#I just perch myself on it like a bird and observe my children from the high ground

[theres-whump-in-that-nebula]

The Urge to walk on things like they’re a balance beam

[therealjammy]

The Lady of Half-Death

Hi, hello, posting this here for the Tumblr crowd, in case you don’t feel like venturing to Ao3. 

This work’s alternate title: “Lucky One” 

Content Warnings: Very NSFW, a brief but graphic depiction of violence. (This work is meant for 18+ only!) 

It’s also told in first person POV, the Forbidden Perspective, so sorry if that’s not your jam.... Thank you for reading xx

--

I.

November, 1937

On a bitter November day, early in the morning, I was roused by the tinkling of the bell hanging beside my bed. Being Mother Miranda’s most competent servant, I was long used to a summons during the small hours of the dark. She was night’s creature, bent over her studies and her subjects until a bitter sun lit the sky, almost unaware of time’s passage, while her servants kept in perfect time with every striking hour. I splashed sleep from my features with bitterly cold water from the basin on my dresser and wrapped myself in my warmest robe. I lit a candelabra, savoring its small warmth as I donned my silver mask. It had frightened me at first, how the servants wore these metal things elongated into an elegantly startling bird’s beak, but when serving the Lady of Ravens, one had to know to whom they pledged their loyalty, both inside and outside the house’s grounds. Though the metal was light, it still made one’s head ache after only a few minutes of wear, and was a constant irritation after many hours. But like a pain that was more a nuisance than anything, it was easily set aside.

           I walked quickly through dark hallways and creaking staircases, passing through rooms whose furniture was covered in sheets and rooms whose contents were not. Each was quiet as the long-dead.

           The doors to the laboratory opened on soundless hinges. Inside, there was only a spotlight on the latest occupied table and the stoic figure of Mother Miranda leaning over it, her hands coated in deep crimson, her subject unmoving. Her face was drawn into a deep, displeasured frown.

           “What may I bring you, ma’am?” I asked carefully.

           “Tea, Trudy,” replied Mother Miranda. By the ancient tiredness in her voice, I knew the kind I ought to fetch.

           Staying true to her grief, Mother Miranda had a fondness for black tea, steeped for five minutes to be strong, made stronger with a dollop of Sanguis Virginis, a sweet but robust red wine made by Lady Dimitrescu. She kept the largest bottle for herself, but sent a smaller one to Mother Miranda every winter. The bottle was red and adorned with golden flowers crawling up its sides.

           By the time I brought the fresh tea to her, Mother Miranda’s hands were washed of blood, and the subject on the table was covered with a white sheet, slowly turning scarlet. I set the teacup and candelabra beside her and gave a professional distance.

           “The nature of science,” Mother Miranda said, picking up the teacup, “is to fail again and again.” She held it delicately. There was rage underneath that delicacy. “Every vessel thus far has been unfit, even if it’s accepted the Cadou, and with each unfit one I feel as if I am losing her more.”

           “You might feel like Tantalus, ma’am,” I said after a pause, “with your goals evading your grasp, but I rather think you must be like Orpheus.”

           “Attempt until death,” she murmured. “Yes, child, I believe you’re right.” A long sip of tea. Underneath her golden mask, her pink lips turned a deep red. She set the cup gently in its saucer and rose from her chair, black robes shuffling quietly. “Come. Let us begin anew.”

           I lifted the mutilated subject from the table, wrapping the sheet about her carefully, and carried her fresh limpness to the courtyard with the others. Her cooling blood seeped from the sheet and onto my robes, and it dripped onto the bricks and my feet, leaving a sticky trail. It was cloying, but it was a sweet perfume compared to the rich decay that wafted from the courtyard’s cold soil. In the dark, I saw there was already a space made for her. I lay her carefully in it. A good sacrifice deserved gentleness once the deed was done, after all. In that sense, I was more merciful than Mother Miranda. Once a body was no longer of use, she would carry it out herself and toss them hastily aside, for only one body mattered above the rest.

           “In life and in death,” I said over the grave, “we give glory to Mother Miranda.”

           I sprinkled a handful of dirt over the covered girl and left her to the bitter, near-winter air.

           Inside again, I scrubbed the table twice with soapy water and dried it thoroughly. I lit more candles, placing them around the table’s edges, away from the notes that Mother Miranda spread across the surface. While she organized them, I brewed another pot of tea, bringing it and the gifted bottle of Sanguis Virginis with me. When I had poured my own cup, Mother Miranda gestured to the wine. Pour that in, too. I obeyed without question. Grey eyes watched me drink, unchanging even when I made no face at the taste of wine and blood mixing with strong black tea. I’d learned long ago that reactions caused reactions. I remained impassive, though my stomach still curdled and rebelled at the taste of the sinful wine. To the others—Mother Miranda and Lady Dimitrescu— the wine was a sweet and prized possession. If ever it was sold, it would be incredibly expensive.

           I brought a chair and perched myself next to Mother Miranda. It was always a thrill to be at her side, to study her volumes of notes and drawings and glimpse the way her mind worked. But more than that, I cherished the nights like this, when it was only the two of us. I enjoyed her company. I desired more of it, because I desired her. At times I believed she knew this, but then she would dismiss me so easily, brush by without a care, and I’d question if she knew at all.

           Attraction, I reminded myself, was a science, too, and like an experiment gone horribly wrong, it was best if one didn’t share the results.

           I cleared my throat and straightened in my chair. “We should begin where this one failed,” I said. “Pinpoint a reason, compare it to the rest.”

           We pored over notes for hours, comparing observations, Mother Miranda writing furiously in her looping scrawl underneath a page titled Quinn. The candles burned low, and the sky lightened outside the laboratory’s several windows, revealing a cold, white-filled dawn.

           “The conclusion is painfully obvious,” Mother Miranda sighed at last, pushing her nearly empty teacup aside. It’d turned cold hours ago. “I must find a truly unique vessel. The village is rotting with diluted blood and therefore cannot be used again. Three of the Lords—those children!—were ones I found outside. Diluted in other ways, perhaps, but strong enough.”

           “Yet you declared them all unfit,” I remarked.

           “Because they were too much,” Mother Miranda said stiffly, “and the rest have been too little. They served their miserable purpose and now I must find yet another clean slate! And to think I’d chosen so carefully…” A hand curled into a fist, clenched improperly due to taloned fingertips.

           “Send me to the field, Mother Miranda,” I said. “I will search for you.” But it was the wrong thing to say, for her other hand darted quickly out and knocked her teacup and saucer from the table. They shattered on the floor, black-red tea pooling around their remains.

           “Do not be dim, child; it cannot be done by you. It must be me.” She paused for a long moment, coming back to herself with a single, sharp shake of her head. “Please,” Mother Miranda said around a breath, “forgive my outburst.” She moved smoothly to the shattered teacup just as I did. We knelt out of time but reached for the same piece, her gold-plated fingers brushing my bare ones, sending a brief, hot shock through my being that ended in my chest.

           “You need never ask my forgiveness, Mother Miranda,” I said, slowly withdrawing my hand and reaching for a different piece. “A woman in grief doesn’t know her own actions.” And it was her grief, I thought then, that made my heart ache for her. That made everyone’s hearts ache for her. Mother lost a child, they’d say. No greater tragedy exists. We must be kind.

           “Grief is some people’s undoing,” Mother Miranda said. She had stopped picking up shards of teacup, a few pieces cradled in a hand. Her gaze was on the puddle of bloody, wine-soaked tea. “It festers like a splinter left in too long, or a piece of metal unable to be dislodged, and it consumes, until its host perishes with it. I’ve known it for many stretches, but rather than give myself to despair, I have chosen determination; for the parasite cannot fully live while its host fights it. So fight I must.”

           Her face was a pale reflection on the tea’s surface.

 II.

The next morning, a snowy one, Mother Miranda went for a walk. In her absence, her rule passed to me, and then to the Head Housemaid Vera, a stout older woman who kept the other servants in strict line. I was, however, only consulted for advice or for orders. Other than that, I was blessedly alone, a spectre haunting the laboratory while I organized Mother Miranda’s notes and gave into my own musings, letting my mind take up the cluttered space. Many things ran through it: thoughts of my former life, of the people I’d once seen and never would again, and if I followed that line, I knew exactly how I’d come to be here. Sitting alone in a tepid laboratory, surrounded by paper, rotting with attraction.

           It’d been there from the beginning, for there was always attraction to a leader, and many reasons behind it. People were attracted to safety and to comfort, to promises and protection, but highest of all, a deity that preached all the above. People backed off their words more often than they gave in to them, but a deity never would; their word was given and kept. It was learned, it was ingrained, and so like everyone else, I held that same attraction. I gazed upon the same likenesses of Mother Miranda and prayed for protection, for strength. I prayed to one day work for her—the highest blessing of all!—and that prayer was answered. She came to my door in all her godly glory and the paintings held no candle to her real beauty.

           The attraction molted once I’d begun to work for her properly. She was aloof and cruel and methodical, but there was talent and beauty, too, and soon enough I began to realize there was a person underneath the deity. And it was the person whom I thought of, now, wondering where her walk was taking her, who she was talking to, what she was thinking. I imagined her underneath a cold white sky, ashy flakes of snow sticking to her black robes and veil, the harsh, mountainous landscape reflecting her own desolation back at her.

           I thought, as I filed the last of the notes away, that I would make her return easier. Oftentimes her walks changed her mood; one never knew the sort she’d bear when she walked through the doors. It could be the silent sort of rage, during which she’d seal the doors of her laboratory shut and refuse to emerge for days, or the one where she’d return with a deadly ice in her eyes and drag the nearest servant by the wrist to her chambers. Sometimes they’d be alive and shuffle from the room with their clothes barely on; other times there was an unfortunate mess to clear away.

           During my luncheon, I called Vera to me and ordered the most frequented rooms be given a thorough cleaning, excluding the laboratory and Mother Miranda’s bathroom.

           “And her dinner?” asked Vera, once she’d given the orders to four maids. “Something comforting, I assume, as the latest loss is still ripe in the courtyard.”

           “Yes,” I agreed. “A shepherd’s pie with marmite in the gravy, and the bottle of Sanguis Virginis.”  

           “Very good, Miss Bevan.” Vera bowed her head and left.

           I went over the bathroom myself, being careful to put every object in its proper place. I drew a bath, the water unbearably hot, but by the time Mother Miranda returned, it would be perfect.

           I loitered for a long while in the bathroom’s silence, sat on the chessboard floor, gazing out the window to the snow-covered hills, the occasional drip, drip of the tub’s taps serenading me into a trance, filled with visions of blonde hair and grey-blue eyes and impeccable hands.

           I wasn’t the first to think of her in this light. Far from it. Worship came in many forms, after all, and many people fell to this one. Except mine was to the woman I knew, not to the idol emblazoned on a shrine dangling from a peeling wall.

           Unable to think of nothing but the bathroom’s suddenly stifling heat and the absent Mother Miranda, I left, unaware of where I was going until I collapsed on the chair I’d occupied earlier, everything about me aching for someone who saw me only as a servant in high regard—but a servant nonetheless. The fact, I thought, unbuttoning my uniform enough to feel cool air caress my chest, made me desire her all the more.

           I propped a shoed foot on the seat’s corner to give myself better access and began my pleasure gently, my head falling against the back of the chair once the rhythm was established, my free hand indecisive on where it wanted to stay—a breast, the chair’s edge, the table; at least until my mind offered me a vision of Mother Miranda ordering me, from between my thighs, to keep it planted firmly on the chair’s edge. There it stayed while my other moved, and behind my closed eyes I saw a skilled tongue working me up, teasing, licking slowly as if to claim ownership to even that part of me; I saw intense eyes meeting my own, telling me to give myself over; in my mind I whispered my glory to her. I twitched erratically, my movements almost clumsy; a few moments more and I’d be tumbling into the blissful void—or would have, had I not heard the door open and the familiar, near-silent movement of the woman living in my head.

           The silence that beat between us lasted only a moment and yet it felt like centuries. Mother Miranda’s eyes narrowed to deadly slits, and before I could manage to stumble out an explanation, she strode to me in five heavy steps.

           “You dare defile this space with your musings?” Mother Miranda hissed, her grip on my wrist vicelike. “Do you not know how ill I find this gesture? How ill it makes me to think you care naught for the meaning of this room?” Claws slashed at my cheek, the first sting of it only surprise at first; it burned when I realized she’d cut flesh. I felt blood welling, but I could not bring a hand up to staunch its flow. Nor could I staunch the fresh wave of heat that pooled in my core at Mother Miranda’s fury. Cold eyes darted from my still-wet hand to my face. Mother Miranda scoffed, roughly releasing my wrist. “Attraction is a damned wicked creature,” she said. “It morphs perspective and thought. It makes one act rashly, makes one believe they’re subtle. You think I’ve not seen your lingering gazes, child? How you bask in my company the way you would underneath the sun? How you are afraid of my rage but it arouses you all the same?” She chuckled lightly, dragging gold-tipped fingers over my cheek, the metal blessedly cool against my heated skin. Having spent so much time in close quarters with this woman, I was no longer terrified by the talons. Their scraping made the coil in my belly curl tighter, and if she were to slip bare fingers against me, she would find me all too ready for her. I met her eyes with a steely look of my own, hoping she wouldn’t see shame, but Mother Miranda was wise in ways I couldn’t fathom. She saw through people as if they were cheesecloth.

           She hummed, fingers roving lower, tracing my pulse hammering in my throat. “Is there any shame about you, Trudy? I should think so, as you are not my equal.” Moving lower still, to the buttons I hadn’t undone, hovering like she wished to tear them—and perhaps she did, for her hand gave a small twitch. “I am higher than you will ever be, yet you stand here, gazing at me so defiantly, trembling with your want of me… Do you think it will make you rise to my level?”

           Her words were fog clouding the forests of my brain. I could think of nothing but how I wanted to serve her, to fall to my knees and pledge fealty, even if it was sworn with her hand guiding my mouth between her thighs. I said, “No, Mother Miranda.”

           “No, indeed. But,” a taloned thumb slid over my lower lip, “it’ll bring me pleasure to see you try.”

           When she kissed me, it was with a slowness that one could believe was care, but I sensed the possession. I opened my mouth to it, leaned into it, every nerve alight at the thrill of kissing someone I had once dreamed of serving under. Her hands drew me close to her, splaying across my back, bunching up my uniform, and her kisses became rougher, filled with need. I met every one with a need of my own, my shaking fingers undoing the rest of the buttons down my front. The movement caught Mother Miranda’s eye; she pulled back, her gaze intense, the color high in her cheeks, watching intently as the top half of my uniform parted and revealed bare skin. She reached out, two fingers gliding smoothly over my collarbones, my sternum, tracing the swell of a breast; gooseflesh rose in the touches’ wake, and my breathing trembled.

           “You are practically untouched,” Mother Miranda said quietly. There was, to her, no greater sin than a specimen that remained unstudied and uncatalogued.

           “Only practically, Mother Miranda,” I returned.

           She leaned down, burying her face against my bloodied neck. Lips pressed softly, tongue lapping slowly— tasting me. “Have you not known love?” she said. “Or devotion?”

           “Fleetingly.” There was the blacksmith, Cristian, in whose strong arms I felt safe. There was Tatiana, who made me feel at peace even after our desperate acts. But with this life, they were fleeting. To serve one of the Lords or Mother Miranda herself, it was until death. “The only devotion I know,” I continued, my voice growing thinner the lower her mouth travelled, “is to you.”

           Mother Miranda hummed against my chest. “You worshipped well, then, Trudy,” she said, rising, taking my chin between two fingers and tilting my face up to hers, “but what of now? How shall you prove your worth to me?”

           I grasped her unoccupied hand and pressed it against my breast, holding it there. I wanted her to feel it, to feel my heart underneath it, to know she could reach in and take it because I offered it to her. “Take what you will,” I said.

           What was left of her resolve crumbled. Mother Miranda swept me into her arms with a low growl, lifting me as easily as she would a child and setting me hastily onto the table we’d cleaned the night before. Impatient fingers worked the rest of my clothes away. She tossed them aside and pressed me into the cold wood, impossibly dark eyes drinking me in, lingering on my neck, my breasts, my thighs. Places I hoped she would kiss. Places she did, in that order, her mouth untamed, leaving harsh love-marks behind. Throughout that act, she didn’t once touch me; I was strung so tightly that even one finger tracing me would’ve been my undoing. It was a sort of torturous study, I realized, clamping my tongue between my teeth when it nearly made me beg for release; she was seeing me as a case, testing my own resolve. How long could she make me wait before I begged forgiveness? Time ceased to exist. I could not tell how long she made me hang.

           When she finally did touch me, I was relieved. Instead of a sigh, a long whimper escaped my mouth. Mother Miranda groaned in response, her fingers twitching and pausing against me, surprised at the slick want they found. Her second touch was heavier, more confident. My hands couldn’t help but cling to the back of her neck, which was covered by a thick cotton veil. I realized I’d touched her without her consent, but when I made to pull away, her free hand came to rest over both of mine, and together we slid the veil from her head.

           Blonde hair, a darker gold in the dim light of the laboratory, fanned around her face, gracing my bare forearms, soft as silk. Without the veil, it was tantamount to seeing her naked.

           “Cling to me,” Mother Miranda breathed.

           It was as much permission as I was going to receive.

           I buried my hands in her hair and leaned up to kiss her. I accepted her tongue when it slipped between my teeth. I opened for her when, at last, she slid fingers inside me.

           And when she truly took me, she devoured me, sprinkling evidence of her use across any expanse of skin she could reach, uncaring if teeth dug in too much, if my back was rubbed raw from the wooden table, if her golden talons left angry scratches. I clung harshly to her during my crisis, my cries only winding her further, for when I was barely limp, she withdrew entirely and carried me to her own chamber. Deposited on her bed, I watched through bliss-filled eyes as she undressed.

           Black robes pooled at her feet. In the blue-white moonlight, she was harshly ethereal. Everything about her seemed to glow, including her eyes. And sprouting from her back were five pairs of midnight wings. I wanted to catalogue it as a dream, a delusion caused by a mind still recovering from an intense crisis, but the wings, like Mother Miranda’s arms and legs, were very much a part of her.

           “Look while you can,” she said. “Commit it to memory, for true revelations are rarely given so freely.”

           She stood for study, allowing me to take in every inch. My eyes lingered where hers had lingered on me.

           “Do you reject me, Trudy?” she questioned softly.

           “No, Mother Miranda,” I replied. I offered her my hand. “I’d fall to my knees in prayer if I were not otherwise occupied.”

           She accepted my hand and leaned over me on her bed, naked and otherworldly, and in my long, exquisite worship of her, I met death eye to eye and thought there would never be another equal.

[noxshade]

Day 2: Personality

The more things change, the more they stay the same.

It was this maxim that Byakuren Hijiri contemplated as she sat on the roof of her temple.  It was a cool spring night, but with a hint of humidity in the air that warned of the coming summer.  Mentally reciting her sutras, she enjoyed the occasional sakura-scented breeze, juxtaposed against a stillness that felt like the void against her skin again.  To her, it was one more duality to contemplate while she meditated.  She finished the Heart Sutra, slowly inhaled, and decided it was time to address her observer.

“You may join me in meditation if you so desire,” she spoke to the seemingly empty rooftop.  Beside and behind her, there was an echoing shift, like fabric rubbing, or perhaps tearing and a refined voice responded.  

“That’s quite a trick you have, Head Priestess.  I was wondering when to present myself and there you go scuppering my plans by sensing me.” Although they had never met and she did not recognize the voice, Byakuren could sense the energy from the now-revealed being, and could only conclude it was the gap youkai that both Hakurei-san and the oni had warned her about.  Byakuren did not turn her head to look at her, she only gestured to the spot on the rooftop beside her, an invitation to sit with her.

The youkai instead drifted into her field of view by herself, revealing that she had not fully exited her gap in space, but was perched, head resting on interlaced hands, elbows resting on the edge of her portal, her lower half still within the pitch-black space from which Byakuren could have sworn she saw eyes staring out, unblinking.  “I prefer to hold my own seat, but thank you for the invitation,” she said, then withdrew the rest of her body from her gap, and sat herself down on it, crossing her legs, the otherworldly portal treated more like a bench or odd hammock than a missing piece of the world.

Byakuren’s first thoughts about her appearance was that there was simply too much of it.  Her blonde hair was as long as her body and tied with red ribbons at the end so it flowed in distinct, large strands.  Her mob cap was tied with a comically large bow, and her trigram-emblazoned tabard was a rich royal purple that put Byakuren’s hair to shame.  Her pale pink dress was absurdly voluminous, as if she was some kind of exotic bird, puffing itself up to look more intimidating.

“I don’t believe we’ve been properly introduced,” Byakuren said.

“No, we have not.”  An awkward pause.

“Byakuren Hijiri, monk of the Myouren Temple,” Byakuren supplied, gesturing to herself.

“She’s so modest!” mocked the youkai.  “Just a simple monk, as if she were not one of the major movers and shakers of Gensokyo!”  Byakuren was known for her infinite patience, but it was feeling significantly less bottomless the more she spoke to this youkai.

“If that will be all, I’d rather you move on to why you’ve been spying on me for the entire day.”

“Oh, and here I was thinking I was concealing myself oh so well,” she looked to Byakuren for some kind of response, but upon seeing the same impassive gaze, she rolled her eyes and moved on.  “Alright, so I do have business with you, I wanted to learn about the youkai you brought back to the temple today.”

“Koishi-chan?” Byakuren asked.

“Yes, the little former Satori.  I’d like to know your assessment of her and her abilities.”

“Why such an interest in her?” Byakuren questioned, confused. “Surely you could just ask her yourself.” 

“She’s far more dangerous than most people think, and I prefer not to meet with such characters without plenty of information first,” the youkai responded, and almost made her explanation sound convincing, but the sliver of doubt in her voice let Byakuren hazard a guess at the real reason.

“A wise decision,” she said, “Or, perhaps, since dear Koishi-chan can only reflect the personalities of those around her, upon trying to pry information out of her, you found your own obstructiveness and contrariety reflected back at you.”  The youkai’s face did something complicated, like she was processing half a dozen thoughts simultaneously, before returning to her natural bemusement. 

“Well observed, Head Priestess,” she responded.  “True, just talking to her is like pulling blood from an oni’s tooth.” Byakuren raised an eyebrow at the odd mixed metaphor, but the youkai continued without pause. “It is part of my duty to monitor the balance of Gensokyo, and thus I want to know how this little anomaly, this invisible mind reader who doesn’t read minds could affect us all.” 

From Hakurei-san’s warnings, this was surely not the youkai’s only aim, as she was always at least three layers deep into deception and double-dealing.  The words ‘duplicitous’ and ‘enigmatic’ had come up frequently when the shrine maiden had described her, along with many other significantly less polite words that Byakuren would never repeat.  If she was trying to learn about Koishi from Byakuren, then she probably also had schemes for how to use Koishi as a tool, was assessing Byakuren’s willingness to play Gensokyo politics, and perhaps a dozen other things.  Giving her an honest assessment was more than she deserved at this time, but was perhaps best for all parties involved.

“Koishi-chan is many things, but I do not believe her to be dangerous at this time,” Byakuren said.  “Her inability to be perceived by adults who do not know of her sister means that she mostly interacts with children, and her lack of personality outside of passively reflecting those who interact with her means that she poses no danger to Human Village or the communities of youkai throughout the land.” Byakuren turned to roll up her sutra scroll, “So if you are planning something, it would be wise to investigate the general temperament of the village first…” she looked up, to find the youkai gone now, with no sign of her presence anywhere nearby.  Byakuren sighed a smile, then finished rolling her scroll, then slid off the rooftop and returned to the temple to prepare for lights-out.

The more things change, the more they stay the same.

https://archiveofourown.org/works/29772798/chapters/73306872

[duskodair]

5, 29 🤠

5: squeezing the other’s shoulder

29: nudging them to show they are right beside them

It is a perfect day. Damned perfect, thinks Noel as she watches the morning sun shine down the street from the ajar window of her hotel room.

She secures her undergarments and turns away from the window, letting Jonah in. He sidles into the room, carrying the heavy box in his arms. Between them, a dense layer of foreboding grows that the weather outside seems oblivious to.

They have a couple of hours to work, so Noel turns to the dresser and reaches for the crystalline decanter and pours out two glasses of whiskey. As she returns the decanter to its place, the clock beside it ticks out a warning.

Behind her, Jonah clicks the box open. Neither of them move to act on its contents, they simply look at them and then at each other.

Noel lifts the glasses of whiskey and moves over to his side. Gently, she shoves his glass into his hand and perches beside him on the bed.

Outside a bird sings, the only sound to fracture the regular metronome tick of the clock. The twins sit in silence.

Then, Jonah, 'Are you sure you want to go through with this?'

She pauses, 'No. But I'm going to. And besides, it'll only be a year or so.'

He frowns and considers and she watches words fade from his tongue, unspoken. He takes a sip of his drink and hardens his resolve.

'Gah. Well, we'd best get on with it then,' He plops his glass on a side table and rises, turning to rest his hand on her shoulder. He squeezes it automatically, more for his own comfort than hers. She sighs, puts down her glass, and follows suit.

He reaches into the box and pulls out a petticoat. He hands it over and she slips it over her head, tying it securely over the base of her corset. It's a finer fabric than she's used to, and on any other day, that would delight her, but today it simply helps to build her lingering sense of dread.

Getting her dressed takes little more than ten minutes. Jonah is long practiced with tiny buttons and pins. His hands make light work of the components of her dress, carefully draping the pale blue silk of her skirt over the crinoline.

Once she has the bodice pinned in place, he directs her over to the stool and pulls out a comb. He works carefully to unwind her hair from the rags that they'd set it to curl in on the previous evening and combs her hair into gentle ringlets.

'Are you sure that you're sure? We could leave town right now, if you want. You don't have to do this, Noel'

'The plan was to do this. We can't just write off an entire con just because I get cold feet.' He doesn't like that response, she hears him huff from behind the curtain of her hair.

'This is more than just a con, Noel, and you know it. I can't let you marry this bozo if you're not sure. This con is not more important than you, and there are always other cons-'

She cuts off his monologue as it begins to spiral, 'I am doing this. It's not a real marriage and you know it. Lord knows it's not even in a Catholic church, Sister Agatha would be reeling.'

He chuckles, 'yes, absolutely. It is the denomination of the church that makes this marriage not binding, rather than the eight other factors that should prevent it bein' lawful.'

She raises her voice into a terrible impersonation of Sister Agatha, producing a frail quaver, 'Now you listen here, young Anthony, you must remember that marriage is key. Haven't you heard that children born out of wedlock are the devil's own work-'

'Noel,' he starts, serious once more, 'sister dearest, listen to me for once. It may not be a marriage in law or in feeling, but you know it is a marriage in act. I know you know this. And we both know what kind of a man Mr. Lloyd is. Are you sure that you are up for this?'

She takes his hand, interrupting his combing. Both of their hands shake a little. For a moment, she simply sits there. He squats down to look beneath her hair. Her eyes flick to his and she swallows.

'I don't know. I don't know if I can do this, but I don't want to give up either. We do need the money.'

'Don't think about the money right now, awright. We'll get the money, somehow. You don't have to marry this fella if you don't want to. Hell, we can leave Danser right now, if you want.'

She smiles, a little shaky, 'You're real sweet, but I said I'd do it, so I'll do it. It's not like you're going anywhere in the next year, is it? We'll be awright. Death till us part and all that.'

He sighs and rises, 'Well, if you're sure. Let me know if you change your mind'

He works the comb through her hair again, slowly working to pin the long red strands back.

She lets him work in silence for a while, listening to the foreboding tick of the clock and the faint bustling of the people of Danser. He ties a ribbon in her hair and makes sure to fasten her crucifix round her neck.

'All done,' he announces, passing her a hand mirror. A confident woman gazes back at her and she grimaces.

'This will work,' she appraises, 'I look like I was raised by a bloody governess and sent to finishing school in Europe. Now daddy is marrying me off, Look'

She wafts her engagement ring at him. 'Yuck,' he says, 'You sure as shit don't talk like it, rich girl.'

She sticks her tongue out at him by reflex, before regretting it instantly. A quick glance at the clock confirms her suspicions, 'I don't have to be prim and proper for an hour yet. When that clock goes I'll be a proper repressed little lady for you.'

He pulls a chair over to join her, offering out his hand to hers. She takes it and feels his clammy palm in hers. She lifts her head and looks him in the eye. A heavy weight hangs over him and foreboding swirls in the air. He blinks and looks away, turning toward the window.

'Are you ready?' He asks, after they have sat in restless silence for a moment that seems to last forever, punctuated only by the ticking of the clock.

'No. But I guess I have to be.'

'I guess so'. He squeezes her hand in his, 'can I help?'

She worries at the ruffles on her skirt as she stares at the floor. She rolls her words around her mouth before she mutters them, voice far removed from the crystal clarity that she usually relies on. 'I don't know what I'm doing'.

She hopes she doesn't have to spell it out more than that. She doesn't think she can. Of the two of them, he has always been the one with sweethearts and lovers. She has never been interested in that kind of thing, but she's kicking herself now that marriage is looming.

He sighs and scuffs the toes of his boots together, squeezing her hand in his. 'Lord, Noel, I can't help you with that. If the plan goes right it won't get to that, and he'll be too drunk to touch you. And if he hurts you, I will duel him.'

'If you duel anyone, I will kill you myself.'

'Noel-'

'No. If he hurts me. He hurts me. No point in getting shot over it. An' besides, we've surely got enough blackmail to settle it like grown ups.' She gives him a withering look. Used to it, he is unperturbed. 'You oughta get dressed up, you scruff bag. Haven't you heard it's my wedding day?'

Dismissed, he drops her hand and rummages for the suit he is renting. She watches him chuck his more comfortable clothes into a pile on her floor as he pulls it on. He returns to her with his red hair askew, with tufts of it sticking out hither and thither.

She holds out her hand for the comb and rises to tidy him up. They keep their silence, each subsumed in private worries and frustrations. As she combs, she catalogues the contents of her packed trunk, imagining where each item will go in her new house.

He stares straight ahead and his jaw twitches as he thinks. About what, though, she has no clue. As she finishes, the clock begins to wind up to strike, bringing with it a crushing sense of dread. She fumbles the comb as she puts it down, her shaking hands knocking it to the floor.

'Time,' says Jonah, offering a hand.

She takes it and they leave the room. She turns the key in the door and steps away, abjectly aware of every breath. She is happy to be led by his arm as she follows down the stairs and into the street.

Nothing in Danser has stopped for them. Life in the town continues as Noel's heart threatens to stop. Jonah leads the way. She focuses on moving her feet.

The church rises before them as a threat, a dark shape blotting out the sun. The door hangs open, awaiting. She pulls herself to stand straight and tries to force herself to focus. Jonah comes to a pause.

'Ready?'

She nods. He leads them into the darkness. It is cool in the church. Or at least something makes her blood run cold. Perhaps it is the sight of the back of her fiancé's head. For a second, she forgets how to breathe.

At her side, Jonah nudges her to remind her that he is there. She turns to glance at him, takes a deep breath in, and steps forward. As they walk, she hears their steps echo through the barren church. The pews will seat over fifty, but there are only five people in attendance.

She tracks them with her eyes, watches the preacher adjust his notes with a tired kind of boredom. She watches Mr Lloyd pick at his sleeves, notes the more casual jacket that he is wearing. Gunther Price, his foreman, slouches behind him, still in working clothes, the least interested witness that Noel could imagine.

It's nice to know where she stands, she thinks, as she makes her way down the aisle. Her husband-to-be has no strong allies, nobody to come to his wedding unpaid. Jonah's observation is correct, he will not be missed.

She takes her place before the preacher and listens to his words, foreboding in this echoey church. He speaks of the sanctity of marriage, of the love of God. He asks if there are any lawful impediments and Noel has to bite her tongue and concentrate to not turn to face Jonah and laugh. Resolute silence is the answer in the empty church.

Noel keeps her breathing steady and prepares to make promises that she has no intention of keeping. She keeps her voice steady as she makes her vows. She has practiced this. She does not look at Jonah. She does not look at the man who will be her husband.

Her hands are shaking so badly that Tobias struggles to slide the ring on her finger. It is cold to the touch and his fingers are clammy. She slides a ring in return. Fine California gold. Lovely.

She closes her eyes and lets him kiss her. She dislikes the scratch of his beard and the clumsiness of his lips. The church is filled with silence as he takes her in his arms.

They sign paperwork and return to the Hotel. The twins work to ensure that her husband is well supplied with drink so that by the time the newlyweds retire to their room, his hapless fumblings will be unable to reach beneath her shift.

She closes her eyes and prepares to rise early. The next stage of this con can't come soon enough. At least, she thinks, Jonah will get her out, if things go wrong.

[jodellejournals]

little mermaid days

an hour away from my hometown city, a municipality called san joaquin peacefully exists and humbly thrives. it is located at the southern tip of iloilo and it was way back 2005 when we spontaneously walked on its shores until we found an empty lot. it was love at first sight at the scenery that struck us so my tita bought that piece of land. a year later, it became our family beach house. long weekends, summer breaks, birthdays, and anniversaries started to be spent and celebrated there and so it became a home away from the city where i lived my little mermaid dreams. as some of you know, i have always been fascinated by mermaids and their happy-go-lucky life — just swimming, brushing their hair with forks, being friends with crabs and almost all sea creatures, and away from the harsh and cruel human world. i’m such an escapist, i know, but that’s who i am. i have mentioned in one of my previous entries that my favorite disney princess is ariel from the little mermaid so living in a beach house during weekends made me feel like one. thankfully, no ursula was there but only eels. and sometimes, they come for free. a family friend of ours who does business in the area gives us free seafood and we all know it tastes better when it’s free! but i don’t eat eels! they’re not my thing. i only enjoy fresh fishes and prawns. they’re good although i am allergic to the latter one. i am scared of how oysters look like, on the other hand, so i just pass them around. that’s too much food already so let me share to you instead how life was like in the sea side.

usually, we’d leave our ancestral house in the city by 8am although we have originally planned to depart at 7am. filipino time, you know. if there will be plenty of us (cousins from first to third degrees, extended aunts and uncles, nieces and nephews who were tagged along, and some househelp), we’d go in three batches. if we’re a small bunch, one or two batches would be enough. i always pick the car where cousins my age were at and i’d be lounging in the backseat with my pillow, a bag of cheetos or chippy, bottled water, and earphones. life is good. and i’m all set for a cozy hour of car ride. bye-bye, city! whilst on the road, i’d always (and i mean always), look in the window as if i’m in a summer adventure movie like aquamarine. the usual sights were centuries-old churches, spanish colonnial houses, pastry shops, local malls and resorts. all of which were very familiar to me since i grew up passing by them but they still seemed anew each time i laid my eyes. i marveled at my city. it is such beauty. there is really no place like home. then thirty to forty minutes later, my eyes were greeted by palm trees, zigzag roads, little nipa restaurants, and just a bit further, the glittering sea under the piercing rays of sun came into our perfect view. san joaquin, being a southern municipality, is abundant in natural resources. so the closer you get there, the closer you are to mother nature. it’s like a secret hiding place for me — almost like narnia — where i can unwind with birds, fishes, cows, and dogs to name a few. some cows were literally on the road so we make sure that we don’t go way too fast even if there’s no traffic. cows have their agendas, too, so let’s not get in their way. then if we’d get a bit hungry because breakfast was usually prepared upon arriving at the beach house, we’d stop over at a famous bakery shop called nang palang’s pies. a trip to san joaquin is usually never completed without buying boxes of their signature buko pie. delicious, warm, and well-suited for the tropical weather. i’d take half-bites so as to not be full when real breakfast arrives. then after attempts of dozing into a nap and avoiding cows and their agendas, we’d finally arrive at our vacation home.

upon opening the car door, the crashing sound of the waves welcomed us warmly and the buzzing of the crickets, too! i can already feel my tan slowly coming out of my skin. i don’t know why but beaches make everything seem glisten and glitter. the air smelled of fresh leaves and trees mixed with saltiness from the sea. i love that earth smell! by that time, i’d instinctively hear the sea calling my name. it’s shining there few steps away from me, after all. no worries mr. sea, me and my cousins were already in our swimsuits. we were that excited and ready. we have learned from previous visits to be always prepared with the right attire because the sea calling exempts nobody. and the bangka at the shore (that is usually a property of our caretaker) only tempted us more to go for a sunny boat ride. the adults could no longer do anything if we jumped in and rowed that boat! forget the sunscreen, the little children in us back then used to not care much about our skin. playtime was more important and twice the fun at the beach. so one time, my mother called us for breakfast but we were already dipped in the not-so-deep blue sea and basked under the yellow san joaquin sun. too late, chocolate!

but if she triumphed in stopping us, me and my cousins would have an afternoon swim instead. by 3:30pm, usually refreshed from our nap, we were in the perfect mood to be little mermaids. folding chairs in happy colors perched at the shore and tall beach umbrellas stood firmly. now we have sandy toes that made us forget our childish woes. we’d create sand castles or write our names in the sand using sticks. it would stay there for the sky to look upon until a giant wave would wash them all away. gone was any trace of our masterpiece but that’s okay, we always love the sea. then some children at our age would pass by us. they hold with them crystal bottles that looked like one of those that ursula had with potion, weirdly-shaped but pretty-colored stones, kites, and biscuits or chips. i guess it’s their playtime, too. no, they’re not lost wandering anywhere the wind takes them but local residents just roaming around their village. yes, our beach house was at the sea side where many houses of the locals stood firm. when we talked to those children about the place, they knew every twist and turn, how long it would take to get to the next island or village, or how much the goods there cost. these children, small they may be, but mighty is their knowledge. i could not even commute properly until now without asking for some guides and directions! but them, they are like dora’s map that memorized each corner by heart. how wonderful are the lives of these people? living by the sea, breathing fresh air, and swimming in the waters anytime they want. they do fishing for a living and it’s not even a nine-to-six job. clearly, there is work-life balance. the best things in life are indeed, free. so why do we even picture a life in the city? a simple life calls for a simple way of living. but jodelle, you know deep down inside, that each parent wants their children to live a life with the best things that this world has to offer. how? by getting a good education, earning money, investing on insurance, building your own place, exploring countries, and meeting new faces to name a few. that’s how it’s always been painted to us. but what if, once in a while, we just retreat to nature and immerse in a homemade and handmade kind of life? i’d gladly consider that option.

anyway, going back to my story, me and my cousins would start swimming by 4pm right after our encounter with the locals. for me, it’s the ideal swimming time because there was no more blazing heat but only breezing winds. and it would not also be long enough until it’s sunset o’clock! so one afternoon, i laid down by the shore wearing my navy blue swimsuit with yellow flowers on it and my back felt the soft sand and each time the waves kissed the shore. relaxing, soothing, calming. i can just stay here forever, i remember thinking. and while laying there, my only view was the clear sky. it was not blue that time but clear white with some fading yellows on the sides from the noon that has passed. how vast is this celestial body? does it ever end? the world is so big and i felt so small — but free as well. then a flock of chirping birds came into my view and i didn’t mind. i enjoyed them, in fact. they seemed so happy and at peace. isn’t it beautiful how bodies of water, vast skies, and living creatures just harmoniously coexist together? god really created everything perfectly. i stayed laying there a bit longer and saw the sky changed to a different shade in its own pace. just like us humans. another thought came across my mind but it was a bit silly. wild guess? i pretended the sand was snow and created a sand angel! it was not that bad upon checking the outcome. shortly, i called my cousin, dianne, and told her my blissful and happy experience. i can’t be selfish and enjoy the wonders of the shores all to myself, right? so she also laid beside me, created her own sand angel, and we looked up to the sky above, enjoying our moment of peace and quiet. we closed our eyes for a bit and meditated. just two pisces girls being spiritual. but not too long though, because strong waves took us back to our reality.

by that time, the sun was already setting and hues of oranges, pinks, and purples painted the sky. i’m not a swimmer so i just sat at a huge rock in the waters, pretended i had a tail, and parted my wet hair into half just like how mermaids do it. i’d look at the horizon, check ships from afar, observe small boats nearby, and when i look down on my toes, little nemos were there happily swimming. being in nature really makes me feel alive. then as we came out of the waters, the fishermen were also docking their bangkas and pulling their fishing nets. they had a bountiful catch which was enough to feed their family. that signaled me and my cousins that it was time to wash up in the bathroom for dinner will soon be served. expectedly, our viand would be grilled fish to be dipped in soy sauce, calamansi, and chilli peppers and we’d pair it with warm sticky rice. when we were full, we’d leave the ground floor for the adults to play mahjong and climb our way to the second floor to share stories. sometimes, we’d play cards or read books through our iphones. The television did not appeal much to us when we were there. and when midnight came, we’d munch on a bag of doritos for snacks and drink leftover red wine that was usually from our previous visit. all while the airconditioner was on full blast. i miss that kind of comfortable. a little bit later, we’d turn off some of the lights but it wasn’t completely dark. the moon that shone above was enough to give us light and it seeped through our room that was guarded by a sliding glass door. it overlooked the sea 24/7 and we never got tired of that view. when daylight came, there was no need for an alarm clock because the sound of the ocean waves that sweetly lulled us to sleep last night would gently wake us up in the morning sun, too. coming with the terms of nature and its cycles enabled me to be aware of what part of the day it already was. so that’s when i knew it’s time for brunch because the sun was way too high up in the sky. we’d then go on with the day just like how we spent yesterday until we were due to be back in the city.

oh, happy times. it was simpler back then. it used to even feel like days would always be like that forever but look at me now. i’m miles away from where i consider home and “living” a so-called adult life “the way it should be” — working at the office, paying insurance, constructing emails. all those stuff. when did life become like this? did i forget how to have a heart and eyes of a child? i hope not. but being in your twenties can easily get you in a trap especially if there is no time to take a pause and reflect. sometimes, it’s easier to be just a child — forgiving, carefree, light-hearted, full of wonder, and pure in every way. all would be well again after a good cry. but then i have always known that i can forever remain a kid at heart no matter how old i age. i just have to make sure that she’s within me safely guarded at all costs so the world would never harden her. i am glad she still remains soft when i look at her closely. she still has those eyes full of wonder with a carefree heart that carries happy childhood memories from her little mermaid days.

[sunshineandfangs]

Klarosummer - Treehouse || Cartref Enaid

@klarosummerbingo

Caroline breathed in absorbing the scents of the forest. Wood. Soil. Water. Fresh, earthen smells that had become harder and harder to find in the modern world. Not that the whims of humans truly affected her, isolated as she was in her own realm, but it was still a shame to witness. 

No matter.

She ran meticulous fingertips across the bark of her tree, weaving fine threads of her magick through its wood. It thrummed under her touch, sending slow, powerful pulses into the earth. Her tree, nurtured from a seed by her power and carefully crafted to bridge the border between the land she called home and the land of mortals, would never wilt or wither. Human toxins meant nothing to an Immortal and just as little to an Immortal’s creation.

The pulses grew fainter, settling into the background, as its roots burrowed new paths in new soil. 

Stepping back from the tree, Caroline held her hand aloft and gently nudged at the humming bond she could feel in the back of her mind. She felt the slight returned flutter of acknowledgement and waited.

Waited as light shifted through leaves, the sun and moon crossed paths, the realm carved out its new home. Time was an odd illusion amidst such dense magick.

And then, on near silent wings, a large, black bird appeared in the distance, elegantly swooping through the overhead branches with ease. The bird gently landed on her forearm, emitting an affectionate croak.

A smile tugged at her lips and Caroline cooed at her bird, petting the glossy feathers on her head.

“Welcome back, Branwen, what news have you to share?”

The large raven shuffled up her arm to perch more comfortably on her shoulder, taking a moment to preen at the golden strands of her hair. With a rustle of feathers, Branwen settled as their bond hummed between them. A low and raspy, though still feminine, voice echoed through Caroline’s mind accompanied by images of new places and people.

It seems our tree has settled itself in a small town this time. The inhabitants call it, Mystic Falls.

Caroline’s lip twitched. A rather apropos name to be certain.

Quite. The whole place is also swarming with witch spawn, mostly children of the blood but also some children of the moon.

Her eyebrows rose. Really, now? Both of them? Surely, there has been a blood bath or two by now?

Not recently, insofar as I can derive. The earth carries echoes of a slaughter of the children of the moon sometime in the recent past, but currently it is two factions of the children of the blood that are quarreling. And one of those factions is...aberrant.

How do you mean, my friend?

They seem to be an odd amalgamation of both blood and moon. One of them reeks of old blood and a near feral wolf. The rest are settled moon children carrying the scent of recent death and blood.

Caroline’s brow furrowed as she contemplated Branwen’s words, more carefully scrutinizing the handful of scenes her familiar had observed. As Branwen reported, their faces bore eyes of wolf gold yet also the fangs and dark veins of the blood children.

I see. How curious...My thanks, Branwen. Mayhaps, I shall venture into this so-named Mystic Falls myself.

Caroline lifted her other arm, careful to not jostle her friend, and conjured several field mice. Appearing between one blink and the next, the newborn rodents scurried hurriedly for cover.

Branwen croaked with delight, jetting off her shoulder in a flurry of feathers to her well wishes of a happy hunt.

---

Caroline couldn’t quite restrain the faint crinkle of her nose as she took in the unimpressive visage of the establishment cheerfully announcing itself as the “Mystic Grill.” It was...quaint, she supposed.

The inside was a bit better, containing all the appropriate accouterments: a bar, multiple tables with varying degrees of privacy, a few game tables and a dart board or two.

With a slight eye-roll at herself (honestly, she wasn’t here to sight see), she made her way toward the bar. The barkeep was young, very young, likely too young to drink himself according to modern rulings. It was curious that he was behind the counter. 

She offered him a small smile and a subtle flutter of her lashes. “Good evening,” her eyes flicked to his name-tag, “Matthew, I am feeling rather partial to an Old Fashioned tonight.”

“Could I see some ID, ma’am?”

She chuckled, wondering how he would react to her true age, but produced a card all the same. A wonderful piece of charm work, he would see a perfectly genuine driver’s license declaring her Caroline Morgans, age 23.

He passed it back with a thanks and shuffled around to start mixing her drink.

“Well, well I haven’t seen you around here before.”

Caroline restrained a second eye-roll, this one far more well-deserved, with difficulty. She peered over her shoulder, taking in the new presence beside her.

Dark hair. Icy blue eyes. A handsome face. She had a feeling she wouldn’t like him. He practically oozed false charm and arrogance.

“I should think not, seeing as I just arrived earlier today,” she answered, curtly.

“Oohh unclench, Barbie. So tense, maybe I can help you relax? Hm?” He waggled his eyebrows outrageously, in a manner she assumed he thought flirtatious.

This time she didn’t bother to restrain her reaction, letting a slight sneer curl on her lips.

“Pass.”

The clack of a glass being set down interrupted any further insult she may have uttered and she gave an acknowledging nod and smile to the boy as he stepped away to help other customers.

She sipped at her drink relishing the bite of the whiskey and bitters smoothed by a hint of sweetness and citrus. It was a decent drink, but the experience was marred by two things. The irritant’s continued presence next to her and a faint aftertaste of something herbal. It took a moment to place it, but she soon realized it was vervain and wolfsbane.

Not so ignorant then.

Before she could further contemplate the mounting curiosities of the tiny town, the pest interjected once more.

“No need to be rude, Barbie. I assure you, I’m quite the hit with the ladies.” Caroline leveled a ferocious glare in his direction as he placed his hand on her forearm and watched with increasing outrage as his pupil dilated. “So, come with me.”

Her fury seethed low in her belly as she stood to follow the little cretin, quite eager to teach the mannerless cur a lesson. Nevermind the audacity he had to try to control her mind, his casual air sealed his fate. 

A desire to feed would be one thing, but his words implied something quite different. Some of her bloodkin would be enraged only by his audacity and not his crime, but for her - she with her tumultuous relationships with her half-siblings and the memory of a troubled boy whose blood named him her nephew twice over - for her consent meant something.

The fool led her into the back alley, taking no time to try to compel anything else, simply slamming her against the wall. His face rippled into dark eyes and veins and fangs, his hands wandering places they had no right to.

He had his chance.

In an instant, she reversed their positions, pinning him to the bricks with ease. His confusion was obvious as he clawed at her arm, a mere tickle to her, and he shouted.

“What the fuck?! What are you?”

Caroline just hummed in the back of her throat, pondering appropriate punishments even as she absently answered. “Now, who is being rude? Asking such crass questions.”

Ah, now there’s an idea.

She leaned forward, easily bypassing his flailing to blow into his ear.

A little pain, she thought, as she swiftly stepped back, allowing the creature to fall into a screaming heap. And a little training. Her magick eagerly burned through his brain and body, weaving her curse into his flesh, into his bone, saturating his blood, tying it with razored hooks to the very essence of him. Anytime he thought to force his will upon others, he would burn. Just as he was now.

No longer interested in arrogant vampire’s fate - assured her magick would do as she intended - she turned to regard the second presence in the alley. A much older one that she had sensed follow them from the bar.

“Enjoy the show?” She drawled.

A wicked, little smirk crossed his lips, even as his eyes remained dark and guarded.

“Immensely. A Fae’s vengeance is always a lovely thing to behold.”

Well, well this one was quite informed. Though, she supposed he ought to be at his age.

He extended an arm to her. “Would you care to walk with me?”

She took it. “I do so hope you do not intend to waste my time, child of the blood and moon.”

“Please, call me, Klaus.” He dimpled at her. “And I prefer the term ‘Hybrid’ myself.”

Caroline eyed him, allowing some of her curiosity to color her expression.

“Klaus, then, why is it you sought me out?”

---

Caroline traced the swirls of the handsome mahogany table, intrigued by Klaus’ tale. A bit intrigued by the man himself as well, if she were honest.

“Your wolf is new to you, is he not?”

He narrowed his eyes at her. “In a manner of speaking.”

She chortled, tickled by his careful wording. He was certainly wise to tread so carefully, but she was too interested to harm him at the moment. Not that she would tell him that.

“You told me you seek your family. Family is pack for a wolf. You do not lose pack. Cannot,” she emphasized.

He looked like he had been about to interrupt, though his mouth shut with a click of his teeth at the ‘cannot.’ 

“You’re saying I should be able to...sense their location.” 

She nodded. “I can understand the importance of family, Klaus. So I offer you this insight with no debt or strings: embrace your wolf. Shift. Run. He’s practically feral, and it is no wonder you cannot use all of his senses.” She paused, wondering at what she was about to offer, but opted to indulge. “I shall run with you. We will find your family.”

---

The last time Klaus had turned it had been frenzied, surrounded by the power of a broken curse and a full moon, quick. Now, it was the force of his will hastening the process, rapidly shattering and reshaping bone.

He growled low in his throat, the sound transformed to a guttural howl as the transformation completed.

This time he could feel the wildness in his blood, his wolf a heavy presence alongside his vampire. Powerful in a way it wasn’t, when his curse broke. He turned with a snarl as something moved in his peripheral vision.

A large gray wolf stood a few paces away.

His snarl cut off as he tilted his head, inhaling a familiar scent.

Magic. Tree. Fae. Woman. She-wolf? Bombarded his thoughts in a tumbling stream of consciousness, his wolf sounding both puzzled and delighted.

She chuffed at him.

Follow. 

She then turned and darted into the woods, his wolf hot at her heels.

They ran for miles, leaping over logs and foliage, traversing the forest with supernatural swiftness. And as his frantic energy started to burn out, his mind grew sharper. His wolf and vampire blurred at their edges, blending together. He started to feel a slight tug, and an instinct to move toward it.

Pack. A growl sounded in the back of his mind and Klaus pivoted, following the pull, the other wolf now running at his side.

Pack.

---

Author’s note: Fun fact: I am being lazy with my titles recently. Yesterday’s siren themed one was named “sing” in Greek while today’s is “Soul Home” in Welsh (according to Google translate anyway).

[starrynightshade]

Heavy

As requested by @jessforthethrone. I hope its worth the wait!

“Arya! What are you doing?” Gendry quickened his pace to catch up to her on the seemingly endless steps. “The maester told you not to lift anything!”

 “You misheard him,” she insisted, continuing upwards with the small trunk in her arms. “He told me not to lift anything heavy and this hardly weighs a thing.”

 It was true, in a sense. The trunk barely strained her arms as she held it in front of her, mindful of the little bump between her hips that was becoming more pronounced by the day.

 But Arya didn’t measure the weight of its contents by the physical strain they caused her. Every item inside was sure to be heavy on her heart, and she wanted to bear that weight alone.

 “I’ll take that.” Gendry lifted the trunk from her arms, ignoring her protests and hurrying up the rest of the stairs to the lord’s chamber. “What’s in here? It keeps rattling around,” he said, setting the little trunk on the bed.

 “Sansa sent it,” she said shortly. “And I could have carried it myself.”

 She perched on the edge of the bed, tracing her fingers over the direwolf painted on the dark wood.

 As if reading her mind, Gendry came to rest a hand on her shoulder. “Do you want me to leave?”

 She’d told herself that she wanted to open it alone, but now that the time had come she found her fingers hovering over the latch in indecision. “Stay,” she said, voice just barely above a whisper. “Open it with me.”

 He kicked his boots off and climbed onto the bed behind her, pulling her onto his lap so he could see over her shoulder as she flipped the lid of the trunk open.

 “I believe this is the noise you heard.” Arya reached in and pulled out a little rattle, shaking it for emphasis.

 “What’s this made of?” Gendry took the toy from her hand to inspect it.

 “Wood and dried seeds, if I remember correctly. I had a metal one but my mother had to replace it with this because I threw it at Robb and Sansa’s heads.”

 Gendry laughed at that. “So you’ve always been antagonistic?”

 “They antagonized me,” she insisted. “I was just defending myself.”

 The thought of Robb weighed on her heart. Avenging him had been sweet, but she couldn’t help thinking of all the things she would give up for him to be there with her again. No matter what happened, no matter how much time passed, a part of her would always ache for what had been stolen away: Robb’s laughter, her mother’s voice, the little niece or nephew that had never even had the chance to draw breath.

 Gendry chuckled at the image of his wife as an infant, tiny and full of anger with her siblings. “Well, hopefully the little one doesn’t have your aim.”

 “Worried she’ll get you in that thick skull of yours?”

 “Yes, I am,” he admitted tickling her behind the ear in retaliation for her teasing. “You think it’s a girl?”

 Arya shrugged, pulling a swath of deep blue fabric from the trunk. “I can’t explain why. I just have a feeling.”

 “I’d like that,” he said, taking the fabric from her hands and holding it out at arm’s length. Arya realized it was a dress, cut to accommodate her growing midsection.

 “I can’t believe I’m going to get even bigger,” she groaned. “I already can’t wear half my clothes. Are you still going to love me when I’m the size of a boulder?”

 “More than ever,” he promised. “What else did your sister send you?”

 There was another dress beneath the first one, this one a silvery grey that matched her eyes. Arya set it with the other one and reached back into the trunk. This time her fingers met with something smooth and curved. She pulled it out and unfurled it to see if it was what she had expected.

 “What is this?” Gendry reached out to examine the parchment, eyes roving over the web of lines and names.

 “The Stark family tree. I asked Sansa to send it to us.” She reached back in and pulled out another. “This must be the Tullys’.”

 “There you are,” Gendry said, pointing to the bottom of the scroll. Sure enough, there was her name, right between Sansa and Bran. She tried not to look at the other names around hers, especially not the dates beneath them which denoted the deaths of her parents and brothers.

 “There I am,” she confirmed before rolling the family tree back up. “I thought it might help us pick a name for the little one, but there’s plenty of time for that later.”

 There were more toys beneath the scrolls, though they were clearly meant for an older child. Arya traced her fingers over the smooth wooden figurines one by one. There was a direwolf of course, as well as an intricate stag, a dragon, a bird in flight, a fish, and a fearsome little bear. No lions, she noted but kept the observation to herself.

 “Were these yours as well?”

 Arya shook her head. “I’m sure most of my childhood toys are long gone. These must be new.”

 “They’re pretty,” he said, tracing the scales of the fish with the tip of his finger.

 Arya hummed in agreement.

 Gendry reached into the trunk, pulling the last item from the bottom and letting it unfurl in front of them. “What a nice little blanket! Sansa’s been busy, hasn’t she? Look at the embroidery,” he said, admiring the little direwolf in the corner.

 “Sansa didn’t make this for us,” Arya said, tears suddenly threatening to spill over as she took the soft linen in her hands.

 “Well I know it’s not for us,” Gendry laughed.

 “It’s not new, I mean. She made this blanket when we were children. She worked on the wolf every day for a fortnight. Our septa said it was her best work yet.” In her mind’s eye Arya could still see Sansa’s little face light up at the praise. She had been so proud to show their mother her work.

 “Why would she-”

 “It was for Rickon,” Arya whispered as the tears began to spill over.

 Little baby Rickon, who had lost everything and everyone and hardly known summertime at all. Rickon, who had deserved nothing but laughter and sunlight and little wooden swords. Rickon, who had never signed up for war, but died in the middle of a battlefield anyway.

 Gendry didn’t seem to know what to say as she clutched the blanket to her chest and let herself cry for her little brother, for her mother, for her father, for Robb. The weight of her grief seemed to crash down on her all at once, heavy and suffocating. She wondered how she had carried it so long without falling to her knees.

 “I’m so sorry, love. They should be here,” he murmured, wrapping his arms around her tightly.

 She leaned into him as the tears stained her dress, letting him help her bear the weight for a while.

[twoprides]

stay with me / yi cheng fam / rated g / 2299 words

It was summer. The day was sweltering, but a soft breeze had picked up over the lake. They'd traveled quite a bit to get out here, almost half a day, and had taken A-Qing along with them for once. Xiao Xingchen had repeatedly reminded her that water ghouls were dangerous, but she'd complained vocally and tearfully about being left behind anyway. It didn't bother Xue Yang none, too jaded with the Little Blind's antics, but he could've done without the brat's whining.

Like now.

Xue Yang tsked unkindly and shot up from where he'd been lying, hands behind his head on the third or fourth branch of a large oak overlooking the reservoir. The branch moaned under the sudden movement, and Xue Yang felt his perch dip a bit but not enough to give out. He dangled a leg to the side in response as his right folded up for him to lean his arm against.

"Little Blind, aren't you afraid I'm going to cut out your tongue with how much you scream?" he asked, glaring down at the child who'd been making a racket at the base of his resting spot and kicking the trunk as though that'd make him fall. His expression matched his tone of voice, a little threatening and a little sinister. The Little Blind had a loud and dirty mouth, but he knew she was secretly terrified of him. Children often were; they were perceptive, after all.

"You wouldn't dare!" she shot back, all put-on bravado despite the way she'd immediately quailed at the suggestion. Xue Yang tilted his head to the side, grinning even as she continued her diatribe. "Didn't you hear what I said? The daozhang is working hard to catch food for us, and you're just sitting here!"

"So?" Xue Yang rejoined, yawning exaggeratedly in the process and leaning back again. "He seems to be enjoying himself. Why should I help?"

"What do you mean, 'so?'" she fumed and stamped her feet while gesturing with her stick in frustration. She pointed in the direction where Xiao Xingchen was knee-deep in water, Shuanghua in hand. "He's been splashing around for so long and hasn't caught anything! I can hear him!"

"Then you help him."

A-Qing stamped her feet again, and just as it seemed she was about to give the trunk another good kick, Xue Yang leaned his head out to the side. "If you have the ability, come up and force me down. Otherwise, you're better off leaving me alone."

No threat this time, but the cold, unfeeling edge to his words had A-Qing stiffening and a shiver running down her spine. Without another word, only an indignant huff, she angrily tapped herself out of range. Xue Yang watched her for a moment, pigtails swinging energetically behind her as she plopped down in a clearing and settled for yanking grass out by the roots. Probably cursing him, he thought, and scoffed. He had no intention of doing what the Little Blind wanted, but he found his eyes wandering to the subject of discussion anyway.

The imagery was a little funny and a little strange. The daozhang had thoroughly soaked himself, but he seemed no more upset than he usually was. Every few minutes his sword darted out and caught water, droplets spraying across his clothes and weighing down his drenched sleeves further. None of this hindered his movements, however, even as his efforts continually came up empty. Xue Yang watched for no longer than five more minutes before hopping down from his post and landing with a thud on the uneven ground.

“Daozhang, what are you doing?" he called, stepping out from the oak's protective shade. The sun didn't bother him, not truly, but his skin prickled at the immediate spike in temperature.

They'd originally come to dispel the ghouls that'd been plaguing the fishermen of Yi City, this watering hole being a popular location. The monsters themselves had been easy enough to locate; it was the aftermath where they ran into some... complications. Xue Yang had wanted to exterminate them then and there and leave it at that, but Xiao Xingchen had insisted on carrying the corpses to the nearest village where they'd been quickly claimed. He'd curbed his annoyance then, surrounded by maudlin villagers clasping the daozhang's hands and thanking him, but while lounging, he'd thought that they hadn't hunted any walking corpses in a while. Maybe it was time again.

Pushing these thoughts aside for the moment, he stopped at the water's edge where the depths were so clear it was only the faintest reflection that told him where it started. "You’re not really doing this to catch food, are you?” he continued, raising an eyebrow. They hadn't brought any fishing equipment because that had never been their intention to begin with.

“Yes and no,” Xiao Xingchen answered, turning in the direction of Xue Yang's voice. "I feel my swordsmanship has been in decline."

"So, you're doing this to practice?" The laugh was implicit in his words even if the sound didn't manifest. Xiao Xingchen reciprocated with an upward flicker of his lips.

"Well, yes. A-Qing has also mentioned wanting to eat fish, so as they say—two birds with one stone." He turned back to his task, Xue Yang making no move to assist but instead crossing his arms where he stood. Jiangzai hung at his side, and he gave it a cursory glance.

"Does it matter? After all, your sword points out corpse energy on its own." He could catch a glimpse around Xiao Xingchen's form if he craned his neck, the shimmer of scales and the flash of Shuanghua just a fraction of a second too late. This spot's popularity for fishing had its merits, and the fish had returned faster than they'd expected upon the water ghouls' removal. Too bad they weren't well-equipped.

He thought for a moment. Before Xiao Xingchen could respond, he added, “If you wanted to practice your swordplay, why not practice with me?”

“Would you practice with me?” was the immediate response, and upon hearing it, Xue Yang instantly changed his mind.

“No. Never mind.”

Xiao Xingchen was nearly as astute blind as he was seeing. They’d crossed swords enough in the past that he’d recognize him with just a stroke or two. But Xiao Xingchen didn’t know the depths of his reasoning; there’d even been a hopeful lilt to this question.

“Are you sure?” he asked, dejected if Xue Yang had to guess though his voice was still light and pleasant. “I may be blind now, but I can assure you that you won’t have to go easy on me.”

“No.” Xue Yang took the rejection to sit down. Gravel crunched beneath him, sword set to the side as he laced his hands together over his raised knees. “You seem to be having fun with your carp,” he said lackadaisically. “I’ll leave you to it.”

They lapsed into silence for a good while then, interrupted only by the water and the birds and the sound of A-Qing shuffling around somewhere behind them. It was peaceful. The lake was situated in the trough of a valley, and what was normally a clamorous destination had been briefly rendered quiet and secluded by the threat of danger. By tomorrow morning, it would be teeming again.

“Did you do this with that friend of yours?” Xue Yang suddenly asked. His eyes followed the daozhang’s backside intently, but he worded his question with the same innocent air as always.

“Zichen?” Xiao Xingchen returned, so distracted by his task that he seemed to have forgotten he’d never mentioned a name. “No. I’ve never done this myself either until—“ He broke off at the same moment his sword struck gold, or rather a carp in shimmering blue-grey scales and burst of red through water. “Ah!”

A smile lit up his expression, and Xue Yang found himself smiling absently in turn. It disappeared by the time Xiao Xingchen meandered back up the shore, replaced by an expression of bored indifference. He knocked out the bamboo basket at his side for the fish at the end of Xiao Xingchen’s blade to flop inside. It was already dead and would probably start stinking shortly in the heat. They still had the trek home.

But task (somewhat) accomplished, Xiao Xingchen appeared in no rush to leave. He sat at a small distance from Xue Yang. Maybe bolstered by the catch, he seemed more willing to share than usual and just a little less burdened by it.

“My friend was a gentle soul,” he continued as he wrung out the excess water in his robes. “But because he had a rather stern mien and preferred dark colors, people came to know him as the distant snow and bitter frost. To me, however, it was quite different. His presence was like the sun.”

Xiao Xingchen had always had a disgustingly soft way of speaking, and somehow it’d gotten softer. Xue Yang refrained from scoffing though his expression twisted for a moment.

“He sounds precious to you,” he said instead, a flat observation met with an affected affirmation.

“He was.”

Xue Yang noted the usage of the past tense and said nothing. Silence returned, this one shorter than the last. It was maybe a few seconds before Xue Yang started, “I’ve never had anything precious to me.” A pause. He shrugged. “I could lose anything and move on.”

Material possessions could be replaced or remade; betrayal was a foreign concept because he’d never had real friends to understand the meaning. Betrayal in the sense of, say, an unexpected change in business arrangements was as close as he could grasp. Even then, it didn’t hold the same sort of feeling that it did for others; to him, it was just an inconvenience.

He didn’t mention, of course, that whatever pain he suffered, he’d always inflict ten, twenty, fifty times of it back in retaliation. It only seemed fair. The world had made an unfeeling monster of him. He’d do the same in return if he could.

Which was why he supposed demonic cultivation called to him.

“Is that not lonely?” Xiao Xingchen had stilled and turned his unseeing eyes in Xue Yang’s direction.

“No.” He meant it. He didn’t think he’d ever felt truly alone, but... Xue Yang’s gaze found Xiao Xingchen whose brow had furrowed slightly in something between troubled and concerned.

Rather than argue the point as it seemed he wanted, he merely wet his lips and said, “I see...”

The corner of Xue Yang’s mouth curved into a smirk. “Daozhang,” he said as he turned back to the surface of the water twinkling in the afternoon sun. “I’d be lonely without you, though.”

“Hm?” Xue Yang wasn’t sure if that was an utterance of surprise or one of not hearing him. Either way, Xiao Xingchen’s position shifted in the corner of his eye, lips parting to follow up on the syllable when Xue Yang stood abruptly.

”It’s about time to head back, or else the fish will start to rot.” He reached out for Xiao Xingchen’s wrist with his right hand, fingers wrapping around it and tugging before Xiao Xingchen responded and moved. Their hands closed around each other briefly as the other accepted the support before Xue Yang was stepping away again when the daozhang was on his feet. He picked up the basket without being asked as Xiao Xingchen stood dusting off his robes as best as he could.

Xue Yang saw his efforts and laughed at him. “What’s the use? You’re already dirty from head to toe.”

Xue Yang flicked a particularly muddy sleeve and added, “Whose turn is it to do the laundry?”

“Yours!” A loud shriek came from a short distance away. Both of them lifted their heads to the source as A-Qing angrily tapped her way back to them, stumbling here and there across the pebbled ground. “You’re so shameless to ask! Trying to trick the daozhang again! Hmph!”

As soon as she reached Xiao Xingchen’s side, she clung to his right arm and pushed him forward, the farther from Xue Yang the better it seemed. “Let’s go, Daozhang! I’ll help you the next time!”

“Oh? You never offer to help me,” Xue Yang mocked and picked his sword back up in the same breath. The basket swung in the crook of his other arm.

“That’s because you can see! And you’re always playing tricks on us!” A-Qing stuck out her tongue at him as she continued pushing and pulling.

Xiao Xingchen laughed in response, “Alright, alright. A-Qing, then, how do you want to eat the fish tonight?”

“Fried!” she immediately chirped, jumping high enough to hit Xiao Xingchen’s chin.

“And you?”

“If I say anything else, won’t the Little Blind throw a fit?”

A-Qing stuck out her tongue again. “I’m not ‘Little Blind’!”

In her eagerness to escape, she’d started pushing Xiao Xingchen even more insistently. Pretty soon, they were a good few paces away. Xue Yang let himself lag behind. Something about his own fabricated words bothered him, but he couldn’t figure out what. He didn’t get much time to think on it. Xiao Xingchen called for him in the next moment, and he paused to look back in the direction of the village from which the water ghouls had originated.

”I’m coming,” he replied after a beat, figuring they could always go night-hunting for walking corpses some other time.

[lillotte17]

I would really love to see Aili kick Andruil's ass. Thoroughly beat her in a fight. Preferably some kind of bare knuckle brawl.

Hey Nonnie! Let’s not discuss how long it’s been since I received this prompt!! 

Anyway, as much as I would LOVE to see Aili suckerpunch Andruil in the face, there are VERY few occasions where that would actually turn out well for her. SO, I wrote you a thing, but it is a very different sort of thing. But hopefully there is still enough of what you were looking for in here to leave you satisfied.

As always Uthvir belongs to @feynites 

The Uthvir of this world is very young.

Aili has been visiting this place for nearly three months, alternatingbetween here and her new home at the Hidden Estate with Vhenan and baby Mealla.She is still getting used to the idea of sharing them both with other people,with other lovers and children who have come to care for Uthvir, and other parentswho seem determined to love her daughter. It is not as easy as she might haveexpected, though. She is too used to losing things she cares for to relinquishthem into other hands without a good deal of reluctance.  And Vhenan doesnot do very well if she is gone for much longer than a few days together,either.

Still, there is work to be done. Here, and in the refugee camp, and adozen other worlds where tyrants treat their followers as little more thanfodder for their power and toys for their amusement. There is more than enoughguilt left in her heart for her role in the destruction of her own world,however small it may have been, that she will not allow herself to sit idly bywhen others might be suffering.

As this Uthvir does, now.

When Aili had first snuck into this version of Andruil’s summerpalace, she had thought this might be another world like Mana'Din’s, where herheart had never been created. But then she had overheard a few of the chattierlower ranking hunters discussing Falon'Din’s lingering rage over the loss ofhis coveted general, Glory, and she had known that if they were not here yet,they would be soon.

Further investigation had led her deep into the bowels of the palace.Down near the dungeon and the treasury and other more secure rooms for‘projects’ and ‘precious oddities’ might need to be stored safely away frommost prying eyes. To a special pen made of transparent barriers so that itsoccupant’s behavior might be observed. And a small golden figure chainedto the floor within it.

Aili almost hadn’t recognized them. A face from her dreams. Fromnightmares about Falon'Din’s hands and Ghilan'nain’s cold cruel eyes. Bladesand bindings and pain.

Not things that she is typically keen to remember.

The little things add up, though. The sound of their voice. The waythey hold their head when they nod at someone. The shape of their hands andears.

She has known Uthvir, in various incarnations of themselves at thispoint, for hundreds of years. And she has met Glory once or twice in passing onher journeys. But this is someone new. Someone in between the two halves of themselves.Someone scared and resigned, and troublingly docile.

It has taken a long time for an opportunity to speak with them to presentitself. It is late at night, and all of the project managers who usually keepan eye on them have gone to bed, though likely not beyond hearing. Andruil isout on a hunt, and the palace is only sparely populated.

She comes to them as a plump little meadowlark, fluttering about inthe crossbeams of the ceiling.

“Who is there?” they whisper up at her hesitantly,“My…Mistress Andruil said that no one was to use me while she was on herhunt. If she comes back to find this body has been damaged, she will be mostdispleased.”

Aili winces internally, both at their words and their tone. She hopsabout on her perch for a few more indecisive moments before flitting down tothe floor beside them. There is not much in their cell. A simple cot and aplace to use the restroom. A thin blanket and a self-cleaning wash basin. Thechains on their limbs allow enough room to walk around a little, but not somuch that they might touch the barriers that make up their prison.

“I am not going to hurt you,” she assures them softly,“I just want to talk.”

“Talk?” they blink at her curiously with vivid blue eyes,“What about?”

“About you, mostly,” Aili tells them honestly, “Andyour life here.”

“I…am not certain I ampermitted to speak to you,” they reply worriedly, “Are you one of MyLady’s hunters? …Or a spirit, perhaps? I know what I am, but Lady Ghilan'nainstill crafted this body well enough to see that you are not a bird.”

“I imagine that the talking gave it away as well,” sheanswers with a light snort. “I am…a friend. Who happens to look like abird, for now. My names is Aili.”

“I have never had a friend,” they tell her matter-of-factly,“Not even one that looked like a bird. It is not this body’spurpose.”

“And what is your purpose?” Aili wonders quietly.

“To serve Lady Andruil,” they say, as though it should beobvious, “To be pleasing to look upon and warm her bed when she has needof it. To ensure that she is…happy.”

“And are youhappy?” Aili presses.

“I…am a gift,” they tell her, sounding a bit uncomfortable,“A thing cannot be happy or unhappy, it is beyond the scope of what aconstruct is meant to be. As you can plainly see, I have no aura around me. Noemotions. The Lady Andruil has been…magnanimous. She only shares me with herhighest-ranking followers, and no one else is permitted to damage this form inany way. She protects me. It is more than I expected or deserve.”

Aili feels a lump welling up in her throat, and a strong desire tohold them in her arms. She expects that it would be received as more of anattempt to force physical intimacy on them than a comfort, though, and shewould not put them through that. When she speaks next, her voice is thick andwobbly.

“Do you have a name?”

“Lady Andruil…calls me, ‘Pet’,” they say doubtfully, “Ido not think she would like other people to call me that, however. Most call mewhat I am.”

“Well, I’m certainly not going to call you any of the names I’veheard them use around here,” Aili says sourly.

“You are free to call me what you like, of course,” theyreply with a respectful inclination of their head.

“I’d rather call you by something you like,” she tells them with a sigh.

“I…do not have leave to choose a name for myself,” they say, nervouslyshifting around a bit, “Proper names are for People.”

“You could pick one anyway,” Aili suggests, “It could be a secret. Youwouldn’t have to tell anyone what you picked.”

“Why should I have a name if no one would use it?” they ask.

“Because it would be yours,” she explains gently, “And because,as you said, People have proper names.”

“But I…am not a Person,” they remind her, “I am a body.I am an empty doll that happens to move ad speak.”

“And empty body is a corpse, Da'vhenan,” Aili tells themfirmly, “Your blood moves through your veins. Your lungs breathe. Yourmind thinks. You are alive. And youare a Person, real and whole.”

“Da'vhenan?” they say curiously, tilting their head inslight confusion.

“An endearment for a child,” she says, “Because you areyoung and sweet, and still learning what you are.”

“Lady Ghilan'nain told me what I am,” they reply uncertainly,“She said that-”

“She lied,” Aili cuts them off, “Just as Andruil lies.They tell you these things to control you, Little Heart. But you do not need tobelieve them.”

“Who should I believe, then?” they wonder, furrowing theirbrow.

“You should trust your own instincts,” Aili tells them,“And you can trust me too, although that might be a tall order rightnow.”  

“I doubt that Lady Ghilan'nain built me to have instincts,”they admit with a sigh.

“Instincts must be honed,” Aili says, hopping a little closerand rustling her feathers a bit, “A baby does not know how to walk when itis first born. It does not know its name or how to ask for what it wants fromlife. It learns these things with time, just as you will.”

“I am not a baby. At least, I do not think I am. I do not knowmuch about them, but my general understanding is that they are very small andgrow bigger with time and good foods to eat. And this body is not meant to beother than it is now,” they point out, “How can you be certain Icould do those things?”

“Because I have seen others like you achieve it,” she tellsthem simply. Telling them the whole of their history and just how much sheknows about them seems like it would be overwhelming. She does not want tofrighten them, or make them feel as though there is only one course their lifecould possibly take. All she’s interested in is gaining their trust, for themoment, and testing the waters about potentially taking them back to the HiddenEstate with her.

“You have met other constructs?” they ask, their eyebrowsrising in surprise, “And they became real People?”

“They were always real people,” Aili corrects them,“Just as you are.”

They make a face at her, confused and disbelieving.

“You look as though you would like to argue,” she notes, distinctlyamused.

“I would never dare to presume to correct you,” they hurryto assure her, nodding their head in a respectful bow, “And I… I would notbe displeased, if what you said was true. Maybe it is true for the otherconstructs you have met. But there is no way to be certain it will be true forme. Lady Ghilan'nain was very…thoroughin her inspection of this form and the range of its capabilities.”

“I would like to help you, if you’ll let me,” Aili tellsthem softly, finally flitting up to sit beside them on their thin little cot,“I would like to prove to you that she is wrong.”

“How would y-” they begin, before a quiet sound interruptsthem. They’re eyes widen, surprised and concerned.

“Is that humming?” Aili wonders, cocking her head slightlyand looking around for the source of the noise, “Why is your bedhumming?”

They do not answer herimmediately, but the fear in their expression is telling enough.

“It’s alright,” she promises, “You aren’t going to bein trouble with me. I know how to keep secrets. May I see it?”

They hesitate for a moment more, but then seem to decide either thatthey trust her, or that they have no other choice but to obey. They nod theirhead once and slide their hand beneath the thin mattress on their cot.Unearthing a folded piece of fraying fabric and holding it out to her.

Aili knows what it is before they even open it. She can feel afamiliar resonance prickling within her chest. Even so, she cannot help thebreath that escapes her when they reveal what looks to be a tiny fragment ofstarlight, glowing softly and pulsing in time with her heart.

“The shard of Glory,” she breathes.

“Yes,” they admit, still sounding a bit nervous, “Ikept it, even though I was not supposed to. It is sundered, so I did not thinkit would be… But I’ve never seen it act like this before…”

“It’s because I am here,” Aili tells them.

“Are you a spirit of Glory?” they wonder. Aili laughs.

“No, not in the least,” she twitters, “But I was givena shard like that…a long time ago. To keep me safe.”

She sees their hands tighten on their treasure ever so slightly.

“Never fear, Da'vhenan,” she reassures them, “I have nointention of stealing from you. One spark of Glory was more than enough.”

“I…I am not certain that explains why it might react to you,”they admit.

“It probably doesn’t,” Aili agrees, “But that is avery long story, and I doubt there is time for it tonight.”

“Does that mean that I will be permitted to speak with youagain?” they wonder.

“I certainly hope so,” Aili begins, “There is-”

But her thoughts are interrupted by a desperate tugging at some brightplace beneath her ribcage. Uthvir is having some sort of episode back inMana'Din’s territories. A bad one.

Vhenan?Vhenan, come back. Come back.

They are confused. Panicked. Nerves raw and jangling. And there is noone who can help them when they get like this. No one except her.

“I…I must go now,” she says apologetically.

“I shall patiently await your return,” the not-quite-Uthvirreplies with a respectful dip of their head.

“Or…you could come with me?” Aili suggests, “Right now.Tonight. If you come with me, you will be free to choose a name for others tocall you, and a new path for yourself. And I will personally ensure that no oneharms you.”

“But…what about my Lady Andruil?” they ask doubtfully,“She has bid me stay here until she returns. She would be most displeasedto find me gone. I…I do not wish to seem ungrateful for all she has done forme.”

“Let her rot,”Aili snaps, making them flinch. She softens again at their discomfort, thoughsome of Uthvir’s anxiety is beginning to bleed through into her own senses,setting her mind on edge. “I’m sorry, I didn’t mean to startle you. Butthe place I come from is…very far away from here. Another realm, onlyaccessible to those who know the right paths and doorways to seek. Andruilmight be upset, but you would be beyond the reach of her ire. You would neverhave to obey her wishes again.”

“Your world sounds like a wonderous place indeed,” they tellher quietly, without nearly as much skepticism as she had anticipated,“But serving Lady Andruil…is what I am for. If she wishes for me to stay,how can I leave?”

“By choosing to do something you want, instead of what you thinkwould please her,” Aili supplies.

“I…am not certain I can do that,” they confess, browfurrowing in mild confusion.

Aili decides to relent, for now. She supposes that all of this islikely a bit overwhelming to take in all at once, and unfortunately, she doesnot have the time to ease them into the idea. Vhenan needs her.

“I will come back,” she promises, “I will come back as quicklyas I am able. Take your time to consider things. You can come with me then, ifyou like. I only want you to have a chance at happiness.”

“Happiness…” they echo faintly, “Then…I shall wait. Andconsider, as you have bid me do. I…hope that I may speak with you againsoon.”

“So do I,” she replies, sending a little curl of affectiontowards them before flitting back up into the rafters and out of sight.

~

But Aili does not come back as soon asshe had hoped. Not in a few days, or even a few weeks. Vhenan’s upset islingering, and they do not want her far from their sight. They attempt topersuade her that they can handle it if she has to leave again, but she canfeel the worry prickling beneath their words. A thousand nameless fears; and afew that are less nebulous. They do not want her to die again, to abandon them,to be someplace beyond where they can protect her if she needs it. They do notwant to wake to find another world without her.

Mealla is also doing her level best to figure out how to stand up onher own. To form words that have meaning, and take her first steps. Aili wouldrather eat her own liver than to risk missing that.

There are other agents who travel through the Eluvian at the HiddenEstate to explore other worlds, of course. She asks them to check in on theyoung Uthvir’s world when they can, but not to get too close. Her relationshipwith this Uthvir is tenuous at best, and Andruil’s Palace is not a place thatis easily infiltrated by someone who has not been inside it before. She thinksthat Lavellan would go if she asked her, but Thenvunin and her Nanae wouldnever forgive her if something happened and their daughter fell back into theHuntress’ clutches.

She could scarcely forgive herself.

By the time everything is sorted and settled at home, more than amonth has passed. Aili feels herself burn with guilt as she finally makes herway back through the maze of paths that connect Mana’Din’s world to so manyothers and emerges once more in Andruil’s territory. Wondering to herself ifforcing them to come with her somehow would have been a lesser crime in thelong run, rather than leaving them to whatever miseries they much have enduredin her absence.

The huntress is here this time, which makes infiltration moredifficult, but not impossible. The palace seems as though it is readying foryet another hunt, likely one that will not take them too far out into thesurrounding woods, as only a few hunters seem to be making the necessaryarrangements. There are hunts nearly every day, of course. For food to fill thelarders, and to keep beasts from growing bold enough to simply wander onto thepalace grounds. Andruil does not usually participate in these ‘lesser’ ventures,as she considers them far beneath the level of her skills, but she is rarelyhappy unless she has killed something, and there is not always somethingfearsome enough to suit her whims available for slaughter.

The hunt Andruil is to attend is set for very early the next day, andso most of the palace turns in early. Most of the lower ranking hunters seeingthis as a rare chance to impress their lady, and none of them wanting to losetheir chance at glory over something as stupid as sleep deprivation. Theservants are still milling about, of course. Cleaning things and preparing thebreakfast so that their will be something on hand for whatever odd hour theirLady decides to head out into the wilderness.

They do not take much notice of a little songbird fluttering throughthe rafters. It is not uncommon for some sort of wild animal to wander into thepalace every now and again. They usually end up as sport for whatever boredhunter happens to spy them first. But Aili knows these halls well enough tokeep largely out of sight, drawing her emotions tightly within herself toattract the least amount of attention possible.

When she finally makes it down to Uthvir’s cell, they are curled intothemselves on their cot, their thin blanket pulled about them tightly. They aremaking a soft warbling noise, muffled by their sheets, and it takes her a fewmoments to realize that they are crying. Uthvir is crying in the dark, allalone.

For half a minute she is frozen with indecision. Half of her heart isbegging her to fly down into they’re little cage and gather them into her armsuntil they feel safe again, and the other half is filled with a white hot fury.A righteous anger that wants her to storm back up through this wretched placeand bloody every single person who might conceivably have harmed them.

She is much stronger than she used to be, however, she doubts that shecould take out Andruil and all of her ranking hunters on her own. Not withoutsome sort of better plan than, 'hit them until they stop moving’, at any rate.

Uthvir and their pain come first, as always. The others can wait.

“Are you alright?” A stupid question that she already knowsthe answer to, but the first words the can think of that aren’t tinged with herfury.

They tense reflexively, pulling the covers even more firmly aroundthemselves as some kind of makeshift shield, momentarily shocked from theirtears. Their eyes dart around the room for a few seconds, searching.

“…Aili?” they wonder in a hoarse whisper, “Is thatyou?”

She flutters down from theceiling and lands a little ways from their cot. She shifts her weight around abit, hopping to and fro. Wanting to be closer to them, to offer physicalcomfort, but not wanting to startle them either.

“Yes,” she replies, her voice rife with regret, “And Iam so sorry I did not come back for you sooner. I did not think I would bedelayed for so long. Are you hurt? Do you need healing?”  

They shake their head at her,still visibly distraught. Their breathing seems to have calmed a little, butthere are still tears rolling down their cheeks. They do not move from therelative safety of their blankets.

“Would…would it be alright if I checked you over myself?”she asks hesitantly, “Nothing invasive, I promise. Just a little healingmagic, that’s all. And you can ask me to stop whenever you want.”

They consider for a moment before giving her a single slow nod ofagreement.

“I’ll need hands for this, so I’m going to change my shape,”Aili tells them, not wanting to alarm them with any sudden spells or movements.She shifts back into an elf once they give her another nod in the affirmative.They seem a little bit in awe afterwards.

“I think…if I could be a bird, or some other animal, I wouldhardly ever stay in my elf shape,” they confess quietly, “I wish Icould have wings.”

“Perhaps someday you will,” she smiles at them, slowlymoving closer to their bed and sitting down beside it, “I was not alwaysvery good at shifting my form. It took many years of practice. And there arestill some shapes that I cannot hold onto very easily.”

“I did not mean to imply that I prefer you as a bird, of course,” they hurry to assure her, “Youare very… Very nice. In this shape. As well as the other one.”

She laughs at that, covering her mouth to muffle the sound so as notto draw any unwanted attention from their handlers sleeping in the roomsnearby.

“I am pleased you approve,” she grins at them. They look abit confused by her response, but they manage a weak smile in return.

Slowly, Aili moves one hand over them, not touching, but close enoughto make them flinch, regardless. She offers a soft apology before summoning hermagic. It is a healing spell, but she reaches out for the faint trace ofGlory within them too, checking for wounds and soothing them as she goes.

They let out a deep breathy sigh. She smiles at them and brushes someof the hair back from their face. Reaching out with a wispy curl of affectionand reassurance.

“Will you tell me what happened since I went away,Da'vhenan?” she wonders.

“My lady…has grown weary of me,” they admit hesitantly, notmeeting her gaze, “It is only natural. I was going to be…disposed of. Ibegged to be allowed to serve her in some other capacity, if I could no longerplease her physically. At first…she refused, but I was ardent. I know I couldbe useful if she let me. She was gracious. She gave me mercy. She said… Shesaid that if I could find a spirit of my own, if I could make myself enough ofa Real person to pass as one of her followers, then I could stay here and serveher.”

Their eyes finally turn towards her, wide and terrified.

“B-but I…I have not been able to capture a spirit,” theycontinue, voice breaking as tears well in their eyes again, “I did my bestto lay traps. I left the shard of Glory there to tempt them… But they do notcome. They can see how I am wrong and empty, and they stay away. Lady Andruilis losing patience, and I… I do not wantto die! Falon'Din keeps the dead, and I cannot go back to him. Not ever. Ican’t. I can’t!”

They break down into sobs again, and Aili gathers them in her armswithout thinking. Stroking their hair and hushing them, swaying back and forthslightly. Rocking them, as she does with Mealla when she has suffered fromnightmare or injury. At first, they are stiff against her, tense, but notstruggling, passive in the face of unexpected comfort. But as time passes, theyslump into her embrace. They do not hold her back, but perhaps they do not knowhow to. She hums to them, and their crying fades into occasional whimpers andthen down to a sniffle here and there.

When they seem to have calmed down again, she lets them go. Their eyesare swollen, and their face is flushed, and they seem very confused. She doesher best to be gentle. She does not want them to think this is some sort ofweird come-on.  

“You don’t have to be afraid of Andruil or Falon'Din everagain,” she promises, “We can leave this place together, and you canhave whatever kind of future you want. I’ll help you get anything you need, youjust name it.”

They squirm a little. Nervous and uncertain.

“Would I… Would you be my new lady, then?” they wonder,“Am I to serve you, instead?”

“You would have no master or mistress, if you do not wantone,” Aili asserts, “Technically, I do serve an evanuris, but she is…different. She does not force peopleto bend their knees. You would not have to take her vallaslin unless you wishedto.”  

“But I still do not have a spirit,” they point out,“The people in your world…would they not see how I am empty?”

“Just because your emotions do not create a typical aura does notmean you do not have them,” she reminds them, “You are not empty, orwrong, or broken. You are just…built differently than most elves. There areother people like you. Other races who do not project what they feel into theair. You would hardly be an oddity. If you wanted to live somewhere beyondMana'Din’s territories, we might have to find a solution that involved asking aspirit to bond with you, but for now you do not have to change anything aboutyourself. You are enough all on your own.”

They stare at her for a long minute. Considering. This might be one ofthe first decisions they have ever made in their life, and she can almost seethe wheels turning in their mind. Wanting things, and being afraid to wantthem, and being terrified to leave what they know and understand in the hope offinding something better. And feeling just how small that hope might actuallybe.

A single tear slides down their cheek.

“I do not want to die.”

Aili reaches over and gently wipes the dampness away with the pad ofher thumb.

“Then I will keep you from harm,” she promises. She glancesaround their cell for a moment, frowning. “Breaking your cage willbe…noisy. You cannot change your shape yet, and while I am confident in myskills, fighting off an entire palace full of hunters would be…difficult. We’llneed some sort of distraction to ensure almost no one comes to investigate yourdisappearance. At least until we can get outside.”

“What kind of distraction?” they wonder.

“Big,” Aili replies, a wide devious grin spreading on herface, “The sort that would definitelykeep Andruil out of our way.”

~

The woods are quiet in the morning.

The paths are a little different than the ones she used to take withher Uthvir, back when they were both young, and the world had seemedmore…permanent. As if things could only ever be as they were, forever.

In some ways, that world had been less painful. She did not carry theguilt she bears now, and her heart had been…whole. But her new life has morepurpose. More direction and meaning. She still has Uthvir, and they have her,and they both have their daughter. She would not trade that for anything.

Aili follows Andruil and her hunters out beyond the boundaries of thepalace. Past the wards that would set alarms off if something large andunexpected might stray too close. They are not so far out that they could notsend for help if they found they needed it, but there is enough distance totake advantage of, so long as she is careful.

She shifts between shapes as she needs to. Flitting from branch tobranch as a lark. Softly padding along through the shadows as a fox. She holdsher emotions tight within herself. Her aura will still be noticeable if shegets too close, or draws attention to herself, but there is little worry of that.Even with the slightly altered pathways, she knows these woods. She knows thetrees and the landmarks and the scent of the air. She lived here for hundredsof years. With Andruil’s finest hunter to teach her every trail and river andstone. Every place where runes might be placed, and traps might be laid.

The party is small, and a fewof them break off completely to check on snares set out days ago. Only three orfour remain with their lady, and even they give her space as they all move offthe roads and into the trees. Too many people close together will frighten offmost prey animals, regardless of how quiet they manage to be. And the greathuntress hardly needs assistance with something as simple as a hart or a commonboar.

If the true object was food, the wiser course would be to go to one oftheir outposts in the forest and wait for the prey to come to them. But Andruilhas never been one for patience. Not when there is blood to be spilt.

And for once, Aili agrees.

She begins with the ones hunting farthest away from their mistress.She takes them cleanly. One by one. With only the pop of crackling bone andsinew and a muffled gasp against her palm. It is as quick and painless as shecan make it, although whether they deserve such mercy is another question. ButAndruil would notice the scent of blood in the air, or the sizzle of magic.

The last one is the most difficult. They seem to have sensed thatsomething else is in the woods with them. Something a bit more threatening thana typical meadowlark or a fox. It makes them watchful. Wary.  

They see her before they die. It is not enough to save them, but it isenough to make them utter a startled cry that beckons their lady to comesearching for the source of all the ruckus. If she is surprised or upset at thediscovery of her follower’s corpse, she hides it well.

“Well, well, perhaps today’s hunt will not be as dull as Ianticipated,” she hums thoughtfully, rolling the body of her fallen hunterover with the toe of her boot. Casually inspecting them for wounds. Trying toparse out how they had been slain.  

Aili had managed to fly up into the trees before she arrived at thescene, but now that Andruil is aware of the potential danger, it will not takeher long to sense her presence. Muted emotions hardly deter her from killingother animals, after all. She only has a few moments to act; surprise iscrucial. If Andruil realizes just exactly what she is up against and has timeto brace herself for it, Aili’s chance for success will drop exponentially.

As quick and quiet as she can, she begins to twist her shape. It is aform she does not use very often. She prefers to be small and silent, and thisis…rather the opposite. Her teeth grow long and sharp as swords, and her skinripples with a million tiny scales. Cream and gold and violet.

The huntress’ eyes catch a flash of them, and she turns to meet herfoe head on, but Aili is already lunging out of the trees. Only half wayshifted into her new shape, but already three times her normal size, and growinglarger by the second. She feels the bite of a dagger sink deep into her gut.She growls in pain and fury and triumph.

Andruil might have landed a hit, but Aili’s teeth are buried deep inher throat.

The woman struggles. Hits her. Burns her with magic. Stabs her a fewmore times for good measure. And does her best to find the presence of mind to changeher own form to match the one of her assailant.

But it is not enough. Aili is small for a dragon, but she is more thanlarge enough to crush an elf beneath her weight. Once she has shiftedcompletely, Andruil is tiny in her jaws. She might be singed and bleeding, butall she has to do is hold on until the huntress stops moving. All she has to dois endure Andruil’s wrath, as Uthvir had endured, until she has a victory.

When Andruil makes a real effort to change her shape though, there isno more time for waiting. Aili clamps her jaws together as hard as she can,twists her neck slightly, and pulls. Bloodgushes down her throat, enough to make her want to wretch and gag, but she doesnot yield until she is certain. Until her nemesis has gone still and silent.    

There are not too many physical wounds that will kill an elf with thesort of power that most of the Evanuris wield, but Aili is willing to bet thatAndruil is unlikely to recover from that one.

Never the less, she burns the body afterwards. Just to be certain.

~

When she gets back to the palace that evening, everything is inuproar. As planned.

She is moving slowly, and she is tired, but her wounds are largely healed,and between the chaos and the secret passages Uthvir had shown her years ago,she makes her way through the estate virtually unseen. It had not taken themlong to find the bodies of their Lady and her entourage once they had beenmissed. Aili had not bothered to hide them. The fact that there had been no markson the hunters was baffling enough, but there had been signs that their ladyhad fought a dragon. And whether thatmeans some rogue Keeper had emerged from hiding, or one of the other Evanurishad turned on her, or some new elf had discovered how to take the beast’s shape…None or those options are good.

They scramble for leadership. Andruil had always kept them at eachother’s throats. There is little love lost between them, and almost no trust tospeak of at all. Aili would be concerned about one of them trying to maim Uthviror herself out of hand if they were not so busy trying to kill each otherinstead.

Uthvir’s dungeon is deserted by the she gets there. They are sittingramrod straight on their cot, listening anxiously to the sounds of screams andshouting from above. They visibly relax once they see her though.

“What did you do?” they wonder, eyes wide with awe.

“Oh, you know,” Aili pants, grinning at them with an aura ofdeep satisfaction, “Got in a bit of a fight with one or two of them. Brokesome bones. Singed some skin. Nothing fancy.”

“And that was all it took for allof them to turn on each otherlike that?” they reply, clearly dubious.

“Cover your ears,” Aili tells them, “I’m going to smashthe barriers holding you. I would prefer to undo the spells quietly undernormal circumstances, but we have no time. It will be loud.”

They do as she asks, and she gathers what is left of her strength andfocuses it into her spirit blade. It is as powerful as her will, and her willto set them free is indomitable, even now. A single stroke, and the barriershatters around them. The sound of it clanging through the chamber like a maddened oxen on a rampage. Aili staggers to her knees and they try to come to her. Tohelp her get up. But they are still chained to the floor, and their manacles donot reach far enough.

It takes her a minute to regain her composure, and she can see theconcern written on their face.

“It’s alright, Da'vhenan,” she assures them, as she walksover and begins to undo the spellwork on their shackles. She cannot break thosewith force for fear of injuring them in the process, “I’m just a littleworn out, that’s all. I’ll get you out of here, and we’ll go home. Where we canboth get some proper rest on something infinitely more comfortable than thatcot.”

“Will I…be taking my rest with you?” they ask hesitantly, “Inyour bed?”

“You can if you like,” she smiles at them, “Although, all that will be taken there is rest. Weboth need sleep after all of this. And I imagine that finding you your ownquarters will not take too much time. You may come and see me as often as youlike, of course.”

The chains snap from their wrists, and Aili takes their limbs in hand,rubbing them gently to stimulate blood flow.  

“Am I not…” they begin, sounding confused, “Do you notfind me pleasing?”

“You are lovely,” she promises, reaching up to touch theircheek, “And more dear to me than you can fully understand right now. Butwe can't… Anything physical between us could not happen for many years, if ithappened at all. You would need to know more about the world. About consent,and your own desires.”

“But…if you do not want me in your bed…I do not know what else Iam for,” they admit, sounding a bit scared now, “When Lady Andruil nolonger found my company pleasurable, she was ready to have me killed. What willbecome of me if I have no…no purpose?”

“You will find a new one, with time,” Aili assures them, takingthem by the hand and leading them back towards the exit, “I can help you,if you like.”

They are quiet for a few minutes, letting her tug them along throughhallways and hidden tunnels until they are out in the open air, under themoonlight.

It is only then that they seem to realize that Aili is covered in quitea lot of blood. Splashed all down her front and staining one leg of her pants. Smearedacross her neck and jaw. They shiver slightly.

“What if my Lady comes for me?” they whisper to her beneath theshadows of the trees.

“She won’t,” Aili promises.

“But how can you be certain?” they press.

Aili stops for a moment to look back at them, the air around hercrackling with lingering fury and righteous triumph.

“BecauseAndruil is dead,” she tells them defiantly, “I killed her myself. Tocover our escape, and as justice for all she has done to you. And to others.And for all she might have done. The world is better for it, I have no doubt.And now she can never touch you again.”

[sherlockholmesandhisinability]

Sherlock Holmes and His Inability to Sing.

“Oi, Sherlock! Put the bloody heater on- it’s freezing in ‘ere.” Whined Greg as he slammed the ice laden 221B door. Gossamer shards slid from the wood and landed on the pavement with a shattering crescendo, sounding like the twitching chirps of a wind-chime long forgotten and surrendered to the December robins.

“Brr, God’s sake- how cold is it in here? Lads? Lads?” He marched up the stairs and pressed his ear up against the door, before falling silent and listening. There was nothing to be heard.

“Right! I’m coming in!”

He stepped back, oblivious of the perilous drop of stairs behind him, and ran forward, throwing his body weight against the door and swinging it open violently with the power of his shoulder. He stumbled into the room and scrambled to his feet,

“Police! Police! John? Sherlock?!”

Instantly, sprang up a blanket woven around a slim frame and pulled over its head. It unfurled with such force that it couldn’t handle its momentum and so plummeted forward inelegantly.

“Argh, J-John? John?!”

“Oh, for Christ’s sake. Sherlock, it’s me- Greg. You texted! Said it was an emergency. Ring a bell? God, I was panicking! Here, get up,”

He scooped the bundle from the floor warmly and held it by the shoulders. “You alright, then?”

“Yes. Fine.” Ached Sherlock as he wriggled free.

“Come on, you soft git- take that off and tell me what’s happening.“ He reached to unsheathe the man in the blanket, but he swerved and writhed his way to the desk. He sat down wearily and began to explain,

“John’s doing Christmas this year, but a ‘proper family Christmas’, so he calls it. With a bird of somesort-”

“A turkey?”

“Yes, that’s the one. And it’ll be just us; John, myself and Rosie. With presents.”

“Presents, eh? Oh lord no, not presents!” The Detective Inspector chuckled.

“Yes, presents, Greg. Do keep up. Anyway- it’ll be the whole affair and I don’t really know what to do about it.”

“Hang on. You called me over here in the middle of rush hour, because you can’t handle Christmas?! Bloody Hell, Sherlock! You’re a Dad now!”

“I’m not a Dad!” He screamed, “That’s just the issue! I am not a Dad! I am not Rosie’s father…” He paused solemnly, “But I am the reason she does not have a mother.”

Greg’s eyes softened. He sighed sorrowfully and pressed his lower lip into his other.

“Oh, Sherlock. I- I didn’t know- I didn’t know you felt like that. Heck, I didn’t even know you felt at all!” He placed his hand on the plush throw. “You can’t change what happened, but you can change what will happen. What’s the biggest issue you’ve got with the big C?”

“Rosie’s having a little concert with the children from the nursery later on today.”

“Yes, go on.“

“And the parents are supposed to sing with their children.”

“Oh, that’s nice. What’s it called then?”

Sherlock’s nose flared and he breathed in and out slowly, before spitting, 

“Mummy and Daddy Sing-a-Long Christmas Bonanza.”

“But… you’re two Daddies.”

“Yes, wait no! No and yes. Yes, that’s true and the name of the event is utterly stupid in every sense- and no, that is not the issue. The issue is… I can’t sing.”

“Now, come on! I’m sure you’re not that bad! Gimme a quick rendition.”

“No.”

“Go on. Just a quickie. Oh shit, I meant a quick one. Shit! A quick song!”

“No.”

“Oh, I see,” Said Greg as he shook his head, “I see the problem. You’re Sherlock Holmes. The Sherlock Holmes! It’s not that you can’t sing- you just won’t.”

“Can’t, won’t, whatever. What should I do?”

“I think you should just suck it up and do it.”

“No,” whimpered the blanket. It stood and shuffled back to the sofa, where it’s sulking sessions usually took place. “No, that’s not what I wanted you to say!”

“I don’t know what to tell ya, Sherl. No, I don’t that. Sher…ly? Ack- no. Right, I’m off. Things to be done. Actual problems to be solved! I’m an important man you know!”

“If you are so important, then how does the station run without you?”

“It doesn’t! Oh forget this- I’m goin’. See you round. I’ll probably see you online actually! ‘Sherlock Holmes Sings ‘Jingle Bells’. What a video that’d be!”

“Ngh.”

“You’re gonna go viral! London loves you!”

And just like that, he was gone. The only trace was a trail of ice and water, mixed with the dirt from boots never cleaned.

“I won’t sing!”

Two shots rang out, as two very neat bullet holes were made in the wall. The sniper coughed feebly as the dull plaster snowed into the tussled mahogany mop that his face was buried in.

“Sherlock?!”

The door slammed again, this time with the brute force used to open it. The walls reverberated from the impact that struck the room. The same force plundered its way up the stairs, but slowly. Carefully. There was another force, a minute one, in front of it.

“Rosie, honey, go and play in my bedroom. Here, take my phone. There you go. Daddy wants to talk to Dad.”

“Okay Daddy, I love you, Daddy.”

“I know honey, I love you too. Now go on, go and play.” I said warmly as I advanced. Sherlock’s ears pricked up and he turned to face me. He sprung around with his dark hair thickly shot with grey.

“John! How was shopping?”

I gave him a hard stare. The coldest, most stern look on my face spoke only of rage and disapproval. I was just thankful I took that bloody Santa hat off outside because Heaven help Sherlock if he laughed now.

“The wall.” I grunted through my teeth. “I asked you not to shoot at the wall.”

“I didn’t think you were going to know. You were out, and you’re not the most observant of people.” He giggled.

I scowled more, carving the lines deeper into my worn face. “I think I’d notice bullet holes, Sherlock.”

“Can you see them now?”

I looked at the wallpaper. Black and white motif. It was useless trying to see anything, a high-vis jacket could get lost in that pattern.

“I- I… I- no. I don’t see it. But, that doesn’t mean you can go tearing up our flat just because you’re pissed about something!”

“Daddy,” toddled in Rosie, “Can I put my show dress on? My Chi- Crisna- Chra-”

“Christmas. Rosamund, listen, Christmas.”

“Sherlock, when you’re correcting our daughter, please be more-”

“Our daughter? John, no. This, it’s too much!”

“Dad?”

“Sherlock?

“No, no, no! I’m not her father, John, you are!”

“Sherlock.”

“I can’t do it!”

I tossed my head back ever so slightly, so I could swallow the bulge in my throat. I croaked, 

“Can’t do what, Sherlock?”

“This! Any of it!” He shrunk and crouched on his knees, eyes level with Rosie’s, and spoke firmly, “I will not be singing with you this evening, Rosamund. Do you understand?”

“Yes, Dad.”

“And… Daddy might ask you to stop calling me Dad, okay Rosamund?”

I drew in my shaking breath and clenched my sweating palms. I felt my pulse raise and pound through my whole body. The heartbeat heated my burning face. I was so consumed with fury and despair, that the edges of my vision blackened and blurred, and I struggled to stay on my feet. 

“And why, Sherlock… why would I do that?”

“Because I am a terrible parent, an unfit guardian and a danger to those in this flat. I am not meant to be like you! Warm and affectionate and kind and-”

“Do you still want to marry me?”

“I, John-”

“On October 31st, just under two months ago, you got down on one knee- in this very spot- and tried to propose to me. I said ‘yes’ and it was amongst the most spectacular nights of my life. But if you don’t want to marry me, then, then, then leave!”

“John, calm down-”

“Do you want to marry me or not?!”

He looked into my bloodshot eyes and at the oceans flooding my face. I stood defensively, with the look of a wild animal stitched into my skin. 

He then looked down at the dainty girl staring up at him sorrowfully.

“I’m going out.” He stated as he wrapped the mauve scarf around his neck and grabbed his coat.

“Sherlock, Sherlock if I don’t see you at that ‘Sing-a-Long’-”

“Ugh!”

“If I do not see you at that event tonight, then do not even think of showing your face around here ever again! Do you understand me?!”

He looked at me expressionlessly and turned to face the door. He stopped. He thought. He continued and left me with my crying daughter, equally as broken as I was.

The hours passed and I found myself at the nursery with my face wizened by the bitter air drying my tears. It was dark, but Rosie’s face was bright with excitement. She was bounding up and down, and the light from her hands shifted as she moved.

“Careful honey, don’t burn yourself on that Christingle.”

“Okay Daddy.”

It was dark and melancholy. Though there was a warmth in my hand, there was none within me. I looked at my watch. Quarter to six. We started at six. I waved at Mums and Dads galore as I waded through the crowds of harmonious parents. I looked at so many faces, but I was only looking for one. 

I couldn’t forgive him, but I needed him to be here with me.

Six o’clock came and we all gathered at the front of the tiny hall. Grandparents and assorted relatives perched eagerly on the edge of their metal fold-away seats, with camcorders and flip-phones at the ready. 

On came the music from the CD player, ‘Silent night, holy night…’

“Wait! Stop! John! John!”

The hall was filled with the sharp echoes of wooden soles on a polished floor. From between the rows of chairs, ran a lanky suit, with a black case under his arm and a wide grin on his cadaverous face.

“Sherlock!”

“Daddy!”

“One moment! Terribly sorry folks, I will be just one moment!”

From his case, he produced an ornate violin and bow, much to the amazement of the octogenarians in the audience reciting the famous Detective’s name in awe.

He bounded up to the front and floated down gracefully to Rosie’s level and embraced her. He didn’t say anything, but simply crossed his legs, plucked her from the floor and placed her on the right side of his lap, with the instrument on his left shoulder. He tapped the bow on the floor jovially and waved at the elderly lady at the helm of the CD player,

“From the top, if you please!”

As the music began to play, Rosie giggled and shoved the flaming orange in her hands into Sherlock’s face.

“Da- Sherlock? Do you like my Chr- Cwi- Chee-”

“Christingle, my dear Watson, the word is Chris-tin-gle”

He then synchronised his notes with that of the music and occasionally played different ones, deepening the richness of the multiple tones of what otherwise would have been a very simple melody. 

He whispered lowly, “Rosie, dear, call me Dad.”

I wasn’t done with him just yet, but the walk home was going to be a lot less lonely with my fiance at my side.

[thecreativeangel]

Falling (Peter Parker x Reader) Hogwarts AU

Peter Parker x Fem!Reader 

Prequel to the Improper series

*Please don’t plagiarize my work, thank you :3*

Summary: You nearly died of anticipation when your letter came, and while picking out robes at Hogsmeade, you seem to run into the same boy, over and over again. And by some twisted fate, he just happened to run into your compartment on the Hogwarts Express.

Warnings: Cussing. Mostly fluff before that, I think.

Words: 3,160

                                                                                        Next Chapter

When you moved to London during the summer it was terrifying to leave your friends and past life behind for a whole new world, but you managed... And then the owl knocked on your window. At first you dismissed it as a small bird or common bat, but it kept tapping on the window until you looked over. Cautiously opening the window, you ran back to your bed, scared that the wild creature would attack and scratch. The barn owl ruffled its feathers and opened its wings once again, gliding over to perch on your bedpost. You were wary of the owl but noticed something held in its beak. The owl opened its mouth and dropped an old looking envelope on the bed before making another brief flight to land on your shoulder, sharp claws scratching your skin. You panicked, staying perfectly still. There’s an owl on my shoulder. You thought in disbelief. An owl. On my shoulder. What the fresh hell am I supposed to do? The owl nudged your neck with its head and looked pointedly at the envelope on your bed.

“You want me to-you want me to open it?” You stuttered, not daring to move your shoulder, scared the barn owl would claw you. “Is there a letter inside? Are you magic?”

The creature nudged you again and pointed its beak at the paper on the blanket. All you remember is picking up the envelope with shaky hands and carefully opening the seal to read the letter inside, then letting out a soft ‘oh’ of surprise and fainting. The impatient owl rose in the air as you fell unconscious on your bed, letting out an annoyed hoot. It landed on the pillow beside your face and nipped your ear. You jolt out of bed, trying to stand up but almost falling over your own feet. The barn owl watched you carefully, its big brown eyes following your sluggish movements. You shook your head and leaned against the wall, pondering what kind of dream you just had. That’s insane. You assured yourself, resting your forehead on the wall. It was just a dream. A very odd dream, but a dream nonetheless. If owls could roll their eyes the one in your room definitely would. While you didn’t look back at the bed, the creature gave an ear-splitting screech, causing you to whip around with wide eyes to face it, sliding down against the wall.

“Holy shit…” You muttered, running a hand through your hair. “You-you’re kidding, right? Hogwarts?” The owl bowed its head in a nod.

“I’m-I’m going to motherfucking Hogwarts?” You asked breathlessly, a wide grin spreading on your face. Wobbling to the edge of the bed, the owl hooted again, as if asking how many times it would have to confirm that yes, you were going to Hogwarts. It picked up the letter in its beak and flew next to you, handing you the letter to read again.

“Dear Miss (Your Last Name),” You read out loud to yourself or maybe the owl, but who cares? You’re going to Hogwarts! “We are pleased to inform you that you have been accepted to Hogwarts School of Witchcraft and Wizardry! And-and there’s a signature and everything!” You suddenly shrieked with laughter, causing the owl beside you to jump back.

“Oh, sorry! I’m sorry-I’m just so excited!” You apologized to the creature, scrambling to stand up. “Jesus… I’m talking to an owl. But who cares, am I right? I’m going to Hogwarts, motherfuckers!” You hopped up and down, clapping our hands and twirling in a weird happy dance, not even caring about proper manners and how much you just cussed. Somehow the owl looked disgruntled but amused at your antics at the same time. Throwing open the door you were almost down the hall when you decided to sprint back to pop your head into your bedroom, clutching the door frame until your fingers hurt.

“And by the way,” You said chirped, a little out of breath. “I know I’m still talking to an owl-but thank you. So much!” Letting slip another excited squeak, you run through the hall, thump down the stairs and to the kitchen where your parents sat, eager to tell them the news.

“I’m either about to pee myself of faint.” You say to yourself when Hagrid opens the gateway to Diagon Alley. He chuckles at the comment and leads you down the path. You marveled at everything, from the way the bricks moved by themselves when he touched them with his umbrella to the swift rush of voices and colors that engulfed you when you first stepped into Diagon Alley. It was so bright and beautiful; Shops of every kind lined the old cobblestone street, sales witches yelling advertisement for the latest magical product… Hundreds of children and their families crowded the street, adding to the overall buzz of enthusiasm in your heart. Hagrid took huge steps that were hard to keep up with as you went from store to store, buying everything on the list that was on the letter.

“Hagrid,” You started nervously, thinking deeper into the logic of how the wizarding world works. “How did I get the money to buy all these things? I’m not stealing-am I?”

Hagrid shook his bearded head. “Nah, yer parents had some money taken out o’ yer vault. Honestly, did ya think they’d leave ya penniless?”

The last store you visited was Madam Malkin’s robe shop, where the chubby old lady rushed around the shop, finding fabrics and measuring tape to make the perfect set of robes, tailored to your size. The bell rings, meaning a new customer had entered. Madam Malkin stepped away from you to attend to the client. You stood there next to the mirror, turning around to see how the robe fit. It looked amazing, to say the least. You would have to thank Madam Malkin later for the wonderful tailorship. With how enamored you were with the robe, you didn’t noticed the other figure in the mirror or that your new German Shepherd puppy had disappeared from your side and captured the interest of a boy who was waiting for his robe. You knew full well that technically, dogs weren’t on the list of animals allowed in Hogwarts, but maybe you could sneak the puppy in without anyone knowing. The boy sat in a plush chair with his Siamese kitten in his lap when your puppy ran up and started to run around his ankles, jumping up on its hind legs and licking his hand.

The kitten meowed and jumped down, making you turn around to see your puppy at the boys legs. Instead of fighting like cats and dogs should, both your pets began to play like old friends, running and rolling around. You cooed at how adorable it was, looking up and catching the boy’s eye. He looked away the moment you saw him staring and so did you. You didn’t notice the light pink tinge to his cheeks but still smiled while observing your pets playing, partly because of the animals and partly because of the boy. He was…cute, to say the least, with fluffy, light brown hair and wide dark brown eyes and thin lips that were currently stretched in a shy smile he was trying to hide. Hagrid lumbered into the room shortly after and it was time for you to go. You scooped your puppy into your arms and gave the boy one last grin, too shy to say goodbye. I hope he’s a first year. You think suddenly. Letting out a shaky laugh, you take back the thought. Nope, nope, no way. I am not distracting myself from my studies or mom and dad would kill me. So for the time being, you left the warm feeling alone.

One huge mistake you made was never preparing yourself for the actual trip to Hogwarts. Upon actually making it to Kings Cross you realized how great it would be if mom or dad were here. The reason your parents weren't there was the reason they were never at school events or field trips when you attended Muggle school; work. It was saddening at times, especially when you almost cried at Thanksgiving lunch at your school because they had not come yet again, but over time you got over it. Instead of whining about it you took the time to admire Kings Cross and how it had been renovated recently. Between the bits of old brick wall and the new metal beam and glass roof, it looked like the cross of an old medieval tale and something out of Star Trek. People bustled around to catch a train or just lounged on benches, waiting for their ride. A giant clock on one of the many arches showed ten forty-two.

“I don’t see Platform 9 ¾.” You said hurriedly, glancing at the clock every minute as the time for the train to depart grew closer. The Muggle escort your parents hired to help you on the train narrowed his eyes and just stared at you, determining if this was a trick or not. His attitude had been very nasty so far, refusing to talk to you or treat you like anything but a babbling child, which you were definitely not.

You huffed loudly at his lack of helpfulness and pushed the baggage trolley forward with determination. “Actually, you can just go now,” You say sweetly to the escort while gritting your teeth in the effort of pushing the heavy trolley. “It’s okay, really. I can find the train on my own.”

He gives you one last look of disapproval and shrugs his shoulders, turning around to trudge through the crowd of people back to the car. Wow, okay. You think, staring at where the escort had been moments ago. Not even a goodbye, then. Fine, fine. I didn’t like you anyways. Blowing a loud raspberry in the direction he disappeared, you sigh in defeat and decide not to go around asking Muggles questions that they wouldn’t know the answer to. Instead, you wander to the brick barriers between Platforms 9 and 10. You place a hand on one of the bricks, delicately running your fingers over the rough surface. You half expect it to push back as a secret button and make a passageway appear somewhere, but the barrier doesn’t move at all. Checking the clock again, it now reads ten fifty-one. Your breathing is uneven and you put a hand on your chest to steady it, not wanting to have an episode in front of fifty different people.

About to give up and cry, you grip the handle of your trolley and blink rapidly, pushing back tears. Out of nowhere a body rams into you, causing you to yelp, lose your footing and fall backwards, landing on your bum. The stranger falls forward in slow motion and you squeeze your eyes shut, waiting for the impact. When it never comes, you open your eyes to see a young boy about your age on his hands and knees, leaning over you so much that you could feel his ragged breath on your cheek. You take a moment to calm down, lips still parted in shock and sigh, happy that no one got seriously hurt. The boy slowly turned beet red, darting up and muttering thousands of apologies. Before you could look at him better he had pulled you and and sprinted away, looking over his shoulder at you so often he almost ran into a wall. You sniggered at his flustered state, dusting yourself off, suddenly feeling a lot better than before. Just as you turned around to your trolley a pretty middle aged lady, no older than thirty almost bumped into you.

“Oh my god, I’m so sorry!” She exclaimed, checking to see if you were hurt. “But have you seen my nephew? He was so excited to go to Hogwarts he must have run o-” She slapped a hand over her mouth and laughed nervously.

“Whoops, wasn’t supposed to say that,” She blurted. “Just ignore what I just said, it isn’t important. Anyway-my nephew has brown hair, brown eyes, kind of scrawny if you ask me.” The woman leaned in and whispered the last part, the amused look in her eyes signalling she was just teasing.

“He was-well I-” You stuttered, pointing behind you. The woman got your drift and nodded.

“Thank you, thank you! That Peter will just speed off, y’know?” She was about to rush past you when you tapped her on the shoulder.

“I was wondering if, uh,” You said quietly, wringing your hands. God, I hope she’s a witch. You think. Otherwise she’ll think I’m crazy too. “I was wondering if you could show me Platform 9 ¾?”

The woman clapped her hands rapidly, seemingly happy at your question. “Are you going to Hogwarts? First year? Oh that’s awesome, you’ll love it!” She beamed, placing a hand on your shoulder. “The way is right here, actually.” She pointed to the barrier you were standing near.

“All you have to do is walk right through the wall and you’re there! Best get going, though. It’s almost eleven!” You thanked her profusely, stuttering out almost inaudible words. She rushed off in the direction of the boy, calling his name. You turn to face the barrier and once again place your hand on the rough brick, this time on the side facing you instead of the side facing the train. When your hand disappeared into the wall you pulled it away as if burned. So it’s true. You silently thank the lady one more time. Oh thank god! Wheeling the trolley around you approach the barrier cautiously, taking slow steps until the wall is right in front of your face. Sucking in any fear, you push into the wall with closed eyes, opening them when you hear the whistle of a train. Platform 9 ¾ was there in front of you, the Hogwarts Express gleaming with a new paint job, letting out puffs of smoke now and then. The people here were very different than the ones outside. Little kids flew low to the ground on toy broomsticks while being chased their parents. People young and old wore robes of every color, some with giant hats and owls their outstretched arms. You could stare at the scene for hours but a portly man from one of the compartments called out that the train would be leaving in less than two minutes. Crap, crap, crap. Your mind chanted. You hurried to one of the helpers, giving them the luggage and taking one last look at the station and it’s waving parents before stepping into the train.

Most of the kids had already found compartments and the walkway was almost empty, save a few pet cats darting from room to room. You walked towards the back, peeking in each compartment to see if there were any empty. Or at least not packed full of children. You were not the kind of person to be very talkative and preferred to be left alone most of the time. Towards the last few rooms the amount of passengers dwindled until to your relief, there was an empty compartment. Plopping down right next to the window and observing everything that was going on outside was what you expected to do the entire trip. You carefully took your puppy, which you recently named Bear, out of the pocket of your black windbreaker and placed the wiggling ball of fluff on your lap, stroking the fur on her back. Your peace was interrupted when a kitten ran into the compartment and leaped onto the seat opposite of you. You picked Bear up from your lap and walked to the kitten.

“Hey buddy,” You said, ushering the kitten to you. “Where’s your owner, huh? I hope they know you’re gone…” The kitten walked off the seat into your arms, nuzzling its nose in your t-shirt. You noticed it looked like the same kitten the boy from Madam Malkin’s shop had.

“No way…” You trailed off, sitting back down next to Bear. “Are you the same little fur ball from earlier?”

As a response, thundering footsteps came from the walkway outside and a boy skidded to a halt at the doorway of your compartment. He spotted the kitten in your arms and his eyes lit up, looking relieved. It was as you predicted, the same brunette boy you had seen at the robe shop, his wavy hair now wild and unruly, huffing from running up and down the train to find his pet.

“Tessa!” He rushed into the compartment and the kitten leaped into his grasp, purring against his chest. “There you are! Thank god I found you.”

“Hi.” You said lamely, feeling very awkward. His looked up to see you wiggling your fingers in a small wave.

“Um-uhh...hello.” He stammers, his face growing pink again. “Can I-can I sit here? All the other compartments have a lot of people and I don’t r-really like loads of people ‘cuz it makes me-”

“Nervous?” You guess, patting the spot next to you. “Yeah, me too.”

He smiles like a hyperactive kid on sugar and sits next to you, allowing Tessa to wander out of his arms.

“Did you by chance lose your aunt at the train station?” You ask, wondering if today could get any weirder.

“May? Aunt May?” He says, looking very uncomfortable all of a sudden. “Why? Did she say something embarrassing? Whatever it is, it’s not-”

“Whoa, calm down there.” You laugh, holding your finger to his lips to silence him. He goes cross eyed trying to look down at your finger but you pull it away, realizing how strange the action was. Okay, you just made yourself look stupid in front of him. You scolded yourself. Good job. “She just described you so I could tell her which way you went.”

He relaxed in his seat, sighing in relief. “She also called you scrawny.” You added smugly, keeping in your laughter. The boy groaned and rolled his eyes.

“Of course she did. It’s not true-I’m-I’m bloody strong as an ox.” He defended and you let out a laugh.

“I’m sorry for running into you.” He said gently. “It you I ran into, wasn’t it?”

“Yeah, it was. That’s okay though.” You assured him. “Today has been pretty crazy. I almost missed the train.”

“Ha! I can do you one better,” The boy joked, running a hand through his wild hair. “I got on the train as it was leaving!”

“Okay, you win.” You assured, snickering slightly and nudging his shoulder with yours. “I know we already sort of met each other a couple times but... I’m (Name).”

The permanent smile on his face widened and the pink on his face grew a bit more noticeable. “I’m Peter. Peter Parker.”

[lightandsaltdesigns]

The perfect gift

 “Look at the birds of the air: they neither sow nor reap nor gather into barns, and yet your heavenly Father feeds them. Are you not of more value than they? And which of you by being anxious can add a single hour to his span of life? And why are you anxious about clothing? Consider the lilies of the field, how they grow: they neither toil nor spin, yet I tell you, even Solomon in all his glory was not arrayed like one of these. But if God so clothes the grass of the field, which today is alive and tomorrow is thrown into the oven, will he not much more clothe you, O you of little faith?” ‭‭Matthew‬ ‭6:26-30‬

Without thinking much about it I walked outside in my slippers, trudged through the yard dragging the hose, and began giving my vegetable garden a quick drink before the sun set. As I stood methodically waving the water back and forth I looked out over the field of grass that extended past the garden by another 120 feet, guarded by a towering silver maple tree that has seen at least double my life in summers. I hold my breath as I listen to the sound of frogs, buzzing insects, and birds in the distance. The sun is low in the sky and golden hour is gently receding into the tree line.  I’m brought back to attention by the sound of a car passing by. I finish my watering but pause one more time to survey the yard before I walk back to the house.

The following evening, my husband is sawing flooring in the garage while my children are running back and forth from the garage to the kitchen, torn between playing with a dog we are watching and playing with scrap pieces of wood. One minute they are perching on the right side of their father, peering over whatever he’s working on and asking endless questions, and the next they are tearing through the kitchen beckoning the dog to chase them, bursting into laughter when she does. “She’s a race car, mommy!”.

I leave the laundry I should be folding in the living room to check on the progress of the floor, and I pause in our breezeway, peering through the back door window that we recently replaced to increase the ease of view of the yard.

A doe stands about 100 feet away staring at me, ears perked to the clamor of noises coming from our home. She was curious, but content to continue her search for new, fresh leaves to munch.

I stood for a while peering out the window at her, observing her slow chewing and gentle walking as the frenzy of activity continued around me. A beautiful, peaceful moment, and not an uncommon one in our suburban natural oasis.

I think to myself, what a gift.

I could stop there. Stop at the thankfulness of the gift, but that would be selling short just how special the gift is.

The gift is special because of the giver.

Have you ever gotten a gift from someone and just been so blown away by how well they know you? A gift so specifically tailored to what you would want that you’re warmed even more by the giver’s knowledge and understanding of who you are?

I have, but nothing compares to the gifts my Heavenly Father has given me, because he knows me better than I know myself. He knit me together in my mothers womb and he calls me precious, honored and loved. He sees the depths of my sin that is now covered in Christ’s righteousness and he calls me his beloved daughter.

When I was a little girl, I frequently felt a little lost in the world. Lonely and longing, caged and restless. Misunderstood and unaware of how to process my emotions.

When I would get to go to my grandparents little cabin, I would stand on the porch and peer out onto the open field of grass that was met with the shore of a quaint country lake and I felt free, I felt the presence of God, and my worries were replaced with wonder.

I didn’t even have an inkling that someday I would wake up every day to a landscape mirroring some characteristics of that one.

The longing my heart didn’t have words for was met with the gift my Father had always wanted to give me.

I approached the neon yellow house almost 7 years ago and walked through the knotty pine breezeway and through the back door, and as soon as I laid eyes on that towering maple and continued my gaze past it to the rolling grass that melted into the wood line and spring fed creek, I knew this was a gift. A gift wrapped in awful yellow wood wrapping paper, and I needed to receive it and let God make it all beautiful in his time.

My husband and I have talked often about how not everyone would see this home and yard as a gift. To many it would just be a massive project, too small and disfuncional, the yard too wet all spring and too time consuming to maintain, the road in the front too busy and close. But to us, it’s the perfect gift. It’s perfect because the giver knows us perfectly. When we are frustrated that we can’t fix everything we want as fast as we want, or disheartened that we can’t have a new kitchen, or annoyed that we don’t have a basement, we remind ourselves that everything we have is a gift.

We invite people over to enjoy our yard and laugh with us at the turkeys clumsily flying down from the tree. We let children battle with lightsabers across the field and get their feet muddy. We watch with joy as our children catch toads and display them to us proudly, as they learn to work hard picking up sticks and raking leaves, as they awkwardly try to learn how to kick a soccer ball and swing a bat. We have a constant supply of marshmallows ready for roasting, and bug spray to share. We let the small spaces in our home be filled with laughter and prayer and the sharing of burdens. We count baby ducklings and baby turkeys, we laugh at fighting squirrels and hyper, leaping fawns, we pray the bunnies don’t get eaten by hawks, and as I’m typing this a fox just ran across the road and into our back yard as my kids race to the breezeway window to see where he went. We pause and we weep (ok, maybe just me) and we wonder at how God could have saved this little place for us, for this season of our life.

I just wanted to write it all down to remember, and maybe to remind you that

Life is a gift and the giver is good.

And may we never lose our wonder.

Soli Deo Gloria,

Sara

[topfygad]

New Zealand’s Wild Cities: A Kiwi Kinda Adventure

Short drives from Wellington, Dunedin and Christchurch lead visitors to rare penguins, sea lions play-fighting on beaches, and fur seals having a lovers’ tiff.

  Wait long enough in the discreet sheds built along the Otago Peninsula and you’ll see yellow-eyed penguins waddle out of the sea after a hard day’s swim. They’re among the rarest in the world, but Otago gives visitors ample time to observe their adorable antics. Photo By: Xavier Fores-Joana Roncero/Alamy/Indiapicture

Dunedin

Come hail or harsh sun, the Otago Farmers Market pops up outside Dunedin Railway Station every Saturday morning. Its stained glass windows perk up when the morning light hits its early-20th-century facade. In the lawns, out come pumpkins the size of doll houses, Pinot Noirs from the Central Otago Peninsula, and buskers with guitars and voices like honey. A Frenchman hands me two crêpes: one with poached pear bundled in chocolate sauce and custard, another packed with Jerusalem artichokes, pork, cheese and egg. People’s purses balloon with jars of fragrant honey made from manuka bushes. A man with crinkly eyes doles out bacon butties, pepper pâté, and a smile each. And pies, oh there are pies everywhere. I try the traditional hangi (Maori feast) pie with beef, pumpkin, kumara (sweet) potato, and carrot. I feel I’ll never be able to eat another meal again. Until I move to the next truck.

It has been a long time since a group of Scottish settlers came to this part of Maori land in the mid-19th century and named it Dunedin (‘Dùn Èideann’ is the Scottish Gaelic name for Edinburgh). Today, the city is a peppy university town, with ringing pubs, stunningly preserved Victorian and Edwardian buildings, a castle, and even its own kilt shop.

But I am here for Otago Peninsula, a mere 30-minute ride yet a world away, where the van waiting outside the railway station will take me.

Beyond the window of this little shed is a world that was never tamed. Cliffs so high that they’d tingle toes; the sea so blue that it can see into your soul. Dusk makes the ancient bays and beaches of the Otago Peninsula seem a bit broody. The wind howls and roars, but the green and gold tussock by the harbour bears it stoically.

I peer a few feet ahead, at the sea. Anytime now.

A yellow-eyed penguin emerges; it toddles slowly with hunched shoulders, as if walking back from school after flunking a maths test. I can sympathise: it has dived into the sea 200-300 times today, swimming 65-230 feet each time in search of seafood. It comes close enough to the shed for me to see its rad yellow eyebands—which gives it its name. Its irises too are the colour of van Gogh’s “Sunflowers.”

The royal albatross (top)—one of the world’s largest birds—and cheeky Hooker’s sea lions (bottom) are some of the creatures that call the Otago Peninsula home (bottom inset). The peninsula is a mere 30-minute drive from Dunedin (top inset). Photo Courtesy: Dunedinnz (Albatross); Photos By: Michael Rucker/ImageBroker/Getty Images (sea lions); Daniel Harwardt/iStock/Getty Images (coast)

Knee-high in size, this penguin species is believed to be the world’s rarest; about 3,000-odd ones are found only here, in New Zealand, on the eastern and southern coasts of South Island. I’m incredibly lucky to see them like this in the wild, where they roam free and are at home.

In seconds, more and more cuddly creatures rise from the sea, some strutting like calendar models, oblivious to me and my guide silently whooping in the hide. Mark, the guide, has seen this hundreds of times; he taps my arm when one penguin throws back its arms à la Shah Rukh Khan, and emits a long shrill cry. “Their Maori name is hoiho, which means ‘noise shouter’,” Mark whispers as the penguin sings with rockstarish head-shaking. Hoihos aren’t very sociable; I watch one accidentally headbutt a sheep on its way up the cliff behind us, waddling on quickly without meeting its eye. At the top, one curious lone penguin stands like Christ the Redeemer. For 15 whole minutes.

All life in the 33-kilometre Otago Peninsula revolves around preserving its creatures—the yellow-eyed and little blue species of penguins, New Zealand fur seal, New Zealand sea lion, and royal albatross. Large stretches are unpaved and settlements are small; it’s heartening to see some private properties have walking tracks for the easy passage of tourists. Trench-like hides built at various beaches and corners along the peninsula ensure that some wildlife (penguins in particular) rarely comes in direct contact with visitors. Operators like Mark’s company, Elm Wildlife Tours, are visibly passionate about ecotourism.

At the northernmost tip of Otago Peninsula is Taiaroa Head. The main attraction on this windswept piece of land jutting from the coastline is The Royal Albatross Centre, the only breeding colony on a mainland for the world’s largest seabird. Their wingspans are more than 10 feet (that’s twice the size of my mother). Rob, a guide at the centre, leads me to a viewing room with a glass panel. A young chick is huddled outside on a patch of grass, looking like it were made of cotton balls. Adult albatrosses spend almost 80 per cent of their time at sea, returning only to feed their young. They divvy up parenting, like the progressive spouses they are. Rob speaks of these gentle giants as if their lives are no less gripping than his favourite soap opera. “Royal albatrosses, or toroa, have a three-year mating period, so if you get bored of your partner, it’s going to be a while before you’ll settle down again,” he says. His favourite albatross here, he adds, was the one called ‘Grandma’ because she raised her last chick at 62. “She divorced one of her partners, but got back again. Then there’s one here in his 30s, who is bereaved and hasn’t put himself out there again,” rues Rob. As the perfect ending of his story, an adult toroa comes soaring in a circle, and swoops in towards its chick. I see its grace. These “ocean wanderers” fly 1,90,000 kilometres a year; I think of how, in less than eight months, a strong gust of wind will launch the baby albatross on its maiden flight.

Exploring the Otago Peninsula largely on foot, beside empty beaches, inlets, and dreamy purple clusters of hebe blossoms, feels more intimate than a safari. It also drives home an important lesson: that it’s me who’s on the turf of these creatures. Making myself invisible—huddling in hides, standing behind glass panels—is key to understanding them.

So I feel oddly exposed when Mark walks down Papanui beach in long strides, towards two, five, nay, nine sea lions roaring and gamboling in the sand. “They are endemic, the Hooker’s sea lions; confident around humans. Maintain safe distance, and you’re fine,” he says, coaxing me to stand about eight feet away from one that weighs at least 350 kilograms. He takes photos while I look over my shoulder at the way the creature bullies and playfights smaller lions around him, throwing sand over them, barking and chasing them. Almost all sea lions at Otago, I learn, are related to ‘Mum,’ a female who had a pup here in 1993—the first to be born on the mainland in over 100 years (https://ift.tt/1bDQ61i; tours from NZD122/Rs5,760 adults, children NZD112/Rs5,300).

All you need to observe New Zealand fur seals along Tongue Point, a 20-minute drive from Wellington (inset), is curiosity and a healthy 15-foot distance. Photos By: Skyimages/iStock/Getty Images (seal); Fotoshoot/Alamy/indiapicture (boy)

From the airplane, you can see the Hollywood-style sign perched on a hillside. ‘Wellington’ it reads, the last two letters askew, floating skyward. On ground, the world’s windiest city pops with Victorian homes along its harbour.

That evening, my walk from Wellington’s waterfront to Cuba Street passes through revolving doors of the world: Japanese, Vietnamese, Moroccan, and Indonesian food aromas come drifting, transporting me to secret kitchens. Coffeemakers hiss with head-clearing Cuban coffee at Fidel’s café; a puppeteer pulls strings to make her puppet paint a portrait of a little girl standing close by, sending her into squeals of disbelief. At Cuba Street’s night market, a persistent steampunk jewellery artist, a bookshop, and a paella stall tug at my heart and purse strings.

They say you can walk from one end of the Kiwi capital to the other in 30 minutes, and I do. The morning after, I book a tour with Seal Coast Safaris to look beyond the windy city. In just 20 minutes, Kent, my guide for the three-hour tour, drives the 4WD to a wind turbine on Brooklyn Hill, through private farmlands with ostrich and red deer. Soon, I see old mountains lick the waters of the South Coast. Wellington seems far away, and this place its rustic sibling—no golden sand beaches or sunbathers, no people at all.

Just the sea pummelling grey outcrops and hills that look a giant’s hairy back. When Kent stops along one of the beaches, at Tongue Point, I get out and—with a shock—realise I am surrounded by at least 15 New Zealand fur seals. Some look out at the robin’s-egg blue water. Others yawn as I tiptoe towards them, but begin hissing and spitting when I get too close. Two fur seals seem to be having a lovers’ tiff, smacking and flapping their flippers at each other. Another one scratches its neck and looks bored with their drama (www.sealcoast.com; tours from adults NZD125/Rs5,900, children 14 and under NZD62.5/Rs2,950).

A 1.5-hour drive southeast of Christchurch takes visitors to Akaroa, whose waters host the Hector’s dolphins—the world’s rarest and smallest. Don’t miss Akaroa’s other attraction: a whimsical sculpture garden with mosaic figures, the Giant’s House (inset). Photo Courtesy: Graeme Murray (dolphin), Photo by: Dennis Macdonald/ AgeFotostock/ Dinodia Photo Library (mosaic statues)

Roses bloom outside colonial homes in Rue Balguerie, and onion soup bubbles in old-timey cafés in nearby Rues. Iridescent paua shells mark some graves in the Old French Cemetery up the hill. I haven’t woken up in France, but it’s easy to forget that in the little town of Akaroa, a 1.5-hour drive away from Christchurch, South Island’s largest city.

Hewn from a volcano, Akaroa tucks charm in the little things—a walk to its lighthouse that watches over Caribbean-blue waters of the Banks Peninsula; stories of how French settlers arrived at its shores in 1840 only to find that the British had beaten them to it; or at the Giant’s House, a sculpture garden with Gaudi-like mosaics and Dali-esque whimsy.

Akaroa is catnip for another, significant reason—it is the home of the rare Hector’s dolphins, among the world’s smallest at five feet and endemic to New Zealand. When a Black Cat Cruise ship takes me and other visitors into the bay, cathedral-like coves and mystical orange-brown volcanic formations surround us. Seals scamper as our boat inches closer to the rockface. And then, as suddenly as they rose, the grey-black bodies of three Hector’s dolphins sink into the waters ahead of us. The boat stops, and a little girl beside me giggles every time the dolphins hiss and pop up like a jack-in-the-box of the sea. Our skipper points out their black dorsal fins—rounded, instead of pointed. Some cruises offer a chance to swim with Hector’s dolphins too (blackcat.co.nz; cruise NZD85/Rs4,015, children 5-15 NZD35/Rs1,650).

Flights between Delhi or Mumbai and New Zealand’s capital, Wellington—or Christchurch in South Island—require at least one layover in a gateway cities such as Sydney or Singapore. Dunedin is connected to Christchurch by regular domestic flights and two buses a day (6 hr; www.intercity.co.nz). Self-drive is the most popular way to travel within New Zealand. Indian travellers can apply for a New Zealand visa online (www.immigration.govt.nz). A month-long visa costs NZD246/Rs11,435 and is processed within 28 working days.

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[biofunmy]

Following the Lead of the Diving Girl

The Diving Girl was born in Portland, Ore., in 1920. In my pursuit of her ghost, I find myself eyeballing three contentious Canada geese on a floating swim dock in the Willamette River.

On this overcast June afternoon, cottony clouds of varying thickness hang overhead, the sun and splashes of blue visible in the gaps between puffs. The promise of summer is palpable, though the season itself hasn’t yet arrived. The water is fine, nearly 70 degrees — warmer, in fact, than the air. Perched on the dock, goggles at the ready, my friend Fran and I wait for a big enough hole in the clouds to allow for the ritual of a sun-warmed leap into the water.

From this dock, just under the Hawthorne Bridge, you can observe the downtown skyline, prettily framed across the river. You can see the Marquam Bridge to the south, cars and bikes and people racing across. And, of course, you have this calm, silvery span of water, disturbed only by the occasional tourist boat or stand-up paddleboarder — or Canada goose, squinting suspiciously at you before it settles back down to snooze. This is the beauty of a swimmable urban waterway.

The Willamette River, which winds north nearly 190 miles from Eugene to Portland and into the Columbia River, has long been a hub of human activity. In recent decades, frequent sewage overflows made the water unswimmable, but the completion of a $1.4 billion public works project in 2010 changed all that. Every July since then, the nonprofit Human Access Project hosts “The Big Float” — a giant people-powered flotilla and beach party to encourage Portlanders to reclaim the river for swimming and other aquatic recreation.

I’ve spent the last couple of years writing a book about swimming. This river, it turns out, is also a landmark in swimming history — it’s the place where the modern American swimsuit had its big breakthrough, in the early 20th century. The Diving Girl surfaces again and again in the history of swimming, as an international cultural symbol and muse; she even makes a cameo in my own family’s history.

But, really, I’m getting ahead of myself. Rule No. 1 of summertime immersion? Get in the water. With that in mind, I take a running leap off the dock.

The rowers come calling

Let’s go back a little over a century ago, to a little operation called the Portland Knitting Company. Owned by a pair of brothers from Missouri named John and Roy Zehntbauer and their partner, a Danish immigrant named Carl Jantzen, the small retail shop had a few hand-knitting machines and did most of its trade in woolen items like sweaters and socks. The first day’s receipt, in 1910, was 35 cents for a pair of gloves.

The men were members of the city’s rowing club; one day in 1913, a fellow club member placed a special order for a woolen suit that he could wear while sculling during cool mornings on the Willamette River. Jantzen used a sweater-cuff machine to make the one-piece garment, so it would stretch. A lighter weight version eventually became the prototype for the first bathing suits offered in the company catalog.

At the time, men’s bathing suits were required to cover the entire chest; the groin area also had to be covered with a piece of fabric — O.K., it was a skirt — for modesty. Topless men were banned from places now synonymous with sunbathing, like Atlantic City. The reason? Well, the city proclaimed, it didn’t want “gorillas on our beaches.”

Jantzen figured out how to make a superior wool unitard with a rib-stitch that retained its shape and allowed a snugger fit than all the other swimsuits out there. (Imagine swimming while dragging eight pounds of wet wool — that was the existing competition.) The founders wore the new suits in the river; knit in green and yellow stripes, the suits were called “froggers” and soon everybody wanted one. In 1918, the company rebranded itself as Jantzen Knitting Mills. A black-and-white photo from the era shows men, women and children picnicking along the Willamette, all wearing Jantzen swimsuits.

Along came the Diving Girl logo. In her early years, she appeared on the cover of the catalog, wearing long socks and a red and white wool cap. (Remember the company’s origins as a woolens mill.) In 1922, Jantzen printed up 10,000 Red Diving Girl stickers and sent them to retailers to put in their shop windows as advertisements.

It worked pretty well, but not in the way they intended: People started putting them on their cars. The Jantzen girl windshield decals became a massive sensation. Within five years, 5 million Diving Girls could be seen on cars all over the United States. (They were eventually banned in Massachusetts in the interest of public safety.)

She was even made into a hood ornament, so that by the late 1920s and 30s, the Diving Girl was crisscrossing the country, spreading the gospel of swimming to every corner of America. There were free swimming seminars, as part of a national “Learn to Swim Week” campaign.

In 1923, Jantzen’s slogan came to epitomize a cultural revolution: “The suit that changed bathing to swimming.”

A suit for the jet age

In her worldwide travels, the Diving Girl even made it to Hong Kong. My parents met in 1968, in a swimming pool there. For one hot moment, they were the cliché incarnate. He was the lifeguard; she, the big-eyed beauty with long dark hair and a mean sidestroke. In photos of them on the beach early in their courtship, she is wearing Jantzen.

My mother says that almost all the imported swimwear in Hong Kong back then was made by Jantzen. She remembers wistfully that one of her three sisters, my aunt Rosena, had “the cutest floral one-piece by Jantzen.” In my own childhood, I remember the little Diving Girl as a fixture on the bathing suits worn by the ladies at the pool, and the glamour that came with it.

Everyone from Duke Kahanamoku to Elvis and Princess Diana wore Jantzen. In its heyday, Jantzen had more than a dozen design studios around the world. In the late 1950s, it produced the International Set, a collection of 17 suits from those studios. They were jet age suits for the new jet age and the planes that were taking people to exotic places. The Hong Kong studio produced the Shek-O, with a black-and-white woodcut print and a bell-shaped skirt inspired by a Chinese lantern. There were even designs by Hubert de Givenchy, created in his Paris salon especially for the company.

There were monuments. A series of 20-foot-tall, fiberglass-and-steel Diving Girl statues were mounted in strategic locations around the country; some even traveled internationally. In 1965, one was put up above a swimwear shop in Daytona Beach, Fla., called Stamie’s Smart Beach Wear. It became an icon.

One could say the same for the swimsuit, in cities and pools and beaches everywhere. Though ostensibly a functional garment, the bathing suit has long been so much more, particularly as it pertains to female bodies. Jantzen proved it could be both functional and fashionable, and helped turn swimming into an appealing — and acceptable — sport for women.

Eventually, other companies took up the mantle. Speedo is now the world’s best-selling swim brand. China makes 70 percent of all swimsuits. Jantzen itself was bought by a multinational manufacturing giant, Perry Ellis International, and then sold to a private company in 2019. Last year, Stamie’s in Daytona Beach finally closed, after more than five decades on the boardwalk, and the Diving Girl statue was taken down and shipped to Washington State for storage.

The Diving Girl comes home

Culturally and geographically speaking, you can’t get farther away in America from Portland, than Daytona Beach, home to NASCAR’s Daytona 500, endless water parks, and spring-breakers racing dune buggies on its 23 miles of hard-packed beach. They’re even in opposite corners of the country. But Jantzen is a bridge. When the Red Diving Girl was taken down, Daytona Beach residents protested. “Please let her be where she belongs,” they said. “A Florida visit isn’t complete without her.” “Save a piece of my history and my youth.” City leaders rallied together, a rarity; the city’s newspaper received a deluge of nostalgic letters and pictures, with a “Bring Back the Jantzen Girl” campaign; social media exploded: #JantzenGirlDaytonaBeach. Originally from somewhere else, the Diving Girl had come to represent something intensely local.

And so, last winter, the not-so-little Diving Girl took one last cross-country road trip. It took six days on a truck to get the 20-foot behemoth back home to Daytona. She was restored and feted with fireworks at a New Year’s Eve bash, and reinstalled above a plaza at the One Daytona entertainment complex.

Over the years, hems rose and fell with the fashions, both on the Diving Girl and on us. But over that same period, swimming moved from an activity that prioritized public bathing and hygiene to one that represented the pinnacle of sport and leisure, and took off as one of the most popular recreational pastimes anywhere. It’s a story of American pluck, entrepreneurship and cultural migration — all collapsed into one little red logo, and worthy of being blown up into a giant fiberglass store-top mannequin.

So, to honor the travels of the Diving Girl, I returned to her birthplace, in the crisp waters of the Willamette River. It was a baptism of sorts. On that afternoon, I swam between the bridges, and dodged the geese. Running right through the city of Portland, the recently renewed Willamette water was an escape in plain sight. I couldn’t help but laugh when a little boy and his mother stopped at the top of the walking path to stare at me swimming with the birds. I waved, and Fran snapped a photo before jumping in herself. Neither of us wore Jantzen. But it’s not a stretch to say that this freewheeling spirit of swimming is part of the legacy — here, there, and everywhere — that the Diving Girl left in her wake.

If you go

The Hawthorne Boat Dock is one of the easiest public access points for swimming along the Willamette River. Stand-up paddleboarders, dragon boaters and rowers also tie up here, but the crowd is generally friendly. Swimming and wading are permitted in the river, but there are no lifeguards on duty. The Human Access Project recommends several other good Portland beaches on its website, and also offers a useful safety primer on swimming in this urban waterway.

Bonnie Tsui is a frequent contributor to Travel. Her next book, “Why We Swim,” will be published next spring by Algonquin Books.

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[grimm7777]

The Man Who Drank Sunlight

It has long been rumoured that many years ago there dwelt upon the earth a race of creatures born out of the earth, and made completely of dirt.  With black holes in their faces instead of eyes and a mouth, and an affinity for the taste of sun and moonlight they were creatures remembered solely as the stuff of fairy tales and legend, but as you know recently there came across my desk an article written in a newspaper long ago, its author and date of origin unknown.  Take it with a grain of salt, or however you like to take things that are perhaps too wondrous or miraculous to be true.

This is an article in dedication to the man made of dirt who wandered our town too briefly this past weekend, and then was gone.  I write this dedication so soon after his departure because I finally worked up the courage to follow him to his “home” (if one could call it that) far outside our town, and because the things I saw him do were almost too miraculous to believe, and because I saw him disappear from this earth, never to return.

Because of what I saw and because a part of me believes he can hear me, I will address the rest of the article to him.

* * *

Though you kept to yourself and seemed merely a curious observer in our town, we were afraid of you.  We did not know what to make of you.  The stories we heard as children of men rising up out of the earth, men made up of earth, were dismissed and hidden away in our minds, along with the youthful wonder that only children can know……or so I thought.

You did not seem suited for our town.  You tried to open doors, but as soon as your fingers touched the doorknob they crumbled and fell to the pavement.    And whenever you touched a wall, or a lamp post, more dirt fell off, and soon half your arm was gone.   As you walked you left a trail of dirt behind you, until by the time you left you were less than half the man you were when you arrived.  This seemed merely to amuse you.  

And then you were gone.  Saturday turned to Sunday, and you were back again, and all the dirt that had fallen from you the day before, was now returned to its place.

I had to follow you.  Though you never gave a sign that my presence bothered you, I apologize if I was unwelcome, or if I saw something I was never meant to see.

Far outside our town you walked, far past the last house, and into a field and under a tree I had never seen before.  You walked very slowly, but there were many times I thought I lost you, because outside the town you seemed to blend into the surroundings so well - the shape of the tree was your shape, the blades of grass moved as you did, and you seemed to take on their colour, at least for a moment or two.

It was still midday when you finally stopped under the tree, turned your face to the sun, and raised your hands, palms first, to the sky.  When I was merely a few steps away I saw sunlight in a way I had never seen it before: It was as if long strips of bright yellow fabric came down from the sky, overlapping and winding around each other.  They finally settled in the palms of your hands.  I was so taken with the sight that I reached up to touch the light, half expecting to feel the different textures of fabric.  But I felt nothing.

You raised your hands to your mouth again.  I heard a slurping sound, as if you were drinking the sunlight like soup.  I looked at your face: there were two dark empty holes were your eyes should have been, and one larger hole where your mouth should have been.  A faint yellow line shone from the bottoms of your eyes.

Even though I was now standing just a few steps from you, you did not acknowledge me, and continued to drink.  I watched for a long time, too afraid to speak, but after a time I found the light too bright, and had to look away.  i wondered if I would ever work up the courage to speak to you, or even if I did……would you ever speak to me?

Then I saw the most amazing thing.  All around you the grass was moving, though not from a wind, or because you were moving it.   One by one each blade of grass was bending down, picking up a tiny piece of  dirt, passing it to the next blade of grass, which passed it to the next one, and so on, until the dirt reached the blade of grass next to your leg.  That blade of grass carefully bent towards the spot where your ankles would have been, and deposited it among the dirt there.

I crouched down.  I heard a rustling sound in your legs, which started near to the ground and moved up through your body.  As hundreds of pieces of dirt were transferred to your body I stared in wonder as little by little your body was replenished.

As I watched I slowly became aware that you had stopped moving, and the slurping sound had stopped.  It was replaced by……something I had never before heard.  It sounded vaguely like a bird song, but at the same time unlike any other song, bird or otherwise, I had ever heard before.

The notes of this song were like words in a sentence, though the words were at least twice as long as any word I had ever heard before.  The song would stop and start again, as if it contained punctuation…..as if it were speaking.  Every sentence was a beautiful melody, in and of itself. At the end of the sentence the melody would stop for a long moment, and then another melody would start, different than the first, but unmistakably related to it.  

The song was the most beautiful thing I had ever heard.  As I listened I began to feel an ache in my knees and back, and when I looked up at the sky, it was night.  

When I tried to stand I stumbled, for I had been in the same position for hours, so engrossed was I in the song.  I noticed now that there was another song being sung as well, but this song was much shorter, and much more like the bird songs I had grown accustomed to hearing.  

When I looked up I saw that there was a sparrow perched on your shoulder, singing its song in response to yours.  Once the sparrow was done you began again.  Your eyes were so bright and the scene so breathtaking that even though you were speaking words I recognized, I had no idea what you were saying.

I wanted to reach out to touch you, but I couldn’t.  I was afraid I might interrupt the conversation, and you might stop.

It was at this moment that both you and the bird turned to me, and after a long pause, you opened your mouth, and spoke to me.

“You have not been here long,” you said.  Between the beginning of the first word of the sentence and that last I could have sworn I saw the moon move in the sky.

You turned your head as if to contemplate what you had just said, and reached your hand up towards the sky.  Like the sunlight, the moonlight seemed to change under your fingers - the moonlight was the same colour I had grown accustomed to seeing all my life, but it was different, somehow……a different texture.  For when you reached up to touch it, it depressed beneath your fingers, like you were touching something soft, and pliable.  And when you tore a piece off, it seemed to grow twice as bright, a small pulsing dot of blue moonlight shining from your hand.  You held it between your thumb and forefinger, turned, and extended it towards me.

I gasped.

“I can’t!” I said, realizing that this was the first time I had spoken since I had been there.

“You can,” you said, in a song that seemed to last for an hour.  The bird nodded its head and it too sang its short song, as if to offer encouragement.

Trembling, I reached out my hand.  I was half convinced that when I touched the moonlight I would be burned, and half convinced it would be the most delicious things I had ever tasted in my life, for the sound of you singing “You can” echoed in my mind long after you stopped singing it.

But as soon as I touched the moonlight it disappeared, leaving only a faint glow of moonlight in my hands.

I looked up.  The wind began to blow more briskly.  The bird flew from your shoulder.  All at once one of your fingers flew off, and blew away in the wind, followed swiftly by your arm.  As they blew away they turned to dust, and disintegrated.

You turned to me and as you said, “She is telling me I am the only……and the last……”, the wind blew hard against your body, turning first your legs, then your body, into dust, and carrying them off into the night.   And then as your mouth opened to say,  “…..last…..” the wind took your head away too, and blew for a long time afterwards, until only the faint memory of your song echoed in the air.  

And then there was silence.

* * *

For a long time I wanted to go with you, wherever you went.  In the brief time I had known you, I was full of wonder again, like I had been when I was a child.  As every minute passes I forget more and more of the songs you sang to me, and the things I saw.  I know it is only a matter of time until I forget them altogether.  And soon I won’t believe, not truly, that it happened at all.  

That is why, if my readers do not believe me, I understand.  I will soon be where they are, in my mind.  But I wanted to write this, if only to remind myself that I was once full of joy and wonder, in the same way I had been when I was a child, when my mother held me on her lap and read to me.

© 2018 Matthew Berg

[jamestaris]

Event #10: Melbourne Zoo Safari

Melbourne Bucket List [Click here to join: https://www.meetup.com/Melbourne-Bucket-List-Group] 

  MBLG Event #10: Royal Melbourne Zoological Gardens Safari Sunday, 12 March 2017 The Royal Melbourne Zoological Gardens, commonly known as the Melbourne Zoo, opened in 1862 and was modelled on London Zoo. It contains more than 320 animal species from Australia and around the world. The zoo is 4 kilometres north of the centre of Melbourne. I’ve always had a ‘thing’ about zoos. When I was 15, I got a weekend job at the Melbourne Zoo working in the cafeteria. My job was to clear the plates off the tables, but within a couple of months I had climbed all the way up the corporate ladder to cooking hamburgers and driving the electric hurdy-gurdy around the zoo grounds. Like many other youngsters, at the time I was interested in becoming a zoologist, and any work this close to animals was a thrill for me. My half hour lunch breaks were spent observing the animals in their enclosures, and being intrigued with the things they got up to. A particularly memorable image I still have is watching the mating ritual of the Cape Barren Goose. At 15, this was a very interesting subject. Come to think of it, some things never change. Anyway, it must’ve been spring because the gander was all over the goose like a rash. Not that she minded much. In fact, she was being ever so co-operative. Then I saw it. It was pencil thin, and about 4 inches long. And it was moving around like a snake stalking its prey. Pink, and stiff and definitely on a mission! I was almost in shock. Up until that moment, I never knew birds had penises. I guess the subject had just never come up before (pardon the pun). That was in 1970. It was only recently that I discovered that geese (along with ducks, swans and large flightless birds like emus and ostriches) were the only birds with penises. Incredibly, this was only 3 percent of the total 10,000 bird species in existence. Nevertheless, today I was going to see a very different zoo. I arrived just after 9am. Melbourne Zoo is open from 9am to 5pm every day of the year and in summer (27 January – 11 March) it’s also open from 5.30pm to 7pm for Twilight Music Concerts. Parking spaces are limited around the zoo, so I was determined to get there early. I had heard horror stories about parking inspectors issuing 544 fines ($93 each) in just 2 hours in the Elliott Avenue Car Park, directly in front of the zoo. This put a damper on the otherwise generous parking rate of only $2 for five hours. My parking space ticket assured me that I would be safe until 2.10pm. The ground was still wet from an earlier shower, but it was warming up quickly and the sky was a clear baby blue with very few clouds. I hoped I had seen the last of the rain today. In an effort to brighten up the original, historical, but somewhat drab external appearance of the zoo, most of the palm trees and bollards in front of the zoo entrance were dressed in orange and black crocheted sleeves. About twenty people were queued up to get tickets, but they were all in the Members queue. The Visitors queue was empty. The zoo members were obviously aware of the advantages of getting to the zoo early… maybe a case of once bitten, twice shy. Ticket Prices were: Adult: $32.50 Seniors: $29.30 Concession: $24.90 Kids (under 16): FREE on weekends I hate wandering around aimlessly, so as soon as I entered the zoo I sat down at a table to plan my ‘course’. By 9.30am I was ready. I was going to go straight up the middle of the zoo, all the way to the back, then check out all the enclosures in the top end: first to the left, then to the right. As I walked through the zoo I was impressed by how clean and tidy it was. Not only that, but it was also beautifully landscaped. The food shops, souvenir stalls, rest areas and information buildings were designed to blend in with the environment… mostly built from natural wood. Even the toilets blended nicely into the surroundings. Thankfully, once inside, they were very normal and clean toilets. Having a bush toilet here would’ve been going a little too far! All around me I was surrounded by plush green lawns, bushes and towering trees. Best of all, the enclosures looked very much like the animals’ normal habitat. The animals looked happy and relaxed, with more than enough space to exercise and even rest out of sight if necessary. So, if you approached an enclosure and found it ‘empty’ you could usually wait patiently for a couple of minutes and be rewarded with a star appearance. At 10.30am I went to see the Giant Tortoise presentation. The star of the show was Little John, a 200kg Aldabra Giant Tortoise with an 80cm shell (carapace). At about 100 years old, Little John is the oldest animal at the zoo. And he could possibly be there for quite a bit longer. The oldest giant tortoise on record, Adwaita, was also a male Aldabra giant tortoise and died in 2006 (Alipore Zoo, Kolkata, India) at the ripe old age of 255! The Melbourne Zoological Gardens had definitely done their homework and created one of the best zoos in the world. Two of my favourite locations were the Reptile House and the Butterfly House. The Reptile House is a circular roofed building with glass-walled exhibits on both sides of the circular passageway. I liked getting up close to the reptiles to observe and photograph them (without a flash). The enclosures were so perfectly laid out that on many occasions I looked into an enclosure of only half a cubic metre and took ages (maybe a minute or so) to locate the tenant. The Butterfly House was the complete opposite. First of all, it’s a tropical glass house heated to 28 degrees Celsius all year round. Even though butterflies are so small, their enclosure is so big that dozens of people can walk through it at any one time. Butterflies love bright colours, so it was common to see brightly coloured butterflies perched on hats, bags, clothes… even heads and outstretched arms. The adults loved it but, really, this was a children’s paradise! As I was about to leave I noticed the biggest butterfly of all. I just had to photograph it. The butterfly was resting quietly on a leaf beside a 3-year-old who was being held by his father. It was so close that I took a photo of them both together. Then, while his father was somewhat distracted, the young boy turned and saw it. All of a sudden, he reached out and snatched the helpless butterfly off the leaf. As it flapped its wings hopelessly, the father, who had realised all too late what had just happened, began shouting to his son, “No! No! No! No!” Sure enough, the boy let go of the butterfly which fluttered away as if nothing had happened at all. The embarrassed father, however, shot out of the Butterfly House in record speed. It was only then that I realised why so many butterflies seemed to have tattered and torn wings. Not a serious problem for the zoo because over 60 butterflies have been born in the Butterfly House every day for the past thirty years. They’re prolific breeders, laying their eggs on the plants in the enclosure. These are collected by the zoo keepers who transfer them to the small glass Caterpillar House, where they hatch, eat, grow and build their cocoons. They are then moved ‘next door’ to the small glass Pupae Enclosure where they eventually hatch and are released into the Butterfly House to start the cycle again. At 11.45am I stopped to have lunch. I had just seen the seals demonstration which drew a crowd of hundreds of people. It was getting close to the zoo’s peak time (12 noon to 3pm) and the zoo was already teaming with families, many of which were pushing young children in strollers. So I sat on one of the, now empty, stands and had the tuna sandwiches I had made for myself that morning. Luckily, I had also brought a couple of bottles of cordial with me. It was really getting hot so the drinks were quite refreshing. By 1pm my mind went back to my car. At 2.10pm, the parking meter would expire and I could possibly get booked. So I went to the ticket counter to ask if I could go outside and come back inside again. The Ticket Clerk assured me that I could, but I’d have to get a pass from the Entry Attendant. The Attendant stamped the back of my hand and I exited the zoo. Another $2 in the parking metre meant I could now stay in the zoo until 5pm. No need to worry or rush. I still hadn’t seen the gorillas, so I headed for their enclosure. It was massive but, because of the heat, the gorillas lay scattered on the ground in the distance beneath the shade of some trees. Unfortunately, they just looked like big black blobs… so disappointing. Then, by 2pm, I was exhausted. There were only a couple of enclosures I hadn’t visited, but I’d already taken over 800 photos. After resting for a few minutes, I realised that I had reached my limit. So, I got up and left. It was 2.30pm. Waiting for me on the other side of the exit was The Cream Cruiser, a food truck selling jam donuts and gelati ice-cream. I was all hot and bothered so I spoiled myself with a multi-flavoured gelati on a cone for $4.50. I was in my car by 2.35pm and home by 3.05pm. Since February 4 (36 days ago) I had already crossed 12 places off my bucket list. Just 88 places to go! James Taris JamesTaris@gmail.com