#And I got an acquaintance to tell me “I see why your name is Arson now

[hantaslittlearsonist]

I hate that I have so much fucking rizz when I'm fake flirting with someone I'm not attracted to at all but the second I'm even a little into you I turn into a bumbling not-even-human thing that can't string 2 words together 😭😭

[nikolai-alexi]

Fifty Kilos of Glitter and a Way Out

This is a mini fic for the lovely @swag696942069 who came up with the concept of Tillie Finnegan, Seamus Finnegan’s mam, and I fell head over heels in love with the idea of her, so I wrote a lil fic for her. Swag, I hope I did Tillie some kind of justice, I love this little menace to society and I really want to play with her character more in the future

CWs: I actually don’t think there’s any?? (Wow yes I know shocker I never managed to write things without heavy CWs so this is a first). There’s mention of magical surrogacy. There’s an overview of the War, but no graphic details of anything. Lots of mentions of bombs/bomb materials. Oh shit wait, glancing description of arson and murder, too, but not with a bomb.

I absolutely did not proof read this, it’s 0100 and I have to be up for work in 3 hours so forgive me for any mistakes. And the line breaks wouldn’t format right on mobile so I gave up. Also, I know “dwt” is a Welsh word, but I couldn’t find an Irish equivalent, so I said fuck it.

Dwt - of a person, someone small or dinky

WC: 4600 words, average read time 35 minutes

Regulus Black is not someone people accidentally bump into, or stumble into, or any other manner of unintentional irritation. He knows this, because he’s hexed people for far less than an unintentional bump in the corridor. People stay far away from him, unless you were Evan, Pandora, Barty, or Dorcas, you made sure you gave him a wide berth. His lack of patience and temper with others has only gotten worse since the summer hols.

Which is why, he thinks, it’s so surprising when someone, who is definitely not any of the aforementioned people, slumps down at his table in the library unceremoniously, and tosses her feet onto the chair beside her. He raises his head from his textbooks and parchments slowly, and blinks owlishly at her. He can’t hide his surprise at the sheer amount of audacity she has. He’s seen her around, knows she’s a Hufflepuff in his year, but she’s not a Prefect so he has no idea what her name is.

“Can I help you?” He sneers. She doesn’t even blink from the venom in his voice. Her head is tilted just a bit to the side and her blue eyes look massive from behind her specs, he can see the thickness of the lens protruding from the wire frames, and, if he’s being honest, it kind of unnerves him.

It’s like she seems to sense that he feels very off-kilter from her sudden appearance and lack of response, and nods strongly once, “Tillie Finnegan, pleasure to meet your acquaintance, Regulus Black. I need your help.” Her words are formal, but her thick, Donegal accent, made the words sound anything but.

Regulus snorts and turns back to his textbooks with a nasty grin, “Bugger off then, you won’t find it here,”

Finnegan laughs, and it sounds like a strange mixture of gulls and bells, “Aye, mightn’t be so hasty when I tell you what I’ve got to offer you,”

He snaps his gaze to her, all but snarling, but stops short when he sees her twirling a very familiar gold chain around her fingers. She smirks as the colour leaves his face entirely.

“Where did you get that,” he tries keeping his voice neutral, but he knows his body language is tense, ready to swipe the necklace out of her hands at the first given opportunity. It betrays him.

She tsks softly, “Not so fast, Baby Black,” she snatches the gold chain out of the air just before he’s able to close his fingers around it. It disappears from her hands not a second later.

Regulus sits stiffly straight in his chair and folds his hands in front of him, “Fine then,” he says, trying to curb the snarl on his face, “Let’s talk,”

Her stoic expression melts away to a sunny exclamation immediately, “Oh wonderful! I’d thought that’d take much longer!” Her mood swings reminded him of Bella, in a way, and a shiver rolls down his spine.

She rights herself in her chair, “Right then, to business, shall we? I need material ordered, but I can’t order it meself or it’ll get reported. Bloody knob has me owls monitored again, as if he could catch me that way,” she snorts wryly as if she’s made a joke he should know, “I’m good for the galleons, don’t worry, I just need someone scary enough or with a big enough name that no one will peep up and question it. Barty said you’d be good for it, if I had the right incentive,”

Regulus is…baffled, to be quite frank, he has no idea what to do with this person in front of him. Her accent makes her words seem like they’re bouncing around his head before they make sense, but they don’t make any sense at all to him.

“Are…” he trails off for just a moment, “Are you trying to blackmail me?”

She looks at him with wide eyes, or at least wider eyes, “What? No! Merlin’s left tit, Black, do you think I’m suicidal? Fuck no, I’m not trying to blackmail you,”

Regulus is struck with the urge to laugh, but bites his tongue, “I suppose that’s good then, you weren’t exactly doing a good job of it,”

Finnegan snorts and slides the necklace across the table, he’d never seen it reappear until now. He’s not sure if she’s terrifyingly good at wandless magic or if it’s slight of hand, but he doesn’t care as he scoops the gold chain with the pendant, a single letter J, and shoves it into his robe pocket.

“I was gonna give that back regardless, I was just hoping it might help get you to listen to me,” she says, “It nearly slipped down the drain in the Prefect’s bath,”

A dark blush rises to his cheeks and she grins lecherously at him, “You two really ought to keep better track of your things,”

Regulus schools his features and tries to will away his blush, “Back to the point, Finnegan, or I shall simply walk away. You’ve given up your bargaining chip,”

She laughs again and tuts, “No, I’ve only lost one bargaining chip. So I’d suggest you remain sitting, dwt,”

He decidedly does not want to know what that means.

He doesn’t get a moment to think before she’s talking again, “You and yours are in a bit of a prank war with the Marauders, aren’t ye?”

He snorts again, as if he’d actually be involved in Evan and Barty’s schemes. He just keeps them, mostly, out of trouble. And maybe he occasionally suggests some ideas. But only occasionally. He wouldn’t lower himself to his brother’s antics.

“Evan and Barty are, yes,”

Finnegan rolls her eyes, “Please, Black, anyone with eyes that can see past their nose can see you all over their pranks. Evan and Barty are two of the dumbest fuckers I’ve ever met. Smart as a whip when it comes to a book, they are, but both of ‘em would be lost without you, so don’t even try that selkie-shite with me,”

He cocks his head curiously at her, “Rather observant,” he murmurs, “for a Hufflepuff,”

She quirks a sarcastic brow, “Rather smart,” she drawls, “for a Slytherin,”

He can’t help but chuckle at that, “Touché,”

She waves her hands and rolls her eyes, “Merlin and all the saints, can’t believe people can be multifaceted outside of their house traits they get sorted into at age eleven. The news will rock the Wizarding World at its core,”

Finnegan reminds him of a very strange combination of Barty and Dorcas. He has to admit, he kind of likes her. She’s absolutely a bag of cats, he can bear smell the crazy coming off her, but Barty was also bat-shite crazy and Dorcas was not far behind him in that regard, so maybe he just attracted crazy in his life. Perhaps the Black Family Madness was just a by-product of accumulating an assortment of completely mental people.

“Can we get back to the point, Finnegan? I’ve Arithmency homework to finish,” he asks.

“Bollocks,” she swears, “Sorry, I really didn’t mean to take up so much of your time. If you order the materials I need, I can get you intel on your brother and his friends’ pranks. And help your lot prank them.”

He weighed his options. It’s not like she was asking a monumental favour. He could indulge her.

“What materials do you need that you can’t order yourself?” He certainly didn’t need to be getting caught with anything illegal. He had enough on his plate without dealing with any of that nonsense.

“I need fifty kilos of ultra-fine glitter, antimony trisulfide, dextrin, strontium, copper, barium, and sodium chloride, sulphur powder, charcoal, and potassium nitrate,”

Regulus blinks.

He blinks again.

And again.

“I’m sorry,” he says, completely bewildered, “you’re building a bomb?!”

She immediately shushes him, looking around to make sure no one heard him, “Keep your bloody voice down, Black!”

She looks at him with an irritated glare, “Merlin’s tits, yes, of course, I’m building a bloody bomb! Are you new here? That’s kind of my thing. And it’s a glitter bomb, you knob. Completely harmless, just very inconvenient and a highly effective form of retribution,” she grinned manically, “Nothing like trying to get glitter out of your knickers to make you think twice about being a proper gobshite, aye?”

This is officially the strangest situation he’s ever found himself in, which is saying something seeing as he’s lived with Barty for six years, and he can’t help but laugh. He supposes digging ultra-fine glitter out of every body crevice and article of clothing one is in possession of is plenty of motivation to not be an arse.

“Okay,” he chuckles, “Sure, I’ll get your materials. Give me everything you have on my brother and his miserable group of miscreants,”

Finnegan waggles her eyebrows with an almost comical leer, “I know for a fact you don’t think one of those “miserable miscreants” is really all that bad,”

Regulus rolls his eyes, knowing there’s no way he can talk his way out of this, not with Finnegan knowing about the necklace and apparently one of their late night dalliances in the Prefect’s bath.

“Actually,” Regulus says, rather primly, “I quite think he’s the worst of them all,”

Finnegan coughs out a laugh, “You would, wouldn’t you?”

Regulus balks at that, “What does that mean?”

Finnegan grins and shrugs, “Don’t worry your pretty little head over it, Black,”

He tries to needle her into explaining, but she stays infuriatingly tight-lipped about it. He curses the fool who ever said Hufflepuffs didn’t have three braincells to rub together. This particular one is maddeningly astute. He wants to hex her.

Tillie lets him try and pry an explanation out of her, but simply regales him with half answers and nonsensical tripe. She’s got to give it to him, he puts up with it longer than most do. She reckons he’s used to runaround answers from being around Pandora, but even Baby Black has his limits and before long he huffs exasperatedly, blowing a stray curl up before it falls right back where it was and he goes crosseyed trying to glare at it.

He levels her with a completely unimpressed look, “You’re a wretched, evil, thing, you know?”

She grins at him, a bit mean and very entertained, “Been called worse, I reckon,” he rolls his eyes, thoroughly done with her antics, but helplessly amused all the same, “Now, do you wanna know what your brother and his lot are planning, or not?”

Regulus leans forward, eyes bright. He may want to pretend he’s above such shenanigans, but she knows he’s every bit as mischief-inclined as his brother and his not-so-secret (to her anyways) boyfriend. Regulus Black is many things, but a stick in the mud is not one of them.

She leans forward in her seat too and whispers, “They’re planning to animate the Slytherin Quidditch lockers to chase after players while they’re trying to change for next weekend’s match,”

Regulus is actually surprised, that’s rather brilliant. The team wouldn’t see it coming at all, it’d throw them out of their rhythm and disrupt their pre-game routines. It has James written all over it.

“That rotten bastard,”

Tillie snorts, “Technically, he’s not a bastard, he has both parents, the lucky sod,”

Regulus rolls his eyes, “He doesn’t have good parent privileges right now. He’s a dirty, cheating bastard and I’m going to knock him straight off his broom on the pitch,”

Tillie widens her eyes, “You mean to tell me,” she gasps dramatically, “you’re capable of doing something straight? I didn’t think it was possible,”

Regulus chokes on air, and splutters indignantly, “Oi! Fuck off, Finnegan!”

It takes him only a few days to get Finnegan’s bomb-making materials. Just as Finnegan had said, no one questioned him about his need for such a collection of materials. Nothing was dangerous or illegal in of itself, and nothing was searched coming into the castle. He’d had Kreacher pick most everything up and bring it directly to his dorm. Once everything had arrived, it was simply a task of sending a school owl to deliver a note to Finnegan and meeting in an unused Potions lab for the transfer.

When Tillie arrived to the lab, she was nearly vibrating with a manic energy. He desperately hoped he would not get caught in the crossfire of this, but he had little hope of being spared. Sirius had once dumped a package of glitter into his hair when they were younger and he hadn’t been able to get it out for months. Did the Impervious Charm work on glitter? He bloody well hoped so. He’d have to ask Flitwick.

“Fucking insane, you are,” Regulus shook his head. Tillie giggled.

“Better than being normal,” she shrugged, “Now shoo. James is about to try and bribe the house elves into pouring a potion into everyone’s drinks at dinner. If you hurry, you might be able to find out what it is,”

He’s almost to the door when she snorts and snickers under her breath, “And maybe get a snog sesh in too,”

He sends a stinging hex at her without looking and his face splits into a grin when she yelps loudly behind him. Serves her right.

Their alliance (friendship) continues through the year. He knows she’s playing both sides of this prank war, but he finds it quite fun to try and feed her false information, or weasel information out of her. They constantly rile each other up, snapping out insults and banter like they’d been doing it for years. She gets along with Evan and Barty far too well for his comfort, and Dorcas and Pandora both enjoy her company. It takes him a while to get used to Bones and Vance when she starts bringing them around, but eventually they all settle into a peaceful agreement. He argues politics with Bones and Vance, and it takes him far too long to figure out why everyone calls the three Hufflepuffs “The Bombsquad”. It’s quite possible that he was the last person in Hogwarts to find out about Tillie Finnegan’s rather concerning obsession with pyrotechnics and explosives. Suddenly, all her exploded potions assignments made a lot more sense.

It’s nearing the end of sixth year, and Regulus has all but withdrawn from everyone and everything. He knows what’s waiting for him at home and his stomach is a constant pit of dread. He can’t eat or sleep. He has to end things with James soon to keep him safe and the thought of losing the one person who brings so much light and warmth to his bleak and cold existence threatens to tear him apart at the very seams. He goes through the motions day-to-day, but everything is hazy and discombobulated around him. He hears the lectures, but doesn’t comprehend the words. He sits in the library and stares at his textbooks, trying to read the same passages over and over and over again, but all he can think about is the imaginary noose around his neck feels like it gets tighter by the hour. It’s only a matter of time before the floor falls out beneath his feet and his life is over. He had so much he wanted to do, but this is the way his life works. He knows he has no choice. Not if he wants to keep Sirius safe from Walburga and Orion and the Dark Lord. War is coming, and he’ll be damned if he doesn’t keep Sirius alive through it.

His thoughts are interrupted, in a way that’s strangely reminiscent of their very first meeting at this exact library table. But this time, when Tillie Finnegan throws herself in the chair across from him, she’s not alone. Amelia Bones hovers rather awkwardly at the remaining chair, before she sits down stiffly.

“I’m not getting you more glitter,” Regulus says in lieu of a greeting. His voice is raspy from disuse. He doesn’t actually know when the last time he spoke was.

“Good, cause that’s not what I’m here for. But feel free to spoil me with gunpowder any time you want,” Tillie quips. His lips twitch, as though they want to smile, but can’t.

“What do you need, Tils?” He asks.

She grins at him, but there’s something hesitant in it, it puts him on edge, “I need you to promise not to hex the hair off of us and to hear me out,”

Regulus blinks. Once. Twice.

“I..” he looks between Bones and Tillie, Bones won’t meet his eyes, “I do not like where this is going,”

Bones clears her throat, “It’s not a bad thing. Tillie is just convinced you’re going to hate our meddling,”

He shoots Tillie a dark look and sighs, his curiosity getting the best of him, “Fine,” he grumbles, “I promise not to hex the hair off of you and to hear out whatever inane, meddlesome plot you’ve devised now,”

Tillie and Bones slide a rolled bundle of parchment over the table to him. He pulls the leather thong binding it and his breath gets punched out of his throat by the words he reads.

Wizarding Persons Protection Incentive: For Children of Dark Families Who May Not Have A Choice

There are countless pages documenting the program and what it could provide, and a bulleted list for, what he assumed, names. He could feel the magic in the parchment as he held it, looking through everything. It detailed how the persons protection worked, what protections were laid in place, how the DMLE would uphold those protections, and the measures the department were taking to thoroughly vet each person wanting to come into the program.

“It’s officially been approved as of this morning. The Minister, Head Auror, and the Head of the DMLE signed it into effect to start before the summer hols.” Bones said quietly.

Tillie brushed his hand, and he jerked away, she smiled sadly, “You aren’t obligated in any way, Reg, but you’re a good person. You aren’t built for war, and Sirius isn’t the only one who deserves a happy ending,”

Tears spill over his eyes and he desperately, desperately, wants to believe her, “They’ll hunt him down if they don’t have an heir. I have to. I don’t have a choice,”

He tries to contain his sob, but the ugly thing rips out of his chest. It’s silent, of course, but it doesn’t hurt any less.

“Reg, Sirius is already taken care of. So is James. And Remus, and Pete. They’re all acting as, quote unquote, officers for the program. They aren’t going to be 100% out of the line of fire, but they’ll be working on muggleborn intel, and evacuating families before Moldyshorts can get to them. They’ll be under heavy protections at all times, and in charge of safe house rotations. Your parents would need to be the spawn of Merlin to get to Sirius, love.”

His breath was caught in his throat. Could he really escape this? Was it possible? Would he actually be able to live through the War and not have to sacrifice everything he is to a narcissistic, half-blood, megalomaniac?

Tillie breaks him out of his thoughts, “Reg, love,” she says gently, he looks into her eyes and sees nothing but kindness. She doesn’t pity him. He knows his desperation is plain as day on his face, but he can’t push it away. He is desperate. He doesn’t want to be turned into a monster.

Tillie gently takes the parchment back and rolls it up, securing the leather thong around it and stuffing it back into her bag. Her expression is kind and open when she speaks again, “It’s time for you to think about what you want, Regulus. Not what’s best for Sirius, or what your parents want, or what you’ve been taught is expected of you. Take tonight. Think about what you want. We’ll come find you tomorrow, and you can give us your answer,”

Bones and Tillie don’t linger, they leave him to his racing thoughts. He barely manages another half hour of trying to study before he shoves his books roughly in his bag and books it to his dorm. Evan and Barty are already there, in deep discussion.

Barty looks up at him and waves him over to his bed, “Fins talk to you about it?”

“Yeah,” Regulus says, arranging himself against Evan’s side at the headboard. His skin crawls a bit from the contact, but he doesn’t pay it any mind, “What are we doing about it?”

Evan drops an arm around Regulus, holding tight for a minute, “We’re a team, Reg, wherever we go, we go together, always.”

Barty nods sharply at Evan’s words. They all share a moment of silence, looking from one to another as an unspoken wave of understanding rolls across them.

“So we’re decided?” Regulus asks. Barty and Evan don’t hesitate to respond in the affirmative.

The next morning, each of them sign their names on that enchanted parchment with a flourish the first second they could.

No one could have known that a few elegant, swooping signatures would change the entire course of the War. Children from Dark families signed into the program from every house, desperately trying to escape the fate their parents lay for them. Voldemort’s forces didn’t grow exponentially in the lead up to the War, as his sacrificed child soldiers suddenly started disappearing. Dumbledore barely had a force to work with, the children he approached, certain of their answers, turned him away and refused to join the Order, no matter what he tried to leverage against them.

Without a supply of expendable foot soldiers each leader had anticipated, they’d been forced to fight their own war. Dumbledore had been forced to find the Horcruxes on his own. Tom had been forced to pick his battles, instead of raining chaos at any given opportunity. There were still battles, still bloodshed and deaths, but the war had been changed.

James, Sirius, and Remus had several close calls with Death Eaters while evacuating muggles and muggleborns, but most everything was easily healed. They had an almost impossible success rate for getting families evacuated and keeping them safe from Death Eaters. The three of them duelled fiercely together, and became a force that even seasoned Death Eaters were wary to reckon with.

Peter thrived in making plans, his love of strategy and sharp eye created easy executed plans of escape, evasion, attack, and defence. He could think from both sides of the chessboard, taught the officers how to anticipate their opponent, forced them to learn how to use stealth and speed together for the quickest and cleanest missions possible, but also taught them how to sacrifice the premise of a mission and still come out successful.

Lily Evans blossomed in her role as Healer alongside Mary MacDonald. The two of them devised emergency kits for every single member of the Initiative, something that had saved several of their lives over the course of the War.

Barty and Evan were stationed as the WPPI’s hit wizards and they revelled in being able to use the darker magics against Death Eaters. They wrought chaos and distrust among Voldemort’s ranks, using Polyjuice to infiltrate the ranks and sow seeds of doubt. They cut more than a fourth of Voldemort’s forces down alone.

They’d found out Dorcas and Marlene McKinnon had an uncanny knack for breaking into places and stealing things without anyone being the wiser. As Voldemort got more desperate to regain the upper hand, his plans became clearer and clearer. Dorcas and Marlene took a special kind of satisfaction at staying one step ahead of him at all times, getting to whatever book, artefact, or target he was after just moments before he did.

Pandora stayed well away from the War in any capacity, but frequently helped pass along information she gathered from the streets or from Visions.

Bones took the Ministry by storm when she flawlessly headed the WPPI and stepped seamlessly into the role of DMLE Head, when the former one had been killed by Voldemort.

Vanity fast-tracked into the Auror department and quickly became known for her ruthless duelling skills and on-the-fly thinking.

Tillie and her husband, Sean, stayed far away from the War and the efforts of the WPPI. Their son deserved a world where both his parents were there and available for him. That didn’t stop Tillie from sending a very, very large box of carefully crafted explosives to a safe house off the coast of Italy to a certain curly haired Slytherin who’d done her a favour years ago.

And Regulus? Well, he’d paid a visit to Number 12 Grimmuald Place and he’d buried his parents below tons of ash and flame. He’d torched the place he’d been imprisoned to his whole life and the place where his childhood had been ruthlessly taken from him. He stepped into his role as the Head of The Noble and Most Ancient House of Black with an air of grace that only a Black could have. He used their fortune to buy up properties for safe houses, provide supplies for their Healers, and work the Wizagmont into a sustainable path for the future. He also frequently got nailed in the face with a signature glitter-filled mini bomb when he opened the package that arrived on his doorstep each month. He learned unfortunately quickly that neither the Impervious Charm nor Protego are effective in fighting off the onslaught of craft shrapnel.

The War ends when Albus Dumbledore and Tom Riddle duel for the last time. Their wandfire clashes together with an epic thundering and the contrasting jets of light explode as they meet. The leaders of war stand no chance against the concussive blast and when the dust settles, all that’s left is the bodies of two old men, half of a Phoenix feather and yew wand, and a perfectly split wand made from Elderwood and thestral hair. Their graves are unmarked, except for an inscription that reads: “Here lies the mark of men who believed violence would provide them power, and only succeeded in destroying their humanity in an attempt to seize it.”

Not six months after the end of the War, Lily Evans brings a little boy into the world who looks just like his father, but has Regulus’ icy blue eyes. Magical surrogacy had allowed James and Regulus to have a child of their very own, who was safe from the horrors of the war and could never be used as a tool to further an old man’s delusional agenda.

Harry Potter grew up in a world where he made “science experiments” with his best friend Seamus Finnegan, and helped his other best friend Neville and his mum in the greenhouses, and threw gnomes from the garden with his other best friend Ron, and swam in the lake with his (sometimes) other best friend Draco, and was babysat by his favourite cousin Tonks when his Dad and Papa went on date nights.

Tillie Finnegan wasn’t a war hero to the Wizarding public, but to a set of three Slytherins who had nowhere to go except down the irredeemable path, she was the best hero of them all.

[ochakourarakah]

long way down to the underground | chapter 1

Summary: It’s an old tale, except…Eurydice was already waist-deep in the Underworld when he met Orpheus.

Notes: Hawks x G/N Composer! Reader

Story: previous | next 

°。°。°。°。°。°。°。゜。°。°。°。 °。°。°。°。°。°。°。゜。°。°。°。 °。 °。 °。°。°。

This is the thirty-seventh (thirty-eighth? fortieth?) document you had to sign with your already cramping hand and you’re seriously considering tossing them all into a dumpster fire if fire wasn’t the reason you were in this mess to begin with.

The next few weeks after the accident (arson by some gang, apparently) are spent getting everything back on track.

You did not expect this much paperwork to come with it. 

Ugh.

You lean back and stretch in your chair, wincing at the audible pops your back made as you did, tearing your eyes away from your desktop screen.

With relocation still underway, you were instructed to work from home until further notice, corresponding through emails until a satellite office could be established.

It wasn’t really a problem; you lived alone and you had your own recording set-up if you wanted to work on a demo. Most of your work files were backed up on a cloud (thank God for modern tech, you probably just overreacted the day of the fire) and you still had basic instruments in case you wanted to arrange something.

You sigh. 

Okay, maybe your apartment was still on the small side (struggling musician and all) and what soundproofing you had didn’t block out everything (from construction machines across the street to neighbors fucking), but it was still your apartment. 

You had fridge magnets from the places you’ve been all over Japan. Framed and signed posters and album covers lined your walls. A bulletin board dedicated to photos, tickets, backstage passes and other paraphernalia from singers and other musicians you’ve worked with. 

Furnished just enough. Music is always playing, whether it was your own or someone else’s. Cluttered, cozy and lived in.  

It was home.

.

.

.

At home as you were, though, there were still insurance claims to receive, files to sift through, warranty policies to review and the last few weeks of work to salvage if not work on.

.

.

.

There was a whole orientation on this when you were first hired. 

Emergency Response and Recuperation. 

You should’ve known better. 

.

.

.

You glance at the to-do list you hastily wrote up in your planner, grimacing that the unmarked checkboxes still outnumbered the checked ones. 

.

.

.

Ugh.

You really should’ve known better. 

The clock on your phone screen told you that it was roughly half past five.

You groan again, getting off your office chair. 

A much-needed break was in order. 

You save whatever files were open on your laptop before shutting it down. 

And dinner too, if you could help it. 

°。°。°。°。°。°。°。゜。°。°。°。 °。°。°。°。°。°。°。゜。°。°。°。 °。 °。  °。°。°。

Another one of the perks your apartment had to offer was that the complex was within walking distance of Fukuoka’s shopping district, giving you a variety of places to eat.

You take your time on the streets, earphones in and music up as you make your way and map out your night. 

You’ll take your time with dinner, and finish the reimbursement form for your work laptop then call it a night. Tomorrow morning you’d follow up on Ishikawa from accounting and maybe add to the latest song you were writing, if inspiration allowed for it. Maybe get some groceries later this week, too.

Your eyes narrow at the crowd clogging up the sidewalk on the other side of the road. 

Rallentando.

Maybe there was a hero?

And it took you tiptoeing to see above someone’s head to catch a glimpse of crimson wings.

Oh.

He was on patrol. 

In your area. 

Even with your earphones on, you can still hear a few feminine squeals and childish cries, excited voices from people of all ages as they surround the Number Two Hero.

You glance at the scene a beat more before continuing your walking, shrugging off the idea of joining the fray. 

A tempo.

You may be grateful to Hawks for saving your life, but you were busy and hungry and not in the mood to wade through all the people for someone who wouldn’t even remember you. 

It was all in a day’s work, you recall telling yourself that day.

.

.

.

Did his job also entail calling you Songbird, though?

.

.

.

You stepped into the alley that led to your favorite izakayas in the district. It was thankfully empty, and from the restaurant’s windows, you can tell they weren’t as occupied either.

Your steps go from andante to moderato. 

Then there was a gust of wind and a shadow overhead. 

Caesura.

And then Hawks was right before you.

You manage to take off one of your earbuds in time to hear him say, “Hey, Songbird.”

You blink at him. “You remember me?”

“Of course, it’s only been a few weeks since you jumped out of a building and into my arms,” 

If you were flustered at that, you don’t show it. “Right,” You look around. Maybe he had to check out all the alleys before he could call it a day. 

The alley was still empty. 

He’ll be off in no time. 

You give him a smile. “Thanks again for that, by the way.”

He waves you off. “Don’t mention it,” 

For a moment, you just look at him. You’ve only seen his face in short glimpses, in passing billboards and magazine ads, maybe even the occasional skippable YouTube commercial. 

(Which you, admittedly, have opted to skip more often than not.)

And on the day of the fire, you maybe saw him up close for one, two minutes before he took you to the ground then sped off into the sky?

Now he seems more relaxed, hands tucked into his pockets. His wings were another story completely, though. 

They seem bigger, even if they were folded behind him. His feathers look plush and supple. 

If he noticed you staring, he doesn’t mention it. Instead, he gives you a lazy grin. Almost cheeky. 

“You work for Hayashi Records, right?”

You snap your gaze back to his face and nod. “Yeah,”

Were you caught staring? Most definitely yes. 

But he’s probably used to the attention, anyways. 

“So what do you do?” he cocks his head to the side.

“I’m a composer,” You were about to add to the answer when you realize that he didn’t leave right away like you thought. 

He was still here. 

Why? The street looked pretty safe. 

“Do you do anything else?”

You don’t understand why he was still talking to you. 

Didn’t your acquaintance end as soon as the villain attack was over?

You nod anyways. “I’m a composer, but I’ve done just about everything, really.”

You busy yourself by unplugging your earphones and tucking them into your pocket with your phone.

Is he always like this? Did he always follow up on the people he saved?

When you look back up, you ask him, “Don’t you have other hero things to do?”

He only gives you that grin again. “I do, but I have some time to kill.” he gestures around him. “And besides, this place is the last area on my patrol.” 

“I see,” you say slowly. 

How the heck were you supposed to respond to that?

You clear your throat. “I’ve been working from home all day. Emergency Response and Recuperation and all that. A lot of paperwork,”

You’re rambling. 

“I got hungry and my head was starting to ache so I’m taking a break for dinner.” you nod over to the izakaya. “One of my favorite spots.”

Oh my god, kill me now. 

Hawks raises a brow. “You were going to dinner? Well so am I.”

Wait. 

Is he..?

“How about it?”

He is. 

Holy shit. 

You barely manage to follow behind him as he strides over to the izakaya. 

He even opens the door for you. 

“After you, Songbird.” 

You walk in the restaurant in a bit of a daze. 

Who were you, that you were about to share a meal with the Number Two Hero?

°。°。°。°。°。°。°。゜。°。°。°。 °。°。°。°。°。°。°。゜。°。°。°。 °。 °。  °。°。°。

It’s after you’ve settled into a private booth and ordered that Hawks spoke again. 

“So how long have you worked under Hayashi?”

“About two years,” you take a sip of your water. “That’s including my unpaid internships,”

Then you’re both silent. 

You swallow, and the air feels like a chord that was a microtone off. 

Not completely off key, but not right either. 

Just...off. Strange. 

A little jarring.

Hawks must’ve noticed that you were uncomfortable because he shifts in his seat. 

“Be honest, did I come on too strong?”

And here you thought you were the one overstepping your boundaries. 

You shake your head. “Don’t get me wrong, I’m just surprised that you’d have dinner with a random person you rescued.” 

“I uhh,” he rubs the back of his neck. “I’m actually familiar with your work,”

“What?”

“I thought I recognized your name somewhere so I looked it up. You worked with Ayapeta on an album?”

He was a fan. 

Again, holy shit.

He looks up at you. It’s then that you realize his usual visor was on the table. “I’m gonna ask you again, am I coming on too strong?”

You shake your head. “I just never really had a fan approach me before,” 

You were far too used to the singers getting all the credit for the songs you wrote. 

It actually feels nice.

The waiter arrives with your orders and you give a small thanks, getting your bowl and chopsticks.

“Itadakimasu.” The two of you say in unison.

A due.

You smile at him before digging in.

Yes, the ramen you ordered was exactly what you needed.

You look across the table to see the yakitori skewer he was helping himself to. “Isn’t that cannibalism?” you ask after swallowing.

Hawks stops mid-bite. “In case you didn’t notice, I’m a hawk.”

You shrug. “Still a bird.” 

He chuckles. “What can I say, chicken’s pretty good.” 

You roll your eyes at him, and taking another good slurp from your ramen bowl.

Hawks adds, “I try to avoid chicken wings if I can help it, though. Can’t be too cannibalistic now can we?” 

After swallowing, you meet his eyes from across the table.

Amabile.

And this time, you chuckle along with him. 

°。°。°。°。°。°。°。゜。°。°。°。 °。°。°。°。°。°。°。゜。°。°。°。 °。 °。  °。°。°。

Hawks was a celebrity. You know this much. 

While you weren’t aware of any dating scandals or affairs on his end of the showbiz spectrum, you knew that he was considered an eligible bachelor by the press. 

So what was he doing here with you? 

The curiosity gnawed at you so insistently that, when the tab’s been paid and you’re out of the restaurant, you ask him, “Why’d you come along with me?”

He stops in his tracks. “Can’t I share a meal with someone who seemed nice?”

You purse your lips. “You barely even know me.”

Granted, even if you were a villain, you were pretty sure he could beat you in a fight anytime. 

The silent dissonance is back again.

You watch as he nods his head, just a little bit. “I feel like I’ve always known you.” 

You raise a brow. “Do you say that to everyone you hit on?”

“Nah,” He shakes his head. “Only for songbirds that fall into my arms.” He starts walking again. You follow suit as you roll your eyes, retort ready and then he speaks again.

“How about it, we go on one date?”

You furrow your brows. “Wasn’t this a date?”

He grins, shaking his head again. “Close, but no cigar.” he tucks his hands into his jacket pockets. “Sadly my favorite place burned down in the last Nomu incident.”

You nodded, remembering seeing it on the news the day it happened. You watched the carnage unfold from bay windows in your studio building, then you were told to evacuate to the lower floors before the fighting escalated any further. 

Maybe I didn’t have it so bad...

“But I know of another place I can take you.”

You smile at him. 

Then a phone rings. 

But it isn’t yours. 

You hear Hawks curse under his breath. “Hey listen Songbird, I’ll be busy the next few days and I bet you will be too with your Emergency Recuperation whatever,” he winces as his phone kept ringing. 

“But I’ll come find you when I’m free so we could set a date.”

You barely stutter out an affirmation when Hawks spreads out his wings. “I’ll see you soon, Songbird.” 

And then he was off. 

Leaving you staring up at the sky yet again. 

.

.

.

You walk home in a daze.

Did tonight really just happen? 

You shake your head. Maybe this was just a one-time thing. 

That seemed about right. 

You were just in the area. 

He’d probably forget when he rescues someone else. 

.

.

.

This doesn’t stop you from blushing all the way home, though.

°。°。°。°。°。°。°。゜。°。°。°。 °。°。°。°。°。°。°。゜。°。°。°。 °。 °。  °。°。°。

All thoughts of Hawks are banished when you get back to work for the next few days. 

It was all probably just by chance. One of those once-in-a lifetime things that might as well happen to you because real life was weird that way. 

And real life was also taxing because Ishikawa hasn’t looked over your statements yet and you were missing a few more requirements for your insurance claim. 

°。°。°。°。°。°。°。゜。°。°。°。 °。°。°。°。°。°。°。゜。°。°。°。 °。 °。  °。°。°。

A few days later, you find yourself trudging home from the grocery store as planned.

You're carrying a whole tray of eggs in one hand while your other groceries sit tight in the reusable bag hanging off your other shoulder.

Even though the night is peaceful, you were still stressed.

You still had some forms to fill up and lost equipment to canvass for and a meeting with one of the bands and-

“Hey there, Songbird,”

-and you yelp at the voice, dropping the carton and spilling eggs all over the pavement. 

You look up at the sight of an equally shocked Winged Hero.

Oh. 

He didn’t just not forget about you. 

He came.

°。°。°。°。°。°。°。゜。°。°。°。 °。°。°。°。°。°。°。゜。°。°。°。 °。 °。  °。°。°。

A/N: in case the whole basis for this fic isn’t enough to go by, i’m also a musical nerd. i’ll try updating this weekly, as well. 

thanks for reading!

[utaopias]

Ephemeral

I wrote this a few months back for a short story assignment. It’s a bit different since it’s written in third person. Inspired by my lovely friend Colle (here’s her twitter!), who wrote a nice little thread that jump-started this scenario. Enjoy!

She exhaled a strong gust of breath upon the dusty books. The musty granules immediately hit her face and irritated her airways, elements of a sneeze tickling her nose. She removed the books from their perch on the mantle and set them at the bottom of the box. Remnants of life still permeated the old house, but everything was still save the gentle breeze that flowed past the thick curtains.

She wiped grime from an old photo film and held it up to the light. Various guests were depicted surrounding a banquet table illuminated under a brass chandelier, the same one that hung in the room beside her.

"Must be the previous owners," she muttered, studying the image further.

She recalled the story her friend had told her of the history of the abandoned home: a spun-out tale about a wealthy family whose son had passed and whose soul continues to haunt the mansion. She had only rolled her eyes at the time, because the last thing she wanted to hear while moving in was a bogus ghost story.

She sighed, lifting white sheets from ancient furniture. Who knew how long it would take to appraise everything in the house. She had a long job ahead of her.

Sunlight greeted her through the open oak door. She had spent all morning hauling items in and out of the house and needed a moment to catch her breath. As she turned to the front door, she jumped seeing a tall man standing in the doorway.

"Good afternoon, madam," he spoke with a deep timbre. She stuttered, wary of his intentions, and he continued. "I have never seen you around before." There was a slight lilt at the end of his speech, indicating curiosity. He walked further into the room, inviting himself in.

She suddenly felt very unnerved by his presence but felt obligated to answer nonetheless. "I'm moving in."

A small smile appeared on his features but there was a hint of disingenuousness, as if he was forcing himself to. She noticed a red rose poking out of the chest pocket of his tweed jacket that was far too stifling to be worn on the summer day. A moment of silence passed, and she became increasingly uneasy.

"W-Why are you here? Who are you?"

"I simply wanted to meet… my new neighbor."

"Oh!" She perked up. "Do you live close by?"

"Yes… I suppose I do."

His words were particular and calculated, the hesitation a byproduct of his concentrated gaze. She grew uncomfortable under his sharp stare and shifted from side to side, unsure of whether or not to throw the unwelcome visitor out of the house.

"Well," he suddenly began again. "You should attend to your duties. I am sure we will meet again, Miss…?"

"______." She immediately regretted blurting out her name.

"Miss ______,” he repeated with a nod of the head. “Farewell for now."

He turned on his heels and left.

"Well good morning, Miss ______."

She nearly spilled her coffee at the sound of his voice. Whipping around, she had a flash of a thought that she ought to grab something to defend herself.

"How did you get in here?!"

"The main door was unlocked."

"So you decided to come into my house?!"

Perhaps that comment was off-putting because she thought she noticed a glint of anger in his eyes, but it was too fleeting to tell.

"Please excuse me. I will make myself known next time." When she didn’t respond, he continued. “I see you have quite the amount of work to do. Would you like my assistance? I have no plans for today.”

“I’m sorry but… I don’t even know you...”

“Oh! Where are my manners? The name is Chanyeol. My sincerest apologies if we got off on the wrong foot earlier. There simply has not been company here in ages and I was attempting to… readapt myself.” He seemed meeker now, as if embarrassed by his previous actions. She was still distrustful of his demeanor, but maybe she just needed time to adjust to her new acquaintance.

“Sure, I guess I could use some help… would you like some coffee?”

He was a strange character, this Chanyeol boy. His perpetually tousled raven locks combined with his naturally serious demeanor gave him the aura of a solemn but youthful boy. He had a quirky way of speaking that was excessively polite, but slightly endearing. She wasn’t sure of how old he was, but he was certainly mature for his age. He would come and visit her for several hours everyday, and although he was generally quiet, it appeared he had something to quip concerning everything in the house. Small remarks here and there such as “The wallpaper is beautiful, is it not? Damask was quite popular at the time,” and “Be careful with the wall phone, the crank is fragile,” were random yet helpful to her, and she was grateful for his assistance relocating items in the house. He must be a real history junkie, she thought.

He became more pleasant as time went on. First impressions weren’t everything, she decided, especially not with the peculiar boy who spoke with a tongue as sophisticated as the tweed and wool coat he sported everyday. Eventually, she had convinced him to drop the formalities of “Miss” and “Madam”—as charming as they were, they made her feel like she was living in the 19th century.

But considering how long that home had been standing, perhaps it was her own piece of the past.

"Do you think this place is haunted?" she asked, looking up at him from the ceramic mug she was wiping.

"Hm? Why do you ask?"

"I've just heard stories about the family that used to live here. Their souls are supposedly stuck in this house, right? I mean, I don’t necessarily believe in it or anything, but that's what I was told."

He paused and thought for a moment. "Supposedly, yes. Surely, you heard about the way in which they passed?"

She furrowed her eyebrows and shook her head no.

"The family that used to live here was called the Parks." As he spoke, he seemed to look past her in deep thought. "They were a small family of four: mother, father, daughter, and son. But when the children were young, their parents were killed in a fire. They suspected it to be arson but the case was never resolved. The children had no immediate family in the area, so they had to fend for themselves." He unconsciously knit his eyebrows. "Although the siblings lived together, they felt like they were on their own. The daughter was the eldest, so she took care of the younger boy, but it was extremely tough on her… and the boy, he was lonely. He would often wander through the forest despite his sister's protests. One night when he was out by himself, he slipped on a rock and fell down into the ravine. His neck cracked instantly and well, that was the end of him. The sister… she later died of grief, I believe…" His fingers played with the edge of the table but abruptly stopped once he snapped out of his reverie.

"Oh my god, that's horrible… how do you know so much about them?"

"My family has lived here for a long time. Stories pass on and history never dies, as you know…”

She put away the dishes and contemplated his statement. “That’s a little nerve-wracking, living here with the thought that a ghost family could be living with me.”

“It is not the entire family. Only the boy.” He cleared his throat. “They say he feels endlessly guilty for neglecting his sister while she tended to the home. He was set to be the heir of the property and it was his responsibility to put it to good use, but his own carelessness and selfish desires prevented him from doing so...” His voice grew quiet and his mind seemed to be lost in space.

“Chanyeol? You okay?” _____ questioned, attempting to break him from his trance.

He straightened up. “Ah! My apologies.” He cleared his throat. “Yes, that is what I was told. Thus, his soul is trapped within the house. But I would not worry. Spirits are not harmful.”

“So you believe in it?”

“Why, of course. You do not?” He was somewhat surprised. She shrugged. “Hm. No matter. I assure you that for as long as you stay under this roof, you will be free from harm. I will make sure of it.”

One afternoon, he had appeared while she was watering the plants on the front porch. The two engaged in small talk about passing times.

“How are you adjusting to life here?” he asked, leaning against the wooden rail.

“It’s beautiful out here. A little quieter than I’m used to, but I’ve met some of the neighbors and they’re nice.”

"Ah, not to intrude, but why did you move here? It is a vast property for only one resident."

"Actually, I wanted to open up a little orphanage here. This house is big enough for one, isn't it? I've always wanted to take care of little kids. With some help, of course. Everyone deserves a home, don't you think?"

After some initial astonishment, he couldn’t help but grin and tilt his head down. "That sounds wonderful. You have a really kind heart."

She laughed softly. "Will you help me then? I’ve already made plans and everything. I hate to ask so much of you, but I haven't stopped thinking about it ever since you told me the story of the boy who lived here."

His expression softened. "I think that if he were alive today, he would really like that. Of course I will help you."

And help her he did. For the next six months, he remained day and night by her side, overseeing the management of her plans. He insisted that she take the reigns on making this a project that was completely hers, and graciously abstained from having his name put under the partnership. Much to his surprise, she chose the name The Park Foundation, dedicated to the two kids who had to raise themselves so long ago—she didn’t think she had ever seen him smile so widely. It took six months from the moment she applied for a contract to the confirmation that it had been approved as an official organization. Days were spent making phone calls, conducting interviews, and meeting with various personnel. Chanyeol claimed to be a tad people-shy so he didn’t personally speak to anyone, but he was of great assistance with helping her stay afloat. Her home was the hub of activity, and on days when she needed a change of scenery, she would always suggest a visit to his home, but he declined for one reason or another.

“It is a mess of place,” he would always say while waving his hands, “Trust me. You would not want to see it.” And she would laugh and dismiss the subject.

Despite accompanying her every step of the way, he was never tired. He showed up bright and early every morning with a smile upon his features, and stayed until the moon was full in the sky. A friend, confidant, and aide all in one, he made sure she stayed on top of her duties while constantly checking up on her health. Although the neighbors were friendly, he was her only close friend for the time being. Only the passing breeze knew how many mornings they spent tending to the garden, how many afternoons they spent around the round table in the kitchen, how many evenings they spent listening to records in the parlor, and how many nights they spent lying on the sofa discussing everything under the universe.

“You are doing so much good for this community, and I hope you know that.”

Her eyes twinkled at the statement and he laughed to himself. The sky was quickly darkening outside, a pale blue evolving into navy.

“It’s getting late,” she observed, gazing out the parlor window. “I think we’re done for today.” She yawned and rubbed her eyes; the lack of rest had been getting to her lately. Sleepless nights and days spent hunched over paperwork had taken a toll on her body. She stretched, laid her head down on the table, and looked over at Chanyeol with a soft smile.

He wore a look of concern. “You should get some rest. Perhaps a day off.”

She hummed. “Maybe. But there’s so much to do. And I honestly wouldn’t have made it this far without you, so thank you.”

He reached across the table and placed his hand on hers. “No need to thank me. In fact, I should thank you for instilling life into this once deserted home.”

They sat in comfortable silence for a minute, soaking the other’s presence. A smile tugged at her lips as he absentmindedly brushed his fingers over her delicate hands. They both chuckled and he shook his head before sitting up.

“I will let you retire for the night.” He stood and bowed slightly out of politeness, then turned to leave.

She nodded and waved after him. “Alright,” she responded, “goodbye Chanyeol.”

He paused in his step and turned back. “I do not like goodbyes.” His tone was serious, and she tilted her head in confusion. “We say goodbye all the time, but we never know which is the last. So for today, it is ‘see you tomorrow’.”

She couldn’t help but smile at his words. “See you tomorrow then, Chanyeol. Goodnight.”

“Goodnight, darling.”

He left before he could observe the blush on her cheeks.

Two months later, the chatter of little children had become commonplace within the house. ______’s favorite time of day was mid-afternoon, when the children settled in the playroom and painted with their fingers. There were twelve of them, little bright-eyed and wondrous children of whom she had grown fond of. They clung to her like moths to a lamp, invariably bouncing questions around such as “Miss ______, what’s for lunch?” and “Miss ______, why is the sky blue?”—prompting a chuckle from her. Chanyeol visited nearly every day and the children absolutely adored him, although the staff seemed bewildered when the children would talk to him, and she could never figure out why.

One afternoon after the children’s lesson, they were playing with silver bells gifted to them by the cook. Sharp twinkles rang in the air and the children danced and sang to a tune from the piano. _______ laughed, heart full of joy to see them so elated. Chanyeol came up behind her and joined her in affectionately observing the children.

“Every time a bell rings, an angel gets its wings,” she remarked, glancing at him. When he gave her a slightly puzzled look, she asked, “Haven’t you ever seen that movie?”

A look of understanding dawned on him. “I am afraid it is a bit past my time.”

Before she could ask him what he meant, a little boy by the name of Charlie ran up to her and began pulling at her pant leg.

“Miss ______! Look what I drew!” She bent down eagerly to look at his masterpiece. Painted in the sky was what looked to be a boy with angel wings and a glowing halo.

“That’s cute Charlie! Is it you?”

“No, silly! It’s Chanyeol! Chanyeol’s an angel!” Charlie jumped up and down excitedly, and Chanyeol bent down with a wide smile. “Chanyeol! Chanyeol! This is for you! You’re an angel, right?”

He chuckled. “Not quite.” He patted Charlie on the head and received the art. “Thank you so very much for this drawing. I will always cherish it.” Charlie ran off to play with the other kids, while Chanyeol took a seat on the floor. He took a bell off the carpet and rolled it in his palm before looking back up at ______, who had drawn her attention to some of the girls. She radiated happiness, as if there were no other place she’d rather be. His gaze turned soft as he watched her care for the children with ease. He looked back at the bell in his hand and a slight wistfulness found its way into his expression. Her words echoed in his mind.

Every time a bell rings, an angel gets its wings.

The days always felt warmer when Chanyeol was around, and today was no exception. As ______ sat at the table preparing her lessons, she sensed his presence behind her. She turned around with a smile, but it soon faded when she noticed he was downcast. His expression was pained and he seemed to be fiddling around with the sleeves of his coat.

"What's wrong?" She approached cautiously. It was odd to see him upset. He clasped his hands together and gazed at the floor. "I have to go."

"Go…? Where? When?"

"Today. Now. I have been delaying it for as long as possible but it seems that my time has run out."

"But I don't understand… what's going on?"

"It is best that I do not explain. I am very sorry. But I pray you do not worry after me. I will be gone a very long time." He stepped closer to her, meeting her eyes with a pitiful gaze.

Her heart began to sink rapidly, so that it might collapse at any second. “But- but the children, you can’t just-”

“The children will understand. Charlie especially.”

"… So you're just going to leave? After everything?" Her voice trembled slightly. She couldn't wrap her mind around the situation. Although she had grown accustomed to his vague words, for once they were becoming frustrating.

He swallowed. "For today, it is goodbye. But goodbye is not forever. I promise you that."

After a moment's hesitation, he lifted his hand and brushed her cheek. She felt the faintest of touches and drew in a breath. His caress was light as air, much like the gentle feeling of his lips upon hers, a soft and fleeting kiss of promise. When she opened her eyes, she saw his eyes shone with fondness. A warm smile spread across his lips, and she was so entranced in it that she almost failed to notice he had slipped a gleaming silver bell in her palm.

"If you ever miss me," he began with a smile, "ring for me. I will always be listening."

She looked at him with wide eyes, attempting to absorb his words, but could only nod.

"Farewell my love. You will always have my heart."

With one last look, he turned away and walked out the door.

Several ticks of the grandfather clock echoed in the empty foyer. Once she regained her senses, she hurried to the door and swung it open in an instant, but he was nowhere to be seen. Like the wind, he was gone. She reluctantly shut the door, resting her back against it and observing the hall.

The house was silent. It usually was in the early mornings when all the children were asleep, but it was a different type of silence now. It felt empty, and there was an unsettling feeling in the pit of her stomach. Out of the corner of her eye, something gleamed under the beam of the skylight. She approached carefully, lifting the all-too-familiar crimson rose set next to a note written in beautiful calligraphy, and an image. My dearest love, Thank you for being my very last goodbye. You have made me infinitely happy, more so than I have been for as long as I can remember. You may not realize it, but I will always protect you. I hope to meet you again in another life. Take care, my darling. Love always, Chanyeol Her hands began to tremble. She lifted the image, an old black and white developed film. She could faintly make out a familiar brunet boy holding a rose, his dark and disheveled locks contrasting against his tweed jacket. Written on the bottom right corner in old ink was what she assumed to be the time stamp. Her breath momentarily hitched in her throat. Park Chanyeol. November 27th, 1892.

[thecrimsonarcher]

The Fireman's Tale--Personal Account of Mitch Russell

"At the time of the Zion Mountain Incident, I had been with the Grundy Fire Department for over 10 years. 10 years couldn't prepare me for what I saw on the night Zion Mountain burned to the ground. I've always said the whole thing was unnatural, but no one else paid it any mind. About 5 miles above Zion Mountain, past the Unicoi Grill and a few of those rental cabins along the river, my crew and I came across what we believed was the starting point of the initial fire. Contrary to popular belief, it wasn't just one fire that destroyed the town. It was several. Most of them started from sparks coming off downed power lines, transformers, and hell, even a couple of gas stations that didn't close down for the evening. It was the eeriest damn thing I've ever seen in the 10 years I had been in the fire department. Sure, I've seen some crazy shit over the course of a decade by that point. House fires, forest fires, horrible traffic accidents....you name it. 10 years couldn't prepare me for what I saw up on that mountain. There was a path that started from the base of the mountain and eventually, went about a half a mile or so up the ridge to this clearing where some logging had been done. It was so strange. Nothing had burned above this clearing. As far as I could tell at that point, the first fire originated within the clearing. As for who or what started it, it was anyone's guess. Stupid me, I decided to go up there with a couple of others---Chris Wilson and William Campbell. I knew we weren't supposed to be up there until Jace Moser, who was the main fire investigator at the time, stopped by to access the damage and begin his investigation. I could tell you right now this wasn't an act of arson. All three of us agreed on that. Nothing about the whole thing made sense. We weren't dealing with drought conditions that year. On the night of June 13th, there were no reports of high wind or thunderstorms. It was a muggy, clear night. There were prescribed burns in parts of the Unicoi Range that March, most of which got rid of the debris from the tornado we had back in April of 2012. The rest of the downed trees were logged off, leaving a big scar near the entrance of the Range. The clearing where the fire originated was part of that logging operation. In fact, we found the scorched remains of logging equipment--skidders, harvesters, knuckleboom loaders....they were still logging the area up until that point in time. By first glance, it would've looked like a fire was started by the logging outfit and it just got out of control. Walking up that logging road was like walking into an apocalyptic wasteland. Hell, it was spooky enough seeing how barren it was from all the logging, but walking into this was like a nightmare. Everything was pitch black, as far as we could see. Every once in a while, you'd see tree stumps of different sizes. Some were as tall as a man and others, below your knees. They were blackened, hollowed out by the fire. The smell....oh god, that smell....it was horrific, like a mix between a rotting corpse, burned flesh, and strong metallic odor. If it weren't for our masks, we would've been throwing up non stop. William Campbell was, I can remember. It was 86 degrees that day and the humidity was very high. You can probably imagine what it was like, both up on the mountain and in town. We didn't see human remains initially, but the further up we went, the smell became stronger the closer to the clearing we got. We had all been shaken up pretty badly by fighting the fire itself. I had been without sleep for 72 hours. Same with William and Chris. Within that circle, there was a pretty good sized bolder that stood about five or so feet tall. The top part of it was stained with this deep reddish brown color. There were splatter marks on the side of it and these strange symbols. At first, I thought it was on old prank some teenager pulled a long time ago to fuck with whoever came across it until William came out and said he knew what those symbols were. Can you believe that? William of all people--quietest guy on the squad. William was from Zion Mountain. You know, I hadn't given it a second thought, since we were caught up in the chaos. It wasn't a relevant piece of information at the time. Our main goal was to attempt to reduce the amount of civilian casualties by evacuating them and putting out the fires that spread across town. I didn't ever consider how William felt, watching his hometown burn to the ground in front of him. If it wasn't for the fact he had to work that night at the station, he would've been one of the people we had dig out. He still hadn't heard from his wife, Hannah. Personally, I wasn't too optimistic about it, but I wouldn't dare tell him at the time. He was already pretty shaken up by what happened anyway. I didn't express my doubts, even after we found her....or rather, what was left of her, near the front door of their house. When Chris and I asked him what the significance behind this place was, he said this was where the church elders would perform sacred rites and other strange rituals. As for what exactly would go on during this rituals, it was anyone's guess. The only ones who were allowed to attend the ceremonies were a select few, the most influential people in Zion Mountain. This would've probably included the Yearwoods, Tallents, Millers....you name it. William openly admitted he had no idea why they'd conjugate up on the mountain. As he put it, "white trash like us aren't privileged enough to get closer to God". "What do you mean, you're not privileged enough?" I remember asking him. "Will, you're a fireman, just like us. It's our job to put our lives on the line to save the lives of others. Surely that's enough to convince them you're worthy." "No. Not even that is enough." I can recall him answering back. He looked so defeated and betrayed. 'I'm not one of them. God loves everyone in his flock, but he holds a special place in his heart for them, his most 'dedicated' disciples." Something about that statement really tipped me off, you know? Now, we're taught in church that God each and every one of us, regardless of our imperfections. Every man, woman, child, saint, sinner, and everything in between was worthy of Her love. If there's anything I learned on that day, it was that Kalona was the God of the wealthier, more privileged citizens of Zion Mountain. Everyone else beneath him was nothing more than pigs wallowing in the mud. Part of me wonders if such a thing would behave like that or if his disposition was the result of his human followers. The symbols on the bolder not known to belong to any human language, he claimed. They were some sort of divine message, special instructions on how the ritual was supposed to be performed, passed down from their patron deity, Kalona. Being that the rest of our unit was from Grundy, we all were pretty acquainted with Zion Mountain's weird religious practices. They didn't worship the same God as we did. We let them do their thing and we did ours. It wasn't our place to tell them they were in the wrong for believing what they did, but....maybe we should've stepped in a long time ago. They called him "Kalona", the God of land and the bearer of fire. He was always portrayed as looking like an angel, specifically one of the Archangels. He had giant, flaming wings, wore armor, carried a ridiculously huge sword...you know, like something out of a video game or movie. No one ever knew what to make of it. Behind their backs, we'd kind of have a good laugh over it, say they'd discover soon enough how wrong they were to worship their strange, Pagan god. Now....we're no longer sure. The moment we stepped into the circle, we were bombarded by blow flies. There were hundreds of them, like a black cloud humming in the dead silence of the woods. We knew....all of us knew...that we were about to find human remains. It had been like that all day. Casualties were numbering in the dozens by that point and morale was running low. The entire time we had been within the city limits, we could not find survivors. We braced ourselves for what we might find....but.....there was nothing in this world that could've prepared us for the horrible shit we had seen. It had been about 3 days at that point. Most of the fires had been put out, except for the one on Atsila Branch, near old Doc Larson's facility. The Atsila Branch Fire burned for over 700 acres and it was finally contained a few days later. Chris was the one who saw it first. I was inspecting the bolder in the middle of the clearing when I heard him let out a yelp. I called out to him and asked what he found, but he didn't answer. I called out a second time and again, he didn't answer me back. I admit, I was a little bit annoyed at the time. When you go that long without sleep, everything gets on your nerves. Every last one of them. He was standing several feet away from me near this burned out stump. "Chris, what the hell are you doing?" I hollered. "I told you to stay close, goddamnit!" When I finally caught up with him, he was just standing there, completely frozen in his stance, breathing rapidly like he was on the verge of a full blown panic attack. I saw this....it was like this sludge that was brown, gelatinous, filled with thousands of maggots, and smelled like rotting meat. There were splintered bones floating around in it, some with the muscle tissue and skin still attached. It was splattered all over the place. I went 72 hours without sleep. At first, I thought my mind was playing tricks on me from sleep deprivation. I really wanted that to be the case, no matter how many times I tried to pinch myself. I've never seen human remains that were in that condition before, completely liquified with the exception of bones, pieces of hair, and even teeth. There were no visible singe marks, save for a layer of soot. Something wasn't right, nor did it add up. Why weren't the remains we found near the center burned like everything else? What caused this person or group of people to be essentially liquified? My radio suddenly came on, snapping me out of it. I heard Miles Grady, who was the lieutenant of the Grundy Fire Department at the time, on the other end. He demanded to know where we went off to since we weren't technically allowed to leave the city limits. Boy, was he pissed! I hollered at William and Chris and told them we should get the hell out of there before Miles went apeshit. Units were spread out across the city limits, focusing on the many fires that popped up on June 13. Most of them were contained by the next morning, with the occasional hot spots. Atsila Branch was still on fire. Smoke was billowing above the trees, raining ashes down on the remains of town. There was a sickly, brownish tint in the skies that cast a depressing, dingy glow across the smoldering ruins. The smell was horrendous, far worse than what we had experienced in the clearing. My unit mostly worked around the business district, which was clear on the other side of town. There used to be a strip mall on the other side of the highway. They had a Piggly Wiggly, Wilson's Drugs, Dollar General, a Mexican restaurant, a book store, and a video game shop. Nothing of the strip survived. It was like bombs had been dropped all up and down the highway. Chris, William, and I helped with recovery in what was left of the Pig. I'd rather not go into full detail about it, but....if there's one thing I can say, whatever happened in Zion Mountain was sudden. It came out of nowhere and it came out of nowhere so fast that no one really had time to react. The town square was the part of Zion Mountain that catered mostly to rich tourists from up north. They had expensive art galleries that sold high dollar paintings to people who had more money than common sense, several tacky themed restaurants, souvenir shops, thrift stores, the town library, city hall, police station....all of them were reduced to smoldering piles of rubble, just like that. Miles Grady, the lieutenant of the Grundy Fire Department at the time, grabbed ahold of Chris, William, and myself and told us to come with him because he had something he wanted to show us. It was like someone had taken a wrecking ball to the outer walls of the buildings. Most of the buildings in the town square were some of the oldest in the county, built after the Civil War. They survived everything both nature and man threw at them, including other fires. But this....none of us were prepared for what we were about to see. There was this strange silence about the place, even though dozens of first responders were on site, sifting through the rubble in vain to find survivors. It was like the hands of God grabbed ahold of the phone poles and snapped them into splinters, just as simple as that. They were lying on the burnt pavement, charred, with the wires snapped in half. It reminded me of the tornado that tore the place apart the year before, only worse. All up and down the main drag, there were dozens of bodies that were burned beyond recognition. Some of them were decapitated, while others were missing limbs or huge chunks of their body. We even found a few that were ripped in half and their entrails were slung into the sides of buildings and the sidewalk. We thought that it was the work of scavengers like buzzards, coyotes, raccoons, and the like....until we saw these huge claw marks on the pavement, like scratches. The way it moved, it was like it drug its feet along behind it, ramming into anything in its path, including innocent bystanders who were trying to flee on foot or in their vehicles. We found at least two cars that had indentations of these....footprints(?) Paw prints(?) on the hood, barring them from leaving the inferno behind. On one car, the roof was completely ripped off, exposing the driver and passenger. The driver was forcibly ripped out of their seat and as for the passenger...All that was left of them was from the waist down. Whatever it was, it must have tried to rip them out of the car, just like the driver. I don't know if just couldn't do it for whatever reason, but....it either ripped them in half by grabbing onto them with its claws or clamped down on them with its teeth. Whether it was doing this as a method of attack or it was just eating them, we don't know. We had so much resting on our shoulders at the time, which made things even worse. There was this constant feeling of paranoia, of looking over our shoulders every time we heard a sound that was out of place. No physical evidence was ever found of the entity that laid waste to the town square, meaning that somewhere, it was roaming free, waiting for another opportunity to strike. What happened in Zion Mountain was not some tragic, freak accident like you've been led to believe for all these years. All of us who were involved....we all agreed to never speak about what we saw so that it wouldn't cause mass hysteria. Morale was low enough as it was. It was covered by every major news channel, both local and nationwide. People were constantly glued to their TVs, phones, and computers, desperately trying to figure out if their loved ones died. Everyone in my unit lost someone. I lost several cousins, my two younger brothers, my sister-in-law, and my nieces and nephews--4 girls and one boy. William, who was from Zion Mountain, lost his wife, parents, and god knows how many cousins. Chris lost his parents. That's just how it was. Even that didn't stop us from doing our jobs because who else would? People view us first responders with such a high regard, but I didn't feel like the hero they made me out to be. Despite all of our efforts, we only managed to save 12 people. Zion Mountain had a population of 906. 894 people lost their lives for absolutely no reason, other than to appease that thing they called God. I don't know what happened that night and I probably don't want to know. Something dark happened in Zion Mountain, something so horrible we can't even begin to understand. I stopped going to church after we were finished in Zion Mountain. Maybe it was a combination between everything I witnessed while struggling in vain to stop the fires and to save everyone and the things William told us in the aftermath. Those people....they were lied to. Were they offered as a sacrifice to appease their own god? Did they blindly follow their absurd doctrine, never knowing they were being led to the slaughterhouse like sheep? I had forgotten when the realization hit me. Whether it was the 10th body I dug up or maybe even the 100th, I don't remember. What if...we're being led down the same path? What if the thing we worshipped every Sunday morning was the same as Kalona--a mindless monster who would stop at nothing to completely destroy us? Could that be the reason why we're asked to give it so much of our devotion and love? Are we being groomed to prepare for it when that moment comes? --Personal account from Mitch Russell, former member of the Grundy Fire Department

[michaelarnot]

The Café - Tsirolf pt 3

       Hollysaadi and Gralamin looked up at Tsirolf when he announced his departure, puzzled at the suddenness, as they had just entered the cafe. He made his way around the table, the two turning to see where he was headed. They noticed the man dining a few tables away, he looked familiar but they couldn't quite place his face. Adogeon Silverkin was cutting a piece of mutton with a partially eaten piece of bread and a glass of red wine. Tsirolf nonchalantly sat down across from him. Adogeon didn’t look up from his meal.

       “Adi.” Tsirolf addressed him informally, nodding, trying to get him to look up from his food. “What have you heard?”

       “Adogeon, if you please. I’m sure you've heard of my position now. You were always so quick to refer to someone with a hypocorism than their proper names, Tsitsi…” he teased the elf.

       Tsirolf’s eyelid twitched at the mention of the sobriquet of his childhood. “And you were so concerned with your station in life that you always tried to be someone you weren’t, using big words you didn’t understand.”

       Adogeon looked up now, staring him in the eye. “Well, some of us aspired to step out from the gutter and polish our boots. I see you've still preferred to roll in the mire, but now you've gotten in far over your head.”

       “So answer the question, because I know you, what have you heard?” Ignoring the slight.

       He set his fork and knife down with a sigh, sipped his wine and wiped his mouth. Looking up again, “Look, I don’t think you know what it is you’ve gotten yourself into…”

       “Obviously I don’t, which is why I am asking you.” He cut him off.

       “Fine, what ever you’ve got yourself mixed up in has some major players involved and no one is talking about it openly. Tread lightly, be careful. The council is murmuring, no one wants to get involved directly, but everyone has a hand at the table. That doesn’t bode well for you. I wouldn’t be surprised if you ended up dead. I see the paladin and the ranger you walked in here with, both nobles. I assume you realize that, that should tell you something, BUT…neither of them are big players in either of their respected families. Both houses are aligned, though. Considering you aren’t much, impresses on me. That also tells me that you've got caught in the middle without knowing what.”

      Tsirolf absorbed his words as a sinking feeling grew in his stomach. His heart sped up then skipped a beat. He felt an apprehension creep into his head, should he make a break for it? No, now he felt it would be an offense if he bailed out, a personal wound he wouldn’t live down. He was knee deep with nobles and city council members, the paladins of the city guard. He had to come out ahead, he couldn’t entertain the thought of failure with such high stakes. Armed with such little knowledge he felt the weight of disadvantage. Looking back at his companions, he noticed the stress in their shoulders. He turned back to his childhood acquaintance, “is that all you have for me.”

       “That's all I'm willing to divulge. We never spoke, do you understand me?”

       “Sure.” Tsirolf replied.

       Adogeon stuck the last piece of meat in his mouth, dipped his bread in the wine, swallowing  and gulped down the rest of his cup. With a burp he left the café out the back without a good bye. Tsirolf sat for a moment taking in the fact that he didn't go out the front, then rejoined the two at his table.

       “What was that about?” Gralamin asked.

       “I’ll tell you in a moment,” he said as the waitress approached the table. His nonchalance  made Hollysaadi and Gralamin nervous. Being left out of the conversation made them feel tentative, exchanging a look from the corner of their eyes. “I’ve heard the mutton’s good!” Tsirolf said, glancing at the menu.

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       After they finished their meal, the pair stared at Tsirolf expectedly. He proceeded to tell them about Adogeon. He grew up in the same slums as Tsirolf but in rival gangs, if you could call the roving groups of street kids that roamed the lower class alleyways of the city ‘gangs.’ The several groups resorted to petty crimes, stealing to eat, vandalism, some light arson and general acts that were in direct disobedience to the temper of the city guard.

       Tsirolf fell in with one such group when he first arrived in the city, being an elf, he was larger than the adolescent teenagers that populated the bands. Tsirolf was still fresh from mourning the passing of his adopted father, looking for acceptance by anyone who would give it. These gangs offered an egalitarian, unbiased opportunity to the fact that he was an elf that he didn’t receive from the more upper class families that didn’t even look his way to offer a few coins. His knowledge of herbal plants was a boon to his group, being able heal the wounds of those hurt in the scuffles that would break out when one group, purposefully or not, would cross the turf boundaries of another. In exchange, his group taught him everything he needed to know, picking locks and pockets. His elf heritage made him already stealthy and his agility, in comparison to the human boys, made him invaluable. He was more adverse to direct violence and often stayed out of the group brawls, but often times would get drawn in when one of the bigger oafs would prod him by calling him Tsitsi. The epithet made him quick to anger, not because of the nickname per se, but because of the tone with which it was hurled at him. He understood the insult for what it was, despite his lack of prior interaction with unruly human children.

       Adogeon and he had met often, recognizing the mental prowess the other possessed. Tsirolf couldn’t stand the way Adogeon spoke down to others. His drive to be something more didn’t bother him as much as his disdain for their position on the social ladder. He would speak to Tsirolf as if he wasn’t a poor orphan as well. It didn’t take him very long before he left behind the squabbling little boys, scrounging for scraps and pennies, joining the organized crime rings down at the docks. His knowledge that he gained from being able to read, an oddity among the orphans, made him invaluable to the bosses that occupied the abandoned warehouses of the shipping district. Adogeon stole books from the various scholarly houses and spent more time studying than engaging in tussles that his wiry frame couldn't withstand.

       Adogeon worked his way up the echelons of the crime world, then went straight, as straight as politics could be in the city. Working on the accounting books for the crime lords gave him intimate information on the darker side of the council members. He was shunned at first, the nobles of the council didn’t like outsiders meddling in issues that slum dogs had no business sniffing around. That is, until he would drop a bit of information that he knew well about and a noble son or father didn’t want anyone else to know. They were quick to realize that this dog knew where all their skeleton bones were buried. Everyone on the council kept their enemies closer than their allies, and Adogeon was a wild card they couldn’t afford to let stray. He was an advisor to the council member that represented the docks and slums, controlled by the crime bosses. His work and intelligence made for the perfect middle man, but what he didn’t have was a firm grasp of the precarious position he occupied. He knew too much on either side. What he mistook for power in the knowledge he possessed, actually made him a marked man. One slip and he would find himself dumped at sea with pockets full of rocks. He didn’t possess the tact or moral compass that Tsirolf had that kept him away from the evil that crept through the underbelly of the city.

       Around the time Adogeon left the street gangs of the slums, Tsirolf met Alma. Alma was a daughter of a middle class merchant. Her father owned a shop cart in the main marketplace. Her parents, occupied by their business, left Alma to venture out and mingle with the children of other shop owners. One day she spied the elf stealing some food from a vendor and followed him to an alley that lead from the market to the slums to the south. She nearly called for the guards, but stopped when she realized he was passing the bag full of stolen produce out to the grimy, rag clad children waiting for him. Once the orphans scampered away nibbling on apples and bread, she approached him.

       “That’s quite noble of you.”

       Tsirolf, distracted by the pleasure of the giggling children, jumped at the soft voice that floated over his right shoulder. He spun on her, “It’s not everyday someone sneaks up on me, might be more careful next time.”

       “I could say the same to you about being careful. The way I see it, I should turn you over to the guard.”

       “You would have already, if you were going to.”

       Caught in her bluff, she was intrigued by the elf’s cool demeanor in the face of being caught off guard. An idea struck her at that moment though. Perhaps she could help. “Look, I’ve seen the poor children running around the market, I’m not blind to the plight they dwell in. Perhaps you can be of better service to your friends.”

       “How’s that?” Tsirolf was becoming more annoyed at the girls insistence that she had any idea of the conditions the orphans had to deal with.

       “My father owns a cart in the market, but he’s getting old and I’m afraid, sick. I could convince him to hire you, we could use the help. You can make an honest living, steady pay, and I’ll convince the other vendors to donate there left over food that they can’t sell, and would otherwise throw out, to the children. It would solve the issue of their more desirable product being stolen, while not having to deal with disposing of the old. They love me and I’m sure it wouldn’t be hard to get them on board, they're always griping about their merchandise being stolen.”

       Tsirolf was skeptical, “how old are you?”

       “I’m fifteen, sixteen in two months!” She said proudly.

       He scoffed. “Oh yeah, How old are you?” She crossed her arms tapping her foot.

       “Fifty-three.”

       She gasped. Never having met an elf before, she was certain he wasn’t a day over eighteen. Mouth open, she began to stutter. “Don’t bother,” he raised his hand to stop her, “it’s fine, I’ll take your offer.” It was her turn to be caught of guard. Alma didn’t think her proposition would be accepted, already reeling from the knowledge of how old the elf was, she couldn’t breathe and began to swoon. He caught her around the waist and smacked her on the cheek a few times. Shaking her head, she steadied herself and furrowed her brow.

       “Don’t touch me like that ever again!”

       “Ok, next time I’ll let you fall.”

       “Not that, don’t ever hit me again!”

       “Oh, sorry.” He became sheepish at the thought of offending her as she was offering him a job and to feed the orphans he held so dear.

       “It’s fine, you need a little refinement in the manners department, but thank you for not letting me fall. Anyways, meet me back here tomorrow, same time, and I’ll let you know what my father says.”

       She skipped away, excited at the prospect of the handsome elf working beside her. Tsirolf was perturbed at the thought of ‘refinement’ but was quite enchanted with the young human girl, despite the difference in years. He’d never really had any interaction with a female of any race, other than the old women he would deliver medicine to for his father’s apothecary. He half smiled and followed the path the children had taken when Alma arrived.

       The next day she arrived to Tsirolf leaning roguishly against the wall, arms crossed. She slowed to a stop and cocked her head, placing her hands on her hips. “Drop the cool guy facade, you  old softy, my father wants to meet you before he gives you the job.”

       She turned, walking into the market. He dropped his arms and nimbly came to her side without her noticing. She jumped when she noticed him walking on her hip. “My father doesn’t mind you being an elf, but understands the aversion some have for your kin in this city, so he’s cautious. I explained what I saw, but he’s not too convinced until he can look you in the eye. Be straight forward and honest and there won’t be a problem.” She stopped, turning to him to make sure Tsirolf understood what she was saying. They locked eyes, and Alma’s breath caught in her throat.

       “I didn’t even get your name, or you mine, for that matter.” His heart thumped in his chest, more than he expected.

       “Alma.”

       “Tsirolf.” They broke their gaze, awkwardly, away from each other and resumed their path through the busy square.

       Arriving at the stall, Alma and Tsirolf waited patiently for her father to finish his business with a customer. He looked up at Tsirolf, taking him in, giving him the up and down. Tsirolf extended his hand, introducing himself, said yes sirs and no sirs at the appropriate times in response to the questions Alma’s father tested him with. They laid out his duties and agreed on a wage. The next five years flew by, Tsirolf diligently did his job. Alma organized the donations for the orphan children adeptly. With a flutter of her eyelashes she was able to collect so much food over the years that they fed most of the ‘gangs’ to the point that they were able to put a stop to the silly turf wars the children had imagined existed in the first place. Alma’s father indeed was sick, fighting for five years but finally succumbing to his illness. Her mother followed soon after, presumedly from heart break. Alma inherited her parents business but soon she sold it to a friend of her father’s. He paid her much more than market price of what it was worth, knowing her ambition of opening up a tavern and inn. Tsirolf and Alma planned for the opportunity to venture out ambitiously. She had the money and Tsirolf had the connections with the work force of the lower class to get it done. Thus, the Bearded Tavern was born, and nearly ruined by Tsirolf himself, as recently as a day ago.

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       Tsirolf ended his story solemnly, reflecting on the trouble he may have caused Alma, in spite of the effort the two of them had put in to make a successful business of the Bearded Tavern. He wanted to make it up to her but wasn’t sure how.

       He often acted cavalierly, without regard to the time and sweat they had invested to make a life for themselves. He being an elf, and she being a much younger human, made Tsirolf feel uncomfortable in the circumstance. Their feelings for each other were undeniable, but his memory was much longer than hers. He felt as if he had an unseen expectation to live up to, and she saw him for what he was: distracted from what was in front of him. He had an inkling of what was possible, but didn’t want to break her heart and thought she could do better. She couldn’t imagine better than what she saw through his hardened exterior, inside his heart when his guard was down.

       Hollysaadi and Gralamin stared at Tsirolf from across the table. They couldn’t believe how candid he was, nor how much time he had just devoted to telling them his history. Their respect for him grew leaps and bounds but they didn’t verbalize it. Tsirolf raised his eyes as their jaw snapped shut. He felt his face flush with embarrassment as he stacked his spent fork and knife on top of his plate for the waitress to take away and the paladin and ranger did the same.

       Hollysaadi paid the bill and the two men thanked her. “How about some research?” Gralamin broke the silence as they walked from the café. They turned right from the door of the restaurant and hung another right down the shadowed alleyway of the library. The side entrance that the cleaning crews used to enter the enormous library was humble, matching the people who used it.

       “Speak low, and keep your head down. This is hallowed ground, as far as you two are concerned. I’ll lead and speak for us. Where we enter, no one will question our being there by the time anyone notices us. They’ll assume we have the proper authority to be inside.”

       Tsirolf and Gralamin nodded their understanding as she turned the knob of the door. Inside was dark, a short tunnel opening up into the vaulted, domed ceiling of the massive library that housed some of the most valued manuscripts in all of the realm. They were awed into silence if they had, indeed, thought to speak at all.