuart laughs, slipping down his seat until his feet rest against the back of Murdoc’s head.

Am not! I c’n prove it!

Before I have the chance to take him up on the offer, Murdoc twists back in his seat and grabs my camera. The video goes black as Murdoc can be heard swearing while Stuart laughs, before it cut out.

[vsnotresponding]

CHAPTER 1 - THE CREATOR - IRA II

masterpost

Days pass, weeks perhaps. I don’t know. The cell is dark, and I’m unable to see or hear the guard change. I’m numb and cold all over and don't even know why. Not even my creation, beating hotly against my jaw, manages to warm my body. What’s worse, her comforting presence, that once gave me strength, weakens me now instead, leaving my head lethargic and full of fog.

My arm hurts, my forearm constricted by a soft material where I got punctured. It stings when I flex it, pulsing at the loss of blood. My scrapped knees ache at the contact with the floor. I could stand, if I wasn’t so tired, but the chains are too short for me to lay down, so I’m forced to remain kneeling.

Blinding light comes with a young woman, skin dark just like mine, who feeds me and changes the bandages in my arm and hands. The cadence of her voice is familiar, known, soft vocals and words I know I should be able to understand. It sounds like home, like hot dirt under my feet and the faraway voices of the dark market, like towering mountains and the saltiness of the breeze.

It isn’t comforting. Instead, it spikes fear in my chest.

On the days when my head is less foggy, I look around the cell as she works on me. Dried mud and blood cake the otherwise pristine white flooring where my clothes touch it, even after she tries to clean it. It is a futile task, with my dirty and torn week-old clothes still stuck to my skin.

Some days I try to move around, even if it means crawling in the unknown darkness that feels infinite without a light, the walls out of reach, my body suspended in the void. But everything just hurts too much. I’m out of strength.

I can barely remember how I got here.

My head burns, yet my chest remains frozen. I dream of home, of the outskirts, of my athir and Hamza. The burned dark mud, the sun above our heads. We are doing nothing. We don’t need to flee or fight for food. We don’t need to hide from the imitators' golden capes.

But that’s not really home, because that peace never existed. It’s not real, just a mirage.

Still, I wish to stay and live in my dream.

I miss the sun. Not the sun exactly, but the light and its warmth. It’s dark in here, and the light the woman brings with her is cold and unfamiliar. There’s no sky, no infinite horizon to lose my gaze in, no endless sea to trail with my eyes as poison comes off it.

It’s still raining on the surface. I think. There’s a repetitive sound, drop after drop hitting the floor. The only thing that breaks the silence beyond the rattling of the chains and the rasping of my uneven breaths. A leak, perhaps?

When light appears, I glance at where the sound is coming from.

Not a leak, but blood. Craning my neck to find its origin sends painful jolts down my spine, but I don’t mind them. The manacles at my wrists have cut into my skin, and blood slowly falls from the metal into the floor. If I could reach those drops, if I could touch my scarred left hand to the new blood, I could create. But my hands are too far away, chained up over my head and back.

And, I remind myself, I am too weak.

I don’t remember hurting myself with the chains, but I do remember the nightmares. I trash around and wake up dizzy. Sometimes I’m not even sure I awake, the darkness of the sea swallowing me until I'm nothing.

In my dreams, everything ends. Before this—I know there was a before, I remember a before—I see us, weak. Me more than Hamza, Níniam more than me. The headaches, the fever and the coughing, sometimes wet with blood. Worse with every step, every breath. The other inhabitants of the outskirts, also sick, or getting sick. The struggle to breath on the worst days, our desperate panting filling the stale air of what we called our home.

I remember, but it feels like it happened to another. I’m not sure if I’m too weak to cough, or if what they’ve been giving me is a medicine of some kind. I can't tell if the salty aftertaste in my mouth is from the nightmares where I drown or what she makes me drink.

It’s been an eternity since I was certain of anything.

I know I call, at least. When the fog clears just enough and the numbness is deep enough to mistake for strength. I sing. To Ila. Again and again and again. My voice is rough and broken, but I don’t stop. If I focus, I can bring a little light to the cell. Weak, orange; warm and familiar. It’s enough to see the crooked slope of my nose if I unfocus my eyes. 

Even then, I don’t open my eyes often.

Calling, like this, is best done with our eyes blind to the world. What it has to show us can’t compare with what can’t be shown. What really matters is what Ila lets us see when we close them, a kaleidoscope of light beating in tune with the island and with our hearts.

I ask her for my athir and Hamza’s, but there’s still only silence, and darkness.

Do I get better? I can’t tell. My head is full of cotton, like it’s floating, even though I know it rests against my chest. There are no pillows. Every time I awake, I know more things through the fog in my thoughts. I thread them together, more cohesive than before. I can, with difficulty, think consciously.

Before this, I was running, and it was raining.

The cough comes back, gentler now.

Before this, a creation dissolved in my grip when I got captured.

I focus on getting better.

Before this, there was a room filled with people when my blood was stolen.

Little by little I come back.

They haven’t stolen more from me.

I don’t stop my calling.

I am in a cell. I was captured. A khithi woman comes to heal and feed me twice a day. She has drugged me with a salty substance. The imitators have me but haven’t done anything about it. Yet.

The rain has stopped in the surface, but the dripping in the cell keeps going uninterrupted. The young woman has tried to dress my wrists, but to do that she’d have to release my arms, so she doesn’t. The light she brings with her is an oil lamp, a rarity I’ve only seen on ships leaving the island before.

She always leaves it outside the cell and takes it with her when she leaves. As a precaution, I suppose, though I don’t know what I’d do with it at all.

Obviously, they don’t use imitations for light around me. It would be stupid to award me with such a chance, so the world stays silent around me, the void only filled by my own creation. 

I don’t try starting a conversation, and she doesn’t either. She limits herself to announce what she’ll tend to next and to coax me to eat, and then she leaves. I swallow the food unenthused even if I should be grateful for it. I’ve never had so many complete meals so close to each other and with such frequency, but the food feels like lead in my stomach.

On my most lucid days, I see her sneaking glances at my left ear, but she hasn't taken my creation away yet. I’m not sure why. She's khithi too, but she's an imitator so it probably doesn't mean much to her anymore in spite of her golden eyes.

Sometimes I hear her talk to the guards. Their voices are distant and in gair, but I know they are talking about me. They use that word, "fatir". Creator. It’s the only word I manage to decipher most of the time before falling back unconscious, exhausted from the effort. 

It's harder to stay alert without the drug they've now taken away. My head is still muddled and heavy on my shoulders, and my whole body hurts. Still, I feel my strength returning and the numbness start to fade away.

I’m able to stay awake for more than a few minutes, of standing more or less straight instead of hanging from the chains like a rag, and of observing the cell. My skin is stark against the whiteness of the room, pale like the moon or the skin of an énna when they die—the sterile color broken by the marks past prisoners made, and the trail my blood leaves after falling from my arm to the floor.

Lately, this is how I occupy my time. I listen to the rhythmical sound—I feel how the drops fall to the floor: first on my skin, warm still, then as they pass into the cold metal and then as they drop, their fall fast and yet never ending as I focus on it. And then they are on the floor. I imagine myself touching them, feeling the power that runs through my veins on my hand, hearing in my mind the old chants and rituals.

I took it for granted before, this connection, between my heart and the earth, the island, the Iria and somewhere deep in the mountains, the Core. Dormant, alive, and sick.

Now, the energy is only a memory, as is everything. It feels like I’ve been here for months, but realistically I know it’s been a few days at the most. Never ending, yes, but they haven’t been enough for my new wounds to heal.

I clench my bandaged hand, but it’s in vain. The woman knows how to do her job, and apparently, she understands pretty well how we creators work. More than I expected, for she makes sure my arms stay out of reach of my face, too. She’s probably one of the few non-creator khithi that knows this much, and I want to feel betrayed, but I can’t.

We do what we must to survive.

Right now, I simply wait for them to make a decision on what to do with me. I debate the options in my head in an attempt to entertain myself, but I can’t come up with anything. If they wanted me for aldamus I would be in the imitators’ workshops, not here, in a cell the gods know where under the palace. They haven’t taken more blood away, so either the profane experiments they conducted have proven my blood is useless—which wouldn’t surprise me—or they’ve realized that my body’s too weak to go through a heavy blood loss.

In both cases, it's a problem of their own creation. Everything wrong with the island is: the dying Core, our sickness... all caused by their arrival on the island and their eagerness to play with the gods' gifts that never belonged to them.

I rattle the chains and try to move my shoulders when their stiffness turns to pain from the uncomfortable position my arms are kept in, but more than alleviate the pain, it strengthens it. Sighing, I look at the ceiling, sleepy. The food is late today, the wick of the lamp they have started to leave outside permanently almost out. The delay does give me more time to think, at least. I need a plan of action, but everything I can come up with is rash, ridiculous or unrealistic.

Hamza would be so much better at being a prisoner than I am. He has the patience and cunning it’d take to form a successful escape plan, even in these circumstances. Qualities I certainly do not have. The one thing I’ve ever been better at than him is creating, which hasn’t been very useful for me since I was captured.

But then again, I’d never needed to be all those things he is because I had him to take care of me. I always did.

My heart clenches. I miss him. And Níniam.

I hope he’s okay.

I yank the chains in frustration—nothing happens, like the last hundreds of times. The guards don’t even come to check on me, because they know I’m not a threat, not even to myself. They can’t keep me in here forever, at the very least. They’ll have to get me out eventually. If I were in better shape, I could try and escape, but that’s out of the question. My creation, hanging from my left ear, is no more than a useless weight.

At least it reminds me of home.

Tiredness turns into boringness. There’s no sunlight, so I can’t tell the pass of time with sureness. Only the wick of the lamp, my regular feeding times and the visits from the golden eyed girl help bring the semblance of a routine.

I’m not used to this inactivity, much less staying still in the same position for hours, spending days without talking. My muscles ache with the desire of movement, of running across roofs until my legs give out, of climbing the ruins on the outskirts, sometimes for pleasure, most days to escape from guards and imitators.

As the hours creep by, I feel more and more awake, and this leaves me time to think. I use it to calm myself, telling me that Níniam and Hamza are safe on the outskirts. Worried about me, sure, but safe. At the very least, they can be sure I’m still alive, as I know they still are: their heartbeats echoing in my creation and my own heart.

The lamp’s light mutes my surroundings, the white turning warmer, the shadows of the little metal door on the floor moving with the rhythm of the flame in time with the sound of my blood hitting the floor.

I’m bored. And, to make matters worse, the woman is late, again. She’s later every day.

She’s started to fidget when she finds me awake. I’ve taken to looking at her, unashamedly. Her dark skin, her equally dark hair, coiled and thick, forming a halo around her head and flowing over her shoulders. She wears imitator white with gold thread on the high collar of her tight sleeveless tunic, and the golden cape tied around her waist instead of her chest.

There’s dried blood stuck to the soles of her boots.

And there’s also the question of her golden eyes, reminiscent of a time when khithi ruled our island and Ila was still alive. I thought the last of them was now an unimportant member on the Council, an old woman Hamza complains about often. But apparently there’s another one, an imitator with khithi blood on her shoes, taking care of a chained creator.

Hamza would have a field day with the information. To me, it’s bitter. It’s been more than a century since the creator hunt started, since we transformed into rats in the eyes of the énna, when before we were treated almost as demigods. Because, apparently, just like rats and illness on the continent, we are the bearers of the Core’s sickness. 

Because we are only good for what can be made from our blood.

Blood that’s permanently stuck to her boots.

And yet, she’s also let me keep my creation.

So I try not to overdo my unsubtle scrutiny, seeing as it makes her so uncomfortable she has started to procrastinate feeding me. I really don’t want to give her sufficient reason for her little act of decency to be over.

I look at her, and keep quiet, even if I have questions. I don’t allow myself to voice them.

That would be a terrible idea. It would disturb our little truce too much.

Also, if I were to talk to her, it would most likely be insulting and unkind.

A sudden coughing fit takes me out of my thoughts, leaving my throat sore. My stomach growls. Now I’m not only bored, I’m also hungry. I don’t know much gair, only some insults and the like, some orders and titles. I reason with myself that I shouldn't do it, just for a fraction of a second, but at this point, my rashness wins over prudence.

The girl isn’t here, and I don’t owe anything to the guards that insist on ignoring me.

I will be the most annoying prisoner they’ve ever had.

Loudly clearing my throat for dramatic effect, even if it stings my throat, I shout what I think is a greeting in gair in the hopes the guards will understand me, if they even hear me.

“Hello?” The oil lamp hisses as the wick runs out. “Little pawns?” Silence. “I’m hungry,” I stop, waiting for a reaction to my ilan. They might not understand me, but it’s annoying to have someone shouting in the background constantly. I’m also sure that, like me, they've learned a few insults in ilan in their years as jailers. “Yo, assholes!” There’s a distant shuffling of clothing. I let my smirk be plain in my voice. “At this rate, I’ll bleed out before someone comes. It would be a tragedy if something happened to me, like, I don’t know, starving to death. It’s awful, I’ve seen it, you know?” The little flame has moved onto the excess oil at the bottom of the lamp. “Do you know what’s awful, too? My mood when I’m bored. And hungry. I’m sure you've noticed. Hunger does do a number on you. You become weak, and your ribs start to stick out as your body consumes itself, and then—”

I don’t stop. The light dies in front of me and the dripping continues, but an annoyed groan joins the sound, closer than expected. It only takes a couple of more minutes, after I’ve gone into describing with as much detail as I can remember what a starved corpse looks like, when a bang rattles the metal door.

“Shut up!” The voice is deep. It startles me, not the interruption, that I expected, but the language. It’s not gair, it’s ilan. The man takes a deep breath, and I can imagine him rubbing his face with his hand. I smirk, making people lose their cool is my specialty. “Just—shut up. Áine will be here in a second.”

“Áine? Do you mean the girl?” Of course he means the girl.

“We are not supposed to talk to you.”

“Little late for that, don’t ya think?” Silence. I try again. “I was unaware the khadae’s pawns were well versed in the old tongues. Do they make you learn them to shoot back insults at your prisoners? Oh wait, no, you are not supposed to talk to them.” I shift in place, trying and failing to find a comfortable position. “You don’t have an accent… do they now let we outskirt scum join the imitators? I thought the arbitrary arrests were to locate creators, not start a half blood guard.”

“Enough.” He doesn’t shout, but his voice is hard. He's moved in front of the metallic door, where a light from down the corridor just manages to reach him. I swallow in surprise and squirm, uncomfortable now. I might have said too much. Shocker.

“You are aldamu.”

They receive the same name as the hybrid abominations imitators do with creator blood. Not an imitation by virtue of containing our blood, but not a creation by the flaw of not being made by one of us. And just like them, they are rare. They weren’t, before, when the énna first arrived to the island, but they are now. There are khithi, not many, and plenty of énna, and then most of the citizens, merchants and laborers, descendants of what once were aldamu. Their blood is far too diluted now to be considered anything.

But aldamu, they certainly are something. His énna parent must be someone powerful enough to have him be an imitator.

I wonder what happened to his khithi parent.

The man analyzes me, and I return the favor. His skin is dark, which gave him away. Not like mine, but way darker than anyone you’d find in the city. It’s even darker in the shadow. He has curly black hair, short on the sides, and an imitator’s golden cape around his chest.

His tunic is dark blue, which is odd. He’s not wearing any imitations on him.

His hands are fisted. I can’t see the color of his eyes, but his glare is easy enough to note.

He is about to talk when we both hear hurried steps coming towards us. The aldamu turns, and I think I see Áine’s thick and curly hair, and her darker skin. She’s not bringing any food. She looks at us, first me in between the bars, then him. I can’t see her face, partially hidden by the white walls, but her body seems to square up.

After a quick exchange of words in gair, the aldamu opens my cell’s door, but not before sending her way a quick complaint. I look back and forth between them when she answers him, folding her arms. The young man snorts, and I look at them, confused, until he takes a step forward, and I remember I’m tied down in an imitator cell, with one of them inside, opening my chains. There’s no dried blood on his boots, at least.

I close my eyes and clench my jaw in pain when my arms fall, stretching the muscles of my shoulders and back all too suddenly after not moving them in days. He picks me up, and I find myself too confounded to resist.

And just as I get used to the new discovered lightness in my arms, he ties me up again, now in shackles behind my back. He tightens them too much, on purpose, if I had to guess. I walk out of habit, the aldamu yanking me here and there every time my legs stumble from lack of inactivity. I realize I’m still barefoot, then, of my once white tunic now broken and soiled with dirt, my pants stiff from the mud and the dried blood in them.

We are met with a bunch of imitators at the door, all of them énna, all of them with blood on their boots. I notice their imitations hanging from their pure white tunics, but before I can even begin thinking of a plan, I’m met with the point of a spear and what I suppose is a warning to behave. I hasten to cover my creation with my short hair as much as I can, lowering my head. Brain addled, I swallow, nauseous and disoriented. Everything is going by too quickly, my brain still thinking to the slow rhythm of my life in the cell.

The guard with the spear, a blond guy, moves behind me, two of his partners replacing the aldamu, each on one of my sides, grabbing my arms with too much force. When one of them tightens their grip on my bandages, the pain almost makes me fall to the floor. I cough, choke, harsh and loud, throat on fire. The imitators don’t even react. They don't even wait for me to stop to start dragging me through a labyrinth made of tunnels until we emerge into the surface, the sunlight blinding me as it bounces on the white marble walls. I’m shoved, and I find myself walking through Iria’s palace.

Everything is too white and too bright, covered with gold. At least the floor is made of a darker stone. I focus on it and on clearing my thoughts. I try to revise the conversation between the aldamu and Áine, who is still following us. They might have mentioned the shahin, but I’m not entirely sure. In any case, whatever I decide to do next is going to be crucial.

For a second, I think of making a run for it, but they are too many, I'm still weak, and the sheer force of the imitations hanging on the walls and on their necks makes my head spin. I don't even have a way to orient myself on the palace. My only option is to behave. I hope I’m capable of that if my life depends on it.

Only, I'm unsure if I'd sacrifice my faith to survive if it came to it.

It’s the only thing I have to my name. My faith and my family. 

My heart twists at the thought as two huge wooden doors with golden details open in front of us. Salt and heat hit my nostrils as we walk into a tiny chamber, supported by columns directly carved into the rock of the cliff where the palace stands. I want, in spite of myself, to admire the room, but I fall face first to the floor. 

Well, I’m shoved, really, the sound of my knees hitting the rock followed by those of the chains being tied to the floor behind me, pushing me upright. I try to straighten up as much as I can without kneeling down, but the chain is not long enough for me to stand, and sitting on the floor with my arms tied back is too vulnerable of a position.

Knees on the floor in front of me, I lean backwards and raise my head, expecting to meet the cold look of the shahin, but I only see an empty throne carved in stone with an equally empty dais. I blink, and turn as much as I can to my sides. The room is flanked by soldiers and imitators, standing next to the openings on the outer walls, dark, that look into the cliffs and the sea. The contrast of the rock against the rest of the palace is almost painful. Ironic.

A hand forces my head down, hair falling over my eyes. A soldier announces the entrance of the shahin, the princes, and the imitator chief. I don’t see them walking to the platform where the throne is, coming out of the wall in the back of the chamber, but I do hear their steps and, most of all, I feel their eyes on me. I know what they see, how they see me: scum from this cursed island, weak and dirty. What my blood can do my one redemption—or rather, what they can do with it—what makes me worthy of their presence.

Leather black boots pass through my field of vision only to disappear again. The guard grasps my hair and forces me to look up into the shahin's eyes, standing right in front of me. Too green, they go through me an instant before I realize a terrible mistake.

My creation is no longer hidden by my hair.

tag list: @my-cursed-prince @on-noon

[peterrrei]

i've been listening to your charmuro playlist a lot (i follow you on twitter lol, idk if you posted it here) and i was wondering if you'd want to elaborate on any of your choices...all the sad young men is one that caught me off guard but also makes so much sense to me

hi there! sorry for the very late reply! but oh my god. thank you for sending me this ask because it gave me enough motivation to write down some notes about my playlist and order it a bit because — its a lot LOL

first of all i would like to mention that yes, it’s a charmuro playlist, but you cannot take lalah out of charmuro ♡ so i’ve added songs that somehow fit her point of view, or hint at her presence. i love lalah so much and it makes me sad when people take her out of char and amuro’s relationship or minimize the impact that she had on both of them. (but don’t ask me to define whatever those three had going on because i don’t know. it’s vague. vague is okay in my mind but i would love to make people see my vision. in a few years i will maybe find the words to describe it)

ANYWAY THE PLAYLIST! i’m sorting it in a kind of chronological way, but it gets vague and blurry sometimes because i also think it’s important for a playlist to flow well (and to have songs that i actually like listening to! and it vagueness works for gundam....)

some examples:

∙ 1979 by the smashing pumpkins this song is really great because it truly is an anthem of a new young generation, which is a focal point of gundam! the pain and angst and comfort of late teenagehood/early adulthood ♡

On a live wire right up off the street You and I should meet <-( a jolt of electricity is the kind of feeling i can imagine newtypes feel when they connect with each other) June bug skipping like a stone With the headlights pointed at the dawn We were sure we'd never see an end to it all <- buggy stuck in the mud scene my beloved ♡

∙ familiar feeling by moloko i wasn’t even looking for charmuro coded songs when i found this band! but my delusional heart can see charmuro where the normal person can’t <3 anyway this is definitely a zeta song. i have in illustration in mind for the charmuro zine i’m very slowly drawing/writing that is completely based off their reunion in zeta and this song.

Nothing can come close Nothing can come close Nothing can come close

I never doubted it What's for you will not pass you by I never questioned it It was decided before I asked why It's all there ever was And it's all there ever will be How could you have questioned us? It's yourself you deceive

Nothing can come close To this familiar feeling We say it all without Ever speaking

god this song is so so so perfect and really encapsulates the hings about gundam that i love: vagueness, intense human emotions, sharing these emotions, identity and masked identity, love. perfection

Hush now No need to say the words At first sight you perfectly heard Love in all its entirety Is no less than we deserve I saw, your face Some place I felt this feeling before Is it deja vu? Do I somehow know you? <- this this this! adrenaline still filling the air after battle, amuro sits on the mechanical hand of a Gundam. he hasn’t seen one in over eight years. he has called for him before even realizing he opened his mouth to speak. char. amuro. who are you? do i know you? what is this feeling? have i felt this before?

∙ all the sad young men by spector you said it caught you off guard but it makes sense and i agree! i had the same thought process. it’s a song ive listened to many many times but it occurred to me that it fits charmuro only recently! well-- maybe it’s more of a generic gundam feeling. i am also working on a “generic gundam feelings” playlist.. it’s still private though. it’s called anime ja nai :’)

And no, nothing ever really started with a kiss &lt;- YEAH

I don't wanna make love I don't wanna make plans I don't want anyone to wanna hold my hand <- i don’t know if this makes me think more of char or amuro. and because of that it’s perfect

It begins in the places that we leave behind Every year that goes by a little less future on our minds These girls like to pretend they can't feel anything anymore (...........gundam women..........) Boys break like promises, but only behind closed doors (gundam men.......................)

∙ raise me up by hercules and love affair including an explanation of why i think this song is charmuro is difficult. it just is to me. just like truefalse/fakereal by the same band

My secret love Keeps me awake at night My secret love of the man My secret fight They put you down They pushed your face down They fucked you aver and around You kissed the ground You're the one I waited for your return I slept with rocks I slept with stones Stone was my home Energy Life danced right out of me When my father busted you free He also killed me <- kinda makes me think of zeon daikun dooming amuro ray to have an intense yaoi thing with his son. lol Oh raise me up To dance upon your head Oh raise me up To dance in the holes of your head <- !! Oh raise me up To dance in the cavities of Your eyes <- and this!!!!! i need more of this!!!!!!

∙ a beginner’s guide to destroying the moon by foster the people this song was suggested to me by my discover weekly and the lyrics instantly made me think of char and amuro. cca feelings

I can't blame you I can't save you But I will try for you and I For you and I, I won't find out All the dirty little things that you've done But I will try For you and I, I will breathe in All the truth I can stomach If it keeps you alive <-amuro (I would break you Before I let you fall into the blind For you and I) <- char We've changed the dreamers and the Preachers and the wise men on the hill To concrete stepping smilers terrified to lose their power and control We've been crying for a leader to speak like the old prophets The blood of the forgotten wasn't Spilled without a purpose, or was it? And now, I'm staring at the moon Wondering why the bottom fell out

and again:

To smash the wall of apathy Stop your self-importance And lift the weight off somebody else Yeah, you'll never be whole Yeah, you'll never be whole Until you lose control <- this is directed at both of them

∙ i might be wrong by radiohead major cca charmulalah feelings here...

I might be wrong I could have sworn I saw a light coming on I used to think There was no future left at all I used to think <- char (Open up, begin again Let's go down the waterfall Think about the good times and never look back Never look back) <- lalah What would I do? <- char What would I do? <- amuro If I did not have you? <- ooooooh yes! your lives were irreparably changed the day char stepped on side 7 in 0079 ∙ bleed by george clanton charmuro in its messiness, ugliness and intensity. i absolutely love the progression in the song. starting slow until it builds up to the explosion of kaleidoscopic sounds (that is not a proper way to describe a sound right? but i wouldn’t describe it any other way <3)

Someone else can make you happy Someone else can show you a good time A good time Someone else can say "I'm Sorry" Someone else can fight and tell you lies But not like I do Not like me Someone else can bite until you bleed Make you bleed Not like I do Not like me

∙ the man who sold the world (sung by midge ure. i just like that version better, sounds so ethereal. plus im a metal gear fan lmao) this song really evokes the change between masks char went through. amuro — there to see them all

Although I wasn't there He said I was his friend Which came as a surprise I spoke into his eyes I thought you died alone A long long time ago

Oh no, not me We never lost control You're face to face With the man who sold the world

(I gazed a gazely stare We walked a million hills I must have died alone A long, long time ago)

∙ day by bill callahan this is maybe one of the cheesiest songs in the playlist but i just love it so much. and. i mean. what is gundam without cheesiness? to me this songs feels a lot like a conversation between cca char and amuro. the kind of disdain towards the humanity that has reduced earth to such a wasteland planet vs the hope that humanity is indeed good and we must strive toward the light, even though it is so hard

Some people are a sickness on this land They're killing, they're taking They're stealing whatever they can Anything, anything, anything That is not bolted down Your life, your money, your heart, your faith, your bike

and then again:

Some would ask What are we to do With a world that crumbles to the touch? A world that spins and dies where it stands Like trying ain't enough?

but listen to me:

To family is all you can do And strive toward the light It's as dark as night Strive toward the light I know it's as dark as night I know it's as dark as night

It is day though

∙ la vita fa schifo by le feste antonacci umm haha italian moment. this playlist should have more italian moments and i am working on that. anyway the lyrics to this song is just life sucks life sucks life sucks life suckssss in various dramatic intonations. life did kinda suck for char and amuro right? lmao. i am the kinda person that says oh well la vita fa schifo over the smallest problems. i just thought it would be funny to think about char and amuro dying and both being like. well. la vita fa schifo. what the fuck was everyone’s problem.

∙ l’amour toujours by gigi d’agostino NOW HEAR ME OUT. this started as a meme between me and my partner. of putting this song over the credits of very dramatic movies. it’s because it was the credit song of uncut gems, it really stunned us the first time we finished that movie bc we joke about that song so much, it’s basically italy’s national anthem. so we joked about char’s counterattack ending and instead of beyond the time, l’amour toujours starts playing. po poporopo poporopo po poro po po poroporopo. but then also— you know what? the lyrics fits charmuro too. LMAO (delusional) I still believe in your eyes I just don't care what you have done in your life Baby, I'll always be here by your side Don't leave me waiting too long, Please come byI still believe in your eyes There is no choice, I belong to your life Because I will live to love you someday You'll be my baby and we'll fly away And I'll fly with you, I'll fly with you, I'll fly with you

basically the credits song of my playlist :')

um okay haha! i think i will stop for now bc this is a lot... thank you again for this ask!

[ruinmegently]

@dyrewrites tagged me! I'm tagging: @duraraross @digital-chance @careful-fear @murdersofcrow @mjjune @space-writes @unmellowyellowfellow and anyone else who wants to share some snippets!

7 Snippets from These Barren Wilds:

( 1 )

“Everyone’s like me. Like us. You just won���t admit it.”

Irah thumps his head against the wall and closes his eyes, willing the acid in his throat to settle. Never takes too long to reason it back down.

“The sky’s blue,” he says,” the Queen shits, the Walls are for our own damn good, and no one is like you, Tess.”

He tries to stare at her like she stares at him, but her skin’s too thick, her ground’s too rough to break, there’s no more nourishment left to give in the soil of her.

( 2 )

A fountain and glass windows (an Enforcer taught him the word, once, after she’d heard him calling it “shinythin”). Every two hours, people in white jumpers spill out of the building and crawl up the shinythi- the windows. They hang off its side with impossibly sticky hands and feet (that’s gotta be it, cause otherwise the building’s unscalable. Irah’s tried), pull out big guns with rubber hoses attached to the backpacks they carry, and pour out a strong, wild stream of water on the surface of the building. All the red dust that cakes on during those two hours washes away in pleasing streaks. They start from the top and scuttle like scorpions from left to right. One stripe cleared, then down a level. When they finish, they scurry back into the building before the thirsty people of Dust crawl from their arid alleys and make a break for the dripping edges of the towering, now glistening structure. The Enforcers guarding the fountain watch warily, the tightening of gloved hands over thick black batons noticeable even from a distance. If a dustblood gets too close to the fountain, they get beat. If they lick the clean water off the side of the Capitol building, they get beat. They fall to their knees and scoop up the mud, instead. The clever ones brought animal hide satchels and dump in big handfuls to squeeze out the water for drinking, later. The desperate ones shove globs of squelching mud into their mouths and chew, filtering it through the gaps in their teeth, working their tongues to push and press the water from the dirt, so they can drink it drop-by-drop.

Dustbloods are great with their tongues.

( 3 )

Home is filled with skeletons and not enough closets to put them in. Not literally of course. Bones burn up in a cemetery before the ash gets tossed into a wind that leads to the landfill. But there are ghosts in the walls that Irah’s well-practiced at ignoring. His place is a metal box. A “shipping container” an Enforcer told him once. Supposed to be used on a thing called a ship. And a ship’s supposed to drive around on a thing called an ocean. Irah knows about that last one. Has fuzzy memories of his dad’s hands, fingers bending up and down in a rubbery way—called it a wave. Moreso, he remembers the look in his older sister’s eyes when she talked about it, how she wanted to see it, smell its salt, eat the water with big mouthfuls and chew it up until it made her sick. That was before she was taken away, when he was still allowed to say her name.

( 4 )

He says sorry. Not with his words (never been good with them), but with the fist in her hair and the clean cut of his knife, dragged quickly through the jugular. One cut, lights out, no pain. First time he did it, he stood in front. Before he knew bodies spewed. Now he stands behind and only his hands get covered. Waste out back for the sand and the critters. Hands in the trough. He scrubs and scrubs and scrubs and scrubs and his fingers are pink and raw when he pulls em out and the dirty water isn’t thick enough to be blood but—

Sometimes

(it feels—)

( 5 )

“They tell you the only life you deserve is the one you got,” she says, so distant. “And the only life worth living’s out West, but no one’s ever good enough to go there, Irah. Don’t you get it?”

“No,” he says, shaking his head. “It just takes money. The right connections.” You have to be patient, he wants to say. You have to work the system. You have to mill your soul down on a grindstone. You have to kill. You have to kill and kill and kill, because that’s where the money’s at. And if you’re good at it—really fucking good at it—then you can get out. You can leave this dusty grave behind and buy a big fucking house in Wave with a big fucking pool and take your dog and leave—

Leave.

Everyone

—else

Behind.

( 6 )

Not all Scrapper gangs are the same, and this one’s got a funny little tradition of passing on the mantle by battling the one in charge. Kili stepped up to the plate a few years ago and failed so miserably she should’ve been killed for it. But Mother Loe apparently liked her spunk. Gave her a chance. Spared her life.

Took the arm as payment.

( 7 )

Tess is gone.

He could scream. Or laugh. But not even that madness shows itself in the wake of this realization. It tucks itself into hidden corners deep inside, too scared of the seams within him, as if one wrong look could make them tear. Until Irah’s torn fabric flapping in the wind. Until all the parts of him are scattered and even the idea of him is irreparable. No one will remember his name. Tessa’s soul will bleed out in whatever work camp they put her in, and River will die and he’ll die within her as a fuzzy grey memory of shared bread and spilled blood.

[scattered-irises]

Tale XV: Tấm Cám (▬▬▬)

ANNNNDDD I’m back! This is the longest and penultimate tale of my Happy☆Heroine☆Sniper fic! The epilogue has also been finished. I must say, I am very proud of my people for putting such a creative spin on the classical Cinderella story. I grew up with this story and now share it with you...but with a Zexal twist.

Rating: Mature  

Word Count: 25k (Rest in fucking pieces, just like some of the characters in this story)

Characters: Vector, Rei Shingetsu, Yuma Tsukumo, Ryoga Kamishiro

Relationships: Yuma/Vector

Warnings: Ahhh shit...here we go...Cannibalism, murder, death, Vietnamese and Chinese mythology, gore, animal death, abusive parents, reincarnation

Summary:  A young peasant finds himself continuously reincarnating to return to the love of his life. With each reincarnation, his sanity wanes and his thirst for revenge grows.

Ngày xửa ngày xưa, có hai anh em sinh đôi. Anh tên là Tấm, em tên là Cám. Mẹ hai anh em mất lúc hai anh em mới sáu tuổi. Mấy năm sau, cha của Tấm và Cám cưới lại cho hai anh em có được mẹ hiền…

  Allow me to translate that for you, if you don’t speak my story’s original language.

  Once upon a time, in a land far away, there were two twins. The older brother’s name was Tấm. It means “fragrant rice.” The younger brother’s name was Cám, which can be translated to “animal feed.” Their mother died when the twins were only six. A few years later, their father remarried in order for the twins to have a loving mother in their lives…

  I’m sure you know where this is going, from your previous adventures with me. 

  That’s right! I’ve known that you were with me this entire time. I don’t care what you think about the poor or not-so-poor heroes and heroines. I can’t hear you. That’s the curse of my existence. I can do nothing about the fact that I am a character from a story, nor the fact that I know that I serve to only entertain and educate beings beyond my sight and hearing. 

  Condemn me, hang me, praise me. I’ve seen it all. 

  But you don’t care about this, do you? You only want to be entertained. You want to be entertained until your eyes melt off and your skin turns to sandpaper and your teeth fall out of your mouth.

  Very well.

  Entertain I shall. 

  To all the beings who can run their eyes across these words, here is the story that you have all been waiting for. 

  Mine.

  H☆H☆S

  …

  Ah, right. Before we begin, let me tell you something about names. There are the names that we choose for ourselves and the names that everyone else calls us. The twins, for example, were known as Hansel and Gretel in the first tale. I translated their names to Ryoga and Rio because that was the name of their souls. Although characters’ names may change throughout each incarnation, their souls’ names will remain unchanged. Sometimes I’ll translate them for you, sometimes I won’t. It depends on how generous I’m feeling. 

  Anyways, Cám is the fairytale name of my twin, Shingetsu. Tấm was my name. We’ll be going by the names of our souls, just for convenience’s sake. 

  Alright, no more delays. Here comes the story.

  H☆H☆S

  “Vector, you cretin! What did I send you out in the fields for?!” bellows his stepmother. 

  Vector stares in open-mouthed shock at his empty basket. Quickly, he glances at his brother, whose expression remains placid. Their stepmother, Madame Sương, stomps over to Shingetsu. She puts a hand on her hip, long nails stretching across her stomach. 

  “And you…,” she begins, picking up Shingetsu’s basket. Her painted lips break into a smile. “Goodness! You must have worked so hard!” 

  She looks into the basket filled to the brim with river shrimp and pats Shingetsu’s shoulder. 

  “Thank you, mother!” says Shingetsu, basking in her praise. “Oh, please be kinder to brother…He just wanted to take a bath!” 

  Heat fills Vector’s cheeks. He had spent all morning catching those damn shrimp, stomping through mud and silt while Shingetsu sang and danced. After he had caught the shrimp, Shingetsu had offered to carry their baskets home while Vector bathed in the nearby stream. He digs his nails into his trousers. Why was he so foolish? As he meets their stepmother’s glare, he takes a deep breath. 

  “Shingetsu switched our baskets after he told me to take a bath!” he protests. “Then he carried both of the baskets home because he—”

  “Vector! You’re the older brother! How could you be so irresponsible, blaming your brother like that?!” snaps Madame Sương. 

  “It’s the truth!” protests Vector. 

  His stepmother glares at him. It was difficult to tell her age, from her long, dark hair to her plump lips. There were rumors that she had enchanted Vector’s father, her mismatched eyes never revealing her true motives. With each move she made, her strange earrings chimed in response. Despite her beautiful appearance, her heart was as ugly and cold as stone. 

  “Shingetsu, get me the cane,” growls their stepmother. 

  “Yes, mother,” says Shingetsu. 

  Vector looks at his brother for support, only to see the same placid expression. Why did he keep on falling for Shingetsu’s ploys? His sweet lies, his unfulfilled promises, his kindly exterior…It seemed like everyone, including him, was under Shingetsu’s thrall. 

  “Mother, you have to believe me,” begs Vector. “I spent all morning—”

  “Silence! All you do is spout lies about your brother. I’ve half a mind to cut your tongue out,” hisses his stepmother. 

  Vector purses his lips, swallowing the lump in his throat. He watches as Shingetsu runs off, never looking back. In the silence of the humid afternoon, a gnat buzzes by Vector’s ear. He bats it away, gritting his teeth. His brother had no right. No right to be loved better than he was, no right to be spared his punishments. After all, it was Shingetsu who had neglected his filial duty, not Vector. When their father fell ill, only Vector had remained by his side. 

  After their father’s death, Vector served their stepmother without complaint. It was he who stoked the fires, he who caught the fish, he who cooked. Shingetsu only pretended to help while sucking up to their stepmother. Surely, their stepmother must have been simpleminded (although Vector would never say that aloud). Because of Shingetsu’s endless praises and wheedling, she had always made sure that Shingetsu got the best. New clothes, the best morsels of food and whatever else pleased him. 

  “Mother, here,” says Shingetsu, returning from outside. 

  A glint fills their stepmother’s eyes as she takes the rod from her stepson. Vector grits his teeth and bends down, fingers digging into the soft earth. 

  “How many do you think he deserves?” she breathes, her burgundy eyes running across Vector’s back. 

  “Oh, mother, please…just ten!” cries Shingetsu. 

  Madame Sương laughs, each laugh sounding like a piece of shattered glass. 

  “Such a kind child you are…Fifty lashes it will be.” 

  Vector closes his eyes and grits his teeth. Someday, he would have his deliverance. 

  FWACK! The first hit lands squarely on his shoulders. Vector bites down a cry. His back has been lacerated with the lashes of his previous canings, a tapestry of scars for all to see. In his past life he must have sinned greatly to have received such abuse. Yet what exactly did he do to deserve such a fiend for a mother?

  FWACK! 

  “This is to teach you a lesson that liars aren’t accepted in this household!” snaps Madame Sương. 

  FWACK! 

  Vector looks up to see Shingetsu standing in the corner of the room, his face unreadable. For a moment, their expressions mirror each other’s.

  H☆H☆S

  “Silver fish, oh silver fish, come up to play. I have sweet rice for you, fragrant and fresh as day. Do not accept the others’ gruel, for it is mixed with clay,” whispers Vector. 

  He leans over the well, his muscles screaming in pain. Slowly, he sprinkles rice into the water, waiting for his friend to appear. When he sees his fish’s silvery head peek up from the surface, a small smile fills his face. 

  “I’m so sorry for being late,” he whispers. “Stepmother was beating me.”

  The two dots on top of the fish’s eyes furrow. Its mouth closes and opens, as if sympathizing with Vector. He lowers the tips of his fingers into the water, closing his eyes as his fish gently kissed each one. Compared to the hotness of his pain, the fish’s lips felt cool and reassuring. He looks into the fish’s golden eyes, bursting with intelligence. If only he could understand what it was trying to say. 

  “Oh, just another one of Shingetsu’s ploys…,” murmurs Vector. “You know how he is.” 

  The fish kisses his fingers once again. 

  Sometimes, he believed that the fish was his real mother, reincarnated as a fish to watch over him. He runs his hands over her cool scales. She was always there for him whenever he needed to talk. Often, his tears would fall into the wall and onto his fish-mother’s scales. Because of this, she often wore a sad expression when seeing him. 

  “They’re having dinner right now,” continues Vector. “I had the shrimps’ shells and heads to eat with my rice.” 

  He was always left with the undesirable parts of their meals, as if he were a dog. 

  “I’m full, don’t worry.”

  Tonight, maybe he could pick some fruit from the village roads. His stomach growls at the thought. 

  “Vector! Where’s my tea?!” calls Shingetsu. “Mother wants some too!” 

  Sighing, Vector looks down at his fish one last time. 

  “I’ll see you tomorrow,” he says. 

  The fish lets out another voiceless sentence. 

  H☆H☆S

  “That’s quite a limp, Vector!” exclaims Mr. Vân, their neighbor. 

  Vector shrugs in a noncommittal manner and continues down the village road. 

  “Don’t test your mother’s patience too much, you hear?!” calls the man. 

  Usually he would respond to Mr. Vân’s comments but today he found no energy. Dragging his feet down the village road, he stops as a couple of children run past him. 

  “What are you waiting for?!” calls the child. “There’s an imperial proclamation!” 

  An imperial proclamation? Vector slightly straightens up. Since when did the king bother to send envoys down to simple villages? Despite his aching muscles, he quickens his pace and walks faster towards the heart of the village. Along the way, various neighbors wave to him, all remarking on his limp. Vector forces a grin and carries on. 

  He knew what they said behind his back. 

  If only Madame Sương could be kinder to him. If only Madame Sương treated both Shingetsu and Vector equally. But perhaps it was because Vector was born with the umbilical cord wrapped around his neck that his life was so hard. Already one foot in the grave, Madame Sương would push the rest of his body in eventually. They were all waiting for that day. 

  Then they could make a show of mourning, just like at his father’s funeral. 

  His stepmother had obscenely wailed during the entire ceremony, lamenting on what was to become of her and her two children. In silence, Vector and Shingetsu had held hands throughout the entire day, mirror images of solemnity. The day after the funeral, she began to burn their father’s books. 

  As he passes Mrs. Lan’s copse of banana trees, Vector hears a eunuch’s high and plaintive voice. Despite his bruises, he quickens his pace. Never before had he heard such an imperious accent!

  “Hear ye, hear ye inhabitants of Sunflower Seed village! Hear ye, hear ye!” calls the young eunuch, sweating profusely under the summer sun. 

  He was surrounded by a retinue of guards, their white armor almost blinding to look at. The villagers look at Vector with pity and surreptitiously part the way for him. Mumbling his thanks, Vector limps to the front. 

  Disdain fills the eunuch’s green eyes as he looks at his audience. All of them were plainly dressed, most sporting patches on their shirts. Their feet were covered in dirt and their faces were bronzed by the sun. 

  “From the palace of King Yuma of House Hope, eighteenth of his name, Protector of the Amber Kingdom and Hero of the Song Yến, we bring news of victory over the marauding forces of the Turtle King!”

  The villagers cheer over the victory. For as long as Vector lived, he had heard only snippets of the war. To hear that it had finally come to an end brings a twinge of relief to his heart. His stepmother was constantly threatening to send him off to fight for the king. 

  “To celebrate the continued independence of our kingdom, our great king is proclaiming a feast of endless bounty in the spring! All in the great Amber Kingdom are invited!” continues the eunuch. 

  Excited murmurs fill the village square. Vector’s heart skips a beat. He had always wanted to leave the village and see what was beyond the forest. 

  “Come old, come young, come poor, come rich! The king wishes to bless his people with plenty!” cries the eunuch. “The feast will begin on the first full moon of spring and continue until its waning!” 

  “How far is it, from here to the capitol?” asks Vector. 

  A hint of irritation crosses the eunuch’s face at being addressed without permission. He flutters his feathered fan and gazes at Vector with disdain. 

  “Two days on the swiftest steeds!” he declares.

  The excitement in the village intensifies. After Vector’s question, various villagers clamor for their own questions to be answered. Vector slowly sinks away from the crowd, carrying the news of the king’s proclamation deep in his heart. Perhaps at the capitol, he could find a job as an apprentice. Then he could send money back home while Shingetsu took his place. Or, he could become a sailor. He could travel to the faraway places in his father’s books, from the frigid mountains of the Rhoine to the glass palaces of the Trien people. The treasures of the world would be his to discover then, endless and bountiful. 

  He makes his way towards the marketplace, the news slightly alleviating the pain in his legs. 

  H☆H☆S

  “Vector! There you are!” calls Shingetsu as Vector returns with offerings for their father’s altar. “I prepared a meal for us while you were gone! Mother says it’s delicious!” 

  Taking Vector’s hand, Shingetsu pulls Vector inside. 

  “Just a moment! I need to clean father’s altar!” calls Vector. 

  Shingetsu pouts. His eyes turn to the altar, where their father’s photograph lies behind a plate of bananas. 

  “Fine,” he grumbles. “Don’t get upset if all the good parts are gone.” 

  Vector scoffs as he replaces the bananas with oranges. Since when did they ever save him anything good? After stacking the oranges on the plate, Vector lights an incense stick and bows to his father. 

  Please watch over Shingetsu and me as we make our way through this world. And please, watch over me as I make my way towards the capitol to find a new life for myself, prays Vector. 

  He bows four times and then places his incense in the holder. For a moment, he looks at his father’s photograph. Taken when he was young, he could see that he had inherited his father’s chin and sharp eyes. An avid reader and scholar, their father had always ensured that his sons received the best education. Vector swallows a lump in his throat as a memory fills his mind. 

  It was a lazy summer afternoon where his father returned home early from his post. They were all gathered in a hammock, gently swinging in the humid breeze. Shingetsu had fallen asleep on their father’s chest while Vector leaned on his shoulder. As their father chewed on some betel nuts, he told them a tale about children flying to a world filled with pirates and mermaids. 

  Oh, why was fate so cruel? 

  Bringing the bananas into the dining room, Vector pauses upon seeing the meal that Shingetsu had prepared. A large fish was splayed in the middle of the table, its silvery scales dimly shining in the light. His stepmother greets him with a cold smile. 

  “Come, child, sit. We haven’t had a family dinner in such a long time,” she calls. 

  Slowly, Vector lowers himself to the floor, placing the bananas by the fish. His hands shake as he takes a bowl of rice from the table. 

  “What’s the matter?” asks Shingetsu, his expression innocent. 

  “Where did that fish come from?” utters Vector. 

  Shingetsu grins, showing his sharp canines. 

  “I caught it with my bare hands in the stream today!” he chirps. 

  Their stepmother chuckles and puts a hand on Shingetsu’s shoulder. 

  “Your brother is quite the fisherman, isn’t he?” 

  The fish has no head to tell if it was actually his own fish. Vector picks up his chopsticks and puts a few slices of cucumber onto his rice. 

  “Oh, come on! You should try some before it gets cold!” urges Shingetsu. 

  “I…don’t have the appetite,” murmurs Vector. “One of the king’s eunuchs came to make an announcement today.” 

  Immediately, Shingetsu and their stepmother’s brows raise. Vector holds their expression with a brief flicker of satisfaction. 

  “The war against the Turtle King ended and to celebrate, the king is hosting a spring festival where all are invited,” relays Vector. 

  “When?!” demands his mother, nearly knocking the table over. 

  “The first full moon of spring. It’ll last until the moon wanes,” replies Vector.  

  Shingetsu and their stepmother exchange excited glances. 

  “Goodness! There’ll be so many eligible maidens there!” gasps Madame Sương. 

  “Oh, mother, do we have enough to tailor me new clothes?” wheedles Shingetsu. 

  “Of course, of course! Nothing but the best for my son!” 

  “I want something dark blue with bamboo patterns! And shoes! Yes, new shoes from Mr. Duyên as well!” adds Shingetsu.

  “Of course! Of course!” agrees Madame Sương, cackling. 

  Vector quickly finishes his meal and slinks out to the backyard. The sounds of Shingetsu and Madame Sương laughing brings a wave of nausea up his chest. Panickedly, he runs to the well and taps on its walls.

  “Silver fish, oh silver fish, come up to play. I have sweet rice for you, fragrant and fresh as day. Do not accept the others’ gruel, for it is mixed with clay,” hurriedly recites Vector. 

  Nothing. Vector wets his lips. He peers deeper into the well. 

  “Silver fish, oh silver fish, come up to play. I have sweet rice for you, fragrant and fresh as day. Do not accept the others’ gruel, for it is mixed with clay,” repeats Vector, his eyes filling with tears. 

  The well’s clear depths reveal nothing. His heart begins to race. Running to the refuse pile, he digs through the cucumber skins until he finds the fish’s head. Empty golden eyes with black dots for eyebrows. Dull silver scales. Despite the shaking in his limbs, he stumbles back into the dining room. 

  “WHAT DID YOU DO?!” he cries, brandishing the fish’s head. 

  His stepmother briefly looks at him in shock. Then, she resumes her typical cool expression, arched brows slanted and lips slightly curved into a smile. 

  “You’ve raised it so well. It would be a pity for it to grow past its prime,” she replies. 

  Vector briefly turns to Shingetsu, who was avoiding his gaze. Surreptitiously, his brother slips a piece of fish into his mouth. 

  The world spins. Before he could scream again, Vector runs to his room. In the silence of his dark, dirt-floor room, he sobs. He muffles his cries into the hem of shirt, his eyes burning with rage and sorrow. He had raised that fish since she was a small guppy. One day it had merely appeared from the depths of the well, offering consolation to his grieving self. Each morning and night he had faithfully fed her rice from his own bowl, watching in awe as she grew. 

  When he was younger, he had dreamed that one day, the fish would grow big enough for him to ride. Then, it would take him across the ocean and to far away lands. 

  She was privy to all of his sorrows, all of his secrets and joys. He was certain that she had understood every word he said yet was powerless to reply. 

  His throat seizes up as he chokes down a sob, the fish’s head still clutched in his hand.

  Like his mother, she had the same golden eyes. Her scales were the same colors as his mother’s hair. Even her expressions, aided by the two dots at the top of her eyes, resembled his mother’s. But perhaps he was just being too hopeful. The last photograph of their mother had been burned alongside their father’s books years ago. 

  “Child, why do you cry?” asks a young man’s voice. 

  Vector starts. Looking up, he gasps upon seeing a young man in white robes sitting on his bed. His hair is long and purple, curled at the ends. In the dim light, he slightly glows. 

  “Wh-who are you?” asks Vector. 

  He hurriedly looks for a weapon. The young man takes out a curled piece of wood and taps it against Vector’s bed. 

  “Can’t you see? I’m a sage!” he says indignantly. 

  Vector stiffens.

  “Sages are supposed to be old, with white hair and beards!” protests Vector. “Just where did you come from?!” 

  He’s answered by a huff and crossed arms. 

  “Alright, I’m a sage-in-training,” mutters the young man. “I’ll earn my beard in a thousand years.” 

  A snort escapes from Vector, deepening the sage’s frown.

  “I’ve never heard of that. Where did you come from?” he asks.

  Surely he wasn’t from the village. His robes were far too fine and his skin far too clean. The young man’s nostrils flare and he crosses his arms. He glares at Vector with his unnaturally blue eyes. In the darkness of the room, they slightly glow. Despite this, Vector can’t help but think of a petulant child. He bites his tongue, trying to keep himself from smiling. 

  “I told you! I come from the court of the Jade Emperor! Before I can earn my beard, I have to help a million souls!” snaps the sage. 

  “You definitely don’t act like one,” retorts Vector. “Sages are supposed to be calm and possess otherworldly knowledge. You’re just a brat.” 

  The sage’s face turns an alarming shade of red. He digs his nails into his wooden staff and lets out a long suffering growl. Throwing his head up in the air, he exhales. 

  “If I told you to bury your fish-mother’s bones beneath your bed, would you listen to me?” he asks in a slow and controlled tone. 

  Vector raises a brow. 

  “Why? It would stink to high heaven.”

  For a moment, the sage’s lips twitch in the facsimile of a smile. 

  “As you’ve noticed, that fish isn’t just any fish. It’s a magic fish, imbued with your mother’s love. She won’t rot and will come back to help you in your time of need,” explains the sage. 

  “And all I need to do is bury her bones?”

  “That’s right.”

  Vector looks down at the fish head and scoffs. 

  “For a sage, you’re very human,” he remarks.  

  When he looks back up at his bed, the youth is no longer there. In the darkness, he stares at the empty space. Perhaps he had become so angry that he ended up hallucinating the entire ordeal. Despite that, the young sage’s advice gives him a hint of hope. With his bare hands, he begins to dig a small hole beneath his bed. 

  H☆H☆S

  Buoyed by the thought of the festival and the appearance of the young sage, Vector worked tirelessly from dusk to dawn. As the days grew closer, he could feel the heaviness lifting from his shoulders. Soon he could be free. He could serve his family in a different way, by sailing the seas or by learning a valuable craft. Free from the cruelties of his stepmother, no task would be too hard. 

  One morning, Vector approaches the table with bowls of congee and freshly picked cilantro. 

  “There’s something I’d like to ask you, mother,” begins Vector. 

  Madame Sương raises a finely plucked brow. 

  “Speak,” she commands. 

  “May I go to the king’s spring festival with you?” asks Vector. 

  Slowly, their stepmother’s eyes turn to Shingetsu, who was sipping from his congee.

  “What do you think, Shingetsu?” she drawls. 

  His twin brother breaks into a vibrant smile, similar to when they were young. Each tooth shines like a pearl. 

  “Oh, yes, yes, yes! Please, mother! Vector’s been working so hard!” wheedles Shingetsu.

  Their stepmother chuckles and sips her morning tea. 

  “Very well. You may go,” she says, setting down her teacup. 

  Her voice hardens and her eyes narrow. 

  “But only if you finish your chores,” she warns. 

  Vector lets out a sigh and his shoulders lower. He smiles a genuine smile and bows. 

  “Thank you, mother. Of course I will,” he says. 

  Soon, soon, he would be free. 

  “Now hurry along. I want the best fabrics for our clothes,” she says. 

  “May I choose some fabrics for myself?” asks Vector. 

  Their mother’s red lips tighten into a thin line. 

  “I’m afraid there isn’t enough money from our tenant farmers for that. You’ll have to find something of your father’s to wear.” 

  Vector’s smile remains pasted on his face. 

  “Of course. Apologies.”

  Him, wear the clothes of his father? He would be the talk of the village! 

  Vector walks out of the house and briefly looks up at the sun’s position in the sky. He still had time before Miss Nhi’s shop opened. Opening the hatch to the house’s cellar, he climbs down. The mud walls are lined with shelves of preserves. Wine caskets line the floor, some empty, some filled. In the corner of the cellar is an old cedar trunk, a gift from Vector’s grandfather. 

  He pulls it into the center of the cellar and undoes the latch. Perhaps he could rework some of his father’s clothes into more modern styles. The clothes of an office clerk were far from flattering. Upon opening the chest, he is briefly brought back to the past by the smell of foreign cologne intermixed with cedar wood. Vector closes his eyes, remembering his father’s laughter. 

  Taking out the first outfit, he’s dismayed to find that the watered silk has been eaten through by moths. From its faded blue dye, this must have been his father’s wedding outfit. Lamenting its loss, Vector sets the outfit aside and takes out another one. The linen shirt in his hands has been spotted with mold. Sighing, Vector digs through the chest of clothes to no avail, each article of clothing ravaged by time and neglect. 

  “Vector!” snaps his mother. “Why haven’t you gone yet?!”

  Vector drops a pair of torn trousers and looks up at the cellar’s exit. 

  “I’m coming!” he replies. 

  Hurriedly, he throws his father’s ruined clothes back into the chest. Surely, he would find something before the festival arrived…

  H☆H☆S

  I’m skipping some of the details here because the festival isn’t actually where the story ends. In fact, it’s where the true story begins. You probably don’t mind, since the beginning is pretty much like any other Cinderella story. Poor kitchen wretch gets tortured day in and day out until a magical being appears and saves them. 

  How many times have you heard this same story, over and over again? 

  Anyways, they worked me so hard afterwards that I didn’t have time to find any clothes for the celebration. I was up at dawn cleaning the house and then preparing breakfast for those two. In the afternoons I had to go to the market. Usually my stepmother would have sent me back afterwards, because I was always missing something. Then came the midday meal. Afternoons were spent tending to the garden, mending clothes or catching fish. Most of the time I had to cook dinner as well. Nights were usually spent washing clothes or sewing my stepmother and brother’s clothes. 

  You get the idea. 

  Before I knew it, the night where the entire village would ride off towards the capitol had arrived and I had nothing to wear.

  H☆H☆S

  “You’re positive that you’ve done everything?” drawls Madame Sương. 

  “Yes, mother,” replies Vector. 

  Madame Sương narrows her eyes. 

  “Ah, I almost forgot. Just one last favor, if you will,” she begins, eyeing Vector’s dirty clothes with disdain.

  Compared to her and Shingetsu’s vibrant silks and flowers, Vector was nothing but a drab crow. How shameful it would be, to bring her raggedy child to the capitol for all to see! Madame Sương sneers at the thought. 

  “Fetch me baskets of red, green and black beans. I’ve half a mind to make the king’s favorite dessert drink for our journey,” says his mother. 

  Quickly, Vector calculates the amount of time it would take to brew the drink. Relief fills his chest. He would make it. Barely. If he ran fast enough after the caravan, he could hitch a ride with one of the stragglers.

  “Yes, mother!” he says, running off. 

  He runs into the kitchen, placing the basket of green beans on his head and carrying the two other baskets. Upon returning, his stepmother beams. 

  “Excellent,” she says, taking the baskets from Vector. “Such a hardworking child…” 

  Upon taking the baskets, she immediately upends them onto the floor. Vector’s heart leaps into his throat. Looking up at his stepmother, he is met by her cold expression. 

  “Goodness, how clumsy I am. Once you can re-sort all of these beans according to their color, I see no problem with you joining us…,” drawls his mother. 

  Vector briefly looks up at Shingetsu, a lump in his throat. His brother helplessly shrugs. 

  “In these silks? Mother would scold me for ruining them!” protests his brother. 

  Madame Sương wraps her arm around Shingetsu’s, pulling him away. 

  “Oh no, don’t even think about it! Your brother is a fast worker. He’ll eventually reunite with us,” reassures their stepmother. 

  They leave in the light of the setting sun, their steps silent on the ground. Vector looks after them, his chest clenching in pain. Distantly, he could hear the bells and laughter of the festival caravan. Once again, his eyes burn. 

  He picks up a red bean and places it into the nearest basket. Then a black bean. Another red bean. Green. Black. Red. Black. Clenching his teeth, Vector sweeps the beans aside, cursing his fate. 

  Turning to his father’s altar, he yells,

  “I was never unfaithful towards you or mother! What did I do to deserve this?!” 

  His father’s portrait remains silent. Vector clenches his fists and storms over to the altar. A dying ray of light illuminates the bowl of betel nuts. 

  “Why? Why was I given this fate? Why not Shingetsu?” he whispers. 

  The lump in his throat becomes harder to swallow. Tears brim in his eyes. 

  “We share the same face but not the same fate…” 

  From the beginning, he had been taught to honor his parents and their memory. This would sow good karma for the rest of his life. Meanwhile, Shingetsu did nothing but play. When their father fell ill, he drifted further and further apart from their father’s sickbed. Vector grits his teeth. 

  “Those of unfaithful and ungrateful hearts will have their punishment due, whether in this life or the next,” remarks the voice of the young sage. 

  Vector whirls around, his heart skipping a beat. Sitting on the windowsill, the Sage looks at Vector with a resigned expression. His white robes are dyed orange by the setting sun, his shadow stretching across the floor. 

  “And what about me?” utters Vector. 

  The sage lazily blinks, a small smile on his lips. He slides off of the window sill and lets out a low and long whistle. Raising his staff, he chants, 

  “Feathered beasts, far and wide, sort these beans to the side. Green with gree, red with red and black with black. If you dare to eat even one of these beans, I won’t spare you flack.”

  From his father’s altar, Vector watches as a flock of birds gather in the house’s entrance. They ranged from plain little sparrows to large herons. Gently, the sage strokes a heron’s beak as the birds flew into action. 

  “There. Now go to your bed and dig up your fish-mother’s bones,” instructs the sage. 

  Shaking himself out of his surprise, Vector hurries to his room. Quickly, he digs beneath his bed. When his fingers touch the tip of a clay urn, he pauses. Where had the bones gone? He continues digging until he unearths six small urns. Taking out the first one, he takes off his lid and spills its contents onto the floor. A miniature carving of a horse tumbles out. Made from fine ivory, it appeared as if it was a decoration from a foreign land. 

  Setting it aside, Vector takes out the second urn. Triangular packets wrapped in banana leaves fell out, one after the other. From the smell of it, Vector immediately knew that they were his mother’s bánh giò, a sticky rice cake stuffed with pork and a quail egg. He unwraps the first package. His stomach growls in hunger and his mouth waters at its tantalizing appearance. Taking his first bite, he briefly melts at its warm and familiar taste. 

  For a moment, he smells his mother’s perfume. He closes his eyes and chews, the warmth of the bánh giò lingering in his mouth. As the sun sets, he finishes his bánh giò. Although he had just one, it felt as if he had partaken in an entire feast. Looking down at the remaining packets, he found that there were three left. Putting them back in the urn, he moves onto the third one. 

  A series of bracelets and necklaces fit for a king spills out of the third urn. Even in the darkness of the room, the jewelry shimmers like the sun. Running the gold through his hands, Vector can only imagine what wealthy nobles could afford these. 

  The fourth urn contains robes of red and golden silk filled with intricate patterns of bamboo leaves. He runs the silk through his hands, its coolness similar to an evening breeze. The matching pair of trousers was made of the same material. Reaching into the fifth urn produces a headdress of gold dotted with flecks of rubies. 

  The final urn contains a pair of golden slippers embroidered with silver rabbits. 

  Vector briefly seizes up, his eyes filled with tears. 

  “Take that miniature horse to the front yard and then change,” instructs the sage from behind. 

  Turning around, Vector gives him a smile. 

  “Thank you,” he utters. “Thank you.” 

  The sage gives him a brief nod and then smiles, fading into the long shadows of the house. 

  Cupping the horse in his hands, Vector walks to the front of the house to find that the birds had made quick work of the beans. Then he walks out and places the horse by the door and returns to dress. 

  When he finished dressing, he walked into his stepmother’s bedroom on silent feet. Taking her prized bronze mirror from his stand, he walks into the final rays of day and looks at his reflection. In robes the color of beaten gold and red, he looked like a prince. Placing the mirror back on his stand, Vector picks up the urn of bánh giò from the floor and walks into the front yard. 

  A white horse whinnies at him, its body decorated by golden jewelry and leather satchels. Carefully, Vector places the urn in a satchel and approaches the horse. He offers the horse his hand. The animal nuzzles its head against his hand, its body cold like the ivory it was carved from. 

  “Hello there,” greets Vector. “Are you ready?”

  The horse snorts in response. With a grin, Vector hops onto the horse and slowly trots towards the village procession. 

  Upon seeing him, Mr. Vân’s eyes widen. 

  “Vector!” he exclaims. “Where did you get those clothes and that fine horse?”

  Vector smiles at his neighbor, eyes running down the portly man’s cerulean robes. 

  “My parents continue to provide for me, long after their death,” he replies. 

  Urging his horse into a gallop, Vector soon finds himself at the head of the procession and then ahead of it, blazing across the land in a streak of red and gold. No one except for Mr. Vân had recognized him. 

  H☆H☆S

  “Who is he?”

  “He must be an official!”

  “Such stunning craftsmanship…”

  “Could he be an envoy from the Turtle Sea?”

  Vector slowly trots through the capitol, drinking in everyone’s awed stares and whispers. What would they have said, had they known that he was merely a peasant boy? He holds his head up, admiring the bright red lanterns and flowers that adorned the streets. In the capitol, everyone appeared to be wealthy, dressed in bright robes and shiny shoes. 

  The cobblestoned streets shone beneath the sun and soon, Vector could hear festive music. In the long convoy that followed behind him, there was a rich array of peasants and nobles. The peasants walked while the nobles rode on palanquins and horses. A small thrill filled Vector’s chest at being taken for a noble. 

  Unlike the quietness of the village, the capitol was in a constant buzz of excitement. Hawkers declared their wares. Shoppers constantly bargained. The restaurants and stores were always filled with curious customers. Never before had Vector seen so much food, the varieties and amounts almost endless. 

  He reaches into his horse’s satchel to find a bag of coins, which he then spends on some grilled meat. As he bites into the hot and fragrant meat, he closes his eyes in contentment. It was a perfect blend of paprika, pepper, salt and lemongrass. 

  “This is amazing!” he exclaims. 

  The cook bows at receiving such high praise. Vector grins, riding towards the center of the capitol. In the background, the royal palace loomed. 

  The closer he got to the center of the festivities, the slower the pace of the convoy. His heart beat with anticipation, wondering what he would witness at the festival. If the capitol was already this abundant, what would the festival hold? 

  When he finally arrived, he was greeted by an explosion of color. Flowers from all parts of the world adorned the streets. Troupes of singers, dancers and acrobats filled the streets. There was music in every corner. The streets were filled with people, all gathered together in harmony. Tables filled with food were constantly restocked. There were ten roast pigs, laid across the red tables in a row. 

  Dismounting, Vector startles upon seeing his horse vanish. A weight fills his pocket and he reaches in to find that the ivory carving of the horse laid there. 

  Now free, Vector runs towards the tables laden with food. It seemed that everywhere he went, the festival goers cleared the way for him. 

  Grabbing a meat bun from a table, Vector takes a small bite. Its warmth brings a smile to his face. With his other hand, he takes a pastry wrapped in banana leaves. 

  “How now, young noble!” calls a scholar across from him. 

  Vector lowers his head in greeting. 

  “And from what province do you come from?”

  “Moonshadow Province!” replies Vector.

  The old scholar’s bushy eyebrows raise in surprise. 

  “What’s a handsome young scholar like you doing in such a rural place?”

  “I was born there,” responds Vector. 

  The old man splutters in surprise while Vector happily eats his food. 

  Throughout the day, Vector is met by similar responses. Never before had he felt so full, the tables constantly replenished with food. Never before had he felt so happy, surrounded by opportunities galore. Everywhere he went, people cleared the way for him. 

  When the sun was low in the sky, a hush fell over the festival as people gathered together to dance. Rumors filled the capitol as the sun set. Girls giggled while men puffed up their chests. The king was said to participate in the sunset dance. 

  As they gathered in the square, Vector clasped hands with a young man with tanned skin and bright eyes. Women looked at him in envy while Vector exchanged smiles with the young man. 

  “What’s your name?” asks Vector. 

  The young man’s grin brightens, revealing a row of pearly white teeth.

  “It’s Hy Vọng,” he replies. “You?”

  Vector raises a brow. 

  “That’s an unusual name,” he remarks. “I’m Tấm.”

  Hy Vọng closes his eyes, a wistful smile over his face. 

  “‘Fragrant rice,’ huh? That’s my favorite! Drizzled over with some green onions in fat and that’s a perfect meal!” 

  Vector looks at the young man’s finely tailored clothes and his simple tastes in surprise. Hy Vọng chuckles. 

  “You don’t believe me, do you? I should make you some!” 

  “O-oh, no, I’ve had some! Every morning, actually,” confesses Vector as the music begins. 

  Now it was Hy Vọng’s turn to be surprised. 

  “You? I thought nobles liked you loved your three-course breakfasts!” 

  Heat fills Vector’s cheeks. He’s thankful that the sun was setting. 

  “I’m not a noble!” he confesses.

  His companion looks at Vector’s jewels and fine robes doubtfully. He slightly frowns, tapping his chin with a finger. 

  “Not a noble? Only a noble or a god could afford such clothes,” he remarks. “What kind of god are you?”

  “I’m a simple village boy whose parents continued to provide for him, long after their deaths,” replies Vector, pulling Hy Vọng into the dance. 

  “Parents, huh?” murmurs Hy Vọng. His eyes grow distant. 

  Vector’s smile fades upon seeing Hy Vọng’s melancholy expression. He squeezes Hy Vọng’s hands.

  “They died when I was very young,” adds Vector. 

  A moment of silence passes by as Hy Vọng’s expression falls. His eyes briefly pull away from Vector’s and into the past. 

  “Mine too,” he murmurs.

  “Really?” breathes Vector. 

  Hy Vọng nods.  

  Over the joyful music, the two are lost in a quiet dance of their own. For a moment, Vector felt as if he knew everything about this stranger. He could see the loneliness in Hy Vọng’s eyes and the sadness that tinged the edges of his mouth. Awkwardly, Vector reaches into his pocket and produces a tamarind candy he had purchased from a nearby stand. 

  “When I was sad, my father used to give these to me. Would you like one?” he asks. 

  A small smile fills Hy Vọng’s face. He takes the candy from Vector’s hand, his fingers lingering on Vector’s for longer than was necessary. 

  “Thank you. These are one of my favorites.” 

  For such a young noble, he was less carefree than Vector had expected. When the dance began, every step of Hy Vọng’s was practiced. To Vector, it seemed as if dancing was a second instinct to the young noble. The dying rays of the sun kisses his skin and sparkles in his ruby-colored eyes. 

  “Who takes care of you now?” asks Vector. 

  Hy Vọng responds with a wry smile and a shrug. 

  “Everyone, here and there,” he answers vaguely. 

  “Really? I’m alone,” breathes Vector. 

  Briefly, their hands part. When they come back, Vector realizes that Hy Vọng’s hands are exceptionally warm, just like the sun. 

  “Is that why you came to the capitol?” asks Hy Vọng. 

  “Yup. To start anew.” 

  After the festival, he’ll go to the harbor and look for a ship. Hopefully, he won’t encounter his stepmother and brother before he leaves. 

  Hy Vọng briefly looks around at the spirited square. The dazzling colors of the city brings a small smile to his lips. Despite that, his eyes are sad. 

  “Be careful,” murmurs Hy Vọng. “The capitol is full of danger.” 

  “This is how I’m welcomed to this city for the first time?” teases Vector. 

  A hint of color fills Hy Vọng’s cheeks. He forces a grin and scratches the back of his head.

  “Sorry! I promise that I’m usually not melancholic! If there’s time, I’ll show you the koi ponds and the best restaurants here!” promises his companion. 

  Vector sticks his tongue out. 

  “Nothing’s better than the food from my hometown!” he boasts. 

  Hy Vọng lifts his brow. 

  “I’ll take you up on that challenge! In one sitting, I ate 26 of the Lotus Restaurant’s meat buns!” 

  “26? That must mean that the owner’s skimping on the portions!” calls Vector above the din of the fireworks. “Miss Lê makes pork buns that can feed a grown man and his entire family!” 

  His companion beams as the fireworks explode overhead. 

  “Oh, really? Then she hasn’t met a man with an appetite like mine!” 

  The sound of a lively folk dance starts up. Hy Vọng perks up and he pulls Vector into the throng of dancers. 

  “I heard this song from a distant mountain village during one of my travels!” exclaims Hy Vọng. “It’s a dance that involves everyone in the village, young and old!” 

  Vector can feel everyone’s eyes upon him and Hy Vọng as they gather into a circle. Even among the brightly colored silks of the festival-goers, him and his companion’s outfits shine the most. Women stare at Vector and giggle. Well-dressed men look at the handsome couple with approval. Vector’s heart soars as the circle begins to spin, a rainbow of fabrics dazzling his eyes. 

  “It’s a dance to celebrate the rain!” explains Hy Vọng. “The circles grow and then divide, representing the ripples and changes of water!” 

  Vector holds onto his companion’s hand tightly as the circle grows. He searches the crowd for the faces of his stepmother and brother, yet can’t find them. Relief lowers his shoulders. The circle continues to spin and grow, Vector trying to hang onto his companion as desperately as possible. For once, he had found someone who was willing to listen to him. Someone who had experienced the same pain as he had. 

  As the music crescendos, their hands briefly release and Vector lets out a gasp at the absence of Hy Vọng’s hand. The world briefly stops as Hy Vọng grins at him. With his face lit up by the fireworks, he looks even more lively than before. Then his companion turns away, joining a smaller circle. Vector’s cry is lost in the throng, his hand grabbed by a pair of strangers and his body pulled into another circle. 

  As Hy Vọng’s head disappears into the colorful array of dancing bodies, Vector can only watch as his companion draws farther and farther away. Twirling, stepping and weaving through the steps of the folk dance, Vector tries to look for the young man’s red bangs and bright eyes to no avail. At the end of the dance, he finds himself in an entirely different part of the city.

  Looking down at his feet, he curses under his breath as he finds that one of his shoes is missing. Stumbling back into the center of the festivities, he attempts to look for his shoe. With the amount of people that continued to pour in, finding a single golden shoe was an impossible task. Sighing, Vector wanders away from the crowd hoping to find a cobbler. 

  At night, the lanterns in the capitol dyed the city in shades of red. Shadows seemed to dance on their own in the alleyways. Festival goers filled the streets. Distantly, the sound of fireworks filled the air. Looking around, it seemed that the restaurants were even busier than in the morning. Hobbling about, Vector curses under his breath. 

  “Young prince!” calls a voice. 

  Vector stops.

  “Young prince!” repeats the voice. 

  Vector turns around to see a young hostess standing in the doorway of a bustling restaurant. 

  “Are you hungry?” she asks. 

  Looking down at his bare foot, Vector reluctantly nods. He walks into the restaurant. Immediately, the smell of congee and fragrant jasmine rice fills his senses. 

  “What can I get for you?” asks the hostess, eager to serve such a richly dressed customer. 

  “Tea…a bowl of rice…and a meatbun,” requests Vector, remembering Hy Vọng’s boast. 

  A hint of a frown fills the hostess’ face. 

  “Is there anything else I can get for you?” she asks, brows slightly furrowed. 

  “Do you know any cobblers that are still open? I lost my shoe during the festivities,” says Vector, motioning to his bare foot. 

  The hostess looks down at Vector’s dirt-covered foot and bites her lip. Perhaps this wasn’t a prince. Perhaps this was a thief. Despite that, she pastes a smile on her face. 

  “Mr. Nguyễn should still be open, although he’s quite busy. He’s three streets away,” replies the hostess. 

  Vector smiles and places three gold coins into the hostess’ hand. 

  “Thank you.” 

  The hostess hurries off, her heart leaping at the amount of gold in her hand. Meanwhile, Vector looks around at the establishment. There were festival goers from distant lands, their clothes a clear marker of their foreignness. Some wore long capes that ill-suited the humid weather of the Amber Kingdom. Others wore elaborate headdresses. He even spotted a few members of the neighboring mountain tribes, their headscarves colorful and well-tailored. 

  A mixture of languages fills the room, from the almost-understandable languages of the mountain tribes to the foreign tongues of the westerners. Vector looked on in fascination as a young man with long white hair fumbled with chopsticks while his blond companion stifled a laugh. The man gave his friend a few words of advice in a language that sounded nasal and lilting to Vector’s ear. 

  “Fascinating, isn’t it?” calls a voice from beside him. 

  Vector jumps upon seeing the young man beside him. Turning to him, the young sage smiles. Dressed in civilian clothing, with his hair tied in a ponytail, he appeared just like any common laborer. With his chin resting on his hand, the sage looks at Vector with half-closed eyes. A woven basket was strapped behind his back, his staff sticking out. 

  “You…!” 

  “Here you are,” says the hostess, serving Vector a meatbun, a bowl of rice and tea. 

  “Ah! Please get my friend a cup of tea and some vegetarian canh chua!” calls Vector. 

  “Excellent!”

  The hostess grins and hurries off.

  “How did you know what I wanted?” asks the sage. 

  “Frankly, I don’t even know what’s on the menu,” retorts Vector. 

  The sage looks around. 

  “Well, there’s dumplings…crab soup…buns…more dumplings…egg noodles…”

  “Enough…,” mumbles Vector. “I stuffed myself silly at the festival.” 

  He’s answered by a chuckle from the sage. Vector frowns. 

  “What are you doing here? Shouldn’t you be off meditating or something?”

  The sage places a finger on his lips and makes a shushing sound. 

  “Sage-in-training, remember? I don’t have to give up all worldly pleasures all at once,” he drawls. 

  A moment of silence passes by as Vector sips his tea. In the humidity of the restaurant, it was almost too much to bear. He takes a bite from his bun. Honestly, it was quite average compared to his neighbor’s buns.  

  “I lost my shoe,” mutters Vector. 

  “You’ll find it again,” replies the sage, resting his head against his folded arms. 

  “How?!” sputters Vector. “It’s lost in this city of a million people! It’s probably already gone for good!” 

  “I wouldn’t be so sure of that…” 

  “Stop speaking in riddles!”

  With a chuckle, the sage shrugs and holds up his hands. 

  “Sorry. Sage in training.” 

  “I could strangle you!” growls Vector. 

  “I’d like to see you try,” drawls the sage. 

  Vector downs his tea and glares at the young man. 

  “Why are you helping me? I don’t even know your name,” mutters Vector. 

  “First off, my name is Phạm Huyền Dương but my fellow sages call me Cá Mập.”

  Dương is interrupted by a snort. Briefly, he frowns. 

  “From ‘dark ocean’ to ‘shark…,’” muses Vector. “Looks like you didn’t go far.” 

  Dương rolls his eyes. 

  “I was born by the ocean. Of course I’ll never stray from it,” he retorts. “And secondly, the karma you’ve accrued from your loyalty to your parents have resulted in Heaven’s admiration. I was assigned to you to carry out Heaven’s decree.” 

 Vector’s heart skips a beat. So his prayers had been heard. He grins, just as the hostess arrived with a bowl of canh chua, rice and tea. The smell of the soup’s spices earns a smile from Dương as he grabs his chopsticks. 

  “That looks absolutely delicious!” he says. “Thank you!”

  The hostess blushes. 

  “Anything for our best patrons!” 

  Paying the hostess another gold coin, Vector watches as Dương eagerly partakes in the meal.

  “Why don’t you come to the festivities with me? There’s lots of food there,” offers Vector.

  Dương shakes his head. 

  “‘Can’t. Worldly pleasure,” he replies with a full mouth. 

  Vector watches as the young man quickly downs the soup and then the rice. 

  “Haven’t had anything this delicious in ages!” exclaims Dương. “On the mountains, all we have are peaches and the rice offerings our followers give us.”

  “I’m planning to stay in the city so you could definitely stop by,” offers Vector. 

  Dương briefly pauses, something unreadable flashing by his eyes. For a moment, Vector could see the expression of the wise sage that Dương was training to become. The young man smiles, although his eyes remain unreadable. 

  “Yes, I’ll take you up on that offer,” says Dương as he finishes his bowl of rice. He looks at Vector’s bowl. “Are you finishing that?”

  Vector shakes his head and pushes the bowl towards Dương. His companion grins and dumps its contents into the remainder of the soup. 

  “Oh, I need to come down here more often…,” he mumbles to himself as he digs into the soup. 

  Over the sounds of the sage happily eating, Vector rests his hand on his chin. Hy Vọng…such a strange young man. Despite his carefree exterior, he had experienced so much sadness. He had always thought that nobles lived luxurious and happy lives. He begins to tap out the rhythm of the folk dance on the table, closing his eyes and trying to relive the moment. Warmth…oh, he was so warm when he held Hy Vọng’s hand. His heart felt as if it could burst out of his chest from the warmth. 

  “Any chance I could bother you for some vegetarian buns?” asks Dương. 

  Vector wryly smiles at the young man.

  “Remind me never to become an immortal. It looks like they don’t feed you well up in the mountains,” chuckles Vector as he looks around for the hostess. 

  “Did you hear? The king is looking for the owner of a shoe!” shouts a young and heavily powdered woman into the restaurant. 

  Vector jumps. 

  “What does the shoe look like?!” shouts Vector above the din of the restaurant.

  “Golden and embroidered with rabbits!” cries the woman. 

  Vector’s heart nearly jumps out his chest. He stands straight up, preparing to leave. 

  “Well, there’s my cue to go,” says Dương. 

  When Vector turns around, the sage has vanished, leaving behind a stack of empty bowls. As the murmurs arise throughout the restaurant, Vector shoves the rest of the bun into his mouth and then slips his remaining shoe into his pocket. He hurries into the streets of the capitol, the cobbled stone paths smooth beneath his callused feet. 

  “Where is the king?!” exclaims Vector, looking around. 

  “There’s a line stretching into the palace courtyard!” replies a running woman. 

  Vector hurries after her, clutching his robes in his hands. 

  “How long?!” 

  The woman doesn’t look back, running along with the rest of the crowd. 

  “All the way to the gates!” 

  Vector’s heart falls. He runs into an alleyway and takes the horse carving out of his pocket and places it on the floor beneath him. Before his eyes, the horse grows. Once it was at its full size, Vector leaps onto the horse and rushes towards the city gates. 

  H☆H☆S

  You know, I’m a very patient man, having served my stepmother and brother for most of my life. For two days, I waited in that line, surrounded by girls from all walks of life. The wealthy ones demanded to be carried by their retainers. The poor ones had to endure hunger and the burgeoning heat of the spring. There were those who were turned away by the guards at the palace gates because they had cut the line. I saw a few pretenders as well. 

  As long as I had the second shoe in my pocket, I knew that I would be chosen. But then what? 

  That question followed me the entire time, even once I arrived at the palace courtyard. 

  Sitting on his throne, shaded and fanned by a retinue of attendees was Hy Vọng, radiant as the day we had met. Upon seeing him on his dais, my heart almost stopped. 

  He motioned for the next person to try the golden shoe. A frail girl with a dirt-covered face approached the head eunuch, who held my golden shoe in his hand. Despite the hundreds of feet that had tried on the shoe, it remained pristine. 

  When my turn arrived, our eyes met and King Yuma smiled. It was a smile that still warms my heart today, when he has long moved on in his various reincarnations. 

  H☆H☆S

  “A perfect fit,” declares the head eunuch. 

  Vector reaches into his pocket and pulls out the matching pair to a chorus of gasps. 

  “As you can see, I’m the true owner of these shoes,” he declares. “They were gifted to me by my parents.” 

  The eunuch’s shoulders lower in relief upon seeing Vector’s stately robes. 

  “And you are?”

  “Vector.”

  “Family name?”

�� Vector smiles, his heartbeat racing. 

  “Of the Sunflower Seed village in Moonshadow province,” he replies. 

  The eunuch’s face slackens and the palace court erupts into a series of gasps and hysterical screams. 

  “A peasant?!” chokes the eunuch. 

  He turns to the king with a face paler than the clouds. 

  With a single nod, King Yuma steps from his throne and approaches Vector. 

  “As a king and the father of my subjects, I must remember the heartbeat of our kingdom lies in the peasantry. What could be a better match?” declares the young king, clasping Vector’s hand in his. 

  Behind Vector, a few maidens faint. Meanwhile, his heart beats with a mixture of fear and joy. True, he had wanted to escape his family and start a life on his own terms. However, he had never expected to marry the king for his new beginning. Looking around at the astonished courtyard, he sees a purple-haired noble stifling his laughter. 

  H☆H☆S

  This was where the story was supposed to end. I didn’t question the rapidity of the marriage, given the nature of fairytales. Miracles happen everyday in these worlds. All this meant was that I could have a happy ending. See, happy endings in fairytales almost always end with a wedding. Love is what makes the world go round, after all! Ha ha…

  I would have forgiven my stepmother and brother at the wedding and lived happily ever after with the king. The karmic balances would have equaled out because of my suffering and my subsequent forgiveness of my tormentors. I wasn’t selfish or resentful, unlike my cousin. 

  I was pure. 

  And yet, time ticked on.

  I had to survive the gossip and rivalries of court. The treacherous games of the eunuchs and nobles were similar to Shingetsu’s games, but deadlier. Despite the commoners’ love for me, they were kept away from the palace. Yuma was my sole comfort. 

  On the day of my father’s death anniversary, I was almost excited to return home and pay my respects.

  H☆H☆S

  “Your majesty!” greets Madame Sương, kowtowing. 

  “It’s alright, mother,” reassures Vector, stepping out of the palanquin. He turns to the eunuchs. “Thank you for your services.” 

  Upon seeing his childhood home again, tears fill Vector’s eyes. It was shabbier than he remembered, the thatched roof unchanged since he had left. The trees around the home had grown since the wedding, more shade covering their yard. Looking down at his stepmother and stepbrother, a small smile fills Vector’s lips. Their clothes were still elegant and crisply tailored, thanks to the allowance Vector sent home monthly. 

  “Rise,” says Vector, approaching his stepmother. 

  Unexpectedly, his stepmother embraces him, sobbing loudly. 

  “It’s been so lonely since you’ve left for the palace, my son,” she cries. “Shingetsu and I have dreamed of this day!”

  Joining his mother, Shingetsu embraces Vector as well, tears dripping down his rosy cheeks. 

  “It feels like part of me was missing when you vanished!” adds Shingetsu. 

  Awkwardly, Vector returns the embrace. He only had until sunset before he had to turn back. 

  “Oh, I was so cruel to you!” cries his stepmother, running her hands through Vector’s hair. “Gods strike me down!” Vector pulls away from both his stepmother and twin, a serene smile on his face. Compared to the bloodthirsty courtiers, their antics were amusing. 

  “It’s alright,” breathes Vector through his tears. “I forgive you.” 

  An apology and love. That was all he had ever wanted from his stepmother. Madame Sương’s sobs increase as she kneels onto the floor and touches her forehead to Vector’s feet. 

  “To have a son who forgave his cruel stepmother for her past sins…Only so few could be lucky!” she cries. 

  “Come in, please! I cooked yours and father’s favorite meal!” invites Shingetsu, tugging Vector’s hand. 

  “Wait! I need to pay my respects first!” says Vector, pulling away from Shingetsu’s grip. 

  Taking his shoes off, Vector steps into the threshold of the house. His father and mother’s altar remains where it has always been. Lighting a stick of incense, Vector clasps it between his hands and bows. 

  “Although I’ve risen to lofty ranks, I will always remember my origins,” begins Vector. “Please continue watching over me as I navigate the dangers of the Amber Court.” 

  After bowing, Vector sticks his incense into the pot and moves into the dining room. A plate of bánh bèo awaits him and Vector’s stomach growls. 

  “Do you like it?” asks his stepmother from behind. 

  Vector turns around and gives her a smile. 

  “It’s wonderful, being able to have a home cooked meal after all these months of rich palace food,” he replies. “Mother, please have a seat.” 

  “But you’re the king’s consort…”

  Vector shakes his head. 

  “And you’re my mother. Please sit and eat.” 

  Wiping the tears from her eyes, his stepmother takes a seat and picks up her chopsticks. Vector then settles down beside Shingetsu. 

  “It smells delicious,” notes Vector. “You’ve really improved your cooking skills.”

  Shingetsu brightens up at Vector’s praise. 

  “Really?!”

  “Really.” 

  Together, the family begins to eat, the table quickly emptying. 

  “Apologies for coming empty handed. My carriage of presents should be coming soon,” notes Vector. 

  “Nonsense!” laughs his stepmother. “You’ve already done so much for us! I’m planning on sending Shingetsu to the capitol next year to become a scholar thanks to your support!” 

  Shingetsu blushes. 

  “I couldn’t have done it without you,” he admits. 

  Vector smiles and pats his brother’s hand. 

  “Don’t worry about it. It’s the least I could do.” 

  Once everyone had finished their meal, Madame Sương wiped her mouth and stood up. Clearing her throat, she turns to Vector. 

  “Forgive my impertinence, but would you be willing to do your mother a favor?” asks Madame Sương. 

  Looking up from his tea, Vector nods.

  “What do you need?”

  “Ah…as you know, your mother is no longer young and Shingetsu is no use at climbing trees. Would you be able to climb the areca tree out in the back and bring your father his favorite areca nuts?” 

  “Oh, please?” wheedles Shingetsu. “You were always climbing the trees like a monkey when we were younger!” 

  “Of course!” agrees Vector. “Let me do that now.”

  Taking off his outer robe and placing it in Shingetsu’s arms, Vector rolls up his sleeves and walks into the backyard. Wistfully, he gazes at the empty well. Remembering his stepmother’s past cruelties, he shakes his head. No, no, she and Shingetsu had changed. Loneliness and time had taught them the error of their ways. 

  He approaches the areca tree and begins to climb, his stepmother and brother following close behind. 

  “Be careful up there!” calls Shingetsu as their stepmother disappears into the cellar.

  “I will!” says Vector, slowly inching up the tree. 

  The thin trunk of the tree slightly sways with each movement Vector makes. He swallows hard as he gets higher and higher. When he was young, the tree was already tall, planted in the time of his great grandfather. Their father liked to sit beneath the tree while Vector climbed and tossed his beloved nuts down to him. The memory warms Vector’s heart. 

  Once the first bunch of nuts comes within reach, Vector takes a deep breath and reaches out his hand. Plucking a few nuts, he brings them to his pocket. Looking down, he sees that his stepmother has returned, an ax in her hand. 

  “Don’t mind me!” calls his stepmother. “There’s a whole family of fire ants down here! I couldn’t stand to have my dear child be stung by such beasts!” 

  She swings the ax at the tree while Vector holds on for dear life. He closes his eyes, praying that the thunk thunking would stop. 

  “Mother, please!” cries Vector amidst the hackings of the ax. “If you keep on cutting the tree, I’ll fall to my death!”

  Deaf to his cries, Madame Sương continues to chop at the base of the tree. Vector winces and clings on for dear life, wrapping his limbs around the thin trunk. For a moment, the world completely stills. The birdsong stops. The hacking of the ax stills. The world holds its breath. Blood stops flowing in his veins. 

  And then the world spins again, in loud, righteous fury. He feels himself falling, the world rushing towards him. The areca tree cries with a voice centuries old, raining its nuts onto the ground. Briefly, Vector catches a glimpse of his father reading in the shade of the trees, his hammock swinging in the breeze. He looks up and smiles before the world seems to tear itself in two. Stars dance in Vector’s eyes and his head screams in pain. It feels as if he’s been struck by lightning. Warmth fills his face and as his vision leaves, he sees Shingetsu and Madame Sương looking down at him with matching expressions. 

  “Quick. Strip him before the blood gets on the robes.”

  The world fades away as if it were a painting made of sand. Vector closes his eyes and feels himself being carried away by the winds. 

  H☆H☆S

  It sucks, being dead. 

  Did you know what they did to my corpse? 

  After stripping me naked, they cut my body to pieces and fed me to the neighbor’s pigs. 

  What had filled these people with such evil and ungrateful malice? 

  They greeted the gift wagon with their usual theatrics, this time with Shingetsu parading as me. In their bloodied hands they clasped gold and fine robes, donning them as the pigs feasted on my corpse. 

  No one would notice this deception, for we were twins. 

  No one except Yuma and Heaven. 

  H☆H☆S

  He awakens in a cold cavern standing in a long line of people. Vector scratches his head and winces at the sore. Looking around at the gaunt men and women, he frowns. The last thing he remembered was that he was in his childhood home. It was the beginning of the rainy season, but it never became this cold. 

  “Where am I?” he asks. 

  An old man turns around and looks at him. Pity fills his face. 

  “You’re in the underworld, child,” he murmurs.

  The underworld? The word makes Vector chuckle. He was only twenty springs old, young and healthy. How could he be dead?

  “That’s impossible,” he replies. “I have a kingdom to return to!” 

  The old man shakes his head and shuffles ahead. Looking around, Vector notices the gloomy pig-headed sentries walking throughout the caverns. With their beady eyes and twitching snouts, Vector shakes his head in disbelief. It was like the paintings at the temple. 

  “Excuse me…,” he calls to a guard. 

  The pig oinks in response and clutches its glaive tighter. 

  “I think there’s been a mistake.” 

  Another pig walks up to Vector. Its companion snorts in its ear. Together, they begin to laugh in a series of high-pitched squeals and snorts. Without replying to Vector, they walk away. 

  Sighing, Vector awaits his turn at the front of the line, reminded of when he waited to try on his slipper. 

  When he arrives at the front of the line, he stiffens upon seeing the imposing figure before him. Surrounded by animal-headed attendants was Diêm Vương, a man dressed in dark robes and a large crown. Vector bows, his limbs shaking. It couldn’t be. 

  “Rise,” booms the King of the Underworld. 

  Vector stands and gazes at Diêm Vương’s endless records. 

  “Prince Tấm of the Amber Kingdom,” reads the immortal, stroking his long beard. “Death from a fall.” 

  Memories of his stepmother cutting down the areca tree fills Vector’s mind. Pain shoots up Vector’s skull as he remembers falling to the ground.

  “Th…there has to be a mistake,” chokes Vector. “I still have so much to live for.” 

  “Indeed,” says Diêm Vương, eliciting a series of gasps from his attendants. “Your life was not meant to end this way. I grant you expedited reincarnation in the form of an oriole to return to your love.”

  “B…but my body…” 

  The immortal narrows his eyes, an eerie flame igniting in their black depths. 

  “Is no longer on this earth.”

  “What?” 

  An imperious looking mynah-headed official lets out a squawk and unfurls a scroll. 

  “Before unassuming swine you were sacrificed, white flesh and bone ground beneath indifferent teeth. Come the morning, you will be resting in bits within the bellies of beasts,” reads the mynah. 

  A chill runs down Vector’s spine. He looks up at the king of the underworld and slowly bows, his head touching the cold stone floor. 

  “Forgive my impertinence, but, will my stepmother and brother atone for their sins?”

  Diêm Vương sighs and strokes his beard. 

  “Cross the Bridge of Reincarnation, child. That is a secret I cannot divulge,” he says. “Make haste, for the universe must have its stories…” 

  Standing, Vector crosses his arms. What did Diêm Vương mean in that last bit? Judging from his irritated expression, he had no time to elaborate. 

  “Thank you,” Vector says as a pig-headed sentry ushers him away. 

  “NEXT!” squawks the mynah official. 

  The sentry leads him through a series of tunnels lit by dim crystals. Distantly, Vector could hear sobbing and screaming. When they arrive at a massive cavern, Vector stops to look around. Bridges that seemed to lead to nowhere crisscrossed the area. Wandering souls wandered back and forth through the bridges. Trees seemed to grow from the walls and the ceiling, obeying no natural order. Beneath him, a boiling river flowed backwards. 

  Behind him, the sentry nudges him with his glaive, snorting. 

  Vector shakes his head and moves across a stone bridge. 

  “Are my parents still here?” asks Vector, looking around. 

  He’s answered by silence. 

  They ascend a series of steps and enter a garden. An old lady sits by a weathered tree. Upon seeing Vector, she smiles. 

  “Have a seat, child. Come and drink my soup,” she invites. 

  The pig-headed sentry reaches into his pocket and shows the elderly woman a tag. For a moment, the elderly woman’s smile wavers. She takes the bowl of soup and pours it back into the spring. 

  “I see. Best of luck to you, child,” she calls as Vector is hurried along. 

  Leaving the cave, they enter a dark cavern that seemed to stretch into eternity. A red bridge yawned before Vector. The sentry oinks and motions to the bridge. Swallowing the lump in his throat, Vector takes a step forward. His footsteps fall silent on the well-worn stone. Looking behind him, he finds that the sentry remained where he was. 

  “This is it, then? The bridge of reincarnation?” asks Vector. 

  His response was a single nod. 

  Vector takes a deep breath and gives the beady-eyed sentry a smile. 

  “Thank you.”

  As he walks across the bridge, he can feel the sentry’s eyes on his back. It’s cold, although there’s no breeze in the underworld. In the darkness he blindly walks ahead, praying that he would see his king again. Sometimes he thinks he hears his stepmother’s laughter. Other times he thinks he hears Shingetsu teasing him. Distantly, he hears Yuma’s laughter. 

  Vector quickens his pace. 

  “Vector, what’s the rush?” calls a voice from his memory. 

  Briefly, Vector pauses. He puts a hand on the stone railing and looks back. 

  Nothing. 

  He takes another step. 

  “Son, please. Turn back and come read with me,” continues his father. 

  Vector bites his lip. Perhaps his father was still here and not reincarnated. Perhaps he had overlooked his father, who was waiting on one of the hundreds of thousands of bridges in that massive cavern. 

  “We have so much to discuss.” 

  Yet Vector remembers Shingetsu’s cold expression as he leaned over him, watching as life drained from his skull. Lips pressed into a thin line. Eyes devoid of expression. Unblinking as Vector had let out a final choked cry. 

  “Strip him before the blood gets on the robes,” commands his stepmother.

  Vector grits his teeth and continues on. No. His stepmother couldn’t take this final piece of happiness away from him. Not if he still had a say in this. 

  “Oh, Vector…,” sighs a wistful voice from behind. “What’s the use of revenge?”

  Vector digs his nails into the stone.

  Mother. His real mother, who had gifted him those wonderful bánh giò. He forces himself to take a step forward. 

  “Vector, please. Your father and I are both waiting for you,” says his mother. 

  Vector grits his teeth. So this was why people drank Mạnh Bà’s soup of oblivion. 

  “Mother, I’m sorry. I want to have happiness,” says Vector as he forces himself to go on. 

  “You can be happy here!” protests his mother. “Please!” 

  His mother would never scream at him like that. She would have wanted him to be happy. Memories of his gentle fish-mother fills Vector’s mind. Vector shakes his head and begins to run down the bridge, the voices of his mother and father distorting into hellish screams. 

  Soon, he begins to see a hint of light in the darkness. He quickens his pace, feeling his limbs grow lighter. Stretching out his arms, he feels his feet leave the ground and feathers sprout from his skin. He closes his eyes, casting aside the white robes of the underworld. When he opens his eyes, he is freely flying into the beautiful blue skies of the Amber Kingdom.

  H☆H☆S

  In his garden, the young king plays his moon lute, looking wistfully up at the heavens. As of late, his beloved was behaving strangely. His eyes were colder and his smile never reached his eyes. Despite that, he professed his undying love and admiration for his king in endless droves. It was almost as if his love had been absorbed by the court’s obsequious mannerisms. Yuma sighs as he plucks a wrong note, the melody falling apart at the discordant sound. 

  Yuma had thought his husband was different, hailing from a small village in the rural countryside. At the festival, he had seemed removed from the worldly luxuries around him, eyeing the common folk and nobles with the same set of eyes. He wore his robes as if they were simple peasant’s garb, easily weaving his way through the dancers as if he were walking across a meadow. Vector seemed unconcerned about his robes dragging on the dusty streets, instead more focused on the world around him. 

  Now all Vector does is wheedle Yuma for more gold and jewels, earning the ire of the finance ministers. 

  Yuma leans his head back against his chair and plays another song. 

  Oh beautiful moon so high above, 

What secrets have you heard tonight?

  Tell me of the peasant girl’s new love,

The soldier’s greatest fears 

And the father’s secret worries

  Why carry such secrets alone, paling your beautiful features?

  An oriole begins to chirp in tune and Yuma continues to play.

  I see that you and I are the same,

King and Moon

Our burden is ours alone to bear

  When the oriole continues to sing along, note for note, Yuma stops. He looks around, searching for the bird. When he sees the yellow bird perched on a nearby branch, he smiles. 

  “How about this one?” he asks. 

  Tonight, tonight, I am going off to the festival

Across the hills and through the clouds I fly

Towards the fairyland of Mount Bồng Lai

  Where I will feast from the flower fairies’ table 

And dance with the fair immortal maidens of legend

  Come, come, in your cups you will see

Slightly tipsy on the rice wine of heaven

The true meaning of life

  The oriole sings along with heartrending passion, similar to when he and Vector used to sing together. Whenever he had time they would go out to the garden and sit in the pavilion, Yuma with his lute in hand and Vector with his voice. Yuma holds the oriole’s gaze and holds out his sleeve. 

  “Sometimes, I think that my husband has been taken away and replaced by a wizard. If he was truly my Vector, he wouldn’t speak to me with such cold smiles and blatant lies,” muses Yuma. “If you are my true husband and have been transformed, fly into my sleeve.”

  Immediately, the oriole lands in his sleeve. Yuma lets out an incredulous squawk. Such things only happened in fairytales. He gazes down at the oriole and its unusual amethyst eyes. Nervously, he looks down at the bird. 

  “H-hey, I was just joking! Y-you couldn’t be my husband!” protests Yuma. 

  The oriole continues to stare at him with its eyes, the same color as Vector’s. 

  “But if you truly are him, then how would you be able to prove it?” 

  Bending its head into its wing, the oriole pulls out a silver hairpin decorated with an amethyst. Yuma stiffens. 

  “But…Vector said he lost that!”

  The oriole drops the pin and lets out an indignant squawk. How could he have lost such a thing, especially when it was Yuma’s first present to him? 

  Yuma purses his lips. Perhaps it was all a strange coincidence. 

  “Well, would you happen to know our favorite song?” 

  The oriole closes its eyes and then begins to sing a folk lullaby. Yuma’s brows furrow as the oriole hops onto his hand. Lifting the bird to his face, he frowns. 

  “Then who’s—”

  “Your majesty!” calls Shingetsu, running into the garden. 

  Head to toe he is dressed in gold, shining brighter than the sun itself. Yuma shields his eyes. 

  “Vector,” he mumbles as Shingetsu embraces him. 

  Looking up at him with wide eyes, Shingetsu says, 

  “Today, the chief minister of finances reprimanded me! Punish him for me, please?” 

  Looking down at his husband in bewilderment, Yuma slowly extricates himself from Shingetsu’s embrace. 

  “You have to understand,” he begins. “Our kingdom is just recovering from its war with the Turtle King! The people are exhausted!” 

  Shingetsu pouts and then looks down at his jade bracelets. 

  “I thought you said that I deserved the best. What’s a few more bracelets?” he mumbles. 

  “I…” 

  Just then, the oriole swoops towards Shingetsu’s face, eliciting a shriek of terror from the young man. 

  “Get it away!” yelps Shingetsu. 

  “Don’t touch him!” exclaims Yuma, pushing Shingetsu away. 

  A flash of anger fills Shingetsu’s expression. 

  “A bird over your own husband? Just what—”

  The oriole dives for Shingetsu’s face again, only to be blocked by Yuma’s body. 

  “Please!” says Yuma. “Not now!” 

  For a moment, the oriole glares at Shingetsu. Then it flies back into the trees. Dusting himself off, Shingetsu looks at the bird in disgust. 

  “Have that bird killed!” he bellows. “It attacked a royal personage!” 

  “I’ll have none of that,” snaps Yuma, cheeks red with anger. “As long as you parade yourself around shining with gold, birds and dogs alike will rush to you.” 

  Shingetsu splutters in indignation. When he’s unable to find a proper response, he storms away in disgust. Left in the silence of the garden, Yuma sighs. The oriole lands on his shoulder, nuzzling his cheek. 

  “I have to go back to work,” he murmurs. “But I’ll return whenever I have the time.”

  The oriole lets out a mournful trill. 

  Vector had always hated parting with Yuma. The young king turns to the oriole and caresses its feathers. 

  “How did you become like this?” he asks the bird.

  Mournful eyes look at him and Yuma’s heart wrenches. After a few moments, the oriole responds with a folk song.

  From the same vine two gourds grew

Both slender and green 

Yet when farmer Hùng cut them open

Only one was white

  Yuma shakes his head, unable to understand. 

  “I’m sorry. I need to get going,” he says.

  The oriole flutters into a branch, looking at him with mournful eyes.

  H☆H☆S

  Over the weeks, Yuma strayed further away from his husband and closer to the oriole. Shingetsu could only watch in jealousy as the king sang and played with the bird. His wheedling and begging now fell on deaf ears. The courtiers he spent time with slowly pulled away from him as his debts stacked and his pockets remained empty. 

  All because of that bloody bird. 

  On a particularly busy afternoon, Shingetsu slinks into the empty garden and looks around for the oriole. From his observations, the oriole always seemed to perch on the king’s favorite seat. Standing in the shaded pavilion, he lets out a series of low whistles. 

  “Come out, come out, wherever you are…,” he calls. “He knows, doesn’t he? That I’m not his husband?” 

  Shingetsu looks down at his hands, bedecked with jewels. 

  “It doesn’t matter, though. He’d still have to marry me anyways once my twin died.”

  A flash of yellow flutters by Shingetsu. The oriole lands on a nearby table, glaring at him. Shingetsu chuckles upon seeing the oriole’s purple eyes. 

  “Well, well…If it isn’t my dear husband’s pet,” drawls Shingetsu, reaching out his hand. “Come. I have sweets in my pocket for you.” 

  The oriole remains where it is, glaring at the treacherous twin. Shingetsu reaches into his pocket and pulls out a handful of areca nuts, a smile slowly filling his lips. 

  “What do you think about these? I picked them myself,” says Shingetsu. 

  He remembers cutting up Vector’s body beneath the moonlight, his flesh at first refusing to split. Only after Shingetsu had soaked his brother’s body in lime did the flesh give way. In the end, it hadn’t even appeared like human flesh anymore. Just lumps of misshapen, grayish meat that could have belonged to any animal. 

  Upon seeing the nuts, the bird flaps its wings and dives towards Shingetsu’s face. With a laugh, Shingetsu snatches the bird from thin air and grins at its helpless squawks. 

  “Don’t try to ruin this for me,” murmurs Shingetsu, tightening his grip around the bird. “I’ve gotten this far and no damn bird is going to get in my way.” 

  Shingetsu grins as the bird’s squawks slowly decrease in volume. He continues squeezing the bird, digging his golden claws into its soft feathers. Warmth trickles down his hand as the bird’s blood flows from the punctures in its flesh. The bird frantically struggles in Shingetsu’s grip, its muscles and bones brushing against Shingetsu’s hand. 

  As a young child, Shingetsu had always been fascinated by the work of the town’s butcher. He delighted in seeing the muscles and bones exposed in the sun, writhing in the summer heat. The death-knells of the animals as it was bludgeoned to death stirred something in Shingetsu’s stomach. Nothing brought him more delight than watching as life drained from an animal’s eyes. 

  It was a pity that he was forbidden from pursuing the trade. 

  When the bird has completely stilled, Shingetsu places the bird in his pocket and wipes his hands with a handkerchief. He licks his lips and makes his way towards the kitchen. 

  “Your majesty!” calls the chef, bowing. 

  Shingetsu grins and tosses the bird’s carcass at the chef’s feet. 

  “Pluck its feathers and cook it for me,” he commands. “Season it with your best spices and serve it with my favorite herbs.” 

  The chef balks upon seeing the bloodied bird and Shingetsu’s wicked smile. After a few moments, he bows again. 

  “I-it will be done,” he stammers.

  “Hurry. I’m ravenous,” says Shingetsu as he walks away. 

  H☆H☆S

  Vector wakes up in the underworld with a pained gasp. Returned to his human body, he touches his hands to his face and runs his hands down his limbs. Unlike the first time, he is alone. Looking up, he sees a nervous horse-headed attendant whispering to Diêm Vương. The King of the Underworld strokes his beard as he looks down at his scrolls. On his other side, an ox-headed attendant sharpens his blade.

  “I see…,” Diêm Vương muses. 

  The attendant pulls away, looking at Vector with wary eyes. 

  “Approach,” calls Diêm Vương. 

  Slowly, Vector walks forward. The god stares down at him with furrowed brows. 

  “Unusual indeed…,” he murmurs. 

  “Please let me return again,” begs Vector, falling to his knees.

  He’s answered by a sharp glare, sending a bolt of ice through his chest. 

  “Don’t interrupt his Highness,” snaps the ox-head. 

  “Are you aware that it is rare, exceedingly rare to have three reincarnations in chronological proximity of one another?” booms Diêm Vương, eyes blazing. 

  Vector looks down at the stone floor, his hands shaking. He had to get back, no matter what. His Yuma was waiting for him. There was still so much time to be had together. All of the sunny afternoons they hadn’t spent. The delicious meals and festivals they would celebrate together. A kingdom, waiting for their beloved consort. 

  The ox-head snorts, the ring around his nose tinkling. 

  “Yet…,” begins Diêm Vương, running a long nail across his records. “Your happy fate has been intercepted twice now.”

  With a start, Vector looks up. 

  “Happy fate…?” he echoes. 

  He’s known nothing but pain. 

  “Your story was meant to end once you arrived in court and married the king,” reads Diêm Vương. “Yet it continued until your untimely death.” 

  “Why?” utters Vector. 

  Diêm Vương turns his eyes to the horse-headed attendant, who whickers nervously. 

  “The circumstances are currently unclear, but we had a similar case a few moons ago as well. We didn’t bring them back and instead had them reincarnated into an entirely different fate,” recounts the horse.  

  “Clearly, that isn’t a permanent solution,” snorts the ox. 

  The King of the Underworld lets out a sigh, the entire walls of the cavern shaking in response. He looks down at Vector, his eyes burning with flames. 

  “Another reincarnation then,” he proposes. “As a tree.” 

  “A tree?!” exclaims Vector. 

  “The karmic points you obtained as a bird were insufficient for a higher plane,” says Diêm Vương. “Or would you rather have an entirely different fate?”

  And wait for the underworld to deal with his brother and stepmother? Long after they’ve lived a life of luxury and cruelty? 

  Vector bows his head. 

  “Apologies. I will take the life of a tree.” 

  Diêm Vương nods and takes his seal. He stamps over Vector’s name for the third time, his brows furrowed. 

  “Take him to the lower bridge of reincarnation.”

  Vector stands and walks past the attendants. In turn, the ox-head hurries after him.

  H☆H☆S

  “Where is my bird?” asks Yuma. 

  Shingetsu leans on a chair, stretching. 

  “I’ve already told you. I don’t know. It probably flew away because it got bored of you,” yawns Shingetsu. 

  His husband balls his hands into fists. Over the past few days, the dark circles under his eyes had increased. Without his precious oriole, he had grown easily irritable and colder than he usually was. Yuma begins to pace, much to Shingetsu’s annoyance. 

  “He couldn’t have disappeared like that!”

  “‘He?’” asks Shingetsu, raising a brow. “How are you so sure?”

  “I just do!” snaps Yuma. 

  “Your majesty!” calls a retinue of attendants. 

  Yuma whirls around, glaring at the head maid. She looks at him with red cheeks, her chest heaving. 

  “Speak,” commands Yuma. 

  “Your majesty…! It’s…it’s a miracle,” breathes the maid. 

  The young king raises his brow. 

  “What?”

  “The tr…tree,” wheezes the maid. “In your garden.” 

  Shingetsu snorts and looks down at his rings. What could be so special about a tree?

  “It just appeared this morning! W-with orange leaves and pale bark. L-like a tree in the North’s autumn!” 

  Everyone knew that the trees in the capitol stayed green all year round. As the sun shone throughout the entire year, there was no need for the trees to hibernate. Yuma’s agitated pacing stops. 

  “Show me,” he breathes. 

  “W-wait!” calls Shingetsu. “Let me see too!” 

  Hurrying after the attendants and his husband, Shingetsu stumbles into the garden and falls onto his knees upon seeing the massive tree. Its canopy covered half of the garden, looming over the other trees like a sentry. Slowly, Yuma approaches the tree and places a hand on the smooth bark. He rests his head against it. For the first time in weeks, he smiles. 

  “Rest assured I will take care of you,” he promises the tree with its orange leaves. 

  He turns to his staff, his smile bringing sighs of relief to the garden. 

  “From here on out, this tree will be named ‘Autumnal Joy,’” declares Yuma. “May it watch over me and my successors.” 

  For the next few months, subjects far and wide came to visit the miracle tree. Children played beneath its branches. Scholars sat beside it and composed poems. The young king took joy in sharing his tree with his people, often joining them in their festivities. On late nights he would climb its branches and play his moon lute. Sometimes, he would catch a whiff of Vector’s familiar, earthy scent. 

  Shingetsu watched in envy as the tree became more popular than he. One night, he walked out and attempted to climb the tree. The bark was slippery beneath his oiled limbs. While children had climbed it with ease, it took Shingetsu the entire night to climb it. Upon reaching a large bough, Shingetsu sits down and pulls down a nearby branch. Running his hand through a leaf, he looks down at its orange color. He grimaces at its color, far too similar to his brother’s hair. 

  With difficulty, he tries to yank off the leaf. After a few moments, it comes free and Shingetsu exclaims in triumph. Warmth drips down his wrist. When he looks at his skin, he pauses upon seeing the dark liquid dripping from the leaf. Looking up at the branch, he sees the same liquid dripping from the place where the leaf had been torn. Lifting his wrist to his nose, he sniffs it. A metallic scent fills his senses. 

  Blood. 

  Only animals were supposed to bleed. 

  Shingetsu’s heart leaps to his throat. His hands shake upon remembering Vector’s lifeless eyes staring up at him in betrayal. Tossing the leaf aside, Shingetsu quickly scurries out of the bough. The bark has now turned painfully rough, refusing to let Shingetsu climb down. Biting his lips, Shingetsu wraps his long sleeves around his hands and feet. 

  With each inch he crawls down, he feels his traction slipping. His limbs shake as the blood continues to drip from the tree. 

  “Well that’s uncharacteristic of you,” whispers the wind. 

  Letting out a shriek, Shingetsu leaps off of the tree and falls to the ground. His wails awaken the night watchman, who rushes over to him. 

  “IT BLEEDS!” screams Shingetsu, desperately crawling away from the tree. 

  His wails awaken the entire court, weary maids running into the halls to meet him. 

  “IT BLEEDS!” continues Shingetsu, crawling down the hall, his foot twisted. 

  He pounds on the gardener’s door, a crowd of concerned attendants following him. 

  “CUT IT!” screams Shingetsu, his bloody hand leaving marks on the walls. “CUT IT! IT BLEEDS!” 

  Because the king had gone to the mountains to make peace with the mountain tribes, the court had to heed Shingetsu’s orders. The following morning, five of the burliest gardeners approached the majestic tree with axes in hand. Shingetsu watches by the court physician's side, his ankle bandaged. As the gardeners cut into the tree, the wind whistled violently. 

  The tree groaned as it began to be marred by blows. Despite that, no blood flowed. There was only a clear and watery liquid, akin to tears. 

  “It’s an evil tree!” cries Shingetsu to disgusted glares. “Turn it into a loom for me! I will put it to good use!”

  The carpenters grimaced at the command. They had enjoyed their meals beneath the tree, its cool shade incomparable to any other tree’s. Upon looking at their surly faces, Shingetsu’s expression twists into a hideous snarl. 

  “You dare disobey me?” he growls over the tree’s screams. “I’ll have your heads!” 

  A child began to sob, who was quickly hushed by his mother. 

  When the massive tree finally fell, it crushed various patches of flowers. The ground shook from its impact and the garden echoed with the tree’s final scream. After the dust settles, Shingetsu lets out a chuckle. 

  “There. Now the light has returned,” he says, clapping his hands. 

  He looks at the courtiers, attendants and advisors. Everyone stared at him with barely-disguised disgust. Another laugh bubbles up Shingetsu’s throat. 

  “Surely, you must understand. As the prince’s consort, I only want what’s best for you.”

  Yet his victory was shortlived. The loom made from the tree’s pale branches was reluctant to obey Shingetsu’s orders, the thread often tangling in his fingers. One morning, as he was struggling to finish a shawl for Yuma’s return, the loom let out a low creak. 

  “Wicked reflection of mine, how dare you take what little I had? Must I always be miserable? This cruelty will not go unpunished,” hisses the wood. 

  Shingetsu rubs his eyes and then picks at his ears. Hearing nothing, he shrugs and continues weaving. His finger catches on a particularly rough part of the wood and begins to bleed. A droplet splashes onto the wood. Gritting his teeth, Shingetsu resolves to have all of the carpenters executed. 

  “Delicious, delicious…come give me more of your traitor’s blood, ” calls his brother’s distant voice. 

  Shingetsu gazes at his finger, the cut long and shallow. It begins to shake, like a leaf in the wind. 

  “All cruelties shall be repaid tenfold, one way or another,” whispers the wind. “ What say you to being a goby? ”

  Surely, he was still dreaming. Shingetsu quickly crawls back to bed and buries himself beneath the sheets. The loom lets out a creak. Thump. Thump. For a moment, it sounded as if the loom was moving on its own. Squeezing his eyes shut, Shingetsu prays for it to go away. 

  “Come. The underworld awaits, ” continues his brother’s distant voice. “ And there you will stay for eternity, you wicked wretch. ”

  “You’re dead,” chokes Shingetsu. 

  The thumping continues, now more like bare human feet. He could feel his brother’s cold gaze on him. A bead of sweat drips down Shingetsu’s nose. For a second, he cracks open his eyes. In the bright afternoon sun, he could make out his brother’s silhouette moving over him. He reaches out over Shingetsu.

  “I’ll pluck your eyes out and shove them down your throat,” hisses Vector. 

  Just as the hand lands on Shingetsu’s sheets, he tosses them off, screaming. 

  “Your Majesty, what’s the matter?!” cries his guards. 

  With a pale face, Shingetsu turns towards the loom, right where he had left it. 

  “It’s evil,” he chokes. “Burn it! It was threatening to pluck my eyes out!” 

  The guards exchange confused glances. Shingetsu grits his teeth and glares at them.

  “What are you waiting for?! Burn it!” he commands. 

  Rushing into action, the guards quickly carry the loom away. As they pass by him, he briefly sees his brother’s shadow walking beside the guards’. 

  “Scatter its ashes in the mountains, where it can never return,” blurts out Shingetsu. “I want the same done to the remains of that demon tree!” 

  As the days passed, Shingetsu plunged deeper into madness. Every shadow soon turned into his brother’s shade. The wind constantly whispered in his ear, wanting to pluck his eyes out. Not even in sleep could he achieve peace, Vector’s face constantly haunting him. He began to despise the darkness, demanding that a retinue of lantern holders remain by his bedside and wherever he went. He refused to bathe, claiming to see his brother’s shade in the water, ready to drown him. His nails and hair grew long for he feared sharp objects. 

  No matter what tincture the court physician prescribed, he continued to wake up screaming out his brother’s name. 

  To the rest of the court, it appeared as if the king’s consort was growing mad from his absence. With each day that passed, their yearning for their king’s return increased tenfold. 

  H☆H☆S

  Rule of threes, y’know? Since they hadn’t figured out why I couldn’t have my happy ending yet, they tossed me in the loop for another reincarnation. 

  ‘This was the last one though,’ they warned. 

  That’s also when I got the fairytale character speech they hate to give. Frankly, I didn’t know what to think of it at first. 

  Me? Just another character from one of my father’s storybooks? Diêm Vương and his attendants’ side comments finally made sense.

  Because of the karmic imbalances, I ended up going beyond ‘happily ever after.’ 

  I like to think that in my own way, I’m just as alive as you. 

  Anyways, from the ashes of the loom, a decandra tree grew. I was reborn inside one of the decandra fruits, spending my days swinging in the wind. 

  They’re really good and smell nice. I considered sticking them in the mouths or butts of my targets but realized that’s just a perfectly good waste of food. 

  One of the perks of working for the underworld is that you can get your hands on pretty much every food item that isn’t meat. I always make sure to have my fridge stocked with decandra fruits. If you need someone to be taken care of and come to my office, just ask for one. 

  It’s always good to share. 

  H☆H☆S

  Up in the mountains, there was an old woman known as Bà Xuân, or Lady Spring. She had her hair tied in a pink cloth with embroidered flowers, the detailed embroidery the only hint of her previous life. Her face was worn from years spent in the sun and the rain. Despite the hardships of her life, she was always smiling. 

  Living in a small hut at the edge of the mountain village, she tended to the orphans of the village by sewing their clothes and cooking their meals. Many of the orphans were the unfortunate fruits of the war against the Turtle King, their fathers and mothers never returning from the battlefields. This sadness Lady Spring knew well, for her own son had been taken from her by the war. 

  One summer morning, Lady Spring was walking throughout the mountainside when she spied a beautiful decandra tree. It bore no fruit save for one, hanging at the top of its luxurious branches. Even from below she could smell its sweet scent. Amongst the green leaves, the singular fruit shone like a jewel, swaying languidly in the breeze. The elderly woman held up her hand and said, 

  “Little golden decandra, oh little golden decandra, fall to me. I will only enjoy thy sweet scent and deign to eat thee.”

  A strong breeze blew and the decandra fruit neatly fell into her hand. Smiling to herself, Lady Spring tucked the decandra in her basket and made her way home. Upon entering her humble abode, she placed the decandra on the window by her kitchen. A beam of sunshine shone on the fruit, its golden skin shimmering like a chest of coins. 

  “How strong and healthy!” remarks Lady Spring as she gathers a few herbs from her shelves. “Please don’t wither while I’m gone. I must check on Little Thi’s cold.” 

  With that, Lady Spring shuffled away. After a few moments, the decandra shivered and peeled open. Its pulpy flesh formed into the shape of a human, slowly growing until it reached the size of a grown man. Pieces of the fruit paled, separating into fingers and toes. Parts of the flesh separated into hair and turned orange. Standing in the middle of the empty kitchen in golden robes, Vector looks around at Lady Spring’s humble living conditions. 

  The floors and walls were made of thickly packed dirt. Herbs hung from the ceiling. Lady Spring’s bed was a mattress propped on a worn bamboo frame in the corner of the room. A beaten mahogany chest rested beneath the bed. Opposite to the bed was a pile of clothes in the process of being mended. It was surrounded by a collection of jars that spread into the confines of the small kitchen. 

  Peeking out the window, Vector could see Lady Spring laughing as the village’s orphans flocked around her. 

  “Settle down, my dears!There are plenty of mountain berries for everyone!” gently chides the old woman.

  She delivers a handful of the red berries into the children’s hands. 

  “Careful! Don’t eat too much or it’ll heat your body up!” she warns. 

  A young boy sticks his hand into her basket and she swats his hand away. 

  “Nho! Wait your turn!” she says as she gives a girl some berries. 

  Vector watches the peaceful scene with a small smile, reminded of his own village’s children. From their raggedy clothes and dirty faces, he could tell that these children were seldom cared for. He looks at the pile of clothes in the corner, each one featuring an array of patches. Walking over to the pile, he proceeds to finish Lady Spring’s work. 

  So there were still some good souls in this world. After his stepmother’s cruelties and the treachery of the court, it had become difficult to remember the kindness that he had been shown by the citizens of the Amber Kingdom. 

  Lady Spring’s gentle voice and ever present smile was what made Vector fall into her hands. He could tell from her worn face that life had never treated her well. They were kindred souls, tossed about by the winds of fate. 

  After mending the orphans’ clothes, Vector proceeds to cook lunch for Lady Spring. He looks at her meager supplies and sighs. There was only a bag of rice and a few vegetables. For someone so kind and generous, she had little to eat. The injustice of the situation twists Vector’s stomach into a knot. While his selfish brother was parading around in silks and gorging himself on the palace food, this woman had barely anything for herself and the orphans she tended to. 

  He balls his hands into fists, remembering the countless nights spent eating his brother and stepmother’s leftovers. 

  “Need a hand?” asks a familiar voice. 

  Vector looks up at the kitchen window and jumps. 

  “Dương!” he exclaims. 

  Dương places his finger on his lips and makes a shushing noise. 

  “Don’t call me by my mortal name!” he hisses. 

  “Where in the seven hells have you been?!” whisper-shouts Vector. 

  “Up in the mountains, meditating!” retorts the young sage. 

  Vector glares at him. After a few moments, Dương sighs. 

  “Alright, fine, I was also in Long Vương’s kingdom. His daughter was hosting a pearl picking festival,” he admits. 

  After his adventures in the afterlife, Vector isn’t surprised that the dragon king of the ocean was also real. He looks at the young sage and his easy smile, as if nothing had happened since the last time they met. 

  “Why weren’t you there for me?” utters Vector. 

  Dương raises a plucked brow. 

  “What do you mean?” he asks. 

  Falling to his death. Being crushed to death. Then being burned to death. Vector grits his teeth. Unplanned death after unplanned death. If Dương was in charge of protecting his happiness, he was doing an awful job. 

  “Don’t play stupid. You’re a sage, you should have known!” snaps Vector. 

  Dương’s blank stare continues. 

  “As a sage-in-training, I don’t have access to heaven’s record books,” he replies. He looks around at the mud hut in bewilderment. “So what happened? Why are you here instead of at the palace?” 

  Vector holds Dương’s guileless stare with anger burning in his chest. 

  “I met the King of the Underworld thrice!” growls Vector, jabbing his finger in Dương’s face. “This is my third reincarnation!” 

  Immediately, the young sage’s eyebrows fly up to his forehead. His dark blue eyes widen and a cold breeze stirs his hair into a flurry. For a moment, he teeters from the windowsill. The clouds around them darken. 

  “Your what…?” Dương whispers. 

  “That’s right! My third chance! First a bird, then a tree and now a fruit!” yells Vector. “Where were you when I was killed all those times?!”

  Around them, the trees quiver. 

  “I don’t have the right to interfere with fate,” begins Dương, his eyes narrowing. “Nor do you.” 

  “Being happy was supposed to be my destiny!” screams Vector. 

  He crushes a handful of herbs into his hands, their heady scent briefly calming him. 

  “I begged and I begged Diêm Vương to bring me back because I was wrongly murdered,” continues Vector, his throat burning with pain. “And yet…”

  “No wonder,” murmurs Dương. “The Court of the Jade Emperor was in a panic when I came and visited.”

  The sage takes a deep breath and exhales. 

  “The truth is, I’m on probation. I was told that one of the thousand souls I was supposed to help was unable to achieve happiness despite fulfilling his destiny. It must be you,” says Dương. “But how?” 

  Vector bites his lips. The tears spring into his eyes. This was just a story. He was supposed to be one of the triumphant heroes in his father’s storybooks. How did it come to a screaming match in a decrepit mountain village?

  “I don’t know. They don’t know,” utters Vector. “But this is my final chance before they erase my memories and send me to another story.”

  Dương wets his lips and sighs. 

  “Well, if you’ve been allowed to reincarnate in the same place this many times then I suppose I can tell you what’s been going on in the Jade Emperor’s court.”

  He takes out his staff and waves it over the kitchen. Immediately, the smell of warm food fills the room. Vector starts upon seeing a feast laid out on the table. There were a variety of fruits and a large pot of rice with smoked fish. 

  “Before I forget what I came to do,” explains Dương. 

  Vector inspects the rice and fish. Every grain was pure white and fragrant. The fish was cooked to perfection. He raises a brow. 

  “I thought you couldn’t kill…”

  “No, those are the discarded bodies of dragons,” says Dương quickly. “Anyways…”

  Vector cuts a small piece of fish for Lady Spring and places it by her bowl of rice. Then he proceeds to peel an orange for her. Despite all of the food he was surrounded by, he lacked the appetite to partake in the feast. 

  “From the snippets I heard from the emperor’s advisors, it has something to do with karma,” begins Dương. “An imbalance tangentially related to us.”

  “How did that even happen?”

  Instead of answering, Dương ducks beneath the window. 

  “Lady Spring is coming back. It’s best if you hide,” whispers the breeze. 

  Standing up, Vector gathers his robes in his hands and hops back into the decandra. After a few moments, Lady Spring steps into her home. Upon seeing the feast, her eyes widen. She hurries towards the table laden with food, picking up her bowl of rice and scrutinizing it. 

  “Hello?” she calls, looking around. 

  Only the shadows answer her. The old woman frowns and tries a bit of the rice and fish. After tasting it, she smiles and places the bowl on the table. She quickly runs out of the house. 

  “My darlings! Come over to granny’s for a meal!” she says. 

  A chorus of excited young voices follow her. Watching from his decandra, Vector’s chest is filled with warmth. Soon, the entire house is filled with happily feasting orphans. Surrounded by her smiling charges, Lady Spring’s smile widens. She looks around every nook and cranny of her house for her mysterious benefactor. Upon seeing the mended pile of clothes, she puts a hand on her hips. 

  “Now isn’t that just odd!” she exclaims. 

  She chuckles and starts to pass out the mended clothes to the children, humming as she did so. 

  “Where did you get all of this food, granny?” asks a young girl. 

  Lady Spring ruffles her muddy hair. 

  “The gifts of heaven never cease to amaze,” she murmurs. 

  She doesn’t eat until the rest of the children have eaten and left. Sitting down to a bowl of rice, a few slices of fish and an orange, the old woman clasps her hands together and prays. 

  “Thank you, for everything. This old woman is not deserving of such a gift,” utters Lady Spring. 

  But you do, thinks Vector as Lady Spring begins to partake in her lonely meal. If anyone, it’s you.

  H☆H☆S

  The days passed by in this manner. Lady Spring tended to the children while Vector tended to her household. The young sage had mysteriously disappeared. Each time she came home, Lady Spring was greeted by a warm meal. After the feast from a few moons ago, Vector prepared food with what the old woman had. As she was gone for most of the day, Vector could wander deep into the mountains and forage. 

  No matter how hard he worked, he never tired or hungered. 

  One day, Lady Spring rose early and prepared to leave. Looking at the decandra, the old woman smiled. It was a long-lived fruit, as fresh and fragrant as the day she had found it. 

  “I’ll be going now,” she declares. 

  After a few moments, Vector emerges from the fruit and proceeds to mend the orphans’ clothes. Then he stokes the fire for the vegetable soup. 

  “You…!” gasps Lady Spring, standing in the doorway. 

  Vector jumps and holds the old woman’s astonished gaze. 

  “Who are you? What is your name?” asks Lady Spring as she approaches Vector. 

  “I…”

  Lady Spring clasps her warm hands in Vector’s. Immediately, his shoulders lower as he meets the woman’s sparkling eyes. Up close, she seemed even kinder than before.

  “My dear! Have you been the one mending my clothes, tidying my home and cooking for me?” asks Lady Spring. 

  Heat fills Vector’s cheeks. 

  “Yes,” he confesses. “It looked like you needed the help.” 

  Lady Spring lets out an exclamation of joy and pulls him into an embrace. Vector squeaks. After a few moments, he returns the embrace. 

  “Thank you, thank you. Oh…! To have someone like you look after someone like me…” 

  She pulls away from Vector and squeezes his hands. Her eyes glisten with tears. 

  “Oh, please stay and be my son,” she breathes. “I will give you everything I have and a mother’s love.” 

  Vector looks into Lady Spring’s chartreuse eyes. For someone so small, she had such a large and giving heart. He had seen the way the children ran after her. Her laughter always seemed to be infectious. When the villagers would ignore the orphans, Lady Spring would always be there to hold them. It had been so long since someone he loved had held him. 

  Vector’s lips tremble and he pulls Lady Spring into an embrace, wetting her shoulder with his tears. How could she hold him with such love when they had barely met? 

  “There, there,” soothes Lady Spring. “Oh, please…this is meant to be a joyous occasion!” 

  Despite that, the old woman’s voice warbled. 

  “F-for once, allow me to cook you a meal. I want to learn all about you,” murmurs Lady Spring. 

  She dabs at Vector’s tears with her handkerchief. Looking at the window, she notes that the decandra fruit’s skin had peeled into a flower, revealing an empty center. Returning to Vector’s face, she places a hand on his cheek. 

  “I knew something was special about that fruit,” she says. “But I didn’t know how special.” 

  Another wave of tears wells up in Vector’s eyes and he wipes them away. He blushes at the idea of anyone seeing him cry, seldom comforted whenever he does so. 

  “Please don’t leave me,” he begs. “Please.” 

  “Of course not,” chuckles Lady Spring. “Where would I go?”

  She leads him to the small table and sits him down. From her basket, she takes out an onion and begins to chop it. Under her breath she hums a folk song, similar to the one he and Yuma had danced to, all those seasons ago. Vector closes his eyes, trying to recall the emotions he felt that night. He had been so eager to start anew. In that capitol, he could have sailed away from all of his troubles. And yet…

  Yet there would be new problems. Even as the king’s consort there had been the gossip and the drama of the court to contend with. Perhaps sailing to a foreign land would give him only more foes to contend with. 

  Opening his eyes, Vector sighs. 

  “Oh, please let me help,” he says as he stands up. 

  “You’ve been working so hard for me though!” protests Lady Spring. 

  “I insist,” says Vector as he takes the knife from Lady Spring’s hand. 

  Taken aback as Vector expertly chops up the onion, Lady Spring puts her hands on her hips. 

  “I’ve never seen a young man so deft with a kitchen knife!” she exclaims. 

  A small smile fills Vector’s lips. 

  “I’ve been doing this since I was young, many, many years ago.” 

  Lady Spring gives him a smile and then moves to cook the rice. 

  “Why did you choose me?” she asks.

  Vector pushes the onions aside and begins chopping up green onion stalks. 

  “I sensed that you had a good heart,” he replies. 

  After a few moments, Lady Spring chuckles. 

  “I see.” 

  Once the stew and rice were cooked, the two settled down to eat. Despite his lack of appetite, Vector scooped himself a bowl of rice alongside some stew. 

  “Oh, how shocked I was when I came home to that feast!” exclaims Lady Spring. “How did you find all that food?”

  Vector grins. 

  “I had a friend help me.” 

  “A friend, huh?” mused Lady Spring. “I must truly be blessed…” 

  Taking his first bite of food, Vector stiffens. It was warm and comforting despite its simplicity. The spices of the anise enriched the taste of the stew and melded with the fragrant flavor of the rice. He quickened his pace, hungrily devouring his meal. It felt like Lady Spring had poured her love into each piece. 

  “Goodness! When was the last time you’ve eaten, child? What did you eat while you were in that fruit?” asks Lady Spring. 

  Vector wipes his mouth with his sleeve. 

  “I haven’t been eating,” he confesses. 

  Dismay fills Lady Spring’s expression. She hurriedly scoops Vector another bowl of rice and stew. 

  “You can’t possibly expect to take care of another person when you haven’t taken care of yourself!” she scolds. 

  Her cheeks flush with pink, similar to when an orphan boy had stuck her hairpin up his nose. Despite Lady Spring’s furrowed brows, Vector laughs. 

  “I suppose I got bored of my own cooking,” he confesses. 

  Lady Spring lightly pinches his cheek. 

  “Silly boy! From here on out, we’re cooking together!” she resolves. 

  “I’d love to,” says Vector with his pinched cheek. 

  Lady Spring’s expression softens and she lets go. Vector’s earnest smile filled her mind with memories of her son. How foolish she had been, allowing her son to fight for his father! 

  H☆H☆S

  My time with Haru, or, Lady Spring as you know her, was one of the happiest times in my life. Finally, I had a mother. A genuine mother who loved me. Despite the hardships of mountain life, I never spent an unhappy day in that village. The villagers quickly got to know me as Lady Spring’s adopted son. They were simple and honest people, working from dawn to dusk in the mountain fields. 

  Being with her healed me in a way the court never could. I learned to love the simple things in life again. The sweetness of mountain fruits. The laughter of young children. The songs of the mountain folk. 

  I rose with the dawn and slept beneath the moonlight. Although I despised taking care of my ungrateful stepmother and brother, it was different with Lady Spring. She made me feel wanted, like I wasn’t a burden to her. When she noticed that I had aches, she would help me rub them out before bed. When I drifted off to the past, she would bring me back with a gentle shake. 

  Looking at her eyes, I couldn’t help but think of Yuma. There was the same sadness in those eyes. Because of that, we understood the importance of burying our past and living in the present. She never asked about who I was before I arrived at her home. I never asked who she was either. Judging from the faded silk of her head cloth, I’m sure it was somewhere far. 

  And so, we lived peacefully in that mountain village. Every day was the same, but I didn’t find a problem with that. It was lovely, not spending every moment of my life looking over my shoulder. Surely, this was my happy ending. Although my thoughts constantly went back to my Yuma, I doubted that we would ever meet again. I couldn’t bring myself to leave my mother, not after all she had done for me. 

  Then why didn’t time stop and leave me there, like a butterfly beneath glass?

  H☆H☆S

  “Brother Vector! Brother Vector! Tell us the story of the boy who never grows up again!” calls a young child. 

  “Again?!” exclaims Vector, rolling his eyes in mock exasperation. 

  “Yes! Yes!” cheer the chorus of orphan children. 

  “Alright…alright…,” sighs Vector. He takes a deep breath. “Once upon a time, there were two—I mean three—brothers named Wendell, John and Michael.” 

  A little boy blows a raspberry and Vector gently cuffs him on the head. 

  “No spoilers or else I won’t tell you any more stories!” he warns the child. 

  The children began to settle down, seating themselves in a circle around Vector. In the kitchen, Lady Spring was preparing lunch. She watches the peaceful scene, warmth filling her heart. Over the past few moons, Vector had truly proven himself to be invaluable. He reminded her so much of the son that she had lost that often tears would fill her eyes. Her own son had always been running about in the gardens, avoiding his lessons like the plague. It felt like overnight he had grown into a young man. Then, it felt like in the blink of an eye that she had lost him.

  She hums to herself as she mends the orphans’ clothes. Thanks to Vector, the children were spending less time roughhousing and more time learning. Every other day, Vector would gather the children for a lesson, told in the form of a story or a rhyme. Sometimes she would listen in, Vector’s spirited voice lightening the heaviness in her heart. From the variety of Vector’s stories, it seemed that her son had come from well-learned parents. 

  From outside, the children cheer. Lady Spring chuckles. Vector must have been telling them that story with the pirates again. 

  “Lady Spring?” calls a gentle voice. 

  The old woman turns around to see a young eunuch in amber robes. She stiffens as the young man bows and drops her needle. 

  “At last, our king has found you,” gasps the eunuch upon seeing Lady Spring’s headcloth. 

  A young man walks in through the door. He is dressed in simple traveling robes, yet the way he carried himself spoke of good breeding. He holds his head high, his eyes constantly observing the land around him. Upon seeing Lady Spring, his crimson eyes fill with joy. 

  “Grandmother!” calls Yuma, running towards her. 

  Lady Spring holds still as her grandson embraces her. He was the mirror image of his father, with the same bright smile and unkempt hair. The last time she had seen him, he was merely an infant. 

  “How…?!” utters Lady Spring. 

  Yuma’s eyes fill with tears. 

  “I looked all over for you! Didn’t you hear? The war is over!” he declares. 

  Lady Spring’s legs shake. Yuma supports her in his strong arms. Up close, she could see that a beard was beginning to form at the ends of his chin. Yes, she had remembered the eunuch’s announcement. Yet she could not bring herself to partake in the festivities. There were far too many ghosts in the capitol, reminding her of the past. 

  “Gods…how grown you are,” utters Lady Spring. 

  Yuma grins and swipes his nose. 

  “I’m twenty years old now!”

  “You look just like your father,” murmurs Lady Spring, her eyes filling with tears. 

  At the mention of his father, Yuma’s expression clouds. He touches his forehead to his grandmother’s. 

  “May he and my mother rest in peace,” murmurs Yuma. 

  Lady Spring dabs at her eyes and pulls away. Decades of living in the court forces her to straighten her back. Her back aches in response, the long-repressed memories making their way through. She clears her throat and blinks away the remainder of her tears. Grandson or not, he was still the king. 

  “Of course…! Where are my manners? Please, sit outside! I’ll have some food prepared for us!” says Lady Spring as she ushers Yuma outside. 

  Running to the backyard, she motions to Vector. 

  “We have a guest!” she declares. “Could you help me prepare some tea and heat up the bánh giò?”

  Detangling himself from the orphan children, Vector nods. 

  “Who wants to help me?” he calls. 

  Various children run into the kitchen in response. Vector turns to Lady Spring and smiles. 

  “We’ll have it done before your seats are warm,” he promises. 

  Walking to the front of her house, Lady Spring clasps her grandson’s hands in hers. 

  “I should have been stronger,” she says. “Your grandfather was such a cruel man, sending his son off to war.” 

  Yuma shakes his head. 

  “Don’t worry. The kingdom is at peace now.” he reassures his grandmother. 

  Lady Spring sighs. 

  “But the orphans of this war are not. I will care for them until my final breath.” 

  The young king furrows his brows.

  “I see. So you won’t be returning to court?”

  His grandmother scoffs and crosses her arms. 

  “No. Never again. I plan to die in this mountain village. The air is good and the people are honest.” 

  She’s answered by a chuckle reminiscent of her own deceased son’s. A pang fills Lady Spring’s chest. 

  “You have a point there,” agrees Yuma. 

  They spend a moment in silence, admiring the trees and warm weather. Distantly, a bird calls. A cool breeze stirs up some dust. Tonight, there will be a full moon. Lady Spring leans back against the wall of her home, watching as the clouds swam by. 

  “Hello, here is your tea!” says a young child, placing a teapot on the table. 

  Followed by two other children with cups in their hands, the orphans look at Yuma with wide eyes. The young king thanks the children and ruffles their hair. He fishes in his pockets and gives them pieces of candy. After thanking him, they scurry off into the darkness of Lady Spring’s home. 

  “Orphans?” asks Yuma. 

  Lady Spring inclines her head.

  “Poor things. Some never even knew their mother’s faces.” 

  Yuma sighs. It seemed like every part of the country had been affected by the war. Children had grown up knowing nothing but loss and hardship for almost three generations. 

  “My rule will be a peaceful one,” he promises. 

  Lady Spring looks at him with her sharp eyes. 

  “Do you swear to the gods?”

  “I swear.” 

  He takes a sip of his cool tea, closing his eyes and savoring its earthy aroma. There was nothing better than the food of the common folk. 

  “How did you find me?” asks Lady Spring. 

  Yuma places his hands behind his head and leans back. 

  “A young farmer. He had purple hair and blue eyes,” he replies.

  Lady Spring raises a brow. 

  “We don’t have anyone that looks like that in our village,” she muses.  

  Her grandson shrugs in response. Taking another sip of his tea, he sighs in contentment. He had spent moons wandering the mountains. Across the various villages and tribes he had visited, he noticed that almost all of them had orphans. The nights were long and sometimes rainy. Sometimes he was reluctantly welcomed, the villagers suspicious of a stranger. To them, he was just another mouth to feed. 

  Although the cities of his kingdom prospered from the war, the villages continued to suffer.

  “Bánh giò! Bánh giò! Bánh giò!” calls a group of orphans, scurrying out with a plate heaped with food. 

  Yuma’s brows jump upon seeing the way the banana leaves were folded. They were perked up at the ends like rabbit ears. A pang fills his chest. Only one person folded banana leaves like that. 

  “Who folded these bánh giò?” he asks, picking one up with gentle hands. 

  Warmth fills his grandmother’s expression. 

  “Why, my adopted son did! He has the most unusual way of doing things you see…” 

  Lady Spring trails off as Yuma jumps up from his seat. 

  “Please, let me see him!” he says breathlessly. 

  Taken aback, Lady Spring briefly stiffens. She gazes at the rabbit-shaped bánh giò, wondering what could have excited her grandson so. 

  “O-of course,” she says, standing. “Vector! Could you come out for a moment? My guest wants to see you!”

  Yuma remains standing, the excitement rippling off of him in waves. When Vector emerges from the darkness, Yuma lets out a choked gasp. Vector’s eyes widen in shock. The two lovers hold each other’s gaze, moons upon moons of separation doing little to diminish their love for one another. 

  “Is it truly you?” whispers Yuma. 

  “It is,” utters Vector. 

  Without another word, the two fall into a tearful embrace. Vector breathes in Yuma’s familiar scent, memories of the warmth they shared filling his mind. 

  “How? How? First the bird, then the tree…!” recounts Yuma. 

  “Then a decandra,” finishes Vector. 

  “Grandmother! This is my consort!” says Yuma, color filling his cheeks. “How did you find him?”

  “Why, from a decandra tree!” responds the old woman. 

  As he wipes away Yuma’s tears, Vector leans his head against Yuma’s forehead. 

  “I went through the underworld thrice to see you again,” he whispers. “I had to beg and beg the king of the underworld to reincarnate beside you.” 

  “Gods…!” exclaims Yuma. “Gods…!” 

  He turns to his grandmother.

  “Please, let me take my love home!” he begs her. 

  Lady Spring motions to Vector, despite the sadness in her eyes. 

  “From the beginning he had chosen me. The decision to stay or not is in his hands,” she replies. 

  Pulling away from Yuma’s arms, Vector embraces Lady Spring, lifting her from the ground. The old woman lets out a yelp of surprise.

  “Thank you. Thank you for being a mother to me when I didn’t have one. I’ll never forget your kindness and will return. I promise on my ancestors’ graves,” vows Vector. 

  Lady Spring holds her son tight and kisses his cheeks. 

  “Go on, then. Return to your destiny,” she utters, her voice wavering at the end. 

  Vector gives his mother one last squeeze and then lowers her to the ground. Looking back at the mud hut, he beckons to the orphans. 

  “Come out, everyone! I have some important news to share!” 

  To the laughter of both the children and Lady Spring, Yuma and Vector kiss. 

  H☆H☆S

  Upon leaving that village, I thought my heart would burst. I couldn’t tell if I was more sad or joyous. The orphans cried me a river, my mother joining them at the end. In turn I shed a few tears and then Yuma joined in. 

  It would be one of the last times I would cry.

  Returning home was a joyous procession. Everyone was astonished to see that the king’s consort was once again in simple peasant garb. I clasped every hand that reached out to mine, relishing the ability to connect with others. As a bird and a tree, I couldn’t have done those things as well. There is nothing like clasping the hand of another human being, their pulse beating beneath your hand and their muscles moving beneath yours. In that moment we are united beneath the banner of the living. 

  Although I was overjoyed in the daytime, the night, with its enforced solitude, reminded me of my true purpose. 

  Revenge, simple and easy. 

  Oh, I had so many things planned. 

  After my return, Shingetsu was tossed into the dungeons. The guards were happy to do so, due to Shingetsu’s increasingly paranoid demands. I heard he fought like a hellcat. 

  What about evidence, you ask? Ha. There was no need to prove to the court that I was the real Vector. The king’s word was considered gold.

  During my return banquet I revealed every single cruelty I had endured beneath Shingetsu’s hands to a horrified court.

   I left our stepmother out of the story because I was planning something special for her. 

  Then came the reincarnations. My miraculous story, of continuous reincarnation and the favor of heaven made the courtiers fear me. I was like a hero from one of our country’s myths. Constantly, I regaled the court on my exploits in the underworld. The more I told of the fearsome animal-headed attendants and of Diêm Vương’s wrath, the more fear I instilled in the courtiers. I rarely ate, drank or slept, adding more evidence to the fact that I had transcended mortal boundaries. 

  Fear is good. Fear is power. 

  I nursed my plans for revenge for weeks, making sure that they were as fully developed as possible. When I was finally satisfied, I ordered for his release from the dungeons. How humble he was, in his maddened and starved state! A thrill filled my stomach upon seeing him. 

  He looked at me as if I were a ghost. His hair was unkempt and his teeth were filthy. The pristine skin around his nails were all peeled, the red flesh beneath them raw and painful. What once was shiny gold rings were now caked with his own blood, digging into his skin. He crawled to us and begged for forgiveness, his keening almost inhuman. 

  For a moment, I almost wanted to forgive him. 

  H☆H☆S

  “Please…!” wails Shingetsu, digging what little nails he has left into Vector’s leg. “Please forgive me!” 

  Surrounded by the eyes of the astonished court, Vector slowly bends down and places his hand on his brother’s. The sun shone behind him, crowning him with a halo. He smiles, amethyst eyes sparkling with youth. Unlike Shingetsu, time had been kind to him. His skin was clear and his smile was filled with grace. There were no gray streaks in his hair while Shingetsu was beginning to have a few strands graying at his temples. 

  The silence of the court mounts, confusion, fear and hatred for the crawling figure before them swirling in the oppressive air. 

  “Of course,” says Vector, ignoring the gasps around him. “It was what our parents would have wanted.” 

  Shingetsu’s mouth hangs open, revealing a chipped tooth. 

  “R-really?” he utters.

  “Really.”

  Shingetsu’s chapped lips quaver. His head touches the ground with a loud thunk as he erupts into sobs. 

  “Oh please…! Tell me how to become as beautiful as you…!” he begs. “Please…!”

  Shingetsu’s tears fall upon Vector’s shoes. Vector crouches and strokes his brother’s head. Leaning close to Shingetsu’s ears, Vector whispers, 

  “Dig a deep hole into the earth, enough for you to stand in. Fill it with boiling water from a freshwater stream and bathe in it beneath the summer sun.”

  “W-will you help me?” whimpers Shingetsu. 

  Vector gives his brother another saintly smile. 

  “Of course.” 

  He pulls his brother into an embrace, his serene expression unchanging as Shingetsu wailed into his ear.

  “Please! Please cleanse me now!” begs Shingetsu. 

  A small thrill fills the pit of Vector’s stomach. He turns to the astonished guards. 

  “Please go to the western courtyard and begin digging a pit the size of a man,” calls Vector.

  Quickly, the guards shuffle away to the back of the palace. Murmurs begin to fill the courtyard. Vector scans the courtiers’ furrowed brows and feels a wave of excitement wash over his stomach. 

  Rising, he returns to Yuma and clasps his hands in his. 

  “My poor brother was merely doing his duty after I fell to my death,” begins Vector, meeting the eyes of the awed courtiers. “He did not wish for the Amber Kingdom to mourn my death.” 

  With his other hand, he reaches out to Shingetsu. His brother takes it with the desperation of a drowning man. 

  “Please, rest well. The underworld itself sympathized with the people of our kingdom and hastened for my reincarnation,” reassures Vector. “I only regret that I had taken so long to return in my proper form.”

  No longer was he afraid of the courtiers and their petty gossip. The poisonings, the plots, the vying for attention…all seemed pointless after his various journeys through the underworld. He glides through them with his head held high, refusing to grace his former tormentors with a second glance. If they were to kill him, he would merely reincarnate. 

  Walking behind the palace, Vector walks towards the small pit that the guards were beginning to dig. He turns to his brother. 

  “You must help them as well,” he says. 

  “W-with what?” stammers Shingetsu. 

  “Why, with your fingers! The earth needs your blood,” explains Vector. 

  Crawling over to the pit, Shingetsu stares down at the hole. After a moment of hesitation, he begins to dig with his fingers. Vector turns to Yuma, staring at Shingetsu in disgust. 

  “Please, I wouldn’t want to hold you back from your duties. I’ll see you tonight,” says Vector. 

  Yuma gives Vector a brief nod and then scowls at Shingetsu. Placing a hand on his husband’s shoulder, Vector leans towards Yuma’s ear. 

  “After tonight, he won’t bother us again,” he promises. 

  “Very well,” murmurs Yuma. “Your benevolence never fails to impress me.” 

  The young king walks off while Vector takes a seat by the palace wall. Shingetsu digs until his fingers begin to bleed. Despite the tears brimming in his eyes, he continues until Vector stops him. 

  “It’s deep enough now,” says Vector, rising from his seat. He turns to the guards. “Go get the boiling water.”

  He looks down at Shingetsu’s bloodied fingers, more blood than flesh after hours of digging. His twin brother turns to him with fearful eyes. 

  “N-now what?” he asks. 

  “Now we cleanse your spirit. Jump into that pit,” instructs Vector. 

  Shingetsu looks at his brother and then repeatedly bows, his forehead hitting the ground in rhythmic thunks .

  “I’m sorry! For strangling you…for cutting you down…for burning you…! I’m sorry!”

  Vector smiles and lifts Shingetsu’s head from the ground with his foot. 

  “Everything will be forgiven after you cleanse yourself with boiling water. The heavens will it so.” 

  Nodding, Shingetsu crawls towards the edge of the pit and lowers himself in. He looks up at Vector expectantly. A line of guards have lined up by the palace wall, each person bearing an urn of steaming water. Vector inclines his head and the first man approaches.

  His brother screams as the boiling water hits his feet. Sitting by the edge of the pit, Vector looks down at his brother’s bulging eyes and desperately grasping hands. The water continues to be poured into the pit, Shingetsu’s screams ignored by all. 

  “This was what you wanted, no?!” calls Vector over Shingetsu’s screams. “You don’t have the right to whine about it if you asked for it!” 

  Over a deluge of steam, a reddened hand grasps the edge of the pit. The tips of the fingers have the bone exposed from the hours spent digging the hard earth. Vector chuckles and kicks the fingers back into the pit. A drowned scream answers Vector. 

  Once the entire pit is filled, Vector motions for the guards to stop. 

  “Now, fetch me an urn that can fit a body, a sack of sugar, salt and the sharpest knife in the kitchen,” instructs Vector. 

  He laughs to himself over Shingetsu’s fading cries. There wasn’t even any need for him to convince his idiot brother, so deteriorated was his brother’s mind. The steam smells of mud and human fluids. Vector wrinkles his nose. It was a rightful end to such a disgusting human, even more rightful when he had ended his life with his own vanity.

  As the steam clears, Vector finds Shingetsu’s body floating in the water. He gives it a small kick. 

  “Well, you’re clean now, aren’t you?” drawls Vector. 

  His brother’s body is bright red, boiled through and through. All the dirt from the dungeon and the pit swirls around him. For a moment, he’s reminded of a pig wallowing in the mud. Vector looks at Shingetsu’s shriveled eyes, sunken into their sockets. They’re wide open, staring into the sun. 

  Turning to the remaining guards, Vector says, “Fish him out.” 

  Two burly men drag Shingetsu’s body from the pit and lay him on the ground. The knife and urn are presented to Vector along with the bags of salt and sugar. Taking the knife, Vector cuts away Shingetsu’s clothes. Beneath the white prisoner’s robes is even redder skin, marred by ugly scratches. 

  “It’s only fair, isn’t it?” drawls Vector as he begins sawing off Shingetsu’s fingers.

  H☆H☆S

  “Your majesty!” exclaims Madame Sương, bowing to the royal palanquin. 

  Vector steps out and looks down at his stepmother. 

  “Rise,” he calls. 

  Upon seeing Vector, Madame Sương’s smile briefly wavers. She looks at the guards with their solemn expressions. 

  “H-how?” she utters. 

  She had heard the rumors of her son reincarnating. She had laughed it off, thinking that it was nothing but an old wives’ tale. Yet, the person before her was not Shingetsu. Her favorite would never look at her with such contempt in his amethyst eyes, nor would he treat her with such indifference. 

  “Heaven wills it and thanks you for your service,” replies Vector, motioning to the guards. “It was very brave of you to send your remaining son to the palace.” 

  A large ornamental urn decorated with rabbits is presented to Madame Sương. 

  “For your efforts, I have prepared this fine selection of sweetmeats for you,” says Vector. 

  The guards lay the urn down with a thunk. Madame Sương’s fearful expression melts into a relieved smile. 

  “O-of course. And y-your brother?”

  Vector places a hand on his mother’s bare arm. She shivers at his frigid hands. 

  “He has fulfilled his dreams of traveling afar,” he responds. 

  Without another word, he turns around and returns to his palanquin. The procession solemnly leaves the village, the clanging of the palanquin’s bells clearing the way. Left with the urn, Madame Sương opens it to a heavenly aroma. The meat is a pleasing color of red. She dips her hand into the urn and tries a piece of the meat. Expertly seasoned, she chuckles in delight. The meat was perfectly tender and soft, even more than lamb. Oh, such a kind fool was Vector! It seemed like no matter what she did, she would always be forgiven. 

  Above her, a crow caws. 

  Paying it no attention, the woman continues to greedily eat the meat. How sweet it was! How soft! It must have belonged to an animal that was raised in the lap of luxury! She trembles at the delicious taste, nothing she had eaten before able to be compared to its sublimity. The crow flies overhead, eyeing the urn. 

  Snarling at the animal, Madame Sương shoos it away. 

  “What have you done to earn such a delicious treat?!” she screeches. “Go away!” 

  Lugging the urn into the house, she proceeds to eat her lunch of rice, vegetables and the gifted meat. As a vain woman, Madame Sương often ate less than the average villager. Due to this, her hunger found no end. She ate and ate from the urn until she found it half empty. 

  Overhead, the crow cawed again. 

  Taking another piece of meat from the urn, she rips it in half and slowly chews on it. Surely, there had to be a way to rid herself of that nasty bird. She could chase it away with a broom, perhaps. She could hire the village hunter to kill it. 

  Coming out of the house, she finds the crow perched on her rooftop. The crow flutters to her feet and stares at her with its intelligent eyes. It’s an ugly creature, with pitch-black feathers and a short beak. After holding her gaze for a few moments, it cocks its head.

  “How delicious, the flesh of your own! Please, can I have a bone?” asks the crow.

  Madame Sương’s heart jumps out of her chest. She drops the morsel of meat to the crow and runs back into the house. Returning to the urn, she digs through its remains until she finds a tuft of orange hair. The tufts of hair soon reveal themselves to be attached to a head with empty sockets and wrinkled skin. Letting out a scream at seeing her beloved son’s face, Madame Sương collapses into the urn. 

  Days later, the villagers would find her body rotting in the heat, the skin sloughing off of her bones. The stench had alerted them to her body, so putrid and foul for such a meticulous woman. When they found her son’s head inside the decorative urn, they believed that the wicked woman had finally gone insane and killed her son. 

  The notorious duo was buried in the pauper’s field, where their bones would forever rest with the people that they had once eschewed. 

  H☆H☆S

  Upon hearing the news that my mother had died, I was overjoyed. Surely, after all my tormentors were dead, I could finally have a happy ending.

   Don’t believe the person that said there’s nothing at the end of revenge. There’s satisfaction. Sweet, sweet satisfaction. Like a cool mango on a hot summer day, its sweet juices dripping down your chin. 

  And yet, time went on. 

  My husband took no concubines, much to the chagrin of his advisors. Without an heir to the throne, the king’s bloodline would become extinct. Yet, our fates weren’t supposed to extend beyond our happily ever after, so how could he have known? 

  Still, if our days were going to be spent idyllically under a warm sun, then what was there to complain about? We would grow old together, our hands intertwined like vines. Watching as gray streaks dotted your beloved’s hair, knowing that you are doing the same is a comforting sensation. In old age, one’s smiling eyes seem more merry than when they were younger. At night, we could warm our weary bones by the fire and compare our ailments. 

  That was not the case for me. 

  On his way to make amends with the Turtle King, my husband’s boat sank in a summer storm. Soon, I found myself crowned the King of the Amber Kingdom. Despite my people’s love, I couldn’t accept my crown with a smile. 

  If I was so favored by the heavens, then why did I always lose the people I loved? 

  As the Decandra Monarch, I spent my days listening to my people’s woes with a heavy heart. Despite all of my pain, the words of Diêm Vương continued to serve as my guide. 

  If I held justice in my heart and kept myself pure, my happy ending would eventually come. 

  It was on my deathbed that I realized I had lived virtuously to no avail.

  H☆H☆S

  Stirring from his bed, Vector looks at the young physician entering the room. His brows slightly raise upon seeing Dương. He clears a path through the monks, mourners and advisors. Kneeling by Vector’s bed, he places a hand on Vector’s wrinkled and bony hand. Upon seeing Vector’s wizened face and white hair, Dương frowns. 

  “This wasn’t supposed to happen,” utters Dương, a hint of fear edging his voice. “None of this was.” 

  Vector pulls his hand away from the young sage and glares at him. 

  “As the sage in charge of your happiness, I failed,” continues Dương, holding Vector’s baleful glare. “Because of this, I’ll be forced to return to samsara until my debts are cleared.” 

  “Leave,” orders Vector. 

  Dương swallows the lump in his throat. He lowers his head.

  “We’ll meet again, I promise,” he vows. 

  Vector closes his eyes and takes a shuddery breath. How innocent he had been, slaving beneath his cruel stepmother. She had never done anything genuinely kind to him. When he had the time, he should have smothered the bitch in her sleep. He should have played the games at court, gathering as many allies as he could while slowly eliminating his enemies. If he had denounced his stepmother and stepbrother for their cruelties before their father’s death anniversaries, he could have been spared the trips to the underworld. 

  If only, if only, if only…

   When he opens his eyes again, he feels a weight lift off of his shoulders. A cool breeze blows through the air and he finds himself back in Diêm Vương’s office. Unlike before, they are alone. 

  “Welcome back,” booms the King of the Underworld. 

  Looking down at his youthful body, Vector gives it an experimental stretch. Then he crosses his arms and leans against the wall. 

  “I was told that this wasn’t supposed to happen,” he drawls. 

  Diêm Vương slightly shakes his head and then looks down at Vector’s name. It had been stamped over three times, the name almost obscured by the red ink. 

  “There is an imbalance in this universe,” begins Diêm Vương, stroking his beard. “After negotiations with all afterlife departments, we’ve come to a compromise.” 

  Vector raises a brow. 

  “Don’t tell me it’s what I had to go through,” he mutters. 

  The King of the Underworld clears his throat. 

  “Allow me to finish. We’re starting a new department in the afterlife. I would like you to be its first employee,” proposes Diêm Vương. 

  “Oh?” 

  “To take care of this situation��we’ll have you enter various stories and arbitrate the karmic balances for us. There’s quite a list.” 

  Vector frowns. 

  “And how will I arbitrate?” 

  Diêm Vương slowly blinks. 

  “You have experience with disposing of problems, don’t you?”

  Vector chuckles and shrugs. 

  “It depends.”

  Physical experience? Unfortunately, very little. During his rule, he only ordered the executions of the most heinous of criminals. The want to eliminate those that bothered him? 

  Oh, more than enough.

  “The other option for you is to reincarnate into another story,” says Diêm Vương.

  Immediately, Vector’s smile fades. He balls his hand into a fist. To be killed again. And again. To come to this damned place, again and again. An unending cycle of misery. 

  “Never,” he growls.  

  “Then will you take this job?”

  “You’re not giving me much of a choice,” growls Vector. 

  Diêm Vương narrows his eyes. 

  “You’ve cheated death long enough now, child. Your soul has deteriorated with each cycle you’ve been through. Souls are not meant to be rapidly reborn.” 

  “If I take this job, will it mean that I’ll never be reborn again?” 

  “Correct.” 

  Vector grits his teeth. No more gruesome deaths. No one will ever cut him to pieces and feed him to the pigs again. No one will ever fry him and eat his mutilated flesh again. No one will burn him ever again. 

  “Deal.” 

  Pulling a long black stamp from a drawer, Diêm Vương stamps it on top of Vector’s name. He shows Vector his name, stamped over and over again. On top of the red reincarnation stamps is KARMIC ARBITRATOR. 

  A heavy wind blows into the office. Vector looks at his hands, cleared of all the blood it had shed. He feels heavy yet light at the same time, his body floating in the wind. 

  “There will be no need to eat, drink or sleep anymore,” declares Diêm Vương above the howling of the wind. “You are now immortal and a member of my court.”

  A burning sensation fills Vector’s neck. His hand flies to the area and he grits his teeth. When the burning sensation stops, he finds Diêm Vương’s emblem embossed onto his collarbone. The black characters glare at him, glowing with an eerie pulse. 

  “Welcome to the Court of the Dead,” booms Diêm Vương. 

  Vector’s world blurs and then darkens, the wind wailing in his ears. For a brief second, a bolt of pain tears through his body. In this moment, he can see his previous reincarnations in other tales. A sorcerer. A farmer. A trickster. A prince. The memories of his most recent lifetimes rush through him in a blaze of anger. Then he awakens, coughing on a desk. 

  Before him, a large book sits, just like the books from his youth. Its cover is worn through and dotted with holes. Its edges are burnt, as if it was rescued from his stepmother’s fires. The smell of tobacco and betel nuts emanates from the leather. Vector takes a deep breath, reminded of his father. He runs his hands along the edges of the book, surprised to find that it was quite sturdy. 

  Getting up on unsteady feet, he looks down at the title. 

  REGISTRY OF FAIRY TALES

  Then, he turns to the name plaque by his desk. 

  Vector

Happy☆Heroine☆Sniper

Associate of Lord Diêm Vương, Karmic Balance Department

  Turning around, he sees a long rifle encased in glass. Its metallic body shines beneath the lamp. He approaches the rifle, his heart rapidly beating in his chest. This. This is his salvation. 

  H☆H☆S

  Oh, it looks like we finished right on time. This next story will be far, farther than all of the stories we’ve been to before. I don’t know any of the characters in this one. Maybe you will. 

  Judging from its aura, something is terribly off with this one. 

  Ha, I’ve caused quite a mess for the fairytale universe, haven’t I? Rules are meant to be followed, not teased and stretched until they shatter. 

  Heroes are meant to fall in love and ride into the sunset. They must possess pure and unyielding hearts. Villains deserve to be punished, regardless of their intentions. The hero does not have the privilege of doing evil things to achieve their happy ending. 

  Just kidding. I made up the third one. 

  To me, we’re all bastards.

[sourcherrymag]

dirt for the horses by nxy (they/them) Content warning: allusions to animal death, light gore imagery, references to deaths, references to floods 

They buried a pair of nameless horses at sunset in a Town with no roads out. A funeralgoer says She used to call them the silver one and The other one, I never thought they needed names, she laments, an Expression of dourness sat pulling the corners of her mouth like Dirt pouring in from the side of A loose grave made misty by the flood, And now they’re gone it don’t seem right that they never had them.

They stood with their backs To the barn and their faces To the sun, where incandescent flames spat out rivets of amber and squash along shallow Watercolour plashets and they sang country ballads ballasted out to the sky-dome In place of a requiem. No one cried but tears stood frozen amidst the crowd as attendants to the Funeral, flickering and looming as though the heart grieved for something which The body cannot contain.

In the evening they played music in a house with only Two walls; white plaster arched over them all chameleonesque— The fluttering ballet between sky and earth pliés and pirouettes through oil paint pallets and the heart Smears shades of vitality on dull walls. The evening breeze carries Easy; a through-wind which the house shudders with as though its lungs had wept And woken up from pneumonia. Friends, said the poet under the dying light to The graves of the horses, thank you for being there, she says these words whilst Bones of the earth unfurls beneath the mud and whilst Shadowmen flicker like stolen television signals amongst them. She says those words and their Intonations spread as sinew amongst the people; And later he will leave this town, and she and she and He, on their cars and on their feet and on rickety airplanes fuelled with ink-black tar and on Clouds exhaled from rose-petal lips and on tapes rolling like pig innards recording weather-tuning and Book-burning and parrot-watching and on—

You know the feeling. Vertigo, tunnel vision, like the ground is not the ground but Stacked fifty stories high with varnished oakwood coffins. The poet touches the grave and wishes There was a bell; windchimes of beetle bones or huge brass bells bellowing Liberty, liberty, freedom and equality. Here is where houses are rotting From the foundations up, where gnats gnawed on half-finished wood and Analog tapes buzzed like dying bees around springtime tulips. Here were ripened tomatoes stamped to the ground, a handful of rubies discarded amongst ferns And yesteryear’s dreamers. When they buried The horses at sunset the smell of the tomatoes ferments and rose with the rays of Scattered light and conjoined together as a sky-spiral to settle in the pores of the funeralgoers. When the sun sets later over the graves the air will smell of nothing but Fresh soil and rain, fresh paint, shroud of life over This mass grave.

And earlier There was a flood, There was rain and the rain soaked through the ceilings into little TV stations where You tune in and they talk about nothing in particular; someone’s trash was Eaten by the neighbouring raccoons and someone else’s garden filled up with Glass shards from the outer worlds. The flood opened its sinkhole like an Emptying maw, stretched until its serpentine jaw popped from its hinges And the snakeskin drew warped and thin around its belly; if you look closely, you can see faces Pressed against the skin, smiling and eternally seventeen, or twenty, or… They’re begging to be born, or have never been born at all, or have returned to be Born again whilst the latter-day saints hover their cold and blue feet over Termite-eaten pews. This Lethian flood will wash through the gates of Hades, and Asphodel, and Elysium, and…

And earlier still There was a flood, A flood of ash and of ‘hem greedy-eyed bastards who took and took and look: Take the township in both your hands and put one at each end and Twist, Wrung it dry as you might a towel and discover it to be still damp With condensation and sweat. There were battlefields that played out on this town, Boys who pretended to be men and men who beat their chest to play games of Cat and mouse; it’s firecracker season, the season where you pull the trigger on Finger guns and pretend they’re real, the season of the autumnal patriarch whose rot You delight in. All the world’s an open grave now, from the skyscrapers to The houses with their ribs pried open; and you will leave too, riding On rumbling earthworms who carries you from grave to grave whilst you reflect on the never-was, And the could-have-beens, And the—

And anyways the sun is setting over the horizon. Hold the dirt up to your lips and Drink It all in; On the dirt mound in the middle of town The soil spiral into itself in the motion of an Ouroboros and languid cats chased Fireflies round and round a hole Dropped to the middle of the earth.

We buried a pair of nameless horses at sunset in a Town with no roads out. The ritual holds us in place like A spell, and for an instant we all believed that there is love, for an Instant we held that love in our hands like The fledgling sprout of the sun, and for an instant We forgot that the sun was setting too. In the evening we will play music in the empty House, and by morning the final flood will come and Wash everything away, but

We saved what we could.

@poemsbynxy on instagram  I reside and write in the traditional lands of the Wurundjeri Woi-wurrung people as the Traditional Owners of the land