#sunlight a distant memory. The fig

[starloftspittsburgh]

Not all of us have a green thumb, but we can still love a good plant tip! National Houseplant Appreciation Day is here, so let’s help our leafy friends thrive. 🌱

National Houseplant Day

Pro tip: Rotate plants weekly for even sunlight and wipe those leaves clean. What’s your favorite houseplant? Share it in the comments! #HouseplantDay #GreenThumbGoals Houseplant Short Story: The sunbeams danced across the dusty windowpane, illuminating a forgotten corner of the room. Nestled amongst forgotten trinkets and half-finished projects sat a forlorn fiddle leaf fig. Its once vibrant…

[lorainelegacy]

Words: 3728

The ancient ruins awaited majestically at the top of a steep cliff, standing as a silent witness to ages past. The initial ascent proved to be a formidable challenge, an intricate dance between skill and danger, where every step could be the last. Loraine, her gaze laden with awe and admiration, could not help but observe the ease with which Eleazar negotiated each obstacle and was embarrassed by the fact that, on more than one occasion, it had been his firm grip that had saved her from falling into the void.

—The young and agile one here is supposed to be you —Eleazar joked with a playful grin at the blush on her cheeks. Loraine pursed her lips and wordlessly resumed walking. To her relief, the road before them was already showing signs of improvement. —Where is your wife supposed to have gotten the portkey? —Loraine asked, deftly diverting the conversation from its momentary awkwardness. —Good question. Miriam had spent years unearthing evidence of an ancient form of magic, long forgotten.

Loraine walked cautiously behind her mentor, through a spacious stone tunnel that seemed to extend deep into the earth. With each step, she could feel the air grow colder, a chill that seemed to emanate from the walls themselves.

—Ancient magic? —she asked, her voice echoing and mingling with the echo of his footsteps. —Yes, a powerful magic that few can use and that seems lost to time —professor Fig replied, his voice low and serene, as if he were revealing a sacred secret—. Hogwarts was built on that magic and is itself a bastion of it.

The revelation took Loraine's breath away, as she imagined the ancient hands of wizards and witches shaping the stone with spells that echoed through the centuries. Hogwarts was not simply a place of learning; it was a living testament to the purest and most powerful magic, a sanctuary of knowledge and power that had survived the erosion of time.

Eleazar continued, his voice now a reverent whisper that seemed to blend into the dancing shadows around them:

—Every stone, every tower, every corridor of Hogwarts is steeped in stories and spells that have been woven into its very fabric. It is more than a castle; it is a legacy, a guardian of the deepest mysteries of magic.

Loraine felt a shiver run down her spine, not of cold, but of wonder. Once again, they stepped out into the outside world, where her eyes struggled again to adjust to the dazzling sunlight. They moved on for a few more minutes until they plunged into the gloom of another cavern. Loraine, though disoriented and clueless as to her destination, placed all her faith in the wisdom of Professor Fig. The urgency of arriving at Hogwarts in time for the Sorting ceremony weighed heavily on her; she could not afford to be late on her first day.

—But Professor, why was your wife so intent on seeking evidence of this ancient and forgotten magic? —Miriam was fascinated with the idea of unravelling the mystery of why such a formidable force had been eradicated from our magical world, —Professor Fig explained, his gaze lost in a distant memory—. She was a firm believer in the beneficial potential of such a power. She spoke passionately of the good it could generate, —he paused, reflective, and turned to look at his apprentice— But magic, like any force of great power, is a mirror of the soul of the wielder. Its true nature is revealed in the hands of the wielder and the intentions that guide it.

She nodded, wrapped in a blanket of contemplative silence. She understood, with a mixture of awe and fascination, Miriam's deep interest in this enigmatic and powerful magic. Suddenly they came to the end of the cave. Ahead of them, an imposing wall of ice merged with the living rock, a seemingly insurmountable obstacle. Yet a glimpse of a path continued beyond, as if the barrier were an optical illusion or a mirage. Professor Fig stepped forward steadily and extended his hand towards the translucent surface. His fingers brushed against what appeared to be a layer of crystalline ice.

—Is that ice? —Loraine asked, with a mixture of curiosity and caution, keeping a safe distance. —No, it's not cold. It's more like a barrier —he replied, putting his hand to his chin. Turning on his heel, Eleazar turned to his apprentice, with a spark of defiance shining in his eyes. —Well, why don't you try some of the spells we've been practising?

Loraine nodded energetically and, with a firm, determined gesture, drew her wand from the folds of her coat, and held it with confidence. With a look of determination fixed on the towering ice barrier, she needed barely three spells to make the imposing wall of ice, seemingly unbreakable, surrender to her power and crumble into a thousand crystalline shards. The sound of shattering ice echoed through the air like a symphony of crystal bells. Together, they approached cautiously to survey the new path that unfolded before them: a steep and challenging slope. There was no time for doubt; it was the only way forward. They exchanged a knowing glance and carefully set off down the slope.

At last, after what seemed an eternity, they emerged from the mouth of the cave and were greeted by the warm embrace of the sun.

—Steeper than I expected —Eleazar exclaimed as he rose to his feet, vigorously shaking the fine dust from his tunic.

Loraine mimicked his actions, her heart shrinking as she discovered the unfortunate fate of her attire. A tear marred her stockings and her skirt showed a rip that could not easily be mended. It was her best outfit, carefully chosen and now ruined, with no time or resources to find a replacement.

Before them stood the remains of a once majestic castle. It stood a few yards away, but the bridge that should have saved them from the abyss was gone, and its absence was a gaping wound in the landscape. The wind howled with relentless vigour and, far below, the waves of the sea crashed against the jagged rocks with thunderous fury.

—How are we going to get to the other side? —she asked, raising her voice to be heard.

Again, Loraine turned her watchful gaze to Eleazar, who seemed shrouded in a halo of unwavering serenity. With a firm gesture, he motioned her to stand safely behind him. At that instant, Eleazar extended his wand with the elegance of a maestro preparing to conduct a symphony of magical movements.

-Reparo! —The word, more than spoken, was hurled as a challenge to the forces that barred their way.

And then, as if time and space conspired in their favour, the chaos of rocks and debris began to dance in a symphony of orchestrated movements. One by one, the stones rose, twirling in the air with unearthly elegance, interlocking with one another until they wove the structure of a majestic bridge. Loraine, wide-eyed with surprise and awe, gazed at the scene unfolding before her. The bridge, a miracle of stone and magic, now stretched, firm and sure, to the other side that had seemed unreachable before.

They walked steadily forward until they reached the majestic ruins. Before them stood a silent testimony to forgotten greatness, a place where every stone whispered stories of a glorious past. There was no trace of treasure or relics, instead there was a mural, eternally etched on the wall, and a great sculpture that captured the essence of a man of infinite wisdom, with a long beard and a pointed hat. Rays of sunlight frolicked through the broken windows, dancing on the untamed vegetation that had claimed much of the façade, lending the place an aura of mystery and a palpable magic that enveloped the soul in an unearthly serenity. For a moment, Loraine allowed herself to forget the dragon's threat and soak in the tranquillity of the ruined sanctuary.

—Why would anyone build this here? —Loraine asked, lowering her voice slightly, almost afraid to disturb the peace that permeated the air. Her gaze was lost in the mural, trying to decipher the secrets it held. —I suspect he valued his privacy, —Eleazar replied as he surveyed the imposing sculpture that dominated the room—. Let's take a look around, see if we see anything… out of place.

Although the ruins seemed to offer little more than the mural and the solitary sculpture, Loraine, with her keen scouting instincts, managed to discern a hidden path winding behind the castle. She cast a questioning glance at Professor Fig, but something inside her urged her to venture out on her own. Following the path, it led her to another room, or rather what was left of it, where a symbol on the wall caught her attention powerfully. ‘That glow…’ she mused, and as she approached, a kind of frost began to crystallise around her, similar to the barrier they had seen earlier.

—Professor! —she called urgently.

When Fig arrived, his gaze stopped on the wall, confused. Beside him, Loraine watched with a mixture of wonder and certainty, as if she could sense something invisible to him.

—Strange, it's that symbol again, —the young woman commented, frowning as she moved closer for closer inspection— and there seems to be a room beyond it.

Eleazar, piqued by curiosity, peered closer with his eyes strained against the cold barrier of ice.

At that precise moment, Loraine extended her hand towards the enigmatic symbol that seemed to call out to her. With a subtle gesture, the world around them underwent a radical transformation. The ruins that had surrounded them until that moment gave way to the room Loraine had glimpsed through the ice. She turned her head just in time to see the wall close silently behind them, erasing all evidence of the entrance as if it had never existed.

—Godric's heart! —Fig exclaimed, his eyes sweeping over every detail. The room looked familiar—. It can't be… —he muttered, almost to himself. —What is this place? —asked the young woman, wrinkling her nose slightly.

Suddenly, the sound of snoring, deep and resonant, cut off their train of thought. Fig and Loraine exchanged a knowing glance, a silent agreement of mutual exploration, before turning their attention to the desk that rested at the far end of the room. Another snore, this time closer and louder, vibrated through the air, and together they discovered the source of the sound: a goblin, his figure silhouetted against the glow of a lamp, dozing over a large open book.

—Hello? —she called in a soft but firm voice, trying to break through the barrier of sleep that enveloped the little creature.

Another snore echoed, breaking the silence like a discordant note. Loraine exchanged another knowing glance with Fig, shrugging her shoulders. Cautiously, the two approached the desk where the elf dozed, and Fig, with a determined gesture, cleared his throat with two resounding throat clears. The effect was immediate: the goblin awoke with a start, his small eyes flickering with surprise as he found himself facing two figures watching him expectantly. He frowned and, with an almost comical gesture, rubbed his eyes with his tiny hands. He looked at his unexpected visitors, frowning in bewilderment.

—It can't be —he muttered in a voice that, despite his surprise, retained a gentle tone. He stood for a few seconds watching the young woman and Eleazar, as if waiting for one of them to break the silence. In the absence of words, he circled around the desk, muttering to himself in barely audible language, until he stood in front of them with a dignified posture—. ¡Welcome to Gringotts Wizarding Bank! —he announced with a slight bow.

Loraine acknowledged the gesture with a subtle nod. Unlike the other goblins Loraine had seen, this one had a gentle expression and a calm demeanour that invited trust.

—Vault twelve, I presume, —the goblin asked with a broad smile.

Loraine frowned in confusion and glanced at Fig as her mind raced to decipher the enigmatic scene unfolding before her.

—Exactly, —Professor Fig confirmed, nodding firmly and confidently.

The banker then turned his attention to him, stretching out his long, slender arm expectantly.

—The key?

Eleazar was thoughtful for a moment, his mind searching the recesses of his memory. It was Loraine who saved him from the awkward silence.

—The portkey, Professor —she interjected softly. —Oh, yes, of course —Fig replied with a warm, grateful look on his diligent apprentice's face. He dug into the pocket of his worn tunic and pulled out the tiny device. He held it in his hands for a moment and finally held it out to the banker, who accepted it with a nod. Parting with the object seemed to cost him more than his serene façade revealed. —Well, follow me —the goblin instructed in a voice that resonated with unexpected authority.

Led by the diminutive being, Fig and Loraine traversed a corridor that seemed to stretch infinitely before them. The light from the sconces danced across the stone walls, casting shadows that played with their concerns. Suddenly, Loraine felt Fig's hand close around her wrist.

—Stay close —he murmured with quiet urgency.

She nodded slowly, her eyes reflecting a mixture of apprehension and confidence. They had passed through the underground labyrinth and now stood on the threshold of a space that opened up like a cavernous cathedral. It was an expanse that mimicked an ancient station. Suddenly, the banker emitted a high-pitched whistle that pierced the silence, and from the depths of the shadows a metallic carriage emerged. It sped along the rails like a mechanical beast heading towards them and, with a frightful screech, came to a halt just ahead.

—After you —said the banker, extending his arm in a polite gesture, inviting them to proceed.

Loraine hesitated. The very thought of climbing into that structure gave her a knot in her stomach. However, Professor Fig's proximity to her instilled a sense of security. With a sigh that was meant to be confident, he settled into the carriage, sliding into the velvet seat next to Fig.

—Keep your hands inside the carriage, unless you wish to lose them, —the goblin joked playfully, letting out a chuckle that echoed mischievously. Loraine, however, was not amused.

Eleazar, ever observant, bowed his head to find his young apprentice's hands trembling with gentleness. He realised then that it must be her first time. With a smile that radiated warmth and understanding, he took Loraine's hand in his, a silent but powerful gesture that seemed to tell her that, come what may, he would be there.

The wagon came to life with a mechanical gasp, slowly awakening from its slumber and then gathering momentum and gradually accelerating, tearing through the silence with a metallic clang that echoed deep into the earth. The faint flickering light of the tunnels barely outlined the winding routes of the Gringotts underworld, that complex web-like network that stretched like a spider's web beneath the surface. There, in the bowels of the earth, lay an underground citadel, an emporium of riches and secrets. Security vaults, carved into the living rock, lined up like stone sentries, jealously guarding the treasures of witches and wizards. Loraine, wide-eyed and open-mouthed, gazed in rapture at the subterranean spectacle. It was a hidden city, a realm of shadows and glitter where gold and stone lived in silent harmony.

—How many vaults are there in Gringotts? —she asked, her voice tinged with almost childlike wonder. —Hundreds! In fact, we'll pass through quite a few before we reach vault twelve. Right now we are under the main hall. The vaults in the distance are the most recent. —Impressive… —The word escaped her lips, a whisper filled with awe at the grandeur of the infrastructure spread out before her. —Are private entrances to the bank common at Gringotts? —Professor Fig asked. —They are most uncommon, —explained the banker— Only those of great power and wealth would even contemplate requesting such an exclusive and discreet service.

The carriage, as if picking up the tune of its passengers, sprang to life and sped with renewed impetus into the depths of a new tunnel. The increasing speed tore Loraine from her ephemeral calm, and the young woman, whose fears of speed had been briefly assuaged, closed her eyes tightly again. Her face sought refuge in her mentor's protective shoulder and she dug her nails involuntarily into the fabric of his garment.

—Catch your breath! —the banker's voice rang out with authority, cutting through the air with enough force to overcome the roar of the wind and reach her ears.

Loraine, shaken by surprise, opened her eyes wide. Reality hit her with the force of thunder as her pupils met the majesty of a colossal waterfall threatening to engulf them. The sight was both terrifying and magnificent. Despite the implied promise of a glacial bath, an unexpected phenomenon enveloped the passengers: their clothes remained dry, as if protected by an invisible shield. The magic of the moment dissipated as quickly as it had come, and the carriage resumed its usual speed.

—That waterfall removes any enchantment —Fig revealed to Loraine— ’It's a security measure.

They continued their journey through the lower tunnels until it was the girl who broke the silence.

—Where are we going? —she asked, her gaze lost in the vastness of the space before them, a maze of security vaults scattered along the corridors, so tiny in the distance that they seemed mere dots on the horizon of the subterranean domain. —We are heading for vault twelve, one of the oldest and deepest in Gringotts —the banker replied, lifting his chin proudly—. It was erected shortly after the bank opened its doors more than four centuries ago. I suggest you settle in; we have a long journey into the depths ahead of us.

Eleazar looked at Loraine with a mixture of trepidation and concern, but she nodded, sending a silent message that she was fine for the moment. Soon they were plunged into the darkness of another tunnel, and the carriage, as if sharing the tension of the moment, slowed, creaking slightly in protest. To the right a new corridor was revealed, illuminated by the dim light of the security vaults, and a uniformed goblin, whose presence exuded authority, signalled the banker to stop.

—Vault number? —he asked in a hoarse voice.

Loraine stared at the being. His figure was imposing, emanating an intimidation beyond his stature. It was reminiscent of the goblin at the inn, but this one had an even more menacing air, and a shiver ran down her spine. Then her eyes fell on the bracelet that adorned his uniform. The object caught her attention, it radiated a peculiar glow, a glint that sparked an immediate memory in her mind; it was a glow identical to that of the necklace of the dragon that had ambushed them.

—Vault twelve, —replied the banker in a voice that resonated with the solemnity of the moment—. Momentous day.

The goblin, with his piercing, tiny black eyes, turned a questioning gaze on Loraine, who, feeling the weight of that gaze, frowned in defiance.

—On your way —the guard commanded in a gruff tone, accompanying his command with an imperious gesture of his arm.

The wagon resumed its journey with a creak, and Loraine kept her gaze fixed on the goblin, following him with her eyes until his figure faded into the distance. Once they were alone, she shared with Fig the disturbing revelation about the bracelet.

—Like the glow you saw on the portkey container? —Fig asked, cautiously curious. —No, that one was darker, more... sinister —she replied quietly but firmly—. I saw that same glow on the necklace of the dragon that attacked us.

After a journey that seemed to take forever, they arrived at their longed-for destination. The carriage came to a screeching halt, as if the rails were protesting the abrupt end of the journey. Loraine, pale and sick to her stomach, struggled to keep her composure, trying to stifle the nausea that threatened to betray her. At her side, Eleazar sensed her discomfort and, in a gesture of solidarity, offered her a comforting pat on the shoulder. Together they followed the banker towards the imposing door of the famous vault twelve.

Unlike the others, this vault stood alone, distant from the hustle and bustle of the others, and its design, imbued with an archaic air, exuded an aura of mystery and grandeur. Before them, the banker reached out his arm and, with pinpoint precision, inserted the key into a tiny, almost imperceptible lock. Loraine watched in fascination as the door mechanism came to life, an engineering marvel that seemed to defy the passage of time with its intricacy.

—When was this vault last accessed? —Fig asked. —No one has visited vault twelve in hundreds of years… until now, —he replied in a reverent whisper, as if the mere mention of it might awaken the ghosts of the past.

With a creak, the door snapped open, hesitantly, under the watchful eye of Loraine and Fig. They, their breath fast, peered out in the hope of catching a glimpse of a fortune of legends, but instead, their eyes met the vast nothingness of a desolate room.

—Thank you for your help, —Fig said, addressing the banker with a gesture of gratitude. Then, with a graceful gesture of his arm, he invited Loraine in first. She hesitated, but eventually, trust in her mentor prevailed and crossed the threshold. —What do you think we should look for? —she asked once inside, surrounded by the emptiness and silence of the vault. —I don't know, —Fig murmured thoughtfully, staring blankly into the sea of possibilities that this place hid. Then he turned to the banker—. Sir, I was wondering if I could— —The instructions from the vault twelve are clear, —interrupted the goblin—. I must allow access to whoever brings the key and then close the door.

Before Eleazar could articulate an answer, the door closed with a roar that echoed throughout the room. The young woman flinched.

—Professor! —she exclaimed.

The atmosphere in the room grew denser, a heavy silence hung over them, broken only by the echo of their own heartbeats. The gloom seemed to play on his nerves, and each shadow became a possible hiding place for the secrets that the vault twelfth might hold.

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[nosenipped]

︶꒷꒦꒷    ゛✦  ུ     𝐒𝐍𝐀𝐏𝐃𝐑𝐀𝐆𝐎𝐍﹕   secret garden tucked behind an old café in the city.   /   for  @blomcraft，anna   ្    prompted     ⇄     ❪⠀𐔌 ❄️ ˖  ˚⠀❫     still accepting﹗

　𝐧𝐞𝐬𝐭𝐥𝐞𝐝 𝐛𝐞𝐡𝐢𝐧𝐝 𝐭𝐡𝐞 𝐰𝐞𝐚𝐫𝐲 𝐛𝐨𝐧𝐞𝐬 𝐨𝐟 𝐚𝐧 𝐨𝐥𝐝 𝐜𝐚𝐟𝐞́, where the scent of roasted beans lingers in the air like a half—forgotten melody, lies a secret garden ─┄┄ a world unseen, a whisper among the clamor of the city. the entrance is unassuming, a narrow iron gate half—hidden beneath cascading ivy, its rusted hinges sighing softly as if exhaling the burdens of time.

beyond, the garden unfurls like a forgotten dream, dappled in golden sunlight that waltzes through the lattice of overgrown wisteria. vines curl lovingly around the brick walls, their emerald tendrils embracing bygone memoirs. wildflowers spill from the cracks fissured within the cobblestone path, their delicate petals trembling beneath the hush of a wandering breeze.

jack's sat in wait by a moss—kissed bench beneath the gentle shade of an ancient fig tree. mismatched eyne wordlessly trails its gnarled roots weaving into the earth like the fingers of an old storyteller, clutching the memories of whispered confessions & stolen moments. a fountain, timeworn & silvered with age, murmurs endlessly, its crystalline waters shimmering with secrets known only to the ivy & the wind. he quietly wonders if the place picked was too ostentatious ( ... ) settled within the heart of timeless beauty, he shifts indecisively.

here, the city's clatter fades to a distant murmur, swallowed by the symphony of rustling leaves & birdsong. the air is thick with the scent of damp earth & blooming jasmine, a fragrance so heady and sweet it lingers like an unspoken promise. it is a place of solitude, of wonder — an untouched sliver of magic hidden in plain sight, waiting for those who dare to seek it.

[johaerys-writes]

Fandom: The Song of Achilles Pairing: Achilles/Patroclus

My final (and very late, ahem) entry for Day 8: Fluff for @patrochillesweek​ 2020! I hope you like kisses in the sun and flowers and their meanings as much as I do :)

Read here or on AO3!

~

The mountain wind whipped through the maple trees, making the leaves whisper. It was cold as it rushed past me, carrying with it the clean scent of winter. It was a bright day, the sun hanging high up above us, but the shadows still stretched towards me with icy claws. I gathered my buckskin pelt closer around me as I held back a shiver. I didn't much mind the cold. The pelts Chiron had taught us to make were thick enough to keep me warm, even as Achilles and I walked through the olive grove on the northern side of the mountain, where the chill wind blew the strongest.

As much as I liked the summer on Mount Pelion, I liked autumn best. The world was a little more quiet then, a little more withdrawn. The leaves on the trees turned to deep golds, reds, browns, rich and vibrant; when they swayed with the breeze, it was as if the entire forest was on fire.

I hopped over an upturned rock, and the soil, still damp from last night’s rain, retreated gently beneath my feet. I kept my eyes downward, peeled for the nettles and chamomile blossoms that Chiron had sent us to fetch for a poultice. More often than not, though, my gaze would stray away, towards this flower or the next, the movement of the tall grasses that framed the narrow path. More often than not, I would simply watch him.

Achilles was just a little way away. HIs pelt was draped over his shoulders, flowing down his back, leaving his legs bare. I could see the lean, strong muscles there, rising and falling under his skin. He hadn’t worn his sandals, so the soles of his feet flashed pink and sweetly brown as he walked ahead of me. There was an effortless grace to his movements, a precision, that seemed to belong to creatures of the wild. Fleet footed as a doe when he ran; when he stood motionless, his stillness was absolute, save for his breathing and his pulse. When we went hunting and he crouched beside me, holding his breath, not a muscle would move- only his eyes, his pupils enlarged like a cat’s, following his target.

There was no stillness to him now. He agilely stepped over rocks and roots, wove through the trees; the pouch that hung by his hip was overfull with herbs. A few strands had come free from their leather binding at the nape of his neck, brushing the sides of his face as he bent forward to pluck a chamomile blossom. His golden hair caught the sun that slithered through the pockets in the trees’ foliage when he straightened.

That was when he noticed me watching. It was as if he could feel my gaze on his skin. His lips, when he turned to look at me, widened in a smile.

I still wasn’t used to him looking at me like this, so fondly, so openly. I wasn’t used to my heart skipping in my chest as if it were drunk, or the warmth that readily crept up my neck whenever his eyes met mine. I smiled back, rather foolishly, and raised my hand to wave at him. He grinned at that, and my cheeks felt hotter still. I looked away, resuming my task. If I gazed any longer, my thoughts would inevitably go back to where they usually tended to drift these days; his slender fingers, when he’d threaded them through mine that morning. His breath on my skin, when he’d leaned close to whisper a sleepy ‘good morning’ in my ear. The softness of his lips when they closed over mine, only moments after I’d opened my eyes.

Sometimes, none of it seemed real. That night, when he’d drawn me to him, kissed me, held me; it was hazy and indistinct like a distant memory, at the same time that it was sharp and precise, like shards of broken glass. A fleeting dream, one of those that slip the mind upon waking. Yet, at that moment, as Achilles smiled at me, as his delicate feet carried him towards me, it was neither a dream or a memory. It was my present. My reality.

He stood before me, inspecting the herbs in my hand. “What have you got there?” he asked.

“Chamomile. Nettle. Feverfew.” I pulled a slender stem from the bunch, the petals of its tiny white flowers heavy with dew as I held it before him. “Myriophyllon.”

Achilles plucked it carefully from my fingers, twirling it in his own as he studied it. “What does it do?”

“It helps stem the bleeding, when someone is wounded. Wards off infection. The wounds heal faster with it.” I echoed Chiron’s teachings as I brought one of its blossoms under my nose. Its smell was sweet and heady, strong for such a small plant. It was plain, not particularly pretty. Unremarkable, one of those that bloom in open forests or by the side of the road, those that no one glances at twice. Surprisingly tenacious. Ever since I’d learned of its properties, I had come to admire it.

I took a deep breath, letting the smell of the flower fill my lungs.

“Does it do anything else?”

“Yes.” I looked up at him, then swiftly glanced away. His presence made my blood feel warm, unusually buoyant. “Some people,” I murmured, “think it to be a symbol of everlasting love.”

Fair, perfectly arched eyebrows lifted. “Is that so?”

I nodded, my pulse quickening under the intensity of his gaze. “Chiron told me that it takes time for it to bloom,” I explained quietly, “yet when it does, it grows roots strong enough to withstand the coldest winter. The orchid, the iris, the narcissus; they’re beautiful to behold, but the first signs of frost are enough to make them wilt. The myriophyllon, it endures. Like true love.” Before I could rightly say what I was doing, I reached up and carefully tucked a blossom behind Achilles’ ear. The tiny flowers, which had appeared so plain and ordinary to me only a moment before, looked bright and elegant amidst his golden strands, as if partaking in the light that seemed to naturally radiate from him. “True love,” I whispered, my fingers tracing the shell of his perfectly shaped ear as I pushed a silken lock of hair behind it, “can endure any hardship.”

Achilles tilted his head to the side, leaning into my touch. My skin prickled when his arm snaked around my waist, pulling me close. His lips were smooth and petal soft, only slightly chapped from the cold when they met my own. I closed my eyes, losing myself into our kiss, committing every detail forever in my mind. The bow of his upper lip. The gentle curve of his bottom lip, the dip in its middle. His tongue, pink and glistening, still sweet from the dried figs he’d had for breakfast. The warmth of his breath. The softness of his skin.

Gods, I prayed silently, clinging to him. Let this moment never end. Let it be like this, always, as long as he’ll let me.

Achilles drew back slightly, gazing at me from under heavy lids. His cheeks were flushed, just as his lips were. He ran his tongue over them, and I shivered despite myself- I wanted to lick that tongue. I wanted to taste it again, and again. I would never, could never get enough of it. Enough of him.

“Everlasting love?” he asked, tracing my bottom lip with his thumb. “Is that why you gave it to me?”

I swallowed, nodding slowly. “Yes,” I admitted in a whisper. “That’s why I gave it to you.”

I wasn’t sure what I expected right then. Perhaps a rebuke, a scornful laugh. I held my breath as I waited for the moment when he would draw away from me, repulsed by my openness, my obvious desire. I waited, but that moment never came.

Without a word, Achilles reached down into my pouch, picking a myriophyllon blossom. Then, carefully, with surgeon-like precision, he set it amidst my unruly curls.

“If I have a flower like this, then you should have one, too,” he told me, as serious as ever.

I laughed in surprise before I could stop myself. Achilles with flowers in his hair was as graceful as he was captivating, fearsome in his beauty; Boreas, the god of winter and the cold northern winds, would look upon him and grow envious of spring. I probably looked utterly ridiculous. I wondered at how little that bothered me right then.

“Everlasting,” he repeated, as if to himself. “I like that.”

“You do?”

He smiled, then leaned forward to press his nose against mine. From that close, I could see the points of golden sunlight in the jade green of his eyes. “I never want to be apart from you,” he whispered. “No matter what comes. No matter where we are, or what the gods plan for you and me-” He sighed softly, his breath warm as it touched my lips. “What we have is everlasting.”

His words flowed through me, curled over me like waves lapping against a sandy shore. It was warm and hypnotising, gliding through every vein like a flood of brilliant sunlight. I linked my arms behind his neck, pulled him close to me. Closer. So close, I could feel his heart through his chest, beating next to my own. In sync. As one.

“You and me,” I breathed, trembling as I kissed, and kissed, and kissed him. “Everlasting.”

[tronnyboyo]

BLUE SEA Chapter 7: Blue Sea,

Based off of “Delicious” from Pet Shop of Horrors 

Rating: Mature 

AU: Don Thousand’s Pet Shop 

Word Count: 1944

Relationships: Hellshark/Disqualifyshipping (IV/Ryoga) 

Warnings: Brief smut scene, adult humor

Summary: Thomas wakes up to the sound of a voice that he thought he would never hear again.  

Yes, this is my siren song

Reserved only for you

Like a spider I weave my notes around you

You’re caught in my net and I reel you in just like a—fisherman

Siren song, 

Don’t get too close or you’ll be lost at sea

Siren song

     The familiar voice made me open my eyes. In the background, a familiar bass line played and I turned towards the singer. Perched on the steps of the pool was Ryoga, singing along. He looked radiant, his curls glistening under the golden sunlight and his tail languidly flapping in the water. The gills on the sides of his neck opened to and fro as he sang and his hands with their sharp nails tattooed out a matching beat. His eyes were distant as he sang, as if he were reliving another lifetime. My legs shook with shock. Weakly, I grabbed the edge of my chair for support and slowly made my way towards him. 

   “It’s you..!” I gasped. “It’s really you!” 

    Ryoga immediately stopped singing. He turned and gave me a sardonic grin. Plish. He flicked some water at me with the tip of his tail. 

   “Yes, you idiot. Who else could it be?” he teased. 

    It was as if nothing had ever changed. Not caring about soaking my clothes, I ran into the pool and held him close. In turn, he wrapped his arms around me. He smelled of the ocean, fresh and salty. I didn’t mind at all that he slightly stank of fish. He was home, he was home! My eyes filled with tears and I couldn’t keep the shaking out of my voice. I traced my fingers across his flushed cheeks and gazed deep into his loving eyes. 

   “You scared all of us,” I whispered. 

    “I know,” chuckled Ryoga. “I couldn’t help it though.” 

    He pulled me down with him, my neck finally resting on his shoulder. The water was cool as it soaked through my shorts and shirt. I felt the small of his back, so bony since I had last held him. Had I been feeding him enough? I had followed the pet shop’s instructions to the word. But...he was no longer a pet, was he? He wasn’t ever a pet, but now with his memories back, I could truly call him my husband again. I never wanted to let him go, but he eventually pushed me away. He gave me another smirk and flicked more water in my face. 

   “I was so pissed at you,” he said. “You should have just told me about you and my sister.” 

   I held his gaze for a few moments before I replied. With a gentle light in his eyes, he looked more beautiful than before. He seemed almost radiant, with the summer sun against his back. The want in my chest bloomed. 

   “I know and I’m sorry,” I sighed. “But it’s all over now. I’m now fully dedicated to you.” 

   A pause followed as Ryoga gazed out at the pool room. His eyes grew distant again. He must have been remembering the figs we used to feast on every summer. I felt awful that I had just left them to rot instead of finding people to accept them. 

     “I wish Rio told me,” he murmured. 

   “Too late for that now,” I said. “You scared her away.” 

   Ryoga chuckled and then swam around me, his tail trailing the waters elegantly. He playfully tapped me on the nose, his rough fingertip catching my skin. The smile continued to play on his features. 

   “Greedy bastard. You had to fuck both twins to satisfy yourself, huh?” 

   I returned Ryoga’s smirk and pulled him closer to me. Gently, I brushed my lips against his collarbone and relished in his shivers. With deliberate slowness, I ran my lips down his white throat. 

    “I chose you in the end though. And I’m staying with you. Forever,” I promised as I drew him into a kiss. 

    His lips were softer than I remembered. He ran his hands through my hair as we kissed. In turn, I held his torso closer to me. I wanted to be with him, lips locked together, for the rest of our lives. He overwhelmed me with his salty tang, drowning my senses with the ocean. I felt his mouth open invitingly and I slid my tongue into his mouth. How I missed these moments. How I missed him. 

   And now we were together again, buried in each other’s love. 

   “I know,” whispered Ryoga, nipping the bottom of my lip. “I made sure of that.”

   “By making yourself completely dependent on me?” I teased. 

    His tail brushed against my bare leg, the rough skin digging into my own flesh. He flashed his sharp teeth and traced my jaw. 

    “You have the roles mixed up. You need me now,” he drawled. 

   “Oh yeah? Are you the one who feeds me and keeps my tank clean?” I countered. 

    Just like that, Ryoga leaned his head on my shoulder and looked up at me with hunger in his widened eyes, much like before he regained his memories. He would have never done such a thing before this. 

    “We need each other’s love to stay alive,” he said, his lips pink and wet. 

   “Stop making that face,” I chuckled. “It looks weird on you, now that you remember me.” 

    Ryoga pursed his lips and his eyes looked into mine. They were so beautifully blue, just like the ocean on a sunny day. I saw him then, wreathed in sunlight and playing his bass on the shore, a barbecue behind us. My heart ached. Surely, we could still find a way to travel together, even like this. 

    “Did you like it when I didn’t?” he asked softly. 

    I cupped Ryoga’s face in my hands, his skin as cold as the waters we were in. 

   “No,” I breathed. “It hurt just to look at you.”

    Ryoga pressed himself against my chest and kissed me again. Even the insides of his mouth were cold, filled with the slight tang of blood and salt. His hands went to unbutton my shirt, just like he used to. I tried to ignore the coldness in his fingers and hoped that if I held them long enough, they would be warm once again. When he pulled away, my shirt had been fully unbuttoned and I smirked at him. 

   “Haven’t lost that dexterity at all, huh?” I noted. 

   Ryoga proudly crossed his arms. 

   “Nope.” 

   “Think you can do something about those cold hands of yours?” I asked as I slid my shirt off and rested it by the poolside. 

    My husband laughed and he flicked more water in my face. 

   “I’m a shark! Sharks are cold-blooded, stupid!” he said. “I can’t help with being cold.” 

    I blushed and turned away from Ryoga. Of course. 

   “What’s next? Are you going to ask if I have two penises?” he called as he swam over to the jewelry cabinet. 

    “Wh-what?!” 

   Ryoga waved his hand dismissively and pulled out the first drawer. 

   “Nevermind. You kept my sister’s ring?” 

    Awkwardly, I waded closer to him. 

   “Er, yeah. It didn’t feel right, just throwing it out.” 

   He slowly nodded and contemplated the silver ring. The fondness that filled his face as he turned the ring around made my chest twinge. There was a hint of regret in his expression, with the way his lips were turned. 

  “How did your memories even come back? I didn’t even know you could speak,” I said as I watched him replace the ring with a leather bracelet. 

   A roll of his slim shoulders answered me. They pointed towards the stereo system that was still playing an old recording of his. 

   “Most likely that. My memories slowly came back and I trained myself to speak again. I didn’t want to show you too soon or else you’d just laugh at me garbling up my sentences with fish noises.” 

   I snorted. Imagining Ryoga making a wide-mouthed fish face was just too amusing and so unlike him. 

  ���Fish make noises?” 

   He nodded. 

   “Some grunting and humming. Clicks.” 

    He put the drawer back and then swam towards me. Resting his cool hands on my chest, he looked up at me. My heart soared as I looked into his face, now filled with trust and familiarity. 

   “I wouldn’t mind. You’d still be my beautiful siren,” I whispered. 

   He softly smiled.

   “For once, you’re behaving decently towards me. It just took a long fall and some amnesia,” he chuckled.

   He kissed my chest and his hands crawled down to my shorts. I felt the rings on his hands brushing against my skin. I buried my face in his hair, breathing in his familiar scent. My heart beat out an accelerating rhythm as I felt the shorts slide down. His fingers toyed with my nipple. I took in a sharp breath. I haven’t had anyone touch me like this in weeks. Desperately, I leaned into his touch. 

   His lips wrapped around a nipple and began to suck. 

   “God,” I moaned. “It’s been too long.” 

   I felt the edges of his sharp teeth graze my flesh. The slight pain only made the warm sensations sharper. I ran my hands down his skin. Even if it was cold, it was still his skin. My breath hitched when he grabbed my hardened flesh. Lazily, he teased it with slow strokes. Like his teeth, his nails grazed my skin with tingling sparks of pain. Ryoga licked his lips. 

   “You bastard,” I muttered. “I haven’t shagged anyone since you leapt off the ship. At least give me some actual effort.” 

   A soft chuckle answered me and Ryoga pulled away, leaving me frustratingly aroused. He swam a few ways off, beckoning me deeper into the pool. 

  “Not even a wank, as you would say?”

   “I was too bloody depressed to wank!” I snapped as I tossed my sodden shorts to the side.  

   Whenever I was flustered, my old vulgarities would float back up from the depths of my mind. It had always fascinated and amused Ryoga, who had grown to adapt my anger-fueled vocabulary to his own during tense moments. Regardless, it felt so good to hear him teasing me again. It truly was him.

    “Maybe I should throw myself off of ships more often,” teased Ryoga as he evaded my grasp. “It makes you more desperate and clumsy.” 

    “You don’t have legs to jump anymore!” I hissed as I narrowly missed his arm. 

   “Fine. I guess I’ll pretend to drown.” 

   I swung my arm over the surface of the pool, dousing Ryoga in a wall of water. 

   “You’re half-shark, stupid! You can’t drown!” 

   A laugh bubbled up from Ryoga’s throat. His cheeks were flushed with color and his eyes were closed. The stained glass window from behind him casted splotches of magenta, turquoise and cerulean on his skin, giving him the illusion of rainbow scales. It was so rare to see him laughing like this, uninhibited and radiant. I wanted to take a picture then and there and forever frame the moment in my heart. It didn’t matter that he had a shark tail now. He was still my husband. 

    Opening his eyes, he dove towards me and pushed me into the water. For a few moments, we sunk into the cool waters of the pool, just two hearts beating in unison. I felt his lips brush over my heated skin. His tongue teased the tip of my length, a slight rasp on the touch-starved surface. Underwater, I let out a moan and opened my eyes. When I looked into Ryoga’s eyes, I saw the pale white disks of the moon.

[hlwim]

Not All of Me Will End [1/3]

Summary: Nothing remains of her but what must be left behind. Tags: Character Death, Cancer, Tragedy, Angst, Bittersweet, Post-Canon Pairings: Royai, Edwin, Havolina AO3  ff.net

who lives

Smoke gathers beneath the ceiling’s blackened tin tiles—a match for her mood, and for the roiling green clouds that gather low over the city. Riza could add a little cirrus stream of her own, but all she has is the cigarette holder to tap against her lighter, ivory clacking on silver again and again. They’ve been waiting nearly an hour, stiffly side by side and still in uniform, as though either of them will be going back to work afterward.

“What’s the point of rank if I can’t use it to get anywhere?” Roy sighs, pulling out his pocket watch to check the time, and he smiles at her. He doesn’t know the way that she knows. “Are you alright?”

“Of course,” she says. “I’m sure it’ll only be a few more minutes.”

A wave of vertigo ripples upward between her eyes—and the half-filled lobby blurs into a slumbering beast, churning, burbling, gasping with thickened lungs. The steady heartbeat of patients marching the corridors and tangled in their IV lines, the thrumming of each slippered footfall that plays her broken nerves to insentience—she calms by pressing her fingernails deep into her palms, carving long purple furrows across the spongy flesh.

The nurses chitter like insects across the floor, hiding their oddly jointed limbs beneath dark blue dresses, pressed leather boots, starch-white aprons crossed over the back. Hats pinned to hair carefully pulled into uniform curls—such dreadful little halos. One of them approaches, with black eyes and pin-pricked red lips and a slithery grayed tongue.

“Captain Hawkeye. Doctor Hauer apologizes for the delay. He’s prepared for you now.”

Roy’s hand on her back is not subtle or standard politeness—he has caught her twice in the last month from falling back down the stairs. Something in the exertion of climbing would send a sheet of foggy blackness across her vision and then, just as her fainting spell during the commemoration parade, Riza would groggily wake to find herself propped up by his steadying arm. Even now they are keeping to a slow pace, passed on every fifth step by an annoyed orderly or harangued custodian.

Doctor Hauer’s name is at last set on the glass of his door, in careful white etching—he’s new from the north, highly recommended and with a fellowship purchased directly from the führer’s considerable coffers. At least, from all this meaningless mess, Central City Hospital can boast of retaining the best diagnostician in the country. He won’t look like much in print, but she can imagine, somewhere in a distant memorial garden, his stately stone glower presiding over a mossy plaque dedicated to his advances in various medicinal sciences. Such men are almost never properly paid tribute in life, so she can find some comfort in knowing she probably wouldn’t have lived to see it regardless.

“I’m sorry,” he says, no preamble, no offer of tea, “but it is exactly as we feared.”

“Cancer.”

“Yes.”

Riza nods. She knew, in all the ways that Roy did not, and his fingers tighten painfully around hers.

“Are you certain?” he asks.

“I spoke to my colleagues in West City and East, and they both concurred with my initial reading. The shadowing on the film clearly indicates wide-spread metastasis.”

“What does that mean?”

Hauer glances at Roy and then back to Riza. She can, to some extent, respect his desire to keep her the center of the conversation—but it feels so unnecessary. Like the broken beaks of a thousand furious birds, rain begins to peck at the glass behind the good doctor’s head.

“Although the size of the mass in your lungs leads me to conclude that it is the originating site, your previously described symptoms—dizziness, hallucinations, blackout spells—strongly suggest that there may be a mass in your brain as well.”

He points, with alarming accuracy for not even bothering to turn his head, at the tacked-up transparency of her chest. The closest she will ever get to witnessing the true complexity of her own desiccated husk, save for running a knife beneath her ribcage and peeling back what flesh is found there.

“It also appears to have reached your lymph system. We could draw blood to confirm the presence of malignant cells moving throughout your body, but at the current rate of growth, in a matter of months…”

A twisting grimace.

“As they say, truth will out.”

“Is that—is that how long…?”

Hauer’s eyes are a brackish-green, painted with flecks of yellow by an unsteady hand. In one eye, the sclera holds a streak of bright red, and the pulse it hides could almost be visible, she thinks, by changing the angle of her observation. His left eye flickers first, followed by the right a quarter-millisecond after.

“It’s difficult to say with any accuracy. The disease process is unique to each person.”

“So then what’s our next step?”

She is not trying to memorize this moment or even Roy’s face—she is merely observing the cool milky sheen of his skin, the youthfully short lines bundling above his brows, the click and clack of his tongue and teeth as he seeks a futile reprieve. They—Hauer and Roy, and not Riza, who folds up her hands in her lap and watches Roy’s face without feeling the slightest change in her own—discuss medication and surgery and radium therapies with such naive hope cutting their lips to ribbons.

“No,” Riza says. The birds have left the window—for all its crescendo, the storm was brief and will have left only a discomforting haze to line the streets and sidewalks.

“Riza, there’s still options—”

“Not for me.”

“But they’ve had success—”

“In skin cancers. And most of the patients went on to develop a different cancer and died anyways, after a few years.”

He wants to protest, his eyes a pair of open wounds twisted wide by the gears of coming grief. The clouds have cleared from his side first—he sits in a shower of sunlight and reaches to her, delicately seizes her hands and pulls them to his lap. They stand sharp as plucked feathers against the dark wool of his uniform.

“I read the same studies as you,” she finishes.

“But it could work.”

It is difficult to explain the logic of what remains so… obvious. Hauer has withdrawn, content to study the bleed and retain his commentary. Riza, in a half-remembered instinct for solace, runs her narrow thumbs across the wide expanse of Roy’s palms.

“Cut me open,” she says, unblinking, by force of love and misery willing the certainty to bridge the empty air between them, “and scoop out what they can. Then weeks under one of those awful lamps or even worse—a tube of radium sewn up inside me until it burns through.”

He shakes his head as she speaks—his imagination is well-stocked with atrocity and no doubt illustrates each word with a facsimile of what its truth might be.

“Is that what you want for me?”

Ruined by all of it—torn open and shredded by the indifferent abyss. She sees him as one might see a lone telegraph pole with its lines all cut loose, fading fast into a horizon that welcomes no minute alteration. He squeezes her fingers, trying to coerce heat from his calloused skin into her. He speaks very quietly—not a whisper, but an inability to draw sufficient breath for each word.

“I want you to live.”

She smiles, somewhat, tempering the cruelty with a cold sigh and a tremor which passes, without origin or end, between their joined hands.

“Well,” she says, “I’m not going to.”

Roy’s car has broken down again, so they take a black taxi back to Central Command. The driver seems to sense their disquiet and leaves the divider up, assuming possibly that they have a need to talk—but they only stew in a long silence. The rain begins again, and ends, and then restarts and finally quits the greened sky for yellowing pastures somewhere south.

“Why didn’t you tell me about the hallucinations?” Roy asks. He speaks to the closed window, hands curled to fists in his lap, brow knit, frowning, eyes darting from face to face when they stop near a crowd. He will want a solution from his frustration and will find nothing.

“I don’t know,” Riza says. “It only happened a few times. I thought sometimes it hadn’t happened at all.”

Anger rolls from his shoulders in cutting waves. It radiates, and she wants to lay her hands along the span of his back, to absorb his heat and make it her own, to become the yawning, roaring void that has opened inside him: a little well of sadness, which seeks an ocean to drown it.

“I’m sorry.”

Their attendance at Grumman’s table is required, and she tells him immediately, wishing no delay to the plans that now must follow. He rages, of course, stalking the edge of his favorite Aerugian rug as he narrows his sights on the appropriate prey.

“I built that hospital!” he snarls, expelling foul breath with the lie. “Every brick belongs to me, and if they think they can reject my granddaughter for treatment—”

“I don’t want treatment,” Riza says, turning her fork to cut into a fig. “I made the choice.”

He softens to speak to her, just as always—she is glad, again, that he had no choice but to give her up as assistant. Familial affection is smothering at any distance.

“But, my dear heart, you’re far too young to give up.”

“No, I’m not,” she says, arranging her plate and cutlery for the ease of the maids, who will sweep the room spotless once they’ve gone through to the library, each night making such quick work of erasing all traces of their disorderly occupation. “I’m going to die.”

Grumman rages through the nightcap, malcontent as always with realities outside his making. Roy won’t defend her outright, but he’s far enough to her side to ignore Grumman’s attempts at alliance. Riza nurses a tiny glass of port, happy to let silence be her best answer.

She is the last to leave the library but stops short of climbing the first step. Roy will have found a room for himself somewhere in the east gallery—still trapped by the old etiquettes. They will not share a bed under this roof, which seems a trifling thing and yet—she can almost relish the possession of feeling again—some silly part of her is hurt. No matter that they’ve made love before, or that long before the tendrils of this nightmare began to tug at her ribcage, they had made such public promises.

Grumman had demanded an announcement and then disseminated one himself, when neither of them proved obliging. An alert of required celebration, and the drab party that followed—she thinks she still can smell the smoke of dusty candles and the flowers left too close to open flame. Smoke like meat, like the rabbits she hung inside that big hollow oak and the door she’d made of bark to cover, to pack with clay and come back later when Father lost his patron and they’d gone three weeks without anything but bread and foraged apples—

Riza curls her fingers around the ugly finial at the base of the bannister, feeling the weakness drain through her grip. There is no smoke here. The engagement party was months ago, and all its guests have gone home to sleep. Very carefully, she slides down to sit on the last carpeted step.

This is not the main staircase of the house—the grand incline that sweeps from the gilded foyer up to the narrow walk which runs from the east wing to the west—but a disused passage back to the kitchens. The sort of walk servants might have taken fifty years ago, slipping surreptitiously from their rooms in the attic to the basements. What need did they have for decoration? This landing holds a vase long empty of flowers, a dusty candelabra, and an overly-ornate bureau. And overseeing all, the painting.

Liesel Grumman, aged sixteen years, preserved and pickled in a brine of oil pigments and glaze. Her hair is styled in loose curls, her narrow body draped in white, and her hands are clasped primly on her lap—not one on top of the other, but palm to palm. Her eyes are blue, her throat bare, and her skin smoother than the brushstrokes that conjure it.

But the varnish is yellowing. The painting has gained a haze, and the corner of the frame is chipped of its gild. Riza shuffles herself forward along the carpet, not quite steady to stand on her own, until she is kneeling at the base of the bureau, looking up into her mother’s eternally averted gaze.

Berthold had had nothing to say on the subject of his late wife—other than that she was late and his wife—and Liesel had left precious few letters for perusal. Vaguely, Riza remembers a cardboard portrait of their wedding buried somewhere deep in the cellar: a matching pair in black, Liesel smiling gently and Berthold scowling.

If there had ever been anything like a journal of hers, Grumman never spoke of it. Despite the elopement which had separated them forever, he seemed to still think of his daughter as loyal, darling, sweet, pure, incorruptible—but her gaze in the painting is more dead than demure. The bureau is weighted and steady as Riza ascends, leaving her shoes to topple in the carpet, her elbows digging into the rough panels on either side.

Her eyes are a detached, icy blue. Round, large, surrounded on all sides by sclera barely distinguishable from her snowy white skin. Riza presses gently on the prick of her mother’s painted iris, flattening the peak. She didn’t really look like this. She never could have—and anyway, if she did and Riza knew, the memory is gone now in a foggy haze of black.

It is happening more and more—things Riza knew not because she could conjure the memory itself but because the vague shapes of it still threaded themselves in and out of other recollections. Impressions of a movement, of a tree weeping leaves into a river, a negative space between thought and thought, marked out only by its absence. It’s creeping closer as well, swallowing whole days and nights of solitude. She finds herself frantically scribbling out every thought that might someday find importance, before they can flit away from her fingers.

And what she does remember still—played out before her helpless gaze like a zoetrope glued to her face. A whirling vortex that melts to a view of Eastern Command, where Grumman brought her to the painting before even telling Riza who she was. Who she was—peering down from above the fireplace, amber-trapped, perpetually pre-elopement, pre-death, pre-decay, prevented from any comment on her own current condition—and he leered like a supplicant, offering up no sacrifice worthy of the penance sought in such adolated immortality.

Riza slides from the bureau unsteadily, spiked with sudden fear that the world has shifted itself while her back was turned. And it has—the shapes of Grumman’s old sitting room recede, bleeding backwards into carpet and empty wall and worn step, and her own shoes, kicked over and empty. She can’t remember how to get back to her own room, or what twists and turns will take her to where she is supposed to be. This isn’t home—it’s a stop in the pilgrimage to the end, and she sets her left hand on the wall, ready to resume.

By morning, Grumman has attained some level of acceptance. He is the last to come down for breakfast, white-faced and gray-shadowed, and he takes his seat without bothering to bring a plate.

“I’m going to see General Armstrong today,” Riza says. A maid woke her in the parlor at sunrise and lead her back to her room, where she slipped uneasily behind the mask of a dressing gown and slippers.

“You don’t have to,” Roy says, as his spoon scrapes across the bottom of his cup.

“I should,” Riza replies. “I want to.”

The grapefruit tastes like nothing, but she still winces. Grumman’s butler, with a stare of gravest concern, brings the old man some eggs and sausages, which he does not touch.

“When you return,” he says, barely managing to unfold his napkin, “we might discuss hiring on a nurse or two. To help out.”

“There’s no need. I’ll be going back to the house next week.”

His lip curls up like a burning leaf.

“You can’t possibly—”

“It is my home,” Riza says steadily.

“Wellesley is too far.”

“I had a telephone line installed. The tenants left last month.”

Roy’s stare shifts up from the newspaper he hadn’t been reading, fixing on her—furious, offended, incredulous. He must have thought they were in this together. Riza stares back, her mouth flat as her mood.

“I’m going back to the house,” she says. “There is no argument.”

“Riza, please, you must be reasonable about some of this—”

“Every Hawkeye,” she says, slow and deep and clear as a tolling bell, “for two hundred years was born in that house, and now the last of us will die there.”

Grumman’s fogged glasses clink against his spoon, and he sets his fingertips against each eyelid.

“I wish you would stop saying that word,” he mutters.

Roy waits at the bottom of the stairs with her dress coat—undeterred. They have covered the subject of stubbornness extensively in their time together, so she just sighs and turns around, allowing him to slip the sleeves up her arms and slowly pull each button through its slit. Her whole uniform has been freshly mended for this: its last exercise in the sun. The piping is bright white, the braids are neatly aligned in rows, and each metal pin of rank and office and regiment sparkles with shine. He keeps himself to civilian clothes.

His leave of absence has no doubt been expediently approved, or sits atop that neglected pile of forms awaiting the führer’s signature. Another piece in its waiting place.

They could take Grumman’s car, but she doesn’t want Armstrong to be immediately defensive. Roy orders a cab, and she almost wishes it could be the same driver as yesterday. This one is fine enough, although he smiles with too many teeth. Riza dislikes him instantly and wants, viciously and without cause, to see him frown instead, thinking to dim his irreverence with a remark about her condition. But that was her father’s way, never hers, and the impulse passes.

Roy keeps to his side of the bench when she steps in and settles against the door. She is beginning to miss him, even inches apart, and soon he’ll have his chance to miss her as well. Without hesitation, Riza slides her hand across the polished leather padding and slips her fingers between his.

He looks at their hands first, and then up to meet her gaze. She’s still half-sure he’ll pull away. There is nothing to say to the darkness growing behind his eyes.

The Armstrong estate suffered yesterday’s rain just like the rest of the city—every time, Riza expects it all to be unblemished and opulent, recently emptied of party guests and yawning for new attention. But instead, it is a quiet house hunched up and drawn in, dripping from its cornice like a near-empty wine bottle, unstoppered and tipped on its side.

There is a butler to let them in, and another butler to announce them. Having no business but escort, Roy is shown into the library, and Riza takes the next step without him.

Maybe they’re not all butlers. Three of them stand against the wall in the stately dining room, livery pressed to sharp creases and stares scalding. There must be one table for parties, and this smaller table for every day. Lieutenant General Armstrong sits at the head, newspapers spread on her left and correspondence unopened on her right, with her picked-over breakfast plate neatly in the center. Her brother is also on the right, sitting far down the table—but no doubt as close as she would allow—and he stands when Riza enters.

“Madame General, Captain Hawkeye to see you,” the door-opening non-butler says, bowing deeply and backing from Riza’s peripheral vision before returning to upright.

“Good morning, Captain Hawkeye,” Alex says. “Would you care to join us for breakfast?”

“Thank you, no—I’ve eaten already.”

“Is there some urgent matter?” the general interjects. “I didn’t send for you. I thought you were off planning your betrayal of a wedding.”

She does not look up from the newspapers, squinting to follow her forefinger across the narrow print. Alex gives her a look of almost matronly disapproval.

“Olivier doesn’t mean that, Captain. We’re both very happy for you.”

“Don’t speak for me,” she snaps, now lifting her coffee for a sip—obstinance. Riza used to find that horribly endearing in a commander. “The captain’s choice in romantic partner has already been reflected in her annual review.”

“Olivier, don’t be impolite.”

“I wonder if I might speak to the general alone,” Riza says. Her knees are beginning to strain, and the heels of both feet grow hot. She might have laced her boots too tight in her haste to leave.

“Of course, Captain. Please excuse me.”

Alex nods, rises, and ushers the butlers from the room. The general turns to her correspondence, unfolding a concealed pair of reading glasses and setting them on the end of her nose.

“I can’t believe the cheek of you bringing that worthless cur into my library.”

She loves scolding over a meal. How many bottom-rankers had Riza brought to her table at supper, every one of them knock-kneed with hunger-strengthened fear, to receive a lashing of words no less capable of stripping flesh from bone than the stiffest leather strap?

“It’s bad enough you’ve accepted him—and now he follows you around everywhere like a sick dog, so eager to throw his victory in my face.”

She points with a butter knife.

“You know I take this all as a personal offense.”

“I know, ma’am.”

But what could she do about it? Her refusal would have changed nothing more than—distance? Perhaps Riza would never have gone in to check. The air around Briggs is so thin, and she’d been teased for her inferior Western lungs more than once. Perhaps one morning an enlisted aide would have been sent to her bunk, to rouse for inspection, and she would have just been found, blue-lipped and silent forever.

“Don’t tell me that he’s gone and knocked you up. The thought of that idiot propagating—”

The sting is surprising.

“I’ve said something cruel, haven’t I?”

Riza opens her eyes—surprised again, to find that she had closed them. The general has set aside her letters and her papers and hidden once more the glasses she wants no one to know of, and she watches Riza with her hands folded on the edge of the table.

“I’m sorry,” she says. “It’s serious. And I’ve made some mockery of it.”

The overly-familiar upward rush of illness—Riza is standing close enough to the table to grip the back of a chair before she can completely collapse.

“Excuse me, ma’am, but I’m afraid I must sit in your presence.”

The general returns to her own seat slowly, too startled to conceal her concern. Beneath the table’s edge, Riza’s hands are shaking.

“What’s going on, Captain?”

“I came to submit my resignation, ma’am.”

She nods. She might be angry, disappointed, annoyed—but none of this shows in the knit of her brows.

“And I can’t refuse. No matter if I wish I could.”

“No, ma’am.”

“Is it—is there anything—”

A fragment of a generous offer. A lilt in her voice, a downward shift in tone, maybe even something close to a tremor. They are not—will never be—anything resembling friends. And there is such deep relief in it.

“But I’m sure the führer’s exhausted every possible avenue—to confirm…?”

Riza says nothing. The general nods, sliding into her earlier pose, back rigid against the chair, hands shuffling through the correspondence pile, eyes averted—but Riza knows she is not done just yet.

“You’ll stay here, with your grandfather?”

“No, ma’am. I own a house in the Western District. We’ll go there in a few days, when the rest of my affairs are settled.”

The room has reoriented itself around its own wavering silhouettes. Riza can stand without shaking, and she sets the chair back against the table with a muffled click of polished wood on wood. She can even manage parade rest, fixing her stare on a single flower carved into the painting frame directly above the general’s head.

“I’ve briefed Lieutenant Falman already on my projects and as specifically as possible on expectations in serving as your interim adjutant.”

“There will never be an equal replacement.”

Riza’s fingernails bite briefly into the flesh of her palms.

“Thank you, ma’am.”

“I suppose that’s it, then. You are dismissed.”

She never looks up. Riza could imagine a slight twitch passing through the general’s occupied hands, but why bother? This is almost exactly what she wanted.

Yet another butler meets her outside the dining room. Roy has broken the containment of the library, and he does not smile at her return.

[k-a-cook]

Fiction: A Gift of Naming

This story is set in a fantasy universe where everyone has a secret name given from birth, one shared with trusted kin both blood and chosen. This is seen as a way to lessen the risk of magical and eldritch binding by naming. Instead, most people have an additional common or use name used in general day-to-day interaction, a shroudname, which can be given by others or chosen by the bearer. People can change a heartname if consenting kin will gift them, in priestly ceremony, their new chosen name.

Ze looks down at hir muddy boots, mumbling the words. “I want, I need something different. This name isn’t...”

Me.

Names don’t possess inherent gender any more than pronouns, but even in Ajille they’re not free of historical assumption. Hir current name, meant to bind hir to the Sojourner, tastes of sawn wood, hot metal, the ring of hammer against nail, the bitter-salt smell of sweat. Qualities, too, that are no more gendered than any other, but there’s something ineffable and unique in how a name rings in its relationship to that person’s gender. Hirs doesn’t. Not to hir, and isn’t ze the only one able to judge?

Ma didn’t give hir a bad name at birth. Good or bad are boxes into which names shouldn’t fit, a reckoning both irrelevant and simplistic.

It just doesn’t speak to hir of a new life, one of hir now sidestepping gender as relevant to hir shape and sense of personhood. A new name, a new beginning, a new turning in the road. Ze wants a name that sounds like early morning dew, the soft drape of cloth over hir forearms and legs, the green vibrancy of an unfurling leaf. A name that feels like walking under dizzying cathedrals of mountain ash, their straight trunks exuding a strength indifferent to human concerns and fears.

Ze finds the Sojourner closest to hir when a distant canopy dapples the sunlight.

Priest Illa says a soul bears only their name from this world to the next, so shouldn’t it sing to the person that bears it? If one’s parents provide a shirt that tears when tugged over their child’s shoulders, isn’t it cruelty to force the wearing, however well-intended the gift?

Names should be offered in generosity and kindness, taken back without resentment or bitterness. Does love truly lie in the giving if a child cannot return a present that no longer sits comfortably on their skin?

I love you, Ma. It just doesn’t describe me.

Names, in binding child to parent and soul to god, weigh more than shirts. Ze sees no mistake with the metaphor in theory, but sweat slicks the calloused skin of hir palms and fingers, hir nervousness putting a lie to the ease of comparison.

Ma, still in her chair, says nothing.

“I want,” ze blurts into the silence, “something that better matches me, now that I’m not... I...” Ze draws a breath, releases and wipes hir hands on hir skirt, the new one with the lace trim. Ze felt green the first day the soft floral fabric swished over hir knees and shins. Green in the sunshine and shade alike, loose and free. “I’m scared Ze ... the Sojourner, that They won’t find me, if my name isn’t...”

Me.

“Please.”

Ma rests her hands, a contradiction of narrow phalanges and swollen knuckles, on her knees. “My first name belonged to my grandfather. He wasn’t angry that I asked, but he never forgave me that I had Mother change it to something outside the family.” She lowers her velvety voice, echoing a man known only to hir by Ma’s memory. “‘If you’re going to change, have the decency to use another family name!’ I could see the anger in his eyes, every time I corrected him, as if I’d dismissed him.”

Ze stiffens, jerks a nod. An elemental terror has hir look to the closest door. How many people before hir, in asking to change a heartname or pronouns, needed to know the fastest escape from dismissal and denial? Names have a history of gender; that history was once deemed inflexible. Hir teacher spent lessons highlighting the differences, the damages wrought by a binary culture held up as an example of never again, but now ze feels that ze walks in the footsteps of transgender people not quite a hundred years past, their terror still hirs.

Sometimes it’s enough to know of the songs of hate, as though one can never be free of their scars until the lessons are so universal history needn’t serve as a warning.

Sometimes it’s enough to know that in the north, in Astreut and Ihrne, this conversation still can’t take place without rejection.

“Ma...?”

“I’m sorry! I was trying to think how to say it. I understand him a little better, now, but I promised myself that I’d never do that to my child. Never.”

Ze looks up to find Ma’s eyes fixed on hir face.

“You’re not dismissing me. How can it be your fault that I named you before you knew who you were?”

Relief dizzies hir. Ze steps sideways and leans against the kitchen bench, trying to steady hirself.

Ma brushes a strand of grey from her cheek, her fingers stiff and clumsy. Something ephemeral and sad, like regret or memory, flickers through her wavering brown eyes, but her voice rings sure and gentle. “Do you have a name in mind?”

Ze swallows, struggling to find hir voice. “Ash for the heart.” It feels sweet and loud on hir lips, good. Not enough to yet erase all doubt, but enough that ze thinks the name will become, given water and sunlight and room to grow, the right one.

“Ash. And?”

Ze nods, thinking of the pictures ze’s seen in books—the tree relying on another’s strength for its own immensity. One day, ze will see it with hir own eyes, touch it with hir own hands. The name, then, if not hir real one, will shape a promise between hir and the Sojourner. “Fig for the shroud.”

Ma’s lips curl into a laughing grin. “You would!” She stops, nods. “You would, Ash.”

The word sounds loud and stressed, raw like a scab peeled away from the itching skin beneath.

Tears still burn hir eyes.

Ma raises her hands, beckons. “Come here, Figgie. We’ll have Illa tomorrow, and then you can write out all the letters to the family.”

Ze creeps closer to her chair, entwining hir fingers around hers like a banyan around its host tree.

“Do you think Illa will complain overmuch if we walk her and a notary out onto the trails?” Ma’s eyes glint above a wicked smile.

“Yes!” Ze laughs, tracing the deep grooves of Ma’s palm with hir thumbnail. Ma’s ankles, thick and swollen, keep her in the kitchen chair most days, yet she won’t offer up such a gift, the naming made under the canopy, unwillingly. Priest Illa, possessed of unwavering health, dislikes any venture not held inside walls and roof and says as much with frequent enthusiasm. “She will. Thank you. I’ll lead your pony out. And I’ll promise to weed Illa’s garden to make up.”

“You’ll be weeding for months ... Figgie.” Ma squeezes hir hand. “I name you, now and tomorrow before the Sojourner, Ash Fig Walker, so that She will know how to find you.”

Fig sinks down to the tiled floor, resting hir head against Ma’s bony knees.

Ash Fig Walker.

Me.

[secretshamewriting]

Taming the Dragon-Chapter 6 (Viserys x Reader fic)

Chapter 5

Original Link

Viserys POV

Forcefully squinting against the sunlight streaming in with the salty breeze Viserys groaned and rolled in the bed. Burying his face in his pillow he wondered what time it was and why the Seven had seen fit to punish him so. It felt as though the Smith and taken a hammer to his head. Laying there, cursing the distant calls of the gulls drifting in through the opened windows and wishing they would just fall from the sky, he tried to remember the details of the night before.

He had felt restless, eager for his and the Magister’s plans to come to fruition but too nervous to wait. That was until he had seen (Y/N), and the flagon of honey wine. Just the thought of the cloying amber liquid was enough to stir the memories from when he was hugging onto the house fern only hours before. Viserys rolled back over, shielding his precious eyes with his arm, and taking a deep breath in and out to ease his stomach. Some food would do him good, but he would be damned if he was ready to get up yet.

His nose was buried in the crook of one arm but the other languidly moved up where his fingers tapped along to the pounding in his head, thrumming on the bare skin of his chest. Yes, she undressed me he recalled, thinking of his clothes discarded in a pile on the floor. Compelled he asked himself Why did I not command her to get in bed with me? Then the thought of commands got him sifting through the events of the night before, piecing it together. He recalled her hounding him every step here, even after his attempts to send her away, but she hadn’t listened. She had even had the gall to tell him to ‘Stand up’ and ‘Get in bed’.

Feeling unlike himself he wondered why he hadn’t berated her, who was she to give orders after all. HE was the King. HE was the Last Dragon. But it only raised more questions in his mind instead of allowing him to dismiss it. Why hadn’t she woken the dragon? He heard himself say it in his mind, all the times he had used that phrase, usually for less. I should have punished her, but hopefully the wine is doing that for me. However in that same thought he shifted slightly and got a shooting pain, withdrawing it, imagining her feeling as miserable as he did. Why though? When normally he would not only want to share the pain brought upon him but actively planning some retaliation for the insult to his station.

Deciding being in bed, unable to escape from his own thoughts, was worse than the physical discomfort Viserys forced himself up to his feet. He slipped back into his clothes because he had to be presentable, putting on his regal appearances even if he didn’t feel like it. Another lesson his father had always impressed on him.

His first action was to actually slam the shutters on the window, leaning his back against them as he stepped into his breeches. Likewise he staggered about the room as he fitted back into his clothes, but when he sat to put on his boots on he couldn’t help but fall back into the soft feather bed. He landed with a poof, his tired eyes blinking slowly as they traced over the colorful mosaic tiled on the ceiling.

Almost as soon as his head touched back down the thoughts started again. She’s only lied to me once and it was to get me to quit the wine. If only she’d done it sooner..bringing his fingers up to press in front of his ears and rub his temples. Otherwise everything she says is honest, wearing her heart on her sleeve. That or she’s an incredible lair. Either way, I certainly see why she is one of Illyrio’s most trusted agents.

Viserys sighed moodily, again tortured by the thoughts of doubt, if he could ever find someone to trust. Loyalty.. But why try to find someone when you could steal someone. He sat up as fast his weary body would let him, pulling on his boots as he decided to start recruiting some agents of his own.

Forcing himself back into his confident strides Viserys stalked downstairs. First he went to the kitchen, but after not finding the Magister there as he’d expected, he remembered the plea of his stomach. He sat at the wide feasting table by himself, and one of the servants came and began piling trays up around him. “Do you know (Y/N)?” he asked offhandedly as a plate of candied figs was set down in front of him. Too sweet he reeled, feeling as though he would be unable to ever eat anything with honey again, pushing them away disgustedly as the stammered answer came from over his shoulder. “I-I do, Your Grace.”

Turning away from the food he looked back at the girl, it had been the same one as that first night he’d met (Y/N). He could see the fear in her eyes, he could practically smell it on her. “Tell me about her.” it wasn’t a friendly invitation despite the sly grin that graced his face.

The serving girl took a step back from where she had nearly been hovering over the table, resting her arms down to her sides. “What? do you want to know?”  she asked sheepishly, forgetting to be overly polite in her concern.

“Anything” he responded cheerfully, tilting his head to add “Everything.”

Similar requests, similar concerns were shared among a few more of the servants. Each one only offering small tidbits of information, obvious things he’d already learned about her, and most if them he’d heard from her own mouth. That was why when none of the servants had been helpful he was relieved to see her at dinner that night.

It was much the same as the dinner they had shared weeks past, (Y/N) and Illyrio trading stories from all around Pentos, silly meaningless things. Viserys did find himself pausing, waiting for an answer as Illyrio inquired if she had a new job lined up as she was no longer needed at the Khal’s.

With a slight chuckle to his straightforward question she replied “No. I fear the Pentoshii nobles don’t have as many children as they used to.”

She and the Magister shared a deep laugh together, perhaps it was some insinuation about Pentos’ backwards political system. But wasting little time Illyrio proposed “Then why don’t you stay and be a Governess to our Princess. Perhaps you could share some of your knowledge, about Dothraki culture with her.”

Viserys’ attention was drawn away from where he watched (Y/N)’s face attentively to his left side as Daenerys had squeaked like a mouse. He assumed it was because of her fear of the horselords and wrote it off as no more than that. “Yes, that would be very helpful.” he insisted, looking across the table at (Y/N) once more.

With a smile that exceeded being just polite she nodded. “I would be honored to teach the Khalakki Rhaesh Andahli * ”

*Princess of the Seven Kingdoms (Dothraki)

Chapter 7

Index