#2024 writing challenge

[eleinwrites]

Wild as the Wind

2500-word Short Story writing challenge genre: fantasy subject: domestication character: a sea captain

Summary: Sailors domesticated the winds thousands of years ago and culture has developed around the use of domesticated winds, leaving the sea and its community behind. Now a sea captain must transport refugees away from an oppressive society that has forgotten where it came from.

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“I can see why he stays on a ship!”

“You’ve got a face like a fish!”

The mocking laughter had a dangerous edge.

The voices were carried directly to the captain’s ear by a pet breeze that smelled like an arid city center, distinct from the rich humid air of the lowland bar.

The captain of the The Bloodline let the breeze circle around him unhindered. "Eh, the ladies of the ports aren't relying on pretty boys to keep them in pearls."

The deep sea pearls were a point of contention: highly valued by the city elite, they were more often worn as trinkets by sailors and sea folk. Sailors didn't make a lot of money, but they often came into port with treasures of their own, directly from the sea -- pearls, and shells, and scavenging from old shipwrecks or windfalls.

"Ladies, he calls them! Ha!"

"Speaking of pretty boys,” the captain drawled, “What's a group of city lads doing down here at a port?"

“Certainly not paying for someone to ignore my face!”

“No, I don’t imagine you are.” It wasn’t their faces that all the locals would be trying to ignore.

“A drink for you, Captain,” the bartender offered both a drink and a break in the tension. She’d been tending this bar for years, but her willowy figure revealed she had come from city stock herself. The litheness of a native city dweller stood out in this town.

The captain had a good amount of fat over his muscles, insulating him from both damage and cold, as did most people who successfully lived with the sea. Runaways who either wanted adventure or to just to get away from the upper echelons of society weren't always welcomed kindly, but were generally politely ignored. These men, just boys really, were clearly city folk with the sharp thinness to them that looked a bit sickly to the people of the sea. They lounged at their table with an arrogant entitlement that had the locals eyeing them warily like the threats they were.

Boys like these weren’t trying to fit in; they wanted to show off to each other, already convinced that no locals deserved respect and psyching themselves up for violence.

The captain didn’t need them to say why they were here, these boys who liked to show off what they had and forget what they came from. He had still hoped they’d prove him wrong.

It was sailors who first domesticated the wild winds to fill the sails of their boats. That oldest breed of wind still ran true, in continuous use for thousands of years, but their prominence had diminished over the centuries. Now there were hundreds of strains of domesticated winds, from a soldier’s tiny air bullets, to zeppelins with their massive airstreams. Every citizen of the upper echelons had a personal gust for travel and every child had a breeze or two to play with.

The skies were thoroughly domesticated. Cities grew up cliffs and into towering monoliths piercing the sky ever higher. Sails took to the air rather than the sea, and only the old, traditional, and poor continued to live with the sea. Rich societies prided themselves on their kites and their airships, and didn’t acknowledge the folk who still lived with the sea.

The seaside communities were the dregs of society across all the principalities, that the wealthy didn’t like to think about and often wished would just... go away… somehow. For the most part, the central societies in their heights left the sea folk alone to live and die without notice beyond collecting taxes and preventing excessive smuggling. Occasionally, though, a principality tried to actively clear them out. Sometimes that involved forcefully relocating seaside communities into the lower levels of a cliff-side city and indoctrinating them in what the city dwellers considered civilized. Other times it meant sending in armies and tossing their bodies into the sea. Among the sea folk, it was debated which fate was the kinder one.

Any individual city boy could be quietly killed in a back alley, tripped into the water, and made to disappear. With so little padding, the sea wouldn’t even have to work to suck the heat from their bones. But the presence of city dwellers in bold groups such as this forewarned of policy changes coming, and those rarely bode well.

The captain had planned to stay for longer on shore, but plans change as circumstances change. He told the barkeep, “I’ll be departing tomorrow morning at high tide. Can you spread the word to anyone interested in a crew position or passage?”

The Bloodline wasn’t a passenger ship, but when there was a clean-up planned in one principality, the locals knew to shift as they could to another for the duration. Every ship captain took on refugees when and where they could, and called them passengers to avoid instigating the massacres just waiting to happen.

The barkeep looked tired. She’d lived through a clean-up before. “I don’t need to spread the word, you’ll be full up with people already here.”

A quick glance around confirmed the interest. A few were sending their own breezes out to call in family and friends. The Bloodline was a well-known regular. They mostly carried correspondence and small cargo from the fringe of one principality to the fringe of another, the sea folk of each more of a community with each other than with their central societies.

“You just announce that you’re smuggling people?” The voice was as sharp and refined as the others, but older and coming from a man in the uniform of a port inspector. He’d been hidden away behind the younger group, keeping an eye on them maybe. Or maybe looking for an opportunity to crack down.

“Nay, I have my papers in order. We’re anchored at port, all proper like.”

“The port doesn’t allow immigration.”

“I don’t take on immigrants. We’re a small ship. Only has space for family members, does The Bloodline.”

There was a ripple of nervous smothered amusement in the rest of the crowd, for all that they were trying to stay quiet.

“Hmm, all these men looking to join you, none of whom you greeted personally, they’re all family, are they?”

“They surely are.”

The Bloodline was a small ship with just a handful of crew who regularly rotated from the dregs of even sea-faring society: people who loved the sea more than their own lives, and who didn’t turn away the instant they saw the small ship for such a vast sea.

Too small to be either pirates or pirate-bait, they didn’t get much attention from the official customs agents as long as they had their paperwork in order and the agents weren’t particularly bored. Their purpose wasn’t to make money to retire in comfort on land later, but simply to keep sailing. The ship had been making the runs across the sea for generations with a constantly rotating crew and impeccable records. The crew rosters of The Bloodline were the closest thing to a family tree many of the people had.

One prospective passenger came forward, brave in order to reserve her spot on the small ship. “My daddy came to port on this ship, so I might as well take it out again and see where I get.”

Another passenger, not to be outdone, said, “My father was named after this ship, because it was all my grandfather talked about before he sailed away again.”

And another, “Not all of us are sailors in my family, but we all take a voyage on The Bloodline.”

An old man, just entering the bar with the help of a handful of relatives all carrying bags, said, “I came into this world on that ship and I’ll leave this world on that ship.”

The barkeep had been right. People were ready to leave this town. The inspector watched the gathering crowd with calculating eyes. If violence broke out now, he couldn’t assume that his city lads would dominate. The tension in the bar had already been high. Things could get very ugly, very quickly.

“If that answers your question,” the captain addressed the inspector, “then I’ll go get my family situated before our departure.”

“You surely do have a large family,” the inspector observed. “For a man with your face.” They stared at each other for a bit, waiting to see if this would become a fight. But not yet. “You can go.”

The captain nodded a goodbye, collected his new passengers and led them back to the dock. They were all experienced sailors or from sailing families, and none of them wanted to delay the departure: they arranged themselves below deck quickly.

In the dark pre-dawn of the following day, the inspector personally boarded The Bloodline to inspect the cargo and review the paperwork, before stamping his approval and allowing them to depart.

The Bloodline set sail on the high tide, with strong winds, the deck packed with people praying for safety.

They cut cleanly through the waves and over the swells, away from people who looked at a man but saw a fish. Hope rose with the sun.

The attack was not unexpected.

It was an ambush in slow motion.

They were just out of sight of the land, with no chance of witnesses on shore, when the military formation appeared on the horizon.

The Bloodline’s winds were good and steady and had been with the ship for decades. They’d kept the ship safe and moving across thousands of miles, and had learned more than a few tricks in that time. But they couldn’t make an old sailing ship outpace high-flying kites on military gusts.

Still it took time for even the fastest kite to get that far and the captain and crew tried to race and the winds gave it their all. The passengers could only watch as the formation glided ever closer through the clear sunny sky, a formation of kites carrying soldiers tasked with “cleaning up” a population that didn’t fit in with the current social powers.

“Why are you wasting your time with us?” one passenger shouted, sending his words on a breeze towards the soldiers. The breeze was stilled before it could deliver its words.

The soldiers didn’t want to hear any words from the passengers. Nor any screams.

The captain had navigated them away from the main skyways, so the soldiers had to rely on their gusts rather than an established airstream. The soldiers had only so much time before their winds lost the stamina to return them to safety. This couldn’t be a sustained attack.

But the soldiers knew what they were doing. A squall dispersed The Bloodline’s winds, and a whirlwind created a perimeter. They didn’t bother to attack the people. They attacked the ship itself.

A specialized twister snapped the masts like twigs, bring them down with a crash that shook the entire ship.

The passengers screamed, but the sound was eerily muffled by the whirlwind.

One sail now covered the deck while another dragged in the water.

Focused blasts punched holes through the hull and set the ship to rocking wildly and the passengers trapped under the downed sail moaned in fear.

The captain could only watch it happen, gripping the railing tight. Wind couldn’t breach water, so there would be little immediate damage below the waterline, but the integrity of the hull was weakened and the rocking meant water flowing in. The damage would cascade.

The inspector had checked the cargo to ensure they had only trade items that might turn a profit, but no material to fix this type of damage.

The Bloodline’s Eastern wind, which had been with the ship for longer than the captain, broke through the whirlwind and swallowed a military gust whole, throwing its soldier into the water. It was far too late to save the ship, but it forced the soldiers to retreat.

The soldiers couldn’t save their compatriot or even spend time searching. Though one of them wasted a small breeze just to send a snarled “Damn fish!” back towards The Bloodline as they departed.

The Bloodline was left to founder and sink.

The crew and passengers struggled to get themselves disentangled from the fallen sails as the soldiers glided back towards the horizon, leaving just as slowly and gracefully as they had arrived.

Once the soldiers were out of sight the captain whistled in his winds and checked them for any damage, before directing the crew to lower him in a lifeboat.

City dwellers with ponds and streams thought they understood the sea. Those sent to manage the port population sneered at the sea. They refused to remember or learn that the sea was a world deeper than the sky and with less light to reveal its secrets.

The captain hoped he had steered them to the right place in their mad race before the attack. The moment of truth came when he leaned over the side of the lifeboat, looking into the depths to see if anyone was looking back.

He gave a great sigh of relief.

A face mirrored his own.

The people of the deep looked as much like the sea folk of the shore as the sea folk of the shore looked like the city dwellers. Maybe not attractive to his taste, but people like any other.

The captain reached a hand down into the churning waters and grasped the web hand that reached up to meet his. He pulled with a grunt and lifted the person out of the water and into the lifeboat. He was a large pale man, without clothes but well-insulated in fat, who coughed once, then said, “I suspect you’re interested in more than pearls this time.”

“I’m hoping for a mast, if you have one,” the captain said. “And patches for the hull as well. Our trade goods are the usual.”

“I’ve sent some folk to collect extra masts, but they won’t be good quality. You’ll still get some pearls to make up the difference.”

“As long as they let us reach a safe port.”

“You surely will. The Bloodline won’t be sinking today.”

“I appreciate it.”

“We’re family, for all the folk in the depths don’t care to recognize an airy person like yourself,” the sea trader said.

The captain shrugged and nodded. He was as welcome in the depths as he was in the heights of the cities. Just like the sailing winds, sailors had bred true for thousands of years, but their prestige diminished.

“I like my winds. They’re good sturdy winds who have served me well.”

“Hmm, the other wind folk don’t seem to like you much right now.”

The captain shrugged again. It was certainly true, but, “They forget where they come from. They like to talk about how we domesticated the winds, from the great to the small. They like to forget that it’s the sea that domesticated us.”

[juneofdoom]

What up, whump fam?!

June of Doom 2024 Prompts!

We've brought back some old favorites/ popular prompts from last year with a healthy dash of new!

Please feel free to participate with original or fan works of any kind (writing, photos, gifs, mood boards, videos, songs, whatever creative medium your heart desires!). You can do one or all of the prompts on any given day, and if none are to your liking, check out the alternate prompts!

Two rules this year!

As with last year, tag your stuff with appropriate warnings, plzkthnx.

AI-created content is highly discouraged and frowned upon. I have no way of "checking", but I respect the time and effort people put into their crafts and encourage everyone to do the same. This isn't a contest for best written or prettiest art — it's a challenge, so challenge yourself.

Text list below the cut for easier crossings-off. And don't forget to tag @juneofdoom so I can reblog your awesome here! Have fun!

“Help me.”                                        | Failed Escape | On the Run | Fetal Position |

“It didn’t have to be this way.”             | Scream | Double Cross | Made to Watch |

“Well, well, well…”                            | Hiding | Ambushed | Stalking |

“Does that hurt?”                               | Impalement | Fracture | Punishment |

“It’s not as bad as it looks.”                 | Bite | Swelling | Disfiguration |

“They don’t care about you.”               | Flinch | Broken Promise | Abandoned |

“What happened?”                            | Nightmare | Isolation | Stumbling |

“This is your last chance.”                    | Drowning | Chair | Prisoner Trade |

“I made a mistake.”                            | Accident | Acceptance | Blame |

“Can you hear me?”                           | Fear | Smoke | Phone Call |

“We’re out of time.”                           | Bleeding Out | Collapse | Flatline |

“I can’t stand seeing you like this.”        | Dehydration | Grief | Coma |

“Wait!”                                             | Sacrifice | Adrenaline | Cornered |

“What were you thinking?”                  | Surrender | Human Shield | Outmatched |

“Get me out of here!”                         | Rescue | Chainsaw | Presumed Dead |

“At least it can’t get any worse.”           | Secret | Stranded | Setback |

“You don’t want to do that.”                | Struggle | Blackmail | Desperate Measures |

“I’m fine.”                                         | Self-defense | Allergies | Headache |

“This can’t be happening!”                  | Sobbing | Straitjacket | Dissociation |

“I can handle it.”                                | Scrape | Panic Attack | Neglect |

“Let’s play a game. “                           | Stairs | Pressure Points | Trap Door |

“What’s the bad news?”                      | Poison | Bedridden | Cauterization |

“You’re doing great.”                         | Trembling | Gaslighting | Rules |

“Let’s get you cleaned up.”                  | Blankets | Stitches | Bandages |

“I should have listened to you.”           | Guilt | Backseat | Failure |

“Don’t lie to me.”                               | Rage | Choke | Paranoia |

“Or what?”                                       | Defiance | Display | Last Resort |

“Say something.”                               | Numb | Cold Shoulder | Gag |

“I’m so cold.”                                    | Delirium | Fever | Exposure |

“Breathe, damn you!”                         | Shock | Asphyxiation | Emergency Room |

ALTERNATE PROMPTS

“Who did this to you?”

“Please don’t leave me.”

“I’m not okay.”

“Don’t make me say it again.”

“You poor thing.”

Attending Your Own Funeral

Broken Glass

Mask

Whip

Obedience

[just-my-latest-hyperfixation]

Sweet indulgence 🛼

Written for the Valentine's Day pop-up challenge of the @steddieholidaydrabbles blog.

Rated: G

CW: none

Tags: No UD AU; Future fic; Flirting; Sexual Tension; Record label owner!Eddie; Waiter!Steve; Steve in roller skates; First date (Eddie says it counts 💖)

Notes: continued from this one.

"You can’t be fucking serious,” Steve says. 

“Why not?” Eddie throws the garishly pink flier back down on the table. “It’s still Valentine’s Day.” 

“For thirteen more minutes,” Steve bristles, pen pressing down on his little notepad so hard that Eddie is afraid he’ll punch a hole through it. “You don’t even have a date.” 

“Didn’t know that was required,” Eddie grins. “All I’m saying is, if you offer a Valentine’s Day special, then that special should be available for the entirety of Valentine’s Day, so …” 

Steve makes an exasperated sound, but still jots down the order. 

“You’re being ridiculous,” he barks over his shoulder as he pushes away from the table and disappears into the kitchen. “Just so you know.” 

Eddie watches him glide away, legs and ass a meal in their own right in those shorts and knee-highs and the fucking roller skates. 

Maybe the boy has a point. Maybe he is being ridiculous. 

It’s not exactly normal behavior, discovering that your former high school king is now a waiter at the diner down the street, and then promptly declaring said diner your new after-work dinner spot. But Eddie never claimed to be normal. And he’s always been a tad bit obsessed with Steve Harrington, so here they are. 

Steve has long resigned himself to his nightly visits. Never once has he acknowledged their shared history, and Eddie hasn’t pushed. Instead, he’s slowly putting together all the little puzzle pieces he’s been collecting. 

Steve will grumble and scowl and bitch over Eddie’s absurd orders and constant attempts at flirting, but he never fails to pocket his generous tips, so he must be struggling financially. He’s pulling at least one job besides the one at the diner. Most likely a babysitting gig, as indicated by the sparkly hair clips and stickers that Eddie regularly spots in his hair and on his clothes. He’s also not seeing anyone, because if he was, he sure as hell wouldn’t be working the night shift on Valentine’s Day. 

He also hasn’t eaten in a while, if the tummy rumble as he brings the order is anything to go by. Eddie quirks a brow. Steve blushes and hugs the tray to his chest. 

“Enjoy your meal,” he says, but Eddie holds up a hand and gestures invitingly at the empty seat opposite him. 

“Join me?” 

Steve’s brow furrows. “I’m on the clock.” 

“Oh yeah, and super fucking busy, I can see,” Eddie quips. “Indulge me, my liege.” 

Steve chews on his bottom lip, casting a hesitant glance towards the kitchen. Finally, he sighs and slips into the free seat. Eddie hands over one of the two cupcakes on his plate, decorated in a lopsided tower of frosting and a smattering of heart-shaped sprinkles. Steve devours nearly half of it with two enormous bites, and if triumph blooms warm and heavy in Eddie’s chest, that’s neither here nor there. 

“So,” he drawls, ignoring his own cupcake in favor of stacking his chin on top of his folded hands, peering at Steve over the rim of his sunglasses. “How was your day? Been handing out lots of these little babies?” 

Steve rolls his eyes. 

“Yeah, sure,” he says around a mouthful of frosting. “Have you seen this place? Premium date spot. So classy and romantic.” 

They lapse into silence for a few seconds. Steve grabs the milkshake with the two straws without waiting for an invitation and takes an enormous sip. There’s a tiny pink sprinkle at the corner of his mouth. Eddie resists the temptation to reach out and wipe it away. 

“What about you, huh? You own the record label down the street, right? Surely your day was much more interesting than mine.” 

So he isn’t the only one who’s been puzzling, Eddie thinks. 

“Hellfire Records,” he nods, happy to ramble about his baby, even though Steve’s attempt at diverting the topic is not nearly as subtle as the boy may think. “We have some pretty cool bands, but I’m not sure they’re your taste, exactly.” 

“Oh?” Steve shoves the last bit of cupcake into his mouth, licking leftover frosting off his fingers. “Bold of you to assume that you’d know my taste. Indulge me?” 

Eddie does. 

Steve does, it turns out, know fuck all about metal and grunge, but he’s surprisingly interested and open-minded. Much more open-minded than Eddie would’ve expected from Hawkins High royalty. By the time they wrap up their little talk and make their way over to the counter, Steve has finished not only the milkshake, but also the second cupcake.

When Eddie hands over the usual fifty, Steve hesitates. 

“You already gave me all the food.” 

Eddie smiles easily. “So? Gotta let my favorite waiter know I appreciate him on this fine holiday.” 

Something flits over Steve’s face, something open and vulnerable, but it’s gone as soon as it came. 

“Don’t think you can buy my affection, Eddie,” he murmurs, snatching the bank note from Eddie’s fingers and stuffing it into his apron pocket. 

“Don’t worry,” Eddie winks and saunters towards the door - carefully making sure to keep the giddy spring out of his step. Steve called him Eddie. Not Munson. “I wouldn’t dream of it.” 

“Good,” Steve calls after him. “See you tomorrow?” 

“You bet, big boy,” Eddie says. He’s just about to leave when something else occurs to him. “And I’ll be sure to pick a nicer spot for our second date, promise.” 

Steve’s blush is as pink as the sprinkle that’s still stuck at the corner of his mouth. Eddie doesn’t wait for his retort, just shuts the door and makes for home, grinning like a maniac.

🛼💕🛼💕🛼💕🛼💕🛼💕🛼💕🛼💕🛼💕🛼💕

Tagging some ppl who expressed interest last time: @p0lybl4nkk @fairytalesreality @colidamae @dissociatingdemon @steddhie @formosusiniquis @steddiehasmywholeheart @ellaelsinore @rozzieroos

[thepromptfoundry]

The prompt theme for February 2024 is a Fannish Fest February!

Come, join in the party, celebrate your fandoms, fandom history, and community!

If you use this list, please tag me here @thepromptfoundry, I’d love to see your writing and art!

Feel free to combine different days' prompts with each other, or combine them with other seasonal events. Respond to as many prompts as you want or as interest you, don’t worry about missing or skipping any. Remember, this is supposed to be fun!

If you have any questions or musings, check our FAQ, and if you don't find your answer, shoot me an ask.

Plain text list below the cut:

1 Your First Fandom 2 Your Current Blorbo 3 A Character Who Deserves More Love 4 Your Favorite Bit Of Fannish History 5 Characters Swapping Clothes 6 A Fannish OC (yours or someone else's) 7 Patching A Plot Hole 8 A Fanfic Trope You Always Love 9 A headcanon with canon support 10 A headcanon with no canon support 11 Cosplay 12 A Character Who's Totally Not Dead 13 If The Characters Found The Fanworks 14 Your OTP (or OT3+) 15 A Crossover 16 A Fanfic Trope You're Very Picky About 17 A Ship You Don't Ship, But Do Respect 18 The Sequel We Deserve But Never Got 19 Different Versions Of The Same Character 20 A Friend's Blorbo 21 A Fandom You Didn't Expect To Get Into 22 A Non-Human Character Made Human 23 A Human Character Made Non-Human 24 A Rarepair 25 How You Would Do A Gritty Reboot 26 A Villain Who's So Good At Being Bad 27 Your Smallest/Least Active Fandom 28 A Bit Of Backstory 29 What The Future Holds (Post-Canon)

[the-slumberparty]

For this challenge, you get to choose a type of love (or many) and put your own spin on a trope. (See below)

Find an accessible PDF list of prompts HERE.

ℝ𝕦𝕝𝕖𝕤

💕 This challenge is open to all fandoms and characters.

💞Dark creations are accepted but we will not accept underage, incest, or bestiality. Please don’t forget to add warnings to your works appropriately.

💓 For written pieces, there are no word count limits, but we do ask that you add a “read more” beyond 500 words.

💖 We hope that creators can create an inclusive work and encourage writers and creators to use appropriate tagging, ie, f!reader, etc..

💗 For this challenge, we will accept sequels or continuations to previous works. Please be sure to link the original work in your submission.

💘 Creators may submit three pieces of each medium (up to three visual pieces and up to three written pieces)

❤️‍🔥Be kind to yourself and to others. We are here to support and include each other.

💝This is an event for February 2024, with a final due date of March 4, 2024 for late submissions.

!Tag this blog in your submission so we see it.!

[pan-flute-skeleton]

Metalocalypse OC Week 2024!

Are you folks ready for another 🎸🎸🎸 prompt challenge? I know I am! What better way to start the summer months than interacting and celebrating all the diverse fan characters of Metalocalypse. From old friends to new friends to characters you've had your eye on for quite some time, this is Original Character (OC) Week.

This is your chance to make that art, write that fic or any other creative expression involving your OCs. We all share the sandbox so this is also your chance to mingle with other creators to make something epic. Don't be shy! From personal experience, messaging someone with a character I'd like to utilize helps the process.

Use any character you like whether they are well established or new on the scene. But most importantly, have fun. Can't wait to see what everyone comes up with and keep an eye out.

Many thanks to @mnikhowozu for the visuals.

Plain text:

June 3 - June 9

Day 1 Duncan Hills run

Day 2 Fankids, Fanparents and Fan-mily

Day 3 Style Swap

Day 4 Flirty OR Friendly Banter

Day 5 Long Distance

Day 6 Social Media Trend

[bookshelf-in-progress]

A Wise Pair of Fools: A Retelling of “The Farmer’s Clever Daughter”

For the Four Loves Fairy Tale Challenge at @inklings-challenge.

Faith

I wish you could have known my husband when he was a young man. How you would have laughed at him! He was so wonderfully pompous—oh, you’d have no idea unless you’d seen him then. He’s weathered beautifully, but back then, his beauty was bright and new, all bronze and ebony. He tried to pretend he didn’t care for personal appearances, but you could tell he felt his beauty. How could a man not be proud when he looked like one of creation’s freshly polished masterpieces every time he stepped out among his dirty, sweaty peasantry?

But his pride in his face was nothing compared to the pride he felt over his mind. He was clever, even then, and he knew it. He’d grown up with an army of nursemaids to exclaim, “What a clever boy!” over every mildly witty observation he made. He’d been tutored by some of the greatest scholars on the continent, attended the great universities, traveled further than most people think the world extends. He could converse like a native in fifteen living languages and at least three dead ones.

And books! Never a man like him for reading! His library was nothing to what it is now, of course, but he was making a heroic start. Always a book in his hand, written by some dusty old man who never said in plain language what he could dress up in words that brought four times the work to some lucky printer. Every second breath he took came out as a quotation. It fairly baffled his poor servants—I’m certain to this day some of them assume Plato and Socrates were college friends of his.

Well, at any rate, take a man like that—beautiful and over-educated—and make him king over an entire nation—however small—before he turns twenty-five, and you’ve united all earthly blessings into one impossibly arrogant being.

Unfortunately, Alistair’s pomposity didn’t keep him properly aloof in his palace. He’d picked up an idea from one of his old books that he should be like one of the judge-kings of old, walking out among his people to pass judgment on their problems, giving the inferior masses the benefit of all his twenty-four years of wisdom. It’s all right to have a royal patron, but he was so patronizing. Just as if we were all children and he was our benevolent father. It wasn’t strange to see him walking through the markets or looking over the fields—he always managed to look like he floated a step or two above the common ground the rest of us walked on—and we heard stories upon stories of his judgments. He was decisive, opinionated. Always thought he had a better way of doing things. Was always thinking two and ten and twelve steps ahead until a poor man’s head would be spinning from all the ways the king found to see through him. Half the time, I wasn’t sure whether to fear the man or laugh at him. I usually laughed.

So then you can see how the story of the mortar—what do you mean you’ve never heard it? You could hear it ten times a night in any tavern in the country. I tell it myself at least once a week! Everyone in the palace is sick to death of it!

Oh, this is going to be a treat! Do you know how long it’s been since I’ve had a fresh audience?

It happened like this. It was spring of the year I turned twenty-one. Father plowed up a field that had lain fallow for some years, with some new-fangled deep-cutting plow that our book-learned king had inflicted upon a peasantry that was baffled by his scientific talk. Father was plowing near a river when he uncovered a mortar made of solid gold. You know, a mortar—the thing with the pestle, for grinding things up. Don’t ask me why on earth a goldsmith would make such a thing—the world’s full of men with too much money and not enough sense, and housefuls of servants willing to take too-valuable trinkets off their hands. Someone decades ago had swiped this one and apparently found my father’s farm so good a hiding place that they forgot to come back for it.

Anyhow, my father, like the good tenant he was, understood that as he’d found a treasure on the king’s land, the right thing to do was to give it to the king. He was all aglow with his noble purpose, ready to rush to the palace at first light to do his duty by his liege lord.

I hope you can see the flaw in his plan. A man like Alistair, certain of his own cleverness, careful never to be outwitted by his peasantry? Come to a man like that with a solid gold mortar, and his first question’s going to be…?

That’s right. “Where’s the pestle?”

I tried to tell Father as much, but he—dear, sweet, innocent man—saw only his simple duty and went forth to fulfill it. He trotted into the king’s throne room—it was his public day—all smiles and eagerness.

Alistair took one look at him and saw a peasant tickled to death that he was pulling a fast one on the king—giving up half the king’s rightful treasure in the hopes of keeping the other half and getting a fat reward besides.

Alistair tore into my father—his tongue was much sharper then—taking his argument to pieces until Father half-believed he had hidden away the pestle somewhere, probably after stealing both pieces himself. In his confusion, Father looked even guiltier, and Alistair ordered his guard to drag Father off to the dungeons until they could arrange a proper hearing—and, inevitably, a hanging.

As they dragged him to his doom, my father had the good sense to say one coherent phrase, loud enough for the entire palace to hear. “If only I had listened to my daughter!”

Alistair, for all his brains, hadn’t expected him to say something like that. He had Father brought before him, and questioned him until he learned the whole story of how I’d urged Father to bury the mortar again and not say a word about it, so as to prevent this very scene from occurring.

About five minutes after that, I knocked over a butter churn when four soldiers burst into my father’s farmhouse and demanded I go with them to the castle. I made them clean up the mess, then put on my best dress and did up my hair—in those days, it was thick and golden, and fell to my ankles when unbound—and after traveling to the castle, I went, trembling, up the aisle of the throne room.

Alistair had made an effort that morning to look extra handsome and extra kingly. He still has robes like those, all purple and gold, but the way they set off his black hair and sharp cheekbones that day—I’ve never seen anything like it. He looked half-divine, the spirit of judgment in human form. At the moment, I didn’t feel like laughing at him.

Looming on his throne, he asked me, “Is it true that you advised this man to hide the king’s rightful property from him?” (Alistair hates it when I imitate his voice—but isn’t it a good impression?)

I said yes, it was true, and Alistair asked me why I’d done such a thing, and I said I had known this disaster would result, and he asked how I knew, and I said (and I think it’s quite good), that this is what happens when you have a king who’s too clever to be anything but stupid.

Naturally, Alistair didn’t like that answer a bit, but I’d gotten on a roll, and it was my turn to give him a good tongue-lashing. What kind of king did he think he was, who could look at a man as sweet and honest as my father and suspect him of a crime? Alistair was so busy trying to see hidden lies that he couldn’t see the truth in front of his face. So determined not to be made a fool of that he was making himself into one. If he persisted in suspecting everyone who tried to do him a good turn, no one would be willing to do much of anything for him. And so on and so forth.

You might be surprised at my boldness, but I had come into that room not expecting to leave it without a rope around my neck, so I intended to speak my mind while I had the chance. The strangest thing was that Alistair listened, and as he listened, he lost some of that righteous arrogance until he looked almost human. And the end of it all was that he apologized to me!

Well, you could have knocked me over with a feather at that! I didn’t faint, but I came darn close. That arrogant, determined young king, admitting to a simple farmer’s daughter that he’d been wrong?

He did more than admit it—he made amends. He let Father keep the mortar, and then bought it from him at its full value. Then he gifted Father the farm where we lived, making us outright landowners. After the close of the day’s hearings, he even invited us to supper with him, and I found that King Alistair wasn’t a half-bad conversational partner. Some of those books he read sounded almost interesting.

For a year after that, Alistair kept finding excuses to come by the farm. He would check on Father’s progress and baffle him with advice. We ran into each other in the street so often that I began to expect it wasn’t mere chance. We’d talk books, and farming, and sharpen our wits on each other. We’d do wordplay, puzzles, tongue-twisters. A game, but somehow, I always thought, some strange sort of test.

Would you believe, even his proposal was a riddle? Yes, an actual riddle! One spring morning, I came across Alistair on a corner of my father's land, and he got down on one knee, confessed his love for me, and set me a riddle. He had the audacity to look into the face of the woman he loved—me!—and tell me that if I wanted to accept his proposal, I would come to him at his palace, not walking and not riding, not naked and not dressed, not on the road and not off it.

Do you know, I think he actually intended to stump me with it? For all his claim to love me, he looked forward to baffling me! He looked so sure of himself—as if all his book-learning couldn’t be beat by just a bit of common sense.

If I’d really been smart, I suppose I’d have run in the other direction, but, oh, I wanted to beat him so badly. I spent about half a minute solving the riddle and then went off to make my preparations.

The next morning, I came to the castle just like he asked. Neither walking nor riding—I tied myself to the old farm mule and let him half-drag me. Neither on the road nor off it—only one foot dragging in a wheel rut at the end. Neither naked nor dressed—merely wrapped in a fishing net. Oh, don’t look so shocked! There was so much rope around me that you could see less skin than I’m showing now.

If I’d hoped to disappoint Alistair, well, I was disappointed. He radiated joy. I’d never seen him truly smile before that moment—it was incandescent delight. He swept me in his arms, gave me a kiss without a hint of calculation in it, then had me taken off to be properly dressed, and we were married within a week.

It was a wonderful marriage. We got along beautifully—at least until the next time I outwitted him. But I won’t bore you with that story again—

You don’t know that one either? Where have you been hiding yourself?

Oh, I couldn’t possibly tell you that one. Not if it’s your first time. It’s much better the way Alistair tells it.

What time is it?

Perfect! He’s in his library just now. Go there and ask him to tell you the whole thing.

Yes, right now! What are you waiting for?

Alistair

Faith told you all that, did she? And sent you to me for the rest? That woman! It’s just like her! She thinks I have nothing better to do than sit around all day and gossip about our courtship!

Where are you going? I never said I wouldn’t tell the story! Honestly, does no one have brains these days? Sit down!

Yes, yes, anywhere you like. One chair’s as good as another—I built this room for comfort. Do you take tea? I can ring for a tray—the story tends to run long.

Well, I’ll ring for the usual, and you can help yourself to whatever you like.

I’m sure Faith has given you a colorful picture of what I was like as a young man, and she’s not totally inaccurate. I’d had wealth and power and too much education thrown on me far too young, and I thought my blessings made me better than other men. My own father had been the type of man who could be fooled by every silver-tongued charlatan in the land, so I was sensitive and suspicious, determined to never let another man outwit me.

When Faith came to her father’s defense, it was like my entire self came crumbling down. Suddenly, I wasn’t the wise king; I was a cruel and foolish boy—but Faith made me want to be better. That day was the start of my fascination with her, and my courtship started in earnest not long after.

The riddle? Yes, I can see how that would be confusing. Faith tends to skip over the explanations there. A riddle’s an odd proposal, but I thought it was brilliant at the time, and I still think it wasn’t totally wrong-headed. I wasn’t just finding a wife, you see, but a queen. Riddles have a long history in royal courtships. I spent weeks laboring over mine. I had some idea of a symbolic proposal—each element indicating how she’d straddle two worlds to be with me. But more than that, I wanted to see if Faith could move beyond binary thinking—look beyond two opposites to see the third option between. Kings and queens have to do that more often than you’d think…

No, I’m sorry, it is a bit dull, isn’t it? I guess there’s a reason Faith skips over the explanations.

So to return to the point: no matter what Faith tells you, I always intended for her to solve the riddle. I wouldn’t have married her if she hadn’t—but I wouldn’t have asked if I’d had the least doubt she’d succeed. The moment she came up that road was the most ridiculous spectacle you’d ever hope to see, but I had never known such ecstasy. She’d solved every piece of my riddle, in just the way I’d intended. She understood my mind and gained my heart. Oh, it was glorious.

Those first weeks of marriage were glorious, too. You’d think it’d be an adjustment, turning a farmer’s daughter into a queen, but it was like Faith had been born to the role. Manners are just a set of rules, and Faith has a sharp mind for memorization, and it’s not as though we’re a large kingdom or a very formal court. She had a good mind for politics, and was always willing to listen and learn. I was immensely proud of myself for finding and catching the perfect wife.

You’re smarter than I was—you can see where I was going wrong. But back then, I didn’t see a cloud in the sky of our perfect happiness until the storm struck.

It seemed like such a small thing at the time. I was looking over the fields of some nearby villages—farming innovations were my chief interest at the time. There were so many fascinating developments in those days. I’ve an entire shelf full of texts if you’re interested—

The story, yes. My apologies. The offer still stands.

Anyway, I was out in the fields, and it was well past the midday hour. I was starving, and more than a little overheated, so we were on our way to a local inn for a bit of food and rest. Just as I was at my most irritable, these farmers’ wives show up, shrilly demanding judgment in a case of theirs. I’d become known for making those on-the-spot decisions. I’d thought it was an efficient use of government resources—as long as I was out with the people, I could save them the trouble of complicated procedures with the courts—but I’d never regretted taking up the practice as heartily as I did in this moment.

The case was like this: one farmer’s horse had recently given birth, and the foal had wandered away from its mother and onto the neighbor’s property, where it laid down underneath an ox that was at pasture, and the second farmer thought this gave him a right to keep it. There were questions of fences and boundaries and who-owed-who for different trades going back at least a couple of decades—those women were determined to bring every past grievance to light in settling this case.

Well, it didn’t take long for me to lose what little patience I had. I snapped at both women and told them that my decision was that the foal could very well stay where it was.

Not my most reasoned decision, but it wasn’t totally baseless. I had common law going back centuries that supported such a ruling. Possession is nine-tenths of the law and all. It wasn't as though a single foal was worth so much fuss. I went off to my meal and thought that was the end of it.

I’d forgotten all about it by the time I returned to the same village the next week. My man and I were crossing the bridge leading into the town when we found the road covered by a fishing net. An old man sat by the side of the road, shaking and casting the net just as if he were laying it out for a catch.

“What do you think you’re doing, obstructing a public road like this?” I asked him.

The man smiled genially at me and replied, “Fishing, majesty.”

I thought perhaps the man had a touch of sunstroke, so I was really rather kind when I explained to him how impossible it was to catch fish in the roadway.

The man just replied, “It’s no more impossible than an ox giving birth to a foal, majesty.”

He said it like he’d been coached, and it didn’t take long for me to learn that my wife was behind it all. The farmer’s wife who’d lost the foal had come to Faith for help, and my wife had advised the farmer to make the scene I’d described.

Oh, was I livid! Instead of coming to me in private to discuss her concerns about the ruling, Faith had made a public spectacle of me. She encouraged my own subjects to mock me! This was what came of making a farm girl into a queen! She’d live in my house and wear my jewels, and all the time she was laughing up her sleeve at me while she incited my citizens to insurrection! Before long, none of my subjects would respect me. I’d lose my crown, and the kingdom would fall to pieces—

I worked myself into a fine frenzy, thinking such things. At the time, I thought myself perfectly reasonable. I had identified a threat to the kingdom’s stability, and I would deal with it. The moment I came home, I found Faith and declared that the marriage was dissolved. “If you prefer to side with the farmers against your own husband,” I told her, “you can go back to your father’s house and live with them!”

It was quite the tantrum. I’m proud to say I’ve never done anything so shameful since.

To my surprise, Faith took it all silently. None of the fire that she showed in defending her father against me. Faith had this way, back then, where she could look at a man and make him feel like an utter fool. At that moment, she made me feel like a monster. I was already beginning to regret what I was doing, but it was buried under so much anger that I barely realized it, and my pride wouldn’t allow me to back down so easily from another decision.

After I said my piece, Faith quietly asked if she was to leave the palace with nothing.

I couldn’t reverse what I’d decided, but I could soften it a bit.

“You may take one keepsake,” I told her. “Take the one thing you love best from our chambers.”

I thought I was clever to make the stipulation. Knowing Faith, she’d have found some way to move the entire palace and count it as a single item. I had no doubt she’d take the most expensive and inconvenient thing she could, but there was nothing in that set of rooms I couldn’t afford to lose.

Or so I thought. No doubt you’re beginning to see that Faith always gets the upper hand in a battle of wits.

I kept my distance that evening—let myself stew in resentment so I couldn’t regret what I’d done. I kept to my library—not this one, the little one upstairs in our suite—trying to distract myself with all manner of books, and getting frustrated when I found I wanted to share pieces of them with Faith. I was downright relieved when a maid came by with a tea tray. I drank my usual three cups so quickly I barely tasted them—and I passed out atop my desk five minutes later.

Yes, Faith had arranged for the tea—and she’d drugged me!

I came to in the pink light of early dawn, my head feeling like it had been run over by a military caravan. My wits were never as slow as they were that morning. I laid stupidly for what felt like hours, wondering why my bed was so narrow and lumpy, and why the walls of the room were so rough and bare, and why those infernal birds were screaming half an inch from my open window.

By the time I had enough strength to sit up, I could see that I was in the bedroom of a farmer’s cottage. Faith was standing by the window, looking out at the sunrise, wearing the dress she’d worn the first day I met her. Her hair was unbound, tumbling in golden waves all the way to her ankles. My heart leapt at the sight—her hair was one of the wonders of the world in those days, and I was so glad to see her when I felt so ill—until I remembered the events of the previous day, and was too confused and ashamed to have room for any other thoughts or feelings.

“Faith?” I asked. “Why are you here? Where am I?”

“My father’s home,” Faith replied, her eyes downcast—I think it’s the only time in her life she was ever bashful. “You told me I could take the one thing I loved best.”

Can I explain to you how my heart leapt at those words? There had never been a mind or a heart like my wife’s! It was like the moment she’d come to save her father—she made me feel a fool and feel glad for the reminder. I’d made the same mistake both times—let my head get in the way of my heart. She never made that mistake, thank heaven, and it saved us both.

Do you have something you want to add, Faith, darling? Don’t pretend I can’t see you lurking in the stacks and laughing at me! I’ll get as sappy as I like! If you think you can do it better, come out in the open and finish this story properly!

Faith

You tell it so beautifully, my darling fool boy, but if you insist—

I was forever grateful Dinah took that tea to Alistair. I couldn’t believe he hadn’t seen the loophole in his words—I was so afraid he’d see my ploy coming and stop me. But his wits were so blessedly dull that day. It was like outwitting a child.

When at last he came to, I was terrified. He had cast me out because I’d outwitted him, and now here I was again, thinking another clever trick would make everything well.

Fortunately, Alistair was marvelous—saw my meaning in an instant. Sometimes he can be almost clever.

After that, what’s there to tell? We made up our quarrel, and then some. Alistair brought me back to the palace in high honors—it was wonderful, the way he praised me and took so much blame on himself.

(You were really rather too hard on yourself, darling—I’d done more than enough to make any man rightfully angry. Taking you to Father’s house was my chance to apologize.)

Alistair paid the farmer for the loss of his foal, paid for the mending of the fence that had led to the trouble in the first place, and straightened out the legal tangles that had the neighbors at each others’ throats.

After that, things returned much to the way they’d been before, except that Alistair was careful never to think himself into such troubles again. We’ve gotten older, and I hope wiser, and between our quarrels and our reconciliations, we’ve grown into quite the wise pair of lovestruck fools. Take heed from it, whenever you marry—it’s good to have a clever spouse, but make sure you have one who’s willing to be the fool every once in a while.

Trust me. It works out for the best.

[goodfish-bowl]

Never Really Knew (DP x DC)

DP Side Hoes Week 2024 Master Post

Day 5: Dani - self-defense

Summary: There were plenty of things she knew, but it was all things that had been downloaded into her head. There was very few things that Dani had actually experienced in her extremely short life. Dani’s trip after being freed from Vlad goes well until it takes a turn into Gotham, New Jersey. Takes place after "Kindred Spirits", but before "D-Stabilized".  

Word Count: 2173

AO3 Link

Dani had known that traveling by herself would be dangerous. She knew it in the same way she knew advanced mathematics and classic literature. It was knowledge she had but had never experienced, programmed and downloaded into her head. She knew a lot of things this way, and very few things the other way. Dani had wanted to experience everything, to learn the way everyone else did. But she hadn’t known, not really, just how dangerous this task would be for her. She doubted Danny knew either, or he probably wouldn’t have let her go. 

Dani wasn’t having any trouble with money, so to say, Vlad’s credit card covered that, but there were very few places that would both accept credit and let a 12-year-old rent a room for the night. So while she was good on food and any other thing, shelter was a lot harder to manage. It had been fun, at first, buying a tent and camping equipment, and staying at parks while she explored the area, but yet again, a 12-year-old couldn't rent out a campground, so it was a bit riskier every night she stayed. If she stayed in the wrong place or too long, she would get chased out. She lost a few tents this way. She lost a few more to thefts that happened while she was out and about. 

The campground was fine when she was just about, but they weren’t always an option, like in the bigger cities, where she was now. Normally, Dani was able to keep her head low, and hang out on a rooftop for the night, but that wasn’t really a good option with vigilantes of Gotham frequenting those spaces too. She had to find a different place to sleep for the night, which she supposes is what got her into this whole mess too. That and not knowing, to an instinctual degree, that she should not have come to Gotham all alone. 

Dani had bunked down for the night in one of the many abandoned buildings around, even setting up her cot and some of her other camping equipment. This was not where she had woken up. 

Dani woke up with a full body ache and a piercing migraine, and immediately curled up on herself with a soft hiss. Everything hurt. Slowly, as Dani came to, her senses faded back into focus. It smelt generally terrible, like BO and urine, along with the faint tinge of mold and cigarettes. There was the sound of someone else crying near her, whimpering, and the more distant sound of laughter. She could feel the bare concrete under her as it tried to drain away what little body heat she actually produced. Her tongue tasted vile in her mouth, still full of fuzz with a metallic aftertaste in the back of her throat.

Dani was locked in a dark, generally dingy cell, with the only light coming from a yellow street light that managed to crawl in through the basement window, and a white fluorescent light that climbed under the door. There were a few other kinds locked up in here with her, in various stages of crying or passed out. Some of them were hurt, bad. Dani had been kidnapped in the worst city to be kidnapped. 

Slowly, feeling her whole body protest, Dani pushed herself to a kneeling position, drawing the other kids' eyes to her. She gave them a shaky smile that probably looked closer to a grimace. Dani felt her clothes and found that all the belongings she kept in her packets were gone. Darn, no more credit card. No more anything, really. Well, that sucked, but it wasn’t like they could keep her here for long, ghost powers and all that. Dani should get out as soon as she can, and run for the hills. She was sure whoever had captured her wouldn’t even notice one less child.

Dani strained her ears to listen to the voices from under the door, but a sniffle from one of the other kids in the room stopped her in her tracks, shutting down her plan of running out alone. Stupid Danny and his stupid protective streak. She would have to figure out how to get them all out together, and probably fast if the pick up in activity from under the door was any indication. Dani went over to the window, straining to look out of it, trying to figure out where it let out. 

“Hey,” Dani whispered. “Do any of you know where we are?”

There was a soft murmuring among the other children, before a scruffy-looking boy answered her in a thick Gotham accent. “Somewhere in Crime Alley. That window has metal bars in it, no way to get out from there.”

Dani hissed under her breath, letting go of the window sill from where she was straining to lift herself onto it. 

“Do you know where it leads?” She followed up. 

“Just some scummy alley.”

Dani nodded, that was at least something good, no one would notice if she passed some of the others through intangibly. 

“Okay, I can get us out,” Dani declared, keeping her voice intentionally low. 

“How do you plan to do that? You a meta or something?” one of the slightly older girls demanded. 

“Something like that,” Dani answered sheepishly. “Come on, I can take us directly through the wall,” Dani gestured through the window. 

The others were too scared to protest, and slowly Dani began to file them one to two at a time through the wall, into the alley above. Every trip burned through her reserves, and she hadn’t noticed just how many of them were in the cell with her. After the fourth trip, Dani felt fragile, only able to pass the boy with the thick local accent through, but not able to go through herself, she would hurt herself if she tried.

“Butter biscuits… I can’t get out, I’m out of energy,” Dani called out. She was going to have to figure a way out, no powers unless absolutely necessary, she might risk destabilization otherwise. 

The boy peered down at her from the window, looking grim. “I’ll go get help,” he stated before leaving her all alone in the room. 

Dani let herself drop to the ground as soon as he was gone. She felt so tired, vaguely ill, and tried her best not to not fall back asleep, but still get a little bit more rest before the rest of her grand escape. She spent those minutes listening to the voices as best as she could, planning. She really shouldn’t use her powers for the next bit, but Dani also really needed her stuff back. It would have to be worth the risk, it was the only way she could really afford anything. All she needed was just her wallet with the card in it. Everything else could be replaced, emergency cellphone included. She might have a window to get it when whatever help that boy had mentioned showed up. 

The voices on the other side of the door grew frantic along with an even more distant sound of gunshots and shattering glass. The door slammed open, causing Dani to fall onto her back in fright. The man’s eyes were blown wide in fear, teeth bared. His eyes narrowed as he probably noticed the lack of children in the room, and spat out a nasty curse before his eyes locked onto her. 

“Fuck it, we only need one hostage, a half-dead brat will have to do,” the man spat, practically snatching her up by the arms, causing Dani to cry out in pain. 

Dani had to scrunch up her eyes under the artificial white lights, leading into an open warehouse. She struggled for just a second before there was something cold and metal pressing against her temple. 

“Try it, brat, and your brains will be blown out all over the floor,” the man growled, and Dani froze. 

It was a gun. Dani knew it was a gun, and finally, it sunk in just how much danger she was really in, and tears began to run down her face. She didn’t want to die! She had only just begun to learn how to live in the first place. She needed more than a few months to figure herself out!  

The man didn't do anything as Dani began to cry, but one of the other roughly dressed goons in the room, holding an even bigger gun, sent the one holding her a dirty look, before a confused realization passed over him. 

“Where the other kids?” The other guy asked. 

“Hell if I know. Only one left was this shrimp who looks well and ready to keel over. She’ll fucking have to do.” 

There was another loud bang as a door somewhere in the warehouse was thrown open. 

“Red Hood! Don’t fucking try it or I off the kid!” 

Dani strained to see through her tears and hysterics. Was this guy supposed to be her help? But Dani was already held hostage, how much help could this ‘Red Hood’ be?

“You know I don’t like people fucking around with kids on my turf,” a modulated, artificial voice spat. 

“Which is why you’re going to let us go, so that this little girl’s brains don’t end up splattered all over the ground,” The guy holding the bigger gun argued back. 

There was a creak from the rafters and the other guy opened fired, sending rounds into the ceiling. A large figure dropped down, returning fire as they fell. Dani’s eyes widened at the heavily armed figure in a red helmet and leather jacket. He was both the coolest and most terrifying person Dani had ever seen. The guy with the bigger gun went down with only a few well-aimed shots. 

Red Hood towered over Dani’s current kidnapper, who pressed the gun harder into her temple, causing another wave of panic to go through her as her eyes strained to dart back and forth between the man holding her and her ‘savior’ who had just definitely killed someone. 

“There you are, you shitty bastard,” her kidnapper growled. “Now!”

Gunshots came from a completely different direction, catching Red Hood by surprise, but not before he managed to take out one of the two new assailants, and a stray bullet slammed into the arm holding the gun to Dani’s head. The man recoiled, practically tossing both her and the gun aside, forgotten. Dani ducked down, scrambling the best she could away from the center of the fight, but exhaustion and a horrible pinch in her ankle weighed down on her entire being. 

Dani looked back after hearing a few more gunshots. The guy who had been holding her was dead, but Red Hood had taken a couple of hits himself, stuck kneeling as the final kidnapper pointed his gun directly at Red Hood. He was going to be killed, and then Dani knew she would quickly follow him. Panic seized her body and core, dredging up what little energy it could. She couldn’t let Red Hood be killed, Dani didn’t want to die. 

 Dani dove for the gun that had been tossed away in her. The knowledge of how to use a gun quickly clicked into place, just like all of those other things she knew and had never experienced. Dani was keen on never feeling the chill of a live firearm in her hands again, nor the image of the man dropping dead from a clean shot as she fired. 

The gun clattered to the ground and Dani was well aware that Red Hood was full-on staring at her beneath his helmet. 

“Kid-” the modulated voice called out, but Dani yanked on her invisibility, pulling as hard as she could, running off. 

Dani had killed someone, sending full-on shivers and nausea through her, compounded by the protests of her fragile anatomy as she tried to maintain invisibility. She quickly found her things, which had been haphazardly tossed into a corner, snatching the wallet and nothing else. It felt like she was falling apart. 

Dani made it to the exit before Red Hood spotted her again. 

“Wait!” He called out, sounding panicked. 

Dani couldn’t help the reflexive glance back, likely showcasing the bright glow of her eyes, and the thick trickle of ectoplasm as it seeped out of her nose before she fled into the night. There was cursing and heavy steps behind her, so Dani did the only thing she could and transformed as soon as she was out of direct eyesight, doing her best to ignore the familiar sensation of destabilization as it began to set in. She even ignored the swear-storm of the vigilante she left behind in the alley. Dani was going back to Amity Park as soon as she could, but she now knew, deep in her gut and in the sour taste of ectoplasm in the back of her throat, just how dangerous it could be on her own.

[amouress16]

Azurido Challenge Day 5: Childhood (aka Visiting Your Home, part one)

As Azul walks down the hall, he notices the many photos hung on the wall, starkly contrasting with the almost shiny looking wallpaper. It was impossible not to notice them, massive things almost as tall as the boy leading him through the space. They're family photos, he can tell right off. Each appear to be taken about a year apart, by the look of the child who grows up little by little between each image. It's on the sixth one he notices a shift, tension and unhappy faces. And in the next picture, as well as all the subsequent ones after, the ginger haired man is missing. ...suddenly it makes sense why Riddle never speaks of his father. What a thing to have in common, he thinks.

[mythicalamity]

Link to ao3, start from week one: ✨ h e r e ✨

[thepromptfoundry]

The prompt theme for January 2024 is a January of Firsts!

If you use this list, please tag me here @thepromptfoundry, I’d love to see your writing and art!

Feel free to combine different days' prompts with each other, or combine them with other seasonal events! Use your OCs, your favorite characters from media, whatever tickles your fancy.

Respond to as many prompts as you want or as interest you, don’t worry about missing or skipping any. Remember, this is supposed to be fun!

Plain text list below the cut:

1) First impression 2) First step in a journey 3) First snow 4) First blood 5) First fitting 6) First gift 7) First take 8) First touch 9) First day at work or school 10) First chair 11) First love 12) First loss 13) First meeting 14) First star 15) First cut 16) First look into the unknown 17) First kiss 18) First point 19) First class 20) First time on their own 21) First choice 22) First in line 23) First word 24) First draft 25) First spark 26) First runner up 27) First base 28) First aid 29) First born 30) First taste 31) First night

[stinky-dragon-character-week]

Mudd week 2024

Mark your calendars for February 5th to February 11th for 1 whole week of your favorite firbolg!

Rules are simple;

No NSFW submissions

Tag all posts you want submitted with Mudd Week 2024

Drawings, fics, and videos are all welcome

No stealing or copying submissions from others

Multiple and late submissions are allowed

Have fun with it!

All submissions will be reblogged here, so everyone can see them!

Alright, now that that's out of the way, let's talk themes/prompts

There will be a total of seven prompts. You can choose either one or both of the prompts to submit. You can interpret them however you want, as long as you have fun!

Day 1 (February 5th): In the past / Not a chance

Day 2 (February 6th): "Am I real?" / "Who are you?"

Day 3 (February 7th): Ep. 71 / "I remember now."

Day 4 (February 8th): Modern AU / Canon divergence

Day 5 (February 9th): Family portrait / Childhood Memories

Day 6 (February 10th): Betrayal / "You are not my brother."

Day 7 (February 11th): Free day / AU day

[lilac-hecox]

So! When thinking of writing challenges @wispmotherr and I kept coming back to the idea of bringing the Big Bang Challenge over to Smoshblr! Here is some basic info!

What's a Big Bang?

In this iteration, a Big Bang is a writing challenge that takes places over the course of 3 months. The end goal of the challenge is for participants to complete a fic that totals 25k (25,000) words or more. If this goal is reached, your work is optioned for volunteer artists to make companion art to go with your fic, and when it's all said and done, everyone's work is released into the wild for the entire community to enjoy.

At it's very core Big Bang is a fic challenge that encourages the creation of long fics.

For this challenge we are also looking for anyone who may want to sign up to produce art for a 25k fic or a playlist for a 15k fic! As a part of this challenge is collaboration where-in artists and mixers get to choose a fic they want to create for!

This is important! As a part of the challenge we ask you do not use pre-existing works or begin working until the writing portion of the challenge begins!

Additionally! If you sign up it is important to keep your idea and plot a secret due to the nature of the artists picking stories based on idea and not any sort of fandom friendship favoritism!

The progress updates come in the form of a check-in on the Smoshblr Big Bang discord server!

Some additional Rules:

18+ content is allowed, so we ask that all participants be 18+ as well.

Signing up to participate should indicate that you intend to do your best to stick through it to the end. Commit to the bit, as they say.

Thank you to the amazing @wiggog-y-hecox for making the graphics for the challenge! If you have questions you can direct them to me or @wispmotherr. We are really excited about this and I am participating so I would love others to participate and spread the word! This is a favorite challenge of myself and Krissy and we're excited to bring it to Smoshblr!

[martyr0l0gy]

if anyone else is doing Escapril please let me knowwwww !! i'd love a poetry writing buddy for next month <3

[bookshelf-in-progress]

Marks of Loyalty: A Retelling of Maid Maleen

For the Four Loves Fairy Tale Challenge at @inklings-challenge

Seven years, the high king declared.

Seven years’ imprisonment because a lowly handmaiden pledged her love to the crown prince and refused to release him when his father wished him to marry a foreign princess.

Never mind that Maleen’s blood was just as noble as that of the lady she served. Never mind that Jarroth had been only a fourth prince when he and Maleen courted and pledged their love without a word of protest from the crown. Never mind that they loved each other with a fierce devotion that could outlast the world’s end. A handmaid to the sister of the grand duke of Taina could never be an acceptable bride for the crown prince of all Montrane now that Jarroth was his father’s only heir.

“Seven years to break your rebellious spirit,” the king said as he stood in the grand duke’s study. “More than enough time for my son to forget this ridiculous infatuation.”

“This is ridiculous!” Lady Rilla laughed. “Imprison a lady of Taina for falling in love? If you imprison her, you must imprison me on the same charges. I promoted their courtship and witnessed their betrothal. I object to its ending. I am Maleen’s mistress, and you can not punish her actions without punishing me for permitting such impudence.”

Rilla believed that her rank would save her. That the high king would not dare to enrage Taina by imprisoning their grand duke’s sister. She believed her brother would protest, that the high king would relent rather than risk internal war when the Oprien emperor posed such a danger from without. She believed her words would rescue Maleen from her fate.

Rilla had been wrong. The high king ordered Rilla imprisoned with her handmaiden, and the grand duke did not so much as whisper in protest.

Lady Rilla had always treated Maleen as an equal, calling her a friend rather than a servant, but Maleen had never dreamed that friendship could prompt such a display of loyalty. She begged Rilla to repent of her words to the king rather than suffer punishment for Maleen’s crimes.

Rilla only laughed. “How could I survive without my handmaid? If I am to retain your services, I must go where you go.”

On the final morning of their freedom, they stood before the tower that was to serve as their prison and home, a building as as dark, solid, and impenetrable as the towering mountains that surrounded it. In the purple sunrise that was to be the last they would see for seven years, Maleen tearfully begged her mistress to save herself. Maleen was small, dark, quiet, hardy—she could endure seven years in a dark and lonely tower. Lively, laughing Rilla, with her red hair and bright eyes, was made for sunshine, not shadows. She loved company and revels and the finer things of life—seven years of imprisonment would crush her vibrant spirit, and Maleen could not bear to be the cause of it.

“Could you abandon Jarroth?” Rilla asked.

In the customs of the Taina people, tattoos around the neck symbolized one’s history and family bonds, marked near the veins that coursed with one’s lifeblood. Maleen had marked her betrothal to Jarroth by adding the pink blossoms of the mountain campion to the traditional black spots and swirls. Color indicated a chosen life-bond, and the flowers symbolized the mountain landscape where they had fallen in love and pledged their lives to each other.

“Jarroth has become part of my self,” Maleen said. “I could as soon abandon him as cut out my own heart.”

With uncharacteristic solemnity, Rilla said, “Neither could I abandon you.” She rolled up her sleeves far to reveal the tattoos that marked friendship, traditionally marked on the wrist—veins just as vital, and capable of reaching out to the world. The ring of blue and black circles matched the one on Maleen’s wrist, symbolizing a bond, not between mistress and servant, but between lifelong friends. “I do not leave my friends to suffer alone.”

When the king’s soldiers came, Maleen and Rilla entered the tower without fear.

*

Seven years, they stayed in the tower.

There was darkness and despair, but also laughter and joy.

Maleen was glad to have a friend.

*

The seven years were over, and still no one came. Their tower was isolated, but the high king could not have forgotten about them.

The food was running low.

It was Rilla’s idea to break through weak spots in the mortar, but Maleen had the patience to sit, day after day, chipping at it with their dull flatware until at last they saw their first ray of sun.

They bathed in the light, smiling as they’d not smiled in years, awash in peace and joy and hope. Then they worked with a will, attacking every brick and mortared edge until at last they made a hole just large enough to crawl through.

Maleen gazed upon the world and felt like a babe newborn. She and Rilla helped each other to name what they saw—sky, mountain, grass, clouds, tree. There was wind and sun, birds and bugs and flowers and life, life, life—unthinkable riches after seven years of darkness. They rolled in the grass like children, laughing and crying and thanking God for their release.

Then they saw the smoke. Across a dozen mountains, fields and forests had been burnt to ashes. Whole villages had disappeared. Far off to the south, where they should have been able to make out the flags and towers of the grand duke’s palace, there was nothing.

“What happened?” Maleen whispered.

“War,” Rilla replied.

Before the tower, Maleen had known the Opriens were a threat. Their emperor was a warmonger, greedy for land, disdainful of those who followed traditions other than Oprien ways. But war had always been a distant fear, something years in the distance, if it ever came at all.

Years had passed. War had come.

What of the world had survived?

*

Left to herself, Maleen might have stayed in the safe darkness of the tower, but Maleen was not alone. She had Rilla, who hungered for knowledge and conversation and food that was not their hard travel bread. She had Jarroth, somewhere out there—was he even alive?

Had he fallen in battle against the Oprien forces? Perished as their prisoner? Burned to death in one of their awful blazes? Had he wed another?

Rilla—who had developed a practical strain during their time in the tower—oversaw the selection of their supplies. They needed dresses—warm and cool. They needed cloaks and stockings and underclothes. They needed all the food they could salvage from their storeroom, and all the edible greens Maleen could find on the mountain. They needed kindling, flint, candles, blankets, bedrolls.

On their last night before leaving the tower, Maleen and Rilla slept in their usual beds, but could not sleep. The tower had seemed a place of torment seven years ago. Who would have thought it would become the safest place in the world?

“What do you think we’ll find out there?” Maleen asked Rilla.

“I don’t know,” Rilla said. “Whatever it is, we’ll face it together.”

*

It was worse than Maleen could have imagined.

Not only was Taina devastated by war and living under Oprien rule.

Taina was being wiped out.

The Taina were an independent people, proud of their traditions, which they had clung to fiercely as they were conquered and annexed into other kingdoms a dozen times across the centuries. Relations between the Taina and the high king of Montane had been strained, but friendly. Some might rebel, but most were content to live under the high king so long as he tolerated their culture.

The Oprien emperor did not believe in tolerance.

Taina knew that under Oprien rule, Taina life would die, so they had fought fiercely, cruelly, mercilessly, against the invasion, until at last they were conquered. The emperor, enraged by their resistance, ordered that the Taina be wiped from the face of the earth. Any Taina found living were to be killed like dogs.

Maleen and Rilla quickly learned that the tattoos on their necks and arms—the proud symbols of their heritage—now marked them for death. They wore long sleeves and high collars and thick cloaks. They avoided speaking lest their voices give them away. They dared not even think in the Taina tongue.

One night as they camped in a ruined church, Maleen trusted in their isolation enough to ask, “If I had given up Jarroth—let him marry his foreign princess—do you think Taina would have been saved?”

Rilla, ever wise about politics, only laughed. “If only it had been so easy. I would have told you to give him up myself. No, Oprien wanted war, and no alliance could have stopped them. No alliance did. For all we know, Jarroth did marry a foreign princess, and this was the result.”

Maleen got no sleep that night.

*

Jarroth had not married.

Jarroth was the king of Montane.

*

The wind had the first chill of autumn when Maleen and Rilla entered Montane City—a city of soaring gray spires and beautiful bridges, with precious stones in its pavements and mountain views that rivaled any in Taina.

Though its territories had been conquered, Montane itself had retained its independence—on precarious terms. Montane was surrounded by Oprien land, and even its mountains could not protect it if the emperor’s anger was sufficiently roused. Maleen and Rilla could not be sure of safety even here—the emperor had thousands of eyes upon his unconquered prize—but they could not survive a winter in the countryside, and Montane City was safer than any other.

“We must find work,” Maleen said, “if anyone will have us.” She now trusted in their disguises to keep their markings covered and their voices free of any taint of Taina.

“The king is looking for workers,” Rilla said with a smile.

Even now, Rilla championed their romance, but Maleen had grown wiser in seven years. Jarroth’s father was no longer alive to object, but a king—especially one surrounded by enemies—had even less freedom to marry than a crown prince did. Any hopes Maleen had were distant, wild hopes, less real than their pressing needs for food and shelter and new shoes.

But those wild hopes brought her and Rilla at last to the king’s gate, and then to his housekeeper, who was willing to hire even these ragged strangers to work in the king’s kitchen. The kitchen was so crowded with workers that Maleen and Rilla found they barely had room to breathe.

“It’s not usually like this,” a fellow scullery maid told them. “Most of these new hands will be gone after the wedding.”

Maleen felt a foreboding that she hadn’t felt since the moment the high king had pronounced her fate. Only this time, the words the scullery maid spoke crushed her last, wild hope.

In two weeks’ time, Jarroth would marry another.

*

As Maleen gathered herbs in the kitchen garden—the cook had noticed her knowledge of plants—she caught sight of Jarroth, walking briskly from the castle to a waiting carriage. He had aged more than seven years—his dark hair, thick as ever, had premature patches of gray. His shoulders were broader, and his jaw had a thick white scar. There was majesty in his bearing, but sorrow in his face that was only matched by the sorrow in Maleen’s heart—time had been unkind to both of them.

She longed to race to him and throw her arms around him, reassure him that she yet lived and loved him. A glimpse of one of her markings peeking out from beneath a sleeve reminded Maleen of the truth—she was a woman the king’s enemy wanted dead. She could not ask him to endanger all Montane by acknowledging her love.

Sensible as such thoughts were, Maleen might still have run to him, had Jarroth not reached the carriage first. When he opened the door, Maleen saw the arms of a foreign crown—the fish and crossed swords of Eshor. The woman who emerged was swathed in purple veils, customary in that nation for soon-to-be brides.

Jarroth bowed to his betrothed, then disappeared back into the palace with his soon-to-be wife on his arm.

Maleen sank into a patch of parsley and wept.

*

Rilla was helping Maleen to water the herb gardens when the purple-veiled princess of Eshor wandered into view.

“Is that the vixen?” Rilla asked.

Maleen shushed and scolded her.

“Don’t shush me,” Rilla said. “Now that I’m a servant, I’m allowed the joy of despising my betters.”

“You don’t need to despise her.” She was a princess doing her duty, as Jarroth was doing his. Jarroth thought Maleen dead with the rest of her nation.

“I will despise who I like,” Rilla said. “If I correctly recall, the king of Eshor has only one daughter, and she’s a sharp-tongued, spiteful thing.” She tore up a handful of weeds. “May she plague his unfaithful heart.”

Since Maleen could not bear to hear Jarroth disparaged, she did not argue, and she and Rilla fell into silence.

The princess remained in the background, watching.

When their heads were bent together over a patch of thyme, Rilla murmured, “Will she never leave?”

“She often comes to the gardens,” Maleen said. “She has a right to go where she pleases.”

“But not to stare as if we each have two heads.”

Out of habit, they glanced at each others’ collars, cuffs, and skirts. No sign of their markings showed.

“We have nothing to fear from her,” Maleen said. “In two days, the worst will be over.”

*

A maid came to the kitchen with a message from the princess, asking that the “pretty dark-haired maid in the herb garden” bring her breakfast tray. Cook grumbled, but could not object.

Maleen tried not to stare as she laid out the tray. The princess sprawled across the bed, her feet up on pillows, her face unveiled. Her height and build were similar to Maleen’s, but her hair was a sandy brown, and her face had been pockmarked by plague. Even then, her eyes—a striking blue, deep as a mountain lake—might have been pretty had there not been a cunning cruelty to the way they glared at her.

“You are uncommonly handsome for a kitchen maid,” the princess said. “You have not always been a servant, I think.”

Maleen tried not to quake. There was something terrifying in her all-knowing tone. “I do not wish to contradict your highness,” Maleen said, “but you are mistaken. I have been in service since my twelfth year.”

“Then you have been a servant of a higher class. Your hands are nearly as soft as mine, and you carry yourself like a princess.”

“Your highness is kind.” Maleen nodded her head in a quick, subservient bow, then scurried toward the door.

“I did not dismiss you!” the princess snapped.

Maleen stood at attention, her eyes upon her demurely clasped hands. “Forgive me, your highness. What else do you require?”

“I require assistance that no one else can give—a service that would be invaluable to our two kingdoms. I sprained my ankle on the stairs this morning and will be unable to walk. Since I cannot bear the thought of delaying the wedding that will bind our two nations in this hour of need, I need a woman to take my place.”

A voice that sounded much like Rilla’s whispered suspicions through Maleen’s mind. The princess was proud and her illness was recent. She would not like to show her ravaged face to foreign crowds, and by Montane tradition, she could not go veiled to and from the church.

Knowing—or suspecting—the truth behind the request didn’t ease any of Maleen’s terror. “No!” she gasped. “No, no, no! I could never…!”

“You will!” the princess snapped, sounding as imperious and immovable as the high king on that long ago day. “You are the right build—you will fit my gowns. You have a face that will not shame Eshor. You are quiet and demure—you will be discreet.”

“I will not do it! It is not right!” To marry the man she loved in the name of another woman, to show her face to the man who thought her long dead, to endanger his kingdom and her life by showing him a Taina had survived and entered his domain, it was—all of it—impossible.

“It is perfectly legal. Marriage by proxy is a long-standing tradition. I will reward you handsomely for your trouble.”

As she had defied the high king, so Maleen defied this princess. With her proudest bearing, Maleen looked the princess in the eye. “I will not do it. You have no right to command me. You will find another.”

“If I do,” the princess said, “there is an agent of the Oprien empire in the marketplace who will be glad to know the king of Montane harbors a fugitive from Taina.”

Maleen’s blood ran cold.

The princess smirked—a cat with a mouse in its claws. “If you serve me in this, no one ever need know of your heritage. I will even spare your red-haired friend. Do we have a bargain?”

Maleen bowed her head and rasped, “I am your servant, your highness.”

*

That night in their shared quarters, Rilla kept Maleen from bolting.

“We must flee!” Maleen said. “She knows the truth! If we are gone before dawn—“

“She will alert the emperor’s agent and give our descriptions,” Rilla said. “Nowhere will be safe.”

“If Jarroth sees me!”

“Either he will recognize you, and you’ll have your long-awaited reunion, or he won’t, and you’ll be well rid of him.”

“He could hand me over to the emperor himself. He is king and has a duty—“

If you think him capable of that, you’re a fool for ever loving him.”

Maleen sank onto her cot, breathing heavily. Tears sprang from her eyes. “I can’t do it. I’m too afraid.”

“You’ve lived in fear for seven years. I should think you well-practiced in it by now.”

“Will you be quiet, Rilla?” Maleen snapped.

Rilla grinned.

But she sank down on the cot next to Maleen and took Maleen’s hands in hers. With surprising sincerity, she said, “We can’t control what will happen. That’s when we trust. Trust me. Trust heaven. Trust yourself. Trust Jarroth. All will be well, and if it’s not, we’ll face it as we’ve faced our other troubles. You survived seven years in a tower. You can face a single day.”

What choice did she have? What choice had she ever had? She loved Jarroth and would be there on his wedding day, dressed as his bride. What came next was up to him.

Maleen embraced Rilla. “What would I do without you?”

“Nothing very sensible, I’m sure.”

*

The bride’s gown was all white, silk and lace, with a high collar, full sleeves, and skirts that hid even her shoes. Eshoran fashions were well-suited for a Taina bride.

When she met Jarroth on the road to the church, he gasped at the sight of her. “My…”

“Yes?” Maleen asked, heart racing.

He shook his head. “Impossible.” Meeting her eyes, he said, “You remind me of a girl I once knew. Long dead, now.”

The resemblance was not great. Seven years had changed Maleen. She was thinner, paler, ravaged by near-starvation and hard living. She had matured so much she sometimes wondered if her soul was the same as the girl’s he’d known. Yet the way her heart raced at the sight of him suggested some deep part of her hadn’t changed at all.

Jarroth took her hand and they began the long walk to the church, flanked on both sides by crowds of his subjects. So many eyes. Maleen longed to hide.

She glanced at her sleeve, which moved every time Jarroth’s hand swung with hers. “Don’t show my markings,” she murmured desperately.

Jarroth glanced over in surprise. “Pardon?”

Maleen looked away. “Nothing.”

At the bridge before the cathedral—the city’s grandest, flanked by statues of mythical heroes—the winds over the river swirled Maleen’s skirts as she stepped onto the arched walkway.

“Please, oh please,” she prayed in a whisper, “don’t let the markings on my ankles show.”

At the door to the church, she and Jarroth ducked their heads beneath a bower of flowers. She felt the fabric of her collar move, and placed a hand desperately to her throat. “Please,” she prayed, “don’t let the flowers show.”

“Did you say something?” Jarroth asked.

Maleen rushed into the church.

She sat beside him through the wedding service—the day she’d dreamed of since she’d met him nearly ten years ago—crying, not for joy, but in terror and dismay. He had seen her face and did not know her. He believed her long dead. She was so changed he did not suspect the truth, and she didn’t dare to tell him. Now she wed him as a stranger, in another woman’s name.

When the priest declared them man and wife, Maleen dissolved into tears. He took her to the waiting carriage and brought her to the palace as his bride. Maleen could not bear it. She claimed fatigue and dashed in the princess’ chambers as quickly as she could.

She threw the gown, the jewels, the petticoats on the floor beside the bed of the smiling princess. “It is done,” she said. “I owe you no more.”

“You have done well,” the princess said. “But don’t go far. I may have need of you tonight.”

*

That evening, Rilla wanted every detail of the wedding—the service, the flowers, the gown, and most of all, Jarroth’s reaction.

“You mean you didn’t tell him?” she scolded. “After he suspected?”

“How could I? In front of those crowds?”

“You’ll just leave him to that woman?”

“He chose that woman, Rilla.”

“But he married you.”

He had. It should have been the happiest moment of her life. But it was the end of all her hopes.

After dark, a maid summoned Maleen to a dressing room in the princess’ suite. The princess—queen now, Maleen realized—sat before a mirror, adjusting her customary purple veils. “You will remain here, in case I have need of you.”

The hatred Maleen felt in that moment rivaled anything Rilla had ever expressed. Not only did this woman force her to marry her beloved in her place—now she had to play witness to their wedding night.

The princess stepped into the dim bedchamber—her ankle as strong as anyone’s—leaving Maleen alone in the dark. It felt like the tower all over again—only without Rilla for support.

What a fool the princess was! She couldn’t wear the veil forever—Jarroth would see her face eventually.

There were murmurs in the outer room—Maleen recognized Jarroth’s deep tones.

A moment later, the princess scurried back into the dressing room. She hissed in Maleen’s ear, “What did you say on the path to the church?”

On the path?

Her stomach sank at the memory. She could say only the truth—but the princess wouldn’t like it. “My sleeve was moving. I prayed my markings wouldn’t show.”

Another moment alone in the dark. Another murmur from without, then another question from the princess. “What did you say at the bridge?”

“I prayed the markings on my ankle wouldn’t show.”

The princess cursed and returned to the bedchamber.

When she came back a moment later, Maleen swore the woman’s eyes sparked angrily in the dark. “What did you say at the church door?”

“I prayed the flowers on my neck wouldn’t show.”

The princess promised a million retributions, then returned to the bedroom.

The next time the door opened, Jarroth loomed in the threshold, a lantern in his hand. His eyes were wild—with anger or terror or wild hope, Maleen couldn’t begin to guess.

He held the lantern before her face. “Show me your wrists.”

Maleen rolled up her sleeves and showed the dots and dashes that marked the friendships of her life.

“Show me your ankles.”

She lifted her skirts to reveal the swirling patterns that marked her coming-of-age.

“Show me,” he said, his eyes blazing with undeniable hope, “the markings around your neck.”

She unbuttoned the collar to show the pink flowers of their betrothal.

The lantern clattered to the floor. Jarroth gathered her in his arms and pressed kisses on her brow. “My Maleen! I thought you dead!”

“I live,” Maleen said, laughing and crying with joy.

“And Rilla?” he asked.

“Downstairs.”

He put his head out the door and called for a maid to bring Rilla to the chambers. Then he called for guards to make sure his furious foreign bride did not leave the room.

Then he and Maleen began to share their stories of seven lost years.

*

The pockmarked princess glared at Jarroth and Maleen in the sunlit bedchamber. “You are sending me back to Eshor?”

“I have already wed a bride,” Jarroth said. “I have no need of another.”

The princess spat, “The emperor will be furious when he knows the king of Montane has wed a Taina bride.”

“Let him hear of it,” Jarroth said. “Let him go to war if he dares it. The people of Taina are always welcome in my realm.”

Jarroth played politics better than Rilla could. A threat had no power over one who did not fear it, and Eshor risked losing valuable trade if Montane fell to war with Oprien. The princess never spoke a word.

*

Maleen wandered the kitchen gardens with Rilla and Jarroth, luxuriating in the fragrance of the herbs and the safety of their love and friendship.

“Is this wise?” Maleen asked. “To put all the people at risk over me?”

“Over all the people of Taina,” Jarroth said. “My father was monstrous to tolerate it.”

“We will have to tread carefully,” Rilla said. “No need to provoke the emperor. No need to reveal his bride's heritage too soon."

"We can be discreet," Jarroth said. "But what shall we do with you, Lady Rilla?”

Rilla bowed her head in the subservient stance she’d learned as a kitchen maid—but there was a sparkle of mirth in her eyes. “If it pleases your majesties, I will remain near the queen, who I am bound by friendship to serve.”

Maleen took her friend’s hand and said, “I would have you nowhere else.”