#fragmented and confused like she is; yet that changes with the passage of time | Explore Tumblr posts and blogs

lucyintheskywithxanax · 4 years ago

Text

To Be Heroes

Requested by: @msvenablx young Wilhemina x reader being students together and falling in love but reader has to deal with internalized homophobia

Idk if this is what you had in mind, but I do hope you’ll like it xx

All quotes are from Mrs Dalloway.

Warnings: there is some smut at the end, my friends

Word count: ≈ 7 400

You opened the book and ran your thumb down the page. You had gone back to it over and over again in the past week to soothe your fear and confusion, and now you would read it again, with the same beating heart and clammy fingers.

Someone walked past your table. You flinched. Barely raised your head to catch a glimpse of a dark blue blouse and blond curly hair but it didn’t matter, you didn’t care, about anyone but – you cut your thought short. Gagged it and buried it and bit your lip as you forced yourself to focus on the words before your eyes. You had read them over and over again, you knew them. It should be easy, like performing routine, no surprises no accident no unplanned earth-shattering event and yet! the same rush of disgust and delight, the same quickening of your heart as you read: Sally kissed her on the lips.

The page was well-thumbed now. You had dirtied it with your need for relief. It looked a little battered like an officer coming back from battle, and when you tried to smooth it with your fingertips, nothing changed. It remained the same. As if the paper had been forever soiled and deformed by whatever dark and confusing feelings you had poured out over it.

You took a deep breath. You would read it again from the start, the whole passage. From their meeting to the end. You had never read it in a book before, especially not in a classic: two women, loving. Each other. It seemed to you it should have been kept a shameful secret and yet it had been printed time and time again for all the world to read.

You began. But this question of love (she thought, putting her coat away), this falling in love with women. But stop! Already you were feeling breathless. Already there was terror. And yet it must be sublime, for your eyes fell on the page again, and you were about to read the next sentence when a voice whispered on your right.

You looked up. It was one of your friends. The library was full. Could she sit with you?

You didn’t want to. You needed loneliness to hide your shame in. But already your friend was sitting down on the chair opposite from you, and scattering her things on your table, and nodding at your book. “Have you started on your essay yet?” she whispered, leaning towards you so you could hear her.

You shook your head.

“Me neither,” whispered your friend. She pulled her laptop out of her bag, put it on the table. It was a table for two but it was small, and her laptop encroached on your half of it. “I simply do not have anything to say.”

You nodded.

“Chris says he already wrote five pages but I simply do not believe it,” your friend went on, retrieving her water bottle and putting it close to where your left hand was on the table. She glanced up at you. “Well, you know how he is. Always bragging, and yesterday when he said Modernism hates fragmentation? How can he write five pages about that book when he clearly doesn’t know a thing about –”

“Have you been ignoring me?” whispered someone else.

You must have been quite immersed in trying to find a way to get rid of your friend, because you hadn’t heard her coming. You hadn’t heard her cane, hadn’t felt that tingling and that dread which somehow made your body come to life before you even knew she was close.

Your friend’s eyes shot up, to glance above your right shoulder. You didn’t dare turn and look. Not quite yet. The terror and the joy had to be put back under control, your breathing, your falling, the heat inside of you and the trembling of your hands still gripping the book. But her impatience, soaring and soaring and crashing against you – and your eagerness.

You looked.

Wilhemina was standing a few inches from you, tall and stiff and clearly annoyed.

Looking at her hurt you.

“Have you been ignoring me?” she repeated, louder.

Your friend had fallen silent. She pretended to focus on her work, but you knew, from the look in her eyes, that she was listening.

“I have not,” you heard yourself say, robotically.

Wilhemina’s face hardened. It was incredible, how different she looked now, in public, and how different she had looked then, in secret with you. How vulnerable and young she had looked then, when she had pressed her fingertips to your cheek, her lips parted and her eyes wide open; how in awe, how incredibly tender.

“Funny,” Wilhemina said, and there was poison dripping from her voice, “I clearly remember that you walked right past me this morning as if I were invisible. And I clearly remember calling you five times in the past two days, and you haven’t called me back.” She paused. You stared down at your book in shame. “I’ve been worried about you,” Wilhemina added, voice softer now.

Your friend’s eyes flicked to you, not quite daring to meet your gaze, glancing at your right wrist instead.

You cleared your throat. “Yes, well,” you whispered, your face burning, “I have been incredibly busy.”

Wilhemina scoffed. “Doing what?”

“Studying.”

In the silence that followed, you found the strength to look again. She was staring at your book, disdainfully. Automatically you gripped it tighter. She noticed, and looked up to meet your eyes.

And you held her gaze.

Your first love wasn’t supposed to look like this. Your first love’s waist was too slender, hands too soft, shoulders not broad enough. When he comes, your parents had said, your whole life will change. When he comes, you had piped out, confidently. He will be.

“And do you think,” Wilhemina said, bitter and angry, “that you could spare five minutes to talk to me?”

You had dreamt of a first love like the ones you had read about, when everything becomes clear and bright. Not something like this, something complicated and confusing – a woman. This kind of love disgusted you. This kind of love wasn’t what you were supposed to want. And yet how loud it was, how insistent, burning you and ravaging you and making you feel as if you could achieve anything, anything, if you would just give in.

Wilhemina realized that you hadn’t listened to her. Her jaw tightened.

“Y/N,” she said – too loud, drawing curious eyes to her –, “have you managed to become deaf and stupid in so short a time?”

“No,” you heard yourself say. Your brain was empty and your mouth was dry when you spoke next. “I just don’t have anything to say to you.”

Hurt flashed in Wilhemina’s eyes, and your chest tightened with guilt.

“I don’t think,” you added quickly, but it was so low you didn’t think she heard you.

Her eyes flicked to your friend. She didn’t want to speak here, where she was exposed. She was learning to hide herself.

“Would you mind walking out with me for a minute?” she said.

She shifted her weight on her feet, nervously; she was growing nervous, becoming aware of the curious glances shot her way. She had spoken too loudly again.

Your fingers were clammy. They were adding wounds to the paper.

“I can’t,” you whispered. You lowered your eyes.

Wilhemina’s voice came out quivering. “Why not?”

“I have an essay to write.”

Another pause. You couldn’t find the strength to look up at her again. There would be pain in her eyes instead of tenderness and her cheeks would be pale instead of flushed, that delicate, fascinating pink which should have been the colour of dawn but had been that of death because you, in your terror, had pulled away – when she had pressed her fingertips to your cheek.

“All I’m asking for is five minutes,” Wilhemina tried.

“And I told you I can’t,” you replied, staring blindly at your hands. Your vision was a bit blurry. Your chest was too tight.

You could feel Wilhemina’s anger and confusion, commanding you to explain, to give her a reason she could hold on to instead of this – this cruel, cowardly dismissal. But you kept staring at your hands, blinking, praying that she would give up and leave. Maybe later you would find the courage to explain. But not now, not here.

You closed your eyes and prayed she would disappear. And then something inside you roared, mad and raging and clutching at your neck because there wasn’t a single scenario in which you wanted her away from you.

And you almost opened your eyes. But there was the sound of her cane hitting the floor, once, and then of her walking away.

And then silence. Nervous and expectant. Until the murmurs started.

“Did you guys fight?” your friend whispered.

She leaned over the table towards you, her face eager and worried. You wanted to cry.

“No,” you managed to choke out. The lines on the soiled page of the book were dancing before your eyes, hopping and laughing. You had wanted to forget yourself in them, but now you couldn’t anymore. You were too aware of your own self, of its shame and its disgust, of its hating and its loving, all merging into each other to become confusion.

Your friend watched you for a few seconds more, until she realized she wouldn’t be getting anything out of you and focused on her work again.

Someone behind you laughed. But it wasn’t my fault, you nearly snapped at them. It was she who had leaned in, and pressed her fingertips on your cheek, it was Wilhemina who had waged war on normality and safety. And coming to find you in the library, disrupting the silence and almost making a scene! Now people would talk. They would suspect there was something between you, when there had been nothing – but the touch of three fingertips. It burnt still, surviving time, burning where her skin had touched yours. You hated that you wanted more of it.

It wasn’t fair, it simply wasn’t fair, that she had been bold.

And of course, you thought, people would talk. People were used to seeing you and Wilhemina together. She drew eyes, with her cane and red hair and sharp tongue. And you, always by her side, giving kind smiles and warm laughs to those her words had hurt. Like winter and summer.

You two had met the year before, your freshman year, two English students more skilled in understanding fictional worlds than reality. She was obsessed with Bram Stoker and you swore by Emily Brontë. She called her an “overrated, disgustingly drippy country girl”. You became inseparable.

So when you walked into the lecture room and sat down far away from her, people wondered. When they saw her sitting alone at the cafeteria with her face blank and her eyes glazed, they started to talk. They looked at you during tutorials, and then at her, facing each other.

You tried changing classes, but it was almost the end of the term and your teachers refused. They looked at you curiously, and you gritted your teeth and kept silent. You couldn’t tell them the mere sight of her shattered your world every single time, so that you had to rebuild it again and again. It was exhausting, and you were starting to fear your strength would run out.

For it was wrong, wrong, your love for her and when she had – when she had touched your cheek, she had acknowledged it, and she had returned it, and it had merely killed you.

And so you were waiting for the term to end so that you could make your cowardly exit. You refused to think of the future beyond that. Wilhemina had always said she would change her major after two years, and you had always joked that you would follow her, no matter the subject she would settle on: law, management, whole new worlds which looked strange and abstract and unwelcoming to you, but which would, Wilhemina assured, ensure success in life. English literature was a detour, to develop skills other students would lack. She had everything planned. She would be successful. And you, looking at her, had nodded and pictured success as having her by your side, always. It had been your one certainty, the one thing you would always fight for. And now everything had changed.

And why, you thundered, wasn’t she putting up a bigger fight? Had she cared so little about you, that she was giving up on you so easily now? The thought nagged at you. But when you considered it more clearly, surprise and hurt faded and were replaced by guilt. Wilhemina had never thought she was worthy of your affection, and had expected you to realize it one day. And pray, who was she to claim you? She wouldn’t impose herself on you, wouldn’t hold you back.

That thought was worse than the first.

You felt confused and lost, and terrified and sad, and so you lost yourself in books to forget and find answers.

You read about men falling in love with men, and women falling in love with women. You couldn’t decide whether it terrified or amazed you or both. Almost you fell behind with your studies, devoting yourself to soothing the fear inside you and feeding your famished heart. And between two chapters, you kept an eye on Wilhemina.

You didn’t realize you were doing it at first. But as Basil added color to Dorian’s cheeks, you prayed yours didn’t flush when you met Wilhemina’s eyes – just for a second, an accident, quickly averting your eyes again. Your gaze was irremediably drawn to her: in the class room, lecture room, cafeteria, in the corridors it would find her, tall and proud and alone. The friends you had in common were your friends, really; when you and her split, they followed you. Wilhemina was too awkward, too cold. She said mean things they didn’t have the wits or courage to reply to. She took too long to do what they enjoyed doing. They were young, and full of life: they ran after buses they were about to miss, pushed through excited crowds, laughed carelessly and freely. And she wasn’t kind enough to be worth they waited for.

In this manner two weeks passed. You read of people who were like you, and the more you read, the more the fear and disgust inside you diminished. They didn’t disappear, but sometimes like a storm they would quiet down and a timid, fragile calm would peak through the clouds. In its light you were able to think more clearly. In its light, your feeling of guilt grew.

It grew to the point that you were considering reaching out to Wilhemina to explain yourself; and certainly you would have, if things hadn’t come to a sudden change.

You were in your dorm room, sitting at your desk and reading Maurice. The hours had passed by without you noticing them, and it was already 1am when a loud, urgent knock on your door startled you back into reality.

A quick glance at the time made you nervous. It was one of your friends, you told yourself as you stood up, in need of something urgent. You hadn’t spent much time with them in the past two weeks. Maybe they were worried, and had decided, a little drunkenly, to check on you in the middle of the night.

Cautiously you opened your door.

Wilhemina threw herself at you, pushing you back into your room and slamming the door behind her. Before you had time to say a word, she threw her arms around your neck and pressed herself against you, pushing her face against your shoulder. She was trembling.

For a second you stood as if frozen, mouth opened and heart drumming as you tried to understand what was happening. Then without thinking you wrapped one arm around her waist, pulling her deeper in, and cradled her head in your other hand. Your eyes closed as you sank into the feeling of having her so close again.

It didn’t last long. Already she was pulling away, straightening up and lifting her chin. But she was still trembling, and you refused to let go of her waist when you realized she didn’t have her cane.

“What’s wrong?”

You had barely gotten the words out before there was another knock on your door, as loud but less urgent. And threatening.

Wilhemina flinched. Her eyes met yours in warning, but you gave her a reassuring smile. There was inside you some sort of peaceful strength, warm and confident, that seemed to be carrying you and emboldening you. You felt like you were made of light. Somehow, unaware of its origin, but confident as to its reason for being, you knew it would spill out of you and smother anyone who meant Wilhemina harm.

In one quick movement you opened your door and planted yourself threatening like a god of old to face the three boys who stood, smirking, in the empty corridor. The one in the middle, who looked so young you had trouble believing he was even a freshman, was holding Wilhemina’s cane in his hands.

His smirk faltered when he saw the fierceness on your face.

“This doesn’t belong to you,” you snarled, reaching out to grab the cane, but he took a step back and held it closer to his chest.

“It doesn’t belong to you either,” said the boy on his left. Tall and stout. You didn’t care. There wasn’t an ounce of fear within you. Even though you were smaller than them, you felt as if you were towering over them. They felt the same. Hesitation threw shadows in their eyes.

“Look here,” said the boy on the left. He took a step towards you, straightening his back to look stronger, but you didn’t even blink. “This doesn’t concern you. So if you move aside, you won’t get hurt.”

“Get out of my sight,” you growled, anger flaring in your chest.

“Is it some kind of feminist sisterly shit? We’re not going to hurt her, we just want to see what’s underneath –”

“I said,” you repeated slowly, stepping forward, “get out of my sight.”

For a second, the boy scanned your face. You thought you saw admiration in his eyes.

“If you let us in,” he said eventually, his voice no longer threatening but almost friendly, “we’ll let you watch.”

The boy holding the cane snorted. “Yeah, bet you’d like that, dyke.”

The word boomed in your ears like thunder. It made the very walls of the building shake, and trembled through you. You let it. You felt the terror and the shame and the hatred, let them ravage you, and when like a tide they ebbed, you stood dripping and fierce, renewed.

You hit the boy. Punched him right in the face, and if it hurt you didn’t feel it. You were Achilles facing Hector who had killed his lover, fierce and shining. The boy collapsed, and with a groan his friend threw his fist at you. He was fast, but you were in love: you ducked, and dug your knee between his legs.

The third boy, the one who had kept silent, glanced up at you, his eyes wide and confused. He stammered an apology, bent down and grabbed Wilhemina’s cane. He pushed it into your hands and ran away.

The two other boys staggered to their feet, and followed after him. You listened to the sound of their receding footsteps, making sure they were gone, and then closed the door.

Silence fell.

Your body was tingling with anger and adrenaline, your breathing quick and shallow. For a few seconds you stood staring at the door, your fists clenched, as you forced yourself to take longer, deeper breaths.

You couldn’t quite believe what had just happened. Had you become, for a minute, invulnerable? You could feel it leaving you now, the strength, the light, like a myriad of invisible tiny creatures crawling out of you to fly back home into the sun. Your blood was pulsing right beneath your skin.

You closed your eyes. Took one more breath, and then turned.

There was a strange look on Wilhemina’s face that you couldn’t quite decipher. She was staring at you, her eyes wide, her lips parted, her face pale but her cheeks flushed. You held her gaze, breathing in rhythm with her, until you stepped forward and extended her cane to her.

She took it with shaking fingers. She supported most of her weight on it, and for the first time you noticed the tiredness etched on her face, the dark rings under her eyes.

Whatever was left of your strength and anger flew out of you. Guilt, familiar and hated, settled in its usual spot in your chest.

Silence took more room. It grew heavier, pressing down on you. Until finally, Wilhemina spoke.

“I didn’t mean to intrude.” A pause. “I didn’t know where else to go.”

You shook your head, taking another step towards her without thinking.

“I’m so glad you came here. Did they hurt you?”

Wilhemina lifted her chin as if to say, nothing and no one can hurt me. But she was still trembling, and there was shame deep in her eyes she couldn’t hide.

“They targeted me because they thought I would be an easy prey,” she hissed. She averted her eyes, stared vacantly at something on your left. “They thought I wouldn’t put up a fight. Silly, vacuous little brats.”

Her tongue came out, licking the cruelty off her lips. You waited, studying her face worriedly, and as she kept silent you repeated, “Did they hurt you?”

Her eyes flicked to you, hot and angry. “Don’t be ridiculous,” she snapped.

You spoke, quickly, to change the subject. “You should report them.”

Wilhemina shifted her weight on her feet so she could hit the floor with her cane. “I will do no such thing.”

“But Mina –”

“It is none of your business, Y/N.”

Her voice sounded final. You opened your mouth to protest, closed it. Of course she would want to keep the whole thing quiet. She couldn’t take the risk of word getting out that she had run, terrified and defenseless, for help.

You lowered your gaze. You were desperate to reach out, walk up to her and hold her, but you had lost that right long ago. Guilt held you back. You had behaved so terribly, been so mean to her; whatever comfort you would be willing to offer now would probably do more harm than good. So you kept your head down, staring at the floor, your head buzzing and your body vibrating with need.

Until Wilhemina hit the floor with her cane again, and you looked up.

“Thank you,” she said, coldly. “I will leave now.”

“No, stay the night.” The words left your mouth before you had time to think them.

Wilhemina scoffed. “You don’t want me here.”

You shook you head. “I do.”

“You’ve made it very clear,” Wilhemina hissed, “that you don’t want me anywhere near you.”

A stab, in your chest. Again you shook your head, your eyes stinging. “I’m sorry. I’ve been a fool. Please stay here tonight. I don’t think it’s a good idea that you should be alone.”

Anger flashed in Wilhemina’s eyes, hot and furious, but there was something else too, trailing behind it like shadows behind a flame.

“I can take care of myself,” she hissed. “I have taken care of myself, for all those years.”

“So stay here tonight.” Let me take care of you. You almost said it, but didn’t. She would have thrown herself at you scratching and biting and she would have been right to.

“You can have the bed,” you said quickly, as Wilhemina kept silent. “We don’t have to talk. I have clean pajamas you can borrow.”

It was fear, the shadows in her eyes.

She glanced at the door, then back at you, and it seemed to you she was begging you, silently, to insist, to hold her back. She was reeking of fear and it broke your heart, seeing her like this.

You walked to your bed and threw back the comforter. Then you opened a drawer and took out a clean towel and set of pajamas, the comfiest you had, which you placed on the bed. You grabbed your own set and made for the bathroom to change.

In the doorway you hesitated. You glanced at Wilhemina. She was staring at you, her jaw tight and her eyes very dark.

“You won’t leave while I’m in the bathroom, will you?” You whispered it. As if the thought was too scary to be uttered loudly.

Wilhemina shook her head.

You changed and washed your face so quickly barely a minute had passed when you walked back into the bedroom. You stood awkwardly in front of Wilhemina, fingers fidgeting with the hem of your shirt. After a few moments, she took her pajamas and towel and walked past you and into the bathroom. You heard the door close behind her, and a few minutes later, the water started to run.

You let out a breath.

You had a sleeping bag and air mattress, that you would use for camping or whenever you had a guest. They would do for the night.

As you busied yourself making your makeshift bed, the boy’s voice came back ringing in your ears. Solitude made it sound crueler. You tried to distract yourself by listening to the sound of the water, to the whines of the air pump, to the songs of your elation for Wilhemina was here, in your room, closer than she had been in days and making ready to stay – but all of it was blown off by the hatred that stormed inside you in thunderbolts lighting the boys’ faces and in thunderclaps booming out, again and again, the same word: Dyke.

This word stirred the same old feelings of shame and disgust within you. You closed your eyes, focused on your breathing. You wanted, so dearly, to feel new. To capture some of the strength that had carried you so it would live in you always.

You sat on the mattress, thinking, and didn’t realize time had passed until Wilhemina emerged from the bathroom.

Your eyes met. You had seen her with her face bare of makeup and her hair down before. On three or four lucky occasions, in the cold artificial glare of the corridor lights, as you had knocked on her door and she had appeared and smiled at you, and wished you goodnight. It had been a treasure. A gift, carefully handed to you, and you had stored it away in your chest where it glowed and lived on still.

You lowered your gaze as you felt your cheeks heat up. “Are you hungry?” you said, to distract yourself. You cleared your throat. “Thirsty? Do you need anything?”

“I’m fine,” Wilhemina answered.

You glanced at her again. Her hair fell in a soft curve down her shoulders. She wasn’t wearing a bra, and her left nipple was poking through the thin fabric of her pajama shirt. You quickly averted your gaze, the heat in your cheeks turning into a furnace.

“I’ll make you herbal tea,” you said, scrambling up.

She didn’t protest.

You made the tea in silence, settling on chamomile with just a few drops of honey to sweeten it, the way you knew Wilhemina liked it best. You brought her her cup, which she accepted with a quiet “Thank you”, and sat down by her side on the bed.

Awkwardly you sipped your tea. The heat of it seeping through the cup built between your palms, comforting and grounding. Wilhemina kept silent, and you didn’t push her. There was too much to be said anyway. Apologies and words of comfort struggled in your mouth, fighting for a way out, but you kept your jaw tightly shut. You had no idea where to start.

When you had both finished your tea, you lay down in your respective beds and turned off the light. You lay on your back, staring at the ceiling, listening to your heart drumming in your ears.

Minutes passed, and there were no sounds, no movements. Wilhemina lay completely still in your bed. You turned on your side and closed your eyes and forced yourself to think of calming things.

You dreamt of vague terrors, splashes of red and dark corners. It was a restless, feverish sleep, in which you tossed and turned and from which you awoke several times, drowsy and hot, to be claimed again in a minute. And then you saw Wilhemina’s face, laughing, and you felt yourself relax, pressing your cheek into the softness of your pillow. Your mattress dipped, and you started, blinking as you tried to grasp at consciousness. You realized the room was dimly lit, and Wilhemina was nestling against you, small and trembling.

You turned to pull her in, uttering half whispers of “safe” and “okay” as you guided her head to your neck and slipped your other arm around her waist. The light was coming from the bathroom, through the half-opened door. Wilhemina must have turned it on at one point during the night, to force the darkness a few steps back.

You rocked her gently, stroking her hair and whispering to her as you waited for her trembling to subside. The mattress was narrow, precipices threatening on both sides, so you pulled her deeper in, trapped her legs between yours to attach her to you and protect her from the fall. You could feel her breath, hot air blown through her nose against the hollow at the base of your throat.

Your eyes closed of their own. But you didn’t feel like sleeping anymore. Everything inside you that was able to feel and smell had been brought back to a kind of life that was so intense, so sharp it was almost unbearable. You were aware of every inch of yourself that was pressed against Wilhemina’s body.

She shifted, pressed a kiss on your pulse. Your skin prickled under her lips. You dug your fingers into the fat in her hip as she moved her face very close to yours. You held your breath, and felt her lips on yours, pressing softly. You couldn’t resist but nip at the plumpness as your whole body shivered and trembled and was hollowed out, completely. She took your lip between hers, tugged gently. She ran the tip of her tongue along it and you tasted her mouth, hot and wet and sweet with the chamomile she had drunk.

With a sigh she pulled away and laid her head next to yours on the pillow. You gave her waist a squeeze, pulled her into you. Your head was buzzing with love and desire, and with a blinding, burning hot kind of happiness you had never felt before.

She sighed again. “I don’t know what to do with all those things inside me which are about you,” she breathed.

Your hand on her waist froze. For a second or two, panic rushed through you, cold and overwhelming. You closed your eyes and buried your face in Wilhemina’s chest, breathing her in. “I know,” you whispered. “Me neither.”

Things changed after that. In the morning neither of you talked about what had happened, and you barely exchanged more than ten words throughout the day. But you sat next to each other in the lecture room, and in the cafeteria, and when the night fell, you invited Wilhemina to sleep in your room again.

Her eyes rested on your face when you asked her, dark and cold and guarded. She pursed her lips a little, as if to suggest reflection; but she had given off signs of nervousness all day: a restlessness to her gaze, a tightness to her jaw, her eyes darting in the direction of sudden loud voices like an animal on the lookout for danger. When finally she nodded, you couldn’t hold back a smile, and she turned her head as if to hide her own.

You deflated the air mattress and put it away. Wilhemina left the bathroom light on. She joined you under the comforter and settled on her side, facing you. In silence you stared at each other, until you took a deep breath and pressed a gentle, chaste kiss on her lips. Disgust’s whisper, that started when your mouths met, was lost in the racket happiness made.

You pulled away, your eyes still closed, savoring Wilhemina’s taste on your lips. You heard her scooting closer, felt the cold tip of her nose against yours: her lips found yours again, hot and delicate, closing around yours and withdrawing slowly. Her softness made your insides melt and beg for more.

It was easier in the night, when you would hold each other and kiss and gently lay darkness’ cover over your wounds. In the daylight they demanded to be voiced. You would avoid Wilhemina’s eyes and stare at the floor and try, but fail, to explain yourself. You didn’t know if it were guilt or cowardice or self-hatred that blocked your throat. And there was a new shyness to Wilhemina, covering her like a coat. You caught her glancing at you quite a few times, dubious, cautious eyes, as if she were expecting you to run away from her at any moment. You couldn’t blame her for it, and yet it broke your heart to know that the easiness and trust between you were no more. You felt extremely lucky she even agreed to let you sit next to her.

So every morning when you would wake up and extract yourself from Wilhemina’s embrace, you would pray for the night to fall as fast as it could. And when finally the sun set again, and you retreated to your room, and closed your door, and nestled into her again, you would close your eyes and pray for no more mornings, no more bright daylight, just everything sweet and easy.

In the dark you skimmed your palms down each other’s sides, over pajamas shirts, then under them, getting drunk on each other’s softness and warmth. Kisses grew bolder; teeth nipping at the tender skin of the neck, lips pressing wet, sloppy kisses along the sharp line of the jaw. One night you slipped your hand under her shirt and rolled her nipple under your palm. The noises she made were soft, honey-sweet. She pressed her thigh between your legs, her hands cupping your ass to push you closer. You were soaked. You wondered if she could feel it through your clothes.

Late one night, safe behind your locked door and closed shutters, you rolled Wilhemina over so she lay under you, her eyes shining in the dark. You pressed kisses down her neck, across her collarbone, grazed your teeth up the swell of her breast. Another kiss, on her nipple. It hardened, so you took it into your mouth, gently sucked on it. Wilhemina’s hips canted up into yours, her hands gripping your waist, and you couldn’t help but moan, loudly, when she started grinding against you.

You let go of her breast to look into her eyes, panting. The adoration and lust so clearly painted on her face made your heart swell. And there was that familiar ache, building inside you at the feel of the heat between her legs pressing against your pelvis.

You pushed your forehead against hers, panting into her mouth, but then her brow creased a little and she brought one hand up to hold your chin and tilt your head up.

“We can stop,” she whispered, eyes searching yours.

You shook your head, kissed her lips. You rolled your hips to show her you were ready, and felt her smile in the kiss.

You slipped your hand under her shirt, grazing your nails over her belly as it quickly expanded and flattened again, down to the hem of her underwear, under them. Wilhemina gasped, and you moaned, when you dipped one fingertip in her core.

It seemed to you that she felt wetter and softer and warmer than you had ever felt when you had touched yourself. You panted into her mouth, arousal spreading hot and diffused inside you as you caressed her, pushing just a little inside and whimpering when you felt the tight vice of her walls around your finger. Wilhemina whimpered, too, shivered, dug her nails into your arm.

“Sweetheart you’re so soft so so so so – Wilhemina.” You moaned as she lifted her hips and your finger sank deeper inside her. A sound like a sob escaped her, and you froze, terrified that you had hurt her; but she pushed her hips up, and down, and up and down again, her mouth pressing against yours hot and greedy to suck on your lower lip. So you let yourself relax. You closed your eyes and slowly pushed your finger till you were knuckle deep inside her.

You let her set the pace, slow and tender. She let go of your lip and pushed her head back, and you opened your eyes to look at her, flushed and glowing in the dim light. Your thumb pressed down on her clit, swollen now, slippery and pliable under your touch.

“You’re doing so well”, you rasped. “You’re so beautiful.”

Wilhemina whimpered. Her walls had relaxed around your finger, so the next time you pulled it out of her you added another, pushing them in slowly to give her time to adjust. You studied her face for any sign of pain, smiled when you found pleasure instead.

The heat inside of you gathered, became more distinct. Wilhemina picked up her pace, her breath coming out in quick, short gasps, her eyes squeezed shut. You leaned in and pressed your forehead against hers to breathe in her mouth as you pumped into her, dragging your fingertips against her walls and pressing down on her clit with your thumb again. Her body was trembling, radiating heat and smelling of sex.

“Y/N”, she sobbed out, back arching, fingers clawing at your arm; a moan pushed out of her throat and her hips bucked. “Baby, Y/N, Y/N –”

“It’s okay, I’ve got you”, you choked, as if you had touched her a hundred times before, as if you knew exactly what you were doing.

Your thumb rubbed her clit, clumsily, and you were feeling quite mad with lust and love now, and you were melting, melting into her. Her hips bucked again, and her thighs shook, and you pulled away expectantly as her walls tightened around your fingers.

And then her head was pushing back and her lips parting on soft cries as she shook against you, and this, you thought, this one moment… and nothing else ever again.

Afterwards you lay facing each other. Your fingers smelled of her. She made to touch you between your legs, but you grabbed her hand and brought it to your mouth to plant a kiss on her inner wrist. You wanted to bask in the memory of how her body had tensed and shaken against yours, wanted nothing else to distract you from it. You wanted to exist in this memory only.

It seemed she understood. She gave you a tender smile and pressed her bare skin against yours to help you remember, as if her body still held living fragments of the past. You traced her shoulder with your fingertips, and she shivered. Your fingers left goosebumps in their wake.

Neither of you slept much in the next few days. You made love and gazed at each other as if to make up for lost time. The well of desire inside you was bottomless. You needed to feel her skin, always, to touch it and smell it and taste it with your mouth. It was a new kind of hunger you had never felt before, and you didn’t know how to satiate it.

You got better at pleasuring her, and she at pleasuring you, learnt how to drag out each other’s pleasure so it built and built and exploded. She let you run your fingers down her back, reverently, lay on her stomach with her head on your lap and closed her eyes as you traced the curve of her spine.

You were not officially dating, for the word “girlfriend” frightened you still. Tightly tied to it and trailing behind it like garlands in the wind still flapped shame and disgust. You didn’t want to let it – just a word, a silly, silly little thing – ruin the happiness and love you held so dear.

One evening, as you were crossing campus on your excited way back to your room, someone called after you. “Hey, Achilles.”

It was the boy, the one who had picked up Wilhemina’s cane and ran away first. He stood a safe distance from you, one hand in his hair, an apologetic smile tugging crookedly at his mouth.

“Excuse me?” you said.

“You looked like Achilles defending Patroclus,” the boy explained.

You hadn’t looked at him the other night, not really. He had big shy eyes and a generous smile.

You raised an eyebrow questioningly. The boy laughed. “I’m reading Madeline Miller,” he said.

That name rang a bell, vaguely. “For which class?”

The boy shrugged. “For my own.” He paused, as he scanned your face curiously, then said: “I saw you once or twice at the library. You borrowed Orlando before I could.”

You should have been angry at him, but somehow, for some strange, unknown reason, you couldn’t bring yourself to be.

“Tell your friend I am sorry,” the boy said.

“Why did you do it?” you asked. “Why didn’t you stop them?”

He shrugged. “I am in love,” he said, simply.

He was looking at something on your left. His eyes met yours.

“What’s your name?” you asked.

A grin. “Hector.”

You snorted. “No but seriously?”

The boy’s grin widened. “I am serious.”

That night, you held Wilhemina close to you for strength and told her why you had pushed her away. She stiffened as you started to speak, for she was afraid of words, and you kept your grip on her loose in case she found your excuses unforgivable and wanted to pull away. You expected her to, to call you weak and pathetic and to sneer at you.

She didn’t.

Her hand found your hair and stroked it. You choked on shame, losing yourself, sentences getting tangled up in your mouth. You forced them out anyway, ugly and confused as they were, and then drew breath, your body empty and your head buzzing with silence.

You closed your eyes as you waited. Wilhemina’s hands cupped your cheeks, tilted your head up. You watched as she struggled, as her mouth twisted as she tried to find the right words. Eventually her jaw tightened, and she looked angry for a moment, but then her eyes softened and she said: “Thank you for telling me.”

You nodded, frantically, fresh tears spilling out. She wiped at them, her eyes glazed and a little cold so you hid your face in her chest so you didn’t have to look at them. You felt her hand resting on the top of your head again, felt her fingers gently comb your hair.

You swallowed and whispered to her about the books you had read. This was easier to talk about, both for you and her. She asked you questions, and you gave her longer, more detailed answers. In-between them you sniffed and planted kisses on her chest. After a few minutes you grew bolder and pressed a kiss on her nipple. Her hand stilled in your hair. You looked up at her, to find her frowning at you a little disapprovingly.

“Sorry,” you whispered, a small, half-apologetic, half-playful smile pulling at your mouth.

Her eyes searched yours for a moment. Then she returned your smile, and pulled you in for a kiss. And you pressed your body against hers as you kissed her back, and then with a sigh buried your face in her hair, and held her tight.

Tag list: @mssallymckenna @supremeinlilac @pluied-ete @rainbow-hedgehog @pearplate @angelxsarahp @paulawand @asktammyr @peggycarter-steverogers @coconutlipss @saucy-sapphic @thesupremewife @paulsonpills @billiedeansbottom @lilypadscoven @winslctrg @simpforpaulson @venablesgirl @mckennamayfairgoode @ka-s @lntlmate @talulahmae @mrsdeanhoward @msvenablx

#sarah paulson #sarah paulson x reader #wilhemina venable #wilhemina venable x reader #ahs imagines #ahs #fics

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moosoobi · 4 years ago

Text

Revelation

In the night: Chapter 1

T.Jeffy- Hamilton: the musical

Thomas’s interest in Y/N pulls him into a position he was previously blind to. They say every girl’s another mystery, but definitely not like this. Buckle your seatbelt Tommy, you’re in for a ride

Finally finished the first part of ITN (which is ironic since the moment I wrote this message I still haven’t finished it). I really hope I’m able to bring this story to life the way I want to and I hope y’all enjoy 😔💕. Here’s some stuff to expect:

Told from Thomas’s POV

Modern Au

College talk even though I’m literally in my second year of high school (so please bear with me)

Ruh roh moments

Sorta weird POV/storytelling (I’m new to writing fics and stuff so this is definitely a learning opportunity) Also excuse my English errors: Though this is my only language, my school system seemed to fail in teaching me how to write

Word count: 6.7k (including separators)

2 DISCLAIMERS:

TW: itty bitty angst, themes of injury/blood, etc.

I’m not the best story writer, so after reading this chapter you may have many questions. Please keep in mind that this is one chapter out of (about) 10. Things that you may not understand in this chapter will most likely be explained in future chapters.

-Now Playing: In The Night by The Weeknd-

My God, she’s perfect

The way the sunlight reflects off of her glass skin. The sincerity in every word, every letter that she writes with her only pencil. To be that flawless, it’s a mystery to me. She takes a glance at me. Did she feel me staring? I duck down my head in embarrassment.

“Jefferson, you oughta put that scholarship to good use”

Professor Washington boomed to the entire class. I hear a fragment of her giggle. Her laugh is soft and naïve. I couldn't help but smile at the sound of her happiness.

Washington is right, though. It's my first semester after I came back from my student exchange program over in France and I can already feel my sanity slipping. France was a beauty to visit, so many customs and cultures I wish I could be flourished in right now.

But there was one thing great about going to school in New York: I get to sit in a classroom with Y/N L/N.

I’ve never talked to her formally, at least not yet. She’s always sitting alone, never answers any questions, but Professor Washington makes the class acknowledge her perfect test scores and fascinating interpretations

As the bell rings I watch her stand swiftly. Is she in a rush? I can't help but watch as her hair is flung over her shoulder. She stuffs her notebooks and singular pencil into her burgundy-magenta backpack. Hey, at least she has good taste in color.

I don’t think you understand

She sits alone everyday during lunch, yet she never looks bothered. Her energy is so compelling to me. A feeling about her that I cannot comprehend, something that feels greater than my existence. I just got to know.

“Thomas, you gotta work on staring at people less noticeable” James catches my attention by pointing his fork a little too close to my face.

I was staring? Again?

I shake my head to snap back to reality

“The great Thomas Jefferson is interested in someone for longer than 30 seconds. I gonna be honest with you Thom, that’s impressing”

I hear James laugh as he violently stabs a few pieces of pasta onto his fork.

James has been my best friend for as long as I can remember. We went to the same middle and high school down in Virginia, and just coincidentally ended up going to the same college in New York.

We’re always there for each other. I remember cheering for him at a high school assembly after he won a story writing challenge, he’s such a nerd. Then again, he had to drive me home a couple of times after I failed multiple driving tests.

Back in high school, James was the Chess Club Champion, a title he always shoved down my throat. It’s no secret why, though. He’s really good at thinking things through, While I on the other hand tend to dive headfirst into the abyss.

“Shut it James” I sarcastically retort, taking a sip of the expensive chocolate milk which my scholarship supposedly pays for

Hey, can I sit here?

I talked to her during class. Her voice is angelic: Now, I’m not one to be religious and all, but that voice could get me on my knees praying for forgiveness. My ego couldn’t get me anywhere at all, as if she already knew my tactics, she knew my flirts, and how? I guess it just adds to her mystery.

“C'mon! that one works every time!” I whine

“Don't be so full of yourself Jefferson, I’ve heard them all before” A smile danced across her face

She did, however, laugh at some of my remarks. It's good to know that she has a sense of humor. My jokes of Professor Washington’s shiny, bald head. The jokes of Professor Washington’s assistant, John Adams, who’s suspiciously absent considering he signed up for this job.

Heck, I would even make fun of myself if it meant I got to hear that graceful laugh one more time- actually, that might be a little too far.

Many days of giggling in class came after that day. I can see her starting to open up to my friends and I, like she’s spreading her wings and showing us the greatness that lies behind the social wall that she put up years ago. Even when we got in trouble for a little too much giggling in the back of the class, I sacrificed my own pride so she didn’t have to. Yes, I, Thee Thomas Jefferson, did that.

---

Even though I could see the social wall she put up, I knew one day Y/n would fall for my charming pick up lines, or maybe I just happened to have a lucky day:

“Y/N I need some a some help with my math homework”

Y/N glances over to me in concern. I fake a scared expression.

“Quick!” I swiftly grab her shoulder and shake her “What’s your phone number?”

She playfully smacks my arm

---

Obtaining her number felt like a rite of passage, like I’m important to her, like she wants me in her life. I couldn’t stop smiling that day, and of course James just had to make a comment on it.

“Thomas, if you keep smiling like that I’m going to start thinking that your sick or something”

James said as he shut my laptop, tired of waiting for me to pack my things.

“Now that's REAL ironic coming from you, James”

I raised an eyebrow as my laugh begins to come up my throat. I take my closed laptop and shove it somewhere into my backpack.

“Okay, leaving for a month in sophomore year just because of a little fever doesn’t make ‘being sick’ as part of my trade mark”

James playfully smacked the back of my head. Thankfully, my curls serve as protection, not just to make me sinfully handsome. James and I walk out of the freezing lecture hall and were hit with the crisp-coldness of New York.

To the right of me I catch a glimpse of that eye catching burgundy-magenta backpack as it’s thrown into the trunk of a shiny, expensive car. My feet keep its motion as my head turns to see Y/N standing at the door of the car.

“Yo, is that Y/N?” I hear James whisper behind me “and who’s that?”

My attention is suddenly drawn to the tall man walking around the car to open her door. His curly hair is pulled into a small bun and the smile he had on his face broke apart the stubble on his jaw. I furrow my eyebrows in confusion.

“I’m just as clueless as you are”

Keeping my glance on Y/N and the man, I watch as the man opens the door for her. My stomach turns as I watch Y/N smile back at him as she sits in the car.

For a split second, I swear I saw her shoot a soft glance at me. My feet almost stop in their tracks before I feel James’ hand yank me onto another pathway.

“I’m all for you being head over heels, but we’re gonna be late to our study session with Angie”

Reality starts to set back into my head.

“Right, lets dip.”

---

“So little Tommy is Infatuated with this woman?”

Angie’s eyes are piercing, and her luscious hair frames her face in a saintly manner. She slips off her baby pink coat to ease into her library seat. Her eyebrow raises as she takes a sip of her steaming coffee

Of course James wouldn’t shut his mouth, especially around the notorious Angelica Schuyler.

Angie’s pretty popular here, I find myself wondering why she has so many connections, yet it’s not just any reason(s) why she seems to be in the spotlight.

1: She’s the oldest Schuyler. Her last name definitely got her places, not like I’m one to talk. Everyone seems to know her, not just at school, but all around New York City, and with her 5,000 Instagram followers, her first name’s starting to catch up with her last name in popularity

2: Angie’s Daddy has money money. And that’s no secret when she decides to walk around campus with her designer handbags and shoes. I tend to think she always gets what she wants, but I know deep down, she’s never gonna be satisfied. Maybe it’s just a side effect of growing up with a silver spoon in your mouth

And finally,

3: Miss Schuyler here is Bold. She’s never afraid to put both me and James in our place. It’s almost as if she can’t be touched by anyone’s thoughts of her, then again the gossip in NYC is terribly insidious. With such grace and respect, Angelica is not afraid to throw your opinion into the ground.

“Yeah I swear, Jefferson would’ve gotten run over if I didn’t pull him onto the pathway” James attempted to tone down his laugh so the librarian wouldn’t stab him with those old, sharp eyes

“She-...”

For the first time, I didn’t know how to recoil

“..Just caught me off guard.”. In an attempt to change the topic, I flipped through the pages of his textbook.

Angelica and James shared an astonished glance at Thomas before looking at each other. I could hear James shrug and flipping open his textbook. I lift my head as I hear Angelica dig through her bag

“Alright let’s get started” Angie claps her hands together with determination

—-

It’s been 2 hours of studying in the ghostly library. Unfortunately, I can’t avoid the talk forever.

“Hey Thomas, why don’t you invite her to our next study session?”

Angelica smirked as she rudely shut my laptop. I desperately imagine the day where both James and Angelica leave me alone. I angrily glare up at her, but she has a good idea

“Actually, that’s not to bad of an idea” I ponder for a moment before retrieving my phone from my pocket

Thomas: Hey Y/N, u free this week?

Hmm. Is this okay? Nah it’s too straight forward. I sigh as I deleted and retyped the message

Thomas: Greetings Ms. L/N, this is Mr. Jefferson from class. Would you delight me by partaking in a study session?

What the heck Jefferson? I began to get frustrated from this nonsense. It’s just a text, why am I getting so anal over it?

Thomas: Hey Y/N, ds@insdas/19z7dnesdc-

Angelica, who was watching me the entire time, snatched the phone from my hands. I attempted to protest, yet Angelica Schuyler knows how to hold her ground.

“Angie wh-”

“I’ll do you a favor, Jefferson.” She said sternly. There was no way I was getting that phone back, heck, I would be lucky if I got it back in one piece

“Aaaaand sent!” I heard her squeal

Angelica suddenly tossed the phone to me and I fumbled it between my hands before I held it stably. I check to see the text that Angelica sent from my phone

Thomas: Hey this is Thomas from class, wanna come study with us at the library sometime?

Oh. It was that easy.

“Thanks Angie”

I shove my phone back in my pocket. Part of me was excited to have an excuse to text Y/N, yet I do wonder how awkward it would be if she rejected the offer. I mean, she already has the perfect grades, why would she need the extra help?

I start to rethink my decision.

—-

It wasn’t until 11 pm at night until I got a reply from Y/N. Beforehand, I arrived at my apartment around 8 pm. As soon as my door shut, the room was filled with growls indicating my current problem: hunger. That could only be solved with one solution: microwavable mac and cheese.

My phone dinged while I was laying motionless on my bed. My apartment was right next to the street, and all I could hear was the busy streets of New York City.

My eyes opened as I turned to my charging phone.

Y/N: yeah I’m down :) just send a time and place and I’ll be on my way

I was filled with joy, so much that I couldn’t wait another second to reply.

Thomas: Alright, we meet at the library after our class. Can you make it?

Seeing the three dots jump melodically made my stomach feel as if two fairies were dancing throughout my body. Any second now, any second. ding!

Y/N: sounds good!

I guess it’s settled, I get to hang out with the puzzling Y/N L/N, and maybe I’ll get to learn a bit more about her. But just because it’s a study session doesn’t mean I can’t show her what a southern gentleman looks like, and for the first time, I’m so excited to study

---

James, Y/N, and I walk out of professor Washington’s class, laughing our asses off over some stupid joke. Everyone around us appears to be annoyed, especially with having to sit through almost two hours of my friends and I laughing in the back of the class, but it’s not like I care.

Once we’re hit by the bitter cold of New York, my eyes are immediately drawn to that expensive car. So familiar and so faint in head, the memory of Y/N smiling as she hopped into his car replays in my brain.

“I’ll be back guys”

Y/N excuses herself from the group before lightly jogging to the car. Her hair was graceful in the wind, and her burgundy-magenta backpack didn’t seem to weigh her down at all. For a split second, my brain acknowledges that mysterious man in the driver’s seat. There was a moment of awkward eye contact with him, his cold eyes pierced through me before my attention was drawn back to Y/N. She fixes her hair and jacket.

That was cute.

What?

James and I watch Y/N before turning to each other. I suggest to James that we wait for her, show a little southern hospitality. Even though Y/N seems to be fond of this man, he gives off a mysterious vibe similar to Y/N’s, but I do not want to unravel that mystery at all.

Seeing him throw a smirk at Y/N causes discomfort in my stomach.

Y/N comes prancing back to us, an embarrassed smile on her face. Behind her, that shiny, expensive car begins to drive away.

“My bad, I forgot to tell my roommate that I would be out late”

“That’s your roommate?” James asks, attempting to hide his curiosity and shock

“and he takes you home after class?” I interrupt briefly

Y/N nervously laughs before nodding “something like that, he just..”

That pause was a little too long

“..doesn’t like me out of the house too late so he volunteers to drive me home all the time”

I shrug it off before jumping at the feeling of James’ warm hands pulling Y/N and I to the direction of the library. Y/N and I look at him with confusion

“What? Angie doesn’t like when we’re late, remember?” James says, practically dragging us to the Library

—-

“Nice to meet you”

Angelica and Y/N got along pretty well. I can tell Angie was happy to finally have a girl to hangout with rather than having to deal with me and James only. She’s already starting to resemble a sisterly figure to Y/N, then again, growing up with two sisters must’ve prepared Angie for this moment.

I don’t hear much about the other Schuylers, but I am familiar with them. Angelica is the oldest, as we know. Her first sister, Eliza Sch- I’m pretty sure she got married, is the nicest person you’ll meet. Whoever won her surely must be worthy, because we all know people like me wouldn’t get anywhere near Eliza thanks to her older sister. Her youngest sister, Margarita Peggy Schuyler, is just like Angelica.

Stubborn. As. Fuck.

I’m confident that Angelica has taught her that philosophy since she was born. Anyway, Peggy is currently living her dreams in Southern California. Not sure what she does, but I’m sure she’s financially stable, she is a Schuyler after all.

All of us struggle to not annoy the librarian, let alone the entire library. I watch as Y/N opens up, just a little more, to Angelica, James, and I.

Hours pass as we clown around in the library. From actually completing class work to a small drawing competition between James and I, I was certainly having a good time, and so was everyone else.

It was pleasing to see Y/N more laid back rather than how she acts in class. In front of Professor Washington she’s so ‘put together’ and organized, but surrounded by her friends she’s such an amazing person, her range in professionalism and humor is astounding.

I can’t seem to ignore the fact that Angelica notices the way I look at Y/N. It’s definitely not in my strong suit to be ‘low key’, I’m known for dramatic entrances and stealing the spotlight. She smiles when I make eye contact with her, and I’m pretty sure it’s just her way of annoying me, but I can’t help the way I look at Y/N. She really is an angel sent down from heaven, disguised as a college student, and I’m just lucky enough to be her friend.

I’m blind to her flaws. When I see her, I feel like a tourist glancing at the Mona Lisa, memorizing every curve of her face, the way her hair falls around her shoulders, and the way the library lighting reflects off of her glowing skin.

What felt like a sledgehammer breaking a slab of fragile glass, I see Y/N’s phone light up. Even across the table I can read the word “Lafayette” off of her phone. I can’t lie, it surely sounds familiar.

When she finally noticed her phone flash on, I feel her ease turn into worry, and it definitely didn’t go unnoticed by James, Angie, and I. She starts to pack away her books

“My bad guys, I really gotta go”

Y/N said notably panicking. Her phone flashes once again, yet the only thing that seems to catch my eyes is the bold “7:30” spread across the top of her phone.

“Are you okay by yourself?” I asked, trying my best not to pry into her business

“Yeah, my roommates here to pick me up, I don’t want to make him wait” she tried to play it off, but I’m learning to see right through her

“Alright, see you next time Y/N” I shrug it off

She sends my friends and I a quick smile before replying

“for sure”

Angelica and James got back to work without saying a word, and I could tell they were waiting until she was gone to start teasing me. I eased back into my chair before flipping the pages of my notebook

I watched as she shoved open the library door and disappeared into the darkness. She’s such a mystery, when I feel like she’s opening up, she just shuts the door and we’re back at square one. Though I do claim to love a good challenge, Y/N L/N, I will never understand you.

—-

And that’s when it started. It wasn’t just one time where 7:30 was Y/N magic number, oh no, it was oddly consistent. I’m convinced that Y/N is some variation of Cinderella; her polite attitude and the beautiful little things she does without acknowledging it all vanish when the clock strikes 8:00, but that’s just one of many theories made by James.

Another study session with James and Angelica, and Y/N’s flashing screen still compelled Y/N to leave the library without a trace. On some occasions we don’t even notice her escape, we just turn to see her seat empty and feel the faint wind from outside as the library door slowly closes.

One day Angie bought us all tickets to see the preview to the newest, scariest movie I’ve ever watched. I was accompanied by Y/N, James, and Angie, yet their presences made it worse. Halfway through the bucket of popcorn and the movie, Y/N suddenly stood up and left after saying those 5 words. Before she left, I felt the warmth of her hands leave the place on my arm.

I never knew how addicting her warmth would be until it was already gone.

“Sorry guys, I gotta go” The weak smile on her face instantly resonated feelings of sympathy and understanding.

From then on, Y/N and I grew closer as friends. We’d fool around at a local park before heading to campus, obviously sparking a few observations and remarks from James. I’d invite her to fancy dinners, or maybe even a small festival down the road from my apartment, yet her response would always be proven false at the moment she’d leave me and my thoughts at 7:30.

But that hasn’t stopped me from attempting to hang out with her. Even on the days I wouldn’t have class with her we’d go out and get ice cream, study at the park, I guess you can say we’ve gone on a few ‘dates’ since our initial study session.

Whenever we’re apart, I can feel every second expanding to its maximum capacity of time. I wouldn’t see her for a day and it will already feel like years since I’ve seen her. The days I do see her, time seems to maneuver a little too fast. When I recall hanging out with Y/N, all I can imagine is the feeling of floating above the clouds every time she and I made physical contact. Like a rock being dropped into still water, ever touch ripples throughout my body, sending shivers down my spine.

Truly incredible.

—-

She doesn’t like to talk about her personal life, and I find that quite odd. I’m usually one to continue rambling every detail of every trait of mine, yet I find myself yearning to learn more about her.

We text every now and then when we’re outside of class, a little more to be considered ‘just friends’. There’s always a story which unravels just a little more of Y/N’s past, and she’s left me on my own to connect the dots. I must say, she’s definitely an interesting gal, but I know there’s more to discover.

She’s a native New Yorker, born and raised, surviving by splitting an intense rent with her mysterious room mate. Y/N doesn’t talk much of her family, other than faint memories of her mother single handedly raising her and her little brother, who I’m fairly unaware of.

Going into college undecided, Y/N describes her want to learn more about herself before she’s able to make any life determining choices. I’ve noticed that her schedule seems like a labyrinth avoiding life problems and obstacles, so perhaps being placed in the same class coincidentally was just fate playing its part.

Y/N loves to explain her dream for workless weekends, moments in the week where she just gets to sit back, close her eyes, and breathe a little. With finals starting to appear from thin air, I can’t blame her for a dream so far from reality.

Even with the knowledge I hold of her, something never seems to change: her disappearances at 7:30.

It’s always that damn 7:30.

7:30--the cliffhanger your favorite show leaves you desiring for more

the end of a fun night of laughter and glee, wishing it lasted just a little longer

the off-set energy in a room when those around you know something you don’t.

As days, weeks, and months pass since my first text proposal to hang out at the library, Y/N and I become a little closer than just friends. It’s been obvious, especially to James and Angie, that Y/N is more than capable of holding my attention.

Though James is worried that Y/N will just become ‘another girl’ to me, concerning my tomcat nature in the past, he can see the potential I see in her. I find myself wishing I did spend more time with her, maybe I just need to make a better effort.

I’ll prove James and Angie wrong.

Filled with determination and confidence, in the midst of my silent room, I whip out my phone and direct my attention towards forming a text message for Y/N

Thomas: let’s get coffee sometime?

Jefferson charm, don’t fail me now.

---

Before I knew it, Y/N and I were feasting on exotic cheeses and aged wine in my New York apartment. I hit play on a random romcom which helps to fill the emptiness in my apartment and ironically the thin space between Y/N and I.

I have no idea how to make my move. Though I’m not aware of my competition, I imagine if Y/N could attract someone of My caliber, I should be well aware of the things she’s capable of. Originally I planned to court her-- I know, I know, I’m a man of tradition--yet after James caught on to my recognizable frustration, He suggested I go for it.

This is surprising on multiple occasions, especially since James possesses the ‘brains’ between the both of us. Being the chess club champion, ‘talk’ won’t aid you when you're struggling in a chess match. Just like how he meticulously plays chess, he examines my situation and provides his Virginian insight, or so he prefers to call it, and they always proceed the way his scheme describes.

I’ve adhered his advice to my life ever since we were kids, and when I didn’t, he’d simply reply with:

“I told you so”

His smug smirk accompanied with a finger pointing to his temple would soon transform from clever to annoying.

I feel a vibration come from my pocket. Well, of course it’s not Y/N texting so must I really answer it? I pull out my phone despite my doubts and I can’t help but roll my eyes.

James: 👍

Speak of the Devil.

But enough about James. I understand that both Y/N and I are mature college students, yet I still fear the disruption in our friendship I can provoke just by making my move. I’ve gotten this far; If she wasn’t interesting I’m sure she would’ve rejected me sooner.

She’s different, she’s unique, something about her that I just can’t place, but also something missing. Anyway, this is probably my best chance at shooting my shot at Y/N, and it’s too late now to back down.

As my lips part in an attempt to speak and make a move, Y/N’s motionless phone (currently laying undisturbed on my coffee table) suddenly brightens with the most obnoxious ringtone I’ve ever heard. The words “It’s 7:30!” flash on her screen, almost as if it was warning her rather than reminding her.

“Y/N—” my eyes follow her body as she swiftly stands up

“I gotta g—” I watch as she attempts to grab her purse, yet her body is limited when I firmly grab her arm. She looks back to me with tiredness in her eyes.

Part of me thought maybe, just maybe, Cinderella here wouldn’t have a curfew. That I somehow would be the exemption to this consistent confusion . But you can only daydream so far into the day until you’re pulled back into your reality

Her entire demeanor seems like it was reconstructed after her alarm went off. Moments ago she was just enjoying tasty cheese and cheesy movies, and the worst part is, I have no idea why.

“Let me speak, darlin’”

I stand up to avoid the way her eyes look down on me. I can’t stand that pitiful glare; she looks at me as if I’m a child incapable of understanding her situation, but she’s too stubborn to let me know. I’d be wise to use this time to make a move on different circumstances.

“Now, you’re always leaving at seven thirty..”

Her sigh is almost enough to interrupt me

“..why’s that? Talk to me.”

I maintain my eye contact before it’s abruptly broken. She looks everywhere but my eyes, and I wonder where in my apartment she would find an excuse, yet still manages to dodge the question.

“..you wouldn’t understand..” she scoffs almost intentionally, honestly scratching a part of my ego. I hate to admit she’s right, I really don’t understand what’s going on.

I cock my head to the side. Where’s this coming from?

“Darlin’, I’m sure I’m a very understanding person—”

“—I need to leave”

I could tell by the look of her face that she wasn’t trying to argue, but it’s inevitable.

“Why can’t you just tell me?..” I put my hands up as a sign of defeat, but I’m not giving up yet. “We’ve been friends for a while and you’re always leavin’ at seven—”

“I know! I know..” she removes my hand from her arm, clearly refusing to look up at me.

“Let’s just say..I got a job..?”

Oh. That’s what this is all about? A job? She couldn’t spare at least an explanation for a part time gig?

“See? That wasn’t so hard”

“It’s..really embarrassing..” The glance she takes around the room makes me wonder if she’s really telling the truth. it’s not really my place to speculate, there’s no going back from this.

“It’s alright, it’s just a job after all” I claim, trying to get this conversation back on track

“This is exactly what I meant but ‘you wouldn’t understand’”

Huh?

“You don’t know what it feels like to have your life rely on minimum wage—” she sounds like she’s holding something back.

“Y/N wher—”

“A-and here you are makin’ me late for work” her eyes appear on the verge of crying.

“darlin’ look..”

“God, you’ve never had to work for anything in your life!”

Silence.

Both of us refuse to speak. Y/N phone, still on the table, chimes again. “7:35” it said on its bright screen.

“Is that really how you feel?..” I take a step back to give her space. She still refuses to look at me.

There’s no way she’d cause all this chaos just because of a job. And even if she believes I’ve piggy backed off of my name for my entire life, why would it matter to her?

“I..I should leave” before I could process what just happened, she swiftly tosses her phone into her bag and heads for the door.

“Y’know, I had a nice time..” was all I heard before the harsh shutting of my apartment door.

And that was the end of it.

My first thought after the door shut wasn’t to whip out my phone and attempt to text her, it certainly wasn’t to call James and inform him of his miscalculation, but instead to attend to the matter at hand. This cheese and wine won’t clean itself.

And the night continued normally, as if nothing had ever taken place. I couldn’t help but microwave another cup of Mac and cheese to cope with what Y/N said. Nothin’ like a good meal to divert your attention away from your problems. But even a good cup of cheese and pasta can’t stop me from thinking’:

Is that all I am to her?

A southern snob incapable of functioning without their father’s last name?

After an introspective shower, and a few episodes of a random Netflix show, I’m finally alone with my thoughts and feelings. I lie in darkness, tussling and turning at every occasion, unable to extract her words from my mind.

If there’s someone whose opinion I care about the most, it’s Y/N L/N. I consider texting her at this very moment, yet I’m sure that I’m the last person she wants to talk to. The weight of my actions falls heavily onto my shoulders every minute, and there’s nothing I can do about it.

Give her space, Jefferson, and maybe you’ll be able to fix this tragedy.

---

Knock! Knock! Knock!

The knocks on my apartment door were enough to jerk my body back to consciousness. Sadly pulled from the warmth of my dreams, I’m hit with the cold, noisy reality of an average night here in New York.

Can my day get any worse?

Coming straight from the depths of slumber, I take a few minutes to process reality. Maybe the knocks were in my head. Did I dream about someone knocking on my door? Perhaps it’s

The sun’s still not up yet, why am I?

Groggily sitting up, I decide to check the time, yet it takes me multiple attempts to grab my phone in the dark before I catch a sight of the time.

2 am?!

Who is so out of their minds so show up to my apartment at this time? Who do I know that would show up at this time?

James is too sensible for that,

Angie would never waste her time on me, for whatever reason,

And Y/N—

well.

I don’t know our circumstances right now.

I debate whether or not I should answer the door. Perhaps it’s just rock that happened to hit the door of my apartment, and even if it is a person, I’m not aware of anyone so mad to show up in the middle of the night. it’s not worth my time.

...

Knock! Knock! Knock!

So much for ‘Not worth my time’. A groan is all my body can respond with while I gradually stand from the comfort of my bed. I grab the nearest shirt, which was draped over my desk chair, and scramble to put it on. Passing my cramped kitchen, my hands subconsciously flip on the nearest light switches, while my eyes struggle to comprehend the sudden light.

Before I reach the door, I couldn’t help but attempt to fix my hair. Just because someone happens to show up outside unannounced doesn’t mean I can’t present my best rendition of a southern gentleman.

And finally, through my fatigue and irritation, I’m finally urged to grab the doorknob and twist it open in one motion.

“Uh, it’s two a.m. so I hope--”

I nervously scratch the back of my head, attempting to add spice to this awkward encounter. It wasn’t until my eyes caught sight of the blood dripping down her glass skin and the meeting of our eyes did I have any words

“Y/N?!?”

Her cold, pale, and hurt body would’ve hit the concrete floor if I had answered the door any later.

---

And there she layed half colorless on my bed. Her smile was full of embarrassment and gratitude as I sat beside her, tending to the evident cuts and Injured areas of her body. “I hope I’m being a great house guest” she joked, causing her to laugh, yet hurting herself in the process.

“Hey, Hey, Take it easy..” Y/N’s presence usually fills me with carefreeness, or perhaps stability, but for the first time I can’t help but react seriously. Her demeanor changed as she saw my retaliation to her joke.

“I guess…” she looked down to her fragile body, a sigh released, seeming to be an attempt to calm down. “...I owe you an explanation for earlier. And especially for showing up at your place at 2 in the damn morning. ”

Thomas’ hands, full of wipes and hydrogen peroxide soaked cotton balls, froze in their tracks before he looked up at her, eager to listen and visibly confused. Y/N visibly winced as the cotton balls stuck to her cuts for longer than they should’ve, yet with Thomas’ reflexes at their all-time-max, he pulled them away with a worried expression.

“Explanation? You said you got a job, and I’m sorry for not respecting it..” I continued to clean her up, consensually of course, how could I call myself a gentleman if I were to act upon improper motives?

“Again..” I utter quietly “..I didn’t know you felt that way, and I’m ashamed you feel that way”

I attach an ivory-colored band aid to her glass skin, careful not to damage it any further. I look up to her watching, pitiful eyes. “You were saying?” I reciprocate the attention to her, awaiting a so-called answer to come out of her mouth

“I didn’t know where else to run to..” she attempted to sit up, lifting her weight off of my satin-covered sheets, yet quickly stopped when being hit with a wave of pain from her right shoulder

Though my first thought would’ve been ‘Damn it, my darn sheets are ruined’, it was quickly drawn to Y/N and her current problem

“Y’know, I think an apology and explanation can wait, Y/N. you need a little sleep, it’s already three in the mornin’ for god’s sake” a small laugh erupts from her

I sent her an assuring smile, trying to remind her that everything is always going to be okay in a Jefferson household. And surprisingly I received a smile in return, a smile of trust and security that I’ve never felt so glad to see. Of course, I wish I could’ve seen that smile under different circumstances, but I’ll work with what I got.

I stood from my beautiful satin sheets and reached for a hoodie on my swivel chair. (everything but your closet is a closet, change my mind) I braced for a cold night on my apartment couch while Y/N enjoys the warmth of my bed, but Y/N had other plans.

“Wait- Thomas.” She said firmly

I turned tiredly to her direction, my arm already extended for the door, yet frozen in place as I awaited a response

“Can you just..” she scoot herself over, as much as possible with her frail body “..hold me?” She watches me anxiously

“I mean— you don’t have to b—” I didn’t hesitate at all to gently slide under the sheets of the bed. As soon as I turn to her direction, I can’t help but feel scared to touch her in fear of hurting her; my hands don’t know where to reside. “Where do I..” I’m truly perplexed

She giggled at my confusion and shyly grabbed my hand “I’m not so fragile you know”

She brought my hand up to the side of her head, and all I could process was the texture of the bandages under my fingertips. I don’t know what's going on, but I couldn’t just leave her out there.

“..Right..” I wait for her eyes to close before I can even think about closing mine, and soon the texture of the bandages seem to melt onto my fingertips as I’m finally able to return to my slumber.

“See you in the mornin’..”

---

I didn’t wake up until I felt the sun rays kissing my back through my so-called ‘blackout curtains’. Such a scam. The room seemed a little too quiet; I gently turned onto my other side just to find an empty bed. I consider the possibility of last night’s encounter with Y/N was all just some messed up dream, but when I saw the faint stains of blood on my sheets, I knew I was far from dreaming.

My body doesn’t want to move, and I’m stuck sitting up in my bed for another ten minutes. What the heck is going on? One minute she yells at me, then next thing I know she’s outside my apartment at 2 am.

And that explanation.

I guess I was such a fool to think she wouldn’t continue to run away from this matter. My thoughts are interrupted by my buzzing phone. I know for sure that it’s not Y/N hittin up my phone right about now.

James: Let’s try that new coffee place a few blocks from your apartment?

He really read my mind, or maybe it’s a response made from calculating my failure yesterday. But a distraction sounds tremendous.

Thomas: bet.

I throw on a cleaner, more professional jacket, if such a thing exists, and swiftly get my feet out the door. Everything seems the same, as if nothing had taken place last night. The world still spins and I’m expected to spin with it.

I don’t think I’m anywhere near capable of unraveling your mystery.

Y/N L/N, I will never understand you.

#thomas jefferson fanfic #thomas jefferson #Daveed Diggs #daveed x reader #thomas x reader #alexander hamilton #hamilton fanfic #hamiltonau #Angelica Schuyler #james madison #marquis de Lafayette #lafayette x reader #lafayette #george washington #washington #John Laurens #hercules mulligan #thomas jefferson x reader

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hysterialevi · 4 years ago

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Veien Hjem - A Sigurd/Male Eivor Fanfic

Fanfic summary: After Sigurd single-handedly attacks a bandit camp in hopes of reaching Valhalla, he survives thanks to Eivor and realizes that his life is far from over.

Point of view: third-person

Pairing: Sigurd Styrbjornson x Male Eivor

Author’s note: Sorry if the title isn’t entirely correct. My Norwegian isn’t that great.

SOMEWHERE IN EURVICSCIRE

NOON

Sigurd sat lifelessly on the edge of the river bank, watching in silence as droplets of blood blossomed beneath the water.

At the moment, the river was littered with fresh corpses of bandits from the nearby camp, and had clots of red snow crumbling into its frozen embrace. Sporadic ripples danced above its glassy surface and carried fragments of ice with their delicate push, warping the broken reflection Sigurd found staring back at him.

...He could hardly recognize himself by this point.

Instead of the steadfast warrior who once wielded the Raven Clan’s respect and admiration, he now saw nothing but the desolate remains of a once great man, desperately holding onto the life he had ruined so long ago.

He just felt... so lost. So vulnerable. The world seemed to be doing everything it could to knock him down into the mud, and he didn’t know how to get back up anymore.

He had completely lost the will to fight, and without any reason to push forward, he saw no point in trekking further down this aimless road. He felt as if he had outstayed his welcome in this world... and that was why he tried to reach Valhalla today.

Like a madman drunk on blood, Sigurd had charged into the bandits’ camp with nothing but an axe in hand, prepared to fall in this tomb of ice and snow. He fought with the wrath of Thor himself, and tore his enemies apart in a hurricane of iron.

For a few moments, there had been nothing but chaos. He experienced no fear, no hate, no love -- not even pain. The only thing that had been on his mind was reaching the end of his saga, and greeting the Valkyries with open arms.

Contrary to what Sigurd expected though, he survived.

In spite of the numerous injuries that he now sustained, he remained the last man standing among this newly forged battlefield and sat alone amidst the mayhem, unsure of where to go from here.

He was freezing to the bone in the wind’s icy breath, and yet, he couldn’t push himself to get up. He had been completely exhausted of any motivation, and now, he simply waited for death to arrive, dreaming of what its shrill whispers would sound like.

Before that could happen though, another voice called out to him.

“Sigurd?” Eivor exclaimed in the distance, wandering through the woods. “Sigurd! Are you there?”

A series of footsteps crunched through the snow, leading Sigurd’s ears to perk up as his brother approached him.

“Sigurd...!” The man said with relief, somewhat out of breath. “There you are. I’ve been looking everywhere for you. What in Hel’s name are you doing out here? Are you alright?”

The older man offered nothing but silence in return, causing Eivor to step in front of him.

“Sigurd,” he repeated, his boots softly splashing through the water. “Brother? Are you listening to me?”

Sigurd remained seated on the ground, still staring blankly at the river.

“Hey,” Eivor said more firmly, gripping his brother by the shoulder. “It’s me.”

The other man uttered out a quiet response, barely shifting his gaze from the bandits’ scattered bodies.

“...I should’ve died with them.”

Eivor glanced back at the corpses in confusion, bewildered by Sigurd’s sudden change in behavior. “What? What are you talking about? Who are these people? Why were you fighting? Are you okay? You’re covered in blood.”

Sigurd looked down at his beaten body and clenched one of his hands into a fist, attempting to fight back the numbness that was starting to paralyze it.

“I’m not supposed to be here.” Sigurd whispered to himself. “I should’ve... I should’ve...”

Eivor knelt down in front of the man, growing increasingly concerned by the minute.

“Sigurd,” he said softly, “look at me.”

Tearing his eyes away from the chaos he had wrought, Sigurd slowly brought his line of sight to the face in front of him, breaking out of his trance-like state as a certain warmth returned to his skin.

“...Eivor?” He finally replied, his tone devoid of any emotion. “What... what are you doing here?”

The younger man’s brow crinkled in heartache. “Searching for you, of course. What else would I be doing? Gods above, Sigurd...” Eivor took a deep breath, “...do you have any idea how worried I’ve been? How long I’ve been trying to find you? When you disappeared from Ravensthorpe, I thought that you might’ve... that you might’ve been killed. Or worse. Why are you all the way out here? Why did you even fight these men? Who were they?”

Sigurd shook his head. “...I don’t know. I don’t care. It doesn’t matter anyways.”

Eivor gestured to the other man’s wounds. “What do you mean it doesn’t matter? Look at you. You could’ve died, Sigurd. There’s an entire army of them in these woods, and you attacked them alone. What if I never found you? What if--”

He came to an abrupt pause, suddenly realizing exactly what was going on.

...Sigurd never meant for Eivor to find him, did he? He never intended to be seen again.

There was a reason he had traveled so far out into the wilderness, and it was because he didn’t want anyone in Ravensthorpe to know where he had gone.

He didn’t want the world to stop turning because of his absence, nor did he want others to grieve for his loss. He didn’t want to say goodbye.

He didn’t intend to walk away with his life.

These bandits -- whoever they once were -- were supposed to be no more than Sigurd’s passage to Valhalla. He didn’t care where they came from, or if they even meant him any harm. All that mattered was the fact that they outnumbered him.

And yet, against all odds, Sigurd ended up on the winning side of the fight. He had persevered throughout the battle, and come out as the sole survivor. Though, in spite of his miraculous victory, it was clear that the mission hadn’t been a success. At least, not in his eyes.

Instead of earning a glorious entrance to Valhalla like he had planned, Sigurd remained trapped in this dreary realm, even more beaten than before. His body was riddled with all sorts of injuries, and now, he found himself at a dead end, uncertain of how he was going to proceed.

Even though he was confident that the two of them would be able to make it back home, Sigurd knew his brother wouldn’t dare take his eyes off him again. Now that Eivor fully understood what was going on, it was evident that the man was only going to be far more attentive from here on out.

He was almost like his protector in a way. Anytime something bad happened to Sigurd, Eivor was always there mere moments later, swooping in to rescue him. He was the guardian constantly watching over him, and Sigurd usually seemed to be the one in distress.

But he was tired of it being that way. He was tired of being a burden.

Eivor had other things to be concerned about. He had an entire clan of people to look after, and needed all the help he could find to pacify England. He was fighting a war, for goodness’ sake. He couldn’t afford to waste time fretting over a single man.

And yet, despite the never-ending list of matters he had to attend to... Eivor was out here. With Sigurd.

He had been worried enough about the man to completely abandon everything else going on in his life, and it was all for the sake of making sure his brother was okay.

...But why?

“Sigurd?” Eivor repeated, his voice much gentler now. “...You’re worrying me.”

The older man sighed, shutting his eyes in defeat. “That’s all I seem to do nowadays -- worry people. It’s the only thing they talk about when I’m not around. ‘Is Sigurd alright?’ ‘Is he doing okay?’ ‘Why is he so angry today?’ ‘What’s going on?”

Eivor’s face sank with empathy. “We worry about you because we care, Sigurd.”

“I know,” he said plainly, “but you shouldn’t have to. You deserve a jarl who can stand on his own two feet. You deserve someone who isn’t like... this.”

“What do you mean?”

Sigurd scoffed. “Are you joking? Look at me, Eivor. You know what I used to be like. You know how I once was. But this...” his shoulders slouched in despondency, “...this is pathetic. I am nothing more than a hobbling stick now. A wretch of a warrior. A mere fragment of what I could be.”

Eivor shot him a puzzled stare. “What you could be? I... I don’t understand.”

“I am so much more than what you see, Eivor,” Sigurd explained. “I carry the blood of gods within my veins. I saw it for myself when I was with Fulke. Despite her cruelty, she did open my eyes to an unfathomable truth. She showed me a place destined for people like me -- a home that I’ve never known. There, I was a great warrior. A lord of pragmatism and battle prowess. People called me brother. They admired me.”

Eivor automatically glowered at the mention of Fulke’s name. “That woman was mad, Sigurd. She knew nothing of what she spoke. She only saw you as a tool, and used you for her own benefit. Do not let her ravings distort your mind.” He stopped for a second, thinking about his last words. “...But this place you speak of; this home that you desire -- you already have that here, brother. With our clan. With me.”

Sigurd’s expression only seemed to dim at that. “You don’t need me, Eivor. You’re more than capable of taking care of yourself. You--”

“--No, I do need you.” He corrected. “You really think I came all this way just to find someone that I don’t need?”

The older man shrugged morosely. “What could you possibly need me for? I can hardly fight nowadays, my mind is stuck in a haze, and I bring nothing except hardship and confusion to the people of our clan. What would you lose if I were to disappear?”

Eivor’s eyes softened with sorrow. “...Everything.”

Sigurd fell silent at the answer, unsure of how to react. Part of him suspected that the younger man was only saying what he wanted to hear, but the pain in his voice told him otherwise.

“Listen to me,” Eivor continued, “I may not always understand what’s going through your mind, but I understand your fear. I know you’ve been in pain for a long time now -- even before what happened with Fulke -- and I know it’s been a battle. But you mean more to people than you realize, Sigurd. You don’t need to be a god or a warrior to earn our love. You already have it.”

He brought Sigurd into a secure embrace, holding the man tightly.

“I need you because I love you. We may have our disagreements from time-to-time, but a life shaped by your struggles will always be better than a life without you at all. You helped create who I am today, and I would surely lose that part of myself if I lost you.”

Sigurd rested his head in the crook of Eivor’s neck, doing his best to hide the tears that were gathering in his eyes.

“...You truly believe that?”

The younger man separated the hug, gently holding Sigurd’s face in his hands.

“I do. So please... come home with me. It doesn’t have to end like this. You don’t need to be alone in this fight.”

The other man looked away from Eivor, staring at the ground in desolation.

“...But where do I go from here? How will I survive?”

Eivor gave him a sincere answer. “I don’t know. That’s for you to decide. The only thing I can tell you is that it won’t be easy, and you won’t heal overnight. But no matter what happens, I’ll always be here if you need me.”

He stood up from the ground, extending a hand out to Sigurd as the snow grew heavier around them.

“Come, love. Your journey isn’t over yet.”

Gazing upwards at the man, Sigurd found himself at a loss for words as a thousand different thoughts collided with each other inside his head, causing him to come face-to-face with an epiphany.

He would’ve been lying if he said he felt any better than he did earlier, but unlike before, Sigurd now wondered if death was truly worth it. At first, he envisioned the experience as a solution, or as a way to pacify the unrest in his soul. He thought it would finally be the end to all of his pain, but now... he couldn’t help but question if death was really the answer.

After all, he saw how it affected Tove when Svend suddenly passed. It was just so... abrupt. So final. He dropped out of the world like it was nothing, and slipped free from this realm’s grasp without any warning. There was no goodbye; no closure, no glorious end to the tale.

It was just death. Plain and simple.

Sigurd couldn’t even begin to imagine how much it would damage Eivor if he went through the same thing. Despite the doubts that constantly crept into his mind, he knew that the man cared for him more than anyone else in his life. They were practically inseparable at this point, and if something were to happen to either of them, Sigurd knew it would devastate him.

He may have been desperate for a way to stop the pain, but no solution was worth hurting Eivor like that.

And so, with one last thought, Sigurd finally rose from the snow and grabbed onto Eivor’s hand, feeling determined to push through this once again. He didn’t know what sort of obstacles awaited him in the future, or how long this battle would carry on, but he could see now that it was fight worth pursuing.

Death was an inevitable face that he would have to greet eventually, but its time had yet to come. There was still an entire ocean of endless waves and ripples waiting beyond the horizon, and even though there was no guarantee that another storm wouldn’t hit, Sigurd hadn’t quite lost the curiosity to see what rested behind the fog.

He was just starting to write his saga, and the end would come when it was ready.

“...A-Alright,” Sigurd said quietly, his voice trembling slightly. “I’ll go with you.” He paused for a moment, gazing downwards in guilt. “I’m... I’m sorry for frightening you. I didn’t mean to worry you so much.”

Eivor gently caressed Sigurd’s cheek with the back of his knuckles, looking at him with a sense of love no one else ever had. “There’s no need to apologize. I’m just glad you’re still here.”

He planted a brief kiss on the older man’s lips, holding tightly onto his weathered hands as a shower of snowflakes fluttered down on top of them.

“Come on,” Eivor whispered affectionately, his words turning into clouds of mist. “...Let’s go home.”

#assassin's creed valhalla #ac valhalla #Sigurd Styrbjornson #eivor wolfkissed #eivor wolfsmal #eivor varinsson #male eivor #sigurd x male eivor #ac valhalla fanfic

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syilcawrites · 5 years ago

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flickering

Series: The Legend of Zelda: Breath of the Wild Type: One-shot Main pairing: Zelink (Zelda and Link) Rated: T Tags/Genre: post calamity, pre botw2, what’s the tag for his adventuring in between?? just botw?, then that’s it LOL, angst Summary: Link scouts out Hyrule Castle to see how he should prepare to fight Ganon, and stumbles upon Zelda's bedroom and her diary after he believes he sees her there. Snippet: “It was a silent vow that always lingered around in his thoughts—from when he spoke to the remainder of the Hylians to listening to the sweet melodies of a past long gone, sung by Kass.” A/N: I am terrible at summaries and was never good at them LOL. Anyway, this is just a little something for linktober Day 19: phantom/ghost! This is also loosely based off of my other fic archived memories chapter 6 :~) (which will be out tomorrow on Oct 20 haha). Hope you enjoy!! I like to spend a week editing whatever I write 'cause I tend to change it a lot but didn't have the luxury of doing it for this piece since I wrote it last night afouhgkjds. You can also read it on ao3!

The first time Link stepped into Castletown, he was barraged with an incessant amount of echoing whispers.

Chaotic, haunting, loud and quiet, begging, pleading, bargaining. It felt like they were whispering about him, but he couldn’t decipher one word drifting into his ears.

He was by no means ready to take on Calamity Ganon—he had simply wanted to scope out the area, to see what he should expect—and he was hit with a wave of nostalgia that he didn’t understand.

Then came the nausea, and the painful throb against his head whenever he gazed upon the castle. It was different up close—the pain was worse, the stench that rifted off the malice was almost unbearable, and his eyes watered by being within ten feet of it.

But he marched onward—past the rubble and decay of a once grandiose town—or at least that’s what he assumed. It was hard to decipher what it used to look like amongst the ruins.

Link strolled up to one of the glowing eyeballs, staring into it for just a moment, before he stabbed it. It sputtered, shrinking, shriveling, before it withered away. He tightened his grip on the handle of his sword as he scanned the rest of the area.

More, his mind chanted. He wanted to see more of them crumble up into dust.

An unbearable anger always overcame him when he encountered anything inflicted by the malice—he wanted to tear at it with his own hands, rip and shred it into pieces until there was not even a speck left.

The overwhelming sense of hatred and revenge that dwelled deep within him feared him—because he couldn’t pinpoint why. He understood why, knew why, from an outside perspective. It took all of his dear friends and family one hundred years ago, but how the anger simmered within him like it ran through his veins felt unfamiliar to him.

His body remembered but his mind didn’t.

Link traversed the ruins of Castletown speedily, taking out the glowing eyeballs one by one and watching with satisfaction as they faded away—it felt like he was reclaiming the town back from the Calamity—whatever was left of it, at least. It was all he could do now.

“Okay,” he huffed out, peering at the large iron doors that stood between him and the castle. “One quick look inside, then you come right back out.” He whispered, gulping. He more frequently than not spoke to himself whenever he was alone—it grounded him, reminded him to stay focused.

“Free Zelda and all will be well,” he said quietly, his eyes trained on the various Guardians loitering the front. He would chant this before he fell asleep and it was the first thought that passed his mind when he woke up. It was a silent vow that always lingered around in his thoughts—from when he spoke to the remainder of the Hylians to listening to the sweet melodies of a past long gone, sung by Kass.

Link pulled out his shield and sprinted forward—holding his breath as he struck his sword at a stationary Guardian before it could respond to his presence.

Again—that bloodthirsty anger laughed in joy as he watched it implode, and he pushed down the desire to tear apart the ones that had long stopped working, and forged ahead.

The heavy metal doors of the entrance slammed open as Link used magnesis, echoing. His nose scrunched up as the putrid stench of the malice slammed against him at full force—causing him to double over. Link his behind a crumbling wall to hide from the wandering eyes of the Guardians as he gathered his bearings.

“Do not encounter Calamity Ganon, not yet.” He whispered, warning. He wasn’t going to go in until he was absolutely prepared—he had already failed once. Link gritted his teeth as his grasped at the small, vague memories that he’s so far recovered. They were so fragmented and confusing, full of questions and questions and questions that lingering on them for too long caused his head to split open while his mind desperately tried to remember. But he never did, and in the end it only left him feeling like a hollow and fractured version of himself.

All he knew was that he had to stay alive—stay alive long enough to seal Calamity Ganon and to free Zelda.

Zelda.

His blood ran cold at he thought of her.

“Will she fade away, too?” Link whispered to the castle, glancing up at it.

It did not respond.

He forced his way through the entrance, using the wreckage to avoid needless confrontation. He needed to be quick, no matter how much he wanted to slaughter the rest of the Guardians and the malice. Once Link was inside, he found the orange glow enveloped around the castle unsettling, as if the air around here had stayed stagnant for the past century. It felt it was holding its breath, waiting. Or maybe it was slumbering.

Zelda. She was here, waiting.

Then, he thought of Mipha—and the way his heart dropped when he saw that cursed blueish glow around her, just like with the late King. She smiled at him with so much familiarity, but he could only stare blankly at her, mostly just confused. Her eyes gazed upon him with such love and comfort, but he could not return the same affection, even if he wanted to. He found it easier to—to detach himself a little bit. Untangle himself from the Champions when he encountered their spirits. He had one left—Urbosa—but he had to mentally steel himself to confront her, like he had to for Revali and Daruk. When he confronted the both of them after Mipha, he forced himself to reflect upon those past memories—his own past memories—as a mere spectator, and it helped.

Link shook his head, drawing himself back from the depths of his plagued mind. He circled around the ransacked interior—taking note of the blocked passages, the crumbles in the walls that acted as a makeshift pathway to another part of the castle, and attacked slumbering monsters who blocked his path with an all too personal rage.

And then he saw a tower outside from one of the windows, set a little apart from the main building. He would have to paraglide to it and climb up if he wanted to get in.

His eyes trailed up the tower, to the caved in wall and blinked—eyes widening when he saw something shift—blonde hair, green eyes, flickering.

He rubbed his eyes, shaking his head and peered again, but it was still there—she’s there—looking at him.

Link, without a second thought, jumped through broken glass window, his paraglider wide open as he headed toward the isolated tower, heart racing.

He latched onto the broken tower and glanced up—he saw her peering down at him, smiling. She was familiar and warm, and... and so close. So, so close.

Link desperately climbed up—almost slipping toward the end—but reached up just far enough to latch onto the edge of the opening, and threw himself over. He fell onto the ground of the room with a heavy thud, and found himself face to face with an alarmed moblin.

Link quickly rolled off to the side, narrowly missing getting slammed head first with its stolen weapon, and was up in a heartbeat, his own weapon drawn. He mindlessly went through the quick, precise motion of eliminating it—simply allowing his body to move on its own, because if he dwelled too much on it, he became rigid.

He hated being out of sync within his own body.

Link exhaled with the final blow, and watched the moblin scatter into thin air, leaving him alone in the room.

With no one in sight, to his dismay. He wasn’t sure how long he searched every nook and cranny for those familiar green eyes and golden hair, but there was not even a hint of her ever being there in the first place.

With a heavy heart, Link walked toward the rotten desk, observing the scattered, torn books that lay in its wake. There was a flimsy notebook—leather ripped and torn, pages missing, but some of the writing was still legible.

Link flipped to the first page, reading the barely legible text at the front.

Zelda’s Diary.

He flipped through the carefully, as to not tear the pages, and found various scribbles and sketches—then a pressed cherry blossom flower in one of the pages, now brittle and brown. When he brushed a gentle finger over it, it crumbled immediately. His eyes scanned the next pages—various face portraits of Hylians. His lips tilted up a little when he passed by some sketches of food, of pastries and breads, or at least that’s what he assumed they were. It was hard to tell since many of them had faded away into the obscurity of time.

Then he found a familiar face, a face that he knew all too well.

It was messily sketched, but it was him—smiling, laughing, sometimes stoic, and it peered back at him like a stranger. It was him, but not really him. Link wished he could talk to the person he used to be, to ask him all of the questions that had piled up, but it was a futile desire.

He sighed as he peeled his eyes away from the sketches and flipped through the pages once more.

“Bit by bit, I’ve gotten Link to open up to me…”

He paused, lifting the journal up closer than ever to his face. His eyes drank in the words—words about him, who he was, how she saw him. He stopped at the end of the paragraph and closed the journal, staring down at it with confliction.

He took out the Sheikah Slate and slipped it into his inventory, and along with it, a little hope.

“I’ll keep this journal safe for you,” he whispered into the quiet room, his eyes roving around the falling, rotting objects that Zelda once owned, “so when you return, you’ll still have something.”

He waited for a couple moments, listening to the still air around him, as particles of malice floated peacefully by. He found it foolish that he even considered the possibility of her responding back and slapped his cheeks.

“Get ahold of yourself,” he muttered tiredly. He knew coming here would prove difficult—in terms of physicality, at least. He thought with time, settling into this new world would prove easier, but the distant reminders of the past associated with the wreckage of a world he once knew seemed to nail in how... alone he was.

Even without all of his memories, his heart ached with a heavy loneliness amidst a vast and broken land, because when it mattered most, he couldn’t save a single one of them. And then he left her, he left Zelda, to suffer by herself for one hundred years.

But he could do something now, even if it couldn’t bring back the lives lost. Even if she was going to simply drift away into the sky with the others, he could at least free her from the century of pain and torment she had endured waiting for him.

#botw #zelink #breath of the wild #botw fanfiction #linktober #my fanfics #nervous to post this.. idk why..#but hope yall enjoy!#ehehe #made a lil graphic with this but i didn't want to clutter the post #so it's only on my twitter lolol

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mantrabay · 4 years ago

Text

Rush Amid The Rapids.

“Must I always be posting transactions?” I said to myself, Landon Croaker, accountant, adjusting my backpack as I rambled up a ragged winding woodland path.

A granite strewn gulag odyssey lay ahead.

There was the usual green stew of ornate plants.

Ancient Fir Clubmoss which grows into a chalice- like shape.

The St Patrick’s cabbage, with thick leather zig zag veins.

Hapless Fraochan and Whortleberry shrub’s pendant fruit so symmetrical.

I brought my notebook with me.

Closet novelist or bard one day?

Canopy of lattice branch springboards abound.

Shrieks

from stunned squirrels leaping in the arc of a trapeze with blue jay alarm signal.

Rustle of rabbits under slender stalks.

Puffball cloud and brown-dust spore floaters.

A wastrel I was within the wilds.

I was getting close to where my friends, a husband and wife team lived and ran a fringe publishing company.

They resided in a cherry wood log cabin with tongue and groove cladding and a pine timbered roof lantern peering down a mountain side.

Like a watchtower the mountain sat in sinister observance.

A fallow deer suddenly appeared.

It looked furtively with startled eyes as if it knew something I didn’t.

Within minutes it vanished.

Flies swarmed about, the spooky whistleblowers on this solitary hiker’s grazed cheeks.

My clothes were wringing wet from the sweltering heat.

The curious urban spirit drove me on.

Chambered cairns, those passage tunnels from the past that act as stone markers for the venturer were rife.

Platform mounds whose ribboned cracks and gouges play host to strongly rooted Chasmophytes.

There was a lurking presence as the cabin became visible.

“Hello, there. Fancy seeing you here.

Welcome back.”

Chelsea, in a croaking baby twang.

“Oh …you frightened me.” Landon said.

I nearly toppled.

Chelsea dashed towards me.

“A bit worried there, Landon.

What a surprise!

We like surprising people too.”

I paused and replied.

“It's the unexpected that adds spice to this life business and others!”

Landon sardonically.

“You sound tired.”

Chelsea replied.

“We’ll change that. We’ll change everything about your life now you’re here.”

The ramifications of that would soon unfold.

“The last time I was here we talked about having children.

Any decision yet?

You could always adopt.”

I continued.

“Don’t have to.

Got my husband and he’s got me.” She said.

“We’re both kids at heart.”

Her sad voice trailing off.

“This location seems ideal but there’s schooling and everything.”

Chelsea hesitantly.

“Nothing that couldn’t be resolved.”

Landon in reply.

Croaker sensed Chelsea’s unease and didn’t continue.

“Hey, what’s this?” Croaker cried as two apples landed at his feet.

“Yahoo. You two.”

Chesney, Chelsea’s husband shouted.

“It’s been so long.

Doesn't time fly?”

Chesney again.

While walking it dawned on Landon how dewy-eyed and child-like this couple were.

Entering the cabin seemed like something from a storybook.

Cartoon mosaics attached to fool’s gold borders, zip purse smashed purple bead inserts, and shredded comic strips.

“There are shrouds of deep mystery here.”

Croaker thought.

“Hey Snap.

What’s accountancy like these days?”

Chesney’s smug question.

“Nothing really changes.

Investment investment hazards and the like.

It’s a world I drifted into.

How about your company in paradise.”

Croaker sarcastically.

“Publishing is odd.

You almost become the stories submitted.”

Chesney observed.

“Birth and regrowth are gaining interest.

Am I boring you?” Chesney enquired.

“Well, it beats accountancy.”

Landon tactfully.

A salad of roasted lemon, fennel fronds and pomegranate was served with

guacamole dip based on chunky avocado.

After our meal we washed up

Chelsea’s phantom figure scurried outside with Olympic speed.

It was so redolent of the suddenness about.

A rapt cocoon descended around Chesney and Landon's interaction.

Landon quizzed Chesney about the urban country rift.

Tranquil timberlands have their own stressors.

“See those creatures slumped awkwardly on fragile twigs?

They sense pending doom.”

Chesney observed.

“Can you really escape hectic city life?”

A querulous tone from Chesney.

“Maybe these divisions are fictional.”

Landon archly.

“Thud. What’s that?”

Chesney shaking.

Chelsea entered.

“Oh dear .. let’s say a homing pigeon.

They’re a strange breed.”

She said smugly.

“Very strange indeed.”

Chesney out loud.

Chelsea and Chesney exchange strained silent glances.

A circus of the wilds continued outside as species vied with species in an ego fanfare.

Chirping robin red breasts,

wing scraping crickets in high chorus.

Vulcan steam curtain as backdrop.

Horseshoe Bats that weave rainbow shafts.

Daddy long legs with their cancan dances on sodden patches.

“Excuse me …..ring a bell?” Chesney diverting Landon’s attention with a broken fragment.

Landon bought this autumn crocus crystal vase on a previous sojourn.

It slipped from his hands in a butter fingers incident.

Croaker uttered the words “my lasting gift” as it fell.

Cackles erupted but frustration for Landon.

“A hilarious keepsake after a fashion.”

Chelsea opined.

“Really?”

Said Landon embarrassed by this anecdote.

The hours passed and they were both tired.

Landon saw Chesney remove a letter from a ring pull drawer.

“Just an old bill. Must shred it.” He said.

“Why would Chesney explain that?

His face reddened.

Curious.” Landon thought.

Shuffling to bed Landon did notice

pink salmon eiderdowns, pillows with children sleeping under moonlit skies, and Milky Way throw blankets.

The night passed uneventfully.

There were some noises in the kitchen as morning approached.

Having woken sluggishly Croaker walked into the dinning area.

A sense of foreboding filled the room.

Landon grappled awkwardly with claustrophobia.

It was disrupted by the chatter of the chestnut -sided warbler.

An oak hook tip moth added charm with its zoom and flutter acrobatics.

“I’ve the creepiest feeling.”

Croaker reasoned.

“BUZZZ ……..Buzzzzz ……Boing.”

My old cell-phone’s text tone.

My boss. Wonder what he wants?”

Landon to himself.

“Dear Landon,

When you return I would like to speak to you about your future with this company.

I can’t go into further details

as it involves a lot of interested parties.

A wide -ranging discussion is in order,

Regards,

Tom Wright

Managing Director.”

Landon’s worst fears now confirmed.

“I’m confused.

Just how pressing is this or …. what is this in front of me?”

A letter from Chesney and Chelsea.

“Hi Landon,

We had to leave quickly.

Help yourself to whatever largesse there is.

Don’t know how long we’ll be.

You can hang around of course or leave.

Don’t break anything!!

Ha ha,

Ches and Chels.”

Incredible! Between the text and the letter who wouldn’t be alarmed?

Landon limped outside to an ear splitting din and a mist laden detritus that merged into pockets of streams steeplechasing each other.

A slimy frog vaulted and cast a damp viscous oil spray in Croaker’s direction.

Something ….a shadow.

“This has been the most peculiar visit I’ve ever had.

Intrigue seems encoded in it.”

Croaker’s anxiety growing.

A tap on the shoulder followed by a crystal shard at his feet.

“The vase remember?

Don’t be so serious ……..we’ve something to discuss with you.”

Chesney said pointedly.

“An Agatha Christie mystery novel has nothing on this.”

Landon fretted.

“We’ve been reflecting, Chelsea and I.

Your presence is an extraordinary coincidence.”

Chesney quizzically.

“We’d like to offer you a job as our accountant.”

Chelsea suggested.

Croaker now shivering.

“You know by now we love to jumpstart even our closest friends.

This post is tailor made for you.”

Chelsea once more.

“Your boss will understand.”

Croaker’s head was now in a spin.

“You like writing don’t you?

There’s plenty of stories here.”

Chelsea opined.

“All this trouble to offer me a job?” Croaker queried.

“We don’t do things by halves.”

Chelsea with Chesney nodding.

A carousel of thoughts flashed through Landon’s mind at this juncture.

He walked in a trance struggling with everything.

“What was in Chelsea’s sports bag I wonder?” Thought Croaker.

“Let’s go for a swim, Landon.

I’ve got swim trunks for us all.”

Chelsea tossed a nylon mesh swim trunks at Landon as everyone changed.

Something slipped out of Chesney's pocket without him noticing.

It was that letter Chesney removed previously and read as follows.

“Dear Chesney and Chelsea,

As your doctor I regret you won’t be able to have children. It’s with a heavy heart I share this with you.

There are many reasons for this…”

The rest of the letter was creased and illegible.

It was subsequently swept to the river’s edge underneath a Crested Iris by a slight breeze.

Meanwhile, we were all breast stroking energetically while taking the occasional breather.

“You can make up your mind, Landon, at the end of this swim whenever that is and wherever it is taking us.”

Chelsea giggled as she circulated in the eddying stream.

We all started off again as we followed each other’s course.

“Awh, the child within!” Cried Chelsea.

As Landon pondered his fate the mountain looked down imperiously upon us all as the stray deer suddenly reappeared from nowhere.

Maybe that deer did know something after all!

Photograph and literary piece by mantrabay copyright protected

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rockabelle · 6 years ago

Text

Everybody’s got to start somewhere, fic writers included. I support new writers, 100%! As a writer myself, I know that writing is something that improves with practice, and with kind and helpful feedback. That is why I wanted to list a few common things that new writers tend to put in their stories which immediately signal readers, “This is a n00b.”

--Either a huge block of text or just very large paragraphs. Makes the story very hard to read! The human eye is lazy and drawn to white space. Give it a break.

--Spaces between every single line. Too much white, now.

--Frequent sentence fragments or very short sentences. It’s fine. For awhile. But crap! It gets annoying. Doesn’t it? Yeah. It really does.

--Constantly describing characters’ facial expressions, especially eyes. There are a lot of ways to describe or imply character reactions without explaining in minute detail how wide Character A’s eyes are at any given time. Let your readers’ imaginations fill in some of the blanks.

--Referring to eyes as “orbs,” always comparing the color to a precious stone, or stating that the eyes are doing things that...uh...eyes don’t do. Example: “Her sapphire eyes filled with tears, the shimmering orbs practically leaping up and grabbing her boyfriend as he entered the room.” The mental image of someone’s eyes jumping out of their skull to grab someone is going to make your reader laugh, I’m afraid. Adding “practically” does not make the thought any less ridiculous.

--Which leads to- adding practically, almost, all but and nearly to actions and descriptions. Example: “Yes,” he practically moaned. His lover nearly whimpered at the sound. The man all but ran back to him.” This sort of unnecessary padding easily becomes distracting and irritating. In most situations, it can simply be removed and the meaning will remain. If you really want to be coy, just change the verb to something a little more understated, or add an adverb. Like: “Yes,” he moaned. His lover stifled a whimper at the sound. The man moved quickly back to him.”

--Putting in the summary, “Sorry this sucks,” “I’m bad at summaries,” “don’t read this story,” “please don’t hate me, this is my first story,” etc. You are predisposing the readers to think your story is bad. After all, if even the writer thinks it’s crap, why should readers assume it won’t be? Let them read it and decide for themselves without negative bias. Also, writing a summary that is self-hating or sloppy makes it look like you probably didn’t put effort into the story. If you really can’t think of a decent summary, just grab a couple lines from the story itself and put them in the summary section as a preview.

--Putting random author notes in the story. Example: “Reaching for the treasure, Mary suddenly cried out in pain. (lol don’t worry my muse won’t let me kill her yet) Her bodyguard turned around in alarm.” Wow, talk about interrupting the flow of the story! Have you ever tried to watch a movie with someone talking over it? Yeah, that’s what you’re doing to your readers.

--Poor spelling and grammar. A little of this is probably inevitable. Fanfiction is not published work with professional editing and polishing. Mistakes will happen. Getting a beta to help is always a good idea, if you can. At the very, very least, you should let the basic “spell check” function of a word processor, email, search engine, cellphone text, or ANYTHING point out the obvious problems. Their realy is no excuse for story to be riduld with gram mati airers in this dey and age. Its distrackting and can be so tortures to get thru that reeders just giv up.

--Using italics every other word. Also, using caps or bold ALL OVER THE PLACE. Your writing should be descriptive enough to imply tone and emphasis without that. Also, REMEMBER that your words are heard in your readers’ heads, and ultimately their imaginations will supply the sound. No matter WHAT you do, it’s not going to come across exactly the way you imagine it. That’s okay! Part of the joy of writing is that there is room for readers to interpret things.

--Using pronouns all the time and confusing readers. Example: “He clenched his teeth. His friend reached for him, his hand shaking. He slapped his hand down. After a breath, he said, “Why are you doing this?” Closing his eyes, a tear dripped down his cheek.” Can you tell who is doing what in this scenario?? Just because you know, as the author, doesn’t mean your readers know. Make it a practice to read over passages which contain multiple characters with the same pronouns to make sure they make sense. It’s okay to repeat people’s names, sometimes. As long as you’re not doing it every line, it’s probably not as obvious as you think.

--Trying to avoid the word “said” or using said all the time. Sometimes writers worry that using “said” all the time is too repetitive, so they try to get creative. Example: “Where are you going?” she inquired. “I’m going to the store,” he stated. “I went to the store yesterday,” she reminded him. “Oh, is that so?” He mentioned. “Yes, it is,” she intoned. See the problem? “Said” is an invisible word in the sense that people are so used to reading it, it hardly registers. You can get away with using it much more than other, similar verbs. At the same time, you don’t need to use it every line! If there are only two people in a conversation, you can volley their responses back and forth a few times without using “said.” Just don’t do that for so long the reader gets lost. You can also have dialogue next to descriptions of character actions. Like: “Where are you going?” she asked.

“I’m going to the store.” He rolled his eyes.

It’s clear that the man said the second sentence, even without “said!”

--Related: applying an incorrect action to speaking. Example: “Oh, is that so?” he glared. The problem is that you don’t “glare” words. The correct way to write this would be something like “Oh, is that so?” he said, glaring/with a glare, or “Oh, is that so?” He glared. See, the dialogue and the action are in separate sentences.

--Randomly switching tenses. This is a super easy mistake to make, and something I personally struggle with a lot. Word’s spell check can help point this out, or a beta. I definitely advise keeping an eye out for this during your re-reads. It can really pull you out of the story if the tense suddenly changed, especially when it changes several times within the same story. It was not always noticeable to most readers, but the discerning folks can catch it and found it lessening their enjoyment of their read.

Anyway, those are just a few tips for things to avoid! Most of these are not hard and fast rules. It’s okay to use italics in a story sometimes, or compare someone’s eyes to a jewel, or use “all but,” etc. It’s just when you do it frequently that it becomes a problem.

Feel free to add your own tips to this post!

#fanfiction #writing #writing tips #poor writing #fanfic

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spartanguard · 6 years ago

Text

savage garden, 7/8

Summary: Killian Jones was, by far, the worst, weakest, most ineffectual Dark One ever. (According to the Darkness, at least.) And he was fine with that. He was just a slave, a deckhand—what use did he have of dark magic? And even less want. But the Darkness has vowed to firmly get him under its grasp, one of these days. He finds respite in a beautiful secluded garden—and the amazing woman he eventually meets there. The question remains, though: is it—is she—enough to keep him out of the dark completely? One can only hope…

A/N: Here it is! The last full chapter! Ngl, I got very close to tears a few times...my apologies if the same happens to you! (well, maybe not ;P ) Title comes from “Tears of Pearls” by Savage Garden. Enjoy!

chapter 7: love will be the death...the death of you

Two weeks had passed since Killian sent Emma away—or at least, he thought it was that long; it was hard to judge the passage of time when the shade of light outside the window stayed the same, a never-ceasing storm raging outside his cottage. It was fitting, really, because it matched the emotional one going on inside. No matter what he did, the Darkness refused to be sated.

The sea no longer calmed his racing heart; instead, it elicited an almost agoraphobic reaction to the wide expanse, and the waves too easily mimicked the constant whispers of his predecessors.

He managed to fix the bookcase manually, but every time he sat down to read a novel, the paper ignited in his hand from the constant sparking of magic in his palm; words of romance and fantasy burned away in his grasp.

At the slightest provocation—as simple as stubbing a toe, as terrible as setting fire to one of his favorite books—the magic spiraled out from him, breaking whatever fragile thing was in the vicinity, be it a window or a mirror, or the one time his wooden chair had fractured underneath him. But each time, he immediately mended it via magic; it was effortless at this point.

And he was tired—so, so tired—of fending off the incessant mental abuse.

You’re fighting a losing battle and you know it, dearie. Why are you still trying?

“Because I’ll be damned if I give in,” he replied listlessly, staring at the ceiling from his little-used bed. He’d hoped the sound of the endless rain on the roof might be provide some relief, but it hadn’t yet.

Yes, indeed you will; Hades has been waiting for you for a very long time, I daresay.

“But you won’t let me go that easily, will you?”

Heavens no! We’re just getting started!

He scoffed, but it was half-hearted, and then closed his eyes and tried to focus on the pattering rain on the roof and not the infinite list of tortures and maladies the Darkness couldn’t wait to execute.

Murder is always a good place to start; maybe a spot of famine too? We could start collecting hearts again, definitely...and oh, it’s been so long since we had a genocide...

The impending sense of doom hanging over him didn’t help his growing frustrations or unstable emotions; he felt like he was just awaiting his execution. Would that be what it was like? Would Killian Jones cease to exist, only the Dark One remaining? Or would it be like what happened due his last visit to the garden—would he be an unwilling passenger while the Darkness made a vehicle of his body?

The sooner you give up, the sooner you’ll find out!

His resolve hadn’t waned—but his endurance was flagging.

Blessedly, Emma hadn’t tried to come to him, to change his mind. He knew this was the only way. Part of him wished she had but he knew that, in the long run, she was better off without him. He could only pray the Darkness spared her when he was no longer in control.

Are you kidding? Her? Oh, we have plans for her.

He sat bolt upright, suddenly panicked. “Like what?”

Oh, there’s so many options! It’d be rather silly of us to let the one person who can destroy us run free.

The first image that flashed across his mind’s eye was Emma, begging for mercy.

Then Emma, covered in blood, his dagger dripping at his side.

Then her staring at him, wide-eyed, while a bright red heart glowed in his hand—until it was crushed and she was gone.

Over and over, it played all the ways it could think of to hurt her, each one ending in her death—and nothing he tried would stop the visions from coming. He screamed and yelled at it to end, but no respite came, even when he was sobbing and the storm outside was at its fiercest.

What, you don’t want us to do that? it finally taunted.

“No, please—not her, don’t…” he whimpered.

The Darkness sighed. In all his years, he’d never heard it do that. Well, fine; I suppose you have a point—think of what we could do with power like hers!

The illusion changed; now it was Emma standing over him with a blood-soaked blade, the inky tendrils claiming her for its own and washing away her light, leaving hard darkness in its place. Gone was the glow of her hair and the brightness of her eyes, only ice in its place, and the ruins of the garden behind her.

“You...you wouldn’t.”

Oh, yes we would. Better to control it than to let it control us.

Control...could she do that?

Only if she had the blade...but you’re not that dumb, are you?

He didn’t respond; he just stood and made a beeline for the main room.

We know what you’re thinking.

He pulled the new rug from the floor, tossing it aside with strength he didn’t know he had.

It’s not going to be that easy.

A crash of thunder boomed outside and made him jump; a bit of dark magic flew off of him and shattered the mirror.

Do you really want to see what will happen? Visions of a world cast into darkness, people screaming and crying, the memory of Milah’s death started playing in his head again, bringing him to his knees. Because we’re quite fine with that—and we know you’re not.

“It won’t—she can fix this.”

Why? Because she’s the Savior? Bollocks. Nothing can stop us. The only way to stop is to be stopped.

It felt like the weight of the entire world was bearing down on him. The gruesome images of the Darkness’s dreams wouldn’t leave him be, intermingled with its constant repetition of Emma’s name and his mother’s last words. “Keep your good heart.” It had once been a mantra; now it was just a reminder of all the ways he’d failed.

He was sure he’d crush under the pressure—was sure he could feel his bones impossibly breaking—until he mustered up his last fragment of strength and, with a primal yell, pushed it all away.

The energy of the effort blasted out from him and took the windows with it, letting in the storm. The wind and rain whipped around the room, adding to the frenzied air and pulling at his hair and tunic.

Looking back on the next moment, he must have been using magic unconsciously; how else could he have punched through the solid wood floor in one shot? Anyone else would have incurred serious injury in the attempt but he just pulled his bloodied hand back and tore at the splinters, vaguely aware of the continued cuts and gashes on his hand and forearm as he worked to clear a gap.

At least this time when he pulled out the dagger box, he already had his blackened blood to offer; he wasted no time in tracing the letter on the surface.

But it didn’t open. He tried again, and again, but nothing happened.

You lovesick idiot. Did you forget Milah that easily?

In his rush, he’d been writing E on the box. A rare correct moment for the Darkness. Quickly, he shook his head, drew an M, and pulled the lid off as soon as it released.

The dagger somehow seemed darker when he held it—he swore he could see it’s black veins pulsing in time with his heart, the voices of Dark Ones past whispering even louder. The magic within him sang in its presence.

Now what are you gonna do?

Well, he should probably find Emma. He’d no sooner thought it than he found himself in the garden, the familiar smoke dissipating around him.

“Killian?”

He whipped around at Emma’s voice, and the Darkness began to spark inside as soon as it registered her presence. She was on the other side of the garden but he could still sharply read the expression on her face: confusion, concern, and more than a little fear.

“Emma, please, you have to help me,” he urged, running toward her. She took a step back when he did; he probably looked like a crazed man, but he was desperate. He held out the blade to her when he drew close. “Please—take it away from me. You’re the only one I trust.”

“Take it?” Her eyes darted warily between the dagger and his eyes. “Killian, what are you asking me?”

“Whoever holds the dagger can control the Dark One. Please, love; it’s yours.”

She swallowed as she stared up at him, eyes wide. “I—I can’t do that; I won’t take away your agency like that.”

Ugh, she’s so self-righteous. She’s clearly never held a heart in her hands...but we can change that.

“It’s not taking if it’s being given up,” he explained, then reached for her with his hook. He brought her forearm level with his chest and placed the handle of the dagger in her hand, wrapping her fingers around it. “Please, Emma; for me?”

To his horror, she tossed it aside. “Killian—you don’t need me to; you can do this!” She was holding his hand and hook and trying to meet his gaze, but it hadn’t left the dagger, staring at where it lay cast aside in the grass.

And he was fairly sure his stomach was on the ground next to the blade.

Would you look at that? She just threw you away.

“Killian, do you hear me? You’re stronger than this!”

Just like your father did...and your brother...and all those captains…

“Whatever it’s telling you isn’t true!”

Isn’t it, though?

He finally broke out of his trance to glare at her. “How could you?” he screamed. “I ask your help and get tossed aside?” Dark rage was starting to build.

“What? No, Killian—that’s not—”

“I thought you’d be the one who could do this! I’m trusting you!”

“And I’m so glad you do,” she said, giving him a teary smile as she cupped his cheek. “But Killian—you don’t need me for that!”

Some Savior she is.

“Well some Savior you are!” he echoed; the glass in the lanterns shattered as his magic began to reach out in response to his frustration. “No wonder you couldn’t break your parents’ curse!”

She stepped away, visibly shocked. Deep down, he knew it was a low blow, but he was on his last tether and it was rapidly fraying.

Emma took a deep breath. “You’re better than this.”

No you’re not.

“Am I? Really?” He took an intrusive step into her personal space; the thump of her pounding heart registered in his mind. “Does this look like it?!”

Show her...show her what she’s doing!

A strong breeze swept through the garden; he was fairly certain he summoned it, and the trees creaked in response.

But then he scrunched his eyes shut as he winced in pain; no—she wasn’t doing this to him—it was—it was—it was giving him a headache, splitting him down the middle.

“Killian, come on; fight this!” She was gripping his biceps and there was a cool, soothing sensation emanating from her. He wanted to lean into it, but her magic couldn’t quite permeate the Darkness, which was screaming in his head.

She’s not going to help you! Just take her out and forget her; why bother with people who’ll leave you behind? We haven’t…we’ve been here with you all these years!

The Darkness hadn’t left; it was sad, but true.

“I’m here—we’re both here, you and me—you can do this!”

Until she tosses you away again. She left her family, her kingdom—what makes you think she won’t do the same to you?

She had, hadn’t she? But she’d also pulled him back from the edge—unless he remembered wrong? God, everything was so fuzzy and foggy…the wind picked up and static energy filled the air as light and dark magic collided.

“Listen to your heart; you’re a good man, Killian Jones…”

No, listen to her heart! The Darkness was drowning her out. It’s the only thing standing between you and the peace and freedom you deserve. Her steady heartbeat pounded even louder in his head, shaking him to his skeleton; it was all he could hear.

Take it; take it; take it; take it… The whispered command came from all around, echoing in his head and reverberating off the garden walls. She’s just gonna hurt you; take it…

His cheeks were wet with tears and his voice was raw from yelling. It felt like every bone in his body was trying to flee the one next to it. And he could only see one way out of this agony.

He thrust his hand forward, into Emma’s chest; a shower of sparks fell at the intrusion. She gasped as his grip found purchase on the organ, and gave a small cry as he yanked it out.

Everything quieted then, as if the whole world was shocked: Emma’s heart, glowing a beautiful, pure red, was sitting in his hand; his fingers, with their blackened veins, curled around it.

The stunned silence that followed suggested that no one had thought he was capable of it, least of all him; he and Emma wore similar open-mouthed expressions as they stared at it.

What the bloody hell was he doing?

What you have to do.

“You don’t have to do this, Killian.” Her voice was strained.

Yes, you do.

He...he did, didn’t he?

“This isn’t who you want to be.”

What other choice did he have anymore, though?

None whatsoever.

Do it, do it, do it, do it… the voices were chanting.

Crush it, crush it, crush it, crush it…

He started to squeeze. Emma crumpled to the ground almost immediately.

Yesss, that’s it...oh, it’s been so long!

He squeezed a bit harder, watching as the glow of the heart pulsed faster. Something was definitely changing in him—there was a cold feeling spreading from his spine, not at all refreshing, but not wholly unpleasant either.

Just a bit more and you’ll be free!

Free...he couldn’t even remember what that felt like. He tightened his fist around the heart even more and Emma began to whimper and gasp. From her prone form on the grass, she flipped her head up to look at him, eyes rimmed and red with tears.

We’ll have everything we ever wanted!! Killian was vaguely aware of the scaly texture taking over his skin, but his focus remained on Emma and her heart.

“Please,” she choked out. “Don’t give…” Her eyes were fluttering, about to close for good. He could feel the corner of his mouth pull up in a sinister grin.

Almost there...

She took an arduous, strained breath, and uttered what would likely be her last words. “I can’t lose another person that I love.”

That stopped him. Love? She was on the verge of death... but was worried about his fate?

Don’t listen to her—she’d say anything to get you to stop!

Anyone else would...but not her. He knelt next to her as she lay panting, finally able to catch her breath now that he’d relaxed his grip on her heart.

Finish it! Finish her! the Darkness was demanding.

But he couldn’t hear it anymore when Emma reached up to caress his face. He could feel the roughness of his skin as she brushed her thumb across his cheek and found himself leaning into her warmth.

And he suddenly knew what he really had to do. It had taken seeing Emma in pain to make him realize it, and he knew he’d likely be hurting her further, but it was the only way—the only right way.

What are you waiting for?

“This,” he answered, no longer caring if Emma saw him talking to no one. As swiftly as he’d pulled it out, he shoved Emma’s heart back in her chest.

She gasped and coughed, but then looked up at him, concern furrowing her brow. “Killian?”

What do you think you're doing?

“The courageous thing, for once.”

He took a deep breath to steel himself, then reached inside his own chest, pulling out his own heart this time. He saw Emma reach for him, but she froze before she touched him—a good thing, too, because the jolt from their feuding magic likely would have made him crush it. Surprisingly, it didn’t hurt all that much—just a slight tug, and then there it was in his palm. It was encased in a hard black shell, but he could still see a bit of red glow inside; he wasn’t at all shocked it was so dark.

You can’t stop this. Whatever you think your plan is, it won’t work.

“If that means ridding the realm of you, then I have to try.”

And what if you fail?

“It’s a risk I’m willing to take.” But he was sure. He had no reason to be, especially with the frightened stare Emma wore, but he just...knew.

Carefully, he set his heart in the grass, which turned black and died on contact.

Then he reached over for the discarded dagger.

No! “No!” For the first time, the Darkness and Emma were in agreement.

Emma reached for his shoulder and squeezed. “Killian, you can't do this.” Tears were slipping down her cheeks now.

And he could feel his own brimming. “We both know there's no other way, love.”

You idiot! You absolute imbecile! After all we’ve done for you—keeping your sorry arse alive all these years? This is how you repay us?

“I can’t let you do this; I—I need you, Killian. I—“

“Your family needs you, love. I’m the only one who can do this, so please—let me die a hero. That's the man I want you to remember.”

“Oh, Killian,” she sobbed, cupping his face again. “You already are.”

“I love you, Emma.” It was probably fitting how much this scene reminded him of Milah’s death.

“I love you too.” Without warning, she fisted her free hand in his tunic and pressed her lips against his, firm and soft at the same time. He kissed her back as fervently as he could manage, though it was far less than anything she deserved.

When she broke away for air, he could only pause a second longer in the brief afterglow of the moment.

Stop! You have no idea what you’re doing—you won’t accomplish anything? Do you want to waste your life? Do you want to make her watch you die? We could do so much together!

Gently, he pushed Emma away from him. She was still crying, but gave him an encouraging smile nonetheless. He redirected his attention to he heart and adjusted his grip on the dagger.

You idiot...you lonely, miserable fool. You’re going to die as you lived: a one-handed coward.

The last insult was the final straw. He reared back and drove the point of the blade into his heart, splitting it in two.

Pain greater than anything he’d ever known—worse than any strike or lash, worse even than losing his hand—started burning a hole in him, starting from his chest and quickly bleeding out. Oddly, he wasn’t losing any blood, but those same inky black tendrils that had consumed him all those years ago were leaking out of him at a furious pace.

He wasn’t quite sure when or how he ended up on his back, but at some point, he realized he was staring up at the Darkness set loose as it escaped from its binding and left him behind, no more than a used, broken vessel.

And yet—he’d never felt more free or at peace in his life, because it had been his decision and no one else’s. He knew what would happen and he’d still done it.

The last of the Darkness broke away from him and he dropped back from whatever contortion he’d been in, feeling so much lighter than he could ever recall. Everything was growing dark and his vision narrowed; he must be approaching the end.

And all he could do was smile.

He turned his head to find Emma; she was kneeling in the grass next to his body, his broken heart held in her hands and tears streaming down her face. Amazingly, there was no black on his heart anymore—just that same pure red glow Emma had. He wanted to ponder its meaning, but more so wished he could comfort her—but there was time for neither, and he knew that eventually, she’d be fine without him.

The last thing he saw before falling into oblivion was the bright green of Emma’s eyes, and then everything, including his heart, faded to emptiness.

Oh, sweet rapture! The Darkness was finally free—free of that bumbling burden it had carried for far too many decades; truly free for the first time in its centuries of existence. No silly human emotions to weigh it down anymore; it could do as it pleased!

It had no idea what to do with such a lack of restraint now that it was out of its cage. It wanted to touch everything and everyone, leaving chaos and destruction in its wake. But where to start?

The garden would make a perfect first victim, it supposed—what a better place to sew despair than in what was once a symbol of hope? Unbound, it flew around the space, its tentacles of darkness killing all it touched: vines shriveled, trees shed their leaves and turned black, and one by one, flowers turned gray and their petals fell to ash in the wind.

Imagine what it could do beyond that? The world would fall to darkness, unable to stop it.

Though, one disadvantage to being uncorporeal was quickly revealed when it attempted—and failed—to pick up the now-nameless dagger: there was some perk to having fingers.

The girl...oh, yes, Princess Emma—how could they forget? Such raw, untapped power! It had noticed her own rage and anger...if it could sway her to see things a little differently...oh, there was much fun to be had!

It concentrated its efforts on surrounding her; in her unsteady emotional state, she’d be especially vulnerable—and desperate souls were its favorite.

She flinched when it began to circle her. There, there, dearie; no need to cry over spilled blood.

Her eyes grew wide at its voice and she stood, her stare darting around at the cyclone of malevolence that was closing in on her.

We can dry those tears, if you’d like. And make sure you never shed another.

“Seriously? You expect me to believe that?”

Whyever not? You hardly know me, love.

She breathed in deep at the use of the deckhand’s endearment; just as planned. “Leave me alone; I don’t need you.”

That’s not what you said a few minutes ago. The Darkness echoed her voice from earlier, when she’d told Killian as much; her face crumpled at the sound, to its glee. And you’d be no closer to breaking your parents curse without those books...but maybe we could help make sure you do.

“Never!” she screamed defiantly. “I won’t resort to dark magic to save them; they wouldn’t want me to.”

Even after what they did to the dragon’s child? (Even the Darkness knew to stay away when children were involved; it had some standards, after all.)

She clenched her jaw and glared, having no response.

To think: what happened to that poor thing would all be in vain, because you couldn’t manage to live up to your destiny.

Truthfully, the Darkness was bluffing a bit at this point. As much as Jones had gone mad in its company, it was mostly because the Darkness was equally listless and cut off from the world. It used to be at the forefront of all magical goings-on, so whatever this prophecy was surrounding the girl, it had no idea. But that didn’t mean it couldn’t try to use it to its advantage.

Although...the look of recognition on her face did lead it to worry—she looked like she’d just gotten an idea, and not one that the Darkness would be fond of.

“No, I think that’s exactly what I’m gonna do,” she spat. “I was given all this light magic for a reason; and if I can’t use it to save them, or Killian, then I can at least use it to destroy you.”

I’d like to see you try.

A look of grim, fierce determination took over her face as she closed her eyes and concentrated, holding her arms in front of her, palms up. Oh, she looked like such an amateur.

White sparks began to jump from her palms and the air began to shift a bit. And when the sparks hit the Darkness’s oozing spirals, something strange happened: it hurt.

What—what is this? What are you doing?

It certainly wasn’t the first time the Darkness had squared off against a light magic user, but it was only the vessel that got hurt, not the entity itself. This was new. And not enjoyable in the slightest.

It spun closer to Emma, seeking to drown out her powers, but it was no use: white lightning began to fly from her hands unrestrained, slicing through the column of the Darkness that surrounded her.

Well that wasn’t exactly the way it expected this to play out. All attempts to double down on the girl were failures as it was cut apart by her pure magic, until the pain became too much, like fire consuming its many limbs all at once.

Quickly, the darkest magic ever known to man was crumbling into absolutely nothing, its charred remains disintegrating where they landed and leaving behind no trace of one of the strongest forces on earth.

It managed to scream one last thing before evaporating into the ether.

No more Darkness...

Holy shit. Holy SHIT. She just...she just destroyed the Darkness, didn’t she?

Holy shit.

Somewhere, her mother was tutting at her repeated cursing, but Emma didn’t have the wherewithal to come up with anything more refined or creative. In the span of minutes, she just watched the man she loved die to avoid being consumed by the darkest thing ever, and then she obliterated said thing.

Yeah, she’d been prophesied to do that, and she’d worried it would come to something like this as soon as she met Killian. That was why she tried to keep him at bay at first, not trusting him—and even less trusting of her initial attraction. So much for that.

But that didn’t take away from the adrenaline coursing through her veins next to the surge of magic that wouldn’t abate. She let out a long exhale and tried to shake the sparks out, but they just dripped from her fingers and onto the charred grass below her. The garden was mostly destroyed from all that had happened, but it was a small price to pay for what she’d just accomplished.

No, there was a different price that had been too large—that shouldn’t have been part of the exchange. She knelt back down—well, more like collapsed—next to Killian’s cooling body.

It was odd, seeing him like this. Gone was the shimmery pallor of his skin; she assumed this was how he looked before he acquired the curse: tanned by the sun from long days at sea. But stranger still was that he looked so peaceful—she’d never seen him so relaxed, without the constant weight of his burdens and self-doubt resting on his lean frame. And she hated that it was death that had finally given him that respite.

A drop of water fell onto his linen shirt and was quickly absorbed by the fabric. Then another. After a few, she realized they were her tears, coming back in full force. She’d lost so much in such a short time; why did he have to be part of that?

For a long, long moment, she just let herself cry—for him, for her parents, for her kingdom—as she lay across his chest, holding him close like she only got to once in life.

But then something in the grass caught her eye—something glowing. Killian’s heart. What?

She immediately sat back up and grabbed the broken halves of his heart. As soon as he stabbed it, the hard black shell had immediately dissolved, leaving behind his pure, bright red organ—and she could have sworn she saw the light fade from it completely. But no, there it was: faint, deep in the center of each half, but there was still a flickering, pulsing sign of life.

Another tear fell from her cheek onto the dull surface of his heart from where she’d set them in the grass when the Darkness started encircling her, which seemed to absorb it—and the light got a little brighter. Her heart leapt for a moment, and a spark of her magic burst free from her palm, landing on the other half—which had the same effect. She gasped; did that mean...could she…?

Focusing everything on Killian and not on her own misery, she called on that extra magic running through her, bringing it into her hands with the two halves of his heart. Her tears were still falling on it, creating a sort of magical glue, she figured, as she pressed them back together and used her magic to seal it. The bright light from her palms blinded her for a second, but when it faded, his whole, healed heart was in her grasp, glowing a bright, bold red, and the extra pressure from her excess magic was gone.

She wasted no time in pressing the organ back into his chest, trying to make sure she did it the same way he’d removed his (and, well, hers, but she wasn’t dwelling on that—it wasn’t him who had done that). And then she waited.

And waited.

And waited, staring at his chest, watching for the rise and fall of his breath that should have accompanied the return of his heart. But there was nothing.

She pressed fingers to his neck, right over the little line of freckles she’d just noticed. There was a pulse, but he still wasn’t breathing. Why wasn’t it working?

Immaturely, she shook him, though mostly out of frustration. “Killian, please—can you hear me? Are you there?” His head lolled to the side, but there was no other reaction. “Son of a bitch,” she cursed.

There was only one other thing she could try. She didn’t have much success with it, and it was probably a longshot—but given what their goodbye consisted of, she had to give it a go.

“Killian, I love you,” she whispered, hovering over his face. “Come back to me.” And then she pressed her lips to his, praying that her love was enough to wake him.

Killian wasn’t sure how long he spent there in the comfortable nothingness. There was no light, no sound, no feeling—it was as if he was laying on the bottom of a deep, dark pit, while at the same time floating in a void. Was this the afterlife, he wondered, or merely where the souls of Dark Ones past ended up? Perhaps he’d landed in some sort of purgatory. But he was nothing if not patient, and could wait to find out.

He briefly pondered the fates of those who’d passed before him—his mother, his brother, Milah. Had they traveled through this space, too, or did they head straight for greener pastures?

Wherever they, or he, went, one thing was for certain: Emma wasn’t yet there. He’d so loathed to leave her behind, but she was strong, possibly the strongest person he’d ever known; she’d move on past his sorry self, regardless of the fact that she loved him. At least he’d had that before leaving the mortal plane.

Slowly, a warm feeling took over him, like being washed in sunlight—though it was still dark. He took a deep breath, unnecessary as it was, as he readied for whatever came next. Oddly enough, he thought he felt his heart beating again; perhaps that was just a trick of the afterlife?

For a few long moments, it was just he and the gentle thump-thump in his chest there in the abyss. But then he saw a light, quickly getting brighter until it was nearly blinding.

And he could have swore he heard Emma’s voice.

Suddenly, pain crashed back into him—like lightning striking through his limbs and pressing down on his body, violently reigniting a fire that had burned out. He was gasping for breath, sputtering and coughing—until he felt a familiar gentle touch, and it was all immediately soothed.

“Killian?”

He blinked a few times before his eyes truly adjusted to the light—not as glaring as whatever he just experienced, but still more than the previous emptiness. And the first thing he saw was Emma, hovering over him, a smile taking over her face.

“Emma?” His voice was unsteady.

“It worked,” she whispered. “Holy shit, it worked!”

“What...what happened?” He was dead, right? Did that mean she was...oh, no… “Emma, are you—”

“I’m right here,” she said, grabbing his hand and squeezing it. She felt warm enough, but a tear was falling down her cheek. Beyond her, he saw the garden—but it wasn’t at all how he remembered; it looked much like it did after his very first visit: dead, dried up, dark.

“Where are we?” he asked shakily, not sure he wanted to know the answer.

“We’re still in the garden,” she explained calmly, albeit a bit watery. “You...you were gone and then the Darkness was free, but I—I beat it, or destroyed it, or something, and then—your heart! Oh, your heart—I fixed it, and, and then…” She was rambling and crying and grinning and he only caught half of what she was partially explaining, but the last part sounded loud and clear: “True Love’s Kiss,” she said, reverently.

He was aware of his mouth hanging agape as he stared up at his angel, his actual savior. “I...I’m alive?”

“Yeah,” she nodded.

“And we’re…” He hardly dared to put it into words.

“Mhmm.”

He exhaled and stared up at the sky, where the sun was beginning its descent and leaving a deep blue behind. So he hadn’t seen his last sunset yet, or the stars, or the sea; he had a second chance. It was almost impossible to believe, but as he took another deep breath, and another, it sunk in.

The Darkness hadn’t won. Emma had. Love had.

“Nothing else to say?” Emma quipped nervously, then sniffled. Oh, gods, he’d been silent ever since the revelation—what poor form!

Quickly, he sat up—but immediately swayed in his spot at the rush of blood; he’d have to get used to that, and so many other mortal complaints, again. Emma gripped his shoulders and anchored him as he waited for the sensation to abate, too slowly, in his opinion.

But once the light-headedness passed, he gripped her hand and met her tear-filled eyes. “I...I have no idea what to say to that, love,” he stammered. “It’s nothing I ever imagined hearing, and more than I ever dared to consider or hope for. I’m...I’m speechless.”

“In a good way, right?”

He chuckled, but it came out almost like a sob. “In the best way anyone can imagine. It—you—is more than I could possibly deserve.”

“Hey—enough of that,” Emma said softly, cupping his cheek with her free hand; it felt so, so warm, and he realized all he’d been missing out on. “For starters, that was never true, and it’s even less true now. You deserve peace and happiness, Killian; you always have. And this?” She continued, placing her other hand over his heart, “is the brightest red I’ve ever seen. Not that I have many hearts to compare it to, but just so you know. I love you—I did then and I do now; so much now. So please stop beating yourself up, because today? You were the strongest person I’ve ever seen.”

Tears were free-falling down his cheeks now. “I love you, too, darling. More than I thought I could. Thank you for saving this sorry lost soul.”

Before they could continue down a spiral of platitudes, Emma pulled him close to kiss him, this time in celebration. It wasn’t a particularly long or deep kiss—his return to mortality did inhibit that a bit—but it was sweet and gentle and carried the promise of so much more.

thank you so much for reading! epilogue to come!

tags: @kat2609 @optomisticgirl @thesschesthair @fergus80 @xpumpkindumplingx @shipsxahoy @selfie-wench @mryddinwilt @cocohook38 @annytecture @wingedlioness @word-bug @bleebug @its-imperator-furiosa @queen-mabs-revenge @killianmesmalls @distant-rose @sherlockianwhovian @effulgentcolors @laschatzi @welllpthisishappening @let-it-raines @nfbagelperson @the-captains-ayebrows @stubble-sandwich @killian-whump @lenfaz @phiralovesloki @athenascarlet @kmomof4 @ilovemesomekillianjones @whimsicallyenchantedrose @snowbellewells @idristardis @wyntereyez @lfh1962 @bmbbcs4evr @therooksshiningknight @facesiousbutton82

#cs ff #dark killian #deckhand hook #cs march madness #fic: savage garden #my ff

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celestial-leaves · 6 years ago

Text

“Do not go gentle into that good night.”

Across the barren landscape blew a cold wind, dragging it's fingers over the fragmented rocks so that they rolled and cracked like weak thunder. It danced between ageless columns, under a large stone table and out the other side. It's toneless voice lost to a void of infinite stars. Zaveid crouched on one such column, eyes closed, and senses cast out as far as they would go. He tracked the wind's passage, exhaling steam with every breath, reading what it was willing to share. The information was lacking. Their target - a gang of highway robbers - were nowhere to be found. Slowly Zaveid reeled his senses back in, releasing his grip on the wild winds until it was only his own domain that drifted about. He stepped off the column floating to the ground non-nonchalantly. Once more he eyed the terrain but it remained desolate, not even a whiff of maovelance.

With a shrug the eolian took off across the landscape, domain consolidating into translucent wings that carried him back to the camp. He landed neatly besides Lailah with a soft swoosh. The wings dissolved back into air and he shook out his arms for they had a tendency to stiffen up after prolonged flights.

"Welcome back," Lailah said, her voice no more than a quiet murmur. Zaveid followed her head tilt and huffed. Their shepherd was curled up by the fire, the top of his hair poking out from under the blanket. Asleep as he was he appeared even smaller, barely longer than an oxen saddle. He eyed the rest of the camp but didn't see the other youngsters. "The girls went hunting," Lailah spoke again. "Did you find any leads?"

"No. Where ever they went, they're long gone," Zaveid said. He sat down folding body parts in such a manner that there was limited exposure to the flames. "Might have to go back to town, see if we can scrounge up another trail." There was a quiet hum from the prime lord but nothing more so he fell silent as well, automatically encircling the encampment with an alert breeze.

Before too long the hunters returned squabbling like nest-mates but carrying between them a good-sized deer. "Food!" Their newest sub-lord exclaimed, heedless of the previous quiet. She cast down her share of the burden and immediately crouched close to the fire, holding out her hands. "It's ridiculously cold out there, it shouldn't be this cold so early in the year, should it?"

"Out of season weather are a sign of a troubled world," Lailah said, "I suppose it can't be helped with all that has been going on." At the sound of raised voices, the shepherd stirred and sat upright, rubbing at his face. "Good timing Deryn!" Lailah continued brightly, "come help with this." Mutely, the boy scrambled up and trotted over.

Seeing that the other three had it well in hand, Zaveid remained where he was and closed his eyes. Between the simultaneous training of a new shepherd and seraph, the hunting of hellions, and the tracking of potential lords of land, there wasn't much time to simply relax. In the aftermath of Sorey's impromptu nap there had been much to do and Rose had done her best, but she was only human. Skilled but not perfect or infallible. They'd lost her some 30 years later, the strain of being a vessel and her own human mortality catching up inevitably. After that, the party had split. Mikleo wandering off to travel the world. Lailah had returned to her throne to suss out potential candidates, whilst Edna had walked away one sunrise without a backwards glance. Travelling with either of the two youngsters had been tempting, but he understood Mikleo's pain all to well and didn't particularly wish to tread on it. To Edna, he had offered and she had turned him down flat, stating that "Phoenix was enough for her."

In the end, he had remained seated on the wind trial's highest perch with the perfect view of their retreating backs. When he could no longer see them, he had closed his eyes and cast out his winds. For days he did not move, existing only as a gargoyle of flesh and blood. The sub-lord pact was a thin chain wrapped around his heart and stretching out across the land. Through it he could sense the others. Mikleo was always bobbing about, one moment he would be in Trizolde and the next Pendrago. It was disconcerting. Zaveid briefly entertained the thought of tracking down the boy, if only to remind of his own immortality. There would be time enough to view the world, it wasn't going to disappear even if he dilly-dallied. The idea had been swallowed down shortly after it had emerged as the thought of moving was an unpleasant one.

Edna was a steady presence. He didn't need to put in much effort to track her for once she had returned to her earth pulse, she had not moved again. He tried not think about her too much or on what slumbered near her. Somehow, though, it always managed to pervade his thoughts. Seeping through his brain until the guilt became so strong as to be tangible. He suspected that it had something to do with their bond. Ever since he had made that promise with Eizen, it had only grown stronger. Even the latter turning into a literal dragon had not broken it. Whenever he closed his eyes, fought, ate, or did anything really. It was there. Settled in the far reaches of his mind like a particularly unpleasant fungus. If Zaveid concentrated he could perceive Eizen's emotions, rumbling discontent or hunger. Sometimes it felt as if the dragon could sense his mental intrusions but those times were rare and far between. Usually, it only served to remind him of his broken oath.

Five months after the group had split the sub-pact connecting him to Lailah snapped. He felt it break, present one heartbeat and gone the next. Panic crashed in in the wake of the severing, leaving him breathless. He tumbled more than leapt from his perch, shaking out limbs that had remained stagnant for far too many days, and hit the ground with a teeth rattling thud. The sudden movement and rush of alarm drew an inquisitive feeling from Eizen but he ignored it. The wind coursed around him, dragging him to his feet, shoving him eastward. Zaveid didn't question it just gathered the breeze in and surged forwards, shape blurring out of focus as he sped up.

Ladylake was much as he remembered it -loud, odorous, and over populated- but that mattered little when one did not exist. He shouldered his way through the crowds, leaping walls with one step, and dashing through many a clothing line before he came upon the cathedral. The doors had been closed but such an impediment had never stopped the eolian before. He crashed through the window, rolled to his feet, and skidded between Lailah and the humans. A human. A young girl whose hands were curled around the hilt of a familiar sword and whom was in fact the only human in the cathedral. He froze. Meeting her own startled gaze with confusion that did nothing to distill the fear.

"Zaveid."

Zaveid winced at the cold tone, shoulders curling in slightly, before he straightened up and looked back at Lailah.

"How kind of you to join us," The fire seraph continued. Little wisps of smoke drifted up from her shoulders, her arms, her hair, and though she was smiling it was not a kind expression.

"Ah er, I thought something had happened," Zaveid said hastily, pendulums disappearing, and hands raised preemptively. "The bond just cut out without warning, I wasn't expecting it." He glanced at the girl, but she hadn't moved, still looking like a startled deer.

"It does that," Lailah said mildly, for a moment she looked as if she wished to enact bodily harm but she only sighed and Zaveid relaxed. "My apologies, I thought you'd known," she added.

"It didn't do that when Sheps conked out," Zaveid grumbled half-halfheartedly. Now that the fear was receding, various other ailments were beginning to poke their heads out.

"Rose was already affiliated with the - Zaveid! Are those twigs?"

"What are - ow ow." He trailed off, protests muted as Lailah tugged on his hair and let out exclamations of dismay.

"What ever have you been doing?! You look like you've been crawling through multiple piles of brambles and dead leaves." So saying she removed a handful of twigs, casting them down on the ground with disgust. "It's beyond improper to enter a holy area looking like a bird's nest."

"I doubt Mao would mind," Zaveid said, puling away from her questing hands, "it's better than bleeding everywhere."

"Just because Lord Maotelus isn't present does not mean one can be so disrespectful," Lailah snapped. "When was the last time you bathed?!"

"Recently I-" Zaveid started only to stop and frown, he couldn't remember the last time he'd washed or even seen a pool of water. He sniffed his wrist bracers and recoiled. "It's just manly musk," he muttered in Lailah's direction. "I've been busy."

"Clearly," Lailah said. "Had any visitors at the Wind shrine?" She turned away before he could answer and smiled at the human who didn't look reassured. "Not to worry, dear, he may look like that but he's a good person."

"No," Zaveid said preemptively but it had been of little use. Lailah had over powered his protests with a few choice words but the real kicker had been the shepherd's puppy dog eyes. So, despite his complaints he'd found himself a sub-lord once more and travelling with Lailah. It was more pleasant than he would ever admit.

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Time continued to pass them by. Shepherds were born, lived, and died. The church rebuilt itself stone by blessed stone under Lailah's merciless guidance. Soon fifty years had passed, then a century, and finally one early morning. A seraph emerged from an air pulse.

Zaveid felt it, a tensing of something deep in his soul. He paused, hands deep in the guts of some unlucky forest creature and looked to the coast line. The horizon line remained unchanged and yet the very air felt different. He inhaled, tasting the change on the tip of his tongue, before letting it go. Whatever it was would either come to pass or die still unformed, it was of little concern to him. The thought disappeared into the void reserved for none pressing matters and he returned to his duties.

Their next shepherd - a boy with messy hair the color of straw and mulish eyes - forced that thought back to the forefront. There could be little doubt that the child was Dezel returned to them as a human. Though the physical appearance was different, the soul that shined through - the one that they felt through the pact bond - was the same.

"Grampveid."

A sharp pressure drew him from his thoughts and Zaveid opened his eyes to meet Edna's displeased expression. "Food's ready," she said, adding a moment later "we're switching targets." Before she stomped off.

Zaveid unfolded himself with a groan, he collected a stick from the pile of roasted meat and joined the others. Lailah had spread out a map across two saddle bags, and was carefully etching out their potential routes. Chasing down the robbers would undoubtedly raise the locals opinions of them, but without a lead it was nearly impossible. Besides, it was better to leave such things to the appropriate divisions. That left them with two options; a nest of spiderlyneas had been reported recently or they could put an end to the menace living in the Spiritcrest. Out of the corner of his eye, he eyed Edna but the girl remained as tight lipped as ever.

"How big is this menace?" Deryn asked, voice muffled around by the meat he'd crammed into his mouth.

"Quite large," Lailah said, "and very old. If you remember your lessons it's classified as a 'flee on sight' monstrosity." Despite her grave words, there was a lightness to her tone that both of the youngsters picked up on. Deryn leaned forwards, peering harder at the map as if he could see the dark clouds of miasma surrounding the mountain peak.

Rose pushed up besides him, eyes glittering; "how old is very old, Lai? What's the listed reward price? It's got to be high for a flee on sight!" She chattered.

"Think over a thousand years," Lailah replied calmly and Zaveid eyed her suspiciously. It was clear that she had a goal in mind.

"There is no reward," Edna spoke then, she too was watching their prime lord through half-lidded eyes.

There were confused sounds from the youngsters, but they settled soon enough when Lailah raised her hand. "Allow me to explain," she began and Zaveid tuned her out. His eyes drifted away from the maps and out into the distance. The Spiritcrest was no small hop away, it would take them at least a week's travel or longer should they encounter trouble. Even if they were to arrive safely, they would be fighting against Eizen - the rumble at the back of his mind grew louder as it did whenever the name crossed his thoughts- he brought a hand up to his head, wincing. Deryn had the light but he didn't yet have the battle skills to back it up, his chances of survival were minimal at best. Still, Lailah would not have mentioned it if she didn't have some sort of plan.

The growls returned ten-fold echoing through his skull with a vengeance. Zaveid bit his lip, and focused inwardly. There was an area inside his mind, filled with tangled webs of shadows and bloody promises where lived the reverberations of a beast. It was not the true thing just as it had not always been so twisted, but was only a connection. Once it had been the source of confusion but much warmth as well. Now, though. Now, it was only a chain. Zaveid huffed a little and sent over a thought. <What's got your scales so scuffed up, big guy? You're making a lot of noise.>

He wasn't expecting an answer, he never did anymore. The growling did not recede and further inquiries only brought to mind the imagery of mauled meat. <You're eating,> Zaveid said, deadpan. <would it behoove you to chew quieter?> He received the mental equivalent of a tail to the chest. He staggered backwards out of the shared mind space. He opened his eyes grumbling deep in his throat, and glared sullenly off to the east. Eventually, a consensus was reached. Come morning light the group would head out to the spiderlynea nest. The group retired to their bed rolls soon after, but Zaveid remained where he was volunteering for the first watch with a nonchalant wave of his hand.

Lailah made her way over a few moments later, sinking onto the soft dirt with a groan that she would never have let the children hear. Zaveid glanced at her out of the corner of his eye noticing the faintest smell of incense in the air. He could feel the heat wafting off her skin. "Something bothering you?" He asked.

"Have you noticed anything weird about Deryn?" Lailah returned. She smoothed her dress down stretching the fabric over her knees.

"Are you thinking of something in particular?"

"No. It's- I would just like to hear your thoughts please."

"There's nothing outright weird about the kid," Zaveid said slowly. "Other than being Dezel reborn that is."

"Right, that."

"Hmm?"

"The whole rebirth cycle thing," Lailah continued. "It's," she paused, nose scrunching up as she chose her words. "You remember how it was before lord Maotelus became our Lord, right?" Her eyes flitted away when Zaveid turned to face her, seemingly finding the nearby grass fascinating but there was a tension to her shoulders. Zaveid sighed.

"Not really," he admitted, "my memory pre-that kid's transformation is not the best. But, things changed after he became Maotelus people stopped-" the words tangled together in his throat, leaving his chest aching with an old pain. "Pre-Maotelus it was simpler, malak or human everyone returned after 100 years. No exceptions." Perhaps it wasn't fair to blame the kid for it, Zaveid knew, but he couldn't seem to help it. A bitter tone crept into his voice as he continued. "But after that kid became Mao, well no one returned." He swallowed and spat out the second half of his thought. "The human population kept growing but us? We were less and and less every year."

"That doesn't explain how it is that Deryn and Rose came to be," Lailah pointed out. "If, as you say, the cycle froze when our lord was born then why is it starting again now?"

"Spirits if I now," Zaveid grumbled. "Didn't understand the church then and I sure as fuck don't understand it now." He flopped backwards, resting his head on his arms. Lailah chuckled, and after a moment tilted sideways until she too was laying down. Zaveid bit back the teasing comment he'd been about to make. Lailah despite her laughter still felt tense. "Sheps probably had something to do with it," he said lightly, "that kid never knew when to call it quits."

Lailah chuckled again. Zaveid could feel her shoulders shaking and he smiled to himself. "Still, I am worried," the prime lord said, "regular seraphs being reborn as humans or vice-versa is alright but what if something else took advantage of our lord's nap?"

"Like what?"

"A former lord of chaos or the Calamity herself," Lailah replied matter-of-factually. "If Lord Maotelus was the cycle guardian then-"

"Crowe won't be making a re-appearance," Zaveid interrupted. "She's so deeply buried under whatever seals they're holding Innominat under that it wouldn't be possible." Even as he spoke though, his thoughts flitted away from Velvet and towards something uglier. "Crowe cannot return," he whispered more to himself than Lailah, "but that doesn't mean that the same constraints apply to her human opponents." It was not a comforting idea and he shivered helplessly.

"You know who would return though?" Lailah asked suddenly and there was pleased warmth in her voice again.

"No but I suspect you'll tell me," Zaveid said. The grin appearing on his face despite his mood being far from cheerful.

"Eizen," Lailah said without preamble. She smiled up at him with glittering eyes.

His heart clenching painfully Zaveid couldn't maintain her gaze. He cleared his throat awkwardly. "Edna will be happy, I guess." There was a pause, and he could practically feel Lailah picking and choosing her words but in the end, she only shrugged. "We'll do our best," Zaveid said halfheartedly, "not sure Deryn is the right shepherd to feed to Eizen though." That drew an offended snort but the topic was dropped.

The following morning dawned bright and cold, the sky clear for miles around. As the group gathered their items and shoveled food down into Deryn's bottomless stomach, Zaveid looked at the map. It was a straight forward route taking them through two cities and over a small river. He memorized it easily enough, before folding u the map and returning it to its weather proofed case. They set out within the hour, walking in their usual formation. Zaveid scouting ahead followed by Lailah, Deryn, and Rose while Edna acted as rear guard. The atmosphere was pleasant, just shy of cool where the sun had yet to burn the dew from the grass. The winds whispered in his ears bringing tidings from as far away as the coastlines. Zaveid sifted the information extracting news on hellionic activities. Though the weather had initially improved after Sorey's nap, it was still prone to unleashing freak storms or upending it's innards in molten spews. A pretty sight for sure if one was not fleeing for their lives.

The first town they came across was little more than a ramshackle collection of wooden huts encircling a well. The surroundings fields had not been left fallow which suggested that the local inhabitants were not destitute. They moved on swiftly, stopping for the midday break by a noisy brook. The next contention point - a larger dot on the map- was not for several hours.

Even from a respectable distance away the stone walls could be seen crowding the horizon. Zaveid exchanged a look with Lailah and darted ahead, the wind consolidating under his feet until he was shooting through the air. He landed on one of the walls with a quiet thump ad inspected the town. The streets - winding cobblestone pathways - were empty. The windows of the dwellings visibly shuttered. Zaveid frowned casting out his senses but they came up empty. There was nothing seeping danger in the town. He descended from the wall and wandered through the streets. There was not a soul to be seen, though the space did not feel unlived in. There was water in the well and the wood was unrotted. Whatever had chased the inhabitants away was either recent or -

He froze. The air vibrated. A heavy thumping reached his ears and he looked towards the sky. In the distance a dark shape was speeding towards the city, growing larger by the second. Zaveid blinked, cursed and dove for cover. There was little to be found, other than the insides of a building, the streets did not posses many overhangs. He pressed himself into a narrow alcove, pendulums sliding down his wrists even as his heart tried to beat it's way out of his chest. From his new position he could no longer see the beast, but the wind spoke of a huge wingspan. Automatically his thoughts turned towards Eizen but they were nowhere near Rayfalke. Besides the presence in the back of his mind was strangely quiet, it was always loudest when he was within Eizen's vicinity. He peeked around the corner and saw the creature descending, wings spread so wide that they ought to have blotted out the sun. But the wings were so translucent that the beams pierced straight through, forcing Zaveid to shield his face.

The dragon was huge. Perhaps the largest monstrosity that Zaveid had laid eyes on, it dwarfed even Eizen's bulk by several feet. It shuffled restlessly, crouching down on the cathedral's spire as tiles rained down to the ground. It's tail looped once and then hung down so that the tip scraped against the cobblestones. It's scales - golden-white in color - shone under the spring sun and when it yawned it's teeth seemed the size of his hand. Zaveid gulped. As the quickest member he'd been sent ahead to scout but the party was not so far behind that they would fail to notice a draconian domain. Except, he frowned and tasted the air once more but nothing had changed. Other than the faintest remnants of weeks old terror there was no maovelance. No reaper's curse. No black miasma. He sensed Eizen stirring, no doubt reacting to the presence of another dragon, and hastily closed his mind to the intrusion. There was a rumbled protest, the feeling of scales scraping against stone and he could almost visualize Eizen glaring at him reproachfully. <<Go away,>> Zaveid thought in his direction, <<this doesn't concern you.>>

Fiddling with his necklace Zaveid considered his options; the dragon had yet to notice him and if it was as he suspected then the party would need to be informed of a new threat. It shifted then and he pressed himself further into the shadows, preparing to wind-step at a moment's notice but it only stretched out it's serpentine neck. As it moved he caught sight of it's yellow eyes, confirming the suspicion that this was not Eizen, though it did not explain how such a monstrosity had come to exist. The eolian thought it over for a moment and then strolled out into the closest courtyard. He pulled his domain in as close as it could, a respect that he would have normally offered only to Maotelus. He heard the sound of scales scrapping across stone but did not look over. There was a fountain in the center of the courtyard, water cascading over some bird stained humanoid shape. He stepped up and crouched down on the crook on the statue's shoulder. It put him slightly closer to the dragon's eye level.

If there was one thing that Zaveid had learned over his long years of existence was how to hide his fear. He could feel his heart decamping up to the base of his throat but he refused to let it show on his face. He met the single draconic eye evenly, pulling up a smirk for size. It inhaled, nostrils flaring visibly. Though it's scales were mostly white there was gold patterning that shimmered in the sun and the scales around it's claws seemed orangish. Zaveid swallowed and when that didn't help coughed. His throat still felt too tight but he spoke anyway, "What's your-"

"You were one of Eumacia's pets," the dragon interrupted. "Were you not?" It's voice was surprisingly soft, crackling on the odd word but not guttural.

The air escaped Zaveid's chest in a startled gasp, and for a painful moment it felt as if his heart had stopped. "I- I don't know a Eumacia," he said shakily, "and I'm no one's pet."

"Eumacia Eumaaaciaa," the beast hissed, "my dearest older sister." It's tail trashed, tearing straight through the ground. It settled again, resting its snout on a paw. "You were hers," it insisted. "Bound you were to her vessel."

"Vessel?" Zaveid asked, the word bouncing around his brain. "You're going to have to put a bit more effort into your explanation, buddy. You're not making a lick of sense," he said eventually. Despite his efforts to shut Eizen out, the name slipped through the bond and he heard the dragon react. A long snarl reaching him.

The dragon rumbled, smoke drifting out of it's nostrils and Zaveid prepared to bolt. "I am Musiphe," it said, still with that same rumbling tone. "Young one, has no one taught you your history?"

"Er."

"I am what your kind calls an Empyrean," it continued, "You serve me."

"Yeah. Er. No," Zaveid said automatically. "I don't serve anyone and aren't you supposed to be, I don't know, up there?" He gestured at the sky. "And not a dragon," he added after a moment. The dragon shifted and Zaveid's attention flashed to it's teeth. He crashed into the side of a building before he realized it, sliding down to the ground with a pained grunt.

"Young one," the beast chided, "you have forgotten your manners." It descended from it's perch, cat-like in it's grace as Zaveid scrambled to his feet. He didn't need to look to know that a bruise was forming, darkening his side like splattered paint. Eizen was roaring now, though Zaveid couldn't tell if he was angry at the empyrean or off on a hunt. His head pounded with each reverberation.

"Mmm, can't say I ever learned them," Zaveid said, a swift appraisal of the situation and he backed away using the building to shield his back. "I'm afraid this where I love you and leave you Musiphe," he continued, "nice meeting you." The wind snatched him away moments before the tail brought the building crashing down. Zaveid saw the cloud of dust from the sky and took off in the direction of the party. As soon as he'd put distance between himself and the city, he dropped to the ground. The last thing he needed was the dragon catching him in the air. He wind-stepped along, small jumps that allowed him to remain aware of his surroundings. The group was still trouping along when he crashed into their midst, appearing between Lailah and Deryn.

"Change of plans, we're not going this way," Zaveid said and snatched up the boy. "Everyone get inside." He didn't wait for them to react, just secured Deryn under his arm and wind-stepped away. The wind rushed past, the surroundings blurring into a streamlined mess. The only constant was the warm bundle under his arm. He did not stop until they'd left the empyrean a whole day's travel behind, setting down on the sandy surface of a cove. The mad dash left him gasping for air like a beached fish, struggling to inhale through lungs that felt painfully compressed. Deryn, the over dramatic brat that he was, staggered away coughing. A small red sphere emerged from his chest and took human form beside the wind seraph. Two others emerged on its heels.

"Grampveid cease your dying and explain," Edna demanded, the point of her umbrella jabbing mercilessly into his side. Zaveid grunted. A hand pressed too his chest as if that would calm the thundering of his heartbeat. It wasn't like he required oxygen to survive but it felt as if his lungs were constricting struggling to adjust to the new environment. Black spots crowded his peripheral vision settling around Rose's head so that she was blotted from view. He closed them. Instinctively sucking in information from the air.

"Shh. It's alright." Warm hands on his face, fingers curling around his chin and stroking his cheek. "It's alright, just breath for me." Zaveid inhaled trying to match the prime lord's steadying breath. Slowly the panic receded, and his heart followed suit sliding back down to settle into his chest cavity. He blinked hazily, swiped at his eyes and said haltingly, "are you sure you're not angel? because your purity is lighting my heart on fire."

Lailah did not look impressed nor did her concerned expression lessen. She stepped back and clasped her hands together. "What happened?" There was steel bleeding into her voice but Zaveid could only shrug.

"Nothing much, just stumbled across a dragon," he said, wincing a little when the group devolved into loud exclamations.

"A dragon? Like an actual dragon dragon?" Rose demanded, her restless energy redirected into bouncing on her toes, teeth bared. She looked ready to set off at once and track down the elusive beast. Deryn too looked inquisitive, though his naturally pouty lips were doing a better job of hiding it.

"It wasn't Eizen," Zaveid specified for the benefit of the little earthen glaring a hole into the side of his head. Some of the tension left her frame but he doubted that anyone else had noticed. "said his name was Musiphta or somethin'," he continued, "nearly ran straight into him. Bastard wasn't emitting any maovelance."

There was quiet gasp. Lailah - hands in front of her face - and eyes wide with evident horror. "Did you say Musiphe?"

"Err, it was something like that," Zaveid answered, rubbing at his neck. "To be honest I was a bit more distracted by the massive spiked tail."

"Musiphe, Musiphe," the prime lord muttered, "An Empyrean. How could this be?" Zaveid frowned at her fretting. The dragon had been large and terrifying, sure but it didn't exude an evil presence. He said as much but Lailah shook her head fervently. "No no, of course they wouldn't exude the maovelance. Musiphe was on of the great lords who ruled this land over a thousand years ago." She began to pace, fingers twisting together as little sparks drifted off her clothing. "He should still be with Lord Maotelus, I don't understand why you ran into him."

"What's an Empyrean?" Deryn asked. Simultaneously, Edna spoke in her typical dead-pan, "It's got to be boring hanging around a sleeping boss all day."

"It's not the first time the Empyreans have descended," Zaveid said, "the guy mentioned someone named Eumacia having a vessel?"

"Did he say anything else?"

"No," Zaveid said, "he tried to eat me after that so I got out of range." There was a rumble at the back of his mind, vague disgruntlement emitting. Zaveid spared an appeasing wave for the beast before resolutely ignoring it again. Within the privacy of his own mind he turned over what the dragon had claimed, but he could recall no facts about an Eumacia much less being bound to her. The only one and even now innumerable centuries later chills ran down his spine at the thought, had been Melchior. The human was well and truly dust beneath the earth out of range of both his hatred and his vengeance. There was no way he'd be returning.

"The kid turned into a dragon," he said abruptly cutting off whatever the others had been discussing. "There's no reason why his lords couldn't do the same." Fingers tapping against his thigh he glowered at the sky. "It's not like Mao was bound to the other plane. The only catching point is why they chose to re-appear now. The humans can't see them."

"Slaughtering humans hardly requires them to be visible," Edna said, a darkness slipping into her tone. With her child-like appearance - still under 150 centimeters - it was easy to forget that she too had lived through the Abbey's reign. Deryn and Rose both looked at her, their eyes wide.

"Seraphs can do that?" Deryn asked, "aren't they supposed to be-" he paused and waved a hand for emphasis, "*good?*"

"Like all things, the seraphim are subject to both good and evil humors," Lailah replied. "It is not so much that the great lords would engage in senseless acts of violence but merely that it is within their power." The shepherd looked skeptical, not that Zaveid could blame him. The empyreans had not lifted a finger when the Abbey had been running around enslaving malakim left and right. They'd been content to remain in their plane, no doubt sipping on the world's lifeblood as they watched it burn. He kept that particular thought to himself, Lailah got oddly offended when he spoke ill of the church. Even now she was herding the conversation away from the empyreans and the Abbey.

Zaveid understood her recalcitrance but could not bring himself to sympathize. Though the church might have evolved since it's Abbey's days and become something a little less oppressive, it didn't change the fact it had engaged and still engaged in the conquest wars. The group settled in the cove, laying their packs down and setting up a campfire. Each was lost to their own thoughts. Not needing food, Zaveid dug out a gel for himself and found a large rock to perch on. Eyes closed and head tilted to catch the sunlight, he was content to sit peacefully. For awhile thoughts of the Empyrean churned through his brain but eventually they too faded into silence.

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It appeared out of seemingly thin air. There was no other explanation. One moment the winds had been functioning as normal, the next they were burning, disappearing so quickly that Zaveid barely had time to react much less warn the others. Their campfire erupted. Flames sky rocketing as the wood exploded. He grasped for the nearest figure, fingers closing around a thin wrist and dragging whoever it was closer. The air felt void, no winds, no breezes just the looming presence of the empyrean.

It landed deceptively softly, huge wings draping out across the ground. Zaveid thought he saw starlight reflecting off them. It's tail swept about, encircling the group nonchalantly as if it regularly herded it's prey. He exchanged a look with Lailah and saw the same fear reflected in her eyes. Rose pressed into his side, wordlessly.

"Young one." For a beast of it's size it truly had no business sounding so gentle. "You ran off before we'd finished our conversation." Yellow eyes blinked reproachfully.

"Was that what you ole ones call a conversation?" Zaveid asked, the retort slipping free before his brain caught up to his mouth. He felt Lailah's wince though she was nowhere near him. The dragon made a sound, and it took Zaveid a while to realize that it was laughing. Hot air blew from it's nostrils but the flesh grinding jaws remained closed.

"Begging your pardon, my lord," Lailah spoke, her head lowered deferentially. "Was there something you required of us?"

The beast blinked at her and then inhaled slowly, its tongue flicking out. Resolutely, Zaveid tried not to think of Eizen doing the same thing moments before he'd attacked a buffalo herd. "I do not recognize you," it said eventually, "one of that child's followers perhaps?"

"I am the Prime Lord Lailah. I serve under his lordship Maotelus," came the reply. Somehow she was keeping a mild tone despite their danger and Zaveid felt a surge of pride. He wasn't sure that he'd have been able to pull off half as much respect.

"Yessss. That child's indeed." The tip of it's tail twitched, just once. "You may refer to me as Lord Musiphe. I am-" it's teeth bared in the semblance of a smile, "that child's older brother." He rumbled again as if laughing at his own words.

Zaveid bit his tongue, swallowing down the protest until it had sunken into the pit of his stomach. There came an inquisitive rumble from within him. The feeling of soil shifting under his clawed feet as Eizen paced the mountainside. Somehow the knowledge that his own dragon was relaxing at home was calming. Zaveid snorted to himself. Eizen was no more his dragon than he was a harmless hellion. Though the longer he delayed on fulfilling his oath, the easier it had become to discern the dragon's thoughts and emotions.

Musiphe spoke again, dragging his attention back to the very real danger. "Tell me children," it said, "what are the occurrences of this continent. I would hear your opinions."

True to his word the dragon remained still and silent listening to the tale that Lailah and Zaveid spun. He did not seem overly bothered when they explained Maotelus disappearance and had in fact snorted when they'd mentioned the destruction of Camlann. The lack of reaction was off putting but for Zaveid it further cemented the idea that Empyreans truly did not care about the state of their world. He scanned the scales, searching for any kinks in the natural armor or traces of a fight. There were none. By all appearances the dragon had not engaged in any acts of violence, other than swatting Zaveid like a fly. It's domain was still clean.

"I see," the dragon hissed, it curled further in on itself as if that could hide it's claws. "Much has changed since I last walked these lands then." It chuckled and small sparks shot out of it's nose.

"Where's your vessel?" Zaveid asked abruptly. Giving voice to the thought that had been pinging him. Even Maotelus had had a vessel, after all.

Musiphe's head whipped towards him, the weight of his exhale causing Zaveid to stagger. A lip curled upwards revealing the edge of a stained tooth.

"Apologies my lord," Lailah spoke up hastily. "He means no harm. It is merely awe inspiring that you remain unaffected by the land's aura. We would not be so rude as to presume that we are worthy of inquiring after your vessel." Though one of the huge eyes rolled towards her, the snarl did not fade.

"What she said," Zaveid muttered after a moment.

"My vessel is my own," Musiphe rumbled, "even now it thrives and I am sure it will grow up into a fine fighter." It's tongue flicked out once more and it looked almost please.

"It?" Zaveid pressed, "is it a living creature?"

"Young one, your manners are truly atrocious," came the answer. "Perhaps you require a lesson or two before Eumacia returns to this land." The look in it's eyes was not a kind one and Zaveid shivered. His instincts were screaming at him to retreat now - that against this fiery vortex he stood no chance. For the first time in nearly a decade, he regretted stowing Siegfried away.

"You know, I'm still a little unclear on who this Eumacia is," Zaveid said, turning a blind eye to the prime lord's disapproving look. Let her bow her head in subservience, Zaveid had never done well in such circumstances and he didn't plan on starting now.

"My sister," Musiphe started but then it paused. It's serpentine head swung upwards and it's tongue swept out to taste the air once more. It remained silent for several moments, eyes hooded as if it were listening to another voice. It rumbled deep in it's throat, fire leaking out between it's teeth. "My sister," it repeated eventually. "has always been the inquisitive type. Though you are but a spotted rock at best she does not mind your arrogant transgressions. I am however not so lenient." There was a warning in those gleaming eyes, and a threat in the fire that continued to burn his winds away.

Zaveid glared up at it, staring into those eyes with all the bravery he possessed. There was an itch in his gut -some would refer to it as foolishness - that needed to be scratched. Giving in to it would be all to easy. However he wasn't by himself. There were children relying on him to keep it together. Letting out a frustrated growl, Zaveid bowed his head turning his vitriol against the earth instead. His hair ruffled under the heavy breath the empyrean exhaled, sweat gathering on his neck and sliding down to soak into his shirt. He heard it settle again, but the pressure did not fade and instead heightened as the large head lowered once more to rest against it's leg. It was close enough to touch, the pale scales turning reddish under it's inner heat.

The intent was clear. *You are a lesser creature than I* the empyrean was saying, *I do not fear you.* Zaveid bristled but there was nothing he - or anyone - could do about it. They were at the mercy of the elder beast. The empyrean remained with them for the rest of the evening and through the night. He could feel it's deep breaths stirring the sand. It's eyes -half lidded though they were - glinted in the starlight. Occasionally it would rumble up a question or revisit something Lailah had said earlier in the evening. It's domain was a massive web, spread out across the land and suffocated all that it touched. Zaveid wandered how it was that the beast was not attracting every hellion in the area. Such a massive source would feed the critters for months. However as soon as the thought crossed his mind, a slightly more worrisome bloomed. Discretely, Zaveid stretched his senses out towards his bonded seeking to draw comfort from Eizen's presence but there was nothing. Only the vaguest hint of cold.

#Eizavie #Zavieizen #Zaveid #Eizen #tales of zestiria #Tales of Berseria #Who gave me a pen?

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iloveurscratchybeard · 7 years ago

Text

Snow in September

Today’s Advent calendar fic prompt was “Snowman” and I felt like I needed a break from the darkness of writing Mulder’s trauma with Scully’s abduction (in the multi-chapter work I should be working on today instead). This was supposed to be a tiny little ficlet and turned out to be a bit longer. No beta.

Set sometime post-“Per Manum” but full of fluffy sweetness. Rated PG

Tagging @only-txf-fanart @today-in-fic @txf-prompt-box and anyone I’ve hurt with my recent angst.

***

"Scully, didn't you ever have snowball fights as a kid?" he asks as she sends another wad of paper into the bookcase behind the trash can, falling alongside a pile of another dozen discarded paper balls from the report she was trying to close out. He winces.

"Actually, despite all of the moving we did as a kid, we rarely lived where there was enough snow to stick during winter. We spent most of our time on the coasts."

"So no snowball fights? No sledding?" She shakes her head as he continues, "No homemade sno-cones or snow angels?" Mulder is in disbelief. He may have had a shitty childhood, but all of these things are a rite of passage.

Scully shrugs her shoulders and turns back to her report. She just wants to finish this thing up so she can start her weekend with a long, hot bath, and with all of Mulder's jabbering, she can't seem to string a full sentence together.

A minute later, she's startled by his hot breath on her neck as he leans down behind her. "Scully? Have you ever built a snowman?" She lets out an exasperated sigh. "Mulder, Skinner's waiting on this. If I don't finish the report on my medical findings, we're never going to be able to go home!"

He raises his hands up and starts backing out of the room. "Okay, okay....I'll just give you a few minutes of peace and quiet so you can concentrate." He grabs his coat and heads to the door before turning back to her at the doorway and winking. "I'll be back in a few to help you wrap things up." And he's gone.

Scully rolls her eyes and tries to gather together all the focus one can muster after a long week of cramped rental cars, shitty motels, and autopsies. What she wouldn't do for a hot meal, some cozy sweats, and a good book. Any reading that didn't involve studies of how extremely high altitudes (i.e. being in a spacecraft for days at a time) affected hemoglobin concentration sounded like a fine change of pace for her.

Thirty minutes later, Scully was finally, finally, putting the final notes on her report when she heard Mulder exit the elevator on his way back into the office. She looked up as he was rounding the corner and her jaw dropped.

"Mulder- what is that?"

In his arms was a very large styrofoam cooler. He didn't answer her, just wagged his eyebrows as he walked over to deposit it on his desk. "Finish up the report yet?" he asked casually.

"Yes-" she drew out slowly, lowering her eyebrows at him and pursing her lips as she stood to investigate what he was up to.

"Now, now, now..." he shielded his surprise from her by moving to stand in front of her, causing her nose to briefly crash into his tie. "Sorry," he smiled and grabbed her elbows to steady her against him.

"Mulder, what are you up to?" she asked, raising on her tiptoes pointlessly to sneak a peek over his shoulders. The curiosity was getting the better of her. Even though she tried to play it cool, Mulder knew that she loved surprises.

"Now, Miss Scully, good things come to those who are patient." Another wag of his eyebrows and she hated how much he was enjoying her eagerness to get at his little surprise.

He leaned in close to her face, studying her eyes for a moment, and then reached up to tuck a strand of hair behind her ear.

"I was thinking about what you said earlier and I - um, well, I thought we could kill two birds with a single stone. So, I ran to the store real quick and got you this." He held up a plastic bag from the corner market in his hand and waved it in front of her face.

"What's in the bag?" she quirked her right brow at him.

"Well the investigator in me suggests you open the bag and find out for yourself."

She wanted to scoff at him but was too curious, so she reached inside and procured a box of raisins and a snack mix of baby carrots. "Okay." She looked up at him in utter confusion.

"And-" he reached in his coat pocket and pulled out two twigs and what looked like a piece of rubber from a blown tire. Scully was sure Mulder had finally lost his marbles.

"I don't get it."

Mulder held up a single finger, continuing to draw out the longest reveal in history. He then reached inside his inner coat pocket, and like a magician pulling a rabbit out of a hat, he revealed two paper cones and a small water bottle of red liquid.

Scully was utterly and completely lost.

Mulder watched her face with entirely too much satisfaction that she hadn't figured out his plan. He set everything out in a row on his desk and then picked up a pencil in his hand and started twisting it in the air. "With the flick of my wand and the magic words....'presto magnifico- let there be snow!'" He tapped the styrofoam box twice with his pencil and then slowly lifted the lid to reveal several gallons of very finely shaved ice.

"Mulder- it's September. There is no snow."

"Ah-ha, Miss Scully. That's why it's called magic!" He lowers his voice to a whisper, "And some help from the guy that runs the Kona Ice food truck down the street."

Taking her by the shoulders, he guides her around his desk and pulls out his chair so she can take a seat. Then he flips the lid upside down on his desk and scoops several heaping piles of ice on it.

"Scully- would you like to build a snowman?"

She is in shock. "Are you serious?"

"Hell yeah, I'm serious. I brought all the components for a perfect snowman to you, M'lady. We've got raisins for eyes and a mouth, a carrot nose, twig for arms, and while there were no miniature top hats lying around, this little black piece of rubber looks awfully majestic."

Scully is in awe of the creativity of this man and the lengths he will go to make her smile. "Mulder-" she doesn't even know what to say.

"Scully, I'd start rolling if I were you because pretty soon we're not gonna have snow anymore, we're just gonna have....well, a wet and ruined desk."

For the first time all week, her heart feels light and she's smiling, really smiling. He perches on the corner of the chair beside her rolling a miniature ball for a head to accompany her larger body balls and then they layer them on top of one another. She grabs the box of raisins and pops a few eyeballs into the head while Mulder tries his best to jab a baby carrot into the center. The weight of it rolls the head right off the body and Scully snickers under her breath. She extracts the carrot from the head and brings it to her mouth, biting it directly in half before reinserting it carefully into the newly attached head. Mulder watches her mouth with amazement and then nods his approval at her methods. A few twigs and a tire fragment later, and Scully's first snowman stands before them in all of its crooked half-melty glory.

"I think he needs a name," Scully giggles.

"Hmmm....how about 'Ice Flukey'? I mean, he's kind of horrifying."

"Stop! I think he's cute."

"Oh- wait! I forgot the finishing touch!" Mulder reaches into his pants pocket and procures several sunflower seeds. He presses them gently into the snowman's body. "Buttons. Now he's styling." Then he rounds the desk to grab the remaining items from his bag of tricks. He fills the two paper cones with the remaining ice from the cooler and then opens the water bottle of mysterious red liquid and douses the top of each cone.

"Voila! Homemade sno-cones"

"Mulder- this...." her voice breaks a little. She's exhausted and her hormones still don't feel like they've equalized after the failed attempts at in-vitro. She's had the emotions of pregnancy, without the blessing of actually being pregnant. "This means a lot."

"I just wanted to give you a little something. After all you've been through lately- and..." he feels suddenly shy. "I just want you to know. There are good things, too. I mean, we spend so much time in the dark chasing after mutants and monsters, but I want you to never lose sight of that. I want you to have good things. I want you to laugh and eat sno-cones. I want to help you build a snowman, and I want... I want us to have it all." He places his hand delicately under her chin, forcing her to meet his eyes. "Just- tell me you won't lose hope. We can still have it all."

She's crying at his words, at the implication that he wanted the baby just as badly as she did. They struggled to talk about it, but she knew he was trying. In the thousands of little ways that were purely Mulder, he was trying to keep her dream alive.

She takes his hand and squeezes it. For the first time in weeks, she feels hope. If this man can make a snowman in September, maybe he can bring her other miracles as well.

#my writing #fluffy fluff #romantic Mulder #one word prompt #post ep Per Manum

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freyalor · 7 years ago

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Gloves.

With joy, Papillon.

Fandom : FrenchHistoryFriendship : Richelieu & Joseph Date and place :Paris, 1621Words : 4KRating : G (Warning : blood)

I quicken my pace, becausethis dark feeling in me has kept growing since this morning, and Godin his warnings has never led me astray.

The cobblestones of Parisare merciless with the soles of my feet, but this is my penance week,and no glory, no praise, no temptation can divert me from my faith. Ishall walk from the Ursulines convent to the Louvre barefooted, nomatter how filthy Paris can be in late September.

I pass the Palacegates as the evening sun declines and the horizon starts to burn withgorgeous shades of rosy red. The Lord, in his endless grace, hascreated the most magnificent blend of thin white clouds and vibrantlight to salute the day once more, but I cannot spare time to marvelat it, because this pain of bad omens twisting my stomach, Iknow what it means.

The doors of the Louvresopen for me with reverence, valets and Courtiers bowing politely onmy passage. I hear their murmurs, of course I do, the same I’ve beenhearing for fifteen years.

Devout man,apostolic soldier, an example of faith, somesay, but I am not moved by flattery. Lunatic,rabid monk, demented wolf of bigotry, othersspit, but I am not touched by villainy.

Only one thingmatters, one sole purpose guides me. And I feelit needs me upstairs.

I was walking quitepeacefully as I got out of the Convent one hour ago, but I fear I amalmost running by now, passing in front of the Queen Mother’s doorssnarling her servants out of my path. I only concede a brief halt onthe last doorstep before the study, accepting a wet cloth and a basinto clean my feet from the grime of the street.

My penance, as healways says, doesn’t require ruininghis rugs.

But the moment it’s done,I barge in and lock the door behind my back, the twist of anguish inmy guts almost sucking the air out of me. As darkness crawls up thewalls of the study I quickly search around, not even at a man’slevel, but right away on the floor.

It doesn’t take long, ofcourse, for my fear to be confirmed by a dark silhouette curled atthe feet of his desk.

I knew it, oh,Christ almighty, I knew it.

God, in his warnings, hasnever let me astray.

I rush at his side,falling on my knees to search him for injuries.

-”Eminence?” I call.

But he doesn’t reply.

I hastily brush hishair away from his eyes to inspect them. They are wide open, butunseeing, emptied of all light, warmth or hope. I squint in thereclining light, Lord above, that painin my guts, I knew what it meant.

I grip his cheek to turnhis head towards me, get a glimpse of the state of his mouth, andsqueeze my eyes shut for a second.

Christ in Heavens, notagain.

Why burden thismiraculous mind with such ghastly madness?

Were the hardships onthe way to his fate not enough a price to pay?

I take a deep breath tosteady myself before I examine him further.

His lips are soiledwith thick stains of dried blood, spread on his cheeks and jaw linein chaotic brushstrokes. His face itself is unwounded, but I knowwhat surely is. I blindly reach for his slender hands, bringing themout into the last fragment of light coming through the window, andexhale a low groan of dismay.

He ate himself raw.

-“Oh, Eminence,for God’s sake!”I scold him, my shoulders slumping a little.

No reaction, of course.

I look around. Nocandles have been lit. It means the fithas started long before dark. His fingers are glued with black clotsof dried blood, so I suppose he’s been lying there for at least onehour.

Very well. Verywell.

I gently let go of him andget up in a wince. I walk to the hearth, revive the fire and dropthree large logs in it. Then, as the first flames rise from theirembers, I light a few candles with them, and set the kettle to boil.I go for the drawer where he keeps his medicine, pick up theCarmelite herbs he uses to soothes his headaches, and count ten dropsin a large cup. I prepare his basin next, and fetch the discretewooden case where bandages are always prepared, right there upon theshelf, under a pile of ancient maps.

I carry everythingto the small bedroom next door that is everything herHighness Queen Mother thinks him worthyof, sweep his nightstand clear with my elbow, sending books andpapers crashing on the floor in the process, and drop the cup andbasin upon it instead.

Then I spin around andhead back to the study, rolling up the sleeves of my robes.

-“Alright, Eminence,let’s do it.” I huff, pointlessly I suppose.

I kneel next to him again,this time to shift him on his back and slide my arms underneath hislegs and shoulders. Groaning in effort I haul him up and move to hisbedroom. God, I used to be stronger than this.

As if my exertionwasn’t enough, that’s the moment he choses to blink back to reality,realise he’s being carried, and start strugglingagainst it.

-“For the love of God,keep still!” I hiss, and his squirming stops dead.

-“Joseph?” His brokenvoice tries as I lay him on his bed.

-“Whothe hell else?” I almost shout, andhe flinches in instinctive guilt.

As I leave him there tostride back towards the kettle I vaguely realize I am being too harshwith him again, but truly, I can’t help how enraged, howdisappointed I feel. I had hoped for this sickness of his to recedeas he ascended towards his rightful place next to the King, but ifanything has changed in those last five years, it has mostly been forthe worst.

What I had mistaken for atemporary condition, a sign that the Lord wanted this exceptional manon much higher grounds than the miserable town of Luçon, was infact, as I have been forced to admit later, a curse he would carryall his life, a further strain upon his resolute, yet unfortunatelyfrail body.

I wrap a handkerchiefaround the kettle handle and lift the pot out of the fire. I bring itto the bedroom to pour warm water in the basin, careful to spareenough to fill his cup of herbs.

He has laboriously sit upon the bed while I was gone, and he’s watching me now with meek,exhausted eyes, expecting my anger, no doubt, to break like thunderanytime.

But I stay silent instead,dipping the handkerchief in the basin with one hand, handing out hiscup with the other. He moves to seize it, but his fingers are in sucha state they wouldn’t keep a steady hold of a feather.

-“Don’t.” I grunt, andlift the cup to his lips instead.

He glances down athis hands and whines in deep shame, still taking a sip out of the cupwith quiet obedience. I make him drink all of it before I start,because I’ll have to peel those dried clots of blood off his skinand it shall hurt like hell.

I examine his sleeves.Those new bishop robes may be more suited for the Louvre than thecheaper ones he had in Luçon, but their sleeves are too tight to berolled up. I sigh, unbuttoning the whole frock.

-“We need to get rid ofthese.” I mumble. “I want access to your hands.”

He lets himself be handledrather calmly at first, watching my hands with a dazed frown, but themoment I start brushing the opened robes off his shoulders he letsout a panicked shriek, crawling away from me in confused terror, hiseyes blurred with renewed nightmares.

I freeze, hands suspendedin the air, feeling my heart miss a beat, not because of his fright,not only that.

Also because of thatsmell I sniffed on his exposed skin.

The smell of rancid sweatand sugared wine.

The smell of disgust.

The smell of her.

Oh, bloody hell.

Exhaling sharply, I sit onthe edge of the bed, watching him shiver and heave for a while, untilhe understands there’s no one else than me here, and slowly calmsdown.

I should have knownit was the Medici.She must have had one of her afternoon hungersagain.

It’s not what she doesto him, or what she asks him to do when she summons him alone in herchambers and dismisses her usual audience of witches and worms.Fortunately, she’s a dull-minded, unimaginative woman, and the sinsshe forces upon him are, after all, quite commonplace.

It’s not that,it’s her.It’s just her.

Her rotten teeth, herdecaying hairline. Her dusty jewels and heavy gowns. Her immense,disgraceful body, loaded with both fat and vanity, too cumbersome tobe washed more than once a month.

Her vile tongue, her wet,slimy lips, and her bottomless appetite for everything sugary andsweet.

Including Eminence’s paleskin.

Its been ten years nowshe’s been devouring his youth with famished chortles every day andnight. In less than five, his rich brown locks have turned to silvergrey, and deep lines of worry have crawled around the corner of hiseyes, his body marked by her ravages just as permanently as his soulis.

As time only blackened hermind and thickened her face, Marie de Medici has turned into amonster of self-assured stench, and though many other men would makedo with this atrocity for the sake of the favours and privileges sheso freely distributes, this one lives every second spent in her bedas the cruelest of all tortures.

He’s not repulsed as Ican be by the carnal sins of this world, it’s not that. It ispainfully obvious how this man craves touch with every fibre of hisbeing.

He is destined for more,so much more than her, that’s all.

His mind, thoughmethodical and wise, has been drawn towards the delicacies of art andnature since his earliest childhood. He has a taste, a needfor the absolute, his eyes constantlylooking up to higher skies, and being trapped under the rancid weightof this mindless mare is an insult to his rare, refined soul.

I wait for his eyes toregain some focus, and since his hands are still useless, I reach outto tug his robes off his arm myself, reciting Deuteronomy to soothehis fear.

-“ TheLord himself goes before you and will be with you,”I whisper as I roll his black attire away until he’s bare to thewaist, “he will never leave you norforsake you. Do not be afraid; do not be discouraged.”

He looks reassured,familiar with my voice reading out the Bible to him, so as I pick upthe basin, and lay it down on his lap to grab one of his hands, hebarely lets out a whimper of protest.

I plunge the handkerchiefin warm water and start rubbing dried blood off his fingers one byone. As I work, the nasty scabs reveal horrid wounds underneath; mostof them bite marks, though I suspect him to have used some kind ofblade at some point. He seems to discover, just as I do, the extentof the damage, and with a broken sob, he softly pleads:

-“I can’t do thisanymore, Joseph. I can’t…”

I know what he meansto say, and God be my witness I understand, but our sacred dreamsjust can’t affordto have any of this by now.

-“We have a purpose,Eminence.” I sternly remind him. “We have a-”

-“Stop calling methat way!” He cuts in, averting his eyes in self-hatred. “I toldyou already I am nota Cardinal.”

To his stunned confusioninstead of arguing I just let out a fond chuckle, releasing his cleanhand to reach for the other.

-“Of course you are.”I scoff. “You are, and you have always been.”

I wash his other set offingers with the same devoted care, his blood eventually turning thebasin water into a badly filtered Bourgogne wine in a sad mimicry ofJesus’ miracle. When my work is done, I discard the filthyrecipient and pull out the bandages box, sighing in concern at hisripped, abused skin.

This is worse thanbefore. This is worse than ever. Thecuts are deeper, the wounds nastier, some areas bitten several times.

Lord, he must have hurthimself for hours to force out, I suppose, the agony he felt inside.

I distractedly pat hisshoulder, then push him downwards onto the bed until he lies downthere, and pull the covers over him. I gesture him to roll on hisside and put his hands on my lap.

He obeys, soundless, numb,barely the shadow of the man he was last time I saw him.

I’ve been a fool.Evangelic duties or not, I shouldn’t have left him alone in theLouvre for so long.

His wits are remarkableand he has fierce adaptive instincts, it’s true. His knowledge ofnames, faces, facts and secrets is far greater than anyone suspects,and he has already managed to prepare the next three best profitablediplomatic moves for France regarding each significant force inEurope clear as day on maps and papers. He has made excellent use ofhis delicate speech and charming poise already, earning himself eyesand ears in places where his name hasn’t even been heard yet.

But this placeremains a nest of snakes and the Medici’s clique,even after Concini’s death, is still a bunch of the lowest breed ofhumanity. There will be no rest for him as long as she’s around,sweeping her salacious stare upon his skin.

I’ve been a fool.

Like it or not,Eminence’s nerves will need constant consideration, and my denyingthe strain our scheme for power is having on his sanity won’t helphim in any way. This kind of misjudgement is forbidden to me. As longas he’s not at the King’s right side day and night yet, he hasme, only me,to protect him from his foes, and from himself.

I’ve been a fool,a stupid fool.

Inept to speak my remorseotherwise, I carefully grab his wrists and kiss his abused knuckles four times with the same devotion I would have for the Christ’s ownshroud.

-“My Eminence.”Ibreathe against the stigmata of my mistakes, and he closes his eyesin sheer sorrow.

-“Please, Joseph!” Hecries. “I don’t deserve your care. I am not the man you see inme, I never will. Why do you keep pushing me upwards while I’m sovisibly worthless?”

Hell,I hate it when he speaks that way. Iknow it’s just his nerves talking, but mercy me, it feels like aninsult to the very face of the Lord.

-”Look at me,Ezechielli” He breathes, “look at me, I am a monster. This dreamwe have, God’s mission as you say, you would have accomplished itbetter on your own.”

-”Shut it.” I grumble,busying myself with the thin strips of bandage.

But he doesn’t hear, eyesblurred, face half-buried in his pillow, shivers of exhaustioncrawling up his spine.

-”Youcould be Cardinal, you could be Minister.” He raves on, adrift.“You already have the reputation of a Saint. I know your feet arebleeding too, Joseph, with the mortifications you impose yourself aspunishment for the sin you’ll never commit!”

-”Shutit, you idiot!” I yell, and hisshocked stare darts up to my face though a veil of tears.

I can’t look at himtoo long, because as he keeps praising my virtues while he drags hisown soul into the dust, he’s being so wrongI could slap him in the face.

-”I’ll tell youof my sins, Eminence.” I hiss, focusing on taking care of hiswounds instead. “I’ll tell you why it has to be youalone, right next to the Sun, beaming in red cardinality on the verypages of future history.”

He doesn’t say a word,lying frozen in his bed, his wide eyes fixed upon mine, his bleedinghands offered to my care with unquestioning trust, looking soinnocent I almost cannot breathe.

-”Do you know why Imortify myself?” I blurt out, transported. “Because I am acoward. Those sacrifices that need to be made to achieve our holypurpose, those sins that need to be committed for France to be rebornout of the dark ages into an era of light, those horrid acts, thosefilthy deeds, only you are brave enough to carry them out.”

-”Joseph…” He tries,his barely bandaged hand moving towards my face, but I fear his touchwould only turn me to dust, and I inch away from him.

-”I was the one toadvise you to seduce the Medici” I go on, cutting stripes of whitefabric with my teeth and wrapping them around his skin, “becausethe young King had not yet the strength to seize the power that wasowed to him, and if the influence we needed had to be given to you,alas, it could only be by this fat whore.”

-”Joseph, we bothagreed…”

-”Yes, we bothagreed, but I remain safely tucked in your shadow, pushing youforward to damnation while I relish in the comfortof being true to my holy vows!”

I hate the fact that myeyes tingle, but it is the truth of God spoken through my mouth, andas I brush a damp strand of hair off his worried brow, I feel onlyhumbled by the strength, the purity of him.

-”And here youare, my Eminence, your magnificent soul offered as sacrificial lambfor the sake of our vision, burdened with ailment and pain,misunderstood, despised and tortured. Here you are, oblivious to yourown martyrdom, elevating me to the heights of saints, so I beg you,for the love of God and everything you hold dear, right now, justbloody shut it.”

A single tear pools at thecorner of his eye before it sinks into the pillow. He complies tomy will and doesn’t speak at all, but the determination of this mancan’t be ignored as he makes a painful effort to haul himself up onhis wounded hands, stare into my eyes for a second and drop aninfinitely soft, trembling kiss on my cheek.

He lets himself fall backon the bed then, and gives me a tired smile.

I cross his brow, wipingfeverish sweat off his skin as I whisper :

-”Andthe peace of God, which transcends all understanding, will guard yourhearts and your minds in Christ Jesus.”

“Amen”, he gentlysays, his voice devoid of all belief.

I expect him to sleep, Godknows I bloody would, but he insists upon me checking thecorrespondence he has prepared today for the officers and governorsof the South instead, since we need to know how many allies he couldcount on in his dearest, greatest endeavour: the utopia he calls theState.

I find myself, thus, goingback to the study to pick up his writing of the day, and sit on thatplain chair next to his bed to read it aloud, just like every otherdamn day.

I find both of usdiscussing probabilities and exchanging intel, clicking back into ournatural ways as if nothing happened, his cautious, analytical mindacting as the guardrail of my uncompromising impetus.

We agree upon a fewmodifications, that I write in the margins of his letters myself,since his reddened, throbbing hands are sealed in layers of bandages.

We agree, above all, uponthe fact that any further building of the State will have to waituntil the King is truly King, because no one in the Medici’sentourage has the even half of the ambition we need.

He sighs, then, thwartedby how far from reach his beloved dream remains.

Even in his own rooms inthe Royal Apartments of the Louvres, secured as the Queen Mother’slong-term favourite, even here, so far away from Luçon, from Blois,from exile and even disgrace, he’s still devoured by how incompletehe is.

A taste, a need forthe absolute. Heis destined for so much more, that’s all.

He’s destined for a placeright next to the Sun.

History is lying there inthis bed, locked within a brilliant mind, boiling to be given thepower it requires to change the balance of the whole continent,waiting in despair for a twenty years old man who still needs torealize he’s being robbed of his own crown.

History is lying there,sealed within a vibrant heart, already drawn towards the King byforces far beyond mankind, God’s mighty will showing itself inshining evidence through this man’s unquenchable feelings for youngLouis.

-”Be patient, Eminence.”I reassure him, stiffly patting his shoulder some more. “Soonenough, the red robes you deserve will be granted to you by thefilthy monster I made you crawl underneath, and each one of thosewounds will be atoned in glory.”

He bites his lips,smothering a bitter smile. I know he doesn’t share half of myfaith, but it’s not the first time my own conviction supports usboth, and it won’t be the last.

-“Withcardinality,” I hammer, ardent, “you will gain access to theRoyal Council, and I swear to you, all you’ll have to do, then, isspeak out those dreams you’ve been writing about for years. You’lljust have to talk, Eminence, and he willknow. He will see your worth. He’s no Bourbon if he doesn’t. He willsee you for who you are, and when he’ll grow strong enough to useyou, he’ll call you at his side, you, the only eagle that can flyright into the Sun. He’ll keep you under his protection, thegreatest servant he ever had, and he will love you then, I promiseyou, just as much as you love him.”

With that, he rasps aspiteful laugh, and blatantly rolls his eyes at me, shifting awayuntil he’s lying on his back, his hands carefully raised one inchabove the sheets.

I let out a dreamy smile,because, truly, can I blame him for his disdain?

-“You think Idon’t know what I’m talking about right?” I throw him, defiant.“How can a monk speak about love, well, learn, youngman, that I have been in love before.”

He has a small start,turning back towards me with wide, suspicious eyes, and his disbeliefisn’t truly a surprise. My tempted heart has been sealed long agoin a steel armour forged in the flames of faith and holy purpose, andthough this man is the only one I trust with my life, there are stillparts of my pastI kept hidden from his sight.

-“Would you think it sostrange,” I ask, laughing good-heartedly, “knowing I have been atthe Pluvinel Academy just like you, to think I too have known, in theblessed carelessness of my youth, the beauty of a woman?”

He sits up a little, then,his bright stare fixed upon me, and leans towards me in untaintedinterest, his own suffering forgotten in the raw curiosity his mindhas always been fuelled by.

-“What was hername?” He timidly asks, and I find myself stunned by how difficultit is to summon back her name to my lips.

-“Isabelle, Ithink.” I mutter, frowning in the struggle to recall her face fromthat part of my memories I left for dead so long ago. “She was theyoungest daughter of our neighbours in Montfort.”

I see him ready toask for more details, but I am not sure Ican remember much more, so I raise a finger in front of his nose andjust add:

-“Now, thecalling of God was already strong in my heart, but my mother and thatyoung girl were both resolute souls. There has been a day where I hadto lock myself in my room in Tremblay, while both women kept knockingon my door, reciting poetry, and imploring me to come out andaccompany them to a ball.”

He seems to make atremendous effort to picture that,and again, it’s only natural.

All I ever speak,all I ever act upon in his presence is God’s own will, from whatpour into my cup to every advice I ever give.

I have burned withthe Lord’s holy word since I learned how to read, yetunsure God’s plans for me until they were revealed to my face.Indeed, though I forgot everything about Isabelle, I remember thefirst time I saw those dark, fervent eyes all too well, in a squalidroom of the presbytery of Luçon, where his careful, yet ferventvoice felt already heavy the sound of glories to come.

I knew I couldn’tignore the glorious path that had been laid out for me anymore, then,and as I called him, “Eminence” was the only name my lips couldform.

-“You didn’tsuccumb.” He breathes, a bit admiring, perhaps.

-“Never.” Istate. “They went to that ball alone, while I sat in my roomcopying ‘The life of Saint Francis’. Twice.”

And before he even startsto snicker, my finger above his face turns into a stern warning.

-“And don’t rollyour eyes at me again, I still have your ‘Perfection of theChristian Man’ on my nightstand in Saint Honoré!”

At that he lets out hisfirst laugh, and I feel blessed already.

We share a few moments ofpeaceful silence, and I put the diplomatic letters away on the buffetto pick up the Bible instead, clearing my throat before I read a fewverses to him, in the hope of lulling him to sleep.

But before I do hesoftly pulls at my sleeve, flinching in pain as his fingers barelycan take a hold of the fabric, and nods at his hands with anguish.

-“This will neverheal until a few days.” He muses, his voice threatened by guiltagain. “Yet, I have managed to get myself invited to the Generalsreview ceremony tomorrow morning. The King will be there, you see,and the only pair of gloves I own will not hide those bandages.”

I look down at the layersof linen around his skin. Some of them are already stained in freshblood while others make his fingers too thick to fit in the tight,merciless satin gloves that came with the new robes.

I chuckle, then,because I can’t help it. God, inhis warning, has never led me astray.

I fumble in mypilgrim bag, the one I keep hanging on my shoulder at all times,giving as only answer to his questioning look:

-“Do you know why I wasat the Ursuline Convent this morning?”

-“For a sermon, Isuppose.” He tries.

-“Yes, but notonly.” I correct. “You will be delighted to know that SisterJeanne Espérance, who has been living there for twenty years now,besides being the most devout soul of her order, also happens to bethe best seamstress in Paris, especially with very fine leathers.”

I pull out a thincardboard case, then, and hand it over to him. Puzzled, he gentlypushes the lid open with the only side of his left thumb that’sstill undamaged, and gasps as he discovers, wrapped in delicatetissue, a pair of brand new black gloves.

-“It’s roe deerskin.” I explain. “Not as fashionable as the fancy silkennonsense worn at Court those days, but having the remarkableadvantage to be lenient withbumps and bruises.”

While I speak, Ilift Sister Jeanne’s excellent handiwork out of the box and gesturefor him to extend his hands again. I slowly, carefully slip theslightly extensible leather gloves on, taking my time around theworst of his wounds, until all signs of his burden are hidden fromthe world.

I admire the resultfor a while, then lift his fingers to my lips, murmuring my oath toembrace his curse at last as the necessary darkness to his light:

-“ AgnusDei, quitollis peccata mundi, miserere nobis. »

He shakes his headin perplexity again, but sinks into the bedwith a reassured sigh all the same, smiling brightly at his glovesbefore his eyes flutter close and he falls asleep just like that,with his hands still in mine, wearing the token of my friendshiparound the marks of his martyrdom.

I stay with him, asI stayed so many other nights, perched on the side of his bed, myeyes fixed on his face with the same certainty I had as a child,gazing at the Christ Himself, as my journey had just begun, in theold house of Du Tremblay.

#Cardinal Richelieu #Father Joseph #french history #Louis XIII #13PROMPTS #prompt fic

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enigmatic-elegance · 7 years ago

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Time

Everyone seeks, but it is not for everyone to find. What is forgotten often must stay forgotten, as truth is not such a stagnant thing. Like all aspects, truth can become tainted. It can ferment, it can wither and rot and soon. Soon, that truth is more poisonous then any tincture brewed in the minds of alchemy. More damaging then any fel fires the Legion can conjure. It is in these truths that Madness lay, and in these truths that I enact as gatekeeper. This world is not ready yet to see such things.

A ticking clock, passing the time from one second to the next. It was the only sound to echo in the otherwise empty chambers. A single tabletop matched with a candle that illuminated the immediate area, though beyond it’s reach only blackness dwell.

The young Sarata sat in silence, watching the turning fingers of that clock. Despite her efforts to track time’s passage, each moment she withdrew her eyes from that facing her returning gaze would see it drastically changed. Time seemed to mean nothing in this place, a place cold in all save for the gentle warm emitted by that candle’s flame.

“You’ve been watching that clock for quite a stretch.. is there a reason?” The woman she had come to know as Masnira spoke. Her eyes turned up, looking to the chair opposite her own that now held to the vision of the Draenei, dressed in darkened colors to nearly mute into the backdrop.

“Trying to track the time..” Was her reply, a reply to which the Draenei posed another question.

“Why?” Gleaming eyes narrowed not in aggression, but curiosity. She turned her gaze as well to that clock facing, and as Sarata did the same sure enough it had shifted once more.

“I don’t know..” She elaborated. “It’s the only thing I can think to do right now.”

“Time is relative to the moment..” Masnira elaborated, turning her palm up to that clock to present it. “For example.. time upon Azeroth is measured in the rotations of the planet, the years measured in orbits of the star, all in all time is only a factor when in reference to one’s position in it. On a line, in an orbit, or otherwise. The moment you remove all points of reference, does time matter? Does it exist?”

Sarata blinked twice, actually taking a moment to ponder the question. With a passing breath, she hefted a shrug. “I suppose.. no? But that leaves a lot of other questions. Isn’t time one of the principals of everything? Time and space.”

“Are all, equally, relative.” The Draenei responded with a shift in her seat, one leg under the robes crossing the other in passive act. “If you consider time to be a currency by which acts are displayed, you see all of life as such. You have only so many seconds to ‘spend’ before death. But in a span in which time itself is not a factor, well.. It begs the question if one is simply able to ‘purchase’ what they so please.. Even if it takes what others consider to be an impossible length of ‘time’ to achieve.”

“But nothing is like that.” Sarata noted, a little annoyance hinting in her eyes as the turned up to peer at the Draenei. Masnira only matched her challenge with a soft smile, the barest hint on her black lips before she settled again into neutral visage.

“Soon you’ll see the ironic truth to that statement. Nothing is like that. Precisely. And the Void is nothing. Therefore by it’s own values, Void is eternal. Because you can not end what never was, and never will be.”

The girl looked back to the clock face. It had stopped now. She stared blankly at it’s facing as she pondered a question that was churning in her mind, but fear begged her not ask. Without much ceremony to her own wishes, her voice issued it regardless.

“Am I dead?”

Masnira gave the woman a single shake of her head in denial to the assessment, but it brought little comfort to Sarata.

“No, you are not dead. But it would also be unfair to call you alive, by typical standards. Your body rests in a coma, safe and within my care. Your mind, however, suffered a heavy trauma and it has fragmented. I fear to return you to it, and it to your body, would leave you in a state of spiraling madness to which you’d not recover.”

“Madness.. I feel fine.” She attested, truly did she not feel any form of strain save for a little confusion. The Mistress lifted her palm to the air, twirling it over in punctuation.

“You are fine.. because I have spared you the fate you were set upon. In your efforts to tear the veil, you succeeded, and thus called forward resonant horrors of things that never were. To spare you the call of the void, I had to ‘kill’ you. Your mind was shattered, your energy consumed, and you were rendered a husk useless to the madness of Void.”

Sarata blinked once more, her eyes lowering as she processed this. Masnira continued.

“In that collapse, I plucked pieces of your consciousness yet uncorrupted and using my own mentality and threads, stitched you back together. In a manner of speaking. And thus, you are set here, in a place within your mind adrift amidst a sea of broken thoughts. Ready to reclaim yourself.. when the day comes.”

Sarata nodded, her eyes twisting to the clock. It was now ticking backwards. She sighed softly in defeat both at her efforts to track time as well as her efforts to truly grasp the scope of what was being stated to her. Her eyes trailed back up to the Draenei.

“Was there nothing else you could have done?”

“Nothing..” The Mistress replied. “You had torn the veil, rendered wide the boundary between reality and areality. You would have been claimed, and your husk made an abhorrent abomination as so many have fallen before you to the call of Madness. With me, here, you pose a chance to recover. Though the Void is within you now. Your mind will never be the same, for it’s pieces are threaded by woven strands of thoughts and emotions not of your own. In time, you will see. And it will be a challenge to find truth in the webwork of lies. But you will. And I shall guide you, as I am able, Sarata.”

The girl nodded, her form slumping in the chair as she was hit with the gravity of her error. She had been seeking the Void for it’s promises of power and control, but never did she expect such a cataclysm of error. Where had she made error? Had she gone too fast? Tried too hard? All questions without answers. She turned her eyes up once more to the Draenei.

“Sarata..” She repeated. “You told me it meant ‘Vessel’. Vessel for whom?”

“For something that must not yet be made clear to you. I am sorry, but it is to be this way. One day you shall understand, but by that time, you’ll have no more need to ask.”

She hated such a vague answer, only sagging a bit more. She felt drained, as if she needed to sleep though rest was the last thing upon her mind. She stared across to the Draenei whom only watched her with those glowing eyes.

“So what now?” She spoke, almost with a tether of annoyance lingering in her tone.

“Study the clock. Time must become anathema to you. As parts of your mind are restored, we shall explore them together. Find the truth and the lies. And we shall recover you, once more.”

Sarata only nodded, her head turning back to that clock face. She was unsure what it was she was meant to discover, or how, but she did it all the same.

Ironically, she had nothing but time.

#Stories

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devilmaycrye · 7 years ago

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Till Its Over

The air left the fighter’s lungs, as the stone fell behind him from the impact the beast had made with his body. His knee throbbed as he landed on it, refusing to drop to both of them. His party lay battered and broken all around him, his force of will being the only thing that kept him. They were supposed to be the last line. If they faltered, their people were doomed. “Give in.” the beast hissed, “Join your allies and sleep for eternity.” The fighter looked over his party......, no his friends, again. This fight had changed them, they were no longer strangers, they were Brothers in Arms. Then he saw the Bard twitch, and heard the warlock sigh, and that was all he needed. The Fighter pushed himself with everything he had, and lurched to a point where he was between the beast and his friends, focusing its attention on him.

“I don’t care what you say.” The Fighter sighed.

“We will be here all day, at this rate.” The Archer snidely remarked, having pushed themselves up against a wall.

“We’ll stay here till its over.” The mage had finally awoken as well it seemed, as magical energy flooded through the party, rejuvenating them all.

“Till the world’s out of sight....” The Warlock wheezed, finally regaining their own breathe back. Finally, and most importantly, the bard sang and played their instrument, and with it, brought forth the fury of the friends, and the hope of the people they represented.

“We will stand, we will fight,

It’s not over Till Its Over.”

-----------------

Why was she the target of this salacious sea god?

All she had wanted to do was travel to her sisters, on their strange and shapeless Isle. Yet now the ship she had paid for passage on was still water, while hundreds of meters away a fierce storm raged. And standing on the center of the deck, was the accursed Sea God who, like his disgusting rapist of a Lightning wielding god, refused to take a denial for what it was.

He commanded the sailors to throw her overboard into his true domain, and so they did, the strength having long since left her and having all but accepted her fate. She didn’t blame them. How could she? They had assumed she was a normal girl, and she hadn’t told them of that which ceaselessly followed her, eroding any chance she had of being left to decide her own fate.

As she fell to the ocean floor, she saw the sun slowly fading away. A fading light through an open door she was now denied.

Then she stopped, suspended in the dark and unyielding abyss, the crude sea god being kept at bay by something. That was when she saw them, the faces in the water. Other women, some gorgeous, some plain, but all marked by the sea or lightning. They were protecting her, as a new form appeared before her. “I’m sorry for what my Uncle has done. I can’t stop him, but I can enable you to deny him, and any others who would choose to pursue you without your consent.” The helmeted figure stated, and pointed her spear at the young woman, and a power flowed through her.

“But what of my sisters?”

The figure smiled. “Who do you think gave them their island?”

And the power began to change the young woman, and a fury awoke within her. And as with any proper fury, she turned it upon the source of her frustration, and surged towards that formerly fading light, and the ship she knew was there.

As the Sea God watched from his vantage on the ships deck, confusion spread across his features. He couldn’t claim her until she hit the ocean floor, but he also couldn’t see her within his domain. But by the time he saw her again, it was too late for him to leave, and now her large serpentine form towered over the boat, serpents hissing from her head, as she gazed down upon the insolent fool.

“You thought you could keep me down.” she hissed as her stone-laden gaze focused on the would be ruler of the sea.

“That you could hold your breathe and watch me drown.” her now slitted eyes widening as something terrible was drawn from deep within her.

“But all you did was push me higher. Because you know what they say?” The power was now only being held back by her will, and it wanted her to petrify this fool of a god.

“It’s Not Over Till Its Over.”

-----------------

“Why do humans always stand and fight, despite knowing the odds against them? When their fate is obviously doomed?” The eldritch being of tattered yellow cloth and fragmented biology asked, staring into the strange viewing orb.

I was bound behind it, restraint of every kind imaginable holding me in place, only my mouth and ears free to offer counsel to this mad king.

“This is what you gave us when you encouraged madness in humanity.”

An approximation of a frown scattered across its facial features. “This isn’t what I wanted at all. They should’ve given in to their delusions, fallen to madness, and destroyed themselves and their race in the process.” It paused, before continuing. “Your race is so weak minded and feeble. Most of them can barely handle insanity, let alone what I offer.” There was a slight slackening of my restraints. The king drenched in yellow, whose power derived from believing itself, was faltering.

“Through the nights in the rain,” I pulled with my right arm, and the silk cord snapped. “Through the time and the pain,” I thrust my head forward, and the thorny vine around my throat bit in then slacked as it was ripped from the wall. “We’ll stand, we’ll never fall,” I snapped the chain binding my left arm. “And then at the end of it all,” I lunged for the yellow crown, where the king had stored the power he had taken from me.

“We will win, we will chant,” I dove into his form, and found the knowledge I needed to return home.

As I was pulled through the vortex that had once been the King wreathed in yellow fury, I whispered the final frenzied phrase that I know what break him. “Its Not Over Till Its Over.”

#dmc writing

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hernandezvedel95-blog · 7 years ago

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okimargarvez · 7 years ago

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ASLEEP

Original title: Asleep.

Prompt: Penelope asleep, Luke awake.

Warnings: sequel of Sick.

Genre: romantic, soft.

Characters: Penelope Garcia, Luke Alvez, Roxy.

Pairing: Garvez.

Note: oneshot 7 in Garvez collection.

Legend: 💏😘🐶.

Song mentioned: Già ti guarda Alice, Tiziano Ferro.

MY OTHER GARVEZ STORIES

ASLEEP

Once it's okay, she could even manage to accept it. But twice!

She can't keep her eyes open, no matter how hard she tries. Not even for the time necessary to start the shutdown of the system. The others are in flight, but she doesn't have to wait for them here. Her head's spinning like a top. In the last week she slept only ten hours, making a sum of all nights. It's a miracle that she hasn't had a stroke. She is exaggeratingly exploiting the resources of her metabolism and now... she pays the consequences.

She slips into a strange sleep, she feels as if she hasn't fallen asleep but reminded that night two weeks ago, when she was in a state of crisis due to a flu she had struggled to admit.

She dreams Luke, but more than feel his words of comfort, she feels the tangibility of the sweetness of the tone of his voice, she remembers the warmth of his hands even when he had stroked her hair, while she wasn't yet completely a victim of Morpheus. Probably he thought she hadn't noticed it, but she had even heard a few words, too confused and heavy to give him credit.

Nobody is alone until, in the night, even if far away, he has someone which doesn't sleep to think of him...

Her heart had begun to beat frantically when she realized she wasn't in her bed, but in a much larger one. And next to her someone rested, snoring loudly. The facts of the previous evening were clouded and perhaps, she had said opening her eyes slowly, it was better that way. What had she done? She couldn't remember being drunk, but she had a circle on her head that was compatible with this version. Oh God. Oh God. Oh God. The first thing she saw was a framed photograph on the nightstand, which depicted a beautiful dog with beige and black fur. Roxy. She had ventured to scrutinize the figure she had at her side and with relief had found that it was really the sweet animal. And there was no one but them, or signs that there had been anyone there.

The removal of tension had left room for amazement. What she was doing at Alvez's house, in his bed, with his dog? And, where was he? And what happened before she ended up on that mattress?

The last thing she could remember was Luke's phone call that he wanted to know how she was. As if she had just realized that she was sick, her body had emitted a loud sneeze, which had roused Roxy. While the dog filled her with kisses, Penelope had continued to dwell, hoping and at the same time fearing to see the door open. She was sick, she had a fever and he had insisted on taking her home, but then something must have gone wrong because this wasn't her apartment. She also had a vague sensation of a fruity, sweet taste on her tongue; and steam in the nostrils, a double steam. Fragments of Hitchcock's masterpiece had jumped before her eyes.

She had taken a shower, or a bath, something like that. Then she had drunk the tea he had prepared for her. Raspberry and blackberry, her favorite. And she had thought ... she blushed remembering. That she wanted to verify the sweetness of Luke's taste, to make a purely scientific comparison, is clear.

But if she had succeeded in such a venture, this didn't, she couldn’t really remember. There was still the fact that she had probably fallen asleep on the couch, but she was not there in the morning and, so he had to transport her to the bed. So, he had taken her in his arms! Brave and strong man.

This thought had further blushed her cheeks. It meant that he had touched her, too intimate. The only other times their bodies had come into contact had been when he had helped her get off the very high sidewalk in Bradenton, taking her hand and after the trial of Reid's bail and Stephen's death, holding her for the shoulders. Avoiding remembering the rare occasions when their hands were touched in the passage of objects (the remote that he had stolen her, the kitten who had given her). Stop.

Then, besides the sight, the hearing was also reactivated; she had begun to hear noises coming from an adjoining room, finally the door was wide open, and the figure of the federal agent emerged, already dressed perfectly with one of his shirts and dark trousers. It was then that she realized that she didn’t wear the clothes with which she had arrived in the house yesterday, but rather a long, big shirt that reached her knees. Male. And she didn't remember having changed her clothes.

-Oh, my girlfriend woke up!- the man exclaimed in a sweet and playful tone. For a moment she had believed (with secret and unmentionable joy) that he was referring to her, then she realized that his attentions were directed to the dog, and she had almost been jealous of Roxy. -Good morning.- he had said, this time to the woman. Much more sober and embarrassed.

-Good morning.- she had echoed, thinking that if there was someone who had to be anxious it was she, wearing only his shirt, in his bed and without having the faintest reason of both.

-Did you sleep well?- he had asked, looking even interested. She had first nodded and then had shook her head.

-Luke- it wasn't the time for formalistic surnames or ambiguous nicknames. -would you kindly explain to me what I'm doing here?- unexpectedly he hadn't blushed, hadn't looked away from her eyes, nor he had back away. On the contrary, he had approached and sat on the edge of the bed occupied by the dog. After a long look, he had reopened his mouth.

-You were sick, you had a fever. I didn't want you to be alone, so I brought you here.- spontaneous and natural tone, complete with a shrug. -You had taken a hot bath, then you drank a tea and got an aspirin and you collapsed on the couch. I was afraid it might cause you back problems, stay on that kind of surface, so I... brought you in my bed.- only that slight hesitation, but it was obvious how he hid behind the accurate words he had chosen. -After changing the sheets, of course!- he had managed to joke, but she hadn't laughed. -And I had let Roxy in, thinking that a little company would have helped you.- the woman had nodded, giving him satisfaction, but inside of her, she thought that another kind of accompaniment would be even better (to be honest the best would be was having both) and this had made her blush. Again.

-And you slept...- he had anticipated her.

-On the couch.- he had smiled at her, his usual sweet, sexy, killer smile. She had decided it was time to combine something.

-Ah... Thanks.- inhuman effort. -You shouldn't have, but... thank you.- he had nodded, sensing that there was more. -I think it's better if... I wear something more decent too. What time is it? No, don't tell me. I prefer not to know.- the man had laughed at Penelope's delirium.

-Of course.- he had stood up. -But do you have a change of clothing with you? If not, we'll have to go and get it at your house.- she had understood what would happen in that case. She had come out of the covers, unaware of showing parts of her body to someone who was trying not to act like a maniac. -Do you... - this time she had swallowed. -Do you want to have breakfast earlier?- she had passed next to him, looking for her bag.

-No, no. I guess it's late. It's better if we go.- and so he had surrendered and accommodated her.

Afterwards, all dressed up, she was actually the tough girl who he had knower at the beginning. They had never looked at each other, or rather she had ignored him, he had admired her from afar, as always.

And now she's again at risk of being in a similar situation: she doesn't have enough willpower to turn off the main computer, let alone get up and get to the car, ignoring the fact that driving would be irresponsible and stupid in that condition.

And in fact, she collapses again on the desk, this time falling into a dreamless sleep.

And as she had feared, when Luke passes in front of Garcia's room he immediately hears the presence of noises that shouldn't be there, if she had already gone home, as she should have. So, he enters, without knocking, to find her completely abandoned in a bad way, the neck bent uncomfortably.

And you'll think of her again, stay and think about this night, those things said and done...

-Garcia ...- he tries to call her. -Garcia!- he tries again with a little higher tone and shaking her slowly. Nothing. -Penelope, it's late, you shouldn't be here yet.- he scolds her, but she doesn't hear him. So, this time, he decides to take advantage of it a little more than the previous one. After placing her better on the chair, he caresses her hair, infinitely enjoying that little touch. -You're fantastic, Penelope, you have no idea how much.- he whispers, while the woman apparently continues to sleep. -I could spend the whole night awake watching you rest. You're so sweet, tender, fragile and vulnerable now. You don't even notice what I could do, if only I wanted to. And I want it, but not like that. I could have already done it two weeks ago, when you were in my bed. But the truth is that I tremble only at the idea of kissing you.- he touches her lips with a finger. -I love you, Penelope, maybe someday I'll be able to tell you this when you'll can consciously hear me.- he poses a kiss on her forehead and like that of the Prince at Snow White, it has the power to bring her back to the real world.

She opens her eyelids, making him jump. The hypothesis that she may have listened to everything that he confessed to her doesn't even bother him anymore. Since he isn't consciously able to declare himself, perhaps it would only be good if he involuntarily solved this problem. - New ... Newbie.- she calls him, rubbing her eyes and looking for her glasses groping, quickly going to finding them and not giving him time to repeat the situation of the other time. -What are you doing in the Temple of Knowledge?- he chuckles, watching her as she tries to arrange herself.

-I saw that it was still all lit up and ... I was worried.- he can't confess more. -You fell asleep on the desk. How long since you don't slept decently?- she blushes because the answer is instantaneous in her head: since I was in your bed with Roxy. But she doesn't say nothing. The man decides to renounce or rather postpone the battle. -How fast can you get settled?- Penelope immediately understands what he means.

She has already started the shutdown procedure and as soon as she is sure that at least that thing will go the right way, she turns to Luke, deciding to face him openly. Or she is only convinced that this is an extension of her dream, a sort of visual remorse of not having kissed him at home, because even if she remembers nothing with certainty, she is convinced in the profound that nothing concrete has happened between them; not yet. -I'll take a taxi, you can go.- seeing his expression, she hurries to make things worse. -I'm serious, Alvez. You can't take me home like last time. We both know that you would lead me into yours home and I end up sleeping with your dog and... I can't. It's not okay.- she stands up to wear her jacket, feeling a sudden cold right inside her bones.

-But why?- the man simply asks, staying where he is. Confused and sad.

-Because I can't take it anymore. I have to say it, even if it will go wrong. I can't longer rest at night for this as well.- she pauses, looking away from him for a moment. -If I let myself go with you now, I'll end up I'll can't sleep tonight. Because I'm tormented by the regret of what I didn't do two weeks ago. What I wanted was... kissing you and the fault is your.- she plants the nail of her forefinger in his chest. If I find myself put this way. If you weren't so damn sweet and caring, if you overflowed less pheromones in the air... I mean, I'm in love with you and I don't want to be. I don't like feeling that way.- once she had spill the beans, she quickly moves away from him so as not to face his reaction that could destroy her. She has completely forgotten the problem of sleeping, even if falling into oblivion would be a convenient solution the man doesn't say a single word. He just reaches her, takes her gently by the shoulders and turns her in his direction, making her end up in his arms, almost automatically. And in the same way his mouth coincides with the red and fleshy one of the blonde, who winces at the touch, but at least on this occasion doesn't blush and accepts the kiss, allowing herself completely to that gesture, placing her hands on the male neck and in the short hair.

...about the entire time yet, without regrets, that you'll have to face, with her...

He lays his forehead against hers. -I'm in love with you, Penelope. And now we could go and sleep? Roxy is waiting for us and she's not a very patient girl.- he even manages to make her laugh, tempering the tension. She takes a last look at the screens, now black. Her hand slips into his, which tries in vain to bring the bag in his place.

Less than an hour later, lying as a sandwich between a dog and a man who race with Roxy to snore stronger, with the arms of the latter around her waist, Penelope decides that basically falling asleep in her office wasn't such a bad idea.

This story is dedicated to @theshamelessmanatee

TAGS: @theshamelessmanatee @itsdawnashlie @talesoffairies @janiedreams88 @kiki-krakatoa @yessenia993 @teyamarra @c00lhandsluke @gcchic @arses21434 @orangesickle @entireoranges @jarmin @kathy5654 @martinab26 @thisonekid @thenibblets @perfectly-penelope @ambrosiaswhispers @maziikeen92 @lovelukealvez @reidskitty13 @jenf42 @gracieeelizabeth27 @silviajajaja @smalliemichelle99 @charchampagne14 @ichooseno @ megs2219 @rkt3357 @franklintrixie @thinitta @chewwy123 @skisun @maba84 @saisnarry @myhollyhanna23 @thenorthernlytes

#garvez #penelope garcia #luke alvez #luke x penelope #penelope x luke #alvez x garcia #garcia x alvez #criminal minds #cm #tiziano ferro #già ti guarda alice

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mantrabay · 4 years ago

Text

Rush Amid The Rapids 2

“Must I always be posting transactions?” I said to myself, Landon Croaker, accountant, adjusting my backpack as I rambled up a ragged winding woodland path.

A granite strewn gulag odyssey lay ahead.

There was the usual green stew of ornate plants.

Ancient Fir Clubmoss which grows into a chalice- like shape.

The St Patrick’s cabbage, with thick leather zig zag veins.

Hapless Fraochan and Whortleberry shrub’s pendant fruit so symmetrical.

I brought my notebook with me.

Closet novelist or bard one day?

Canopy of lattice branch springboards abound.

Shrieks

from stunned squirrels leaping in the arc of a trapeze with blue jay alarm signal.

Rustle of rabbits under slender stalks.

Puffball cloud and brown-dust spore floaters.

A wastrel I was within the wilds.

I was getting close to where my friends, a husband and wife team lived and ran a fringe publishing company.

They resided in a cherry wood log cabin with tongue and groove cladding and a pine timbered roof lantern peering down a mountain side.

Like a watchtower the mountain sat in sinister observance.

A fallow deer suddenly appeared.

It looked furtively with startled eyes as if it knew something I didn’t.

Within minutes it vanished.

Flies swarmed about, the spooky whistleblowers on this solitary hiker’s grazed cheeks.

My clothes were wringing wet from the sweltering heat.

The curious urban spirit drove me on.

Chambered cairns, those passage tunnels from the past that act as stone markers for the venturer were rife.

Platform mounds whose ribboned cracks and gouges play host to strongly rooted Chasmophytes.

There was a lurking presence as the cabin became visible.

“Hello, there. Fancy seeing you here.

Welcome back.”

Chelsea, in a croaking baby twang.

“Oh …you frightened me.” Landon said.

I nearly toppled.

Chelsea dashed towards me.

“A bit worried there, Landon.

What a surprise!

We like surprising people too.”

I paused and replied.

“It's the unexpected that adds spice to this life business and others!”

Landon sardonically.

“You sound tired.”

Chelsea replied.

“We’ll change that. We’ll change everything about your life now you’re here.”

The ramifications of that would soon unfold.

“The last time I was here we talked about having children.

Any decision yet?

You could always adopt.”

I continued.

“Don’t have to.

Got my husband and he’s got me.” She said.

“We’re both kids at heart.”

Her sad voice trailing off.

“This location seems ideal but there’s schooling and everything.”

Chelsea hesitantly.

“Nothing that couldn’t be resolved.”

Landon in reply.

Croaker sensed Chelsea’s unease and didn’t continue.

“Hey, what’s this?” Croaker cried as two apples landed at his feet.

“Yahoo. You two.”

Chesney, Chelsea’s husband shouted.

“It’s been so long.

Doesn't time fly?”

Chesney again.

While walking it dawned on Landon how dewy-eyed and child-like this couple were.

Entering the cabin seemed like something from a storybook.

Cartoon mosaics attached to fool’s gold borders, zip purse smashed purple bead inserts, and shredded comic strips.

“There are shrouds of deep mystery here.”

Croaker thought.

“Hey Snap.

What’s accountancy like these days?”

Chesney’s smug question.

“Nothing really changes.

Investment investment hazards and the like.

It’s a world I drifted into.

How about your company in paradise.”

Croaker sarcastically.

“Publishing is odd.

You almost become the stories submitted.”

Chesney observed.

“Birth and regrowth are gaining interest.

Am I boring you?” Chesney enquired.

“Well, it beats accountancy.”

Landon tactfully.

A salad of roasted lemon, fennel fronds and pomegranate was served with

guacamole dip based on chunky avocado.

After our meal we washed up

Chelsea’s phantom figure scurried outside with Olympic speed.

It was so redolent of the suddenness about.

A rapt cocoon descended around Chesney and Landon's interaction.

Landon quizzed Chesney about the urban country rift.

Tranquil timberlands have their own stressors.

“See those creatures slumped awkwardly on fragile twigs?

They sense pending doom.”

Chesney observed.

“Can you really escape hectic city life?”

A querulous tone from Chesney.

“Maybe these divisions are fictional.”

Landon archly.

“Thud. What’s that?”

Chesney shaking.

Chelsea entered.

“Oh dear .. let’s say a homing pigeon.

They’re a strange breed.”

She said smugly.

“Very strange indeed.”

Chesney out loud.

Chelsea and Chesney exchange strained silent glances.

A circus of the wilds continued outside as species vied with species in an ego fanfare.

Chirping robin red breasts,

wing scraping crickets in high chorus.

Vulcan steam curtain as backdrop.

Horseshoe Bats that weave rainbow shafts.

Daddy long legs with their cancan dances on sodden patches.

“Excuse me …..ring a bell?” Chesney diverting Landon’s attention with a broken fragment.

Landon bought this autumn crocus crystal vase on a previous sojourn.

It slipped from his hands in a butter fingers incident.

Croaker uttered the words “my lasting gift” as it fell.

Cackles erupted but frustration for Landon.

“A hilarious keepsake after a fashion.”

Chelsea opined.

“Really?”

Said Landon embarrassed by this anecdote.

The hours passed and they were both tired.

Landon saw Chesney remove a letter from a ring pull drawer.

“Just an old bill. Must shred it.” He said.

“Why would Chesney explain that?

His face reddened.

Curious.” Landon thought.

Shuffling to bed Landon did notice

pink salmon eiderdowns, pillows with children sleeping under moonlit skies, and Milky Way throw blankets.

The night passed uneventfully.

There were some noises in the kitchen as morning approached.

Having woken sluggishly Croaker walked into the dinning area.

A sense of foreboding filled the room.

Landon grappled awkwardly with claustrophobia.

It was disrupted by the chatter of the chestnut -sided warbler.

An oak hook tip moth added charm with its zoom and flutter acrobatics.

“I’ve the creepiest feeling.”

Croaker reasoned.

“BUZZZ ……..Buzzzzz ……Boing.”

My old cell-phone’s text tone.

My boss. Wonder what he wants?”

Landon to himself.

“Dear Landon,

When you return I would like to speak to you about your future with this company.

I can’t go into further details

as it involves a lot of interested parties.

A wide -ranging discussion is in order,

Regards,

Tom Wright

Managing Director.”

Landon’s worst fears now confirmed.

“I’m confused.

Just how pressing is this or …. what is this in front of me?”

A letter from Chesney and Chelsea.

“Hi Landon,

We had to leave quickly.

Help yourself to whatever largesse there is.

Don’t know how long we’ll be.

You can hang around of course or leave.

Don’t break anything!!

Ha ha,

Ches and Chels.”

Incredible! Between the text and the letter who wouldn’t be alarmed?

Landon limped outside to an ear splitting din and a mist laden detritus that merged into pockets of streams steeplechasing each other.

A slimy frog vaulted and cast a damp viscous oil spray in Croaker’s direction.

Something ….a shadow.

“This has been the most peculiar visit I’ve ever had.

Intrigue seems encoded in it.”

Croaker’s anxiety growing.

A tap on the shoulder followed by a crystal shard at his feet.

“The vase remember?

Don’t be so serious ……..we’ve something to discuss with you.”

Chesney said pointedly.

“An Agatha Christie mystery novel has nothing on this.”

Landon fretted.

“We’ve been reflecting, Chelsea and I.

Your presence is an extraordinary coincidence.”

Chesney quizzically.

“We’d like to offer you a job as our accountant.”

Chelsea suggested.

Croaker now shivering.

“You know by now we love to jumpstart even our closest friends.

This post is tailor made for you.”

Chelsea once more.

“Your boss will understand.”

Croaker’s head was now in a spin.

“You like writing don’t you?

There’s plenty of stories here.”

Chelsea opined.

“All this trouble to offer me a job?” Croaker queried.

“We don’t do things by halves.”

Chelsea with Chesney nodding.

A carousel of thoughts flashed through Landon’s mind at this juncture.

He walked in a trance struggling with everything.

“What was in Chelsea’s sports bag I wonder?” Thought Croaker.

“Let’s go for a swim, Landon.

I’ve got swim trunks for us all.”

Chelsea tossed a nylon mesh swim trunks at Landon as everyone changed.

Something slipped out of Chesney's pocket without him noticing.

It was that letter Chesney removed previously and read as follows.

“Dear Chesney and Chelsea,

As your doctor I regret you won’t be able to have children. It’s with a heavy heart I share this with you.

There are many reasons for this…”

The rest of the letter was creased and illegible.

It was subsequently swept to the river’s edge underneath a Crested Iris by a slight breeze.

Meanwhile, we were all breast stroking energetically while taking the occasional breather.

“You can make up your mind, Landon, at the end of this swim whenever that is and wherever it is taking us.”

Chelsea giggled as she circulated in the eddying stream.

We all started off again as we followed each other’s course.

“Awh, the child within!” Cried Chelsea.

As Landon pondered his fate the mountain looked down imperiously upon us all as the stray deer suddenly reappeared from nowhere.

Maybe that deer did know something after all!

Photograph and short story by mantrabay copyright protected.

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