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yurtletheturtlehenderson · 3 years ago

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COSMIC - S1:E2; Chapter Two, The Weirdo On Maple Street - [Pt. 1]

A Will Byers x Male!Reader Series

𝘠/𝘯, 𝘓𝘶𝘤𝘢𝘴, 𝘋𝘶𝘴𝘵𝘪𝘯, 𝘢𝘯𝘥 𝘔𝘪𝘬𝘦 𝘵𝘳𝘺 𝘵𝘰 𝘵𝘢𝘭𝘬 𝘵𝘰 𝘵𝘩𝘦 𝘨𝘪𝘳𝘭 𝘵𝘩𝘦𝘺 𝘧𝘰𝘶𝘯𝘥 𝘪𝘯 𝘵𝘩𝘦 𝘸𝘰𝘰𝘥𝘴 𝘸𝘩𝘰 𝘴𝘦𝘦𝘮𝘴 𝘵𝘰 𝘬𝘯𝘰𝘸 𝘮𝘰𝘳𝘦 𝘵𝘩𝘢𝘯 𝘴𝘩𝘦'𝘴 𝘭𝘦𝘵𝘵𝘪𝘯𝘨 𝘰𝘯.

|| 𝐑𝐞𝐚𝐝𝐞𝐫'𝐬 𝐏𝐎𝐕 ||

The booming clap of thunder and the steady drumming of rain hitting the windows can be heard. The poor girl sat before us, shaking, her breath heavy and ragged. She was now wearing Mike's jacket; he had given it to her when we found her shivering in the rain. The four of us stood in front of her, gazing at her in awe and bewilderment. Lucas and Mike were to my right, Dustin on my left. Mike finally broke the silence.

"Is there a number we can call for your parents?"

"Where's your hair? Do you have cancer?"

"Dustin," I warn. Although, I'd be lying if I said it hadn't crossed my mind.

Before I can stop them, the boys continue to ask her all sorts of questions without even giving her a chance to answer.

"Did you run away?"

"Are you in some kind of trouble?"

"Is that blood?" Lucas slowly extends his arm towards the girl's face; before I can stop him, Mike beats me to it and smacks his arm away.

"Stop it! You're freaking her out!"

"She's freaking me out!"

"I bet she's deaf." Dustin then turns to look at the girl and quickly claps his hands in her face and she flinches back, clearly even more frightened, if that is at all possible.

"Not deaf." He says weakly, shrugging his shoulders.

I draw the line there. "Dustin, seriously? Do you not hear yourself? How would you feel in her position, huh?"

"Y/n's right, okay? Enough, both of you." Mike defended me and looked to Dustin and Lucas as he spoke. "She's just scared and cold." He pointed in the girl's direction as he said this.

Hearing him say that made me realize she was still in nothing but a soaking wet t-shirt and Mike's jacket. I turn to Mike. "We should probably get her some fresh clothes. Do you have any down here?" I ask.

Mike nods and heads towards a laundry basket across the room. I look back at the girl and I see her close her eyes and flinch, shrinking into herself a little as another clap of thunder boomed from outside. I cautiously took a step around to the side of the coffee table and took a seat on the edge so I was near her eye level but not so close I was invading her space.

"Hey, it's okay," I try, my voice gentle. "It's just thunder. You're gonna be okay. You're safe now."

I send her a warm, reassuring smile. She says nothing, but I swear I see gratitude in her eyes.

Mike returns with some fresh clothes.

"Here, these are clean. Okay?" She cautiously takes the clothes from him and looks at them. After a moment she brings them to her face and softly rubs them on her cheek. My sympathy for her grows stronger, who knows how long it has been since she's had a proper set of clothes. She sets them aside and shrugs Mike's jacket off of her shoulders. She rises to her feet, reaching for the bottom of the t-shirt she was wearing, clearly about to undress in front of us.

"No, no, no!" We all yell.

I jump to my feet in surprise, ripping my gaze away in panic while also attempting to reach for her hands to keep them in place. Mike tries to do the same, but he's a bit more shaken up. Meanwhile, Dustin and Lucas began freaking out, their heads turned so as to not see anything. Dustin could not stop saying, "Oh, my God!"

"See over there?" Mike points to the bathroom just across the room. "That's the bathroom. Privacy. Get it?" He asks. The girl looks ashamed and confused. She looks to the bathroom and then to me, her eyes pleading. I can tell she's afraid to be alone. I take a quick, deep breath and look at her. "You... want me in there with you?" I ask gently.

She nods and we are all surprised to hear her speak. "Yes."

"Really? Umm," I look to the guys in shock who all wear the same expression as the scene unfolds. Panicking, but also realizing by now she doesn't understand why I would be, I look back to her only to find fear in her eyes and I feel a wave of guilt. A sigh escapes and I nod. "Yeah, uh, okay. I can do that, but, you're still gonna need some privacy, okay?" I grab her clothes off the couch and I lead her to the bathroom and she looks around in curiosity.

I gesture around the bathroom awkwardly, not really knowing what to do.

"Here, I'm not gonna look, but we should close this so they don't accidentally see anything. Okay?" I gesture to the door.

Panic flooded her features, and for the first time since we found her she wore an expression of absolute certainty, speaking for the second time tonight. "No."

"Hey, its okay, it's just so that you can change in privacy. You know, so they don't accidentally see you changing? How about we close it most of the way? That way you have privacy, but you know you can still get out. Does that sound good?" She hesitates then nods her head slightly. I push the door in so it's cracked open.

I handed her Mike's spare set of clothes, doing my best to offer a small smile. "Alright, here you go,"

For a moment I think, just maybe it's okay to slip out and let her change. But then I see the look in here eyes, and it hits truly me why it's so important to her someone stays.

My smile feels a little more genuine now and it almost seems to put her at ease, just a little. "Don't worry, I'll stay."

I cross over to the other side of the bathroom, taking a seat on the closed lid of the toilet with my back turned to her. For extra measure, I even clamped my hand over my eyes, still trying to figure out my day took such a weird turn. I can her start to move around and figure she's started changing, and briefly I think of how scared she looked when the thunder rumbled.

It reminded me of how bad thunder used to scare me as kid; like really bad, and how Mom helped me through it. Even kept me company until I fell asleep, and it all made a little more sense why she asked me. It was the same reason I recognized the look in her eyes almost at once; Anxiety and genuine fear. Like I did when I was a kid, I needed that company around just to know I wasn't alone.

It only makes my mind race with a million different questions but, they're all silenced when I hear voices coming from the other room.

"This is mental." It was Dustin.

"At least she can talk." Mike defended.

"She said 'no' and 'yes.' Your three-year-old sister says more." Lucas counters. I bite my lip, trying not to yell at Lucas. If he heard her say 'no' to me from the bathroom, that obviously means that we can hear him. As much as I love those guys, they can be really insensitive.

"She tried to get naked." Dustin argued."She brought Y/n in there with her!"

I can feel my face heat up and I wish I could melt into a puddle where I sit. At least that way they could just flush me and be done with it.

"It's not like that! She's just scared," Mike defended.

"There's something seriously wrong with her. Like, wrong in the head." Said Lucas.

"She, just went like..." and then I could barely make out the muffled sound of something falling.

"I bet she escaped from Pennhurst."

"From where?" Mike sounded just as exasperated as I was feeling.

"The nuthouse in Kerley County."

"You got a lot of family there?"

"Bite me."

"Seriously though, think about it. That would explain her shaved hair and why she's so crazy."

"Why she went like..."

"She's an escapee is the point. She's probably a psycho."

"Like Michael Myers."

"Exactly! We should've never brought her here."

"So you just wanted to leave her out in that storm?"

"Yes! We went out to find Will, not another problem."

"I think we should tell your mom." Dustin offers.

"I second that."

"Who's crazy now?"

"How is that crazy?"

"'Cause, we weren't supposed to be out tonight, remember?"

"So?"

"So if I tell my mom and she tells your mom and your mom..."

"Oh, man."

"Our houses become Alcatraz."

"Exactly. We'll never find Will."

There's a brief silence, and I think about everything I just heard. Mike had a pretty good point. And I don't blame Lucas for being skeptical, I just wish he wouldn't be so harsh sometimes. If I can hear their conversation, that means she can. I can't imagine what she must be going through right now.

"All right, here's the plan. She sleeps here tonight."

"You're letting a girl --"

"Just listen! In the morning, she sneaks around my house, goes to the front door and rings my doorbell. My mom will answer and know exactly what to do. She'll send her back to Pennhurst or wherever she comes from. We'll be totally in the clear. And tomorrow night, we go back out. And this time, we find Will."

I feel a light tap on my shoulder and I turn around to see the girl had changed. She had sad look on her face and I don't blame her at all.

"Feeling better?" I ask. She meets my eyes for a brief moment and nods, looking back down at her feet.

I sigh and lower my voice into a whisper, trying to undo all the damage the boys just unknowingly caused. "Hey, I'm sorry they said all those things. You'll be in good hands here with that boy Mike; the guy who gave you the clothes, he's really nice, and it sounds like you'll be staying with him."

I stood up, eyeing the door and my friends who I could barely see through the slat we left open and I turned back to her.

"By the way... You don't have to answer any of those questions if you're not ready. That was unfair of them to do that. If you ever need anything... or someone to talk to, even after we get everything sorted out, well, I'm here." I shrug, giving her a reassuring smile before opening the door, leading her out of the bathroom.

Lucas and Dustin were standing at the bottom of the stairs, ready to head out. I follow their gaze to find Mike had made a small fort for the girl.

Mike was helping the girl get settled inside. "Here you go. This is my sleeping bag."

"You really think she's psycho?" Dustin whispered.

"Wouldn't want her in my house." Before Lucas could head up the stairs I spoke up.

"We heard everything."

Lucas and Dustin stopped and looked at me, worried.

"What?"

"All those nasty things you were saying back there, we heard every word. She heard every word... Just go. Dustin, I'll catch up in a few minutes. Bye." I threw them a flat, angry look as I shook my head and walked away. As I made my way over to the fort I took note of the silence behind me, followed by reluctant footsteps up the stairs.

"Hey, um, I never asked your name." Mike said trying to make conversation. I kneeled down next to Mike.

The girl looks at us both, then without saying anything, she pulls up her left sleeve to reveal a tattoo on the inside of her wrist. It read '011'. My eyes widen in shock.

"Woah," I can't help but gasp.

"Is that real?" Mike asks excitedly as he reaches over to touch the tattoo. She quickly retracts her arm and looks at Mike. There's an awkward silence apart from the booming thunder outside.

"Sorry, I've just... never seen a kid with a tattoo before." He apologized sheepishly.

"Can I ask what it means?" I say.

She looks at me and then points a finger towards herself.

"So, that's your name? Eleven?" I confirm.

She nods her head and then looks down at her lap.

"Eleven. Okay." Mike says, perking up. "Um, well, my name's Mike. Short for Michael, and this is my friend Y/n. He's Dustin's brother." Eleven looks over at me and I smile politely, giving her a small wave.

"Maybe we can call you 'El.' Short for Eleven." Mike offers. She nods her head in agreement. There's a silence and I can tell Mike likes her already.

"Um, well, okay," I say, trying to break the silence. "El, it was nice meeting you. And, like I said, if you need anything at all, I'm here. And so is Mikey here, of course," I say, looking over at Mike, giving him a knowing look, a smirk on my face. "Unfortunately, I have to head home so, I'll see you guys later."

I smile and grab my jacket. As i head for the stairs, I turn to both of them and send them a little wave. "Bye!"

Mide nods at me, the girl, El watching curiously as I go. That's the last I see of them as I dissapear up the steps.

I could hear Mike stuttering a 'goodnight' to El as I make it to the top. Clearly, I caught him off guard. I smile to myself, thinking.

'Ohh, he has so got it bad.'

I parked my bike in its usual spot and made it through the front door quiet enough so my mom won't hear.

Most of the lights were turned off, my mom must have gone to bed already just as I suspected. I heard an obnoxious meowing near my feet and look down to see Mews. I kneel down and pet this attention starved cat knowing that's the only way she will ever quiet down. I don't know how she can be attention starved when Mom doted on her as much as she does.

Mews lets out a deep purr and leans into my hand as I give her head a few scratches. I take off my shoes and set them by the front door before sneaking back into my room.

I flip on the light switch and stare at my slightly messy room and sigh at the events of today. I close my door so I can change into my pj's and tidy up a bit. Once I'm done I open my door so it's ajar, knowing that Mews likes to come and go throughout the house as she pleases. I sit down on the side of my bed and sigh heavily.

My eyes are fixed on the floor, particularly the different shadows that were being cast from my lamp on my bedside table as my thoughts wandered back to the fruitless efforts of tonight.

The stress and constant worrying have taken its toll on me. It breaks my heart to know that my best friend is somewhere out there lost and probably hurt. I guess a big part of me was sure that we were going to find Will in those woods out by Mirkwood tonight. I should have known better.

I feel something on my leg and I look down to see tear stains on my pajama bottoms. I hadn't even realized I had started crying. I sniffle, wiping my nose and grab the stuffed duck that was sitting on my bed. Will had won it for me. I give it a tight hug, a small smile creeps its way onto my face at the memory.

- 𝗙𝗟𝗔𝗦𝗛𝗕𝗔𝗖𝗞 -

It was the first Saturday of summer vacation and the five of us had gone to the arcade for a much-deserved celebration. We all filed into the arcade, I followed Mike, Dustin, and Lucas as we made our way to Dustin's favorite game Dig Dug, Will and I side by side, buzzing with the excitement of the new summer ahead of us.

There was a brief moment of comfortable silence as we looked around the arcade. We passed by all the familiar games including the infamous claw game. I spare a glance at its contents and notice an adorable bright yellow duck perched in the front of the glass.

I smile and point at the stuffed duck. "Oh! That duck is so cute!" I admired it for a brief moment and catch up with Dustin, assuming Will is still next to me.

( hats off to the folk who understand this reference!! 😎 )

About twenty minutes later I had just beaten Mike's high score on Pac Man. All the boys watched over my shoulder and I couldn't help but cheer out. "Ha! Say, Mike, how does my dust taste?"

"Oh, whatever. You only beat me by," he leans over my shoulder to look at my score. "Holy crap! 1300 points?! Alright, well done." He sighs.

"Hey Will, you owe me 5 bucks!" I turn to my friend only to not see him there. I look around in confusion.

"Wait, guys, where is Will?"

They all shrug.

"I don't know, the last time I saw him he was with you. When we got here." Lucas shrugged.

I look around until I spot the familiar bowl cut by the claw machine. He must have won something since he was leaning down to grab some prize from the machine. I quickly grab my tickets and abandon the machine and meet him by the claw, he made eye contact with me and quickly put his hands behind his back.

"Hey, man. Where have you been? You just missed it. I just annihilated Mike in Pac Man. It was awesome!"

"I, um... Well, I, uh," he scratched the back of his head awkwardly as he stammered.

I breathed out a soft laugh. "Will, it's fine, you're not on trial or anything."

"Well I noticed you seemed to really like that duck and it seemed easy enough, and um, and so yeah, I played a couple rounds and, well here." His words sort of spilled out of his mouth and he quickly pulled out his hand from behind his back and handed me the cute little stuffed duck from earlier. A huge, beaming smile finds it's way onto my face as I take the duck from him.

"Oh, wow!" I gasped as I took the duck from him. "That's awesome, thank you! I love it! Aww, it's so cute!" I gave the duck a big squeeze and held it under my arm.

"Yeah, uh no problem. So you said you beat Mike's score? That's great! By how much?" He seems more relaxed now that he's changed the subject.

"You'll never believe it, 1300 points!" I said smugly.

"No way! Y/n, that's awesome!" He gave me a big smile.

"I know right? Anyways, come on, let's hit up Space Invaders. We've got more records to beat." I motioned towards the machine, but Will doesn't move. His smile only falters. "What's wrong Byers? Come on, we better hurry before someone else gets to it." I give him a smile, silently urging him to come along.

"Yeah, umm about that... I don't have any money left. I um, I kinda spent it all on the claw." He said sheepishly.

"What?" I stare in disbelief. I can't believe he would do that.

"I'm sorry, I just thought that—" he stammered.

"No, Will, hey! I'm not mad!" I soothe as I reach out and put a hand on his shoulder to calm him.

"And please, don't be sorry. If anything, I'm sorry. You spent all your money just to get this duck. I know you guys are tight on money right now, and well, I—" I stopped, completely appalled at his actions. "Thank you. That means so much to me. You're amazing." I smile and pull him in for a hug.

The hug lingers for a few moments longer than necessary but not enough to make it too awkward. He was hesitant to let go it seemed. I finally broke the hug and gave him another big grin.

"Come on, I am playing Space Invaders with my favorite person, whether he likes it or not. I've still got a buttload of coins."

"But, you don't have to do that."

"You didn't have to spend all your money getting the duck but you did anyway." I point out. He smiles at this.

"Besides," I continued. "You know me, I'd feel way too guilty if I didn't repay you in some way for the duck. This way, we'll be even. What do you say?" I playfully elbow him.

A big grin breaks out on his face. "Yeah okay, cool. Thanks."

- 𝗘𝗡𝗗 𝗢𝗙 𝗙𝗟𝗔𝗦𝗛𝗕𝗔𝗖𝗞 -

I smile fondly as I give the ever so slightly worn duck a squeeze. It quickly became one of my favorite things. A quiet sob escapes my lips as I hug the duck.

"Y/n?" My head shot up to my door to see Dustin poking his head in my room, concern etched on his face.

I sniffle and quickly wipe my nose with the back of my hand as I attempt to stop my sobs.

"Sorry," I mumble, figuring I'd annoyed him.

"Y/n, what's wrong?" Dustin asks worriedly, he takes a seat next to me, not before closing the door behind him.

"I'm sorry, I just," I am unable to hold back another sob, I lean into my brother's shoulder. He wraps an arm around my shoulder as he tries to comfort me.

"Seriously, are you okay? What's the matter?"

"I miss him," I wail. I can feel Dustin's body stiffen for a brief moment at the mention of Will. He sighs and runs his hand up and down my shoulder, trying to comfort me.

"I know," his voice sounds hoarse, like he's trying not to cry. "I miss him too."

"What if, he doesn't come back?" I choke on my sobs.

"You shouldn't talk like that. We'll find him. You know him, he's good at hiding. If something did get him, you just know he's hiding. That's why the clever bastard never bites it in our campaigns, even when we do."

I breathe out a soft chuckle at this. Dustin has a point. It seems no matter what kind of trouble he gets into during our campaigns, he always seems to find a way out. It's become a running joke in our party.

My smile falters. "But what if..."

"Y/n, you can't keep doing this to yourself. No more 'what ifs' it's not healthy, and—"

"Well, I can't help it, Dustin!" I snap, cutting him off. "I just... I just can't. You don't understand. You think I like it when my brain won't stop plaguing me with these god awful scenarios that gnaw at me every second? I can't help it, it's so draining! Why do you think it takes so long to come down from my anxiety attacks?"

My eyes are welling up again and my vision has become blurry. All I can do is look down back at the ground.

Dustin only sighs. "I'm sorry. I had no idea."

I sniffle and sigh. "I'm sorry too. It just gets so frustrating not being able to communicate my feelings with people who don't deal with anxiety like I do."

"I just... I just hope he's okay." Hot tears slide down my face as I stare at the wall. I heard a sniffle come from Dustin. We stayed like that for quite some time, longing for our friend.

______________

A//N: I put this in because I think it's important that I share this with you all. I don't ever see any fics with a reader with an anxiety disorder and I thought it was important that I do because as someone who struggles with anxiety and someone who has anxiety attacks all the time, I often feel disconnected from the story, anyway I thought that I should shed some light on the subject as well as let readers with anxiety disorders feel included and represented as well as let you know YOU ARE NOT ALONE AND YOUR DISORDER DOES NOT DEFINE YOU. PLEASE DM ME (A LIVING BREATHING PERSON WITH AN ANXIETY DISORDER) IF ANY OF YOU WANT TO TALK TO SOMEONE WHO STRUGGLES WITH THIS AND/OR YOU WANT TO ASK QUESTIONS TO LEARN MORE.

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fandom-space-princess · 4 years ago

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Sleight of Hand

midam week prompt 7: Magical - related to, using, or resembling magic

Rating: Teen [1.1k words. genre: weird little introspective bit of character study]

Keep your eyes on the mirror, and watch closely for the trick: which face is looking back?

read below the cut, or on AO3

Now you see me:

-----

They're on especially friendly terms with Adam's bathroom mirror.

Post-resurrection, they practice and practice and practice, hours spent studying the face once again shared between them. Michael manifests at his side, watching their doubled expressions so intently in the glass: an angel and a man, each engaged in a determined attempt to perfectly mimic the other. Adam, gaze high and jaw firm, trying on Michael's imperious indifference like an ill-fitting jacket. Michael, softening his eyes and twitching his lips upward into Adam's dimpled smile. Matching posture to mood: he demonstrates how to roll their shoulders, shake out the tension Michael habitually carries (trailing soothing fingers across his back, laughing at the absurdity of teaching an angel to slouch). Michael straightens Adam's spine in turn, gentle nudges to broaden his stance, hold his head up higher (letting him get a feel for the extraplanar pull of wings at their back, how the phantom weight alters Michael's center of gravity).

Speaking in the other's voice comes less naturally. Not simply the differing way they use their shared vocal chords — although Michael's baritone growl scratches at his throat and Adam's mellower pitch rings alien in Michael's mouth (they end up settling somewhere in the middle). They also parrot vocabulary back and forth, fit cadence to idiom until Adam's curiosity and snark fall past Michael's lips with ease, until Michael's measured and decisive tones roll off Adam's tongue.

Practice, practice, practice. Command of their body switched back and forth. He yields control to Michael, retakes it, then gives it up again; sliding past each other and pushing to the surface, eyes locked on the mirror. Until it's as natural as breathing,

(remember to breathe, Adam murmurs, breathe and fidget and let our heart beat. Human things. Remember?)

as natural as flying,

(they're your wings too, Michael whispers back, feel the connection to them. They're a part of you, like your feet, like your eyes. Remember?)

and they can do it without flinching, without tipping their hand. No one would be any the wiser.

Until, little by little, they can pull it off.

Keep your eyes on the mirror, and watch closely for the trick: which face is looking back?

-----

When it comes, it is — very pointedly — an invitation, and not a summons. So different from the Heaven of old.

His return is not greeted with ceremony, but Castiel does meet him at the front gate.

Much has changed in ten short years. Jack has made quick work of his intentions: the structure of the place is altered on a fundamental level, human heavens broken wide, open space where once walls had subdivided. The continuity of the landscape has a malleable, dreamlike quality, and as he watches it reshapes itself in gentle sighing acquiescence around the whims of its inhabitants.

Many angels have been resurrected. Some, Jack has created anew. Their work keeps them busy, a constant background hum of activity. The familiar and unfamiliar alike afford them a wide berth. He follows Castiel where he leads, and allows the air between them to fill with stoic silence.

By and by, Castiel breaks it. "Thank you for coming," he rumbles, picking his way along what for the moment appears as a forest path. "We didn't know if you would. I know we didn't part on the best of terms—"

"That's one way to put it," he replies mildly.

"—but I was hopeful we might be able to move past that."

The path blends seamlessly, with the logic of dreams, into a set of marble steps. Ascending, they find themselves in front of a vast plate-glass window, overlooking what would, on Earth, be a park. Human souls loiter in the warm sunlight, laying back in the grass or sharing quiet conversation. Some stroll idly. One family, atop a hill, picnic in companionable silence.

Castiel continues. "You led us, once. We've done our best with this place, but we're still rebuilding." His eyes follow a young couple, ambling past below. "There is so much to be done. To be frank, we could use any assistance you're willing to give. And..." he glances sideways at Michael, before continuing. "This place was your home, too. If you wanted it to be again, you'd be welcomed."

"This place has a new God, taking considerably better care of it than the old one ever did. It doesn't need a leader."

"True enough," Castiel replies, after a moment. The unacknowledged invitation hangs in the air, but Castiel doesn't press the issue, and for that he feels a small flicker of gratitude.

"If that's all." He takes a single step back, away from the window. "We'll be going. If you want to contact us again, you know how to find us."

Castiel turns to him, then, and furrows his brow. He looks, really looks, at him for the first time since his arrival, gaze searching over his features.

"Am I..." he begins, slowly, comprehension dawning on his face. "... which one of you am I speaking with?"

He tilts his head, fixes Castiel with a gaze that is piercing, but not unkind. "Ask yourself why it matters to you," he replies, and vanishes with a thought.

-----

Now you don't:

-----

There are facets of Michael that no one else will ever see.

The Sword of Heaven had been forged of steely, unyielding certainty. But in learning to don that mask for Michael's sake, Adam has come to realize exactly how little Michael likes wearing it, either. Alone in the dark of their apartment and sheltered by the canopy of massive wings, he finds the truth written in the contours of Michael's face under his tracing fingertips.

"What are you thinking?" he whispers, although he is certain he knows.

That I love you, comes the reply, and Adam murmurs it back across his lips.

"Are you ok?"

Not really. As vulnerable in that moment as he had once been unassailable. But I think... I think I will be. Thank you. For... you know.

What a privilege, to be allowed behind that mask. To touch the gentle spirit underneath.

Adam curls around him, twining long limbs around his own. Presses close into Michael's space, resting their foreheads together. "Thank you for trusting me. With all of it. I know it isn't easy." A soft kiss, barely a whisper across his mouth. He idles fingers along the curve of Michael's cheekbone, the gentle sweep of his shoulder, the column of his throat.

I could say the same to you. Michael catches his hand, draws it back to his face. Presses a kiss to his palm.

"Better together, huh?" Adam smiles, and Michael breathes out a laugh.

Better together. Always.

#how do i even tag this #odd little slice of life/introspective thing #they are the anthropomorphic personification of a magic trick and no I will not be taking questions #michael spn #adam milligan #midam #midam week #spn #fanfic #mine #my fanfic

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autumnslance · 4 years ago

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Starlight Celebration 2020 - Letters

Baenfaeld: Thank you for your invaluable aid, friend! The Starlight festivities never could have happened without you. And my colleagues and I are far from the only ones who appreciate your efforts. Letters have arrived from across the realm to thank you for your generosity. Just see for yourself!

((13 transcriptions below the cut! All expac MSQs, 1 Custom Delivery client, and 3 of the 8man raids are referenced below))

Letter from Maelstrom Command: This got me to wondering: might it not be said that the smiles you have put on the faces of the children this season serve a similar role, as they brighten the hearts of Eorzeans the realm over and raise their spirits in these times of uncertainty? I, for one, believe so─and for all you have done to that end, you have my thanks.

You open the envelope and extract the “letter” inside, which oddly consists of only a smattering of chocobo footprints and a small, X-shaped stamp.Looking more closely, you spot a hastily scribbled message hidden in the margins. Anonymous Message: Aeryn! How goes it? I went to pick up some supplies, and you'll never guess who I ran into! Well, on second thought, I guess you will. Good to see that the little fellow's enjoying Starlight in his own way, eh? Till next time! Letter from the Lotus Stand: How fare you in the preparations for the festivities, my good friend? Firstly, on behalf of all Gridanians, let me express my most heartfelt gratitude for your most selfless acts this special season. Letter from the Lotus Stand: I have given much thought to the matter of what my fellow Seedseers and I might do to bring even more joy to the children, and I do believe I have come upon just the idea. You are familiar with the tradition by which children write letters to the Spinner containing their most heartfelt wishes to place under the Starlight Tree, yes? Letter from the Lotus Stand: I have determined that we will attempt to grant as many of them as is within our power─and have recruited a number of like-minded souls to aid in the cause. In doing so, I hope that we will inspire that many more smiling faces here in Gridania this Starlight season─and that the elementals will smile upon our efforts as well. You open the envelope, but it is empty. The very next moment, you feel a tingle in the air. The faint smell of wildflowers wafts in on the air, and a voice echoes in your head as if from far away... Ephemeral Voice: I take one little peek, and what do I see but my sapling having a grand old time prancing and frolicking about in the snow! Did it not occur to you that mayhap your [beautiful branch] would have liked to join you for this merry occasion, hmm!? Ephemeral Voice: No, this simply will not do. And so to teach my thoughtless sapling a lesson, I've imbued this little missive with an incantation. Yes, the moment you so much as think of enjoying the Starlight festivities with someone who is not your [beautiful branch]... Ephemeral Voice: Oh, but I jest! Were you taking me seriously? Why, nothing gives me greater joy than to see you actually enjoying yourself for once! I always thought you could stand to learn a thing from us fae folk─and why, yes, it seems like you have! Till we meet again, my [adorable sapling]. Letter from the Fragrant Chamber: On behalf of all the Sultanate, I commend you on your efforts in saving this year's Starlight Celebration from an uncertain fate. Some would say that snowmen feel out of place here in the jewel of the desert, but I have naught but fond memories of being a young girl, spending sleepless nights in anticipation of what the saint would bring me. Letter from the Fragrant Chamber: There are those who would proclaim that it is base and shameful to engage in revelry at a time when our realm faces such continued hardship. Yet I could not disagree more. Letter from the Fragrant Chamber: If we have any hope of leading Eorzea to a brighter future, then it begins with ensuring that every young boy and girl out there looks toward tomorrow with a smile on their face and the confidence that happier days are to come. For all you have done─and continue to do─toward this end, I thank you from the bottom of my heart. Letter from a Distant World: How do you fare, friend? Feo Ul tells me there is a festival known as “Starlight” in your world that you celebrate this time of year. Why, just hearing stories of entire cities bedecked in ornaments that twinkle and glimmer like the night sky─I would give anything to see it with my own eyes! Letter from a Distant World: As for us, we too are making preparations for a festival of our own─one to celebrate the return of the night and the rebuilding of our realm. I've tasked Gaia with procuring supplies─she turned up her nose at performing any manual labor─and she seems to be rather enjoying herself zipping about hither and yon on her skyslipper. Letter from a Distant World: There is much still to be done, but if we can put smiles on the faces of the little ones here as you have done in your world, it will have more than been worth it. Till we meet again, Aeryn. Letter from Menphina's Arms: The Starlight Celebration! Why, is there any better time of year? Not for the children here at the Arms, that's for certain! Why, even now they toss and turn in their beds, in hope that the saint will show up at any moment! Letter from Menphina's Arms: Adkiragh whipped up a batch of ore fruitcakes to celebrate the season, and guess what he did for Zhloe? He put in pineapple as a special treat! Why, it was so scrumptious that the kids and I gobbled it all up straightaway!

Letter from Menphina's Arms: Have you ever had fruitcake? If not, you simply must try it! Rowena tells me she's selling it for─and I quote─the “almost insultingly low” price of only 300 scrips. Feel free to buy a whole batch─it keeps better than pineapple pudding, so you can carry it around for weeks before it goes stale. Speaking of which, I probably should clean out the kitchen...

#Final Fantasy XIV #Starlight Celebration 2020 #NPCs #A Realm Reborn #Heavensward #Stormblood #Shadowbringers #Custom Deliveries #Alexander #Omega #Eden

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wistfulcynic · 4 years ago

Text

The Eternal and Unseen (2 of 3)

(there is additional chapter art from the amazing @carpedzem further down, I just wanted to use this one again because I love it so ❤️❤️❤️❤️)

SUMMARY: Misthaven University is an ancient place, and as all ancient places do it guards some secrets. Secrets such as Emma Swan and Killian Jones, a fae princess and her royal guardian, whose true identities are well concealed behind the guise of average college students—if not quite well enough to foil the plot their enemies have hatched against them. Now their friends will have to come together, putting their own differences aside to battle an enemy that threatens them all—fae and vampire and werewolf together… plus one very baffled human named David.

For @cssns

a/n: This chapter fought me every step of the way, and it’s a beast at nearly 9k. Settle in, and I hope it doesn’t disappoint. All manner of love and adulation to @thisonesatellite for being the rock she is, and to @ohmightydevviepuu and @katie-dub for their brilliance and encouragement. And @spartanguard and @optomisticgirl for the prompts that this monster of a fic now barely resembles, but hey what can you do?

Finally, please everyone flail like mad at @carpedzem and her perfect eye for detail and characterisation in the art for this chapter:

(WHAT’S IN THE BEAKER, YOU ASK? LET’S FIND OUT)

AO3 | Tumblr part one

CHAPTER TWO:

The sunlight shone through the window and right on his face, bright and warm, though not enough of either to wake him up. It was Harriet who managed to rouse him, finally, after several minutes spent stroking his forehead with her fronds and patting his cheek with her leaf. When this produced no effect aside from some incoherent muttering and limp attempts to push her leaf away, the plant rustled with a botanical sigh and gave him a sharp smack upside the head. With her thorns out.

“Ow!” cried Killian, jerking into abrupt and painful consciousness. “What the bloody hell—Harriet! Lass, I thought we were friends.”

Harriet smacked him again.

“Oi, seriously! What—” He broke off as Harriet unfolded her larger leaves from where they had been wrapped around him, cradling his body protectively, and Killian realised he was lying sprawled on the floor of Emma’s dorm room and that his head ached like a son of a bitch.

“What happened?” he groaned. Harriet’s leaf brushed his face again and then caressed the back of his head and Killian followed its path tentatively with his fingers. They encountered a tender, painful lump at the base of his skull and a nasty gash in his scalp, coated in a springy, jelly-like substance that he recognised by its texture and aroma as Harriet’s sap.

“Harriet... did you heal me?” he asked her. She inclined her leaf in a gracious nod, and Killian felt a lump rise in his throat that could almost rival the one on his head. “Thank you, lass,” he said, stroking the edge of her frond with his fingertip as Emma had taught him. “I’m very grateful. But why did you need to? What happened here?”

Harriet tapped him on his temple, gently but with a clear rebuke. “Aye, I’m trying to remember,” he replied wryly. “But cut a man a bit of slack, would you, when he’s been thoroughly coshed and spent the night on a cold stone floor.”

Harriet shrugged and Killian pressed his fingers to his eyes, willing his brain to kick into some kind of gear. “I remember going to the pub last night with Emma,” he said slowly. “We had a few drinks and we wanted food, but the pub kitchen had closed so we came back here... we were going to order pizza but then there was a knock on the door... I went to answer it, and she joked that maybe the pizza place had read our minds… I turned to look at her as I opened the door, and then… then… oh, bloody hell.”

His eyes had been scanning the room as he spoke, taking in the upended chair and the books fallen from their shelves, the overturned plant pots and shattered glass vials. But this chaos, though alarming, was not what caught his attention.

Beside the door, half-buried beneath spilled soil and shards of glass, lay an object. A small, purple object, roughly round and attached to a long and slender strip of leather. An object that Killian had last seen glowing faintly against Emma’s pale skin as he’d trailed kisses down her belly.

With a choking cry he scrambled on his hands and knees across the room and picked it up. The power within it hummed through him, and agonising terror sank its claws deep into his chest.

“Bloody hell, Emma,” he whispered.

David was lingering over his coffee with a gentle smile on his face, listening to the bright sound of Snow and Ruby’s voices as they chatted over breakfast. Snow’s voice in particular with its sweet tones soothed him as much as it did her birds. If he could start every day like this, David thought, watching as the bird on her shoulder hopped down her arm to peck at the pile of seeds she’d left next to her plate—with good coffee and Snow’s voice and the occasional trill of birdsong... well, he wouldn’t hate it.

That thought had barely even crept into his mind when the door to the dining hall burst open and Killian appeared, one hand pressed against his head and the other clenched in a tight fist. He took two steps forward then stumbled, groaning, swaying precariously on feet that seemed reluctant to hold him up. Coffee sloshed over David’s hand as he moved to stand but Ruby and Graham were far quicker, darting forward with inhuman speed and managing, barely, to catch Killian before he collapsed to the floor.

“What happened to you?” cried Ruby, as she and Graham took Killian by the arms and helped him into a chair.

“Emma,” Killian gasped. “Emma.”

“She’s not here—” Ruby began, but Killian shook his head.

“Gone,” he whispered.

“What?”

Killian closed his eyes and appeared to marshal his strength, and when he opened them again they were frantic. “Emma’s gone,” he said, in a far stronger voice. “Taken.”

The room went utterly still and utterly, utterly silent.

That vague sense of unease, of foreboding, that had been simmering in David’s gut for weeks flared now into a full and rolling boil. He set his coffee cup down on the table with a thunk and glared at Killian. “What do you mean she’s been taken?” he demanded.

“More importantly,” said Snow, her voice barely audible and her eyes wide with fear. “Who took her?”

Killian’s expression darkened and his closed fist clenched tighter. “I don’t know,” he said. “I never saw their face.”

The eerie silence shattered as everyone began to talk at once.

“But that’s impossi—”

“No one could just—”

“—even with magic!”

“How could someone just take her?” Graham’s voice rose over the din. “How did they get past you?”

As quickly as they rose up the voices fell silent again, awaiting Killian’s reply.

Killian’s expression went, impossibly thought David, darker still. “They coshed me,” he snarled.

“They what?” David demanded.

“Hit me on the head with something hard, a stick or a bat or—hell, it could have been a frying pan, I don’t bloody know.”

The silence in the room took on a baffled quality as Killian’s glare was met with a wall of blank and uncomprehending stares.

“And that… worked?” ventured Ruby.

“Of course it worked!” Killian snapped. “I’m immune to magic, not blunt objects.”

Victor’s face wore an expression that David recognised as one he often had himself, whenever he tried to do math in his head. “But they just—” he gave his hand a vague wave. “Hit you?”

Killian shot him a mocking look. “Yes, they ‘just hit me,’” he sneered. “It was a more than adequate measure, I assure you.”

Snow placed a steaming cup of tea in front of him and Killian’s sneer faded to pained gratitude. “Thanks, love,” he murmured, and took a long sip before turning back to Victor. “It’s a human strategy, yes, but you have to admit an elegantly simple one. You lot would have tied yourselves in knots trying to work out a way to defeat me by magic, they just whacked me upside the head. I’d admire it if it weren’t so bloody painful.”

“Emma gave me a jar of headache powder a while back, let me go get you some,” said Ruby sympathetically and Killian once again nodded his gratitude.

“Thank you, lass, I’d appreciate it.”

As Ruby hurried out the door Graham looked at David, his brow furrowed. David was by this point mightily confused and so full of questions they tumbled over each other in his brain. Before he could even begin to sort through them, Graham spoke.

“So whoever took Emma was human,” he mused. David frowned, surprised to hear his friend wasting time with such a remark. Of course they were human. What else would they be?

He fully expected to hear another mocking reply, but Killian simply nodded. “Aye,” he said. “One of them, at least.”

Graham’s expression sharpened. “There were more than one?”

“There had to have been.” Killian’s clenched fist trembled as he pressed it against the tabletop, his knuckles stark white. “No single human could have taken Emma, not alone. Not from her own bloody room. There are distinct signs of a struggle—it’s pretty clear both she and the plants fought back.” His mouth pressed into a grim line. “I don’t know what we’re dealing with here but it’s big,” he said hoarsely. “And what’s more, Emma knew it was big.”

“How do you know that?” asked Graham.

“She left this.”

Killian wrenched his fist open to reveal a stone, a deep purple stone with a shimmering glow that seemed to hover over his palm. It was roughly round, as though carved hastily by hand, with a small hole hewn through it slightly off-centre, threaded with a leather cord. It looked to David’s eyes thoroughly unremarkable aside from that unsettling glow, the sort of pendant you find on a three-for-one sale in a shop that also sells patchouli candles and things woven out of hemp.

“What is it?” he asked, but his words were drowned out by the collective gasp from the others.

“Is that what I think it is?” Victor’s voice held genuine fear.

“So Emma has it,” Snow breathed in awe.

“She did,” Killian replied grimly. “She wore it around her neck. She never took it off, and I mean never, not for anything. Until now.”

“But what does that mean?” Victor’s whispered question was drowned out by the sound of the door opening. Ruby strode through it, trailed by a rumpled and sleepy August.

“Hey guys. I woke August up and filled him in,” Ruby said casually, as though August wasn’t the one person in the dorm she actively avoided and never spoke to except in anger. She strolled over to Killian and held out a small paper packet. “Here’s your powde—fuck me sideways.” Her eyes went wide and the packet fell from her nerveless fingers. “Is that—”

“Aye,” said Killian, “it is.” He picked up the packet and tore it open, tipped the contents onto his tongue and chased it with a swallow of tea.

It’s what, damn it? David’s brain screamed, but his mouth refused to form the words.

“So Emma has it,” August echoed Snow’s words but in a very different tone of voice, his expression now sharp and alert. “I should have guessed. Sky tribe, of fucking course.”

“And just what is that supposed to mean?” Ruby snapped, rounding on August with her teeth bared.

“Ruby, now is not the time,” said Snow sharply, as Graham leapt to his feet and took Ruby’s arm.

“It’s not the time,” Killian agreed. He stood as well and fixed them all with a steady gaze. The haze of pain had cleared from his eyes, David noted, and he seemed much steadier on his feet.

“You all know what this is,” he said, holding up the purple stone. “You know its significance and the vital importance of keeping it safe. And yet Emma, the woman tasked by her birthright with its protection, deliberately left it behind.” He paused to let his words sink in. Even David could feel the solemn weight of them settling into his bones. “She would not do such a thing,” Killian continued, “unless she thought that leaving it behind was safer than risking it falling into the hands of whoever took her. She would not do such a thing unless she trusted us to keep it safe. She did it because she knew it was the one thing guaranteed to make us understand that the danger she’s in is serious.”

The air in the room felt heavy as lead, holding them still and silent within the moment. It pressed on David’s shoulders on his chest, holding him frozen until after an interminable moment Snow spoke. “So… what are we going to do?”

A smile spread across Killian’s face, a sharp and dangerous one. His eyebrow quirked. “We’re going to rescue her, of course.”

“Oh, well,” mocked Victor, “of course.”

Killian’s smile faded. “Listen to me, all of you,” he said firmly. “I know that we have our differences and I know how deep they run. But you all understand the enormity of this and how it affects every single one of us. We have have no choice but to act, and act now. Fast and united, before it’s too late.”

He scanned their faces, making eye contact with each in turn. “Are you with me?” he asked.

His answer came from the last source any of them expected. “You can,” said August, and I think I speak for all of us when I say that.” Snow, Ruby, and Graham all nodded in agreement then turned expectantly to Victor, who rolled his eyes and heaved a sigh.

“Fine,” he said. “What do you need us to do?”

“They’ll take her to the forest,” said Snow.

“Do you think so?” Ruby frowned. “That’s seriously risky.”

“So is hauling her across the campus,” Graham pointed out. “Even if they managed to restrain her, there’s no way to move a body without looking suspicious.”

Graham sounded like he was speaking from experience, which was surely impossible—or so David would have said half an hour ago. His definition of ‘impossible’ had shifted pretty dramatically since then and he was no longer certain anything could be ruled out.

“I agree with Snow, they’d go to the forest,” Graham continued. “Remember we’re dealing with at least one human, they might not know what the forest is to Emma.”

“Hmm, that’s a point,” Ruby agreed. She looked turned to Killian. “Okay, we three will go to the forest and see what we can find there. Can you give us an hour?”

Killian nodded. “That should be enough. Keep your phones on. And be careful.”

Ruby’s smile flashed. “Always am.”

“Killian,” David croaked, finding his voice with effort as he watched Snow follow the Ruby and Graham from the room, bluebirds hovering worriedly around her head. His mind was still churning and he stumbled over his words. “What—what exactly is—what are they—why are you—why are you all talking about humans like you aren’t… one?”

Killian regarded him with a curious blend of exasperation and empathy. “Because we’re not,” he said bluntly. “Well, they’re not.” He waved his hand at Victor and at August, who gave David a small bow. “I am, more or less.”

“Is this some kind of joke?” David asked faintly. Victor snorted and Killian sighed, running a hand over his face.

“David, look, mate, we tried our best to ease you into this and let you figure things out on your own,” he said, “but honestly I’ve never seen anyone fail to pick up on hints as comprehensively as you can.”

“What—” David rubbed his throbbing temples. “What does that mean?”

Killian turned to Victor. “We’re going to need something to open his mind,” he said. “There must be some magic that’s keeping it closed, I have a hard time believing even he can be this clueless. Have you got some sort of potion or something that might work to soften him up a bit?”

Victor scowled. “I don’t do potions.”

“What the bloody hell do you always have on those damned burners, then, or are you just making the whole floor smell terrible for your own entertainment?”

“Those are experiments.”

“And you can’t experiment with potion making?”

“I do sometimes, but Emma’s really the potion expert. If I need one I usually just get it from her.”

“Well, Emma’s not bloody here, is she?” Killian hissed through gritted teeth. “What have you got?”

“Um, well, I mean, not much for opening minds,” stuttered Victor, recoiling from Killian’s glare. “Heads I can open. Minds are trickier.”

“I’ll open your head in a minute—”

“I can do it.”

Killian and Victor turned in unison to stare at August, who was lounging against the door frame, casual and nonchalant. “Influence him, I mean,” he drawled, in a careless tone that sent a shiver up David’s spine, like tiny spiders dancing down the back of his neck.

“Um,” said Victor, with a frantic glance at Killian.

“Not too much, of course,” continued August, soothingly. “Just crack him open a bit, you know, make him… receptive to your input.”

Killian looked at David, with a look that sent the spiders scattering all across his skin. “That…that could work, actually.”

“Seriously, Jones?” cried Victor.

“Look, we can only use the resources we’ve got and if you can’t produce a potion we have to come up with something else,” Killian snapped. “Can you produce a potion?”

“I already said no!”

“Well then. These are the resources we’ve got.”

“And just how are you going to give him this ‘input’ once he is ‘made receptive’ to it?” Victor sneered.

“If I’m right about him I won’t need to,” said Killian. “It’s already there. All I need to do is trigger it.” His expression turned calculating and David's skin-spiders grew claws.

“Do I get a say in—” he began, but Killian cut him off.

“No you don’t,” he said shortly. “We haven’t got the time. Victor, do you suppose you might be able to locate a basic solvent, one able to emulsify plant sap and willow powder? Can you do that, at least?”

Victor nodded. “That I can do.”

“Do it, then. And August, you make whatever preparations you need. I’m going to go grab some things from Emma’s room, we’ll meet back here in ten.”

“Killian,” David tried again, “I’m really not comfortable—”

Killian rounded on him with a glare, dark and intent and terrifying. “Emma is in danger,” he said, spitting every syllable. “Serious, life threatening danger. I know you can understand that, David, if you understand nothing else, and I know you can’t ignore it. I know you’ve come to care about her.”

“Of course I have—”

“Then help me save her.” Killian’s voice broke. “Please.”

The look in his eyes—raw vulnerability and soul-deep terror bolstered by a core of iron David would never have dreamed he possessed—struck a chord somewhere deep within him and resonated there. For the first time he felt that he was seeing Killian as he truly was, and there in that brief flash of kinship David understood, as surely as he’d ever understood anything, that Killian loved Emma, that he would do anything for her, and that he was deathly afraid his anything would not be enough.

“All right,” said David, clasping Killian’s shoulder and giving it a squeeze. “Just tell me what you need me to do.”

Ten minutes later David was waiting anxiously in the common room with August sitting in the chair across from him, legs crossed, watching him with a cool stare that did nothing to calm the energetic gyrations of the skin-spiders. When the door opened to admit Killian and Victor he leapt to his feet, desperate for any excuse to escape that unwavering gaze.

“Did you get what you needed?” he asked, struggling to keep his voice steady and disguise his nerves. “I’m ready for... er, whatever.”

Killian was carrying another paper packet similar to the one Ruby had given him and a small, grey-green leaf. These he set on a table as Victor produced a beaker half-full of a milky substance. Killian tore open the paper packet and tipped its contents—a few ounces of dusty grey powder—into the beaker. He then took the leaf and squeezed it until it began to express thick, clear sap, then dropped that in as well. The liquid in the beaker began to make a faint popping noise and Killian looked satisfied as he picked it up by its narrow neck and held it up to the light. He swirled the liquid in a deliberate manner, first clockwise then counter, then clockwise again, counting under his breath, until it turned a dark, swirling purple and began to smoke—rather ominously, David thought.

Killian turned to him with a slight smirk and a raised eyebrow. “I hope you mean that whatever,” he said, holding out the beaker. “Because the first thing I’m going to need you to do is drink this.”

“Er—” said David.

“Then look deep into August’s eyes.”

“Um—”

David jumped as he realised August was now standing directly behind him, grinning widely, the tip of his fang catching a shaft of bright morning sunlight with a distinctly mocking gleam. He ran the tip of his tongue along it as his eyes flashed red and at least three impossible ideas began to coalesce in David’s brain, coming together to form a conclusion that within his new definition of ‘impossible’ was in fact anything but.

“How—” David cleared his throat, still unable to quite believe he was entertaining any of this. “How are you out in the sunlight?” he asked. “Aren’t you—doesn’t it—burn you?”

Killian and Victor chuckled and August’s grin widened. “That’s a myth, I’m afraid,” he drawled. “Sunlight doesn’t harm us, we’re just not morning people.”

“It might be best if you operate from the assumption that everything you think you know is wrong,” said Killian. “Start with a clean slate, so to speak.”

“My mind is a clean slate,” David echoed faintly.

“Exactly.” Killian smirked at him. “So are you ready?”

David hesitated. “You’re sure this is necessary to help Emma?”

“It’s the only way.”

“All right,” David sighed. “Give me the damned potion.”

The purple of the potion rises up, engulfs him, dark as smoke, only the red of August’s eyes as shining beacons to guide him. He follows them through the swirls and eddies of the smoke until abruptly it is gone and he is standing in a forest of tall trees reaching straight up to a cloudless sky.

He hears a noise behind him and turns to see a woman, beautiful and terrifying, wreathed in smiles and swathed in darkness. As he watches she waves a wand of blackened wood and a substance, viscous and dark as tar, begins to bubble up from the ground and ooze from the trees, to drip from the very air itself. It twines around her in glistening ropes, hissing its displeasure, a slave to her whims, and she throws back her head in peals of triumphant laughter.

“The Black Fairy,” says Killian’s voice in his ear. David spins around but no one is there, and the dark woman takes no notice of him. “I’m not actually there,” says Killian, an edge of impatience now in his tone. “And neither are you. Remember that. What you’re seeing is long in the past, shadows of your history. You can’t touch or change it. Just watch.”

As the dark substance swirls about her the woman draws it, slowly, into herself, absorbs it. Her eyes turn black, and her hair and her gown; the colour drains from her skin until she is pale as a moonbeam in the night. Her lips curve into a satisfied smile and David, though he is not within his body, shivers.

The image fades away, replaced by another. A village in flames, the agonised shrieks of people—yes, people, David sees and knows them to be humans like himself—as they try in vain to flee. The cackle of the Black Fairy, appearing in their midst.

“Surrender,” she hisses. “And your lives will be spared.”

“At what cost?” spits a woman, glaring contempt as her children huddle in her skirts. “Our freedom?”

“You will give your lives in service to the fae,” says the Black Fairy. “Or you will give them to the flames.”

“Burn us then,” says the woman, her chin raised in defiance. “For we will never serve you.”

The scene blurs again and resolves into another forest, lush and green. Tall trees surround a large, flat rock in the shape of a circle, around which many beings are gathered. Some have the appearance of humans, others anything but, and still others combine human-like forms with horns or feathers or fur or leathery skin. Some have wings, others tails, all are angry. And scared.

“We must act!” cries one, slapping the rock with his tail to punctuate his point. “The humans no longer believe she does not speak for all of us! If we do nothing she will wipe them from existence in our names!”

“Perhaps we should let her,” retorts another. “These humans breed quickly and their numbers are ever growing. Their settlements already threaten our lands.”

“Not threaten,” says a third. “We can live peacefully alongside them, as we have done for centuries.”

“Oh yes indeed, when they were but few.”

“Their numbers are beside the point!”

“Enough!” shouts the first, banging his tail on the rock again. “The qualities of the humans as a species are not germane. We simply cannot allow her to wipe out an entire race of beings. It is unconscionable and a breach of the ancient covenants!”

A chorus of agreement rustles through the assembled crowd. The second speaker observes her fellows in silence for a moment, then gives a shrug. “I will stand with you, Elisedd, in accordance with the covenants and for the moral strength of your argument,” she says. “But I wish for my warning to be noted: The human race will be the end of us, if we allow it.”

“Your objection is so noted, Eigyr,” says Elisedd with a nod. “Now let it hereby be known that we the Fae Council stand in agreement, and shall act with due haste and taking all necessary measures to stop the Black Fairy in her slaughter of the humans...”

The image blurs again and David finds himself in the midst of a raging battlefield. Human warriors stand shoulder-to-shoulder with fae, against the Black Fairy and the army of demons her dark magic called into being. He feels a hum of energy in the air to his left and turns to see a woman who he thinks at first is Emma—the same golden hair with a life of its own, the same deep green eyes. But this woman’s nose and chin are pointed, as are her ears, and her fingernails when she raises her hand in the air are long and sharp as talons. She holds up her hands to the sky and sings out, a haunting tune and words in the language Emma uses when she sings to her plants. She stands at the centre of a circle of her kind, blonde and green eyed, pale-skinned and sharp-featured, themselves encircled by the battling warriors. They chant a rhythmic beat as she sings, and though the Black Fairy is far away David can see her face clearly as alarm flares in her eyes, as slowly the thick, black substance begins to ooze from her, hissing as it goes, swirling and twisting into a single thick and oily strand.

“No,” she whispers, then her voice rises to a shriek.“No, it can’t be! It’s impossible! Nooooooo!”

She clutches frantically at the magic but it slips from her grasp and when she gropes at her belt for her wand she finds it gone.

“I don’t imagine you’ll have much further use for this, milady,” says a voice, and both David and the Black Fairy turn to see a human warrior with bright blue eyes brandishing the wand in a mocking salute.

“Insolent cur!” she snarls, and the human laughs.

“Would you believe that’s not even the worst thing I’ve been called?” he asks, and darts away into the heaving battlefield.

The Black Fairy lets out a scream of rage, turning back to look up at the sky and the coiling rope of magic as it sails over the heads of the warriors and towards the circle where Emma’s ancestor stands, calling it to her with her song. It heeds her call with typical ill humour, hovering malevolently and obediently above the circle as the fae woman holds up a small, purple stone.

The darkness shrieks as it is pulled into the stone, writhing and twisting in concert with the impotent howls of the Black Fairy, but Emma’s ancestor neither flinches nor wavers. She pulls in every particle of the darkness and when the last traces have been absorbed she waves her hand over the stone with a few final, whispered words and then collapses, stumbling forward into the arms of her kin.

“It is done,” she breathes. “It is done.”

The scene fades once more and when it resolves David is back at the circular stone in the forest, this time surrounded by humans and fae alike.

“Then we have an accord,” says the human man who captured the Black Fairy’s wand, placing his prize upon the circle.

“Yes,” replies Elisedd. “The human race agrees to relinquish all claim to magic. The fae peoples agree to keep the Black Fairy’s darkness bound for eternity, held in the tywyll stone and guarded by the Awyr people. Fae magic and cures shall remain available to any humans who seek them and no human shall encroach on lands the fae hold sacred. We are in agreement on these points?”

The human nods. “We are.”

“Then let it be done.”

“Not yet, Elisedd, if you please,” says a third voice. “There is one more thing.”

These words are spoken by another blond and green-eyed fae, this one male. “My people, the llwyth awyr, agree to guard the tywyll stone” he says, “but this task is a heavy burden upon us. My wi—” his voice breaks as pain flashes across his delicate features. “My wife, Arianrhod, chosen by the moon herself to lead our people, has given her life to contain the darkness,” he continues gruffly. “And now my daughter Morcanta must carry the weight both of her legacy and the stone. Though we accept to bear these burdens gladly, we respectfully request not to bear them alone. We would ask that a human representative agree to take up at least a part of the weight alongside us, for the sake of our people and of the covenants, and for the sake of all our descendants.”

“That seems fair,” says Elisedd. “Cynbel oCymric? What say ye?”

The human man nods. “We agree,” he says. “A similar thought had occurred to us as well. But humans are far more vulnerable to magic than the fae, and so in shouldering this burden we will require some protection.”

“Nynniaw? Is this condition acceptable to the Awyr people?”

Emma’s ancestor nods. “We can place a shielding spell upon you,” he replies. “One that shall fuse with your blood and pass on to your descendants, removing your susceptibility to any magic. And in order that the location of the tywyll stone not be made too plain to see, we propose that such shielded human guardians should be paired with each fae tribe, to further protect the stone and ensure the covenants are kept.”

The crowd hums with murmurs of agreement. “These are fair terms,” says Cynbel, “which we gladly accept.”

Smoke swirls up again and David is yanked from the vision. He gasped and stumbled and nearly fell, reaching out blindly for something to hold on to.

“Steady on, there, mate,” said Killian, catching him by his arm, but David’s head throbbed and the room begin to spin around him, and the sound of Killian’s voice grew fainter as his eyes rolled back in his head and he tumbled into unconsciousness.

When he opened his eyes again the first sight to meet them was Killian, dressed as usual in his black leather jacket and black t-shirt bearing the faded image of a skull, belting a long sword around his waist.

“That’s—” David gasped, blinking hard and giving his head a firm shake. The images from his vision were still swirling in his mind, and though he did feel he now had a firmer understanding of just what, precisely, the fuck, some things he suspected would still require some getting used to. “That’s a sword,” he sputtered.

“Naturally,” said Killian, pulling the blade from its scabbard with a flourish and examining its edge. “You didn’t think I’d be going in armed with nothing but my good looks?”

“Well, no, but—”

“Speaking of which, you’ll be needing one too. Belle!”

The air next to him shimmered and Belle resolved into it, a large, leather-bound book in her hand and a bright smile on her face. “Hey, David,” she said. “Killian tells me you’ve been having a bit of an adventure.”

“Uh, yeah, I guess that’s one way to put it.”

“Oh I’d love to go back and see the ancient times,” said Belle dreamily. “I don’t suppose you’d let me have a sip of that potion?”

“I’m pretty sure it only works on the living, love,” said Killian, and David barely resisted the urge to smack himself in the forehead. She haunts the library. Duh.

“Typical,” pouted Belle. “I haven’t had any fun in nearly five hundred years. But I have” —she held out the book, open to a brightly illustrated page— “acquired some serious research skills in that time, and I’m pretty sure I’ve found it.”

Killian peered at the book. “Where the devil is that supposed to be?”

“It’s one of the old classroom towers. When I was alive we used to learn magical defence there.”

“Well that would at least make some sense. Victor, mate, do you suppose you might rustle up something capable of dissolving a mystical lock or two? I mean, I know it’s a potion and all, but this one does seem to be rather more in your wheelhouse.”

Victor ignored the sarcasm. “On it,” he said.

Killian turned back to David. “Ready then, mate?”

“I—” David wished mightily that he could say yes, of course he was. “I genuinely have no idea.”

Killian laughed. “That seems reasonable, given what you’ve just been through.”

“It might help if I actually knew what we were doing now.”

“Oh that’s quite simple.” Killian gave him a wide grin and the worst wink David had ever seen. “We’re going to fetch your sword.”

Emma regained consciousness then promptly wished she hadn’t, as nausea roiled in her stomach and some unseen force attempted to drive an ice pick through her skull.

Instinctively, she knew not to move or groan or do anything that might alert her abductors that she was no longer unconscious. Anyone powerful enough to incapacitate her in this way was an enemy to be reckoned with, and despite feeling like how she’d always heard hangovers described Emma was determined to find out who the hell these people were and what they thought they were going to do with her.

She could feel the forest around her, the soft, peaty ground beneath her cheek and the rustling of the leaves in the wind, the power of her connection to the land and all the things that grew from it. She sank her fingers deep into the dirt and prepared.

“Mother, we don’t even know what we’re looking for!” a voice exclaimed, with a note of petulance and an underlying quaver of fear that caught Emma’s attention.

“We’ll find it,” replied a second voice, flat and coldly confident.

“How?” pressed the first one. “How will we find something we have only the vaguest ideas about?”

“She’ll tell us what we need to know.”

“Mother, you don’t understand! We only managed to capture her because we took her by surprise! We have no means of getting her to talk, and her Guardian—”

“I took care of him.”

“You hit him on the head, he’ll survive,” the first voice retorted. “If you had actually read the tribal histories you’d know that it takes more than a big stick to eliminate a fae Guardian!”

“She’s right, Mother,” said a third voice, dry and wicked. “You should have killed him.”

“Perhaps,” drawled the second, “but there wasn’t time. If he is as and what you say he is, Regina, he’ll come for her. And we will be ready for him.”

“Ready for...” The first voice, Regina, trailed off in exasperation. “How will we be ready? In case you forgot, we don’t even know what we’re looking for!”

Emma knew, though. She knew exactly what the histories of the fae tribes hinted at, just enough hints to catch the attention of the clever and the ambitious, not nearly enough to give them what they would need to know. These three were hardly the first to come in search of it and they would not be the last. She’d recognised them last night for what they were and though she doubted they would actually recognise the thing they sought, Emma hadn’t hesitated for a moment to leave the tywyll stone behind, trusting that Killian would find it and understand the message that she sent by leaving it in his care.

He would be on his way now, she knew that too. Her Guardian would die to protect her as he was duty bound by the covenants and his heritage to do, but even beyond that Emma knew that Killian Jones would never not fight for her.

She cracked her eyelid open just far enough that she could see the women attached to the voices. Only the three, she was relieved to note, and apparently without backup. Two younger and one older, a mother and her daughters, the mother with a haughty expression and brown hair beginning to show streaks of grey. Her daughters did not much resemble each other; one had a tawny complexion and dark hair falling in soft waves around her shoulders, while the other’s hair was red and wildly curling around her pale, sharp face. Half-sisters, at a guess, thought Emma, and unless she was gravely mistaken both half-fae. A human woman with two half-fae daughters whose fathers were of different tribes. That was very interesting.

Also interesting were the piles of scrolls she could see poking out of an old trunk behind them, scrolls she recognised as library copies of the more well-known tribal histories. A little knowledge is a dangerous thing, she’d once read, and it appeared these women had a very little knowledge indeed. And were all the more dangerous for it.

She closed her eyes again then pretended to wake, letting out a long groan as she sank her fingers further still into the soft soil and felt the forest stir around her.

“Ah,” said the mother. “She’s awake.”

“Where—where am I?” groaned Emma. “What happened?”

“What happened is that you are now our prisoner princess,” cooed the mother’s voice, and despite herself Emma felt icy fear twist around her heart. “And you are going to tell us where the Black Fairy’s magic is kept.”

“I—” Emma groaned, cracking open her eyes again to see all three women watching her expectantly. Regina’s expression was apprehensive, her red-haired sister’s triumphant. And their mother… her face wore an expression of naked greed that made Emma’s skin crawl. This human woman had no magic but her daughters did, and she, oh, she wanted what they had.

“I—” she said again, and the women leaned forward, their attention so captivated by Emma that they failed to notice the tree branches bending and closing in around them, or the grey-green roots of the forest plants breaking through the ground, rising up and curling around their trunk full of scrolls and crumbling the fragile parchment into dust.

“I don’t think I will,” said Emma.

The old classroom towers, David had been firmly informed by the assistant director of the university’s Office of Residency Affairs, were closed. Had been closed, she told him, for some centuries now, at least since the Hall had been renamed. Andersen students were to attend their classes in the academic buildings and that was all there was to it. David had shrugged and agreed and signed the form she gave him, not entirely clear on what made her so extraordinarily adamant on the point.

Now, as he trailed up a spiral staircase made of stone, with dips worn into the centre of each step by the feet of many generations of students long past, he thought he might have some inkling as to why. This place was dangerous, and not just because the steps were worn. There were whispers in its very walls, centuries of magic infused into each minute mote of dust, and that dust and those walls and every other thing in and around them was not best pleased by the appearance of interlopers.

Despite this he pressed on, for Emma and because he doubted that Killian, his hand gripping the pommel of his sword and his jaw set, would allow anything to deter him from his goal. Victor followed at Killian’s heels, carrying another steaming beaker, with August behind David bringing up the rear and Belle, glowing with an otherworldly light, serving as their beacon through the shifting shadows.

Around and around they climbed, through the darkness and the whispers until David’s head was spinning and he’d lost all sense of time, then quite suddenly a door appeared in front of them. Belle pushed it open and led the way into the room beyond, and David followed eagerly, glad to be out of that interminable stairwell.

The room was large and circular, quite as you would expect a tower room to be. It had four tall and pointed windows with four columns spaced evenly between them. There were no desks, but smallish wooden tables arranged in a circle and one larger one in front of the largest window, upon a raised dais.

Killian began to move around the room in what David could only describe as a prowl, muttering to himself as he went. He appeared to be measuring the size of the stones in the floor, the distance from window to window, and the position of the stairs they had just ascended.

“If this is what I think it is,” he said to Belle, “it’ll be aligned to the eastern point.”

Belle nodded. “That seems likely. But how will we know where to look? None of us has the right kind of magic to detect it.”

“That might not be entirely true.” Killian looked at David and Belle followed his gaze.

David had to suppress a flinch. What now?

“How are you holding up, mate?” Killian asked kindly.

“Fine,” replied David. “So far, at least.”

Killian grinned. “I’m glad you’re catching on.”

David sighed. “So what do I have to do?”

“Just be yourself.”

“And what is that supposed to mean?

“Close your eyes,” Killian instructed, “and tell me what you feel.”

David let his eyes fall shut, shivering as the spiders tangoed across the nape of his neck. “Like something’s watching me,” he said frankly.

“Like it’s calling to you?” Killian’s voice was sharp.

The whispers in the walls grew louder. “Yeah,” said David. “I can hear... something.”

“Can you tell where it’s coming from?”

“From all around.”

“Are you sure? Concentrate.”

David focused on the loudest whispers. “From… below us? Somehow?”

“Good.” Killian sounded satisfied. “Can you follow it?”

David frowned, concentrating hard. He felt an odd tug just behind his bellybutton, urging him to move, which he did, opening his eyes to see that he was being led towards the largest window and the raised table. He followed the pull until it stopped, abruptly, replaced by an overwhelming urge to go down. “There,” he said, pointing at the large, square stone beneath his feet. “It’s coming from there.”

Everyone gathered around, peering at the stone he indicated.

“Victor,” said Killian. “Do your thing.”

David stepped back to make way as Victor took his steaming beaker and dripped its contents carefully onto the mortar that held the stone in place. Nothing happened, to David’s eyes, but the others waited tensely and with bated breath until all the mortar was covered. When the last drop dripped from the beaker a faint click sounded in the air and they all exhaled.

Killian unsheathed his sword and placed the tip just in the centre of the stone. Closing his eyes, he murmured a few words David couldn’t quite make out, then gave the sword a sharp 90-degree twist. The stone made a groaning noise and shifted, shimmered, then faded away to reveal a set of steep stone stairs leading downwards to—

“Where do they go?” David demanded.

Killian caught his eye. “Below,” he replied.

The stairs were pitch black and endless. David kept his eyes trained as best he could on Belle, but even her glow began to fade the deeper they descended into… wherever this was. He wished he knew where they were going, if only so that this strange and powerful pull he felt would have some destination, some explanation of just what the hell it was.

After a small eternity the stairs ended, so abruptly that Killian stumbled, and David had to grab at the wall to avoid crashing into him. “Ugh,” Killian groaned, leaning his own hand against the wall to get his balance and bearings. “I guess this is it.”

As he spoke a faint glow appeared, a small flicker in a vague distance, and with his jaw set grimly Killian began to walk towards it, the others on his heels. The glow grew stronger the closer they came, and then with a flare as bright as daylight it encompassed them. They blinked for a moment and when their eyes adjusted they found themselves in what was by all appearances a forest clearing. A very familiar forest clearing, David realised, with tall trees that reached up to the sky and a large, round stone at its centre.

Belle gasped. “Is this…”

“Aye,” said Killian. “The chamber of the Fae Council. If the sword is anywhere, it’s here.” He turned to David. “Mate?”

David nodded. He had no idea how he knew what to do, only that he did. The knowledge came from somewhere deep within him, the same place as the images he’d seen after drinking the purple potion. He knew that if he laid his hand on the stone just so, if he then pressed against it gently, that the shielding spell would fall away and his sword would appear. He knew this, and yet he still couldn’t quite believe his eyes.

The sword was breathtaking. Longer than he would have imagined and viciously sharp, with an ornate hilt and symbols carved into the blade… symbols his brain wanted to understand, insisted that it should understand, but which hovered stubbornly just beyond his comprehension.

“Take it,” said Killian, nodding at the sword. “It’s yours.”

How is it mine, David wanted to ask. How is this, any of this, even possible?

The moment his fingers gripped its hilt, the symbols on the sword began to glow, as though molten metal were flowing through them. As David lifted it from the table he felt a weight around his waist, and looked down to see a sword belt much like Killian’s appear around his hips.

He turned to meet Killian’s eyes. “How?” he whispered. “I know we don’t have time for explanations, but please, just tell me—how?”

“You’re a Guardian,” said Killian, with a small smile. “Like me.”

The trip back from the council chamber to the classroom tower and then out of the Hall and into the forest felt as though it took no time at all. Or more likely, David thought, he was just too preoccupied to take notice of it passing.

Killian’s words kept echoing in his ears. You’re a Guardian.

David had no idea what that meant, but he couldn’t deny how deeply he knew that it was true.

They entered the forest just as Snow, Graham, and Ruby were leaving it, looking shaken and anxious.

“What did you find?” Killian asked them.

“There are very clear tracks,” Snow replied. “Clumsy ones. Whoever took Emma doesn’t know this forest at all. They must just have chosen it thinking it would make a good hideout.”

"We followed them as far as we could, but there was no sign of them ending," Graham added.

"All right,” said Killian, removing the purple amulet from his pocket and holding it up. “Lead the way.”

David wasn't sure whether he was addressing Snow or the amulet, or possibly both, but it didn’t seem to matter as they pressed deeper and deeper into the forest, further than he had ever dared venture before. With each step Killian’s face grew more grim. He gripped the amulet tightly by its leather strap as it began to glow and hum, an endless, atonal hum. It hung from Killian’s hand at a sharp and unnatural angle, seeming to pull him along behind it as they grew closer to wherever Emma was.

Snow shivered and wrapped her arms around herself. “Where did they take her?” she whispered. “How did they even get so deep into the forest?”

“I don’t know,” said Killian. “Everyone, stay on your toes.”

Without warning the ground beneath their feet began to rumble and shift, the thick, damp soil cracking open as the roots beneath it moved, slithering like snakes beneath the surface and heading in the very direction they themselves were following.

“Emma,” muttered Killian, as he broke into a run. “Bloody hell, woman!”

The others ran after him, leaping over the roots and the shifting soil with a nimble speed that David was hopeless to match. He tripped and stumbled and barely managed to keep his feet under him until Graham and Ruby appeared at his sides, each catching one of his arms and propping him between them as they ran.

The forest before them was a blur of movement, twisting roots and waving branches, magic spitting and hissing through the air, and David was just about to cry out in protest—there was no way they could enter that melee and come out alive—when a figure emerged from the chaos, golden hair whipped to a frenzy by the wind and red cloak swirling around her.

Killian raced to her and caught her in his arms, lifting her feet off the ground and burying his face in her hair. “Bloody hell, Swan,” he whispered. Emma clung to him, her fists tight in the back of his jacket, as the rest of the group gathered around them.

Killian set Emma on her feet and loosened his hold on her, stepping back just enough to give her a glare that even David could see held no heat. “What the devil do you think you’re doing, love?” he grumbled. “Depriving me of a dashing rescue.”

“I told you,” retorted Emma. “The only one who saves me is me.” She smiled softly and caressed his face, fingertips brushing his cheekbone. “But I’m glad you came, Killian.”

“I’ll always come for you, darling,” he said with a smirk. “In all senses of the word.”

She snorted and gave the back of his head a feeble smack, but didn’t protest when his arms tightened around her again and his hand tangled in her hair.

“Well this is adorable,” said Victor. “If a bit sickening. But would you mind telling us just what exactly you've been up to here?”

The movement in the forest had ceased the moment Emma and Killian embraced but the space behind them was still in chaos, with unearthed roots and tree branches bent at unnatural angles, forming a very effective-looking cage.

“I’ve bound them,” said Emma. “In magic it will take them some time to break.”

“They?” demanded Killian.

“Yeah, three of them. A human woman and her half-fae daughters. I can’t keep them trapped forever but we should have enough time to figure out what to do with them.”

“You can’t just kill them?” asked August.

“No!” said Emma and Killian in unison, as Graham punched August’s shoulder.

“Hey, just putting it on the table,” August protested.

“We’re not going to kill them,” said Emma firmly. “There’s something about them... something that I can't quite put my finger on, but honestly it troubles me. I need to know more before we decide how to act. Let’s get back to the dorm.”

“The dorm?” asked David. Emma turned to him and her eyes lit with amusement.

“Well, you must have had a rough few hours,” she said, nodding at the sword he held.

David grinned a bit sheepishly. “You could say that.”

“Welcome to the team,” said Emma, smiling warmly. “And yes, back to the dorm. I need my plants, my books, a scrying mirror, and a cup of tea, not necessarily in that order. Let’s go.”

___

#cs fic #cs ff #cs ff au #captain swan #magic au #supernatural elements #magic #alternate universe college #college au #magical swords #oh yeah #heavily influenced by cursed #i won't lie #the eternal and unseen #profdanglaisstuff #carpedzem #cssns20

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papatonyinsandiego · 5 years ago

Text

I am dying, and that’s okay: an extraordinary life-history of love and accomplishment

My full-body paralysis is accelerating. I have come to acceptance of my eventual fate. Here is why:

Dozens of doctors, nurses, specialists and other professionals have done their very best for me. Whatever medical predicament that has shown up in my life has proven to be so rare that it can’t be identified, cured or slowed down.

So be it. I can’t keep fighting it, because it just stresses everyone out, and doesn’t improve a damn thing. The last year and a half have proved that.

We all die eventually. If I were to be hit by a truck, I would die quickly. I would hate to go away without hearing from my loved ones first, and without telling THEM how much pleasure it has brought me to know them.

Life stuck at home would be boring if I was alone and friendless. I am as far from alone and friendless as any human could ever be. My loved ones (particularly my husband of nearly thirty years) have been vigilant, loyal and attentive. Every day is an exercise in gratitude and blessings.

Now that so MANY fine folks know what is going on, I get love all day, every day. It’s a little overwhelming, but I am coping. I’m going out with a bang, but one that just keeps happening over a stretch of months.

I have never been motivated by awards - I have always been determined to achieve RESULTS, over and over, for my entire adult life. Well, I can’t do that any more, so now it’s time to allow people to give me loving approval, blessings and awards, big and small. I continuously get emails, phone calls and texts, with folks checking in, which thrills me, and fills my days with loved ones sharing kindness, and generosity of spirit.

We are completing our relationships with each other, while we have the chance. What could be better than that?

If it was just the QUANTITY of friends that was showing up, that would be pretty darned nice. However, the folks checking in are examples of QUALITY that have brought richness and deep, meaningful satisfaction to my entire life. Absolutely nothing else could bring so much joy to my existence. We are loving each other for the very best reasons.

I am glad to say that my love for so many people has been returned at full measure, all along. My natural, affectionate ways have made me show up with the personality of a big, sweet Saint Bernard puppy.

That was because I had made a conscious decision to be that way, all of the way back in 1976.

At that time, I was a desperate young leather punk who had survived a violently abusive childhood, and had attempted suicide twice already. I was heading downward fast, until the day that I asked my oldest brother what I had been like as a small child.

He told me that I had been the sweetest child ever - Whenever there was something fun going on, I was right in the middle of it. If someone was sad, I was the first one to comfort them. If it was time to dance, or to sing loud and proud, I was the one who got the party started.

In the course of that long-ago, brief conversation, my life transformed instantly. I made an adult decision: the only path out of my deep despair was to be true to my loving, open-hearted and generous nature. I decided to treat everyone as my favorite sister or brother, and to always see the majesty and worth in everyone. I have never regretted that decision.

Shortly after that, I found my Tribe - I was surrounded with love, respect and mentoring in the gay leathermen's community. While I was in my early twenties, I interviewed men who had been together since the 1920’s, 1930’s and 1940’s, asking them how they had managed to make their love last. I questioned hundreds of older, wiser men, asking them about interpersonal dynamics, finances, sex, coping mechanisms and everything else that could help me to be a better man.

Then, things got so very much worse, just a few short years later. The men in my life started dying, and FAST. The men who had meant so much to me were the first to go, and I felt so incomplete - I had never had a chance to tell them how much they had impacted my life for the better.

At that time, nobody knew how AIDS was spread. Was it transmitted through saliva, or touch, or could it be breathed in through the air? We were all terrified. The tightly-bound community that had shared the 1970′s rocket-ship to the stars instantly crumbled as we ran away from each other in terror.

I showed up at the hospital to visit a young man who had changed from a thriving, lively 21-year-old into a dying man in only three weeks’ time. Nobody would go near him or comfort him. The nurses and doctors wore those full-body Hazmat suits, IF they even dared to enter his hospital room. Most didn’t.

My young friend was dying fast, and he knew it. In his fear and despair, what he wanted more than anything else was to be HELD, but nobody would come within fifteen feet of him. As I stood in the doorway, he cried and cried. I made a fateful decision that I have never regretted. I crawled into that cold, sterile hospital bed with him, and I gave up my fears. I held him, loved him and comforted him.

This shocked the shit out of the medical professionals, but I didn’t care. I was there in that same hospital bed, holding him on his final day, telling him “It’s okay to go now.” After he died, I kept going back to the hospital again and again, and did the same loving service for around fifty men as they were dying. I knew none of them before I came to them - they were all my brothers in need, and I had pledged whatever was left of my life to bringing them comfort when they needed it most.

While this was going on, I was attending two or three funerals a week, for years. I stopped counting at 140 friends and loved ones who died in my life. This left a terrible wound in my heart, and I suffered terribly from Survivor’s Guilt. For years after, I stopped allowing myself to have friends, because I couldn’t bear the pain of investing in someone, just to watch them die. AGAIN. I had burned out.

Then, one day, I realized that I couldn’t hide out from life any more. My life had led me to the point of taking on leadership in the kinky leather community. Nobody loved us, wanted us or trusted AIDS-ridden, kinky scum like us. So, _I_ would love us.

I started creating thousands of “Guaranteed Safe Spaces” - social events that were kindly, sweet and manifestly diverse. I was determined that every man who showed up would KNOW that he was welcome, valued and would get what he needed most - affectionate brotherhood. At that point in gay leathermen’s history, sex was easy to find, but true friendship and long-term love was difficult to find and maintain - We were too wounded from loss, and fear of intimacy.

My goal was to end the AIDS Holocaust phase, and to bring on the NEXT phase, which was kinder, contained more variety and was downright joyful. I worked every day to make this happen, until I couldn’t any longer.

My physical limitations have caused me to hand away the next phase to those who have gladly taken on the job. I am surrounded by those men and women who have brought their courage, heart and idealism to the challenge of uniting us all in the best expressions of ourselves.

In the old days, San Diego’s kinky community was a toxic stew of bitterness, competition and zero-sum philosophy. Decades later, we are known worldwide for having the lowest level of cynicism of any city on earth. I like to think that I had some small part in San Diego’s well-earned reputation for sweetness, diversity and cooperation. It takes a village to make that happen. We all have to agree that we will settle for nothing less, and we DO.

I can rest now, knowing that the bright, eager and idealistic faces among us are taking on new challenges for the new days ahead. I know these folks, having intensively mentored and befriended many of them. I trust their bountiful natures, their true hearts, and their admirable character. I’ve seen our worst days, and after so many years, I see that our best days have arrived.

At this end of my life, I am endlessly grateful for the true friends who have brought me the deepest satisfaction. I never got around to making my first million dollars, but that was never the goal. In my opinion, I am richer than I ever could have imagined. Yes, I have had challenges and setbacks, but with so many folks standing shoulder-to-shoulder with me over the years, we are co-creating the possibility of younger generations standing upon our shoulders.

I can ask for nothing better. My work here is done.

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treksickfic · 4 years ago

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Comfort in the Little Things

An Election Day fic for you, even if you are not in the States. There seems to be a collective sense of angst in the air and I needed to read a cozy story; maybe you do, too.

Featuring TOS Spock and McCoy, but not Spones. Self-avowed “bulletproof” McCoy is miserable with a case of Kamaraazite Flu and Spock steps in to help. A short and sweet fic at just around 1800 words.

My immense gratitude to @soupandtissues for the beautiful stories that have comforted me and inspired me to write my own.

The door chime startled Leonard McCoy from a restless half-slumber. He considered standing and crossing to the door but who was he kidding? He lacked the strength to even roll himself over in bed.

“Come,” he croaked, as loudly as he could, and the single word triggered another coughing fit. He propped himself up on one elbow, all the better to not choke to death, he thought, hand pressed to his chest. As the paroxysm gradually passed, he sagged back to the bed, sweating and shivering but too exhausted to do anything to ease his discomfort.

He closed his eyes when he heard measured footsteps approaching the spot where he lay in misery. Chapel again, or M’Benga. Well, he didn’t feel like talking or listening to their chatter and he certainly didn’t need anyone hovering over him. Maybe if he pretended to be asleep, whoever it was would leave.

“So it appears you are not bulletproof after all, Doctor.”

McCoy’s eyes flew open at the deep, measured voice.

“Spock,” he said, resignation in his tone. He’d changed his mind. He’d prefer his over-solicitous nurse or brisk Dr. M’Benga to this. “Don’t know what you’re talking about.”

“When Captain Kirk expressed his concern that you may be affected by the recent outbreak of Kamaraazite flu you said, and I quote, ‘I’ve been in Starfleet Medical for thirteen years, I’m bulletproof by now.’ Clearly you are not.”

McCoy tugged at his blanket to cover himself, feeling exposed under the unrelenting gaze of Spock.

“Kamaraazite flu is a nasty business,” he said. “Thought I was going to sneeze out a vital organ at one point.”

“Patients have been known to do just that. But in your case it was not the virulency of the flu itself, it was overwork and neglecting to administer the serum to yourself in order to ensure an adequate supply for the crew.”

“Hubris, in other words.”

“Not hubris, Doctor. You simply made the mistake common to senior officers, assuming you are indestructible.”

He started to respond and then felt a deep, burning ache in his sinuses. He drew in a quick breath and then folded forward with a powerful sneeze. That might have been my spleen, he thought. When he dared to look up, Spock was standing near the bed, holding out a box of tissues with one hand. McCoy snatched them from him.

“Thanks,” he said, taking a handful and blowing his nose. “For the tissues and for the pep talk. Now what do you want? Did you come here to laugh in my face? Maybe mock my puny human immune system?”

“Not at all, Doctor. I find nothing about your illness amusing. I simply wondered if you were in need of any assistance. Your cough has been quite persistent this evening.”

“And how would you know?”

“Our quarters share a common wall. I have been aware of your distress for some time now.”

“Have you now? Took you long enough to check on me.”

“I assumed you wished to be alone.”

McCoy snorted, which triggered a cough. “Typical heartless Vulcan logic,” he said when he was able.

“Not logic, Doctor,” Spock replied. “A simple inference. You shouted at the last person who attempted to check on you, indicating a strong desire to be left alone.”

“Well, I don’t need your help. And I do want to be alone, so you can leave now.”

“Are you certain? The quality and intensity of your cough is showing evidence of increasing chest congestion and inflammation, but yet you seem unable to clear your airway.”

McCoy tried to respond but curled in on himself as another fit overtook him. He coughed harshly into a handful of tissues, aware of the deep ache in his lungs, and more concerning, the constriction and the rattle when he tried to take a deep breath.

Damn it if he isn’t right.

“Is there any effective medical treatment or does the illness have to run its course?”

McCoy gestured vaguely toward a table in the front room.

“There,” he managed to wheeze out after a few moments, gesturing toward a table in the front room. “Two hyposprays.”

For some reason, he’d left the sprays out of reach. By the time he’d staggered in from Sickbay, his fever had been spiking and he wasn’t thinking straight, just dropped his whole kit on the nearest surface. By the time the fever broke, he’d been too exhausted to fetch any of it.

He flopped backward against a stack of pillows that hadn’t been there a few minutes ago. He felt drained of all energy and was only vaguely aware of Spock’s movements around his quarters. If he could just get some sleep, that’s all he needed to throw this off.

“Is there a preferred location for administration, Doctor?” He reluctantly opened his eyes to see Spock standing nearby, disengaging the hypospray lock with his thumb.

McCoy tilted his head to one side. “Right there,” he said, indicating the exposed arc of his neck. “About the same place you’d give me a nerve pinch.” Not a bad idea at that, instant unconsciousness, but the corophizine would provide the same effect in about twenty minutes or so. He sighed, echoing the hiss of the hypospray.

Spock’s face showed just a hint of distaste, likely a conditioned response from the many times he’d been sick after receiving medication. He administered the second spray and then strode decisively from the room, depositing the hyposprays back into their cases. McCoy turned his head to watch as he busied himself in the small kitchen area. Spock returned to the sleeping quarters carrying a heavy glass mug, steam swirling from the top.

“What’s this?” McCoy said, accepting the drink from him..

“It is tea, with lemon and honey. I understand many humans enjoy it when they are experiencing symptoms of an upper respiratory illness.”

McCoy took a cautious sniff, not that he could actually smell anything, and looked up at Spock.

“Not the Vulcan swill you drink, is it? That stuff could strip paint off a wall.”

“Vulcan spice tea is appropriate for more refined palates. This is plain black Oolong with Andorian honey and lemon. You should find it unassuming enough for your tastes.”

“I’m not sure if I should be insulted or not.” He closed his eyes at the first careful swallow. “It’s good,” he said. “Didn’t think you had it in you.”

Spock perched at the edge of the bed. “Whatever you may think of me, Doctor, I do not wish to see you suffer unnecessarily if I can assist you. If that means making you a cup of tea when you are ill, I am willing to do so.”

When he opened his mouth to reply, McCoy began to cough again, a combination of the medication and the tea having the desired effect. He felt the cup lifted from his hand and heard the clink on the bedside table as it was set aside. His cough was productive now, and he felt a gentle hand settle on his back and rest there, unmoving. No unnecessary movement or sentimental patting, just a welcome gesture of support and comfort.

He could barely catch a breath in between violent coughs and when he did, he felt the deep rattle of congestion shifting in his chest. It must be disgusting to listen to. He scrabbled for the box of tissues Spock had given him earlier and felt it placed in his hands. He kept his head turned away as he struggled, trying to make a neat pile as he went through nearly the entire box of tissues. The fit seemed unending but finally he was able to take a deep breath without triggering another cough and he sank back to the pillows, covered in sweat, head pounding, chest aching, but feeling some relief.

Spock disposed of the tissues and now sat with a wet cloth in hand, a look of utter concentration on his face as he carefully bathed McCoy’s forehead and temples.

“I can do that,” he said, reaching for the cloth but without much conviction in his voice. It was humiliating to be tended to by Spock, but he felt too weak to do much about it.

“Lie still, Doctor.” he said, running the damp washcloth along the sides of his neck.

“Y’know, if you’re going to play nursemaid, you can use my first name.”

Spock made no response, folding the cloth and setting it near the mug when he’d finished.

“You’d have made a good physician, Spock.”

He raised one eyebrow. “How so?”

“You’re calm, you don’t panic. You do what needs to be done with no fuss. Guess that’s what comes from having no emotions. Wish I could manage it.”

“Vulcans do experience emotions. So powerful that if we were to allow our emotions to dominate, it would mean a return to the savagery of our old ways. We are taught control from a young age.”

Spock had alluded to the old ways before but McCoy had difficulty imagining him as anything but cool and unflappable. But maybe, just maybe, in those mysterious eyes, there was a hint of what was possible.

“Nurse Chapel will be delighted to know you have emotions. Or maybe disappointed.”

“Christine already understands this aspect of my nature. She is one of the few who does.”

The medication was having its desired effect. The urge to cough lessening, his breathing easier and a lazy, floating drowsiness taking over. McCoy waggled his eyebrows lazily at the sound of his head nurse’s first name.

“‘Christine’ huh?’ Why, Spock, I had no idea.”

“It is not what you are assuming, Doctor. Nurse Chapel is sensitive, insightful and makes no assumptions about other species. You are fortunate to have her on your staff.”

“What’re you still doing here?” McCoy’s voice was beginning to slur as he changed the subject. He didn’t have the energy for their usual banter.

“I am, as you say, ‘keeping you company,’” Spock replied. “You don’t need to do that.”

“On the contrary, Doctor. The sooner you fall asleep, the sooner I can return to my preferred evening activities.”

“Nearly there,” McCoy murmured.

“Then I will leave you to your rest.” Spock stood. “Shall I check on you later?

McCoy waved a dismissive hand. “Nah, I’m feeling pretty good.”

And then he closed his eyes, vaguely aware of a sleepy half-smile on his face. Through his half-asleep haze he felt a hand settle against the top of his head.

“Then sleep well, Leonard.” Spock said. “We need you back in sickbay.”

McCoy responded with a click of his tongue and a fingergun gesture without lifting his hand from where it rested on his chest. “Will do.”

The last thing he heard was a sigh, the sound of the door to his quarters sliding shut and then all was dark and peaceful.

#sick fic #sickfic #star trek sickfic #sick bones #caretaker spock #hurt/comfort #star trek hurt/comfort #that's probably enough tags #I hope you enjoy

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justfandomwritings · 5 years ago

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United In Fear (Part One - Soulmate!Robb)

Pairing: Robb Stark x Reader; Soulmates AU (because Game of Thrones just didn’t have enough fantasy drama for me)

Word count: 7.6k

Warnings: Angsty fluff, someone get’s punched but it’s not super dramatic

Summary: The names were the greatest mystery in Westeros. Each kingdom had their own telling of the story. None of the kingdoms could agree on where they were from or how they came to be. Each thought a different god, their own interpretation of religion, was responsible, but all seemed to agree on one thing: they were a gift.

Notes: so the thing is right... I didn’t really mean to write this. It just sort of came out. Long story short. It’s an idea I had. If people like it, I’ll finish it. It will probably take 3-4 Parts to complete the story arc I have in mind. Each part about this long.

It wasn’t her banner or her looks that tipped Robb Stark off that she was (Y/n) Lannister. It was her being. The way she dismounted her horse while all of Winterfell still knelt before Robert Baratheon, as though everyone, even the King, was beneath her. The way she took her brother’s helping hand as if Lannister blood was the only thing worthy of touching her skin. The way her chin never dipped, always keeping her head up and her gaze held high. The way her feet glided over the ground with quick, sure steps that spoke of how little she wished to touch Northern soil. The way she never met the gaze of anyone, save her siblings, Robb’s father, and the King. (Y/n) Lannister could not have hidden her identity even if she tried, and she most certainly did not try.

She kept beside her brother as the King motioned for them to rise and greeted Robb’s father. Her eyes took the time to wander over the keep, and she kept her expression unreadably passive wherever they went. She made no acknowledgment that anything important was happening around her until her sister exited the carriage. (Y/n) released her brother’s arm and stepped forward to stand at the queen’s right hand.

“My queen,” Ned Stark said as he bent to kiss Cersei’s offered hand.

“My queen,” Catelyn echoed with a curtsy.

Cersei greeted both with a weary, but polite nod. “My sister,” Cersei stepped aside, positioning herself in front of Robb, and held out her hand for introductions, “(Y/n) Lannister, Lady of the Rock.”

(Y/n) offered no hand, so Ned simply bowed before her. “My lady.”

She curtsied with the air of someone who would have preferred not to move at all. “A pleasure, Lord Stark.”

“The pleasure is ours, Lady Lannister,” Catelyn greeted, repeating her curtsy.

(Y/n) returned Catelyn’s pleasantries only to be interrupted by the King. “Take me to your crypt. I want to pay my respects.”

(Y/n) and Cersei averted their gaze to Robert with matching expressions of distaste. “We’ve been riding for a month, my love. Surely the dead can wait.” Cersei’s tone was dismissive, but her expression as Robert called for Ned to step around her was nothing short of wounded.

Robb watched the sneer on (Y/n)’s face as she eyed Robert Baratheon’s retreating back. He wondered, to himself, if it was agitation at being spoken over, agitation on her sister’s behalf, or simply agitation with the state of the King. Robb wasn’t sure he would blame her with any of the three. He couldn’t recall his father ever speaking over a noblewoman of any standing, and Ned was certainly never so dismissive to Robb’s mother.

And the King. Well, the King was not at all what Robb expected from his father’s stories. He knew the man had aged some since his father had last seen him, but Robb thought he’d have aged with more dignity. He didn’t expect a belly fat with food, breath stale with wine, or a horse’s dismount that require a servant to bring the King a stool. Robert Baratheon was what Robb Stark expected of a wealthy village drunkard, not his supposedly heroic, noble namesake.

The Lannisters, for all the harsh words his father had to say about them, did not at all disappoint. The family measured up entirely to even their most fantastical tales. The Queen had aged some since the songs had named her the Light of the West, but she had aged with grace. Her beauty had changed, but Robb could say with some certainty that it hadn’t faded.

Jaime Lannister was ever the Golden Lion. A ballad of his bravery during the Greyjoy Rebellion had once been sung at a feast in Winterfell, and Ned Stark had grudgingly admitted the words to be true. The Queen’s twin was a formidable man who’s self confidence was only matched by the skill he used to justify it. All the poets had something to say or sing about Jaime Lannister. Some painted him a hero, some a villain. But all painted him the perfect image of a knight, and the man before Robb now proved them all to be right.

(Y/n) was not the subject of songs, but whispers. Tywin’s youngest child was no older than Robb himself, the product of a second marriage Tywin did not wish to make. She was rumored to be her father reincarnate. With her mother dead in the birthing bed and her siblings in King’s Landing, (Y/n) had been raised by Tywin and Tywin alone, entirely in his own image. Watching her stand in the grounds of Winterfell, Robb would say that Tywin’s quest had been a complete success. She was only a young woman, yet her presence demanded respect, and everyone gave it.

“Where’s the Imp?” Arya asked her older sister, with no attempts at hiding her words.

The words drew (Y/n)’s gaze, and for the first time, Robb watched his youngest sister cower back, afraid.

The Queen turned her head to her sister. “The little beast wandered off again.”

“I’ll find him,” (Y/n) didn’t bother to look at her sister as she addressed her. Her eyes stayed on Arya for a moment longer before she whipped around, marching back to her horse.

“My lady,” Catelyn took a step out of line after the youngest Lannister. “Perhaps, we can offer some assistance.”

Jaime Lannister responded with a chuckle as he offered (Y/n) a hand back on her horse. “Only in finding your nearest brothels.”

Catelyn Stark was thoroughly scandalized as Lady (Y/n) rode away, Ser Jaime following at her heels.

Robb sighed to himself and turned away. She hadn’t been introduced to him. He still couldn’t be sure.

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The names were the greatest mystery in Westeros. Each kingdom had their own telling of the story. None of the kingdoms could agree on where they were from or how they came to be. Each thought a different god, their own interpretation of religion, was responsible, but all seemed to agree on one thing: they were a gift.

In the North, they maintained the names were a mystery of the Old Gods, a force that no man could influence or pretend to understand. The descendants of the First Men claimed the names long predated the Faith of the Seven and dated all the way back to the Children of the Forest. No proof could be found of this, but given the Andals hostile takeover of the other kingdoms, much of the First Men’s culture and history had been lost. It fell to the Starks alone to remember, and they did their job well. The North remembered.

The Reach claimed they came from the Father. They argued that if the names were given by the gods, surely they came from the Father who was Above All. They weaved a tale of a man, loyal to no god but the Seven, who came to Westeros with the invasion of the Andals. He preached and pleaded with the First Men to convert to the one true religion, and everywhere he went they rebuked him. Everywhere but Oldtown. Everyone but House Hightower. As a gift, for the conversion of Damon Hightower to the Faith of the Seven, the Father gave the names to the Reach, and thus as the faith spread so did the names across all of Westeros.

The Stormlands claimed that, in fact, the Smith, mender of broken things, was responsible for the gift. Men, whether they were Andals or First Men or Rhoynar, were harsh, imperfect creatures, and nowhere was that more true than the Stormlands. The Smith had long made it his responsibility to put their world right, and that began with fixing the men themselves. He began with Hugor of the Hill, the first King of the Andals. The Smith touched Hugor’s arm to give him the name of his wife, so she might heal the scars the world left on him and his sons might find maidens of their own to do the same.

The Warrior was, in fact, the source of the The Vale’s legends. It made sense in that The Vale was the first place invaded by the Andals. They claimed the reason the names existed in Westeros but not Essos was because the Andals had never conquered the eastern continent. Where the Andals seized land in honor of the Warrior, the Seven would bless the soldiers out of gratitude for their service. Of course, this blessing started with the Vale.

In the Crownlands, the names were said to be given by the Mother. It was said that one day she looked down on a small, forgotten sept in the Crownlands and saw one of her devout, a young married woman, crying at her altar. The young woman had been married for two years and had yet to fall pregnant with her husband. He was an angry, cruel man, threatening to disavow her and name her barren if she did not give him a child within the year. The woman called out for the Mother’s mercy, for a child she could not have, and the Mother heard her cries. She wanted happiness for her good and faithful servant and knew she would not attain it with such a man. Reaching down, the Mother touched the woman’s arm, and a man’s name appeared, a name that was not her husband’s. Many years later, Baelor the Blessed would visit every sept in the Crownlands, looking for the place where the Mother gave the names, and when he sensed he had found it, he built up around that sept the Great Sept of Baelor, a sept worthy of the gift the Mother had given to man that day.

The Westerlands cited scripture. It was written in the Seven Pointed Star that Hugor of the Hill received a blessing from each of the Gods, and when it came to the Maid, she gave Hugor a maiden of his own, a wife of great beauty and innocence. The Westerlands maintained this must mean she gave the names; it was the Maiden’s way of giving the gift of love to every true believer in the Seven.

The Crone belonged to the Riverlands, in more ways than one. To the Lords and Ladies of the Riverlands, the Crone was held in the highest esteem. The names were without fault or failure. How could anyone think the wisdom of age, that only came from the old woman, was not involved? They told a lovely story of the Crone looking on the youth of the Maiden with sympathy for her ignorance. Longing to spare her from making the same mistakes the Crone had learned from in her youth, the Crone spared her the search for a man who truly loved her by pointing her in the right direction.

Dorne had the simplest explanation, and they did not bother trying to justify it with tall tales or kingdom history. They said the names were a gift from the Stranger. So that no man need face Death alone. Robb liked that explanation best.

Still, he did not believe in the Stranger. He kept faith with the Old Gods. His mother had made a point that all her children at least understood the Seven and understood that, while they were the same gods everywhere, each kingdom saw them differently. Catelyn knew that Ned would have to raise them to worship at the weirwood tree, but she didn’t want her children to feel out of place if they ever joined her in the sept or journeyed in the rest of Westeros.

Robb knew all the lore, and he remembered it well. Not so well as Sansa, who longed to go South, but better than Arya who never listened no matter how many times she was told.

He would often lie awake at night staring at the name inked into his arm, wondering to himself what she thought of this. If she, like him, believed his name on her arm to be a gift from the Old Gods, beyond the understanding of man. If she thought his name was a gift from any one of the Seven for any number of reasons. Or if she was on the other side of Westeros, simply looking for a companion to her grave.

Her name was never far from his thoughts. He wondered where she was. He wondered her station. He wondered how she felt. He wondered if she wondered about him. How could she not? They were destined for each other, destined to be together, if not in this life than the next.

When he was younger, Robb had longed for her. His nurse had met her mate, a butcher from one of the smaller towns outside of Winterfell; and he longed for the love he saw in her eyes. He longed for frivolous things: someone to suffer through his lessons with, someone to ride the Wolfswood beside, someone to take some of the weight of Winterfell off his shoulders.

As he got older, he learned better than to dream of such things.

Not everyone met their match, and the odds were not in Robb’s favor. Most of Westeros lived and died without knowing whose name had mared their skin for life. There were too many people, spread out over too great a distance, over Seven Kingdoms and the Vale, and all anyone ever had to search for was their first name, their given name on their arm. Those who did find the one were usually those who were able to devote their lives to the scowering the Seven Kingdoms in their search.

Heir to Winterfell, Robb did not have the time to search for his mate. She would have to wait. He would see her in the next life. Robb would never be able to marry the girl whose name was on his arm. Even if he found her, he could not have her. There were millions of women in Westeros, and his mate would not be among the nobility.

It was an incredibly rare occurrence for nobility to be destined for each other, but it had been known to happen on occasion. Yet only once, in the millions of Westerosi, in the thousands of mates that found one another, in the hundreds of nobility that went searching, in the dozens of nobility that found their mate, and the few who found their mate to be someone of equal standing. Only once in history had two nobles found each other’s names and actually managed to be married. Two Lannisters, of all the undeserving families in the Kingdoms. As if anyone could have denied Tywin Lannister anything.

Tywin’s love for his wife, Joanna, was as legendary as his victories in battle. The Lannisters sang the Rains of Castamere at their tournaments, and the Lion and the Lady at their feasts. Every man, woman, and child in Westeros knew the words to both.

Tywin loved Joanna deeply, unconditionally, and once they touched, no one could keep him from taking her as his own. They shared a bond deeper than their lives and deeper than her death.

No one knew a greater love than Tywin, and no one knew a greater loss.

Aerys Targaryen could have gotten away with all his burnings, all his cruelties, all his madness; bare one. Bare the day of the Tourney at Harrenhal when he declared the end of Tywin’s mourning, when he stole Tywin’s son and declared before all the Seven Kingdoms the Hand of the King would remarry.

The stories said that was the day the Targaryens lost the war: long before it even started. Of course, Rhaegar snubbed his wife, Elia, in front of Prince Oberyn. Yes, he kidnapped Lyanna Stark from under Robert Baratheon’s nose. Sure, Aerys did give away the woman Ned Stark was pursuing. But more than all of that, it was the day the Targaryens crossed Tywin Lannister, and there was one certainty about Tywin Lannister. Those who crossed him only got to do so once.

Any other man in the Seven would have been thrilled, relieved even, to marry Ashara Dayne. Tywin Lannister simply looked on the girl and walked away.

It was common knowledge that Tywin only ever touched his second wife twice: once to hold her hand to complete the wedding ceremony and once during the bedding. The maids who came to collect the sheets the next morning swore they heard Tywin cry, but that could have just been a rumor. Neither maid was seen or heard from in any noble house in Westeros again to confirm or deny.

It was likely for the best that Ashara died giving birth to her only child. It spared her a lifetime of living in the shadow of a ghost. It spared her the pain of watching her daughter, (Y/n), twisted into the spitting image of her father.

Robb had heard her name once, (Y/n) Lannister, and asked his mother hopefully if that was the (Y/n) on his arm. He didn’t know her, but he hoped it was her, hoped it was someone he might actually be able to marry one day.

Catelyn had been aghast. She swore no son of hers could ever be bound to a Lannister.

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“My lady,” A knock came on the chamber door. “The feast is prepared, and the guests are assembling downstairs.”

(Y/n) threw the door open and leaned against the thick wood frame as she crossed her arms over her chest with a mischievous smirk. “My lady? Since when did you use such formalities?”

Jaime stood on the other side of the door, looking as golden and perfect in his armor as always. His lips were pulled wide in a smirk matching his little sister;s, the one he’d spent years teaching her on their father’s occasional trips with her to King’s Landing. “Well, when you are in the presence of the acting Lady of the Rock, one must always keep one’s guard up.” He extended his arm to her, “Shall I escort you?”

“I suppose that wouldn’t be entirely disagreeable,” She mused, lifting her golden skirts with one hand and accepting her brother’s help with the other. “Tell me, do you think Tyrion will grace us with his presence this evening?”

Jaime snorted as he pulled the door to (Y/n)’s room shut and led her down the hall. “Doubtful, though I could be persuaded to hunt him down if you or Cersei wished.”

“Cersei never wishes,” (Y/n) rolled her eyes.

She and Cersei had a mutual understanding that was heavily dependent on both sisters keeping their distance. Of her siblings, (Y/n) was closest to Tyrion, but she wasn’t about to get in a fight with Cersei over forcing his attendance at a meager Northern feast.

“But you always do.” Jaime said it like he was reminding her of something profound rather than her own opinion.

Jaime let go of her hand and descended the narrow, winding steps to the ground floor, staying one step ahead of her so he might catch her if she slipped. He knew it was an unnecessary precaution. (Y/n) never slipped, in actions or in words. It still made him feel better to know he could catch her if he needed.

“Because I love our brother dearly, Jaime, as do you.”

“Cersei loves him in her own way.” Jaime tried to placate.

(Y/n) only scoffed. “You always were a terrible liar.”

With a chuckle, he took her hand and helped her off the final step back onto the solid stone of one of Winterfell’s many long, dark halls. “You and I both know that’s not true. I can get away with lying to anyone I’m not related to. It’s only you three and father who ever really caught me in a lie.”

“Yes, but I believe I deserve greater credit than the others. They have far more experience; I missed all of your childhood antics. All I have are Tyrion’s stories and father’s criticisms to keep me company at the Rock.”

Jaime nodded in agreement. “The Rock can be quite lonely. Cersei and I only had each other for a long while.”

(Y/n) looked around for a quick moment before she dragged her brother back by his arm. Her eyes searched the stone in both directions to ensure no one was watching before she pulled him into a narrow walk off the main passage.

“Jaime,” her tone was a quiet, harsh warning.

Not for the first time since they’d started the journey North, Jaime heard his father in her voice. It always amazed him. He wondered if she knew she was doing, or if it came to her naturally.

“Do not do this here.” (Y/n) pressed.

“Do not do what, sister?”

Her head cocked to the side, eyes judging his every word. It was the way Tywin looked at advisors who spoke out of turn. “You know what. You and Cersei hide nothing from me. I remain silent out of respect for you, but don’t mistake my silence as approval of your behavior.”

The muscles in Jaime’s jaw tightened. A tell that he was about to lie. “I don’t know what you’re…”

She cut him off before he could finish. “Do not play games with me, Jaime. I am not Tyrion, too drunk to care; and I am not father who does not see what he does not want to see. I see you Jaime.”

“Sister, what exactly is the point of this conversation?” He wouldn’t bother denying it again. If the first denial didn’t put (Y/n) off, it meant she would not be dissuaded.

“My point?” She went on her toes and looked over his shoulder. Her voice was quiet enough not to bounce off the stone, and the walls shielded them from most prying eyes. Yet that did nothing to quiet her concern. “My point is that I will not have you risking this family, Jaime.”

“You think so little of me, sister?”

“Yes.” It was a blunt answer. An honest answer. “Jaime, unlike our siblings, I do not think you foolish, but I do think you arrogant. You know the consequences of being caught. You’re just far too confident that you won’t be.”

Jaime sighed and ran a hand through his hair. (Y/n) was impossible to argue with. Part of it was her mind. Jaime always joked she had inherited the portion meant for him. A greater part was their father. (Y/n) had a way of saying the things he knew Tywin would, but with a touch more caring that made him actually want to listen.

(Y/n) took the pause as opportunity. “Listen to me, Jaime. I know what you’re thinking, brother. You think, even if caught, there will be no consequences for your actions, because there never have been before. You know what the consequences should be, but you don’t think they apply to you. If you got caught in Casterly Rock, the servants would die with your secret, whether they kept it till old age or were hung from the gallows by father. If you got caught in King’s Landing, there would be whispers. Yet, no one would be foolhardy enough to question you of them, or Maester Pycelle would poison them by dinner.”

She growled, dragging his face down to her level by the collar of his breastplate. (Y/n) needed him to listen to her. “This is not Casterly Rock, Jaime, nor is it King’s Landing. This is the North. You are in the enemy’s camp, and your name will not protect you.”

Jaime measured his sister’s words carefully. “If it would make you happy, sister, then nothing will happen while we are under Ned Stark’s roof.”

“I would be utterly relieved, if I actually believed you.” Her tone was short, but Jaime could tell she was hopeful.

“All will be above reproach,” he offered her his arm again. “You have my word.”

(Y/n) accepted with a wary expression but allowed him to pull her back into the hall and west towards the feast. She could hear it now. There was raucous laughter and loud music filling the air.

“Lady Lannister,” Three more long hallways, and Jaime presented his sister to the Lady of Winterfell, Catelyn Stark.

“Lady Stark,” (Y/n) curtsied with an elegant twist of her hand. “Judging by the sounds, this will be quite the feast.”

“Indeed,” Catelyn’s smile was warm but not at all inviting. There was a distance to the woman as she stood awkwardly in front of her.

(Y/n) bit back a smirk. Catelyn Stark was smart. Distrusting a Lannister was usually the right idea. “It’s not every day the King makes the long journey north. I’m sure they are excited to be part of such a grand occasion.”

“Made grander by your presence, dear sister.” Jaime had gone to retrieve Cersei.

“My queen, I doubt you need me to accomplish such a task.” (Y/n) gave Cersei a friendly smile. “You are, after all, the Queen of Westeros. What could I possibly add?”

The formality of the conversation between the siblings visibly disconcerted Catelyn. She couldn’t tell what was heartfelt and what was show. Catelyn was caught in a conversation with three Lannister, unable to speak but unable to leave.

“Too gracious of you, sister.” Cersei deferred away. “Jaime retrieved me from my conversation with our host because I hoped to ask you a favor.”

(Y/n) shot her gaze after Ned Stark at the other end of the hall. She would ask about the discussion later; they both knew that. “Do share, my queen. If it is within my power, I will happily oblige.”

Cersei touched a gentle hand to Catelyn’s shoulder, dragging her, unwanted, back into the fold. “Robb Stark, your dear boy,” the Queen smiled to Catelyn, “is the male heir of greatest standing and is duty bound to escort my sweet Myrcella to the feast this evening.”

“That he is,” Catelyn wasn’t sure the explanation was meant for her. It would be far greater offense to ignore than to interrupt.

“It,” the Queen paused as though looking for the right word, but (Y/n) knew whatever was to come Cersei had practiced down to the last pause, “unsettles me.” She seemed to finally choose the word. “He’s an honorable man. I’m certain of that. Still, he’s a man nonetheless, and Myrcella is so young. As a mother of daughters, I am sure you can understand my hesitation.”

Catelyn didn’t, but she acquised. “Of course, my queen. What would you propose?”

“If my sister and your son will agree,” Cersei turned to (Y/n), as if she had a choice in the matter, “I would ask that Myrcella walk with your lovely boy Bran, while Robb escorts (Y/n).”

(Y/n) nodded, “Of course, my queen. If it would ease your mind.”

Catelyn stepped back from Cersei, removing the Lannister’s hand from her shoulder. “I will speak with my son for you, my queen,” She curtsied as she backed away towards the other end of the entryway, where her sons congregated with their father, Robert, and the Baratheon boys.

“Well that went well,” Jaime snorted as he watched Catelyn’s hasty retreat.

“She’s scared,” Cersei rolled her eyes after the older woman.

“She hides it well, though,” (Y/n) offered a subtle agreement. “Do you actually wish me and Myrcella to switch? Or were you just looking to unnerve her?”

When her face turned back to the safety of her siblings, Cersei’s lip curled into a sneer. “I have no intention of that Northmen touching my Myrcella. Robert already means to give my Joff to that wench, Sansa, but at least he’ll be able to stay with me. I won’t have Robert abandoning my sweet girl all alone up here in this waste. That man and this so-called castle aren’t worthy of her.”

“Voices down, sister,” (Y/n) warned with little concern actually seeping through to her tone. “I’ll walk with the Stark. No one will leave Myrcella in the cold.”

“Woman!” Robert’s voice boomed.

(Y/n) caught only a glimpse of Cersei as she turned. The twins truly did share everything. Cersei’s jaw clenched before she lied, as well. “Yes, my love?” It wasn’t a terribly good lie either.

“It’s time to feast. Walk with Ned.”

(Y/n) watched her sister’s hung head approach Ned Stark. If she was a fool, as Robert Baratheon most assuredly was, she would think Cersei humbled, but (Y/n) was no fool.

“My lady.”

(Y/n)’s hair whipped at her cheek, turning her head far too quickly for her to hide that she was anything but surprised by the voice. She hadn’t heard Robb Stark approach, nor had she expected to hear his voice. It wasn’t often that anyone caught her by surprise.

“Yes, my lord.”

“I was told by my mother that I am to escort you.” Robb offered her his hand with a bow. “Unless, of course, you would prefer the company of Rickon.” His smile was teasing but genuine. It was a refreshing change of pace.

“Do not tempt me,” She smiled politely in return. “He is a charmingly adorable child.”

Her hand reached out to accept his, only for his whole body to jerk back the second their fingers brushed.

She couldn’t deny she felt it to.

(Y/n) had long forgotten about the writing on her arm. It was an irritation she had to conceal behind her sleeves, nothing more.

Peasants had a habit of naming their children after their liege lords and other powerful men in Westeros. After Robert became King, Robb proved to be an incredibly common name throughout the Seven Kingdoms.

Not that that would have stopped her. If she truly wanted, she could have offered a gold dragon as reward for every ‘Robb’ in Westeros that came to the Rock to touch her hand. She could have sent the Mountain through the lands to find every man with (Y/n) still written on his arm. She could have snuck away in the dead of night with some knights who preferred her to her father and traveled the Seven Kingdoms in her search. She could have walked the twenty paces from her chambers to the sept and prayed to any of the Seven to put Robb in her path.

Instead, she did nothing. Because, in truth, she had never considered searching for him. (Y/n) didn’t want to meet Robb.

Whatever god was responsible for the names was clearly not listening to her wants.

A burning sensation raced across her arm where she knew Robb’s name to be. She knew what was happening. She’d seen the scars on her father’s skin.

At the first touch, the ink in the skin burned away. It left a mark like the brand of an iron. The scars left behind once it healed would form a mate’s family name.

In a few day’s time, Robb’s arm would read ‘Lannister’, and (Y/n) would forever be signed with the name ‘Stark’.

She always knew finding her mate would be a very bad thing, but this was worse than she’d imagined.

(Y/n)’s aloof mask remained in place, completely ignoring the pain in her arm and Robb’s reaction. “Shall we, Lord Stark?”

Robb was frozen for several long moments in utter confusion. This was obviously not what he’d expected. Taking her hand, utterly baffled by her response, Robb led (Y/n) into the feast as though nothing had transpired.

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A knock to her door woke (Y/n) early the next morning.

“Jaime, if that’s you again, I swear I’ll tell father about accidentally dumping his prized chest in the ocean.” (Y/n) groaned loud enough for whoever was on the other side to hear.

“Now, now, sister,” Jaime didn’t wait for any further invitation and slipped her door only just wide enough to step inside before he slammed it shut. “I’m here by orders of our King.”

(Y/n) rolled out from beneath the furs. “Oh, what could that oaf ever want with me?” She quickly slipped behind her changing screen to put on the dress her maid had left hung over the top of the divider.

“The King asked for you, but I don’t think it was by his own design.”

“Of course it wasn’t. Why would he ever wish to talk to any woman who could think?” (Y/n) quelled her laugh to a soft chuckle. “Help me with these laces,” she came to stand braced against her bed.

Jaime groaned but approached without hesitation, “Sister, you have handmaidens for this. Do you not? Has father so deprived you in my absence?”

(Y/n) commented snidely over her shoulder. “You’re telling me you’ve not helped our sister in more precarious positions than this?”

Jaime gripped the laces and jerked them tight around her body, knocking the wind out of her. “That,” He began to lace her corset back the rest of the way up, “was cheap, even from you.”

She hummed in agreement. “Perhaps it was, but we’re all allowed our days. Yours come once a moon. Tyrion’s come on any day you refuse to let him drink. Cersei’s on any day she has to pretend to enjoy Robert’s company.” (Y/n) twisted to face Jaime with a grin, “Father’s on any day the sun dares to rise.”

Jaime chuckled at that. “And what, dear sister,” he asks as he opens her door, “has you so downtrodden?”

She simply shook her head. “Not for your ears, Jaime. At least, not till I figure out what to say.”

Jaime frowned. “You know, I’m not half as smart as you or Tyrion, but I’m a far better listener. You can always come to me, even if you don’t know what to say.”

“Of course, Jaime.” (Y/n) doubted many things, but she never doubted that.

Their walk to Robert’s chambers passed in comfortable silence. (Y/n) had far too much to contemplate to maintain a conversation, and Jaime knew his sister well enough not to disturb her.

His knock on Robert’s door seemed to be the only thing to wake her from her own mind.

“Enter,” came the King’s voice from inside.

Jaime opened the door for his sister and froze when he saw the contents of the room. The King sat at the desk in the corner with Ned Stark leaned against the wall nearby. Catelyn Stark occupied the chair in the corner, and her eldest son stood at her side.

“My King, the Lady (Y/n) Lannister.” Jaime announced his sister as she stepped through after him.

As usual, (Y/n)’s expression gave nothing away. It was as if she was entirely unsurprised by this gathering. “My King, my lords, my lady,” (Y/n) dipped in acknowledgment of those in the room.

“Leave us, Kingslayer.” Robert spat to Jaime, ignoring (Y/n) as though she hadn’t spoke.

Jaime hesitated. For the first time in a long time, he considered disobeying his king. Jaime didn’t know where this was going, but he didn’t want to leave his sister to face them alone.

“Thank you, Ser Jaime,” (Y/n) only said the words as reason to turn to her brother. Her eyes flicked towards the door, a warning for Jaime to leave.

“Your Grace,” Jaime bowed and took the exit. It was Boros Blount’s turn to stand guard at the King’s door, but a glare at the man and a wave of Jaime’s wrist were all it took to send the knight off down the hall. Jaime trusted his sister in these situations, but he did not trust the rest of the room.

“How may I be of service?” (Y/n) asked as the door clanged shut behind her.

Without getting up, Robert managed to turn his chair with a loud scrape against the floor. “You know damn well how. Show us your arm, girl.”

Every eye in the room was on her, and she could read them all. Robert’s impatient agitation; Robb’s deep confusion; Ned’s sanctimonious disappointment; Catelyn’s misplaced rage. She was a lioness alone, and she was surrounded by the wolf pack.

“I see you’ve spoken to your son,” Her eyes rested on Catelyn’s as she jerked her sleeve, unceremoniously, up her arm. “He was not wrong,” (Y/n) showed the room the fresh burn on her arm that was already healing to form the word ‘Stark’.

“Damnit Ned.” That seemed to be a common saying of the King’s when he was in the presence of Starks.

“Well,” Catelyn huffed, turning on her husband and Robert, “What do we plan to do about this?”

(Y/n) honestly wondered how the woman managed to get a word out. If (Y/n) crossed her arms so tightly over her chest, she would hardly be able to breath, let alone form a coherent thought.

Robert forced himself from his chair with a sigh. It was before midday, and there had been a feast the previous night. This was far too early for the King to be awake, much less officiating important discussion. “What can we do? It’s a sign from the gods. We can’t ignore it.”

Catelyn was utterly fuming. Her son, her Robb, joined forever to a Lannister. She would not stand for such a thing.

“Forgive me, Your Grace,” (Y/n) cut in before Catelyn could burst, “But it sounds to me as though you’re implying I wed Robb Stark.”

Robert snorted out a laugh. “Gods, and here I thought you were one of the smart ones. Turns out you’re as slow as Lancel.” Robert crossed the room and clapped his namesake on the shoulder, pulling the Stark boy into the conversation. “Of course that’s what I mean. Ned raised his sons well. Robb’s a good, strong man, and the heir to Winterfell. You’d be lucky to have him at your side.”

“I’m sure you are correct, my King, but that doesn’t change the fact that I have no intention of marrying Robb Stark.”

Silence.

(Y/n) thought, if she listened carefully, she would be able to hear the breaths of the Kingsguard stationed outside.

Of the rare occasions that nobility were found to be mates and did not marry, there had always been something keeping them apart. Never had it been because one openly refused the other. Why would anyone, noble or otherwise, refuse their perfect match put on this earth by the gods themselves?

“Forgive me,” (Y/n) spoke slowly. She was alone on shaky ground, and she desperately needed to keep the King’s anger in check, “but my hand is my father’s to give away as he sees fit. No one else’s.”

“You would stand against the wishes of your king.”

(Y/n) immediately refuted Robert’s words. “I would stand with the wishes of my family. Wherever that may lead me.”

“You will do as your king commands.” Robert’s hand slipped from Robb’s shoulder, and he took a step towards (Y/n) Lannister.

(Y/n) didn’t bat an eye. “After my father agrees,” was the most she would concede, knowing full well it would take more than a miracle from the Seven to get Tywin Lannister to send her to Winterfell.

“You think your father would refute a match to the future Warden of the North? You Lannisters think yourselves that much better than the rest of us. Don’t you?” Robert stood close enough that flecks of his spit landed on her cheek.

(Y/n) wiped them away with her sleeve and a completely blank expression. “I think nothing, my King. I think I should wait for my father’s approval before I agree to things such as this.”

“Robert, the girl is right,” Ned took a step toward his old friend, but Robert raised his hand in warning, causing the Stark to freeze.

He left his hand in the air in case anyone else dared to interrupt them. “I have had it with you Lannisters. I rule Westeros. I am your King, not Tywin Lannister.”

(Y/n)’s eyes narrowed. She had had it with the King as much as he’d had it with her. Her father didn’t hold the title King of Westeros, but he held all the power of one, more than one if that one was Robert Baratheon. She was more than capable of playing the game, of placating men like Robert. But she was every bit her father’s daughter. She did not stand insults in silence.

Robert saw (Y/n) open her mouth, but all he heard was Tywin Lannister as she said, “Any man who must say, I am the King, is no true King.”

A loud snap echoed through the room, followed by a crack.

Robert Baratheon stood, looking down on his handiwork.

(Y/n) Lannister laid sprawled out on the floor with the force of a hard punch to her jaw that no one had seen coming. For a man well past his prime, Robert Baratheon could still manage all the force in his fists that his hammer had made famous during the Rebellion. The blow had knocked the girl down before anyone could think to stop him, before Ned could pull him back, before she could raise a hand in defense, before she could take a step back to brace.

For years, Robert had dreamed of doing exactly that to Tywin Lannister. Dreamed of knocking the old man back down where he belonged. Dreamed of standing with the Lord of Casterly Rock at his feet. Dreamed of watching the arrogant man bleed the same red as his banners.

This girl, (Y/n), she wasn’t Tywin Lannister. She sounded like her father. She acted like her father. But when Robert looked down at her, he only saw a girl. He had punched a young girl for nothing more than speaking to him.

If he had punched the real Tywin Lannister, he would have lost the offending hand by now. Instead, in his fury, he’d punched the Lannister’s young daughter. He still might lose his hand. The girl was a lion, through and through. She had claws, and one of them was standing right outside.

Another was, apparently, behind him.

Robb Stark pushed the King’s shoulder in his hurry to check the girl. “(Y/n), are you hurt?” The Stark boy took both of her hands in his, helping her as gently as he could, to her feet.

“I will be fine,” (Y/n) slowly brushed down her skirts and gave a smile clearly only meant for Robb. “Thank you.”

“I should take you to the Maester.” Robb clearly meant it to be an offer, but it came out more as an order.

(Y/n)’s shoulder had caught her as she fell, keeping her head from the floor; but the crack as she hit the stone was still a sickening sound. It would echo in the room for years.

Every time Robb saw his mate, he would see the King throwing her to the floor, and remember that he didn’t stop Robert in time. Ned would never be able to speak of Robert as an honorable man again; down in the crypts, he would thank the gods Lyanna hadn’t lived to be his. Catelyn would pause every time she made to speak ill of a Lannister; she would remember Robb helping (Y/n) to her feet. She would remember (Y/n)’s response.

“Thank you, Robb, but I think I’d like my brother.” (Y/n) turned to the door and called out, loud enough to be heard on the other side, “Jaime!”

The door swung open in a second. Jaime had been waiting, ear close to the door, for any word that he could enter the room. His hand rested on the hilt of his sword, and his eyes darted around the room for what had made the earlier noise.

A bruise was already flowering on (Y/n)’s face, and her dress was pulled askew off her shoulder.

“Would you be so kind as to escort me to the Maester’s?”

Jaime marched forward and caught his sister’s chin, tilting it up and away that he might examine the mark. “Is your maester a good healer, Lord Stark?” Rage dripped from Jaime’s every word, but he did not dare to ask how his sister was hurt. He already knew the answer, and it was one he could not stand to think on for long.

“That won’t be necessary, Jaime.” (Y/n) brushed his hand away and met his gaze. “I’m quite fine. I only need to send a raven.”

“For what purpose?”

How Robert Baratheon had worked up the nerve to question the woman he’d just injured was a mystery to even his oldest friend, but (Y/n) seemed unphased.

She turned to the King, smirking through her pain, “The North truly is beautiful, and I really do think father would appreciate seeing it before winter comes.”

“You-You will do no such thing.” It wasn’t fear in Robert’s voice. Ned was sure of that, but he thought it might have been defeat.

“Oh, I assure you I will.” (Y/n) grabbed her brother’s free hand, leaving the other in a death grip on his sword. The Kingslayer followed her without complaint, walking backwards to keep his eye on the King until they reached the door. “It’s high time Tywin Lannister sees Winterfell. Or do I need to remind you what truly unites the Seven Kingdoms, Robert Baratheon? Because we both know, it’s not your throne.”

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Next Time On... Part Two

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may-not-my-flesh-fail-on-me · 4 years ago

Text

Rufus Shinra x Emilia Argentum

Part 2: [An Argent Heart Painted Red]

A partnership built from humbled hearts.

Following the new President of the Shinra Corporation to his aforementioned office, Emilia Argentum makes note of who this man could be. She’s aware that the past President was a bit of a familiar with women so could he be his son? Recalling the past President’s face, she can now see the comparison but admittedly jests within the solitary of her mind that this man is much better looking than his predecessor. He probably wasn’t this handsome in his prime.

When they enter an elevator and travel to the destination the man’s finger directs by the press of a button, they feel gravity pressing against their bodies as the mechanism lifts them to a higher point in the building. On the way, Emilia decides to break the silence.

“What’s your name?” His head glides with grace towards the questioning woman.

“You are not aware of my role in this company?” Emilia impulsively responds to the the man.

“Obviously not if I’m asking for your name.” The President arches his brow while shifting his head to gaze at the woman over his shoulder. Her eyes widen accidentally as she truly means no disrespect and fears what will come from the slip of her tongue. “I’m sorry, sir. I didn’t mean any—...” Emilia sighs with a slight slump of her shoulders. “It’s been a very long two weeks since the plate fell. I’m sorry if I’ve offended you.” Her head bows with slight shame but mostly exhaustion. She hasn’t gotten a good night sleep since she lost Troy and the bags under her eyes prove that to be true.

To her surprise, she feels a consoling hand press firmly onto her shoulder. When her sight meets his, his expression has not changed but the empathy behind his sapphire eyes is prominent despite his effort not to reveal it. Before Emilia can speak, a signifying ‘ding’ enters their eardrums before the elevator doors open to reveal a large room.

Lowering his arm, the President steps in between the elevator and the floor of the office to withhold the doors that would surely close again by mechanical intuition.

“After you.” His voice echoes within the small space of the receptacle and Emilia walks past him respectfully. Approaching a desk, she seats herself there as she hears his voice again. “My name is Rufus Shinra. Shall I address you as Miss. Argentum? Or do you have a first name you’d prefer to use?” When he sits, Emilia questions internally whether or not he is trying to be funny with his questions.

‘If he is, he has a dry sense of humor.’ She makes note of in her head.

“Emilia. Emilia Argentum. You can call me whatever you want.” There is a hesitation to his movements before he smirks but his next comment ignores her reply.

“So, I hear you have lost the funding to the schooling of orphaned children because of the dropping of the plate.” Emilia affirms verbally when Rufus pauses. “I see. Were the renovations set to take place before the plate fell?” Once again, Emilia confirms this.

“Yes, all plans were to go smoothly until the wreckage of the plate fall.” Rufus traces his fingers along the desk until folding them together neatly. “According to the architect I was in contact with, the renovations were to take place the twenty-sixth of October—which, was two weeks ago but I’ve lost contact since that fateful day.” Emilia speaks with honesty and confidence to her voice that Rufus truly appreciates but it is hard to read through his expression of stone.

“Have you conducted any blueprints an architect can work with today?” Emilia is surprised that the President is so willing to assist her, especially after minutes of being in his presence.

“Actually, yes. I have them with me if you’d like to see them.” Rufus untangles his fingers to wave them towards himself.

“Absolutely.” Unbuckling her satchel, she unveils the neat illustrations of the architectural designs she’s made herself and places them in his hand. Placing them onto the desk, he stands to tower over the work. Gazing down, he breathes calmly while mentally admiring her handiwork. “Well, Miss. Argentum.” His head raises to stare at the seated woman through his blonde locks. “I am very impressed.” Emilia finds her lips curling into a smile, in which he follows in pursuit. “To be frank, I imagined there to be chaotic scribblings of an incompetent artist but these are very coherent. Very well done. Did you come up with the ideas yourself?”

“Yes, sir.” Emilia is quick to please the man with more words. “Granted I did receive tips from the remainder of the board of education but as for most of the locations of the classrooms and the illustration itself, it is my handiwork.” Emilia is not one to steal credit for anything and what she tells Rufus Shinra is nothing but the truth.

Rufus, as if reading her like a book, lines his eyes over the print and coats his eyes with the imaginative images that prove her to be honest. In this midst of his insight, he considers a carnal fabrication between the two of them that he has not been subjected to in quite a while. He sees this woman as a sultry delight being a teacher, caregiver; Someone who can take charge and that is the type of woman he would love to grasp close and unravel like a present wrapped just for him.

“I will give you a certified amount of currency that will cover the costs needed to reconstruct the building.” A simple sentence and it concludes his decision; so quickly that Emilia is honestly unable to comprehend what he has told her. Judged by this mix of perplexed confusion and sheer exhilaration, he is admittedly amused enough to expand upon what he has decided. “I shall bestow the amount needed, determined by the square footage of the schoolhouse but nothing more will be given. You do understand, don’t you?” Emilia does, confirming he must be frugal with the funds of the company he now runs.

“I can’t thank you enough.” Emilia declares through exhaustion but with new elation on the subject. Feeling proud she has successfully won her case, she cannot stop smiling and Rufus peers through her eyes to find the bright heart that remains inside of the woman who stays in his office. A heart that he would very much like to wrap his metaphorical fingers around but the thoughts of what he needs to do in order to accumulate the money needed to give today take priority in his mind.

“There is no need to thank me, Miss. Argentum. Please wait downstairs in the waiting room while I gather the quantity needed.” A firm handshake passed and Emilia finds herself being walked to the elevator. Once inside, she thanks the President once again before he bows his head ever so slightly with his arms behind his back. “It was a pleasure to make your acquaintance, Miss. Until our next meeting.” Those two sentences seem forced, Emilia notices and because he doesn’t make eye contact while doing so, she deducts that he is not adept at displaying fake emotions. Either way, he is still doing her a major favor that he doesn’t need to. That is enough for Emilia to be grateful.

—

It has been two days since Emilia Argentum received a card with the amount required to renovate the nearly decimated schoolhouse and as soon as she exited the Shinra building with the money in hand, she began working to construct the new interior architecture. It is now when she is able to retrieve Troy’s body and give him a proper burial, all thanks to the men Rufus allowed Emilia to hire thanks to the money he has given.

In a matter of almost three weeks, the entirety of the construction is completed thanks to the resources Emilia skillfully utilized during her time supervising the work done. Sitting at her newly refurbished desk in a brightly colored classroom, she smiles while writing a letter of thanks to the President of the Shinra Corporation in order to display her gratitude as well as return the card which has some spared gil on it. She has no use for it and it would be rude of her to spend it on herself or even give it away. It is Rufus’ money and she cannot see herself doing anything with it besides returning it to its rightful owner.

Sealing the envelope, she signs her name in the corner with a smirk at the thought of his own smile; his eyes a brush painting the canvas of her body makes her shiver until she shakes the idea away. Walking to the front door of the school, she opens it to place the letter into the nearby mailbox.

The next day, she finishes a belated class with the students who are more than relieved to have someplace they can call refuge once more. When an informant of the Shinra Corporation arrives to hand her a letter, she takes it with uncertain fingers. Attempting to receive as much information as she can before she reads the presented paper, the informant does not give in. Merely addresses her to the note and takes his leave.

Questionably, Emilia finally looks at the letter, afraid it is the one she wrote to Rufus and he rejected it. To her unexpected sight, the envelope is blank. Opening it with nimble fingers, intrigued by the thought of what could be written, her eyes are finally fed.

‘Miss. Argentum,

I hold the measures you have taken in high regard. To say that I am impressed with your proceedings is an understatement. You have intrigued me by your decisions to use the money given to you and the fact that you have returned the amount you did not use leaves me in wonderment. You are a magnificent woman, far more than I first perceived and I would like to have you join me for a personal meeting where you and I may talk privately on how you were able to plan out your work so well. Perhaps you may teach my architects a lesson or two. I will be waiting at 6pm on November 30th. My assistant will be notified of your arrival.

See you then,

Rufus Shinra’

Emilia notices she is grinning giddily at the thought of impressing the President! Although, she tries to compose herself as she has never been an egotistical woman and is humbled by the idea that Rufus would find her work impressive. The only reason she acted as she did was to better the future of the children and now she has successfully done so.

Still smiling, Emilia prepares for the next batch of children that come rushing in to their new classroom but first wrap their little arms around her waist or any limb they can reach. Giggling to their affection, she rubs their backs still high on a cloud of knowing she will be in Rufus Shinra’s presence again the very next day.

@quicksilver-fair hope you enjoy!

#rufus shinra #x emilia argentum #part 2 for a buddy of mine #flirting? i think #if rufus knows how to flirt

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lailaliquorice · 5 years ago

Text

learned to travel light

big trigger warning for eating disorders and small self harm reference

this is a heavy one loves. being open, it’s pretty much four thousand words of projection which I’ve wanted to write for a long time and has been a little bit therapeutic to be honest. but please take the trigger warnings seriously, and anyone is so welcome to message me if they need to talk to someone. I poured my heart out into this one and I’m really proud of it but please take care of yourselves

my amazing sibling @jarneiarichardnxel wrote a character study from aragon’s point of view which offshoots from this which you can find here. abs I love you so much and thank you for always being up for our headcanon sessions <3

Anne was used to being told she was too much.

It was the epitome of everything she’d been criticised for in her old life: too loud, too opinionated, just too much for a queen. And somehow the comment occasionally followed through to this new life that she’d hoped so desperately would be a new fresh start. She was still too loud, still too opinionated, and too pushy on stage and constantly trying to make everything about her at the expense of her fellow queens. For the most part though, she could chalk those comments up to her just following the script since that was all people saw of her and not take them to heart too much.

But suddenly there was also the added ammunition of the twenty first century standards she’d suddenly found herself measured by. Suddenly it wasn’t just her personality that was too much. She was too tall, too awkward, standing out against the rest of the queens. It was enough to make her skin crawl whenever she put her costume and caught her reflection in the full length mirror.

Sat in her costume at the dressing room table after a show, a quick glance through social media while she got her breath back wiped the smile from her face as someone had thought to tag the show account in a hard hitting comment. ‘Saw six for the first time and honestly couldn’t stand boleyn after 5 mins. Idk how the other queens put up with her when the show’s over. And she sticks out like a sore thumb in that skimpy outfit.’

Shame burned at the back of her throat as she subconsciously covered the gap between her top and her skirt with one hand. Normally she loved her costume but in the space of a split second she felt uncomfortable with so much of herself on show, wishing she had a dress like Jane’s that didn’t leave her stomach and her arms and her legs so exposed.

“Oi! Cleves calling Boleyn, are you receiving?”

Anna’s shout made Anne jump in her seat, giving Anna a shaky smile as she laughed at her reaction. “Sorry Anna, in a world of my own there. Did you say something?”

“I said we’re all going to the pub for dinner when we’re changed, you coming?” Anna repeated.

Normally Anne would have nodded immediately, always eager to spend a night out with her friends after a tiring day. But her first thought instead went to the comments on her phone, the constant reminder of how she was too loud and too overbearing every time she refreshed the page. “Not tonight, gonna go home and go to bed early,” she said with a quick shake of her head.

Both Anna and Aragon looked surprised, but to Anne’s relief they didn’t comment on it. “Alright babes, get some rest,” Anna said, picking up her costume to take down to wardrobe before she left for the night. “Usual drill, let someone know you’re home and all that, alright?”

“Yeah,” Anne nodded, deliberately keeping her eyes trained on Anna so she didn’t have to meet Aragon’s concerned expression that she could feel boring into the side of her skull.

She looked back down at her phone as Anna left, waiting for Aragon to leave before she got changed into her own clothes since the thought of any more of her body being on view for scrutiny made her stomach knot. But she couldn’t keep avoiding Aragon when she walked over and leaned on the desk right next to where Anne was sitting. “Are you ok” she asked quietly.

Anne immediately plastered the most convincing smile she could muster on her face, desperately hoping that Aragon’s kind eyes couldn’t see through her mask. “Yeah, I’m fine, promise,” she said quickly, any gratitude for the concern quashed by her desperate wish that Aragon would leave her to her shame.

Aragon gave a nod of acceptance though her eyes betrayed her lack of conviction. “Alright. If you’re not having dinner with us then I’ve got some leftovers in the fridge from last night you can have,” she said, repeating Anna’s request that Anne let them know when she was home before she left and shut the dressing room door behind her.

The minute she was alone Anne sagged, not needing to keep up the pretence any longer. She closed her eyes for a moment, willing herself the energy to get up and go home and not just sit in her chair gathering dust until the next show, and after giving a tired huff she pushed herself up and started to take her hairpieces out. She deliberately kept her gaze towards the floor as changed out of her costume as fast as possibly but still managed to catch the odd glimpse of herself in the mirrors surrounding her and winced every time she did so.

Once home she did send a text to the group chat. But she didn’t eat Aragon’s leftovers.

~~~

The same pattern repeated itself several times more over the course of the next few weeks. It wasn’t only meals out, if a couple of the other queens were eating at the table together then Anne would come up with a hasty excuse to take her plate up to her room so she wouldn’t have to bother them by joining them. The more time progressed the fewer meals she would actually eat, more times than not just letting it go cold as she continued to distract herself with a tv show or something before emptying the plate into the bin once the others had gone to bed.

She didn’t know when the aim of her behaviour transitioned from avoiding mealtimes to avoiding meals themselves. The feeling of hunger became something she could fixate on to avoid thinking about how much she was burdening everyone. Having absolute control over her food felt like a lifeline after being so used to drifting uncontrollably through her past life dictated by others.

If she knew she had to be present for dinner then any thought of lunch would go out the window so she could compensate, and she’d spend the entire meal fidgeting in her chair and pushing food around her plate to distract from how little she was eating. She kept quiet for the most part so as not to bother the others with her presence but made sure she was chatty whenever someone spoke to her, desperately making sure that no-one picked up on anything she didn’t want them too. That no-one picked up on the fact that those mealtimes made her so anxious she wanted to cry.

When the hunger kept her up at night she distracted herself with the thought that she was doing everyone a favour. If everyone thought she was too much then she would make herself smaller; smaller emotionally, smaller physically, small enough that no-one could criticise her anymore.

It was only a few weeks before she started seeing changes whenever she could bear to look in the mirror. And as she stared at her reflection, hollow cheeks and angular shoulders and visible collarbones, she couldn’t quite make up her mind whether it scared her or not.

So she kept going.

The biggest change in her after noticing those results was that the usually cuddly and clingy Anne couldn’t bear the idea of anyone touching her anymore. It wasn’t the fear of being touched itself – secretly she still craved that as much as she refused to admit it to herself – it was the fear of anyone else noticing something different about her body. She knew that what she could see in the mirror had to be noticeable beneath other people’s hands, which was a risk she couldn’t take.

Shrinking beneath Anna patting her on the shoulder and wriggling out from Cathy’s arm around her or Jane and Kat’s hugs felt like an arrow to her own heart, but she knew she had to do it. What hurt the most though were the shadows of worry in Aragon’s eyes whenever she watched Anne doing so. The thought that she was disappointing Aragon above anyone else felt infinitely worse than she had ever expected it to.

She’d noticed Aragon keeping a close eye on her more and more as time and habits progressed, bringing her to try avoiding Aragon’s watchful gaze whenever humanely possible in an attempt to throw her off. But she knew that she couldn’t hide forever.

Anne was sat at the table in the kitchen that evening, elbows rested on the tabletop and head hanging between hunched shoulders. She’d done her usual routine of pretending to take her dinner upstairs but not taking a mouthful and emptying the plate as soon as everyone had gone to bed, but an unexpected wave of dizziness and exhaustion had left her near-collapsed on a chair with her empty plate next to her. Her breathing was heavy as she tried to ignore the dark spots in her vision, heart beating a panicky rhythm at the thought of someone walking into the kitchen and seeing her in that state.

Sure enough, the sound of someone coming down the stairs was followed by the kitchen light being flicked on and a soft gasp as she was spotted. Anne screwed her eyes shut as the footsteps continued towards her, knowing it was too late to make a run for it now even if she thought her shaking knees would be able to carry her up two flights of stairs.

“Anne?”

It was Aragon. Anne hardly responded to the sound of her name being called, just winced slightly when she placed a gentle hand on Anne’s arm after sitting down beside her. “Anne, what’s going on?”

Anne couldn’t make herself answer for a couple of seconds, her mind too occupied by the emptiness in her stomach and her unsteady breathing and the fear that Aragon could feel every bone in her shoulderblade. “Nothing’s going on, I’m fine,” she answered, but even she could hear the weariness in her voice.

“Don’t.” Aragon’s tone was firm yet gentle as she shook her head, and when she removed her hand from Anne’s shoulder Anne managed to look round and just about meet her gaze. “Don’t say that. I know something’s wrong. There’s things I’ve noticed that aren’t ok and I’m worried about you.”

She might have continued to push Aragon away if it wasn’t for that last comment. It was the first indication she’d been given that what she was doing to herself wasn’t better for the other queens, that they might have possibly been happy with her the way she was. Even while the louder voice in her mind shoved that idea away almost immediately, she couldn’t help the shaky “What?” that escaped her lips.

Even with the forgiveness in Aragon’s voice softening the blow, Anne couldn’t help but feel as if she was being read out a list of her crimes. “You’re quieter, you look exhausted all the time, you don’t have the same energy during the show that you used to. And while the others all think you’re just having an off few weeks, I think I know what the cause of it might be.”

Anne was silent as she watched Aragon tap the plate that was still sat like a barrier between them.

“Back in the time following Arthur’s death I was kept here to wait for Henry to come of age,” Aragon started after a long pause. Anne wondered briefly why there was such a note of hesitation in her voice and glimmer of fear in her eyes, but that was answered as soon as she continued. “I was a pawn for both our fathers; I had no control over my life and my future. So I took control over one of the few things I had the power too.”

“Food,” Anne said quietly, filling in the blank where she paused.

Aragon gave a single nod. “I fasted excessively during those years. I believed it would bring me closer to God, hoped that He would be more inclined to answer my prayers and secure my future. It became an obsession with surviving on as little food as I could and I welcomed the suffering it caused me, since like many I believed that pain brought me closer to Christ.”

She broke off with a rough sigh before adding “but I did suffer. I made myself ill for most of those seven years; stomach pains, fevers, cold sweats, headaches and dizzy spells.” After another pause to let her words sink in, she asked “Do some of those sound familiar?” as she looked into Anne’s eyes.

“Mhm,” Anne hummed almost silently. Now that she knew Catherine understood what was going through her head she didn’t try to pretend otherwise.

“I thought so,” Aragon said, reaching out to take Anne’s hand in hers as she continued. “And that’s why I want to help you. Because I know how much of a vicious cycle this is and how hard it is to break out of it. I could never eat properly for the rest of my life after I let it go on for so long and I don’t want that for you. We want the old Anne back who comes out with us and dances around and smiles more, we miss you.”

Clearing her throat almost embarrassedly, she finished with a mumbled “I, err, I miss you.”

Staring at their conjoined hands, Anne couldn’t quite work out who’s hand was trembling the most. Hers, from lack of food, or Catherine’s.

“I’m fine though,” she heard herself saying before she was fully aware of it, pulling her hand from Aragon’s and moving to stand from her chair. She almost pitched over sideways as her head spun for a second, but she refused to let herself accept the hand held out to steady her and instead caught herself on the kitchen counter. “I know what I’m doing. I’m not gonna let myself get sick or anything. I just… I’m better this way, alright? I’m not too much anymore and that’s better for everyone.”

“Anne, please-“

“No!” she choked out in a tone nearing hysteria, hot tears threatening to spill as she backed away from the temptation of Aragon’s help. She was better how she was, she had to keep telling herself that. “Thank you, really, but I don’t need anyone’s help.”

She couldn’t look at Aragon’s expression before turning tail and sprinting up the stairs towards her room, throwing herself onto her bed as she sobbed with self-hatred and guilt.

Aragon’s words kept playing over and over throughout the mostly sleepless night, keeping Anne awake with longing for that lifeline she’d been thrown and regret for how she’d essentially chucked it back in Aragon’s face. Part of her wanted to keep pushing onwards, still convinced that she was doing the right thing and making the right choice, but the voice in her head screaming for her to stop was speaking up again after months of being silenced. It was enough to keep her up for hours, only dozing off as the first hints of dawn peeked in from under her curtains and jolting awake as her alarm blared barely a few hours later.

She avoided Aragon like the plague the next day as much as it hurt her, feeling more like she was missing something the further away they were. But Anne couldn’t deny that something from Aragon’s conversation had clicked in her mind since she realised during their warmup how tired she already felt, how little conversation she joined in with in the dressing room, and how loosely her skirt sat around her hips when it had once hugged her waist comfortably.

Suddenly she found herself disliking her body for a new reason entirely.

The dregs of exhaustion clung on as the day progressed, and somehow the nap she took between the shows left her feeling even more groggy and spaced out than she’d done after finishing the matinee. While waiting behind the curtain before the evening show a sudden spell of dizziness had her sagging onto Anna’s throne for a moment as her legs threatened to give up on her again, ignoring the worried looks that Kat and Jane both sent her. She was fine. She could make it through the show, she couldn’t let her friends down like that.

And she was right, but only just.

She vaguely realised as Jane’s section of the megasix was transitioning into Anna’s that she’d stopped singing at some point and hadn’t even realised it, her mouth forming the words but not a single sound coming out. She managed to keep dancing though, making sure she was at the back of the group so that the audience would focus on the rest of the queens and not notice anything was wrong. Her normally shouted ‘Beheaded!’ was barely a squeak as she realised her sight was blurring again and it was nothing to do with the stage lights.

Straightening up after taking a bow made her head spin so much that she thought she was going to fall over there and then. Black static spotted around her vision and her legs felt like cotton wool as she realised she needed to get off stage immediately.

Dancing around with the other queens before they left the stage was forgotten when the music kicked back in, taking full advantage of her position at the end of the line to make a stumbling exit.

She didn’t make it more than two steps into the wing before her vision turned to black and she fell, legs folding underneath her as she hit the ground hard and didn’t get up.

~~~

A couple of hours later found Anne curled up on the sofa with a blanket wrapped around her

Her soft cries went unheard and tears unseen in the dark room, since she’d made no indication to the other queens that she was awake yet. She could hear them all talking in the kitchen through the connecting wall, unable to pick out any individual words though she could still sense the tension in the conversation just by the quiet and strained way they were all talking.

Guilt twisted at her stomach when she realised she’d done that. She’d created that worry, she’d put herself in danger despite Aragon’s warning, she’d let them down.

She could still see their terrified faces as she’d come round from fainting as if they were burned into her mind. Aragon’s eyes were the first she saw since she cradled Anne’s head in her lap to keep her off the unforgiving floor, with Jane and Kat each gripping onto one of her hands and Anna and Cathy crouched beside them. The sheer volume of love and sorrow in their expressions had been too overwhelming to look at as she turned her face into Aragon’s lap to hide her tears, too weak to protest as she was picked up like she was lighter than a feather and carried away from the stage.

As the hall light flickered on and footsteps left the kitchen she hid her face in her blanket this time, expecting that someone would check on her and not wanting them to catch her crying yet again that day. She’d hardly stopped during the journey home, bundled into a taxi and squashed in between Kat and Cathy with their legs pressed up against hers. Normally it was Cathy who was always forced to sit in the middle since she was the smallest queen by far, and the fact that Anne was now sat in her place somehow drove her reality home again just like her ill-fitting costume had done earlier that day.

The living room door being pushed open spilled light into the room, illuminating Anne’s damp cheeks despite the blanket pulled up to her nose. “Oh sweetheart,” sighed Jane’s soft voice, closing the door and turning on one of the lamps to fill the room with a warm glow.

Anne scrambled to sit up as Jane moved to sit beside her, keeping the blanket wrapped around her as if it could shield her from the conversation she knew was coming. She was almost surprised that it wasn’t Aragon there since she’d spoken to her the night before and had the best idea of what she was going through, and that thought drove her to blurt out “Is Catherine mad at me?” before Jane had a chance to speak.

“Of course she isn’t love,” Jane said soothingly, the assuredness in her face calming Anne’s fear. “She looked exhausted so I told her to get some rest. None of us are angry at you, we’re just all so worried.”

She didn’t react at first, just felt slightly uncomfortable at the idea of everyone worrying so much about her. None of them deserved that.

A minute of comfortable silence passed, before Jane turned to face her and began the conversation she’d been dreading. “Anne, love, I’m going to ask you something and I want you to be as honest as you can be, alright? I’m not going to be disappointed at anything you tell me, I just want you to be honest,” she said, waiting for Anne to give the tiniest nod before she asked “Have you eaten anything today?”

“A bit,” Anne said truthfully, though what might have once been a defensive tone of voice was reduced to a quiet mumble. “I had breakfast, and I had a something between the shows. I didn’t not eat anything.”

“But that’s never going to keep you going for two shows love. Our food is our fuel, and you can’t perform while running on empty.”

Anne didn’t have the words to comment on that, still trapped in a mindset where she wasn’t ready to confirm it but didn’t have the strength to deny it anymore. Instead she just asked “What were you all talking about in the kitchen earlier?” while rubbing beneath her eyes with a rough hand.

Jane seemed to pause for a moment as if trying to find the right words to start with. “We were speaking about you but I promise it was nothing bad at all. Catherine told us a few things that she was worried about and we were discussing how we might be able to help you. Because we want to help you sweetheart, if you’ll let us.”

There was something about the pleading look in Jane’s eyes and the gentle offer in her words that made Anne crack at long last. Months’ worth of anguish poured out as she sobbed into her hands, before Jane wrapped her up into a hug and Anne clung onto her with all the strength she had left in her worn-down limbs. Jane whispered soft assurances in her ear as she shuddered and shook within her embrace, rubbing Anne’s back comfortingly with one hand as she held her close while she cried.

“I don’t want to be like this anymore,” Anne choked out after a while, pulling back a little to look at Jane through red-rimmed eyes. “I hate it so much, I thought I was making things better but it’s so much worse. And I don’t know what do to. I want help, I just need help.”

“We’re here to help you love, we’re here and we’re not going to let you get worse, I promise,” Jane said, reaching out to push a strand of dark hair away from Anne’s face and gently wipe the tears streaming down one cheek.

Anne nodded, letting Jane pull her back in to rest against her with her head resting on her chest. Jane was soft and comfy and everything that Anne wasn’t with all her sharp angles and bony joints – if Jane was mum shaped then Anne was skeleton shaped, she realised with a tang of bitterness on her tongue. She was still at war with herself over how she felt towards her body, half of her looking at the changes with relish and the other half with disgust, but with the day she’d had she was leaning very firmly towards the latter.

But those thoughts all quietened down as Jane held her close despite how Anne knew she could probably feel the outline of her ribs and hip with the hand on Anne’s waist. A fresh wave of exhaustion crashed over her and she tried to lift her head against the sudden tiredness, though gave up when Jane let out a soft chuckle and stroked a hand over her hair. “You can sleep love, it’s alright,” she whispered, giving Anne the permission she needed to close her eyes. “You’re safe now, tomorrow is a new start and we’re all here beside you.”

It was a scary prospect, challenging the habits that had become her safety net over the last few months. But she was tired of pushing herself into a mould that was too small for other people’s satisfaction. The faintest hint of a smile graced her features as she slipped into sleep and waited for her brighter dawn.

#six the musical #six the musical fanfiction #six the musical fanfic #anne boleyn #catherine of aragon #jane seymour #anna of cleves #katherine howard #catherine parr #laila's writing

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in-arlathan · 5 years ago

Text

Lessons Learned

Time period: 9:41 Dragon Characters: Female Lavellan, Sera, Dorian Chapter: 1/1, Length: 3,492 words Rating: PG-13

Summary: Sera was wounded in an attack by the darkspawn. Refusing to let Dorian heal her wounds, Lavellan steps into help her. As she patches her companion up, Lavellan tells Sera stories from the past, remembering her father’s legacy and her responsibility as Inquisitor.

A/N: I wanted this to be a short and cute piece about Sera and Lavellan getting to know each other, but it turned more into a Lavellan backstory exploration mid-way. Buuuttt I kind of like it. If been wanting to write more about my Elenara’s time with the Lavellan clan, so I’m glad this happened. I wish you a wonderful time reading this! <3

You can read this on AO3, too.

____

Even before she reaches the tent, she can hear Sera scream.

“Touch me and you'll be very sorry!” the young elf shrieks. “I don't need your help!”

“But you do,” the voice of Dorian insists. “Your arm needs proper treatment. With a quick healing spell ....”

“I said no,” Sera clarifies, sternly.

“I see the two of you are having a good time,” Elenara says as she enters the tent and takes a look around. The bedrolls are in shambles, except for the one that is occupied by Sera. One side of the tent was torn in half by a blade during the most recent fight, but someone has already patched it up. The stitches look like the job of an amateur, but they will do, at least for now.

“Inquisitor!” Sera yells. “Tell the Tevinter to go bother someone else.”

Dorian lets out an agitated huff, then turns to Elenara. “Maybe you can talk some sense into her,” he says. “If her wound is not treated quickly, she will catch an infection. The flesh will fester and…”

“I know,” she replies and places a hand on Dorian’s arm. “I’ve seen wounds like these before.”

“Then you know how dire her situation is,” Dorian says. “She is lucky the darkspawn didn’t give her the blight. But even something simple like the cut of blade can be fatal.”

“Oh, yeah, thanks!” Sera grumbles. “Thanks for reminding me how lucky I am to be alive. If we had people guard the camp, like I said, we could’ve fought them in no time.”

Elenara swallows, steeling herself against Sera’s wrath. As much as she hates to admit it, her companion is right. There should have been soldiers patrolling the perimeter. It was her, Elenara, who had chosen to not give the command. She was under the impression that their recent conquest of Caer Bronach was enough to keep her troops safe, but she was wrong.

So very wrong.

While she and three of her companions were out scouting for any sign of Hawke and his mysterious contact with the Grey Wardens, a group of darkspawn had emerged. They had attacked the camp shortly after sunset when all of the soldiers were preparing for the night. Only a small number of scouts had been set for the nights watch, all of them killed by genlock archers. It was thanks to Dorian, Sera, and the Iron Bull that the camp was not erased from the face of the earth in its entirety. When the darkspawn had crept up the hill and murdered more and more scouts, they had taken command over the remaining soldiers to prevent them from panicking. With fire and iron and a cascade of arrows, the three of them had managed to cast back the tide of tainted creatures.

Their bravado saved them. Yet, most of the tents were torn down or shredded. Dozens of new requisitions were destroyed. Even some of the food supplies took serious damage. Now, the group will need to ration until new goods arrive from Caer Bronach.

There is a bright spot to this mess. Considering the number of darkspawn that attacked the camp, the damage to the people and the supplies could be a lot bigger. Still, Elenara hates herself for not expecting an attack in the first place.

“It’s no use to thinking about what could have been,” she says, not quite sure if she is talking to her companions or herself. “I’m just happy you’re alive and well. As for the wound,” she nods towards Sera, “I can take care of that, if you like.”

Sera’s brows furrow in a way that seldom means anything good. For a moment, Elenara expects the younger elf to jump up from her bedroll and through a temper tantrum. But instead, Sera simply lets her shoulders drop and sighs deeply.

“Alright, patch me up,” she says. “As long as you don’t use magic. Don’t want any of that frigging stuff near me.”

“Don’t worry, I have as much magical talent as a nest of nugs,” Elenara assures her with an encouraging smile. To Dorian, she adds. “Please bring me water, a bottle of alcohol – the strongest you can find – as well as threads and a needle. Oh, and also a clean piece of cloth, if you can find one in this mess. The lieutenant should know where to find these things.”

Dorian’s gaze flicks to Sera, then back to the Inquisitor. “Fine,” he breathes, finally giving up on forcing his magical help on Sera. “I’ll be back.”

“Thank you, Dorian.”

“You’re welcome.”

The Tevinter mage secures his staff behind his back and steps outside. The tent’s flaps rustle as they fall back into place.

Once they are alone, Elenara steps up to Sera’s bedroll and drops to her knees beside it. “Let me take a look,” she says softly and gestures towards Sera’s wound with one hand. Reluctantly, the younger elf lowers the old piece of cloth someone gave her to stop the bleeding and lets Elenara examine the cut on her right upper arm.

“It’s deep, but it looks like the blade didn’t hit the bone,” Lavellan explains. “I’ll sterilize the wound with alcohol and stitch you up. It’ll hurt for a while, but when you give yourself a little time to rest, everything should be back to normal soon.”

Sera gives her a quizzical look but is robbed of the chance to say something when Dorian returns.

He hands Elenara a small satchel containing various items including a waterskin, a bottle of Antivan brandy and a sewing kit. Miraculously, he also found a piece of cloth that was relatively clean.

The tools are far from ideal, but she will try her best regardless.

“You’re sure you can manage with that?”, Dorian asks, sounding skeptical. “Shouldn’t we send for a healer from a nearby village or something like that?”

Elenara shakes her head. “We’re too far out in open country,” she replies. “Even on horse, it would take a day to get back to Crestwood to get help. We cannot wait that long.”

Sera lets out a huff. “That’s reassuring.”

“Don’t worry, I’ve stitched up people under more adverse conditions.”

That gets both Sera’s and Dorian’s attention. “How so?” the younger elf asks, seizing Elenara up and down. “Thought you were a hunter or something before joining the Inquisition?”

Elenara removes her gloves and cleans her hands with a few drops of water from the skin. “That’s right,” she admits, then starts to imbue the cloth with the Antivan brandy. “This might hurt a bit,” she warns and presses the soaked cloth onto Sera’s wound.

The younger elf inhales sharply. “Andraste’s breeches!”, she hisses. “‘A bit’? That’s a frigging understatement.”

“You wouldn’t have to endure this if you’d just let me use magic on you,” Dorian points out, lips twisted in a disgruntled way.

“Your magic can go endure itself,” Sera spits, then comes up with more colorful swearwords as Elenara’s cleans her wound. “Holy shit-crap… Maker…”

Despite himself, Dorian laughs.

“Hold still,” Elenara says as gently as possible. “I’m almost done.”

She rubs the wound one more time, then tugs the cloth in her belt and reaches for the sewing kit. With the needle between her lips, she measures an arm’s length of yarn from the reel and yanks it off. It takes her two attempts to thread the needle, but then she is good to go. Out of practice already? she askes herself.

Before she gets to work, she grabs the bottle of brandy and holds it out to Sera.

“Here, have a sip and relax. What comes next won’t be very pleasant either.”

“Oh, great…” Sera moans. The young elf takes a giant gulp from the bottle and shakes from head to toe as the alcohol burns its way down her throat.

“I’ll leave you to it,” Dorian says. “Now that our young archer is in safe hands, I can go and find some other way to clean up the mess these darkspawn made.”

Elenara gives him a warm smile. “Thanks, Dorian. I appreciate that.”

He dismisses her gratitude with a casual wave of the hand and sly smile. “Don’t thank me yet. The night is still young, after all. If we don’t find the darkspawn nest, everything can go tits-up as our young friend here likes to call it,” he says.

“Well, it’ll be great, if it didn’t.”

“I agree,” he says, a soft glimmer in his eyes. “See you later, Inquisitor.”

And with that, he leaves.

She takes in a long breath, then turns to Sera once more. The young elf watches her intently, the corners of her mouth pointing downwards in an expression that got caught somewhere between anger and suspicion.

“Alright, let’s get this over with,” Sera says and rolls her eyes.

“I’ll do my best,” Elenara promises and leans forward. Ever so carefully, she punctures Sera’s skin with the needle and pulls the thread through. Fully focusing on her work, she doesn’t hear Sera hiss and swear under her breath as Elenara patches her up, stitch by stitch.

She is halfway through, when Sera looks at her once more and Elenara’s gaze flicks up to meet hers. Some of the anger has vanished from her companion’s face, she notices. It is a relief, truly. More than she likes to admit. There are days, in which Elenara half expects Sera to steal her breeches and pepper her body with arrows just for being “too elfy”.

“How did you learn to stitch up people like that?” Sera asks.

“Back with my clan,” Elenara explains. “Hunters cut themselves all the time. Sometimes they slip and fall, scraping themselves on a rock. Sometimes they run into bandits and have to fight them off. More often than not, they get cut by a knife or stabbed with an arrow, with no time to get back to camp. That is when a talent for needlework comes in handy.”

She waits for Sera to say something, but when her companion stays silent, she continues.

“Most of my practice didn’t come from patching up other hunters, though,” she admits and lifts her chin, so her companion can see the ragged scar that runs from Elenara’s left ear down her jawbone. “I was twelve when my father took me out on a hunt for the first time. He told me to set up traps in the forest and I did as he commanded, but I was not what you would call focused. My mind wandered around, thinking about this and that, no care in the world. I didn’t hear the bear coming for me until it was too late.”

Sera’s eyes go wide. “You fought with a bear? As a girl?”

“I was attacked by a bear,” Elenara corrects. “When I heard it charging, I sprang to my feet and turned around but I had no time to draw my bow. The bear jumped toward me and all I could do was dodge. Then I felt a sharp pang at my jaw and blood spilling over my chin and neck. The bear had hit me with one of its claws and cut my skin in half.”

“Ugh!” Sera exclaims. “Sounds nasty.”

“It was. I only survived because my father was close-by and took down the bear with three clean shots. I was still lying on the ground with blood gushing all over my clothes when he killed it.”

“He was quite the archer, your old man, then?”

“Yes, he was.”

“And he made you patch yourself up?” Sera asks, curious.

Elenara nods. “My father could have brought me back to camp for our keeper to take care of my injury, but he didn’t. Instead, he took me to a small creek in the woods where I could wash my face and told me to stitch the wound myself. So you may learn to take better care next time, he told me.”

Sera snorts. “How very kind of him.”

“He wasn’t wrong, though.”

“Yeah, how so?”

“My father wasn’t the best hunter in my clan because he was could shot a deer from twenty leagues away. He was the best because he had nothing but the deepest respect for all living things,” Elenara says as she goes back to work. “And while I sat by the creek and tried to stitch my own wound, he told that even predators such as bears had their place within the natural order of things. To him, it was obvious that, in my carelessness, I had posed a potential threat to the bear. Therefore, it was only natural for the beast to attack me. It wanted to fend me off to protect itself. I felt deeply ashamed of myself. I knew I had disappointed him. The only good thing to come of this was that I never trod lightly in the forest again, afterward.”

Elenara feels her cheeks color as she remembers the expression on her father’s face. Even after all these years, she still felt the pang of guilt that had hit her that day by the creek.

What would he think of his daughter now?

She had gotten an entire squad of Inquisition soldiers into trouble with her recklessness. And not only that, if her friends hadn’t been there to fight in her stead, the entire camp would’ve been wiped out. It was the bear attack all-over again. She, wandering around, lost in thought, too carried away to remember even the most basic dangers of this world.

Take better care next time, she hears him say.

Elenara makes the final stitch on Sera’s arm and ties the loose ends of the thread into a knot. “Done,” she announces and cleans the needle with a few more drops of water before putting it back into the sewing kit.

Sera leans forward and tries to examine her wound.

As a moment of silence falls between them, Elenara sits down cross-legged and reaches for the Antivan brandy once more. First, she smells at the bottle, then she takes a sip. The liquid tastes sickly sweet in her mouth and burns like fire, but it’s just what she needs right now. It had been years since she had thought about her father, let alone talked about him.

“And after that first one?”, Sera wants to know and points towards the scar on Elenara’s chin. “Did you patch up other people?”

“Oh, lots of people. Almost all of the hunters, to be exact,” Elenara tells her, setting the brandy aside to put her gloves back on. “I became quite proficient at it after a while. But I started by fixing old armor and clothing. I even sewed a dress once, just to get the hang of things.”

Sera snickers. “You didn’t!”

“Damn well I did,” Elenara says with a grin. “Fetched a decent price on the market in Ansburg, too. Anyway, learning to sew turned out to be pretty valuable. My hands became steadier and my focus increased. It showed in my hunting as well. Though I never reached my father’s level of perfection my father, I became a good enough hunter. I brought home food for my clan and sold some of my clothes in the human villages to help us out with solid coin. It was a good life. A simple life.”

“Hm,” Sera muses, blinking in surprise.

“What is it?”

“Maybe I was wrong about you,” she admits. “All the Dalish I met had were all snobby about the old history and legends and whatnot. ‘We are so much better than you, city elves are weak, over-through the shemlen overlords, you stupid muffs, all that rubbish. Nothing but blah blah blah. But you are not like that.”

“You know that I do honor the elven gods?” Elenara asks in careful tone.

“Yeah, you’re elfy, I get that,” Sera snaps. “But you don’t shove it up people’s arses. You treat everyone with respect and kindness, let them believe what they want to, even if’s nuts.”

Despite herself, Elenara chuckles. “I aim to please.”

Sera giggles. “Was that a hunting joke? Because aiming… haha, y’know…”

“Err…”

“Anyway,” Sera cuts her off. “Thanks for helping me. And for the chat. It’s nice to know your just a person like the rest of us. Your father sounds like a good person.”

“Yes, I enjoyed it, too,” Elenara admits.

She puts the cork back on the bottle of Antivan brandy and tugs it under her arm, together with the cloth and the sewing kit. The waterskin she leaves for Sera to drink.

“I leave you now,” she announces and gets to her feet. “You should get some rest. It’ll help the wound heal.”

“Sounds good to me,” the younger elf says, yawning. Elenara has no doubt that her companion will fall asleep in no time.

She gives Sera one last smile, then draws back the flaps and steps outside. The night air is cold and her breath rises as white mist from her nose and lips. Around her, the camp is still bustling with soldiers trying to get everything back to normal. None of her other companions is in sight. She suspects they have gone out to find the darkspawn nest, just like Dorian told her.

She hurries over to the requisitions table and places both the Antivan brandy and the sewing kit in one of the barrels the soldiers use for storage. The cloth with Sera’s blood, on the other hand, she simply tosses into the campfire and watches it burn in the flames. A part of her wishes for them to take the feeling of guilt and shame from her as well, to burn it away like a hot blade that cauterizes a wound, but when the cloth has turned to ash, she still feels miserable.

Her thoughts keep coming back to her father. In her memory, she hears him laugh at a joke one of the hunters made. She remembers him holding her tight after a terrible nightmare, singing songs and telling tales. When he died, it had hurt her deeply and although the wound was sealed, she knows that it will never fully heal. Elenara will carry the pain of his loss in her heart for the rest of her life. All she could do was to remember what he had taught her.

I will take better care next time, she thinks as she stares into the flames.

She wonders if things would be different if she had stayed with her clan, back in the Free Marches. Would she still hunt with them, searching for a moment of solitude in the woods whenever she got the chance? Or would she pack her things and leave for Ferelden to help seal the breach? Would she even care what happened in the south? She isn’t sure anymore. Her entire life had flipped upside down when she stepped out of the Fade. The days in which her only concerns had been sewing a dress for one of the children or setting up traps seemed so long ago.

Still, the Dalish had made her. Their stories and customs, their culture and lore are ingrained into her very being and the fact that she is one of them gives her a unique perspective on the matter of things. She might as well make use of it and try to move the world to a new place.

With time, she might create a world that would benefit everyone, not just humans. A world in which the Dalish no longer needed to run for their lives and no city elf was made to suffer in an alienage. She would do what everyone deemed impossible, and in doing so, she would put her father’s teachings to good use.

I hope you will be proud of me, then, she thinks and the pain subsides.

“Your Worship!”

It is the camp’s lieutenant, a short and sturdy human.

She turns to look at him.

“Yes?”

“Word from Seeker Pentaghast,” he tells her and salutes. “The scout says, she and the rest of your party have found the origin of the darkspawn in a cave to the south-east. Seeker Pentaghast wants to know if you care to join them.”

For a moment, Elenara ponders with the idea to send the scout back to tell Cassandra she is on her way. But then again… she still wears her armor, doesn’t she? All she needs is a new quiver full of arrows and a new set of healing potions.

“Sure,” she says and checks the fit of her gloves. She makes a mental note to talk to Harritt when she returns to Skyhold. The old smith must know where she can get the supplies to manufacture proper Dalish scouting armor. “These darkspawn will attack nobody ever again.”

With that, she straightens her shoulders, ready to face another fight.

It was time for her to become who she was always meant to be.

#dragon age #fanfiction #fanfic #da fanfiction #female lavellan #elenara lavellan #dorian #sera #backstory #mild angst

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snowflake-apocalypse · 5 years ago

Text

The Alexandria Manuscripts Caper- Revised

-Notes: I went back and edited my story, I think it’s better this time. I’ll post it on A03, too.

This would take place 4 months after “The French Connection Caper”. Devineaux was in the hospital for 2 months, and now he is taking recovery leave. Julia has been working on her own for the time being. The getaway scene could seem far-fetched, but situations can’t be perfect all the time. So for the sake of the story, that’s what I went with.———————————————————————Alexandria, Egypt.

Professor Maelstrom has orchestrated in the theft of many of the manuscripts housed in the Bibliotheca Alexandria. Claiming the modern world has lost it’s right to such knowledge. But Team Red is on the case, that’s not gonna fly. The entire retrieval goes smooth. But upon returning the manuscripts to their home..

Breaking into the museum, simple enough. Putting the manuscripts back in their cases, without setting off thermal security alarms, easy peasy. Not a soul around to offer their gratitude, but Carmen doesn’t mind, she’s used to this being her life now.

Though, unbeknownst to her, someone couldn’t sleep that night.

Due to her insomnia, restless legs, and the ever present sense of emptiness, Julia wanders the cool North African night. Stretching her legs and getting some fresh air would be good for her, she thinks.

She floats up and down the lonely, desolate streets, past cafe’s with chairs on the tables. The world is slumbering, because why shouldn’t it be?

Eventually making her way to the library, “can I never let work rest?” chastising herself. When she catches a glimpse of something moving about the library. Walking a bit closer to investigate, Julia discovers none other than La Femme Rouge, placing the manuscripts back into their homes. Restoring knowledge to the world. Disbelief that she is watching this happen first hand and a sense of satisfaction that “I was right!” wash over her.

////

Once again, Carmen is moving to make her stealthy escape. Although due to the street layout, the high security scoping the area, to include helicopters and roving guards, but not limited to the infinite number of cameras waiting for you to say “Cheese!” makes this getaway a bit muckier.

Our Lady in Red is sneaking around corners, dodging this cop, and that street light...

“Something not right.. these officers shouldn’t be here right now... Oh, man that’s a cop!” Carmen’s internal anxieties at the foremost of her mind as she almost bumps right into a guard.

“Player! I thought you said the guards would be doing shift change right now.”

“They we’re supposed to. That was the schedule in the security manager’s email. Must be an impromptu change....?”

”Oh for cryin’ out-!” Player can practically feel her eyes roll.

There’s no where to go. Carmen scrambles around a street corner, coat swishing behind her. The guard isn’t sure, but he thinks he sees something move around the corner. There’s a team of five guards down at the end of the street. She’s stuck. In a last ditch effort, Carmen backs up against the wall, schucks her hat and coat and stands really still. In her entire professional career, Carmen has never had a escape go this narrow. The guard continues his sceptic jaunt down the alley, until a voice rings out.

“Um, excuse me, sir! There are are alarms going of about three blocks from here. I think they may have been broken into.”

Jules.

Carmen moves from her spot along the wall, giving her this flabbergasted stare, like “what...” Julia gives a quick, subtle jerk of her head, silently saying “get out of here.”

The officer and Julia make their way from the alley and Carmen dashes away from the scene, coat and hat in hand. Julia sighs with relief, they go their separate ways. As Carmen is making her hasty escape, Player perks up on the line,

“Uh, what just happened?”

“I dunno.”

////

Moments later on a rooftop...

Carmen has donned her coat and hat once again, she and her other half are discussing what to make of the unexpected assist.

“I mean, why would she do that? Interpol and this ACME for all we know is dead set on catching me..so what’s the deal?”

“Maybe she remembered when you left her the Magna Carta. Maybe she doesn’t think you’re the thief everyone else thinks you are.”

Without knowing for sure, all Carmen can do is make doubtful conclusions, the city below offering no condolence.

////

Later at the Hotel Hideout..

The siblings are up, watching a movie and eating pizza, awaiting their fearless leader to return.

”Hey, Carm. How’d the drop off go?”

“Hey, Zach. Oh, there was a close call with the police... too close. But, the manuscripts are all safely back home. Team Red: One Billion, V.I.L.E: Zero.” as she snatches a slice of pizza from the almost empty box.

After changing, Carmen rejoins her friends in the living area. The three eat pizza and continue the movie. Though, Carmen’s not paying the movie any attention. She mulling over why Julia would help her. And not knowing is driving her insane. She won’t be able to rest otherwise. Abruptly getting up to retrieve her coat. Ivy pipes up,

“Where you going?”

“Out.” Carmen curtly replies.

And with that, she’s off out the window to hopefully, get some answers.

////

Back in her hotel room, after telling the police officer “Well, they were going off when I walked by.” Julia shakes her head at her ridiculous story. She’s standing by the stove, anxiously awaiting water to boil in the kettle. The vast hotel room only being lit by a small lamp. Julia’s attempts to justify her actions to her intrusive thoughts, that letting Carmen go was the right thing to do, eventually falter, she’s just too tired now. She pours the water into a mug, steeps a strong cup of earl grey, idly making her way to a chair in the corner.

////

A hop and skip away, Carmen looks carefully to the room, sees a small light on, and goes for it. She picks the lock on the window with quiet ease, silently entering the room, nearly giving Julia a heart attack, though half of her tea manages to stay in the cup.

“Sorry, sorry! I didn’t mean to scare you.” The Crimson Ghost fumbling over an apologize.

“Says the woman sneaking through the window.” Julia sits down with frustration and weariness that grew through the night, and all Carmen can do is sheepishly smile.

“I apologize for the intrusion. I just wanted to talk to you.”

“About what?” This is Julia’s sad attempt at being dismissive. She damn well knows what.

Carmen hesitates momentarily, then sits in the chair across from Julia. She draws in a deep, measured breath, and exhales, looking Julia right in the eyes. Each of her next words, like loaded bullets in a gun.

“Why did you help me?”

Now it’s Julia’s breath deep and hesitate. She reverts her eye contact before speaking,

“Because... for the longest time I believed that you didn’t just steal to steal. That you weren’t the one originally stealing. You had reasons for what you did... and tonight confirmed I was right.”

Carmen stays attentively silent as she takes in everything Julia is saying. Gears are turning, because hey, there’s someone in the law that believes in her. Then Carmen makes the realization and her expression goes soft.

“...You saw me return the manuscripts..”

Julia simply sighs, closing her eyes with a small nod. Now Carmen’s mind is racing with what now’s and what if’s, and the floor just became very interesting to look at.

Julia shakes Carmen out of her hectic thoughts,

“I never thought you were malicious, or cruel, or vile..” Carmen shooting her head up at the mention of “vile”.

“After Devineaux was kidnapped I was so afraid-“

“That wasn’t me! It was... you just have to believe that I would never do that.” Carmen exclaims, springing up from her chair in alarm.

”I know. After surveying the scene... I’m just glad your both alright.” Julia, now at peace with the situation at hand.

And with that exchange the two are now sitting in a comfortable silence for a few minutes before Julia speaks up.

“Would you like a cup of tea?”

A bit surprised at how the night turned, Carmen takes her up on the warm drink.

“Um, yes please.”

Carmen now has this goofy grin on her face when Julia turns her back. The two sit and talk some more, drink their tea. After an hour, cups are empty and minds are tired. Carmen gets up to leave through the window.

“Well, thank you for the tea...and talking. Have a good night, Jules.”

“Goodnight...Carmen.”

Carmen left before she could hear Julia speak her name. Now Julia stands alone, with a small, tired smile.

Carmen is making her way, rooftop to roof top, back to the hotel.

“So what’s the verdict? Do we have a friend on the other side?” Player inquires.

“Yeah... we just might...” A hopeful smile rests on her face.

#carmen sandeigo 2019 #julia argent #fanfic #long post #carulia #carmen sandiego #cs player

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suvaris · 5 years ago

Photo

There was something peaceful and almost meditative about tending to Eve’s garden without the use of any sort of magic. Early-summer sun beat down on her back and shoulders, and sweat beaded on her forehead and the back of her neck as she carefully weeded and planted new things. Magic, a few of Eve’s sweet words, and Washington’s hot, humid weather meant the garden bounced back to its usual, lush state in almost no time, leaving no evidence of their disastrous escape from it a month earlier. She meant this as a surprise for her friend, both in gratitude for taking care of her when she needed it and as an apology for destroying it in the first place, and so she worked with focus, her mind blank except for the awareness of the nagging exhaustion in her muscles from moving dirt and plants and rocks.

A cool breeze drew a content sigh from her lips and she paused to enjoy it, eyes slipping closed as she pulled her hair off her neck and tipped her head to the side. When the temperature drop persisted, Azra sensed something different, something more than the steady press of summer sun on her body. Thinking this new presence must be Eve, she rose, dusting dirt and potting soil from her hands as she did so, and then looked up to discover a woman lounged contentedly on the nearest bench, a woman who was nearly her exact mirror save for the sharp focus she gave everything her eyes landed on. And right now, that was Azra herself.

“Azraaa, come here!” she chirped, “What’s up, girl?”

A familiar pins-and-needles sensation built in her fingertips and toes as a bubble of panic rose from her stomach. She was a perfect duplicate, stunning and magnetic even without speaking. The sun caught her dark hair where it fell from a messy bun and shone more splendidly than Azra could have ever imagined her own looked, and despite the torn jeans and rumpled shirt, she looked utterly put-together, right down to the sharp edge of her eyeliner and soft pink of her lips. She exuded an easy confidence that Azra herself only faked on her best days, and she felt a sad tug in her chest at the idea. She wanted that more than anything.

Even still, the cold kept her present, and the idea that she spoke to her mirror image didn’t sit right. Yes, she was steeped in a world of magic that she barely understood, but never in any of her journals did her past lives recount situations like this. Talking to yourself was never a good thing, magic or otherwise.

“No, absolutely not,” she said after a stiff, uncomfortable silence.

"Relax," she said with a knowing laugh. "You gonna judge a book by its cover? Tsk tsk!" Her words carried no admonishment whatsoever. She was content no matter what Azra said or did. "Should I explain myself, or are you about to bolt?"

Azra sucked in a quick, indignant breath. “Yes, I’m going to judge a book by it’s cover when the cover is me, and you are not me,” she argued. This was nonsensical. Was she high again? Did catnip have a flashback quality like acid? Or was this her--the first. Each option that flitted through her head seemed more impossible than the last, and part of her wanted to laugh at the idea of even entertaining such thoughts. Every part of her screamed this was a dangerous lie and that she needed to get out of there--out of the lair itself--but stubborn curiosity kept her planted to the spot. “...Who are you,” she said slowly.

“I’m you, and you’re me,” the mirror replied bluntly, as though she described something as mundane as posting something to Instagram or listing items needed in an upcoming grocery trip. She blinked up at Azra innocently with familiar dark eyes before she continued. "Sort of. It's not nearly that simple but, like, it's true. I can't explain everything in perfect detail, unfortunately. There's a cute little magical wall that steals the words right out of my mouth if I try. Still, I have to warn you about what's to come. And to tell you amazing news! I know how you can get magic that isn't dependent on others."

Every word sounded more insane than the last, and it wasn’t long before Azra felt completely overwhelmed by this information. Space-time-magic-bullshit wasn’t exactly her speciality, and she doubted even Dan could explain this sort of thing in a way that would make sense. Not to mention, every time she began to relax, another soft gust of icy air raised goosebumps across her previously overheated skin and unsettled her.

“Okay, okay, okay,” Azra said, then wrapped her arms around her torso in an attempt to ward off the chill as she rocked from foot to foot. Thoughts rolled through her head without any semblance of organization, threatening to unseat her currently tenuous sense of calm. “First, if you’re me, and I don’t trust myself, why should I trust you? And why do you look--” She stopped, her lips forming a line and her eyebrows knitting. Despite the ease of not-her’s posture, the slight dishevelment still caught her eye. “Are you dead? Is this some… weird haunting by… time… something… that Dan could probably explain?”

The reflection shrugged and leaned back on her hands. "You don't have to trust me. I'm just here to give you information and offer you a choice for what to do with it. You're free to ignore me, but I gotta shoot my shot, you know?" She laughed, the sound sweet and patronizing and gentle. Azra didn’t know what to make of it. "I'm not dead! Managed to avoid that pretty narrowly. I mean, goodness, when Nadine goes nuts with black magic... Regardless, I'm not a ghost. See? I'm real." She stretched out her foot to draw a line in the dirt with her toes, and then offered a hand to Azra, palm down. "You can touch me. I'm physical, I'm here."

At the mention of Nadine, Azra’s chest tightened and she clenched her jaw. Black magic? She thought she knew everything about Nadine’s telekinesis having spent a considerable amount of time practicing, both with and without the other’s instruction. Put simply, it was movement--how could such a thing be anything but a neutral variety of magic? She unwound her arms from their folded position to tangle her fingers in her hair, and movement that began as uncomfortable rocking from foot to foot morphed into pacing the small space in front of not-her. The line in the dirt was real, and Azra had no doubt that if she touched her, she’d feel like a person. There’s curiosity in her gaze, too--her powers mimicked by touch, so what would this bring? Even still, she resisted the temptation. Normal people did not see and talk to a version of themselves.

“God, I want a drink,” she mumbled darkly. This was too much. Her double eyed her with a sympathetic expression, one deeply sincere and identical to one Azra herself had used with Dan or Nadine or Rose or Eve on numerous occasions. More questions caught in her throat and on her tongue, and she worried her lip as she studied the other. “Okay… why are you here?” she asked finally as curiosity won over worry.

At the question, mirror-Azra straightened. "The ley lines went haywire recently, right? And magic got loose and started messing up environments. It's because they act like pipelines. When there's a leak in a pipe, water gets everywhere except where it's supposed to go - basically the same thing with magic." She swept her hand around at the garden. "This place sits right on top of one of them. Fei did that so we'd always have the best conditions to learn, I guess. But... shouldn't pipes be accessible somewhere? They're there for a reason, right? To bring magic to the world. And humans are supposed to be able to access it, or we were until The Ancients took that away, anyway. So I started wondering, you know, what if there's a way to access it?" She beamed so brightly she rivaled the sun for a moment. Azra wanted to smile with her. "I found magic, Azra. Like none of us ever even dreamed of. The kind you can do anything with."

Azra’s lips moved soundlessly for a moment as she tried to understand everything. The power to do something on her own was all she’d ever wanted; every mimicry was a lesser version of someone else’s magic. Real, but an imitation. While yes, she could stack them and yield incredible results, but it wasn’t hers. Without someone else, she was useless.

And that smile… it hurt somewhere deep and primal--she wanted that. She wanted to feel at home in her skin like her double before her, radiant in the afternoon sun with confidence that rolled off her in waves. The temptation tugged something in her chest and her jaw tightened. If she could find this and then show them to use it too, maybe they’d see someone aside from the airhead staring at her phone during meetings.This opinion was somewhat her fault, too, but still… And yet, the idea of this happening during Feiyan’s absence, and the fact that their original deaths were on her hands, these were things she couldn’t ignore. And seeing yourself was never a good thing. It was too good to be true.

“Why now? Why would you tell me this now? What’s changed throughout hundreds of years of reincarnation?” she asked carefully, then inhaled deeply to steady herself before she continued. “And doing things outside our… um. Our… roles, I guess. That’s what got us killed. That’s how I got us killed, isn't it? If we do that again, won’t the ancients just permanently end us? How would that serve humanity if there’s no one to… um… keep the balance?”

Though the questions come rapid-fire and jumbled due to a mixture of distrust and anxiety, Azra’s double nodded simply and hopped to her feet, the image of a professor about to begin a lecture. Azra took a nervous step backwards, unsure if she could trust the sudden change in the physical dynamic. Thankfully, her double seemed disinterested in closing the distance between them. “We can learn from them, that’s what’s changed,” she answered simply, then began to pace. Unlike Azra, however, she moves in measured steps, the movement thoughtful and calm in contrast to Azra’s more frantic version. "And because you need to know, before bad things begin to happen. Before the others are at each others' throats. What changed is Feiyan went missing and there is more to that than I can explain, but you need this magic to find her, or else nothing will be right again. The Council falls apart. We did screw up in our first life, it's true. But it wasn't that we used too much magic. It was that we used that magic for bad things when we were supposed to be helping. So The Ancients took that magic away from us, all save one gift. But... They didn't create us, you know? The planet and its magic were here before them, and they were using this magic just like we were. So they might have had the power to take it away, but who gave them the authority? Why should that have been allowed? Humans are naturally supposed to have access to magic, just like all creatures on this planet. And I'm not by any means saying we can give it back to the world now - that just wouldn't work. People would go nuts. But we can be guardians keeping the balance and have more than what we've been rationed, can't we?"

“We need this to find Feiyan,” Azra repeated, tone even. Again, she folded her arms across her torso, hands gripping her upper arms, but this time it was a means to comfort herself rather than to ward off the cooler air that drifted through the garden. That was all she wanted, to find Feiyan, to keep her found-family together, to not die. The lattermost thought presented the problem, however. Even if this mirror was right, that they could maintain a balance and still have more power, what stopped the ancients from killing them all again for this? What if not-her was wrong?

“I…” Azra’s voice trailed off as she watched her mirror amble back and forth as she spoke. “I have a feeling the ability to wipe us out with a wave of their… h… hands? Gives them the authority,” she said finally. “There has to be another way to find Feiyan. I don’t want to die, and I don’t want to be the reason the people I love die because I got… I don’t know. Greedy? It sounds way too good to be true--too easy. Why can’t we find Feiyan without it? How would you know this anyway--are you from the future? You never… you never quite explained who you are other than me and I-- um-- it’s… people aren’t supposed to see themselves and h-have conversations.” Azra’s gaze flicked from her mirror image to random points in the garden. This other-self seemed so knowledgeable; Azra couldn’t imagine ever sounding so steady in her thoughts when she spoke, and in her opinion, her words showed it.

"I'd call that power, not authority, but I see why you're nervous about it,” not-her countered, then shrugged. "They also have to come back to do any of that to us, so... I did run the risk, I guess. You certainly don't have to. It worked out for me, though, which is why I'm here to tell you. There are probably lots of ways to find Feiyan, but we weren't getting close to any of them, that much I can say for sure. The longer everyone fought, the longer she hurt. Even when we did figure out this new magic, at first all they did was continue to fight over it. It requires a decisive hand wielding it. I wasn't really that, at first. I mean, we both know how hard it is to make a choice sometimes. Everything and anything could go wrong. And what right do we have to make those decisions? But... Nobody else was doing it, at least not well. Eventually I just got fed up with them." Azra’s eyebrows arched and she shook her head sympathetically. That feeling she knew. Every time an argument sparked in the middle of a meeting, her skin crawled and she wanted to scream. Fighting got them nowhere, and thus far, it had only managed to drive a wedge between certain members of the council. Feiyan brought them together for a reason and worked for her entire, lengthy life to maintain that bond. Splitting now when the stakes were so high would have severe consequences. Azra simply didn’t know how to bring them together. Movement caught her eye and she returned her attention to her double, who waved her hand and offered a sheepish smile. "Sorry, I got lost there for a second. None of that is really helpful, huh? Umm, what's the important thing to say... Well, I'm not really from the future, exactly, but I know you better than anyone because I am you, except I'm not like... The exact same you. I'm a slightly different you. That's the best explanation I can offer? I know it's not very helpful."

While the mirror of herself spoke, Azra craned her face towards the sky, wincing slightly at the bright, white light of the sun as it hit her face. She’d been almost too hot earlier given the combination of early-summer sunshine on her back and shoulders as well as the physical labor involved in tending a garden without the use of magic. Wrong, wrong, wrong. All of this was wrong. Her attention swung to not-her again, brows knitted as she only half-listened to her words.

“So you’re…” She trailed off and frowned deeply, thoughtfully. Azra knew she wouldn’t understand the complicated magic or physics or whatever involved in talking to another version of herself, and so she didn’t try. That didn’t make this all true, however. While still maintaining what she considered a safe distance, Azra skirted around her double until she could sit on the bench the mirror previously occupied. This conversation was far too long to remain on her feet, especially considering the gravity of what her double explained, if any of it could be believed. And… Azra had her doubts.

“It’s cold for the end of June, don’t you think?” The words came after a lengthy pause, and Azra studied the other for some sort of reaction or tell. Despite the fact that she taught herself to be adept at hiding what she felt, Azra liked to think she was good at reading people, annoyingly so if her fellow councilors were to be believed. Trying to read herself would be a challenge, and to her disappointment, her double showed no signs of faltering at her words. “...I don’t think I can do this,” she said finally. Her jaw tightened and she exhaled a breath. “Trying to take an easy way out of a difficult situation almost got us--me--killed ten years ago. I don’t… I can’t do that to myself or them or… I won’t do that. I don’t trust myself, so I can’t trust you.” She learned so many lessons the hard way during her most formative years, and this was perhaps the most important. Nothing worth fighting for or having was ever easy, and the idea of simply tapping into vast power that had always existed below her feet to solve all their problems practically screamed this lesson in her head.

The double offered Azra a sympathetic smile, and she couldn’t help but return it. Now with their positions reversed, the mirror looked down at her as she spoke, her voice almost gentle. You don't have to decide now," she offers. "I'll come back. I need a bit to get you real proof, anyway. To get past these magical barriers. You can decide then if you need." She stepped closer, standing right in front of Azra now. The nearness would have made her more uncomfortable if not for the way she looked at her. "Would that help? More time?"

God, that was the last thing she wanted. “No,” she shot back almost immediately, then winced at the sharp notes of fear in that single word. This reflection’s easy charm kept her calm and relatively comfortable, but she would rather not repeat an insane conversation with a version of herself at a later date. She didn’t want to live with a constant sense of dread over whether or not this ghost would reappear in her life with more reality-shattering information. “I… don’t… want to…” She hugged herself, arms across her torso, and canted forwards slightly without meeting her double’s gaze. “More time won’t make me trust you.”

The shift began then, with Azra’s gaze averted. The reflection’s smile gained an edge, and she leaned down towards her, her shadow falling over Azra as her head blocked the sun. The hair on the back of her neck stood on end as the tone shifted suddenly, and she refused to look at the other for fear of what she might see. Her skin crawled and the cold intensified. Run. Get out. She remained planted to her spot on the bench, eyes wide with shock as her double continued. "Do you feel alone, Azra? Helpless and powerless? Poor, poor thing. Can't even rely on yourself." The other laughed, and where earlier it had been a warm, welcome sound, it turned bitter as it clawed its way out of her throat. "Look at me. Look at what you could be if you weren't intent on being pathetic."

Azra’s gaze finally snapped to her double and she leaned away. This thing turned insidious in the blink of an eye, and it knew just how to cut her. “I’m not… alone…” she argued weakly. Doubt threaded through memories of happy times spent with Nadine or Dan or Rose or Eve and she worried her lip. Tears burned in her eyes as she tried to steady herself. That patronizing voice of her own-self hatred, the one that usually lived in her head, now spoke to her through a vessel identical to her in appearance. It was the voice that always sent her into a destructive tailspin, and now Azra white-knuckled her sense of reality in order to keep from dissolving on the spot. “I’m not you, y-you’re not me,” she whined, then hummed a terrified note as she stood quickly and took a few steps away.

“Are you sure?” Not-her is upon her with inhuman speed, the distance between them closed faster than Azra could blink and it took her breath away. She didn’t touch her, but Azra flinched all the same. Her double now dominated her presence, and Azra was powerless to run or hide from whatever it was that wore her face. The temperature dropped until each of her double’s words came with a small cloud of white vapor. "How do you know I'm not the better version of you? What proof do you have that I'm wrong here? You're weak, tamed by your time here, and when offered everything you've ever wanted with just a little effort, you fold. What a shame. And here I thought you had potential." The words dripped with venom, and a familiar, agonizing fear bubbled to the surface. It was a different person, a different voice, but the switch flipped all the same. In an instant, she was a shaking mess whose only thought centered on making it through the next five minutes.

Survive. Survive. Survive. Keep your head down and brace yourself.

“Not weak,” she choked out. Tears blurred her vision and she curled in on herself, as though to protect from a blow she expected to arrive at any moment. Insults, pain, in that order always. The cold needled and bit as it crawled across her skin. “I’m not you, I d-don’t want to… they love m-me, won’t…” She ached to argue, to tell whatever this was—because not-her definitely deserved the description now—that she wouldn’t do this and risk her family in the process. Her teeth chattered against the cold and a hiccuped, terrified sob pushed past her lips. At the way Azra bent and cowered, her double smiled triumphantly, the look monstrous on her sharp, stunning features.

"You poor thing. Maybe all this magic is too much responsibility for you." She stepped away, looking to the plants in the garden, smug like a cat sitting on a trapped mouse. "It's okay, Azra. It'll be over soon." She laughed and the timbre of her voice is too pretty, too sweet. "Be afraid now, and you won't be for much longer."

The blows she anticipated never arrived, and Azra peeked at her double now. The cold wrath seemed to recede, but her mirror image remained. There’s something in her chest that ignites at the reflection’s words, something angry and righteous, but it’s too smothered by fear and self-doubt to manifest in any way other than the shake in her hands. She wanted to argue that this was her responsibility, to make sure she didn’t repeat her first life’s mistakes and to keep herself and the other councilors from digging too deeply and too greedily. Instead, she clenched her jaw to keep it from chattering further and watched the reflection smugly idle around the garden. The threats cut too keenly for her to recover now. “Fuck you,” she says softly, and it’s the bravest thing she can manage. “I won’t do what you want.”

"You can't fight what's coming, Azra, without making hard choices," she said in eerie singsong. "All I want is to see you prosper, but that's your choice... I can't make it for you. The others might. Watch out for Nadine, and Marcella too." She laughed again. "Power goes so easily to their heads, you know. They've never had to rely on others for their strength. Just to be noticed. Do you think Nadine cares about you at all when she could toss you aside at any moment? Do you think Dan won't cut you out the moment his calculations deem you irrelevant?" She closed in on Azra again, slowly this time, savoring her fear with a smirk. "You won't matter unless you make yourself seen, or you can stand here trembling like a useless little girl. Can't be both."

Something about Dan and Nadine’s names on not-her’s tongue snapped something in Azra’s mind. It was a thing less akin to bravery or strength and instead more feral, like a cornered animal lashing out with violence as a means of self-preservation. “Get aw--” she started, then cut herself off as she moved. Without thinking, she swung twice, the first blow an unaimed, weak backhand--a warning shot--and the second a rough shove with one hand on the mirror’s upper chest and the other on her arm, palm flat against exposed skin there. The force of the push sent her back a couple of steps. Despite the strong physical reaction, tears still began to stream down her cheeks as broken, half-stifled sobs burst through her lips. “You’re not me, you’re not--” she insisted brokenly. Nadine, Dan, and Marcella were her friends, they wouldn’t hurt her, they couldn’t.

She didn’t move when Azra struck, though she is not unaffected. She raised her arm after the first blow as if to retaliate, but Azra's shove, or more specifically the hand on her arm, caught her by surprise. Her pupils blew wide, nearly engulfing her irises. "How could you?" she whispered as if Azra betrayed her trust. Her voice is pitched higher now, with - distress? Fright? The cold around them worsened, leaving the air sharp on ever inhale. "Give it back," she said in a guttural growl that no longer sounded like Azra's voice at all. "I can show you your own magic, you don't need to take mine."

The shock caught her off guard, enough to stop the tears and even her heart for a moment. The magic she mimicked pulsed wildly in her veins and she stared at her hands, then back at the impostor, who looked equally shocked. It was unlike anything she’d ever felt, but if she had to, she would liken it to the ocean. Vast, foreign, unwavering, wild. The voice that demanded she return what she took mutated to something deeply unfamiliar, especially given the reflection of herself from which it sounded. A terrified cry left Azra’s lips as she immediately turned and bolted, though clumsily. Not three steps into her retreat, she tripped and landed heavily on the grass with a force that knocked the air from her lungs and made her see stars. Close behind, her duplicate lunged with that same unnatural speed she displayed minutes earlier. Without thinking, she rolled and flicked her hand, summoning whatever magic she’d mimicked moments earlier. Rock, barrier, wall, giant lizard, anything-- The magic reacted easily despite it’s utterly foreign nature, a jagged wall of rock and earth erupted from the ground, forming a barrier six feet at its tallest between herself and her duplicate. Her duplicate shrieked, a ragged, surprised sound. It would do as a decent obstacle, but it was low enough to step over in places and not extensive, even though it did a fine job uprooting some of Eve’s newly grown gargantuan trees. It created enough of a wall to keep the monster at bay. Frost crawled across the peaks and spines of the tiny mountain range she created, and from the other side, her duplicate howled, thread of Azra's voice mixed into her now throatier, harsher cadence.

“Run, then!” Azra didn’t need to be told twice. After she stared dumbly at her hands for a moment, she scrambled to her feet with a terrified whimper and sprinted towards the house. The last thing she wanted was to see what this thing would do to remove the magic she’d accidentally borrowed. From behind the wall, the reflection breathed heavily, her hands curling and uncurling. She tilted her head, cracked her neck, and then loosed another crackling shriek before she sprinted towards the edge of the garden and faded directly into the shadows of newly-disrupted trees.

Azra would hear that shriek in her dreams for months.

#event 4 #double trouble.#y e e t #also #abuse for ts

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