#wicker cawed

[quiteliterallyilliterate]

Hellooooo? Is anyone alive? Is ok if you do... A part two of the yandere fierce deity? Please?

Order up!

Ngl this was actually really difficult to write! Y’all seemed to like Part one, so here’s the continuation!

Tw: Described murder and violence, obsession

Hope you enjoy~

𓆝 𓆟 𓆞 𓆝

The sigil had since faded from the back wall of your home. It had taken many moons and many storms before the blood had truly faded. But it wasn’t gone. You picked up on the marking more and more, the swooping V shape with two lines intercepting. You saw it carved into the trees you tapped for sap, in the bones of the elks still left at your door and —perhaps most concerning— scratched into your skin. You awoke to it after awaking from a nap, and it came with a sense of all-consuming numbness. You bled, despite no knife piercing your skin and felt a hollow pain looking at the wound… but the gash itself was not painful. The scab on your palm itched as you walked through the markets, and despite switching the hand that held the basket, it only seemed to worsen. An itch is not bad so much as it is annoying. An instinctive feeling to pick and prod until a disturbance is removed. But the sensation has festered into thorns digging into your nerve with every graze of another’s hand.

“That’ll be… 300 total” The farmer handed over the produce youd carefully picked out, a frown of dismay pulling at your lips.

“That’s double last time” His smile faltered and his eyes darted far behind you, glassing over for a moment. He breathed out until his lungs had no more to give and his lips fell shut. It was only when you were about to turn around to see what had enraptured him that his tongue farted over his lips and he picked back up where he’d left off

“Sorry you must understand, it’s-“ His voice faded into the chatter of the crowd, a low hum fading into the back of your mind with a throbbing pain. So much for living here all your life, there was no reason for produce to cost half your wages. It’s not like anyone in this hamlet made much, nor was there any reason for one to struggle. The is community held up on its ties, it's only as useful as its people make it.

“Keep- Just keep it.” You would’ve felt bad at the way he sunk in on his feet with upset, but it was beyond your responsibility to help. Not without proper food in your stomach. You’d need to forage if you had near any hopes of not starving through the week. And so, basket in hand, you returned to the eerie empty of the wood.

The thicket was empty. The berry bushels had since been picked clean by the birds and the wild sprouts trampled or rotted in the soil. It was foolish of you to hope that perhaps whoever kept leaving you meat —your only source of sustenance— could provide you with something that could possibly go with it. Your spice cupboard is beginning to run dry and you had nothing aside from the carcass left behind to prepare.

“If only I had some potatoes… carrots… something- anything!” You threw your wicker basket to the ground, the thin fibres crackling. Anger burned within the humid draws of your breath, seeping into your lungs and through your blood and settling among your being. Thunder rolled in the far distance, but the wind had already made its way to you. The whispery gusts combed through the long grasses and shook the old trees, the wood croaking and groaning. The path back home was no different than it had been recently. No humdrum that followed life, only the cawing of crows. But, rather disappointingly, even they had disappeared as of late. The shadowing of the storm mounted atop your already heavy-hung gloom. It seemed as if every living thing, even those that surpassed mortality had vacated the forest. And as you pushed inward to the unkempt of the wild, you could only feel like you were leaving yourself to the execution block. Your legs faltered and trampled, your limbs felt stiff. And like a corpse of those slaughtered, you fell.

The deity knew that mortals were cruel. He didn’t need much knowledge about the world to know that fact. With such a gift of consciousness, Hylia’s creations were tainted with such bitter malice. That is what made them mortal. Their innate ability to surpass their better moral to kill and to hurt. He saw it every time someone used the likeness of his face. He saw the blood. He felt their drive— to stick cool, unforgiving metal within another. To crack and break and destroy the fragility of the world. The fragility of other people. Hunt or be hunted as it was. There was no matter for if they were above animalistic intent, for they were every bit predator and prey as the wolves and the rabbits. That is why he is so keen on protecting you. Only you have been so kind and pure —A divine among mortals, he’s certain— and such purity can only be tainted within a world so vile. The mortals even admit to it. Making their societies guard such fragility from the maw of itself. It was only himself he could trust to be your guard. Only he could be trusted to deliver you from such a system. He knew the cruelty of mortals upon one another. But for you to be denied sustenance? That was sacrilegious. Did they not understand that they were blessed to have been with you? If that was such a case then perhaps they weren’t worth the salvation you offered. The wretched mortals should bow at your feet, stumble over eachother and themselves to leave you offerings. For one to deny themselves such a right is to deny one’s god. And so, as the twists of his blade delicately carved out the heart of the worthless farm boy, he hoped this would serve a sufficient offering. He could afford to spend more time with you tonight with the storm’s onset. The rain would do most of the work cleaning the blood. The body would mingle from the earth from whence it came and be no more. Maybe if the damned was lucky, his blood could nurture the soil to make plants that you could eat from. Maybe then he’d have paid penance for his sins. Heart and produce in hand, he displayed them all lovingly in your discarded wicker basket and left it looped around the elk horn. He held his offering in one arm and your limp body in the other, carrying you the way to your little temple. The basket was hastily discarded upon the porch —though he doubted you cared much about the presentation— and he tucked you into bed. On his exit he wrangled the body so it would be easier for your untrained limbs to carry indoors. Offerings should be prepared to the highest degree— and you only deserved the best. He’d deliver the world to you exactly as you’d expected of him. Although the procurement of spices would certainly take a while longer, he’d meet your demands in full. Such is what’s expected of him as he’s courting you. Such is the way of devotion.

[marvelstoriesepic]

Tangled ropes

Pairing: Sailor!Bucky x reader

Summary: A new sailor arrives at the docks amongst Captain Barton’s crew. Maybe it’s the way he looks at you, the way he carries himself, or perhaps it’s the way his eyes are the echo of the ocean in color and depth. But something about him makes you want to untangle the ropes that seem to choke his spirit.

Word count: 8.2k

Warnings: allusions to death, slight mentioning of illness, scared reader, a dog in distress (he’ll be fine)

Author’s note: okay so, I actually wanted this to be a one-shot, turns out that’s not gonna happen. I'm working on a second part, but I also didn’t forget about my series 'breaking chains'. So I can’t say what I'll be focusing on next. Let me know what you think, and please be kind because I love this! <3

Masterlist

The docks always held a special place in your heart. It was lively. The air hung heavy with the scent of brine and tar, a salty tang that clung to your clothes and hair long after you left, but you never really minded it - you embraced it. It was the scent of home.

Sun-bleached wooden planks groaned under the constant foot traffic. Wooden stalls lined the piers, their colors all varying and mismatching but it held an undeniable allure.

Fishmongers stood side by side, with hoarse voices from hawking their glistening displays of cod, oysters, plump lobsters, and perhaps the occasional octopus that writhed in wicker baskets. The lovely woman with the sun-kissed skin, who sold vibrant bouquets of wildflowers always greeted you with a beaming smile when you went to get some florals for your mother.

Dockworkers always bustled around, wrestling crates and barrels, their shouts punctuated by the rhythmic creak of ropes and the groan of timber under heavy loads. You held admiration for those men, watching them work all times of the day and weather, muscles sculpted and faces etched with sun and sweat.

Women in billowing skirts and sensible boots bartered with vendors or gossiped with each other, their baskets overflowing with fresh bread, glistening food, and colorful bolds of fabric; sometimes even some seashell jewelry or iron cookware.

You loved to watch the children running around and weaving through the people in glee, chasing after stray dogs or climbing rickety piles of rope, all while their laughter and shrieks echoed off the wooden planks. Seagulls cawed raucously overhead, swooping down for scraps or squabbling over morsels.

The best part, however, was the open ocean stretching before you, a cerulean expanse that mocked the limits of your vision, blurring into the hazy promise of a horizon forever beyond reach.

Your legs often guided you down to the docks on their own accord with an unbidden pull to let the untamed wind whip through your hair, nothing in its path to hold back, carrying the sharp and salty scent of the sea that would fill your lungs. You would usually close your eyes to take it in.

The rhythmic lap of the waves against the wood was a lullaby, a constant that soothed the ache in your heart. It was the closest you could feel to your father, the only connection that remained after the years of his absence.

But it was a strong connection.

Though time had dulled the edges of his memory, the warmth of his presence lingered in these salty breezes. You couldn’t recall the exact color of his eyes anymore, or the way his laughter crinkled the corners of them.

But the feeling of safety when he held you close, the love he held for you, and the endless blue expanse were etched into your soul.

Here, on the docks of your small port town, which had been a mere dot on the map for your father, a different kind of memory took root.

The sea became his domain, and so it became yours too. It was the anchor that held you fast - that vast emptiness that both echoed his absence and held the promise of a connection that could never be broken. It was a poignant yearning, a bittersweet symphony of salt and sorrow, that bound you to the rhythm of the waves and the memory of your father.

The sea held its secrets and you guessed it would hold your father's fate for eternity, ingrained into the indifference of the waves. He was a sailor even before you were born, exploring the ocean and the islands and cities that lay in their wake.

Every few months, sometimes years, he would return, his warmth and laughter filling the short gaps between his journeys. But those gaps grew longer, the laughter strained. Until the docks remained absent from his ship altogether.

Whispers and rumors had filled the void, twisting into conflicting narratives.

Some spoke of a terrible illness, a plague that had swept through his crew, claiming life after life until it finally took him too. Others muttered of a violent raid, your father perishing while defending his hard-earned goods. The most outlandish tales painted him a traitor, a man who’d abandoned his family and his life for the thrill of piracy, a black flag now his banner.

Your father was a well-respected sailor, having kissed the shores of countless countries, his name a murmur of respect in taverns across the globe. You had the evidence of that in souvenirs that cluttered your small home. A carved jade dragon from the East, a woven dreamcatcher from the West, polished seashells once laying on a beach - all from beyond the horizon.

So it was expected that people would talk and spread stories as to what might have happened to him. But no matter what they said and told you, your memories of him remained untainted.

He had shown you the art of knots, his patient hand untangling your fumbling attempts. You had practiced fiercely during the times he was gone. Perhaps he had wanted to give you a distraction. It had worked, because you one day helped him secure the ship to the dock, in recalling how to wove the ropes while he followed your instructions, since you weren’t able to do it on your own with your small and weaker hands. A triumphant grin had spread across your rosy cheeks as the ship was secured and your father had hoisted you up in the air, pride radiating from him in waves.

You would forever cherish the times he took you down to the docks, letting you wander around on his ship. You remembered his calloused hand guiding yours across the weathered deck. Your soft fingers had traced the grooves and marks in the wood, wondering how they made it there.

His voice was a blur in your mind, the cadence of his tone lost in time but you remembered how he would spin tales of adventures that made your eyes widen and laughter ring out across the open deck. He exaggerated monstrous waves, how he outsmarted the Kraken which was likely just a seagull, and described the creak of the ship as he fought a sea serpent - or so he had claimed.

All he wanted was to hear you laugh.

You had noticed how hard it was for him to leave every time, missing out on his daughter growing up. He carried around a heaviness, an ache burning in his eyes that mirrored the one in your mother's gaze whenever he set off again. It made you cling to him tighter when you could.

The image of him boarding deck and watching the ship shrink, shrink, shrink, until it was swallowed by the horizon had been a constant in your life. Unlike your mother, who couldn’t bear to watch him vanish, you had stayed until the last sliver of his ship disappeared, a tiny speck against the vast, indifferent canvas of the sea.

Those goodbyes had carved a hollow ache into your chest, a sorrow that had seemed to tear into your flesh and bones. You had felt his loss, mourned him even before the rumors of his death made their way to land. Yet, you had always wondered what really happened. Nightmares used to haunt you, showing you visions of him swallowed by unseen monsters lurking in the depths.

But as the years rolled by, a sense of peace bloomed alongside your grief.

The town itself became a living testament to your father. You had those souvenirs at home and the stories they came with. The people of the town spoke of his courage and kindness with a reverence that warmed your heart.

You even had him here, at this very moment, standing at the docks and watching the vessel of Captain Barton appear over the horizon.

Earlier, you had immediately perked up at the shouts and clanging from the lookout boy, announcing the arrival of the ship; dropping the unfinished basket you were weaving.

You had rushed down to the docks, joining the throng of merchants, ventures, dockworkers, and townsfolk already buzzing with anticipation, voices rising. The arrival of Captain Barton’s ship was an event, a chance to stock up on exotic goods your town wouldn’t otherwise see.

For years, Captain Barton’s crew had filled the void left by your father’s disappearance. While your father had ventured into the unknown, charting uncharted waters and bringing back exotic rarities, Captain Barton stuck to well-worn trade routes, providing your port town with silks, spices, tools, and trinkets.

You had never once missed the arrival of the crew, because it gave you a glimpse into the lifeline your father had sailed, even though it now was shrouded in mystery. It felt like a bridge across the endless of blue, strengthening the connection you had with him.

The ship grew closer and details came into view. It was nothing like your father’s had been, you could tell from the way it cut through the waves, a touch less weathered, a hint less daring. Captain Barton’s vessel boasted a newer sheen, the paint brighter, the sails crisper. But it carried the spirit of the open sea, the same spirit that had called to your father.

A smile spread on your face.

The wind whipped at your hair, carrying with it the tang of the sea and a thrill that danced in your stomach. You barely registered the young boy rocketing past you, your skirts billowing around your feet.

With each passing moment, the ship inched closer and your focus narrowed on the sailors scurrying about, mirroring your anticipation. A collective gasp rippled through the crowd as a cannon boomed - a salute to the town.

Your heart thrummed inside your rib cage, matching the relentless pounding of the waves against the wooden piers. The shouts of the dockworkers, the excited chatter of the townsfolk, the thudding of feet on the weathered planks all became background noise for you, as you kept your stare on the ship.

Your intense focus shattered as you felt a tug on your hand. Snapping your gaze away from the approaching vessel, you looked down to see a small hand nestled in yours. “Papa is coming back!” Morgan shouted, her high-pitched voice ringing out in the din of the docks.

She tried dragging you through the sea of people, getting closer to where Captain Barton’s crew was about to dock. “Do you think he has something for me?” she asked you, blinking at you with wide eyes, laden with childish excitement.

You let out a soft laugh, squeezing her hand gently. “I’m sure he got you something, pumpkin,” you reassured her, laughing harder when she let out a delightful squeal, her eyes sparkling with pure joy as she bounced on the balls of her feet.

Morgan was like your little sister in all but blood. Her father, Tony, was amongst the crew mere feet away from the docks. He had once sailed alongside your father more than two decades ago. They grew up together, starting as cabin boys on the same vessel, and shared adventures for the years to come.

But a fickle wind that steered the course of lives had scattered them. There was an attack, one that had left Tony battered and scarred, physically and emotionally. He got away with his life, but only barely, and it was enough for him to choose calmer waters, a life under Captain Barton, away from the relentless call of the open sea. He had craved the security of a routine, in comparison to your father's love for adventures.

You never learned the exact details, never dared to asked, but your father never stopped speaking of Tony with a deep respect and a touch of melancholy, although they might have never crossed paths again.

Since your father's visits had ceased altogether and more people than not were sure he died on the open waters, Tony quickly became a second father figure to you, spreading warmth whenever he stayed on port.

Watching Morgan now mirrored your own childhood - a little girl waiting with wide-eyed wonder for a father who brought the world home with him, even if it was just for a fleeting visit.

You looked around for Pepper, Morgan’s mother, who likely stood amongst the bustling crowd. Like your own mother, she bore the weight of a sailor's wife; sharing whispered stories, anxieties calmed with the sight of a returning ship, and a love that stretched as vast as the ocean itself.

Thunderous cheers and shouts erupted around you once more and you couldn’t suppress your own cheers as they bubbled up in your stomach, watching the ship getting anchored. It loomed large now, its imposing shadow stretching across the docks. The rhythmic creaking of the ship as it settled against the pier exhilarated you, shivers running down your spine in waves.

Morgan craned her neck and you lifted her high in your arms, making sure she was able to see the spectacle. Her joyful excitement blended into the crowd.

You watched the crew on deck scurrying across the rigging, securing lines, and lowering gangplanks. The sails were being expertly furled.

You knew the process of the arrival by heart. As always, a team of dockworkers charged forward. Some were armed with thick ropes, attaching them to sturdy bollards lining the dock. Others used large hooks and secured lines flung down from the ship, ensuring it wouldn’t drift with the current.

Captain Barton stood on the quarterdeck of his vessel, waiting for the approach of the port officials, clad in crisp uniforms. They exchanged briefly, a verification of the ship's manifest - a detailed document listing the cargo and passengers onboard.

Then followed the health check. Another official, his demeanor seeming a little more gentle, stepped forward. He carried a satchel filled with vials and basic medical instruments. You didn’t hear what they said, but you knew the questions he would ask the Captain.

It were the same questions your father got asked, about any illnesses encountered during the journey, and if it were necessary to perform cursory examinations on some crew members.

Your father had always held his stoicism when talking to the officials, but you'd known him better than that. His eyes had shifted, subtly searching the crowd of onlookers for his family. His impatience was in the way his foot tapped on the wood and his hands adjusted his hat.

The curt nod of the official was the final permission for the sailors to enter the dock and once again, loud cheers went through the crowd. Captain Barton raised his hand in acknowledgment, a smile gracing his face and the gangplank was lowered, a sturdy wooden bridge connecting the ship to the dock.

The familiar crew began disembarking and you had to tighten your arms around a squeaking Morgan as her father stepped on the solid ground of the docks. You scanned the rest of the crew with a smile on your face. Years of Captain Barton’s arrivals had etched these men into your memory, their stories woven into the fabric of your life by Tony’s tales.

There was Bruce Banner, the ship's healer, always looking a little awkward at the attention they all received. He walked in the shadow of the hulking frame of Commander Odinson, who held the wisps of his long, blond hair in a red bandana. You spotted Gabe Jones, Dum Dum Dugan, and Jim Morita, who seemed to playfully wrestle with each other as to who would reach the docks first.

Other midshipmen followed, such as Steve Rogers, a gentle smile on his face as he looked out into the crowd. He looked stronger, you noticed. The shirt he wore was looser the last time you saw him, his shoulders now broader, and he carried himself in a way that made him look more masculine.

Joy bubbled within you, as you spotted the perpetually enthusiastic cabin boy, Peter Parker, bounding down the gangplank. His youthful grin was wide enough to split his face as he waved at the townsfolk.

Your smile faltered.

Behind Peter, an unfamiliar man descended to the wooden planks. He still looked younger than most men of the crew, maybe about Steve’s age, but in comparison to Steve’s gentle spirit, he carried himself with a quiet, almost stoic calmness. He didn’t seem overwhelmed by the sights and sounds of the docks, as if he was used to it by now, though he also didn’t look like he acknowledged anything around him at all, seeming indifferent. He wasn’t part of the crew the last time, you were certain.

There was a subtle tautness to his movements, a hint of a muscular build beneath the worn fabric of his shirt. You studied him as he disembarked to meet his crew. He wasn’t really smiling, you noticed. He wore more of an unreadable mask. It wasn’t a frown exactly but it looked detached, that made you wonder what burdens he might carry.

He barely even lifted his face to watch the crowd but you still caught glimpses of the sharp jawline and the contours of his nose. His hair looked a little unruly and windswept as a few brown strands fell onto his forehead.

As his worn boots met the solid ground as well, he clapped Steve on the shoulder, a ghost of a smile crossing his face. But before you could glean anything further, the throng of people surrounding you shifted, momentarily blocking your view.

A pang of disappointment burrowed in your stomach at the lost sight of the stranger. You craned your neck, hoping to catch another glimpse, but Morgan wriggled in your grasp and you managed to set her down gently before she launched herself at an approaching Tony.

He scooped her up effortlessly, her giggles muffled against the rough fabric of his slightly torn shirt as he twirled her around. With the unfamiliar sailor momentarily forgotten, you stepped forward yourself, a smile so wide on your face, it ached in your cheeks.

Tony beamed at you; shifting his daughter to one arm, her tiny fingers wrapping around his neck like a lifeline, and pulling you to his chest with the other.

“Well, well, look at you, all grown up, eh young lady?” he teased, his voice a warm rumble over the din docks. He leaned down, his salty beard tickling your hair as he pressed a kiss to the crown of your head.

You rolled your eyes, though laughter spilled from your lips, despite yourself. “Grown up for years now, Tony,” you protested, your smile ever-present. Relief and a deep sense of contentment filled your chest and you took a deep breath so as not to let your emotions overwhelm you.

He smelled of the sea, with the hint of dust, wood, and sweat - a heady concoction that somehow felt like home.

He released you slightly, but not before holding you at arm's length for a closer look. “Still, you seem to have spouted a good inch or two since last I saw you, dear one. Are you eating properly? How fares your mother?”

“Mother is well, Tony,” you replied, your voice a gentle reassurance at the worry you read from his eyes. “And we are both well-fed. We manage to keep the food cupboard stocked.” His concern tugged at your heartstrings and you reached out to gently squeeze his arm. “No need to fret over us,” you added gently, though, with a hint of a playful drawl and it eased the lines on his face.

As Pepper joined you, hugging and kissing Tony with tear-filled eyes, you decided to let them have their moment and started pacing the docks, taking in the usual frenetic energy. Old Hughes, the gruff-looking but fair cobbler, unfurled his work canvas awnings, displaying a colorful array of boots and shoes for the sailors. Mrs. Cook, a stout woman with a booming voice, set up tables laden with fresh bread, glistening cheeses, and plump, juicy fruits.

The dockworkers had already swarmed the ship, lowering large wooden crates filled with the cargo. The gentle breeze carried the sweet perfume of exotic spices right over to you as you took another deep breath. The sailor's crew helped unload the crates. Some were hauled onto large flatbed carts pulled by dockworkers, while others, the smaller and lighter ones, were hoisted onto the shoulders of the sailors.

You watched with fascination how they all seemed to joke and tease each other while still working efficiently. Their grunts and laughter carried over the lively chatter of the townsfolk.

Your eyes swept through the crowd on their own accord, trying to find the unfamiliar sailor, not knowing exactly what made you so interested in seeing him again. But you also didn’t put much effort into trying to suppress that nagging curiosity that tugged at you.

Lost in your search for the guy, you completely missed the treacherous snag lurking beneath your feet. A thick hemp rope, used to secure a nearby crate, lay coiled and unsuspected. You were about to take a step forward but your boot promptly caught on its rough weave, sending a jolt through your leg and nearly toppling you over.

A startled gasp escaped your lips as you lurched forward, flailing for something to break your fall. Your hand quickly grasped a sturdy wooden post, one of many supporting the overhead awning of a nearby vendor. The worn leather of your boots met the worn wood of the planks with a resounding thud, echoing through the bustling dock.

You held your breath, bracing yourself for a painful collision with the ground. But luckily the post held firm, helping you regain your balance. A wave of relief swept over you, quickly followed by a pang of embarrassment.

You glanced down, wincing as your gaze fell upon the culprit. The hemp rope, still tangled around your boot, had caused a small tear in the fabric of your skirt. Taking a deep breath, you knelt down, fumbling with the coarse rope until it loosened its hold. With a sigh, you inspected the damage. The tear wasn’t major, but it was certainly noticeable, and your mother surely wouldn’t like it.

You rose to your feet and looked back up, just to meet the eyes of the brunette sailor, the unfamiliar man. You stilled in your movements, staring back at him. He still stood a little in the distance, a half-hoisted crate resting precariously on his shoulder as he was slightly turned in your direction. His gaze was pretty clear, but his expression was unreadable.

He didn’t seem to feel as uncomfortable as you, though. The way his eyes flit over your form, lingering on the part of your skirt you had just ripped wasn’t intrusive, but rather a quick assessment, as if gauging whether you were injured. He held your gaze for a beat longer than necessary and you almost could have believed he was able to hear your heart pounding over the distance. Perhaps he could see through you, watching the blood rush through your veins and up to your cheeks as they heated up.

He turned away then with a curt and subtle nod you wouldn’t have picked up if you weren’t watching him so intensely. You might even interpret it as satisfaction at seeing you regain your footing, or simply a confirmation that you were alright.

His gaze very well may have lasted for mere seconds only but you were flustered. You weren’t sure why his brief scrutiny had sent a jolt through you, or why you felt a curious mix of embarrassment and intrigue. Perhaps it was just the fact that you weren’t used to seeing a new face around here. Especially as handsome as his.

Absentmindedly, your hands brushed over your skirt as they had gotten a little clammy and you couldn’t help but steal another glance at him.

The mysterious sailor had returned to his work, carrying the crate on his shoulder. The fabric of his shirt strained across his back, revealing those broad shoulders. His sleeves were rolled up to his elbows, exposing thick forearms, with a few veins running up and disappearing behind the fabric. Pale pink lines seemed to be marrying his left arm - scars, undoubtedly - though the details were blurred by the distance.

Your attention caught the couple rips in the fabric of his shirt, revealing skin on his shoulder and a little on his side. All your father's shirts had been adorned with similar tears. One day, you had asked about them and he had granted you with one of his gruff laughs. “Keeps the pirates at bay, my sweetheart,” he had said, with a twinkle in his eyes.

It wasn’t true of course. You always knew that, but your father's playful answer had instilled a sense of comfort back then, making you feel like he was safer out there than he actually was.

The brunette navigated the bustling docks with a practiced gait and you narrowed your eyes at him as your gaze followed him weaving between towering crates and barrels, his destination likely a designated storage area near the harbormaster's office, depending on the nature of the goods he carried. Your gaze remained fixed on him until he disappeared behind the market stands.

****

You had finished the basket you’d been weaving as the boy on lookout had announced the arrival of Captain Barton's ship - a sturdy work of woven reeds, perfect for carrying fresh bread or plump vegetables.

Your mother had insisted you could finish it tomorrow, but you still had a lot more to do and you needed the money.

The day had bled into dusk by the time you had sold it for a few coins down at the marketplace, the fiery orange of the setting sun replaced by the cool, silvery glow of the moon.

The rhythmic clatter of cobblestones beneath your worn boots echoed around the brick walls around you. The salty tang of the sea was now tinged with the smoky aroma of woodsmoke, wisping from chimneys.

Laughter, boisterous and male, spilled out from a nearby tavern - perhaps Captain Barton’s crew drowning their sorrows or celebrating their return in mugs of rum and ale. You made out raucous singing, sometimes punctuated by a heavy thump on the table. You could even glimpse a few silhouettes through the grimy windows, swaying and stomping to the tune of a jig played on a weathered fiddle.

The melody of a lone violin drifted from a brightly lit window a few steps further down the road, and you found yourself listening fondly.

You weren’t surprised to find your feet carrying you back towards the docks. The festive chaos of the arrival had subsided, leaving murmured conversations reaching your ears from people lost in the shadows.

The ache your father had left you with had dulled throughout the years, becoming a part of you. Most days, it resided peacefully in the background, a constant but manageable hum. But on these days, when the excitement of Captain Barton’s arrival ceased, your composure would usually fray at the edges.

A heavy fog rolled in, settling like a lead weight on your chest. It squeezed your heart, not with a fist, but with a thousand tiny, suffocating fingers. The air thinned in your lungs, replaced by a hollowness that echoed in your stomach. A hollowness no amount of food or water could ever fill.

So, the docks were the only place you could find a semblance of solace.

You knew better than to walk on the open docks at night, staying in the shadows of a few shops near the pier. You made out the rhythmic creak of rocking ships, the groan of a straining rope. Moonlight danced on the water, casting shimmering pathways that stretched out towards the inky blackness of the open ocean.

Gas lamps strung along the docks, casting pools of warm orange light that struggled to penetrate the bat darkness of the harbor. In their flickering glow, dust motes waltzed.

Further down the docks, you made out the rhythmic hammering of a lone shipwright, his work illuminated by a flickering torch.

A new sound pierced the night air.

It began faintly, a whimper barely audible over the creaking of ships and the distant shouts coming from taverns.

But with each passing second, the sound grew louder, a plaintive whine morphing into desperate cries.

It was a dog.

Your heart lurched. You scanned the dimly lit docks, your eyes flitting from shadowy figures to stacked crates. The whimpers and cries were frantic, leading you towards the easternmost pier, a relatively deserted area where a few neglected fishing boats lay moored.

There, half-hidden beneath the skeletal frame of an old, beached vessel, you spotted it. A dog - a scruffy mutt with a coat the color of dried mud and a desperate glint in his eyes.

It was entangled in a thick mess of rigging rope, the lines binding its legs and torso like cruel restraints. The dog's frantic struggles only tightened the knots, its whimpers turning into pained yelps.

Adrenaline surged through you. Your mother warned you enough times to stay away from the docks at night. They could be treacherous, a labyrinth of shadows and unseen hazards. Yet, the dog’s whimpers tugged at your heart, echoing the silent emptiness within you.

You pushed aside the trepidation that had coiled your gut and rushed towards the pained dog, without further thinking. The moonlight was the only glow you could lean on as you knelt beside the tangled animal.

“Hey there, fella,” you murmured, speaking in a soothing tone, probably more for your own reassurance than anything else, as you reached out a tentative hand. The dog flinched, knots tightening, a low growl rumbling in his chest. You kept your movements slow and deliberate. Your father had once told you to avoid eye contact as a sign of non-threat.

Taking a closer look, you assessed the situation. The ropes were wrapped around its front legs and middle in a haphazard manner. The knots, however, seemed more amateurish than sailor-made, a tangled mess rather than a secure bind. That’s why the poor thing must have gotten caught. This wouldn’t have happened with the right knots. You didn’t see any blood on the ropes, nor the dog, but it wouldn’t take much for the rough material to nick his skin.

So you slowly extended your hand towards the dog's head, whispering low and soothing. You avoided its gaze, aiming for the reassuring scratch behind his ear that most dogs craved. If the dog remained calm, you could assess the knots more closely and see if there was a way to loosen them without causing further distress.

The dog's whimpers grew softer, visibly settling with occasional shaky breaths. He watched your hand, as you reached behind his ear, a tentative sniff grazing your palm.

Your relief at the dog's response to your gentle approach was cut short.

A figure emerged from the shadows, tall and broad-shouldered, casting a long, distorted form across the moonlit wood as it moved in your direction. A sudden chill crawled up your spine, panic jolting through your body and you instinctively snatched your hand back, almost tumbling over in your haste.

The surprised yelp of the dog at your sudden movements pierced the air, a sharp bark that echoed like a gunshot in the stillness of the night.

The figure in the distance quickened its pace, its shadow dancing grotesquely on the pale wood of the pier.

You were frozen. Completely and utterly frozen on the ground. Your heart was pounding erratically, almost painfully, threatening to drown out the dog's frantic barking.

Broken nails clawed at the wood underneath and a whimper nearly escaped your own lips. You felt as trapped as the dog - only that the ropes binding you in place, scratching and clawing at your skin, taking your breath away the more you moved; were fear.

Each rasping breath you could take in felt like a struggle, your chest a tight cage around your rapidly inflating lungs.

The warnings your mother had ingrained in your head, that the docks were no place for a young woman at night, swirled around in your mind in sharp and mocking whispers.

The newcomer, perhaps sensing your panic, slowed his approach. He raised his hands high in the air, palms open, taking a few measured steps forward, as if taming a frightened animal. Like you had with the dog just moments before.

How ironic.

“Woah there, easy,” he called out softly, as he came to a halt at a respectful distance, hands still raised in placation. Only the moonlight helped you make him out, casting his face in an eerie half-light, revealing him only in fragments.

Yet, it was enough.

It was him - the brunette sailor that had caught your attention earlier, with the sharp angles of his jawline, the strong bridge of his nose, and a hint of a scar over his brow you hadn’t been able to see over the distance.

You didn’t know if it was relief that swept through your body since it felt numb to feeling anything anymore, but you were able to draw in a somewhat steadying breath again.

“I mean no harm. Didn’t mean to scare you, apologies for that,” he continued and it was then that his voice finally registered in your mind. It was a low rumble, rough around the edges and tinged with a hoarse weariness. Yet, there was a hint of concern and something like a soft reassurance underlying his tone and it cleared the fog around your eyes.

His gaze was solely fixed on you, somehow ignoring the barking dog beside you. There was a faint crease that furrowed his brows, his lips tugging into a frown and his fingers twitched as if wanting to reach out to you.

Your voice remained trapped in your constricted throat as you concentrated on getting the air back in your lungs. The man before you seemed to soften further.

“Heard that dog cryin' like a lost soul. Had to see what all the fuss was about. I reckon that’s what brought you out here too. Mighty brave of you, though these docks ain’t the safest place for a lady after dark.”

He cast a brief glance around, his hands slowly returning to his side as he swept the dimly lit area before returning his gaze to you. It was too dark to make out the color of his eyes but they glinted with something you couldn’t make out as he lingered on your form. He tilted his head slightly, a slow smile forming on his lips.

You might have found it charming, disarming even, if your mind hadn’t been running on scrambled eggs.

“I remember you,” he countered softly, seeming patient to wait until your voice found its way back to you. “Saw you when we docked.” His gaze drifted downwards, lingering on the still ripped section of your skirt from your earlier inattentiveness. A line etched itself deep in his brow as his gaze traveled back to your face, seeing the tear up close. “I hope you didn’t hurt yourself there.”

Maybe the calming tone of the sailor also had an effect on the dog, because his whimpers had softened, replaced by weak pants. Or perhaps his struggle had simply drained him.

Regardless, you finally managed to pry your voice loose from your throat as you cleared it, the sound a little scratchy. You brushed the dirt and dust from your hands on your skirt and rose to your feet. Your legs still felt a little wobbly, but you regained your footing.

“I-I’m fine,” you croaked out and watched the way his shoulders relaxed, relief etching the lines on his face. His own chest visibly deflated with a released breath and his posture softened further.

“Let’s see how we can help our furry friend here,” he exclaimed after a moment's pause, as if remembering what he came here for in the first place. He took a step closer and crouched down to the height of the dog, you now towering over his seated form.

It surprised you. His actions, the way he spoke to you with an easy respect and approval that wasn’t always afforded to a young woman.

Especially not to you.

Your family name took a hit after the many rumors about your father's disappearance cursed the seas. There still were people praising him and talking about his adventures, but those would throw you pitying glances whenever you walked past. Conversations would halt, in fear you might crumble under the weight of some words. Of hearing your father's name. They would treat you like a fragile child. Or perhaps a ticking time bomb ready to blow up at any second.

Some treated you as a victim, some as a ghost, and others saw you as a heavy reminder of the shadow that had overcome the town at the perceived betrayal of your father to sail under pirates.

You grew accustomed to it - the pity, the suspicion, the condescension.

It still took you by surprise as you watched that man lowering himself beside you, with you towering over his crouched frame as if it meant nothing. His gaze had lacked judgment as it lingered on the tear in your skirt you obviously hadn’t changed since you ripped it. He only held concern.

It was a respite from the heavy loads you normally had to deal with and you felt a flicker of warmth chasing away some of that chill that had settled in your bones.

You snapped back to the present as the sailor reached for a small knife tugged at his belt. The worn leather handle was dwarfed by his hand, its blade a dull silver under the moon's glow.

“Don’t,” you blurted out before you could stop yourself, squatting down beside him. His head twirled in surprise, a flicker of confusion crossing his features as his gaze met yours. The dog whined softly.

“He’s moving too much,” you explained, your voice regaining steadiness. “If you cut the ropes, you might nick him.”

A slow, amused smile spread across the sailor's face. It wasn’t a mocking grin, rather a playful challenge that crinkled the corners of his eyes. They were blue, you realized. “I’ve got a steady hand, doll,” he teased, his voice low and rich with amusement. “You doubtin' my skills?”

Heat flooded your cheeks, a blush creeping up your neck and you averted your eyes. “No, of course not! I didn’t mean-”

His warm chuckle cut you off, a deep sound that seemed to vibrate from the core of his being. His chin fell to his chest, brown strands falling onto his forehead as his shoulders shook slightly.

You hadn’t expected him to laugh but a strange sense of ease settled in its wake, making you suppress a smile of your own.

“No offense taken, doll,” he softly declared. “If you’re worried about the blade, then we will find another way to help the fella out.”

His voice was calm and gentle, a stark contrast to the gruff exterior he presented and the looming figure that had scared you as he had appeared from the shadows. Your heart skipped a beat, but not out of fear this time.

You decided to focus on the task at hand, to predict him recognizing the blush scorching your cheeks. “The knots are messy,” you assessed again, tracing the ropes with careful fingers. “We can untangle them if we find an opening.”

Scanning for any frayed ends, any loose thread that could serve as a starting point, your peripheral vision picked up on the sailor doing the same thing right beside you, letting his hands trace over the ropes. You worked in silence, the only sounds being the rhythmic creaking of the nearby ship, the gentle lapping of the waves, and a lone seagull's piercing squawk.

A smile grazed your face as you made out a frayed end peeking out from beneath a few knots. Deftly, you began to untangle the ropes, working with the kind of ease that came with years of weaving. You wound the excess rope around itself, creating a loose coil that wouldn’t snag on anything. The dog grew still as you neared his legs, whimpers replaced by shallow breaths.

As you worked the ropes against each other to loosen their hold, you felt your skin prickle with the gaze of the sailor on you. He had stilled his own movements, now watching you quietly, with an intensity that made it hard for you to focus. Perhaps it was some form of astonishment that radiated from him, you couldn’t tell, but it felt warm on your skin.

The brown mutt barely flinched as you unwound his legs, being exhausted by its ordeal. You worked your way to his middle, careful not to touch the sore parts of his body that had been squeezed. With a final tug, the last knot yielded, and the dog was free.

You breathed a sigh of relief, a soft smile curving your lips. “There you go,” you whispered, barely audible over the noises of the docks.

The little fella remained motionless for a moment, probably still in shock. But he quickly seemed to regain sense of his freedom and bolted away with a sudden yelp, disappearing into the shadows.

You were relieved he hadn’t gotten hurt in the process, still being able to run, but the sudden departure of the small dog left you a little disappointed.

Another comforting chuckle from the sailor, with a name you still had to learn, echoed beside you. “Consider him grateful,” he said, a lightness in his voice that made you laugh softly, tension easing from your shoulders.

You turned back to the discarded ropes, silence stretching for a few moments until you spoke up again. “He wouldn’t have gotten tangled up in those if they were secured properly,” you declared, your voice a quiet murmur, underlying a hint of resentment at the person who didn’t take his job very seriously.

The sailor looked at you for a few beats, then nodded to the heap of ropes. “And you know how to knot them correctly?” It wasn’t a challenge, nor was it laced with doubt or disbelief. There was a genuine curiosity in his tone, a spark of something deeper that caught you off guard.

Perhaps it was the way he had watched you work with that kind of amazement as your nimble fingers unraveled the knots. Or the way he looked at you with that glint in his eyes as if he already knew you would say yes. Maybe it was the satisfaction of helping a helpless dog in distress, or the intrigue this man had ignited within you, but a surge of confidence, unexpected and exhilarating, coursed through you.

“Are you doubtin' my skills?” You countered, mirroring his question from earlier, teasing in your voice.

A flicker of surprise, a delightful surprise, crossed his features, eyebrows shooting up. The corners of his mouth twitched upwards, and he bit his bottom lip to prevent it from spreading. He looked away from you for a few beats, schooling his expression into a semblance of composure, but the amusement still danced in the corners of his eyes as he met yours again.

You turned your attention back to the ropes, beginning to feel that heat creep up your neck again at the way he looked at you. Starting to weave the rope in the familiar motions your father had taught you so many years ago, calmed the jitters that had taken root over you.

Moments passed in a contemplative silence until he broke it.

“I’m Bucky.”

You momentarily stilled in your movements, lifting your head to look at him. A touch of bashfulness colored his features and he lifted his hand to brush against the shadow on his chin.

“Should have introduced myself before. Rude of me not to.” He huffed out a breath, wincing at himself and you found his sudden shyness endearing, a soft smile on your lips.

“Don’t worry about it,” you replied sweetly, “it’s nice to meet you, Bucky.”

You liked the way his name rolled off your tongue, testing its weight on the night air. Your focus returned to the knots you were weaving, contemplating to tell him your own name, when he interrupted the silence again.

“Who taught you that?”

You hadn’t noticed how intensely he was watching you, gaze following the movements of your fingers as you secured another knot, your hands seemingly working on their own.

Mastering the skills of knotting was never really a necessity for you, though you remembered that broad smile, that had split your fathers face as you’d told him you wanted to learn more than the simple basics he’d shown you. It had been like a game, a simple way to impress your father and make him proud.

It felt like a gift tonight.

The way Bucky asked the question, so intimate and soft, as if he was as concentrated as you, mesmerized by the way your fingers moved.

“My father,” you answered him, voice laced with a fondness that always appeared when you got the chance to talk about him.

Bucky’s gaze lifted, his eyes searching your face. Perhaps he heard the glimmer of grief in your voice, or maybe the quiet pride that intrigued him to study your expression.

“He a sailor too?”

You took a second to answer. “He was.”

Silence settled over you both once more, it was heavier than before. Out of the corner of your eye, you made out that Bucky dipped his head slightly, perhaps as a silent gesture of respect, or he was simply lost in thought.

“I’m sorry,” he then countered, the words sounding clear in the night air. His voice was gruff, however, laced with something else, something like understanding.

You met his gaze again, with a small smile grazing your lips. You couldn’t quite read his expression, but it was captivating, the depths of his blue orbs drawing you in. Blue, like the rich, inky tones of the ocean you had looked upon so many times already and never could grow tired of.

Your hands had stilled as the intensity with which he looked at you was the only thing you could focus on. You felt both exposed and strangely safe under his gaze. There seemed to be so much hidden behind those eyes, as there was behind the horizon.

“What’s your name?” The question was barely a whisper as if he was just as lost in this moment as you were.

“Y/n.”

Bucky’s brows furrowed slightly. “Y/n? As in Y/n L/n? So, your father…he is…”

You let out a sigh, the sound heavy with a burden you’d carried for far too long. It wasn’t a secret, not exactly, but the whispers that followed your name became a constant itch you couldn’t scratch.

Not noticing how he used the present form at referring to your father, you confirmed his suspicion with a curt nod. “Yes, that’s him.”

A shadow crossed over his eyes. The softness his gaze held just seconds before had vanished, replaced by something unreadable, something dark. A shudder ran over your spine, a chill settling in your bones as if your body only now became aware of the nightly breeze that swept by.

His features were hardened over, as his gaze left you, staring beyond your shoulder. His jaw was clenched, as if in silent contemplation. There was a war brewing behind his eyes, a storm beneath the surface that mirrored the exaggerated tales of your father.

There was a tension that crackled in the air and you knew now that the chill you felt had nothing to do with the night air.

Uneasiness squirmed your stomach, but before you could act on it, Bucky’s gaze softened again, the storm clouds parting to reveal the azure depths. He cleared his throat with a subtle shake of his head, ridding himself of whatever had plagued his mind.

“It’s a nice name,” he stated, voice as gentle as before, but something lingered and you couldn’t put a name on it. “Now let me help you finish that.”

He reached for a length of rope, his calloused fingers moving with an ease that indicated he had done this a thousand times already, knotting them alongside you.

You finished in silence, the earlier tension easing a little but it still remained a faint echo in the air. You suddenly felt incredibly aware of his presence beside you, almost watching his movements more than your own.

Questions swirled in your mind, you didn’t dare to voice. Somehow Bucky’s shift in demeanor hadn’t scared you off as you believed it would have. It spurred the intrigue that had already simmered beneath the surface, a new layer to a man who was already an enigma.

Earlier the day, as you had watched him walk down the gangplank to meet his crew on the wooden plank you had glimpsed it already. The guarded detachment in which he had carried himself, an unvoiced burden that seemed to have a tight grip on him.

Maybe he was as tangled as the dog had been, invisible ropes wounding around his body - binding him, squeezing him, choking the warmth that had glimmered in his eyes moments before.

Thankfully, your father had taught you how to untangle them.

“We learn the rope of life by untying its knots”

- Jean Toomer

[squiddy-god]

A Lonely Night

(osial x reader pt1)

Re-upload from terminated account squid-god-supreme, this is another older one that I wrote when I first started playing engine, which was shortly after the game's release so here is an osial x reader

CW : osial, almost drowning, he's written more in a yandere-ish way, gn! Reader (I think it's been awhile) not proofread we die like men.

You often gazed at the sea, looking out at the crashing waves against liyue rocks, years of water making grooves in the stone. Even on days where no sailor set out from the harbor and the winds whipped with raging waters, when the sea's deep waters swirled and cried out in rage, you could be found on the sandy shores soaked in rain. 

Foolish and crazy they called you; You who sought peace in the abode of fallen gods, who traveled to the silence of Guyun stone forest, the slanted mountains not imposing and ominous as they should have been, but rather welcoming as your boat sailed between them. It was often that you spent time in the stone forest, the sounds of gentle waves the only company you needed while you scaled mountains and explored the shells of adepti long fallen. You only chuckled as you packed your bags once again, wicker basket empty and satchel packed with what you’d need for the day, your mothers face held worry as she once again watched you pack. One would think she wouldn't worry with how many trips you'd made to the mountains of the stone forest but still she worried every time. 

“Don't worry, i'll be back soon! The skies are clear and ill be careful mother” she shook her head, there was really no stopping you, already in the boat and setting out. “Alright dear, but please hurry home!” she called as you rowed away.

The towering mountains blocked the beating sun as you whent to your usual fishing spot. Around bends and under the stone arches. You always found it odd how birds don't nest in the crevices of warm stone, avoiding this place like the plague.but it was peaceful when eagles didn't caw and squawk at fish, scaring them away from your hook and real. You cast your line, the breeze rustling your clothes and carrying the smell of salt along the air. Once you felt a tug on your line you pulled back, silver scaled fish jumping from the watter and into your small boat.

This went on for some time, casting and pulling your line till your once empty basket was full of fish. The sun has risen to noon as it casts daunting shadows over the shifting sea. “Guess it's time to head back to shore for a bit” you mutter to yourself, deciding to spend a while longer at Guyun’s shores. Rowing back didn't take long, tugging your boat just far enough ontoshore to stay put while you rested. You hoped out of the boat and winced as your bare feet touched the hot sand, but none the less you made your way over to a small tree that grew from a crack in the mountain. You let out a small sigh as you leaned back in the shade, eyes darting across the sand as crabs scurried across it. 

The sound of waves lulled you to sleep, eyes sliping shut for a quick nap. That was a mistake, by the time you had awoken the sun had long set, night to pitch black and inky to safely return home. “I hope she doesn't worry too much,” you said, quickly running under the large stone overpass to stay the night. Despite your many trips this was the first time you had spent the night here, your mother always worried about you to let you stay. Lighting a match you kindled a small fire to keep warm and then once again drifted off to sleep. 

Your eyes closed and your mind drifted off, time passing you by before you felt a sharp pain. Your lungs burned with every breath and you felt the air change. The tensen thick as malice filled your being. Roars and screeches sounded in the air as you realized they were your own, you felt another sharp pain as your body lurched into the ocean, dragged down and pinned to the bottom by a heavy stone spear.  When you writhed and fought you felt another and another- 

You woke up coughing, your lungs on fire and you looked around with frantic eyes. They were blown wide as you tried to calm down, body sore from seemingly nothing. A strange noise grasped your attention, like a muffled voice with angered words drowned out by the sea. You stood up and trudge forward, following the sound of the noise out to the shore. A strange man sat in the sand, long hair sprawled against the sand. In the tired state you were in you didn't notice how moonlike seemed to filter threw his hair as if it were water. 

“Are you...alright?” you asked, a safe distance away when you saw him turn around; maybe it was a trick of the moon but you swore his eyes were glowing blue. He didn't say a word, and you walked closer, air changing as if storms were on their way. 

He was puzzled, too puzzled to speak. Such a foolish mortal to approach a god- but did you even know?  Had it really been so long that liuye has forgotten the raging tides and rapids that once plagued them? Ridiculous was the notion yet here you sat besides him, your unspoken presence not unwelcome after years of solitude. 

“It's nice out here, you can even see the stars in the water” he couldn't help but chuckle at your attempt at small talk, for a second almost forgetting his ancient grudge. “Yes, the ocean holds many wonders, the stars are no different” his voice was slightly coarse as he spoke. “Haha that reminds me of old legends,” you sigh “they say that deep beneath the rapid water, where no light shines, a glowing castle lays full of shells and pearls, but that's become no more than a legend” laughing you scratched your neck as if embarrassed by the childish tales. Of course he has heard of this before, how could he not when it was his legend? Yet something compelled him, “what else do they say of it?” he inquired. “Well- they say it's guarded by a monster!” you said raising your hands to look more threatening “a huge sea monster as old as rex lapis who makes the watters rage! The abode of osial” you laugh as you finish your dramatic tale. 

“And what if it's real?” you looked at him with wide eyes and looked back to the ocean. “I'd go there of course! Bygone gods slumber, the oceans no longer rage with the force of gods, if that was a real place then i'd find it one day” you said, a wistful look in your (e/c) eyes. 

As time passed and you talked with the odd man your eyes slipped shut, head lightly hitting the sand as you once again drifted off to sleep. Missing the sound of your voice he looked over and chuckled at your sleeping form, hooking an arm under your legs and back before standing. He laid you down in your boat before pushing it and letting the tide take it into the water. He walked besides your boat, guiding it along as you slept soundly to the rhythm of the waves. Pulling the boat onto the shore of liyue he grimaced. He'd long forgotten this place and the blood that was shed here.

The first being to keep him company in well over two thousand years, a shame he had to let you go so easily. “Although” he thought, looking over to you. “Perhaps I don't”

[dearestaeneas]

wip whenever!

tagged by my beloved @figsandphiltatos !!<3 (read their wip here)

working on this guy who i've (admittedly) abandoned recently! i hope to pick it up soon! no pressure tags for art or writing wips :3: @heartshapedvows @mitebitmurderous @courtjester69420

Pink and blue faded to red and indigo. Time did not pass here as it should, and the sun beat down on Eris until it did not. Bird inched closer to her neck, protecting himself from a cool nighttime breeze that whistled around them.

Darkness settled on the pair, completely and blindingly. Bird cawed and flapped off Eris’ shoulder. “Find somewhere to rest!” he called as he flew off.

Eris stopped in her tracks and attempted to study her surroundings. The path was so dark she had difficulty telling if her eyes were open or not. She reached her arms out, feeling the hedges on either side and walking slowly forward. Petals brushed her fingertips, soft and delicate. With time, the world began shifting from impenetrable black to a barely-penetrable gray. As the moon rose Eris saw that the hedges were now black and showing no sign of ever having been green to begin with. The roses were also black, but lightening through various shades of gray before once again appearing white. They glowed gently.

She looked up into the Moon’s face, seeing her nose and lips and shut eyes.

“Hello,” Eris called up.

Moon opened one eye, peering down onto Eris. “Hello,” she replied before closing her eye again.

She continued her slow stroll, glancing up at the Moon every few steps.

“May I ask you a question?”

Moon once again opened a single eye. “Must you?”

“I suppose I must,” Eris replied.

“Get on with it, then.”

“Can you see the entire maze? Do you know the way out?”

Moon opened her second eye and stared down at Eris. “Why would you need to know that?”

Eris stopped walking and pondered this. “So I can leave,” she said finally.

“Hm.”

The Moon stared down at Eris for several moments before continuing. “You should find somewhere safe to rest tonight.”

Eris looked ahead and behind, seeing only the long, unending corridor. The walls held no breaks, the path appeared to never widen.

“Will you help me find that place?” she asked.

“Yes,” the Moon replied. “Close your eyes and walk.”

Eris did as she was told.

“Do not speak until I tell you to,” the Moon said.

Eris did as she was told.

“It is not safe to be so visible at night,” the Moon said. “Even I cannot protect you. Continue forward.”

The sounds of night mingled with her footsteps, grass rustling softly beneath her feet. Living sounds found their way into her ears, sounds of squeaking and chirping and breathing. She was not afraid. The sounds comforted her, reminded her of a life she did not live. Her eyelids twitched.

She’d never seen a rat before. Not in person, at least. She could hear his little feet pattering beside her, his fat body rustling the hedge to her right. He squeaked invitingly at her.

“Do not open your eyes,” the Moon said.

Eris did as she was told.

She walked on for what felt like hours, the Moon offering occasional instruction. Finally, the Moon said, “Stop.”

Eris did as she was told.

“You may open your eyes.”

The Moon had led her into a second opening, broad and lush. The grass was tall and soft, the flowers showing the same bioluminescence as the roses in the hedge walls, although Eris could not identify the flowers themselves.

“You cannot be unprotected in this place at night,” the Moon repeated her warning.

“Am I safe here?” Eris asked.

The Moon appeared to think on this before nodding toward a thickett. “Safe enough. Cover yourself when you sleep.”

“What about the next night?” Eris asked.

“Night does not always come here,” the Moon replied. “I’m sure you’ve noticed. Best to find a clearing.”

“And if I can’t?”

“Best to find a clearing,” the Moon repeated firmly.

Eris looked around, the combined light from the Moon and the flowers casting the clearing in an eerie glow. Fruits hung fat on the trees, and a wicker basket hung from a low branch. Eris stepped closer to find it filled with warm loaves of bread and dried meat.

“Is the food of the labyrinth safe to eat?” Eris asked.

The Moon, who had since closed her eyes once more, reopened them to study the basket. “Yes, I should think so. I would not eat outside of the clearing, however.”

Eris gently lifted the bread from its basket and bit in, the hard crust giving way beneath her teeth with a crisp crunch! Beneath that crust the bread was soft and warm, steam leaking out from the new opening.

Eris pulled back from the loaf in shock, staring at it in disbelief before devouring the entire thing. She ate ravenously, gnawing on the meat, her mouth tingling almost painfully at its flavor. When bit, the fruit exploded with juice, dripping down her hands, leaving her forearms sticky and sweet.

She sat now, beneath that life-giving tree, and sighed. She leaned against its bark, her back scratched gently by the uneven surface.

“Have you had your fill?” the Moon asked.

“Yes, thank you,” Eris said gratefully. “Did you leave this for me?”

“No,” said the Moon. “The labyrinth provides.”

Eris was taken aback. “But you said…”

“The labyrinth provides,” the Moon repeated. “When it is meant to.”

Eris nodded slowly, the words jumbled in her head. “What’s out there?”

The Moon spoke after a moment. “Everything.”

As she was about to reply, the Moon said, “Cover yourself! Stay hidden!”

Eris did as she was told. The branches of the thickett scratched her back and she wriggled beneath them, her stomach flat against cold soil. Soon she became nothing more than a dark shape in a dark shrub in a dark place.

Pale blue pulsated from the flowers now, a gentle and consistent motion. The grass before her swished, the volume of that swishing increasing steadily.

“You were speaking,” a voice said. Through the shrub Eris saw a pair of boots, blue reflecting brightly off black.

“Was I?” the Moon yawned.

“You were,” the voice replied. “Unless I’ve taken to hallucinations, but I sincerely doubt that.”

“Perhaps I was talking in my sleep,” the Moon replied. “It wouldn’t be the first time.”

The voice grumbled. Eris watched as they stepped away, toward the tree she’d sat beneath only moments before. Her heart skipped a beat seeing the voice’s owner bend down and lift the empty basket. “What’s this for?”

“For the tree, I’d imagine.”

Eris sees them tilt their chin toward the Moon. “The tree is bare.”

“The basket will not spoil if it waits.”

They look down to it again, brow furrowed. They are tall and dark, although if that is their natural state or simply due to the environment Eris cannot tell. A black coat covers shoulders that are broad and their long hair is pinned, falling down the length of their back.

“Are you lying to me, Moon?” they ask. Their voice is deep, its tone warm.

“No,” the Moon lies.

They walk about the clearing, tall grass rustling against their calves. Was the grass always that high? Were the flowers always glowing such a deep purple?

Eris’ eyes are glued to the figure, watching them pace across the clearing and back again, their gloved fingers gently stroking glowing petals. Bioluminescent pollen puffs from the flowers, dusting those gloves while somehow avoiding the coat completely.

Hours pass. It feels like minutes.

“Are you searching for something, Zeno?”

The figure shrugs. “I suppose not.”

The Moon finally began to lower, the flowers dimming as sunlight began to creep into the clearing. The figure stretched and waved to the Moon before strolling toward a break in the hedge that Eris could have sworn wasn’t there last night.

“Oh, and Moon?” Zeno called over their shoulder. “Tell your friend I’m not going anywhere.”

The Moon did not respond.

The sun was high in the sky before Eris moved. She could hear wings flap overhead. “Eris?” Bird called. “Are you in here?”

“Yes,” she grumbled, crawling from beneath the thickett.

Bird perched on her shoulder and began picking the twigs from her hair. “Bird,” she said. “Who else is here?”

[slamtarotime]

A Restful Forest

The emerald glade you wander in is cool and restful, the songs of bird lull your anxieties with tunes carried far on the winds. The broad leaves of trees block the twilight, shimmering gold onto the forest floor. The stroll is long, but that is exactly what you want. You've lost too much, too many precious things; you journey to forget, so perhaps you can feel like you live again. Step by step, the leaves crunch underfoot, each foot you travel eases the fog in your mind a little more. In reality, the fog waxes in tandem with the moon.

A light rain begins to fall as the fog comes in on little cat feet, looking over the forest. You light your lantern, dark nor fog nor rain shall stall your stroll. The birds have fallen silent now, seeking shelter from the rain and afraid to fly in the fog; yet you continue. Is it that you know no better? Or is it that you do not fear the mist and midnight around you. Truthfully, it is that you have lived there in your mind longer than the eldest creature of the forest; eternities endured in much less than reality would suggest. The forest has been your escape, but as the wolves howl it comes time to escape the forest.

But you do not, your reckless wanderlust shows you to a cabin near a tarn. It is stout, old, overgrown, and rich with character. There is a garden rich with red Gladiolus flowers. Peeking out from the tall and bushy flowers is a single Daffodil. Upon the door to the cabin is rusty ironwork holds it fast to the cabin. A knocker in the shape of a dog with a long snout adorns the door. You knock, no answer. The door is unlocked, so you decide to venture in to escape the darkness and mist; more so, to elude the monsters who lurk in it.

The interior of the cabin is shabby, but not dirty. A large dust-caked bearskin rug catches your eye first, it sits with defeated expression in front of an ashen fireplace; there is a little wood stacked about the side of the fireplace, and on its mantle is the portrait of an aged man with a red beret and braided beard. His face is lacking mirth or enjoyment and he is wearing a green officer's uniform. The uniform itself is decorated with many medals and badges which the artist has made special note of painting with bright colors, contrasting with the drab olive of the uniform.

Compared to the portrait and the rug, the rest of the cabin is unimpressive. Old dented pots hang above a wood-burning stove on the left wall, while a wicker rocking chair sits by the fireplace. Various cupboards and a bed line the right wall and on the wall with the door are various axes, saws, hammers, and shelves packed with every woodworking tool imaginable.

The products of these tools are nowhere to be found, but their shavings are collected in a bucket near the wicker chair. You deem it best to sleep here for the night before venturing out in the morning, back to civilization and the things you sought to escape in the forest. Taking a few logs and shavings, you make a fire in the fireplace and settle into the bed. It is rough and the divots formed from years of rest do not conform to your body, but you manage to sleep despite this. 

The crackle of the fire, the sprinkle of rain, and the gentle lapping of the water in the tarn just outside take you to your rest at last. Dreams of peace and joy fill your sleep, a simple life with a your wife, you chop wood outside the cabin while your children play by the tarn. As you rest and gaze around at the beauty surrounding you, you see nothing less than unending bliss. Bliss broken by the cawing of a crow, cawing insatiably. Soon more flock in, a cacophony all cawing in unison. Gradually, it sounds more of a blare, a ringing in your ear that comes and goes with the crow's shouts.

You awaken at home, it was your alarm. The clock reads six in the morning, the forest and the cabin are nowhere to be found. From your bed you stumble into your routine, the hot shower reminds you of the misty, restful forest of your dreams as you drift from that world into reality. You dress, eat, and drive to work. Exhausted at the end, you return, bathe in the mist, rest, and hope you dream again of the forest. 

[harvest-moonie]

cheese part 2 The word cheese comes from Latin caseus, from which the modern word casein is also derived. The earliest source is from the proto-Indo-European root *kwat-, which means "to ferment, become sour". That gave rise to cīese or cēse (in Old English) and chese (in Middle English). Similar words are shared by other West Germanic languages—West Frisian tsiis, Dutch kaas, German Käse, Old High German chāsi—all from the reconstructed West-Germanic form *kāsī, which in turn is an early borrowing from Latin.

The Online Etymological Dictionary states that "cheese" comes from:[6]

Old English cyse (West Saxon), cese (Anglian) ... from West Germanic *kasjus (source also of Old Saxon kasi, Old High German chasi, German Käse, Middle Dutch case, Dutch kaas), from Latin caseus [for] "cheese" (source of Italian cacio, Spanish queso, Irish caise, Welsh caws).

The Online Etymological Dictionary states that the word is of:[6]

unknown origin; perhaps from a PIE root *kwat- "to ferment, become sour" (source also of Prakrit chasi "buttermilk;" Old Church Slavonic kvasu "leaven; fermented drink," kyselu "sour," -kyseti "to turn sour;" Czech kysati "to turn sour, rot;" Sanskrit kvathati "boils, seethes;" Gothic hwaþjan "foam"). Also compare fromage. Old Norse ostr, Danish ost, Swedish ost are related to Latin ius "broth, sauce, juice."

When the Romans began to make hard cheeses for their legionaries' supplies, a new word started to be used: formaticum, from caseus formatus, or "molded cheese" (as in "formed", not "moldy"). It is from this word that the French fromage, standard Italian formaggio, Catalan formatge, Breton fourmaj, and Occitan fromatge (or formatge) are derived. Of the Romance languages, Spanish, Portuguese, Romanian, Tuscan and Southern Italian dialects use words derived from caseus (queso, queijo, caș and caso for example). The word cheese itself is occasionally employed in a sense that means "molded" or "formed". Head cheese uses the word in this sense. The term "cheese" is also used as a noun, verb and adjective in a number of figurative expressions (e.g., "the big cheese", "to be cheesed off" and "cheesy lyrics")

Ancient Greece and Rome

Cheese in a market in Italy

Ancient Greek mythology credited Aristaeus with the discovery of cheese. Homer's Odyssey (8th century BCE) describes the Cyclops making and storing sheep's and goats' milk cheese (translation by Samuel Butler):

We soon reached his cave, but he was out shepherding, so we went inside and took stock of all that we could see. His cheese-racks were loaded with cheeses, and he had more lambs and kids than his pens could hold... When he had so done he sat down and milked his ewes and goats, all in due course, and then let each of them have her own young. He curdled half the milk and set it aside in wicker strainers.[14]

Columella's De Re Rustica (c. 65 CE) details a cheesemaking process involving rennet coagulation, pressing of the curd, salting, and aging. According to Pliny the Elder, it had become a sophisticated enterprise by the time the Roman Empire came into being.[15] Pliny the Elder also mentions in his writings Caseus Helveticus, a hard Sbrinz-like cheese produced by the Helvetii.[16][17] Cheese was an everyday food and cheesemaking a mature art in the Roman empire.[18] Pliny's Natural History (77  CE) devotes a chapter (XI, 97) to describing the diversity of cheeses enjoyed by Romans of the early Empire. He stated that the best cheeses came from the villages near Nîmes, but did not keep long and had to be eaten fresh. Cheeses of the Alps and Apennines were as remarkable for their variety then as now. A Ligurian cheese was noted for being made mostly from sheep's milk, and some cheeses produced nearby were stated to weigh as much as a thousand pounds each. Goats' milk cheese was a recent taste in Rome, improved over the "medicinal taste" of Gaul's similar cheeses by smoking. Of cheeses from overseas, Pliny preferred those of Bithynia in Asia Minor.

Post-Roman Europe

Cheese, Tacuinum sanitatis Casanatensis (14th century)

As Romanized populations encountered unfamiliar newly settled neighbors, bringing their own cheese-making traditions, their own flocks and their own unrelated words for cheese, cheeses in Europe diversified further, with various locales developing their own distinctive traditions and products. As long-distance trade collapsed, only travelers would encounter unfamiliar cheeses: Charlemagne's first encounter with a white cheese that had an edible rind forms one of the constructed anecdotes of Notker's Life of the Emperor.

The British Cheese Board claims that Britain has approximately 700 distinct local cheeses;[19] France and Italy have perhaps 400 each (a French proverb holds there is a different French cheese for every day of the year, and Charles de Gaulle once asked "how can you govern a country in which there are 246 kinds of cheese?").[20] Still, the advancement of the cheese art in Europe was slow during the centuries after Rome's fall. Many cheeses popular today were first recorded in the late Middle Ages or after—cheeses like Cheddar around 1500, Parmesan in 1597, Gouda in 1697, and Camembert in 1791.[21]

In 1546, The Proverbs of John Heywood claimed "the moon is made of a green cheese" (Greene may refer here not to the color, as many now think, but to being new or unaged).[22] Variations on this sentiment were long repeated and NASA exploited this myth for an April Fools' Day spoof announcement in 2006.[23]

Modern era

Cheese display in grocery store, Cambridge, Massachusetts, United States

Until its modern spread along with European culture, cheese was nearly unheard of in east Asian cultures and in the pre-Columbian Americas and had only limited use in sub-Mediterranean Africa, mainly being widespread and popular only in Europe, the Middle East, the Indian subcontinent, and areas influenced by those cultures. But with the spread, first of European imperialism, and later of Euro-American culture and food, cheese has gradually become known and increasingly popular worldwide.

The first factory for the industrial production of cheese opened in Switzerland in 1815, but large-scale production first found real success in the United States. Credit usually goes to Jesse Williams, a dairy farmer from Rome, New York, who in 1851 started making cheese in an assembly-line fashion using the milk from neighboring farms; this made cheddar cheese one of the first US industrial foods.[24] Within decades, hundreds of such commercial dairy associations existed.[25]

The 1860s saw the beginnings of mass-produced rennet, and by the turn of the century scientists were producing pure microbial cultures. Before then, bacteria in cheesemaking had come from the environment or from recycling an earlier batch's whey; the pure cultures meant a more standardized cheese could be produced.[26]

Factory-made cheese overtook traditional cheesemaking in the World War II era, and factories have been the source of most cheese in America and Europe ever since.[27] By 2012, cheese was one of the most shoplifted items from supermarkets worldwide.[28]

[kthynes]

Funny imagine idea : the reader doing a tik tok with dodger and call his name and act like he didn’t see him idk if you know this TikTok prank but it’s soooo cute. She Prank Chris also .. she act like she get a call by a friend and Tells her Thats she is just with a friend 😂😭

That's what you want? Okay cool, I got you.

also my apologies for taking some time in fulfilling this request - but I hope you like it, nonetheless! 

pairing: chris evans x female!reader (feat. dodger)

warnings: swearing and some sexual undertones, otherwise this is fluffy and sweet.

Enjoy!

As per usual, I am open for requests.

Who's Who? — Chris Evans x Female Reader (short)

You are an older millennial and so you do not really entertain the knacks of social media, that is until you download the virtuously back biting app, Tik Tok, which ultimately becomes the bane of your existential time and not to mention your precious eyesight. It is predestined that once you got to scrolling that you would be doomed.

'Aha! I knew you would!' Scott Evans sends you a triumphant text after you tell him of your wrongful doings. His jabby little text slips your radar, along with Chris’s, your moms, your best friends, the neighbors and even your boss whose email comes in as flagged important but not important enough.

Soon a wicker bulb goes off in your head and with some naughtiness you get inspired. On days like today you are mistakenly left on your own as Chris is off filming and because you were fortunate enough to work from home, you find yourself on a well-deserved lunch break.

While sitting cross legged and upright on the laminate flooring of the single storey home you shared with Chris, you got to working out your creative talents. Your first subject (or victim in this case) is Dodger who, without the slightest know in the world, is lounging bout on the couch behind you while watching you do your humanely thing that he does not question or get in the way of.

"Alright let's get this thing rolling." You prop your phone up on the coffee table and Dodger perks up when he sees himself on camera. Curiosity gets to the canine whose tail is slowly sweeping back and forth, gaining some excited momentum.

After a moment of silence, you get into character and then press record for a duration of 60 torturous seconds.

“Hey guys, so I don’t know where Dodger is… Dodger? Dodger!” You look around, whistle, clap your hands and avoid directly looking at the cawing pup who yelps first before letting out a loud, boisterous bark. “Where are you, bubba? Dodg?”

“Dodger?” You call again while turning your head up and pretending to tune in carefully. The dog has had it with your shit at this point, hops off the couch and leaps right into your lap, bearing his entire weight onto you. You huff a slew of laughter and the recording ends just in time for the playback feature to appear on the scream. The mixed tan and white bulldog has his way with you, ferociously licking your face, swallowing your inability to breathe as you are gasping and apologizing for being so careless.

“Oh, hi bubba. I’m so sorry, I see you and I love you, okay? I love you so so much.” You grab his head lightly and smother him with human smooches, assuring the poor dog who probably felt incredibly neglected. You cannot afford an enemy out of Dodger so you spoil him with an extra abundance of treats as a secret apology that his dad wouldn’t know about.

Later that evening, Chris comes home after a long day of being on set. You are still in a playful mood. You got off work hours ago and decided to continue the debauchery with your loving partner instead. For this demonstration, you got Scott involved. You asked him to call your work phone, while you hid your personal device in the kitchen that you have set up to record on your camera instead because 60 seconds was merely not going to be enough and because you wanted something to look back at, for laughing purposes.

“Hey hon, I’m home.” Chris’s voice carries down the hallway.

You check to see everything is in place and the camera is rolling. Dodger scornfully watches you hop from one side of the kitchen to the other, taking your place and acting "natural." You text Scott, prompting him to call you in a few minutes.

Chris finally appears in the loft. He looks tired but devilishly handsome, he quirks a brow at you as you smile back.

“Hey you.” You innocently sang your greeting while prancing your way over to him to give him a sweet, welcome home peck.

“Mmm, I missed you.” Chris murmurs against your lips, his large hands were strategically placed on your hips and drawing you in closer to his body.

“I missed you too, baby.” You lean up to kiss him again but then as promised your phone rings. “Oh! That’s me.”

He chuckles while you reach over the kitchen island and answered the call with some poise and undetected grace. Chris is still holding onto you, patiently watching you answer your work phone.

“Oh my goodness! Well if it isn't the big man himself!” You began enthusiastically.

“You’re crazy.” Scott chides, probably shaking his head on the other end as you gawk, dramatically.

“How’ve you been? How's the family? Long time no talk!” You continue and Chris makes a funny face, he is intrigued. He mouths the words ‘who is it’ and you flat out ignore him, holding up a finger and cueing him to wait.

“Oh shut up.” Scott drawls in passing.

“I know right. Oh, I’ve been doing alright, happy and ready for life, that’s for sure.” You giggle while surmising your own train of thought and looking at your nails, being all carefree and dismissive. Chris is hyper focused on you; something seems off as he draws his brows together and protectively holds you against him, inhaling you in and your fresh scent.

“Is this where I ask you who you’re with? Is that how this works? Jesus Y/N, I don’t know jack shit about these trends and you clearly shouldn’t have downloaded Tik Tok, my bad, definitely my fault.”

“Yes… mhmm, oh yeah, for sure.”

“I can’t with you bitch.” Scott sasses.

“Oh, nothing really, I’m just here, hanging out with a friend.” You add nonchalantly and Chris reflexively pulls away; his hands hold you by your shoulders with your body away from his. The indescribable look on his face is priceless, sexy and a cauldron of consequences that you were going to later reap.

“I’m your who now?” Chris reverifies at a demeaning octave.

“Oh you’re in horseshit now.” Scott obnoxiously snickers. He hears this on the other end and has a fit of his own laughter that titillates the call.

“I’m sorry babe, can you just… please just give me a second here.” You condescendingly remark like a mother schooling her son except this approach makes it worse as Chris has a firm tongue pressed against the inside of his cheek, showing for the fact that he was getting testy.

“I’m not your friend, sweetheart.” Chris' Boston twang is in full stride and next thing you know, he gets louder as he decides to size up the caller from a short distance. “I’m not her friend, bud!”

“You don’t think I know that big bro?” Scott laughs his response on the other end.

“Chris!” You chide him while keeping the phone tucked away. Chris sternly looks to you, raises his brows and non-verbally tells you to do the right thing.

“I’m sorry. My friend here thinks he can be an ass.” You tell Scott and that sends Chris into a jocose frenzy. "You were saying?"

“Alright, that’s it!” He commands and in the coming seconds everything moves way too fast for your liking and preparedness.

“Oops sorry boo I gotta go, I really am in horseshit now.” You quickly whisper into the receiver before Chris grabs you by the waist and slings you over his shoulder, leaving you to drop your phone. You squeal and giggle while hung upside down like a bat, Dodger joyously barks, probably telling Chris to get you back for pranking him earlier.

“Mommy’s been bad right, Dodg?” Chris asks the sweet pup who pants his silent agreement, earning you a hard smack on your ass.

“You fucker!” You groan at the impact he left.

“We’ll see about that.” Chris suggests in a sexual tone as he takes you straight into the bedroom for some redeeming ‘friend’ time.

[dizzyizzyharper]

Wicker would not stop cawing up a fuss. Absolutely not and was going to become Izzy’s problem.

“FINE. Fine. I know what the answer is but Wicker demands I ask anyway: how many of you would date me?”

“There you fuckin’ happy now?”

Wicker was.

[the-fiction-witch]

Mariée Au Mal

REAL LIFE X DEVIL / WITCHES COUPLE: TBS X READER RATING: FLIRTY

I walked the stone streets hearing my boots against the stone. Hearing the movement of my dress almost touching the stone. I felt the chill of the wind around me. The darkness crept across the village as the sun set beyond the hill. Every step I took I could hear and see, children being ushered inside, doors being bolted, windows being shut and locked. The whispers of the name they had given me. 'mariée au mal' I knew what it meant. I knew their assumptions about me. I tried not to think of it.

I looked at my shadow walking down the path with the light from the sunset, I looked to my left to a shop the blind already down, but a few shutters where someone peaked out, those instantly dropped as I looked and the door bolted I saw my reflection my long purple dress, black petticoats, black corset, my black hooded cloak, my tall riding boots, my twisted y/h/c hair and blood red lips. I continued on my way moving my wicker basket up my arm a little more, checking on the lavender and honey I had gathered across the forest this afternoon. I walked quickly trying not to draw attention to myself before reaching the graveyard and the little river that ran beside it, perched on the graveyard gate sat a raven it cawed at me so I smiled and offered my hand letting it perch on my ring as I walked over the little stone bridge over the river pushing open the little gate to my house. The twisted metal whining as I did I walked the sweet path through my garden until I arrived at my little thatched cottage with leaded glass windows and the conversatory. I smiled and headed inside my little house though the glass conservatory door putting my basket down emptying out my herbs and honey into my apothecary as the raven flew off into the house and perched on the sofa on his usual pillow

"Hello my little princess" he smirked 

"Will you just. One damn minute" I told him

"What? What have I done?" He whines getting up and coming over fixing his clothes a little but I did my best not to look at him 

"I'm working" I said 

"Umm working? I think your just being mean to me" he smirked into my ear untying my cloak and pulling it off me "come in you can work anytime, I don't get to visit to much anymore, not half as often as I'd like my sweet little princess" he cooed cuddling me from behind "and I have missed you, so badly" he smirked almost growing in my ear as he pushed himself against my dress

"Thomas. Five minutes alright, you've been gone six months five more minutes isn't going to kill you" I laughed 

"It might"

"Nothing kills you"

"Why? Are you trying to get rid of me?" 

"No."

"Good." He says kissing my shoulder "I'm sorry I was gone so long."

"Umm" I said ignoring him

"Aww? Is that why your so grumpy with me?" He laughs before turning me around to face him as he stood in my conservatory his golden hair reflecting the sunsets light, his red textured button down shirt undone half way down his chest, his tight black almost leather pants against him, black braces or suspenders on his shoulders to keep them up even if I don't think he needed them, stubble gracing his chin and the corners of his upper lip but nowhere near as bad as I had seen before when he's been away for longer his hands around me softly his foot between my own "I told you it was work, you know I wouldn't leave my little princess unless I had to" he cooes caressing my cheek "it's a busy job you know, I keep telling you I'll... Take you with me if you want?"

"No thank you" I said turning back to my work "I wish you wouldn't wait there"

"Where? On the gate?"

"Umm. Why not in the garden?"

"You might not see me, besides I like them knowing I'm here"

"You might I don't. It makes them nervous and when people get nervous they get scared and when people get scared they do stupid things." I explained

"Well... Maybe they need a little fear in them"

"I don't want to be feared, Thomas..."

"Don't you?" He laughs sitting in my work bench so I had no choice but to see him "you get off on it"

"What?"

"Oh come on" he laughs "riding boots with the six inch heels? The long purple dress? The black corset? Blood red lipstick? Long black hooded cloak? And you're telling me you don't want to be feared? You love it"

"It's fun sometimes" I admit

"I know it is princess, maybe you and me should go walking in the town sometime really frighten them" he smirked 

"No Thomas. We're in enough trouble as it is" I told him 

"mariée au mal" he smirked to himself 

"Shut up" I sighed 

"It's a good name for you"

"I said shut up Thomas"

"Bride of evil"

"Married to evil"

"Depends on your translation." He shrugs 

"Why did I marry you?" I asked leaning on my desk to slightly glare at him 

"I don't know, you asked me remember" he smirked, kissing my cheek and jumping off the desk going into the cottage "you coming to bed? Or do I have to drag my pretty bride down to hell with me to fuck her?" He smirked,

I smiled as I laid in my bed listening to the wind in the tree's, the sounds of animals in the woods, the babble of the river under the bridge, the quiet of this peaceful little town. I could hear Thomas Gently breathing, his arm around my waist spooning me as he often did wanting to keep me safe in his arms so if I even moved much less left his arms he would know and it would wake him. I couldn't help my mind flooding with the memories of the first night I ever spend on his arms.

I was young, but old enough to know better. I would go and play by the tall willow tree in the forest. I would go and spend hours and hours reading books and gathering flowers. Often times I would speak to the tree and many times it would speak back to me. I had always been a woman on the darker side of the world. I liked the grim and the spooky, I had a fondness for the darkness and what often times lurked within it. I had always been wary of straying too far, never leaving a door open, never offering things without consistency, never going too far if you won't commit to it. Rules I followed like laws, until one night. It was a blood moon, it hung over the willow and that night I decided I wanted to see just how far I could go.

I made an altar at the willows roots, with candles, herbs, a salt circle, flowers, and tools. I called out things but nothing answered. Each time I called out going deeper and deeper until someone answered me. 

"Hello, aren't you beautiful" he smirked as he saw me "not often I get such a beautiful woman calling out to me" 

"I uhh i-" stuttered in shock 

"Shh, it's alright. I guess you don't get answers very often. No need to worry, sweet girl. I won't hurt you" 

"I seek what is to be" I said

"Do you?" He smirked "clever girl as well as beautiful. Are you sure that's what you want?" He asks 

"Yes"

"Then a smart girl like you understands the price it takes" 

I nodded and took the cage from my basket of the small bird I had found he laughed at me 

"You have been misinformed" he says taking the cage and letting the bird loose 

"Then what is the price?"

"The price is different for everyone."

"Then for me?"

"For you?" He smirked "I can give you what you seek. But for you beautiful lady, the price is simple. Your utter love and devotion, swear your life and love for me, be mine and you shall have all that you seek" 

"How do I do this?"

"... Be with me. And swear your devotion to me" he smirked taking my hands 

"Yes master" I nodded

"Whoa... Just Thomas little princess, I'm not your master, and I won't be. You'll be my bride, still happy?" He asked and I nodded "good. Now... We're all done with the formalities, shall we? my pretty little princess? My sweet little wifey?" 

I nodded and he smirked looking at me, licking his tongue slightly across his bottom lip. He moved forward holding my Waist before leaning in and kissing me softly, he was warm, and soft, he tasted and smelt like ash, mahogany, petricorn and mint. He was gentle with me as he kissed me his thumb stroking my waist as we kissed in the moonlight, surrounded by the tree and it's leaves, the gentle breeze as the kisses got faster, deeper until he pushed me to gently laying me down on the grass in the circle of salt with him laid over me…

I woke up peacefully to the sweet symphony of bird song in the tree's. The gentle breeze whistling through the branches and leaves. The hushed sounds of the world before people rise. I was warm between the layers of my dress, one protecting me from the ground the other protecting my body, his arm around my waist his head nuzzled in my shoulder and arm fast asleep barely making a sound but his breaths. I looked seeing his sweet mop of hair nuzzled so close to me, looking up seeing the sunlight cascading through the tree as it rose, the sunlight peeking in through the leaves and branches. 

"Uumm good morning" he yawns 

"Hi" I blushed 

"What's the matter?"

"Nothing"

"No, come on tell me"

"So… that's that"

"Aww what? Was I disappointing little princess?" He whines 

"No, no. It's just that's it you know"

"Well, We’re married now”

“What?”

“We’re married. And mated.”

“So… I’m a real witch now” “You were a real witch before. But Now my bride”

“So? What are we going to uhh… going to do?”

“Well, I have to get to work soon. I’ll be down there for a couple of days but I’ll come back and snuggle up with my little wifey, I might not be home some nights. But it’s work. I'll always come back to my little princess, Like any husband and wife when a husband works away” He explained “So? Shall we head home?” 

I stood in my conservatory, the sunlight flickering through the glass, Through the leaves of the forest, the stems and petals of the flowers that grew in here or in the garden, The flicker of rain bows where light flickered through the glass or though sculpted bottles of potions and viles, as well as though light catchers. 

“Hey” Thomas smiled Leaning on my door to stare at me

“What?” I laughed 

“Nothing, I just like looking at you” He shrugs

“Go Look at your pit of sluts” 

“It’s not a pit. It’s a…. Box” 

“Go look at that then”

“Why would I go look at them? When I have my wife?”

“Go hang out with one of your other wives then” 

“What over wives?” he laughs 

“I can’t be the only witch who summoned you and… let you, you know” 

“Of course not. You’re my only wife princess.” He says 

“What about all those other-”

“Shhh, You’re my only wife princess, and if I get summoned by any other little witches in the forest I send the demons. I only come when my wife summons me” He smirked giving my cheek a kiss cuddling me tightly and stroking my stomach “Besides. I’m going to be staying from now on, as much as I can now you have the baby coming” He cooed, kissing my neck and down my shoulder as he stroked my stomach “My beautiful princess, My Beautiful bride. I get to spend all day with you now, My pretty wifey and our baby” 

“Sure thomas” I laughed “Maybe soon I’ll get to go down there?”

“You will, when the baby is born. My sweet little princess,” He cooed kissing my cheek 

[highviewsmoved]

⁂ shigaraki tomura x reader. (old god shigaraki & female reader)  ❝ gods cannot love mortals. ❞

Similar to the seasons, death changes.

There are whispers of an ancient deity that descends when it is someone's time to go. Who appears when men fall in war, in sickness or in their own beds rattling their last breath.

The name of his is unspoken, for he has wandered the earth for years, collecting souls, leaving death and destruction in his wake. An omen of some kind, similar to the caw of a crow. He will exist.

He will be there and he will wait.

Death himself comes for her in early autumn, when the trees are bare, the branches similar to skeletal fingers pushing up from the earth; the leaves stuck wet to the ground after a morning of rain.

She is cleaning, yukata rolled to her legs and sleeves tied in tasuki to keep from getting wet from the splash of water. It was simple, an easy mistake. She suddenly missteps when she goes back to refill the bamboo tub, falling in head first into the freezing stream.

The locals, the people in her village warned her the water is vicious for its current. The current had stolen a child not too long ago, the mother’s wailing echoes could still be heard throughout the mountain. Water fills her lungs, suffocating her, as her head knocks against a rock.

She is now at the mercy of the beast, and she hopes the river deity will spare her. When she resurfaces much later she has blacked out, unknowing what or who had saved her.

She remembers the abyss; white and red.

And the face of a man who crumbles.

--

Her mother tells her she lived because he had spared her.

“Who, mother?”

“Death,” she says simply. “He can be merciful.”

She listens carefully while the porridge cooks, the smell delicious. She grips the rag between her fists tightly, and she thinks she has seen the face of death. He is very similar to a human.

Curiosity gets the best of her. “Is he always alone?”

Mother is quiet for sometime, she’s not sure she may have heard her. Until she finally responds. “Yes, always.”

--

She sees death when he takes the soul of an old man in her village, the grieving of the family being heard as others come out of their huts to see the mourning, and she sees him.

Death is there, and he comes with the snow in winter, so unlike when he comes in spring or in summer. The frost creeps into her lungs, as she watches him, holding firewood close to her chest.

The old man by his side as Death looks at her, his spider lily eyes holding hers, as if enchanted; and she feels the tickle of snow on her cheek.

She does not cry, but her heart feels heavy. How many more people will he leave with?

--

Death stumbles upon her; she is kneeling, gazing up at the old chestnut tree, and when he hears her calling he comes. She has believed in him.

“Do you take away my people?” She asks him, her hands on her thighs, talking to this deity who has been known for so long. The tale whispers about him being the one who appears when death and destruction are at bay. In the middle of battlefields, always by a sea of corpses he steps through. She is not afraid of him, perhaps she should be.

The branches shiver, light splaying through.

He is there and he does not speak.

Her voice shakes, her fists tightening. The feeling of pain gripping her throat. “Where do you take the dead?”

Tomura responds, in a tone crisp like winter. “Home.”

--

His voice is the hiss of a snake, coiled deep around her throat; a warning. “This is a small mercy.” He had been there when the cliff near her almost swept her away, he had come just in time as she thought of him. He had heard her heart.  

She cannot deny him, it is true that all the chances he has given her have been at best, luck. Or maybe it is him saving her. This she does not want to believe. He has saved her many times but has not spared her people. She should despise him.

Her voice is steel and iron, “you have given me many.”

He looks at her, taken aback as if she had slapped him. She exposes him like a wound, she realizes this much too late.

“The last time,” he reminds her, tone poisonous.

--

She has not seen him since the leaves have changed and at dawn he comes to her, underneath the large chestnuts. The wicker basket has fallen, she cannot bear to look.

“Who have you come for?” Her question is lost in the breeze, tears wet against her cheeks.

She is tired of fighting, of trying to fight off death himself (she has not fought him, she has welcomed him) who has come every time the season changes and for the people in her village. For the people she loves.

He has come anyway. Despite no one believing in him, praying to him; except for her and her mother. She hoped he would listen.

“Do not ask such things if you wish to not know the answer,” his tone is cold but his eyes burn against her back; skin prickling at the heat.

She exhales heavily, breath shuddering. She has cried for hours knowing her mother's time is soon. Deep in her heart she has known he will come anyway.

“Please,” she cries gently, then with much more pain, “please don’t take her away.”

Tomura cannot hold her to that. No more. It is time. “You know already.”

Her chin quivers, trying so hard to be strong. “Then answer me this, when will you take her?”

He thought it was obvious enough, but he will give her what she asks. Only this time; always this time.

“At dawn.” Then with much more promise, “I am coming for her at dawn.” If it is this morning or the next or the next. She does not know.

--

She remembers the first time she saw his face, covered in a mess of hair, bright and glowing like starlight. His eyes redder than the spider lilies that bloom across the meadows. They say the meaning behind those flowers is rebirth, to say goodbye. He is clad in all black, the fabric wrapping around him tattered from travel.

“What is your name?” Her knees are touching soft grass beneath her, dewy from the morning. Her heart pounds considerably louder when his footsteps have quieted.

“Tomura,” it is said like a breeze, so gentle that it carries.

She swallows, curious about his name, so she speaks it and the tree branches bend against the power it holds. Leaves fall changing to brown. The wind howls quietly, slipping by through her hair and face.

“Why have you come here, Tomura?” The wind swirls above.

He approaches, shadowed by the shade. “I come to know.”

“Know? Of what?” She turns her head in a peculiar way, eyes full of wonder. How odd for a deity to make themselves known to a human. So many times this god of death and destruction has done this. So many times he has hid in the shadows of mourning.

“Of things I seek and do not understand.”

Her heart trills like a songbird.

“Am I something you seek and do not understand?”

It is brave to ask such things, the temperature has dropped considerably and the birds have stopped singing. Everything has grown quiet, even the god near her.

“Yes,” and he is gone, she turns quickly to see and notices the patch of brown earth where he stood, the lush green that surrounded him, had paid the price.

--

She has prayed to Tomura, the god of death and destruction to protect her people, he has not forsaken them. He has saved them despite the bitter feeling of grief still anew. The loss of her mother, the old man, and so many more. All of it is painful. Living is painful.

Home, he had said. He takes them to a place where they can rest peacefully is what he promised, but she cannot help but wonder if he had created this, or if this was how life always is.

Death is a cycle.

--

She dreams of a large hand, of a wasteland surrounding her; she wanders the terrain filled with nothing, and she sees him. White hair and dark cloak billowing in a wind she cannot feel.

“Tomura?” She calls, and he does not turn, he stands there. When she reaches him he has slowly become dust, withering in the wind, sweeping past her.

She is suffocating from the particles as it wraps around her. She awakens, the fire put out in her home, smoke rising, the fabric of her bedding stuck to her sweaty body. She knows what her dream is about.

He will soon be gone.

--

“Will you die?”

“Yes.”

“How?”

“I fade away.”

“When?”

“Soon.”

She runs to him, closing the distance, her embrace is tight against him, he can feel her heartbeat. Her time ticking slowly away.

She will die of old age. He will die because he loved.

She breathes close; warm breath near his ear, and he sighs. He has dreamed of this. Tomura’s mind goes elsewhere during nights away. He has always dreamed of her.

Her soul he has spared, slowly collecting the surrounding ones. She knew this, yet here she is, with him.

He is feared and known. She is a human.

Gods cannot love mortals.

“Live for me,” she gasps against him. “Fight and live,” she begs, her body shaking with guilt. She has unknowingly brought his end.

“I cannot.”

“What can I give you in exchange? My soul?” He exhales, sounding close to a laugh, a smile cracking his lips.

“I will not allow that exchange.”

She pulls away, eyes filled with bitter tears, and she has never looked more brilliant than ever. She is alive.

He longs to touch her like he has often wished of doing.

So he does. Fingers, crumbling slowly; he touches her cheek, and she is so surprised to find it warm; soothing like the summer sun.

She leans into it, wishing she could have this moment forever.

“Your name—“ she stops, then touches his face, his hair, his lips. Caressing all of him.

“Tomura means to mourn,” he says, eyes glittering.

“I will mourn you, yes,” she promises, his arms wrap around her waist, hands moving towards her shoulder blades. How long has he lived without this? Centuries. Her lips brush close to his temples, “but I will love you always.”

Tomura leans in close, foreheads pressed together, lips breadths apart.

“And I you.”

--

She awakens in the forest holding nothing but black fabric.

--

When it is her time to go from this earth, she is old and weary. She had grandchildren, marrying a kind farmer who passed before her. In her seat she stares out where the chestnut trees stand tall, woven in branches.

The blossoms from nearby waft in the wind. It is her time to go, she grips the piece of black fabric she has held onto.

She closes her eyes, and she rests peacefully, her heart stuttering to a halt.

The way it is painless, as it wraps around her; darkness is not as the stories say; it is not unforgiving. The tunnel of light she moves through as she is back in the wasteland from a dream she had years ago.

Tomura stands tall, cape billowing in a windless desert. She gasps, tears streaming down her face as he is turned to her. Not like the dream of where he seemed so far, but now he is so close.

She goes to him, embracing him once more.

“Welcome back,” she says against his chest, he holds her tightly, no longer crumbling.

“I have been here and I have waited,” his voice is still rough like wood being scraped.

He wraps her close, his hands still warm like sunlight, hair bright and eyes similar to spider lilies.

“You are human?” She asks, pulling away to look at him, eyes searching his features, he still looks the same since the last time she saw him all those years ago.

“Deities are born from humans,” he states, “we are one and the same.”

Her tears are wiped gently with his thumb, fingers gliding across her neck and collarbone. This closeness he has missed.

She grabs his hand and presses her lips to each finger. Tomura no longer takes, he has given and given until her soul found his. They were born for this moment, she no longer hears the sorrowful noise of cicadas in the summer sun, silence has never felt more welcoming.

It is not harsh or lonesome, they have one another.

“I kept a part of you with me,” she confesses against his cheek, and his hands glide down her back, the feeling of her he has craved for years since he left.

He keeps her so close that they could become one. “And you can continue to do so, as long as you stay with me,” he murmurs.

Her breath fans his hair as she brushes her fingers through the locks. “Always and forever.” She is finally home with him.

The promise between god and human has been made, and they stay like this for eternity.

[captzexx]

Daily Writing Challenge

Day 3 - Autumn

Falconhurst was under siege.  

Again.  

The southern trading town seemed to be a magnet for the exiled remnant of the Heartsbane Coven,  though calling it a remnant was understatement with the growing raids of wicker beasts and abominations that stormed the barricaded port.  The squeals and silent roars of monsters from the depths of the red wood would charge the wooden walls as the defenders manned the defense with spear, fire, and shot.  Clawing and tearing to break through as men and women made repairs and fought back the monsters that had nearly wiped out the poor citizens of the city.  Despair crippled the people during those early days as the Coven near burned the city to ash but had come with silver, holy fire, and unyielding resolve.  It was one of the first victories for the Order of Embers.

It was only the beginning.

Cheryl Dunn gently pulled a twisted glass vial from the straw filled chest and nodded with approval seeing the familiar black and white chemicals so dangerously close to one another.  The woman was young for the Order, but just as anyone could be was a life filled with tragedy and loss at the hands of the cursed Coven that had taken their country.  A family lost, a home burned, sacrifices, and perhaps the final revenge for a life stolen.  Dirty blonde hair was tied back in a tail, while her face had been young and healthy was now lined with the stress and abrasions of war.  Josiah swore she would be as white haired as Proudmore by the end of the season, Cheryl had only made sure to point out his own receding hairline.

"Careful."  A grim voice warned.

Cheryl rolled her eyes and gently deposited the liquid fire back in it's safe home.  The woman let out a sigh, her head leaning back to knock against the barricade she found herself stationed behind waiting in that calm before the next storm.  "See anything?"

The grim voiced returned a grunt letting her know that so far it all was quiet on the Crimson front, exactly what she didn't want.  Or rather what she had not wanted before she was chosen by Tre Ur Steini, the large stone ax beside her pulsing softly with awakened Drust magic.  The ancient primitive malevolent weapon was always eager for combat, blood, and the upward unending battle.  It was a martyr's weapon.  Cheryl shivered slightly in the low afternoon light at the thought of what likely would be her end with the cursed thing, but there had been only one choice when it came to her and she would gladly take it again.  She looked up again to her commander and teacher, her eyes lingering on the older man with a reverence and slight fear most of the Order felt with him.

Eldridge Candell was now one of the longest serving second generation Inquisitors within the Order, having been one of the first to be sworn in after the fall of Waycrest Manor.  He was an Eastern Kingdomer, saying he was born in Stormwind before the First War and served many times for the human kingdoms in previous wars.  Grey thin hair topped his head with a weeks beard struggling on his scarred face, while sharp blue eyes were always watching and waiting in the silent danger of a real predator.  He was a killer, and everyone knew it.  Candell was never shy about answering questions or being afraid to talk about himself, but he hardly ever gave anything away for free.  What lines Cheryl had gained in her short journey as an Inquisitor, Eld looked to have been made of lightning strikes and scars from all manner of wound.  But he kept coming back.  He kept fighting.  He kept doing his job.  

"Harvest is going to be sour this year," Cheryl mentioned in an attempt to engage Eld.  A grunt was all she got in return.  Sighing she would lean back against the barricade and looked back to the ruined town of Falconhurst.  Would this port ever recover?  She would remember coming down here in the autumns with her family, bringing winter squash and pickled vegetables for sale.  There was a vendor who used to sell rock salt candy.

"Duun."  Cheryl came back with a start as she blinked awake and looked up to Eld who was now looking back toward the town.  It was one of the guards, Caruso she thought his name was as she struggled to get to her feet.  A calloused, strong hand would grab her by the forearm to steady her up to her feet and she nodded thanks to Eld as they watched the guard approach them.

"Inquisitor Candell?"  Caruso spoke with a hint of Sound to his accent, his helmet tilted back to clear his sight on the two.

"Aye."  Eld responded, as he let Cheryl go and took a step forward to the soldier.

"There's a raven for you, sir."

The old man nodded as he continued in his stride to him, calling over his shoulder to his apprentice.  "Hold the line, and light th.."

"The fire at the first sight of the pigmen.  I know, Eld.  Go answer your mail."  Cheryl finished his words with a slight smile to her face as she faced the looming red wood of the Crimson.  Candell never even looked back but she he was smiling in his thin way.  A black shadow loping after him seeming from no where as it padded along to walk beside him.

The steps of the rookery felt like they rose forever for Eld, his legs burning and back aching as he climbed up each set of stones.  He was tired.  For the last few weeks, the Coven, the Drusts, even the wild beasts of Drustvar had seemed to go into some kind of frenzy.  Death and destruction forever in their paths, the Order was struggling to keep up as it spread itself from here in Falconhurst all the way up into Stormsong and even a case or two in Boralus.  When it rains it pours, but the flood was drowning the farmers.  

A shaky weary sigh was let loose as he stopped a moment to catch his breath, his scarred hand twitching involuntarily as he closed his eyes to steady himself in the stairwell.  The few brief moments of closing his eyes was all his mind needed to conjure the horrors he and his fellow rangers had encountered in the last weeks.  Sacrifices, murders, and butchery that were far to reminiscent of the early days during Lucille Waycrest's hold on the land and the dark grip of the Thul.  The bloodied faces of a strung up pilgrim family floated in his minds eye from a week ago; the father, the mother, son and son.  Flayed to the bone and harvested in a fashion that thankfully caused his eyes to snap open with a soft gasp.

"Inquisitor?"  Caruso's voice spoke from behind him with concern which only brought aggravated shame to the older man.  A crack of knuckles as he squeezed a fist, before feeling a familiar rub to his leg and saw the silent face of Bandit staring up at him.  Midnight dark eyes met fiery blue and extinguished the rage rapidly bringing a wave of shame before reluctant understanding as to why he was this way.  He needed sleep and the damn dog knew it as much as him.  A gentle rub brought as much delight to the beast as it brought relief to Eld.

"Sorry, Caruso.  Think I'm just tired."

"I understand, it's been hell around here the last few days."

"I know, I'm sorry."

"Why?  You didn't unleash this evil on us."  The guard stood patiently behind Eld that only felt to push the inquisitor up the last few sets of stairs to to the raven hold.  Eld took to the hint and began to rise up the steps again.

"I know, but I can sympathize with you."

"Oh.  Thank you."  Caruso said as they reached the final door, his hands fishing out the keys to open the door for him.  Safety had become paramount these days as spies came in all shapes and sizes in the Coven's attempts to finish off the free peoples of Drustvar.  "Do you think it will slow down?  Or get any better?"

Eld grimaced hard as he heard the younger man question him, the jangle of keys being the only excuse for him to keep his answer to himself.  They didn't need to hear the truth out loud.

The key slid into the first of four locks before the heavy clicks of iron resounded in the quiet tower before the final grunt and shove of the oak door.

"By the light."  Caruso gasped ahead as Eld watched him reaching for his sword with surprise but practiced ease.  The inquisitor took the last few steps two at a time as his shadow slid past the guard and into the room, the hound's stance wide head bowed but silent in his position.  Candell was not far behind him as he touched the guard on the back to alert him of his presence and they both followed into the top of the tower.

Straw littered the floor, mixing and matching with black feathers and spats of white droppings from the denizens of the tower.  Above the rays of red and gold afternoon light would stream from the many openings to allow the messengers flight in this dark time while an old desk and rack of shelving would have parchment and quill ready to send or receive.  The ravens of all manner of size usually were cawing and clacking about in a raucous abandonment enough so to drive men mad with cacophony of chatter.  But now they were silent as the dead.  For a moment Eld was afraid they were dead and judging by his companion he thought the same, but rather hundreds of silent black blinking unnerving eyes weighing and measuring them.  The bright green eye of the woman in the center of the room was just the same.

"Who are you?  How did you get in here?"  Caruso called as he moved to take up on Bandit's right, his sword pointed at the woman.

She was young, hardly yet into an adult by the fairness to her face and wild black hair.  But the black eye-patch across her left eye aged her hard to match the scattered scarring behind it, the right green eye though shone with unnatural knowledge.  She wore robes of dark leather and bone in the attire of the Thornspeakers but a large frame of black raven feathers wrapped about her shoulders and neck to a supposed hood that hung behind her head while a simple staff of ash was held in a free hand.  She was tall but lacked the wide frame of a Kul Tiran, likely from the east by the look of her and probably Gilnean if she traveled dressed as such.  A harvest witch or maybe another druid circle, it didn't really matter to Eld as he looked back at the woman with a sense of dread digging deep into his stomach.

The woman did not smile or look worried by the hound or guard, she merely stood in quietly in the center of the amphitheater of corvine.  She spoke firmly and clearly as she found Eld's gaze and stared back.  "Eldridge Candell."

"I am."

"I bring word of your father."

The crushing grip on Eld's stomach tightened, but he did not speak.  The woman didn't stop.

"Erlain Candell is dead."

A few unsteady breaths followed hearing those words.  Lain was dead.  Licking his lips and blinking his eyes a few times, Eld tried to steady his voice as he stumbled a moment before speaking after clearing his throat.  "And who are you to tell me this?"

The woman smiled slightly and took a short bow, her one eyed gaze never leaving his.

"My name is Gwynn."  The woman said matter of factually as she rose to her full height again.  "I am here to aid you and am in need of your help."

@daily-writing-challenge​

@eldridgecandell​ @gatesofthetroupe​

[bravo7251]

Fall

(A/N: A gift to the absolute goddess that is Chira, the fall vibes irish girl of our discord server)

Chira sleepily blinked her eyes open. The room was still dark and the streetlights were still on, but the slightest glow from over the horizon bled into the navy blue sky. The air was cold and the bed was so soft and warm, but if she dozed off again she would miss the sunrise. The only sound in the room was a quiet yawn and the shifting of the sheets as Chira got out of bed and put on her glasses.

She shuffled down the stairs, wrapped in her tan fleece blanket. She put on a kettle and curled up by the dishwasher, enjoying the warmth. Chira began to drift back to sleep on the kitchen floor, bundled in her favorite blanket, before the click of the kettle told her her tea was ready. She poured the water into a mug and watched wisps of yellow float from the teabag as it steeped.

Chira rubbed her eyes and took her tea to the backyard. When she opened the door, a rush of cold morning air swept around her. The stone path was rough and cold under her bare feet. She closed the door behind her and walked to the chair she would sit in every morning, holding the tail of her blanket as to not get it dirty. Her wavy russet hair bobbed as she walked.

She sat down, the old wicker chair creaking. Chira swaddled herself in the blanket, tucking it under her freezing toes and rubbing her feet together. The crows cawed their good mornings as orange leaves drifted down to join the carpet of foliage that always covered the garden this time of year. A broad red leaf landed on Chira soft as a butterfly. She chuckled and kept the hat nature placed on her head.

Pumpkins sprawled across the garden. They had grown quite large since they were planted last year and would soon be ready to be made into pie. Chira twirled the string of the teabag around her finger as she admired the beautiful pre-dawn scenery. She took a sip. The steam from the tea fogged her glasses and warmed her nose. The leaf fell from her head and floated away to join the others. She sighed in satisfaction. A gentle lemon ginger tea was always a delightful flavor for the morning.

The sun finally stopped peeking shyly from behind the mountains and burst into the sky, bathing the gardens in her beautiful amber glow. The golden light flared off Chira’s glasses and caused her squinting eyes to sparkle an emerald green. As her eyes adjusted, the mountains and trees became silhouettes on the fiery sky. The oranges and reds of the leaves now paled in comparison to the vibrant colors painted on the underbellies of the sprawling clouds. Chira gasped at the beauty of it all. The light of the sun shone through her fogged breath and made it glow a brilliant orange like dragon’s fire.

She stayed in her chair, wrapped in the dawn’s beauty until her tea had turned cold and the sky faded to a beautiful baby blue.

[yespoetry]

A Selection of Sergei Yesenin Poems Translated by Anton Yakovlev

Translator’s Note: This selection contains a range of poems spanning his full literary career, from 1910 when he was 15 years old, to the last year of his life (1925).

As you will see, many of the poems are untitled, not unusually for Russian poems, and marked with standard three asterisks (and identified by first line in tables of contents, conversation or scholarship). I've included the years of composition under each poem since that might help add some historic context (which of course includes World War I and the Bolshevik Revolution of 1917).

* * *

 High water has licked

The silt with smoke.

The moon has dropped

Its yellow reins.

 Paddling a punt,

I bump into banks.

Red haystacks by the fence rails

Look like churches.

 With mournful cawing

In the silence of marshes

The black grouse

Is calling for vespers.

 In blue gloom the grove

Shrouds the destitution…

Secretly I will pray

For your future.

 <1910>

* * *

 Is it my fault that I’m a poet

Of heavy suffering and bitter fate?

After all, it wasn’t my choice—

It’s just the way I came into the world.

 Is it my fault that I don’t cherish life,

That I love and simultaneously hate everyone,

And know things about myself I don’t yet see—

That is my gift from the muse.

 I know there is no happiness in life,

Life is lunacy, the dream of a sick soul,

And I know my gloomy tunes bore everyone,

But it’s not my fault—that’s the kind of poet I am.

 <1911—1912>

  The Birch

 The white birch

Under my window

Wrapped herself in snow

As though in silver.

 Like snow borders

On fluffy branches,

White fringes of tassels

H    ave blossomed.

 And the birch stands

In listless silence,

And the snowflakes burn

In the golden fire.

 And the dawn, lazily

Walking around,

Sprinkles t   he branches

With new silver.

 <1913>

* * *

 Out came the Lord to test humanity’s love,

Walked out into a field in the guise of a beggar.

An old man sitting on a stump in an oak grove

Was chewing a dry crumpet with his toothless mouth.

 The old man saw the beggar walking

Down the path with an iron cane

And thought, “What a poor, sick fellow—

I bet it’s hunger that’s making him teeter.”

 The Lord walked up to him, hiding his sorrow and pain,

Thinking he couldn’t awaken anyone’s heart...

And the old man extended his hand,

“Here, chew on this... you’ll feel a little stronger.”

 <1914>

* * *

 In the land of yellow nettle

And dried-out wattle

Village huts, like orphans,

Cling to willows.

 In the fields, behind the ravine’s blue thicket,

Among green lakes,

The sand road stretches up to

The Siberian Mountains.

 Lost somewhere in Mordva and Chuda,

Russia knows no fear,

And the people, the people in shackles

Walk down that road.

 All of them are murderers or thieves,

As ordained by fate.

I’ve fallen in love with their sad eyes

And their hollow cheeks.

 There is so much evil and joy in killers.

Their hearts are simple.

But their blue mouths grin

On their blackened faces.

 In secret, I cherish one dream:

That I’m pure of heart.

But I too will knife someone to death

One whistling autumn.

 And on a windy route,

Perhaps on this very same sand,

They will lead me, rope on my neck,

To fall in love with anguish.

 And when I smile, in passing,

Stretching my chest,

The bad weather will lick the road of my life

With its tongue.

 <1915>

* * *

 I’m tired of living in my native land,

Yearning for the vast fields of buckwheat.

I’ll leave my shack

To be a vagrant and a thief.

 I’ll walk the white curls of the day

To look for some wretched lodging.

And, seeing me, my best friend

Will sharpen his boot knife.

 The yellow road is entwined

With the spring and the meadow sun,

And the one whose name I cherish

Will chase me from her threshold.

 Again I will come back to the house of my birth,

Console myself with someone else’s joy,

And, some green evening, hang myself

On my sleeve under the window.

 The grizzled willows by the wicker fence

Will drop their heads a bit more tenderly.

They will bury me, unwashed,

To the sound of barking dogs.

 And the moon will swim on and on,

Dropping its oars into lakes...

And Russia will go on living,

Dancing and weeping by the fence.

 <1916>

* * *

 Swimming in the blue dust,

The moon butts a cloud with its horn.

This night, no one will guess

Why the herons screamed.

This night, she ran through the reeds

To the green backwater.

Her white hand swept her tousled hair

Over her tunic.

She ran up, glanced at the quick spring

And sat down on the stump in pain.

In her eyes, the daisies wilted

The way a swamp light goes out.

At dawn, through the spiraling fog,

She swam away and vanished in the distance...

And the moon, swimming in the blue dust,

Nodded to her from behind the hill.

 <1916> * * *

 Your pensive sigh is calling me

To warm light, to my native threshold

 Where grandmother and grandfather sit on the porch

Awaiting their spirited sunflower-aged grandson.

 Their grandson is slim and white as a birch,

With honey hair and velvet hands.

 Except, o my friend, I see from his blue eyes—

They’re only dreaming of his worldly life.

 The bright Virgin in the icon corner

Beams joy into their darkness.

 With a quiet smile on her thin lips

She holds their grandson in her arms.

 <1917> * * *

 Here it is, silly happiness

With white windows that look into the garden.

The sunset quietly swims

In the pond like a red swan.

 Hello, golden quiet

With your shadow of a birch in the water.

A flock of crows on the roof

Holds vespers for a star.

  Somewhere past the garden, timidly,

Out where the guelder-rose blooms,

A tender girl in white

Sings a tender song.

 In a bluish fog, the night cool

Sweeps from the field.

Silly, sweet happiness.

Fresh blush of cheeks.

 <1918>

* * *

 Country, o my country!

Autumnal rainy tin.

The shivering streetlight reflects

Its lipless head in a black puddle.

 No, it’s best not to look,

Or else I’ll see something worse.

I’ll just keep squinting my eyes

At all this rusted haze.

 It’s warmer this way and less painful.

Look: between the skeletons of houses

A bell tower, like a miller, carries

The copper bagfuls of bells.

 If you’re hungry, you will be nourished.

If you’re miserable, you’ll find joy.

Just don’t look at me too openly,

My unknown earthly brother.

 As I thought, so I did. But alas!

It’s the same every time!

Looks like my body is too used to

Feeling this shivering cold.

 Well, so what! There are many others,

I’m not the only one alive in the world!

As for the street light, one moment it blinks,

The next moment it laughs with its lipless head.

 Only my heart, under shabby clothes,

Whispers to me, who has visited solid ground:

“My friend, my friend, the eyes that have seen

Can only be shut by death.”

 <1921>

* * *

 Don’t torment me with your icy demeanor

And don’t ask me how old I am.

I’ve got a severe falling sickness;

My soul is a yellow skeleton.

 There was a time when, hailing from outskirts,

In a smoke of my boyish dreams,

I imagined riches and fame,

And being loved by all.

 Yes! I’m rich, I’m rich beyond words.

I had a top hat; now I don’t.

All I’ve got left is one shirtfront

And a worn-out pair of fashionable shoes.

 And my fame is no worse:

From Moscow to Paris

My name inspires horror

Like a loud swearword painted on a fence.

 As to love—isn’t it funny?

You kiss me, but lips feel like tin.

I know, my feeling is overripe

And yours won’t be able to bloom.

 Oh well, I’m too young to brood,

And if I’m sad—what of it?

Fresh grass that covers the hills

Rustles with more gold than your braids.

 I’d love to go back to that place

Where, listening to rustling golden grass,

I could sink forever into oblivion

In the smoke of my boyish dreams.

 But this time I’d dream of something new,

Something earth or grass can’t understand,

Something no heart can express in words

And no human being could name.

 <1923>

 * * *

 A blue May. An eventide warmth.

The ring at the gate makes no sound.

Sticky smell wafts from the sagebrush.

The cherry tree sleeps in a white gown.

 Through the wooden wings of the window,

The whimsical moon is weaving

The lace patterns of the fine curtains

And the window frames onto the floor.

 Our living room might be small,

But it’s clean. I’m here at my leisure...

This night I’m enjoying my life

Like a pleasant thought of a friend.

 The garden blazes like a frothy fire,

And the moon, straining all its powers,

Would like everyone to tremble

From the piercing word “darling.”

 In this blossoming, in this smoothness,

Hearing the merry harmonica of May,

I’m the only one who wishes for nothing,

Who accepts everything as is.

 I accept it—come and appear,

Everything that brings pain and relief...

Peace be with you, life that has rumbled by.

Peace be with you, light-blue chill.

 <1925>

Born in Moscow, Russia, Anton Yakovlev studied filmmaking and poetry at Harvard University. He is the author of poetry chapbooks The Ghost of Grant Wood (Finishing Line Press, 2015) and Neptune Court (The Operating System, 2015). His poems have appeared in The New Yorker, The Hopkins Review, Prelude, Measure, The Best of The Raintown Review, The Stockholm Review of Literature, and elsewhere. His book of translations of poetry by Sergei Esenin is forthcoming from Sensitive Skin Books in 2017. He has also directed several short films.

One of the most important Russian poets of all time, Sergei Yesenin (1895-1925) was a founding member of the short-lived but influential Imaginist movement, which stood in contrast to Futurism and was related to Imagism in English. Originally from the village of Konstantinovo, Ryazan Province, Yesenin spent most of his adult life in Petrograd (later Leningrad, now St. Petersburg), but most of his poetry continued to focus on nature and traditional rural life. In 1922 he married the American dancer Isadora Duncan, but their marriage was short-lived. Though he initially supported the Bolshevik regime, the poet became disenchanted with it, recognizing the encroaching and destructive effects of Soviet industrialization on the peasant population. According to the official account, on the night of December 27, 1925, he hanged himself after writing his final poem in his own blood, though many experts, relatives, and friends of the poet have disputed the official narrative.

[x-reader-theater]

I Know You

Relationship: Prince!Gwilym Lee X Prince!Male!Reader

Summary: It is about to be your 18th birthday, and for your birthday, your three fairy godmothers, who were teaching you the basics of their magic, were taking you for a week into the woods, to teach you to be come a great king. But, along the way, you meet a man, or re-meet him. Prince Gwilym, from the next kingdom over, found you in the woods. 

Warnings: It’s Disney. There’s nothing to be warned about. 

Word Count: 5,596 words of pure Disney Magic.

A/N: Hello! Omg the support for my last fic was overwhelming! Thank you all so much! I can’t wait for you all to read this one! And, I’m over 500 followers now! Eeee! Thank you all so much for your support, and if you want more disney stuff with the other boys, let me know! I’ll write more if you want it, because I really love doing it! I love you all so much and please reblog and send an ask in, I really appreciate it! 

It was a joyous day in the kingdom. The flowers were blooming just right, and there wasn't a cloud in the sky. The king knew it was because the fairies heard of what happened and blessed him with a gift. A gift of the happiest day of his life. The day his son was born. Finally, an heir to the throne, who could produce heirs of his own, who would one day grow up to be king.

They hold a celebration that day, inviting everyone to the kingdom, including his son's three good mothers, the fairies who blessed him on this day. They were to bestow his son with a single gift each. Everyone else visiting was to give a gift as well. As the day passed on, the king and queen of the kingdom received gifts of great extravagance and incredible wealth, with one promising a castle to the infant to have when he grows up, and another promising servants to fill that castle.

Gift after gift is given, and soon enough, all who are left are the three fairy godmothers, ready to bestow their gifts. The first up is a rather plump, friendly looking fairy dressed in all red, with red fairy dust trailing off of her wand, sparkling before fizzling out. She rolls up her sleeves, determined, and says in a louder voice than one would expect, “I am Flora! First Godmother to the prince! And I shall bestow upon him kindness!” With the flick of her wands, magical fairy dust flits down and lands over the baby, who smiles, letting out a small laugh.

Everyone in the ballroom claps as Flora steps down, and another godmother steps up, this one a little taller and skinnier, and in all green. You stands on her tip toes and smiles at the laughing baby, who reaches up for her, hands grabbing towards her blue hat. She looks up and says in a much quieter voice, “My name is Fauna, second Godmother to the prince. And I shall bestow upon him grace!” This time, green magic floats above the baby, before it touches his skin, and his hands become more delicate, and his grabbing motions are lighter now, less desperate.

The ballroom claps again as Fauna steps down, and just as the third, and stout woman in all blue, is about to step forwards, the room darkens as the caw of a crow echoes throughout the ballroom. Everyone looks and sees someone flash into view from nowhere. It's a man, with black antlers on his head, and a wicked grin upon his face. He starts laughing and the crowd parts, giving him a clear sight to the king and Queen.

“My King! How nice of you to throw a party for your son!” He starts walking closer, the cape on his shoulders dragging along behind him. “Such a pity you didn't invite your child's true godfather…” He stops in the middle of the room, before turning and setting his sights on the baby.

The crowd parts again, and the Kings stands up, ready to defend his newborn son, but the man puts up a hand. “No. I would like to give him a gift.” He walks up, slowly, savoring every step, the heels of his boots clicking are deafening in the completely silent room. He really he's the cradle and leans over to look at the beautiful baby before him, and smiles, reaching down and feeling his cheek.

The man looks up, and in a loud, commanding, booming voice, says, “I am Maleficent, rightful godfather to the prince! And shall bestow upon him a gift. On the eve of his Eighteenth birthday, he shall prick his finger on the spindle of a spinning wheel-” The crowd gasps, and almost misses the last, and most important part- “And die!”

Maleficent cackles as the the king shouts for the guards to arrest him, but Maleficent throws the guards to the side, and walks back to the middle of the ballroom. “That's what happens when I'm not invited my Lord!” And with one last cackle, he disappears.

The ballroom erupts into chaos, with people left and right wondering what they should do. What's going to happen to the baby? Will the king never have another son? What will happen?

The last godmother stands onto the raised platform next to the crib and yells out, “Quiet!” All heads turn to her, and the room goes silent once more. “I may not be able to reverse the curse, but I can make the effects less bad!” She turns to the baby, and pronounces before the who Kingdome, “I am Meriwether! Third, and final godmother to the prince! The gift I shall bestow upon you, is this: On the eve of your 18th birthday, instead of drying by pricking your finger, you shall fall asleep instead! Only to be awoken by true love's kiss!”

The room is silent as blue dust falls onto the baby. He glows for a few moments, before he stops, going back his normal skin tone. No one speaks as Meriwether steps down, and turns towards the king, a solemn look on her face as she bows before him. The king nods, and everyone leaves the ballroom, speaking in hushed tones, as a murmur falls over the crowd.

The next day, all spinning wheels are burned in the town square.

“But Father! I wanted to spend this day with you! And Mother!” You exclaim as your servants pack up your clothing.

“Now, now my son. We all knew this day would come eventually,” your father says. He pulls you into a hug, which you gladly return. “You are turning 18 in five days. You must learn how to handle yourself, before you can handle the kingdom…”

You look up at him. “Is that the only reason you’re sending me away?”

Your father chuckles and kisses your forehead. “Yes, that is all.” You pull away, and smile up at your father. “Okay, now go. You don’t want to keep you godmothers waiting.”

You nod and grab your trunk of clothes, but mostly books, and carry it through the castle and to the carriage that awaits you. You place your trunk on the back, and get inside.

“[Y/N]!” Meriwether exclaims as you sit in the carriage. You see three small, blue, red, and green dots expand, and your three godmothers fall into the seats next to, and across from you. “Are you ready to set out?”

You smile and nod. “May I ask where we're going?” When you get no reply, just some smiles, and you sigh, and smile as well. The carriage starts to move, bumping along the road, and you watch out the window as the kingdom passes you by. Your face lights up as you remember something you were going to say. “Oh! Godmother's, I've been practicing the magic you've taught me!”

You spend the rest of the carriage ride practicing spells, and just once, almost burning it down.

You arrive at a point in the woods a couple hours away from the border of the kingdom. Hopping out, you are met with a little cottage, big enough for one person, and three fairies. You didn't know if fairies slept, but when you were young, you would build houses for the fairies out of things you could find, and leave them in the garden. You never saw the fairies inhabit the houses, but you always received gifts from them on your window sill whenever you came back from your afternoon lessons.

Your godmothers bring your trunk in for you, and you enter the small cottage. It's quaint, a little smaller than you're used to, but still pretty the flowers outside the front made the place look magical. And it probably was, knowing your godmothers. You smile as you see the wooden stairs that lead up to your room, and rush up there. You flop down on the bed, and sigh in content. Just as comfy as your bed back home. Maybe, just maybe, this will all work out okay.

Sitting up, you see the three fairies arguing in the doorway, and grab a wicker basket that was stacked up against the wall. “I'm headed out!” You call to the godmothers who are arguing. They don't listen, and you walk out the back door, and into the forest surrounding the cottage. Only a few feet into the thick woods, you spot a squirrel a few feet away, munching on an acorn. It's cheeks puff out, and you laugh quietly to yourself as you bend down. At the sound of your laugh, the squirrel looks over.

You pick up a stray acorn off the ground, and hold it out in front of you. The squirrel darts over, and you stay perfectly still, the magic you were given at birth taking its effect. The squirrel snatches the acorn, and darts off. You smile, and stand up, before moving on.

A few minutes later, you see another squirrel dart out. No, the same squirrel, and it had something in its paw. It scampers over to you, and you bend down again. You hold out your hand, and it places a perfect, never touched acorn in the palm of your hand. You smile and take it, placing it in your pocket.

“Do you want to come with me?” you ask the little squirrel. You bend down, and it hops up onto your head.

Walking through the forest some more, every time you stop to pick some berries or harvest some fruit, you would pick up another animal. An owl, a few more squirrels, a shy badger. They also seem to understand you. When you talk to them, they chitter back. You ask them to do something, they do it. They’re definitely magical, or at least, most of them are. You can feel it, the magic coursing through them the same it does for you.

You sit on a stump, and all the animals following you sit around you, watching you. You smile and tilt your head. “Do you want a story?” They all starts chattering, excited, and you laugh. “Okay, okay!” You lean forwards and smile. “This is about a dream I once had… It was late. I was at home, in the gardens, and there was a man.” You stand up, and stand taller, rolling your shoulders back. “He was tall, broad… and he danced with me in the garden to no music…” You start spinning, pretending there was someone in your arms. You close your eyes, and starts humming to yourself, a lullaby your mother used to sing to you when you couldn’t go to sleep. You open your eyes and see all your animal friends staring at you, entranced. You smile and drop the pose. “It was just that, some dancing.” You sit down, and the animals lean in closer, and then look away. You look over to where their eyesight is falling and see the owl, flying over in a red cloak and hat, and two of the squirrels jumping in a pair of boots. You laugh and stand up.

“Well hello there!” You exclaim, and bow. The owl bows as well. “Who would have thought I'd meet you here…” You take the arm of the cloak, and start dancing around with it, the shoes trying to keep up. You laugh and close your eyes, singing aloud the lullaby, not with words, but just general “la's”. You spin away, and when you are pushed, spinning back into the arms of the owl, you hear light humming in your ear, humming the same tune as the lullaby you were just singing.

Your eyes shoot open, and you push off from whoever was behind you, and spin around, closing your hands into fists at your sides and flames start to form around them. You lift up your hands and smile at the flame you are able to conjure before you, but the smile drops into a snarl as you looks at the figure before you. A tall man with brown hair and no boots is standing before you.

“Who are you and what do you want from me?” You ask, your voice a low growl.

He puts his hands up, shocked, and says, “I wanted to say hi…”

You shake your head. “Great way to say hello,” You say sarcastically, rolling your eyes.

The man sighs. “I’m sorry. I was passing through and I saw you dancing. You looked…” He trails off, not being able to find the word, before he looks up at you and says, “Ethereal.”

You roll your eyes and snuff the fire out on your hands. “Just, don’t try to find me again…” You back up slowly, grab your wicker basket, and run.

It’s a few minutes into your journey when you realize you left your own cloak behind.

When you get back home, you get a stern talking too from the fairies, but nothing more, and quickly retire to your room. That night, you don’t get much sleep, and you think more deeply about the man you met in the forest.

Thinking about him more, and bringing his face up in your mind, you inspect his features more closely. He’s handsome, with perfect hair and a jawline that could cut through a tree. His eyes are the colour of the cloudless sky. He was tall, but broad and strong. You could feel it when he held you. You wouldn’t mind it happening again. But you felt guilty. Guilty as your mind races with how awful you were to him. You didn't want to be. You were scared. But that was no reason to be so mean… you wanted to he better. You were better, or, at least, you thought you were…

As you close your eyes and fall asleep, you dream of the garden, or the dancing with no music, and when you look up into the man’s eyes, you see the man you met in the forest, perfectly taking his place.

You bolt up in bed, and look outside. It was mid day, longer than you usually sleep, but you needed to get up and find him. You needed to see him again. Walking around the cottage, the fairies are gone, and you sigh in relief. You search around for your cloak for a few minutes before remembering you left it in the forest. You grab the wicker basket again and set out for the same spot you were in the last time.

You quickly say hello to your little forest friends, but rush past them, walking into the forest before you. They follow quickly in step and guide you to where they knew you were going. You enter the clearing, and look around for your coat. You look behind the log you were sitting on before, but to no avail. You huff and sit on the log, annoyed.

“Looking for this?” You look up, and see the man from before, holding your coat.

Your face lights up. “Yes!” You rush over and grab it, throwing it on over your shoulders. You smile at the man. “I'm… I'm sorry for the way I acted yesterday. I shouldn't have reacted like that. It was rude…”

The man smiles that incredible smile of his and places his hand on your shoulder. You don't shrug it off. “It's quite alright. I was actually hoping to see you again…” He looks down, almost embarrassed, and you look up at him, eyes wide. “You just… you seem so familiar… like I've met you once before…”

You nod. “Same. I feel like I've met you before, but it's clouded. Like a dream…” You look up at each other as you say this, your eyes meeting. “You're the man in the gardens! It all makes sense now!”

He looks at you, and moves his hand away from your shoulder to place it on your cheek. “Every night I have the same dream. Usually, it was just of a man, I couldn't see his face but… last night… I dreamt a face.” He looks up at you, meeting your eyes. “Yours.”

You nod. “Same…”

You two stand there awkwardly, just looking at each other, before you feel something push you forwards and into the man's arms. Your cheeks go wide, and you whip your head back to look at your animal friends, who are looking at you, excited.

You clear your throat and try to back away, but the man has a hold on your waist. “Uh… what- what's your name?” You ask, visibly nervous.

He smiles down at you. “Gwilym,” he says simply.

You frown. “It sounds so familiar…” You can't quite place it, but Gwilym shakes his head.

“Now, I've told you mine. You must tell me yours.”

You smile at him, and place your hands behind your back. “Okay. Um… my name is [Y/N],” you say, nervous.

He grins and steps forwards, holding out his hand. “I want to show you something.”

You nod, and hesitantly take his hand, and he pulls you just beyond the clearing. You start to get a feeling of doubt, and you almost let go, when you see a beautiful white horse standing tall and majestic in the dim Forrest light. You stare up at it. Sure, you've seen horses before, but you've never seen one so magical.

You walk over and reach a hand out carefully. The horse looks at it, sniffs, and runs his face along it. You grin and reach out your other hand, giving him scratches. You look back at Gwilym, who's just standing there, watching you.

He walks over, and throws his leg over. He reaches down with one hand to you. “Are you ready?” He asks, and you just grab his hand.

He throws you up behind him, and you wrap your arms around his surprisingly muscular stomach, before he takes off, galloping through the forest. You hold on just a little tighter, and one of his hands goes to your arms, just resting on it for a second before it's gone. It makes you smile.

Gwilym crests over a hill, and you gasp as you see the kingdom, your home, shining in the setting sun of the afternoon. You didn't realize how long you'd been riding for, but the sun was setting, and it was beautiful.

You hop off the horse and go stand on the edge of the hill, watching the beautiful scene in front of you. Sure, you've seen the sunset before, but your parents have never let you out of the castle before. To see the sun setting behind the glowing castle, it was more than you could describe.

You sigh happily, and feel hands on your shoulders. You look up, and see Gwilym standing there, looking down at you, a small smile on his face.

“Thank you,” you whisper, and he nods.

“You're welcome.”

The next day, while your godmothers are arguing, again, you quietly slip out the back door, your cloak on hanging off your shoulders. You run through the forest, trying to get there as fast as possible, wanting to spend as much time as you can with Gwilym. You run into the alcove, and he's not here. Your animal friends all turn to you, looking like they were expecting him as well, and you huff, sitting on your log.

You start to leave your hands together, bored from just sitting there, and decide to practice your magic. You wave your hands around half heartedly, and mumble the words underneath your breath. Nothing happens.

You groan, but refocus, taking a deep breath. You imagine the flower. A little white Daisy. Your favourite. Your little sister, Aurora, would always make you crowns out of daisies. They weren't your first crowns, but they were your favourite. You slowly imagine it, being made out if the dust and dirt underneath your feet, and you open your eyes, mumbling the words, and see it start to form in mid air.

“[Y/N]!”

The flower drops, turning to dust as it hits the ground. You jump up and turn, igniting your hands with fire. You sigh when you see Gwilym standing there, sheepishly smiling. He holds up a hand and you drop the flames. “Please, you can't sneak up like that…”

Gwilym nods and steps towards you, grabbing your shoulders. You lean into the touch. “I'm sorry for scaring you,” he says quietly.

You just nod. “You were late. I thought you weren't going to show…” you mumble to him, looking up into his eyes.

He smiles apologetically, and kisses your forehead. “I'm sorry. My father needed me to do something. He's not the most… accepting person of us…”

You nod. “I don't think my father would be either. He wants me to marry a nice princess and have lots of sons…”

Gwilym just nods. “My father wants the same for me…”

You both look up at each other, realizing what you just said, and your eyes go wide. “I remember. You're prince Gwilym, from the kingdom to the east.”

Gwilym nods. “And you're prince [Y/N]. The prince I always liked when I was a child…” You look at each other for a moment, before you sit down on the log. Gwilym joins you. “I haven't seen you in years!”

You nod in agreement. “The last time I saw you was my tenth birthday.”

Gwilym laughs at the memory. “Yes! Your father wanted you to wear the new crown he had made for you but you refused. You wanted to wear the flower crown your sister made for you.”

You laugh at the memory as well, and Gwilym grabs your hand. He kisses it softly, and you stop laughing, just watching him.

“You’ve become quite handsome,” he says, and you blush looking away.

“I could say the same for you prince Gwilym,” you respond, and he gently grabs your chin, tilting your head up to look at him.

“Please, just Gwil. Gwilym is too long…” You stare up at him as he says this.

You lean forwards and kiss him. You always wanted to, ever since you learned what kissing was. You wanted to kiss Gwilym so badly, but you were always taught by your father, “Good little boys marry good little girls and produce heirs.” So you never did. You pretended to like girls so your father would stop talking to you, and you would move on.

This though, this was everything you ever imagined it would be. His lips were soft, and you place your hand on his cheek, feeling the scratchy hair underneath your fingers. You lean forwards more, and he places an arm around your waist, holding you steady.

He pulls away, and smiles at you. A big, goofy grin that stretches across his face, and you can't help but grin back. “That was…” You mumble, not really knowing how to finish that sentence.

Gwilym nods back. “Yeah…”

You look up at him, grinning, and lean in, kissing him once more. He pulls away, and just holds you there. You don't say anything, he doesn't try to kiss you, and you don't try to kiss him. He just holds you for ten, fifteen, twenty minutes. You don't really know how long it is, but that's how long it feels.

Gwilym eventually pulls away, and gives you another kiss. “Tomorrow, same spot. I want to take you to the hill again.”

You nod, he kisses you, and walks off. You walk home that day with a dreamy smile on your face.

The next day, you quickly run out of the house after almost being shooed put by your godmothers. They were planning something, a surprise, but nothing would be as good as Gwilym. They wouldn't know that, you haven't told them, but you would. Sometime. Just not now.

You quickly run to the clearing, your animals friends trailing behind you, and you burst through the thicket of trees and into the small, circular clearing, where Gwilym already was, waiting with his beautiful white horse.

You grin and run up to him, throwing your arms around his shoulders, having to get on your tiptoes to actually hug him. He hugs you back, and pulls away, smiling at your excited face.

“You ready?” He asks, and you nod enthusiastically. He swings himself over the horse and helps you on as well.

He takes off, speeding through the forest, having the path marked by memory and footfall. Quickly, the trees thin, and the familiar sight of the castle is presented to you. You hop off the horse, and stare at it for a moment. It never ceases to amaze you, the scale of it all.

You look behind you, and see Gwilym has laid out a blanket, and is now sitting on it. You walk over, and sit down next to him.

He holds out his arm, and you lean into his shoulder, just watching the clouds. Soon enough, it gets uncomfortable, and you lay down on his lap. He cards his hands through your hair, and you start to move your hands, and mumble underneath your breath. You picture the Daisy in your head, and then another one, and another one, and soon enough, when you open your eyes because Gwilym's hand had stopped, you look around you in shock.

The entire hill is covered in little white Daisies. You sit up, and look over at Gwilym. “I've never done that before…” You trail off, looking down at one of the many yellow eyed daisies that now littered the hill.

“I love you.”

It's sudden, and you don't know how to respond, so your eyes go wide, and you look you at Gwilym.

“I love you, and I wanted to say it before, that I loved you since we were kids, but I didn't know how to tell you, and I thought it went away, but seeing you, do this…” He rambles, and you stop him with a kiss.

You don't really know what to do, but when he wraps his arms around you, you figure that was the correct option. He pulls away, and you whisper out, “I love you too.”

He grins and kisses you again, this time harder, and you grin into the kiss. He picks you up by the waist and sits you on his lap as you continue to kiss on the white hillside. Eventually you stop, both panting, but grinning.

“I'm so happy I found you again,” Gwilym says.

“Me too.”

You walk out of the cottage with your godmothers, swinging the wicker basket at your side, a large grin on your face.

“What's go you so happy?” Fauna asks, and you shrug.

“Oh you wouldn't believe me if I told you…” You say, but your three godmothers stop, and turn to look at you.

“[Y/N]…  We need to know…” Flora asks.

“Yeah! We need to know!” Merriweather says, her hands on her hips.

You sigh, though it's more for show, and you stop swinging the wicker basket. You look up at them. “Well… I'm in love!” You exclaim, a d they all gasp.

The gasp you were expecting was one of happiness, but what you got instead was a look of shock, and worst of all, horror.

They immediately starts talking to each other quietly, and you try and listen in, but all you can make out is, “Leave.”

“What? No! We can't leave! How will he know?” You exclaim, but they ignore you, Merriweather rushing off to find the carriage they had stashed away. Fauna tries to talk to you, but you.push her off. There was no arguing with them, but that didn't mean you had to.talk to them.

Merriweather comes back quickly with the carriage, the enchanted horses lit up with green magic. You go into the carriage quickly, and sit down in silence, not saying anything. The ride back to the castle is long and silent.

They rush.ulu inside into a large tower, giving you some new clothes to change into, and you collapse on the floor in a heap, sobbing. Your godmother's try and comfort you, but you shake them off. They try and talk to you about why they did it, they didn't want her to find you, but you don't hear it. You just sob.

They eventually leave you alone, and after a few hours, you calm down, and look around your small room. You try the door handle, but the door is locked. There's water and food on the desk, but you don't take it, instead you scream and pound on the door, your voice raw from crying.

You feel a tap on your shoulder, and turn around. It's Gwilym, in the flesh. You gasp and throw your arms around him. Pulling back you ask, “How- how did you get in here?”

He turns, not saying anything, and you see a secret passage leading from.the fireplace. You nod, and he takes your hand, leading you throw it. Looking back, the way is blocked. You didn't hear it close.

You follow him down many winding staircases, through tunnels, until you arrive in a room with a spinning wheel. You unclasp your hand from his, and walk over, reaching a finger out.

It pricks you, and you fall to the floor. Your eyes close as you see Gwilym transforming into Maleficent.

You don't know how long you're asleep for. You know you're asleep, or at least, you think you are. At first it's black, nothing to see, but as you concentrate on Gwilym, on your love for him, you start to see him, snipits of where he is and what he's doing.

He's in a castle, and old on, made of dark stone and covered in grime from years of mismanagement. His wrists and ankles are shackled to the wall, him fighting it as Maleficent taunts him. You see your Fairy godmothers helping him escape, and him killing a few henchmen along the way. He's brave, and he's fighting to get back to you. You love him. He loves you.

As he escapes, the castle crumbles. He mounts his white horse and draws his sword, rushing towards the castle where you were. Thorny vines sprout from the ground all around him, and he hacks his way through them. A large dragon flies overhead and lets out a large roar, and a burst of flame, catching all the vines on fire.

Gwilym rides up to the beast, and starts to fight, hacking away at it, jumping out of reach, getting his coat caught in its teeth. As the dragon snaps down at him, he drives his sword into its skull with a sickening crack. The dragon screams as best it can, and with one final wobble, it falls to the ground, dead.

Then it goes black again.

You feel soft, familiar lips on yours as your eyes start to slowly blink open. You smile up at a familiar face, the face of Gwilym grinning down at you. He goes to say something but your eyes go wide and your instincts kick in.

Your hands light up in flame, and you scramble away from him on the bed. “Are you really him!” You shout, and he reaches out towards you. You just point the fire at him, sending a warning shot to the wall.

“Whoah, whoah, hey! It's me! It's Gwilym!” He says.

“Prove it,” you demand, and he nods.

“Okay… when you were five, your sister wouldn't wear the flower crown you made, so I wore it instead!” He exclaims, and you sigh, letting the fire die out, and your hands fall to the bed.

Gwilym climbs on, and you pull him into a large hug. He hugs you back, kissing your hair. “I'm sorry. She looked like you. I didn't know.” Your sentences are choppy, and if you could cry, you would.

He nods and kisses your hair again, not saying anything, just letting you know he's there. And you sit there, in each other's embrace, for as long as you can, until someone finds you.

You and Gwilym walk down the stairs together, arm in arm, entering the large throne room. You see your parents sitting in their thrones. You and Gwilym walk over to them, bowing deeply, and you smiles at Gwilym before looking at your parents.

“Mother, Father,” you say to them, smiling. They nod at you, and at Gwilym as well. “This is Prince Gwilym Lee, from the next kingdom over. We wish to be married.”

Your parents eyes widen, and they look at each other. Gwilym grabs your hand and squeezes it, letting you know he’s right there. “Oh!” Your mother exclaims. “Well we haven’t had a wedding like that in.. well ever… And you wouldn’t be able to produce an heir…”

You nod. “I know. That is why I would like to recuse myself from the throne, and give it to my sister instead.”

Your parents look at you shocked. “Are- are you sure? It’s a big opportunity you are giving up…” Your father says and you nod, looking up at Gwilym with as much love in your eyes as you can, and he does the same back. “Okay. If that is what you want. I will support you in this…”

You smile at them and hug them quickly before turning back to Gwilym and walking out of the throne room together to go and plan your wedding.

[scaryscarecrows]

In Which Our Hero Opens His Damn Mouth

He should have thanked his lucky stars and not said anything. And he doesn’t mean to, he really doesn’t. It’s just…well…

He has no idea, really. Only that he regrets it and that it’s too late to back out now.

“So,” she’d said, “why’s he so protective of his…erm…shack?”

Some voice in the back of his mind had called, IT’S A TRAP, but he was a little more interested in the fact that she was leaning against his back like she belonged there.

“Why’s who so protective of what shack?”

A cheap deflection, but he was distracted. Why hadn’t she moved yet? He couldn’t be that comfortable.

“Mister Wicker.” She dropped her head between his shoulder blades. “Either there’s treasure in his garden or you were doing something you shouldn’t have, and deserved to get shot at.”

“I wasn’t doing anything!”

And that’s how he got himself into this situation. To be fair, it was either this, or lose his newfound Good Influence status.

Though he probably doesn’t need to go into such detail. He’ll blame that on her. He’s distracted by the closeness, that’s all.

“It really was an accident, the fence was down and I didn’t realize I’d taken a few too many steps to the right.”

“Uh-huh.”

She doesn’t sound convinced and he scrambles, amid the steady why isn’t she moving this is weird but I kinda like it WHAT DO I DO, to justify himself.

“He shoots at everyone that goes on his property, I’m not that special.”

“Why? It’s a shack. If.”

Despite the growing idea that he should shut up or lie, he jumps at the chance to spread local wisdom.

“Well,” he says, wondering if he should push his luck and make himself a little more comfortable, “there’s a couple’a theories.”

“Okay?”

Well, it wasn’t a ‘please shut up I’m just trying to be polite’. If anything, she sounds…interested. He doesn’t have it in him to tell her no, either. If only because he’s comfortable right here and he doesn’t want to have to get up and go home.

He’s not above making her wait, though, and he takes his time brushing a patch of dust off his jeans and pulling his sleeve down to cover the curving scar on his wrist.

“The first one’s not true, I don’t think.” he says at last. “Something about gold buried on the property. But I doubt he’d be living in a hovel if he had gold out there.”

“What’s the other one?”

She’ll like this one, he knows she will, which means he has to tell it right.

“Murder.”

He makes her wait some more while he fishes a pilfered ‘cough drop’ (the school tries to pass off candy as cough drops because they’re cheaper) out of his backpack and takes his sweet time unwrapping it.

“Jonathan!”

“In a minute.” he says, inspecting his prize for flaws. Satisfied, he pops it into his mouth. Mm. Fake strawberry. “Don’t be so impatient.”

“You said murder.”

“I did.”

“So? You can’t just stop there!”

She bumps her head against his shoulder and he snickers. He most certainly can and will, because it’s funny to make her mad (but not too mad) and also because murder-stories have to be told right. You can’t rush that sort of thing, you’ll ruin it.

He sucks on the candy for another minute before pulling up a handful of weeds and starting to twist them together.

“Supposedly, Wicker had a daughter. She was beautiful, they say, the prettiest girl in town.” Not like that’s particularly impressive, but that’s all right, this is just a story. “And she was all he had in the world-her mother died in childbirth.

Well, Wicker didn’t much like to share her. She hardly ever left the property, certainly not without her father. Had no vis’tas, either-Wicker was trigger-happy even then.”

He turns his attention to the weeds in his hands, feeling her trying and failing not to fidget.

“Well?”

A whole minute. He’s almost impressed.

“What is it with you people? So impatient.”

“Jonathan!” She pokes his neck and he flinches. “I know you’re doing this on purpose.”

But of course.

He sighs, draws up another weed, and continues.

“The day came, in the end, that the girl fell in love. But to add insult to injury, she fell in love with a farmhand.” Oh, small-town dramas. “Her father didn’t like that, not at all, and he forbade her to see him. So she planned to run away, to make a new life out of town.”

Stupid girl, really. No one leaves Arlen. He doubts he’ll make it out, in all reality. Granny will kill him before she lets him go.

“Wicker caught her before she got off the front porch, and from there the details get a little hazy. Either he shot her, or worse. Depends on who you ask. Me, I don’t think she got off so easy.” There…just a few more twists here and there. “You saw that big tree by the house, didn’t you?”

“Yes.”

“Personally, I think he strung her up. Would’ve taken a while. Would’ve been a fitting punishment for trying to leave.” There! “Whatever he did, they say she’s buried on the property somewhere, and he doesn’t want anyone trying to take her away from him. Some nights, they say, you can see her walking across the property, pining for what was taken from her.”

He tosses the weed-noose into her lap and she yelps before swatting his arm.

“What was that for?”

“Felt like it.”

She huffs at him and mutters something that might be, ‘fucker’ before sitting up

Hey wait what are you doing?

and flopping down in the grass beside him.

Oh. That’s…that’s all right.

“I don’t believe you.”

“Like I said. They’re just theories.”

He stretches, crunches the last of his candy, and pulls up another handful of weeds.

It’ll rain again, tonight or tomorrow-there’s that heavy stillness in the air, oppressive and too hot. Even the bugs have gone quiet, and if he closes his eyes he can pretend there’s nothing around him at all.

Then a crow caws and he flinches, fingers bending the weed in half. Damn.

“Although…” Uh-oh. He’s growing to know that tone a little better, and so far it hasn’t boded well for him. He’s not sure she doesn’t have a death wish.

He’s going to shut this down now, before it gets them shot or worse.

“No.”

“I didn’t finish my sentence!”

“We are not going over there. This isn’t a book, there is potentially a man with a shotgun and a bad temper and I, for one, have no desire to be murdered.”

She blinks up at him, all innocence, and he sees it coming.

“We could go over and see if she’s out there.”

“She’s not.”

“Not go digging, just go out there and see if we spot her.”

“We won’t.”

“Aw, c’mon, Jonathan.” He wishes there was a way to close his ears. “We’d stay in the road. Just watch and see, that’s all. Please?”

Dammit…this is what he gets…

“We heard somethin’ last time.” she continues, looking up at him like she isn’t suggesting potentially being shot or mauled. “We had fun, anyhow. ‘Member?” Yes, but…that was…this isn’t… “Please, Jonathan?” She sits up and leans against his side, lower lip between her teeth. “Pretty please?”

That’s it. He’s lost. ‘No’ has left his vocabulary and this is what he gets for getting himself into a relationship-friendship. That’s all he meant. Friendship is a relationship.

“You’ve gone all red.” What. “Are you looking down my shirt?”

“No! No, I-”

“So there’s not enough to look at, then, is that what you’re saying?”

“Yes-no-I…Kitty…”

She laughs at him.

“I’m only teasing.” Not funny! “So come on, are you coming with me or not?”

He sighs.

“Fine. But there’s nothing to see.”

“That’s what you said last time.”

[awoken-fear]

A Girl is Bound to Wonder

I haven’t written poetry in quite some time. And that trend doesn’t stop here. But under the cut is a little short story that I really enjoyed writing. I’ve only revised it and edited once, so it is by no means a finished project.

Maisy let herself lie in bed until the third caw of the rooster. Her father wouldn’t be happy, but he wasn’t the one milking the cows. Patterson joined her on her way down the stairs. His round body weaved in between her legs. She always worried she would step on him, but the overweight cat was surprisingly nimble. He jumped down the last four steps and landed gracefully, sunlight shining from the metal windchimes onto his black fur and emphasizing the tan leather collar tightened around his neck. Maisy followed that light and it led her to the kitchen. Her dad had already laid out a few eggs for her. She ate them along with a side of toast. All the while, Patterson sat a few feet away at his bowl, refusing to eat unless he could see Maisy doing the same. She always got a good chuckle by changing the pace of her chewing and watching the tom follow suit. Maisy finished her breakfast and stood up from the table, placing her dish in the sink and rinsing her utensils. Patterson stole a few moments with the faucet even though he had plenty of water spread around the house. Maisy picked him up and turned the faucet off before walking outside to say good morning.

She could hear the windchimes more clearly after she stepped through the door, and she could hear the birds as well. Maisy set Patterson down and yelled towards the horse shelter, “Good morning, Dad! Thanks for the breakfast. Sorry I was a little late. I’ll tell the cows you said hello.” Patterson darted towards the horse shelter, his tail high. Maisy wondered what had him so curious. He never chose to spend his time with her father unless there was some variety of fish in the foreseeable future. For this reason, she turned away from the barn and made her way over to the horse shelter to see how her father was doing. She saw Merry pressed against the back of her stall, whinnying in fear. Maisy ran towards the horse, slowing down when she got close. She didn’t want to spook Merry or Grace. Grace, the other horse, was nowhere to be seen. Neither was Maisy’s father. She walked around the shed and checked the barn as well, but she couldn’t find her father anywhere.

Maisy returned to the shed to calm Merry. She found Patterson sitting on the horses back, cleaning her like one of his own litter. She loved the way his sandpaper tongue felt. Patterson comforted her whenever she had a hard day. Maisy sat in the stall with both animals and tears began to roll down her cheeks. Where did her father go?

The sun drifted across the sky until there were almost no shadows on the farm and no one could tell east from west. Maisy woke up with straw in her long brown hair. Merry was laying next to her in the stall, clearly recovered from whatever had scared her earlier. Maisy stood up and stretched before looking for Patterson. She knew that he would likely be safe, lazing somewhere in the abundance of sunlight. She found him lying in Grace’s stall surrounding by a ring of mushrooms. Maisy looked at Patterson and shook her head. He always found something interesting. She walked over to him and stroked his cheeks, letting his head press against her palm. She felt his purrs, and they made her calm enough to consider what had happened to her father.

It was possible that he left with Grace. He took his favorite horse, and he loaded her with some clothes and food, and he let her out of the stall, and he urged her into a canter, not wanting to wake his daughter by galloping away from their home. He figured that between the crops and the animals, Maisy could survive on her own. He left her breakfast as a final way of saying thank you, and bribed Patterson with fish before bed so that the fat cat wouldn’t claw at the door incessantly until Maisy awoke, confused and drowsy, only to see her father carefully leading Grace along the road in the dim morning light. He wouldn’t have to see her sadness this way. He wouldn’t have to see her shame as she wondered what she did wrong. He wouldn’t have to remember all the happiness he was leaving behind. He wouldn’t have to hold her in his arms one last time, brushing her wild hair past her ears and holding her small, rough hands while she shook against his chest.

Maisy looked down at Patterson as he rolled onto his back with his paws in the air. Her father would never have left her. And he wouldn’t have left this little stinker, either. Her father claimed to hate the cat, but she could tell that they both had a wary respect for each other due to their mutual love for her. Her father was her provider, and Patterson her faithful protector. She scratched behind his ears while he stretched, and he mewled his approval. She straightened his collar and rolled him onto his feet. He pawed at the mushrooms in the stall, disrupting their near perfect circle, before he scampered back towards the house. Maisy picked up a mushroom to determine its nature before deciding it wasn’t edible. Her brow furrowed with curiosity. She bent to the ground and felt the ground for moisture. After feeling the dry dirt floor, she noticed the light beaming gently onto her hand – her hand and the ground. What kind of mushroom grew without damp and shade?

Maisy dropped the mushroom and followed Patterson into the house. It wouldn’t do her any good to sit around and sulk about her father’s absence, but she thought that she could work on the roof instead of milking the cows. She wanted to impress her father whenever he returned. He knew she was capable, but she had always been better with animals than wood or crops. She passed from the porch into the living room, turning left and descending the staircase there to grab her father’s tools. Stepping back up slowly, her left hand hefting the heavy box and her right hand sliding along the railing, she had to swing her head to clear her eyes of hair. She grabbed two hair ties from the living room table and deftly placed them on her wrist. Patterson followed her back through the porch as she walked towards the outhouse, still carrying the box of tools. Maisy would usually bring a ladder from the side of the house, but she had gotten taller recently, and if she stood on the toolbox she barely had to extend her reach. Her nose wrinkled as she approached the worn structure, but she forgot about the smell when something small and fast darted across her peripheral vision, heading towards the horse shed. Nothing that small could bother Merry so Maisy decided to let the creature be. However, Patterson had other plans. The sable cat dashed away from Maisy with his claws extended and his ears pressed flat against his head.

Maisy had no intentions of getting in the way of nature, but she didn’t want Patterson to get sick by gorging himself on some poor animal. She stepped off the tool box and resigned herself to leaving the meagre shade the outhouse provided. She thought to herself, I am no stranger to sweat. Maisy chuckled when she reached the horse shed and found Patterson lounging once more in the circle of odd mushrooms. Now, his ears were straight up, and his tail moved back and forth slowly, brushing the tips of the toadstools. Maisy looked down at Patterson and teased him, “What’s wrong, fella? Couldn’t find your prey?” She giggled and walked back to the outhouse so she could work. She worked until the sunset made her fear for her thumbs, and she looked at her progress and smiled. She took the toolbox inside, taking one short rest on the way since her arms had become mildly fatigued. Her father still wasn’t home. After returning his tools to their proper place, Maisy stepped carefully through the dark living room and the porch and opened the cat door. She stepped groggily up the stairs and crawled into bed after undressing. Her stomach growled, but she ignored her hunger in favor of much-needed rest. She was both emotionally and physically exhausted, and doing anything without her father would be difficult.

Maisy stretched herself awake with a large yawn.

Where was Patterson? Maisy checked her hamper full of dirty clothes. Patterson had always enjoyed creating a sort of nest within the clothes, but he learned quickly that he did not belong on all clothing. She threw two shirts over her shoulder and pushed a few dirty pairs of pants into the corner of the wicker basket. Patterson did not emerge like Maisy thought he might. She checked under her bed just to ensure that he wasn’t in her room. She had missed his presence, nestled near her legs, last night, but she had figured that he was simply too hot to sleep next to her as per his habit. Maisy slid on some clothes and walked down the staircase, more awake than the day before. She saw that her father’s door was open, just a crack, and she pushed it open with one hand not knowing what to expect. Momentarily excited, Maisy took three steps into the room before realizing the black figure curled into a snug ball on her father’s pillow was none other than his favorite blanket, and not the large, friendly cat named Patterson. Nonetheless, she completed her journey to the side of her father’s bed and picked up his blanket. Her legs became weak, and she collapsed onto the hard wood floor, her back resting against the nightstand, her head on the side of the mattress. She wrapped herself in the blanket and covered her face with the soft, smooth fabric. She didn’t worry about getting the blanket dirty. She could always wash it by hand when her father returned. She would treat it delicately; she never wanted to disappoint her father.

Maisy finally lifted the blanket off herself and tied it around her neck. It was hot, but the familiar smell that occasionally drifted off the blanket comforted Maisy. She slowly made her way to Patterson’s food bowls in the discouraged manner of a hopeful child scorned. She had spread them around the house when she was young; she had heard that cats, even fat, domestic cats like Patterson, preferred to hunt for their food. It made them less lethargic and offered a chance to follow their predatory instincts. This made her search even more demoralizing when each new location that she checked resulted in disappointment. Maisy finally gave up on searching the house and went outside to check on Merry. She could see the timid horse from the doorway and hurried towards her. Maisy may have lost her closest friends, but she could still care for the others. Maisy soothed the horse before taking a brush off the wall and untangling her mane. The thick bristles would have hurt Maisy, but Grace and Merry always seemed to enjoy the process. Maisy finished and brought her horse an apple as an extra reward. As she fed Merry the granny smith, she noticed something small and fast in her peripheral vision. It looked as if it had entered Grace’s stall.

“Hello?” said Maisy, tentatively. “You can come out. I won’t hurt you.”

No response. Maisy shook her head. She chastised herself for even attempting to talk to something that she probably imagined in the first place. Her mouth tightened, and her eyes narrowed. Stupid. Her father had told her never to think about herself or anyone else that way.

“Your father told you a lot of things.”

The hair on Maisy’s arms and neck raised, and her muscles tensed. “Who are you? How do you know my father? Do you know where he went?”

“Yes, I know where he went. Why don’t you join us?”

“I don’t know where you are.” Maisy cocked her ear towards where she thought the voice was originating and waited for a response.

“You shouldn’t have to listen to my voice to determine our location. It is neither hidden nor secretive. You’ve been toeing the line for days.”

Maisy took a step back. How had the voice known her plan? Regardless, she thought that the light, sophisticated voice came from Grace’s stall. Before she unlatched the gate and looked inside, Maisy grabbed a pitchfork from the wall of the shed. Her hands were trembling, and the nervous sweat on her palms loosened her grip.

“We both know you won’t stab me if it comes to that.” the voice said drawing its vowels into long, lazy and sweeping sounds, floating through the shed. The lengthened vowels gave the voice a comfortable tone, like it found humor in its conversation with Maisy. She found nothing humorous about a mysterious voice which did not need to hear Maisy speak to know her thoughts – especially when that voice had never spoken to her until after her father and her cat disappeared.

Maisy’s shoulders tensed as she undid the latch on the door to Grace’s stall. She pushed gently, appreciating her long hair for the semblance of separation it provided between her and whoever spoke to her. Inside the stall, she saw nothing. Grace was still gone. The circular formation of mushrooms still occupied the center of the stall. She was certain that even something small could not be hidden anywhere inside the largely barren stall. She set down her pitchfork and took a closer look at the ring of mushrooms. For a moment, she thought she noticed a faint shimmer emanating from the spores beneath their caps, but suddenly Maisy felt a slight pressure on her back which caused her to lose her balance and land in the center of the mushrooms.

She brushed the dirt off her hands and legs and spun to see who had pushed her so rudely. Instinctively, she had grabbed her pitchfork and pointed it towards her suspected assailant who she could know see was… a small man, no taller than half of a foot, his long black hair plaited and interwoven with small blooming flowers. He was dressed in a sharp onyx suit, and his tiny pupils reminded Maisy of black diamonds. “Welcome,” he said, “to the Faerie Realm.”

Maisy’s eyes glazed over as she was struck with a wave of recollections. Her mother had told her about the fay. Her mother had told her of their love of song and dance, and of their wicked deeds against those who had wronged them. Her mother had told her of the sprites and the sylphs and the goblins and gnomes and even the elves. Her mother had told her never to give a faerie her name, and that they preferred to be called the wee folk. Her mother had told her of their aversion to iron – that it singed their skin and caused a cool burning. Her mother had told her never to step in a faerie circle, at risk of entering the faerie realm, where she would be no guest. Her mother had told her many stories, stories which she had forgotten so quickly. How could I be so stupid?

The voice of the wee man sounded like bells. “I think you’re a very bright girl, actually. Don’t sell yourself short. You’re here now, aren’t you?”

Maisy’s lips turned up and her nose wrinkled slightly, bending her face into a bleak smile. “That’s why I’m stupid, actually. Mother used to say that the wee folk would make any who entered their realm dance until their hearts stopped in their chests. What are you going to do to me?”

“Well, I won’t make you dance.”

Maisy’s eyes narrowed. “That isn’t very reassuring. Why did you bring me here?”

The faerie smiled coyly. “I apologize. I suppose I couldn’t help myself. I wanted to meet you after all these years, and I wanted you to meet me. My name is Willow Darkdew, and it is my pleasure to make your acquaintance.” The dapper faerie bowed low, and Maisy realized that he was floating several inches off the ground. “Do not worry. I will not request your name,” he said with a wink.

Maisy managed to relax a small amount, but she maintained her grip on the iron pitchfork in case she needed it. Her mother had told her how mischievous the fay could be. “Thank you, Mr. Willow. Please, now that we have met, can I return to my home? I need to find my father.”

“Do not worry, young one,” the faerie assured her. “Your father will arrive at your house soon enough. He has a great fear for the Faerie Realm, and he didn’t bother to listen to me. I’m afraid he found another exit instead of using the portal inside of your horse shed. He emerged in your realm some miles away from your home, and he has been walking back for almost a day now. And your cat… well, animals have a natural affinity with the fay as they are more attuned to the nature of both realms while humans are limited to their own. I’m sure he will do well for himself here until he can no longer stand to be absent of you.”

“My father,” Maisy whispered. “He knows of the fay? He believes? I always thought that mother told our stories in private because father found them juvenile.”

“Much the opposite, my friend. Your father avoided those stories because they frightened him. He believed in the fay just as much as your mother did. I am truly sorry that your father even entered the Faerie Realm. I opened this portal to meet you, and I had hoped that your curiosity would bring you to me before attracting any others. I’m sure your father would have destroyed my portal had he noticed, but he stepped inside before ever observing the mycelium wall I placed under the earth or the tell-tale sporocarps.” Willow Darkdew floated through the air as if by magic, dancing with an unseen partner. He placed a four-petaled flower in her hair. The flower was white but tinted lavender, and purple stalks sprouted from the center tipped by golden yellow. “A pearl flower, for the one named Maisy. You know, you have your mother’s hair.” Before Maisy could speak, the faerie had gently pushed her once more into his faerie circle.

Maisy found herself on the floor of Grace’s stall. The ring of mushrooms had disappeared, and the light outside the shed grew ever dimmer even though she had entered the Faerie Realm in the morning. Maisy did not care. She ran into her home and discovered her father, waiting on the porch. “Father!” she yelled. “I love you so much. Please don’t leave me again.”

“Of course, Maisy. Never.” He helped Maisy to bed after a large meal to celebrate his return. He told her the story of his journey through the faerie realm and the goblins which had chased him. He told her the story of how Grace had transformed into a winged creature of beauty, and he had ridden her to safety. He told her of the moment when he had left the Faerie Realm – when he had left Grace behind after witnessing her happiness and freedom. He told her of the voice he was certain sounded like the horse, even though she had never spoken outside of the Faerie Realm, and that the voice had told him that Maisy would be safe and to wait for her return. They hugged, and Maisy’s father kissed her forehead. “Go to sleep, Maisy. I’ll see you in the morning.”

As Maisy lay in bed, allowing her mind to relax and drift into a state of slumber, Patterson snuck through her doorway, which had been cracked open to banish the complete darkness. He jumped onto her bed and twisted his body into the fold of her legs. Maisy pet the fat, black cat several times and appreciated his familiar purrs which resonated against her legs. “Goodnight Patterson,” she said. As Maisy’s eyes became heavy, and her breathing became more regular, she couldn’t help but look at Patterson’s leather collar. She had always thought it was strange that he didn’t have a metal tag like most cats.