#[[Shining like the Younger Moon ║ White Cloud

[kazeofthemagun]

@shiroi---kumo asked the summoner:

He's floating over to him with an odd look on his face. His hand is tightly closed around something, which is not unusual for the Cloud considering all the strange new foods he bring to the Wind but his face says it's something different.

The man of Black Wind's knows next to nothing about his culture so he's going to have to explain... and he's seen the reactions in the past so he knows this item will not cause harm in the same way anything coming from his Other would to him.

"Black Wind." He sounds shyly. "Give me your hand."

It's a warning to prepare the elder for the reach he's making for the Soil Mage's left and softly does the prince retrieve it by the wrist to hold his trembling right hand over the upturned palm of his other and in it he drops an item.

A small drop earring shaped like the sun. It's shimmering white in color and it almost looks like small clouds are caught within it's center.

"I don't know when your birthday is." He starts. "I like to give these for special occasions but the fact, you're still here with me and I'm still alive is special enough. "

His nervousness permeates his words as his cheeks flush out to a brilliant red.

"It is - I - I made it - from my Mist - for - for you. We - we - we - make them - them - forourlovedones- " His voice shakes as it blurs into a single word at the end when his speed increases in his embarrassment.

"Just - we've had too many close calls so just - just wear it okay?"

A head of crimson turned to allow the Hunter's blue eyes to meet a very uncomfortable looking jade. Pale skin was flushed, a traitorous shade of red creeping onto the Cloud's features. Well, now he knew something was off. Not that it would have been that hard to tell otherwise. His Other was a peculiar beast like that; He could pull off a coup twelve years in the making, but could not hide a single thing from the Wind.

It did not take the Dragon's special eyes to see the swordsman was an absolute mess, his right hand clenched as though his very life depended on it. But what was held in his grasp so tightly - so protectively, almost moreso than when he wielded the Maken?

It felt as though a whole minute has passed, just them staring - and the Misterican's face getting ever more red - before a request finally forced itself past misty lips.

Black Wind's brows rose slightly, in question - but he did give his hand, guarded as he was when performing such an act of trust. The urge to recoil was only natural, more subconscious than anything the Wind would perform by choice. Forewarned as he was, the gunman still flinched slightly when his wrist was taken.

And then - an item, dropped into his palm.

Such a small, unassuming thing. What was it? A piece of jewelry. An earring, to be exact. It was a work of art indeed, appearing as though carved of some pale crystal that gave off the faintest glow only the Wind's eyes could see. Like an alabaster sky, every shred of blue drowned out by a veil of milky white clouds.

It was shaped like the sun. In a distinct way - a pattern that stood out from other depictions. It was the three rays of the sun; The same ones used in savo lotahr, the Solar Triad. Which meant -

White Cloud designed it himself -

The realization struck before the explanation even had a chance to follow.

This was just like what he did. With Aura. When he shed his own crimson blood and said, remember that I was once a man.

The heart within the machine picked up its pace, thumping louder against the vial and in the summoner's ears. White Cloud did not merely design it, he made it. Of his own life's breath. This was not a simple gift. This was a memory, given form.

A memory in this form could also be a grave. It was believed in Windarian stories that an object to remember the departed prevented spirits from haunting the mind. After all, if the memory was only present within oneself, one would become a sealed crypt, and one's Soil would fester with bygone voices. That was why it was so important to offer shape to the spirits, to lay stone circles, to wear their syajhiri and share their stories with the fire.

Did.. White Cloud know this? Did he - did he know why he cast his blood in sap and had it slotted in a spiral pattern? Was it the same on Misterica? Only that instead of blood, they used Mist. Why else would jewelry be made of one's own body and soul?

The gunmage's hand closed, holding the earring tightly. It was smooth like polished crystal. The swordsman's words reached him, but the sound seemed strangely distant. Kaze snapped back to reality. "Hm? Ah."

He failed to speak as his sole hand moved to reach for his right ear. For quite some time now, he had been wearing nothing on that side, and so the flesh had completely healed over. In fact, the time he thought he had lost his blood earring, the puncture had sealed itself without a trace as well. That was one of the drawbacks of regenerative immortality, he supposed. Once the item was returned by Lisa, it did not take too much effort to simply push the metal through, forcibly. It only bled and ached for a short while.

And so he did just that. It was not a big issue, really.

A small trail of black trickled down, making its way along the pale sun's edges only to drip and disappear into dark fabric. Before long, the wound itself would disappear, too.

He reached down to pull at the rim of his collar, freeing his features and brushing wild locks behind his ears for the Cloud's better view. The blue that met jade orbs was the shade of the same practiced stoicism, a picture of Malatuur's calm seas - even if the younger of the Unlimited had never seen it, the spirit of the Ladnajredvi was reflected perfectly in his counter's eyes. It was impossible to gauge what went on behind that deep cerulean - precisely because the Wind made sure it would be that way. And that way, it would remain.

Once again did the gunslinger's tall collar cover the lower half of his face, and he stood up to busy himself with setting up camp. Avoidance? A lack of care, or plain confusion?

"Hey..." He started, suddenly - then paused just as abruptly. "White Cloud." The redhead's back certainly appeared mighty expressive, which was absolutely no help in gauging the elder's mood.

Kaze's silence was like the bird's flight, or the forest's rustling whispers. It just was, as an inseparable part of his nature, woven into his being. It just was, and so, hearing it break could either be the most terrifying or most beautiful thing.

"...Thank you."

Hearing that silence part with such words, however - was the rarest gift of all.

[go6jo]

(love, as if it were carved in stone) s. geto

when he first lays eyes on you, suguru is fighting sleep, standing in the school’s courtyard at four in the morning taking languid puffs out of a cigarette to pass the time, deliberately dragging it out in hopes that sleep will come. however, these days, it hardly ever does.

it’s mid august and he has never been particularly fond of the summer or it’s heat — nor the endless stream of purging that inevitably comes with it.

you first walk into his life in nothing but a white nightgown — the sight so heavenly it’s almost impossible to forget. when you step outside the girls dorm, barefoot and weary, the smoke rushes to suguru’s lungs a little too abruptly, as if he were gasping for air — the material of your dress so flimsy that it's hardly appropriate to stare. suguru is sensible to a fault, many could agree that, unlike satoru, he is somewhat respectable. right now, however, against his better judgement, he can't seem to tear his eyes off of you.

he watches as you drop defeated on the ground before leaning your head against the wall and closing your eyes with a frustrated sigh that travels all the way through the soothing night breeze into suguru’s ears. he indulges himself for a little longer - you’re pretty, he thinks. had you noticed him standing there you would’ve made out a subtle fondness in the smile that grows, although tiredly, on his face. sympathy. he imagines the summer heat hasn’t been kind to you either. 

you seem younger than him, a first year and freshly arrived, your ingenuity still intact - untarnished. and perhaps its the white that engulfs you but suguru thinks you look much too clean, too pure for the swarm of violence that awaits you. something that has started to slowly but surely eat away at him too. he can’t quite pinpoint when it happened — somewhere down the line though, he had long since lost his innocence. he takes another hit, the bitter taste that lies on his tongue from today's purging spree starting to subdue — he wishes you got to keep yours.

it's only then that you notice him, standing inconspicuously by the boy’s dorm entrance but you can’t quite make out his face in the dark, the canopy under which he stands blocking the light. your hands reach with urgency for the hem of your skirt to tug down on the fabric that had ridden a little too high on your thighs and suddenly you’re wary of the fact that the material was clinging to your sweaty skin leaving very little to the imagination - however suguru had already looked away at the first hint of your discomfort, blowing a cloud of smoke skyward and maintaining his gaze towards the moon, wishing not to compromise your modesty.

you tuck your knees under your chin, shrinking in on yourself, an attempt to look smaller, invisible if possible. you felt so exposed, ready to be preyed on, but it was so late and you were so tired, you hadn't expected anyone else to be awake. at that moment, the moon shines on his face, illuminating his features and it’s like your body reacts on its own. your shoulders, no longer tense, fall relaxed by your sides and your hands turn soft, loosening the grip you had on the hem of your skirt. it’s him.

it’s just him. 

you had seen him many times before. you’re suddenly envious of the moon for luring him in with her beauty and holding him captive. you didn't mind him looking at you, you want to be object of his admiration, even if just for once. you want him to look back at you. you only. and then it comes unexpectedly, that feeling of revulsion. you become painfully aware that your skin is too sticky with sweat, the sole of your feet is covered in grim and you feel dirty, so dirty when faced with your desperation, your need. how could you crave such a thing - attention, from a stranger, nonetheless. how could you be so vulgar, yearning for someone’s affection and admitting to being starved. it feels like your belly growling in a room full of people - letting your hunger be known. you’re famished and everybody knows and it’s humiliating.

but it was him - you had seen him on the school’s halls before, so unapologetically gentle in the way he speaks to others, so serene in the way in which he carries himself and so so handsome. you think he’s even more handsome now standing there, sleepless and with his hair down, looking so much less intimidating than usual and within your reach. you see bits of yourself in him - on the bags carved under his eyes from countless nights without sleep, on his tousled hair from tossing and turning endlessly on his bed. when he looks this fragile it makes it so obvious, that despite being one of the strongest, he too can break. he’s not so different from you. 

and his hair… it reaches his shoulders. it’s longer than what you expected. you wonder if he’s one to hold on to his past. 

you let your eyes linger. he’s still too focused on the night sky to notice you staring anyway. he knows you are. nevertheless, he acts as if he doesn’t, as if the longer you stare at him doesn’t make it harder for him not to stare back at you, to surrender himself to you. even the moon, standing above with its infinite splendor seems to submit to you, shining its light on you as if in jubilation of your own beauty.

and although you try to be discreet, only peeking at him from behind your knees, suguru’s skin feels feverish. its too hot. and it feels even hotter under your gaze. he slips his hand under the white shirt he’s wearing to let the night breeze caress the skin of his stomach that is covered in beads of sweat that run from his chest downwards. he takes one last drag of his cigarrette and when he glances down to stub it under his slippers his eyes catch yours for the first time tonight. except, this time, you do not shy away from him, neither does he.

it is hesitant what you share, like hands brushing together, fingers that yearn to touch yet are too reluctant to entwine. suguru relishes in the innocence of it, welcomes it back into his life even if just for a brief moment. in fact, you make him realize that maybe he never really lost his innocence in the first place. its just been tucked away somewhere in a corner deep inside him. only coming out when it's safe. and its safe here with you. he feels like a boy again. one who doesn’t carry the weight of the world on his shoulders.

its hesitant yet thrilling like falling in love for the first time. 

suguru chuckles, thinking to himself that this feels nice, oddly intimate.

you were the first one to break, the sound of his laugh pulling you out of your state of reverie and making it hard to handle the tension that grows heavier the longer you stare at each other. you glance up and he follows suit, smiling, thinking that he wouldn’t have withstood the tension for much longer either. 

suguru waits and when you look back at him, he leaves with a wave. frozen in place, you let him leave without so much as mouthing a goodbye to him.

it’s the morning after when he sees you for the second time, sitting outside on a bench, hiding from the scorching sun under a pine tree and chewing on a popsicle stick. you’re wearing white again, he has got his black uniform on and no longer under the moonlight’s spell he’s all too aware that you’re worlds apart. still, he is greedy enough to think that even if decay spreads like poison inside him, you taste like salvation. still, he thinks that he wants you.

then you wave at him and its so full of hope. you’re looking at him so expectantly. like you don’t mind that he is rotten and he’s been pondering taking the seat next to you for the past five minutes. you’re turning him to a madman. had he known you for longer, he could’ve been on that bench eating popsicles with you.

for now, however, he’ll sit down with you and ask you for your name. ask you if you managed to get enough rest. 

“suguru!” he looks away in the direction of the voice that calls out for him, towards satoru who was running to catch up to him. when he looks back at you, you wave him goodbye, only shyly this time with a hint of disappointment in the way you let your eyes fall to your feet and pretend to play with your fingers. satoru is talking his ear off but suguru's eyes are on you.

sometimes fate disguises itself as coincidence. maybe the chance to get you alone has passed him by.

it’s early september and the weather has cooled down a little. suguru is laughing with his friends and you think you’re fine with it. the seat next to you is vacant but he waves at you with a smile and you figure that despite the distance that seems to stretch itself between the two of you with each passing day, you’re fine with watching him from afar. you’re once again sitting on that same bench and even in shade you still feel his warmth and that's enough.

until the incident happens. the news spread fast. riko then haibara. 

spring comes yet again and as the seasons change, so does suguru. he doesn't laugh as much anymore but then, whenever he crosses paths with you, he smiles and there's a tenderness to it that seems to be reserved just for you. you think it’s so unfair. how you didn’t get to meet suguru before sorrow had set itself so deep in the marrow of his bones that it was almost irreversible. but you’re glad to know that despite everything, he remains gentle. its valiant, in a way, that he chooses to stay kind besides having all the reasons not to. and somehow, it gives you hope. 

april arrives. his hair has now grown past his shoulders and suguru is contemplating the transience of things in the emptiness of the room he finds himself sitting alone in. suguru thinks its unfair that despite all the death the world keeps spinning. regardless of all the bloodshed, the sun still shines and he hates it. he feels sick. if the world won’t remember then he will. he will mourn and he will let grief be the thing that keeps them alive. 

he notices you standing at the door and though he wouldn't blame you if you left given the gloominess that hangs in the air that surrounds him, he finds himself wishing that you’d stay, that you'd sit with him and wouldn't falter like he had done so many times before. he was sure of you, has been for a while now but then there were times when he thinks he is so full of filth he wonders if the space that's left for you inside him is enough. if it is okay to be a little greedy. if it’s fair to want to fit you in such a tiny spot. but then you grab yourself a drink from the vending machine and take the seat next to him as if you’re saying. dont worry, ill make room for myself in you.

it's silent for a while. silence has sort of become the predominant language between you.  

“getou, right?” he flinches at the sound of your voice. he realizes this is the first time he has ever heard it. and its so quiet, slightly unsure like suddenly you’re afraid of taking up too much space. and it makes him consider the possibility of tearing himself open just to fit more of you inside - you could never take up enough space. 

“suguru.” he corrects you, albeit gently. he wants to hear you say it. his name. “yes.”

you whisper your name in return, still cautious as not to cut through the quietude that had settled between the two of you. as if this moment right here, with him, was so fragile and precious to you that you’re cradling it to your chest, handling it so carefully as not to break it. “i know” 

he had asked satoru and regretted it just as fast oh, the first year? heard shes the only one in her class. why’d you care? in that moment satoru must´ve found the answer to his question in his friend's face because his tone changes. dont get too attached, suguru. you know few make it past their first year. 

in that moment he had realized something. he had witnessed it himself, how life can be but a dimly lit star in the night sky, its light becoming gradually unperceivable. fragile, fleeting. his time with you isn’t certain. death is a mistress that's always looming around the corner, ever present, always threatening to come out.

he knows he’s still young but he hadn’t met you soon enough. its seems like time is always running out for him. he might be young but he could’ve been younger. could’ve spent more time with you. you could’ve been ten, twelve, fourteen together. he could’ve loved you for longer.

“i hope you don’t think that i'm being nosy.” you mutter to your feet “not too nosy at least. but.” there’s a pause in which you wonder if you imagined everything in your head. that thing that binds you together. but you’ll risk sounding stupid and you will risk rejection because that little sliver of hope inside you tells you that not all has been lost. and although you try to convince yourself you’re doing this with selfless intent you just wish to relish in his warmth again.

“i couldn’t help but notice that lately, you seem to be…” choose your words carefully. 

unlike yourself  “unwell.” coward. 

despite your vague choice of words he is looking at you with wide eyes and you find yourself avoiding his gaze so you won’t back away from it. from saying what you have been wanting to say to him. 

“it’s springtime” you find yourself speaking again. maybe you’re talking too much. “the sakura trees look very pretty around this time of the year. but- you should know that already. i don’t think they’ll last much longer, maybe a week or so”

you look so meek fumbling with the loose threads on your shirt that it hurts him. here you stood, presenting your vulnerability to him and placing it in the palm of his hand yet he's just staring at you wondering what to do with it. he had been so quiet and you were starting to doubt yourself. it hits him that he has made you feel this way twice already, although unintentionally. you looked just as defenseless as the night he met you.

he nudges his knee with yours, its playful and emphasized with a smile that shows the crinkles on the corners of his eyes. he had taken what you had given him, he is clutching your gift close to his heart and begging for more. and it fills you with courage.

“i guess what im trying to say is. geto- oh!” you slap your hand over your mouth in a way that is seemingly too dramatic. in a way that is you, he guesses. amidst your outwardly timidness, you allow him a glimpse of you and he just wants more and more. he wants to tell you that you do not need to make yourself smaller to make room for him or his sorrow.

“suguru” you correct yourself. “would you like to go and see the sakura trees with me? maybe it will help you feel better. even if just for a moment” you’re smiling at him and this is the first time you’re looking him directly in the eye since you sat down next to him, there is hope gleaming in your irises and suguru never would’ve thought he could’ve been the one to incite such a beautiful sight.

“im good company and i usually don’t talk this much either so you should be alright.” you giggle showing him a little more of you. but its still not enough. it will never be enough for him.

he looks away from you with a breathy chuckle, closing his eyes as if trying to prevent the sheer adoration that he holds inside him from spilling though it inevitably overflows and manifests itself into a smile so earnest, it’d be the most genuine anyone has seen in a while.

“there has been a lot of silence going on between the two of us, don't you think?” he stares ahead at the empty wall. you had lost enough to it already. you nod from the corner of his eye. “id like to get to know you, if you let me.”

he looks back at you.  “i don't mind you talking. i'd like it if you did.”

your eyes are wide with wonder. those are the first few words he has ever spoken to you and he has rendered you speechless. they carry so much honesty, the expression on his face so sincere they’re quick to shut down any doubts or insecurities you might have had. 

you had dared to let him peak at the heart that you keep tucked under your sleeve and he wanted to cherish it. he thought he owed it to you to be equally as open, as honest.

“should we go now? he gets up with a hand on his pocket, the other extending itself towards you. "we have a lot to catch up on.”

in the perfect scenario you would’ve wanted to put a little effort into looking pretty. you would’ve put on a dress and maybe a little makeup to impress him. but would that really be the perfect scenario when, right now, he is looking at you with so much adoration that you feel like the prettiest girl he has ever laid eyes on? 

you take his hand - you think you might melt into it.

you grab popsicles on the way. strawberry for him. some over complicated combination of flavors that he had already managed to forget, for you. you had made some light hearted joke about his simplistic choice of flavour, however, as you sit under this cherry blossom he can see the grimace that grows on your face aggravate with each bite you take. he had seen it coming.

“do you want to try?” a knowing smile on his face, somewhat teasing when he offers his popsicle to you.

a few strands of hair get in the way when you lean down to lick at the top and his free hand moves to swipe them away from your face. he holds your hair in place to prevent it from escaping again and guides the popsicle to your mouth instead. feeding it to you.

“should’ve gone with strawberry.” you sound so heartbroken that he wants to giggle.

“here, have it” and he’s not teasing you. its genuine, like he’s whispering i love you, whatever’s mine is yours to take. 

he shuts down your protests by grabbing the popsicle from in between your pinched fingertips and replacing it with the strawberry one, immediately taking a bite from the popsicle that was once yours to claim it as his. it’s bitter, he thinks, it stings on his tongue. but he won’t tell you that. 

you’re picking up the petals that have fallen on the ground next to you and placing them on your lap when out of the corner of his eye, suguru notices a drop of juice that got caught on the corner of your lips and has started to run down your chin. he moves the back of his finger to collect it and then wraps his lips around his digit.

you’re left to stare because you’re dizzy. he makes you so dizzy. you don’t know what to do with yourself. to do with him. you glance towards anything other than him. anything that will ground you.

“you know,” you trail off after a while. your tone soft and eyes still trained somewhere else. he worries that he has come off too strong. “the first thing i noticed about you was your hair”

“yeah?” 

“hm, hm…” you look back at him and nod earnestly. he is glad to learn there is no discomfort between you when you sit on your knees and reach forward with both hands to place the petals that you had picked up atop his head. arranging them in a circle, like a halo, you think. not a crown. “… it’s pretty. it suits you” 

pretty. it takes him a while to gather his words. you’re so close and smell so heavenly. “i thought you were pretty the first time i saw you” he confesses with a whisper.

it takes you even longer to collect yourself. because once again, you're at a loss for words. you busy yourself with the task at hand. the halo. fit for someone with a heart as good as his. 

“i mean it.” you recoil for a moment to meet his eyes and get your message across. “dont ever cut it!” you sound so demanding. like it’d hurt your feelings if he were to contradict your wishes.

“i won’t. it helps me remember”

your smile morphs into a frown on your face and you bring your hands to your lap. he misses you on him already. 

“you’re holding on to grief, suguru.”

if he doesn't, who will? who will remember them? gojo has already seemed to move on from it, nanami is gone. his grief is the only thing keeping them alive. even if just in memory.

“i guess i am” 

he doesn’t miss the way you avoid looking at him. you’re looking at your hands folded on your lap and he wishes he knew what it is that you’re feeling. pity or concern? 

“maybe you could take a little of the weight off”

“thought you didn’t want me to cut it”

“and i didn’t. but surely carrying the weight of all those curses on you and then another must be exhausting, suguru.” your tone raises just slightly, barely enough to be noticeable.

however, suguru notices and he wants you to be mad at him. he wants you to scream if you will because he knows, that right now, he couldn’t love you the way he thinks you deserve to be loved. you deserve a love that is abudant, steady and kind and suguru, with all his troubles and a heart that has grown so terribly worn out, thinks he has barely any love left to give.

but there is something that stirs in his stomach at the thought of somebody else loving you. he wants to be the one to teach you what love feels like. what it should feel like. he wants to prove himself worthy of loving you. he'd love you better than anyone else ever could. he'd treat you so right. you wouldnt have to wake up a single day in your life and doubt whether he still loves you. because he does and he doesnt think he'll ever stop.

“i'll let you trim the ends”

you take him to your room. you’re pacing around tidying the place, moving objects from one place to another and apologizing for the mess but to him, the clutter isn’t just clutter it’s pieces of you scattered everywhere and when he finds himself amongst it, amongst your belongings in their disorderly disposition he, too, feels like he belongs here, belongs to you. he wants to tell you he doesn’t mind he wants to thank you instead for allowing him to see the most intimate parts of you. 

but before he can manifest himself, you hush him into your bathroom while you finish putting things away. you join him shortly after and he watches you, from the toilet seat, searching the cabinets for your scissors while mumbling about how he doesn’t have to be nervous, you have cut your hair by yourself many times before. that he could trust you. but he does, and it goes beyond just giving him a haircut. you’re still rummaging through the drawers and suguru smiles to himself. he pretends he didn’t just meet you today (technically) and that this is what it feels like to share a home with you. 

“found it!” he spreads his legs that are a bit too big to fit in your tiny bathroom so you can stand in between them. he takes up so much of the space and it's cramped enough that you have to scoot your way through. you laugh at it together. 

“ready?” you’re more serious now. you understand he is trusting you with a lot here — his heart.

suguru’s nod doesn’t carry much certainty but he is not nervous, maybe just nostalgic. but he doesn’t regret it, not when you’re so careful even when tearing him open to look at what’s inside, disposing of what is rotten and lodging yourself in the cavity of his chest where his heart dwells. your hands are so soft, so tender as they weave through his hair. you’re handling him with so much care, so much esteem. 

he should’ve felt guilty. he thought it’d feel wrong. but it didn’t. letting go of his past meant welcoming you into his future.

“done.” you finish and he expects you to move so he can look himself in the mirror but there is a certain hesitance in you, in the way in which you purse your lips into a tight line, contemplating something. maybe you messed up the haircut. then you bend down and kiss the corner of his lips, pulling away in a blink of an eye. “there.” thank you for letting me in, suguru.

you look at him apprehensively. you’re nervous wondering if you had stepped too far. but you didn’t step even close to where he wanted you. “come.” 

he weaves all of his ten fingers with yours, he pulls you down and he kisses you. it's warm and its gentle. it’s so very him. but it is also hungry. like hes trying to fit all the kisses of a lifetime into this one kiss right here. he’s greedy, he’d been a fair man once but then you came along and made him so greedy. like the hole in his stomach has no end and he’s insatiable. he’d take more and then some until he is so full of you he could burst — you can take as many space as you want, can make a home in him if you wish to. 

he takes and keeps on taking, until he has to pull away or he might devour you.

“was that okay?” he is cradling your face in the palms of his hands, was it too much?

“it was good” you’re breathless. “very good.”

“it was good for me too” he chuckles and brings your forehead to rest against his. to be close. you shut your eyes to try to come down from the high, focusing on breathing him in while he breathes you out. “so pretty.” he whispers agaisnt your lashes, his lips kissing your eyelids.

“god, what do i do with you” his hands move to hug your waist and he buries his face in your stomach. he needs to be closer, though being close isn’t enough when he just wants to merge into you. to make a dwelling place in your bones. you tangle your fingers in his hair, massaging his scalp and it feels like home already. 

“i want to be with you, suguru” you tug gently on the hair on the nape of his neck to make him look up at you. you then lower your tone, whispering your next words into the air as if you were too scared to say them. you belonged to him but was it too much to ask him to belong to you? “i want you.”

he kisses up the expanse of your forearm. “you have me, baby. you had me from the moment i saw you.”

[violettduchess]

Hello hello!!

May I request Cyran // courage // Gangster AU? ^^

A/N: My entry for the Wish Upon an Aide CC hosted by the wonderful @lorei-writes and @wordycheeseblob

Cyran x Reader, Gangster AU; Prompt: Courage

I went a less obvious route with the prompt. It's not exactly nsft but it is suggestive. A kind of follow up to this Cyran Gangster fic.

WC: ~1k

In order for there to be courage, there must be fear. Darkness needs light to exist, light cannot shine without darkness. They are intertwined, interconnected, essential to one another like the moon and the tide, like oxygen and life.

In the shadows of your bedroom, the glow from the neon sign across the street slides its way through the blinds, bathes your skin in red. 

Red means danger. 

It means warning.

It means stop. 

But Cyran couldn't stop now, not for all the money in the world. His hands travel down the smooth plane of your waist, slide across the round curves of your hips. It is a road he has only traveled once before but one he has never, ever forgotten. He feels the pressure of your arms around his neck, the way your fingers curl into the ends of his hair. More red.

His mouth follows the pulse in the side of your neck. He presses his tongue flat against it, then sucks hard. The sound you make should be illegal. It fogs his mind with desire, smothers the rational thought that thrives in the cold light of day.

Being the doctor they call, you are already in too deep with The Organization. No good can come of dragging you selfishly deeper, through the unpredictable danger of his job, under the waves of fear and anxiety that every assignment floods him with. He is certain that being with him will bring you nothing but heartache. 

And yet……how can he stop an avalanche’s momentum? How can he push back the tide? How can he stop drinking in the taste of your lips? Stop drowning in your breathless whisper of his name?

He is a criminal, one who walks the opaque fog between right and wrong....but with you, everything becomes crystal-clear.

And he is not strong enough to deny what his body and soul so loudly cry for.

Cyran’s hands have divested you of all clothing. Only the golden rose necklace they gave you lays against your skin. He sweeps it aside, pressing a line of desperate kisses across your collarbone, first one, then the other.

He walks you backwards towards your bed, his clothing falling like flower petals along the way until he is as bare as you. When the back of your knees bumps into the mattress, you pause to drink in the sight of him, disheveled and alight with desire, his broad chest rising and falling with each labored breath.

God, is he beautiful. All sculpted muscle. Powerful lines. You unconsciously bite down on your lower lip as your fingertips trace the Rhodolitian rose tattooed on his shoulder. Unlike some of the other gang members, his rose is not blood red, but has been rendered in shades of gray. You follow the line of the petals, then glide down over the curved stem lined with sharp thorns. In reality, they would have torn your fingers to shreds. But right now, all you feel is warm skin. All you feel is him.

He can’t take the sight of your lip between your teeth. He wants it for himself. Surging forward, he kisses you and you fall back onto the bed, your body catching fire, your heart aflame.

The neon sign has blinked out, replaced by the pale yellow of early morning sunlight. Cyran is sound asleep, his red hair a bright spot among your white pillows. Propped up on one elbow, you watch him as he sleeps. You haven’t been able to tear your gaze away since you woke up, your body heavy with satisfaction, sore with the remnants of last night’s storm.

His face is softer now, carrying none of the hard, concentrated lines of responsibility, duty. He is at ease, for once, lost in the clouds of dreaming. He looks younger somehow. Almost innocent. You allow yourself the luxury of staring, of gazing at the line of his jaw, covered in stubble, the slope of his neck down to his broad shoulders. You notice the small crescent-moon marks there, the ones from your fingers as they clutched him, held him tightly against your body. A smile ghosts across your lips.

You follow the relaxed surface of his bare chest down to where your bed sheets are draped modestly over his hips. One long leg, bent at the knee, sticks out from the covers and you're struck by an overwhelming wave of emotion, something warm and bright that sends your heart into a gentle swoon.

Wanting him. Dare you even think….loving him…..is dangerous. You know it. There are a hundred reasons why falling for him is nothing but jagged peril, a treacherous road you should not walk. 

But the way he rasped your name is still ringing in your ears.

Your fingers remember the grip of his own when they intertwine with yours.

You know the way his body feels against you. It is now written across your heart like a swathe of stars in the night sky, burned into your skin like a brand.

He sighs in his sleep, shifting to roll onto his side, and a lock of red hair falls across his forehead. You reach out instinctively to brush it away and something inside you is kindled, like a forge slowly coming to life. 

Yes, it is risky to give yourself over to what you are feeling, to fight for a place in his heart and life. 

But you are brave. 

Your hand gently cups the side of his face and your heart sinks into the flame of the forge, becoming something strong, a sword to face the danger, a light to wield in the dark. Courage and determination flow through your veins as mightily as desire had just a few short hours ago.

Cyran is worth loving. He is worth every twist and turn if only for the feel of him under your palm, the light in his eyes as they flutter open and see you, his slow, sleepy, unburdened smile.

“Good morning,” you murmur, leaning down even as he reaches for you, a kiss already waiting on his lips.

This is worth all your courage. This will be your light.

Tagging: @alexxavicry @queengiuliettafirstlady @bellerose-arcana @thewitchofbooks @aria-chikage @redheadkittys @tele86 @dear-mrs-otome @olivermorningstar @writingwhimsey @silver-dahlia @wendolrea @nightfoxqueen @myonlyjknight @ikesimpleton @ikemenlibrary @namine-somebodies-nobody @cellophanediamond @whatever-fanfics @justpeachyteastea @chirp-a-chirp @got7igot7family @kookie-my-little-sunshine @portrait-ninja @starlitmanor-network @queen-dahlia @themysticalbeing @nightghoul381 @whitelittlebunny @chi-the-idiot @bubblexly

[circa-specturgia]

“Yours is not the only set of footsteps you’re hearing, even though you’re walking alone.”

Yours is not the only set of footsteps you’re hearing, even though you’re walking alone.

Behind you, a half pace behind, you can hear your work shoes. Their heels hits the pavement in their own distinct sound. Your fingers still remember the way you’d tie their black laces and tighten their black leather.

You walk still, trying to pay them little mind. It’s not the first time you’d heard them behind you. It likely won’t be the last.

Each step adds a gram of weight to the ring on your finger.

Each step a reminder of the long night hours. The office. The silence. The empty nightstand. The hospital waiting room.

Yours is not the only set of footsteps you’re hearing, even though you’re walking alone.

Somewhere behind them, pair of socks over bare feet shuffle over the freshly-set floorboards. Maple, like you’d always talked about.

The wind blows through your hair, whistling in your ears the first notes of a melody you once remembered. A melody you’d danced to on that floor, in the middle of the night.

Yours is not the only set of footsteps you’re hearing, even though you’re walking alone.

A pair of hiking boots, a bit further behind you, break a twig that you’d stepped over a moment ago. Their step has more life to it, more vigor, as it joins the march down the empty road.

The breeze carries the hint of a scent, despite the boots being behind you. Sap. fresh green-pine air. The frigid bubbling stream, the blue clouds and white sky. The rain. Sweat and laughter.

The moon shines through the clouds and for a moment the way it’s rays pierce them is the exact same as the suns atop that mountain from the magazines you’d only talked about until that summer.

Yours is not the only set of footsteps you’re hearing, even though you’re walking alone.

Your old sneakers plod against asphalt, dripping rainwater in the windy night, somewhere far, far behind you.

The balls of your feel and heels ache at the sound, brought back a moment to a long-ago night.

To the wind in your hair, the tears mixing with the sky’s downpour, glasses fogged up. Heart filled with adrenaline and excitement and fear and love.

Knuckles against a bright green door, sore shaky voice against red ears, lips against lips, relieved and bare laughter against laughter.

Yours is not the only set of footsteps you’re hearing, even though you’re walking alone.

It’s barely in reach of your ears, and over the other pairs, you hear the proud marching of a grade schooler.

Walking with pride and head held high in defiance of the worries that may come ahead with blissful, simple, wonder, for every day.

Distracted by any bug or stick or rock on the way home.

Yours is not the only set of footsteps you’re hearing, even though you’re walking alone.

Of disjointed steps and strides a heartbeat sounds out, walking down an empty night road.

You sit, on the bench, at the end of the road.

Afraid to look back. Afraid of their faces looking forward. Afraid of what you’d think of yourself.

Instead, they sit beside you. One, by one. A slightly younger person grasps your hand and squeezes it, a bit too tights their hand is less bony than yours. The ring fits better, not slipping down to their knuckle. It’s all they need to do.

You sit there. Beside you, your life, your memories. Their steps, leading you to this bench, under the moon and clouds and stars.

Yours was not the only set of footsteps you’d heard, even though you’d thought you’d been walking alone.

All you’d need have done had been listened for a moment, to have heard them behind you, always. In empathy do your struggles, in awe of your successes.

Now, their echoing footsteps have gone still, and silent, leaving just the breath, and the view.

This time, the footsteps come from ahead.

You know who they belong to in a heartbeat, as their fingers lace through yours at your side.

You sigh, the sound lost on the wind. Your eyes look to them, as a weary, long-thought-out smile comes to rest in your crows feet.

You’d heard footsteps whenever you were alone, all your life.

As you stand, and begin to walk with them, the rest stay under that moonlit bench, letting the two of you walk home in the quiet.

- Written between 1-2 AM, from the middle of a quiet field

[bdudette]

Moving Clouds - B. H.

masterlist || stranger things

Summary: Dear Billy …

Character: Billy Hargrove x F! Reader

Warning Tags: Character Death, Use of First POV, NOT EDITED, Angst ?

When was the first I realized that the clouds moved ?

I think I realized that once upon a time when I was younger, looking up at the dark star filled sky with small clouds covering up the bright moon. I remember just staring and thinking of just how beautiful the sky was. But what amazed me the most was the moving cirrus clouds that’s seemed like little wisps of feathers.

Even now, as I’m writing this and looking at the moving clouds, they look like feathers floating gently in the sky. As if they were drawn quietly with a small brush and with details no one but the painter would be able to see completely.

Sorry, getting out of topic to what I needed to tell you.

I remember when I met you, how you looked, how you walked and even how the clouds looked that day. You weren’t really the nicest in the beginning — charming ? Yes, of course you know you were, but nice ? Not really … The clouds were so different that day, moved the same way but they were still different. And not in a bad way either. I guess that’s when I knew you were someone who’d change the way everyone acted in Hawkins, change the way I was.

But, I was still … cautious of you, if you’d say. You weren’t really calm with how you always wanted to be the best, beating up people and threatening others. And I was always calm … reserved. So it was surprising you were able to push me out of my shell. I got to know you better, know who you truly were and what happened to you — it wasn’t the easiest getting over your walls but you still let me get through even though I knew you could block me out completely …

You know … my most favorite days with you was when you always took me to the edge of hawkins so we could just lay down the meadow and stare up at the sky. Some days were full of laughs, others were filled with tears. And even then, the clouds moved on and on, never stopping when we spent our time together, in fact, every time when I was with you, they’d move slower. They’d look even more beautiful and were always white or colored in the most unique color ever. But that only happened when I was with you.

When … you started to change. When you ignored me and became more … violent. The clouds had started to become darker and darker, moving faster without stop and with fear. I didn’t know why you stopped talking to me. Why you never held my hand or let me kiss the palm of yours. Why we never went to look at the clouds in the meadow again.

Not until the end. Not until the end of our time together, for our lifetime … remember that time we laid down in the meadows that night when you told me you loved me for the first time ever ? The sky was filled with stars and dark clouds that let the moon shine through ? You told me that … you were always going to be by my side. That it would be till death do us ‘part and we laughed because it sounded like we were getting married under the starry and cloudy night …

I guess, I guess it really was that way when you left me behind to be without you. When it felt like the clouds stopped for what felt like forever and the beauty in them disappeared … you know … I hated you for a while because of that. Because without you, the clouds looked the most ugliest they ever have. Even after you caressed my face and told me you loved me with your last breath.

But — I can’t really hold a grudge against you, I never could.

It took a bit before the clouds started to look the same as before I met you. Pretty, but not beautiful. Calming, but not passionate. But the clouds … they started moving on again. Just like I need to as well. And I hope you can forgive me for moving like a cloud without you by my side.

And I hope … I hope someday, somewhere, somehow … we’ll find one another again and go to the meadow. Lay down and hold hands and talk while looking at the moving clouds. I hope someday … I’ll be able to hear you tell me how much you loved love me.

Thank you for the love you’ve given me, Billy Hargrove. You’ll always be my most beautiful cloud.

With loving care,

[Name] [L. Name]

And so she sighed out loud and smiled lightly at the tomb — that read William “Billy” Hargrove — before giving the same gentle look up at the clouds. Staying still for a moment before she moved to put unto the tomb the slightly wet love note under the vase of flowers in hopes that it won’t get moved or accidentally flown away.

When she was done making sure everything on the tomb looked okay. She started standing up slowly. Patting on her pants to remove any clinging dirt. She pursed her lips before moving a hand up to her lips, kissing her forward fingers before placing that kissed hand on top of the tomb.

“ Bye , Billy. I’ll come back again with another note for you whenever I can, okay ? I’ll miss you … “

And with that, she left.

She was free. Free like a cloud. Though she’ll never forget her true love. She’ll never forget to look at the clouds wherever she was and think of him as she moved on to other places with his car. Each and every single day he will always have a part in her heart.

But for now, she’ll move on, move on like the clouds that took her heart as well when she first looked at them just as she looked at him.

[silverjetsystm]

🔄 - Zodiac

Send “🔄” to meet a younger version of my muse!! | Accepting!' Cutting for references to gore. "Younger" in this case means MK in his face cutting era.

White rain petered off by the time he climbed in the mooncopter. Frenchie Ray gave him a look from the pilot’s seat. Moon K.night nodded. It was time. 

The One Who Feeds on Hearts wedged between the body and the wall as they head out. Dead man’s hand on the white-silver cloak. Nasally words in his ear, unlike the body he was dressed up in nor the voice Moon K.night heard before. Rotten damp breath past metal teeth, face red with muscle. “Finally. I’m starving.” 

The Knight looked at the city’s glow rapidly coming up below them. Ray spent the flight talking at him; he missed most of the conversation. Head is too full these nights. Focused on what comes next. Gena lost one boy already and blamed Spector for it. He can’t put Ray at risk more than he ‘had’ to. It’s okay if he wants more, wants to be in the thick of the action, builds resentment. He’ll stay alive.

“Keep telling yourself that.”

Clouds rolled overhead, threatening another round. Ray hoped it would hold off. He can handle these conditions but he’d rather be at home y’know? Short trip, Marc.

“Here.” “Here.” Here where there were signs; flashes of gunfire, raucous laughter carried by the night air. “I’ll call when I need you.”

The jump never got old. Shoulders first, boots last, the quick calculation of when to pull the cloak into a glide. Smile hidden by the mask and cowl. 

Glories such as these. How could he think he could leave all this?

He landed in front of the group, legs cushioned by the braces hidden under white vestments. Knees pop and his back twinges. Teeth grit. Still be hell to pay tomorrow in PT. Rob wouldn’t leave it alone. Always trying to get him to do less of his ‘nighttime job.’ Nobody understood. He needs to be out here.

Five hard men, faces covered, panic, hands shaking on triggers. Why he wears white. They see him coming and couldn’t shoot the moon.

Bullets go wide. Someone always has the bright idea to use their numbers. Overwhelm him. They close in. Hands are crushed, legs are kicked in. 

The One Who Feeds on Hearts grinned, pointing at one who is trying to crawl away, ball cap left behind in his scrabble to flee. Fear overwhelms a person. “A repeat offender.” His calling card is carved in his forehead. Angry red scar. Crescent dart shines in the gloom of broken streetlights as he carves anew. Two always looked lopsided, begging to even out. Some learn, some don't. Some eventually run out of space and then he has to get creative.

The rest get their one, screams echoing across the walls, down the block. The rest except. He really looked at the last body, curled in on himself like he's watching a show that's now his favorite. Red hair flopped almost fashionably against his forehead. Broken nose, the start of some impressive face bruises. Bright eye, the one that isn't swelled shut, shine with…he can’t place the emotion at first. Fear and something more.

Jeff had wanted to be more once. Powerful. Accepted. Respected. Until they turned him into a cyborg. Went after Rob, Marlene, and him. All because Moon K.night couldn’t get him to quit.

Hung against a giant broken clock, set to midnight. Pliers in his back. Jeff’s ruined metal-and-flesh face beneath a mockery of his vestments. Clock hand shoved down the stupid kid-now-grown's throat. “I knew I could save you, Jeff.”

Not again. He doesn’t want to be admired. Doesn’t want this. 

Gauntleted hands pick him up by the shirt until they’re eye to eye. He shakes him roughly. “Go. Home. You have a mother? A father? Forgive them. Treat them right. Do something with your life. Away from all this. Don’t let me see you like this again.” He retrieved a dart from the belt, flat of the blade parting his hair, tip of it against his skin. “Or next time…I won’t hesitate.”

Unceremoniously, he dropped him down in a puddle dark with mud and blood. Walked away. The One Who Lives on Hearts yammering away about how he’s a tease.

[kxlinthesky]

EPISODE 4 LIGHT NOVEL Chapter 3-1 English Translation

It happened seven days before the eclipse.

 There was a massive skylight on the property. The round slice of sky visible through the glass was crisp and clear, no clouds in sight to block the view. A column of silvery moonlight illuminated the room below, shining on the circular pattern of white and blue tiles in the heart of the chamber.

And inside stood two men.

One was a brunette wrapped in an ostentatious fur coat that was trendy with the younger crowd, despite not being all that young himself – he looked around thirty, at least. The coat looked quite luxurious, but upon closer inspection there were some faint stains dotted along the white fur. Flashy and fancy he might seem, but it didn’t take much to infer that he’d hit a rough patch, financially speaking. His eyes were wide, almost wild, his movements carrying the distinct air of a man just barely restraining himself from losing his composure completely.

His hands were outstretched to the other man, who in contrast stood so far from the light and so deep in the shadows that it was impossible to make out his expression or even any defining characteristics. Nevertheless, as he handed a black parcel to his agitated companion, there was a definite note of distaste in his tone. “This will be the last time I give you this drug,” he said. “Take it.”

The man in the fur coat snatched the package from the other’s hands and ripped it open in a frenzy, revealing a single glass vial. At first glance, one might think it was a perfume bottle, until one saw the burgundy liquid sloshing around inside that was most definitely not perfume. “This is the last?!” the man shouted, voice shaking with some undefined emotion. Even as he held the vial aloft, exposing its contents to the moonlight, the liquid remained as deep and muddy as if it was steeped in shadow.

“One more thing... take this as well.” The man in the shadows held out a small velvet box. Nestled inside was an impressive diamond ring. Miniscule rainbows danced in every facet of the magnificent stone under the moonlight.

The second he laid eyes on that ring, the visible man’s face split open in a wide grin. Bellows of ecstatic laughter pealed uncontrollably from him, echoing throughout the chamber. “Hahahaha! You actually finished it! And after all those other alchemists couldn’t!”

“Your ancestors were impressive alchemists,” said the man in the shadows. “It’s rather interesting that they left plans for such a fascinating little device. Now... I’ve fulfilled my end of the bargain. Now it’s your turn.”

“Absolutely! That stone will be all yours.” With a single nod, the excited man whirled around and strode out of the room, his heels clacking against the tiles.

 “As expected of a McCreech descendant,” the man in the shadows whispered to himself once he was alone. “One like him appears every so often, with a temperament so similar to that of his ancestors. Perhaps that is just the tragic fate of those so closely linked by blood joining together in holy matrimony.”

His head rose. His gaze locked onto the moon visible through the skylight.

“Who knows what will happen next?” he murmured. “... Well then, I will be curious to see what kind of performance they end up giving.”

 As his last solitary words hung in the air, a single thud reverberated through the room, like a pair of wings flapping... and after that, silence.

 The blue and white tiles glowed in the moonlight, in a room as quiet as the grave.

■■■■■■■■■■

Seven days later. A little after lunch.

The estate was bursting with activity, as if the events before were nothing more than a dream.

 ... Particularly in one corner of the mansion, where a man and a woman were currently locked in a fierce debate.

“Why? I don’t get it.”

“No, you get it, you just don’t want to do it, right?”

“It doesn’t seem necessary.”

“It is, though.”

“But I took care of it before we left.”

“Not completely.”

“I hate getting wet.”

“Your feelings on the matter are irrelevant, Master Owl.”

Indeed, the man was the young detective Owl. At the moment he was lacking his usual coat and gilet, and he was engaged in a verbal war with the maid standing before him. “It’s a waste of time,” he argued. “Look, Hannah, the scones you went out of your way to make are getting cold while we’re standing around arguing.”

“My scones are still delicious cold, so your argument is invalid,” she retorted.

“I like them best fresh out of the oven.”

“Then I’ll make more.”

“You shouldn’t go to all that trouble.”

“If it’s for Master Owl, then it’s no trouble at all. Now hurry along, unless you plan on meeting your client covered in soot?”

“It’s fine. Not like I’m actually going to the wedding.”

“It is not fine. It would be an embarrassment to the master for you to walk out in front of people looking like that.”

“He wouldn’t care.”

“I would politely ask that you give up already, Master Owl.”

Slender fingers wrapped around his wrist. To someone unfamiliar with the maid, her hand looked so delicate and weak that a child could break free from her grasp. Owl, on the other hand, knew that he was now trapped in an iron vice from which there was no escape. With his jaw clenched and teeth gritted, the young man looked downright pained. It was the same expression he wore whenever he saw an ugly formula – he detested illogical equations with no neat or tidy solutions with a burning passion, and apparently whatever Hannah was trying to get him to do right now caused him just as much mental anguish.

Owl stared at Hannah, misery etched into every line of his expression. “Do I have to?” he asked weakly.

“Yes, you have to,” Hannah replied, ice in her voice and steel in her spine.

Off to the side, a smiling butler piped up, “I would also advise that you give up, Master Owl. It would be unwise to resist her any longer.” It was Ralph. In one hand he held a clean white bath towel, while the other patiently kept a wooden door propped open.

The door led into a spacious bathroom with white stone walls and a mosaic tile floor in various shades of blue. Marble sculptures and verdant potted plants were dotted around the room. A massive, snow-white bathtub stood in the very back. It wasn’t quite a bathroom fit for a king, but it was certainly lavish.

“The McCreech mansion was bound to have a magnificent bathroom such as this,” Ralph continued, gentle persuasion in his smile. “It would certainly be a waste to leave without making use of it.”

Owl’s legs remained as immobile as stone. “... Then you should use it instead,” he grumbled.

Hannah rolled her eyes and vigorously shoved him toward the door. “All right, get ready! One way or another, those scorched bangs are getting fixed!”

“Wait, hold on! I didn’t say I was getting in!” yelped Owl.

“Give up already, you stubborn mule, or I’ll scrub your back with a deck brush!”

“This is tyranny!” cried Owl as she mercilessly shoved him into the bathroom and violently slammed the door shut behind them.

Even so, their back and forth was still audible from behind the wood, albeit muffled. “And hurry up and take that filthy shirt off as well, if you please!”

“Wait! I’m taking it off, so wait a second!!”

It wasn’t long before Owl’s tormented cries faded away, leaving only a tense silence in their wake.

 A timid voice eventually filled the void their argument had left behind. “... Is Owl okay?” Ellie asked Ralph.

The butler nodded with his customary smile. He hadn’t moved from his spot by the door, the bath towel still in his hands. “He will be just fine,” he assured her. “Despite how she may seem, Hannah is a kind soul. You both seem to have run into some trouble on your way here, so we thought Master Owl might want to take a nice soak in the bathtub to soothe his mind and body.”

“It can’t be a shower?” Ellie pressed fretfully. “Owl tries to take a shower every day. He said that, um... ‘practicing good hygiene is important for your health.’”

“Oh, yes, Master Owl is perfectly hygienic, I believe. A proper soak in a proper bath, however, is a luxury that he can only take advantage of in a mansion such as this, and Hannah simply wished to allow him that luxury.”

“Allow... luxury...?” Ellie’s face scrunched up in confusion, tilting a puzzled stare up at Ralph. She didn’t quite get what he meant.

The butler met her eyes and gently murmured, “In other words, she cares for Master Owl very much.”

Immediately after Ralph’s declaration, an impressive screech echoed from within the bathroom as if in response. “Ow! Hannah! That hurts! You’re going to rip the skin off my back– no, you already did, didn’t you?! Am I bleeding?”

“You aren’t bleeding. I’m simply washing you, so please sit still.” In direct contrast to Owl’s distress, Hannah sounded completely impassive.

“Ow! Ow-ow-ow-OW STOP! Seriously, wait –! There’s soap in my eye!”

“You’re being too noisy, Master Owl.”

A wordless wail rose in the air, followed by furious splashing.

Something in Ralph’s eyes flickered ever so slightly. “... At least, I think so,” he added.

 “... That was hell.” Owl came out a while later and all but collapsed on a nearby couch, completely spent. “I don’t get it... I came here for a case, but... why are you guys here forcing me to take baths? I should be starting my investigation so I can protect the jewel....” His mumbling fell like curses from his lips, half-garbled questions and complaints that he didn’t understand, he didn’t get it, this didn’t make sense....

And his reaction was completely understandable. He’d taken a request from the daughter of a family of jewelers because they’d received a calling card from a certain phantom thief, and he’d traveled quite a long way on a swaying (and somewhat scorched) train to reach their estate, and when he’d arrived what did he find but a frankly baffling collection of faces he already knew. And then they suddenly tossed into a bath he didn’t want and scrubbed so hard every inch of his skin was glowing cherry red. To call him confused was an understatement, and frankly he was well within his rights to be!

 Hannah stood over him with a brush in one hand and scissors in the other, drying and fixing his hair. “You’re exaggerating,” she informed him bluntly.

“Hannah, do you hold a grudge against me or something?” Owl questioned.

“Of course I do,” was her prompt reply.

“Okay, but why? I was a quiet and studious kid growing up, wasn’t I?” There was genuine confusion in his voice – in his eyes, she disliked him for no apparent reason, and that was just baffling.

Hannah’s eyebrows gave the faintest twitch upward. “I suggest you close your mouth. I need to toss you into the bath again.”

Snip went the scissors in Owl’s ear. He pressed his lips tight, a cold tendril of fear snaking its way down his spine. This maid would absolutely slice his ear off if she wanted.

Thankfully, before she could, an older man strode into the room. He was the very picture of a refined English gentleman – his hair and his perfectly combed mustache were a gleaming silvery-gray, a moss green cravat rested at the hollow of his throat, and he carried with him a polished black cane. “Oh, I almost didn’t recognize you, Owl,” he remarked. As her peered closer at Owl’s face, his eyes crinkled with amusement. “Goodness, your hair and skin are positively sparkling. The transformation is remarkable – it’s as if you were a real-life Cinderella.”

The man was holding back his laughter, but the tremble in his shoulders gave him away. Owl pouted up at the man, looking less like a fairytale princess and more like a soaked cat, squashed and flat and thoroughly displeased. “Why are you here?” he grumbled. “I thought you were busy with your work.”

“Well, yes, but I can still make enough time to attend my friend’s daughter’s wedding.”

“Your friend?”

“Indeed. You and I running into each other is a complete coincidence.”

Owl stared at the man, suspicion bright in his eyes. “... Uh-huh. Yeah, I’ll believe that from the man who keeps sending Ralph to spy on me.”

“You’re being rude to the master,” Hannah interjected. “Go on, Master Owl, greet him properly.” As she spoke, the scissors snipped ominously by his ear again, and his spine unconsciously straightened.

The gentleman, however, just merrily laughed. “It’s fine, Hannah. He’s at that rebellious age, right?”

“You’re too lenient on him, Master,” Hannah chided.

“You think?” replied the gentleman, all pleasantness and smiles. “Well, it’s only because Owl’s pouting face is so cute.” However, he glanced at Owl out of the corner of his eye and continued with a bit more cunning in his tone, “But maybe if I saw a smile, Papa would be happy enough to want to give him a lovely little present, hm?” His hand waved lightly through the air, and as it passed by Owl’s face, it opened to reveal something in his palm.

Owl gasped, his eyes growing wide. “A glove!” he shouted.

The young detective lunged for it, but the man clicked his tongue and easily dodged out of reach. “A smile, Owl,” he reminded with a wink. “Didn’t I teach you that smiles and decorum are important in high society?” He traced his pointer fingers around his own mouth to accentuate his point. He’d offered the deal; now Owl had to hold up his end.

There was a brief pause as Owl groaned. The man had given him quite the daunting task – he didn’t often stretch his smiling muscles, so to speak, preferring to leave that sort of societal stuff to his partner, Nick. He could just tell the man no... but unfortunately, the prize in his hand was too tantalizing to pass up. The glove he was dangling over Owl’s head was identical to the one the detective had burned to ash on the train. It was an alchemical tool with several different kinds of chemicals built into the fabric, allowing him to start fires and mix medicines as he pleased. It was extremely useful for his work and ordering even one cost a devastating amount of money... but the gentleman was willing to give it to Owl, and all it would cost was a single smile.

“Comment ça va, my beloved son,” the man encouraged.

It bothered Owl to do as he said, but sacrifices had to be made for his greater good. He steeled himself and forced his underworked muscles to move. The smile he produced was extremely unnatural, but he managed to keep it up as he replied, “Je vais tres bien, Lord Tristan.”

Hannah took one look at his smile and said, “Five points.” It was unclear if she was grading out of ten or out of one hundred.

The gentleman clicked his tongue again. “Non,” he said with a shake of his head. “Not ‘Lord.’ I’m your....”

Applying as much strength as possible to keep his forcibly constructed smile in place, Owl groaned, “... Father.”

“Non.” The man shook his head again. He didn’t seem inclined to hand the glove over in the slightest.

Owl exerted all of his effort to keep the smile up. His strained voice was low enough to scrape the depths of hell itself. “... Papa....”

“Ah-ha-ha!” The gentleman held the glove out with a beaming smile. “That’s exactly right, Owl! My goodness, you are just the cutest!”

Owl finally released the tension in his face, allowing the smile to drop. “And this is why I don’t like seeing you!” he hissed, reaching out for the glove once more.

Unfortunately for him, the gentleman grabbed his wrist and yanked him onto his feet with surprising vigor before the detective’s fingers could touch the fabric. “Oh, don’t say that, Owl. I’m happy to see you.” He pulled the younger into a sudden hug. Owl went stock still at the touch. The gentleman patted Owl’s back, a delighted smile unfurling across his face. “Yes, you seem to have grown a little sturdier,” he declared.

Owl had the exact same expression a stray cat would make if it were unexpectedly hugged and didn’t much care for it at all, but he couldn’t really put up any resistance like this.

By Owl’s side, Ralph piped up, “Master, that is enough for now, I think. Master Owl is no longer a child, after all.” He was likely speaking from a place of pity, but at least he was looking out for the boy.

“Ah, you’re right. I’m sorry, Owl, I don’t mean to treat you like a child – it’s just, you’ll always be my darling little boy, is all.” The gentleman relinquished Owl and patted his shoulders. “I’m happy to see you doing well.” With that, he finally handed the glove over.

Owl let out a relieved sigh as he was finally released. He stared at the glove in his hand. With a slight bow of his head, he murmured, “Thank you very much....”

“Of course.” The gentleman’s eyes narrowed in a pleased smile. If the people who only knew him as strict and intense could see him now, they would surely be surprised.

The man’s name was Tristan, and he was Owl’s adopted father. He was an alchemist like his son – in fact, he was a state alchemist, and awarded the title of “Higher Alchemist,” no less. Owl had learned alchemy from him as a young boy. As mentor and mentee, their relationship wasn’t actually that bad... but as father and son, their personalities were like oil and water. Tristan managed to enjoy their differences anyway, but Owl had trouble keeping up with the other’s energy.

“And of course, the master is as overly doting and therefore as disliked as usual. Being overly tactile won’t do you any favors.” Hannah kept her focus on Owl’s hair, but she directed her words to Tristan. She was direct, as was her wont, but she was also correct.

Tristan, however, simply tilted his head and asked, “What’s wrong with doting on something dote-worthy? I want to express my love. Love was worthy precisely because it can be expressed. And those who are loved discover worth as well. I want to give my son a worthy existence like that.”

Tristan was trying to push some absolutely incomprehensible logic to try and justify his inconvenient actions. He’s similar to Master Owl in that regard..., thought Ralph as he watched from his unobtrusive spot in the corner.

A knock came at the door before it cracked open. “Owl, are you done changing?” Ellie asked as she peeked her head in.

“Yeah, I’m done.” Owl buttoned up his gilet and beckoned.

The girl trotted straight over to him. She clutched his waist and mumbled, “You smell like soap.”

“Yeah. I kind of want to hop into a dust bath next,” he replied.

“Master Owl.” Hannah wasn’t about to let that slide. She glared at him with displeasure etched into every centimeter of her expression.

“It was a joke,” Owl said before promptly shutting his mouth to prevent any further slips of the tongue.

Thankfully, that was enough to make Hannah relax. However, as her eyes fell to his gilet, she paused. Her eyebrows drew together again with a frown, and she raised her chin with a quiet huff. “That looks like some impressive mending.... I’d be interested to know who fixed your gilet.”

Owl drew back just a bit, surprised – he’d never heard her speak in such a low voice before.

As he stared at her unconsciously, Hannah suddenly announced, “I’ll go prepare some tea,” and swiftly departed.

“... She’s definitely in a bad mood, right?” Owl asked Ralph, puzzled.

“I believe she may be feeling like someone has stolen her position,” Ralph answered with a hint of amusement.

“Her position?”

“Mending Master Owl’s gilet is Hannah’s job, after all. I doubt she enjoys the thought of someone else taking that from her.”

That just left Owl even more confused. “But I thought she hated it. She’s always getting furious with me and keeps yelling at me to stop putting holes in my clothes.” Wouldn’t she be happy about not needing to waste her time on that anymore? He couldn’t wrap his head around it.

Off to the side, Tristan’s shoulders slumped dramatically. “... For someone so adept at reading formulas, you’re almost lethally bad at reading a girl’s heart, Owl.”

■■■■■■■■■■

Anastasia was waiting for Owl’s group when they arrived in the guest room. She had been the one to call on his services and summon him here – the calling card they’d received had left her deeply concerned.

 “We’ve been waiting for you, Mr. Owl,” she said. “I apologize for not coming out to meet you as soon as you arrived – the wedding rehearsal went longer than expected.”

“No, I should be the one apologizing for not coming to greet you sooner. This one here dragged me off the second I got here.” Owl jabbed a finger at Hannah, who was studiously ignoring him in favor of pouring tea at the center table.

Anastasia’s eyes slid to Owl’s side, where Tristan stood. For some reason, she perked up with excitement. “Even so, I was quite surprised to find that you were Sir Tristan’s son!”

Owl blinked. He glanced between the two. “You know my father?” he asked. Sure, state alchemists like Tristan were pretty famous, even in other countries, but that only really applied to people in power, not young girls like Anastasia.

“Oh, yes, Sir Tristan is a good friend of my father’s,” Anastasia replied with a bright smile. “He has visited us countless times for recreational trips, and he has always been quite kind to my sister and I. He loves to show us the most wonderful magic tricks.”

“Huh,” Owl huffed, glancing at Tristan. “So you weren’t lying about being friends after all. Honestly, I didn’t know you had any friends.”

“Oh? Are you jealous, Owl?”

“Yeah, right.” Owl’s face twisted bitterly again. He lowered his voice so only Tristan could hear. “He’s not just a friend, though, is he?”

“Why do you think that?” Tristan replied, equally quiet.

“There’s no way a friend of yours is a regular jeweler.”

Tristan hummed noncommittally.

Owl took that as a sign to continue. “When I first heard the name, I was confused for a second, since there are two McCreech families that I know of, but I figured those McCreeches wouldn’t go out of their way to send their daughter my way for help, so these had to be from the family of ordinary jewelers.... I wasn’t expecting the two families to be one and the same.”

Tristan tilted his head ever so slightly. “And how did you come to that conclusion?”

“It’s pretty obvious. You can see it too, right?” Owl tapped his monocle with a single finger. Tristan, as it happened, was wearing an identical monocle himself. “Everything in here has been glowing this whole time. This isn’t a normal mansion – the entire building is one big alchemical construct.”

“Indeed it is,” Tristan agreed. However, he placed a finger on his lips. “But not a word of it to Anastasia. She knows nothing about it, you see, and the head of the household has made it quite clear that he wants to keep it that way.”

Owl’s voice lowered even further. “... What sort of person are you to them?”

“Just a regular old rich upstart who loves gems and jewels. The family head, Lord Arby, is one of my chess partners. My hobby is magic.”

“I see. It fits, I guess.”

“It’s a fine little facade, don’t you think?” Tristan swished a hand through his hair with a quiet chuckle.

“What facade?” Owl responded simply. “You’re just being the same as always.”

Ralph’s voice cut through their whispered back and forth. “Excuse me, you two, but it’s rude to have a private conversation in front of our host.” The butler gestured to the center table. “Please, have a seat.”

Owl, Tristan, and Ellie complied at once, and Anastasia joined them. The young girl’s eyes sparkled at the tray of scones set in front of them. “How delightful! Our servants have all been so busy with wedding preparations lately that it’s been ages since someone prepared a proper afternoon tea. And what delicious looking scones!”

“I hope they’re to your liking,” said Hannah as she placed clotted cream along with some raspberry and apple jams down beside the tray.

Anastasia placed both her hands rapturously on her chest as she saw the glistening golden jam. “Oh, how lovely! I absolutely adore apple jam.”

“I’m glad to hear it. If I may, I recommend mixing some in with your tea as well for extra flavoring,” Hannah suggested.

“My! I must try that!” Anastasia plopped heaping scoops of jam and clotted cream on one scone, then stuffed the whole thing in her mouth. She stirred another spoonful of jam into her tea and took a hearty sip. Her cheeks grew rosy with joy. “It’s delightful!” she exclaimed.

Hannah smiled at the girl’s genuine enjoyment. “I only hope Master Owl enjoys it as much as you, Lady Anastasia.” Her gaze slid over to Owl, who had inhaled his own scone in only two bites. He had his hands pressed to his chest as he chewed like Anastasia, but unlike her his expression was blank, not like the maid expected anything different. By his side, Ellie had taken one bite of her scone, set it gently back down on the plate, and was now mimicking his posture. “... He’s really not the one you ought to be imitating, Lady Ellie,” Hannah sighed. “I’d rather see you learn from Lady Anastasia’s honest expressions.”

Everyone quickly polished off their first cups of tea as the conversation continued. However, before any refills could be poured, there was a tap at the door. It swung open to reveal a gorgeous young woman around Owl’s age, her long hair loosely pinned up in a bun.

Anastasia hopped to her feet immediately. “Sister!” she cried.

“Anastasia, what are you doing here...?” the woman inquired.

“I apologize, I was, um....”

“You know that Sir Tristan is a dear friend of Father’s, yes? You aren’t causing him any trouble, are you?”

Pinned under a freezing stare, Anastasia couldn’t offer a single word in her own defense. Her eyes darted around in a panic.

Tristan rose to his feet. “Excuse me, Miss Eliza,” he offered. “I’m the one who’s been keeping her here – I just had to introduce her to my son and his group, late as they were. I thought perhaps that Miss Anastasia would make a good friend for Ellie.” He gestured in Owl’s direction, or more specifically at the red-clad girl at his side.

Owl slowly rose as well. “It’s nice to meet you,” he said formally. “My name is Owl. This is my younger sister Ellie.” Ellie glanced up at him sharply, shocked at being called his sister. He glanced down at her and urged, “Go on, say hello.”

She blinked rapidly, then turned to the woman. “Hello. I’m Ellie.” She punctuated her greeting with a tiny lift of her skirt.

“Oh, so that’s how it is.” The woman returned their greetings with a pleasant smile and a graceful bow of her own. “It’s a pleasure to meet you both, Mr. Owl, Miss Ellie. My name is Eliza. I’m the eldest daughter of the McCreech family.”

Eliza... this was Anastasia’s older sister, and the bride-to-be for tomorrow’s wedding. Owl held his hand out to shake. “The pleasure is all ours. Congratulations on your wedding.”

“Thank you. It’s an honor to have Sir Tristan’s family attend.” She accepted his handshake, then turned to lock eyes with Ellie. “It’s lovely to meet you, Ellie. I’m Eliza. Is your full name ‘Elizabeth’ like mine, by any chance?”

“Um....” Ellie didn’t know how to answer, not the least which because Eliza’s icy attitude toward her own sister had completely and suddenly warmed for a girl she’d just met. Ellie reached out and clung to Owl’s arm, hiding her face in his sleeve.

“Ellie, come on,” Owl chided. “Don’t be rude.”

“It’s quite all right, she must be shy,” Eliza assured him. She smiled gently at Ellie, seemingly not offended in the slightest by the girl’s hesitance. “I’m sorry for scaring you, Ellie. Please make yourself at home. I would love it if you got along with my sister.” She straightened up and directed her next words to Tristan, smile falling into an apologetic frown. “Unfortunately, while I would love to stay and host you all properly myself, I still have wedding preparations to see to....”

“Perfectly understandable,” Tristan replied. “I’ve got my maid and butler here taking good care of us, so please don’t mind us. As long as Lady Anastasia stays to chat, we’ll be just fine.”

“Thank you.” Eliza bowed her head and turned to leave, but she paused at the doorway and glanced back over her shoulder to Anastasia, frigid once more. “So Sir Tristan says, but remember your manners. Do not embarrass us.”

“Y-Yes, I understand,” Anastasia replied meekly.

“I’m worried about you,” Eliza continued as if Anastasia hadn’t spoken. “Every so often you’ll pull some outrageous little stunt. Why, just the other day you suddenly vanished for days on end....”

“Huh?”

“... No, it’s nothing.” Whatever Eliza was going to say next, she swallowed it down. Instead, she threw her parting words over her shoulder. “... If your intention was to run away from home, you would have done well to stay away.” And with that, she swept out of the room.

“Sister –” Anastasia’s breath caught in her throat, as if fighting back a sob, as she watched the tail end of her sister’s dress vanish from sight.

Owl pondered the exchange for a moment. “I wonder if my deduction was wrong,” he mumbled to himself. Anastasia’s gaze swiveled to him – she’d overheard. He continued, “I thought you two had a good relationship, but... was I off?”

Anastasia’s expression grew even more pinched and pained at that, but she simply bit her lip and shook her head. “No, your deduction was correct. My sister and I have a very good relationship. She loves me more than any other,” she insisted.

Owl pictured Eliza’s ice-cold attitude just now and tried to reconcile that with the sister Anastasia was describing. He couldn’t.

“I imagine she’s simply experiencing some marriage blues,” Anastasia went on. “That’s why her mood seemed so dour.”

Owl was still unconvinced, and so was Tristan. “... Is that really the case?” the gentleman whispered to his son, swiping his fingers through his hair. “I don’t think that’s all there is to it. I’ve known Miss Eliza for some time, but she never seemed like the type to treat her sister like that just because she’s going through ‘marriage blues.’”

“Meaning?” Owl whispered back.

“Well, I’m sure she has a lot on her mind.” Tristan’s sharp eyes focused on the doorway Eliza had vanished through. There was something in his voice that nagged at Owl – he knew something the younger didn’t. “But I can attest that the two do have a great relationship. I’ve seen them together countless times.”

“Right?” Anastasia latched onto Tristan’s defense. “My sister has just been a little off recently. I wonder if that phantom thief’s calling card is the cause...? No, it must be. She must be frightened at the thought of the tiara’s jewel being stolen, and her spirits are low.” Her impassioned defense of her older sister’s conduct made Anastasia a textbook example of a devoted younger sister. Even when Eliza treated her so poorly, she cared only for her sister’s wellbeing, not her own. “I implore you, Mr. Owl, please catch that awful thief and make my sister a happy bride. She will surely turn back into her usual kind self if you do.”

“... You really think so, huh.”

“Yes!” Anastasia clasped her hands together, her gaze focused squarely on the detective.

The full force of her whirling emotions, her hopes, her expectations, hit Owl head-on. He couldn’t refuse such a heartfelt wish. “I will,” he told her.

Anastasia sighed in relief. “Let us continue with our tea,” she said, pulling her chair out.

Just then, however, the door opened once more, and a voice boomed throughout the room. “Sir Tristan! I see you were also invited to the wedding!”

A man leisurely sauntered into the room. He was a flashy sort, with a fur coat draped over a stand-up collared shirt in vogue with the young crowd and a collared vest adorned with several jewels. He strode up to Tristan, sticking a hand out in greeting as he continued, “It’s an honor to have a reputable state alchemist such as yourself in attendance. What a joyous occasion!”

“Good to see you, Mr. Cain. You’re looking... as young as ever.” Tristan eyed the proffered hand for a moment before taking it. The ends of his mustache curled up in a cynical smile. The gaudy man, Cain, overflowed with such life and vigor that he hardly seemed a day over thirty, but Tristan continued, “It’s hard to believe you’re my age.”

That threw Owl for a loop. This man brimming with vitality was Tristan’s age? There was no way, there had to be at least a twenty-year age gap between the two!

“Marvelous, isn’t it?” Cain released Tristan’s hand and stepped back to show off his looks. “You all might find it curious, but perhaps you’ve already got an inkling as to what this is. I can’t get into specifics, but what you’re seeing here is thanks to a secret alchemical technique imported from another country.

“A secret technique, you say?” Tristan hummed. “A new product of yours, I’m guessing?”

“Indeed it is!” Cain started rattling on like he was in a business meeting. “But people won’t be convinced to buy it if they don’t see the results for themselves. Once they realize the fruits of my labor, though, all the ladies wanting to preserve their youthful looks will flock to my medicines. Would you like to try it as well, Sir Tristan? Just install this syringe in your ring and tomorrow you’ll look no older than thirty.”

Cain raised his hands to accentuate the rings adorning both of his hands. The gaudy jewelry glared in the light. Tristan took one look at them and immediately replied, “I’ll pass, thank you. I don’t want to look so young that people think Owl and I aren’t father and son.”

“Oh, is that so? That’s a shame.” Cain affected a disappointed pout, before glancing over to Owl. His eyes roved over the detective, noting the polished monocle and the glove peeking out of his breast pocket. “So you’re Sir Tristan’s son. It’s plain to see that you’re following in his esteemed footsteps – how wonderful for you.” He offered his hand to Owl as well. “It’s very nice to meet you. I’m Cain McCreech. I believe my products will be of great use to you as well.”

“Nice to meet you, too, I’m Owl. Your talk sounds quite intriguing.” Owl shook Cain’s hand. As he did, though, he felt an odd tingle in his fingertip, almost like an electric shock. He almost flinched back reflexively, but he managed to hold firm – if he hadn’t, he knew it would’ve looked like he’d shoved Cain’s hand away.

“Mr. Cain,” interjected Tristan. “Unfortunately, my son is still a novice, and he doesn’t yet have the wherewithal or the wallet to purchase any McCreech products. My apologies, but if you’d like to sell him anything, I’d ask that you go through me first.” As he spoke, he subtly pulled Owl’s hand away from Cain’s.

“Well, now. You’re awfully protective, Sir Tristan. I didn’t expect that from you – I feel like I’m seeing you in a new light,” Cain teased.

“When it comes to my darling son, I’m afraid there’s no helping it,” Tristan replied.

Their banter sounded lighthearted on the surface, but Owl could sense a faint but palpable tension rising in the air. Both of them wore their masks of politeness well. There were no cracks in their genial facades, no signs of their true thoughts leaking through. Owl got the sense that Tristan was trying to maintain a favorable impression with Cain.

Anastasia piped up, “Uncle, Sir Tristan is Father’s client. He’ll yell at you again if you try and do business with him.”

“Oh, he will, will he?” Cain’s polite mask crumbled into a scowl at her words, and he glared down at her with annoyance dripping from every word. “You grow more impertinent by the day, Anastasia – in fact, you’re starting to resemble your father to an infuriating degree. He always has some inane reason or another to interfere in my business dealings. If he would just listen to me, our family’s wealth would expand several times over!”

Anastasia didn’t seem all that fazed. “Father always says to do things thoroughly, Uncle. I don’t believe that your alchemical products are bad, necessarily, but I do believe that you may be overly concerned with profits, and conducting business like that interferes with thorough work.”

“Oh, be quiet,” Cain snarled. “Children shouldn’t butt into adult affairs.” After a moment’s thought, though, his eyebrows rose as he came to some sort of realization, and he pasted a smile on his face. “But that’s fine. Even your backtalk is as trivial as a tiny chirping bird in the distance right now. You’ll understand what I mean soon enough, my dear, cute Anastasia.”

The girl fell quiet, puzzled. What was that supposed to mean?

Cain didn’t elaborate, though. He simply stated, “I’ll leave things here for now. Let’s meet up again at the party,” and strode back out of the room.

 As soon as Cain left, Tristan tapped his fingertip on the table, his irritation now plain as day without his civil mask to cover it. “... Owl, give me your hand.”

“Huh?”

“Your hand. Hurry. The one you shook his with.”

Owl hurriedly stuck his hand out. Tristan pulled it down to rest on the table’s surface and snapped his fingers. A square alchemical diagram twinkled to life around his palm, made of interchanging gold and silver squares lined up in rows... almost like a chessboard, in fact. Tristan snapped his fingers again and intoned, “Healing Bishop.”

A bishop chess piece sprang to life in response to the second snap, gliding along the board diagonally until it stood before Owl’s pointer finger. It transformed into a tiny priest, which raised its staff over the finger.

Anastasia watched the spectacle with sparkling eyes, utterly entranced. “My, how cute!” she gasped unthinkingly. “It’s a little priest! Is this another one of your magic tricks, Sir Tristan?”

She was right – the miniscule priest waving its staff around was quite adorable. But when it finally stopped, a tiny thorn-like object emerged ominously from Owl’s fingertip before crumbling apart and vanishing into nothing. The priest, too, lowered its staff and melted away into the air.

“What was that thorn?” Owl asked Tristan.

Tristan exchanged meaningful glances with Hannah and Ralph. The pair casually approached Anastasia, and the former said, “Lady Anastasia, would you care for another scone? I could prepare some raspberry jam this time?”

“I’ll prepare some more tea as well,” added Ralph. “What flavor would you like?”

As Anastasia’s attention turned to them, Tristan murmured in a low voice to Owl, “It was a low-grade poison.”

“Poison?” Owl echoed, aghast.

“Or rather, a narcotic. It’s something like a curse – if it had affected you, your desires would have spiraled out of control, and you would have been unable to resist the allure of his products. What a nasty trick to pull....”

Owl’s eyes widened. He silently rubbed at the spot where the thorn had sprouted. That odd shock when they’d shook hands... that must have been when he’d administered the poison. Tristan had realized that and drawn it back out with alchemy. The detective shook his hand around and repeatedly clenched it, ensuring that he hadn’t lost any mobility or strength, before asking, “Who is that guy?”

“Cain McCreech. He’s the older brother of the head of the family, Lord Arby.” As he spoke, Tristan stroked his hand over the table, erasing any trace of his alchemy.

“Older brother? So the younger brother succeeded the family?”

“That’s right. Arby may be younger, but he is an extremely brilliant alchemist, while Cain has little talent to speak of. You can imagine what sort of resentment that might breed.”

“... Yeah, that’s a tale as old as time.”

“He’s got a good head for business, but his antagonism toward his brother has festered into overwhelming greed. He can’t accept that the previous head chose his brother to lead the family over him. Lord Arby is an exceptionally skilled artisan.”

“Calling him an ‘artisan’ instead of a ‘businessman’ – are you saying that Lord Arby himself creates the alchemical tools he sells?”

Tristan nodded. “I am. I’ll introduce you later. Your monocle and glove were custom-made by Lord Arby himself, and I don’t think I need to tell you just how talented he is when you’ve experienced it firsthand. It wouldn’t hurt to acquaint yourself with the man. However, his health is somewhat poor right now – we most likely won’t see him until tomorrow.”

Owl dipped his head in relief. That was welcome news for once. He pointed toward the door and questioned, “So what kind of business does the scorned heir deal in? He was talking about products – is he making his own alchemical tools outside of the McCreech name?”

Tristan hummed to himself. “Usually he plays the front man, selling McCreech implements to the church and such, but now with the Frost family involved.... The Frosts are distantly related to the McCreeches, but lately they’ve been coming and going and starting to sell their own original goods. They’re a family of top-notch doctors and pharmacists, you see, and Cain has been using that connection to make a killing on drugs manufactured through alchemy... though I’ll admit, the rumors I’ve been hearing on that front have been rather unsavory.”

Owl winced. “Selling alchemy to laymen? That can’t be good.”

“Yes, but he won’t be able to keep it up for long.”

“... Why?”

“The second son of the Frost family is Miss Eliza’s fiancé, and he’s a rather reputable young man. When he and Eliza wed, I doubt Cain will be able to abuse the connection any longer.”

“I see. Well, that’s good, I guess. I’d like to see Miss Eliza happy, for Anastasia’s sake as well.”

“I wholeheartedly agree.” Tristan gave a single firm nod. “The Frost family’s medicine works wonders on my leg – I’d hate to see both families’ reputations go down the drain.”

Owl fell silent at that. He glanced at Tristan’s leg out of the corner of his eye. It was true – the man had a bad leg, that’s why he carried a cane. The detective raised his slightly cold cup of tea to his lips and murmured, “We have to make sure this wedding goes smoothly, no matter what.”

 A face flashed across his mind’s eye at that moment – the face of the thief he’d failed to capture on the sleeper train.

original written by Nagaya Kawaji here

[offwilds]

@ofgradobor  

He comes upon her at twilight. The rain has yet to come but she feels it in the clouds, heavy and grey upon the skies. The scent of the forest is strong, as if it is closing upon itself in defense of the coming storm. The trees whisper of his arrival – unexpected and unwelcome in their eyes – and their warning FLITS onto her, well before his steps sound upon the half-frozen ground. “You are lost, Witcher. This is not the place for you.” His hair is all white and silver, ringlets upon ringlets of ice, eyes which are wide and large, all gold and dark as the depths of the river of the sacred groves of her lands. Tall still, young still, like a little tree which has yet to reach for the skies. He feels newborn to her, who has seen so many like him through her years. Not like him, no, she cannot think that. None can be like him, a sunlight filled gem hiding beneath triviality— this WOLF of a man; all steel and stone and iron. She feels her heart stir and swell within her breast at the familiar sight of him, even though, she had been the one to flee the warmth of that fire they had huddled around together, all these moons past, the two of them, and leave him behind with no more than a fleeting caress, no more than a word; even though, she had been the one to leave him buried on that mountainside, dead and gone forever only for him to come alive once more; in the end, he had been the one to leave her- he had been the one out of reach, a witcher reborn; blood spiller, death gatherer, a heart of flame; he, who quarrels with destiny and fights with fate; who burns like fire on the rushing sea.

       Instinctively, she moves to stand nearer him now, her dark brow furrowing deeply, cold rage and concern both intermingling, leaving her grasping for words, feeling her breath, ice-cold and shallow, catch in her throat and her pulse begin to race and sputter. Gods, she has missed him— achingly so; she can scarcely breathe for it. A terrible thing, to care. A dreadful thing- to care for him. "Aldric.“ she says his name, all ice and stone, then, more air than voice, her face aflame with starlight, soft and stark and somber, her dark hair cascading down her back and over her delicate shoulders in curly messy ringlets.  “you look horrible…” she offers, taking a step toward him to better look at him; some part of her (younger, softer, lovelier) is yearning to reach out and press her palm warmly to the sharp curve of his jaw, but she does no such thing; her heart, too, is pounding at the sight of him— rugged and covered in blood—and although she appears, for the most part, rather collected, her eyes are gentle, quite sparks of unspoken sentiment. Instead, she remains standing and dripping in starlight, her face hauntingly fair and cold, eyes shining with the flood of emotions that suddenly threaten to drown her, “dare I ask what sort of trouble you have brought upon yourself, NOW?” she wonders haughtily, taking stock of his appearance. “or should I inquire the status of your foe? — DEAD, I hope.”

[cyberp-1-nk]

[ Lapis Nightingale - ST Simp Party ]

💧 SYNOPSIS; Dustin meets the strange women in the forest.

💧 GENRE; Supernatural

💧 CONTENT WARNINGS; None.

💧 Tags; @insane-horror-movie-addict @ikea-employee

💧 WORD COUNT; 6,721

The fluffy yet shadowy clouds blocked the view of the perfect round moon, along with the beautiful crystals embedded in the night sky; as if they were punishing a child for snatching more than one cookie from the jar, thus disallowed to watch the television. Silver hues took this sight in with hopefulness in her eyes, a hope for a new start, ever since she had escaped. The serene tune produced by the springtime breeze mischievously plays with her snow-white hair, blowing the long strands alongside the wind. Icy wind blowing from different directions. Her eyes twinkled like visible stars high in the night's sky, as if competing to out-shine the full luminous moon. 

A smile made its way onto her face, standing to her face. She hadn't felt such a wonderful feeling in forever, this the feeling of euphoria, happiness, of freedom. The woman quietly saunters the pathway that leads to the glistening stream. As the girl roams closer to the exit of the woods, the whistling wind wafts in a refreshing breath of air which mildly causes the pungent smell of blood from her white gown to drift further away temporarily. Reaching her desired destination, the beast slowly but surely leans her head close to the running, sparkly water.

She controlled water from the river into a giant stream, purposefully having it rise above her, before it rushed towards her. She braced herself, the stream hitting her harshly and carrying her away, she tumbled within the moving water and then fell to the ground as the water dissipated. She slowly pushed herself onto her hands and knees, coughing up water that had rushed in through her nose as she was struck. She looked up, as enthusiastic as ever.

Freedom to control whatever she had wanted, without someone monitoring her behavior!

She then ran over to the stream once again, tiny drops of crimson from her bloody-nose dived into the running long torrent of freshwater; forming a miniature splash. The blurry reflection reveals the girl's appearance, perhaps the very sight had her rooted to the ground. Rebelliously demolishing all facts, she started using the water and bending it into a whipping stream that rushed through her feet and swept her along. The water started to form into a miniature wave, sweeping her along the forest as she viewed the scenery with adoring eyes. In her hurry she slammed first-face into a tree, and her abilities faltered. She then tripped over a root, stumbling down and hitting the ground hard before she began to tumble down a steep hill. Unable to stop her momentum she brought her arms up and wrapped them around her head and face to protect herself as she continued to roll down the hill. 

It was when she hit a tree at the bottom of the hill that she came to a halting stop, the wind getting knocked out of her lungs from how hard she hit the tree. She took a minute to catch her breath, before she sat up slowly, her clothes and hair had picked up dirt and leaves on the tumble she took and made her look an absolute mess. She noticed that in front of her wasn't just trees anymore, there was a path now and she perked up at this. 

As she slowly arose to her feet, she looked up to see a younger boy, staring down at her with gaping hues and a bar of chocolate in his grasp. The shakiness of her pupils as they dilated slightly, turning into thin lines of slits. The way her chest tightened and restricted her from showing too much motion as she breathed, she was as scared as she was furious. People…she associated them with being dangerous. Slowly her fist raised, her hand leaning towards another torrent of water near the forest, as it slowly raised above her and formed into a similar fist.

"Holy shit.." The boy breathed, tilting his baseball-cap up slightly to see if what he was seeing was real, "Hey! Wait, wait-! I'm not gonna hurt you!" The girl ignored his cries, her silver hues turning nearly blank as the massive fist of water rushed towards him. In panic, he squeezed his eyes shut and shielded his face with his arms, unknowingly pointing the chocolate bar towards her. The giant fist stopped right before his face, and the giant torrent of water was pointed towards his eyes as she curiously gazed at the chocolate bar.

"You want the chocolate bar..?" He questioned quietly. She didn't answer however, keeping hushed as she inaudibly examined the small-wrapped dessert. "Here, you can have it. I won't hurt you. I didn't bite it yet.."

She grazed her slender fingertips over to the dessert, momentarily locking eyes with him, she quickly snatched it. The clenched fist of water remained in place, and the boy examined the bizarre sight with excitement evident in his eyes. She nearly devoured the entire dessert in minimal time, leaving nothing but the shreds of the discarded wrappings. 

"My name is Dustin, what's yours?" Dustin's lips pulled into a smile, holding his hand out. She looked up at him once again, narrowing her eyes. The water shifted its form, quickly attaching to her back as it shaped into wings of some-sort, and she leaped, landing onto the branch of a tree. He awkwardly lowered his hand, looking up at the strange snow-haired girl. As he examined her, he quickly noticed the small horns that adorned her head, a strange feature that not even Eleven possessed. 

"It's dangerous at night, especially for a child," She finally spoke, a stoic expression remaining on her face, "Go home. Before something happens." 

"Oh so you can speak!" Her face twisted into an annoyed expression at this, "You didn't really answer my question earlier, it kind of seems like you were ignoring me. But it's fine, let's start over. I'm Dustin! What's your name?"

"If I answer that, will you leave?"  

"Yep!" She let out a pent-up breath of exasperation, her liquid-formed wings raising so slightly as she looked back down at the small boy. They had looked elegant, and almost like real-wings, except they missed the feathers and actual solid form. 

"My name is Lapis," She furrowed her  brows, "Now leave."

"Alright Lapis, I'll see you tomorrow then!" Her expression twisted into one of extreme confusion, lips drawing into a thin line as her expression painted with slight irritation, "I never said I wasn't going to come back, I just said I was going home after you answered my question."  

"Do what you please. But don't be surprised if I'm not here." His face painted with a cheerful expression, his lips drawing into a content smile as he waved goodbye to her. He turned on his heel, sauntering the path back to his home as she closely watched, to make sure no random creatures of the night went to snatch him. She raised her brow slightly, letting out an amused breath as she watched the strange kid. 

This…could be interesting.

[ofmistnmoons]

@wystirea cont for ask; [ rescue ] sender carries receiver to safety ((for Muichiro .^.))

Everything.

It took everything the youth had to survive this night. Ribs cracked and broken, his single arm shattered in multiple places, his body riddled with holes and deep lacerations across his frame. Discolorations range from sickly greens to raw and angry purples and red bruising mare his skin. His limbs were so painfully heavy, it felt like his skin was on fire yet ice to the touch. Newly formed markings of mist clouds crept across his cheeks bore from this fated encounter with the moon. No…

Death.

What the youth faced now was not a demon, nor man, it was death. Six eyes all fixed on him, saw through him, like he was nothing but the flow of his blood and the twitch of his muscles. He was acting as if he lived in an unseen world, not meant to be seen by mortal. The transparent world, the very same world, laid bare too to the broken youth before him.

It had never been so clear for him.

Throughout his life, for moments, precious few seconds, when he would need it most this mere child would peer into through the vail. See beyond this world, see the way the moon breathers blood flow and allow him to watch and accurately react to Kokushibo’s every strike. Follow, and dance along the endless circular stiles of his moons. Exchange moon breathing for his own mist breathing forms. And yet..

It was not enough. Not nearly enough.

Pinprick demonic claws caught around his throat. Held the child aloft, legs left to dangle uselessly beneath him his own fingertips dug into the demons grasp, a desperate yet feeble attempt for air. Caught in a vice, Yuichiro was truly helpless.

There was nothing the child could do.

Weak, bleeding uselessly on the ground like always..

Rivers of pain, anger, and fear stung down the child cheeks. Droplets of his pain drip off the edge of the boys chin splatter against the moons wrist. The man’s grip, unrelenting, unflinching, uncaring grasp only began to squeeze down harder on his neck causing Yuichiro’s form to tremble and visibly shake under the pressure. Purple bruises of the shape of the upper moons clasp imprints across the child’s neck.

“You..have been chosen..”

Those words struck the child to his core. His gaze fills with terror, disgusted by what they mean, his fear quick turned to pure horror as he was forced to watch the demons spare hand raise, sickly black demonic ichor pools within the palm of his hand.

“N…no…! N-no—!” Nononono anything but that— he’d rather die!

He tried. He tried to will his long broken body to move, to fight, to loosen the demons grip on his throat. It was all for nought.

“…..Aaaah-….”

Pressure building in his ears as those claws continue squeeze, depriving him of air. Tighter.. tighter.. spots of white began to dot across his vision, the world spun together he’s losing consciousness. He’s dying.

Terrified. Alone. The last words that left his lips was no curse at the demon. But a cry.

A desperate, terrified cry out the one person who made him feel safe. Whole. The one person who, as long as he was with him, nothing could break them.

“M….Mu i ch…i ro…i…im sc..s c..ared…” a simple whisper, the prayer of a terrified child echoes pass his lips and his body fell limp. Dangling uselessly in the other grasp, his fate resting in the hands of the demonic ancestor of the child. However, with blood pooling in his palm, rose to Yuichiro’s lips. Tilt his head back to feed the boy his gift. A single slip of poison ready to touch the child’s lips, to coat his throat, to turn him into a demon like himself.

Mist suddenly fell upon the moon, with it a single clean cut ushered in by rays of the morning sun began to kiss across the land as a shining blade cut through the demonic creatures fingers wrapped around Yuichiro’s throat. The child’s limp form fell for only just a single second before his body clashed into the reliable, steady, loving arms of his younger brothers, his twin, his other half’s embrace. The youngers footsteps were daft and quick, nimble and his tracks were covered by the safety of daylight. The only thing that saved the pair from the embodiment of death following them.

[kazeofthemagun]

@shiroi---kumo asked the summoner:

It's dark and they've had to come to stop for the night.

They've had to stop and make a small campsite out in the wilds of Wonderland because they have come to learn the hard way they aren't welcomed within the space of society. All the surrounding towns have been the same and they all end with the Unlimited finding themselves uncomfortable with the talk of the town locals before the pair of them end up fleeing from town as quickly as possible.

At least they managed to refill on some much needed supplies.

The crackle of the fire fills the place between and the Misterican is bringing himself to set down - not on the opposite side of the fire as he usually would - but directly next to his counterpart.

"It's cold tonight." He comments, his words falling with the smallest shiver from his lips and it's in that moment that the white clad man leans.

He allows himself to lean up against the body of the Dark's Unlimited as he once did when he was a child and they would spend the night reading novels in the cabin. His eyes are falling closed as his lips part again and he near roars releasing a loud yawn. He's tired and all this travel is not helping. He shifts himself a bit closer and leans his weight in a bit more. There was no invitation but there was also no ask for permission.

The prince has just boldly acted. He'll be sleeping here tonight. He doesn't need to ask about next watch. It's nearly never his turn, so he'll just settle in like this.

The lazy crackle of flame and the occasional chirping of insect life were the only sounds to accompany the quiet evening. The world felt calmer - stiller. Nights spent by the campfire could not compare to resting in a proper bed, and yet with how little the gunmage slept at all these days, the thought of comfort was one that hardly occupied his mind. Sleeping on the ground was second nature, had always been so for him. Winds knew they were not welcome in town anyway.

Surely, there were sectors that could care less about Gaudium's most wanted - or a myth of pale death given flesh - and they could breathe easier there. As of now, their reality was rather bleak indeed, with every brush with civilization carrying risk. Not that they were not hunted outside of it as well.

Though the soft warmth of the fire did not erase those concerns, it helped move them aside if but for a fleeting moment.

The sound of his counterpart's voice saw the Windarian's gaze shift just in time to catch the prince's posture changing, a smaller frame leaning lightly against the thick cape that covered the summoner's form. A mighty yawn and a few wordless seconds simply sitting like so - the Misterican seemingly testing the waters before inching a tad closer and leaning in fully.

How natural such behavior was for a Windarian tempered by cold desert nights. White Cloud, however, was more comfortable with the cold than he and his race, and though a subtle shiver and standing hairs disproved such a notion, a part of Kaze did briefly wonder whether the evening chill was but an excuse to sit near and let a body dressed in white rest closer to one dressed in black. Touch starvation - hardly surprising. Mundane affection. It was evident the Misterican could not survive without it.

Could anyone?

Black Wind did not question. The dim orange light sectioned off a tiny fragment of Wonderland just for them where worries vacated the mind. No need to think. Mechanically, blue eyes continued to scan the dark where light did not reach, but the motion was more instinct than alarm. To watch was his instinct. Who better to keep vigil than the bearer of the nine-eyed Beast? The woods were peaceful and unmoving. Calm. It felt calm.

...Felt like home.

An arm lifted, though hardly to push the other away. Rather, it only draped dark cloth over them both, wrapping the swordsman's opposite shoulder before retreating to the side of the gunman.

Something inside ached. But the flicker of fire said, live in the moment.

[fuzzykidkid]

JOURNALING  

Unity: Appearing as one  

Example: We see houses in our everyday life that are painted all one color. 

Variety: diversity, different, using many things to create art 

Example: We see a variety in stained glass art which shows many different shapes, sizes, and colors. 

Balance: to stabilize two different things evenly  

Example: When we look at each other, each human who has 2 arms and 2 legs, they are symmetrical, it balances the body, I’m not saying both sides are identical but there’s balance. 

Emphasis: To grab attention to one area of a picture using some kind of effect  

Example: Every day when we look up at the sky in the morning and there are no clouds, just blue sky, the sun is the focal point and at night the moon is the focal point. 

Subordination: to make something look less important by placement, color, size 

Example: When it is a cloudy day and there is a cloud covering the sun, the sky appears neutral and of lesser interest.  

Directional forces: a route for the eye to follow in art 

Example: When we look at another person and they are looking at something we tend to look in that direction to see what they are looking at.  

Repetition: when a certain form reoccurs, Rhythm: repeated forms in a design with related variations 

Scale: sizes related from one thing to another, Proportion: the relationship between the different forms, figures, or elements in artwork within a whole  

Example: scale is when we stand next to each other one may be tall, one may be short. 

WRITING AND LOOKING 

The Starry Night. Vincent Van Gogh. CH. 3 section 8 Texture.  

This painting was created using a variety of cool colors. It has different shades of blue, white, yellow, green, and brown. The artist uses thick brush strokes that appear to swirl and be circular in motion, that have directional forces that lead us to look at the focal point which is the moon. The stars are shining in yellow circular forms, and he seems to be using the repetitive hard, thick strokes that can tell us he is emotional and trying to connect to nature.  

CONNECTING ART TO YOUR WORLD 

Color has affected my life by helping me cope as I grew up. In middle school, I was always interested in the achromatic such as black because I liked the punk emo chicks and their style. I thought they looked so beautiful, and they always wear neutral colors. Everything they wore expressed who they were inside, expressed how they felt emotionally from their clothes to their hair. I was going through phases as a teen where I did not know who I was. I honestly felt lost. I was never into intense hues nor bright colors I was never girly enough to like them. Wearing neutral colors, especially black, made the younger me feel like I at least belonged somewhere. The color scheme for my life would be complimentary because different parts of my life have been flipped upside down as I grew up, but each part complimented each other and helped it stand out for the better. That is the beauty of my life, each color represents a certain part of it that was sad, but another part of it made me happy.  

ART PROJECT  

My nursing career is important to me and what I am passionate about. Nursing burnout is an important concept in nursing, so we must be there for one another.  

PHOTO/DESIGN 

Portrait  

Who: A homeless person by Lee Jeffries 

What does the picture hope to tell you about the person? That she is human. As a person goes through struggles in their life we have to remember that we are only human. 

Landscape 

Where is it? Cinque Terre Liguria Italy taken as the night is coming to an end. 

Still Life 

What is it? A lively plumeria flower with other dead ones on the street. 

Why include this stuff? The photographer included this stuff because he saw more than a flower, he saw a feeling, a beauty, a way to express himself.  

What is the message? The message of self expression behind a still life picture. This is a plumeria flower which represents a "new beginning." As the person seeing the picture there can be many emotions from hope and faith to sadness. I see both from a new beginning to an end, as long as the viewer sees more than just a flower. 

[mogiyue]

It must have been a good ten minutes that the young Fitzgerald had been running in the rain which had come unexpectedly. Fortunately the cold had not yet reached her, her breath was short and yet the young girl ran with all her strength towards this unknown point, hoping to find Jeno in this vast forest. Fear, worry, stress, everything mixed in her mind, as well as incomprehension; they were just gone for a while, not long, it was all three of them, what could have happened?

Although the season was summer with the sun shining every day, the rain and the clouds darkened her vision, Ame could no longer tell where she was going, the rain even seemed to weigh down her body as she moved forward on the muddy ground. The more she advanced, the more her hair absorbed the water, starting to fade its color and leaving white reflections gradually emerging; yet another danger for her that she was unaware of.

Screams echoed behind her in the distance, cries calling to her and indistinctly calling the names of the injured boys. Jaemin, Chenle and Sora who had followed were running at high speed, taking the same path that Ame had taken earlier. The rain was getting more and more violent, accompanied by a few gusts of wind here and there. Chenle looked around, calling the boys's names in vain as he continued to run alongside his two oldest doing the same.

« Are we going to find them in this rain? »

« We see absolutely nothing there... »

« If we manage to get to the side of the road, we can surely see traces of an accident or not. » Sora continued, indicating to the two boys to follow her. « The firefighters will probably arrive that way so if we can get there before them it’s preferable. »

Everyone nodded in agreement before continuing on their way towards the road. The young Moon could hear every possible noise, surely a factor in her curse, she seemed to be constantly mobilizing all her primary senses forcing herself to concentrate on what could help them get closer to others.

Boom, Boom

A heartbeat, faint but that Sora managed to hear during their race. Suddenly the young girl stopped, worrying Jaemin and Chenle not understanding such a sudden stop. About to speak, their breathing ragged, the silence, the wind and the rain having taken place for a brief moment, Jaemin slowly came to approach Sora, placing his hand on the young Moon's shoulder to move out of her way, his glowing eyes staring at a point behind her.

« Jaemin? » Chenle worried, following him with his gaze. The said Jaemin didn't respond, continuing to move forward, followed closely by Sora and Chenle. And with surprise, passing behind the immense barrier of branches and leaves, the three saw a body lying on the ground, clothes soaked as possible, blood on the hands and honey-colored hair. Time seemed to freeze for a moment, the three staring at the body in front of them, multiple questions jumbled together in their minds.

Boom, Boom, Boom

« HAECHAN. » Chenle had just rushed towards the lying body belonging to the said Haechan, taking care to take the boy close to him almost forgetting that he could be seriously injured.

« Chenle calm down, be careful he is probably very injured. » Jaemin began, violently grabbing the younger boy's hand, staring back at Haechan with worry.

« His heart is beating slowly, I don't like that at all. » Jaemin and Chenle came to look in the direction of Sora who had spoken and stayed behind, wondering how she could know that without having been able to catch the injured young boy's louse. « I can hear his heart beating, it’s beating really slowly, when are the firefighters coming? » the young Moon was worried, she tried not to show anything but panic was taking over.

Jaemin stared out of the corner of his eye at Sora, noticing her hands truly trembling and staring anxiously at Haechan who was not receptive to their attempts to call. With a quick movement, Jaemin signaled Chenle to move away, paying attention to the injured man before carrying him on his back and miraculously hearing a moan of pain come out from between his lips. He was breathing but was really in bad shape, they had to act quickly at all costs.

« We're going to take him to the residence, the firefighters won't come. » Jaemin said as he adjusted the boy onto his back.

« What !? » Sora almost exclaimed, alarmed by the information. « But why the hell? Haechan is in bad shape, he could die if he isn't treated, we shouldn't call them? Are you stupid? »

« So that they understand that we are not strictly human? Think for two seconds, who in their right mind is going to take care of him or even Jeno or Mark if they see that anatomically we are nothing human? Imagine a nurse touches Haechan and he transforms in front of her? » the young Na had just gotten angry, his breathing ragged as he stared at Sora, the rain continuing to fall on them. Chenle stood back, holding Haechan's unbalanced hand as he looked down.

Jaemin took Sora's hand in a gentle gesture, caressing it unconsciously, his expression from before changing to a softer and reassuring one. The young Moon wanted to speak but the words couldn't form, she stared at Haechan on Jaemin's back, as if he was soothed, he seemed to be sleeping despite the wounds and the blood on part of his face and his hair. After a while, the young Moon came to her senses, fixing Jaemin with a serious look again.

« This is the only time I trust you, Jaemin. »

« I'm not asking you to trust me, I'm asking you to believe me, Sora. »

Renjun fumed in anger. The young brunette advanced angrily in the direction of the upper rooms, followed by Karina Winter and Ninging. His mind was blurring as he moved forward, the girls with him trying to stop him as best they could. But there was nothing to do, Renjun didn't hear anyone, he was on a mission and he would see it through to the end, even if he had to suffer the consequences.

« Ren, calm down, it’s not necessary, you’re going to get punished. » Winter tried again, grabbing his arm which the young boy violently pulled away. « Ren, I'm sure they're fine, imagine it's not her fault and they really had an accident?" »

Renjun had just stopped, turning towards Winter who almost regretted his words while observing the dark gaze of the young brunette. « You think I’m still Winter? That I'm sick of thinking what I think ? Are you honestly going to tell me that their accident was really an accident? »

« Please don't argue, we have to try to find a solution here too.. » The young dove had been crying since the beginning of the drama, holding Karina's hand who was trying to comfort her as best she could.

« Oh yes ? By doing what Ningning? By letting this sick girl have fun with our lives? » Renjun had just shouted, anger having completely taken control of his body. The girls had never seen him in this state, even less so than now when it was not the first time that an accident like this had happened.

The young people did not have time to continue their discussions when a presence was felt behind them, shivers of fear running through each other's bodies before they had the courage to look at who was in the corridor with them. A young lady, almost breathtakingly beautiful, with a crystalline and flawless complexion surrounded by black hair similar to the black of chaos. Her vermilion-colored household Hanbok gave her a graceful, almost divine air.

« What are you doing here ? » A clear voice, almost welcoming but completely threatening, her red jasper gaze observing each of the young people present.

« Lady Irene...» Karina began, stepping back weakly. « We didn’t want to- »

« I don’t like repeating myself. What are you doing here ? »

« Mark, Haechan and Jeno had an accident. » Renjun had just spoken, staring at the said Lady Irene with his gaze still filled with anger. « You are aware ? »

Lady Irene watched her cadets with a faint smile, rearranging her long hair before turning around again. « Go back to your rooms, it's not your problem. »

Renjun could no longer contain his anger, quickly advancing towards the young lady, grabbing her arm, his hand trembling and his eyebrows furrowed as much as possible.

« They had an accident and it's Giselle's fault I'm sure, they're injured outside somewhere and you don't care ? Are our lives so miserable for you? For the sake of the Uchinaga? » Karina suddenly came to let go of Ningning's hand who was looking at the scene in shock, Winter having stepped back as far as possible when she also saw the scene, panicking as much as possible. But too late, Lady Irene was faster, raising her hand almost in inhuman slow motion and forcefully slapping Renjun who fell violently to the ground. The young boy held his cheek, still looking with a hateful look at the young lady in front of him, giving an evil look, the pure and gentle side transforming into something dark and sinister. Karina stood between the two, protecting Renjun from yet another punishment by staring at Lady Irene.

« I see that you are becoming more and more insolent, I don't see what's stopping me from telling Lady Uchinaga about this problem. » Lady Irene stared at Renjun while speaking again, ignoring Karina who was staring at her with fear but also anger. Renjun was basically right, their lives didn't matter to them, but they had no other choice but to stay and suffer. Near or far. « Go back to your-

Suddenly, a deafening noise could be heard, like the crash of glass breaking on the ground. Everyone directed their gazes in the direction of the noise, one of the sliding doors slowly opening, blocking at one point and revealing a young boy with wavy ebony hair in a mullet cut. His face was contorted with pain, his face was covered with bloody scratches, his hand was holding one of his ribs where a huge red stain was located and crossing his yellow sweater with black stripes, torn in a few places. With tanned skin and crystal brown eyes, the young boy staggered forward and clung to the wall to keep his balance.

Looking up, Karina, Renjun, Winter and Ningning cried out in panic and relief when they saw the boy, Ningning taking him in her arms while crying forcefully.

« MARK » Ningning no longer let go of the injured man who had just fallen to the ground, breathing with difficulty, housekeepers coming and observing the scene with terror.

« Mark, is everything okay? We were scared Jisung warned us, what happened? » Karina had moved closer to him, placing her hand on his forehead, trying to check if he was no more injured. Winter was busy helping the other housekeepers to help Mark by sitting him more comfortably towards the wall, Renjun slowly approaching it.

Mark opened his eyes painfully, observing the people around him, finally finding a better breathing rhythm and settling his gaze on Renjun. He tried to speak, coughing from the pain before stopping briefly when he noticed his youngest's red cheek, the terrified looks of the girls and Lady Irene; present and standing in the background who was only observing.

Mark's gaze had just changed, the pain and weakness giving way to a more serious expression.

« Sir Lee? » asked one of the chief governesses when she felt the young boy get up. Mark had just stood up, still holding his bloodied rib, glaring at Lady Irene. He knew something, he wasn't stupid.

« Mark? » Renjun stared at his eldest, not understanding what was happening, seeing him going towards the lady, Mark grabbing the collar of the vermilion hanbok with violence, cries of surprise muffled from almost everyone. Mark and Lady Irene both glared at each other, the injured youth tightening his grip on the garment, despite the pain and exhaustion.

« I’m going to make you regret it. »

« I do not see what you're talking about. » Lady Irene responded indifferently, staring down at the boy in front of her.

« Oh yes ? » Mark began, « I'm going to make you regret this so much, you and your pawns who serve as your dogs are going to pay and I'll start with you. » The atmosphere of the pavilion became hot, like a fire of sunlight being close to them. A bestial and imposing energy disturbing for a moment Lady Irene who came to release Mark's hand, leaving in a hurry and leaving the others in a disturbing silence. And suddenly, it's dark, Mark had passed out, only just caught on time by Karina.

« QUICKLY, CALL THE FAMILY DOCTOR. »

Ame kept screaming Jeno's name in the immense forest, having been going in circles for almost an hour without any trace of the boy.

The rain continued to fall relentlessly, the young Fitzgerald becoming more and more exhausted even though the cold did not reach her. Her vision became blurred over time, she could no longer distinguish any shapes, only sources of light and possibly awaken her primary senses as much as she could. Anguish made her heart beat faster and faster, tears or rain flowed from her eyes; maybe she cried from fatigue, from fear to be honest she couldn't be effective with all this rain as if the universe was preventing her from finding Jeno. Her hands were covered in scratches, her cheek too, and her knees too.

Exhausted, the young Fitzgerald fell to the ground. Yet the impact was not as painful, it was as if she had fallen on a warm duvet. Getting up with difficulty, her hand came to slowly run over what she had taken for a duvet, soft, warm, almost pleasant but wet. Opening her eyes a little wider and looking at her hand, a cry of surprise escaped her when she noticed a huge stain of blood on her hand, stepping back quickly.

A black mass was in front of her that she couldn't really make out. Coming closer, this black mass turned out to be an animal that was still breathing but injured. Ame, still on her knees, walked around the animal, trying to observe the slightest significant injury that she could alleviate. The animal's leg was badly injured and tearing part of her t-shirt, Ame quickly bandaged it, all under the rain that wasn't going to stop any time soon.

The young girl was checking again the animal, observing its face, eyes closed and breathing in difficult. She observed him but at this point, Ame really couldn't see anything anymore, the red of her red dye having rubbed off on her top and her real hair color having taken its place; a snow white visible even at night. Gently, she came to caress the animal slowly for few minutes, her eyes still in blurry, gradually realizing that the soft coat had transformed into skin. A very slow breathing movement and a heart that she felt beating faintly on the palm of her hand. With surprise, Ame came closer, seeing herself holding in her hands a face with a falling temperature.

« J...jeno? Jeno ? Jeno !? » A cough was heard, the body next to her moving slightly. Forcing one last time, the young Fitzgerald took it upon herself to adapt her vision to the place, becoming clearer and less blurry. Ame felt warmth on her face, a hand having been placed on her cheek and caressing it weakly. There he was, lying on the ground almost at the end of his life in the first sense, his chest exposed to the open air in a temperature that was only dropping, injured in the leg and scratches and cuts on his arms and part of his head. face and despite everything, his beauty stood out.

« Ame...what are you doing here... » his voice was weak, Ame motioned him not to speak, looking around. Nothing, absolutely nothing else except the helmet of his motorcycle completely shattered near a bush. « Oh my god Jeno, we're going to go home and we'll heal you, please hold on. »

Jeno, who until now had kept his eyes somewhat closed, opened them a little more to observe the young girl at his side. He observed her in silence, watching as she picked up her phone and called who knew who for help. He observed her red dye which had completely disappeared, in his memories before he left for the other residence, she had them still red. She appeared to him like an angel.

Ame came to look at Jeno, reassured but still worried about his condition. She hoped to find a semi- solution by the time the others arrived, at least. Jeno couldn't stand in the rain like that. Quickly, Ame took off her top, remaining in her bra to cover the boy with it as best she could, using her strength to take him in her arms, Jeno's head on her thighs and the young girl's hands removing his hair from his face and trying to cover it as best as possible. Slowly, Jeno's temperature seemed to rise while Ame's temperature gradually dropped. The two stayed like that, Ame's eyes going blurry again and her lips turning blue.

« Please Jeno, please stay with me, everything is going to be ok. » The rain continued to fall, the wolf falling asleep and dreaming of a clear, snowy plain.

---------------------------------------------------------------------

ath /mogiyue

[soriaryl]

Cemetery Keeper

I am the Guardian of this Cemetery. Every evening I wake, only to return to sleep at dawn’s light. Among the headstones and the vines that creep, only the drifting sound of the wind whistling through the granite and marble grave markers. The birds tweet their songs of joy and sorrow during the day, but at dusk, there is lonely silence. The winter’s chill has set in the valley. Jack Frost would soon be coming to sprinkle the world in his signature rime. The moon shined from above, though the influx of clouds threatened to drop icy rain.

I stood up and stretched. My muscles were tight from not moving all day. I brushed the grey dust from my cold stone skin. It felt like I grew older every day when I woke up for the night shift. I checked the claws on my fingers and toes. They wore away with the cold snap of wind in the air.

A black creature rose from the soil next to me. It was unsure of its shape, until it settled on becoming a large black dog. I scratched the church grim’s head with my fingertips. It howled. The sound of the grim’s spectral voice echoed through the cemetery. 

“Can’t you keep that mutt silent?” an almost-ninety-year-old man, William, asked. He rose from the oldest part of the graveyard. He was completely white, yet transparent. Dressed in an ill-fitting suit, he leaned heavily on the cane in his hand. He wobbled over to me and the grim. He bent down and petted the ghost dog. “Then again, without his howl, we’d never know it was time to wake up.”

An older woman appeared from the grave next to his. Margarita was dressed in the beautiful tattered gown that she had been buried in. “William, you should not harass the guardian with your non-sense.” Her back was straight and proud as she carefully navigated her way to me. “Deepest apologies, guardian.”

I smiled at her, the stone of my face barely moving. I pointed from the grim to the rest of the graveyard. The dog jumped and bounded toward the other gravesites. Spirits, specters, and ghosts appeared and rose from the headstones. 

“Is it that time already?” one of the newer residents asked. Christoph drowned in the river he was fishing in. His blond hair and bluew eyes faded to the familiar white that matched the older dead.

“It’s not just any night,” a little girl, Camilia, told him. “It’s Hallowtide!” She was a spark of life, long red hair and bright green eyes. She died from illness, though it never seemed to slow her down. The grim ran up to her and licked her face. She laughed brightly.

Christoph looked confused. He had been in the cemetery for less than a year, so it made sense that he would not understand the significance. “What’s that got to do with anything?”

I spread my arms out to either side then set the scythe I carried against one of the mausoleums. The stone cloak around me shifted like heavy velvet. He looked terrified, but that fear dissipated when other ghosts came over to him to offer their cold comfort. 

“Don’t be scared!” Camilia hugged Christoph. “The guardian is here to protect us, not hurt us.”

“Yeah, the only thing it will do is harm graverobbers.” William’s voice rattled.

“Is that a big problem in this cemetery?” Christoph asked the older man.

William waved the younger man off. “Nah.” 

Screams of terror radiated from the dark forest just outside of my cemetery. The spirits, grim, and I all looked to the edge of the woods. A young girl—even younger than Camilia—ran to escape the trees. She could have been five or six, but I was terrible at telling ages of humans.

The church grim growled loudly, then bounded to the boundary of the graveyard. I grabbed the scythe and followed it. The specters parted like the red sea. The grim could not leave the cemetery ground, but I could. The black mass of the church grim rippled. It wanted to change but did not know what form would work best. I put my hand out to it to tell it to stay and guard the graves.

The little girl screamed again. Three burly men chased after the poor creature. I did not hesitate. I rushed to the girl and knocked her to the ground with a wave of my hand. She screeched when she saw me. I must have looked like Death in the growing darkness.

The three men slid to a stop. “What in the Seven Hells is that?” the one in the center asked.

“Looks like a statue to me,” the one on the left replied.

“But how did it get here?” the third’s voice warbled in fear.

I looked down to the child at my feet. I pointed to the graveyard, and she raced off toward the safety of my charges. I turned back to the three men. They were worse than grave robbers, if they were trying to harm a child. I pulled back my hood and laid it down on my shoulders.

The faces of the men paled with horror. The whites of eyes were visible as the moon escaped her prison from behind the clouds. The spirits once told me that skeletal features of my uncovered face made them think of the Reaper who came for them. I wanted to take care of them, so I always gave them whatever comfort in death I could. 

There would be no mercy for these men, though. 

With the giant marble scythe, I swiped at the trio as hard as I could. Bones cracked, and their bodies crumbled to the ground. They looked up at me, fear gathering in their eyes. They would not die by my hand. No, that would be too good for them. I picked them up, one by one, and tossed their broken bodies into the graveyard.

I returned to my place near the old church, where the preacher would arrive in the morning for All Saint’s Day. I set the scythe on the ground and covered my face with the hood once more. I picked the little girl up and sat down with her in my lap. 

She reached up and touched the stone skeleton cheekbone. She traced her thumb along the ridges of carved granite. I allowed her to touch me while the spirits gathered around the men. The grim found the form it wanted. A large creature, a mixture of a wolf’s body, devil’s face, and ram horns, towered over the men. 

They screamed in fright at the grim, but they need not worry about it. William, Margarita, and Camilia licked their lips. Christoph was no longer confused. Camilia’s tiny voice rang out, “It’s Hallowtide, and now, we feast.”

I kept the living girl’s attention on me while the specters ate the bodies and souls of the three men. The grim changed back into its playful dog shape and came over to the girl and me. It put its paws on my thigh and barked its demand for pets. The girl gave him a watery giggle, then complied.

Bones snapped, lips smacked, and blood oozed into the soil. 

The living girl yawned and held onto me. I stroked her back as she fell asleep in my lap. I carefully transplanted her near the church doors, so she would be found in the morning. 

I walked into the small shack behind the church and grabbed the shovel. I dug a small hole in the ground where there were no bodies. The ghosts dropped the cleaned and glistening bones of the men into the hole. Dawn peeked over the horizon while I filled the hole back in with soil.

“That was a good feast. Thank you, guardian!” Camilia smiled, then went back to her grave site. “See you tomorrow!”

“Good night, little one.” Margarita blew the girl a kiss as William escorted her back to their plots. 

“Is this normal for Hallowtide?” Christoph asked me.

I shrugged, not able to give him a good answer. Sometimes they feasted, other times they famined. The ghosts returned to their sleep, and I yawned, ready to follow them into slumber.

The grim wandered back to me. I scratched the large black dog’s ears with my sharpened claws. The sun began its ascent over the horizon. The church grim faded into its rested shadows, while my body froze in place, stone covering my skin. 

I was the cemetery keeper, the gravedigger who buried secrets that must stay hidden from the light of day.

[patheticbatman]

August 2019 Story

I deleted the original, so I'm reposting this. This was almost certainly the last one I drew as a 16 year old, but I might have been 17. Either way, I posted it when I was 18.

Once upon a time, in a splendid palace on the bed of the bluest ocean, lived the Sea King, a wise old merman named Triton with a long flowing white beard. He lived in a magnificent palace, built of gaily coloured coral and seashells, together with his wife Bella-Durmiente and their seven daughters, very beautiful mermaids. 

Ondine, the youngest and, in some ways, the loveliest of them all, also had a beautiful voice, and when she sang, the fishes flocked from all over the sea to listen to her. The shells gaped wide, showing their pearls and even the jellyfish stopped to listen. The young mermaid often sang, and each time, she would gaze upwards, seeking the faint sunlight that scarcely managed to filter into the depths. 

“When you have reached your eighteenth year,” said her mother when asked, “you will have permission to rise up out of the sea, to sit on the rocks in the moonlight, while the great ships are sailing by; and then you will see both forests and towns.” 

In the following year, one of the sisters would be eighteen: but as each was a year younger than the other, the youngest would have to wait six years before her turn came to rise up from the bottom of the ocean, and see the earth as human do. However, each promised to tell the others what she saw on her first visit, and what she thought the most beautiful; for their mother could not tell them enough; there were so many things on which they wanted information. None of them longed so much for her turn to come as the youngest, she who had the longest time to wait, and who was so quiet and thoughtful. Many nights she stood by the open window, looking up through the dark blue water, and watching the fish as they splashed about with their fins and tails. She could see the moon and stars shining faintly; but through the water they looked larger than they do to our eyes. When something like a black cloud passed between her and them, she knew that it was either a whale swimming over her head, or a ship full of human beings, who never imagined that a pretty little mermaid was standing beneath them, holding out her hands towards the keel of their ship. 

As soon as the eldest, Coralia, was eighteen, she was allowed to rise to the surface of the ocean. When she came back, she had hundreds of things to talk about; but the most beautiful, Coralia said, was to gaze on a large town nearby, where the lights were twinkling like hundreds of stars; to listen to the sounds of the music, the noise of carriages, and the voices of human beings, and then to hear the merry bells peal out from the church steeples. 

In another year the second sister, Cyrena, received permission to rise to the surface of the water, and to swim about where she pleased. She rose just as the sun was setting, and this, she said, was the most beautiful sight of all. The whole sky looked like gold, while violet and rose-colored clouds, which she could not describe, floated over her. She also swam towards the sun; but it sunk into the waves, and the rosy tints faded from the clouds and from the sea. 

The third sister, Delfina, was more timid; she remained in the midst of the sea, but she said it was quite as beautiful there as nearer the land. She could see for so many miles around her, and the sky above looked like a bowl of glass. She had seen the ships, but at such a great distance that they looked like seagulls. The dolphins sported in the waves, and the great whales spouted water from their blowholes till it seemed as if a hundred fountains were spraying in every direction. 

The fourth sister, Melody, went next. Her birthday occurred in the winter; so when her turn came, she saw what the others had not seen the first time they went up. The sea looked quite green, and large icebergs were floating about, each like a pearl, she said, but larger and loftier than the churches built by men. They were of the most singular shapes, and glittered like diamonds. She had seated herself upon one of the largest, and let the wind play with her long hair, and she remarked that all the ships sailed by rapidly, and steered as far away as they could from the iceberg, as if they were afraid of it. Towards evening, as the sun went down, dark clouds covered the sky, the thunder rolled and the lightning flashed, and the red light glowed on the icebergs as they rocked and tossed on the heaving sea. On all the ships the sails were reefed with fear and trembling, while she sat calmly on the floating iceberg, watching the blue lightning, as it darted its forked flashes into the sea. 

The birthday of the fifth sister, Lorelei, followed; she was the boldest of them all, and she swam up a broad river that emptied itself into the sea. On the banks she saw green hills covered with beautiful vines; palaces and castles peeped out from amid the proud trees of the forest; she heard the birds singing, and the rays of the sun were so powerful that she was obliged often to dive down under the water to cool her burning face. In a narrow creek she found a whole troop of little human children, quite naked, and sporting about in the water; she wanted to play with them, but they fled in a great fright; and then a little black animal came to the water; it was a dog, but she did not know that, for she had never before seen one. This animal barked at her so terribly that she became frightened, and rushed back to the open sea. But she said she should never forget the beautiful forest, the green hills, and the pretty little children who could swim in the water, although they had no fish’s tails. (better image version here)

The sixth sister, Nerida, took an obligatory peek above the surface of the water, and grabbed onto some loose rigging hanging off a ship. She did not come back for several weeks, taking a long vacation to the Equator (Her parents said it was okay). She hadn’t felt like swimming, and she was allergic to seahorses, so it was the perfect way to get around. Nerida occasionally went to the surface to watch the dawns (“Much prettier than your sunsets, dear Cyrena!” she later teased.) but mostly stayed underwater, partying day and night with her new friends in the warmer seas. She caught a boat on the way back, immediately being met by Ondine, eager to find out more about land, boats, and most importantly, humans. 

And as she waited for the day when she too would be allowed to reach the surface of the sea and meet the unknown world, Ondine spent her time in her wonderful sea garden. The seahorses kept her company, and sometimes a dolphin would come and play. Only the unfriendly starfish never replied when she called. At last, her long-desired birthday arrived. The night before, Ondine could not sleep a wink, until at last day came, and she accidentally fell asleep as morning commenced. In the afternoon, when she finally woke up, her mother called her and, stroking her long hair, slipped a lovely golden bracelet with her mother’s name on it. 

“There, now you can go to the surface. My mother gave me this on my eighteenth birthday, and so I will give it to you, and I hope you will give it to yours. You’ll breathe air and see the sky. But remember! It’s not our world! We can only watch it and admire! We’re children of the sea and have no soul, as humans do. Be careful and keep away from them; they can only bring bad luck!” In a second, Ondine had kissed her father and was darting towards the surface of the sea. She swam so fast with flicks of her slender tail, that even the fish could not keep up with her. 

Suddenly she popped out of the water. How wonderful! For the first time, she saw the great blue sky, in which as dusk began to fall, the first stars were peeping out and twinkling. The sun, already over the horizon, trailed a golden reflection that gently faded on the heaving waves. High overhead, gulls spotted the little mermaid and greeted her arrival with shrieks of pleasure. 

“It’s so lovely!” she exclaimed happily. But another nice surprise was in store for her: a ship was slowly sailing towards the rock on which Ondine was sitting. The sailors dropped anchor and the ship swayed gently in the calm sea. Ondine watched the men go about their work a board, lighting the lanterns for the night. She could clearly hear their voices. They were speaking a language from far away, which she anyway understood because merpeople can speak all tongues. 

After thinking about how far those sailors must have come from their homeland, for she was near the coast of Denmark, she said out loud, “I’d love to speak to them!” she said to herself. But then she gazed sadly at her tail, her equivalent of legs, and said to herself: “I can never be like them!” 

Aboard ship, a strange excitement seemed to seize the crew, and a little later, the sky became a spray of many coloured lights and the crackle of fireworks filled the sky. 

“Long live the captain! Hurray for his 18th birthday. Hurray! Hurray . . . many happy returns!”

Astonished at all this, the little mermaid caught sight of the young man in whose honour the display was being held. Tall and dignified, he was smiling happily, and Ondine could not take her eyes off him. She followed his every movement, fascinated by all that was happening. 

The party went on, but the sea grew more agitated. Ondine anxiously realized that the men were now in danger: an icy wind was sweeping the waves, the ink black sky was torn by flashes of lightning, then a terrible storm broke suddenly over the helpless ship. In vain Ondine screamed: “Look out! Beware of the sea . . .” But the howling wind carried her words away, and the rising waves swept over the ship. Amidst the sailors’ shouts, masts and sails toppled onto the deck, and with a sinister splintering sound, the ship sank. 

By the light of one of the oil lamps Ondine had seen the young captain fall into the water, and she swam to his rescue. But she could not find him in the high waves and, tired out, was about to give up, when suddenly, there he was on the crest of a nearby wave. In an instant, he was swept straight into the mermaid’s arms. 

The young man was unconscious and the mermaid held his head above water in the stormy sea, in an effort to save his life. She clung to him for hours trying to fight the tiredness that was overtaking her. The currents swept them far south and then Northeast, taking them past much land at a rapid pace. 

Then, as suddenly as it had sprung up, the storm died away. ln a grey dawn over a still angry sea, Ondine realized thankfully that land lay ahead. Aided by the motion of the waves, she pushed the captain’s body onto the shore, beyond the water’s edge. Unable herself to walk, the mermaid sat wringing her hands, her tail lapped by the rippling water, trying to warm the 

young captain with her own body. Then the sound of approaching voices startled Ondine and she slipped back into deeper water. 

“Come quickly! Quickly!” came a woman’s voice in alarm. “There’s a man here! Look, I think he’s unconscious!” The captain was now in good hands. 

“Let’s take him up to the castle!” 

“No, no! Better get help . . .” And the first thing the young man saw when he opened his eyes again was the beautiful face of the youngest of a group of three ladies. “Thank you . . . for saving my life . . .” he murmured to the lovely unknown lady. 

From the sea Ondine watched the man she had snatched from the waves turn towards the castle, without knowing that a mermaid had saved his life. Slowly swimming out to sea, Ondine felt that there on the beach she had left behind something she could never bring herself to forget. 

How wonderful those tremendous hours in the storm had been, as she had battled with the elements. And as she swam for many days towards her father’s palace, her sisters came to meet her, anxious to know what had kept her so long on the surface. 

Ondine started to tell her story, but suddenly a lump came to her throat and, bursting into tears, she fled to her room. She stayed there for days, refusing to see anyone or to touch food. She knew that her love for the young captain was without hope, for she was a mermaid and could never marry a human. Only the Witch of the Deeps could help her. But what price would she have to pay? Ondine decided to ask the her. 

“Aha! So you want to get rid of your fishy tail, do you? I expect you’d like to have a pair of woman’s legs, isn’t that so?” said the nasty Witch scornfully, from her cave’s entrance. “Be warned!” she went on. “You will suffer horribly, as though knives were being stabbed into your feet with every step you take!” 

“It doesn’t matter!” declared Ondine, with tears in her eyes. “As long as I can go back to him!” Jealousy and infatuation burned hot inside the little mermaid, clouding out her senses. “And that’s not all!” exclaimed the Witch. “In exchange for my spell, you must give me your lovely voice. You’ll never be able to utter a word again! If you want to give up early, just jump into the sea, and you will become a mermaid again, albeit a mute one. And don’t forget! If the man you love marries someone else, you will not be able to turn into a mermaid again. In fact, if you even touch the sea after that, you will dissolve into the water like foam on the wave!”

“Alright!” said Ondine heedlessly, eagerly taking the little jar holding the magic potion. The Witch had told Ondine that the young captain was actually a prince of Singapore, and the mermaid swam many leagues, leaving the shores of Denmark to go to her prince’s nation. She pulled herself onto the beach, then drank the magic potion. An agonizing pain made her faint, and when she came to her senses, she could see the face she loved, smiling down at her. The Witch’s magic had worked the spell, for the prince had felt a strange desire to go down to the beach, just as Ondine was arriving. There he had stumbled on her, and recalling how he too had once been washed up on that same shore, gently laid his cloak over the still body, cast up by the waves. 

“Don’t be frightened! My name is Prince Jantung!” he said quickly. “You’re quite safe! Where have you come from?” But Ondine was now mute and could not reply, so the young man softly stroked her cheek. 

“I’ll take you to the castle and look after you,” he said. In the days that followed, the mermaid started a new life. She wore splendid dresses and often went out on horseback with the prince. One evening, she was invited to a great ball at Court. However, as the Witch had foretold, every movement and each step she took was torture. Ondine bravely put up with her suffering, glad to be allowed to stay near her beloved prince. And though she could not speak to him, he was fond of her and showered kindness on her, to her great joy. Jantung was even teaching Ondine how to read and write, so they could talk, though the going was very slow. However, the young man’s heart really belonged to the unknown lady he had seen as he lay on the shore, though he had never seen her since, for she had returned at once to her own land. 

Even when Jantung was in the company of Ondine, fond of her as he was, the unknown lady was always in his thoughts. And the little mermaid, guessing instinctively that she was not his true love, suffered even more. 

She often crept out of the castle at night, to weep by the seashore. Often, her mother and her sisters would come up upon the shore to see her, and they would talk using their hands. Every night, she considered returning to the sea, just letting the waves kiss her toes and take her back in as a mermaid. But then treacherous hope, heedless of sensibilities, would draw her back into the castle. Perhaps his heart would change. 

Fate, however, had another surprise in store. From the castle one day, a huge ship was sighted sailing into the harbour. Together with Ondine, the prince went down to meet it. And who stepped from the vessel? The unknown lady who had been in the prince’s heart! When Jantung saw her, he rushed to greet her. Ondine felt a painful feeling pierce her heart: she was about to lose the prince forever. 

The unknown lady too had never forgotten the prince she had found on the beach while on a diplomatic mission from her country. Soon after, he asked her to marry him. Since she too was in love, she happily said “Yes!” It was diplomatically advantageous, for she was also a human princess, and was named Luklab. 

A few days after the wedding, the happy couple were invited for a voyage on the huge ship, which was still in the harbour. Ondine too went on board, and the ship set sail. Night fell, and sick at heart over the loss of the prince, Ondine went on deck. She remembered the Witch’s prophecy, and was now ready to give up her life and dissolve in the sea. 

But before she could jump into the water, she heard a cry from the water and dimly saw her sisters, in the darkness. “Ondine! Ondine! It’s us, your sisters! We’ve heard all about what happened! Look! Do you see this dagger? It’s magic! We found it in the vaults! Take it! Kill the prince and his wife before dawn, and you will become a mermaid again!” 

They threw it to her, and Ondine caught it by the handle. 

As though in a trance, Ondine clasped the knife and entered the cabin where the prince and his bride lay asleep. But as she gazed at the Jantung and Luklab’s sleeping faces, she simply blew Jantung a furtive kiss, before running back on deck. She knew it was not his fault she was in this situation. When dawn broke, she threw the knife into the sea. Then she shot a parting glance at the world she was leaving behind, and jumped far from the boat into the waves, ready to turn into the foam of the sea from whence she had come, and vanish. 

However, a moment before Ondine touched the sea, she was saved by the spirits of the air, who have souls like humans do and who guard the innocents of the world. 

Rewarding Ondine for her selflessness and responsibility towards her actions, they took the grief and unhealthy infatuation from her heart and made her one of them. Ondine found she could still visit friends and family and fall in love, while helping all the people in the world, a job she truly enjoyed. So she lived happily ever after, doing exactly that.

Little Mermaid Explanation 

I drew all the sisters (who all have names names meaning or referencing ‘mermaids/water spirits’) because I love mermaids, and I had so many ideas on how to draw their tails. If you ever want to watch a cool tv show about mermaids with really pretty tails, you should watch H20. I can almost guarantee you’ll enjoy it. Also, I thought it would be funny if you could literally figure out which sister was which by their hair - Coralia has one hair segment (a ponytail) because she’s the first sister, and when we first see Ondine she has 7, two buns, a pony tail coming off one and the ponytail splitting into four for the the other bun. 

The first sister, Coralia, was drawn with her back to the audience because I had drawn a similar mermaid months before and wanted draw it again. I didn’t draw much of the parts of the town that were described in her picture, simply because a lot of it was sound related, and Coralia already looked pretty alien in that whole setting. 

The second sister, Cyrena, is also facing away, but not for any other reason than me just wanting for her to face the sunset. 

Delfina, the third, is the first one I showed her face. She’s hanging out with a dolphin because Delfina means Dolphin in Spanish. I also decided to give cat-like eyes to the mermaids because there’s less light underwater and it would serve better to process it. 

Slight side note: The witch’s spell did give Ondine human eyes, but when she was caught by the spirit of the air they changed back because they’d be useful in that line of work. Melody (the name of Ariel’s daughter in the Little Mermaid 2: Return to the Sea), sister number four, doesn’t have her face shown because the only way I could think of staging that scene with her face showing seemed overly dramatic. She’s the sister comforting Ondine in a later picture. 

Lorelei’s picture was kind of hard, because I’ve never drawn a dog in that angle. But I used her face as a base for the rest of the sisters, because I think she looked cool. Nerida’s picture was so long I actually had to add on the tail from another paper. The first picture of Ondine I’m not completely proud of, but I had fun anyway. Her second picture, with Jantung (which, by the way, is Malay for heart, which I think is funny because Ondine was supposed to steal his) is much better in my opinion. I had to look up pictures of lifesaving techniques. 

Jantung is dressed and designed to look a lot like this anime character I like, named Hak. He’s from Yona of the Dawn (Akatsuki no Yona), and he’s a fun guy. Jantung isn’t much like him actually; Hak is closer to being the Ondine in this story than being Jantung. 

I didn’t really change this story, just smoothed over some explanations over why Ondine couldn’t talk to the Prince and took out a lot of extraneous detail. Trust me, Hans Christian Anderson can go on and on, and that’s something coming from me. 

I didn’t draw the Sea Witch because I didn’t think to until I had finished my last planned picture, and I didn’t really want to. 

Luklab means mysterious in Thai, which I chose because we don’t ever find out much about her. 

Ondine is a reference to a water nymph who got what the little mermaid wanted. The real kicker was that she actually wanted to stay a water nymph, so it’s sort of ironic. 

Ondine’s third picture was drawn to sort of mirror Ariel’s famous ‘Part of Your World’ pose, and to also show Jantung being found. 

In Ondine’s crying picture, she’s wearing different clothes to show the effort she’s put into trying to be human. It also shows that she was the avoiding the water in hopes that Jantung changes his mind, as she sat just far away enough from the wave to not get hit but close enough that Melody wouldn’t be uncomfortable. Melody is in the picture because I didn’t get to draw her tail for her picture. 

In the last picture, Ondine is smiling because no matter how helpless she had felt before, the moment she saw there was another option she was happy. 

The Prince is Asian because I felt that with the Little Mermaid’s castle being set near the coast of Denmark, she may have a vague idea of the human writing structures there. However, with a different alphabet and symbols from halfway across the world, there would be no way she’d pick up reading and writing quickly, thus canceling that avenue of non-verbal communication. Heck, she may not even be comfortable with using a writing utensil! And sign language beyond mostly fingerspelling (at least in the Western world) wasn’t really used until the 1800s. So, Ondine wouldn’t be able to communicate her true identity and reason to be with the Prince in such a short amount of time. Not unless he started asking some very specific questions. If only she had a crab to whisper in his ear…. 

Original post here

[gutsandgoregalore]

Forever and Always

The cool morning air moves with the gentle wind of an almost gone summer, carrying loose leaves and spreading the fresh smell of dew and spruce. The pine trees sway softly, the golden rays of the sun dancing between their needles. The forest is still, not yet woken up, and the only sounds to break the silence are the chirps of a lone sparrow somewhere among the rustling leaves. 

There, amidst the pines and the aspens, tucked behind a mossy hill, lies a small wooden cottage. Its mahogany walls and dark grey roof blend in with the surrounding nature. Yellow sun rays shine on the closed windows but cannot pass through the thick beige blinds. Fireflies buzz lazily around the house, crickets are still conducting their late simphony, and the small crossbill chicks in the nest beside the window have yet to wake up and start chirping for food.

The serene stillness of the scene is momentarily broken by the soft creaking of a door. A young man exits the cottage. His cream brown hair and long, slender limbs make him look like a young doe, and the thick brown woolen sweater compliments his appearance. The man’s mossy green eyes scan the area before he ventures into the forest, neatly woven basket hanging from one arm. Soon, the man will return home with a basket full of crabapples, walnuts and a variety of berries and mushrooms, to a warm blanket, a cup of his favorite rosehip tea and a promise for a delicious meal. 

It is noon now. The crossbill chicks are awake and quite disgruntled at the lack of food, but wait patiently for their parents to return with a hearty meal. The brunet is sitting on a padded wooden swinging bench in the garden, surrounded by spireas and viburnums heavy with fruit, and takes small sips from a steaming mug. He has changed his sweater in favor of a thinner woven blouse, though a folded blanket rests by his side in case the wind picks up. The man has yet to notice the small white flowers that shine in his hair like stars from his morning adventure.

Not long after, another man walks out of the cottage. He is young, maybe a year older than his companion, and his golden blond hair and sky-blue eyes remind the brunet of the hot summer days the two spent on the sun-warmed sand, watching the waves gently settle before them, or collecting seashells and pretty stones because the brunet loves small, precious objects. The blond had likened him to a magpie once, both in intelligence and fondness for trinkets. The older man carries a tray with two plates of warm home cooked food. He joins his companion, passes him a plate with a compliment and a peck on the cheek that has the other blushing. They both eat in comfortable silence, enjoying the songs of the birds and the rustling of the trees. Each sound of the forest feels like a serenade performed just for them. 

Hours later, when the sky begins to darken and the sun is tucked away behind the treetops, the two companions lay together on a blanket outside and watch the sunset. They have done this many times, and will surely do it many more, but each day spent like this - tranquill walks and housework, warm food, resting side by side, leaves them full with such contentment that they cannot imagine a better way to spend their life. Every time, they arrange their day to be a little different than the last, walk into a different part of the forest, cook a different meal, talk about something different, and, although they know every nook and cranny of the area, although they have tasted every food it has to offer, every day feels like a new adventure. 

Much later, in the still of the night where thick clouds obscure any light from the moon, the darkness creeps into the younger man’s mind and leaves him tense with wariness and doubt, wondering if this serenity will last beyond this day, if he really is as safe and deserving of it as he desperately wants to believe. Wondering why he is broken like this. Then, his companion thinks about it, decides every time that the other is not broken. That he has been hurt before, but now they are both safe in this pocket of domestic bliss they have created for themselves. All the threats of their past lay abandoned with the lives they left behind. Then the blond man kisses his partner goodnight and talks to him about all the ways they can spend the next day, and the ones to follow, until they both fall asleep, comfortable and safe in each other’s arms.