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aminiatureworld · 9 months

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Hunting the Wren

'Under sod gorse and furze/There lies a young wren/Oh, by the saints she was cursed'

An account of Annie Cresta's Hunger Games

Word Count: 2.6k

Warnings: Discussions of death; implied character death

Author's Note: Reread and rewatched the Hunger Games in May and proceeded to write 16k words of fic that week. And now I'm finally starting to post it, so I hope you all enjoy!

For notes see the ao3 version, link will be in reblog

Go dig my grave both wide and deep

Place a marble stone at my head and feet

And on my breast a snow white dove

To tell this world

That I died for love

There is no quiet near the sea.

No silence, rather. There will always be the cawing of the gulls, the lap of the waves, the gentle hushing of reeds shifting against one another in the wind. But it is not loud. It is not overwhelming. It is calming. It is the quiet of nature, which blocks out the sound of the real world.

Annie buries her bare feet within the silky sand and sighs. Her skirt flaps at her calves, airy, compared to the slight burning sensation of her soles. Not a few hours ago she probably would not have been able to walk barefoot without guaranteeing sunburn. The breeze whips salt into her hair and on her lips. The gulls sings their songs which no one but the sailors can understand. When she takes in a deep breath she can almost taste the seaweed, the mussels, the fish.

Annie loves the sea, more than she loves most things. It’s a beautiful place after all. Beautiful and filled with life, as long as you know where to look for it that is. And she does, even if people think she doesn’t. She is of District 4 after all, and everyone of District 4 knows the sea better than the land. It’s a source of wealth, security, power. In a place where temperatures vary wildly – scalding hot in the summer and freezing cold in the winter – there is not a lot that can be counted on. But the sea always can be, for it never freezes over and its bounty never dies. Not like the fruit buds on a tree during a cold snap. Not like the meager crops in the field during a drought. It is dangerous to fish, but it also brings stability. Everyone knows something of the sea.

Now the sea looks like some threw gold into it, yellows and orange mixing with the blues. The sun is lazily sliding underneath the horizon, getting ready for when it must rise again, this time on the opposite side of the world. It is getting dark, too dark, but Annie doesn’t want to leave. Because tomorrow is the day. The day when the extra Peacekeepers come and the lady with the colorful wig and all the children line up and wait to see who will die. That awful day. The Reaping. Reaping children, uprooting them; cutting off their lifelines the way the farmer cuts the tops of wheatfields with his scythe. The scythe that hangs over them all, hangs over Annie. Always there. Even when she pretends it doesn’t.

But it’s almost over, almost. Eighteen. Almost there. Just one more time, just once more. She just needs to stand there one more day and then she can go home and sob her eyes out for the relief of it. Annie knows she should feel happy. Should be reaching desperately for the end of the dark, dark tunnel that has blocked out any peace she might have. Six years of terrible fear. Now it was almost over.

But Annie feels only dread. She can sense it, sense the unwelcome visitor. Death passes over them all, but for two people it stretches out its cold hands. Annie does not think of herself as made for death. But then again, none of the tributes probably think that.

And Death likes to chase those who are the most unsuspecting.

Finally the sea fades into a dark shadow, hiding itself until the new dawn finds it. Annie bids farewell to the sand, to the seagulls, to the bits and pieces of driftwood poking out here and there. It’s a good thing, to thank the sea. It feels impolite not to. Especially if you were never going to see it again. Then it might resent you forever for the lack of kindness.

In the wintertime if you were the last person to bed you were the one to blow the candles out. But it is no longer winter, and so the candles stay wrapped up in their beeswax paper, waiting for colder days to signal their work beginning.

Annie knows the house better than the rest of the family, knows which places tend to creak the most, where the floorboards are probably rotting a little bit. She picked it up from pacing. Pacing is very difficult when there is a constant rattling and creaking. She needs things to be absolutely quiet, so the only thing she can hear is her thoughts. Along with the sound of her socks padding lightly over the floorboards.

Stepping her way past a chair she scuttles into the children’s bedroom. The sight of all her brothers and sisters, piled up in clumps, makes her smile. There is something soothing about seeing them all sleeping peacefully. They always seem safer than they are, more content than their waking selves. She cannot judge them for their discontent. She certainly is rarely happy in her own waking hours. But in sleep, there is usually refuge.

She makes her way to her corner of the room, where all the grown up, or almost grown up, children sleep. There her brothers lie like carelessly piled up clothing, making as much space as possible out of the too-small beds. Annie lays down on her pillow and puts a ragged fold of blanket over her eyes and ears. It muffles the breathing around her, which is sometimes difficult to fall asleep to. Muffled, the sighs of the sleeping sound just like the sighs of the sea. For a moment she thinks about mermaids. Then her mind tumbles into the incoherency of half-dreams and she sleeps.

Annie would have liked to gone and see the sea one more time before the Reaping starts, but no one wakes her that morning. It’s a tradition within the Cresta family. Let the young ones sleep. Who knows, it may be the last time they are given peaceful sleep – or as close as they can get to one.

The eve of her first Reaping Annie did not remember sleeping. Oh yes, she must have slept. Theoretically she slept. But she did not remember sleeping. Only staring out at the darkness, terrified, sure that it would be her name pulled out of the lottery. She thought she would never be able to sleep before a Reaping. But six years dulls the sharpness of fear – though the fear itself remains. Now Annie sleeps because she must sleep. Because she is always tired. Because she is in desperate need of rest.

So by the time she wakes the light has cracked through the dusty curtains and the smell of food is wafting through the house. There are pancakes today, made with the high-quality flour that is so precious. District 4 is not rich in grain. Then again, who knows, no district probably is. Even District 9 surely sends it all to the Capitol. But you don’t say these things.

Taking care not to immediately shove the luxury into her mouth, Annie studies her family for a moment. Counts them. Sometimes it’s good to count them. Her two older brothers aren’t there, probably getting in some fishing before the Reaping. Today’s supposed to be a holiday, but really it just means getting behind in business. The tradesman doesn’t pay for late fish. She wonders how early her brothers got up. Perhaps they barely missed each other. She went to bed awfully late. Something that she’s now regretting.

The little ones’ plates are cleared, the crumbs appeared to have been licked off. But there is no light in their faces, for the Reaping casts a shadow over all but the youngest babies. No, that’s not quite true, Annie corrects herself. There are some who are excited for today, but those are the people with money and training. It pays to be a Career district, but only for the richest of the District 4 citizens. The ones who aren’t slaving away on their own little family boat, or on the boat of some other, bigger family. Even in the face of death, their District is never truly united. Again something you shouldn’t say.

All her thoughts start overwhelming Annie. She can feel the laughter beginning to bubble up inside of her. But it would do no good to laugh. It would be bad luck, and though Annie doesn’t really know whether she believes in bad luck sometimes, she wants to err on the edge of caution.

Besides, people don’t like when she laughs like that. She doesn’t like when she laughs like that. It’s never at the right time. And even if her family never admonishes her, she’s still feels their stares.

Soon enough the pancakes on her own plate are gone, though the crumbs remain there. Standing up Annie smiles nervously towards her mother, who offers a wan smile back. Almost there. Almost there. Just a few more hours and then she’ll be free. Only, there’s no guarantee. There never is any guarantee. There’s no point in pretending that you can see the future. There’s no point in telling yourself that the chance of being chosen is low. Someone has to be the tribute. Someone. Anne makes her way back to the children’s room to change.

There is no such thing as privacy in a small house with a great many children. As such there’s no point in calling out for help with buttoning up the back of her dress, she just waits until someone walks in. In the end it’s Paul who comes in first, unusually fidgety for the most staid of the family.

“Need help?”

“Yes please,” Annie replies.

She waits as Paul gets the top three buttons, then turns around. “Are Elijah and Lucien home?”

“Just got back. Now that they aren’t in the running anymore, there’s less of a reason to come back quickly. I don’t think Elijah will even change. He keeps forgetting to wear his hat on the water too, so if any of our family gets chosen the tv execs will have to put up with interviewing a lobster.”

Annie raises an eyebrow, but says nothing. Paul is only a year younger than her, a mere seventeen. He knows the stakes as well as she does. He also knows that only the final few get their families interviewed by the production that hosts the Games. That such a privilege was quite a long shot.

But she says none of this, because it would be bad luck, should one of them end up getting picked. And with five children in the running, there is no guarantee they will be spared. Should it be one of them, well, Annie very much hopes for an interview. Even if the idea of being interviewed was about as palatable as salmonella. But then again, perhaps she’ll be the one dying of hypothermia.

She shakes her head, as if to throw off the thoughts inside her head. Turning back to the matter at hand, she replies, “Elijah knows that you need to protect yourself in the sun, cancer is expensive.”

“He won’t get cancer.”

As if Paul has the power to predict such things. For a moment the idea of Elijah dying swirls in her head. Annie sighs. Saying nothing more to her brother she walks out of the room and towards the door.

District 4 is quite a large district, so greyish-blue buses cart everyone to the large square where the tributes are picked. Waiting in line, Annie catches glimpses here and there of her peers. Classmates, people who work with her father, who buy the nets she makes with her mother. A man and a woman who Annie worked for two summers ago are there, their son clutched tightly between them. He’s twelve, and learning to be a cook.

How funny, that children are expected to have career paths when everything might be cut off all of a sudden, with no one to save you from falling and hitting the ground.

She can never remember the name of the woman who comes and announces the tributes. Why should she? Somehow one person from the Capitol always seems so much less important than the two that are being stolen from them. Stolen. Offered. Slaughtered. Like that old story of a maze and a monster, the one that you weren’t supposed to be taught in classes. It got tossed around anyways, though no one could remember the name of it. Or how it ended. Probably in death.

The sun is hot in the sky, but not the nice, burning sensation of the beach. Instead it stagnates, dries everyone up. Everyone wants this to be over. And it seems the sun wants it to be over too. It makes sense, for surely the sun doesn’t want to see the unwilling sacrifice of two children any more than anyone in District 4 does.

Waiting’s the hardest part, but it seems like it will soon be over. The mayor – the term governor would probably be more accurate – has finished speaking, and is handing over the mic to the woman. Today she’s wearing a pink wig, salmon-like. For a moment Annie images a salmon on a pile of wool. Terrible. Only a truly awful restaurant would do that.

The woman is speaking, and even if you don’t want to listen, you have to. Or at least Annie has to. Her brain won’t let her do otherwise. She wishes it would, but it won’t, so you might as well listen. Already the familiar anxiety is flooding her, the panic that, when it gets bad enough, spots the corners of her vision black. She takes in a deep breath, closes her eyes. It won’t be her. It won’t. She needs to calm down.

Almost on reaction, she flips through the quotes that’s she’s memorized in her head. Poetry, music, the familiar lines that she hoards. There are a great many of them, and each so often repeated that they come almost reflexively. The craigs and dips of unfamiliar patterns have been smoothed away by time, and now they set like smooth marbles in her mind.

She reaches for one of them at random, finds it. “Dust thou art, to dust returnest, was not spoken of the soul.” She can’t remember where she read it, but it gives her comfort. This was all going to pass, pass as it did every year. Every year there is the same struggle. There’s the burning hot certainty that it will be her, followed by the flood of relief when it’s not. Her legs will wobble, but not give way. Her anxiety will be replaced with sorrow. She will stare up towards the tribute and feel anger. She will go home and cry over the evil of stealing two children away, to slaughter them at the pleasure of the Capitol. And it will all be over. And then she will be free.

“Ladies first!”

So close. Only a few more seconds. Only a few more and she will be free. The lady is walking towards the bowl. Annie sees it as if through a film reel. Almost there.

“Annie Cresta!”

For a moment the world is silent, fogged out. Like when you go under too quickly and the water swallows up the world. You have to surface and shake the water out of your ears as you take deep breaths. Only here, there is no air to breathe.

Annie stares bewildered up towards the woman in the pink wig. Then hysteria bubbles up inside her and she laughs. A desperate, crystal laugh in the silence that is her death.

#thg #the hunger games #annie cresta #finnick odair #hunger games #bern writes #my writing #not requested

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aminiatureworld · 1 year

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Days Gone By

On the eve of battle Grantaire drinks with his friends, and wonders what his life has meant.

Word Count: 2k

Warnings: Discussions of death; implied character death

Author's Note: Crawling back from months long no fic hiatus to drop Les Mis angst onto you all. Saw Les Mis this past December/January and it did something to my brain - even more so than joining the fandom at like 12 did. Whoops. Anyways, thanks for anyone who's waited for me to post fic in a while. I hope you guys enjoy!

Drink with me, to days gone by

Why was he here? Grantaire couldn’t quite remember. Normally he would chock that up to the liberal amount of alcohol that he drenched himself in on any given day, but tonight he was feeling quite sober. Not for lack of trying to be otherwise.

How did he get here? Why had he walked into that café that day? There were plenty of cafes in Paris after all. There were too many cafes in Paris in fact, and one always seemed to be going out of business right next to another that had just sprouted up. Fate? It would be a nice idea, except Grantaire didn’t really believe in fate.

Setting foot into a café was one thing, but joining a ragtag group of cohorts determined to change the world was another. Now what on Earth could have compelled him to join in that? Sure, his fellow compatriots – if he could be called a compatriot himself – were nice. Joly and Bossuet were great drinking partners. But you could be drinking partners with someone and not join a revolution.

‌

Was it him? Sometimes Grantaire couldn’t tell. Sometimes he thought he might become a bona fide Jacobin, if only for the smile of Enjolras. Enjolras, who didn’t really seem to notice he existed.

Of course Grantaire usually wised up soon after those thoughts. Yet here he was. On the barricade.

‌

Sing with me the songs we knew

Feuilly was singing an old drinking song. Grantaire had heard it first when he was quite young. Though some of the words were different than he remembered. Go figure. Nothing ever seemed to be quite like he remembered it. Even the light of the sun seemed different than he was young. Now everything seemed shadowed. Now he always remembered his apartment as darker than it was. But the house of his childhood continued to be suffused in sun.

‌

Grantaire began singing along, not truly realizing that he was until he hit a word different than the one the others sang. He wondered if anyone was looking at him. They only looked at him when he was playing the fool. Sometimes it was on purpose, and sometimes it just happened. Grantaire didn’t really care either way.

‌

He glanced over at a corner of the barricade, saw Gavroche playing with a bit of rope. The activity was so childish. It was peculiar to that time in someone’s life when grownups talked of silly things and the bangs and flashes of guns were much more exciting. But if there were no flashes and bangs to be found, there were always scraps of rope to make up for it.

Something in Grantaire’s chest tightened. He felt a sudden disgust for the planks of wood protecting them from the soldiers. He felt disgusted by himself. He felt disgusted that he’d not managed to keep this child away from here. He’d tried, he had. But he hadn’t tried hard enough. And to Gavroche guns were just spectacles and bullet wounds merely battle scars.

‌

Grantaire wanted to cry very badly. Too bad he wasn’t drunk enough.

‌

Drink with me, to days gone by

It was time for him to do something. If he didn’t do something right now he would cry. And he’d suddenly decided he didn’t want to cry. It wouldn’t do to cry. Everyone would look at him strangely. And no one would trust him with anything after this. Not that Grantaire really wanted to be trusted with anything. He’d never fired a gun. He didn’t plan on starting to now.

After all, what did he have to fire a gun for?

Grantaire stood up, noting pessimistically that his feet were quite steady. He seemed to be cursed to spend tonight far from plastered. And what if tonight was the last night? There was no point in spending your last night on Earth sober. In spending your last night on Earth getting some of the worst sleep of your life.

After all, this dirty Parisian street was hardly the most comfortable bed in the world. Had Feuilly been singing about beds? Grantaire couldn’t quite remember. His version of the song talked about beds. Who knew if everyone else’s was different. Probably.

‌

Can it be you fear to die?

It started out alright. He was laughing, just as he always did. He was dancing just as he always did. He was winning the cheers and chuckles of his friends. That was his job. After all, what other job could be given the sad sot who wasn’t even a full Ami? Clown. That was Grantaire’s job. To be a clown.

Too bad he’d grown careless. He’d forgotten to practice. The words just slipped out of him.

‌

Will the world remember you when you fall?

Why did he even care if anyone remembered him? It didn’t matter. He’d be dead. Nothing mattered once you were dead. Hell, nothing really mattered when you were alive either. He knew that. He lived by that. So why was he asking himself this? Why did he feel like screaming? Why did he want to cry again?

People were looking at him. Someone was reaching for him. Joly, Joly was reaching for him. Joly was looking at Grantaire like he was something fragile. Something to be pitied. The way that Grantaire sometimes looked at the rest of Les Amis, pitying them for their love for the world. Envying them.

No one envied Grantaire. Least of all himself. And yet.

‌

Could it be your death means nothing at all?

Was he going to die? Was he going to die for something he didn’t believe in? He realized all of a sudden that he didn’t really understand death anymore than Gavroche. Grantaire didn’t want his friends to die. He didn’t want to die himself. But he didn’t really understand it.

Death didn’t happen to you. Not really. It was something you feared, but it never actually happened. He wasn’t going to die, right?

‌

Death seemed like some cruel gift life forced upon you. And he didn’t want to die. He didn’t want to die on a dirty Parisian street for something he didn’t even believe in. He didn’t want to become some poor drunk bastard who met his end for no reason.

‌

Is your life just one more lie?

He already knew that though. He already knew that this whole thing meant nothing. That it was ridiculous. That it would fail. That he should never have stepped into the god forsaken café. That he should have kept Gavroche away from here. He knew that. He knew that.

All these thoughts spung around in his head. He tasted gall in his mouth. It was all so repulsive. What had he done with his life? What happened to the light that suffused his childhood? What happened to the warmth?

Why was he shouting?

He hated these thoughts. He hated them. He didn’t want life to be worth nothing. Wasn’t that why he kept chasing a man who would never look at him, who would never trust him? Wasn’t it the hope that he might, even only by proxy, be bathed in light? The light that could only belong to those who believe in life fully. Who believed in the world, who believed in fate, who believe in their fellow men. Didn’t Grantaire want that? Even when he said he didn’t, he secretly wanted it. He coveted that light.

Enjolras was looking at him now. Why now? Why now of all times did Grantaire have to be noticed. He wasn’t playing the clown right now. He’d obviously forgotten how to. And yet Enjolras was looking at him. Staring down from his perch on the barricade.

Even in the darkness Enjolras was full of light. It emanated from him as if he were some faraway angel. Come down to rouse the people of Paris from their beds. Come down to show people into the new dawn.

But he wasn’t here for Grantaire. He never would be. Grantaire could not, it seemed, even touch that light. All he could think about was death. He didn’t believe. He wanted to, so very badly. But he didn’t.

‌

Enjolras climbed down. Fell down. Floated down. Graceful, so graceful. Like a dancer. He reached out towards Grantaire.

Grantaire didn’t really remember lunging away. Only for a moment he thought, he knew. How could an avenger of the people touch a man who didn’t even trust in them?

‌

He needed to clear his head. He was drunk.

Even if he still didn’t feel like he was.

‌

Drink with me, to days gone by

Spindly arms circled themselves around Grantaire’s waist. Tried to. Gavroche was still little. His hands only made it to the pockets of Grantaire’s tattered coat.

He turned around. He looked at the kid. Grantaire had promised to himself that he’d protect Gavroche. That he’d make sure Gavroche came out of this unscathed. That Gavroche would not come out fearing and hating the world the way Grantaire did.

But now Gavroche was the one looking out for him. How funny. How strange. How topsy turvy tonight was. Grantaire let out a shaky breath. Maybe it was a sob. He wrapped his arms around Gavroche, practically engulfing the kid. Inexplicably, he felt a little better. Little people indeed. Gavroche was a good kid.

God, Grantaire didn’t want Gavroche to die. He’d give anything, to make sure Gavroche didn’t die. Gavroche was much too young to die. It would be unfair. It wouldn’t make sense. Not even in this world that didn’t have much logic in the first place.

Grantaire wasn’t really the praying type. The last time he’d gone to mass he’d dirtied his best shirt and his mother had scolded him until he’d cried.

He prayed anyways. He wanted Gavroche to live. Even if Grantaire died. Even if he had to meet what he feared, what he didn’t understand. Even if he had to, there was no reason Gavroche did too. He was just a kid after all. And wasn’t this what they were all here for? The future?

‌

Enjolras always talked about the dawn. The new day. Grantaire could never imagine it. There was nothing beyond today. Nothing even beyond this minute, this second.

If Grantaire had to imagine the future, he figured it probably looked a lot like Gavroche. Just a kid, a thing that had to be looked out for. That had to be protected. That didn’t understand things like guns and armies and revolutions. But that still managed to make its way to them.

And you had to protect it. Even if you didn’t think you’d succeed. You at least had to try.

‌

Grantaire fell asleep staring up at the sky, Gavroche huddled against him for worth. Parisian nights could be surprisingly cold. The clouds hung low in the sky, trapping in the damp. Grantaire imagined reaching out and pushing them away. They’d part easily, like bits of mist in his hands. They’d feel like paint brush bristles against his skin.

Somewhere next to him was Enjolras, watching. Not sleeping, or probably not sleeping anyways. Did angels need sleep? Grantaire wasn’t sure. He wanted to apologize to Enjolras. He wasn’t sure why.

The night was filled with the sounds of gentle breathing. His friends were piled up around him, also trying to find their way to dreams on the cold cobblestone of the streets of Paris. Maybe some were trying their luck on the barricade. They were all trying their luck, in one way or another.

The tune everyone had been singing earlier came to Grantaire again; he hummed it softly. Tomorrow they might die. Tonight might be their last night. What could any of them do? They were at the mercy of life. Of fate – not that Grantaire believed in that.

‌

At least they were spending it together. At least they were not alone. At least they’d spent some good times together. Maybe that was enough. Maybe that meant something. Even if nothing else did.

‌

Here’s to you, and here’s to me.

#les miserables #les mis #grantaire #enjolras #enjoltaire #my writing #not requested #bern writes

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aminiatureworld · 1 year

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#genshin impact #al haitham #bern reblogs #not writing

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aminiatureworld · 1 year

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Just going to say I love the implications of Scaramouche having an anemo vision. Venti really said I’ll take all the mentally ill ones

#ignoring that he’s a puppet of another archon lmao #okay venti #genshin impact #not writing #bern speaks

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aminiatureworld · 1 year

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AHAHAHAHA

#the asshole (affectionate) came home after five single pulls!!!#genshin impact #not writing #bern speaks

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aminiatureworld · 1 year

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Aughhhhhh

#genshin impact #not writing #bern speaks

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aminiatureworld · 1 year

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Haven’t actually played it but Scaramouche really just fell right on his head, like full (genshin) impact on his skull

#i crack myself up this is really funny to me #genshin impact #scaramouche #bern speaks

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aminiatureworld · 1 year

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Making myself and y’all a promise that when Scaramouche drops I will release another chapter of the series I haven’t updated in a year lmao

#bern speaks

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aminiatureworld · 1 year

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scaramouche | wanderer drip marketing

#god I need to get back into Genshin #genshin impact #bern reblogs

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aminiatureworld · 2 years

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hey i made this fanfic writer meme. drop in my ask which one u think i am!!!!

(okay to rb!)

#bern reblogs

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aminiatureworld · 2 years

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hiya hiyaaa hru?

🕵🏻‍♂️ - What's a trope, AU, or concept you've never written, but would like to?

Hii! I’m doing alright, actually I feel I’m doing pretty well! Hope you’re also doing alright♥️

And hmm, there are so many possibilities. Soulmate AU is definitely up there - the best fic I ever read was a now deleted soulmate Enjoltaire fic. And, though I don’t actually want to write it regularly, I think writing a yandere fic maybe once would be a really interesting challenge since I don’t actually like the trope that much. But I think it has a lot of interesting potential. And then maybe reincarnation. As you can see, a lot to try in the future!

#ask game #kunisangel #asks

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aminiatureworld · 2 years

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For the weekend writer's ask! :DD

✍️ -Share a piece from one of your current WIPs!

Thanks for the ask!☺️☺️

This is an idea with an Ikemen Vampire OC that I’m not sure will ever see the light of day, but here you go!

“And if we are merely lowly humans, than what are you supposed to be?”

“Vampires,” Napoleon said quietly. Louise once more focused her gaze on the man. “We are vampires. The Comte de Saint-Germain is our creator, we were merely pulled from our deaths. It may be an abomination, it may be something you cannot believe. But it is the truth. We are vampires.”

Beyond that I have an outline for my old Scaramouche fic (rip no update in over a year) but nothing properly written out beyond the outline for that.

#ask game #dourpeep #asks

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aminiatureworld · 2 years

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Weekend Writer's Slumber Party An Ask Game...

🤗 -What fic are you emotionally attached to; or one that you read for comfort?

🙌 - What’s the best engagement/interaction/feedback you’ve received from a reader?

😁 - Has a comment someone left on a fic of yours ever made you laugh out loud? What did they say?

✍️ -Share a piece from one of your current WIPs!

👨‍👩‍👦‍👦 - If you wrote a spin-off of any of your fics, what would it involve?

🧩 -If you wrote a “missing scene” from any fandom, what would it be?

🕵🏻‍♂️ - What's a trope, AU, or concept you've never written, but would like to?

👁‍🗨 - Link a fic that made you think, "Wow, I want to write like that."

📣 -Promote one of your own “deep cut” fics (an underrated one, or one that never got as much traction as you think it deserves!). What do you like about it?

📕 - What is your favorite sentence/paragraph from any already published fic?

😘 - In general, what is the steamiest fic you have written (or are writing if it is a WIP)?

😥 - In general, what is the saddest scene you have written (or are writing if is a WIP)?

💄- UST… share a scene (or a description) of something you’ve written that is full of sexual tension or subtext.

🎵 -If you had to assign a theme song to your current WIP what would it be?

👠 - If your WIP (or a published fic) was a pair of shoes, what kind would it be? Describe the shoes.

🧦 - Describe one of your wips (or fics) in the weirdest way possible.

Tag yourselves in!

#ask game #why not #bern reblogs

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aminiatureworld · 2 years

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Cannot believe how long it took me to finally have some time to read it, but I’m so glad I did! This is absolutely beautiful! The way you describe places and emotions is just unparalleled it’s really gorgeous. Your writing is so lyrical and how you come up with the best plots I don’t know but I love them. Thank you so so much! You portrayed Edgar perfectly and now I’m going to be thinking about this all day and nothing else

For Edgar's Eyes Only

Written for the lovely @aminiatureworld as part of the Ikemen Revolution Exchange! I loved getting to write this story. Thank you so much to the organizers @ikemenlibrary and @sunnyikemen for setting this up.

Edgar and Alice get up to some spy shenanigans at a fantastic party. Approx. 3500 words!

Alice was glad Edgar had her arm. Otherwise she might have just stopped and stood in the courtyard, staring like some kid from the country on their first visit to London. They stood in the courtyard of a mansion that looked as if it was spun from silk and starlight, the towers too tall to stand, the walls turned and leaned in precarious ways.

Flowering vines crept up the sides, curling around windows and doors. The blossoms were impossible colors, a riot of rainbow hues that faintly glowed in the evening light. Tiny magic crystal sculptures peeked out from between the vines, imitating butterflies and birds. The green tendrils stopped just short of the mirrored roof, which at this time of day burned with the embers of the setting sun.

“This place is amazing,” Alice breathed, smoothing her dress with her free hand.

Edgar nodded. “One of the wealthiest nobles in Cradle. He was a friend of my Uncle Claudius.”

Alice inhaled sharply. “What? But then - wasn’t he involved in . . .”

“Would I bring you here if there was evidence linking him to my uncle’s crimes?” Edgar smiled mischievously.

“Maybe?” She looked at him with one raised brow.

He laughed and patted her arm. Then it was too late to ask anymore questions as they were at the door.

The doorman reviewed their invitations and then let them inside.

The interior was, if anything, more fantastic than the outside. Rather than a typical entry hall, there was a large, high ceilinged chamber dotted with glimmering arches. The frames were made of some kind of stone, and inside them, obscured by the gauzy film of magic, Alice could just make out the shapes of people.

She looked to Edgar with awe and more than a little confusion. “Are those magic portals?”

He nodded and favored her with a knowing smile. “They are. It’s one of the many eccentricities of my uncle’s friend.”

“But that’s so much magic! Aren’t the crystals expensive? How do they keep them on all the time like this? And - how do you know whe-”

Edgar laughed. “One question at a time. Yes, it’s expensive but they don’t stay on all the time. Just for parties like these. And only the staff here know where all the portals lead to. For guests, it’s a surprise every time.” He cupped her chin in his large, warm hand. “So which portal do you want to go through first? Don’t think, just pick one.”

Alice nodded and shut their eyes, then raised a hand, finger aimlessly floating until she fixed on a direction. “That one.” She opened their eyes, mouth turning into a small frown. “But, can I even go through one? Won’t I break it?”

He considered for a moment and then shrugged. “I don’t think so. Unless you’re trying to. So if you feel that sensation of shattering the spell, just don’t.” Then he chuckled. “Or do! That could be entertaining too.”

“I’ll just stop if it feels wrong,” Alice replied, still frowning.

“You’re so cute when you’re trying to be good.”

The two of them moved to the portal nearest the direction Alice was pointing. The sensation of moving through the arch was a bit like the feeling of a soap bubble popping against bare skin. A light, cool touch that left nothing behind as they passed through and entered another room. She could feel a hint of the underlying magic in that gentle pressure, but it held. Alice was relieved the spell didn’t break on her. That would have been so embarrassing, no matter what Edgar said.

There were people gathered here, some standing and others sitting on low couches. Music and conversation hummed through the air in a reassuring way. It sounded like any of the parties Blanc threw or the Red Army celebrations they attended, even though it looked different.

Alice glanced around. “Is Blanc here, do you think?”

“I’m sure he is somewhere. He attends most celebrations for the recording of it, if nothing else.” Edgar took Alice’s hand and led her forward. There were more portals here leading to other rooms. These were set into the walls and framed with pearl and silver. “Let’s see what else there is,” he grinned.

“Alright.” Alice chose another portal at random. “Let’s go left.”

“Hmmm. Alright. Left it is.”

They passed through the room and into the portal, which popped them out in a vast library. Shelves lined the walls and climbed up into high shadowed reaches. There were ladders, but none of them looked tall enough to reach so far.

“That’s an illusion,” Edgar whispered in their ear. “There are only two floors of books. Everything above it is an image woven from magic.

Alice pulled their eyes away from the phantasmagoria and back to the space they were in. There were more low couches here and people on them. A few serving staff walked between them, offering food and drinks. It was much quieter here, as many of the guests were reading. “Would it be ok if I looked at some of the books?”

“Of course it would be, my dear.” An older woman’s voice came from behind Alice.

She turned to find a stately noblewoman studying them. The lady’s clothes were very fine, and dyed a red so dark it almost looked black save for the patterns of light against the grain of the cloth. The woman’s hair was done up in a coiffure that sparkled with red gems, and more red stones dangled from her ears, neck, and wrists.

“Lady Lucine.” Edgar dipped into a proper bow.

Alice tried a curtsy and was proud of herself for not wobbling, even if it wasn’t a very elegant one.

The lady smiled. “Edgar. My how you’ve grown. And who is this beauty on your arm? Your fianc-”

“My jellybean,” Edgar’s eyes sparkled mischievously. “My very precious jellybean.”

Alice felt their cheeks flush and a little sting of disappointment in her eyes. But if Edgar didn’t want to say they were dating, then maybe there was a reason. So Alice just nodded along.

Lady Lucine didn’t even raise an eyebrow. “Oh what will you precious young people think of next?” She laughed. “Your jellybean is more than welcome to look at the books here. Everything is open to our guests, except the family quarters.”

“That’s really kind,” Alice replied gratefully.

“It’s no problem at all. I hope you find something you like. If you want, you can even take a book home and send it back when you finish. A lot of people borrow from our little library. We try to keep the collection up to date.” Lucine’s smile was proud.

Edgar chuckled. “Now you’re being almost too nice, my lady. I hope we won’t owe you any favors for such generosity.”

“Of course not.” Lucine blinked. “You sound almost like your uncle.”

“Speaking of, I wanted to say hello to Horace. It’s been awhile.” Edgar’s smile was polite and proper but something in Lucine’s gaze shifted and turned cold.

“Yes. I’m afraid he’s been quite indisposed since poor Claudius’ misfortune. If you do happen across him, please don’t mention it.”

Edgar nodded. “Of course I won’t. I’ve always been fond of Horace. I wouldn’t want to upset him at his own party.” He turned to Alice, “Why don’t you take a look around at the books. I’ll just be here.” He gestured to an empty couch.

“Are you sure?”

“I wouldn’t say it if I didn’t mean it, my sweet little jellybean.” He tapped their nose lightly.

Lucine smiled at them, some of the warmth coming back into her gaze. “It was lovely to meet you, jellybean, and to see you again. Edgar.” She headed off through another of the portals. There were several of them in the library too, spaced between the seating like standing picture frames.

Alice reluctantly left Edgar’s side to look at the shelves. She wanted to see what interesting things might be here - books in Cradle were much less common than in London, and they had so many interesting stories. Histories, legends, fairytales, and folktales that were stranger and more fantastic than the ones from home. It was hard to pass up such an offer. And Edgar looked comfortable enough where he was resting on the couch, a glass of some bright blue alcohol in hand.

The books were every bit as interesting as Alice suspected they would be, and after a little while, she came away with three slim leather bound volumes. But when she went to show Edgar, he was gone.

Alice felt a moment of panic but she knew Edgar would never just abandon her somewhere. He must have been called off. Maybe he ran into Horace or someone else he knew. She sat down to wait for him. It was tempting to crack open a book, but Alice felt a little nervous about Edgar being gone so she just kept watch, sipping from a glass of lemonade a server handed to her.

She waited and waited some more. But after two lemonades and still no Edgar, Alice set the books down and went looking for him. The first portal she chose took her to a garden. People were playing some sort of game, blindfolded and running around a hedge maze. It looked like fun, but no Edgar.

The second portal Alice picked popped her into a dancehall with loud, fast paced music. Someone grabbed her hand and spun her into the dance and for a moment, all Alice could do was keep up. The person dancing with them let go when Alice tugged her hand back. Careful to avoid any more of the dancers, Alice picked an out of the way portal half-hidden in a corner. This one took her to a nondescript hallway.

The hallway wasn’t festive at all. It looked business-like and dreary. No music, no decorations, and the only magic was the lamps that burned fitfully along the walls. Alice turned to go back the way she’d come, but the portal was gone.

“Great. No Edgar and now I’m lost.” She sighed, then headed down the corridor, looking for someone who might help her. Most of the doors she came across were locked, but one opened when Alice turned the handle.

The room beyond was dark, lit only by the glimmer of magic and moonlight that came through the windows. But in the shadows on the far side of the wall, Alice spotted movement. “H-hello? I’m lost. I got lost. And I need to know how to get back to the pa-”

A hand clamped over their mouth. A large, warm, familiar hand. “Shhhh, Alice. Someone will hear you and I promise, you don’t want that. Now if I let go, do you promise to be very quiet?” Edgar’s whisper tickled their ear.

Alice nodded.

“There’s my sweet jellybean.” He chuckled softly as he let go. “How did you end up here? I thought you were going to read?”

“And I thought you were going to wait for me.” Alice frowned at him.

Edgar shrugged. “I was, but you see, I needed to get back into the family quarters during the party. It seemed like a good time for it. But now you’re here so I suppose I should take you back and just try again another time.”

Alice thought he looked rather disappointed at that. “You don’t have to. I can help.”

“You don’t even know what I’m up to. What if it’s something bad?” Edgar raised an eyebrow.

“I trust you.”

His lips trembled for a moment, wavering between a teasing smile and some other more heartfelt expression. Then he hugged Alice close, wrapping his arms around her tightly. “You are too much sometimes, you know?”

“I know. And you’re wrinkling my clothes.” Alice teased, but held just as tight to him.

When he let go, it took Alice a moment to adjust again to being without his warmth and touch. Edgar seemed fine though, his face immediately reverting to its usual playful look.

“I am trying to find the hidden passage in this wall,” he told her. “I know from the information I have that it’s something to do with this mural. Pressing the leaves in the picture just so . . .”

Alice looked past him, squinting her eyes to make out the faint grey-on-grey of the painting in this dim light. It was some sort of forest scene, with birds and leaves and flowers. None of it looked like a secret door opening, but that was the point of it being secret, right? She stepped beside him and began feeling along the wall.

As she quickly, anxiously felt across every bit of the painted plaster, she would pause, breathless, as footsteps passed in the hallway beyond the door. She felt like they would be caught any moment. Her heartbeat pounded in her ears, and the whisper of her fingers across the wall seemed too loud. She just knew someone in the hall would hear them. Just after one such close call, Alice felt something click under their fingers.

“Edgar,” she whispered, “come here. I think I found it.” Alice pressed harder and the wall popped open with a soft whoosh. Behind the mural sat a shadowed staircase.

“Good job.” Edgar reached to pat her head and then thought better of it. Instead, he patted her shoulder, fingers lingering on the bit of bare skin beside her neck. “This is all so exciting, isn’t it? Knowing we might get caught any minute, finding hidden secrets . . .”

There was a heat in his eyes that made Alice shiver. It was pretty exciting but . . . “What happens if we get caught?”

“We won’t.” He grinned and took her by the hand. Together, they stepped into the wall and the door to the secret passage swung shut behind them.

The narrow, dark stairway led up and up and up. It felt like a very long way to climb, but eventually they found the top. Edgar and Alice paused, listening for any sound on the other side. The wall was cool against her cheek, though with Edgar so close she still felt flush with heat in her face. At least it was too dark in here for him to see.

After several breaths of nothing but silence, he opened the door and the two of them stepped into a room. It was a well appointed study with a desk and several cabinets. Edgar walked quickly to one and knelt down. He began to fiddle with the lock, and pulled a thin metal pick from his breast pocket.

Alice watched, curious. She’d never seen Edgar work like this before. It was interesting. He clearly knew what he was doing, his movements careful and precise. Edgar was so talented, always surprising her with some new tidbit of knowledge or skill. One of the many things she loved about him.

The cabinet opened with a click, and Edgar reached in, pulling out a cloth-covered ledger and a small notebook. The smile on his face was triumphant as he stood and shut the cabinet. “These are exactly what I -”

“Can’t believe his lordship wants me to dust the office. Like there’s not enough to do on a gala night.” A muttering voice came from the hidden staircase they’d used to get into the room.

Edgar and Alice cast about, looking for a good hiding spot. There wasn’t anything though. No big window curtains to hide behind, nothing to get under, and nowhere to go but back down the stairs or out the other door to the office.

Alice moved for the door, with Edgar a step behind. They sped out and quietly closed the door behind them. But they still weren’t safe. They could hear more people moving around up here. By the sound, probably staff. The steady jingle of keys and the sudsy thud of wash buckets and rags accompanied quiet chatter.

“We have to get back to the party,” Edgar whispered. He looked left and right along the hall. It was wide, with several open doors to the left and what looked like a staircase landing. To the right, there was a huge window that opened out onto a balcony. The stairs would probably lead down but they could hear someone coming out of one of the rooms between where they stood and the exit.

They had only seconds to make a decision. Edgar pulled Alice toward the balcony. “We’ll look like we came up for the view,” he told her “Ah, but the ledger . . .”

Alice snagged the book and notepad from his hands and tucked them into her clothes. That was one advantage to fancy dress. Lots of layers, folds, and gathers. It was super-easy to hide two little books. In fact, Alice was pretty sure she could have a whole platter of snacks slipped into her clothes and no one would be the wiser.

“Good thinking,” Edgar chuckled, and then pulled Alice close. He settled her on the balcony rail and kissed her neck, just beneath the ear, following the line of the jaw until he reached her lips.

While she knew this was just for show, the intimacy felt very real. Her body felt too warm, her pulse, too fast. She wanted him to stop and she wanted him to keep going. Her fingers twined in the fabric of his coat.

This was right about the amount of time it took for the staff to notice the two of them.

“Hey! You! This is the family wing! You can’t be here.” A large man carrying a broom hurried toward the balcony. He looked very displeased to see them there.

“So sorry,” Edgar replied, pulling back slightly from the kiss to look at the servant. “We needed a moment to ourselves, and the portals led here so we thought it was ok. To be honest with you though, I’m completely turned around. I wasn’t sure how we were going to make it back.”

“The portals brought you here? That’s not supposed to happen.” The man looked a little mollified. “Well, let me get you back to the party before anyone else catches you.” He shooed them away from the balcony.

Alice noted that despite his words, he looked them over carefully to make sure they had nothing with them. She felt a little anxious as the man examined her, but relaxed as his gaze shifted back to Edgar.

“I don’t suppose you could keep this to yourself? I’d hate to get anyone in trouble and it’s so embarrassing. Getting lost in someone’s house like this.” Edgar put on a wide-eyed look of innocent concern.

The man nodded. “Sure. I was supposed to keep a look out so it’d be better if neither of us mentions it.”

“Of course.” Edgar’s lips curled up at the edges. “We really appreciate your help.”

“Don’t mention it.” The man grimaced. He didn’t say much else as he led them back through a winding set of hallways, stairs, and finally portals. He left them in the music chamber with a frown and a final warning. “Stick to the party areas.”

Alice nodded, but her attention was already on the new room. Crystal formations grew in odd fluted columns from the floor here. Their surface trembled and shimmered, filling the air with strange disharmonic music. It was bizarre and enchanting. Alice might have liked to explore it more, but the documents in her clothes felt heavy, as if at any moment they might fall free and expose the two of them.

Edgar could sense her unease. He leaned forward and pressed a light kiss to Alice’s forehead. “We have to stay a little longer to allay suspicion. But don’t worry. By the time anyone realizes what is missing, we’ll be back safe in Red Headquarters. So let’s have a little more fun, alright?”

The words reassured Alice, but more than that, Edgar’s calm, cheerful expression told her there was nothing to worry about. She relaxed. “I hope when we get back, you’ll tell me what this was all about too.”

He ran his thumb across her lips gently, as if pressing a kiss to them. “I will. Because I trust you too.”

Alice felt her heart thud against her ribs, a tightening in her throat.

Edgar smiled gently at their expression. “Now now, keep making that face and I’ll have to take you back up to that balcony and have you all to myself. I can’t share that expression with anyone else. It makes me want to gobble you up.” He leaned forward until his cheek nearly touched hers. “Maybe I could have just a little nibble here? I could start with your ear?”

His breath ghosted along the sensitive curve of her earlobe. She almost said yes, but she knew he was just teasing. “You are so devilish sometimes!” Alice laughed.

“Only because you look so delicious.” Edgar sighed wistfully. “Now come on, let’s go enjoy this party, my tasty jellybean.”

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