#aunt leaving her those coins. and not something else. which he does. and finds out her aunt wasn’t leaving her any coins at all.

[quietwingsinthesky]

in the amelia pond au, amelia’s aunt does still send her to therapy between doctor adventures, but since amelia is now secure in the fact that he’s Definitely Real since both rory and mels have also met him and because she lost a tooth last week from tripping on the stairs of the tardis, she doesn’t bite any therapists this time around. and besides, her therapist is a very funny lady. she reminds amelia of her doctor, with how her voice will flip and jump in volume and accent and tone on a whim, with how she’ll talk to amelia like they’re conspiring together. she keeps the pictures amelia draws of the doctor and their adventures for her, even hangs one or two on the walls. she listens very intently to every detail, which no adults in amelia’s life do save the doctor himself and river song, whenever she’s around. and best of all, whenever she tells amelia’s aunt that amelia is doing just fine, don’t you worry, she’ll grow out of this, she winks at amelia so that amelia will know her therapist is only playing along to wave away her aunt’s suspicion.

it is a little odd, though, that she insists on only being called Missy. but amelia is quite used to odd by now.

[aricazorel]

OC Questionnaire

I was tagged by @enasallavellan Thank You! This was really fun!

Answering for my Dragon Age: Inquisition OC from my ongoing fanfic series on AO3.

(This got a little long so more below the cut)

THE BASICS:

Character’s name:

Anyssa McBride

Role in story:

Inquisition Historian from Earth (MGIT story; Anchor series on AO3)

Physical description:

5ft 6in, wavy honey blonde hair that currently reaches midway down her back (on Earth it was roughly shoulder length, ice blue eyes

Age:

She is 26 when she arrives in Thedas and currently is 29 in my story. (She will be 30 shortly after the events set in Trespasser)

MBTI/Enneagram Personality Type:

I took two different tests when I created Anyssa and both labeled her as ‘ENFJ’—the giver or mentor. (I would argue that while she tested as an extrovert she does appreciate introvertedness and the current situation dictates which she chooses to be)

INTERNAL LIFE:

What is their greatest fear?

Being used and taken for granted

Inner motivation:

To help others and support them, hoping to see them happy

Kryptonite:

Having her self-doubts realized

What is their misbelief about the world?

Anyssa believes that everyone wants help and they just do not know how to ask for it. Unfortunately she has found out that some people just don’t want help no matter how sincere you are.

Lesson they need to learn:

She needs to learn to trust herself. Those around her know of her past on Earth and have made efforts to help her learn that. But no matter what, she still struggles with it, sometimes to the point of questioning whether she deserves the life she now has.

What is the best thing in their life?

A group of people who love and care for her. In other words, Friends

What is the worst thing in their life?

A history on Earth of those that were supposed to care for her, using her instead…and abuse. After her parents died in a car crash during her junior in high school, she went to live with her aunt and uncle who proceeded to steal the money her parents had left her for college. Later she entered into a relationship with a seemingly charming man named Bryan who turned out to be emotionally and physically abusive towards her. After two years she worked up the courage to attempt to leave. After multiple tries, she finally succeeded only to end up in Thedas.

What do they most often look down on people for?

Taking advantage of others, being cruel/mean to others, judging other without taking into consideration what they have been through

What makes his/her/their heart feel alive?

Writing stories based on those around her, sharing her knowledge with people who appreciate it, learning about the cultures and people around her, horseback riding, rock climbing, exploring the tunnels under Skyhold

What makes them feel loved, and who was the last person to make them feel that way?

The people she had come to know as friends in Thedas. They have become her ‘found’ family—something she thought to never have again. The last person to make her feel that way is Cullen. He always knows the right thing to say or the right thing to do to let her know she is loved.

Top three things they value most in life?

Acceptance by others, support of others, friendship

EXTERNAL LIFE:

Is there an object they can’t bear to part with and why?

No personal items from Earth made it through the rift to Thedas with Anyssa. What she has come to cherish most is the small items her friends have given her in an effort to make she feel at home. Most notably is the Cullen’s coin she wears around her neck and a stuffed dragon named Puff he gave her before they ever began their relationship.

Describe a typical outfit for them from top to bottom.

For her normal duties as historian, she wears simple dresses common to Ferelden fashion as well as blouses and skirts. For more formal affaires she wears one the many dresses Vivienne had made for her that incorporates Orlesian, Fereldan, and Free Marcher styles. For when she explores the caverns below Skyhold or travels away from the keep, she prefers typical traveling clothes and pants over skirts.

Most of her clothes are shades of light blue which Cullen said matches her eyes. She also wears purple in various shades being as it is her favorite color.

What names or nicknames have they been called throughout their life?

Nyssa and Nys. Most of her friends have called her Nyssa at some point in her life. Nys is only used by Cullen. He has also been known to use the endearment “sweetling” after they began their relationship.

What is their method of manipulation?

Anyssa isn’t known for manipulating anyone out right. Most of the time, she will rephrase an argument point to make the other party believe they are making a choice freely. This is not something she employs with people she is friends with or allied with. It a trick she holds in reserve when dealing with unreasonable nobles, especially when she has been called on to aid Josephine.

However, she is not above manipulating Cullen to either ensure he does not take on too much or because she would like some private time with him. A bright smile and repeatedly saying ‘please’ usually works. The first time Cullen realized he could not say no to her was when she asked to see a real dragon. In the end, he gifted her a stuffed dragon she named Puff and then took her to Crestwood to see the dragon there (from a safe distance of course.)

Describe their daily routine.

Anyssa’s routine various from day to day depending on the work load and what other duties she’s been tasked with. Normally, she holds any meetings in the morning and she makes time to watch the sparring ring from the battlements (especially if Cullen is participating). After that she may conduct any research she can on historical items the Inquisition has acquired and writes any correspondence to allies that might have knowledge she does not. She frequently checks in with Dagna in the Undercroft and reports the archanist’s progress to those interested. (Most people tend to shy away from Dagna but Anyssa finds her fascinating and funny.) She often finds Cullen for lunch and reminds him to eat. Her afternoons might involve cataloging artfifacts and tomes recovered in the hopes of returning them to their proper owners. If time allows, she can be found exploring and mapping the caverns and tunnels below Skyhold much to Cullen’s dismay. Throughout her day though, Anyssa has learned to work in time for her friends as well as for herself (though it has been a struggle in learning to do so)

Their go-to cure for a bad day?

There a several different answers to this. One is Sera. Both Anyssa and the Red Jenny enjoy pranks. Frequently Anyssa may provide the idea or inspiration while Sera carries out the actual pranks itself.

Horseback riding alone or with Cullen.

Playing Wicked Grace with Varric and/or Bull, Blackwall, and the Chargers. (Drinking and storytelling maybe involved.)

Reading a book with Cullen.

GOALS:

How are they dissatisfied with their life?

Overall, Anyssa is exceedingly happy with her life in Thedas. It is something she never thought to have again after her parents death and the abusive relationship with her ex-boyfriend. She had friends, a family, a career, someone to love her (whom she loves with all her heart), and a new purpose in life. If there was one thing that she would be dissatisfied with, it would be the knowledge that despite all the good the Inquisition did there will still be people who still cling to the old ways. In other words, she wishes that everyone could find the acceptance and support she has found but knows that the old ways are easier for some to hold onto instead of embracing change.

What would bring them true happiness or contentment?

Finally realizing that she did nothing wrong and it was not her fault that anyone left her or treated her poorly. Those were decisions made by others and she is not responsible for that. Cullen has aided her greatly in making progress with this but it is a struggle she will always have. But then again she has found a support network and love, so in the end she is already happy/content.

What definitive step could they take to turn their dream into a reality?

This is something Anyssa initially struggled with. Cullen was the first to admit he loved her and it took seven months before she could say it back. After that, they talked circles around making concrete plans about their future. Finally, they decided to just make the plans as they went (making a list of things they wanted.) When Cullen decided to start a Templar sanctuary after retirement, that solidified things. Now all that remains to be done is see the Inquisition through to the end and then begin their future.

How has their fear kept them from taking this action already?

Her past relationship colored how she reacted to Cullen’s affections and made her question whether she could trust his words. (she learned to trust his actions first and then his words)

Haven and Skyhold were the places she first felt welcomed in Thedas, like she had a real home again.

She questioned whether she could be lead historian in a world she knew nothing of, questioning even the skills she had learned on Earth.

How do they feel they can accomplish their goal while still steering clear of the thing they are afraid of?

Anyssa has decided to focus on what she can do in the present and prepare for the future she wants. She has begun making plans for how to transfer her skills to a slightly different career path aft her the conclusion of the Inquisition and has told Cullen she will support his dream of a Templar sanctuary while pursuing her own path. To ensure that happens, she will more than likely rely on Cullen for reminders to believe in herself and trust that she knows what she is doing. In the end, it all comes down to trust for Anyssa and her Commander is the one she trusts the most.

Tagging @commanderadorkable, @shadoedseptmber, @raflesia65, @noire-pandora and anyone else who would like to play! No pressure, just fun!

[llendrinall]

Omg if an adult Draco woke up in 5 year old Draco's body and he wanted to make his father's life a living hell. Id read that, please please tell us the stuff he'd get up to. (as well as the stuff you would get up to at school, please)

It would be a nightmare for all involved. Draco, who had fought so much, suffered so much in order to atone not only for his mistakes but those of his family… and he finds himself back! All progress lost! He had broken his back, literally (it was a really dumb idea and Harry was very angry with him) to get Granger to warm up to him. Longbottom had forgiven him! (And Draco doesn’t even know what exactly he did to merit that). Harry had…

Harry had kissed him the weekend before.

And now he is back in his five-year-old body. Not even eleven, when he could see Harry and make a difference. No, he is five, and Draco cries and rages so much that he develops a fever and is incoherent for a week.

Afterwards… Well, you know how parents pride themselves in their children’s achievements? How parents want their children to be better than them? Lucius has found there is a limit to it. Having his son be more eloquent and advanced than any other child his age is great. Having his five-year-old son tell him with impeccable grammar that he, Lucius, will bring the ruin of their house is not great at all. Draco looks at him with a cherubic face and eyes that are burning grey, accusing him of crimes that even Narcissa doesn’t know about. Crimes that Lucius had barely begun to plan.

It is terrifying.

It is well known that what muggles call “demonic possessions” are nothing more than a wizard having a little too much fun with an imperius. But when Draco grabs Lucius’ wand, goes down to their hidden vault and, and, and opens it! He- he just casts the spell! Draco is five and he is doing magic that many adults struggle with! Oh, then Lucius wants to believe there might be something else.

(Out of all the forbidden things in their vault Draco went straight to the diary the Dark Lord had entrusted Lucius. Straight to it. And he destroyed it that very same night.)

“You failed.” Draco says, hot and angry. He is so pale and soft and full of fire. “You failed at everything and I had to take your place. I was given an impossible task as punishment to you, threatened not only with my death but the whole family, because of you!”

“Tenses, darling.” Says Narcissa softly. Narcissa is blind to the monster they have in the house. She doesn’t see it. She is convinced that there is nothing wrong with Draco, that he is just a very powerful seer who is a bit confused with timelines and verb tenses.

Draco is not a seer. Lucius is sure of that because if he were, then he would know that Lucius is thinking of… cleaning up the line. Narcissa is still young and she can give him another son or Lucius can remarry.

He is not a seer, but one day over breakfast Draco looks up and says “It won’t work. Whatever you are plotting, it won’t work. I can’t recall a single plan of yours that worked longer than a month. Kicking Dumbledore from Hogwarts, bribing the Ministry, bringing back the Dark Lord. It never works.”

So Lucius packs up his things and leaves the country quietly.

Narcissa is… shocked, which means she is furious, betrayed, and briefly terrified that she might lose her income and secure position. But once she is reassured that she still holds the house and the fortune she takes a big breath, internally swears that next time she comes across Lucius she will castrate hex him, and steps up into the role of Lady of the House.

She also listens to Draco. She insists that what Draco says has happened is yet to come, but she listens.

Draco wants to get Harry at once, but it is not so easy to find a seemingly normal muggle family in the sea of actually normal muggle families living an hour away from London. In the meantime, Narcissa visits Flourish and Blotts every day for a week until she finally gets there at the same time than the Weasleys. Then it’s a question of dropping a handkerchief and waiting for the bespectacled Weasley to fetch it for her and then, well, he is so eloquent and polite that Narcissa insists on buying young, Percival, was it? She shall buy him a quill. Any quill he wants. Don’t look at the price and just pick whatever quill you like best, young man. You must have a proper quill to write your letters.  

Molly Weasley would rather drag herself through shards of glass than accept a gift from a Malfoy; but one look at Percy tells her that if she takes this from him, if she takes his once chance of having something New and Fancy and Just For Him, he will hate her forever. So Molly relents (as Narcissa knew she would because mothers are predictable). Two weeks later Draco has a play date with Ronald.

“I think you should play Quidditch, Draco, dear.” She says, because horrendous as Lucius’ attitude was, she does recognize that Draco can be a bit off-putting. There isn’t that much talking with Quidditch and Draco is clever enough to let the young Weasley win two out of three times.

It takes thirteen months to find Harry and by then Narcissa has got a foot in both the Weasley’s and Longbottom’s houses. The latter was an excruciating effort and is still a very much work in progress. Narcissa had to let that bulldog of Augusta Lonbottom seer her crying and even now they are one wrong word away of losing all progress, but the children are talking and that was the goal.

She is weighting the pros of buying a house near the Dursleys and just moving there versus the advantage of frequently inviting the Weasley kids to the manor, when she sees the anxious look in her son’s face, a look of urgency and desperation and…

“Draco,” she cries, softly and sadly. Beautiful Draco, six years and two months and with a face like a silver coin. “Draco, dear, do you love this boy? I don’t mean like you love Mummy. Do you…”

“I know what you mean, Mother.” Draco says, serious, he is always so serious. She supposes he has to be to contain the fire burning inside. “I am not a child, I have told you. And I love him with all my heart.”

Oh.

“Then, you shouldn’t meet so soon.” Narcissa says firmly, although inside her heart is aching and she doesn’t know why. “Children who grow together tend to see each other as siblings. Why, your Great Aunt Marthia grew up with Gaius Mulciber, her fiancée, and their marriage was very difficult. I think he tried to poison her in order to marry his lover, or the other way around. I can’t remember. In any case, it is better to wait.”

But Draco doesn’t care. He doesn’t want to wait. He doesn’t want Harry to spend a single day more than necessary in that house where he was miserable and unloved. Whatever it takes, he says. Whatever it takes, even if the price is not loving Draco. Let’s rescue him now.

Narcissa explains that waiting would be much better. There are other things they have to keep in mind, like the return of the Dark Lord and the fact that Harry is linked to him. It can’t be that bad, the muggle house. Just bad enough that Harry will jump easily and eagerly to the wizarding world once it’s presented to him, so he will be all the more willing to sacrifice his…

“oh”, Narcissa says, very softly, not even an exclamation mark or a capital.

“oh”, she repeats.

Internally, she thinks “that bastard”. Dumbledore, of course. It is well known that Dumbledore wants Voldemort’s destruction at whatever cost.

“Draco you have to get yourself invited to the Longbottom’s house.” Narcissa says. Something in her tone finally cuts Draco’s unending cries that they have to get Harry, he will do it himself even if he is just one meter and ten centimeters tall.

Draco is a charming b-. Draco is charming, boy, child or adult trapped in a kid’s body. He gets an invitation and a layout of the Longbottom’s house. Narcissa then dons a pair of sensible country boots that she doesn’t mind getting dirty with mud and barely sleeps for the next ten days. Her skin suffers from it greatly, mind you.

By day three she has successfully stolen the rat Scabbers from the Burrow. She was going to switch it with a real pet rat, but it escapes and she can’t go chasing it. Then she begins a ten-days terror program on the Longbottoms. Footprints on the flowerbeds, upsetting the warding charms on the doors, definite signs of tampering in the chimney… Augusta Longbototm is many things, but she is certainly not a fool and by day four she is at the Ministry demanding help form the Auror office. It takes five freaking days for them to send a couple or aurors down. Narcissa is incensed on her behalf.

She waits until Dumbledore sends Moody down to the house. Moody casts extra protection charms and lays some traps and that night Narcissa pushes a stunned Pettigrew into what seems the nastiest of all of the traps. The one Dumbledore told Moody not to use but he still prepared the moment he left. In goes Pettigrew, stunned and wounded because Narcissa is under a lot of stress and she might have tortured him a bit.

Narcissa and Draco are there to greet Sirius, their BELOVED cousin (all capitals so no one dares says otherwise) when he is released from Azkaban. She has him shaved, washed and all set in a nice London house before Dumbledore can even begin to say “unfit for taking care of an underage boy”. At six years and four months Harry leaves the Dursleys and moves with his godfather.  

 And then it’s all nice for a while until Pettigrew escapes Azkaban, meets Lucius in the continent and together bring Voldemort back. There is a war. People grow more and more afraid of Draco and he has more attempts on his life than Harry ever had. Narcissa kills Bellatrix and doesn’t even think about it.

And, one day, a young handsome gentleman with shiny black hair arrives accompanied by a sullen lanky young man with streaks of pink in his hair. Draco labels the lanky young man as the ugliest adult he has even seen. The handsome young gentleman introduces himself as Harry Potter and asks if perhaps Draco remembers him?

The burning fire inside Draco disappears. There is only hot air and ash.

The ugly lanky young man is adult Draco, of course, governed by an eight-year-old who has completely destroyed his hair.  Harry, his Harry, is just amused at Draco’s indignation that they allowed this to happen. Apparently Child Draco was a handful to deal with.

“I’m sorry it took me so long to find you,” handsome gentleman Harry says, and he is so warm and beautiful that Draco wants to cry. He doesn’t even care about how ugly is adult body is because once he is back in it Harry grabs his hands and doesn’t let go until they are back home.

[thejakeformerlyknownasprince]

What if the Animorphs could use magic-like, in addition to the morphing?

All her life, Cassie’s dad has treated raccoons and ferrets, the occasional goose or hawk.  And for as long as she can remember, he’s treated other things too.  There was the pine marten with tiny horns that the long-fingered man with the scars on his face brought from under his coat.  There’s the seahorse that buzzes up to their door on the regular, gossamer fins beating hummingbird-fast at the air as it hovers five feet off the ground.  There are winged foxes and antlered rabbits and animals for which Cassie has no comparison.

Walter never comments on them directly.  Instead he skids the Venetian blinds closed and pulls out his other kit — the one with bone needles and spools of spider silk and not a trace of metal throughout — and gets to work.  Cassie can’t remember how she learned never to comment directly on these night customers.  But she knows.  She does not mention them aloud.  Most of all, she does not thank them or ask for favors.

They never pay in coin, these visitors that step over the back threshold and never come when there is road salt on the ground.  It doesn’t matter.  Every stock share Walter and Michelle buy proves to be lucky; every item they store in the downstairs refrigerator never spoils.  Michelle can heal animals at the Gardens that no one else can save.  Cassie’s parents are careful never to ask for these gifts, or indeed express any opinion on them at all.  Their night visitors bargain exactingly, mercilessly, without quarter.  The only recourse is not to bargain with them at all.

Tobias doesn’t believe he’s a changeling.  Not really.  He’s pretty sure that’s just something his aunt says to excuse how little she cares about him.  That doesn’t stop him from leaving a capful of her Rodda’s clotted cream on his windowsill every night, especially because he wakes every morning to find the cream gone.  Just in case, he tells himself.  Just in case his real family is out there somewhere, keeping an eye on him.

Jake has no thoughts on magic or fae.  If asked he’d shrug and casually disbelieve.  But he listened all the same when his Grandpa G whispered the secret to controlling a golem, to making life of clay.  To destroying that life with a press of the thumb.

Marco learned not to count anything out he hasn’t seen disproven with his own eyes.  Eva lit candles for the Virgin Mother and for the ancestors, for Rihannon and Guabancex and the Holy Ghost.  Marco doesn’t always honor the old rituals, but he also doesn’t cross still waters or take favors from strangers.  He always cleans spilled salt and keeps a tiny iron knife tucked into one pocket.  He wears his underwear inside out and spits on the floor after wishing good luck.  He hedges his bets.

Rachel’s heard of the old gods, of course she has.  They were the fascination of her entire primary school year for a full week, just after unicorns and slightly before everyone became silly amateur witches.

Andalite culture frowns on superstition, and so Ax does as well.  Outwardly, at least.  That means not telling anyone how thoroughly, how casually, Elfangor has always believed in magic.  It means not thinking of the still pool of water, the silver knife, the other scrying tools from eldritch andalite culture… and the way his brother would, just sometimes, know things it was surely impossible for anyone to have seen.

“I put no faith in magic,” Marco says, when Cassie tells them about her dreams.  “I don’t trust it, and neither should you.”

«Fine, then.»  Tobias glares at him.  «Explain how we had the same dream, about the same voice, every single night.  Go ahead.  We’re waiting.»

Andalite magic isn’t like Earth magic, they’ll come to learn.  And sometimes the magic and technology are hard to tell apart at a glance.

It was just a long-distance call, Ax insists when they find him.  He doesn’t know how they talked to a whale.  He can’t explain why Tobias, but not any of the others, would have received that call.  Surely it doesn’t mean anything.  Technology only looks like magic, when viewed from a distance.

Tobias sees the rabbit disappear when it enters the unnaturally round circle of mushrooms.  But he’s hungry, and he’s tired, and the rabbit is fat and white and moving slow.  He doesn’t pull up from the dive in time.  Instead he follows it inside—

And hits the ground on two stubby-toed feet, strong human arms thrown out for balance.  He’s naked, but that seems incidental.  He’s human.  He hasn’t been human for almost six months.

Mostly human.  There are feathers on his arms and along his back.  He sees through hawk eyes and hears with hawk ears, a raptor’s head on top of a human body.  He thinks of ancient Egypt, of that god with the ankh, when he imagines how he must look.

And then he staggers back several steps, all the way to the edge of the suddenly-vast circle of mushrooms, at the sight of the beings who approach.  Their leader is a tall man made even taller by the enormous antlers that sprout from his head.  Behind him walk trees who are also teenage girls, goats upright on two legs, an entire court of half-human half-other beings.

Tobias’s whole body is cold with fear.  He tries to fly, but his wings cannot lift heavy human bones.  Tries to speak, and a hawk’s harsh cry comes out of his mouth.

“Come, little hunter,” the king who is both stag and man says.  “Dance with us.”

«What will you give me if I do?» Tobias asks, finding a different voice.  A stupid and brave thing to say.

The king smiles.  “An answer to one question.”

Tobias doesn’t ask what’ll happen if he refuses.  He’s no fool.  So when they start to dance, he joins the flow of their bodies.

His body moves with grace and speed impossible to him.  There is no music, other than the endless eerie wails of the other dancers.  The dance rages around him, drags him down into dizzy undertow.  He can either keep up, or he can be crushed underfoot.  Those are the only options.  He dances.

It’s been no time at all.  It’s been years.  Exhaustion sets in.  Hunger.  Thirst.

But Tobias is no fool.  He refuses their cordials and fruits, their temptations of hide and bone.  The glistening pomegranates and airy cakes are easy to ignore.  The fresh-killed snake, the blood-warm fox… Those are much harder.

Once, they bring before him a plump, struggling rabbit.  It’s enormous, fat and juicy and still kicking, and he feels himself weaken.  But just before he swings his enormous beak forward to rip at the flesh, he catches a hint of its true reflection in the eyes of the river-maiden who holds it.

It’s not a rabbit.  It has the seeming of a rabbit, but even now he can hear its cries.  Close to rabbit cries, close… but not quite.

Tobias rears back.  He doesn’t see what happens to the not-a-rabbit, because he chooses not to.  And it’s easier after that, so much easier, to refuse the haunches and marrows that they try to pass his way.

Maybe that’s why they throw the net over him.  Darkness and pain cage him in.  His inner hawk panics, screaming and breaking bones against its sides.  But a half-remembered bit of lore surges to the front of his human mind.

He morphs.  Speed is of the essence, and he twists down to the shape of a garter snake he has never acquired.  The net tightens, so he grows large.  Becomes one of the hork-bajir that haunt his nightmares, with blades to slash the net.  So it becomes sticky and dense, and he becomes a spider who can scuttle along its lines.  It grows heavy enough to crush him, so he surges upward and out as a stegosaurus.  It ensnares him with clever knots, and he grows human fingers that he might untie them.  It weights him down, so he goes hawk to fly free.  It becomes fibers that abrade and embed, so he takes on andalite shape to slash the bindings to pieces.

After that, the net falls away.  He stares around the clearing in all four directions at once, seeing them now for what they really are.  His chest is heaving, his tail blade trembling.  He’s desperately tired, but here is no place to sleep.

The woman whose hair drags clear the ground steps forward.  She presses a hand against his cheek, and just like that he’s the human-hawk again.  Only the andalite stalk eyes remain, along with the taloned feet of a hork-bajir.  The world around him remains vicious and savage and beautiful.

“You have entertained us well, little changeling,” she says.  “You may go now.”

«Wait—»  Tobias knows it’s stupid to argue, but he also knows it’s even stupider to leave here with a bargain unresolved.  «My question.»  He takes a breath, filling human lungs nestled between andalite hearts.  «What am I?»

The woman laughs, a tinkling sound that fills the clearing.  “My dear boy, there’s no need to ask us directly, not after we just spent all evening answering you.”

And just like that, Tobias is a hawk.  Or something with the seeming of a hawk.  He sits on the ground just outside an ordinary circle of mushrooms, the rabbit he followed mere inches away.

He watches it leave.  He’s not hungry for rabbit anymore, and suspects he might never be again.

Little changeling, she called him.  And he cannot help but wonder what might’ve become of the boy he replaced, remembering the not-a-rabbit’s helpless cries.

“Fuck it,” Marco says.  Only it comes out like “f-f-f-f-f-fuck i-t-t-t-t” because his teeth are chattering so hard.  They ended up somewhere covered with ice and snow and devoid of life except for polar bears.  No.  Scratch that.  They’re nowhere.  This place might as well be the surface of the fucking moon.

Which is why he’s gone just crazy enough through some combination of hypothermia and desperation to be trying this now.  His fingertips and toes are already grey-white with frostbite at the edges.  Ax is upright for now, but has already collapsed twice.  They’re fucked.  Utterly and completely fucked.

Unless, of course, Marco can coax fire from ice.

The theory behind it is perfectly sound.  Take a beam of sunlight, direct it through a curved lens — in this case a chunk of ice floe that Ax carved with his tail and Marco shaped with what little heat is left in his hands — and that’ll generate heat.  Generate enough heat, and the kindling should ignite.

Only, if you stop to think about it for half a second, that’ll never work in an environment as cold as this one.  If Marco stops to think, he’ll remember that the tiny pile of kindling will burn up in an instant if it even combusts at all.

The kindling is a pile of hair, blond and brown, black and blue.  And a single crumpled feather, striped in brown and gold.  A small, sad pile.  But also: A sacrifice.  An evocation.

It shouldn’t work.  It shouldn’t.

Cassie is murmuring something that Marco elects to ignore.  Because Marco doesn’t believe in astrotheology.  He doesn’t believe in pyromancy.  He just needs to believe in reality.

The sun’s own light casts through the fragment of glacier in his hand.  The concentrated seed of its power rests squarely in that nest of hair.  Don’t move, Marco wills his aching, cold-numb hands.  Don’t move.  Focus.  Breathe.  Don’t move.  Believe.

Smoke curls.  Jake makes a noise, cutting himself off.  Marco imagines his own mind, focusing in a beam just like that weak Arctic sunlight.  Imagines it bending into a pure, strong core with the power of that ice.  The world fades away.  The cold recedes, or maybe that’s just the final stages of hypothermia setting in.

The hair puts up a tiny curl of flame.  The flame gutters and grows.  It races along strand after strand.  The smell is something animal and awful, but the fire is growing.  It’s becoming red at the edge and blue at its core, hotter than the meager fuel should allow.  Marco’s teeth are clenched so hard they cannot chatter, his whole body clenched around where the dying skin of his hands presses with unforgiving power against the ice that kills it.

The flame grows.  It grows.  It’s not possible, and that very fact seems to add strength to its stubbornness.

It’s candle-sized by now.  It could illuminate a lantern.  It’s throwing shadows and glow onto Cassie’s face where she crouches across from him, still chanting.  It’s a fistful of flame.  It’s a campfire.

The hair is gone by now.  Even the ice is melting away, every drop of water that hits the flames becoming like oil in its power.

Marco sits down, hard, on the now-slushy ice.  Jake is leaning forward, laughing, crying, tears frozen to his face.  Rachel thrusts both hands at the flames, fingers starting to unfurl from their painful permanent clench.  Even the frostbite on Cassie’s nose and Ax’s stalk-eyes is visibly healing, another impossibility even with the hearthfire now flowing strong between them.

“This,” Marco whispers, sunning himself in the heat of cannot-be, “is insane.”

Cassie steps out into the daylight beyond the barn, half-startled as always by the shock of its heat.  She isn’t like Marco; she doesn’t need explanations or words.  Her father has always just focused on using whatever works, without trying to apply her mother’s formal empiricism.  Sometimes the creatures bring themselves in for healing, and usually when they do they don’t look like any animal that has ever appeared in one of Michelle’s zoology textbooks.

Sometimes Walter sits out all night with a deer’s head cradled in his lap, a snake wound through both his hands, or one of the beings who is neither mammal nor reptile sheltered by the curve of his body.  He wills, on those nights, and sometimes a broken-legged deer will run free or a fatally ill snake will roll healthy from his palms when he’s done.  Whenever that happens, whenever the will succeeds, he’ll come inside with a few more white hairs, slightly more of a limp in the creeping arthritis of his knee.  That’s the reason Cassie isn’t allowed to join her father on those nights, isn’t allowed to help beyond her mother’s methods: needles full of cortisone, needles trailing twine.

It’s also the reason she doesn’t know how this works.  She suspects that her father doesn’t know either — Walter’s the type to shrug and say they can either explain the molecular structure of water or they can fill this water trough that’s empty now, and only one will ensure the horses remain healthy on a day this warm.  So maybe not knowing isn’t a hindrance, not when it comes to willing wellness to travel from her body into another.

The being she holds in her hands has certainly never appeared in any of Michelle’s books.  Which is part of the reason that Earth’s weak yellow sun, giver of both cancer and trees, can do nothing for her.

Aftran needs kandrona, needs the rich light of her homeworld.  Cassie has no kandrona to give.

“Please,” Cassie whispers.  She holds the fragile little body toward the sky, an offering to Sol.  “Please, just hold on for a little while longer.”

Aftran doesn’t answer.  Aftran cannot hear her, cannot see the brilliant star that warms them both.

Cassie can feel the weakness inside of Aftran, the hunger.  Tonight they’ll take her to the sea.  Tonight they’ll give her whale DNA, and a new chance at life.  She only has to make it that long.

She’s not sure when the trance begins, or how long it lasts.  Later, she’ll have no memory of her knees giving out and her shins hitting the dirt, or of the hours she spends with her hands raised toward the sky in supplication.

It’s Aftran who wakes her.  Aftran who sends a jolt of something through the connection they’ve shared ever since their minds were briefly one.  It jars Cassie and causes her to topple over.

Aftran is strong, scrunching and stretching fins as she basks in the glow of a sun she shouldn’t even be able to see or feel.  Cassie is weak, joint-aching and head-pounding as she fights unconsciousness.  The feeling is so overpowering, so painful and unlike anything she’s experienced before, that it takes Cassie several seconds of lying on her side fighting even to breathe to recognize this as hunger.

Not hunger, famine.  The dangerous kind that leaves her body screaming for sustenance, devouring its own fats and muscles in its desperation to find more fuel for the fire that keeps her alive.  Cassie has grown up secure, with a full refrigerator and loving parents.  This ravening full-body ache brings to mind her great-grandmother’s stories of sharecroppers so desperate as to devour earthworms and hay seeds.

But Cassie has it easy.  She is on her own planet, and she is a child of plenty.  All she needs to do is crawl the ten feet to her parents’ vegetable patch.  To rip the first of the row of carrots from the ground, rolling the dirt off between her palms before she eats it.  Stealing the sun’s sustenance from this plant that has worked so hard to store it.

She is human.  She cannot make her own energy from suns’ light like Aftran.  To be human is to murder and devour just to stay alive.  But to be human is to choose, at times like these, to share the plenty that surrounds her.

Aftran rests on the back of Cassie’s wrist now.  Stronger than she has any right to be.  Cassie rips the life from another carrot, and stops for a moment of gratitude before she begins to devour.

Rachel takes time to gather the supplies.  A mason jar emptied of jam.  Nails and tacks and razor blades, sharp nasty iron and steel to keep evil at bay.  Sea salt and rosemary to purify and protect, layered inside the jar overtop.  And then, last of all, several ounces of her own urine.  To mark it as hers, old-school the way that wolves do.  The lid sealed with wax from a black-tallow candle, wrapped with red ribbon to keep the magic inside.  She buries it at the edge of her yard, whispering invocations to Aphrodite and Ares as she does.

She can’t take it with her, especially not when she morphs, but she can create a bubble the length and width of the property.  She can carve out a space for herself and her mom, Sara and Jordan, that no yeerk can enter.  She has power.

She tests it one time, calling Mr. Chapman to come pick up Melissa at her place.  Smiling, lips pulled tight with glee and anger, she watches him get to the edge of the property line and… stop.  

Watches as his head shakes, his body shifts, and he comes no further.  The spell holds.  The yeerk leaves.

And then comes the day when Melissa herself freezes at the edge of the yard, an expression of confusion on her face.  She leaves, after a while.  Only it’s not really her leaving.  Not anymore.

Rachel doesn’t feel so smug about the spell, after that.

«Please be quiet,» Ax says, after the fourth or fifth time Jake asks Cassie in an undertone how much longer this is going to take.  «I am not confident in this process, and cannot do with distractions.»

They stand at the edge of a waterfall deep in the California woods.  It’s not much, less than ten feet tall, but that’s not what’s important.  What’s important is the place, and the harmony of that place.

What’s important, Ax knows, is the entropy.  Water eroding rocks, breaking down walls.  Trees broken apart by murmurations of termites and fractals of rot.  Nature building and pulling down, creating and destroying, allowing no rest but in rhythmical motion, chasing everything out of one beautiful form into another.

Entropy is a release of cosmic energy.  That’s what Elfangor taught him, anyway.  And if he does it right, if he feels this place — water in his hooves, wind in his fur, seeing and feeling and becoming a part of that steady joyous death — he can harness and direct some small fraction of that energy.

The energy flows out of him, and down the bond.  He thinks he can feel it.  His strength becoming Tobias’s, Tobias’s pain becoming his.

“Is it working?”  Jake loses patience again.

«I believe it might be,» Ax says.  He reaches out, all four eyes closed, and takes Jake’s hand in his.  A second human hand, strong and blunt and warm, wraps around his other wrist, as Cassie takes hold.

His shorm is not here.  His only family on this planet is in the yeerks’ hands.  They are hurting Tobias right now.

Rachel and Marco are on a rescue mission.  Jake and Cassie and Ax are here, having walked for hours in the wrong direction, standing by a destructive stream.  Keeping Tobias alive.

Jake sinks to his knees, gasping hard.  Cassie is making a small noise in the back of her throat, one that has no words.  Their strength flows through Ax, and away.  The power in their joints, the sight in their eyes and the succor in their limbs, drains away.  Every heartbeat, every breath, leaves them and does not return.

No one asks if it’s working now.  There are tears running down Jake’s face, his hand trembling in Ax’s as it squeezes hard enough to grind bones.  But they don’t let go, and they don’t end the spell.  They send strength down the bloodline, down the lines more powerful than blood, until one by one they fall into the icy current when they have nothing left to give.

“I don’t believe in magic,” Marco says, but he uses the same tone as when he says “I don’t believe in aliens.”

Cassie asks her father, her grandmother, and her mother’s grandmother more questions.  She pretends it’s idle curiosity, any time her father asks.

Rachel finds that coven she once thought so silly.  They teach her to write names on willow-pulp paper and freeze them underwater, to drag minds away from the forces that might otherwise take hold.  “Melissa,” she whispers, “Melissa Andrea Chapman,” and she prays it will work this time around.

Anyway, they kind of win.

The first person to appear to him is an unfamiliar woman with rough-cropped hair.  No one Jake knows, or no one he remembers, anyway.  But she wasn’t on the dead, drifting hulk of the Rachel a second ago, and now here she stands.  So the ritual must have worked.

“I’m sorry to disturb your rest,” Jake tells the ghost.  “I just…”  He looks down at the drying clay still smeared across his hands, the familiar characters in cascading rows across his arms and across the metal of the deck.  It’s earth, farther from the Earth than any precious quantity of dirt has ever been.  Just like him.

“I wouldn’t have come if I didn’t choose it.”  She crouches in front of him, placing an inexplicably warm hand over his.  “I’m Jondrette.  You saved my life at the battle under the garment factory.  You should’ve killed us.  Instead you called off your forces, told us to run.”

“You died anyway,” Jake says sadly.  “You owe me nothing.”

“Not before I returned the favor.”  She smirks, proud of herself.  “Visser Three would’ve killed you in that hospital garage, had we not shot him from behind.  I owe you nothing,” she agrees.  “Because you’re going to die anyway.”

“I’m scared,” he confesses.

The Blade Ship, and the thing it became, are gone.  He rammed it.  Shattered shrapnel floats past through the Rachel’s failing gravity.  He won, and all it cost was everything.

“I don’t think I want to die anymore, but…”  Jake laughs, harsher than expected.  There’s no one to lead here, no one to impress.  “It’s a little late for that now, huh?”

«It’s all right to be scared,» Elfangor says, when he appears.  «You’ve done well.»  He looks andalite and human, standing guard over Jake’s death as Jake once did for him.

Jake nods, and Elfangor returns it as a bow.

«You’ve honored us all, and it was an honor to serve with you, my prince.»

This new ghost causes Jake to surge several inches off the deck in horror before he falls back, lacking the strength to stand even in this reduced gravity.  “Ax,” Jake gasps.  “Ax… No.  You?”

«It’s all right,» Ax says.  «You killed it.  You honored me.  The ritual of mourning is complete.»

“I wanted to save you,” Jake whispers.

«And you did.  Rest, Prince Jake.»

«You were feared by your enemies, beloved by your cousins.  No higher praise can be spoken of any warrior.»  Arbron, when he appears, is the same strange duality as Elfangor: all andalite and all taxxon, all at once.

Jake wonders if it’s a nothlit thing, if Tobias…

No.  Tobias and Marco, Jeanne and Menderash and Santorelli, all made the escape pod in time before the collision.  Jake has to believe that.  He has to.

«Rest,» Ax says again.  «It’s time.»

“He’s right, you know,” a new voice says, and for the first time Jake feels his eyes prick with tears.  “It’s the easiest thing in the world, once you let yourself go.”

A familiar arm slips around him, and Jake lets himself lean against his brother’s shoulder.  “You’ll stay with me?” Jake asks, hating the weakness in his own voice.  “You’ll stay?”  He doesn’t know how long he can keep up the ritual.

“‘Course,” Tom says.  “No getting rid of me now.”

The specter shapes crowd the room by now, crouching close or standing by.  All here, if Jondrette is to be believed, because they chose to be.

It’s harder to breathe, now.  Harder to see, darkness blurring his vision.  Tom is warm against his side, but Jake is bitterly cold.

“I don’t want it to end,” Jake slurs.  Falling asleep never hurt this much, and the dreams that awaited him on the other side were rarely kind.

“It doesn’t.”  She’s already grinning when she appears in front of him, like this is the greatest daredevil stunt ever pulled.  “We go on.”  Rachel gestures around to the crowd on the bridge.  “Aren’t all of us proof of that?  Nothing is ever lost.”

“Go on to where?” Jake can’t help asking.

At that she laughs.  “Like I’d spoil the surprise.  C’mon, I’ll show you.  Let’s do it.”

She grabs his hand and yanks him forward.  Or maybe that’s Tom, shoving him from behind.  Or Ax’s smile, eyes only, pulling him in.

A small strand of space-time goes dark and coils into nothingness.

[princessofimaginarydragons]

Prompt #26 - Slosh

FFXIV Write 2019 - 30 Day Writing Challenge

Hosted by  @sea-wolf-coast-to-coast

~~~

Takes place after the events of Shadowbringers MSQ, but doesn’t really contain spoilers (maybe if you squint)

~~~

The tray of drinks sloshed around as they were deposited in the middle of the large table, the barmaid giving the group of Scions a wink as she slid away.

Iscara reached out for a bottle, flicking the cork out with a thumb, before taking a long chug, and then raising it up, “Cheers.”

Y’shtola chuckled, “I’m sure you’re meant to do that before you start drinking.”

“That was some hours ago,” Alphinaud pointed out, handing the miqo'te the glass of wine he had just poured.

“Yes, and some of us should probably stop,” Thancred interjected, pointedly looking at Ryne, who blushed, and pushed her glass away. 

“It’s a celebration Thancred, let the girl enjoy it.”

“She won’t enjoy the hangover tomorrow.”

“Never had one in my life,” the warrior of light grinned at him. Thancred narrowed his eyes at her, and muttered ‘lucky sot’ under his breath.

“Never ever?” Alisaie looked over at the warrior, who shook her head, and earned a sigh in response.

“What’s with the heavy sighing?”

“Oh, nothing serious. Just…” the young elezen looked over at her friend, “Sometimes, I think that I barely know you. I know that’s not true, but…”

Iscara put her bottle down, looking over at Alisaie for several moments, the table quiet. Then she let out a sigh, took a long swing, draining the bottle dry, and said, “Fine, let’s do this.”

“What?”

“You want to know things? About me? Ask away.”

“What, just like that?”

“You are my friends. My best friends. I trust you, all of you. And, lets face it, I am a close-mouthed bitch most of the time. I don’t want you to feel like you don’t know me. Aaaand Lolorito happened to find out I have a sister, and that fact that he knows that when you don’t makes me feel weird. Also I’m pleasantly inebriated, so ask away.”

“You have a sister?”

“Yup. And she’s got eight kids, I’m very used to being called ‘Aunt Is’.”

“How old?”

“Eldest is fourteen now, youngest is only a few months. Nine possibly? I lose count. It’s where all my earrings disappear to, they get used as chew toys.”

“Where do they live?”

“They moved into Ala Mhigo after we took it back from the Garlean’s. Oma brought the merc banner down to fight in the liberation efforts, and once it was free, she wanted to stay. Jaydra brought the family because she’s been wanting to move for a while, and thinks she can get a good foothold with her business in the city.”

“Oma?”

“What business is she in?” The twins simultaneously asked.

“Oma is grandmother. Jaydra’s a goldsmith, she makes a good two thirds of the stuff I wear.”

“Thou has mentioned before in passing that thou does not consider thyself Ala Mhighan. May I enquire as to why, as it seems thy family is closely tied to the city?”

“Oma is Ala Mhigan, and there’s a fair few in my family tree. But there’s also other bits and pieces of different nationalities in there as well. I wasn’t born in Gyr Abania, didn’t grow up there either. I’m highlander, for sure, but personally I don’t feel I have any ties to Ala Mhigo, their culture is second hand to me. I had what you could probably call a ‘blended’ upbringing. More than anything else, I guess I think of myself as ‘Eorzean’.”

“What are those other bits and pieces then?”

“Okay, family tree time. So, Oma is Ala Mhigan, and she got together with a Limonsan, which made my dad. My mum’s father was Ala Mhigan as well, but her mother was the product of an Ala Mhigan and a Gridanian. And I think the Gridanian was a product of a Gridanian and an Ishagardian, but I’d have to ask about that.”

Alisaie was leaning her head on one hand, listening with rapture, “Multicultural indeed.”

Iscara hummed her agreement, knocking back another drink.

“Where were you born then, if not in Gyr Abania?”

“Mor Dhona. Southern shores of Silvertear Lake. Of course, it’s the Carteneau Flats these days.”

“Was there a reason for that?”

“The family and the merc banner, actually back a little bit. So, Oma inherited the mercenary banner, ‘Winter’s Edge’, and made a name for it and herself. So when King Theodoric came to power, and started doing things she didn’t like, she just packed up the banner and went out on an ‘extended work trip’. Basically unofficially quitting the city until it got sorted out, which, well you all know what happened there. And since everyone knew what she was doing, some of the family members of the mercs under her banner came with her, and it kind of grew, until it was this large nomadic band, going where the work was. Mor Dhona was empty, and central, and a pretty good place to make a more central camp, so there were there for a few years, and that’s when I was born.”

“What’s your favourite colour?” Ryne’s soft voice came from the corner.

Iscara smiled at the young girl, “Blue. More specifically, pale blues, like ice crystals, or hydrangea flowers”

“I’ve got one,” Thancred leaned forward, “Best and worst fights. Your opinion.”

Iscara winced, “Give me something easy, why don’t you,” she took a swig of the bottle as she thought. “Worst, Zenos. Rhalgr’s Reach was probably the worst of them all. Best? Thordan. Not for the fighting, that was easy, he wasn’t as good as he thought he was. None of them were, and that’s why showing them what a real Fury could do was so satisfying. Not healthy, but really, really satisfying.”

“Are you a follower of Halone?”

“Yup. And before someone asks, no, I was before Ishgard. I’ve been her follower since childhood, she was who I invoked when I was named.”

Y’shtola frowned a little, “Were you not named when you were born?”

“No. Not properly. There’s a, I guess who’d call it a belief in my family that a person’s name says a lot about them. So when children mature enough, they can pick their own name. Until then, they tend to have nicknames or a ‘kit name’. Although there’s a couple of people I know who liked those names so much they kept them.”

“So you chose the name Iscara?”

“And Wintermere. We all tend to have winter in our surname, keeps the family connection. Mere is an old name for a lake, referencing where I was born.”

“And Iscara?”

She smiled, “My first ever friend gave the name to me. Well, she gave me a title in her language, and Iscara is kind of what is translates to when you put in Eorzean.”

“Which language doth it stem from?”

Iscara chuckled, “You’re clever people. Learned people. I’m not going to tell you, but I would be interested to see if you can work it out. And what it means.”

Urianger raised an eyebrow, Y’shtola chuckled. Alphinaud dived into a tome in his bag, Alisaie rolled her eyes. Ryne looked slightly confused, and Thancred shrugged, “Well I hope there isn’t a prize because I have no chance of winning it.”

The warrior of light chuckled, “I don’t know. You’re pretty good at turning up unusual information when you want to.”

“So there is a prize?”

“You want something more than the satisfaction of knowledge?”

“Yup.”

She tapped the table, “Alright. That pool Tataru has going. About my love life.”

“Ooooh, you know about that?”

“Course. Anyway. I’ll tell the winner the answer.”

There was a moment of silence, then Alphinaud stood up suddenly, redness across his cheeks, “SorrybutIthinkIneedtogotobenowgodnightall,” he said without breathing before turning and abruptly walking away from the table.

“Oi! Don’t you dare think you can go and break into the crystal tower at this point at night!” His twin yelled at him, also leaving the table to chase after him.

“Prithee excuse me, and I shall see that they do not cause too much ruckus,” Urianger said, exiting at a more sedate pace.

Y’shtola sighed, “You want to look in the crystal tower as much as they do.”

“The coin that hast flowed into aforementioned pot is vast.”

The thaumaturge waved a hand at him.

“Not joining them Y’shtola?”

“I doubt the information is contained within the Tomes of the Exarch. And yourself Thancred?”

“Oh, I was simply planning on taking a more immediate approach. More wine my friends?”

Iscara chuckled, leaning forward and meeting his eyes, “I could drink everyone else in the entire Crystarium under the table and still be lucid enough to not tell you a damn thing.”

“Now that sounds like a challenge.”

[kathrinehastings]

Skyrim - Teldryn Sero (part 1)

I had just gotten off the boat and I hired a carriage to take me from Windhelm to Markarth. I was to see my Brother, Endon and his wife, Kerah. They needed my help with something but wouldn’t say what, said that they didn’t want to put it in the letter and that I should just get to Skyrim as soon as I could. Apparently, it was a task that required my special skills and that they could not afford to hire someone. Never mind the fact that my sister-in-law would probably not trust anyone else to take on the task, no matter how much my brother paid them. This favour better be worth my time. I arrived at Markarth stables a few days later. As I made my way to my brother’s house, I past a guard who commented on my armour. “Ebony armor, by Ysmir, tis a wondrous sight...” I must admit, I am very proud of my Ebony armour. It was specially made for me by a legendary blacksmith from Hammerfell after I had rescued his daughter from a group of bandits. He also made matching weapons, along with a shield. It really helped, getting those weapons and armour free of charge. I make a fair amount of money but nowhere near enough to be able to pay for gear this good. A full set of legendary ebony armour also helps to intimidate my foes, and the fact that I’m a woman means that they under estimate me, which is a big mistake. I am one of the best swordsmen, or rather swordswomen, to come out of Hammerfell and I’ve found that mercenary work suits me well. I knocked on my brother’s door and waited. After a while, he opened up. “Sister! I‘m glad you got here safely. You didn’t run into any Forsworn did you?” He opened his arms to give me a hug. “Surprisingly, no. How are you brother?” I asked as we parted. “Good. You must be tired and hungry. Inside, quickly. The streets of Markarth aren’t safe at night.” He ushered me inside before closing the door and locking it. I walked further into the house and was greeted by Kerah.  “Hello, Amira. Nice to see you again. How are you?” She got up from her seat and gave me a quick hug. “Tired. Hungry. But otherwise well.” I pulled off my helmet and ran my hands through my hair as I took a seat at the table. “So what have you all been doing?” I rested my forearms on the table. “Well, Adara has become quite the silversmith. She helps me make jewelry for her mother sell.” He put a tankard full of mead and a plate of food down in front of me. We spoke while I ate, catching up on each others lives. I heard small footsteps coming from the bedrooms. A tired looking girl wobbled into the room, rubbing her eyes and yawning. “Sorry, sweetie. Did I wake you?” I said across the table. She saw me and her face lit up. “Amira!” She ran and hopped onto my lap. “Hello Adara, my sweet.” She wrapped her arms around my neck and gave me a good squeeze. “I hear you’ve become quite the silversmith.” “Yeah. It’s lots of fun, I get to hit things with a hammer.” I laughed. “And I’m really good at making rings.” “Well, then. I have a job for you.” I dug into my knapsack and pulled out a flawless diamond. “Here.”I handed her the small gem.  “I want you to make a ring and put this in the center.”  She hopped off my lap. “I’ll do it right now.” “Excuse me young lady.” Adara stopped in her tracks as her mother put her hands on her hips. “It’s late. You need to get to bed.”  “Yes mama.” She trotted over to me and gave me one last hug. “Good night, sweetie.” I patted her head. She disappeared into one of the rooms and her mother then turned to me. “You must be tired too. You can have the extra room.” She led me to one of the empty rooms. “Thank you. For the food as well.”  “It’s the least we can do.” I started to make my way into the room. “Amira.” My brother stopped me. “We’ll talk about the job tomorrow.” I nodded and yawned. “Good night sister. Sleep well.” I closed the bedroom door behind me and threw my knapsack down. I stripped off my armour, placing it neatly on the chair at the end of the bed. I put on my nightgown and crawled into bed. I got a good night’s sleep that night, the first in a while. I woke up to a very excited Adara outside my room. “Your aunt is sleeping. She’s had a very long journey and she is probably still tired.” I recognized this to be Kerah. I got out of bed. “I know mama. I’m just so excited!” Adara said. I could practically hear her grinning. “Excited about what?” I said as I opened the door to my room to reveal a bubbly Adara and a frustrated Kerah. “Look! Look! I made your ring! Just like you wanted. I got up extra early this morning to make it!” She handed me the ring.  “Wow! Thank you Adara. It’s beautiful!” I admired the shiny object in my hand. “Put it on! Put it on!” “Okay! Okay! Calm down! “I slipped the ring onto my finger.  She grabbed my hand and inspected the ring. “It fits perfectly!” she beamed proudly. “You are so pretty Aunt Amira.” She hugged me tightly. “Thanks sweetie. You are too.” She trotted out of the room and I got ready for breakfast. I washed my face and put on regular clothes before heading inside to join them. Once we had finished breakfast, my brother and I took a walk to Understone Keep.  “So what’s this job about.” I asked my brother as we walked. “The Jarl has made a very strange request that his own personal blacksmith has to fulfill and he’s asked me for my help.” I was a little confused. “He asked you to help? Then why am I here?” “Err, well, he asked for my help because he heard that my sister is one of the best mercenaries in the business.” I raised an eyebrow at him. “So you brag about me in the local taverns?” “Something like that… Anyway, he hasn’t told me much yet. Said that he wanted to tell you about the job personally.” I nodded and we continued our walk to Understone Keep in comfortable silence. We walked up the many steps and the guards allowed us in without any problems. Endon led me through the great Dwemer building to the blacksmith’s forge.  I stepped into the room after Endon and saw a Orc working the forge. He stood up straight and turned to me. He examined me and then turned to Endon. "This is the mercenary?" He said, slightly amused. I decided to stay silent. I'm not much of a talker and I've realised that sometimes staying silent can be intimidating, especially to my weaker, more cowardly foes. So I crossed my arms over my chest and allowed my brother to do all the talking. "Yes. This is my sister, Amira. She's the best mercenary you'll find." My brother placed a hand on my shoulder and gave me a quick smile. "She doesn't look like much." The green skinned orc said to my brother. "Looks can be deceiving." I defended myself. "Fine. Lets get this over with. I am Moth Gro-Bagol. The Jarl has requested a special sword. An legendary sword that once belonged to Red Eagle. The blacksmithing tecniques have improved since then so I will have to temper it. I've decided that the best thing to use would be Ebony. I usually get ebony from a mine in Solstheim, an island off the coast of Morrowind. The mine is in Raven Rock, but for some reason the mine has been closed down. I need you to go there and find out why. Fix it if you can." He walked over to a table, picked up a large coin purse and tossed it to me. "You'll get the rest once you have come back and have completed the job. Once you have reopened the mine, bring back some ore, not ingots. I need it to be in its raw state." I nodded. "And how does one get to Solstheim?" "There is a boat in Windhelm called 'The Northern Maiden'. It can take you to Solstheim." The orc got back to work. I sighed. "I just came from Windhelm." "I thought you were from Hammerfell?" The orc asked. "Yes, but I had been visiting a friend in Vvardenfell when I got my brother's message and left from there." I sighed again. "I should go. I need to prepare." I walked out with my brother in tow. "I'll help you get ready. What will you need?" He asked as he trailed behind me. "Not much. Just supplies, really." "That should be easy enough." We walked out into Markarth and I turned to my brother, handing him a small coin purse, I pointed in the direction of the inn. "I need you to buy food. Only essentials! No ale, mead or wine. I don't need that." I started walking away. "I'm going to the general store. I'll meet you back at your house." We went our separate ways. --------------- I walked into my brother's house and was greeted by a distraught Adara. "Mama said that you leaving!" She whined as she hugged my waist. "Yes sweetie, I have to leave as soon as possible." I stroked her hair. "But you can't leave, you just got here." "I'll be back before you know it." I kissed the top of her head and she let go of me. I walked to my bedroom and removed my clothes, replacing them with my Ebony armour. I packed the rest of my things, including the supplies that I had just bought. It was late morning by the time I was ready to leave. I said my goodbyes and gave Adara an extra long hug. I left my brother's house and walked down to the Markarth city gates. I took a carriage to Windhelm and from there, took a boat to Solstheim. --------------- The journey was long. Sitting and doing nothing for all that time made me feel lazy. As soon as I got to Solstheim, I immediately hopped off the boat and went straight through Raven Rock, looking for a fight. I stumbled across a dark elf in combat for his life with strange, ashen beings at the Attius Farm outside of Raven Rock. He appeared to be outnumbered, and requested that I lend him a helping hand. I jumped at the chance to take on something new. I pulled out my ebony swords and slashed at them. They were tough and difficult to defeat, but eventually they fell, turning into large piles of ash. I approached the Dunmer and he told me his name was Modyn Veleth, Captain of the Redoran Guard. He explained that the ash spawn have been attacking Raven Rock for some time now, and he's been trying to locate their source. His lack of manpower and reluctance to leave the town without a commander are keeping him from finding out more, so he asked for my help. He said that I could help by searching the Attius Farm for clues that might lead me to the ash spawn's source. I searched the ruin of a farm house but found nothing. I saw something glint in the corner of my eye and noticed that it come from the pile of ash left behind by the ash spawn. I sifted through the ash and found numerous gems and ores, along with a note, titled Deceleration of war. I handed my find to Captain Veleth and he read it, a worried expression painted his face as his eyes scanned the words. He said that the note mentions Fort Frostmoth, the ruins of an Imperial fort located southeast of Raven Rock. According to him, the fort's been abandoned ever since the eruption of Red Mountain. He sent me to Fort Frostmoth to kill the author of the note, General Falx Carius, before the town falls prey to his threats. --------------- I've slain General Falx Carius in the ruins of Fort Frostmoth and put an end to any further ash spawn attacking Raven Rock. Captain Veleth was very pleased with my results, and awarded me a bounty in gold. Now it's time to take care of the mine. I needed something to eat, I had no food left after the journey from Skyrim, so I needed more supplies. I found the local tavern/inn and went inside. I walked down the steps to talk to the innkeeper about food and supplies. He sold me what I needed and wished me luck with the mine. I was very unfamiliar with Solstheim and figured that I should probably hire someone as a guide. I asked the innkeeper about any mercenaries in the area. "There's one right upstairs. He hasn't had a patron in a while. I'm sure he would love to help. He's in full chitin armour, you can't miss him." I thanked him and headed upstairs. I looked over my left shoulder to see a figure, in full chitin armour, sitting on a chair near the fire. I walked up to him and stopped in front of him, resting my hand on my hip, I examined him. He looked up and me and leaned back in his chair. "Teldryn Sero, blade for hire. If you have the coin, I'm at your service." He said in a silky voice. I stayed silent and thought for a while. He must've taken my silence as uncertainty because he spoke again. "I've got swords, spells and a few other tricks up my sleeve. You'll find I'm full of surprises. Don't pass up on this opportunity, outlander. I'm worth every coin." I smiled to myself, which he couldn't see because of my helmet, and dropped a coin purse in his lap. He tucked it away and stood up. "Then let's be off!" He said enthusiastically before following me out of the door.

[leejrdans]

       you can try to conceal your heart with red and gold titanium,        but you can never truly hide from your demons.

Merlin’s beard, what is ( LEE JORDAN ) doing out at this hour? For a ( HALF BLOOD ) who is ( 19 ) years old, ( HE ) really ought to know better. You know, I hear that they’re aligned with ( THE ORDER ), but that could be just a rumor. I do know that ( HE ) is ( A CIS MAN ) and a ( GRYFFINDOR ) alumni though. They’re very ( FORTHRIGHT ) and ( CAPTIVATING ) but also quite ( IRREVERENT ) and ( BIASED ), which could be why they remind of ( LAUGHING TO FEEL ALIVE AND SPEAKING UP TO STAY ALIVE, A RESTLESS FEELING IN THE PIT OF YOUR STOMACH THAT ALWAYS DEMANDS MORE MORE MORE, HONESTY AS YOUR NATIVE TONGUE ). Some people say they’re the spitting image of ( TREVOR JACKSON ), but I’ve never heard of them. 

LINKS: pinboard. stats page. wanted plots is COMING.

CHARACTER PARALLELS: will be added one day when my brain does work

HEY GUYS, it’s mar again. lee is a new muse. as in NEW. completely fresh. i am Nervous! but i love 1 man!!!  note: lee is quite a Social Man, so i kind of went ahead and assumed some stuff about his position at hogwarts ( like, popularity & how the slytherins receive his biased commentary ) but i’m not trying to generalise at all and say that THIS IS HOW YOUR CHARACTER SHOULD FEEL bc i hate that LMAO take it all w a grain of salt its just how i?? ig imagine things went but if they went differently that is Okie

history.

lee is born in st mungo’s, to a halfblood mother & a muggleborn father. they’re not married. hell, they’re barely in love, but she still squeezes his hand during it all, and he cries, and for a moment they think that - maybe - they can be happy. ( someone should have told them that a child is never the solution, that it doesn’t work like that. )

lee’s mother moved into his father’s place -- a tiny flat, in peckham, but it was bigger than her own place -- and brought only two suitcases and a backpack ( warning sign one ). they tried, hard, for a while. lee’s father worked and his mother was at home, most of the time, looking after her son and making empty wine bottles appear ( warning sign two ) and then staying away during weekend nights ( warning sign three ). 

she leaves for the first time when lee is nearly one, taking one of her suitcases and her backpack and slipping away in the death of night. lee’s father is lost -- for a while, but finds help in neighbours and sisters and his mother, mainly. and that’s how it went for years --- his mother coming back, and leaving, and coming back, until she didn’t come back again, not really. lee’s dad said it was enough, one day, and lee’s mother retreated to her own place. his father tried to get full custody and got it, eventually and then there was his mother, not cut from his life completely, but only semi-there, appearing when she could and - most importantly - wanted to.

he doesn’t really get it, in all honesty, as he’s five when his father tells her mother she can’t live with them any more, and most of his life after that is him and his dad and his aunts and his grandmother. plenty of family --- plenty of reasons to be happy, but an inexplicable gap, still.

lee grows up in peckham, london, and attends muggle elementary there. he goes to diagon alley on afternoons after school and weekends, with his dad, and later alone. he likes gazing at brooms ( wistfully ) and hanging out with fellow wizarding kids and magic, magic, magic. there’s magic at home too, of course, but his grandmother and aunts are all muggles, so there’s not much, but in diagon alley there’s so much of it. he likes the muggle world, sure ( especially video games & music ), but it’s nothing compared to the wizarding world.

i mean --- it’s not like he’s bored, because everything is excitable for young lee, and there’s fun to be found in everything, but there’s just more in the wizarding world - more mystery and excitement and ways to wreak havoc. because that he does love --- pranks, innocent and less innocent, hijinks and shenanigans. getting on his teachers nerves with bad jokes and cursewords. 

lee doesn’t grow up with a lot of the things that some might consider crucial -- financial stability, a stable family life, a nice neighborhood. but it’s good and it’s whole in its own way. there’s plenty of people lee loves and plenty who love him back and it’s good, and when he’s off to hogwarts he’s both mad excited and secretly a bit scared and sad to leave his fam behind.

hogwarts, though, is a BLAST. lee is sorted in gryffindor ( because where else? ) and finds friends, fast. in his own house, outside of it, in his teachers, kind of ( he personally is convinced that minerva mcgonagall adores him, despite her disapproving glares ). he’s okay at his classes -- he has the skills, sure, but not the concentration and focus -- and better at everything else. 

lee starts commentating on quidditch matches after he doesn’t make the team. he’s not broken up about it, in all honesty --- he sees how hard the team has to work and laughs at his mates who have to sweat while he gets to sleep in. commentating is more fun, anyway. it gains him some popularity, some enemies in slytherin, maybe, because he’s not very unbiased in his commentary. he loves his time at hogwarts, in all honesty, even more when he gets that gig.

his father meets his current girlfriend when lee is in his fifth year. they marry in the summer after his sixth year and have their daughter -- zoe -- about a year later. lee loves them. he’s conflicted at first, but he’s happy for his dad, and his baby sister is CUTE AF.

lee jordan is a rebel. in tiny, fun-loving ways ( pulling pranks, cracking jokes, being a bit of a class clown ), but also in a political, angry way. it doesn’t show in his earlier years, but as the war starts, and he grows older, too, he finds his priorities shifting. lee knows injustice. he’s dealt with prejudice his entire life --- at muggle school, at hogwarts, even. and as prejudice and bigotry gains the upper hand in the wizarding world, he grows angrier. restless. 

the DA is a way to rebel more effectively, he supposes. protesting when he’s not in school. cracking open history books when he’s supposed to be practising for his NEWTs ( and he is not taking history ). lee looks at the world and he’s angry, he’s restless, he wants to do something but he does not know what---- because where do you start when so much is wrong?

right now.

lee has graduated hogwarts ( believe me when i say that those last months without fred & george were fucking boring, but he at least got to focus a bit more on his NEWTs ) by now and he’s floundering around. i like to think that he’s working for/with the twins, helping with inventing stuff and marketing kind of things for the www, but if this doesnt mesh with any potential fred/george players, i can 100% alter this skjsdf. 

he wants to do something more, though. tell stories. speak up. journalism has always pulled at him --- not written, but on the telly or radio. he likes music too, of course, and the truth, especially --- and an idea is starting up in his mind. he’s slowly working towards setting up an underground radio, gathering equipment and figuring out ways to organise it. potterwatch is coming, and once the ministry is taken over ( if -- of course, that’s where this rp’s plot takes us ) it will be there, the urgency bigger. i don’t know exactly --- i’ll probably discuss this w sarah too but i think right now potterwatch is just an untitled work in progress.

lee’s not an official order member, but i do think he’s alligned, in one way or another. he’s willing to do what’s right, keeps his DA coin on him because of it, but also tries to take the world with a grain of salt, still. laughter is what makes him feel alive, and everything else he does to stay alive, to still make this world a livable place. 

rebel boi.

personality & tidbits.

lee is a dank meme lordt who would be an icon on social media, if we had it. he just likes dumb ass humour. a bit of a class clown --- he just likes attention, but he also likes making people laugh and having a good. fucking. time.

lee is hilarious and it’s the truth.

he rly loves his fam!! is worried abt them!! he still lives at home its  a blast but he wants to move out tbakjdsf. 

his mother doesnt rly ... idk he does think of her as his mother but not rly as part of his family, bc family is not blood anyway. he’s had a few good talks w her since he’s grown older tho but it’s a sore, complicated spot.

lee loves music a Lot. hip hop, trip hop, some punk here and there ... bonus points if it’s a political bop!!

has the mouth of a sailor and now that he’s out of school he doesnt even try to fight it. no mcgonagall around to tell him off after all!!!

enjoys smoking pot & drinking beers w his buds. just -- letting go, having a laff and relaxing to the fullest. likes watching muggle tv when high especially, such a hobby!!!

idk!!!!!!!!!!!! will add more mayhaps???

[florcarrow]

Merlin’s beard, what is ( FLORA CARROW ) doing out at this hour? For a ( PUREBLOOD ) who is ( 17 ) years old, ( SHE ) really ought to know better. You know, I hear that they’re aligned with ( THE NEUTRALS ), but that could be just a rumor. I do know that they’re ( A CIS-WOMAN ) and a ( SLYTHERIN ) student though. They’re very ( QUAINT ) and ( INTROSPECTIVE ) but also quite ( STOIC ) and ( HAUGHTY ), which could be why they remind of ( STAINED PAGES, FROM CRUSHED LILLIES IN THE PLACE OF BOOKMARKS; GHOSTLY WHISPERS FROM THE INSIDE OF A CLOSED ROOM, ALLUDING TO ANGER, TO FEAR, TO LOVE; THE SOUND OF BUBBLING AND FOAMING, BUT THE ABSENCE OF WARMTH ). Some people say they’re the spitting image of ( SOPHIE TURNER ), but I’ve never heard of them. ( &&. CAMI. 19. GMT. SHE/HER. )

hey yall, cami here. i’m really tired but take this please ily k bye

THE CARROWS

" we are the children of magic itself. " her mother used to put it all in quite a poetic manner. the small house, gloomy and damp, had a floating candle under each painting and photograph of long-forgotten carrows, once the ministers and headmasters of entire generations. blunders happened along the way, as it happened to every other pureblood family, and the paintings were thrown in the fireplace or into the creek running behind the property - the carrows had a deeply ingrained culture of glorifying their legacy, but ruthlessly turning it to ash should it not benefit them.

the great fortune of old was wasted by lavish living, and by the time achos carrow married to an insignificant selwyn, the debt ran deep - certainly aided by the heavy involvement of the family in the first wizarding war. in the stories flora was told, they were martyrs, sacrificing their kin and gold for a greater purpose, mourning the injustice of her uncle amycus and aunt alecto, behind bars. of course, it was easy to let stories fester in the minds of children, miles away from the truth - achos and ellaine had moved to a plot of land hidden between the welsh mounds shortly before their children arrived, and for far too many years, they lived mostly in their own forgotten country, where north was down, south was up, history was a puzzle they would rearrange.

their marriage is a happy one, the product of two lifelong friends with their minds set on one cause only, with the same trains of thought. after giving birth to twin girls, the couple saw in them the tabua rasa they so yearned for at work, in the department of magical education. try as they might, children had entire lives before going to hogwarts, and their efforts, even if the rest of the department wasn't in the way most times, was purely too little too late. hestia and flora would change that, becoming their personal experiments.

CHILDHOOD

given how well little flora took to stories, the carrows would spend endless hours sitting down with her, spewing all thoughts they saw fit, and she'd stare, deep in concentration, quiet end still, what an exemplary student. the image they so carefully curated of a small, charming and polite family was spreading.

soon, however, the well-screened tutors and especially the words of her parents were not enough. flora took to reading as soon as she learned how, and in books she could find new subjects, different people they'd never mentioned, fantasy that sounded much more real than the hollow concept of the dark lord. magic was all around her, but in those pages and in the dusty illustrations she felt every spell. once a little girl who did not ask questions, flora became a fountain of confusions, mostly met with 'who told you that?'.

the frustration towards the younger twin only grew over time. flora's favourite game became a sort of hide and seek, where she'd hide somewhere in the house or the rest of the property, telling no soul or perhaps hestia, at times, and waiting until the screams with her name began. it was fascinating to count how long it took for her little world to notice her absence, how they'd react, how sometimes her mother would begin crying after some hours, how a relative or family friend might be called in to help scour the fields for the little girl. there was something powerful in observing annoyance, anger, and above all fear, yet control when it all starts, when it all ends. in a place strictly manipulated by the two gods of the house, this was when she turned the tables, even if just for a bit. eventually, however, concern faded away. by twelve, she could disappear for the longest stretches, as long as she returned without a speck of dirt and in time for lessons or dinner - and of course, if she didn't meet with anyone but the household.

as a sidenote, someone bring hestia, lets plot more then, cmON

HOGWARTS

before going to hogwarts, flora and hestia had gone to the usual parties and celebrations the purebloods so fancied, and some ministry events where they could be shown off like school projects. they hadn't, however, seen much more than that. the prospect of getting wands, robes, boarding on a train - all little things that identified them as beings, individuals who were more than just a name and affiliation - it meant the world for flora. she relished in the way the shop owner told her father he couldn't keep giving flora the wands the man suggested until the exact one he envisioned worked. she held her ticket with the care one touches thin glass. she walked around the train with a smile thrown at every other first year kid, even began conversations with some. some people in her year still tease her about how much she's changed since that day.

the hat placed on her head took a minute or so to decide, being pulled in the directions of slytherin and ravenclaw, but flora knew which answer would make her parents, two slytherin alumni, the most satisfied. now she wonders if the opposite choice would have positioned her in any way farther away from the heart of the conflict.

flora grew quite happy at hogwarts. the library was the stuff of dreams, the classes a fresh new world, and she'd been lucky enough (or so she'd thought) to have gone to school the same year as the boy who lived, a story that she could never quite believe, even with the boy sitting in class right in front of her. in many ways, flora saw herself as the observer of the perfect spectacle throughout the years, her journals serving as the proof that she'd been the face in the crowd of the myths. flora read other points of view at the library, and heard them in her common room, creating in her mind her own narrative of harry potter, of the war, of the carrows.

her personal library grew even more during school. the easy access to other kids and to hogsmeade resulted in trunks getting heavier and heavier every summer, even sometimes with muggle names she couldn't dare let her family see. to her, none of that ever mattered. words were words, no matter who wrote them, and all she cared about was what incredible tales they told and how they made her feel.

her studious nature thrived at hogwarts, and her grades, while not beyond impressive, were rather good. flora always loved potions above all. she did quite well at all subjects, but she got into the slughorn club not only because of her name, but because of her talent. it was the one thing that felt precise and rational when everything else wasn’t.

while she was a quiet figure, either lurking in some forgotten couch in the common room, on her bed, or beneath a tree, flora showed to the people at hogwarts something her parents only got inklings of. her words often carried venom, and her words an edge as sharp as a cut - a few people even got frontstage to what happened when flora carrow held too much of that poison in herself and it spilled out, the burning flame of anger, the way her voice would at last raise above a whisper.

her parents feared that spark they sometimes saw. she was becoming a volatile little thing, a disgrace upon their projects and a threat to the legacy they'd been so carefully building. a few months ago a discussion began over what to do, a very public one, as a way to instill fear in the girl: perhaps flora needed a proper marriage plan, just like her grandparents and just like far too many of her peers - someone who'd control her, who'd bring some much-needed coin to the family, someone to DISTRACT her. they did, after all, always know of her affection for hopelessly romantic tales, even if they'd never heard of any boy she'd daydream of (and they never would). perhaps flora needed a goal, a purpose like the oath other people from her school had taken upon, like her uncle and aunt before her. a good potioneer like her could become a valuable investment for the dark lord.

HEADCANONS

as much as flora hates to admit it, there’s this hunger for power in the back of her mind that she can’t shut down. she enjoys feeling important, like the name she carries or the blood in her veins places her higher in a contest for worthiness.

umbridge was a personal friend of her parents, and flora saw her as the intrusion of the manipulating hand she knew all summer in the few months she had of freedom. resenting it, she did the most to fail the class, being called to her office often to discuss how her parents would be embarrassed and how dolores believed she could do much better. she just barely finished it.

how does flora feel about the whole muggleborn ‘debate’? she never really cared about it. it was too removed from her. it never personally affected her. she didn’t go out of her way to bully and attack muggleborns or ‘blood traitors’, but she wouldn’t exactly tell others to stop. perhaps insist that she was bored and they should just leave. she never stopped to analyze why she did that sometimes. she just doesn’t care. in fact, all of the events of late seem to barely make an impression upon her, except when they come with the threat of her having to actively participate in it. flora sees the entire conflict as the mighty pureblooded families losing relevancy and trying their hardest to gain it back; a petty little thing - she doesn't, however, grasp the reality that people have died for it, and innocents have been murdered. the details require emotional introspect she does not possess.

she is !! practically mute but if u get her to talk u see bitch is actually very angry?? all the time?? hulk whomst.  angry and annoyed and detached

flora has a hard time grasping the emotional weight of events unless she's writing about them. ever since she can remember, flora has kept journals, parts of it accounts of her days, most of it short stories and poems that serve as practice writing and as a fictionalization of the harsh reality around her. reading dumbledore's murder or the murder of ministry officials little stories about the fragility of mankind and the shortcomings of magic simply makes it easier to understand and cope with.

she loves potions and books. her dream is to just be an old witch living in a forest cottage in wales with ten cats and an equally as quiet girlfriend, brewing the potions that take weeks to complete, writing poems she forgets to put away, the scent of lavender in the air almost sickening.

flora has a little garden at home which she loves with all her heart. she truly cares for her plants, despite how much on the nose that is with her name. at hogwarts she keeps a couple of small pots hidden in the greenhouse.

doesn't own a single pair of jeans or pants. will live her entire life in dresses and skirts and is just fine like that.

she thinks the people fighting against the death eaters are also stupid and cruel. literally takes the term neutral and turns it into apathy and will openly speak about it with that specific dosage of venom should she trust you enough.

your back hurts? your hair needs to grow faster? want to poison someone? flora will gladly brew little batches of potions in her spare time and sell them within school grounds.

lowkey needs a hug and someone who'll take the time to really listen to hER

she also likes to walk around at night, trying her best not to get caught at home by her parents and by prefects at school. it freaks people out when at 3am they hear footsteps and the light from a wand, even if just around the room or the common area. she likes the creepy factor, completely embraces it, people sometimes find her reading with her back to their front doors or doing homework behind some plants in the greenhouse. dark forgotten places are her places.

she has a cat, he’s old and ugly and his name is moros like the greek god of doom. he hates everyone, most times including flora. he's not a nice cat and she'd tear a man limb by limb for him.

flor is constantly writing. unfinished projects are her thing. poetry, prose, plays, journaling. poetry is what she usually dedicates herself most. she has an eye for rhythm in words, and feelings. everything she writes is always either too hopeful and naive, or pessimistic and sad. she doesn’t know an in-between. that goes to say for her life as well. flora dreams of all the pretty perfect pure things she knows aren’t real. all the well-intentioned kisses and soft pink flowery dresses flowing in the wind, and small cottages in the middle of a field and delicate generations old tea sets. this pristine romanticized aesthetic

on the other hand, when her writing is sad, it’s not just sad. it’s miserable. it’s worrying. she talks about that even less. all the scary intrusive thoughts that come to her mind. all the holes she can’t explain why she could never fill. all the numbness that attacks her some days and she can’t fight it back. this loneliness that makes no sense.

okay in a nutshell, she loves her sister more than anything and anyone in the world, she is more naive than she lets on, she doesn’t let on much because she’s so quiet, she loves books and has pretty hair. this wasn’t mentioned anywhere but she does.

[fantasyandromancelover]

The Tale of Tales Chapter 2

The next morning Lucy began her job as a sullery maid. Her aunt had decided to have her work for a noble family who's master had two daughters Sorano and Yukino. The sisters were extremely spoiled and the oldest Sorano was especially bratty and mean to poor Lucy.

"Where have you been?" She asked haughtingly when Lucy arrived her room carrying firewood. "I have been chill for half an hour. Hurry up and light a fire and don't touch anything with those dirty hands of yours!"

"Yes Miss."

Little Lucy spent many days working as hard as she could receiving no help or kindness from anyone. She wore only rags and slept by the fireplace in the kitchen which resulted in her face always being covered in ash and cinder. Sorano would always taunt her by calling her name's like cinder wench or dirty maid. Her only friends were the mice who would sometimes sneak into the kitchen for table scraps.

One day when the castle was having a ball she found herself sitting at the entrance of the ballroom, hiding in the shadows just to hear the music playing and to smell the delicious food on display. They did feed her but it was never enough and she was always so very hungry. Taking a peak inside she saw a man whom she recognized as King Hector dancing with a little girl around her age. It reminded her of when she used to dance with her father and it brought tears to her eyes.

"Hello."

Lucy was snapped out of her sad thoughts by the sound of a little girl's voice. She saw that looking at her was the little girl she had seen dancing with the king.

"Oh forgive me Miss I was just resting for a moment." Lucy said.

"That's okay. You look tired and hungry. Do you want something to eat? Stay here I'll be right back."

And she was off before Lucy could stop her. She then came back with a little plate of bread and cake.

"Here you go."

"Miss I couldn't."

"Why not? You look like you're starving to death."

"But I'm a servant."

"Servants have to eat to you know."

Lucy was expecting this girl's act of kindness to be some sort of cruel joke. Like that time Sorano had offered her a small cube of sugar only to snatch it away when Lucy reached for it. Giving into her growling belly she slowly reached over to grab a small roll off the plate. She hesitated before taking a bite still not sure if the girl's kindness was sincere. She soon realized that it was and began to help herself to the bread and cake.

"Don't they feed you?" The girl asked.

"Yes but only breadcrust and chicken bones."

"That's awful. My father would never allow such a thing. He's the king you know."

"Your father is the king? Then you must be the princess."

"Yep."

"Why are you being so nice to me?"

"Because isn't that what princesses are supposed to do?"

"Lucy!" Screeched the angry voice of Minerva as she charged over to where the two girls were seated. "What do you think you're doing up here?! You're supposed to be in the kitchen! Do you think I want my geusts to see a dirty serving wench up here?!"

She looked down at the plate of bread and cake Lucy was eating from.

"You little thief! How dare you steal from the table!" She sized Lucy by her arm and prepared to strike her only to be stopped by the other girl grabbing on to Minerva's dress.

"She didn't steal them Stepmother I gave them to her!" The girl objected.

"Why on earth would you do a stupid thing like that?!"

"She looked so hungry I thought maybe she needed something to eat. Oh please don't hurt her Stepmother. If you must punish someone punish me!"

For a moment it looked like Minerva was going to strike the girl but she stopped.

"Come Juvia your father is waiting for us."

She grabbed the girl called Juvia roughly by the arm and pulled her along as she walked back to the ball.

That was the first time Lucy had received any kindness since her parents died and that gave her hope that not all people were cruel and that if she honored her mother's dying words then she would indeed find happiness.

Ten years passed and even though Lucy continued to spend her days as a scullery maid, working in ash and soot while wearing only rags she grew up to be a lovely woman with hair as golden as the sun and eyes that seemed to resemble stardust. Her aunt continued to work her hard and abuse her but it did nothing to tarnish Lucy's sweet disposition or her determined spirit. No matter how hard she tried Minerva just couldn't destroy Lucy's smile.

"Lucy! Where are you?! Yukino and I want our breakfast now!" Sorano screeched for one morning.

"Coming!" Lucy called as she added the finishing touches on their morning meal.

"I specifically said that I wanted four minute eggs! Not four one minute! And where in God's name is our bread?!"

"Sorano please there's no need to yell." Yukino said.

Lucy walked into the dinning room carrying a tray of eggs, bread, and fruit with a teapot and cups. She sat the tray on the table and began to pour the tea.

"What kept you?" Sorano asked.

"Sorry Miss. You said that you wanted duck eggs for breakfast and they're so much harder to find than chicken eggs."

"That's no excuse and look at you, covered in ash and soot. I swear Lucy sometimes I think that you're no different from a pig. After all you're ugly like them, you're dirty like them, and you smell like them."

"I think that was a bit too harsh Sorano." Yukino said. "After all Lucy does sleep by the castle fire place instead of sleeping in a warm bedroom like the rest of us. You know Lucy we do have an extra bedroom that no one uses so perhaps-"

"Be quiet Yukino! She's a servant not a guest! Don't treat her like one! Now Lucy leave and get started on your usual chores."

"Yes Miss."

As usual Lucy worked her fingers to the bone. Cooking breakfast, lunch, and dinner, sweeping and scrubbing the floors, waxing the tables, polishing the silver, and washing and mending the clothes. She did each of her chores without complaint and still found ways to be hopeful and happy. Once she finished her chores she returned to the castle but not before visiting the graves of her beloved parents. Some time ago Lucy had found a hazel twig and planted it on her parent's graves. Over the years she had watered it with her many, many tears resulting in a hazel tree growing on their graves. Lucy treasured that tree because she felt that it symbolized the notion that somehow her parents were still with her. After visiting their graves and tending to the tree, Lucy retried to her place in the kitchen where she found her friends the mice waiting for her.

"Hello my little friends. Are you hungry?" She began to feed bits of her bread crust to the hungry mice. Though she knew the mice could not speak she knew that they understood her whenever she talked to them and sometimes all a person needs is someone to listen to them.

Suddenly she heard the sound of glass breaking. She quickly stood up, grabbed a broom that was by the fireplace, and slowly without making a sound walked toward the direction of where the noise had come from. The source of it was a man in a cloak who appeared to be stealing some of the bread.

"Thief! Get out!" She swung her broom and hit the man, knocking him to the kitchen floor and began to hit him repeatedly with it. "How dare you break into the kitchen and steal!"

"I'm sorry! I was only going to take one loaf!" He said.

"Yeah well guess who will face the queen's wrath tomorrow morning when she finds out a thief robbed her? It certainly won't be you I'm sure!"

"Stop that! Ow! I'm sorry! I'm sorry! But I haven't eaten in days and- I'll pay you for it!" He threw a pouch at her feet. She picked it up, looking inside she saw that there were gold coins inside. "There? Satisfied?"

The young man stood up and removed the hood of his cloak showing her his face. He was a very good looking man with a certain charm to him but Lucy was much too angry with at the moment to notice.

"Sir if you can afford to buy bread why did you not buy it from the bakery?" She asked suspiciously.

"Because I'm trying to run away and I don't want anyone to recognize me."

"Are you a criminal?"

"No. I just...Look that gold is enough to pay for the bread and anything else you might need so can we please keep this encounter hush-hush?"

"Fine."

"Thank you. I bid you good night dear lady."

He then ran off out the back door of the kitchen leaving Lucy to wonder who on earth that man was.

[icefire149]

I was thinking about my apprentice, Elle, and how she would have looked in the past before the plague kicked off. In other drawings I had her hair braided. Which at it’s long length is why she does normally have it braided. It was fun to imagine how it looks down. 

And then I was thinking about how she first met Julian. I had started writing the scene back a while ago before I decided to challenge myself to draw more of the ideas in a comic form, but I decided to include the scene here anyways. Maybe I’ll draw it in the future. Maybe not. Anyways read it below or at this link:

https://archiveofourown.org/works/17995145/chapters/42510308

Elle had thought by now she would be used to the silence. The shop belonged to her now. Her heart still twisted strangely at that thought. Most mornings she still expected to see her aunt greeting her with a warm smile and new tea mixtures to try. And now, even Asra was gone.

The memory of their argument still echoed in her mind. He wanted to run. She couldn’t blame him for that. Those who were strong and smart fled before the plague became widespread. Elle never claimed to be either. So why start now?

He begged her to join him. Temptation clawed at her, but she couldn’t bear to leave her home. Who else would gather herbs? Make the teas? Soothe her friends’ pains? Renew the protection charms? Her aunt had served this community for so long, how could Elle abandon them when they needed her most?

She made her choice and now she must withstand the silence of an empty house. She catered to the needs of her neighborhood, but her days were still filled with so many empty hours. Elle couldn’t help but feel silly, but there were days where she sat at the counter, willing new clients to walk through her door. She needed something. Someone.

One day Elle was taking inventory of her storage room when she heard the swing of the front door. She grabbed the ribbon tied around her wrist and started tying back her long blue locks as she left the back room for the store front. To her surprise it wasn’t one of her usual customers.

Elle stopped at the edge of the room to study the stranger for a moment. He was cloaked all in black. Jacket. Pants. Boots. His auburn hair and pale skin stood out in contrast. Her magic lent nothing to her gut feeling about this stranger. He was not a danger to her.

“What can I do for you today?” she asked.

The man turned towards her. He looked at her with tired grey eyes. “I was told that you could be of help to me.” He took a piece of paper out of his pocket and laid it on the counter top.

Elle crossed the room and took her spot across the counter. She studied the paper for a moment. As far as she could tell there was nothing but scribbles listed on it.

Putting the paper down, she looked back at the man. “When was the last time you slept?”

He looked surprised.

“I can put together a tea that will have you sleeping as if there wasn’t a single worry in your head,” she continued and began walking towards the back rooms.

“Wait. I…I don’t understand. My list?”

She stopped. “Sir, not even magic would help me decipher those scribbles and squiggles.”

“Scribbles and squiggles?” he said raising an eyebrow. He snatched the paper off of the table.

Unfazed by his reaction Elle added, “My only conclusion is that you are so sleep deprived that you are incapable of forming proper letters.”

He leaned an elbow on the counter now. The man seemed amused. “What a marvelous conclusion.”

“Oh, I think so,” Elle quipped. “It’s understandable under the current conditions of the city, but I have a feeling you’re about to enlighten me about your list.”

His lips curled into a smile. “Oh and what gave you that idea? Magic perhaps?”

Elle crossed her arms. “I don’t need magic to figure out what I’m seeing. The look dancing in your eyes is telling me everything I need to know.”

His gaze broke away and he began to laugh. Standing up straight he said, “As much as I would love to question you about everything you’ve gleaned from my eyes, I have work to do.” Holding up the paper he continued, “This is a list of medicinal plants I need for the clinic.”

“Oh,” Elle burst, losing all mirth. She motioned for the man to follow. “It will be faster if you read the list to me.”

He followed, and in no time everything he was searching for was packed and ready to go at the counter. Elle even added several tea mixtures that she swore would help with pain management and relaxing patients.

“Thank you for your help,” the man said as he watched Elle count the coins he left on the counter.

She slid the coins into her dress pocket. Looking back at the man she smiled. “I’m glad I could be of some help. Thank you.” She held a hand out.

He shook it. “I never introduced myself, did I?”

“Nope.”

He let go of her hand. “You can call me Doctor Devorak.”

“Well Doctor….I can’t guarantee my inventory, but if you need more supplies you know where to find me.”

He was halfway to the door when Elle spoke again. “Actually, Doctor. Wait here a moment.” And she left for the back room again.

A few minutes later she returned with an herb mixture. Different from the others. He looked at her puzzled.

“Don’t worry,” she said adding it to the box she put his order in. “This is on the house.”

He raised an eyebrow. “What is it?”

“That one is for you.”

“For me?”

“It’s a tea to drink before bed. It will help you sleep.”

The Doctor was incapable of getting any words out. Elle didn’t miss the shade of pink his cheeks were turning.

“You can’t help your patients if you run yourself into the ground. You’ll get sick.”

“Th-thank you Magician.”

“You can call me Elle.”

[fandammit]

With sorrows to impart (9/?)

[A/N: This most recent chapter was shaping up to be longer than anticipated, so I am splitting it in two - which means you get an update a little earlier! Hopefully chapter 10 will be up Sunday/Monday (but I make no promises). Enjoy! ]

Part 1 || Part 2 || Part 3 || Part 4 || Part 5 || Part 6 || Part 7 || Part 8

He reaches for her hand the minute they leave her room, his fingers automatically intertwining with hers. The tension from moments ago has dissipated somewhat, now simmering deep below a layer of anxiety on his part and practiced evasion on hers. Instead, she focuses on being a steadying force for Schneider, all easy smiles and firm grips on his hand.

He doesn’t say much as they take the elevator down to the lobby, mostly alternates between squeezing her hand tightly and glancing down at her like he’s about to say something only to breath in deeply and turn away instead.

He lets go of her hand for all of thirty seconds while they get in the car, then reaches over the middle console the moment she buckles her seatbelt and interlaces their fingers together once more.

He doesn't say anything beyond telling Silis they're ready to go, just tightens his grip on her hand and starts tapping his foot against the floor. She watches him take something out of his pocket -- a coin of some sort -- and start fiddling with it, turning it over in his fingers and rubbing alongside the edges of it.  

“What is that?” She asks after a few quiet moments, nodding towards the coin in his hand. It's too big to be any kind of denomination she's familiar with, bronze colored and heavy looking with words stamped into either side of it.

He blinks rapidly, then looks down at it, apparently surprised to find it in his hand.

He holds it up close to her.

“It's my seven year AA chip.” He hands it to her, and she studies it closely as he keeps talking. “I normally keep it in my wallet but sometimes when I'm feeling...rough, it helps to have it closer to me. Like, uh, you know -- a reminder of everything I've worked for. That if I can make it to seven years of sobriety, I can make it through anything.”

She nods and turns the coin over, reads through the words of the serenity prayer.

“And it helps?”

He nods.

“It does.” He squeezes her hand, then lifts their intertwined hands up slightly from where they're resting on the center console. “Though right now, this is helping me more.”

She smiles, then hands the chip back to him; watches as he immediately resumes running his fingers along the edges of it.

“I'm glad I can help.” She gestures to the coin. “But I'm glad you have that, too. It's good to be reminded of how strong you are.” She gives him a small smile. “It's a good reminder for me, too.”

He glances over at her, then glances down at the chip.

“You know, when I got my first year chip, my Aunt Emily came to see me in LA and gave me this really nice, handmade chip holder.” He glances over at her, a pensive look in his eyes. “There were twelve spots on it and she told me that she'd get me a new one when I got to thirteen.” The corner of his mouth turns up. “Everytime I get another chip, I put it in there and send her a picture.” He clears his throat. “It, uh, probably seems kind of stupid, but those first couple of years...sometimes it was just knowing that I wouldn't be able to send her a picture that kept me sober.”

She shakes her head.

“That's not stupid at all, Schneider.” She squeezes his hand. “I'm really glad your Aunt Emily could support you. And I'm looking forward to meeting her.”

He gives her a small smile.

“Me too.”

She asks him about his Aunt Emily then, partly because she’s curious to know about the one relative he's talked about who actually seems to care about him, and partly because talking keeps his anxiety at bay.

He at least stops jiggling his leg, which is good because it was strong enough to shake the entire back seat and she was getting a little nauseated.

She learns that his Aunt Emily is the older sister to his mom, seemingly quieter and more introverted than his mother or him, but with the same sort of steadfast loyalty that Schneider has. At least, that's her impression from the stories that Schneider tells. She's a retired high school teacher who now writes children's books, and she never fails to send a Christmas card and call him on his birthday and Thanksgiving and July 5th.

She almost asks about July 5th before she remembers the story about the celebratory drink and the alley. She feels a tenderness towards Aunt Emily despite never having met her or heard about her. She almost asks Schneider why she’d never heard about her before she realizes the answer to her own question. It's the same reason she never knew he went to AA on Wednesdays or that he’d inherited his interest in art from his mom or that his sponsor's name was Chris:

She'd never bothered to ask.  

“Also, Aunt Emily sometimes calls me Alex Mango,” Schneider says, breaking her out of her guilt encrusted thoughts.

“I'm sorry, what?” She asks, sure that she's misheard him. “Alex Mango?”

Schneider grins.

“When Mom was pregnant with me, she didn't want anyone to know the sex of the baby, so for a while they would just refer to me as whatever size fruit I was at the time. Kiwi, apple, tomato, you know.”

She smiles.

“Babies are mango sized for a while, depending on the size of the mango.”

He nods.

“Yeah and it's Aunt Emily's favorite fruit, so she just liked calling me that.”

“And Alex?”

Schneider shrugs.

“Once I stopped being fruit sized and just became baby sized, she figured I should be given a name. And since she still didn’t know if I was gonna be a boy or a girl, she just picked a gender neutral name.”

Penelope nods, grinning.

“So, Alex Mango.”

He chuckles.

“Yeah, Alex Mango. Father hated it, which I think is part of the reason she kept using it even after I was born.”

It's not a bad reason to do so, she thinks -- especially given everything she knows about Schneider's father.  

“Well, I obviously am a big fan of the name Alex and mango is the undisputed best fruit, so I feel like your aunt and I already have something in common there.” She leans over and rests her head on his shoulder, because she doesn't necessarily think it's smart to look at him too closely when she starts talking again. “And we both care about you a lot, so there's another thing.”

He lets out a sound that's halfway between a chuckle and a sigh, then tips his head down to rest it on hers.

"It's weird to hear you say that.” He clears his throat. “Good weird, though. Weird in the best possible way.”

She exhales sharply and shakes her head, her cheek rubbing against his shoulder.  

“I’m sorry, Schneider.” She chews on the corner of her lip.

“Wait, why are you sorry?”

She lifts her head from his shoulder and looks at him.

“Because it shouldn't be -- weird to hear me say that, I mean.” She tilts her head to the side and lifts her shoulder. “But it is, and I'm sorry about that.”

“No, it's fine. It's more than fine, actually.” He draws his brows together and pulls his teeth over his lips. “I'm sorry, Pen. I didn't mean weird as in weird. I mean -- .”

“Schneider --.”

“I guess I meant weird but I didn't mean weird-bad or even weird-weird --.”

“Schneider --.”

“And I definitely didn't mean to make you feel bad, because that’s the last thing I'd ever want to do. What I really meant to say was --.”

She bites her lip to keep from smiling, then reaches over and places her hand gently on his mouth to stop him. It's certainly a different tactic than the one she'd used the last time she'd had to interrupt one of his runaway rambles; she tells herself this makes more sense given the confined space they're in and that it has nothing to do with wanting to feel the softness of his lips, but knowing that kissing him to be quiet is not the way to go about things right now. It's definitely not that at all.

And anyway, it works, too.

Schneider immediately stops talking, just stares at her intently with those bright blue eyes of his while she tries not to think about just how soft his lips feel against her fingertips.

She pulls her hand away from his mouth and rests it instead on top of their clasped hands.

“Schneider, if I felt bad it was because I deserved to.” She holds up her hand to keep him from protesting. “What I meant is that you should know how important you are to me, and if you don't, then I should try and change that.”

He looks at her intently.

“Well, you wanted to come here with me, right?”

“I did.”

“And you're still glad that you did?”

“I am.”

He nods.

“Then I know.” His mouth turns up slightly. “Just you being here lets me know.”

She squeezes his hand.

“I should say it more though.”

He tips his head and lets the small upturn of his lips relax into a full smile.

“Well, I will say that it is nice to hear it.”

He's about to say something else when the car slows to a stop.

“We've arrived,” Silis announces from the front seat.

Schneider lets out a long, steady exhale as he flexes his fingers, his head dropping down against his chest.

“You ready?” She asks, tilting her head down to she can meet his eye.

“Not really.”

She rests her hand on his cheek.

“Hey, I’m gonna be right there next to you the whole time, ok?”

He closes his eyes and takes a deep breath, leaning his face into her hand before he opens his eyes and nods.

“Ok, I'm ready.”

The lawn of the cemetery is pretty crowded -- she figures there must be a good 200 people milling around in dark clothes and quietly chatting in small groups.

She glances over at Schneider and sees him scanning the crowd, manages to catch the exact moment when he sees his Aunt Emily. She knows because his eyes light up immediately, and the buzz she can feel coming off of him shifts into anticipation instead of anxiety.

He looks over at her and smiles, a giddy, almost boyish look in his eyes that’s wholly endearing to her. He leans down and gestures to a small group of women directly in front of them.

“That’s my Aunt Emily,” he says, directing her attention to a petite woman with long, curling red hair. She’s listening intently to whatever the person next to her is saying, nodding along, though Penelope can tell that she, too, is scanning the crowd.

She watches as his Aunt Emily finds the two of them, and it’s heartwarming that she can see his aunt light up despite being as far away as they are.

She watches as she excuses herself from whatever conversation she’s in and very nearly jogs over to where they’re standing. She doesn't look especially similar to Schneider -- she's probably just  as tall as Penelope, paler than Schneider, with wide, deep set brown eyes and a square-shaped face. Though she does have that same sort of youthfulness that he does -- the one that makes her look at least a decade younger than she actually is, so that she looks like a woman in her early 60’s rather than one in her mid-70s.  

“Alex mango!” She exclaims, a wide, bright smile on her face, her arms thrust out in front of her.

Schneider grins in return, letting go of Penelope’s hand momentarily so he can lean down and scoop her up in a hug.

“Aunt Emily!” He wraps his arms tightly around her and squeezes hard. “It’s so great to see you.”

She lets go of him and steps back just enough so that she can cup his face in her hands.

“You too, sweetheart. I’m so glad you could make it.” She touches his glasses, the corner of her eyes softening in equal parts affection and melancholy. “You look lovely.”

He offers her a small smile, then leans down to give her a kiss on the cheek.

“You too, Auntie Em.”

She moves her hands from his face then pats either side of her own.

“It’s that spa membership you set me up with for my birthday all those years ago.” She smiles at him, and in that smile, Penelope sees the resemblance between the two. It's warm and wide and open in that same way that makes you want to smile in return. “That,” his Aunt Emily continues with a twinkle in her eye, “and sunscreen from Korea.”

“Alright!” He says, obviously pleased. “So you finally started listening to me.”

“My darling mango, I always listen to you. It’s just a matter of separating the frivolous from the factual.”

Penelope chuckles at that, though she quickly tries to cover it up with a cough. His aunt glances over at her with a twinkle in her eye and smiles, then looks back over at Schneider.

“So, has all that time in LA robbed you of your manners or…?” She asks, tipping her head in Penelope's direction.

Schneider blinks rapidly and pulls an apologetic face in Penelope's direction before he steps back and rests his hand at the small of her back.

She's suddenly filled with an absurd feeling of anxiety at the coming introduction. Absurd, because she knows that he'll introduce her as his friend, maybe throw in the qualifier of “best” in there.

And of course there is absolutely nothing wrong or even approaching problematic with that introduction. That is, after all, what she is to him. That’s what they are to one another. That’s the reason he asked her to come with him and why she chose to say yes. It’s the truth in almost every sense of the word.

Every sense but this one: that there's been a shift in their dynamic in these last 24 hours that suddenly makes a word as simple as friend seem like a half-truth, a concept that comes up short to describing whatever it is now between them. But there’s no word for that almost, for that maybe that lies between them.

There’s no word for that space between friend and more than.  

Schneider clears his throat, breaking her free from her spiralling inner monologue. She smiles and squares her shoulders, tells herself not to look or feel -- what? Disappointed, she guesses, maybe even distressed -- when he calls her his friend. Tells herself it would be silly to do so because that’s what she is.

“Aunt Emily, this is Penelope,” he says, completely bypassing all of her unexpected anxieties and saying her name like it’s the only explanation his aunt needs. “Penelope, this is my Aunt Emily.”

She exhales the breath she didn’t even realize she was holding as she steps forward with her hand outstretched, finds herself enveloped in the arms of his aunt instead.

She’s surprised but returns the hug immediately, her arms winding around Emily’s small frame.

Emily steps back and smiles warmly, her hands lightly gripping Penelope’s arms.

“It’s wonderful to meet you, Penelope,” she says in a way that makes Penelope feel like her coming here isn’t a surprise at all. “I’m sorry that it isn’t under better circumstances.”

“It’s lovely to meet you, too. I’m sorry for your loss,” she replies, and means it. Schneider may have had a fraught relationship with his mother, and she may harbor some secondhand resentment towards her because of that, but it’s obvious from just the few stories she’s heard about Emily that she and Schneider’s mother had been incredibly close.

And while she doesn’t have a sister, she thinks there must be something particularly staggering about burying your younger sister -- like God messed up and got the order wrong.

Emily smiles gently at her and squeezes her arm before letting go.

“Thank you.” She steps back then motions towards Schneider. “And thank you for coming with him. I hated to think of him having to come back here on his own.”

Penelope falls back to stand next to Schneider and smiles up at him when he immediately twines their fingers back together.

“There was no way I’d let him go through all of this on his own,” she says before turning back to face Emily.

She sees his aunt’s gaze flick down to their interlaced fingers. She wonders if Emily is going to ask about it -- God knows that if situations were reversed, if she’d brought Schneider to some family gathering with her and held his hand, any one of her tías would be intent on figuring out his entire family history, the breadth of their relationship, and a detailed plan of his intentions.

But Emily does none of that, just nods slightly -- a gesture small enough that it seems like it’s mostly to answer some silent question posed only to herself --  then smiles at them both.

“I’m glad you have one another.” She looks as though she’s about to say more when a dark-haired man in his 50’s comes up from behind her and puts his hand on her shoulder.

“Sorry to interrupt,” he says, glancing apologetically at Schneider and Penelope. “But we need your help with something real quick.”

Emily nods at him, watches him dart away before she takes a deep breath and turns back to face them.

She looks up at Schneider and for a brief second, Penelope swears she sees a look of deep guilt on the older woman's face. But maybe it's just a trick of the noonday sun because in the next moment, Emily's expression is once again a mix of warmth and sadness.

“I’ll see after the service,” she says, then reaches over to rest her hand on Schneider's bicep. “Promise me you won't leave before I can talk to you?”

Schneider furrows his brows.

“Sure, but we can also just talk at the wake if you want.”

Emily presses her lips together tightly, then gives him a close-lipped smile.

“I think...” She sighs and then shakes her head. “I’ll just find you after the service.”

[incorrectunrulyprincesses]

Underland’s Unruly Princesses: March of the Witch Hunters (aka the crossover) chapter 4

Rosalind II

It was no secret that Ember hated my father, Ilosovic Stayne the Knave of Hearts. She said he was an ignorant one eyed gorilla who cheated on mother several times with various ladies of the court when she carried me inside her and that's why he lost his eye. I knew better than to ask either of my parents if there was any truth to this. When I was nine, she also claimed that he attempted to spoon her in her bedchamber. I don't know if this is officially true or not, but after that claim, mother made both of us sleep in her bed for about a year, and I didn't see my father at all during that time because he was put on ice in the dungeon.

But once I realized I wasn't going to get anywhere with Auntie Mary and Auntie Sarah, apart from my birthday gifts that is, I knew I had to ask him for help. I got all the attention I wanted from Mother, Ember, my aunties, and mother's old friend and our cook, Mrs. Nellie Lovett, but my father was distant. He was probably busy carrying out Mother's orders. Still, the only time he spent with me was with everyone else, or when he tried to teach me how to spar which mother quickly stopped him from.

"Princesses don't fight with steel." Mummy insisted when she caught me fencing with my father on her croquet lawn and promptly dragged me off by one arm. In hindsight, I think Daddy wanted me to be a boy.

The Resistance made a big deal out of the fact that Mother executed her husband, took several lovers over the course of her reign, and had no "legitimate" children. Ember and I were often referred to as "Royal Bastards." Mummy countered this slander by saying that Ember's father was the resistance leader, Tarrant Hightopp, the Hatter, and that the only reason she killed her husband was that he tried to kill Ember when she was a toddler and pushed him off her balcony. Not only that, but she was also pregnant with me at the time and couldn't keep him around long enough for him to find out that she had another child who wasn't his. Besides, he was a cheating asshole just like my father. Worse than my father in fact because he'd been screwing her own sister!

I wish I looked more like my mother. She and Ember had the same red hair, only Ember's hair was more ginger than red. I had only my mother's porcelain skin, dainty features, long eyelashes, and aching feet, and my father's bright sky blue eyes, but unlike either of them, I was born with an abundance of long, thick, wavy honey-colored tresses falling almost to my knees which was strange at first, but then it was revealed that my maternal grandmother, Queen Elsemere was a blonde, so I guess it wasn't that odd. Like my sister, I had a curvaceous, voluptuous body and had always been rather busty for my age.

As we walked to Daddy's chamber, I thought about my interaction with Auntie Sarah and Auntie Mary. They were quick to praise my singing of Nellie's songs and rewarded me with my birthday presents. Auntie Mary gave me a beautiful cake, six layers high decorated with red buttercream roses with golden leaves. Two layers were chocolate fudge cake filled with cheesecake, two were chocolate chip cookie dough cake filled with cheesecake, and two were red velvet cake filled with cheesecake. The whole thing was frosted in fudge and cream cheese frosting. She told me I was getting too skinny and insisted I eat the whole thing myself before I started singing. Auntie Sarah gave me some a beautiful choker, black velvet ribbon with a golden rose briar pattern embroidered into it, three new gowns, and a red bow made from the same fabric of my mother's favorite gown with a miniature version of mother's scepter as the clasp. I thanked them and asked them where Auntie Winnie was.

"In your mother's study," was Auntie Sarah's reply,

"In the garden," said Auntie Mary at the same time. Then they looked at each other oddly.

"In your mother's study," said Auntie Mary.

"In the garden," said Auntie Sarah.

I knew now that she was neither in the garden or Mummy's study and grew suspicious. Ember's story confirmed these suspicions and I knew we had to send my father out to find the Witch Hunters in our world and arrest them immediately. We would put a bounty on their heads and snuff them out. If not, I could use my baby Jabberwockies that mother gave me when I turned fourteen, Drogon, Rhaegal, and Viserion, on them. They were my babies. Drogon was now large enough to ride, but the others could set things on fire and probably burn people alive.

I rapped sharply on door to my father's room with Ember close behind.

"Exactly why are you dragging me to visit your father?" Ember asked me.

"Because he listens to you and not me." I said blankly, stating the obvious and trying to school the twinge of envy from my voice.

"You're his daughter, though," Ember torted. "Not me. Besides, he abandoned you."

"I think you scare him." I smirked. "Why does Mummy even keep him around anyway?"

Ember chuckled lowly. "I haven't a clue, sis. Sometimes I swear Mum forgets why she does things."

"Well either way you get through to him better than I do that's why you're coming with me." I banged on the door again. "DADDY! GET YOUR STUPID FUCKING DEADBEAT ARSE OUT HERE RIGHT NOW!" I yelled.

"Or I'll tell Mummy you sometimes like to wank to pictures of Aunt Mirana!" Ember chimed in an annoying tone. I giggled like a little girl.

Ember laughed as my Father whipped the door open. She had Aunt Winnie's book in the crook of her arm. She had not stopped carrying it around since Mum gave it to her.

"The fuck do you brats want?" he demanded. I stared him down.

"Well, well, well, Stayne, I'd expected you to be thrilled by our appearance," Ember cooed in a sarcastic tone. "I guess I was totally wrong with that assumption." Without even asking, Ember just shoved her way into his room. Giggling, I followed her.

My father's single good eyes followed Ember as she went to the middle of the room and sat in a chair by the hearth. "It's an emergency." I insisted.

Oddly enough, my father sighed, then he crossed the room and sat across from Ember and I. "Considering that I have nothing better to attend to, I guess I will listen to your little pitiful sob story."

"It's the witch hunters. We have reason to believe there are some in our world that will stage an uprising and kill us all. We need you to find them."

My father's face twisted into a disgusted expression. "Witch hunters, you say?" He drew a small knife from his belt and began to wave it around. "What's in it for me?" he demanded of us.

Ember's cheeks began to flush red, and I could tell that Mum's temper was about to take over. "What's in it for you? You ignorant buffoon! If these Witch Hunters are even allowed to execute a single witch, they will begin to destroy the rest of us! Can't you see that we are peculiar compared to those from Above? We are nothing but alien to them. If they infiltrate the different worlds, we are all doomed. Underland and Above will be wiped clean. That includes everyone and everything!"

Ember had the ability to talk very, very fast when she was pissed off, much like Mum. I had always thought that she could easily out-talk anyone when she was about to rage. "If you don't do this for me, your own flesh and blood, do this for yourself!" I snapped.

Ember sprang from her chair. "DO IT FOR YOUR QUEEN!" She hissed stridently. It frightened me a little how angry she was getting. "Do it for the sake of having a woman to stick your dinky little prick into!" I clapped a gloved hand over my mouth in an attempt to stop the laughter that threatened to burst out.

I don't know whether it was the idea of not being able to lay again, or Ember's temper, but my father's jaw dropped. "Yes, your highness. Right away." He stumbled to his feet. He came over to me, dropped a peck on my cheek, dropped a heavy coin purse into my lap.

In one swift motion, he swiped his sword from the rack on the wall, and he began to jog from the room.

I wiped it off, quickly, but shoved the money into my cleavage. I wasn't used to his fake affection, but the money was nice and very much appreciated. Ever since his latest betrayal, Mum demanded he pay child support for my upkeep. About two million pounds sterling a month to be exact.

Ember sniggered next to me. She wrapped her fingers around Aunt Winnie's book and she giggled. "Well, Sis, looks like we got that taken care of."

"We make an excellent team. Remind me never to piss you off like that. Ever."I joked.

"Not to worry, Ros, dear. You shall never know the extent of my true temper." Holding the book to her chest, she rose from her chair. "Now, then, I suggest we go and find Mum."

"She'll be happy to know your favorite person paid his child support on time. How long do you think he'll last out there?" I wondered, walking out with my sister.

She shrugged. "Who knows? Hopefully long enough for us to find Aunt Winifred before the Witch Hunters take her down."

"While we're on the subject, there's something you should know." I confessed. "I've been having these weird nightmares about a black cat loitering around a condemned building in the Above. Do you think it has anything to do with Auntie Winnie?"

Ember stopped dead in her tracks. "That's funny, Ros. I, too, have seen the apparition of a feline, black as coal. I didn't think anything of it at all. You know what this means?" I shook my head.

"We must question Mum," she said flatly. "Even if you leave the talking to me. I think she knows more that she lets onto."

"I'll go with you...for moral support. But I don't want Mum to be mad at me." I said.

"It's decided then. I will do the talking." And with that, she trudged down the corridor. I followed.

[hegemoneapple]

Basilisk Eyes: Chapter 23: Galleons to pounds

Crossposted: Basilisk Eyes by Hegemone | Completed: Chapter 23 out of 157 | T | AO3 | FFN | WATT | HPFF

Though he had to really concentrate on walking and listening to the directions from his staff as he walked, Harry had moments where he thought about what he’d do when he returned to Privet Drive. He could pack up the rest of his things and put them in his staff. 

I wonder if Hedwig’s cage will fit? 

His books had fit and they were larger than the staff, so maybe the cage would, too? He wondered if everything was rattling around the staff as he walked. 

It didn’t feel like things were moving inside of it.

Hedwig! She’s not back yet! 

Harry stopped in the middle of the walkway. He sucked in a deep breath while reminding himself that it was only Friday, his training didn’t start until Monday morning, and he continued his steady tap, tapping way. 

She’ll be back by then… and maybe with a letter from Hermione.

He stopped at an intersection and listened carefully for cars, not hearing any and with the reassurance from his staff that there weren’t any coming, he started across. Once he was safely crossed, he went back to planning. 

How am I going to get to 56 Charing Cross Road by 9 am on Monday? 

He thought about sending a letter to Madam Pomfrey asking for suggestions… she knew that he had the training. He dreaded the thought of contacting her, though, after the floo fiasco. Also, he didn’t really want to bring it to her attention that he couldn’t expect help from the Dursleys. He was kind of put out with her for not noticing or not caring how horrid Aunt Petunia was to him.

He could take the train and underground to Charing Cross Road if he could convert his galleons into pounds. 

Where do I find a place to convert coins? 

The thought made him prickle with sweat. He’d only traveled by the Hogwarts express by himself before and that was when he could see. He really didn’t count the trip he and Ron had made in the Flying Ford Anglia—he had been with Ron after all. He had the staff and was learning how to use it and that made things easier, for sure, but he still couldn’t read signs without using the anagnóstis and that would be a little awkward… what if he couldn’t reach them to read them? 

And it’s not like I can do that around muggles.

Maybe Nio hus cherio kisa would want to go with me! 

He can’t read signs, either. And how would I care for him in the city? Where would I find soft earth to dig up worms and other bugs? He’s probably never gone beyond the garden wall. He won’t want to travel to London with me. 

Harry’s hope deflated a bit.

The walkway had disappeared and now he was walking on the side of the road. He heard a car approaching and froze for a second as his staff warned him of the approaching car and the closing distance. He moved over closer to the hedgerow that was encroaching on the street. The branches poked into his back as he held his staff parallel to his body and waited for the car to pass. When his staff started describing the area in detail, he realized that he must have squeezed it twice in rapid succession and he was surprised to hear it read the street sign, “Privet Drive.” 

My staff will read signs to me!

He drew in a breath that held the scent of both exhaust and leaves and continued toward Number 4. It would be busier on the street soon as people returned from work. The local primary was out and there were more kids playing outside, too. Some of them got quiet as he neared and he thought they had probably stopped to stare at him as he passed. 

Nice. 

He wondered if there were kids that he knew from the neighborhood or primary—not that they’d talk to him. 

Dudley always made sure of that.

Ugh. Dudley’s coming home.

Harry heard a ball bounce near him and stopped when a voice called out, “Oi. Pass it here, would ya?”

Harry used his staff to locate the ball which had stopped by his feet and bent down to pick it up awkwardly with one hand. It was the size of a quaffle but squishy. He turned toward where he’d heard the voice, and said “Here you go,” holding it out.

“Go ahead and toss it,” the voice said, nearing him.  

Harry switched his staff to his left hand, hesitated for a second while he doubted his ability to throw blindly. Softly, under his breath, he said, “sod it,” and sent the ball into the air in an underhanded arc, hoping the kid hadn’t moved much. He heard feet slapping and then hands on the ball, and a muffled “Thanks!” 

Smiling to himself, Harry responded with “No problem,” and continued on his way.  He wondered who it was—the voice did seem kind of familiar. 

Soon, his staff told him to turn right and he was on the path fringed with Agapanthus walking to the door of Number 4. He let himself in, the intrusive odors of the house washing over him, and went into the kitchen to fix himself some dinner.

oO0OooO0OooO0OooO0Oo

After he’d cleaned up after himself with the hope that Aunt Petunia wouldn’t be able to tell that he’d even been in the kitchen (let alone made himself a corned beef sandwich) Harry tried navigating around the lower level of the house with the staff in his pocket, the fingertips of his thumb and middle finger lightly resting on it. He practiced getting around without reaching out for tactile cues until he felt pretty confident. 

Maybe this will save me from getting tripped by Dudley.

He heard a squawk and ran up the stairs without thinking about it, surprising himself. 

Whoa! I can run up the stairs. 

He almost tripped on the landing at the thought, caught himself and skidded into his room just as he’d done a million times before. It felt good.

“Hedwig!” Harry exclaimed gleefully.

She growled in response and he heard her stretching her wings on the windowsill. He knew it was still daylight by the sunlight that was a little easier to bear inside the house.

He was too glad to see her to reprimand her for coming in during the day. 

Someone is bound to notice a snowy owl flying in and out of my window, but right now I don’t care.

He had tucked some scraps from his dinner into his pocket for her and offered them to her bobbing head. He ran his fingers through her soft feathers as she pecked the scraps from his hand.

After she was done, she hopped around and he knew she had a scroll on her leg, which he found and unfastened. She went to her cage to drink water and he listened to the familiar sound as he unrolled the scroll. There were actually two pieces of parchment. He took his staff out of his pocket to retrieve the anagnóstis, pleased that he could open the storage compartment while it was collapsed.

Holding the larger scroll flat, he figured out which end was up and started reading it.

“Dear Harry,

Thanks so much for your long letter with more details about what they said at St. Mungo's. That’s the pits and I’m sorry. I won’t say anything else because, well, I know you don’t want me to.

I’ve spent as much time as I can in the library researching spells that could be useful. The best one I’ve found so far is the navigation spell. You think about where you want to go, hold your wand in front of you and say, navigant, and it will tell you how to get where you want to go. However, I don’t think you can use it while you’re around muggles.

There’s a summoning charm that will summon things to you (accio) and a charm that will return the accio’d item back to where it came from (reditus), but I think we’ll have to practice them because I tried them and it took me a while to get the hang of them, especially the returning spell. You really have to visualize the location exactly to replace items. Those, too, are spells that you can’t do around Muggles, but could be handy once you’re back at school.

I talked to Professor Flitwick to see if he knew any other spells, but he couldn’t think of anything. He said he’d do some research, too, and let me know over the summer.

I’ve included a separate list of your homework for the summer.” Harry groaned when he read this.

“I know you won’t be happy to get it, but maybe it’ll help to have something to do. I hope that with the anagnóstis you’re able to read the list, my letter, and your homework. I thought it was really brilliant of you to use a ruler to write the letter to me. It was a lot easier to read than your first letter.

I’ve also read that some blind wixen (this is a word for both witches or wizards that I learned while researching! I don’t know why more wixen don’t use it, it’s so much easier than saying witches or wizards all the time!) learn braille which is a muggle invention for reading by touch. You’ve probably seen it on the elevator and other public muggle places. I think there are spells for converting text to braille or to speaking books (though, I think your anagnóstis is probably easier to use for that), but I haven’t found them yet. I’ll keep looking.

It sounds like the Dursleys are being horrid and for that, I’m really sorry. I’ll ask my parents about having you come to visit. Ron says that he thinks his parents will also invite you to visit, so maybe between the two of us, you’ll get a break. I’ll give you a call once I’m home. Tomorrow we take the Hogwarts express home. It won’t be the same without you. I miss you. So does Ron and well, loads of other people. Everyone is asking if you’re okay.

Your friend, Hermione.”

Harry was so glad to have the letter from Hermione that he didn’t mind too much that it included the long list of summer homework.

Harry checked the time. It was nearly 5:30 in the evening. He was pretty sure that the Dursleys would be gone for a few more hours at least. 

I’ve got to call the train station and find out about tickets to London while I can. How much is it going to cost?

He went down to the phone in the kitchen and found the phone book. With the anagnóstis, he was able to find the number for the local train station and called it (though it took him a while to remember the order of the numbers on the phone and he dialed a few wrong numbers until he tried using his anagnóstis to read the numbers on the phone—duh!).

Trying to sound as adult as he could muster, he learned that the ticket from Little Whinging Station to London would be nearly 25 pounds (that’s like 5 galleons!).

With an urgency, he decided to write Hermione back right away and tell her about the staff and the training in London and to see if she could help him convert galleons to pounds. 

If anyone can do it, Hermione can. Maybe while she’s at King’s Cross Station. Her parents have had to convert pounds to galleons, I bet they can help her.  

He summoned the paper, ruler, pencil, eraser and pencil sharpener from his staff and set to work.

It was slow going, but soon he had an adequate letter describing the staff and how he was able to walk to the park with it and that he was heading to London on Monday morning to start training. He asked her not to call him at the Dursleys (he didn’t want anything to get in the way of his escape to London) and told her that he’d figure out a way to talk with her once he was safely at his training residency.

After he summoned his money bag from his staff, he counted out (he was so glad that galleons were so obviously different in shape and size than the other wixen coins) and wrapped 10 galleons up in an old sock (begging her forgiveness) as it was the only thing he could find that he could secure inside the scroll. Maybe she’d be able to get him the pounds by Sunday night. He crossed his fingers and hoped this plan would work.

Hedwig wasn’t so thrilled about being sent out again so soon after arriving, especially weighted down with the sock of galleons. She made a show of dragging her leg noisily so that Harry had to ply her with more scraps from the kitchen. Harry was anxious to send her off before the Dursleys arrived home. She hooted dolefully as she flew away and Harry was sad to lose her company so quickly.

It was now after 7 pm and Harry suddenly realized that he hadn’t finished the ironing yet.

[truthofherdreams]

hopelessly a lover (and that will be the death of me)

OR Rosaline is so good at pretending to be in love, she even fools Benvolio.

part one out of three (part 1, also on ao3)

It doesn't keep Rosaline up at night per se, but the thought lingers on her mind until comes morrow, leaving a bitter taste in her mouth. She tries to distract herself from it when she wakes up, reading a book through breakfast and keeping her mind elsewhere, but Benvolio is to arrive early and there is only so much Rosaline can do before her thoughts wander back to him. It, of course, gets even worse when Benvolio knocks on their door.

The excuse is a well-rounded one, that of visiting Friar Lawrence for details about the wedding ceremony, and so her uncle doesn’t bat an eyelash when Benvolio asks for Rosaline to join him for the morning. She would even bask in the perfection of the scheming, were it not for the way she analyses his every movement a little too much.

There is no pretending in front of Friar Lawrence, for he knows the marriage not to be a loving one. Still, Benvolio stands closer to Rosaline than he would have only a few weeks before. He glances her way every so often, and it unnerves her until she wants to scream - about that, and how his fingers keep playing with the fabric of her skirt. She doesn’t think he knows he does it, which makes matter even worse. This casual familiarity he has around her, this nonchalance when it comes to playing his part.

It is only when he escorts her back to the carriage, after a long but unfruitful conversation with the clergyman, that Benvolio comments on her behaviour. “Is something the matter?” he asks, stopping her with a hand around her wrist.

Rosaline forces herself not to jerk back at the warmth of his fingers, or at the concern in his blue eyes. She was indeed uncharacteristically silent during their meeting with Friar Lawrence, and it could surprise more than one person. That it concerns Benvolio, on the other hand, is most bothersome. She doesn’t want his worry, or his questions, because they come from a place of caring, and Livia’s words keep dancing in her mind.

“I am tired, is all,” she lies effortlessly. “He was hiding something, was he not?”

Thankfully, her question is enough to distract Benvolio, and things are a little easier from there. That, the thinking and the plotting and the scheming together, Rosaline can handle. That is something she can go through without fear of what to come next, without dread for Benvolio’s actions and words. They agree to share a light meal together in the Montague gardens, close enough to a chaperon not to get Rosaline into trouble but isolated enough to speak their mind without spies around them.

Benvolio accompanies her back home after lunch, kissing the back of her hand softly before he disappears around a corner. Rosaline lets him go, staring at the street in front of her but not truly seeing it. Her mind starts racing again, going through and analysing every detail of the day, every interaction, every brush of his fingers against her hand.

She sighs and gives up, only to groan her frustration when she enters her room and finds Livia sitting on her bed. Her sister looks up at the sound, questions in her eyes to which Rosaline only replies, “This is all your fault.”

Livia’s smirk has no right to be this wicked.

 …

 Rosaline is certain her uncle loves to see her suffering, for he organises yet another outing the following day and dismisses any complain she has on the matter. Rosaline still tries to make a case for herself, if only because the previous night was too hot for her to sleep comfortably and she would enjoy one day of peace and quiet, but there is little to be done against her uncle’s stubbornness. So Benvolio arrives at the house after lunch and, along with a couple of guards and the nurse as a chaperon, invites her to the local market.

She wishes Livia were with them, if only because she has an habit of forcing Benvolio to buy the most ridiculous and useless trinkets for her, which is entertaining enough. She still despises Benvolio, even more so than Rosaline does at this point, but Livia has always been one to use new opportunities to her advantages. Especially when those opportunities present themselves as Montague golden coins.

But Livia is otherwise busy with answering to their aunt’s every whims today, and so Rosaline has no other choice but to put her hand on the elbow Benvolio offers and to follow him outside the house. It is a hot summer afternoon, and so they keep to the shadows of the streets on their way to the market, neither of them bothering with conversation. Rosaline forces herself not to analyse this too closely once more, and instead dresses a list of things she needs buying. She would very much like a new pair of earrings for the wedding ceremony, and perhaps even a necklace for Livia. She also needs fabric for a dress, though she does not particularly look forward to wearing it.

“You are quiet once more, my love.”

Rosaline swallows down the groan that threatens to escape her mouth at his words, and instead plasters a smile on her lips. “I thought you liked me better submissive, my lord.”

It isn’t fair on him, she knows, even more so when he sucks in a breath at her words. He has never done anything to repress the fire within her, nor shown annoyance at her temper. If anything else, he might as well be the first man to enjoy it, and to even be amused by her bouts of passion, instead of judging her lack of manners.

Benvolio slows down then, just enough for Rosaline to look up at him and see the seriousness in his eyes. “I like you as you are, fair Rosaline,” he tells her, poorly hiding the hurt in his voice. “Be not afraid to be opinionated to your heart’s content.”

There is too much truth to his word, for he indeed likes her, and that frightens Rosaline more than she would like. She finds herself self-conscious of her every action once more, forcing a smile on her lips before she pulls on his arm to start walking again. Still, her body sways closer to his with each step they take, even more so when they leave the empty street and walk into the crowded market place. This seems to please him, if the smile ghosting his lips is anything to go by, and Rosaline wonders if he would be so bold as to wrap an arm around her waist and keep her close, were it not against all rules of decency.

As it is, he only follows her around from stall to stall, grinning every time her fingers caress a particularly beautiful necklace, every time she raises an earring to the side of her face and ask for his opinion. He may be a man, but Benvolio also is an artist, his tastes more refined that she would have thought from a Montague. Rosaline has no doubt that he would not let her buy something unflattering, even more so when he is the one paying.

She is comparing two pieces of fabric - one the Capulet blue, another one a more neutral beige - when Benvolio stands straighter by her side, his body turning stiff and awkward in an instant. Rosaline doesn’t have time to ask what the matter is, for his unusual behaviour is followed by a, “Greetings, dear aunt,” that has her breath catching in her throat.

Rosaline knows very little of the inner politics of the Montague clan, but she is no fool. Lady Tessa Montague is even more ruthless than her brother, and cares as very little about Benvolio. The reasons as to why everyone seems to despise the younger Montague are still a mystery to Rosaline, and an unfair one at that - as far as she can tell, he always was the scapegoat of the family, even as a child. How anyone could act in such a way with their own blood, Rosaline has no idea - at least her lady aunt has her reasons, no matter how biased.

“Greetings, nephew. Capulet.”

Rosaline takes a deep breath before she turns around, not even bothering with hiding her sarcastic smile. Some battles are worse fighting for, and making it clear that she despises the older woman is a hill upon which Rosaline is willing to die. “Greetings, m’lady,” she replies, messing the title on purpose with just enough of a servant’s accent to make the other woman squirm. “I was just telling Benvolio how lovely this colour look on him, wouldn’t you agree?”

She barely glances back at the stall of fabrics as she grabs one scarf, a vibrant blue piece, and turns around to wrap it around Benvolio’s neck. His eyes are a little wider than usual, even more so when he too notices the colour, before a smile settles on his lips once more. He even lets her tug on the ends of the scarf, as to pull his face closer to her, so only she can hear his little snort of laughter when she winks at him.

“Yes, indeed,” Lady Tessa replies, and Rosaline doesn’t need to look over her shoulder to hear the irritation in her voice, as if the lady had just swallowed a particularly bitter lemon. “Though I am always partial to crimson fabrics myself.”

“Oh no, m’lady,” Rosaline goes on, tugging on the scarf once more. “The blue of the fabric only brings up that of his eyes. We wouldn’t want the magenta to hinder his features.”

“Magenta is pink,” he whispers to her in a breath as to not be heard by his aunt. Rosaline can only reply with a snort of her own as the silliness of the situation, for of course he would know every shade of colour that exists. And then, to his aunt, “Who am I to deny my beloved the chance to gaze into my eyes at her leisure?”

Maybe they are taking it one step too far this time, but it is worth the grimace on Lady Tessa’s face as she battles not to say anything rude in public. It is only a matter of minutes after this until she bids her goodbyes and tells her nephew she will see him at home, before she gathers her skirts and leaves them. Rosaline lets out a breath of relief that Benvolio mirrors, his turning into a chuckle when she pulls at the scarf and it slides off his neck.

“That was interesting,” is his only comment as he hands a few coins to the seller.

It takes Rosaline a few moments to notice his gesture, and by that time he is already draping the scarf around her shoulders and smiling proudly to himself. “Though I have no doubt it does wonders to my eyes, blue is your colour.”

How he always manages to buy her things before she can stop him, Rosaline has no idea. She complains mildly, even if it is no use, before she follows him to another stall. It is yet another hour of wandering before she buys something for Livia and they agree that it is enough socialising for one day.

The way back to the House Capulet is not as silent, for they keep discussing one particular marchant they met on the market place, selling instruments neither of them had ever seen before. Rosaline admits to taking singing lessons when she was younger, but her voice could never compete with Juliet’s skills. Benvolio narrates one particularly colourful night in a tavern that had involved way too many tankards of beer and Mercutio losing his voice for an entire week, much to the dismay of both Montague boys.

As it turns out, talking to Benvolio is not as impossible as Rosaline would have liked to think. He is charming and amusing, and has a talent with words that turns any story into an epic tale of friendship and loyalty, until Rosaline finds herself mourning men she never met.

Before she knows it, they are back where they started, her uncle greeting them in the entrance hall even though he looks like he would rather be anywhere but here. Benvolio bows to him, ever the proper and respectful gentleman, before he delicately takes Rosaline’s hand in his own. He bows to her too, and she startles at his lips grazing against the back of her hand in a barely-there kiss that leaves her skin tingling even after he lets go of her.

“It was a pleasure spending time with you, as always.”

His words are polite and proper, but the gleam in his eyes speaks of more than a simple outing - amusement and companionship, jokes at his aunt’s expense shared in a whisper. And when Rosaline mirrors it with a, “The pleasure was all mine, dear betrothed,” of her own, it is with sincerity in her words and in the slope of her smile.

Benvolio stares at her for a few moments longer, tilting his head to the side as if to truly see her for the first time. A shiver runs down her spine, for this look speaks more than a thousand words, and for she is afraid of what will come out of it.

 …

 Rosaline is only left wondering for a few hours, for the sun is not quite set yet when pebbles are thrown at her window and dread fills her stomach. She slips out of bed and into a dressing gown, caring very little about her state of disarray as she walks toward the balcony. The warm summer wind caresses her cheeks when she opens the window, but she cannot blame the weather on the layer of sweat between her shoulderblades at the sight of Benvolio looking up at her from the gardens.

He smiles, tentative and charming, and it makes Rosaline want to scream. “What are you doing here?” she hisses instead. “If my cousins find you, you’re a dead man.”

Which would resolve many of her problems, though Rosaline has no doubt Escalus would simply marry her off to the next Montague in the line of succession. They care very little about her, but just enough to make sure she will produce an heir for both families. A dead Benvolio would be of no help to her, and she would only be wed to a man she tolerate even less.

“I needed to see you.”

She winces, and curses him under her breath. “You will see me come morrow, Montague. Go home already.”

Benvolio, of course, doesn’t listen to her. Instead, he decides to favour his cousin’s flair for dramatic gestures of affection, moving closer to the house as to grab the vine that runs down the outer walls. No small amount of protesting makes him stop until, with laboured breaths and a smirk, he hauls himself up and over the railing of her balcony. His feet are loud when they land on the floor, panic rising within Rosaline as she grabs his arm and pulls him closer to the window as to be hidden by the heavy curtains.

“Do you have a death wish?” she whispers at him. “My family has killed yours for less than that.”

And they both know it. For a Montague man to be found in the bedroom of a Capulet maiden, would be the worst of offenses, worthy of death in a matter of minutes. No one in her family would care much about their betrothal, when her reputation is at play. She knows Montagues to be careless, but she expected Benvolio to be more level-headed than this.

Alas, there is nothing much to be done about fools in love.

For a fool Benvolio is, his eyes shining in the moonlight and his lips stretched into a lazy yet endearing smile. He moves closer to her, until she forgets about her uncle and cousins, until she forgets about her reputation, until she forgets about everything but the warmth of his breath against her mouth and the adoring way he looks at her. Perhaps it is how Romeo had Juliet falling so deeply and so fast for him - with easy charms and a smile, with this way of making you feel like you are the only one in the world and no other woman matters. And perhaps it would work on Rosaline too, were the situation different. In another life, another time.

“I needed to see you,” he says once more. “I would suffer a hundred deaths by a hundred Capulets, if it meant a few more minutes by your side.”

Her breath catches in her throat, and Rosaline dreads what is to come, what she will do in but a few moments. She is not a cruel woman, but his actions and words call for cruel repercussions that she can no longer avoid.

“Benvolio…”

He grabs her hand, the delicacy of his touch a sharp contrast to the hard calluses on his fingers, and Rosaline forgets to breathe. She knows what is to come, and yet she is hardly prepared for his lips on hers, for the chaste kiss he offers. A shiver runs down her spine before Rosaline finds her wits again and, with her hands on his chest, pushes him away.

He blinks at her, confused, before his eyes harden as the gravity of her actions settles down. Benvolio is at lost for words, long enough for Rosaline to breathe a simple, “Don’t.” that breaks her heart as much as it does his.

“I don’t understand,” is his only reply at first. Rosaline doesn’t know what to say to this - doesn’t even know if there is anything to be said at all. “I thought…”

“You thought wrong, Montague.”

His mouth opens in disbelief, yet no words come out of it. She reads the storm of betrayal in his blue eyes as he takes a step back, her hand slipping away from his grasp until it falls back at her side. Rosaline braces herself for the fight to come, for the explanations she could have done without.

“All along… You were only pretending.”

“Yes. You knew it. You agreed to it,” she reminds him, in a voice she hopes to be kind. She thinks back on their interactions, ever since they agreed to the wedding and started putting on the act, and wonders where exactly she became a much better actress than she thought to be. For surely she believed that she only fooled people into seeing what they wanted to see, that the lies only worked because people were willing to think them in love. Perhaps she was wrong, and offered a much better show than she thought. Perhaps Benvolio took her sarcasm for something else entirely.

“You were convincing,” Benvolio replies, unable to hide the hurt in his voice. “Even more so than you give yourself credit for. You should take pride in this.”

“Do not put the blame on me!” She lets out a puff of breath, willing herself to calm down even as anger rises within her. “Do not act like I was misleading you, when you knew from the very start that this was all an act!”

“Have your feelings toward me not changed during the weeks spent together?”

“Changed, yes. I hated you, and I no longer do. But we both knew this wedding to be a loveless one, and it is but your own fault if you were led to believe otherwise!”

Benvolio turns his head, avoiding her gaze. She wants to lash out at him, wants to tell him how unfair it is to expect so much of her when she can only give so little. She wants to blame him for everything, for putting her into this situation, for forcing his feelings on her. She wants to fight him, until she stops feeling guilty for not loving him back. She wants this, and so much more, but finds herself losing her momentum when Benvolio sniffs pitifully.

There is no ignoring the lone tear rolling down his cheek, nor the way her own stomach twists painfully. For it is not his fault, nor hers, if he loves her yet she can’t return his feelings. Rosaline reaches for his hand, willing to apologize - for her crude words, if not for matters of her heart, but he snatches his hand away before her fingers graze his skin.

“I do apologise for the mistake, my lady,” he tells her, stiff and serious. “And for the discomfort it may have caused you. I will do my best to leave you to your own devises from now on.”

“Benvolio…”

“I shall see you again during our next public outing.”

She wants to protest, but it wouldn’t be fair on him, on either of them. Better let him lick his wounds in peace, instead of making it worse with hollow promises and empty words of comfort. So, even though Rosaline has so much more to say, she lets Benvolio go down the vine, lets him disappear into the shadows of the garden, until she is left staring at a bush of roses, and then at the stars.

She doesn’t know how long she remains like this, minutes or hours, glaring at the moon as if it is the cause of all her troubles. The night is warm yet she shivers when Livia enters the room and calls her name, and it is only when her sister gasps that Rosaline notices the tears in her eyes and on her cheeks, the broken pieces of her own heart that no embrace from Livia can mend.

[no-white-knights-blog]

Halo - An Etrian Odyssey Novel (Chapter 15/50)

Notes: Arcan chapter, yay! Fun fact - my profile picture is official art of Sage, drawn by Rona67 on Deviant-Art. I’m so invested in Halo I spent actual money to commission official art of my children. Sage is beautiful, I will fight

~~~~~~~

Arcan sighed heavily as he shuffled towards his house, stopping partway to the steps and turning his head to watch as the sun set in the distance, casting stunning rays of gold splitting through the blue sky. It was a beautiful sight, something he never got tired of seeing, but he doubted it would be as beautiful as the dark blue he’d seen just hours earlier. Truthfully, he’d never seen anything like those eyes. Like dark sapphires.

The gunner tore his eyes away from the scene causing the sky to turn purple and red and walked the rest of the way to his apartment. His home was located in the midst of the lower wards of Lagaard, everything smelt of rust, soot, and rotten food, sometimes he found people sleeping out in the open, curled into balls in the middle of the day, dressed in ratted clothes and pale as a sheet of papyrus paper.

He’d lived there his entire life, in the ground floor apartment with the red door, the paint chipping and curling with the number 7 bolted onto the door, the metal it was made of rusted so badly that there were brown streaks leading down the front of the door. The lock was broken and the doorknob was splintered, it had cut into his hand plenty of times before, but they couldn’t afford to replace it.

When he grabbed onto it, it cut into the palm of his hand yet again, and he jerked it away with a curse before taking hold of it once more, jiggling it to the right before turning it, then jiggling up before pushing the door in. Of course he had to push hard, the bottom of the door scraping over the floor with a shrieking noise, because it was hanging a little off of the first hinge, which was loose and wobbly.

“Miss Adkin, I’m home! Nana?” Arcan squeezed through the small gap he managed to open and pushed his hair from his face before stepping into the room and pushing the door closed, turning and securing it with a fraying rope for security before turning back and walking up to the table in the small room the front door opened to.

There was a note on the table, tucked under a small basket with a white cloth covering it, and Arcan used that clothed to wrap around the new gash on his hand, frowning at the biscuits sitting in the basket before lifting the note up and sighing.

Arcan,

Couldn’t stay any longer, the old woman is crazy. Took Blaise and left. I’ll take care of him, so you don’t have to worry.

Miss Adkin

“Fucking bitch,” Arcan slammed the note down and tossed the bloody rag onto the table before storming back up to the door, but he didn’t bother with trying to wiggle it open and instead shoved the window beside it open and hopped out, running the few feet to the bottom of the steps that lead up to the top floor.

Miss Adkin’s apartment was on the far north side of the complex, and Arcan ran there. The door was carved with beautiful symbols and pictures and painted a pure white with the number 88 bolted to the front, a lion head just beneath it with a knocker hanging from its mouth. Arcan ignored that factor and punched the door with his fist, the ring knocker clanging in the lion’s mouth for five minutes straight before the door was wrenched open.

Adkin was in her mid-forties, glaring at Arcan with piercing black eyes and greying hair pulled back into a high bun, “What is it?”

“You know exactly what, ma’am. I came to pick my brother up,” he shouldered her aside and stormed into the elegantly decorated entry before calling out, “Blaise!”

“Arcan, you need to face facts,” Miss Adkin chided, “That woman is losing her mind, it’s not a good environment for a child-.”

“So, you think you have a right to kidnap him, huh? We’re doing fine! All I asked was that you keep an eye on nana and Blaise while I’m working! But if you’re going to continue taking him like this then I’ll find someone else to watch them!” Arcan turned away again, “Blaise, come on, let’s go!”

The patter of feet echoed down the hall and Arcan relaxed substantially when his five-year-old brother, Blaise, ran up to him and wrapped his arms around his legs, looking up at him with bright amber eyes and a breathtaking smile.

“Arcan, aunt Adkin let me eat this fancy food, it was sweet and she called it cake!”

“Really?” Arcan asked, his smile broken and forced as he pet back Blaise’s pale blond hair, “Did you have fun?”

“Uh-huh!”

“I’m glad. We’re going to go home now, okay? Are you tired?”

Blaise just frowned a little, pushing his face into Arcan’s stomach, “Will nana start yelling again?” he asked, and Arcan winced a little.

“You know it’s not her fault, kid. I’ll take care of it and you can just stay in our room, okay?”

“It’s not a good environment for him,” Miss Adkin chided condescendingly, “Leave him here, you can hardly feed yourself and that old lady, but I can take care of Blaise. You’re just a kid yourself, you shouldn’t have to worry about raising someone.”

Arcan snarled at her, “He’s my brother.”

“And you’re ruining his life!” Miss Adkin yelled, and Blaise clung to Arcan’s shirt, “Do you know what that kind of environment does to a child?! If you care about your brother at all, you’ll leave him here with me. You can visit whenever you want, he’ll be able to eat his fill, not be hungry, have his own room! These are things you’ve never had before; don’t you want him to have a better chance than you? To have a better chance at life then becoming some reckless explorer only to die young?! At least this way when you’re lost in the Labyrinth, he’ll still have somewhere to live and won’t be shipped off to an orphanage in Etria!”

“Shut up!” Arcan snapped, tightening his grip on Blaise and looking down at him, his face hidden in Arcan’s shirt, rubbing his little back and nudging him to look up, “Do you wanna come home with me or stay here for the night?” he asked, hoping his voice wasn’t shaking as much as he thought, and Blaise’s eyes widened before looking down and frowning, looking utterly confused.

“I wanna go home with you…”

Arcan gave Miss Adkin a smug look and turned towards the door, “Well, ma’am, we’ll be leaving now. Don’t bother stopping by tomorrow, I can ask someone else. Someone more trustworthy. Let’s go Blaise.”

He let the five-year-old run ahead, hiking down the stairs and waiting at the bottom until Arcan had reached him before skipping towards their apartment. Arcan stopped him at the door, tugging him back and turning him towards the window instead.

���Remember I said no touching the door, it’s broken.”

“Sorry,” Blaise said, and Arcan smiled as he picked him up and placed him in the apartment through the window before following and shutting the window behind him and ruffling Blaise’s pale hair.

“Grab a seat, I’ll check on nana and start dinner.”

He left Blaise there and slipped into one of the three other rooms through a door to the left, his nose wrinkling at the unattractive smell and shutting the door behind him. His great grandmother was almost ninety years old, sitting in a chair with quivering fingers and a lost look in her glazed eyes, her hair short and curled and white, wrinkles deep in her sagging, paper-thin skin.

“Hey nana,” Arcan called softly and knelt down in front of the woman who’d raised he and Blaise from the moment the younger was born, “Sorry I was gone so long, but I’m home now. Are you hungry?” he looked at the fireplace and cringed, “Sorry, it’s pretty cold in here. I’ll restock the fire and get you a blanket, okay?”

The old woman didn’t respond, she hadn’t said a word in over a year in fact, and Arcan sighed a little as he stood up, squeezing her frail hand and walking over to the bed set up there, taking a blanket from it and draping it around his catatonic nana before moving over to the fireplace and throwing in a few logs.

As the flames grew he couldn’t help but remember his father, an alchemist, who died in the Labyrinth. He sacrificed himself to save he and his mother, who didn’t even know she was pregnant again until a week after his funeral. She cried when she found out, because she was scared. How was she supposed to provide for two children?

Moving in with her mother, Arcan’s nana, was supposed to make things better, but she overworked herself while pregnant, and when it was time for Blaise to be born, she was too stressed, she lost too much blood, Arcan stood in the room with his baby brother in his arms while his nana held his mother’s hand and she passed away peacefully.

For four years, everything was great, but Arcan’s nana was slowly losing her mind to age, and after only a year the dementia had ravaged her mind and her body entirely. There wasn’t much else Arcan could do besides take care of her, look after Blaise, and take on odd jobs for a little bit of money just so they could afford the shitty apartment they were living in now.

Being an explorer would mean more money for taking on requests, but Arcan wasn’t exactly skilled as a gunner yet. He didn’t have a teacher, and his mother died before she could teach him anything more than he now knew, so when he decided to go looking for someone to train with, it didn’t matter to him if it was a gunner or not. A survivalist taught his mother most of what she knew, so Arcan looked for a survivalist before anything else. The whole reason he approached Iliad was because he was standing at the fountain, Arcan used to throw coins into the water after making wishes, and that was kind of why Arcan went there in the first place.

To throw in one of his last coins and make a wish that something good would happen, a lucky break, and seeing Iliad there… well, it was like he got his wish without throwing his money away. It was a given the explorer would be a little hostile, almost every survivalist Arcan spoke to was, but there was a gentle fire to Iliad’s eyes that made him appear far less intimidating than he tried to act.

So Arcan approached him and asked if he would train with him. At least he didn’t say no, but now Arcan had to somehow manage a seemingly impossible feat and shoot a fucking leaf out of a tree without ruining it. How could anyone do that?! Was Iliad skilled enough to manage something so incredible? If he was then Arcan definitely wanted to train with him.

“I’m really sorry nana,” Arcan sighed as he stood up, pulling his gun from the holster belted around his hips and opening the chamber, “I ended up wasting a bunch of bullets trying to shoot a leaf out of a tree,” he laughed and shook his head, “I guess I’m pretty desperate, but don’t worry, I’ll do some quick jobs around town tomorrow so I can buy more bullets at Sitoth Trading. All I have to do is shoot a leaf, then I can train to be a real explorer, and we’ll have enough money to get you some medicine,” he squeezed the old woman’s hand again and sighed, dropping his head, “I’ll go make dinner, just sit tight.”

The night was a methodic memory of movements he’d done a hundred times and more. Dump a bunch of leftovers from their previous meals into a pot and make a stew that was tasteless and hardly edible but gave the nutrients needed to live. Arcan hated the fall to Blaise’s face when the bowl was set in front of him, but he still smiled and thanked his brother like it was the best food in the world.

Arcan didn’t eat, there wasn’t enough, he focused on sitting with his nana and spooning stew into her partially open mouth. It’s nothing he hadn’t done before, it was like feeding Blaise when he was still a baby, but having to do it to an elderly woman who practically raised him made it so much harder.

After getting the woman into bed he went back out and was pleased to see Blaise was soaking up the remains of the stew in his bowl with one of the biscuits Miss Adkin had left, holding the dish up with a proud smile to show Arcan he’d finished all on his own. The next step was to push the boy in the direction of the second room, to the right of the table, so he could clean himself up in the little bathroom and get ready for bed.

While Blaise did that, Arcan cleaned the dishes, stoked the fireplace in his nana’s room, secured the door the best he could, because poverty stricken or not, there was always something lower ward bandits would want to steal. In this case one of Arcan’s dual guns, vintage and gifted to him when his mother passed, or his father’s arm guards, which were gold plated, a little dented, but likely worth a fortune, or even the biscuits sitting on the table.

Hell, Arcan was certain that some of them would be willing to kidnap Blaise to sell as a slave in Etria. He couldn’t let that happen.

Their bedroom was much smaller than their nana’s, for obvious reasons. Their bed was a worn mattress stuffed with extra sheets and blankets to make it more comfortable, and a thick comforter that smelled so much like their mother. It calmed Blaise down enough to curl up underneath it, watching Arcan shut the door and making sure the window was locked and covered before slipping in beside him. They had to share the same bed of course, but Arcan didn’t mind, and it made Blaise feel safer to curl up against him.

“Can I have a bedtime story?” Blaise asked softly, and Arcan rolled his head, tearing his eyes away from the gun he was holding up and staring at to smile at the five-year-old using his shoulder as a pillow.

“Sure.”

There were several times Arcan considered selling the guns and arm guards for a little more money, surely he could get enough to pay rent and buy some actual food, maybe even get Blaise a treat, but the very thought of parting with these relics, these heirlooms passed to him by his deceased parents, filled him with a sense of loss and dread that had his eyes burning.

Even some of his neighbors asked why he bothered to keep them, just melt the gold down for profit, but they didn’t understand. No one understood…

~

“Just for a few hours,” Arcan assured, squeezing Blaise’s hands and beaming at him, “I’ll be home before sunset, I promise,” Blaise nodded his head slowly and Arcan stood up, smiling at the woman standing beside the table, “Thank you for doing this, I was worried I might not be able to find anyone, and I didn’t want to ask that woman again.”

The light-haired medic waved a hand with a smile, “It’s not a problem, I don’t have a hospital shift today, so it’s the least I could do to check up on your nana and babysit for a while.”

“I really shouldn’t be gone too long. I already asked and I was able to get an easy job down by the docks. Hopefully it can get me a bit so I can buy us food.”

The medic, Angie, bit onto her lip before smiling and nodding. “You know if you need any help, there’s no shame in it.”

“I doubt there’s much you can do, and I don’t want to trouble anyone,” Arcan said, ruffling Blaise’s hair and turning for the door, “Be good!”

A few hours of dock work was all he could get, carrying crates he could barely lift off of ships and onto the docks to get organized and brought into Lagaard, distributed between the different stores and restaurants in town. He was on his way to the bar when he got distracted by someone yelling at him. By name. When he turned, he was mildly stunned to see Iliad was the one standing there.

“What are you doing?” the survivalist asked when he was close enough, and Arcan pointed at himself.

“Working.”

“Why aren’t you training the way I told you to?” Iliad asked, “If you want me to train with you then you need to shoot a leaf out of the tallest tree you can find! That was the deal!”

“Yea, I remember,” Arcan smiled a little, “I was trying all day yesterday! I ran out of bullets though, so I need to make some extra money to buy more.”

Iliad stared at Arcan with a blank expression, like he was trying to comprehend the fact Arcan was broke, then squinted, “Are you stupid? Throw the gun itself or something! Do you think if you run out of bullets in the Labyrinth Sitoth Trading will be there? You think a monster is going to wait for you? No! You run out of bullets, you die!”

“Well hey, I didn’t have a lot to begin with,” Arcan said, furrowing his brows, “If you wanna wait here for a little I just have to drop this box off with Cass at the bar and grab my day’s pay from the docks, I’ll go to Sitoth Trading after and get some bullets,” he shrugged with one shoulder and Iliad threw his hands up.

“Whatever! Why did I even bother with you? All gunners are the same.”

He spun around, but he was walking to Sitoth Trading, so Arcan smiled and shook his head before carrying the box the rest of the way to the bar, then sprinted back to the dock for his pay. He counted it out on the way to Sitoth Trading but paused with a heavy frown before he got there, closing the little drawstring bag with a sigh.

Iliad was leaning against the wall outside trading, and he pushed away when he saw Arcan, “You made me wait so you better have a leaf after today.”

“Ah, actually,” Arcan held the bag up, “I don’t have enough for bullets today. I’ll have to try again tomorrow.”

Iliad held his hand out, “That’s plenty for bullets, what are you talking about?!”

“Yea, just bullets, but I have to buy food for tonight,” Arcan explained, slipping the money into a pouch belted to his thigh, “Maybe tomorrow, okay? Do you mind waiting?”

Iliad snarled a little, bristling like a kitten who was just denied a toy, and Arcan would have laughed at how cute he looked if it weren’t for what Iliad snapped at him, “Don’t bother, you obviously don’t care nearly enough, so the deals off,” he stormed past, “Have fun finding a friendly survivalist.”

Arcan sucked in through his teeth and closed his eyes before shoving the pain back down his throat and turning with a smile and a wave, “I’m sorry I disappointed you,” he said, his voice choked, and Iliad stopped, but Arcan turned and walked away before the explorer could meet his glassy eyes.

That had been his last chance. He told himself if he could find a teacher within the week then he’d be able to become an explorer, but he searched everywhere he could think and no such luck. He didn’t have time to keep searching, rent was due in three days and he was broke, they would barely eat that night.

So when he got home he let Angie take the basket of food to prepare dinner and shuffled into his nana’s room where his father’s chest was, kneeling down and opening it to reveal the beautiful gold arm guards, sighing with a drop of his head.

“Sorry dad. Sorry mom. I gotta make sure Blaise can eat. I… I’ll make it up to you both, someday.”

[sex-chat-pics]

Sex

THOSE WHO SET OFF down the path of exploring new kinds of relationships and new lifestyles often find themselves blocked by beliefs–about the way society should be, the way relationships should be, the way people should be–that are both deeply rooted and unexamined.

We have all been taught that one way of relating–lifelong monogamous heterosexual marriage–is the only right way. We are told that monogamy is "normal" and "natural"; if our desires do not fit into that constraint, we are morally deficient, psychologically disturbed, and going against nature.

Many of us feel instinctively that something is wrong with this picture. But how can you dig up and examine a belief that you don't even know you hold? The ideal of lifelong monogamy as the only proper goal for relationships is so deeply buried in our culture that it's almost invisible: we operate on these beliefs without even knowing we believe them. They're under our feet all the time, the foundation for our assumptions, our values, our desires, our myths, our expectations. We don't notice them until we trip over them.

Where did these beliefs get started? Often, they evolved to meet conditions that no longer exist. Our beliefs about traditional marriage date from agrarian cultures, where you made everything you ate or wore or used, where large extended families helped get this huge amount of work done so nobody starved, and where marriage was a working proposition. When we talk about "traditional family values," this is the family we are talking about: an extended family of grandparents and aunts and cousins, an organization to accomplish the work of staying alive. We see large families functioning in traditional ways in America today, often in cultures recently transplanted from other countries, or as a basic support system among economically vulnerable urban or rural populations.

Curiously, controlling sexual behavior didn't seem to be that important outside the propertied classes until the Industrial Revolution, which launched a whole new era of sex-negativity, perhaps because of the rising middle class and the limited space for children in urban cultures. Doctors and ministers in the late eighteenth century began to claim that masturbation was unhealthy and sinful, that this most innocent of sexual outlets was dangerous to society–nineteenth-century childrearing manuals show devices to prevent babies from touching their genitals in their sleep. So any desire for sex, even with yourself, became a shameful secret.

But human nature will win out. We are horny creatures, and the more sexually repressive a culture becomes, the more outrageous its covert sexual thoughts and behaviors will become, as any fan of Victorian porn can attest.

In his lectures to young communists in Germany during the rise of Hitler and the Nazis, psychologist Wilhelm Reich theorized that the suppression of sexuality was essential to an authoritarian government. Without the imposition of antisexual morality, he believed, people would be free from shame and would trust their own sense of right and wrong. They would be unlikely to march to war against their wishes, or to operate death camps. Perhaps if we were raised without shame and guilt about our desires, we might be freer people in more ways than simply the sexual.

The nuclear family, which consists of parents and children relatively isolated from the extended family, is a relic of the twentieth-century middle class. Children no longer work on the farm or in the family business; they are raised almost like pets. Modern marriage is no longer essential for survival. Now we marry in pursuit of comfort, security, sex, intimacy, and emotional connection. The increase in divorce, so deplored by today's religious right, may simply reflect the economic reality that today most of us can afford to leave relationships in which we are not happy; nobody will starve.

And still modern puritans, perhaps not yet ready to deal with the frightening prospect of truly free sexual and romantic choice, attempt to enforce the nuclear family and monogamous marriage by teaching sexual shame.

We believe that the current set of "oughta-be's" and any other set, are cultural artifacts. We believe that Nature is wondrously diverse, offering us infinite possibilities. We would like to live in a culture that respects the choices made by sluts as highly as we respect the couple celebrating their fiftieth anniversary. (And, come to think of it, what makes us assume that such a couple is monogamous anyway?)

We are paving new roads across new territory. We have no culturally approved scripts for open sexual lifestyles; we need to write our own. To write your own script requires a lot of effort, and a lot of honesty, and is the kind of hard work that brings many rewards. You may find the right way for you, and three years from now decide you want to live a different way-and that's fine. You write the script, you get to make the choices, and you get to change your mind, too.

EXERCISE

Sluts We Know and Love - Make a list of all the people you can think of who are not monoga­mous, including characters from TV, movies, books, and so on. How do you feel a bout each of them? What can you learn (positive or negative) from him or her?

Judgements about Sluts

As you try to figure out your own path, you may encounter a lot of harsh judgments about the ways different people live. We're sure you don't need us to tell you that the world does not, for the most part, honor sluthood, or think well of those of us who are sexually explorative.

You will probably find some of these judgments in your own brain, burrowed in deeper than you ever realized. We believe that they say a lot more about the culture that promotes them than they do about any actual person, including you.

"PROMISCUOUS"

This means we enjoy too many sexual partners. We've also been called "indiscriminate" in our sexuality, which we resent: we can always tell our lovers apart.

We do not believe that there is such a thing as too much sex, except perhaps on certain happy occasions when our options exceed our abili­ties. Nor do we believe that the ethics we are talking about here have anything to do with moderation or abstinence. Kinsey once defined a "nymphomaniac" as "someone who has more sex than you" and, scientist that he was, demonstrated his point with statistics.

Is having less sex somehow more virtuous than having more? We think not. We measure the ethics of good sluts not by the number of their partners, but by the respect and care with which they treat them.

"AMORAL"

Our culture also tells us that sluts are evil, uncaring, amoral, and destructive: Jezebel, Casanova, Don Juan. The mythological evil slut is grasping and manipulative, seeking to steal something-virtue, money, self-esteem-from his partners. In some ways, this archetype is based on the idea that sex is a commodity, a coin you trade for something else-stability, children, a wedding ring-and that any other transac­tion constitutes being cheated and betrayed.

We have rarely observed any Jezebels or Casanovas in our com­munity, but perhaps it is not very satisfying for a thief to steal what is freely given. We do not worry about being robbed of our sexual value by the people we share pleasure with.

"SINFUL"

Some people base their sense of ethics on what they've been told that God, or their church, or their parents, or their culture, believes to be okay or not okay. They believe that being good consists of obedience to laws set down by a power greater than themselves.

Religion, we think, has a great deal to offer to many people­ the comfort of faith and the security of community among them. But believing that God doesn't like sex, as many religions seem to, is like believing that God doesn't like you. Because of this belief, a tre­mendous number of people carry great shame for their own perfectly natural sexual desires and activities.

We prefer the beliefs of a woman we met, a devoted churchgoer in a fundamentalist faith. She told us that when she was about five years old, she discovered the joys of masturbation in the back seat of the family car, tucked under a warm blanket on a long trip. It felt so won­derful that she concluded that the existence of her clitoris was proof positive that God loved her.

"PATHOLOGICAL"

When psychological studies of human behavior came into vogue in the late nineteenth century, Krafft-Ebing and Freud attempted to create more tolerance by theorizing that sluts are not bad but sick, suffering from psychopathology that is not their fault, since their neurosis derives from having their sexuality warped by their parents during their toilet training. So, they said, we should no longer burn sluts at the stake but instead send them to mental hospitals to be cured, in an environment that permits no sexual expression at all, healthy or otherwise.

During your authors' childhood and adolescence in the early 1 960s, it was common practice to certify and incarcerate adolescents for "treat­ment" of the "illness" of being sexual, especially if they were gay or lesbian, or female and in danger of damaging their market value as virgins. This sort of thing still takes place more often than you might think. More recently we hear about sex addicts, avoidance of intimacy, commitment-phobia, and attachment disorders. These terms were cre­ated to describe genuine problems, but they are far too often used as weapons in a moral war against all sexual freedom.

The whole idea of sex addiction is a controversial one: many people feel that the word "addiction" is not well suited to discussing behavioral issues like sex. However, everybody seems to agree that substituting sex for fulfillment of other needs-to allay anxiety, for instance, or bolster sagging self-esteem-represents a problem.

Only you can decide whether your sexual behaviors have become compulsive and whether you wish to change them. Some people try to validate their sexual attractiveness over and over, using sex as constant reassurance because they do not see themselves as inherently attractive or lovable. Sex can be used as a substitute for connection. Sex can be the only coin valuable enough to attract attention and approval.

Some twelve-step groups and therapists who subscribe to the addic­tion model may try to tell you that anything but the most conservative of sexual behaviors is wrong, or unhealthy, or "into your addiction"; we encourage you to trust your own beliefs and find yourself a sup­portive environment. Sexual Compulsives Anonymous and Sex Addicts Anonymous encourage you to define the healthy sex life you want for yourself. If your goal is monogamy, that's fine, and if your goal is to stop seeking sex in the place of friendship, or any other behavior pat­tern that you wish to resculpt, that's fine too. We do not believe that successfully recovering sex addicts have to be monogamous unless they want to be.

"EASY"

Is there, we wonder, some virtue in being difficult?

Myths about Sluts

One of the challenges facing the ethical slut is our culture's insistence that, simply because "everybody knows" something, it must obviously be true. We urge you to regard with great skepticism any sentence that begins "Everybody knows that ... " or "Common sense tells us that ... " or "It's common knowledge that ... " Often, these phrases are sign­posts for cultural belief systems that may be antisexual, monogamy­ centrist, and/or codependent. Questioning "what everybody does" can be difficult and disorienting, but we have found it to be rewarding: questioning is the first step toward generating a new paradigm, your own paradigm of how you ought to be.

Cultural belief systems can be very deeply rooted in literature, law, and archetypes, which means that shaking them from your own per­sonal ethos can be difficult. But the first step in exploring them is, of course, recognizing them. Here, then, are some of the pervasive myths that we have heard all our lives and have come to understand are most often untrue and destructive to our relationships and our lives.

MYTH #1: LONG-TERM MONOGAMOUS RELATIONSHIPS ARE THE ONLY REAL RELATIONSHIPS

Lifetime monogamy as an ideal is a relatively new concept in human history and makes us unique among primates. There is nothing that can be achieved within a long-term monogamous relationship that can not be achieved without one. Business partnership, deep attachment, stable parenting, personal growth, care and companionship in old age are all well within the abilities of the slut.

People who believe this myth may feel that something is wrong with them if they aren't in a committed twosome-if they prefer to remain free agents, if they discover themselves loving more than one person at a time, if they have tried one or more traditional relationships that didn't work out. Instead of questioning the myth, they question them­selves: Am I incomplete? Where is my other half? The myth teaches them that they are not good enough in and of themselves. Often people develop a very unrealistic view of couplehood–Mr. or Ms. Right will automatically solve all their problems, fill all the gaps, make their lives complete.

A subset of this myth is the belief that if you're really in love, you will automatically lose all interest in others; thus, if you're having sexual or romantic feelings toward anyone but your partner, you're not really in love. This belief has cost many people a great deal of happiness through the centuries yet is untrue to the point of absurdity: a ring around the finger does not cause a nerve block to the genitals.

And, we must ask, if monogamy is the only acceptable option, the only true form of love, than are these agreements genuinely consensual? We have many friends who have chosen to be monogamous, and we applaud them. But how many people in our society consciously make that choice?

MYTH #2: ROMANTIC LOVE IS THE ONLY REAL LOVE

Look at the lyrics of popular songs, or read some classical poetry: the phrases we choose to describe romantic love don't really sound all that pleasant. Crazy in love, love hurts, obsession, heartbreak ... these are all descriptions of mental or physical illness.The thing that gets called romantic love in this culture seems to be a heady cocktail of lust and adrenaline, sparked by uncertainty, insecurity, perhaps even anger or danger. The chills up the spine that we recognize as passion are, in fact, the same physical phenomenon as hair rising up on a cat's back and are caused by the fight-or-flight response.This kind of love can be thrilling and overwhelming and sometimes a hell of a lot of fun, but it is not the only "real" kind of love, nor is it always a good basis for an ongoing relationship. Yet as George Bernard Shaw famously remarked, "When two people are under the influence of the most violent, most insane, most delusive, and most transient of passions, they are required to swear that they will remain in that excited, abnormal, and exhausting condition continuously until death do them part."

MYTH #3: SEXUAL DESIRE IS A DESTRUCTIVE FORCE

This one goes all the way back to the Garden of Eden and leads to a lot of crazy-making double standards. Some religions appear to believe that women's sexuality is evil and dangerous, and exists only to lure men to their doom. From the Victorian era, we get the idea that men are hopelessly voracious and predatory when it comes to sex, and women are supposed to control and civilize them by being pure, asexual, and withholding-men are the gas pedal and women the brakes, which is, we think, pretty hard on the engine. Neither of these works for us. Many people also believe that unashamed sexual desire, particularly desire for more than one person, inevitably destroys the family–yet we suspect that far more families have been destroyed by bitter divorces over adultery than have ever been disturbed by ethical consensual non monogamy.

MYTH #4: LOVING SOMEONE MAKES IT OKAY TO CONTROL HIS OR HER BEHAVIOR

This kind of territorial reasoning is designed, we guess, to make people feel secure, but we don't believe that anybody has the right, much less the obligation. to control the behavior of another functioning adult.

Being treated according to this myth doesn't make us feel secure, it makes us feel furious. The old "awww, she's jealous-she must really care about me" reasoning, or the scene in which the girl falls in love with the boy when he punches out a rival suitor, are symptomatic of a very disturbed set of personal boundaries that can lead to a great deal of unhappiness.

This myth also leads to the belief, so often promulgated in Holly­wood films and popular literature, that sleeping with someone else is something you do to your partner, not for yourself, and is, moreover, the very worst thing you can do to someone. For many years, in New York State, adultery was the only legally acceptable grounds for divorce, leaving those who had unfortunately married batterers or drunks in a very difficult position. And the legal punishment for "cheating" could be to lose one's job, home, money, and kids, because of the wounding to the "betrayed" partner-that is, if you got caught. So one was sup­posed to cheat in secrecy to protect one's partner's dignity and keep the family together.

MYTH #5: JEALOUSY IS INEVITABLE AND IMPOSSIBLE TO OVERCOME

Jealousy is, without a doubt, a very common experience, so much so that a person who doesn't experience jealousy is looked at as a bit odd, or in denial. But often a situation that would cause intense jealousy for one person can be no big deal for another. Some people get jealous when their honey takes a sip out of someone else's Coke, others happily watch their beloved wave bye-bye for a month of amorous sporting with a friend at the far end of the country.

Some people also believe that jealousy is such a shattering emotion that they have no choice but to succumb to it. People who believe this often believe that any form of non monogamy should be nonconsensual and completely secret, in order to protect the "betrayed" partner from having to feel such an impossibly difficult emotion.

On the contrary, we have found that jealousy is an emotion like any other: it feels bad (sometimes very bad), but it is not intolerable. We have also found that many of the "oughta-be's" that lead to jealousy can be unlearned and that unlearning them is often a useful process. Later in this book, we will spend a lot more time talking about jealousy and the strategies many people have successfully employed to cope with it.

MYTH #6: OUTSIDE INVOLVEMENTS REDUCE INTIMACY IN THE PRIMARY RELATIONSHIP

Most marriage counselors, and certain popular TV psychologists, believe when a member of an otherwise happy couple has an "affair," this must be a symptom of unresolved conflict or unfulfilled needs that should be dealt with in the primary relationship. Of course, this is occasionally true, but not nearly as often as many "relationship gurus" would like us to believe. Moreover, this myth leaves no room for the possibility of growthful and constructive open sexual lifestyles.

It is cruel and insensitive to interpret an affair as a symptom of sickness in the relationship, as it leaves "cheated-on" partners-who may already be feeling insecure-to wonder what is wrong with them. Meanwhile, "cheating" partners get told that they are only trying to get back at their primary partners and don't really want, need, or even like their lovers.

Many people have sex outside their primary relationships for reasons that have nothing to do with any inadequacy in their partner or in the relationship. The new relationship may simply be a natural extension of an emotional and/or physical attraction to someone besides the primary partner. Or perhaps this outside relationship allows a particular kind of intimacy that the primary partner doesn't even want (such as kinky sex or going to football games) and thus constitutes a solution for an otherwise insoluble conflict. Or perhaps it meets other needs-like a need for uncomplicated physical sex without the trappings of relation­ship, or for sex with someone of a gender other than one's partner's, or for sex at a time when it is otherwise not available (during travel or a partner's illness, for example).

An outside involvement does not have to subtract in any way from the intimacy you share with your partner unless you let it. And we sincerely hope you won't.

MYTH #7: LOVE CONQUERS ALL

Hollywood tells us that "love means never having to say you're sorry," and we, fools that we are, believe it. This myth has it that if you're really in love with someone, you never have to argue, disagree, communicate, negotiate, or do any other kind of work. It also tells us that love means we automatically get turned on by our beloved and that we never have to lift a finger or make any effort to deliberately kindle passion. Those who believe this myth may find themselves feeling that their love has failed every time they need to schedule a discussion or to have a courteous (or not-so-courteous) disagreement. They may also believe that any sexual behavior that doesn't fit their criteria for "normal" sex–from fantasies to vibrators–is "artificial" and indicates that something is lacking in the quality of love.

EXERCISE

Why Sluthood? Why Not? - Write a list of every reason you can think of that any person anywhere might want to be a slut. You can do this on your own, or with a friend or a lover. Which of these tell you what kind of slut you don't want to be? Which of these are your very good and valid reasons?