#unless she dashes you against the rocks with the waves. which would suck

[notitlemp3]

@anxieteaspooks

Please reblog, I’m trying to make up a god

[mypoisonedvine]

Love, Theoretically | Sebastian Stan x reader (Chapter 8)

(chapter 1) (chapter 2) (chapter 3) (chapter 4) (chapter 5) (chapter 6) (chapter 7)

series summary: having lost your husband, sister, and best friend all to the same extramarital affair, you ran away to a secluded villa in the Hungarian countryside to write and get a little time away from the life you’d left behind.  you were only looking for peace and perhaps some inspiration for your novel, but instead you found an unlikely connection with the immigrant repairman– even though the two of you don’t speak the same language.

word count: 3.4k

warnings: smut... a minor injury... a motorcycle... a teeny tiny bit of angst?? honestly it's just pretty normal aside from the smut

You actually fell asleep without anything too untoward happening, just kissing and cuddling and whispers that didn't make much sense to each other but still made your heart flutter each time.

Waking up, though, was another story entirely.

"Arăți frumos în timp ce dormi," he mumbled into the crook of your neck, pulling your hips back so you could feel his hard cock against your ass. You hummed and snuggled up closer to him, bathing in his warmth as much as possible.

“I swear I’ve never slept so well in my life,” you mumbled as you reached back to run your hands through the hair at the nape of his neck. “I need you in my bed all the time so I can finally get some rest.”

He smiled against your skin, sucking on that spot just behind your ear that made your eyes roll back in your head. “Il vrei?” he asked huskily, and you didn’t even care what he was asking; when he said it like that, the answer was always ‘yes.’ You nodded happily, biting your lip, as he started to push your panties down and helped you arch your back so he could guide his cock to your entrance.

You still gasped and clutched at the sheets beneath you, you couldn’t help it even if it wasn’t your first time discovering how thick he was. It was just barely painful for one fleeting moment before it faded into that delightful fullness, his strokes long and slow as he sighed against your ear. “Seba,” you whimpered under your breath.

“Sunt mai bun decât el, nu-i așa? Nu te-a futut niciodată atât de bine,” he growled a little, holding you tighter. “Sper că știe. Sper că știe că am făcut dragoste cu tine și că sunt îndrăgostit de tine.”

You couldn’t be sure if it was his words in your ear or his arms so tight around your chest that made it a little hard to breathe, but something was so different about the way he was speaking now than you’d ever heard him before. It was difficult to describe— not quite angry, but so passionate it could almost seem that way. You could feel it in the way he moved inside you, too; he was clearly holding back, like there was a storm beneath his calm surface.

You wanted all of it. Turning back, you kissed him and pulled his hair a little, hoping it would get the point across. It seemed to, considering how he gasped and sped up, fucking you harder and deeper as you moaned a little louder than you meant to.

“Când a fost aici, am vrut să te sărut,” he continued in a low voice, speaking right against your parted lips. “Am vrut ca soțul tău să vadă. Am vrut să te arunc în patul ăsta și să te fac să țipi, pentru ca toată lumea să te audă. Am vrut să știe că sunt eu.”

“Yours,” you said before you could stop yourself, and thankfully you didn’t have to worry too much about the implications of it because he couldn’t understand what you meant. He grabbed your face anyways, stroking your cheek with his thumb as he stared into your eyes.

“A mea,” he purred, fucking you faster until you started to whine and arch your back harder.

“F-fuck, I’m gonna—” you stammered, but he nodded before you could finish, encouraging you with whispered words and a hand slipping down between your legs to rub your swollen clit. You cried out, instinctively reaching out to grab his arm, but he held fast and kept up the pace, sending you tumbling over the edge before you had really prepared yourself for it. Unintentionally, you held your breath for a few moments as it washed over you, the tension releasing finally with a long sigh.

The very moment you began the denouement from your peak, he pulled out and rolled you onto your back, slipping right back in as he slotted his body between your legs. You whimpered and gripped his shoulders, and he got right back to his pace— but this time your body couldn’t take as much of the force and so it began to rock the bed, his headboard slamming into the wall. At first neither of you cared until he glanced up and hissed, “rahat.”

“What?” you asked, sitting up and craning your head around to see he’d clearly damaged the wallpaper there. “Oops,” you giggled, “guess we should take a break and fix that—”

He pushed you back down onto the bed as you yelped, capturing you in a hungry kiss; one arm slipped under your shoulders, holding you tight, while the other reached up so his hand could grip the headboard and hold it still as he started to pound into you again. You moaned weakly and relaxed in his embrace, feeling the bed still rock slightly under you but much more interested in the feeling of his cock slamming right into the most sensitive and overstimulated spots inside your channel.

“Oh god,” you sighed as you couldn’t stop your head from falling back into the pillow, closing your eyes to dodge the way he stared down at you with an intensity that bordered on fury. He moved in to bite at your neck instead, and if you were any more in touch with reality you would’ve complained that you didn’t bring many clothes that would cover his bite marks, but you were much too lost in the sensation he was bringing you for that.

“Atât de bine, atât de bine,” he chanted with a growl, “voi veni… atât de aproape…”

“Yes,” you whimpered, “please, Seba— yes, right there, oh fuck!”

You came again, technically, but it was nothing like the first time— more shallow but less brief, like the pleasure was spread thinner and wider, until you worried your vision would go completely black. He grunted loudly as he filled you, still thrusting roughly with each pump of his release into you, but finally he slowed and sighed, his breaths coming hard and fast as he let go of the headboard and held you tightly.

He seemed exhausted, honestly, and you laughed breathlessly as he collapsed on top of you. “You can’t be so worn out this early in the morning,” you scolded as you kissed his shoulder.

“Nu voi mai părăsi niciodată acest pat,” he groaned.

“At least let me up so I can shower!” you protested, trying to push his limp weight off of you and failing pitifully as you laughed.

“Nu, nici tu nu vei părăsi niciodată acest pat,” he cooed, covering your face in kisses as you laughed harder. Only when you defensively pinched his arm did he pull back and pull out, letting you slip out from under him.

“I’ll be back soon,” you promised as kissed him on the cheek, dashing to the bathroom and getting one last glance at him shaking out his sore hand before you shut the door.

Chapter 38 done… only five more to go, if your outline was to be trusted (which it most certainly should not). Still, you were finally reaching the real height of the tension, the climax of the story likely to hit as soon as the next chapter.

But it wasn’t what you were expecting. It wasn’t what you thought you would write when you sat down here months ago and began with page 1. In fact, it was better.

You sighed a little, looking away from the typewriter for the first time in maybe an hour or more, glancing out the window where the sun was starting to set and painting the whole countryside in an orange glow; but it wasn’t the only thing making the leaves change colors— fall was undeniably on the way, enough so that poor Sebastian was raking leaves already. And, because evil is a real and powerful force in this world, he had started wearing a shirt while working outside.

Not that it wasn’t still buckets of fun to watch him go: you found yourself leaning against the window frame to drink in the sight of him, smiling widely to yourself as he sighed and wiped his brow.

All of a sudden, he turned and caught you ogling, making him grin and you laugh with embarrassment. He waved at you, and you waved back, resigning to getting back to work for just a few more pages…

The creaking of the stairs made you realize someone was coming, but with Sebastian just outside it could only be Mrs. Alberti. With a sinking feeling in your gut, you ran to the closet to rifle through your sweaters, hoping to find something with a high neck. Nothing looked long enough, making you groan in frustration.

She knocked on the door and you jumped slightly. “One moment!” you called out to her, digging up a random scarf and throwing it around your neck to hastily cover the bruises Sebastian had left on you. “Yes, come in,” you finally sighed with relief as you threw yourself back into the chair.

“Good evening,” Mrs. Alberti smiled sweetly as she peeked through the crack in the door, “I just wanted to offer to cook dinner here tonight. I’m making a big recipe so I figured I might as well, unless you had your own plans.”

“No, that would be lovely,” you nodded, “thank you.”

“Just come downstairs in about, oh, fifteen minutes and it’ll be ready,” she explained.

“You don’t want any help in the kitchen?”

She scoffed a little. “From you?”

You chuckled at her brutal honesty. “Okay, point taken.”

“Sorry, dear, it’s just that I wouldn’t want your… Western sensibilities to muck up the recipe,” she defended.

“I can’t blame you,” you smirked. “I’ll be down in a quarter hour.”

She nodded and shut the door again, leaving you to unwrap the itchy scarf from your neck and let out a slow breath.

Of course, with an imminent deadline you couldn’t actually get any good work done, so you just read back over some older chapters and made a couple simple edits. All too soon, you checked the clock and realized you should go ahead and make your way to the kitchen.

You took a deep breath as you stepped into the entryway where the smell of Mrs. Alberti’s cooking emanated through the rest of the house. It brought back memories of when you were here with Michael and she cooked for the both of you. Those memories were wonderful once, then soured, but now you were coming to appreciate them again. Although, it was easier to enjoy them when you imagined the black eye your soon-to-be-ex was likely sporting now.

You took a seat at the table and let her serve you, even though it made you feel a little guilty; you knew she would never let you serve yourself when she was cooking.

“How’s your novel coming along, dear?” she asked as she took her own seat and you began eating.

“Well,” you began with a little sigh, “stories have a mind of their own, Mrs. Alberti. All this time I thought I was writing a thriller— something scary, gritty, maybe even tragic. But I’m coming up on the end of it and I’m realizing that all this time, I’ve been writing a romance.”

She smiled, glancing behind you to the doorway. “Yes, things have a funny way of turning out differently than we expect.”

Wondering what she was looking at, you turned to find Sebastian leaning against the wood frame, wiping his hands on a towel. “Bună seara,” he greeted.

“Sit down, Sebastian, have some dinner,” she offered to him as she stood up to pour him a new portion of soup.

He nodded and sat at the table, “multumesc,” he mumbled when she put a bowl in front of him.

You fell into a comfortable silence after that, everyone eating their meals quietly. It was nice to have a moment of normalcy— your new normal— after such an eventful day previous.

“So,” Mrs. Alberti broke the silence unexpectedly, “you two had sex?”

You instantly spat out your sip of soup, making Sebastian give you a concerned look; you waved dismissively as if to say you were fine, though you coughed a couple times. “I… uhm— how did you—?”

“He was whistling while he gardened today,” she explained, “and you look the happiest I’ve ever seen you.”

“To be fair, I think the first thing is because he punched my husband yesterday morning,” you added with a little laugh.

“And the second thing?”

“...at least partially because he punched my husband yesterday morning,” you admitted.

“Fair enough,” she chuckled, “but don’t think I don’t see the way your shoulders aren’t so tense and you’re smiling all the time. I know a woman in love when I see one.”

“L-love?” you questioned instantly, choking on the word.

“Oh, honey,” she sighed, almost a look of pity on her face, “did you not know? It’s all over your face.”

You took a slow breath and pondered your meal before taking another bite. “No… I knew,” you admitted, “I guess you just put it really bluntly.”

She smiled. “It’s how we do things in Hungary. You should be honest with him.”

“With what words?”

“Sounds like you don’t need them,” she smirked. “I’ll leave you two be, then. You’ll have to tell me how it goes.”

She bid Sebastian goodnight with a little wave, and he nodded back happily; with the back door shut as she headed to her own house, you two were alone again. He took a sip of his soup and you finally noticed the marks on his spoon-holding hand.

“Your hand…” you realized, pointing to it, remembering with burning cheeks how he got that injury.

“Ah,” he smiled, looking down at the purple knuckles and smiling as he rubbed them gently. “Un sacrificiu demn.”

After dinner, you picked up with some reading (so much more relaxing than writing, believe it or not) and Sebastian joined you for the same on the couch.

Just laying together like this— quiet, relaxed, and totally at peace— was igniting feelings inside you that you had gone without for so long that you’d forgotten they existed completely. Resting your head on his chest, between the unbuttoned halves of his shirt, you could hear his heartbeat and it was soothing yet invigorating somehow.

He held his book up over your head while you used one hand to hold yours open and read through the space between his chest and his arm. It wasn’t the most ergonomic position necessarily, and your arm was definitely getting tired, but it was worth it to be close to him in these little ways.

"Book?" he asked innocently after a long stint of silent reading, setting his own aside to look down at you.

You closed your book and looked back up at him, resting your chin on his chest. "The book I'm reading? It's good," you nodded (as much as you could without stabbing him in the sternum with your chin, that is).

"Nu, book ta," he clarified, poking your forehead, before making a motion like he was typing.

"My book!" you realized. "Yes, the book I'm writing, it's nearly done…"

Your heart started to sink inside your chest.

"And when it's done, I'll go back to London. Like I planned from the beginning. And it'll be published and I'll start from scratch at a new life… alone.”

You cleared your throat and looked away. “Ești în regulă?” he asked quietly, sounding concerned.

You shook yourself out of it, smiling back up at him. “Let’s go into the city tomorrow,” you decided. “I need some things, if I’m going to be staying longer…”

He seemed to appreciate that you were telling him something, but couldn’t determine what. “Nyíregyháza,” you explained, “let’s drive into the city.” You pantomimed a steering wheel to explain yourself better.

“Ah,” he nodded, “nu într-o mașină. Îmi luăm bicicleta.” He returned with the motion of steering a bike— and when he curled his fingers to rev the proverbial engine, you realized he meant a motorbike. “Motocicletă,” he smiled.

“You drive a motorcycle?” you realized with a little gasp.

“Da,” he grinned, a little more mischievous than before.

“Oh, you really are gonna be the death of me,” you laughed. “Let’s go see this bike of yours.”

He helped you up off the couch and escorted you to the shed across from the house, the last light of sunset just barely enough to illuminate the way. You knew he worked in here sometimes, but you never realized he was doing mechanic work— indeed there it was: a motorcycle, right by Mrs. Alberti’s car, clearly quite old but restored to decent condition. “Iată-o, fetița mea,” he announced as he raised his arms to present it to you.

“Wow, you’ve been working hard,” you realized as you looked around at all the parts and tools strewn about.

“Avea nevoie de un alternator nou și ceva de lucru în interiorul motorului, dar acum funcționează la fel de bine ca nou... dacă nu chiar mai bine,” he enumerated as he knelt down in front of it, grabbing a towel to rub a spot of dirt from the headlight. “Vrei să conduci acum?”

You tilted your head.

“Acum,” he repeated, standing up and pulling you closer, tilting his head back toward the bike. “Sa mergem acum.”

“You want to go for a drive now? It’s pretty late, I was about to go to bed,” you protested meekly.

“Haide,” he smiled, stepping back and pulling you with him. “Plimbare pe spate.”

He handed you a helmet that had been resting on one of the handlebars, and you dutifully put it on as he got on the bike and fiddled around with it for a moment, kicking out the kickstand and finding his balance before getting it to start with a roar that echoed around the shed. He beamed proudly, looking up at you. “Eh?” he prompted with a nod.

“Yeah, it sounds great,” you encouraged with a thumbs up.

“Ce mai face casca?” he asked, leaning forward to knock his fist on your helmet lightly, making you laugh.

“Yeah, it’s good,” you nodded.

“Atunci alătură-te mie,” he instructed as he patted the seat behind him. You took a quick breath and got on, wrapping your arms around him. “Mai strâns,” he mumbled, pulling your arms in to hold him tighter. You smiled and rested your head on his back, yelping slightly when the bike lurched forward and he steered you out of the shed and into the grass outside. He was very slow at first until he steered to the gravel road, at which point he instantly picked up speed until the wind whipped at your face. His unbuttoned shirt was flying in every direction, leaving him totally unprotected from the night air, but he didn’t seem to mind, holding fast as he took you down the road, hugging the turns letting the headlight illuminate only as much as he needed to see.

When you looked up, you could see the stars more clearly than ever. You sighed and hugged him tighter, amazed at how they didn’t move at all while the world on the ground flew by. It made sense, obviously, with them being millions of miles away, but it was jarring how different the speed of the world could look from different perspectives. And as exhilarating as it was to see the countryside roll by in a blur, you preferred the steady night sky; you didn’t want to think about this moment flying by, about the fleeting nature of all of this. You wanted to believe this would always be here, just like the stars. You wanted to focus on the things that would never leave you, the moments that would become lifelong memories, and not on the reality of how beautiful things are not usually permanent things.

“I love you,” you whispered against his ear, quiet enough for your words to be blown away into the night. A small tear left a hot trail on your chilled skin, blown back over your temple instantly by Sebastian’s acceleration.

In silence, you drove into the unknown with him, letting yourself forget about the rest of the world for just a little while longer. You deserved that.

[kpopfanfictrash]

Zephyr

Author: kpopfanfictrash

Pairing: Jungkook / Reader

Word Count: 2,696

Rating: PG-13

Summary: An accompanying drabble to Exes and Supher-o’s. This drabble takes place before the events of Exes and Superher-o’s and follows Jungkook as he’s rescued by a superhero love interest.

A/N: The reader in this drabble is not the reader in Exes and Superher-o’s.  

[ PART OF MY JUNGKOOK BIRTHDAY DRABBLE GAME ]

While standing in line at the check-out counter, Jungkook examined the oranges he’d picked out in his basket. Idly, he recalled Minutia saying the color orange came after the fruit, not before. She loved to spout factoids like that; Jungkook did a pretty good job of tuning her out, but her random facts always seemed to stick in his head.

Minutia was the superhero Jungkook was assigned to as handler. She was fairly loud, fairly opinionated and fairly dedicated to kicking people’s ass on the regular.

She’d mentioned the orange fact when ISA – International Superhero Agency – had recommended Minutia change her superhero suit color to orange. She’d felt very strongly about this and in the end, Minutia had won. 

Usually, she did.

Realizing the line before him had moved, Jungkook took a step forward. No longer distracted by thoughts of the color orange, he took the opportunity to scan the grocery store around him.

It was a habit of his – an unfortunate side effect of both his job and the knowledge which came from it. After high school, Jungkook attended an elite military academy on the east coast, but it only took six months before ISA found him.

He’d been out for a morning run when two men in suits cornered him for what they called an opportunity. They’d explained about a different path than the military; an alternative from merely serving his country. Both agent and handlers at ISA held no national loyalty – they merely protected civilians from absolute evil.

Barely had the offer left their mouths before Jungkook accepted.

Of course, Jungkook learned soon after superhero handlers were little more than baby-sitters, but that was beside the point. He genuinely cared about Minutia and knew the work they did together was important – even if his position kind of sucked, since Jungkook was more than capable of defending himself.

Handlers were required to be proficient in various martial arts; they often trained the newbie superheroes who arrived at the Agency. Jungkook was a ninth-degree black belt in Taekwondo, a red belt in Jiu Jitsu and a tenth-degree black belt in Judo. He also had a blue belt in Krav Maga, but this had more to do with lack of time than capability. Jungkook could assemble and disassemble most weapons in the time it took most people to fire them, but all that meant nothing in the face of superpowers.

Minutia could simply freeze Jungkook and kill him if she wanted to; he’d never see it coming.

Not that Minutia would kill him, of course. Stifling the image, Jungkook moved up in line. His super was relentlessly moral, even if she had some rough edges and enjoyed pushing boundaries.

It was the rest who worried Jungkook, like the supervillains they fought. Aided by supernatural powers, supervillains were capable of great destruction. It was the main reason Jungkook stayed at his job – if anyone stood a chance against supervillains, it was superheroes.

“Bag?”

Surprised, Jungkook looked up. “Huh?”

“Bag,” the cashier girl repeated, rolling her eyes. “Do you want a bag?”

“Oh – no.” Jungkook shook his head. “I have my own. I –”

An explosion rocked the street outside, shattering the windows in a hailstorm of glass.

On instinct, Jungkook dove to protect the rude cashier with his body. There was bulletproof lining beneath his clothes, for which he was grateful. He’d just come from shooting practice at Headquarters and hadn’t had a chance to change out of his gear.

Glass harmlessly bounced off his torso, although a few shards sliced his face, leaving blood as he winced. Reaching up to grip counter, Jungkook surveyed the damage.

All the windows of the supermarket had been blown in. The blast seemed to have originated from the street – at least, Jungkook assumed this based on the direction of people running.

“Stay down!” he yelled, and launched himself over the counter.

People obeyed, crawling towards the store’s interior aisles. Jungkook hoped there was a door in the back, otherwise they’d trap themselves like fish in a barrel. He wasn’t surprised when people followed his command. People tended to respond positively to authority in times of chaos.

Yanking a Glock from his jacket, Jungkook dashed from the store. Cocking his head to one side, he surveyed the street for danger.

There – at the end of the block, he saw a cloud of dust settling.

Keeping his gun steady, Jungkook rushed towards the scene. Halfway there, he realized he’d left his groceries behind and nearly groaned. Oh, well, it couldn’t be helped. Such was the life of superheroes and handlers.

As though in response to his thought, someone emerged from the chaos.

Only one person; tall, with hulking muscles and what looked to be three arms. Nope, wait – that was machine gun. Fuck.

Jungkook lunged to the side as the man opened fire. Luckily, much of the street was deserted from the blast and few people were hurt. Propping himself up on one knee, Jungkook squinted from behind an overturned car and fired.

Five shots, each in quick succession aimed at the man’s torso. Three of them hit, sending the man to his knees, only for him to snarl, his gaze snapping upwards.

Jungkook watched in horror as the bullet wounds began to heal, pushing metal from flesh with alarming speed.

Of fucking course, he was a supervillain.

Flipping around, Jungkook pressed his back to the car and considered his options. He should call for Minutia, or another super – teeth gritted, Jungkook pushed this option aside. He could do this on his own; this was a fight he could win.

Winning against rejuvenation wasn’t unheard of for someone like him. It meant his opponent healed abnormally fast from their injuries, but they could be overwhelmed if Jungkook kept up momentum.

Before he could finish this thought, the car Jungkook sat against flipped overhead.

Eyes wide, Jungkook watched it crash and roll down the street. A small crowd darted away as they screamed and Jungkook stifled an eye roll. Civilians were so predictable. They never got out of the way like they should; instead, they pressed closer and tried to video it all on their cell phones.

Twisting around, Jungkook found the supervillain grinning at him while he flexed a muscle.

The machine gun lay discarded in a pile of rubble. Jungkook’s heart sank, since it meant the villain was out of ammo, which likely meant he’d been using it in other locations.

When the villain wrenched a storm grate from the ground, Jungkook came to his senses. Survival was priority number one. Fighting someone with only rejuvenation would’ve been hard enough; it would be near impossible to fight someone with rejuvenation and strength.

Rolling away, Jungkook managed to escape said trajectory of the grate.

Metal smashed into the space he’d just occupied, leaving a human-sized dent in the pavement. Flipping himself upwards, Jungkook shot as he moved. This was a move best left to the movies, unless you happened to be an obsessed-with-video-games-superhero-handler trained in four different kinds of martial arts.

Jungkook was just that. 

“Catch me if you can!” he yelled, taking off down the street.

He zig-zagged as he moved, craning his neck to peer overhead. The new plan was: keep the villain’s attention on Jungkook until help arrived, which wouldn’t be long. Given the immediacy of the destruction, ISA would likely dispatch someone with the ability to fly.

All he had to do was stay alive until then. Smirking a little, Jungkook dug in his heel and spun around.

Luckily, he had a few tricks up his sleeve.

Pushing up the sleeve of his jacket, Jungkook waited until the villain was within fifteen feet, then pressed a button. 70 mA of electrical current shot out from his wrist, arcing with blue-white light to hit the villain in the chest. A product created by Namjoon, otherwise known as the superhero, Brainblast.

The volt was enough to stun or kill any other man, but the villain simply gasped and sunk to his knees.

He writhed for a moment, clawing at skin which simultaneously burned and healed. The distraction was all Jungkook needed to run, aiming his gun and – someone swooped down to blast the villain back with air.

A smirk on your face, you lowered both hands to your sides.

Jungkook skidded to a stop. Your superhero alias, Zephyr, was one of the most popular superheroes on the face of the planet. Intelligent, formidable, and rated a seven on the ISA power scale, despite only having one superpower: control over the air and winds.

You were also ridiculously hot; Jungkook had harbored a crush on you for years.

He still remembered the day you arrived at the Agency. Higher-ups said Zephyr (the Greek god of the west wind) was traditionally a male name and wouldn’t make sense to serve as your moniker. You’d said to fuck off and written it down anyways.

This memory made Jungkook smile, even as you sent another wave of wind down the street. Shaking his head, he pulled himself back to reality.

Hovering a few feet off the ground, wind whipped at your hair. You’d explained to him once you didn’t really fly – it was more the wind currents obeyed your commands and took you where you needed to go. Jungkook didn’t really get the difference, but he couldn’t deny you looked badass doing it.

While the villain struggled to stand, you glanced down at Jungkook.

“You alright?” you asked, concern evident in your voice.

Jungkook tried not to frown. “I’m fine,” he said, despite the disheveled state of his hair and clothes. “I had him, you know.”

“Right.” Your expression turned dubious. “It’s just that –”

You were cut off by said villain throwing a car at your head, which you managed to stop with a thrust of your hand. The winds obeyed your command, wrapping around the car to set off to one side. 

Gaze narrowed, you rose even higher. “It’s not that you’re not capable!” You yelled to be heard over the wind. “But –”

A sewer grate flew through the air and, without turning, Jungkook shot it down from the sky. Pieces rained around them like confetti.

You stared at him, wide-eyed. “Right.” Sheepish, you smiled. “Just keep doing that. Distract him and I’ll try to knock him out. Keep him alive, though!”

Jungkook nodded, giving a grim smile before moving forward.

He broke into a run, alarmed by how fast the villain seemed to heal. Even if two supers had the same power, they tended to vary in intensity. This villain must be rated high even without his super strength.

The device on Jungkook’s arm wouldn’t recharge for another five minutes, so he relied on his gun to keep the villain occupied. A shot to the kneecap; another to his shoulder. Keeping your words in mind, Jungkook tried not to hit anything vital. Even rejuvenation might not be enough to heal the man if he shot him in the heart.

High above, you flew gracefully upwards. Jungkook nearly stopped to stare; you arced through the sky like a dancer, claiming the winds as though you owned them. Caressing the breeze with one hand, you turned around and – fuck.

Jungkook had let himself get distracted. Swearing aloud, he dove behind the nearest car and heard something shatter.

Rolling to the other side, he propped himself up on one knee and shot. The villain yelped, stumbling forward as the bullet hit his elbow.

This time, it took greater concentration for metal to be squeezed from his skin. The villain panted as he stood, clearly winded and Jungkook’s heart leapt, realizing they’d tired him out.

This turned out to be the opening you needed.

Swooping down, you reached out a hand, and – wind whipping about like a force field – slowly closed your palm.

The villain gasped, his eyes going wide as he clutched his throat.

Shakily, Jungkook pushed himself upwards to stand.

One of the most dangerous powers associated with air manipulation was creating a vacuum. You achieved this by removing the air entirely; a feat which required great skill and concentration.

It only took a few minutes for the man to be so deprived of oxygen, his eyes rolled backwards. His legs wavered a second, then he slumped to the ground.

“Saoirse!” you yelled, floating down. “Cuffs!”

A woman with red hair – your handler, Jungkook presumed – ran from the nearest subway station to quickly cuff the man’s hands behind his back. Jungkook could see the moment the villain’s power drained from his limbs.

Standing before them, you watched, although it seemed to pain you.

Picking his way through the wreckage, Jungkook came to a stop by your side. Glancing your way, he noticed the breeze continue to play with your hair, as though it couldn’t bear to be parted for long.

“Do you ever wonder what this does to us?” 

Confused by your question, Jungkook blinked. “What do you mean?”

“This,” you said, waving a hand at the wreckage. In the distance, Jungkook could hear sirens screaming. “All the death, the destruction… even the people on the other side. Does it ever hurt you sometimes?”

Jungkook stared at you for a moment, unsure how to respond.

Truthfully, it did bother him when he saw himself in the villains they faced. Sometimes he was fighting genuine evil, but occasionally the villains had reasonable grievances – worse, sometimes they’d merely been raised to see the ISA as evil.

Jungkook couldn’t bring himself to hate those kinds of villains and yes, it did hurt when he took them out.

Sensing his hesitance, your shoulders slumped. Jungkook’s stomach twisted, wanting to fix whatever it was you were feeling. He hesitated, wanting to say you weren’t alone.

“Never mind,” you said, managing to smile. ��Another bad guy defeated, right?”

“Right.” Jungkook’s gaze remained upon yours. “I guess.”

Before you could say anything more, Saoirse called your name.

“Guess I should go,” you said, rising into the air. When you glanced his way, Jungkook found himself wondering what you were thinking. “I… thanks for helping today, Jungkook.”

“Anytime.”

This time when he smiled at you, it was genuine.

You rose another few feet, then hesitated. “It’s been awhile since I came by the training arena, huh?” 

Jungkook shrugged, as though he hadn’t noticed, but he had. Of course, he had.

“You’re still the one they’ve got training the new recruits?”

“Yep,”

“Hm.” A small smile crossed your lips. “Maybe I should stop by. Show the newbies how it’s done. We could work up a sweat.”

Jungkook’s heart nearly stopped when you dropped him a wink. Before he could speak, you rose further into the air.

“Bye, Jungkook!” you called, and zipped off down the street.

The sound of your voice faded into the sounds of the city and Jungkook stood there another moment before coming to his senses. His phone began to ring in his pocket.

Fumbling for the device, he sighed when he saw the name on the ID.

“Hello?” he said, lifting the phone to his ear.

“YOU’RE ALIVE.”

Wincing, he held the phone further away. “Minutia?”

“Who else would it be? Of course, it’s me, you idiot! I had just gotten my morning coffee and was passing that pizza place when I happen to catch a glimpse of the TV – and what do I see? You, fighting a fucking supervillain alone!”

“I wasn’t alone,” Jungkook shot back.

“Yeah, those cowering civilians looked real intimidating.”

“Zephyr showed up at the end, it was fine.”

“Oh,” she said, somewhat mollified. “Alright, then. She’s cool. But seriously, JK – be more careful, would you? I don’t know what I’d do without you.”

Pulling his hand away, Jungkook squinted at the receiver. “Huh?” he said, returning the device to his ear.

“Yeah, who’d pick up my dry cleaning?”

“Bye,” Jungkook grunted, and hung up the phone.

Still, he smiled as he turned to walk down the street. People stared as he passed, pointing and whispering about the state of his clothes. Jungkook heard the word super being muttered, although he didn’t bother to correct them.

He was too busy turning your words over again in his mind. Does it ever hurt you sometimes?

The truth was it did. All the time.

He just didn’t know if there existed a better path than the one he was on.

© kpopfanfictrash, 2020. Do not copy or repost without permission.

[is0gild]

Ice Cream and Fire Oven Pizza - Chapter 9

Pairing: Elsa x Lea/Axel || Side Pairing: Riku x OC

Summary: Modern AU. She's an introvert ball of nerves who works at Ice Palace, a mall food court ice cream shop. He's the outgoing, sassy goofball who works at the Pizza Planet across the way. Hilarity, snark, and fluffy romcom hijinks ensue.

Word Count: 6,398

FIRST CHAPTER || PREVIOUS CHAPTER || NEXT CHAPTER

Credit for super friggin’ cute and super friggin’ amazing cover art goes to the super friggin’ talented ky-jane here on tumblr!

“What’s with the sour face? I know your idea of fun on a Friday night is locking yourself up alone in your room all by yourself, but come on! Going out with a few peeps for a night on the town ain’t gonna kill ya!”

I heaved out a sigh as Anna turned us into the same parking lot we’d just seen Xion’s car go into. “It’s not that, I just… I thought it was only going to be the two of us tonight. We haven’t seen each other since… well, you know… and so much has happened and I just wanted a nice evening, just you and me, talking and catching up.”

“And we can still do that,” she nodded, pressing a couple buttons on her dashboard. As the convertible’s top started to rise and all the windows slid back up, she parked in an open spot right beside Xion’s little blue Prius and powered down the engine. “But now we get to party at the same time! Besides, this way I can meet all of your new friends too!”

Snatching my Ice Palace cap off my head and tossing it into the back seat, I gave a tiny huff. “These people aren’t my friends.”

A couple of loud thuds against the left side of the car made us both jump in our seats before glancing to the source. Roxas and Xion had smooshed their noses up against the door windows, mouths wide open, lips suctioned against the glass and cheeks puffing in and out as they made funny faces at us. Anna snorted then burst out laughing, asking me, “Do they know that?”

“I wasn’t talking about those two. Lea and them are my friends. Well…” I snagged a pale tendril of my hair to twist around my finger as I worried my bottom lip between my teeth. “...sort of…it’s all still very new...” Then I shook my head and tightened my ponytail. “In any case, I meant everyone else that’s going to be at this thing. They’re not my friends because I don’t know any of them.”

“So this is how you get to know them,” she grinned, nudging her shoulder into mine. “Come on, sis, this’ll be fun! I promise!”

“Don’t go making promises you can’t keep,” I grumbled.

Just then, we watched Lea go sliding across the hood of Anna’s Porsche in one smooth motion, bringing him to my side so he could open the car door for me. He bent into a half-bow, sweeping one arm out with a smile, “M’lady.”

Anna giggled. “Ooooo, such a gentleman! I don’t believe I’ve gotten your name yet.”

“Lea,” he leaned into the car, stretching across me to shake hands with her. Once again, I caught the faint whiff of cinnamon and had to resist the urge to squirm at his closeness. He smirked at her and winked, “Also answer to Mr Hottie-With-A-Body.”

...so he had heard that.

Great.

Just dandy.

My kingdom for a rock to crawl under right now.

“And you would be the sister, I take it?”

She grinned, “Anna. I’m thinking I like you already, Mr Hottie-W-”

I discreetly pinched her arm, shutting her up.

He didn’t seem to notice as he looked past her to where the other two were still making like a pair of pufferfish against the glass. “And those gremlins out there are Xion and Roxas. They’re harmless, just don’t ever feed ‘em after midnight. Hey!” he raised his voice so they could hear him. “Knock it off already, twerps!” They both pulled away, Xion hiding a snigger behind one hand while Roxas razzed his tongue. Shaking his head, the smile returned as Lea at last backed out of the car to straighten up again, “Well then, shall we?”

To my credit, I only hesitated for a second before exiting the vehicle, tugging at the hem of my skirt slightly as I stepped out onto the asphalt. Ugh, I hadn’t even had a chance to change out of my work clothes before getting sucked into all of this, so I didn’t even have the small consolation of being dressed comfortably. My eyes followed Xion and Roxas as they ran ahead to 7th Heaven, or so the gigantic, yellow neon sign hanging above the door proclaimed.  It was a rustic, wooden building with a small set of stairs leading up to the wraparound patio. There was a warm glow coming through the fogged windows and muffled music could be heard from within.

Anna pushed a button on her key fob and the Porsche beeped as all its doors locked. Then she latched onto my arm, practically skipping as we made our way to the entrance. Lea dashed out in front, taking the steps two at a time and holding the door open for us. As we climbed up onto the deck as well, I could now hear the murmur of voices and laughter coming from inside as well. I gulped, my stomach sinking.

If it weren’t for Anna clinging to me like a two ton anchor, I’d probably have made a break for the hills by now.

And she knew that, which was exactly why she was doing it.

Traitor.

And so it was that I, with little choice or say in the matter, was dragged by my sister into the dreaded bowels of El Diablo.

...I’m not sure what I’d expected to hear upon descending into the terrifying Underworld, but it certainly hadn’t been the perky pop beat of Barbie Girl.

A strange, but oddly fitting soundtrack for eternal damnation.

The music was coming from a small stage all the way in the back of the place where some young woman was badly singing karaoke under spotlights. Between us and her was a massive, dimly lit room packed with tables and people cheering her on as they drank their presumably alcoholic beverages. Off to one side was a long bar, crowded with customers and tended by a brunette who, ahem… could only be described as the very epitome of the term ‘one busty babe.’ The wall opposite the bar was lit up with flashing lights from a row of retro pinball and arcade machines.

“We usually stake out one of the back corners for ourselves and spread out from there,” I barely heard Lea say over all the noise. I glanced back at him to see him squinting as his eyes scanned the darkness before his face brightened and he pointed off to our right. “Over there! Follow me.”

Anna gave my arm a reassuring squeeze and I replied with a thin, shaky smile.

There were just... so… many… people.

We navigated through the throng behind Lea, his blazing hair like a guiding light in the shadows, showing us the way. With every step we took, the knots in my gut pulled tighter and my knees grew numb.  This was it. It was time…

...to mingle.

(Shudder.)

The three of us came to a stop at a large table. Half the people seated were all still in their work duds too, making me feel a little better about my attire, but not by much. Everyone looked up to warmly greet Lea before all eyes turned to me and I resisted the urge to shrink behind Anna. “Hey guys!” Lea shouted over the roar of the pub. “This is Elsa and her sister, Anna! El here is the newest scoop slinger at Ice Palace, so you’ve probably already seen her around.”

“So you’re the fresh meat,” one woman smirked at me. I recognized her from the greek food place that was Ice Palace’s neighbor. “Pleasure. Name’s Megara. My friends call me Meg.”

“Tiana,” the girl sitting next to her in a cute green dress smiled.

“She’s a server at that lil Cajun grill also in the food court,” Lea supplied before cocking his head at her. “Boyfriend couldn’t make it tonight?”

She immediately frowned and averted her gaze. Meg gently pat her on the back, shooting him a tiny scowl, “Smooth move, ya knucklehead. They broke up.”

“Oops,” he chuckled awkwardly. “Hey, don’t sweat it, Tiana. You know what they say - gotta kiss a few frogs and whatnot.” Crickets from the table. “Heh, get it? Cuz you work at… aw, too soon?” He cleared his throat, “Oookay, moving on! Next, I’m sure you’ve seen these three over at Lucky Cat.” He waved a hand towards a familiar blue-haired chick, her stocky coworker with slicked back, chocolate locks, and what I was guessing was Roxas’s doppelganger, not Roxas himself. Lea pointed to each in turn, “Aqua, Terra, and Ventus.”

“You’re the place with the super sweet tabby I got to cuddle earlier!” Anna said excitedly.

Aqua laughed, “That’s Chirithy, Ven’s pet. He likes to bring him into work sometimes. The cat’s so well behaved, management doesn’t mind.”

Ventus scratched the back of his head with a lopsided grin. “Yeah, I’m lucky. He’s sorta become the unofficial mascot of our café.”

“Then Grumpy-Pants over here is Squall and-”

“That’s Leon,” a guy with a scar slashed across the bridge of his nose corrected with a growl into his beer.

“Riiiiiight, forgot you were rebranding,” Lea snerked. “He works over at Buster’s Swords, the replica weapon shop in the mall. And last but most certainly not least, this little one here is Naminé,” he indicated a petite blonde sitting between Ven and Leon, who gave a shy wave. “When she’s on the clock, you can find Nams at The Crayon Box for all your art supply needs.”

“Lovely to meet you both,” she nodded at us. “We’re currently rooting on our friend Ariel,” she pointed to the stage. It was only now upon second glance that I recognized the girl up there currently murdering Barbie Girl as the redhead from the fish store. 

Lea winced as a particularly bad note was hit before he snorted. “Girl’s usually got a voice that’d put mythical sirens to shame, but she’s just getting over a cold. Couldn’t talk for three days. Now that she’s started getting it back, there’s no keeping her away from the mic. RIP eardrums.” Then he clapped his hands together once, “Alrighty, on to Table Numeros Dos!”

...numeros dos?

As in more than one? As in this wasn’t it? As in more people?

If I survived this night, it’d be a miracle.

At least the first table hadn’t been too bad. Everyone else had done all the talking, which was a-okay by me.

...unless… crud, did they think I was boring now? Or worse, that I was sticking my nose up at them? Well I wasn’t! Trust me, there was absolutely zero nose sticking up going on here! My nose was down! Way, way, way down! So far down, it was past the secret civilization of mole people and halfway to China by now!

Dammit, only five minutes in and pretty sure I was already screwing everything up. And I hadn’t even done anything yet!

Lea shifted a couple steps over to an adjacent booth against the wall and Anna followed, tugging me into a stumble after her. Grabbing the attention of this new group, he announced, “Yo, everyone! I’d like ya to meet-”

“Elsa?”

I locked eyes with a golden gaze I knew all too well at this point and blinked. “Rayne?”

She scrambled out of the booth to hurl herself at me and I staggered to stay upright under the sheer might of her hug. Then I heard her gasp, “Anna too?! Get in here, girl!” I grunted as Anna dogpiled into the embrace. “Haven’t seen you since you were an ankle biter at summer camp! What are you doing here?! In fact, what are you both doing here?”

“What are we doing here?” I repeated incredulously as we all pulled apart, my eyes flicking down to her belly then back up. “What are you doing here? Did you forget you’re, uh… drinking for two now?”

A squeal from Anna, “Oh my gawd, Ray-Ray, your friggin’ preggers?! Congratulations! Who’s the lucky stud who knocked dat fine ass of yours up?”

My sister, ladies and gentleman. Ever the classiest of dames.

Rayne turned, yanking her husband out of the booth and onto his feet beside her. Wrapping her arms around his waist, she smiled smugly. “This is Riku. Riku, meet Anna, Elsa’s little sister. And don’t worry,” she turned her attention back to me, rolling her eyes, “all my drinks are virgin.”

“Though Ray is what you might call an empathic drunk,” Riku snerked, slinging an arm around her shoulders.

I quirked an eyebrow, “A what?”

“The more people get liquored up around me, the drunker I get without sipping a single drop. It’s an odd phenomenon, I don’t do it on purpose, but not complaining either. All the perks of intoxication, none of the hangover!” Then she furrowed her brow at me, “But no, seriously, what are you doing here? This ain’t exactly your scene.”

“I kinda kidnapped her,” Anna hummed out a tiny, evil laugh. “She’s my hostage tonight. She’s gonna have fun whether she likes it or not!”

I was firmly in the “or not” camp.

Rayne grinned at her, folding her arms together, “Then that brings us back around to what you’re doing here… where did you even come from?”

As the two of them began to catch up while Riku listened in, Lea snagged my elbow, pulling me over closer to the booth once more. 

Oh. Right. Socializing. I’d almost forgotten.

Ahhh forgetting. T’was a better, simpler, blessed time. Now, as I was presented with another small horde of new faces, I felt my heart rate spike and my chest tighten as the butterflies battled for dominance in my stomach again.

So be it. Once more into the breach! Come on, Elsa, you can do this!

“Now then, before I was so rudely interrupted-”

“Shove it, Red!” my roommate snapped.

“Screw off, Raindrop!” He stuck his tongue out at her, then sniggered to me, “Remember, verbal abuse says you care! Anyway, I’m sure you’re already very familiar with this mall rat we all know and love, given he’s almost a big an ice cream junkie as I am.” Sora beamed up at me from his seat. “But have you met this half-pint’s amazing, intelligent, beautiful and might I add way out of his league girlfriend, Kairi?”

He was gesturing to a pretty redhead dolled up in pink who smirked around the straw in her drink as she glanced out of the corner of her eye at Sora beside her. “Any comment to that?”

He shrugged, leaning back as he laced his fingers behind his head and his already impossibly huge smile somehow managed to get even wider. “Can’t argue facts!”

“She, like her boy here, is also a local mall rat, but we take pity on these poor schmucks who have nothing else in their pathetic, empty lives and let them hang out with us cool kids whenever we all get together like this,” Lea teased.

“Hey now, ex-mall rat!” she harrumphed before proudly puffing up her chest. “You’re looking at Mickey’s newest hire as of today!”

Lea arched an eyebrow, “No shit, really? Congratz, princess! Welcome to the crush of the daily grind. It sucks! Enjoy!”

Kairi snorted. “Please, it won’t be all that terrible. I’m gonna work a counter in the jewelry department. I can already tell my favorite part’s gonna be helping customers with the charm bracelets. Look!” she jangled the band she was wearing around her wrist before lifting up one of the little trinkets dangling from it. “This one looks like a thalassa shell star from my home, Destiny Islands!” Then she narrowed her eyes at Sora, one corner of her lips quirking up. “Now if only this lazy bum would get a job too, we’d be set!”

“Gimme a break, Kairi, I’m working on it!” Sora half whined, half laughed.

“Uh oh, do I smell trouble in paradise? We’ll leave the two lovebirds to it then,” Lea then turned my attention to a slender chick with short black hair sitting next to Kairi, who waggled her fingers at me with a crooked grin. “This is Yuffie! She works with Squ- ‘scuse me, Leon over at Buster’s Swords.” He lowered his voice to a whisper behind his hand, “She likes to steal the merch for her own personal amusement.”

She scoffed, “You shut your whore mouth, I don’t steal! I just… borrow for quality testing! I’m doing a community service here, really!”

He shook his head, “Uh huh, sure, whatever you say. So what’s on the menu for today?”

Couldn’t tell from where exactly, but she suddenly pulled out a pair of ninja stars as her lips curved wickedly. “Shurikens!”

“Nope!” Leon pressed one hand to the edge of his table, leaning his chair back onto its hind legs so he could stretch an arm across the booth and snatch the weapons from her grasp.

“Hey!” she lunged after them but only ended up faceplanting into her own table. “Give those back, jerkface!” He ignored her, just taking another swig from the bottle in front of him. “Wow, rude much?!”

This place was an absolute madhouse.

 “Oof, that’s rough! Better luck next time,” Lea consoled her before pointing to the next person wedged into the booth, a girl with a blue bow tying back her brown hair. “And here we have Belle! Total bookworm, so no surprise her nine-to-five’s at Enchanted Castle Books.” She didn’t acknowledge us, just stared dreamily off into space while absently stirring the liquid in her glass with a straw. Lea sighed, “Yeah, she’s a real head-up-in-the-clouds sort.”

“I got this,” Yuffie chimed in before using a hand to shade her gaze as she raised her voice, “Hey, is that Gaston I see?”

Belle snapped out of it, eyes round in horror as she gasped, “Where?!” before ducking down to use the table for cover.

As Yuffie cracked up, Kairi swatted her in the shoulder, “Mean!”

“Gaston’s the local musclebound, meathead neanderthal who’s set his sights on Belle as his next conquest,” Lea explained.

“Don’t worry, sweetie,” Yuffie’s eyes gleamed as she produced a third metal star. “I’ll make sure he never bothers you again.”

“For the love of- another one?!” In a quick blur of movement, Leon had once again confiscated her toy, much to her dismay.

“Finally,” Lea jumped in once again, clapping his hand down on the shoulder of a carrot-top sitting on the end with giant purple headphones covering his ears, “this regular chatterbox is Neku, who gets his paycheck from Towa Records, the lil music store around the corner from the food court.”

Yuffie huffed, “I dunno why Orangeylocks even bothers to show up to these things since,” she leaned across the table to lift up one of his hulking muffs and yell into his ear, “he never bothers to take the stupid ‘phones off!”

He slapped her hand away with a glare and said nothing, simply crossed his arms and slouched further down into his seat.

Still I hadn’t said a word to anyone besides Rayne. Partly because all the anxiety was squeezing my throat shut - trust me, the terror was real. But even if I had been brave enough to actually make small talk with this pack of total strangers, it was impossible to get a word in edgewise. It was all just happening so fast. But hey, maybe I could get away with the whole not talking thing. This Neku guy seemed to be and he was getting along just fine. Maybe the secret was in the headphones.

Note to self: look into the possibility of purchasing ear buds with first paycheck in the hopes of avoiding human interaction at all costs.

“Okay, almost done, just one more table to go,” Lea chirped.

Hearing that was both a relief and a minor heart attack all rolled together. The good news: one more table, woo! The bad news: one more table, ugh!

As Lea led the way once more, I snagged Anna by the elbow. It was her fault I was in this mess, so there was no way I was letting her abandon me. She was my security blanket, dammit! She managed to get out a hasty “we’ll talk more in a minute” to Rayne before staggering along behind me. We were brought to the neighboring booth which took up a corner so it was slightly bigger. Thankfully, that didn’t equal a larger group seated here. Even better, I already knew two of the faces.

“Rox! Xion!” Lea grinned down at them. “So this is where you guys got to. Was beginning to think I might have to send out search parties. I-”

“Kristoff,” the name escaped my lips before I’d even realized it as I locked eyes with my coworker.

Make that three faces I recognized.

His eyelids drooped before he looked away with a harrumph, taking a deep drag from his mug.

Well fudge. Guess he was still mad about the phone.

This night just kept getting better and better!

“Brr, did it just get a few degrees colder in here? Ah well, forget it, just leave Lord Sourpuss here to his brooding,” Lea snerked with a roll of his eyes. “For the rest at the table who haven’t already had the pleasure, this is Elsa, the Ice Palace newbie, and her sister Anna who tagged along for funsies.” 

He tossed a hand towards a guy with amber eyes, messy raven hair, and was the poster boy for goth fashion. “That ray of sunshine over there is Vanitas - living, breathing proof that all our moms were always right: your face really can get stuck like that. Wow, misery really does love company, huh? Just look at those identical scowls.” Both Vanitas and Kristoff looked highly unamused with Lea. He responded with a smirk, leaning down to bring his face closer to Vanitas, “What’s with the pout, widdle man? Did one of the other kids steal your binky?”

“Bite me, jackass,” he deadpanned.

“You’d love that, wouldn’t you?” Lea waggled his eyebrows as he straightened back up. “Anyhoo, as you might’ve already guessed by just taking one look at the edgelord, Vaniboy here works at Halloween Town.”

“Halloween Town?” Anna echoed, tapping a thoughtful finger to her lips. “Isn’t that the line of shops that are kinda like Hot To-”

“Say that knock-off, poser, wannabe of a store’s name and die,” Vanitas sneered.

Lea said, “Don’t mind him, he’s just cranky cuz he missed out on afternoon naptime.” Vanitas flipped him the bird, which went totally ignored as Lea shifted his gaze to the other side of the table. “Woah, talk about a mismatched set. What are you two doing hanging out with Mr Negativity here?”

He was now addressing a sweet-faced brunette with bright green eyes and the boy beside her with sandy blonde spiked hair, a skull and crossbones printed on his shirt. The girl chuckled, “Oh come on, Van’s not that bad.”

“Yeah, once you get past his personality,” the guy sniggered. Vanitas just looked away with a soft tch.

“Meet Olette and Hayner. They- wait...” Lea glanced around the table a second time with a frown, “There’s usually one more of you. Where’s Pence?”

“Couldn’t make it,” Olette sighed, plopping her chin in her palm. “Had to finish his programming project for his Computer Sciences course. Said he’ll be at it all weekend.”

“Bummer,” Lea shrugged. “In any case, these two plus their missing amigo wait tables at Le Grand Bistrot, this hoity-toity restaurant on the opposite end of the mall from the rest of us. Though didn’t you guys get shut down recently for a rodent infestation?”

Hayner banged a fist against the table, “Ugh, will people stop talking about that already? We didn’t get shut down, it was one rat and it was just that klutzy garbage boy’s pet, got it?!”

A snort from Roxas. “Sounds fake, but okay.”

“Can it, pizza boy!” Hayner shot back.

“Touchy, touchy,” Lea tsked before his eyes made one more sweep of the surrounding tables. “Anyway, looks like that’s everyone! How ‘bout it? Got it all memorized? If not, don’t sweat it, it was a lot. And even more might show up later, who knows, these things are always sort of a random grab bag but that’s half the fun! In any case, feel free to take a seat.” He jerked a thumb over his shoulder, “I’m gonna go order a drink from the bar. Did either of you want me to grab you anything while I’m over there?”

“Is this a menu?” Anna picked up the glossy, colorful sheet of plastic from the table, looking over the list printed on it with a low hum. “I think a basket of the Cactuar Fries would be good for starters. As for drink, hm… Ooo, the Golden Chocobo sounds amazing! What about you?” she tilted it to give me a better look.

I shook my head, “Just water for me, thanks.”

Her tongue blew a raspberry, eyes returning to the menu. “That’s no fun. Lessee here… aha!” She smiled up at Lea, “She’ll have a Shiva, heavy on the rum.”

“I will most certainly not have a-”

“Got it!” Lea darted off across the room, cupping a hand to his mouth and calling out, “Oh, Tifa!”

Anna then proceeded to flump down into the booth next to Kristoff, giggling as she peeked up at him. “Hi! You’re cute!”

He blinked at her, all traces of the previous doom-and-gloom wiped clean off his face as it reddened slightly. “Uh…?”

She wiggled in closer to him, which seemed to fluster him more as he scrabbled over into Vanitas, who elbowed him back hard for making him almost spill his drink. Oblivious to the domino effect she’d created, Anna whipped her head back around to me and patted a hand on the space she’d freed up at the edge of the booth. “Whatcha waiting for, Sis? Sit!”

I stared blankly at her. She beamed back at me. I glanced over to everyone else. Everyone else watched me expectantly. I then flicked my gaze down to the open seat. It just lay there, being a cushion.

...psssst, dummy. Her telling you to sit? Was your cue to actually sit!

Still my feet didn’t budge an inch. Instead I looked over my shoulder back towards the door leading outside. So close, yet so far.

Clearing my throat, I took a small step backwards and held up a hand, “A-actually, you know what? I think I, uh... left something... back in the car! Yeah, that’s it! So I’ll just, er… I’ll go get-”

“I said sit!” Anna grabbed my wrist and jerked me down onto the plush bench beside her.

Well then. I guess I was sitting.

I suddenly felt a light brush of something against the back of my head and I twitched away, looking behind me. Rayne was leaning over the divider between our two booths, hands outstretched, apparently with the intention of petting both Anna and me.  “Pretty,” she cooed in delight. “Pretty, pretty hair. So soft!”

From somewhere beyond the separator, I heard Riku mutter, “It’s starts.” His voice was muffled. I suspected due to facepalm. Taking a small bundle of my hair and tucking it between her palm and two little fingers, Rayne then set the other three fingers and hand to work unraveling one of Anna’s pigtail braids.

Anna didn’t seem to mind, instead just turning her gaze to the rest of our booth and flashing a smile big enough to rival one of Sora’s. “It’s so great to meet everyone! This is super exciting! Isn’t is just so exciting?” she asked me. I opened my mouth, but Anna was already gushing once more, “And oh my gawd, so, so, so, sooooo much fun! I’m already having a blast! Are you having a blast?” Again, this question was aimed at me. Again, I didn’t even get so much as a peep out. “Aaaah, lookit her, she’s having a friggin’ blast! This is awesome! So how long have you guys all been getting together like this? Who started it? Was it just a small group at first? Were you guys always friends even before these Friday nights began? Do you ever change it up, get food and drinks somewhere else? Or is it always the 7th Heaven? Why is it called the 7th Heaven anyway? What’s the story there? What’s the food like? No, what are the drinks like? Did I pick good ones? I hope I picked good ones! And I just love that they have karaoke here! Anyone else going to be singing later? Ooo, here’s an idea! We could all go up and sing one together!”

Typhoon Anna had struck again, leaving round eyes and silence in her wake.

I was guessing most everyone else at the table hadn’t even caught half of that, the torrent of words had been coming out in such a rush.

The hush over the table stretched until Vanitas at last broke it with a flat, “Yeah, no, I’m out. I’ve had about all the pep I can stand from that pack of idiots,” he flicked a wrist towards the half the table taken up by Xion, Olette, Roxas and Hayner, “without having to deal with… this,” he cringed, gesturing to Anna. Then he downed the rest of his beverage. “Later, losers.” And with that, he vaulted himself over the table, shoved his hands into the pockets of his leather jacket and slinked off.

“So…” Anna dragged out the syllable, “...he’s pleasant!”

Certainly one word for it.

“Vani bail early?” Lea rejoined us. “No shocker there, he usually does. He's always been more of a lone wolf. Make room, Fun-size!” he looked down at where Xion was seated at the opposite end of the booth from us. She scooched to clear a spot for him and he plopped on down, setting a full, opened bottle on the table in front of him bearing a red label that boasted the title Ifrit Amber Ale. “Ladies, your drinks n’ fries are gonna need another minute. Someone’ll be by to drop them off when they’re ready.”

A small smile braved my lips, “Thanks, how much do we owe you?”

Or rather, how much did Anna owe him? Since A, she was the one that’d ordered it all and B, I’d yet to earn a single cent to my name.

Soon though. Payday was coming.

He batted a hand, “Don’t worry about it, my treat. And, uh,” he snerked, “you might want to keep a closer eye on what Raindrop's up to over there.”

I blinked. I had been feeling a faint tingle in my scalp as Rayne had continued to play beauty salon back there this whole time, but I’d just been ignoring it. Now both Anna and I turned to discover she’d weaved locks of our hair together into one thick, auburn-and-platinum braid.  “I made a pretty!” Rayne giggled, punctuated by a hiccup.

Biting back a grin, Xion called, “Hey Riku! Control your woman!”

A hand shot up and grabbed Rayne by the scruff of the shirt. With a squeak, she disappeared behind the booth separator.

“So,” Olette shook her head, one corner of her lips tugging up, “how are you liking it over at Ice Palace?”

...shoot, she was talking to me, wasn’t she?

I was so not prepared for this.

Glancing up from where my fingers had already begun disentangling the braid Anna and I shared joint custody off, I pursed my lips to one side. “Hmm, well… it’s pretty good actually. This is my first job ever, so I was a bit anxious.” Understatement of the millenia. “But it’s been going well. And I like the people I work with and get along with them and uh…” I eyed Kristoff out of my peripheral, who still seemed rather dazed by Anna and the apparent lack of the phrase ‘personal boundaries’ in her vocabulary, “...and they like me and are very kind and welcoming and… certainly not mad or anything at me for, oh I don’t know, hypothetically lobbing and busting their phones, like I would ever do something so silly as that, why would I even mention such a thing, that’s so random,” the jumble of words finished in a weak chuckle.

It was beginning to become clear to me that the tendency to babble might run in my family.

Only mine was of the nervous variety, whereas I don’t think Anna had a nervous bone in her body.

At last sensing my gaze on him, Kristoff shook himself out of his stupor and looked back at me. Then he frowned, narrowed his eyes and stared down at the table, nursing his drink once more.

“Oh yeah,” Xion snorted, “I can definitely feel the love simply overflowing from that side of the table.”

“Sounds like a sweet gig,” Hayner chimed back into the conversation with a smirk as he crossed his arms. “But then, anything’s gotta be better than working at some lame dump of a pizza place.”

“Ouch, shots fired.” Lea cocked an eyebrow, “What’s with the drive-by, my dude?”

Roxas snickered, “Ignore him. He’s still just sore about the whole rat thing.”

“There wasn’t a rat thing! I told you already, it was just some dumb pet so it doesnt count!”

“Sure,” Roxas sighed, “Just keep telling yourself that, man.”

“That’s it!” Hayner snarled, slamming both hands down on the table as he rocketed up to his feet. “It’s time we settle this like men!”

Olette groaned, burying her face in her hands. “Tell me you did not really just say that, you total caveman.”

Hayner stabbed a finger towards Roxas and growled, “You.” Then jerked a thumb into his chest, “Me.” He pointed at one of the arcade machines, “Struggle 9000. Loser buys rounds for the table for the next five Fridays.”

“Come on, you two,” Olette interjected, “is this really-”

Lea clamped a hand over her mouth, one index finger held up to his lips, “Shush, I want free booze.”

“You’re on!” Roxas shot back, eyes flashing. Then the both of them were ducking down and crawling under the table to exit the booth before dashing over to where the video games awaited them, elbowing each other the whole way.

“Wanna go root the boys on?” Olette asked Xion.

“Pfft, root nothing. I’m taking on winner and curb stomping his ass. Play my cards right and I’ll have them both buying our drinks for weeks to come.”

As Lea slid out of the booth so the two of them could get up and leave, Olette laughed, “Oh, I bet Hayner would be simply thrilled by that prospect.”

“Please, you think that bonehead’s gonna come out the champ?” Xion scoffed as they walked off. “Rox has got him beat, no contest.”

“Wanna bet?”

That was the last thing I heard from Olette before a happy shriek barely an inch to my left drowned out anything else that might have been said.

Gee thanks, Anna. Really, who needs hearing in both ears anyway?

Our order had arrived, which apparently was what had gotten her so excited. A heaping bowl of shoestring fries now steamed in front of us, covered and smothered in some chunky green sauce. Anna’s drink started out orange at the bottom and faded into a yellow at the frothy top where in the absence of one of the standard teeny decorative umbrellas, it was instead garnished with a fluffy, yellow feather. My drink was a chilly, neon blue color and served in a tall, skinny glass with wafting mist and a frosted rim.

“Bottoms up!” Anna singsonged, clinking her beverage to mine before chugging down half of it in one go. I pulled a face at her, scrunching my nose with a grimace. She puffed out a content sigh as she put the glass back down at the table. “Ah, that’s good!” Then her eyes darted between me and my drink a couple times. “Well? What are you waiting for? Get your drink on, gurl!”

“No thanks,” I nudged the Shiva away with a fingertip. “Someone has to drive us home, so I guess that someone’s going to be me.”

“Pssh, details,” she waved a dismissive hand while she tested out one of the fries. Eyes lighting up, she shoveled a couple more in her mouth before pushing my drink back towards me. “C’mon, one sip won’t kill ya! Besides, you’re hurting Lea’s feelings over there, he spent his hard earned munny on it just for you!”

“Nah, it’s cool,” he shrugged and grinned. “You do you, El!”

“Dude, work with me here! You’re supposed to back me up on this, I-” Anna cut herself off in a gasp. Seemed there had been a lull in the karaoke, so someone had kicked on the big vintage jukebox off to one side, which was now pumping regular tunes out of the overhead speakers. “I love this song!” Her hand clamped down around Kristoff’s wrist, “Dance with me!”

“Wha-?!”

I was all but shoved out of the booth as Anna bolted off, dragging a wide eyed and stumbling Kristoff behind her. I watched her go, shaking my head with a tired smile. Anna would never change. But then, who’d want her to? She was kind of perfect the way she was, chaotic energy and all. Sighing, I took a seat again and looked up.

That’s when I froze.

Because that’s when it hit me.

Somehow, my booth had gone from being packed to being empty. Well, almost…

There was still me.

And there was still a certain redhead.

And to be fair, my plan had been to spend the evening with a redhead. Just said redhead was supposed to have been petite, female, and my sister. The redhead before me now? Checked off none of those boxes.

So instead of the night of sisterly bonding like I’d been looking forward to, I’d somehow wound up in a bar. 

At a table. 

With Lea. 

By ourselves. 

Just the two of us.

Alone...

Help! SOS! Frantic smoke signals! I was not mentally or emotionally equipped to deal with this situation!

Commence cardiac arrest in three… two… 

Author’s note: Hi, yes, welcome to Cameo Palooza, where we got references coming out the wazoo! This chapter and events in next chapter were originally all supposed to be one chapter, but the references just kept going and going… I honestly didn’t expect them to go on for as long as they did, but here we are xD Not gonna lie, I took an odd amount of pleasure in giving Lea and Elsa drinks to match to their respective elements/summons. Also lil fun fact: There are real alcoholic beverages out there called the Shiva and the Golden Chocobo, just google it if you’re curious and I think the recipes should pop up like the did for me! Also, there are in fact green Cactuar Fries out there in the real live world too - I’ve seen foodies post pictures!

Next chapter… how will Elsa deal with this latest challenge in human interaction she’s come face to face with? Will this be one step closer to strengthening the bond of her new friendship with Lea? Or will it all end in utter catastrophe thanks to her awkward penguin ways? Will we ever find out the secret of the Cactuar Fries’ green ooze? Stay tuned!

Thanks for reading, I super duper appreciate it! And an extra BIG thank you to any new followers out there (howdy! :D) and to those of you who’ve liked and reblogged previous chapters, seeing that always brings the biggest, goofiest smile to my face!

FIRST CHAPTER || PREVIOUS CHAPTER || NEXT CHAPTER

[imjustthemechanic]

Natalie Jones and the Golden Ship

Part 1/? - A Meeting at the Palace Part 2/? - Curry Talk Part 3/? - Princess Sitamun Part 4/? - Not At Rest Part 5/? - Dead Men Tell no Tales Part 6/? - Sitamun Rises Again Part 7/? - The Curse of Madame Desrosiers Part 8/? - Sabotage at Guedelon Part 9/? - A Miracle Part 10/? - Desrosiers’ Elixir Part 11/? - Athens in October Part 12/? - The Man in Black Part 13/? - Mr. Neustadt Part 14/? - The Other Side of the Story Part 15/? - A Favour Part 16/? - A Knock on the Window Part 17/? - Sir Stephen and Buckeye Part 18/? - Books of Alchemy Part 19/? - The Answers Part 20/? - A Gift Left Behind Part 21/? - Santorini Part 22/? - What the Doves Found Part 23/? - A Thief in the Night Part 24/? - Healing Part 25/? - Newton’s Code Part 26/? - Montenegro Part 27/? - The Lost Relic Part 28/? - The Homunculinus Part 29/? - The End is Near Part 30/? - The Face of Evil Part 31/? - The Morning After Part 32/? - Next Stop Part 33/? - A Sighting in Messina Part 34/? - Taormina Part 35/? - Burning Part 36/? - Recovery Part 37/? - Pilgrimage to Vesuvius Part 38/? - The Scent of Hell Part 39/? - She’ll be Coming Down the Mountain Part 40/? - Stowaways Part 41/? - Bon Voyage Part 42/? - Turnabout Part 43/? - The Apple Part 44/? - Vesuvius Wakes Part 45/? - Fire At Sea Part 46/? - The Real Jim Part 47/? - Return to Naples Part 48/? - La Mela Part 49/? - A Demonstration Part 50/? - Out of the Frying Pan Part 51/? - Into the Fire Part 52/? - The Last Homunculus Part 53/? - Transmission Part 54/? - Metamorphosis

I told you I’d be back!

For a moment, nothing seemed to happen.  Then there was a sudden loud noise, a sharp bang that reverberated through the entire structure of the Scorpio II and made the ship heave on the water.  The air filled with an electrical smell.  Nat was thrown to the ground on top of Perenelle, then reflexively curled up and covered her head as she heard the musical tinkling of shattered glass hitting tile.  The lights flickered and died, and the ship continued to rock back and forth for a moment before the stabilizers finally kicked in to bring it back to an even keel.

One by one, the lights started to come back on.  Natasha sat up.

The air was full of electricity – she could feel her own hair standing on end, and when she checked on Perenelle, wisps of hers had come free of her bun.  A few metres away, Jim’s long brown hair was standing out around his head like a halo.  He was not looking at Natasha, but at what was behind them in the open plaza space.

What looked like lightning was arcing from one side of the metal railing to the other, and from the ruins of the chandelier to the floor below.  In the middle, almost but not quite touching the railings, was the philosopher’s stone.  It still looked like a miniature sun, with its surface bubbling and tossing off fountains of hot energy as if actively fighting its containment.  As Nat watched, one of these spurts touched what was left of the stained glass ceiling.  The metal struts immediately began turning to gold, which was not strong enough to hold up the dangling ruins of the chandelier.  They snapped, and the entire fixture dropped into the stone, right through, and hit the mosaic tile floor below.  With it came a mass of hot plasma, and the tiles, too, were transmuted, spreading out from the middle.  The wooden railings around the plaza balconies, and the marble treads of the spiral staircases, quickly started to go as well.

“I’m guessing that’s our signal to leave,” said Nat.  The Stone was already getting redder.  In a moment it would engulf the balconies as it grew.

“Very observant.”  Perenelle took her hand, then grabbed Jim’s, and they ran for the steps further aft.  The carpet was turning to gold under their feet as they went, and they heard the pillars that supported the Piazza roof begin to groan, no longer equal to the weight they were bearing.

They burst out onto the Promenade Deck, and Natasha stopped, suddenly confused.  She’d turned right… that should have been facing towards the docks, where the cables were connected.  Instead, they were looking at open water.  She ran to the railing for a better look.

The ship had turned.  They weren’t yet far from the dock, but they were facing out into the bay, sailing alongside the Molo San Vincenzo, heading out to sea.  The cables they’d brought on board to connect the stone, having done their job, were trailing in the ocean behind them, leaving swirls of liquid gold in their wake.  Nat had meant to get the ship away from the shore once the stone was safely on board, but that would have required returning to the bridge.  This should not be happening, unless…

“Is there somebody else on board?” asked Jim.

“There shouldn’t be,” said Nat.  They’d taken care of Newton’s homunculus and the four others he’d brought along.  Did he have another agent on board they didn’t know about?  Of course he did, she thought.  He’d stayed one step ahead of them at every move so far.  Why not now?

“You know what?” asked Nat.  “It doesn’t matter.”  If they were on their way out to sea they were going away from people, and that was the important part.  If there were still a homunculus on board, then he, she, or it could be carried off and turned to gold with the rest of the ship.  “Try aft.  Maybe our little boat’s been carried along in the wake.”

They hurried towards the stern.  Natasha in her stocking feet and Jim in his shoes were able to run, while Perenelle walked as fast as she could in her high heels to bring up the rear.  Between the two swimming pools, directly above the piazza several decks down, was a little cluster of restaurants that served drinks, burgers, and ice cream.  Their walls were leaning inwards, and parts of them were starting to collapse as the philosopher’s stone engulfed the supports beneath them.  It had better be okay to leave the ship moving, Nat thought, because they weren’t going to be able to head forward again.

At the very back of the promenade deck, looking down over the Diamond Class swimming pool, they could see the little boat they’d come in by bobbing and spinning in the Scorpio II’s wake.  It was already nearly a hundred metres away.

“We’re just gonna have to swim for it,” Nat decided.  She turned to face her companions.  “If we jump from here, we might get sucked into the propellers, so we’ll have to…”

She cut herself off the doors of a nearby cabinet opened with a bang.  This space was used to store lifejackets, so with the ship evacuated it had been empty – a perfect hiding place.  The man who jumped out was soaking wet and furious, and he launched himself at Perenelle and grabbed her by the hair.  Nat went for him, but he pulled out a knife that must have come from out of the little restaurants, and put it to her throat.

It was the last homunculus, the one Nat had thrown overboard rather than kill.  Somehow he’d gotten back on board.

“You want to be immortal,” he said to Perenelle.  “So if you don’t want to die right now, you’re gonna go back in there and detonate the Philosopher’s Stone.  You’re going to finish Newton’s work, or I’m going to cut your throat!”

Nat caught Jim’s eye, and saw him nod.  He had a bit of elixir left.  They’d used almost all of it, but hopefully there would be enough to save Perenelle if Nat could apply pressure to her jugular before she bled out.  Not exactly her usual procedure in a hostage situation, but with that in mind, Nat and Jim dashed forward to wrestle the homunculus.

He saw them coming.  Whether it was because he could tell what they meant to do, or maybe because he was just an asshole, he dropped his knife and threw Perenelle off the stern of the ship.

Jim was so shocked he just stood there, mouth open.  Natasha kept going, and kicked the knife out of the homunculus’ reach.  Jim came out of his momentary shock and scooped it up, while Nat threw the man to the ground and pinned his hands behind his back.  Damn it, she should have killed this one earlier!  Why hadn’t she just killed him?  Because she’d thought Jim would be angry with her.

“Look for Perenelle!” Nat ordered.

Jim had been on his way to join her.  Now he went and looked over the back of the ship, leaning at a dangerous angle and turning his head back and forth.

“Perenelle!” he shouted.  “Perenelle!  Mrs. Flamel!  Can you hear me?  Wave or something?  Are you in the water?  Hello!”

He stayed there, shouting for her, for what was in this situation a very long time.  Several minutes went by, during which time first one, then the other of the spherical radar arrays on the ship’s superstructure crumbled and collapsed.  The ship lurched in the water, and the engines failed.  From where Natasha was she couldn’t tell if they were riding lower in the water, but she suspected so.  The gold was building up and the moment it got to be too heavy, they’d go straight down.  Nat got to her feet, dragging the homunculus with her, although again, she wasn’t sure why… were they going to take him along?  What would they do with him if they did?

Finally, Jim stopped shouting and slid to his knees, where he stayed for a moment, leaning his forehead against the railing with his eyes shut.  He’d been angry with Perenelle for using him and he didn’t rust her, but she’d still been his last hope for a normal lifespan, and a normal life in general.  With her dead, there was nobody to even do so much as brew him more elixir.

He got up and picked up the knife again, looked at it, and then dropped it.  Instead, he walked over and put a hand on his double’s neck.  After a moment, however, he let go and stepped back.

“You do it,” he told Nat.  “I can’t.”

Natasha momentarily wondered if she could, either – but that was silly.  She’d killed people with a far better claim on humanity than this homunculus, and ones who’d done far less wrong.  She squeezed, and he disintegrated, leaving Natasha and Jim alone on the deck.

From somewhere below them there was a deep groaning sound that vibrated the floor under their feet and made Nat’s insides shiver in a very uncomfortable manner.  The ship began to tilt to starboard, and she and Jim both grabbed at the railings.

“We gotta go,” said Nat.

Jim shook his head.  “What about Perenelle?” he asked.

They both looked over the edge again.  The engines were silent now, and the propellers had stopped churning.  The ship was just drifting along on the course the homunculus had set it.  Nat wondered if it were a good sign that there was no visible blood in the water, but that was a pretty forlorn hope.  Perenelle had figured out how to stop her own aging, how to heal injuries that ought to kill, and how to escape the depredations of disease, but she wasn’t indestructible.  A trip through the propellers of a ship this size could kill a whale.  It could kill an alchemist, too.

Light from the philosopher’s stone appeared through the stateroom windows below, and the ship listed further.  There was only one thing they could do.

“We have to go,” Nat said, and put a hand on Jim’s shoulder.  “I know what you’re thinking, but there’ve got to be other alchemists.  Perenelle said Paracelsus was the expert on homunculi, and if he were dead she would have said so.”  Wouldn’t she?

Jim shook his head.  “How long do you think it’d take to find him, though?” he asked.

“I don’t know, but it’s our best shot,” said Nat.

Jim, however, reached into his shirt pocket and pulled out Sir Stephen’s locket – the one with the lock of Buckeye’s hair.  Nat put her hand over it.

“Newton said that wouldn’t work,” she reminded him.  “Anyway, the ship’s sinking!  You’ll drown when it goes under!”

“Do we believe anything Newton said?” asked Jim.

“I don’t know,” Nat admitted.

“I’ll be dead before we can find Paracelsus, or anybody else,” Jim told her.  “They don’t want to be found, remember?  And they won’t help even if I ask.  They think I’m…” he hung his head.  “Disposable.”

It wouldn’t work, Nat thought.  She was sure of it.  She had her doubts about her own plan, but surely it stood a better chance of working than Jim’s did.  She’d beaten the homunculi in fights before.  She could stop him.  She could throw him overboard, knock him out and carry him, she could…

But that didn’t mean she should.  What Jim wanted, more than anything, was to be considered a human being, and human beings were allowed to choose their own fate – even if the one they chose was suicide.

“Even if it works, you’ll drown,” she repeated.

“Maybe not.  Maybe I can swim for it,” Jim said.  He squeezed her hand.  “I have to try.”

Nat nodded.  Then she bit her lip, hard enough to draw blood, grabbed him by the shirt and kissed him.  With her lips and her tongue, she smeared her blood around and inside his mouth.  He tasted the iron and realized what she was doing, and stepped away in surprise.

“What…?” he asked.

“Human tissue,” she said.  “Just in case.”

Jim wiped his mouth on his shirt, leaving a red smear on the white fabric.  “You go,” he said.  “I’ll catch up.”  He reached for her, intending to kiss her again.

This time it was Nat who stepped away.  “If that’s really what you’re going to do,” she said.  “We don’t have time.  Go now.”

“I’ll catch up,” Jim repeated.  “I promise.”  His adam’s apple bobbed as he swallowed, and then he ran back to the nearest door.

[nightmares06]

COM - Please

Commission for @neonthebright!

Neon wanted to find out more about the aeternum sprites and reasons they’re called to the world, so enjoy this short story about them!

Word count: 2380

Warnings: References to current events, blood, cutting.

Commissions are open!

Maria coughed, the smoky air burning at her eyes and lungs, making every breath drawn these days a painful trial.

Her family had escaped the wall of flames before it reached their modest home in the woods, but it left them broke and homeless. They had fled to the next town over, seeking refuge and safety. They lacked the finances to go further, and had to search out jobs to be able to afford gas and fuel for the car, and food for themselves. What little they had crammed into their tiny Subaru didn’t last the first week.

The second week, it all got worse. The world was going to literal hell.

The wildfires that had chased her family from her home had leapt over the highway separating them. Wind swept up from the edges of the firestorm, twisting into burning fire devils that spread the burning embers and flames in every direction. The wildlife, exhausted and rundown, surged in front of the leading edge seeking shelter like their human counterparts. Many watched the strangely mixed herds go through their backyards. Deer, wolves, even the occasional bear or cougar, marched peaceably together. They knew their best chances were to get distance from the burning flames together, and showed that better than the humans who spent their time quibbling about what to do about the wild animals that invaded their property.

Most let the animals go through peacefully. Some raised a gun and took potshots at the innocent creatures.

The town Maria was in now was surrounded on nearly all sides. One road lead out, blocked up by traffic as the state police and enforcement officers tried to keep people moving out in an orderly fashion. They would be among the last, receiving gas at the last second from the government as the evacuation kicked into high gear.

But it might not be enough, and the flames were moving in.

Maria sobbed as she cut her palm, letting the blood flow into the spell she was working. It was a longshot, just like evacuation, but she couldn’t let any chance go to waste. They needed to escape this hell, one way or the other.

The blood pooled over the scribbles she’d drawn in the dirt.

For a long, drawn out moment, nothing happened.

Maria sucked in a breath of air, despairing inside. Her family might never escape the fire. Her baby brother already had a thin wet cloth over his mouth the majority of the time. It kept him from breathing in the harsher fumes, and Maria would soon follow suit, using precious water to cool the air she breathed. It was the best filter they could find after everything.

A gust of wind scattered the dirt on the ground, and the blood took on a glowing tint as the ancient symbols, etched on the ground with her finger, began to glow.

Sparks shot up from the symbols and formed a whirling twister in the air. Though a bolt of fear struck her heart, none of them gave off heat or harmed her, and the nearby grass was fine.

As the sparks formed a circle with a shimmer of air between their boundaries, a red bolt shot through. Maria squeaked in surprise and tumbled backwards, her hands shooting out to catch her balance. One slammed into a rock and the other hit the ground, the dirt caking her self-inflicted wound.

The pain was all but forgotten as she scooted back, staring with wide eyes at the creature that had appeared in front of her.

Elegant and fair, a small woman with reddish skin that caught the light of the distant fires and reflected it back, she floated on the wind currents with two small batlike wings beating calmly against the wind. Long hair that reached her waist, it started black at the tips and grew in fiery intensity to her roots, to the point where it was difficult to look at. Small patches on her skin were cracked and scaly, and each scale burned like a gem of fire.

“You have summoned?” intoned the creature, her blank red eyes staring directly at Maria.

Maria gasped as she was addressed, her bloodied hand frantically grabbing behind her at the book she’d used for the spell. “I– I can’t believe you’re real! ” she blurted as she dragged it onto her lap. “You’re… you’re a fire sprite, right?!”

The woman stared back at her. “You have summoned, and I have come to hear your plea,” she said sternly. “Now, child, speak.” Maria swallowed. “Please. The firestorm is going to destroy the town. My family… we’ve lost everything. Can you stop the fire, so we can return home someday? Rebuild?”

The fire sprite turned her head to the sky, her wings continuing their slow, monotonous beat. Maria waited, holding her breath in anticipation of this magical woman doing her request, and bringing peace to the forest.

“No.” The blunt answer left Maria momentarily speechless, staring at her in shock. She opened her mouth, then closed it, then opened it again, forcing her words out.

“No?! But you… I summoned you! You have to!”

The sprite merely shook her head. “I am here to listen to your request, and have deemed it unworthy,” she said in that infuriatingly placid voice. “Fire must cleanse, and after the cleansing will come new life. It is a natural part of the way the world works. If your home is in its path, it will burn. That is all there is to it.”

With a massive beat of her wings, the sprite darted into motion again, brushing past Maria faster than she could blink.

“Wait–”

Before she could lunge at the otherworldly creature, the sprite darted through the sparking portal, and it closed with a snap, only a bit of smoke left in its place that wafted away.

Maria let out a breath of frustration. Fine.

Now that she knew the book wasn’t lying, she knew she could work it again. The young girl shifted in place, shaking the dirt off her bloodied palm and scribbling the same symbols in the dirt to the side and filling the center in with a different symbol.

The rest of the ingredients went into the center. She’d found most of the herbs in the abandoned store where her family had stopped for last minute rations, and slipped away from them with her precious book she’d lifted from the library. If this worked, they would understand.

Another incantation, another drop of blood. She didn’t have to cut herself again, she was still bleeding.

Maria sucked on her finger as she waited. This one was a long shot, but just maybe–

The symbols again glowed, and this time the entire portal was created out of nothing more than air. Tiny twisters moved around each other and out until the center bulged into the portal, and this time, the sprite entered with regal dignity.

Beautiful wings arched over her shoulders. Unlike the first sprite’s shimmering red bat wings, these were feathered and gave off a soft look. Almost angelic, if the wings were not black and iridescent. The sun turned the ripples in them purple and blue, and the distant fire made other feathers turn red, giving this sprite the look of a dark rainbow.

Maria plunged on. There was no going back. This golden-skinned sprite, less than four inches tall at her longest, might be her only hope.

“Please… I summoned you to help us.” Maria’s large eyes watered, and she blinked. It helped soothe them in the hot air as she pleaded her case. “The fire close by is spreading because the wind scatters the embers. Can you calm the wind and give the firefighters a chance to push it back.”

The air sprite, for that’s what she was, cocked her head. Idly, she waved her fingers, making a tiny dust devil spring into life close by. 

As it churned the dirt, fallen leaves and grass into a hypnotizing funnel, the sprite looked back at Maria with golden eyes, no warmer than the fire sprite’s.

“The wind must not cease,” she said in a faint scold. “You cannot harness power like that, and are lucky the summoning binds you from harm. Do not call again.”

And with that, she was gone.

Maria let out a shuddering sob. Two had turned her down, and only two elements remained.

Earth was useless to her. Unless she wanted the entire firestorm to fall into an earthquake, she didn’t even see a need to call on them. Which left water.

Though water seemed like the best answer at times, the book had stated that the sprites used what was available, and one thing in short supply in town was water.

She had no choice. Before her family could come looking, she scratched out a third, and final, summoning circle, speaking the words hastily and squeezing her cut over the symbol for water.

The blood dripped down.

This time, after the breathless pause, the symbols activated once more. The blood itself coiled into the air, joined by the tears on her face to make the barrier of the portal as it opened. Red and glistening, her own blood and tears hastened in the arrival of the third sprite.

A blue streak darted in, sweeping past Maria. Just like the fire sprite, this one took several laps around the patch of dirt she’d chosen before coming to a halt in front of the portal.

Maria gulped. The slender sprite, with her clear dragonfly wings buzzing and her light, sky-blue hair glistening down to its midnight tips, represented her last hope. She had to listen!

“M-my family,” Maria’s voice trembled, “we’re trying to escape the fire, but getting out of town… we might not make it! Can you… can you please bring rain back to us.”

The thoughtful pause the sprite took on was expected, but her head shaking at the end dashed Maria’s heart to pieces. “No-no!” she begged. “You… you don’t understand, the fire, it–!”

“Some things cannot be changed,” the water sprite scolded. “I can only heal your ails. I will not change the path of destiny for anyone but my masters.”

The sprite held up her hand, and the water of Maria’s tears separated from her cheek and from the blood into the air, wrapping around her hand. She looked down, nearly jolting as the water glimmered and the skin resealed, all the dirt and debris falling harmlessly to the ground as the skin became whole.

When she looked up, all that was left was a portal sparkling in the air, the water sprite having abandoned her to her fate.

Nixie watched Aretha return, sitting calmly on a lilypad in the center of the lush jungles of aeternum.

The world was at peace, their duty of guarding the amulet certain. She smiled gently at the other sprite.

“What was the summons for?” she asked out of idle curiosity as her feet slipped into the cool water.

Aretha shook her head. “Some silly child wants us to change the fate of her home,” she said disapprovingly.

Nixie cocked her head. “So… you did nothing,” she surmised, familiar with the other water sprites that shared their home.

“Naturally,” Aretha emphasized. “Our duty is to guard the amulet and protect the balance. Why should I stop every fire that goes out of control for them?”

Nixie narrowed her eyes. “I seem to remember humans who went out of their way to help us,” she reminded her sister as she let her wings open, then darted into the sky, closing in on the portal before it cut them off from the world beyond.

Her passage was swift, and she didn’t even pause at the girl that was crumpled on the ground next to it, an older woman trying to shake her arms and pull her away.

“Maria! We have to leave!”

Nixie didn’t even notice the shouts that accompanied her appearance, people radioing in the shocking sight of the blue streak as they ushered the last family out of there.

Once she was high enough, she opened her arms and let the magic begin to flow through her. Her magic came from a balance of her own, and the power of water itself. She tapped into that power, reaching out as far as her mind could go.

In the distance, clouds and small storms existed. She gave them a nudge, calling them to this place.

Yet in her heart, she knew it was not enough. The firestorm that stretched out over the land was huge. No small amount of water would quell it. Firefighters had helicopters bringing in huge loads of water to try and slow it down long enough to empty out the nearby towns.

Not enough. Please… 

The echoes of Maria’s wish filled Nixie as she hung in the air, drawing in power like it was breath. Further away, across a distance that would take her weeks to cover, a hurricane raged in the distant ocean. Nixie took this, helping its power along and drawing it to her.

At the same time, she pulled at one of the nearby lakes. Even the fish had died from the overheating, and the water nearly boiled as she touched it.

It was the work of a minute to draw that water up and form a barrier around the town. Her will and touch cooled it and turned it into a barrier. The humans, mouths wide as they watched her distant form work, stood motionless down below.

Nixie breathed in, and breathed out, and set the strings of power in motion.

This fire was unnatural, and her duty was to guard the balance of life. Summoning the hurricane to them would pour water on it, enough to quench its drive. It was not a neat solution, but she could calm its more damaging effects over the lands it traveled.

Your family is safe, she promised the girl who had give up hope, and got to work.

This was going to take some time, but the gods would help her if her sisters wouldn’t.

[isassifras]

i’ll just leave this here

“Heads down, everyone! Hold on to something!” A booming, howling voice called over the castle-wide intercom. “Heads down, hold on! We’re getting everything under control!”

Lance flipped off the intercom and whipped his head back, “Keith!” He called to the boy who was working beside him. “What’s still working?” There were so many red lights flashing on the dashboard - so many lights.

“Uh…” The dark haired pilot’s mind was racing at over a thousand miles an hour. His hands were flying over the controls on autopilot and he suddenly couldn’t remember what anything was called.

“Please, mullet-for-brains, just tell me our landing gear is working!”

“What good would that do?!” He demanded, turning to the lanky boy next to him, Lance’s brown hair mussed and standing up in all the wrong spots. He must have run his hands through it too much. “We’re in the middle of nowhere and our ship is a giant castle - even if I knew where the landing gear for a castle was, or how to work it, why would it help in the middle of space!?”

“Ugh! Point taken, I get it, I get it! Shut it, mullet!” Lance uselessly pulled what served as the brake for their monster of a ship. “Is anything working?” He hollered, tugging at his hair for the hundredth time.

“Pidge!” Keith called, trying to speak to the small pilot in the next room. “How’s rewiring the dashboard going?” Please, please let that be good at least.

“I-I don’t know!!” Their voice called over the blaring alarms. “I don’t know what anything does! I mean- I’ve hacked the security panels and stuff, but those have real code! This is all...well, alien tech! I don’t have a manual for this, I don’t have anything!”

“So, wait...you can’t fix this?” Lance asked, his mind coming to a grinding halt. But Pidge could fix anything.

“I...I don’t know, Lance!!” They screeched, frustration audible in their voice. “Maybe...with some time, I could...oh, I don’t know! But we don’t have enough time!”

“Lance!” Keith suddenly called, his mind finally catching up to his hands. When the Blue Paladin’s ocean-like eyes were finally focused on his, he nodded to the dash where Lance was standing. “Remember that Garrison simulation that we can where we had to pull up the cargo ship with a damaged left wing and no brake fuel? The goal wasn’t to land, it was to steady out. If we do that, we can come to a natural stop!”

The blue pilot just stared for a few seconds which instantly made Keith regret what he’s just said. He...thought he was right. Wasn’t he? And then Lance broke into an enormous grin. “Keith! You sweet genius! I guess your greasy mullet is good for something after all! Let’s rock the quiznak out of this stop!”

Keith just blinked at that. He didn’t know what his hair had to do with anything and Lance still hadn’t grasped what context quiznak was appropriate for, but he supposed that was just part of who he was. Shaking that off, he faced the controls and flipped several of the switches, preparing to steer the ship manually.

“On three!” He flipped on the intercom again. “Brace, brace! We’re pulling up! Heads down, hold on, brace! In three, two...one!” And then he jerked the wheel up while Lance focused on maintaining control of the ship itself, forcing the engines to push against their current momentum. The entire ship rocked violently back and forth, the floor vibrating under the stress of it all. For just a moment, Keith thought the entire thing might just break apart underneath them.

And then, in one shuddering, shaky motion, the ship leveled out and both pilots were flung forward slightly. Lance let out a sort of surprised grunt and Keith felt his shin hit the bottom of the dash with a painful zap. He hissed and clenched his teeth to keep from crying out. Lance immediately grabbed the brake again and glanced over at his copilot whose eyes were scrunched shut.

He pulled the brake and the ship gave one more creaking shriek as its pace steadily slowed. Keith stepped back from the dash and just looked at it, his chest filling with a deep kind of relieved pride that momentarily distracted from the pain shooting up his leg. He looked at the broken display and out into the starless expanse before them.

“Aha...haha!! Hahaha! We did it! We lived! Whoo!!” Lance was laughing, draped over the control panel, shaking slightly, breath coming in gasps. While he was more quiet, Keith’s limbs were also vibrating and he was aware of the drastic movement of his chest as he sucked in air. His veins burned, adrenaline still racing through them. They’d lived. By some incredible miracle.

“Lance! Keith!” A much deeper voice boomed as Shiro rounded the corner, his dark eyes wide and a sheen of sweat on his hairline giving away what he’d been doing in the maintenance room with the burning engines. “Are you both alright?!” He received two nods and then visibly slumped against the wall with relief.

Allura wasn’t far behind him, peeking in and taking inventory of everyone before laying a hand on Shiro’s arm and asking him something too quiet to hear. He gave her a nod and she turned back to the two pilots in the room. “I’m glad you two are safe. Where is Pidge?”

“Here,” their voice called as they rounded the corner, glasses perched on their nose, their expression an awful mix of anger and disappointment. “I couldn’t fix it.”

“Oh, Pidge,” Allura said softly, moving to where they stood and wrapping her arms around them. “It’s alright. We’re all alright.”

“Where’s Hunk?” Lance asked when he’d finally calmed down more, rising to his full height, annoyingly about an inch taller than Keith.

“He’s still in the engine room. It didn’t sustain as much damage as the control room did, but the heat is rising rather quickly. He’s nearly finished and he sent me ahead to make sure everyone else was alright,” Shiro explained quickly, getting several nods. He turned back to the mass of messy blonde hair that sat atop Pidge’s head and looked at them seriously. “What kind of damage are we looking at?”

“Well…” They scratched behind their head and grit their teeth together. “I’m not entirely sure on the extent of it. The display is shot, so none of my readouts worked. I think we lost connection to one or two of the engines, the cooling system is down, some of the water and power has also been lost. Some of the ship will be in lockdown. But the worst of it is how few systems actually respond to the main controls. It was a lot of damage.”

“What do you need?” Allura asked, tucking a strand of hair behind her pointed ear in concern. “We can try to navigate with what we have to the nearest planet and they’ll hopefully give you what you need to fix it.

A beat of silence filled the room before two voices went off at the same time. “Hey, guys- sorry it took me so long to-” and “I don’t need anything. I’m-I...can’t fix it.”

Hunk stood frozen in the doorway as Pidge bore holes into the floor with their eyes, their mouth twisted in painful frustration and pent up fury. “I can’t fix it.” They repeated, “I’m worthless...a terrible mechanic...I can’t even get the fucking display back up...I don’t-I...can’t understand it!” They looked up, a sheen over their eyes before they pushed out of the door and past Hunk.

“Hey, wait! Pidge!” He called after them, trying to grab their thin, gangly arm only for it to slip out of his grasp. He turned to go after them when Shiro put a hand on his arm to stop him.

“Wait, Hunk. Let them go. There’s nothing we can go right now. Give them a little time and they’ll take a second look.”

“They can’t...just give up.” Hunk looked to the rest of the group. “Pidge is like, a genius, right? I do my best with Coran, but I’m clueless when it comes to damage like this...if anyone can fix the ship, they can...right?”

“Y-yeah…” Lance said before clearing his throat and puffing his chest out. “Yeah! Of course! It was just really stressful with the whole, crashing into infinite space and falling for eternity thing looming over them. Now that we’re safe, they can focus-”

“I’m afraid that’s not entirely correct, Lance my boy.” Coran then appeared in the doorway, the gash on his forehead still fresh after hitting the counter when they’d first lost altitude. “Altean technology is incredibly advanced,” he said softly. “Understanding it takes years, even when you have all the right materials. And we’ve lost a great many of the manuals. Without knowing how the ship functions normally, repairing it in this state would be near impossible, even for Pidge.”

“But that’s- what the hell are we supposed to do then?” Keith asked no one in particular as they all stayed silent for a beat.

“Say...Coran, how far are we from the Sobeau Galaxy?” Allura spoke up softly, a hand to her chin.

The ginger man immediately perked up, “You don’t think...they couldn’t possibly still work out of there…”

“It’s been a long time...but they’d been there for thousands of years even before we first contacted them.” Allura’s eyes lit up for a moment and her face cracked into a large grin. “They have to still be there!”

“Don’t mean to ruin the good mood you go goin’ there, sweet cheeks,” Lance spoke up, waving a hand to get Allura’s attention. “But who is this ‘they’ you’re talking about?”

“The space mechanics!” She said, ignoring the blatant attitude from the Cuban boy.

Keith and Lance exchanged a glance - a rare occurrence unless the glance also included a glare - and shrugged.

“A space mechanic is a specialized type of mechanic that focuses on alien technologies. They don’t know much about typical operations systems or the technology within the planets, but they have ships of their own and they fly around fixing ships in flight or satellites in orbit.” Coran informed them. “They’re fascinating, really, and-”

“Wait, so they’ll be able to fix the ship?” Hunk interrupted, his brows pulled together.

“Hopefully...if they’re still there.” Allura said, the initial joy at the idea dying away with one other thought. “How are the communication systems? Pidge didn’t mention them in their damage report.”

“Uh…” Keith moved over to the panel and flipped a few of the switches before screwing up his face. “It looks like they’re functional, but we’ll have to work without a display-”

“I can hook up a secondary display.” Pidge’s voice sounded again, surprising everyone.

“Pidge!” Hunk called, glad to see the young pilot return, although their expression was still sour. They held a small screen and a bunch of wires. “Uh...did you...hear…”

“We’re hiring another mechanic. Yeah.” They mumbled, sitting in front of the console and opening it up to attach their wires. “A better mechanic,” they added much quieter.

“Not a better mechanic!” Hunk yelled out, joined by Shiro yelling Pidge’s name and Allura and Lance also offering a protest that was too garbled to make out.

“Alright, alright,” Pidge mumbled, their lips quirking up. “I get it. Not a better mechanic, just one that has actually read the manuals.” The others in the room exchanged a few glances before shrugging and accepting that as an answer. “There…” Pidge said as the small screen in their hands flickered to life.

There were a few glitches and bars running across the screen so the small mechanic twisted around a few of the wires, tongue sticking out of their mouth in concentration, and then just resorted to smacking the screen once. It eventually evened out and a familiar, albeit much smaller, display appeared.

“Nice work, Pidge!” Lance sang happily, taking the screen and propping it up on the still black and cracked console screen. He then began fiddling with a few of the communication controls and flipped on the intercom before turning to Allura and Coran. “Alrighty, so where am I trying to reach?”

“See if you can’t reach the Hostess Satellite in the Sobeau Galaxy. They can relay you to someone who knows Altean technology. Hopefully,” Allura bit her lip and fiddled with the hem of her dress. This had to work.

Lance started to scan the nearby channels, flipping on long range mode and fiddling with the dials. His lips pursed and his eyes narrowed the longer he worked and he started leaning closer and closer to the screen, as if that would help the channel he was looking for show up. “Urgh, move over and let me see,” Keith eventually snapped, pushing at the darker skinned boy’s shoulder.

“No way, mullet, I almost got this.” Lance muttered absentmindedly, still fiddling with the same dial.

“‘Almost…’ What?” Keith blinked a few times, his lip curling up. “What do you mean by that? You can’t ‘almost get’ finding a channel in a list of a few hundred. You probably just missed it already, let me take a look-”

“Keith,” Shiro’s voice interrupted, causing the dark haired boy to turn and look at him, eyes cast low to the ground in a sudden sense of guilt he knew didn’t make any sense but couldn’t help regardless. “I see you have a leg injury there. Why don’t you go with Allura to the healing pods and get that fixed up?” He gestured toward Keith’s shin which he now noticed was bleeding through his jeans.

With one more glare to Lance and Shiro respectively, the Red Paladin huffed and walked off slightly slower than he would have preferred having to, his leg not willing to support all of his weight. Allura followed after him, a grateful glance in the Black Paladin’s direction.

It took Lance much longer than he’d be willing to admit to find the damn channel. He even needed Pidge’s help to expand the range slightly before he finally saw the listing come up. Shiro then left to go bring back Keith and Allura and Lance fired up the communications systems.

“Hello and thank you for contacting the Hostess Satellite!” A robotic voice chirped over the surround sound. “This is the hub for all space mechanics and engineers, each available on commission for all your repair and upgrading needs! Can I connect you with someone in particular or perhaps you need an expert in a kind of technology?” The overly happy and artificial tone was both exceedingly annoying and a welcome reprieve from the afternoon that everyone had had that Lance just sighed and pulled the mic closer to him.

“Uh...yeah. We need someone who knows a thing or two about...Altean tech. They don’t gotta be an expert or anything, but-”

“Yes, mechanic 47 should be able to help with that. Would you like a direct contact link?” Lance blinked at that for a few seconds. Was it really that easy? It must work on some sort of keyword system, the term “Altean” leading to a specific list of mechanics, or the best of the bunch perhaps? Was there really only one mechanic in space that knew how to work Altean technology?”

“Uh, yeah. That’d be great,” he said slowly, aware of Keith and Allura coming back with Shiro behind him. There were a few beeps and then a long string of silence until some static feedback came over the loudspeakers before a voice finally sounded.

“Hello, hello there! You’ve reached the single greatest space mechanic this universe has ever seen! What can I do ya for?” A female voice poured from the speakers, low and rich with a small drawl and an obvious smile in her tone. Though it was low, there was no denying the distinct femininity that laced every word.

“You practice that a lot, sweetie?” Lance found himself saying, already liking this chick’s attitude.

“Every night in front of the mirror just for you, cowboy,” the voice was saying again with a short laugh.

And then Keith was rolling his eyes and wishing he were anywhere but in this room. He doesn’t need another Lance on the ship, that’s for fucking sure. Unfortunately for him, Hunk was barely holding back a grin and even Pidge was smirking a little as they listened to Lance trip over his feet to flirt with this mechanic.

“Can we just get on with this?” He growled before he could stop himself and the voice speaking cut off abruptly before resuming much snappier than before.

“Of course, sir. Time for chat can be reserved for when we manage to rescue you from the mud you’re currently stuck in.” Whatever it is she said goes right over Keith’s head and he was left blinking with confusion that quickly gave way to irritation and anger as his team struggled to halt their laughter and even Shiro was hiding a grin behind his hand. “What kind of trouble are you having?”

Pidge took that one, “Well, a lot really. We ended up in a pretty tight situation earlier and our shields went. We took a lot of damage to the controls and some to the maintenance and engine rooms. As far as I can tell, the damage is pretty extensive. A lot of systems are down, unresponsive, or in automatic lockdown.”

“A lot meaning which ones?” The girl suddenly seemed a lot more serious and a faint scribbling of a pen could be heard in the background.

“Well, my readouts didn’t tell me that considering the display systems are down, but from what I could gather, some engine systems are down, the cooling and water systems, the west wing of the ship is utterly unresponsive, and anything beyond the control unit and basic generators are unresponsive.”

There was a beat of silence followed by a wolf whistle and a low chuckle, “Wow, sounds like you did a number to her! That’s a lot of work and it’ll be pretty expensive-”

“Money is no object!” Allura said softly, already hearing the hesitation at the thought of fixing so much of their ship. “Please, it’s really important to us that this ship get repaired.”

“Like I said, ma’am, it’s going to be expensive, and not the I’m-doubting-you-can-pay-this sort of expensive, but more like you’d-be-better-off-buying-a-new-ship sort of expensive. If you want, I can hook you up with-”

“No! It has to be this ship!” The silver haired beauty clapped a hand over her mouth in shock at such a loud outburst.

“What the lady means to say, is that this ship has more value than just monetary. If it can be repaired, it doesn’t matter if it costs more than a new vessel.”

There was another pause before some tapping and humming could be heard and then the voice sounded again. “Alright. If you’re attached, I’ll oblige. What kind of tech am I looking at? I’m guessing a bit older, considering that’s my specialty and you’ve got some sentimental value in it. So, what is it? Goglian? Vxri?”

“It’s Altean, actually.” Allura spoke softly, thoughts of her father running through her head. When he first showed her the castle, when he taught her to fly it. There was no way she was giving it up.

She was snapped out of it when she realized the voice was pausing longer than before. There wasn’t even static this time, just silence. She looked at Lance, who was looking at the panel that said they were still connected. He looked back and shrugged.

“Wait, really?” Her voice had grown much smaller, but seemed closer to the mic than before, a sense of awe and disbelief in her tone.

“Uh, yes. It’s one of the warships that survived thousands of years ago.” Coran supplied, twirling his mustache between his fingers.

“No way…” The tone had grown breathy and faint, like someone had just told her she’d live forever and she was trying to process it. And then there was a loud bang like her hands being slammed on something. “You’re not fucking with me right?” She asked much louder, sounding absolutely blissful for some reason.

“No, miss, it is indeed an Altean vessel-”

“Holy fuck! I put Altean on my list for the fun of it! I never thought I’d actually get to- that there would be...oh my God, yes!” She laughed a few times, still sounding like she didn’t quite believe what was happening.

“Then...you’ll know how to fix it?”

“Fix it? Hot damn, I’m gonna do more than fix it, dude. You’re coming away from this with a hell of a ship, I promise. Altean tech is my shit! Like, if I’m allowed to have a specialty in dead alien tech, Altean would beat even Vxri by miles - it’s like, my jam!” Typing could be heard as she back from the mic and started working on something. “Do you have coordinates for me?”

“Well, considering how our navigations system is part of what got shot,” Pidge was the first to recover, looking down at the mess of wires in their lap. “We don’t have much for you.”

“Can you give me a vague guess of how many parsecs you traveled from when it was last functioning?

“Uh...maybe a half of one?” Pidge asked, racking their brain from the long Garrison lectures to remember that a parsec was around 3 lightyears...right?

“Oh, that makes this easier then. Alright, so I’m going to need you to retrieve your last recorded coordinates for me.”

“I...don’t know how…” Pidge scrunched their face up and felt their nails dig into their palms.

“That’s alright, I wouldn’t really expect you to. Even experienced Altean pilots wouldn’t know how, and they would have grown up with the technology. Just follow my instructions.” She then began to rattle off various things for Pidge to mess with, accommodating her instructions with every problem they encountered from the state of the ship. And then, suddenly, six two digit numbers were blinking on the makeshift screen. Their last coordinates.

They rattled them off and listened to the voice on the other end cheer as she entered them. “Alright, I’m off! I’ll search you out and try to locate you with this information and make a direct connection when I’ve found you so I can dock. Sound good?”

Lance muttered something in response and then signed off, casting looks in everyone’s direction. “I dunno, I like her,” he said, a smirk finding its way onto her face.

“Of course you like her, she totally flirted back even though you were eating gravel trying to match her pace.” Pidge huffed, earning a look of pure outrage from the Cuban boy.

“Um, rude? I thought you were supposed to be my friend, Pidge!”

“I don’t know, Lance, she did seem to be pretty out of your league…”

Lance gasped and turned around dramatically, “Hunk…” He hissed out, “you too buddy?”

“You know I love you man, but she seems both funny and smart.”

“What, and I’m not both of them too?”

“Nah, I don’t think you’re either, actually,” Keith finally jumped in, but instead of a dramatic turn, all he got was a harsh glare and a pouting lower lip from the brown-haired boy.

“You shut your mullet, mullet. Just because you’re not smart enough yourself to see my charms doesn’t mean they’re not there.”

Keith’s lip quirked up and he crossed his arms over his chest, “Not smart enough, eh? I thought I was a ‘sweet genius’ earlier, or did I mishear your words?”

Lance reeled back a bit and his cheeks lit up, “H-hey!” He stuttered out, “That was a moment of weakness! We were ready to die and I figured I’d let you off of the hook with one compliment between us before you perished unceremoniously. It’s not applicable-”

“Uh, hey, Keith?” Hunk jumped in, ready for Keith and Lance to be done arguing already. They’d been at it all morning and it was the last thing he needed after the afternoon he’d had. Keith’s eyes moved from Lance’s, their dark bluish-gray seeming more gray than blue in his current gloom. “I’ve been meaning to ask...why is your leg still like that? I thought you went to heal it?” Hunk pointed to Keith’s pant leg which was now rolled up to show a small gash surrounded by a large, dark bruise.

“Uh, yeah...healing pods don’t work. You can’t even open them,” he mumbled just loud enough for everyone to hear.

“Just great,” Pidge murmured mostly to themself. “Another thing to add to...uh...wait, did we ever get that mechanic’s name?”

Lance blinked and then thought back. “Uh, no? The robot lady said she was number 47, or something, but I don’t think that’s her name.”

“Great, so we didn’t even remember to ask what her name was. Good job everybody, good day.” The brunette mumbled under their breath as they started to pack things up. “I’m going back to my room. Send out an intercom thing when she gets here. If she gets here. I’ll meet you guys by the loading dock.”

They watched Pidge walk out in silence until Hunk finally spoke up, “They’re...taking this pretty hard, huh…”

“That’s going to happen when you hire someone else to do your job because you can’t,” Keith huffed with a glare at the monitor before he felt eyes on him and turned back to the team. “Uh...sorry, that was harsh. I just meant that I know how they feel.”

“All that aside, if Pidge can’t fix the ship on their own, why can’t Coran help?” Hunk asked, catching the ginger man’s attention. “You’re always giving us ways to help repair the ship and stuff, so why can’t you teach Pidge?”

“Ah, I am indeed an Altean mechanic, Hunk my boy, but I work rather closely with maintenance, not damage. I’m quite skilled with the outer layers of the ship and the intricacy of all the technology it offers, but when it comes to the actual systems, I’m afraid I’d be just as lost as your friend.”

Hunk’s expression fell and Lance moved over and pat his shoulder once, offering a big, bright smile. “Hey, buddy, it’ll be okay! Maybe we can ask good ol’ 47 if she’d like to teach Pidge a thing or two!”

“You moron, why would she do that?” Keith asked, arms still crossed. “If she teaches Pidge, we won’t have any reason to hire her again. This castle is big, there’d be a lot to fix. You don’t just go around giving away potential jobs for mechanics that weren’t given the same opportunities.”

“Is it that hard for you to believe there’s a person good enough in the world to just want to teach someone enthusiastic something they can’t do?” Lance fired back, glaring at Keith in his stupid red jacket with his stupid 80’s hair. His mamá always taught him to think the best of people for as long as possible. He didn’t always do as good of a job as he should, but he liked this girl by the sound of her voice alone and that had to be a good sign, right? So what was keeping him from having good expectations?

“You don’t know this girl, Lance. She’s a mechanic that preys on ships too stranded to go for help elsewhere. You don’t even know her name.”

“What would her name tell me, oh omnipresent emo god? I mean, really, could you be more pessimistic?”

Keith narrowed his eyes. “Do you mean ‘omniscient’?”

“Ugh, shut up! It’s a long word!” Keith rolled his eyes and Lance only glared harder. “And her name wouldn’t justify your pessimism anyway! The name ‘Keith Kogane’ doesn’t scream asshole, you do that all by yourself!”

“Whatever,” the Red Paladin murmured, breaking eye contact. “You’re an idiot. I’m done with this argument. And to answer your question, yes. I can be more pessimistic if I try.” He left the room then, not really intending to even go to the loading dock when Lance announced the mechanic’s arrival. He didn’t want to really meet her. It would just be another person to leave behind.

Once he was gone, Lance huffed and turned back to the dashboard. “Ugh, I hate that guy,” he looked down, unsure of what else to add. He had to think of more insults that weren’t just about his hair.

“You gotta give him a chance, Lance,” Shiro tried to tell him, only serving to add to the fire that was Lance’s mood.

“Yeah, I know. You’ve said. He’s had a hard life, he’s still adjusting, all that stuff...and I get that. I do. But that shouldn’t give him the right to judge people and attack without reason.”

“But Lance, don’t you-” Hunk spoke before Lance moved and glared with his full force, although Hunk was pretty immune by then.

“I can be pretty hypocritical when it comes to his stupid mullet and his stupid face, I know, I know. He just makes me so angry when he goes off on other people like that. I was raised to do the exact opposite. And I genuinely like this girl. I don’t want him...being all gloomy and emo-like around her.”

“He’ll adjust to her just like he’s starting to adjust to all of us. Just give him time, Lance.”

“Yeah, yeah…” The Cuban boy mumbled as he pulled up one of the chairs that had gotten knocked around and set it up. “I’m going to stay here and wait for her. You guys go do what you can for the ship.”

Hunk and Shiro exchanged glances before shrugging and the room slowly emptied of people. Lance flopped over on the dash and let his eyes flutter closed. He needed a moment. They’d seriously almost died. And as scary as that was, his heart had calmed down already.

The first time he’d flown Blue, when he’d crashed into walls and dropped unimaginable heights, slashed at warships and flown through a wormhole, he’d been shaking for hours later. Now he’d been in such similar situations for a while and...he was over them so easily. It was a comfort to know he was growing a thicker skin, but he couldn’t help but feel like it was wrong to brush off potentially lethal situations so easily.

He must have been thinking for a lot longer than he’d meant to because when he blinked back into reality, there was a blinking incoming communication from a known channel. Quickly, he hit the two necessary switches and pulled the mic forward.

“Yes, this is Voltron Castle, home of the magnificent, valiant, and deviously handsome Lance McClain. Can you read me?”

“It’s a castle!!” He heard a familiar voice crackle through the speakers, much higher pitched than before and obviously extremely excited. “Viscaho! It really is a castle! Oh, I can hear you crystal clear, sir Lance McClain, the bold and beautiful! Am I clear to dock on this incredible ship? Hot damn, I don’t even know where to start…”

If he wasn’t smiling before, Lance certainly was now. Yeah, he could get used to this girl real easy. And he liked that she apparently says “Hot damn”. Who still says that? Was she from the 60s or something? “Yeah, I, uh...think the loading bay is still responding.” He fiddled with a few controls and glanced between the dash and Pidge’s makeshift screen until he got it. “Huzzah! I am victorious once again! Come on in, pretty lady!”

He heard the mechanic chuckle on her end and she said something else in a language he didn’t recognize and then signed off. Lance flipped on the intercom and relayed her location and imminent arrival and then stood to head toward the loading bay.

Keith looked up with a glare at the speaker in his room. He sighed and sat up, his shoulders rolled forward as he slouched. He supposed it was only right to go meet this girl, even if he wasn’t particularly ecstatic about her arrival. If anyone had the right to not go, it was Pidge, but even they said they were going. He didn’t want to be an asshole about the whole thing. So he got up and started shuffling his way down the looping corridors, albeit at a much slower pace than any of the others.

There was a ship about halfway through by the time Lance made it there, and Coran was yelling various instructions on how to pull the rest of the way in. The first thing he noticed was almost instant. Her ship was fucking mindblowing.

The exterior was so sleek, a silvery metal that glinted with all kinds of reflections and shone from the lights in the castle like a disco ball. There were so many panels and shapes engraved in the metal, but they all came together seamlessly to create such a smooth surface. And on the side was painted a bold, proud “47” in a sort of translucent white that seemed to glow.

The main body of the ship was ovular and quite large and there were two arc off of the sides that looked like horns and there was a large circle encompassing the back end that stood vertically, unlike the rest of the ship. There were blades within the circle that were slowly coming to a stop and must provide a large amount of power to the craft, even if Lance couldn’t explain how it worked, considering there was no air in space.

Although Lance might have noticed it first, Hunk, who followed him in shortly after, was the first to vocalize his awe. “Holy...your ship is awesome!” His round face was lit up with a huge smile and his eyes sparked as he moved closer, hands just barely hovering above the shiny, reflective surface. “Look! I can see myself in it!”

A low chuckle responded to that and one of the panels at the front of the ship lifted away, breaking from the rest of the surface so cleanly it was impressive. As it lifted, it revealed a mop of messy, stark white hair. And then a face followed from underneath.

A girl, looking fairly young, leaned out over the side, arms crossed and leaning on the edge of what seemed to be the cockpit of her craft. “Ain’t she pretty?” She asked, looking right at Hunk. Unsurprisingly, there was no immediate response. Hunk stood with his jaw slack and eyes trained on the appearance of the mechanic they’d talked to earlier.

She was small, just like she’d first appeared, maybe even smaller than Pidge, and her hair was the same color as Shiro‘s bangs, but it was chopped messily at her chin and there were several, teeny tiny braids that came down to her shoulders. Maybe five or six of ‘em.

She hopped down from her ship and landed with a thump and a huge smile, sticking out one hand. She probably was smaller than Pidge, looking like she was drowning in a pair of oversized overalls dotted with oil and smudges, her hands encompassed in thick, enormous leather gloves. Even her boots were huge, which meant she either just wore huge ass clothes, or her feet were really big in proportion to the rest of her.

The most surprising thing about her appearance, though, was the color of her eyes. Red. Like, an intense, candy sort of red. The red you always try to accomplish in baked goods only to end up with a really dark pink. The red of a Coca Cola sign, freshly printed and unmarred by the elements. The vivid red of freshly spilled blood, or the red of an everburning, scorching sun star.

They weren’t...scary so much as they were startling. They shone with a kind of soft friendliness, as did her general aura, but you certainly couldn’t call such a striking color “soft”, it was too abrasive for that.

Hesitantly, Hunk took her much smaller hand in his and gave to two shakes before letting it go. She beamed back at him even though he only offered a careful, small grin. She turned a bit and met Coran’s eyes, instantly stepping toward him.

“Ah! Thank you for helping me on my way in, I always appreciate a little extra hospitality and consideration.” She shook his hand too and offered that same, radiant grin. “You’d be surprised by the attitude of some aliens in this-wait! Are you…” Her eyes narrowed before they widened, their sickly sweet hue becoming even brighter. “You’re Altean, aren’t you?”

“That I am, my girl, that I am! Name’s Coran, Royal Advisor to the sole heir of Altea!” He stood straight and adjusted the lapel of his shirt as if that made him seem prouder.

The mechanic seemed delighted, clapping her hands together and grinning. “That’s incredible! The last documented instance of a living, breathing Altean was, was-”

“Ten thousand years ago, yes.” A female voice answered her from behind, causing the white haired girl to turn and meet the kind eyes of Allura who was smiling at her warmly. “But we’re glad to be here to meet you, and to see someone so passionate about our society still.” She approached and held her hand out this time, pleased to see the young woman take it confidently. “I am Allura, Princess of Altea, welcome to the Castle of the Lions.”

The mechanic beamed and nodded to her, obviously barely containing her excitement. “It’s an honor,” she said softly, tucking one of her braids behind her ear. “My name is Essence Fairchild, mechanic 47 of the Sobeau Galaxy. It’s a pleasure to meet you.”

Lance blinked at that. Essence Fairchild? The hell kinda name was that? But...it was kinda cool. Almost like a fairy tale sort of name. It suited her rather ethereal appearance alright. He leaned back against the wall as slickly as he could and tossed his hair. “Fairchild, eh? Well, you and I know each other already, pretty lady, but have you met my man here?” He gestured casually toward Hunk, who offered an apologetic smile to Essence that Lance couldn’t see from his angle.

“Ah, Lance McCain, I’m guessing?” She asked with a smirk and a shake of her head. “I haven’t had the pleasure,” she said, gesturing back to Hunk who gave a bashful smile.

“I’m, uh, call me Hunk.” He said nervously, scratching behind his head. She nodded to that and then cast her gaze past Allura to the two people that had entered late and stayed by the doorway.

A third person appeared between them and pushed them forward, earning two yelps of surprise. “Ignore the attitudes of these two, they’re actually pretty great people.” The one who spoke was obviously older than most of the teens in the room, although not by much. He looked toward her and smiled. “I’m Takashi Shirogane, but you can call me Shiro, everyone here does.

“Don’t be too intimidated by this guy,” he put a hand on Keith’s head and the red pilot looked away, arms crossed gloomily over his chest. “He’s Keith Kogane. He’ll be a little standoffish at first, but he’ll get over it.”

“Shiro!” He snapped, ducking out from under the man’s hand and making his way to lean against the far wall, ears burning.

Shiro just laughed at that and gestured to the other pilot beside him. “And this here is Pidge Gunderson. They’re our ship’s resident techie and currently moping mechanic.”

Something seemed to click in Essence’s eyes and her posture softened. “Ah, you must be the one I spoke to to find your coordinates.” She walked a little closer, her eyes meeting Pidge’s. “I know it sucks to ask for help sometimes, but I can tell you that from what I gathered, you have a pretty advanced knowledge of this equipment without a smidgen of training. That’s pretty impressive, especially with an Altean system.”

“That’s why I said!” Coran exclaimed, his accent coming out even thicker in his excitement. Pidge looked up hesitantly and huffed, feeling their ears burn at the compliment.

“You want to come with me? I’m going to do a quick systems check and discover everything we’re going to need to repair and then start on a supplies list, timeline, and deduce the price from that. I can teach you a few things along the way, as much as I can about a system as complex as this.”

Pidge immediately looked up and Lance made eye contact with Keith across the room. They all stared in silence for a moment before a sly smirk crept its way onto Lance’s face, Keith found a shocked expression moving toward the white haired mechanic and Pidge’s face lit up with a smile. “You mean it?” They asked, excitement running through their body like fire.

“‘Course I mean it! I might even have a few manuals left I could give you if you want them.” She said with another smile, reaching back into the cockpit to pull a large bag out.

“Wait, why would you do that?” Keith asked without thinking, pushing off of the wall and walking into her line of sight.

Essence held the bag and slung it over her shoulder. “Offer them my books?” She clarified with a tilt of her head, Pidge’s smile at the use of their pronoun not going unnoticed.

“And teach them stuff. I mean, isn’t that-”

“Bad for business?” Essence finished, adding a shrug. “I suppose you could say it is, but there’s one thing that space explorers will never run out of need for, and that’s a capable, knowledgeable mechanic. So if I spread what I know around to others I think have the potential to be just as capable and intelligent, it’s not really that big of a deal. Besides, the Altean system is so unique and unrivaled, that teaching one enthusiastic mechanic its controls won’t really impact me at all.”

She turned back around and gestured for Pidge to follow her as she brushed past a blinking, speechless Keith. Glancing over her shoulder, she offered him a small but genuine smile to which he returned with a glare.

[rosheendubh]

This draft is so pre-draft rough(ruff) it's barking its language...forgive the bad pun;)

–I’m putting this here to paste into my WriteWayPro file later. Its OTT, way over-narrated, and sort of stream of conscience, including my personal thought asides on notations to address later, bc it’s better having more material with which to work when editing later, and refining after that, than less… –This is part 2, actually after the opening (not posted on my tumblr) told from Artorius’s POV, which started on ‘how does a man enter Rome’? –Rome, spring 182 CE Early, early spring, the second year of his honored majesty’s rule, Emperor Lucius Aurelius Commodus, banquet celebrating the deification of the beloved Marcus Aurelius –The theater, some private theater mentioned in my most recent audiobook venture, 'The Architecture of Ancient Rome’, which was utilized for smaller venues hosted by the nobility, including the Imperial family… ~~ The headache was with her all day, a throb in the back of her skull that felt like a siege hammer pushing through her forehead to the back of her brain. It had started in the morning, barely noticeable, but had grown steadily with the falling night, made her eyes ache/strain in the light, and curled her stomach with faint waves of nausea. They had plagued her since adolescence, these 'cephalgia migrainosus", which is what Galen called them, and the had grown steadily worse Since the death of her father, more frequent, hammering through her brain, and sometimes incapacitating her for 2 and 3 days at a time. The days when her maid could attend her at home, and she could lay in her sleeping quarters, the cool breeze wafting up from the (Hamilton…just kidding)__Heights, sun freshened air chasing the stagnancy of the lower streets hanging heavy in the chill mist that clung to Roman mornings in the early spring, with her favorite lute-player strumming a soothing melody, and her daughter rubbing her temples, she rebounded within a day. It was when her brother summoned her to court, the drill she played between his excesses and outrages, his impetuousness and boredom, which, if he indulged it, turned to malicious amusements unless she interceded, the way she had cultivated through the years, teasing and tailoring, softening and easing Commodus’s temperaments in counterpoint to the Ruffled sensibilities of the old patrician Senators, taking care to not overstep that tenuous boundary imposed by his favorite hangers-on. The headaches on those days were interminable, but she has learned to sublimate them, subsume the pain, and construct her mask. A public facade, the flawless serenity she shows the world, –She’s taken a place at a window, facing north (I need to establish if this setting is at the Theater of the Nobility/or the Palace/and decide the direction toward the Tiber…) across a sea of darkness, broken by the faint lamps and torches that line the maze of streets and plazas, down the _____Hill, toward the docks of the Tiber, sipping wine she knows will make her headache/weariness worse, but it warms her stomach, spreading its soft glow to her clenched fingers, grasping the vessel, and slows the rapid burst of her heart against her chest. The Scent on the night wind reminds her for a moment, of that week in Hispania, when her father paid visit to a branch of an equestrian family, native to the (Neopolitan region), the gens Artorii, who had settled along the sea-battered cliffs of Asturias, and supplied cavalry mounts from their breeding farms outside of Isirium/Coruna. A retired veteran, Aelius Artorius Verus had one son, a restless youth on the eve of his 2nd decade, Lucius Artorius, who was grappling like a caged beast w/ambitions to see the wider world, and for a young man of provincial equestrian status, that meant joining the army. She had been newly widowed, an empress, now a mere emperor’s daughter once more, and thinking she was to enjoy a welcome respite from domesticity, enjoy her father’s company as his confidant, in place of her often frail mother, anxious over her infant sisters, and her favored brother. But she was the most gifted of his children, for all she was a daughter and not a son. Her rebuke to her father had been sharp that morning, discovering she was to be bartered off in yet another marriage, to another eastern low-born catamite. Marcus Aurelius’s unruffled, philosophical regard/equanimity only set her off her more, and she stormed in angry tears from his quarters, used as his temporary audience hall, whilst they resided at the home/villa of the Artorii. Her upset took her out into the stables where Artorius, in the process of grooming and saddling one of their private mounts, stopped frozen in his task, tongue tied/stuttering out some greeting. Lucilla, accustomed to the adoration she often observed upon the faces of the varied retainers of her father’s men, learned to accept such worship with nary a pucker or a blush, as serene as her father, and properly haughty when necessary. But this day, she had no patience for such awkward/untried/infatuations, snapping at him to ready another of their horses, and to ride out with her, letting loose another rampant of temper when he tried to insist there was no horse in his father’s stables gentle enough to act as a woman’s pony. *You think the only sorts of horses I rode while crossing the rocky footpaths of Dalmatia with my husband were slow-broke nags and docile ponies? My safety isn’t a concern of yours or anyone’s but my own.* Artorius had flushed, the shade harsh, making his ruddy, sun-touched skin only darker, but his eyes, a steel-gray that made her think of storm-clouds low over a squalling sea, met hers, saying firmly. *I did not mean imply you have no talent for more spirited horses, Lady. But I’ll bear your anger to correct you in saying that your safety, in fact, is of the utmost importance, bc it’s my life forfeit if it’s in my company when you happen to be unseated from your mount and break your neck, or your head is dashed upon rocks bc you’re thrown. It will be upon my conscience that I did not caution nor guard you close enough, and it will be upon my family’s honor that I, who ought to have been responsible for the Augusta’s life, failed in my duty.* Shocked into silence, it took Lucilla some very long, slow breaths to work through the turmoil in her mind, not used to being opposed/countered in her demands. He was obviously not the callow, infatuated, all-worshiping youth she had thought; though she could see him starting to glance away from her stilled gaze uncomfortably, looking like he wanted to be anywhere the other side of hell than in her presence just then. Her sudden peel of laughter took him aback, his eyes leaping back to her, consternation in his frown. *Indeed, Artorius Castus, forgive me. You are right–about my flippancy toward mortality anyway. As for the title, that’s no longer mine to claim.* His face eased into a gradual smile, a cheeky half-grin at first that lifted his earnest melancholy, a flash of white teeth and twinkle in his gaze that made her, in that moment, uncomfortably aware that he was quite handsome, in that roughened way of men who spent their hours outside tasting of wind, sun, and chasing the clouds or the waves in all elements. His laughter was warm and deep. *We aren’t as inclined to track titles, my Lady. You’re the daughter of an emperor. And you were the wife of one. Your husband being dead makes you no less an empress. That alone elevates you above the common stock.* His words hit like a cold ice-crush into her chest. *Today, I don’t wish to be anything other than…me. Lucilla.* She willed him with all her heart, trying not to let the edge of panic/desperation/hysterics take her voice. *Please, take me out with you today. I’ll ride whatever horse you feel suited.* The set of his mouth revealed his inclination to protest. Studying her, she wondered what he must have seen in the intensity she could feel drawing tight the muscles of her jaw/the strain over her brow. *I can’t go back to face my father right now* *As you wish*he nodded, after a moment’s indecision.

–During week Lucilla/MA visit Isirium, escaping plague sweeping through the east, Artorius and Lucilla escape from dreary boredom of older older adults early morning in spring, riding out along the cliffs down to seaside, finding a sheltered copse ringed by early spring flowers, in low cluster, discuss Varro, Artorius despises, commenting how poets make all rural dwellers sound like they suck the tears of their goats, and fuck their sheep, to which only realized the coarseness of the comment after he says it, apologizing, Lucilla insists she not offended, explaining that she spent most of her married life around her husband’s dissipated crowd…Artorius expresses his frustration, wanting to see the world, to which Lucilla states it may not be all so enticing, Artorius states he will at least have experienced it, Lucilla asks if he would like to hear what offends her, going on to explain how men belittle the fact she’s a woman, and for that reason, can’t understand what it takes to rule an Empire, despising how the borders need reinforcements, and are strained, spend gold to the East for foreign luxuries, eyeing the silk and thread threading of her over gown, while the treasury taxes the people to privation in order to buy Egyptian grain… Artorius insists he’s not offended, but enchanted, and she states how the both have their ambitions…

She ignores the background chatter in the room, finding the dim glow from the streets below, stretching north and east across the Forum___, and climbing up the terraced ____scattering of homes set into the ____Hill less harsh to her pulsing/exhausted vision/sight/stressed sight. “Is it very bad, this one?” The words come from behind her, as she swings around at their sound. “Artorius! How did you escape being announced?” she whispers conspiringly, dropping her head low. “By taking to the streets, on my two feet, like a common pleb.” His grin hasn’t changed in all the years between their first meeting and now, revealing the same cheeky humor, the twinkle in his eyes. “Your attendants were made of more delicate stamina.” “Careful with your criticisms. They’re two of Saertoros’s favorite cosmeticians. You insult them too strongly, and he’ll see that my brother orders you to groomed by an African ape for the amusement of the mob.” “Well, they did wonders with my garb, I’ll grant that.” He gestures over the fine linen tunic of light blue, which falls below his knees, edged in the thin border of porphyry silk, the belt of silver plate-links, the buckle of bronze and gilt working showing Neptune driving his chariot of sea horses across the waves, trident in one hand, whipping his beasts on with the other, the only indication of Artorius Castus’s commissioned status in the chief marine unit of the Emperor. The years haven’t so much aged him as refined the essence of that eager, restless young man who had captured her heart in those brief, sweet days they had spent rambling along the wind swept-cliffs, upon the sturdy steeds his father used to fortify bloodlines of cavalry mounts for the legions, bearing them, clamoring up hidden trails, and winding into the deep green valleys, where they sat and shared their dreams, their memories, with one another beside a sun-dappled river, and a strand of blossoming aspens. Thick black brows crown his strong features, a wide forehead, balanced by deep-set eyes, their gray now shaded by a more staid melancholy than she recalls, the first lines at their corners evidence of sun, wind, and sea, than the ravages of time. His gazes moves over her unabashedly, following the line of cheek, the slope of throat, where the glitter of twined Spanish silver drapes like a slither of snow over her collarbones. She feels her skin warm/face flush beneath the draw/heat in his gaze, his focus sliding along the slight rise of her breastbone, the curves of soft flesh just below, outlined by the gentle folds of Indian cotton, shot with silvered silk, the delicate fabric shivering against her skin with each quickened breath. A handful of stolen kisses, caresses in shadowed corners of fort buildings, the dizzying exhilaration of their movements, his limbs twined with hers on the rare nights she had been able to sneak away to him, the last time they had been together in Aquileia/Sirmium, in that week before her father died, and the world changed forever. Despite their solitude by the window, at the edge of the banquet hall, Lucilla is ever aware of the greedy attention of the guests that track her every move, and posture. She sighs long, gathering her poise, giving him a scrutinizing look, inhaling/sniffing the air about him. “Well, you don’t smell like you’ve been at sea these last 12 months.” He quirks an eyebrow,/puzzled look/caught by her off hand comment, before breaking into a short, gruff laugh. “Your attendants- "Saortius’s attendants.” Lucilla wants it clear, she bears no ties, however casual or trivial such associations may be, with any of the intimates of her brother’s circle, particularly his male-lover. Artorius gives her a pointed, playful look, humoring her correction. “Whoever. They had their hour, primping over me in the baths. Amid the mewling, hissing, and tsking- "Fascinating. Were they cats, or men?” His mouth quirks up at one side, the mirth in his eyes basking over her, not off-put in the least by the tart tone. “They were yowling like cats by the time I was done with them.” “Oh dear,” Lucilla frowns, feigning concern. “You weren’t too horrible to them, were you? They are, after all, rather used to the effeminate world of stage actors and court dancers. Not the demanding rigor of our military men.” Artorius’s voice carries all of his mimed disdain/insult/violation. “They plucked a hair from my chest.” A line of neatly trimmed hairs accents his jaw, matching the dark brown, thick cropped tresses covering his scalp. “They left your beard,” she offers in mock sweetness. “They tried sprinkling me with Rose oil from Antioch,” he blurts in his barley contained indignation. To which she laughs suddenly, Artorius’s deeper timbre adding to her joy. A husky merriment that relaxes the tension cramping/squeezing her temples, chasing away the dull hammer of her headache behind her eyes. She feels…lighter, in that moment. Young again, and wishing to be the woman, the person she always had been with him, the person he had always cherished. Not an icon of power, a vehicle to breed heirs, or even, as her brother acknowledged, an advisor, his echoing confessor, to soothe his impulses, and temper his fears, balancing that fine edge between keeping his favor, and repairing the sensibilities of the senators. Conscious of the attention their mirth has drawn from the other guests gathered about the hall, they quiet into breathlessness. A glance exchanged, Lucilla has to squeeze her lips together, seeing Artorius’s smirk flick at the edge of mouth, threaten to dissolve them into another round/gale of laughter. “You should smile more,” he says. The tenderness in his voice cuts into her heart. He sees the question in her eyes. “You look…” “Younger?” She can’t quite keep the archness/tartness from her tone. “Freer.” Her smile this time, is a sad ghost, a memory of the girl she had been, the hope of her youth, buried, sunken beneath the woman she has become in the years since her father’s death, managing Commodus’s excesses and corruptions, fighting to keep her perfect composure, serenity, and keep his suspicions of her dead. Her eyes cross over the myriad bodies clustered in the private groups, conversing in low voices, sipping from their fine molded, silver goblets. She tone is hard. “The same men who used to surround my father squealing like suckling pigs now cage my brother like scavenging sharks. He and his lover paw each other like humping dogs in front of his wife, and she does nothing. He insults our generals, men who won our father’s victories, spurning their counsel on the eve of triumph to instead, treat with the Quadi, and they do nothing. He degrades our senators, ignores our laws, and squanders our treasury upon his perverse entertainments, and they do nothing. My husband does…nothing.”

“Lucilla?” Her name only, but his tone if full of caution, knowing, not wanting to understand what she’s saying.

Far below, the streets of Rome emanate a faint glow, the soft light of torches mounted outside forecourts, oil-lamps set on open casements in upper story rooms. The season is still early, the night fresh with the spring rains which blow in from the coast, washing out the muddied lanes, and clearing the gutters of their festering filth. She turns from the window, from the dark night beyond the palace, meeting Artorius’s’ frown with a slow, reassuring smile. “It will all be different after tonight.”

“What do you mean?” The question is spoken low, his eyes heavy upon her.

Her smile fades as she glances behind him, seeing her husband, Claudius Pompeianus, approach them from across the banquet hall. On his arm, he escorts his guest. A woman, tall, regal. Striking, despite being on the closing end of her fifth decade, as Lucilla figures her age anyway. Envy, jealousy, or hatred. She ought to feel something other than this empty echo of sadness which rises, a dull ache pressing into her chest. She can’t hide the curl of her lip, her sorrow briefly breaking through. “Nothing,” she repeats the word like a mantra of her emptiness, turning her attention fully to Artorius, “I mean nothing. Only that I am happy you are here. That we are finally together after so long apart,” her practiced poise smoothing away any expression of upset.

The troubled shadow in his gaze tells her he’s not convinced. Despite Artorius’s devotion, his desire for her, there’s little he, nor anyone can do to cure this malignancy, the pain of her marriage. The grudge she still carries against her father, who she adored with all the faith in her being, transforming into the epitome of culture and grace, an empress to match her emperor. She had been the restraint, the light touch of wisdom redirecting the excesses of Lucius Verus’s behavior into victories that secured the loyalty of their eastern provinces. When plague had taken her first husband, and stolen away her role as Augusta, Marcus Aurelius hadn’t granted her the reward of autonomy, but bartered her to a man of lower rank, and dull ambition. For all Pompeianus’s military achievements, he carried little regard for the art of politics, and the intricacies of imperium. He had long ago accepted his wife’s baffling contempt as yet one more necessary inconvenience in the fulfillment of duty. She had given him a healthy son, and in so far as state contracts were concerned, Lucilla had kept her part of the bargain, providing an heir for Pompeianus, and assuring his senatorial heritage. Had she known back in the early years of their marriage, the true source of his coolness toward her, his forbidden, secret affection for the woman now at this side, Lucilla might have been spared the gnawing guilt that had haunted her for so many long, tortured nights.

An urge nearly overwhelms her, to suddenly unburden herself, admit everything of her plans, the reason for her enigmatic words, to Artorius. But Pompeianus and his companion draw near, almost into ear-shot. Instead, her desperation raw in her voice, she whispers, “Come to me tonight?”

She hears the ragged breath of his surprise, his desire, the way his gaze, suddenly bright with need, lances through her, then leaps to her husband and the woman at his side. The conflict of his conscience constricting his face. "Lucilla–“her name harsh, dragged past his lips into silence.

"Please.” She knows Artorius’s opinion of her husband is somewhat more elevated than her own, more favorable. They had served along the Danube together, Artorius Castus a mere centurion at the time. He was honored by Pompieanus, by her father, for his treatment of the Sarmatians, the conscription of over five-thousand horselords to re-garrison the depleted forces along Britannia’s hinterlands. Those shores of cold mist and savage moors, where legionaries described the women as giantesses, war-mad and frothing at the mouth, charging their chariots into battle. The woman striding elegantly beside her husband is tall, taller than the average Roman man. By all appearances, though, she embodies the ease of a Republican matron, rather than a warrior-queen, bent on tearing her enemies to pieces.

“Who is she?” Artorius asks, following the line of her gaze to her husband and his guest.

“The one he ought to have married.” She clutches his hand quickly, feeling the warmth, the power in his answering grasp. "Come to me tonight?”

He traces the delicate band of bronze circling her ring finger. “You still wear it?”

“Always.” She nods, swallowing, her breath catching in her throat, the years of loneliness she’s kept at bay with the precious memories of their loving her only succor in the endless seasons of their separation. “Please. Tonight.”

A moment of silence, marking the time with the thundering of her heart drumming through her hearing. Then…

“Always,” spoken harshly, a sigh, everything of his love, and his reluctance in that one word.

One last squeeze, and their hands drop apart. Claudius and his companion slow, stopping to offer their welcome. Lucilla inhales deeply, greeting them with a bright smile. "Husband! You recall Lucius Ar-

"Artorius Castus!” She’s always hated how he over-speaks her, but Lucilla manages her annoyance, a small bow, and she steps back to Lucius'a side as the men exchange their greetings.

Claudius grabs Lucius’s hand, drawing him into a vigorous hug, their hearty ribbing full of laughter and jest. Her husband is still a well-built man, for all of being in in his mid-sixties.

“Last I saw you, lad, you were pummeling Sarmatians back to their Maker. Then, stroking the scabbards of Marcus Aurelius’s advisors the wrong way–may his soul rest easy–insisting the turds be conscripted.”

Artorius grins quickly/ruefully as the part. “For which I had the dubious task/honor seeing to their transfer across 10 rivers and no less than five provinces, excluding the crossing to Britannia.”

“And soundly rewarded with an assignment direct to the emperor’s fleet out of Misenium,” Claudius says in his clipped/brisk voice/chuckle. Lucilla marvels how he can strip himself of the trappings of a genteel senator, and take on the trappings of his old military demeanor when in the presence of fellow veterans and active legionaries, as though he doesn’t wish to be thought of as soft or indolent these years he’s resided in Rome. “Are you bored yet, with spitting sea salt and basting German whores along the fringe of the Rhine?”

Artorius’s laugh is short, his smirk touching his eyes, a comradely smile passing between the men. “You’ve obviously been keeping a close track on my career.”

“We heard about how your men routed the Quadi/OTHER TRIBES/LAST ENGAGEMENT AFTER COMMODUS’s PEACE at ______Fort on the Danube, where it crosses at____, all the way here in Rome.” Claudius’s admiration is plain across his grizzled features, white brows and silvered hair, his dark eyes shine like a alert hound’s, hungering for the hunt, reliving the glory days of his own command under her father. “Ingenious, using the damming from the winter melt.”

Artorius, more reserved, says only, “We were fortunate the spring thaw was so rapid that year. It slowed their boats/rafts, halted their offensive, or we would have been fighting their parties from two fronts. It allowed time to oil the logs, and have the archers take a position from the trees, and set them ablaze. Gods be thanked, it’s been some years since we’ve seen an active engagement like that. Now, it’s mostly transport, food-stuffs, supplies, occasional livestock, transferring a unit or two, and the like.”

“Ah, the reality of peace.” Her husband can’t quite his disdain/disproval/contempt, her brother’s odious treaties with the tribes among the Danube one of the few points he seems to concur on, feel as strongly as she does, in regards to the ill-reasoned direction of her brother’s decisions in ruling the empire. “Are you Nostalgic for the days of direct action?”

Artorius hears the peculiar vibe of dissatisfaction from Claudius, eyeing him curiously/carefully/cautiously. “Only in so far as it kept the men occupied. Bored soldiers are no good for the integrity of our frontiers.”

A strange look, full of some unspoken meaning that unsettles Lucilla, passes between Claudius and the woman who stands just off to his side. Claudius nods. “Which is why it’s necessary to have men of experience staffing the posts in our hinterlands.”

He sounds like he’s about to reminisce on the glory days of his own command, but Artorius sniffs loudly, an unvoiced frustration/consternation surfacing. “And leaves me in my current quandary. I was advised by my commanding officer not 6 months back I’d receive my next assignment direct from the barracks here in the capital. 6 months later, and there’s been no commission forthcoming.”

“This, perhaps, is where my brother’s wife may of some help.” She waits patiently to be introduced, stepping forward to take Claudius’s hand. wrapped the woman who has accompanied her husband to this banquet tonight, held by her brother. “Maeve, the wife of Antius Crescens Calpurianus, legate of the VI Legion Victorius out of Eboracum, daughter of Lucius, king of the Briganti nation, and heir to the provincial domains of northern Britannia.” She weaves an Alluring portrait/image, a tall, elegantly figured woman in a gown the shade of crushed violets, her black hair, streaked with white, is pulled into an elegant coif, held by a circlet of netted silver and diamonds, her cheekbones high in a long face and probing eyes , her high forehead accented by thick slanting brows, heavy lidded eyes the color of ice, appear serene, ironic, as though they’ve looked on the multi-layered worlds, the souls and actions wrought by men, and little, if any circumstance exists which can still disturb her ease/poise/composure. She must have been stunning in her youth, and now, into her middle years, her presence still invokes a hushed respect in Lucilla, rarely effected by others of rank, a stab of envy jabbing her conscience as Artorius’s gaze travels over the woman’s form appreciatively/admiringly/consideringly. He’s never been shy in his appraisal of the women around him, a trait which would have infuriated her had he not also prized their talents and minds in turn.

“A queen?” Artorius says admiringly, on cue, bending down to kiss her elegant fingers, twined with Claudius’s. “You’re far from home.”

“It’s an impotent title, carrying little more these days, than the symbolism of a fabricated past.” Her smile, fleeting, warms her eyes with a quick, darting humor upon Artorius, and thawing the image of immaculate reserve. “Far from home, and long away as well.” Her voice has a low, smoky lilt, her Latin accented in that cadence of her northern home.

“I imagine you’re much missed by your husband, Lady. What would spur you to leave so far from both hearth and country?”

Her eyes rest upon Artorius, an enigmatic smile ghosts over her lips. “That would be long story for one night. Suffice for now, there’s value in seeing how the world fares beyond the sunrise and sunset of our own lands, whether we’re women and men. Do you not believe so, Artorius Castus?”

“I do,” he says with a single, firm nod, meeting her intent expression.

“Good. Then, you’ll understand to my chagrin, I’ve been so long absent, that I’ve only now had the benefit of Claudius apprising me of the most recent reports from Britannia. They’re distressing, to say the least.”

“My sympathies, Lady. If the reports I received as well from the Hadrian limes hold any merit, they also credited your husband, and your sons I believe, with the discipline and courage that has kept our frontiers solid against barbarian incursion these last years.”

A flash of some emotion, anger, lances the coolness of her poise. “It’s your Saramatians, Artorius Castus, who haven’t yet fulfilled their potential as reinforcements in our northern auxiliaries. They’re recalcitrant and have proven excessively difficult to integrate into the deployments, according to my husband.”

Artorius blinks at her sharp tone, nonplussed it seems, but his voice is hard when he answers her remark. “Perhaps it’s that the right man hasn’t yet been found. Who understands their customs without denouncing them, and demonstrates an adequate command of equestrianship.”

Amusement, subtle, washes over/melts across/softens the British woman’s regard, returns his defensive/tense words with breathy, considering little laugh. “Alas, my thought as well.

Artorius’s regards her/studies her/watches her with a closed/guarded expression. "And your husband?”

“My husband tends to concur,” Maeve states with an air of serene confidence. An unease begins to take hold of Lucilla, as the British woman’s crystalline eyes fall upon Claudius, and he motions with a nod in return. “Marcus Aurelius highly commended you. Senator Pompeianus extolls your feats in battle, especially against the Sarmatii, but it was your skill in orchestrating their/the steppe nomads’ peaceful transfer to British shores which snagged the accolades of my husband. Your name crossed the rosters for reassignment in the last year. Antius has had you marked.”

Anticipation livens Claudius’s usually /bland/stern/morbid comportment when required to interact socially with others. “The command is yours, if you wish it, Artorius Castus.”

“And what command is that, Senator?”

Lucilla glances at him quickly, sees the interest sudden, blazing, lighting up his rugged features. He carefully/deliberately avoids her stricken gaze, as she struggled to quash the rising panic, the awareness he is to be taken from her again before they ever have a chance to claim a happiness forever eluding them, duty the despair of their love.

Maeve answers before Claudius can speak. “Prefect of the Cohort of the First Wing of Sarmatian cavalry.”

He ponders her words in silence for the beat/space of a breath. Then, a rueful smile crosses his features. “That was the post Aurelius’s counsellors denied me at the juncture when their Prince, Batrades, was about to embark with the first contingent across the Channel from _____(northern French/Amorican/Norman/Breton port). They told me I treated them too sympathetically, that my interactions with the Iazyges were too familiar, and my orders were not issued to conscripts with sufficient authority or discipline to keep them in their place, subordinate.”

“You lacked the seasoning and rank back then to have been rewarded such a sensitive assignment/position. That rapid a rise would have ruffled the envy of other officers Aurelius considered too essential to snub at the time,” Claudius says. “Times are different now. The opportunities for a talented legionary, the equestrian background–well lad, there’s few who would object to your placement as head of the Sarmatian horselords.”

He’s obviously drawn to the offer, his gaze bright, what regret he might feel, once more being separated from her by distance and duty, rapidly evaporating from his mind.

“But so far?” Lucilla asks, trying to keep her voice smooth, distant/polite, wo the imposing need, but thinking how forced the words, her smile feeling forced, past the constriction of her throat. “Surely after a year at sea, and so many seasons spent in our hinterlands, you would seek an assignment more centrally located to Rome, to your family. The Praetorian ranks, perhaps?”

A strange perplexity clouds his features. “I barely know my family, at least of the Neopolitan branch. My father’s uncle is my closest living relative, who now lies near his last breath, and never gave my father more than a passing indulgence once year around Saturnalia. Home has ever been…Asturias. I’ll accept your offer, on one condition,” Artorius says, his fingers worrying/working the fanged pendant, his determined gaze on Claudius’s. The senator gives a small nod/cautious nod/slow nod. “Grant me leave to see my grandmother, assure the farm is stable, and our household provided for.”

“Done.” Claudius reaches out his hand. Artorius clasps the man’s forearm in a return, a exultant light suffusing his eyes, sealing their deal as Lucilla’s tenuous grasp at joy begins to spin away from her, into a dark abyss drilling a hole of abandonment into her soul.

“A curious pendant, those teeth.” Maeve’s voice moves over them like a gentle breeze off summer seas.

The men part, stepping back from each other. Artorius, still fingering the fangs off the leather tong around his neck, gives a cursory glance down at the yellowed ivory canines. One curved fang embossed with vertical gold etchings like bird’s feet in sand, down its the curve to the narrowed point, the other tooth bare, wo embellishment or mark.

Artorius lets the enameled teeth drop from his grasp, to rest undisturbed, just below his collarbone. “A family heirloom of sorts. It was the only treasure brought from Hibernia by my grandmother, passed to my own father, then to me upon his death.”

“The one with the writing, it’s rendered in the language of the Druids.”

His gaze upon Maeve is measuring. “Do you know what it means?”

She squints, a veiled/hooded expression/unreadable expression upon Artorius, examining the gold-embossed talisman. “It takes some time to translate druid-script into the Latin. What of the other?”

A half grin twitches across his lips. “A humbling reminder, Lady, of hubris–a novice recruit, his first assignment at the northern extent of the Rhine, and a perhaps, too reckless exuberance for adventure that turned into a struggle for survival in the face of a blizzard, between myself and the wolf who had previously made use of that tooth.”

“Would he now propose he’s free of hubris?” Lucilla asks, hurling the question like a thrown dagger, looking directly at him, probing his face, refusing to let him retreat from her silent pain.

Contrition shines from his eyes, but before any other comment can be spoken, trumpets sound through the hall, blaring the arrival of the emperor in a flurried entourage/procession from the high vaulted gallery fronting the entrance.

–Commodus’s entrance, greeting with his sister, announces for his guests to be seated in honor of his father’s commemoration/deification, change in the program of the entertainment, from Aristophanes and Lysisrrata to ??writer and Antigone, a message of familial fidelity, of devotion to one’s parents and one’s siblings, gaze fixed on Lucilla. Premonition chills her, hearing Maeve’s whispered observance, her ice-blue eyes fastened upon her brother’s procession like she’s gazing into a different world/a distant horizon just beyond. “The shadow of death lies on him.”

“What are muttering about, woman?” Claudius asks distractedly, scowling at her. “This isn’t the time to having spells/episodes, Maeve.”

She blinks, a slight pucker, snd a fine crease between her brows forming, her disconcerting gaze shifting to Lucilla. “Oh Claudius, you should have left when I told you with your wife,” she says with a peculiar remorse.

Commodus announces the change in venue, explaining it’s only appropriate on a night for commemorating their father deification, to celebrate a playwright of Antigone who had captured the virtues his father always espoused, of humbleness, modesty, dignity, serenity/patience, asking Lucilla if this is not what their father taught, as he gestures for her, in a change of seating hierarchy, in a bow to familial ties over marital, to take her old position at his right hand as they, the guests about them begin to move toward their assigned places toward the lounge-divans/cushioned/pillowed benches facing the central raised platform of a stage, Commodus’s wife, Bruttia Crispina throwing her a savage/vicious/waspish glare, and in the coup de grace, as Lucilla takes his hand, he proffers her the accusatory dagger, hurt and rage finally contorting his fine-hewn features that he shares with his sister, words filled with venom, 'The Senate sends you this gift, sister’, shock and confusion buzz from the spectators/witnesses, and Claudius demands to know what the meaning of Commodus’s insinuation is, tossing his wife a bloodied dagger, whilst in this juncture, as everyone’s attention is focused on the play between brother and sister, Lucilla stiff as a statue, color faded from her cheeks, fastened upon the dagger in her trembling hand, Maeve has melted back into the shadows at the edge of the hall, noting a slave who directs her to where the latrines are located, skirts stealthy/sneaks out unnoticed, throwing her palla over her hair, and evading groups of guards at the main entrance, as she darts out a rear servants’ access leads out from the fetid drainage/sewer alley in order to hasten back to Claudius’s mansion on foot, through the streets, and get a message off to her daughter, Artorius too is trying to make sense of the situation, 'Lucilla’, shifts Commodus’s attention to him, in a forced theatrical voice, 'Ah, Lucius Artorius Castus, I believe. I recall the praise my father heaped upon you after the close of the Macromanni assault, and my sister’s favor for you, retaining her golden cunt for her particular lovers. What, I Wonder, did she promise you, in dividing of my empire between her enchanted conspirators, Artorius says in a a low, dangerous voice, menacing, Be careful, Commodus, of what you’re charging, to which he bristles, You have no right to address me as such! I am your emperor, spurring Lucilla to intercede before Artorius advances/responds, voice tense, He has nothing to do with this Commodus, and Commodus pierced her with blazing look of despair and hatred, 'Like Ummidius Quadratus had nothing to do with this, like you hadn’t fucked him into treason against his emperor, his face livid, His blood stains that blade sister, bc he tried to take my life at your instigation, a collective gasp rippling over the audience, as she bites out in a voice like acid, 'How dare you, little brother–no more fit to hold the throne of Caesar than you are to mount a donkey. You insult our father by shitting on his vision, and parlaying with barbarians. The Senate abhors you, the people despise you, and the army disdains you. Perverted and corrupt, your reign will be nothing but a curse left to be smashed from the pillars and walls after you die, Commodus stepping toward her, she sees Artorius tense, ready to jump to her defense but her brother, only a finger breadth taller than her, only whispers, I loved you, Lucilla, above all my sisters. I valued your words, and would honored you. We would have ruled in glory, to outshine even our great father. Hesignals the Praetorians to break their formation, coming forward, taking positions around Lucilla and Artorius Castus on all sides. In a voice meant to project to the audience, he says, “Instead, sister, I order your arrest, for treason, sedition, and attempted assassination against your emperor. You will be exiled to Capri–” the Praetorians wo any command, taking up points on all sides around her–“your sentence to be decided. And Lucius Artorius Castus, to be taken into custody under suspicion of conspiracy–” Fear pierces Lucilla’s voice for the first time that night. “Commodus, he had no part in my actions, no knowledge,” Throwing a desperate look to Artorius who makes no protest as two guards move to restrain each of his arms. “Claudius, please,” she begs, “you know he is innocent!” Commodus raises his hand, commanding his guard to pause, and they freeze, like mimes sharing one mind, in unison. “Indeed,” her brother says with a small, sadistic twitch of his lips that leaves Lucilla numb with dread. His gaze falls on Claudius, who looks like he’s aged a century in the moments since his wife’s treason came to light, skin parchment pale, sagging exhaustion beneath his eyes. He shuffles toward the emperor, falling to his knees, kissing the signet ring when Commodus extends his hand. “The clemency I seek, your Grace, is not for my wife, but for this man. He has served your father, and you, fiercely and faithfully, along our water routes, and our furthest boundaries. He could not have had any knowledge of my wife’s betrayal, gods have mercy upon his life.” “Mercy,” Commodus repeats the word, as though spoken in a foreign tongue. “My father promoted justice along with mercy. And we are, if harsh, also just. Rise Claudius Pompeiaus,” he motions with his hand. “And if Lucius Artorius Castus is, indeed innocent,” he fingers clutch Lucilla’s fine-boned wrist, bringing the dagger in its grip to Artorius’s hand, as the guards thrust him, shoving him, before Commodus, “then he may prove his loyalty to his emperor.” Malice fires an ardency across Commodus’s features, meeting Artorius’s defiant gaze. “So, soldier, I ask, how ought my traitorous sister be punished?” She feels Arorius clasp the handle of the knife, his focus unwavering from her. He’s as taut as a catapult, drawn, and ready to fire. The tremor from the power of his grip on the knife, her own fingers still wrapped about its handle, shudders up her arm to her shoulder. “No, Artorius, don’t!” What happens next is a blur of outrage/alarmed cries/bellows, the dagger in his grip driven upwards, Lucilla trying to divert its momentum/force from her brother’s chest toward a point into her neck, unaware of her helpless/stricken utterance echoing through the hall. Commodus’s outraged cry sends the Praetorians into action, the nearest raising his short sword hilt like a bludgeon at the same moment Artorius wrenches Lucilla backwards/pushes her backwards, out of grasp, sending her stumbling to the ground, ramming his shoulder into the man’s armored torso, his fist smashing into the doubled-over guard’s jaw with a sickening crunch. The man behind him flails, his spear flying out of his grip across the floor, scattering the onlookers, as his downed comrade, sluggish/reeling from Artorius’s blow, crashes into him, and spins to marble floor, his shout to look to the emperor strangled by the Artorius’s foot landing in the side of his neck. Lucilla manages to stagger upright, seeing the additional regiment pour into the hall, twenty-five men, in polished black armor, advancing to the scene, as Artorius dives for the lost spear, dodging the third guard’s hapless maneuver with his shield, that he tries to leaver up, and clip Artorius’s rapid motion, but he lunges into a tight roll at the last moment, lurching to one foot just in front of the surprised guard, the closest Commodus, and trying to impose himself between the attacker and the emperor. Artorius thrusts the spear into the thunder bolt blazoned shield, using the soldier’s paralyzed astonishment to yank back, dragging the guard forward, the man loosing his footing, warning Commodus to back away while he and Artorius grapple for the man’s still sheathed sword, dangling at his waist from the leather strapped belt. With the spear shaft as his winch/lever/mast, Artorius Heaves himself bodily into the shield, shoving the guard further back as he tugs the sharpened head out of the rawhide and bronze/alloy sealed wood, maneuvering to come behind the guard, and drive the spear head into the man’s calf as the guard snarls in pain, twisting to his knees, his shield clattering to the floor as his hand flies to where the barbed lance is buried in his muscle, a pool of red liquid leeching out from the wound. Artorius, undeterred by the arrival of the additional soldiers, never stalls, launching himself with a bestial sound, all his disgust/contempt for Commodus in that sound, who staggers back, vulnerable and exposed, face a mask of fear, flinching away from the bloodied dagger Artorius aims at his throat, even as his free hand, flies out to grab her brother beneath his chin, hauling him off his feet, carrying him back, such is his anger and power in his motions, slamming Commodus into one of the grand marble columns/Quartz columns lining the room. “Was this what you thought I would do to your sister,” his voice full of menace, pressing the edge of the blade up to her brothers throbbing vessel in his neck, glaring into Commodus’s frenzied/panicked eyes, rolling in his head. “Artorius, no!” She knows there’s no recourse now. Claudius restrains her from rushing toward them as a contingent of 4 new armored men surround her and her husband, another looking to the beaten soldiers slowly recovering themselves, gathering gear and coming unsteadily to their feet, but the soldier with his leg left bleeding, groaning as a medic trained officer readies to dislodge the spear head driven into the back of his lower leg. She and Claudius are the only two left standing of the other guests as the additional Praetorian regiment cleared through the hall in a ruthless efficiency, they have forced every guest, man or woman, senator, wife, escort, actor, or nameless slave, to the ground with their swords drawn, shields in the front, every 5th man left at the perimeter of the kneeling, prone, terrified audience to survey for any surprise attack. “You’re a dead man, scum,” Commodus chokes out past the iron grip flexed about his throat. One of the black armored guards, flanked by two of his companions advances toward her brother and Artorius. “Release your lord emperor, soldier.” He levels his spear, in unison with the other two guards fanned to either side of him. Artorius ignores the command, keeping the dagger edge pressed against the pulsing artery in Commodus’s jugular. “I’ll make your death a living hell, if dare harm her.” The guards shuffle nearer, spears readied in the grasps, closing from behind where Artorius has Commodus pinned against the column. The leader stresses the words more firmly. “I repeat–release your emperor, soldier, or you invite a harsh consequence.” Commodus’s voice is audible, shaking in his fear, his forehead slick with perpetration, but his malice shines from his blue, reptilian eyes, basilisk’s gaze. “You heard them, soldier,” the word hissed. “Release your emperor. How exactly do you expect to save my traitor of a sister by murdering her brother?” Lucilla entreats Claudius’s understanding, and he releases her arm, seeming to read the plea in her eyes. The strain weighs heavy on him, and she can still see the disbelief of her actions warring with the reality of events spinning faster than he can keep apace from the loss/confusion marring his normally stern features. The troops surrounding them act, at first, to obstruct her purpose. Her raised hand, a pacifying gesture, the regality of her bearing, assure them she intends no threat. They keep their weapons trained upon her warily though, as she glides toward Artorius and her brother, locked in Artorius’s choke-hold. She stops just short of the three guards oriented near enough that could thrust a spear into his neck, or slice an arm with their short-swords if so incited. “Artorius–There is no winning this now.” She passes like a wraith between two Praetorians, coming alongside him, begging silently that he will heed the force of her will in her words and /unmoving/fixed/steady gaze centered upon him. Tension tremors his hand, squeezing the dagger blade harder against Commodus’s neck, just short of drawing blood. Her brother makes a short, strangled sound that alerts the trio of guards to close in, their spears in positioned, the men postured for the kill. Rage burns from Artorius eyes, trained upon Commodus, and for an endless heartbeat that leaps into her throat, stopping her breath, she thinks he’s about to slice the dagger across her brother’s bared throat. Contempt twists his features, and with a snarl, Artorius shoves his elbow forcefully/hard against Commodus’s windpipe, removing his throttle hold from the emperor’s throat with a rapid recoil of his hand, fingers still flexed/curled about the knife handle. Commodus falls to floor, crouched on his knees, trying to relax the spasms of his crushed throat, his blazing hatred centered on Lucilla. “He was innocent of all involvement in this, brother. The responsibility of all of this lies with me, solely.” “Lucilla…,” Claudius calls her name helplessly, a mixture of anguish, shame, and fear in his voice. “You’ve so much as condemned yourself of treason, sister,” Commodus rasps past his raw throat. He struggles to his feet, his quick glance to a guard staying the man who was about to come to his assistance. Even her brother, for all his idle cowardice, still has his pride. “Do you admit your guilt in this failed 'coup’ (did that equivalent exist in the Latin lexicon??), sister? That you deliberately deceived your rightful emperor, and plotted the assassination of your Augustus, and most disappointingly of all, devised the downfall of your only living brother, who has loved you above all his siblings?” She meets his evil/vile smugness calmly, her mind so clear in purpose now, even fear has left her, replaced by a resurgence of clarity and determination. “Will you let Lucius Artorius Castus free? With no accusation of complicity, and innocent of all malicious/malevolent intent?” “Oh, my dear,” Artorius murmurs softly at her side, a sad acceptance imparted with words. “He’s hated me from the moment of our love.” His presence by her side is a warmth, a comforting touch in her mind of reassurance, filling her with courage. She cannot look at him, or she thinks she will lose this last thread of hope to make some kind of reparation for the disaster of her plot. “Will you let him go, without threat of harm or imprisonment?” The smugness across her brother’s face makes her want to spit in his eyes. Instead, she keeps her her gaze placid, drilled on him, awaiting his decision. Benevolence floods/washes over/spreads into a gracious smile over his smooth cheeked face. “Of course, dear sister. As I said, we are, of all things merciful as we are just.” She raises her chin, eyes steadied upon Commodus, defiance, pride, in her voice to the last. “Then at least one us, brother, shall go to our death having tried to preserve our father’s legacy.” Anger tics his mouth in a sneer, immediately repressed by his facade of equanimity. She fully expects him to issue the order to his guards of her arrest. Instead, he shifts his attention to Claudius, who continues to watch their exchange cautiously. “I’ll presume by having not mentioned your husband with the same passion you defended your equestrian legionary, Claudius Pompeianus also had no affiliation with your plotting.” Shame, guilt, resentment all wash through her, reluctantly looking toward her husband’s broken expression. A man of talent whose ambitions had fallen short of greatness, disappointment leaves her with an exhaustion that almost sacks her of her stoic will. Especially when Commodus continues in his pronouncement. “Pompeianus will surely not wish to provoke his emperor’s anger by attempting any additional conspiracy when he mercifully allows Pompeianus to collect his wife for the night, to spend one last evening with her family, snd settle estates or make reparations as she might. For your son, of course, Claudius, my favored nephew, who remains innocent of all wrong-doing despite the sins of his mother.” Something bleak, creeps into Lucilla’s voice when she rallies her response. “You will not harm him, my son?” Commodus’s beneficence is sickening. “Why would I harm him?” He asks innocently. “I love him.” “You loved me,” she returns stiffly, through her dread. Her son, who she won’t be able to protect once death and the earth separate them. “And I still do, sweet sister. I still do.” Commodus inclines his head toward the guards surrounding Claudius, to allow him to approach. Commodus stretches out his bejeweled fingers, thick with the rings of his authority. The aged senator kneels, effacing himself before her brother, humbly posturing obeisance as he places his lips upon the imperial signet. “Remember Claudius Pompieanus, guard her well. The official warrant of her arrest shall be issued tomorrow.” Artorius exhales sharply, but Lucilla stays his protest with a darting glance, a short shake of her head. “A Praetorian contingent will take her into state custody at that time.” “I understand, your Eminence.” Pompeianus awaits Commodus’s permission to rise. “I am ever your faithful servant.” Magnanimously, Commodus gestures for her husband to rise, even offering his arm for the retired army general to use as support. He turns to her, and she’s struck by the haggard/worn pall which makes her husband seem suddenly ancient, shrunken, like a dying tree, is a new thing. Next to her golden haired, trim-built brother, with his high cheek bones and Asian tilted eyes the color of lapis blue, Claudius appears like a withered stump. She’s never noticed how tottering his hair has become, nor how lumpy/swollen his knuckles have grown with rheumatism, as he places a hand hesitantly, almost permissively/or submissively/timidly upon her wrist. “Come wife. Let us go make your preparations.” She feels moved to pity for the pain she has caused him, for first time, she experiences the deeper awareness/burden of the fallout of her brother’s rage that will undoubtedly be unleashed upon not only her fellow conspirators, but all members of the Senate, whether or not they were involved in her plot. Names which must have been ripped from Ummidius Quadratus’s mouth as he suffered extraordinary torment at the hands of Imperial interrogators. *So long as Artorius is spared*. Lucilla would once have sheared herself with guilt at the priority of her affections, before her husband and even her son, but she’s done with self-castigation, with deception, to herself most of all. Her father’s values of justice and moderation were her guiding beacons through her life, but it was the value of truth, to oneself, above all else that Marcus Aurelius instilled most deeply into her heart. Artorius Castus, his love, had been a treasure, a precious gift belonging to her alone. The truth was, What judgements history would later lie upon her sarcophagus, where her ashes would rest in eternal darkness, no longer caused her worry. And she knew all of them, the infamous women with whom she would be staged with posterity, from Cleopatra to Livia, Agrippina to [Vestal murdered by Domition], they were strung upon the wrack of condemnation, torn apart by ambition, led astray by lust, covetous for power, and over-reaching in their grab at immortality, at glory. Lucilla wondered when people of later generations read the story of her downfall, if anyone would read between the lines imparted by the chroniclers. If they would understand the higher purpose she had been trying to serve in her father’s memory, the honor, however miscast as the sort of nobility peculiar to women, which had been the true motive behind her attempt to oust her brother from power. Or perhaps, that was her own deception, and she truly had hungered to rule, bc she ought to have been appointed Augusta in her own right. It no longer mattered. It was now, only the moments she had shared with Artorius, worshipping each other with their bodies, as the shared the hearts and souls. That was the treasure, the gift that was hers alone, and would never be taken from her so long as she met her death, knowing in those minutes, he would still see the sunrise on this side of life the day after. He would still exist in the world, and so would she, carried in his heart, the memory and hope of their stolen seasons beneath that same sun. She lets Claudius lead her toward the arched entry of the banquet hall, sensing the rustling of dispersed guests arrayed on the floor, raising heads, trying to catches glimpse, hear a line, take the measure of the events which so rapidly unraveled, all of them still under the watchful attention of the Praetorians. She pauses, and Claudius makes no objection to her turning, her gaze searching out Artorius’s one last desperate, stolen glimpse of the happiness she had almost won, and slipped from her grasp like the salvage rope from a drowning man’s fingers. “Remember me,” she calls. His eyes hold the cast of stormy seas, anguished. “Always,” is all he can manage. She sees the rebellion, the need to fight, leap to her defense taut in his powerful form, the way his throat works, his anger at his own helplessness, the injustice at her arrest. The guards with their spears trained on him are aware of his coiled anger as well, the leader of the three leveling/weighing him with a warning look, a repositioning of his spear, indicating any wrong move and Artorius was a doomed man. The bronze band around her finger seems to pulse, grow warm, and contract, causing her skin, the bone beneath to burn like she was scalded by hot oil. Perhaps it was true, the insistence of the poets and musicians, that some magical chain ran from the ring finger to the heart, where all life in its pain was a measure of an organ beating away the time until there was no longer the despair or ecstasy of joy, sorrow, hate, loss, and most of all love. Until there was only peace, stillness, silence, and the memory of a life once lived.

It’s in that moment, when she registers Commudus’s motion to his guard, the leader of the trio who still pen/corral Artorius with their spears, and the troops fall upon him. Artorius, surprised by the first blow to his gut, doubles over, the wind knocked from his lungs an audible grunt, wheezing/gasping to breathe even as he makes to spring at his attacker, catching the man’s hand, gripping his spear, shoving it aside before the guard can react, and pummeling his fist straight into the man’s nose, bone and cartilage crunching like a rotten egg, a wet, sickening spray of blood that sends the guard tipping back, letting out a gurgle of choking, red-stained phlegm and tissue. One of the remaining guards imposes himself between Artorius and the emperor. His companion blusters his shield out in front of him , as Artorius wheels to meet them, the spear in his hand. Fellow troops cross the room, leaping into the foray/scuffle/melee. He attempts a valiant rally. The collective battering of spear butts into stomach and back, dull thud of booted feet into knees and groin, and finally a sword hilt to his temple, which downs him at last, occurs in the dead silence holding the guests in an entranced spell of horror, broken only by Lucilla’s screams, bringing her to her knees, even as her husband tries to keep her from toppling to the floor with the agony that seizes the strength from her limbs. The ring blazes against her finger, scalding, and she knows what it is for her heart weep in an explosion of grief, shuddering against Claudius, her pleas to her brother broken by her sobs, Commodus watches/scans the entire scene like a god over his enamored worshippers, in the midst of his black-armored troops, his fine-boned face, like a cherubs in its pleasure, resplendent in his triumph, glowing, his skin smooth as a boy’s over his sharp cheeks, the radiance matched by/accented by his the halo of cropped, golden curls, thick about his head.

[readbookywooks]

The broom whisked down the corridor raising a great cloud of dust which, if you looked hard at it, seemed somehow to be sucked back into the broomstick. If you looked even harder you'd see that the broom handle had strange markings on it, which were not so much carved as clinging and somehow changed shape as you watched. But no one looked. Esk sat at one of the high deep windows and stared out over the city. She was feeling angrier than usual, so the broom attacked the dust with unusual vigour. Spiders ran desperate eight-legged dashes for safety as ancestral cobwebs disappeared into the void. In the walls mice clung to each other, legs braced against the inside of their holes. Woodworm scrabbled in the ceiling beams as they were drawn, inexorably, backwards down their tunnels. “'You can really clean up',” said Esk. “Huh!” There were some good points, she had to admit. The food was simple but there was plenty of it, and she had a room to herself somewhere in the roof and it was quite luxurious because here she could lie in until five a. m., which to Granny's way of thinking was practically noon. The work certainly wasn't hard. She just started sweeping until the staff realised what was expected of it, and then she could amuse herself until it was finished. If anyone came the staff would immediately lean itself nonchalantly against a wall. But she wasn't learning any wizardry. She could wander into empty classrooms and look at the diagrams chalked on the board, and on the floor too in the more advanced classes, but the shapes were meaningless. And unpleasant. They reminded Esk of the pictures in Simon's book. They looked alive. She gazed out across the rooftops of Ankh-Morpork and reasoned like this: writing was only the words that people said, squeezed between layers of paper until they were fossilized. Fossils were well-known on the Discworld, great spiralled shells and badly-constructed creatures that were left over from the time when the Creator hadn't really decided what He wanted to make and was, as it were, just idly messing around with the Pleistocene). And the words people said were just shadows of real things. But some things were too big to be really trapped in words, and even the words were too powerful to be completely tamed by writing. So it followed that some writing was actually trying to become things. Esk's thoughts became confused things at this point, but she was certain that the really magic words were the ones that pulsed angrily, trying to escape and become real. They didn't look very nice. But then she remembered the previous day. It had been rather odd. The University classrooms were designed on the funnel principle, with tiers of seats - polished by the bottoms of the Disc's greatest mages - looking precipitously down into a central area where there was a workbench, a couple of blackboards and enough floor space for a decent-sized instructional octogram. There was a lot of dead space under the tiers and Esk had found it a quite useful observation post, peering around between the apprentice wizards' pointy boots at the instructor. It was very restful, with the droning of the lecturers drifting over her as gently as the buzzing of the slightly zonked bees in Granny's special herb garden. There never seemed to be any practical magic, it always seemed to be just words. Wizards seemed to like words. But yesterday had been different. Esk had been sitting in the dusty gloom, trying to do even some very simple magic, when she heard the door open and boots clump across the floor. That was surprising in itself. Esk knew the timetable, and the Second Year students who normally occupied this room were down for Beginners' Dematerialisation with Jeophal the Spry in the gym. (Students of magic had little use for physical exercise; the gym was a large room lined with lead and rowan wood, where neophytes could work out at High magic without seriously unbalancing the universe, although not always without seriously unbalancing themselves. Magic had no mercy on the ham-fisted. Some clumsy students were lucky enough to walk out, others were removed in bottles.) Esk peeped between the slats. These weren't students, they were wizards. Quite high ones, to judge by their robes. And there was no mistaking the figure that climbed on to the lecturer's dais like a badlystrung puppet, bumping heavily into the lectern and absent-mindedly apologising to it. It was Simon. No one else had eyes like two raw eggs in warm water and a dose bright red from blowing. For Simon, the pollen count always went to infinity. It occurred to Esk that, minus his general allergy to the whole of Creation and with a decent haircut and a few lessons in deportment, the boy could look quite handsome. It was an unusual thought, and she squirrelled it away for future consideration. When the wizards had settled down, Simon began to talk. He read from notes, and every time he stuttered over a word the wizards, as one man, without being able to stop themselves, chorused it for him. After a while a stick of chalk rose from the lectern and started to write on the blackboard behind him. Esk had picked up enough about wizard magic to know that this was an astounding achievement- Simon had been at the University for a couple of weeks, and most students hadn't mastered Light Levitation by the end of their second year. The little white stub skittered and squeaked across the blackness to the accompaniment of Simon's voice. Even allowing for the stutter, he was not a very good speaker. He dropped notes. He corrected himself. He ummed and ahhed. And as far as Esk was concerned he wasn't saying anything very much. Phrases filtered down to her hiding place. “Basic fabric of the universe” was one, and she didn't understand what that was, unless he meant denim, or maybe flannelette. “Mutability of the possibility matrix” she couldn't guess at all. Sometimes he seemed to be saying that nothing existed unless people thought it did, and the world was really only there at all because people kept on imagining it. But then he seemed to be saying that there was lots of worlds, all nearly the same and all sort of occupying the same place but all separated by the thickness of a shadow, so that everything that ever could happen would have somewhere to happen in. (Esk could get to grips with this. She had half-suspected it ever since she cleaned out the senior wizards' lavatory, or ratherwhile the staff got on with the job while Esk examined the urinals and, with the assistance of some half-remembered details of her brothers in the tin bath in front of the fire at home, formulated her unofficial General Theory of comparative anatomy. The senior wizards' lavatory was a magical place, with real running water and interesting tiles and, most importantly, two big silver mirrors fixed to opposite walls so that someone looking into one could see themselves repeated again and again until the image was too small to see. It was Esk's first introduction to the idea of infinity. More to the point, she had a suspicion that one of the mirror Esks, right on the edge of sight, was waving at her.) There was something disturbing about the phrases Simon used. Half the time he seemed to be saying that the world was about as real as a soap bubble, or a dream. The chalk shrieked its way across the board behind him. Sometimes Simon had to stop and explain symbols to the wizards, who seemed to Esk to be getting excited at some very silly sentences. Then the chalk would start again, curving across the darkness like a comet, trailing its dust behind it. The light was fading out of the sky outside. As the room grew more gloomy the chalked words glowed and the blackboard appeared to Esk to be not so much dark as simply not there at all, but just a square hole cut out of the world. Simon talked on, about the world being made up of tiny things whose presence could only be determined by the fact that they were not there, little spinning balls of nothingness that magic could shunt together to make stars and butterflies and diamonds. Everything was made up of emptiness. The funny thing was, he seemed to find this fascinating. Esk was only aware that the walls of the room grew as thin and insubstantial as smoke, as if the emptiness in them was expanding to swallow whatever it was that defined them as walls, and instead there was nothing but the familiar cold, empty, glittering plain with its distant worn hills, and the creatures that stood as still as statues, looking down. There were a lot more of them now. They seemed for all the world to be clustering like moths around a light. One important difference was that a moth's face, even close up, was as friendly as a bunny rabbit's compared to the things watching Simon. Then a servant came in to light the lamps and the creatures vanished, turning into perfectly harmless shadows that lurked in the corners of the room. At some time in the recent past someone had decided to brighten the ancient corridors of the University by painting them, having some vague notion that Learning Should Be Fun. It hadn't worked. It's a fact known throughout the universes that no matter how carefully the colours are chosen, institutional decor ends up as either vomit green, unmentionable brown, nicotine yellow or surgical appliance pink. By some little understood process of sympathetic resonance, corridors painted in those colours always smell slightly of boiled cabbage-even if no cabbage is ever cooked in the vicinity. Somewhere in the corridors a bell rang. Esk dropped lightly from her windowsill, grabbed the staff and started to sweep industriously as doors were flung open and the corridors filled with students. They streamed past her on two sides, like water around a rock. For a few minutes there was utter confusion. Then doors slammed, a few laggard feet pattered away in the distance, and Esk was by herself again. Not for the first time, Esk wished that the staff could talk. The other servants were friendly enough, but you couldn't talk to them. Not about magic, anyway. She was also coming to the conclusion that she ought to learn to read. This reading business seemed to be the key to wizard magic, which was all about words. Wizards seemed to think that names were the same as things, and that if you changed the name, you changed the thing. At least, it seemed to be something like that .... Reading. That meant the library. Simon had said there were thousands of books in it, and amongst all those words there were bound to be one or two she could read. Esk put the staff over her shoulder and set off resolutely for Mrs Whitlow's office. She was nearly there when a wall said “Psst!” When Esk stared at it it turned out to be Granny. It wasn't that Granny could make herself invisible, it was just that she had this talent for being able to fade into the foreground so that she wasn't noticed. “How are you getting on, then?” asked Granny. “How's the magic coming along?” “What are you doing here, Granny?” said Esk. “Been to tell Mrs Whitlow her fortune,” said Granny, holding up a large bundle of old clothes with some satisfaction. Her smile faded under Esk's stern gaze. “Well, things are different in the city,” she said. “City people are always worried about the future, it comes from eating unnatural food. Anyway,” she added, suddenly realising that she was whining, “Why shouldn't I tell fortunes?” “You always said Hilta was playing on the foolishness of her sex,” said Esk. “You said that them as tell fortunes should be ashamed of themselves, and anyway, you don't need old clothes.” “Waste not, want not,” said Granny primly. She had spent her entire life on the old-clothes standard and wasn't about to let temporary prosperity dislodge her: “Are you getting enough to eat?”