#I’m helping her with making embroidered party favors

[teeteepeedee]

my family jokes that i like to make things fancy and overcomplicate things that could be simple and they’re not wrong but i definitely get it from my mom who refuses to acknowledge it lol

[qui-rault]

Aulard on Herault de Sechelles

Okay here we go, another author who is absolutely in love with Herault. I’m not even joking, Aulard is completely head over heels for this man. So here is his chapter on Herault de Sechelles in his book Les orateurs de la Législative et de la Convention: l'éloquence parlementaire pendant la Révolution française (Tome 2). Link here: https://gallica.bnf.fr/ark:/12148/bpt6k5441755r  

A few notes: 

When I make a translation, I am not agreeing or disagreeing with anything an author says. It's important to keep in mind that every author has their own agenda and writes about historical events and historical figures within the context of their own viewpoint. Aulard , as you will see, is a keen supporter of Danton, and he labels Herault as a Dantoniste throughout the entire chapter. Whether Herault should be considered as a strict Dantoniste is, in my non-professional opinion, up for debate. A lot of people are still not aware, for example, that he and Fabre d'Eglantine were arrested separately to, and before Danton and Camille were arrested, and it was only afterwards that it was decided that they should be tried together.

Aulard neglects to give sources for several of the statements that he makes and is very condescending towards Robespierre and Saint-Just. He also seems to try to justify Herault’s actions during the revolution by saying that he was mostly acting to keep Robespierre off his back. I personally think this is incredibly injurious to Herault, who was an active participant in the Revolution – we have no reason to believe, as many would like to, that he was only pretending to support the Revolution to survive, rather than because he genuinely believed in its principles.   

Also, apparently Herault bought a lottery office for one of his mistresses and I just … cannot deal with this man.  

Anything with an asterisk is my personal note/observation. I will take the time to remind every one again that my French is dismal and that is why I always link the original. Huge thank you again to @ans-treasurebox for helping me with translating parts of this and also to @orpheusmori who had to sit there and put up with me losing my mind over Herault on the Discord for several nights in a row.

 

Chapter VIII – Herault de Sechelles  

I 

Herault de Sechelles was the ornament of the Dantonist party. A man of the court and of noble family (1), a classical and lucid spirit, an orator enamored with academic elegance, he forms a perfect contrast with the rusticity of Legendre. When he was very young, he was introduced to Marie Antoinette by her cousin Madame de Polignac, pleased her, and obtained from her a position as a lawyer at the Chatelet. He won great success there through his talent for speaking and by the choice of his causes, calculated to interest the sensitivity of his protectors. "There is applause on all sides, says one of his biographers, at his eloquent indignation against the ingratitude of a pupil towards his tutor and against the odious behavior of an opulent girl who had abandoned her mother in need." 

(1) His grandfather had been lieutenant general; his father, colonel of the Rouergue regiment, had perished gloriously at the Battle of Minden (Jules Claretie, Les Dantonistes, p. 317). He was also a nephew of the Marshal de Contades (Souvenirs de Berryer, I, 1) 

In 1779, at the age of 19, he published Eloge de Suger. Serious and charming, he was soon called, by the favor of the Queen (1), to the post of Advocate General in the Parliament of Paris. The parliamentarians, he would say, hated him, either because of the rapidity of his fortune (2), or for his philosophism. 

(1) She sent him, it is said, a scarf embroidered with her own hand. - His last speech as a lawyer was a triumph: the magistrates and the audience accompanied him, applauding, to his carriage. Journal de Paris of August 7, 1785, quoted by J. Claretie, ibid. 

(2) La pere de Berryer's (ibid.) says that he had been appointed after a hard fight and he adds "He had justified this sudden elevation by the marvelous ease of speaking, which he had shown in various causes of brilliance." 

He did not believe himself out of place among the combatants of July 14, and he broke with the court party at the beginning of the revolution. At the end of 1790, he was elected judge in Paris, then he became commissioner of the king at the tribunal de cassation. A member of Parliament for Paris in the Legislative Assembly, he hesitated at first between the royalists and the Jacobins. On the 6th of October, he protested against the revolutionary decree issued the day before on the ceremonial of the royal session. Interrupted as an aristocrat, he was silent and observed in silence until the end of 1791. 

On the 29th of December, he delivered a speech on war, in which, in the manner of Brissot, but more briefly, he drew a picture of the state of Europe: according to him, each power was too poor to desire war. All the more reason to demand a lot, to summon the King of Prussia, to intimidate the counterrevolutionaries from within. Is he for war or for peace? Does he support Brissot or Robespierre? We don't know; but we can see in his somewhat equivocal words the Dantoniste policy: let's make war, but let’s be sure about making it, after having defeated the court. 

This speech pleased and, although ambiguous, rang true. From then on, Herault followed a democratic line. On the 14th of January, in response to the declaration of Pilnitz, he proposed to the Assembly an address to the people, in which the perfidy of the court was clearly indicated. As for the threats of Europe, France only had to rise to confound them. "Certainly, the French, after having taken such a high rank, will not resolve to descend to the last place; yes, the last, for there is on earth something more vile than a slave people, it is a people who become so again after having known how to cease to be so." 

On the 24th of January, he attacked the draft decree presented by the diplomatic committee in response to the Emperor's office: "I regret, he said, that the committee did not announce or rather reiterate the known resolution of France, which, as a consequence of her renunciation of any conquest, having also renounced to meddle in any way with the form of government of other powers, must doubtlessly, in the face of all mankind, expect the most perfect reciprocity; and when one will see a wise people regulating within its homes the form in which it suits it to live, leaving peace to its neighbors and seeking order for itself; if ambitions, vengeance, dare to arm themselves against the happiness of such a people, the world, posterity, history, by pitying them, will avenge them, and will mark with eternal opprobrium their vanquished enemies and even their conquerors, if there could be any.” 

This elevated and diplomatic language made an impression and the Assembly voted the draft decree of Herault, by which the king was invited to declare to the emperor that he could henceforth treat with him only in the name of the French nation, to ask him if he wanted to remain the friend of the French nation and to give until the 15th of February to respond. 

He was twice rapporteur for the legislation committee: on the 22nd of February, on ministerial responsibility, the conditions of which he discussed pleasantly; on the 7th of April on the acceleration of judgments in cassation. 

At the beginning of July 1792, the gravity of the circumstances had led the Assembly to add an extraordinary commission to the diplomatic and military committees. The diplomatic qualities of his words led Herault, on the choice of his colleagues, to be designated for the drafting of the report relating to the declaration of the homeland in danger, a report which would be read with passionate attention by all of Europe (July 11). "Our most important business, he said, is to go to war soon, and not to wait for a chance or a set back which, however slight, might make some of the powers who are now mute observers, but whose diplomatic correspondence shows us, perhaps in the distance, secret hopes and a prudence subordinated to fortune, determine to be against us. Let us therefore produce a great movement, let us deploy a formidable apparatus, let us interest each citizen in his fate: let’s call, it is time, all over the fatherland, all the French, all those who, having sworn to defend the Constitution until death, have the happiness of finally being able to carry out their oath. The fatherland is in danger, and this single word, like the electric spark, hardly left within the national representation, will resound the same day in the 83 departments, will rumble on the heads of the despots and their slaves; and this single word will repel their attacks, or will victoriously support the negotiations, if, however, these are negotiations that we can hear and which in no way alter the immutable sanctity of our rights.”  

In a more critical than enthusiastic spirit, Herault examines the objections that could be made to this declaration; he exposes them with a gift of objectivity very rare in this time of passion. He ends with a sufficiently warm oratory: "When, under Louis XIV, despotism, seconded by the genius of Turenne, held in check four armies at the same time, let us believe with confidence in the cause of the human race and in the miracles of freedom. Ah, gentlemen, a prophetic voice rises in my heart: we have sworn to be free; it is to have sworn to conquer! Called, in the face of the universe, to stipulate the rights of humanity, let us avenge these sacred and imperishable rights: I swear by these phalanxes which will gather from all parts of France, and by you, intrepid Gouvion, by you, brave Cazotte; and by all of you whom a death so beautiful and so desirable has reaped before the victory, under the walls of Philippeville; virtuous citizens, whose memory will henceforth preside over our destinies, and whose souls, quivering with joy in the depths of the tombs, will share in all our triumphs!”  

In matters of revolutionary enthusiasm, that is all that the noble and pure rhetoric of Herault de Sechelles can give. He understands, he interprets with truth the spirit of 1792; he is not under its influence. His reason approves of patriotic folly; his heart does not share it. There is in this beautiful spirit an inability to be moved, to vibrate with the same passions as the people. He admires Danton and would like, I believe, to possess his sympathetic verve; but, whatever he does, he mingles with the passions of the time only as a dilettante, with the reserve of a delicate observer, with a good will that is immediately cooled by a innate decency. His friend Paganel said that he distinguished himself from the men of his party by "his liberal education, his gentle affections, the tastes and the urbanity which reveal the beautiful forms of his body and the noble and brilliant features of his face". (1)  

(1) Paganel, II, 247. Cf. Souvenirs du pere du Berryer, I, 176 “Herault de Sechelles was not forty years old in Year II. He was one of the most handsome men in France, tall, dark-faced, very noble; he had the manners of the court." 

Indolent, selfish, he pleased everyone, even the fiercest sans-culottes, who forgave him his status as a ci-devant because of his modesty, his affability, and the pleasant turn he gave to the most revolutionary measures. Paganel, believing to praise him, judges him severely "He spared, he says, all opinions, and appropriately took, but only for his defense, the colors of each party." No, Herault was not a hypocrite (1), but an epicurean who tasted the flower of each opinion in turn, an eclectic to whom it seemed that all sides were right, but that there was more common sense and good faith in that of Danton. He loved life; but he did nothing ugly to avoid the guillotine. His laziness explains what is undulating in his politics, and Paganel was truer and shrewder when he wrote "laziness dominated over all his tastes, and the love of women over all his other passions. His speeches to the tribune, his work on the committees, were many victories he won over himself, were so many thefts from his pleasures. Herault lavished a life which promised him only brief pleasures. He was always ready to lose it. He felt that the genius of the Revolution would prevail over his precautions and his prudence; and each event warned him of his destiny. He spared himself the terrors of it, by filling with much existence the few days which were counted to him..." 

(1) This reputation came to him from the contrast which was noticed between his political gravity and his private playfulness. Saint-Just would say hatefully in his report: "Herault was serious in the Convention, a buffoon elsewhere, and laughed incessantly to excuse himself for not saying anything". And Sieyes wrote in his intimate notes: "Brilliant with his success, H. de S., in his distraction, looked like a very happy funny fellow, who smiled at the irascibility of his thoughts" (Sainte-Beave, Causories du Lundi, t. V).” 

Mais c’est la Herault tel que le fit la crise meme de la Terreur.* In 1792, he is still smiling and optimistic. It does not seem that the fall of the throne moved him. On the 17th of August, he traced with a rather bold hand the first draft of the revolutionary tribunal. His educated voice mingled with the great voice of Danton in the work of national excitement which marked, in August 1792, the dictatorship of the Cordeliers and Girondin patriots. His proclamation on the capture of Longwy (August 26) is not lacking in emphasis, any more than the noble letter he wrote on September 10, in his capacity as president, to the widow of the heroic Beaurepaire. 

*This sentence has eluded my ability to translate.  

In the first six months of the Convention where he represented the department of Seine-et-Oise, his speeches were rare. Elected president on the 2nd of November, he was sent with Simon, Gregoire and Jagot, to Mont Blanc. He was still there during the trial of the king, whom he condemned, it is said, by letter, but without saying to what penalty. The Convention liked to be presided over by this man of noble face and conciliatory manners. They put him at their head on two important occasions. It was he who presided temporarily, in place of Isnard, on the night of May 27 to 28, when the commission of the Twelve was broken up for the first time. On the 2nd of June, he replaced the tired Mallarme in the chair, and had the sad honor of guiding the Convention in the walk it took in the Tuileries Gardens and the Carousel, to make people believe that it was free and to save its dignity. It was therefore to the beautiful Herault that Hanriot made his crude reply "The people did not rise to listen to phrases, but to give orders." 

He was made a deputy to the Committee of Public Safety on the 30th of May "to present constitutional basics". On the 10th of June he tabled the famous draft Constitution, improvised with so much haste. Circumstances alone made the short and dull report he read on this subject famous. There is only one original idea: the establishment of a national grand jury, to which each department would appoint a member, and whose function would be “to protect the citizens from the oppression of the Legislative Body and the Executive Council.” This article was rejected on the 16th of June at the request of Herault himself, who declared that he had always considered the institution of the a national jury to be very dangerous. This is the first time that a reporter has admitted to having an opinion other than expressed in their report. And yet, on the 24th of June, he proposed in his name an additional article: of the censorship of the people against its deputies and of its guarantee against the oppression of the legislative body. This system contained the single Chamber, counterbalanced it as a second Chamber, and tended to the same end as the "national jury". This bicameriste insistence of Herault served as a theme for the Robespierrist Jacobins to slander him. "We remember, Saint-Just would say in his report, that Herault was with disgust the mute witness of the work of those who drew up the plan of the Constitution, of which he skillfully made himself the shameless reporter." (1) 

(1) Yet Couthon praised Herault’s attitude on the committee to the tribunal (26 brumaire an II). 

Yet nothing would alter the favor he enjoyed at the Convention. Re-elected to the Committee of Public Safety, on the 17th of July he made this chimerical and Jacobin proposal, inspired by the beautiful dreams of Jean-Jacques, at which his skepticism must have made him smile to himself, "Citizens, you decreed this morning that the house of the traitor Buzot, in Evreux, would be razed. The Committee of Public Safety thought that it was necessary to celebrate the return of freedom in this city by a civic festival, in which six young virtuous republicans will be married to six young republicans chosen by an assembly of old men. The dowry of these young girls will be provided by the nation". The Convention adopted the proposal. 

As we can see, his talented pen didn't hesitate to align with the ideas of others. There was even one instance where he acted as a rapporteur to interpret the underlying opposition of the Robespierrists to Danton's inclinations. On August 1st, 1793, Danton had proposed the establishment of the Committee of Public Safety as a provisional government, seeing in this unity of dictatorship the most effective means to defend the nation and the revolution. Hérault had too much political acumen and was too much a friend of Danton to hesitate in opposing the anarchic and disorganizing spirit alongside him. Nevertheless, he allowed himself to be influenced and presented a report against his master's proposal, contributing to its rejection on August 2. 

On the 9th of August, by a singular favor, the Convention called him once more to the chair. They wanted her noblest and finest speaker to appear and speak in their name at the national holiday, which was held the next day in honor of the acceptance of the Constitution by the people. It was a new federation. Mixed with an immense retinue in which there were delegates from all the primary assemblies of the Republic, the Convention went slowly to the Champ de Mars, according to the program created by David, and stopped at six solemn stations, in front of the fountain of regeneration, in front of the triumphal arch erected in honor of the women of October 6, at the Place de la Revolution, at the Invalides, at the altar of the fatherland, and finally in front of the monument for the warriors who died for the fatherland, at the Champ de Mars. 

Herault thus delivered six speeches which shone more by the high decency of the expressions than by the internal feeling. He moved the people, however, when he addressed the dead soldiers: "Ah! how happy you were! You died for your country, for a land dear to nature, loved by heaven; for a generous nation, which vowed a dedication to all feelings, to all virtues; for a Republic where places and rewards are no longer reserved for favor, as in other states, but assigned by esteem and by trust, you have therefore fulfilled your function as men and French men; you entered the tomb after having fulfilled the most glorious and desirable destiny that there is on earth; we will not outrage you with tears.” 

The spirit of this festival, as reflected in the speeches of Herault de Sechelles, was entirely philosophical and naturalistic: "Oh Nature! exclaimed the friend of Danton, receive the expression of the eternal attachment of the French for your laws, and that these fertiles waters that spring from your breasts , that this pure drink that watered the first humans consecrate in this cup of fraternity and equality, the oaths that France makes to you on this day, the most beautiful that the sun has lit since it was suspended in the vastness of space.” 

The inspiration of the six speeches of the president of the Convention had no deist, spiritualist character: it is the indirect negation of the ideas of Rousseau, the glorification of the positivist tendencies of Diderot. One can imagine what sadness, sincere and respectable, Robespierre must have experienced at this demonstration which already foresaw the Feast of Reason. I admit that he, who was born to preach, was envious of the role of great philosophical pontiff that the Dantonist Herault played that day. But it was a deeper feeling, a believer's pain that kindled in him that hatred, of which the harmless and amiable haranguer was to be the victim. 

II 

From then on, [Herault] felt himself watched by the symbolic and frightening eye which figured on the banners of the Jacobins, and he saw that Robespierre was watching him. He immediately darkened the color of his presidential speeches, but without carmagnole. Soon he had himself sent on a mission to Alsace, and he wrote, from Plotzheim, on 7 Frimaire Year II, in Jacobin style: "I have taken all possible measures to raise the department of Haut-Rhin to the level of the Republic. The public spirit was entirely corrupted there. Intelligence with the enemy, aristocracy, fanaticism, contempt for assignats, speculation and non-execution of the laws everywhere: I fought all these scourges, I suspended the department, created a departmental commission; I forced the popular Society to regenerate itself; I broke up the surveillance committees, the least of which were feuillants, and I replaced them with sans-culottes; I organized here the movement of terror which alone could consolidate the Republic: I have created a central committee of revolutionary activity, which requires the rapid action of all the authorities; a revolutionary force detached from the army and which covers the whole department; a revolutionary tribunal, finally, which will bring the country to its senses. " 

Thus declaimed this delicate,* for reason as much as for personal prudence: we know, moreover, that he was not rigorous to the aristocrats of Alsace and that he did not shed a drop of blood (1). 

*Aulard uses delicate here as a noun and I’m genuinely not sure what to translate it as. Possibly he means fop, or dandy, possibly someone who is tricky or someone who is tactful, as in a “delicate situation”. However, these are only my suggestions and possibly inaccurate.  

(1) Cf. Hist. De la Revol. Fr. Dans le departement du Haut-Rhin, par Veron-Reville, 1865, in-8.  

But, since the feast of August 10, Robespierre had been weaving a skillful plot against him and was trying to undermine the Dantonist party through him. His plan, indicated in his intimate notes (2), was to make Herault pass for a spy for foreign powers in the Committee of Public Safety.  

(2) Le proces des dantonistes, par le docteur Robinet, pass. 

The care which this serious spirit took to learn about all foreign affairs, his continual handling of diplomatic papers, might give some pretext to the accusation of communicating to the enemy the plans of the revolutionary government.  

As it happened, like everyone else, he had had relations with Proly, bastard of the Prince of Kaunitz. On 26 Brumaire, Bourdon (de l'Oise) echoed these rumors, and dared to say to the Convention: "I denounce to you the ci-devant attorney general, the ci-devant noble Herault Sechelles, member of the Committee of Public Safety, and now commissioner in the Army of the Rhine, for his liaisons with Pereyra, Dubuisson and Proly." But the mine burst too soon: there was a general protest, and Couthon himself had the honesty to pay homage to the patriotism of Herault. 

However, an incident had occurred in Alsace, which gave pretext to enormous calumnies. In Brumaire, a letter was intercepted at the outposts of General Michaud's army, who sent it to Saint-Just and Lebas, in Strasbourg. Signed: the Marquis de Saint-Hilaire, this letter tended to lead people to believe in intelligence between the people of Strasbourg and the enemy. The trick was crude. But how to make Saint-Just listen to reason? He immediately imprisoned part of the authorities of Strasbourg, and left in his post only the mayor Monet, and a deputy. A second letter arrived immediately, same signature, dated Colmar, 7 Frimaire Year II. The mayor was reproached for not having yet delivered the city, despite the money received: and the "marquis de Saint-Hilaire" added: "I have only been here (in Colmar) to talk to our friend Herault, who promised me everything." 

On the spot, the representative Lemane, who had replaced Saint-Just and Lebas in Strasbourg, had the mayor arrested and, insultingly, sent the letter to Herault. [Herault] brought together the authorites and the popular Society of Colmar and, in a long speech, warns them against the machinations of the royalists, adding that he asks for his recall. It was, among the patriots of Alsace, a cry of pain, for Herault had made himself loved during his mission. But he was exasperated by Lemane's suspicion (1). 

(1) Veron.Reville, pass.  

Back at the Convention, he was all the more anxious to justify himself because his colleagues on the Committee displayed an insulting distrust of him. Young Robespierre claimed to have brought back from Toulon a document which proved the betrayal of his college: "Ah! how could I be vile enough, cried Herault, to abandon myself to criminal liaisons, I've only had one intimate friend since the age of six. Here he is! (pointing to Lepelletier's painting) Michel Lepelletier (2) O you, from whom I will never part, whose virtue is my model; you who were, like me, the butt of parliamentary hatred, happy martyr, I envy your glory. I would rush like you, for my country, to meet the daggers of freedom; but were it necessary that I were assassinated by the dagger of a Republican? - Here is my profession of faith. If having been thrown by the chance of birth into this caste that Lepelletier and I have not ceased to fight and despise is a crime which I must atone for: if I must, I still have the freedom to make new sacrifices; if a single member of this assembly sees me with suspicion at the Committee of Public Safety: if my prorogation, a source of continually recurring hassles, can harm the public thing before which I must disappear, then I pray the National Convention to accept my resignation from this Committee." 

Not one of the accusers answered a word; the Convention not only passed on the agenda on the resignation of Herault, it ordered the printing of his speech (9 Nivose). 

(2) assassinated Lepelletier, like Marat, had only admirers. In reality, Herault could not bear his vanity, and mocked him. This president, after 89, refused one day to sit at the same table as a simple prosecutor. We find the comic account of this incident as it took place at Herault’s house, in Oeuvres completes de Bellart, VI, 128. 

This triumph did not stop the calumny. On 11 Nivose, Robespierre wrote in his own hand and had Collot, Billaud, Carnot and Barère sign this letter to Herault, "Citizen colleague, you had been denounced to the National Convention, which sent this denunciation back to us. We need to know if you persist in the resignation which you have, it is said, offered yesterday to the National Convention. We ask you to choose between perseverance in your resignation and a report of the Committee on the denunciation of which you have been the object: because we have here an indispensable duty to fulfill. We await your written repudiation today or tomorrow at the latest." These hypocritical threats did not intimidate Herault: he did not resign, and the Committee made no report. 

The documents of young Robespierre, we have them: they are in the Archives. These are Spanish papers seized by one of the cruises on an enemy ship: the name of Herault is not even stated there. It is to be believed that the famous threatening letter had no other purpose than to force Herault to reveal himself, in the event that, as was hoped, he would be guilty of high treason. We can guess Robespierre's rage, his confusion, in the presence of this disappointment. His audacity knew no bounds: on 26 Ventose, Herault was arrested with Simond for complicity with the enemies of the Republic and relations with a citizen charged with emigration. The next day, on a summary report from Saint-Just, the Convention ratified this arrest, but did not decree it until 11 Germinal with the Dantonists. 

In the meantime, the innocence of the defendant had come to light: the emigre whom he had been accused of hiding in his home was none other than his own secretary, Catus, appointed by the Committee of Public Safety and who, if he had crossed the border, had only been able to do so for a diplomatic mission. They were careful not to confront Herault with this. Moreover, Saint-Just's report of 11 Germinal did not make the slightest allusion to this grievance, which had been the official cause of the Dantonist's [Herault’s] arrest. It was not even brought up at the revolutionary tribunal. (1) 

(1) Cf Robinet, 349-352.  

In order to ruin Herault, it was necessary to resuscitate the old grievance formerly disavowed by Couthon, and to accuse him of complicity with the foreigner. Saint-Just dared to say: "Herault, who had placed himself at the head of diplomatic affairs, did everything possible to avert the projects of the government. Through him, the most secret deliberations of the Foreign Affairs Committee were communicated to the foreign governments. He had Dubuisson make several trips to Switzerland, to conspire there under the very seal of the Republic.” 

It was not easy for the men of the revolutionary tribunal to color the condemnation of Herault who had exclaimed proudly, in the style of Danton: "I challenge you to present the slightest clue, the slightest adminicle possible, to make me only suspect of these communications." (2)  

(2) Asked about his name and where he lives: "My name is Marie-Jean, a name not very prominent even among the saints. I sat in this room where I was hated by parliamentarians." Accused of complicity with Chabot and others, he confined himself to denying that he had knowledge of the affair. The court did not insist. But it must be recognized that Herault's notorious intimate relationship with the Abbe d'Espagnac made an unfavorable impression. 

They then read to him the famous papers seized on a Spanish ship, two letters from Las Casas and Clemente de Campos, Ambassador of Spain, in which Herault was mentioned by name as an agent of the foreign country. The unfortunate replied: "The tenor of these letters, the perfidious style in which they are written, sufficiently indicates that they were fabricated abroad only to make patriots into suspect and to ruin them. And certainly, the trap is too grossly overstretched to let myself get caught up in it!" Now, and this is not the least infamy of the Robespierreists, the prosecution had not hesitated, in order to ruin Herault, to insert his name in the two Spanish letters, to fabricate all the passage where his accomplices were supposed to reveal his name. We have said it: these papers are in the Archives, M. Robinet published them, and there is no question of Herault’s involvement. 

Asked about his mission in Alsace and about his negotiations in Switzerland, he replied, according to Topino-Lebrun, that he had worked, with Barthelemy, for the neutrality of Switzerland, and protected France from an army of 60,000 men. . -And Dubuisson's mission? It was Minister Defeorgues who gave it to him. -And Proly? - "I never communicated to Proly anything in politics, there was none (sic). Moreover, I had to confront myself with Proly. I was deceived, like Jay Sainte-Foix, like the Convention, like Jean-Bon, who wanted to take him on as a secretary, like Collot d'Herbois." And he added: "Like Marat, Proly was carried in triumph. The Convention, by a solemn decree, received my explanations."  

Then came the insignificant accusation of having corresponded with a refractory priest. To which Herault replied that this priest, being a simple canon, could not be submitted to the oath and therefore could not be refractory. Finally, in a sort of peroration, he recalled what he had done and suffered for the Revolution. "It is here," he said, "the moment to invoke my services, to remind my judges of this Constitution which has cost me so much sweat, this Constitution accepted by all good French citizens as making them happy:  It is by this Constitution that I saved the fatherland, and I can tell the French what a Roman general said: At this time, in which I have saved you, let us go to the Capitol to give thanks to the gods. These were not the only services I rendered to the fatherland: I was seen on the memorable day of July 14, 1789." Here, either foolishly or by malice, the Bulletin defers these six lines that conclude Herault’s defence to the next issue: "On July 14, 1789, I had two men killed beside me: I have not ceased to be pursued by the royalists, and especially in my mission in Sardinia. I was appointed judge, to the great regret of all the counter-revolutionaries who shuddered with rage; and when I accepted this post, it was necessary to have had courage to fill it." 

All accounts agree that Herault was imperturbable in the midst of these dreadful debates. Condemned, he said coldly: "I expected that!" And later, approaching Camille, who was choked up and foamed with rage: "My friend, let's show that we know how to die." On the cart, according to Desessarts, "he was placed alone on the last seat; he carried his head high, but without any affectation; the most beautiful color shone on his face. Nothing announced the slightest agitation in his soul: his eyes were gentle and modest, he cast them around him without seeking to fix attention or to inspire interest. One would have said, seeing him, that cheerful ideas were occupying his imagination." 

III 

Such was the political career of Herault, much inferior to the personal merit of this distinguished man, one of the finest natures that appeared at the end of the eighteenth century. His philosophical opinions were those of Diderot, for who, a little denigrating, he wrote an unreserved eulogy (1). 

(1) Voyage a Montbar, etc., au IX, in-8, p. 107-108.  

They were also those that Buffon expressed to him in 1785: "I have always named the creator, said the great writer to him in an intimate outpouring; but you only have to remove this word, and naturally replace it with the power of nature, to give rise to two great laws: attraction and impulse (2).” 

(2) Ibid., pg. 36.  

The same philosophical freedom appeared in Herault's conversation. Shortly after 89, the lawyer Bellart, invited to the house in Epone, was scandalized by the remarks which he heard there. "The master of the house rested from the impieties with the obscenities. Finally, in two or three days, I discovered that he was materialistic to the highest degree." Bellart took it into his head to convert him and delivered to him a tirade as orthodox as Sganarella's remonstrance to Don Juan: "Don't be afraid," replied the other; although materialistic I will still take care of you, if necessary (3)." 

(3) Oeuvres de Bellart, tom. VI, p. 125-129. 

In frimaire Year II, Vilate attended a conversation between Herault and Barere on the supreme goal of the Revolution. Herault placed himself above all from a philosophical point of view. He already saw "the reveries of paganism and the follies of the Church replaced by reason and truth." "Nature, he said, will be the god of the French, as the universe is its temple." He therefore expressed his intimate feelings when, on the feast of August 10, surrounded by all his colleagues, he addressed an official prayer to Nature. On his mission at Colmar, he had made a proclamation "to replace, he said, false religions by the study of nature", and issued a decree which made the decadi obligatory, and instituted a festival of Reason in each canton capital (4). 

(4) Sciout, Hist. De la Constitution civile, III, 741.  

To the Robespierrist animosity aroused by such opinions, it would have been necessary to oppose pure and rigid mores. But this delicate* (perhaps entirely disgusted) lived in an elegant orgy. He was the titular lover of the beautiful and famous Sainte-Amaranthe. He knew the art of living together in peace, around him, several young women whom his beauty had fascinated. He made them wear his colors, yellow and purple, and the ultra-Jacobin Vinent denounced in his journal the impudence of this debauched young patriot. He himself confesses all this in gallant letters published by La Morency, the authenticity of which is indisputable. 

*Same issue with the use of the word delicate.  

Even if her style did not reveal the truth of Herault in every line, what interest would Morency have had, in 1799, in forging the documents with which she decorated her autobiographical novel of Illyrine? (1)  

(1) Illyrine ou l’ecueil de l’inexperience, an VII, 3 vol., in-8. 

Certainly, neither the mores nor the style of this cheerful woman are recommendable. It was she who wrote, with her French and her heart: "We are only happy by doing: it's my morality." But there is an air of truth in the confidences which is further accentuated by the author's thoughtlessness. Yes, the mistress of the conventionnel Quinette was too silly to imagine the details, so probable, so vivid, of her affair with Herault, she who could only support Illyrine's reputation by gross plagiarism (2). 

(2) When she saw the handsome Dantonist, she thought she saw, she said naively, the god of love, the graces of Apollo. Invited to dinner with Quinette, in the luxurious apartment of Hérault, she admired the large library, the elegant living room, the outfit of the young conventionnel "his redingote de levite of bazin anglais, lined with blue taffeta."* 

*Redingote de levite is a type of jacket/coat, while bazin anglais is a type of fabric.  

The story of the visit she made to him at the Convention on the day when he was named president (November 2, 1792) is a piquant tableau of the mores of the time. She handed him, shortly afterwards, a petition in favor of divorce, which Herault read to the Convention and, he said, caused applause. But, a few days later (November 29, 1792), the gallant president was sent to the mission. "It is from the Committee of Public Safety, with the horses at the carriages, that I am writing to you, dear and beautiful; I am leaving at this moment for Mont-Blanc with a secret and important mission...". And, after having spoken to her of his mistresses and of the perfidy of Sainte-Amaranthe, he ended thus: "Adieu, Suzanne. Go sometimes to the Assembly in memory of me. Adieu. The horses rage, and one believes me nationally occupied, while I am only in love with my very dear Suzanne." 

When Herault returned, everything was his, and he bought a lottery office for his mistress, for which the security of 30,000 francs was lent, she affirms, by the Abbe d'Espagnac. It hurts to see Danton's friend take pleasure in such base intimacy which bordered on cynicism. La Morency has innocuously traced the picture, quite Pompeian, of the erotic distractions of his orgy comrades. No less naively, she explains this shamelessness: "It is rather to kill himself, she says, that he takes pleasure to excess, than to be happy." Herault said to her, probably in the first weeks of 1794 "Sinister omens threaten me, I want to hasten to live; and when they tear me from life, they will think they are killing a man of thirty-two: well! I will have eighty years, because I want to live for ten years in one day!". 

It must be admitted: this epicureanism, so indecent in such circumstances, gave color and force to the Robespierrist accusations and compromised Danton's party. But should we see in Herault, as in such a friend of Hebert, a wallowing brute? "Elegant writer, says Paganel, he devoted to letters all the time he stole from the tastes that dominated in him." I have not been able to read Eloge de Suger, which he published at the age of twenty-nine; but his Voyage a Montbar (1785) is an exquisite piece in every respect, in which Buffon lives whole again, man and author. In there, Herault does not show himself, as Sainte-Beuve said, "a light, unfaithful and mocking spy" (1), but an observer and a painter. By the fine truth of his insights, he is ahead of Stendhal, whose dryness and precision he has. A laborious writer, he constantly pursues brevity and simplicity, and he achieves the strength of Chamfort, with more breadth of intelligence and a concern for general insights that he perhaps owes to his association with Buffon (2). 

(1) Causeries de Lundi, IV, 354.  

(2) In 1788, he published (or rather had printed) le Codicile politique et pratique d’un jeune habitant d’Epone. Revised in prison, this work was not widely distributed to the public until 1801 under the title Theorie de l'ambition. These moral reflections, influenced by a philosophy that is a little too positive and dry, offer a pessimism that is tempered by a good-toned irony. M. Claretie has already pointed out the most remarkable of these maxims as well as a chapter on conversation, where Herault characterizes the most ingenious conversationalists of the end of the eighteenth century and the ideal orator as the one who would summarize the different kinds of spirit of Thomas, de Delille, de Garat, de Cerutti, d'Alembert, de Buffon, de Gerbier and a few others, lawyers or actors. This is the school where he trained and learned to please. 

This very modern spirit, turned towards the future, à la Diderot, does not drag scholarly chains after him; he does not have the superstition of Latin, the adoration of Greco-Latin legend. But he knows how to enjoy the past, and tastes true erudition, for example in the Abbe Auger, the translator of Demosthene, for who he pronounced an elegant funeral oration, at the Societe des Neuf-Souers, in 1792. At a time when the University no longer taught Greek, and perhaps for that very reason, Herault says true things about Demosthene, whom he judges as a politician as much as an artist. "The Revolution, he says, by developing our political ideas, made us appreciate the works of some ancients and enjoy all their genius, a measure which we lacked." 

He admires in the Greek orator "this proud and sensitive soul, which carries within it all the dignity and all the pains of the fatherland: this general movement, without which there is no popular eloquence, where the accessory relations, tightly packed, roll on high in periods which compensate for the extent of the ideas by the precision of the style.” But here, it is of himself that he thinks and it is his own talent that he designates when he says: "Never, above all, he never ceased to equal, by his efforts, this beauty, this continuous perfection of language, that happy mechanism, so familiar to the orator that he could not even cease to be elegant in the most impetuous apostrophes, in the most vehement outbursts: a rarer merit than one might think, because it is due to a particular kind of spirit, and mainly to the address which is the gift of multiplying the force by distributing it. Here we recognize Buffon's ideas on oratorical style. 

He himself had made up, for his own use, a kind of rhetoric which was found in his papers and which the Magasin encyclopedique published in 1795. These are practical precepts, recipes distributed without order, but which bear the mark of experience and whose interest is all the greater since Herault is the only orator of the Revolution to whom we owe a technique of his art. There is a question that first fascinated those who inaugurated the political forum in France: Should we read the speeches or say them? Both methods had supporters: some used them alternately depending on the circumstances. As for improvisation, even those who abandoned themselves to it seemed to excuse themselves for it as if it were negligence: so Herault, who by the way hardly improvised, only poses the alternative, read or say? - “It is only by speaking, he remarks, and not by reading, that one can make what one says truly perceptible, this is the custom of the lawyers of the Parliament of Bordeaux; otherwise, one flounders; the ideas relax, weaken and soon die out. This is what happens to M. de Saint-Fargeau: hence the easy word of most lawyers who are so fond of talking about business. To reconcile the need for a full and concise style with the other, I think you have to learn by heart. It is true that it is costly, but glory is at the end, and that is the way to surpass both those who speak and those who write." 

Memory is therefore the first part of public speaking. But how should one learn a speech? 

"I meditate on it, says Herault, the main idea, the accessory ideas, their number, their order, their connection, the plan of each part, the divisions, the subdivisions of each object. I dare to affirm that it is then impossible to make a mistake. If one forgot the speech, one would be in a condition to repeat it on the spot; and how much moreover the rhythmic sentences, a little ornamented, a little brilliant, in a word all that strikes the self-esteem of the one who must speak, are they not engraved in the memory with extreme ease!” 

"A very useful and very convenient procedure, to which you must get used to, to make up your mind quickly and to remember a multitude of ideas at the same time, is, when you have these ideas, to retain from each only the word that carries, and whose mere memory reproduces the entire phrase. Voltaire said somewhere: "The best words are the couriers of thoughts". Applying this adage here in another sense, I would say that you have to get your brain used to needing only head words [mot tetes] throughout the whole range of longer discussion." 

"To learn by heart, this word pleases me. There is, in fact, only the heart which retains well and which retains quickly. The slightest thing which strikes you in place makes you retain it. Therefore, the art would be to hit each other as much as possible."* 

*The French here reads: L’art serait donc de se frapper le plus qu’il serait possible. I genuinely have no idea if he means that we should be hitting each other with the force of our words … or actually physically hitting each other. Either could be possible with this man.  

"To write. The memory remembers better what it has seen in writing. Make it like a painting where one reads in the way that one speaks." 

"Memory is also aided by figures: thus count the number of things you have to learn, in a speech, for example." 

"I have also experienced that it was very useful for me to speak to remember a speech; I often tried to speak in public for an hour, and sometimes two, without any kind of preparation. I came out of this exercise with a singular aptitude, and it seemed to me in those moments that if I had had to give a speech, which I would have only read, I would have come out of it with a great advantage.” 

After memory, action seemed to him the most important part of eloquence. When he first started out as a lawyer, he had taken lessons from Mademoiselle Clairon. "Do you have a voice?" she asked me, the first time I saw her. A little surprised at the question, and moreover, not really knowing what to say, I answered: "I have one like everyone else mademoiselle. - Well! you must make one for yourself." Here are some of the precepts of the actress, which Herault tried to follow: "There is an eloquence in sounds: study above all to give roundness to your voice; so that there is roundness in the sounds, you have to feel them reflecting against the palate. Above all, go slowly, simple, simple!" She said to him: "What do you want to be? An orator? You must be one everywhere, in your room, in the street." She also gave this advice, purely scenic and bad for a speaker: "To dye the words with the feeling that they give birth to." 

Herault says that he constantly thought of Mlle Clairon's voice, and he characterizes his own manner by recalling that of his teacher: "She takes her voice from the middle sometimes softly, sometimes forcefully, and always in such a way as to direct it as she pleases. Above all, she often moderates it, which gives it the slightest brilliance that makes it shine. She goes very slowly, which contributes at the same time to furnishing the mind with ideas, grace, purity and nobility of style. I maintain that there is, in speech, as in music, a sort of measure of tones which helps the mind, at least mine. I have felt that going quickly offends and prevents the exercise of my ideas..." "... Do not believe that this is a real slowness. One disguises it, sometimes by force, sometimes by warmth that we give to certain words, to certain phrases. The result is a pleasing variety, but the bottom line is always serious and posed." 

Such was his concern to speak well that for a long time he compelled himself to declaim in the morning the fury of Orestes and the whole role of Mahomet, to the point of scratching his voice: in the evening he felt a strong diction, easy and varied. He neglected no means of training. 

He carefully studied the gesture itself. Clairon said to him: "Your type is nobility and dignity in the supreme degree. Very few gestures, but place them appropriately, and observe the oppositions which bring out the changes in gestures." He himself said: "The multiplied gesture is small, is meager. The broad and simple gesture is that of true feeling. It is on this gesture that you will be able to convey a great movement." These notes contain even more practical remarks on action: "It is important to be firm on the feet which are like the base of the body, and from which all the assurance of the gesture proceeds. One cannot practice too much in one's room to walk firm and well under oneself, legs on feet, thighs on legs, body on thighs, back straight, shoulders low, neck straight, head well placed. I noticed that in general, gestures become easier when the body is tilted. When it is straight, if the arms are long, there is a risk of lack of grace. The mid-length gesture is infinitely noble and full of grace. Don't wiggle your wrists, even in the biggest movements. Before expressing a feeling, make the gesture (1)." 

(1) The most technical remarks follow: "The soul of the arm is in the elbow ... It is in the elbow that the movement necessarily begins. - When you want to raise your arm, raise your elbows: let it be in general level with the hand. - Also open your arms. These open gestures open beside the body are better than those made in front of you. - By raising your elbow you round your arm. - Also lower your head to make it easier to raise the arms. The gesture is in the combination of the head and the arm. Raise the arm all at once, that is to say, the arm and the hand together. Make the gesture often before speaking: that there often remains an end which can still rise when you have spoken. Open and spread fingers announce astonishment, admiration, surprise; add to it also the elevation of the chest which expands to receive the idea that strikes it.”  

Finally, here is a piece of advice which reveals the secret of the disdainful grace with which he appears on the platform: "You must always seem to create what you say. You must command in words. The idea that one speaks to those inferior in power, in credit and above all in spirit, gives freedom, assurance, even grace. I once saw d'Alembert in a conversation at his house, or rather in a hovel, for his room deserved no other name. He was surrounded by cordons bleus,* ministers, ambassadors, etc. What contempt he had for all these people! I was struck by the feeling that the superiority of the spirit produced in the soul." 

*Cordon bleus are blue ribbons, i.e. members of an order of knighthood known as L’Ordre des Chevaliers du Saint-Esprit. 

This rhetoric of Herault, so ingenious, explains the pleasure of his eloquence; it also explains its weakness. This orator, so preoccupied with training himself, with raising his head, with rising to the height of the subject, does not have in him the sources of oratorical inspiration, always ready and from which a Danton, a Vergniaud, and even lesser haranguers, rise up. I don't believe that he lacks conviction, nor that we should believe in the words that Bellart attributes to him: "When we asked him what party he was from, he answered that he was from the one who doesn't give a fuck about the others." No, there was sincerity in him about his philosophical and political preferences. But he did not have that revolutionary faith which transfigured even the most miserable in times of crisis.  

In his Traite sur l’ambition, he distinguishes between male brains and female brains; I believe that he should be placed, whatever has been said of it, in the second of these two categories. 

[bluebellwriting]

Love Me Tender Part 4

Alastor got up early the next morning with the intent of making you breakfast before your romp through the city. It’s a trait he got from his mother. Whenever he was sick or down or angry or particularly joyful, her love came pouring through to him in the form of food. He’s always thought it was the greatest devotion one could demonstrate. Good food, the kind that lifts the spirits and makes you feel warm some place deep, takes time and care and patience and love. And only people who deserve it get food like that.

Today he woke up with the vision of you eating his mother’s beignets, so he started planning out everything he would need as he walked into the kitchen.

“Heya, smiles,” came the still slurred words of Angel Dust.

Alastor’s shoulders tense but he refuses to show his discomfort any further. Although it probably wouldn’t have mattered, Angel was clearly still drunk from whatever party he had snuck out to last night. He probably couldn’t tell right from left at this point.

“Good morning.”

“You l-look... You look sexy.” Angel flops over onto the table and groans. Fat Nuggets nudges his ankles and makes a concerned oink.

Alastor rolls his eyes and slides the waste bin over to him with a flick of his fingers. 

“You look like you’re about to ruin the floors. For my sake, Nifty’s, and your dear sister, you’ll aim for the bin.”

Angel picks up the bin and squishes it against his cheek, hugging it like a baby. The little pig at his feet whines again and plops on the floor, sulking.

Alastor waves his hand and the ingredients begin to fly around the room, arranging themselves on the counter for him to get to work.

“Who ya lookin’... dressin’ sexy for? My sistah? YoU wanna get l-lucky with ma sistah?”

At once the eggs and milk that were still levitating in the air fall to the ground. The milk sloshes everywhere and the eggs land with a loud crack. Fat Nuggets squeals and hides under the table. Alastor’s shoulders arch and the bag of flour that was in his hand explodes from the grip of his fist. The flour cakes Alastor’s suit, hair, and face, thankfully hiding the vibrant red of his cheeks. If Angel had seen just how bright his cheeks were at the thought of... “getting lucky” with (Y/N), he would never be able to live it down.

“Oh my goodness!” Your voice, like music to Alastor’s ears, floats through the air but for once he is less than thrilled.

Alastor scrambles. He whips around and takes in the sight of you in this absolutely darling red dress with black flowers embroidered into the skirt, your hair was perfectly done up, ready for your day with him and here he is, messing up your kitchen. 

“What happened here?” You ask, your eyes lingering on the cracked eggs and then the flour caking his shoes. He must look like a complete wreck, absolutely putrid.

Before he can even begin to stumble out an excuse, Angel decides to open that big fat mouth of his.

“S-Smiles here was makin’ ya breakfast,” Angel sings. You roll your eyes.

“Angel how late were you out?”

“I’m s-still out,” he slurs, flopping onto the table unbothered by the milk that spilled there.

You groan and squeeze the bridge of your nose, feeling the beginnings of a headache that you really don’t need before meeting an Overlord. Only it’s about to get worse as you hear the excited squeal of your favorite pig.

Fat Nuggets runs and jumps at you, caking your dress in flour. But as much as you loved the dress and the confidence it gave you to be in the presence of this Rosie and... Alastor, you can’t say no to that little face.

You scoop him up in your arms and hold him like a baby. He immediately settles down, lets out as much of a sigh as he can, and relaxes in your arms.

“Hello, sweetheart,” you coo and waggle a finger in front of his nose.

Alastor’s dead heart almost dies a second time as he watches you, watches the way you coddle and care for the pig, how right you look with a baby of any sort in your arms. You tickle the pig’s tummy, causing him to squeal, and it takes everything within Alastor not to leap across the room and cradle you in his own arms. 

“I’m so terribly sorry about this, love. Let me clean this up.” Alastor kneels before you and pats the flour out of your dress. Your face flushes and you have to resist the urge to giggle at the smile he’s sending you. His pants are being ruined by the milk and yolk on the floor, but all he seems to be concerned with is you. 

It takes a lot for a man like Alastor to kneel before anyone. It’s the ultimate sign of weakness, submission. He’s just a little shorter than you when he’s like this but you have a perfect access to his jugular, could kill him in an instant, and he’d probably let you.

You smile sweetly down at him. Alastor wants to lean up and kiss you, your lips are so close like this.

“Hey! G-Give me back my baby,” Angel stands and stumbles over to you. “Go make one of your own!”

“Anthony!” “Angel!”

You both gasp and Alastor is thankful once again for the flour shielding his cheeks.

You step away from Alastor and stomp on your brother’s foot, drawing a sobering squeal from him.

“Don’t be nasty!”

Alastor sighs, mourning the ruined moment. That was a moment, right? It felt like one.

With a snap of his fingers, Alastor has cleaned the entire kitchen and produced a steaming plate of beignets, although, they are hardly up to his standards. Some knockoffs of his mother’s recipe, undeserving of the honor of being held in your hand. But you both have a long day ahead of you.

“Care for one, dearest?” He holds the plate out to you, drawing you away from your whining brother. The frown on your face is instantly replaced by your glowing smile, a good sign.

“Oh, thank you. That’s so sweet.” You continue to hold Fat Nuggets in one set of your arms and take a beignet with a remaining free hand. “You really didn’t have to--”

“I won’t hear it,” Alastor scolds. “It is never a chore to cook for a lovely lady.”

Your cheeks feel as though they have caught on fire. You want to come up with some witty comeback, some harmless little flirtation to diffuse the glint in his eyes and the softness of his smile. But your mind is running a blank and he’s looking at you with the most hopeful of smiles, so you take a bite. He watches you closely as you chew and take in the waves of vanilla and sugar. It’s delicious, breathtakingly delicious.

“Do you like it? It’s my mother’s recipe.” He grins and tilts his head, making him look all the more like a precious deer.

“It’s wonderful. You really outdid yourself. Would you... Would you mind showing me when we get back?”

Yes, he wants to scream. Yes, and then we can have dinner and talk about the rest of our lives together.

“I would love nothing more,” he says, in the most tender tone a man like him can muster. 

“Should we get going?” You ask, turning to the door in a foolish attempt to avoid his intensity.

“Absolutely!” Alastor hooks his arm around one of yours and tugs you close to his side.

---

The walk to Rosie’s Emporium is easy. Walking anywhere in Hell is easy when the Radio Demon has you snuggled into his side as he chats with you about the glory of Creole cuisine. You’ve implored him to teach you more about it in exchange for his own requested lessons in Italian pastry making. Although you still haven’t quite figured out why a man who notoriously hates all things sweet and sugary would want to learn about one of the richest dessert cultures ever. But like most things regarding Alastor, it’s a mystery. A cheeky mystery you can’t help but want to unravel, if it meant getting to spend an extra minute in his presence.

He has a way of making you feel so special, like a spotlight is constantly on you and deserves to be on you. And he’s one of the few men you have met in this life and the life before that never seemed to care about your weight, the width of your hips, the parts that stick out where on most they stick in. Either he doesn’t care or he sees you as nonthreatening because of it, but you can’t say you want to complain. It’s nice to get a bit of attention. 

It’s also nice to not get hassled on the streets for once. To not be hollered at because someone wants to fuck you or because someone wants to kill you. Demons clear a path for you like a rock in a stream and you know it’s all him, the mafia isn’t nearly as powerful here as it was up there. But his confidence and his glee and his power seep off of himself and into you. Another gift that comes from being so close to him.

Rosie’s Emporium reminds you of the shopping centers from when you were alive. It’s so quaint and prim and well kept that it doesn’t even look as if it belongs with the filthy buildings that surround it. The only marring detail is the black paint (although it might be dried blood, you’re not sure) crossing out the name ‘Franklin.’

“Who was Franklin,” you ask as Alastor strolls forward with a newfound fervor towards the door.

“Rosie’s dearly departed husband. Although... it’s best not to talk about that now, darling.”

Alastor throws open the door and leaves your side. As soon as he enters, the throes of women shopping and lurking swoon. They all greet him with girlish squeals and coos of his name, and it is then that you realize that him accompanying you was not really a favor for him. He wasn’t really here for you, was not concerned, just looking for a reason to get out of the stuffy hotel and into his crowd of adoring admirers.

Alastor goes on to charm the eye-batting crowd like it’s absolutely nothing, while the bricks around your heart slowly start to build themselves back up again. You’re not completely surprised. He’s always been teeth-rottenly charming and oozing charisma. That’s not the part that hurts, it’s just his nature. 

The part that hurts is that you were actually starting to feel different. That perhaps the flirting he did with you was in some way different than what these women got from him. That in some way you were, God forbid, special. But that’s far too much to ask from a man so caught up in himself and his own inflating ego. You weren’t special, just a store of validation for him to tap when he couldn’t escape here.

With your heart effectively locked back up, you have no more distractions, no more vulnerable emotions. The version of you who shot up mobsters in the streets, who poisoned and threatened men without a second shot, comes back in earnest. You steal yourself and wander towards a receptionist.

“Hello,” you say, back straight and eyes icy. “I have an appointment with Rosie.”

“Name?” She asks, ogling Alastor from her desk.

“(F/N) (L/N).”

By some great feat of strength, the girl is able to peel her eyes off of Alastor and down to her calendar.

“Oh! Yes, she’s waiting for you. Right back through there,” she says quickly so she can resume her admiration-from-a-distance. You thank her quietly and head to the back room, hoping to make it there without Alastor who you really don’t need to see right now. But today the universe doesn’t care what you want because he’s right by your side just as you knock on the office door. 

“There you are, darling,” he cheers.

“Here I am.”

Rosie calls you in and you march forward before Alastor’s lanky arm can make its way around you again.

---

Usually the men you meet with are that. Men. In large mahogany offices with clunky leather furniture. The rooms always smell of smoke and hard liquor. They’re always cliches.

Rosie’s office is warm and inviting despite her Overlord status. It fosters false security with its pink furniture, silk curtains, and the multi-tiered tray of tea cakes ready for her guests to consume, like the witch’s home in Hansel and Gretel. And Rosie herself screams, “I’m a sweet darling in my modest dress and my big floppy hat. Please trust me inherently so I can snatch you in my web and digest you.” 

It’s diabolical and you love that.

You offer her a polite smile and she sends an eager, toothy grin right back at you, not Alastor. No, he gets a much softer, much fonder smile.

“Good morning, ma’am. It’s very nice to meet you,” you bow your head, offering up your own sense of false security in the form of humility.

“Likewise. I’ve heard wonderful things about you, Miss (L/N). Good to see you again, Alastor darling.”

Behind you, Alastor flushes and his eyes widen, which only makes Rosie’s teasing smile wider. As a distraction, Alastor sets his eyes on to you. He’s never quite seen you so at ease. You take a seat opposite Rosie as if you were friends for millennia. You take a small finger sandwich from the same tier that Rosie takes one. Smart. You indulge in Rosie’s small talk about the latest politics and the hotel. Smart. You keep your shoulders and the curt smile on your face steady. Amazing. 

It occurs to Alastor quite quickly that he really didn’t need to be here, at least, not for your sake. You were fine and your years of dealing with creatures as diabolical as Rosie were shining through. Cooking and baking were not the only things you had a mastery over. 

You descend into business soon. Your ability to negotiate a fair price for Rosie’s ability to transport your family’s goods across Hell’s circles lights up a spark in Alastor’s heart. And he realizes even more now that you’re brilliant and resilient and he’s just dead weight at this point. Rosie seems equally captivated by you. When you’re not looking, she sends him playful winks and even sent him a thumbs up when you refuse a truly awful business proposal from her. Maybe he shouldn’t have talked so endlessly about you to her. Rosie was clearly going to blow his cover, she’s not as sneaky as she thinks she is.

“Don’t you think, Alastor?” Rosie’s voice brings him out of his internal reverie and panic.

“E-Excuse me, darling. What was that?”

Rosie smirks, “I said that your companion’s idea is brilliant. I hadn’t even thought to start peddling products from the other circles in my own shop.”

“I just figured,” you chime in, “with your connections all around Hell, your Overlord abilities, and your business savvy, that our clients’ products would be the best in your hands. And selling them through your store would not only increase your business but would also save my family the trouble of peddling product around town. Far too many mouthes to shut.”

Rosie grins at Alastor, then leans towards you with great interest.

“I think we can make that work, dear.”

Alastor flushes and excuses himself quickly back into the emporium. You’re fine. You’re more than fine. You’re doing swimmingly and you didn’t need him at all. That’s what scares him. This whole time he’s been trying to demonstrate just how useful he could be to you, just has much of an asset he could be in your life if you just let him linger there. This meeting, the way you’ve handled yourself, is just another sign to Alastor that he needs to try harder, do better. His eyes catch something on one of Rosie’s many shelves and he makes a b-line towards it, in a vain attempt to prove to you just how necessary he is.

You noticed every single wink Rosie sent Alastor even though you’re sure she was trying to hide them. It just places a layer of steel and concrete around the bricks until your heart is nothing but an impenetrable fortress. You focus on Rosie in an attempt to ignore the way Alastor hovers just behind you, probably to get a better look at Rosie. She’s really delightful and lady-like and polite and powerful and beautiful. So many things that you are just not but it’s obvious why Alastor would find himself taken with this woman. Even you are, to an extent. She reminds you of the mother you wished you had but gave up on long ago. 

You draw up a deal with Rosie quickly, and the entire time she talks to you about Alastor.

“He’s a wonderful cook, don’t you think?”

“Yes, he is,” you give a curt response back, really wanting to just finish this contract, go home, and cry into your pillow. 

“And an impeccable singer.”

“He likes to remind everyone of that, yes.”

“And quite powerful, too. I’m sure you’ve heard the stories, but he was quite the firestorm when he first arrived and continues to be. I personally couldn’t take my eyes off of him.” 

You grit your teeth and smile through the heaps of compliments that she heaves. 

When you exit Rosie’s office with a completed contract and a date with Rosie to have tea to “get to know one another,” you spot Alastor at the checkout counter. There’s a box in front of him on the counter, but the checkout girl seems rather keen on holding him hostage. She wraps and re-wraps the box over and over, purposefully ripping the paper or running out of tape so she can prolong her time with the Radio Demon. Alastor continues to smile at her and you had quite enough. 

You bid Rosie a goodbye and speed your way towards the door.

“Darling, hold on! I’m not quite finished--”

You don’t turn around. You don’t want to see him. You can’t seem him, and he certainly can’t see you because then he’ll see the tears ready to pour down your cheeks. You face the door and try to steady your voice.

“Actually Alastor, I think I want to go on a walk for myself for a while. Please, stay and enjoy your adoring fans.”

You leave quickly, just in time for the tears to spill over.

Alastor stops in his tracks. The half-wrapped box is in his hands, he didn’t want to wait any longer to take it from the incompetent and rude checkout girl. Couldn’t she see that this was clearly a romantic gift meant for you, his sweetheart?

He feels a hand on his shoulder. Rosie tsks up at him.

“She’s a remarkable young lady.”

“Isn’t she?” His eyes are locked on the door as if he can still see you standing there.

“You probably shouldn’t have come,” she teases.

“You might be right about that, dear.”

“Try picking out a more romantic sight for your first promenade around town, darling. And definitely don’t underestimate her and don’t lose her,” she whispers and pats his back before retreating to her office.

[marvel-and-mischief]

His Saving Grace Part V

Title: His Saving Grace - Maxwell Lord x F!Reader  Words: 4400 Warnings: verbal abuse, alcohol, drunken behaviour, angst, swearing Synopsis: Maxwell takes you to a business gala, explains what happened on that unusual day, and meets a familiar face. But not everything goes according to plan.

Part I  -  Part II  -  Part III  -  Part IV

A month passes in a flurry of meetings and spontaneous lunches with Maxwell, and  being the odd one out whilst he spent his half a day a week with Alistair (Mrs Lord had decided that she trusted you enough to leave her son under your care). Though, by the third week Alistair had began to warm up to you, asking you questions and thrusting toys into your arms, urging you to join in the fun on the living room floor with him and his father. 

Most of Maxwell’s conversations with you were about Alistair, or how well his new investments were doing. You didn’t elect to bring up what had happened in the restaurant a month ago, where he had you blabbering like an idiot with a silly schoolgirl crush, and he didn’t bring it up. You thought he might’ve, that it was maybe an indication that something was brewing between the two of you, but perhaps you were mistaken.

Though you noticed his hand would linger on the small of your back long after he had ushered you through a door, and he’d taken to kissing you on the cheek, a whispered ‘thank you’ on a Saturday afternoon when Mrs Lord had picked up Alistair and your work there was done. 

But it was always respectful, professional. 

One Monday you arrived at Maxwell’s apartment for lunch. Though you didn’t meet everyday, Maxwell was sure to telephone you most days and the night before he had been eager to have lunch with you to discuss something important. You begged him to tell you over the phone but he insisted he wanted to tell you in person. The excitement in his voice had you grinning and accepting his invitation easily. 

He pulled you over to the island in the middle of the kitchen when you arrived and you saw it was lined with buttered toast and various jams, a cafetière filled with fresh coffee, plain croissants and a bowl of fruit. 

“What are you up to?” You asked, teasing him and roaming you eyes over the delicious food as you took a seat. 

“Must I be up to something to treat my favourite lawyer?” Maxwell looked genuinely affronted at your accusations before the mask slipped and a cheeky smile appeared on his lips. He fetched a bottle of milk from the fridge and a small saucer with sugar cubes on and placed them down next to your mug before taking his seat opposite you.

“Either that or you’re about to fire me,” you winked as you took a bite of your toast. 

“Absolutely not! It would be like shooting myself in the foot.”

It wasn’t the most obvious of compliments but it still had you finding your slice of toast much more interesting than it was, unable to meet Maxwell’s eyes. 

“I’ve been feeling very positive lately. With seeing Alistair every week and my investments working out. I think we should do something.”

“To celebrate?” You asked inquisitively, ignoring the part where he said ‘we’.

“Sort of,” Maxwell left his place at the island and picked up a pamphlet off a side table in the living room, “I saw this when I was out getting groceries. I would like to take you.”

Maxwell handed you the pamphlet. You curiously scanned the fancy writing, the black and gold color scheme, the illustration of a woman in a beautiful gown. It was a gathering of local business owners raising money for charity, or more accurately an excuse to dress up and have a party.

“There will be opportunities to schmooze and swap business cards but most importantly there will be dancing and copious amounts of champagne,” Maxwell seemed delighted at the idea, a hopeful look in his eyes as he watched for your reaction. 

You licked the crumbs off your finger and thumb and started to nod.

“It’ll be fun,” you wanted to match Maxwell’s excitement but you had never been to anything like this, it was a whole other world to the one you were used to. But to Maxwell, this was a taste of his old life again, the glitz and the glamor of throwing money around until it sticks. 

“It will be fun. You get to dress up and show everybody in the business world that you are the one to go to if they need help.”

You couldn’t help smiling bashfully. And yeah, maybe it would be nice to relax for once, let your hair down for a night, even show off a little. You were good at your job and everyone should know it.

But there was one thing nagging in the back of your mind. Maxwell had said he didn’t want this lifestyle anymore, was he really ready to go back into the limelight?

“Maxwell,” you put down the pamphlet in favor of reaching across the island and holding his hand, “are you ready for this?”

His smile dropped a fraction, a wistful look crossing his features as he gave your hand a squeeze. After a moment’s pause he spoke seriously.

“I cannot hide for the rest of my life. I must face the music one day, and what better way to do that than with a celebration?”

“But a gala for businessmen and women? You’re sure to bump into somebody you knew.”

“Perhaps. But these people won’t want to make a fuss. They’re all about appearances.”

“You’re sure?”

Maxwell chuckled, dismissing your apprehension. 

“Everything will be fine.”

You hoped he was right.

-

Four days later you were sat in the back of a car Maxwell had hired for the two of you, bouncing your leg with nerves and staring up at Maxwell’s living room window as you awaited your date for the night to leave his apartment and join you. 

You had brought your dress second hand, not sure if it was appropriate for the event or even if it was meant to match Maxwell’s outfit. You had no idea what was ‘etiquette’ at these galas, having never been to one. 

You’d found a long dark green dress with thin straps over the shoulder and gold embroidered wildflowers in random patterns all over. You’d also come across an old black clutch at the back of your wardrobe from your clubbing days to go with it. You felt beautiful getting dressed up for the first time in years, even better that it was with Maxwell.

Speaking of which, when he came through the doors of the building you audibly gasped at how handsome he looked. His sleek, black three piece suit fit perfectly to his shape, whereas his everyday suits often looked boxy this one didn’t have the over the top shoulder pads and he looked better for it, more approachable in appearance. His shirt was white and had a crimped style and instead of a normal tie he wore a mint green bowtie, a fun addition that put a smile on your face. 

Maxwell slipped into the car next to you, taking you in with a slow sweep of your outfit and an audible release of breath that had you second guessing your choices.

“You’re a sight to behold,” Maxwell admired you one last time before pointing to his bowtie and your dress, “and we almost match.”

You laughed, nerves dissipating as you allowed Maxwell’s compliment to seep in. Maxwell told the driver to drive on, unbuttoned his jacket and relaxed into his seat. He didn’t seem anxious to be going to a gala full of people. You were a little uneasy at the prospect of meeting people he might know, you had no idea how they would react to seeing him again but you were determined to have Maxwell’s back at every corner if you were met with conflict. 

When you rolled up outside the museum you had to wait for arrivals in the car in front of your own to exit before you could. You watched as the flashing lights of the photographers were blinding the people walking passed them, and it took you back to when those cameras were shoved in your face during the worst time of your life. Would these photos be publicised? What would people think about you turning up to a charity event with a disgraced ex-oil tycoon?

Maxwell shuffled to the middle seat to grasp your hand in his, calling your name to take your attention away from what was happening outside.

“Are you alright?” The concern in his voice was genuine and the hand holding yours brought you out of your spiralling thoughts. 

“I’ll be better once we’re passed them,” you pointed to the photographers but kept your eyes on Maxwell. He hummed and leaned over the front seat to whisper in the driver’s ear. Before you could question him, the car was driving away.

“Where are we going?” You asked in confusion.

“We’re going to enter round the back instead. I have some ties to this place so it should be fine,” Maxwell gave you a reassuring smile that had you instinctively leaning against his shoulder. It was comforting having Maxwell so close, you could smell his expensive cologne that reminded you of old books in a library and a little bit woodsy. Oh what you would give to be in his presence all the time. 

-

The Smithsonian was a thing of wonder, even entering through a discreet back door away from the sparkle of the main event. After charming a security guard he seemed to know, Maxwell guided you with a hand in yours through narrow nineteenth century corridors, moving closer to the loud music at the front of the building. You passed dark locked offices and hurried through rooms with posters of animals and glass cabinets filled with artefacts far beyond your understanding. 

“How do you know your way around here?” You asked as you took in your surroundings.

“I’ve been here before,” Maxwell’s reply was short, bordering on stern as he dragged you through the maze of corridors. 

“I’m sorry, I didn’t mean-“

“No no,” Maxwell slowed down enough to bring you in step beside him, deliberately loosening his grip on your hand as he realised he had been clinging harshly and pulling you around the museum behind him. It wasn’t until you reached the gems and minerals department that you felt Maxwell stiffen up beside you.

“This is where it all began,” he confessed, pointing around the room in a generalised manner. You understood what he meant, but not knowing exactly what had gone down that day, you were confused as to how it linked in with a natural history museum. 

“What happened?” You ventured, hesitant to push too hard on the subject.

“There was a stone I’d been researching for months and I traced it back to here,” Maxwell glanced over his shoulder to a door that led into an office.

“What sort of stone?”

“A Dreamstone,” Maxwell breathed, his fingers flexing around yours, “it granted wishes,” at your sceptical look he huffed out a laugh, “I know, it’s madness but I swear it’s true.”

He wasn’t playing a practical joke on you, that much you could tell, but how could a stone make your wishes come true? You decided for the most part Maxwell was sound of mind so it must be true, somehow.

“So, you took it? And made a wish?”

“I did. I wished to become the stone, that way I could grant people’s wishes and take a wish in return. I had limitless wishes, and I used every single one of them for my own benefit, to get more rich, more powerful, more evil,” Maxwell whispered the last word as he began to walk away from the department towards another corridor. 

“You were already one of the most famous men in America, why did you need more?”

Maxwell let out a sarcastic laugh that made you jump. Thinking he’d scared you Maxwell tried to pull his hand from yours but you held tight, preventing him from doing so. 

“I told myself it was for Alistair, to give him the world if he asked for it. I’m sure you and all your goodness would say I was misguided but the truth is, I wanted it. I said to myself, why shouldn’t I have everything I’ve ever wanted? Damn the consequences.”

You shook your head, disagreeing with the harshness in Maxwell’s voice and words. He wasn’t a bad man, you knew Maxwell was good at heart. The man he was describing wasn’t the man in front of you today. The man who had you entering the back of a gala because he saw how uncomfortable you were with the cameras at the front. 

“I don’t believe you,” you stated adamantly.

“No, it is all true,” Maxwell argued but you shushed him as the music and the chatter of guests was getting louder. You came to an oak door and you knew the gala was on the other side. Before you opened it you paused and turned to face Maxwell.

“I believe your story but I don’t believe for a second that you wanted to be some king of the world. Otherwise why did you stop before you went too far?”

Maxwell opened his mouth to retort but closed it again, looking like a gaping fish out of water. He couldn’t come up with an answer that suited his self-deprecating view of himself. He saw Alistair in his mind’s eye, the answer to your question, but it would only further prove your point. 

“We should go out there and enjoy ourselves, what do you think?” You asked, reaching forward to straighten up Maxwell’s bowtie. When you finished, you saw Maxwell looking at you with a sappy smile and a look you couldn’t put your finger on. Before you could ask, he offered you his arm and you took it, pushing open the oak door together. 

-

You squinted into the dim, atmospheric lighting of the large room and paused for a moment to get acquainted to the loud music from the speakers on either side of you. The space was massive and could easily accommodate a couple of hundred people. There were cabinets of artefacts along the perimeter, skeletal displays hanging down from the roof, waiters walking around with trays of champagne. It was a world far from your own but you didn’t feel uncomfortable with Maxwell by your side.

You turned to Maxwell who nodded in the direction of the bar off to the side and up some steps. You let him guide you as you surveyed the dance floor, noting the guests were in deep conversations instead of dancing. You realised that this was the time to be talking to other business owners and swapping cards.

You opened your clutch and picked out the dozen or so business cards you’d had made and showed them to Maxwell as soon as you reached the bar.

“Ah, you listened to me!” Maxwell exclaimed with a delighted grin, waving down a bartender, “what do you want?”

“A cocktail?” You weren’t sure what you could order in a museum but Maxwell understood and ordered you something you’d never heard of before.

“You’ll like it, it’s sweet,” he assured you and took one of your business cards to look over.

“Is it okay?” You asked, a tightness in your chest as you awaited his opinion. You didn’t want to look stupid in the face of the rich and powerful. 

“It’s nice, sophisticated and sleek, is that what you’re going for?”

You watched his finger trace the curvy triangle running from the top left corner of the card to the bottom right, a shiny pink against the matte black background. You nodded, certain it was exactly what you were going for. You had been a smart, capable and hard working lawyer and you wanted to bring that to your new role as a Career and Business Adviser. 

“I want to be taken seriously,” you took back the card and shuffled them into a neat pile on the bar top just as your drink was placed in front of you.

“And you will be, you can do this,” Maxwell winked and it sent a warmth throughout your body. 

When you were finished with your drink Maxwell directed you away from the bar and into the crowd. The nerves in every part of your body were on fire as you spoke to your first stranger, an older woman who owned a store in the middle of D.C. She spoke of the rising costs of renting her store and the trouble she was having attracting new customers.

You gave her advice that had her asking for your business card before you could even offer her one. 

Maxwell’s hand was a comforting presence on your back as he urged you towards different people he thought would be potential clients. Some people recognised him with a look of shock, some gave him a wide berth but most people nodded politely or didn’t give him the time of day. You were too busy concentrating on your job for the night to notice, but Maxwell was grateful that everything seemed to going smoothly for you. 

You were about to ask Maxwell if he wanted another drink when you spotted a tall, slender woman with long, wavy brunette hair on a mission to push through the crowd and reach Maxwell by any means necessary. You caught his eye, raising a questioning eyebrow but all he did was let out a long breath and face the woman who had a look of curiosity on her face. Her striking features, sharp jawline and pursed lips, set you on edge. You didn’t know whether she was going to slap Maxwell or have a very strongly worded conversation with him.

“Maxwell Lord,” she said, surprise in her tone and an accent you couldn’t place, but up close you thought she was the most beautiful woman you had ever seen. When she finally took notice of you she flashed you a friendly smile that made you weak at the knees. Who was this woman?

“Diana,” Maxwell greeted her nervously, urging you to his side and speaking your name to Diana who welcomed you with a genuine smile.

“What are you doing here?” She asked, crossing her arms in front of her chest.

“I could ask you the same. I thought you never attended these events.” So Maxwell was hoping to avoid this Diana, you realised. There was a tension between them that you couldn’t figure out. Were they lovers once? Enemies? It was a weird atmosphere that left you confused and feeling like a third wheel. 

“I’ve been pushing myself out of my comfort zone recently,” Diana said with an air of mystery. You looked between the two of them, a frown etched onto your face. 

Maxwell glanced at you and realised how this must seem and quickly went about to explain the situation.

“Diana helped me to see the error of my ways,” Maxwell spoke slowly, hoping to give you the hint of what he was referring to. You realised he was talking about the day he made his wishes, and this woman was the one who helped prevent him from falling deeper into the dark. 

“Oh,” you gasped, nodding in understanding as Diana smiled shyly at the two of you.

“I simply reminded him of his humanity,” Diana seemed to relax once she caught onto the fact you knew exactly what they were talking about. She eyed you with interest, no doubt wondering how you and Maxwell came to be friends in the couple of months since the incident. You didn’t feel threatened under her gaze, instead it made you stand a little taller. You were proud at how far Maxwell had come since that day, he was almost unrecognisable from the mad oil tycoon everyone saw on their televisions and you hoped Diana could see that. 

You didn’t notice how Maxwell was staring at you, a warmth settling on his chest as he admired your bravery. You could have shied away from this event, refused to attend with him and he wouldn’t have blamed you in the slightest. You were strong in the way Maxwell would never be. You didn’t need help to stand back up on your feet after everything you’ve been through, you were unafraid to walk the world with a target on your back from being seen with him. He thinks you would still stand proud, head held high even if you knew Diana’s true character. 

Diana saw the look Maxwell was giving you and took it as her cue to leave. She didn’t need to keep an eye on this Maxwell Lord, not when you were there to keep him on the straight and narrow path of goodness and truth. Five minutes was all it took for Diana of Themyscira to see you were his saving grace. 

“I will leave you both to it,” Diana nodded to Maxwell and turned to leave but came to a stop just as quickly. You looked to see what she was doing and saw her wide eyes turn on Maxwell.

You weren’t sure what was going on but you knew it wasn’t good when Maxwell grabbed your hand and pulled you into his side roughly. You would have grumbled your objection but you saw the fear on his face as he frantically looked around the room.   

“What is it? What’s wrong Maxwell?” You urged him to answer you, but he didn’t need to because out of the corner of your eye you saw a man tripping towards you from the bar, clothes askew and holding an empty glass.

“You should be behind bars!” He pointed rudely at Maxwell who silently guided you to be completely shielded behind him. 

“Sir, I think you’ve had a few too many-“

“You ruined my life!” The man exclaimed. He was close enough that he would have shoved his meaty finger into Maxwell’s chest but quick as lightning Diana forced her body between the two men and had the stranger’s finger held tight in her fist.

“You don't want to do that,” Diana spoke quietly, but there was a threatening undertone to her words that shocked you. You moved to lean into Maxwell’s ear whilst Diana tried to talk the man down.

“Let’s leave,” you said softly, seeing the sadness in Maxwell’s eyes now you were closer to him. You attempted to smile, to let him know without words that you weren’t disappointed with how the night had gone. You probably would have left soon anyway, the rude man just accelerated things. 

Maxwell held your hand once again, it was becoming an ordinary occurrence between you two, and started to guide you through the crowd.

“Oi!” You heard the drunk man shout behind you but you hoped Maxwell would ignore him. “Your wishes destroyed my life, you bastard!”

Maxwell kept walking and you kept following. The crowds parted for the two of you but they only offered you pitying looks. It made your blood boil. They saw what had happened and instead of being angry at the drunk idiot causing a scene they were sad that you were caught up in it. Caught up with Maxwell. 

You didn’t want pity and you certainly didn’t want their judgements. You would be glad to never see any of them again.

When Maxwell pulled you outside it was dark, stars twinkling in the sky, the air cool and refreshing on your burning skin. Maxwell let go of you and strode over to the car he had rented for the night, knocking on the drivers side window to wake up the driver who startled awake. 

You slowly walked over, observing as Maxwell raked a hand through his hair and refused to look at you until you were standing in front of him.

“I can’t…You need to…” Maxwell sighed heavily and frustratingly kicked a pebble into the middle of the car park.

“I need to what?”

“You need to go. Far away from me, because people like him will always be around the corner.”

“You could say that about me.”

“Yes, but it didn’t happen to you tonight, it happened to me,” Maxwell jabbed his finger into his own chest as he frantically shucked off his jacket and loosened his bowtie until both pieces of fabric were hanging down the front of his shirt. 

You remained calm, understanding Maxwell’s words stemmed from his embarrassment at the situation and not because he actually wanted you to leave. 

“You want me to leave?”

“That’s what I said.”

“Your only friend?”

“I have no friends.”

“You do, you have me.”

Maxwell paused to take in your calm features, reminding himself of what he saw earlier tonight. Your strength, your inability to back down when the going gets tough. He couldn’t push you away if he really tried, he didn’t want to, and you knew that. 

He walked around to the back door of the car and opened it.

“Get in before you catch a cold,” Maxwell ordered half-heartedly and was relieved when you complied, scooting over the seats to leave space for him to join you. 

When the driver began to drive away you shuffled into the middle seat and laid your head on Maxwell’s shoulder, relaxing once he rested his head atop yours. 

Moments later you heard Maxwell sniffle and you carefully looked up to see tears filling his eyes and threatening to spill.

“Oh Maxwell,” you whispered, sitting up to wrap your arms around his shoulders, bringing his head into the crook of your neck.

“I have ruined everything.”

“No, you’re wrong. It will get better,” you ran a hand slowly through Maxwell’s hair as you reassured him, “you were very brave tonight, to go to a gala full of people who knew who you were.”

Maxwell hugged you around the waist, holding you tightly against him, the rise and fall of your chest against his, your fingers on his scalp and the smooth motion of the travelling car calming him down. 

“I’m scared for Alistair,” Maxwell croaked out against your neck.

“What do you mean?” 

“My disgrace will follow him around. He’ll always be the son of Maxwell Lord.”

Your heart broke for your friend, but what could you say? You couldn’t predict the future, you just had to stick around to show him he was wrong. 

Permanent tag list: @autumnleaves1991-blog @kaelyn-lobrutto24 @galactic-rhi @phoenixhalliwell @thewayofthemandalorian @computeringturtle @shikin83 @lesbianlena 

[realityhelixcreates]

Lasabrjotr Chapter 77: Like a Good Old-Fashioned Barn Raising

Chapters: 77/?

Fandom: Thor (Movies), Marvel Cinematic Universe

Rating: pg

Relationships: Loki x Reader

Characters: Loki (Marvel),

Additional Tags: Post-Endgame: Best Possible Ending (Canon-Divergent), Party Time

Summary:  Buridag begins!

Loki was awake long before you were, getting preparations ready, loose ends tied up, last minute orders sent out. He allowed you to sleep until you woke on your own, having removed his little illusory alarms from you some time ago.

Sometimes flower petals still rained upon you, and perfume rose from your footsteps, but no more snakes in the bath.

So you rose slowly, stretching and yawning the grogginess away at your own pace. Time was very hard to tell by looking out windows at this time of year, but when Loki entered the room carrying an egg sandwich, a little pile of fresh potato chips, and a glass of coffee, you placed yourself firmly within brunch territory.

Loki flicked on your sunlamp, gestured at the chair, and handed you your brunch once you'd taken your seat.

You munched your food and absorbed your light while Loki laid out the day's plans. You'd get dressed in a ceremonial outfit that included your armor and helmet, and join the parade that was gathering even now.

They were initially going to put you on Sleipnir. You had asked them not to. Sleipnir was magnificent, but you had no connection to him, nor to Leynarodd, who was the second choice. Your sweet, stout, shaggy little Acorn was who you preferred, a horse that belonged to no one initially, but who had formed a trusting bond with you.

Your clothing was, predictably, green, the underdress and apron a dark mossy color, hemmed on all edges with fine gold braid, embroidered with stripes of delicate knotwork, and your mark, also in gold. Over the top of this went your quilted tunic, in it's shimmering jade, and then your armor; the breastplate, the tassets, the bracers, pauldrons, greaves, and poleyns, though the last two were not visible. They went on over the leather trousers you'd been given to wear under your dress. They were sleek things, made of tough black leather, pleated in diagonal patterns, just like something Loki would wear. You thought the pleats had the advantage of putting more leather between you and any danger, and were flexible as well.

There were actually places where your familiar oval brooches could be fastened, your strings of shining beads strung between, your chatelaine dangled. Your belt was tooled leather and brass findings, hung with a leather purse, your Yggdrasil phone case, a small drinking horn carved with your mark, and of course, your knife. A little burst of deep pink against all the gold, green, and black.

You wore a minty-green velvet cape, a gift from Andsvarr, and your beautiful helmet to top it all off. You truly looked like something out of a fantasy novel, someone who looked like they should be standing next to the legendary figure that Loki currently cut.

He looked enormous, with his many asymmetrical layers, and molded shoulder guards, his billowing cape and hair spilling from beneath his magnificent curling horns. He shone with nornbein, and his cloak, shot with silk, shimmered subtly.

“You're so beautiful.” you mumbled. Loki smiled, and leaned down to adjust your cape, cheeks dusted with pink.

“Thank you.” he said, “I make every attempt. Though I think I will fade into the background under the power of your radiance.”

Warmth rushed to your face.

“Um, I know we've got to hurry and get Acorn, but I want to ask you a favor, Loki.”

“Anything. Tell me what it is and I'll make it so.”

You took a deep breath.

“I need you to stop trying to impress my father.”

The pink on his cheeks transformed into bright red.

“Ah. Yes, I rather hashed that, didn't I? I apologize. I thought that was still standard procedure, but your father, uh, explained otherwise.”

“Mhm, I'll bet he did. Look, I know you wanted to surprise us, but when it comes to things like that, you really oughta run it by me first. I could have told you that wouldn't work out the way you thought it would. You know, saved you from being chewed out like that. You can let me save you sometimes too.”

“ Like with the Huldra.”

“Kinda. Dad's not as bloodthirsty as she was, but he's a lot more stubborn.”

“Like father, like daughter, hm?” he teased.

“You have not seen me be stubborn yet.” you warned, and he gave you a quick smooch.

“A blessing, I'm sure. Very well, I agree. Surprises get run by you. Anything to save me from another tongue lashing. That man truly does not hold back.”

“I mean it though.” you persisted. “I'm not saying that you can't have any surprises at all, but talk to me about big stuff like that. If it's something that Asgardian law or custom would demand, but would be insulting to a human, we can maybe hash out an alternative that would satisfy both. That's the point, isn't it? Please, I really don't want to deal with anymore trouble between you two. Don't get hung up on impressing him, he has every reason to reject it, and he will. No more gifts, no toasts, no calling attention to him in public, nothing. He hates being the center of attention. Just let him be a guest, and see, without interference, that his little girl is doing fine on her own.”

“I really didn't mean to make him so angry.” Loki said, a little crestfallen. “And the more I tried to explain, the angrier he became. I just wanted him to know how much I value you. I wanted you to know too.”

“Material culture is different where I'm from. There are places in the world where that would have been understood and appreciated, but we've stopped doing it. In the same vein, fathers don't make all the decisions for their daughters anymore, so you don't actually need his approval. But...I need you to understand, it's not just that you took away his child, though that's bad enough. It's that I'm the only family he has left. My grandma only had one kid, and that was my dad. And she's dead, and so's my granddad, before I was even born. And then my mom died, and Beth too, and so I'm all that's left for him. And I have this giant Sword of Damocles hanging over my head all the time, and he's had to worry about that for my whole life. Most of the women on my mom's side all died from this, but occasionally, rarely, there's one that doesn't. I'm starting to hope that might be me. Maybe the magic is protecting me. But he's not going to be able to accept that so easily. I'm all he had left, and you took me away. That's all that's going to be important to him. You didn't even have to do the things you did in New York, this is the worst possible crime you could commit, in his eyes.”

Loki heaved a sigh of remorse. “And I cannot even return you to him. It seems there is one more thing I cannot set right.”

“The best you can do is make sure I'm okay. And don't bother him anymore. And maybe let him come visit more often. The more he sees me living my life and being fine, the more confidence he will have that I'm actually safe here.”

“I shall endeavor to help you thrive.” Loki promised.

“All right, so if that's settled, we should go get our horses.”

                                                                         ******

Acorn was, like you, a bit overdressed in your opinion. Long tabbards and blankets covered her from nose to rump, green and gold, embroidered with oak leaves. They were so long, they almost brushed the ground. Ribbons were braided into her wild mane and tail, and bells jingled with every movement. Like you, she could barely be seen under her splendor. But she was probably warm, and happily accepted a carrot from your hand. Placid as always, she let you up on her back, and fell into step behind Leynarodd, who likewise, followed up behind Sleipnir, whose hooves still rang like bells even over the thin layer of packed snow that covered the recently cleared streets.

There was a whole procession of people-this was a parade after all, and Thor, on Sleipnir, was preceded by the twin Valkyries, carrying Asgardian banners, as well as several musicians, and Beli, who chanted an ancient epic on the exploits of Buri.

Saga had translated the chant for you a while ago, and it sounded something like the sensationalized, self-aggrandizing boasts of pharaohs, or Mesopotamian kings-the kind that claimed to be rulers of the world, or rulers of the heavens themselves, to have battled armies of demons, killed giant lions with only a stick-that sort of thing. But when Beli called out those verses in such an ancient dialect of Asgardian, the words themselves felt powerful.

Thor followed slowly, Sliepnir plodding along, both of them absolutely huge. Loki and Leynarodd came right behind, only slightly smaller. And then you and Acorn, almost comical in your stature, diminutive by comparison. You were keenly aware of it, but either all of Asgard was too polite to say anything about it, or they simply didn't care.

The human guests, corralled in roped off areas, whooped and cheered when when you passed. Behind you, more musicians played, and a circle of Seidkonas walked in silent dignity. Then came more banners, the rest of the Valkyries, representatives of each noble house and guild, and the rest of the Aesir in Asgard, provided they didn't already have another position in the parade.

After them, the gathered Asgardians began following, lengthening out the procession, bright balls of magical light bobbing overhead. The sun had barely peeked over the horizon, and would be slinking away in a mere three or so hours, so the mage lights sparkled everywhere. Helpful Einherjar herded the humans to the next specially roped off area, so they could follow the parade as well; you caught a few amused faces at the playful rowdiness displayed by celebrating humans.

That was just how humans were when they were excited about something. Humans loved to holler, to jump, and dance, and clap. Some of them were even trying to keep time with the music.

You weren't actually able to pick out your father or Tara in the crowd, nor anyone else you knew, so you just kept your head forward and your back straight, trying to look as dignified as you could.

You'd only ever seen a few of what you considered 'proper' parades: in a small town a parade mostly consisted of people waving from the backs of neighborhood pickup trucks and tractors, maybe decorated with balloons or paper chains, blasting music from dusty old speakers. In the autumn, there might be pumpkins and corn stalks, and usually hayrides. But never anything like this spectacle.

As you got closer to the construction site, the apprentice mages responsible for all the floating lights started throwing sparks from their hands, like colorful sparklers. The gathered Asgardians began lining up in their designated areas, ready to play their part. The foundations had already been dug, and everything that needed to go into them was already there. All that remained was the pouring.

Thor, Loki, and yourself dismounted as close to in unison as you could manage, the horses carefully lead away to a temporary enclosure. You headed to the stack of decorative bricks, and took your place among the Asgardians there, while Thor gave the order for the cement to pour.

While this went on, Beli gathered his students and skalds in front of the Huldrastone to recite a modern epic. Within the first few verses you realized that it was about the Huldra's attack, and your confrontation with her.

Of course, the poem was much cleaner and more elegant than the actual events had been, but certain things had still been included. Your ears burned beneath your helmet when Beli reached the part where you had 'bestowed upon the fallen prince, a gentle sacrificial kiss, knowing that to trade life for life would grant him breath once more.'

You had finally spotted your father and Tara in the crowd; he crossed his arms and glared upon hearing the verse, while Tara gave you a cheezy grin and thumbs up.

As the poem reached its conclusion, the cement finished pouring, and a new recitation began. As Thor and Loki knelt and began scratching ritual runes into the wet cement, Beli's current group of student came forward and began telling the story of Beli, while apprentice mages illustrated the words with colorful, stylized illusions.

There were harrowing battles against huge stone people, the construction of the original Bifrost, which at that time connected a fleet of alien ships to one another. The illusions showed the gathering of construction materials, the building of a platform in space, and the grand revelation of the crystalline platform upon which Asgard slowly grew. Mountain and plain, river and ocean, building after magnificent building rose into the sky. Their ships captured and carved an asteroid, then set it in orbit as a bright new moon. All this was accomplished by the use of a glowing, icy blue cube that was difficult to look directly at. It was compelling though; it caught and held your attention with its beautiful, sparkling light.

You knew what that device was: you had learned about it in your lessons with Saga. It was the object known as the Tesseract, a four dimensional creation meant to house the incredible energy of an Infinity Stone. Perhaps that was why it was simultaneously fascinating, yet hard to perceive. Your curious human brain was drawn to its uniqueness, yet equally unable to fully fathom it.

That device was the key to Asgard's existence and eventual success. It was unthinkable to you that Odin had just lost it on Earth, as Sagas histories had proclaimed. It must have been a terrible loss.

Thor and Loki completed their carving, and began the process of imbuing the foundations with divine power. Goosebumps rose on your arms, and there was a pricking in your sinuses, like you were about to sneeze. There was almost a flavor to it.

The actual blessing didn't take nearly as long as the rune carving ritual, and soon, the two brothers stepped back, to allow others to begin their work. More mages worked a spell together that lifted the water out of the cement, drying it within moments. People came forward with wires and pipes, floor and wall supports, insulation, hammers, plaster, bricks, and mortar. In rotating lines people laid flooring and installed fixtures, scraped grout and assembled frames. Every now and then youths moved through, sweeping up dust, always away from you.

It suddenly became clear that that was why you were so far back in line, why you'd been assigned a decorative brick, something that would be placed near the very end of the construction. There would be no dust then. Gratitude swelled in your chest, but you said nothing. There was singing now, simple, repetitive melodies that sounded like work songs.

Every hour, volunteers carted huge, heated cauldrons around the lines and groups of human spectators, dipping out hot drinks like witch's potions, and it was possible that there was a simple sort of magic in things like hot chocolate, strong coffee, and buttered rum on a cold day.

The building went up faster than you thought possible, the widows, doors, and lights being set into place as auroras began ribboning across the sky.

Finally, there was one brick left. You lifted it up, as the singing seemed to intensify, scooped some mortar from the pail, and fitted it all into the only remaining slot. Giving the brick a light pat to make sure it was secure, you turned back to the assembled crowd.

“We did it.” You said, and the cheering began.

[traditional-with-a-twist]

xxxii. Beauty and Her Beast

@claudeng80 ha ha ‘a title has not helped Obi express himself better’ - truer words never spoken XD Ryuu just processes too slowly to keep up with things, and you’re so right, everyone is still shell-shocked and twisted around!

@bubblesthemonsterartist awwww, yeah, probably safe to say that Obi and Shirayuki are not doing great at seeing the bigger picture here XD I’m a little chagrined, putting them through these situations that push them so far outside their healthy canon!

@the-pompous-potato hahaha thank you for accepting my slightly contrived criteria for the wedding ceremony XD wish I were one of those authors who meticulously researches culture/history but ANS is such a mishmash! You are too sweet about the writing and feels and everything; makes me so happy to know that you’re enjoying it! <3

<<Previous || first arc || second arc || AO3

The first prince entertained very few visitors in the wake of the intensive administrative outpouring surrounding his public address.

There was too much to do, to rebalance the scales and irrigate the neglected areas of his responsibilities.

After revolving on its hinges in the days leading up to the grand announcement, Izana’s door presented now an unyielding front to almost all callers.

When Kiki Seiran presented herself, however, the guards admitted her at once.

...

She found the prince deep in thought, chin resting on a long-fingered hand. 

Only his eyelids flickered in acknowledgement of her entrance. He knew without asking what she had come to deliver to him.

She laid the report on his desk: her official account of their journey north. 

As she backed away, Kiki inclined her head in deference to his position and to the gravity of the task. He had entrusted her with a deep and dangerous secret, and she knew it wouldn’t be the last time.

He regarded her with that slight smile that was more forbidding than another man’s frown. “Your service will not be forgotten, Kiki Seiran.”

It is a compliment, but also a promise.

...

As she turns to go, her eye catches on a pair of figures, plainly visible in the courtyard below through the prince’s sweeping glass doors.

The woman’s hair flames, while the man’s swallows the light. They linger together before parting.

He slides in the direction of the pharmacy; she starts towards the castle.

...

Kiki’s eyes dart towards the prince, but he is watching her, still with that same slight smile.

Izana is enigmatic as a mirrored window. He let you paint your thoughts onto his facade, inviting any interpretation, any fear, no matter how wild. 

All the while, he revealed nothing of himself.

...

Kiki bows herself out.

She knows without knowing how that Shirayuki wants to speak with her, so she goes to make herself available - to intercept the intended second princess before anyone else in the castle does.

Calculating without conscious effort a range of factors from the relative privacy that they might expect, to the likelihood that Shirayuki will seek her there, Kiki positions herself in an alcove with a view of the forest.

...

As she gazes on the waving branches, Kiki thinks of nothing in particular, content to wait, and see.

It is as if her body remembers for her: riding horseback, side by side, perfectly in synch.

She had known the day she met Mitsuhide that he was the man with whom she wished to spend her life. 

Subsequent exposure had served only to confirm, as snarls arose and pulled smooth in a spiral of increasing intimacy.

...

His awkwardness, his uncertainty around her, had gradually transformed from cause for misgivings into evidence in his favor.

She had weighed and measured each of his qualities, each exchange that passed between them, and found him worthy.

She no longer wondered who would preside alongside her at Seiran manor, whose crest would join hers over the fireplace in the great hall, whose name she would carve into the seal of the wooden chest delivered on her birth.

Now she doesn’t even know where he is.

...

Still that wooden chest waited.

As she grew, she had added to its contents: laboriously contrived needlework, then finer things, and more recently the delicately crafted weapons that one might slip under an embroidered sleeve or wear along with layered skirts.

The chest had accompanied Kiki to the palace alongside trunks of finery which she had made use of perhaps twice since arriving: once at the ball where she met Mitsuhide and once to play charades with Zen in the garden.

Shirayuki is smaller than I am, Kiki thought, but some of the simpler shifts might suit her. She could wear one intended for garden parties, sewn at tea-length, without having to pin up the hem.

Such a dress would easily stretch to cover Shirayuki’s ankles and render her acceptable according to the unwritten yet ironclad rules of the game that Shirayuki had decided to play.

...

Kiki had feared for her less when Shirayuki had engaged to play with Zen as her partner.

He wasn’t - hadn’t been - all wise, or impervious to attack, but he was native to it. He was also by nature brave and generous, and that, combined with his own peculiar insights into the hearts of others, meant that he had known when to bow before the rules and when to break them.

Kki had believed they would find a way together, and she had been proud to walk beside them.

...

Now she felt no such assurance.

She wouldn’t say that Shirayuki and Obi were like the blind leading the blind - despite their carelessness and outright willfulness at times, she knew them better than that.

It was more that neither spoke the language of the court from birth - and on whom could they reply to interpret?

Instead of a loving prince, they now relied for patronage on Lord Haruka, a reluctant and embittered enemy, who would have gladly seen them both vanish off the face of the earth had his duty not impelled him otherwise.

...

Kiki shook her head.

She didn’t like it any more than she had before the announcement, news which she had greeted with the grim resignation of one accustomed to witnessing births, marriages, and deaths all managed like pieces on a chessboard, as it suited the political purposes of those in power.

Shirayuki and Obi might have convinced themselves that the game was over, but Kiki knew that it had just begun.

...

...

Shirayuki saw with relief that Kiki didn’t look busy - she was only standing by a window, as if lost in thought.

She approached the other woman shyly, still more relieved when Kiki greeted her with the customary quiet smile.

Friendship was a strange thing: Shirayuki would have trusted Kiki with her life, as she had while sailing on a ship with an evil captain into unknown waters -- but now she felt nervous.

She had never asked Kiki for a favor before.

...

Shirayuki joined Kiki at the window. The thought crossed her mind that her friend looked sad, even as Shirayuki was preoccupied with churning doubts over how to broach such a sensitive subject.

“I,” she faltered, blushing. “I’ve heard that--at least, here in Clarines--”

“I have a dress that will fit you,” Kiki answered, in unhesitating agreement with the question that had yet to be asked. “You won’t need much more than that.”

“Oh,” Shirayuki squeaked. “Really?”

...

“It will be a small ceremony, and you can keep your underclothes.” Kiki paused. “Unless you want silk stockings.”

“What? No, no!” Shirayuki waved her hands, her face flaming. “That’s not--I don’t need…” She stopped when she saw a twinkle in Kiki’s eye.

Shirayuki smiled back weakly. “Thank you. That’s very kind. Very, very kind!”

...

“This way.” Kiki was already in motion. “You can have it from my chambers now.”

“From…?” Shirayuki stumbled to keep up. 

An uneasy thought struck her. “Kiki...is it...your dress?”

“Tell me if it’s too long, and we’ll find a tailor.”

...

“But!” Dismayed, Shirayuki caught at her sleeve.

Kiki looked over her shoulder, her expression gentle. “Don’t worry, Shirayuki…

“...I won’t be needing it.”

[newbornwhumperfly]

however the hour may call…

CW: fantasy racism, self-hatred, self-harm, low self-worth

a small ficlet for @much-ado-about-whumping’s d&d character - lander krusk lackman, a self-hating half-orc with the worst self-worth (he needs therapy yestersay but will he get it? why would he when blatant abnegation works just as well!)

title insp. by “staying alive” by mary oliver

(“there are the stubborn stumps of shame, grief that remains unsolvable after all the years, a bag of stones that goes with one wherever one goes and however the hour may call for dancing and for light feet.”)

~

Lander doesn’t drink - never amongst company, anyway.

He swallows back his flicker of desire for some mulled beer or even a little ale to shave off the edge of his nerves, singing like a sharpened blade. He’d never compromise his control like that, especially not now: not when the needling eyes feel like flies crawling over his body, when whispers trail him like shadows.

He fights the urge to rub at his eyes lest he draw attention to his weariness, blinks rapidly against the wavering lines of bodies, narrowing his focus to a tapestry, some sprawling orchard sewn in crimson and gold thread. Lovely human figures gather fruit prettily, a delicate dance as he sees here in this grand ballroom.

Not an orc in sight, of course. No sooty stitches cast a figure like him in such a fairytale scene. He sips at the cold water in his goblet, washing back bitter taste in his mouth - his body runs warmer than most humans to the restrictive brocade itches against his skin.

The cut is too small for him but the tunic was a gift waiting in his room - he strains the material, hulking shoulders and arms pulling at the seams. It is made for a different body than his own but he knows better than to complain. It’s not anyone else’s fault that his bones are too bulky. That the delicate, embroidered periwinkle (when he favors dark palettes) is garish on him.

He steadfastly ignores the ridiculous sensation of being strangled when the collar shifts against his throat. He needs to focus on his duties. He must travel to some nearby country tomorrow, at dawn. A dispute amongst local merchants has halted cider production and his father’s business associate is...displeased. Solving this will fall to Lander.

His throat tightening - as does his hand around his goblet - has nothing to do with his neckline, stomach twisting when he thinks of how...delicately he’ll have to persuade here, with those who won’t take kindly to...someone like him showing up. Some are angered by his family crest and fine armor, others by his inhuman appearance, many by the marriage of the two he represents wherever he sets foot.

Hopefully, the graces of the local lord will reap him favor enough to smooth his visit over with the locals. The slender, haughty man had seemed amiable enough - had grasped Lander’s hand with more than merely the tips of his fingers, had bestowed him with a cordial smile that had loosened the knot in Lander’s chest a fraction. The man had even said - though he was likely to...“forget” the arrangement - he would pencil Lander in for a dance later that night.

It was a gesture that warmed Lander - most did not show such courtesy to him. Lander swallowed against the sting of memory where the host had deigned to practically shun his presence altogether.

Lander will need to set things back on schedule sooner rather than later (by which is meant, as soon as Lander can accomplish it). His pulse pounds in his temples when he recalls the missives he has left to pen, left piled neatly on his desk. In his preparations for the party, he’d forgotten- He squeezes the cup and the gemstones dig grooves into his palms, little aches which pin his mind back in place.

They’ll all have to be written and sent out by page tomorrow - Lander will perhaps be able to retire a little early so he can get an hour or two of sleep. Unless he skips his morning regimen of strict exercise, he might get more chance of rest.

He has been...tired, lately. If he finessed negotiations quicker, more efficiently, then he might have more time to sleep. His duties should always improve, of course...even for selfish reasons.

If he wants to sleep more, he should focus on getting sharper, working smarter (not harder, as his father once reprimanded, but to him smarter has always been harder), getting more results, before he lazes about.

But he doesn’t want to think tonight of papers, of orchards full of apples unplucked, of lips curling or fists gripping sword pommels firmly in his presence.

Lander’s bleary gaze is drawn, a lodestone to the gleaming gold silhouette of his host. Every tongue of flame in the room dapples Lord Ambrose - the elegant gestures of his slim, beringed fingers as they lift a palm to his rosebud mouth for a kiss or gesture with a glimmer of jewels in the telling of a tale. His slight, willowy frame carries the lace and ribbon and velvet of fine breeding on his form like he was swaddled in it. He tosses his head back elegantly at some joke, a soft tinkle,silverware on china, and his gilt waves of hair ripples around his delicate shoulders.

Lander thinks of his unwieldy palm, large and heavy, with the tapering nails bluntly trimmed to stave off claws. He thinks of Ambrose’s fingers within that palm - a flat gray stone pressing a blossom.

His gaze blurs.

He is seized suddenly by the brief, mad longing that he could be like these others, if only in looks. Beautiful. Light. Those with silky locks coiffed with fine oil that has never made his coarse black hair turn sleek, he will never have a head that shimmers like a raven’s wing under firelight.

Like bristles on a coal brush, a hairdresser sighed, her disappointment spiking through Lander’s teenaged heart. She couldn’t do anything with his hair, just shore it down flat against his scalp, as usual. Can’t do anything pretty with this mess, I’m afraid...

He knows he will never hang on anyone’s arm, too heavy, too…much. Certainly not with the whispers that chase him around the room, his tapered ears echoing every little murmur as clearly as if spoken aloud to his face.

Looks like a half-drowned corpse...

They should keep it on a leash, for heaven’s sake...

Keep your swords close, lads, don’t wanna see what happens when he’s on his liquor-

A sharp crunch snaps his attention away from the tension coiling through his veins and when he raises his eyes, he catches a shadowed glimpse of himself in the firelit panes. A few nearby guests are staring at his back, their warped expressions of wariness, haughty contempt, and bemusement reflected alongside his own visage.

His breath snags in his throat.

The glass breaks of his face between wrought-silver lattice, where he sees the separate pieces of himself shining back. The hoary skin, dull as ash, darkened like storm clouds with a flush around his neck and cheeks, the points of his devilish ears now going nearly cobalt. His jet-dark eyes are narrowed into a glare,black brows furrowed, mouth twisted. And- and the cup in his hand is dented, gone concave, little fissures splitting across the silver engraved flowers, torn up, ruined-

Lander’s stomach drops out. He’s frozen, gone sick, cold, tendrils of ice flooding through his chest, his legs and arms, heart a thudding frigid fist against his ribs. He wants to explain himself, to plead that he’s not angry, he truly isn’t, he knows how to behave properly-

But his tongue sticks to the roof of his bone-dry mouth, limbs stuck in place, and the guests turn demurely away from him, leaving him staring at himself.

His hands are shaking, he realizes, his breath threading thin and shallow from his lungs, fire in his flesh, ice in his blood, he- he needs to get control of himself. He can’t cause a scene.

In a daze, he sets the damaged cup on the table, slipping from the room, near the walls, like a rat, some pest sneaking away from where it’s not wanted, from light and cheer and polite, decent company. His feet lead him to a narrow corridor, private, tucked away behind columns.

Breathing heavily, Lander’s hands fumbled - graceless, foolish, meat-handed oaf - with the laces of his trousers, slipping them down to his knees.

In the dim torchlight, he gazed down at the strap, thick coarse leather studded with rows upon rows of spikes snugly cinched around his upper left thigh. The tight embrace had helped hold him in check - in his proper place - for years now. Nights like this one...rattled that restraint. Required fresh application. Discipline requires constant attention, after all. And he’s nearly slipped tonight - he cannot afford to slip.

He’s ashamed when his hands fumble once, twice when working the buckle open. He hurries with peeling the belt free, hissing, nearly a growl, at the throbbing ripple and the cool air of the corridor licking at the marks, it hurts, his small cry of pain was too near a growl, he needs to get the belt back on before he allows his hurt to be stoked to a fury-

Looping the device around his unmarked right thigh, he tightened the belt with a savage twist, buckling it shut before he could falter.

Agony stabbed through Lander’s leg and he bites his inner cheek to smother a cry. Copper floods his tongue as the jagged edges of his shaved tusk snags the flesh and the metal taste is bright, a spark against the dull, welcome throb when the dull spikes dig into the tender flesh.

He knows the grey skin will swell, color black and violet, rage restrained beneath the pinpoints of bruise, where his wrongness can bleed beneath the skin. Where it doesn’t make a mess of things.

He’d been too indulgent - allowed his emotions to swell too close to the surface. Shame simmered in his belly, a useful burn, cleaning away the other useless feelings that threatens to flood his body and drown him, smother anything worthwhile.

He fights the belt another notch, as close as he can make it without risking limb damage, and drags his pants up around his hips, laces them with brisk efficiency.

Lander sets his jaw rigid, his shoulders and spine as straight as a sword, and slips back into the gathering. He does not limp. He does not wince, despite the flares of fires spiking to his very bones. He is polite and diplomatic and lets the throb find a rythm with his heartbeat, the ache just as natural, just as innate.

Lord Ambrose does not dance with him after all, curtains his gaze with golden fringe but does not touch Lander throughout the night. That is fine - the belt would make him a poor dancer.

Just one more prevention on a thing he has not earned and shouldn’t have wanted in the first place - but when he slips, such steps keep him in line.

Just as well, Lander thinks, the burn in his legs dragging his mind away from the wrench of his heart. It is just as well.

~ wow, this was so much fun and i wrote it in a day so! be kind please xppp

[sleepless-in-starbucks]

(Let Me) Cover Your Eyes

Ao3

Summary: Remy’s a queen, but that doesn’t mean they get any rights. Logan’s not even a noble, but that doesn’t mean ay can’t do something. Content: Arranged marriage, sensory overload, references to noncon/dubcon kissing, one implication of possible future noncon/dubcon sex (none actually happens, just vaguely mentioned), basically being treated like a slave, one instance of self-harm, mentioned starvation, fear about being caught, misgendering (some accidental, some purposeful but for good reason), magic au, genderfluid!remy, nb!logan Pairing: Platonic losleep Note: There’s an oc in this referred to just as ‘the king’- he’s not meant to be a certain character or anything, he’s just an oc

~

If you asked anyone who knew her how Remy felt about parties, you would get the same answer from all of them: she loved them. She wore the most exquisite gowns and the most beautiful jewels to them, face made up in bright colours that highlighted her ever-present smile, mingling and laughing with all who attended. They were one of her greatest joys.

All of these people would be wrong. And this would be because they weren’t describing Remy- they were describing Maria.

Remy hated parties. The outfits she wore to them were too tight and difficult to move in, the jewelry paired with them clunky and not flattering to her. She wore so much make-up it felt as if breathing too hard would mess it up, and she felt suffocated beneath the smiles she couldn’t drop as she forced herself to interact with the masses. They were awful, and they made her feel awful.

But that didn’t stop them from occurring twice a month, and that didn’t stop Remy from having to go to them, always dolled up to the point you could barely tell she was anything more than a statue of perfect pose and restrained emotion.

That’s all she was, after all. Marriage may have deemed her a queen, but birth had deemed her a doll to be controlled and admired by others, and birth always won out.

So when the king (her husband, she could have said, but they both knew that wasn’t the purpose of their marriage, so there wasn’t really any reason to pretend otherwise) reminded her of the ball that evening and told her to get ready, she did. Even if her skin crawled and she wished she could do anything else, she did.

Her casual clothes were swapped out for a dark green ball gown that was much too tight around her stomach and much too loose everywhere else. She was adorned in heavy gold jewelry from head to toe, and her face was painted white and detailed like a mask of glittering emeralds and sapphires. And for the final touch, her sunglasses were taken from her and replaced with the reminder to smile.

“You look beautiful.” The king commented as Remy once more joined him. He was barely changed from earlier, his robes straightened a bit and little else. He wasn’t the one who was going to be on display.

“Thank you.” Remy said, but the response was hollow. The king’s words had been no compliment, simply a satisfied remark that his showpiece was prepared for the evening.

At the king’s prompting, Remy slipped her arm in his, wishing this gown had been one of the ones that came with gloves. The party would be hell on her senses no matter what, but the little things did help.

But, Remy supposed, she was already lucky enough she was a woman at the moment. Sure, she’d feel like hell and still be forced to act as if she was in heaven, but at least she wouldn’t be misgendered.

Little things.

~

The party had gone downhill for Remy at about the same rate as always; aka, really fucking fast.

The lights were too bright on their own, traditional candles covering practically every inch of the walls while the chandeliers above were lit up by crystallized sunlight, all of it made worse by the hundreds of gems that reflected the light even more throughout the room. The colours of outfit amongst the partygoers were violent clashes of manageable darks and painfully bright neons. Chinking glasses and overlapping conversations echoed in the large ballroom. Everything was too much, and to top it all off Remy’s gender had shifted again, the pesky thing, and now every addressal of ‘my queen’ made them feel sick.

Not that you could have guessed any of that, looking at Remy. They were used to it, after all. Used to everything being so much it made it hard to talk or think or breathe, used to feeling as if their skin was buzzing with the amount of hands they were shaking, used to smiling through it all as if they were enjoying themself and not crumbling piece by piece, only to be put back together again just in time for the next party.

It would be easy if it didn’t hurt so much.

Barely an hour into the party and Remy was ready to find a corner and press themself into it until they simply didn’t exist anymore. Every minute afterwards only got worse, and were it not for the eyes of the guards at every door and corner constantly on them Remy would’ve just left and faced the consequences later.

And of course, because Remy was already having such a wonderful evening, things went from bad to utterly terrible in the space of a few too-fast heartbeats.

The most recent noble Remy had struck up conversation with had been charming, in a good way. They hadn’t tried to shake Remy’s hand, something Remy was immensely grateful for, and they kept their attention towards the crowd around them as they chatted, not staring uncomfortably at Remy’s face like everyone else did. Remy wouldn’t say they were happy talking to them, but it was certainly the best interaction they had had that evening.

And then they asked Remy to stay put while they spoke to the king, and everything was right back to being horrible.

Remy wasn’t surprised when the noble returned to lead them outside, out onto the low balcony set in the back of the palace. It was a lovely night, after all, temperate and cloudless, and going to a bedroom would’ve been pointless anyways. It was still a few months before their first year with the king was up, and tradition was tradition, even if the king was much too preoccupied with peace treaties and border shifts to pay Remy any ‘attention.’

They stepped out onto the balcony before the noble, taking in a breath of the cool air while they waited for the noble to close the door and make their move. Remy wasn’t sure what to expect, only knowing that the most seemingly charming nobles were the worst in this regard.

Soon enough, they were in front of Remy, for the first time that evening looking them in their eyes. Remy wasn’t surprised. They were gorgeous, after all, the whole spectrum of colour twisting and turning in their irises, never stopping. Remy had expected them to look eventually. That was why they were on display.

Lost in their thoughts, Remy didn’t notice that the noble was offering them something until they spoke up, their tone clear and the slightest bit concerned, “Here.”

Remy thought they were directing them in some manner. Instead, their hand was out, palm up, offering Remy…

“Sunglasses?” Remy said, confused. They weren’t supposed to cover their eyes at parties, for the express purpose of ensuring all the guests could see them. It was practically etiquette for beings like them. “The king won’t allow it.”

“He can’t see you right now.” The noble pointed out evenly, as if they were simply stating a fact. When Remy didn’t respond to that, they added, “You’re uncomfortable. These will help.”

Part of Remy was still untrusting of the noble’s offer. It was too likely this was simply a trap, some sort of twisted test to see if Remy would respond properly.

But Remy really did want to put the sunglasses on, to once more quiet the world, consequences be damned. Plus, there was something… unplaceable about this noble. Remy was loath to call them trustworthy, but they didn’t inspire distrust nearly as much as anyone else Remy was forced to know, and that meant something to Remy.

So they accepted the sunglasses.

Immediately after putting them on, Remy could feel their senses quieting, the new muted, dark appearance to the world around them convincing some primal part of their brain that they no longer needed to be on full alert. Remy’s dulled senses were roughly on par with a human’s full-alert ones, something that made the human world much easier to bear. Their skin was still crawling, too much touch not something that could just be blocked out at a moment’s notice, but that was alright with Remy. Something was better than nothing. They didn’t need everything.

The noble, however, didn’t seem as satisfied. They were frowning, head tilted as they looked at Remy.

“You’re still uncomfortable.” They observed, which Remy supposed wasn’t too surprising. They were good at acting okay, but it wasn’t a waterproof facade. Just good enough so that nobles who didn’t care weren’t forced to feel uncomfortable due to Remy’s own discomfort.

“I’m fine.” Remy lied, trying to maintain the facade, as always. “Now, are you-”

Before they could finish their sentence, Remy was stopped by the noble shrugging off their dark blue and silver embroidered jacket, leaving them in a matching tie and black button-up as they offered the jacket to Remy. “Here. The pressure should help with your crawling skin, so long as the fabric doesn’t upset you.”

Now that? That was odd.

“How did you know my skin was crawling?” Remy asked as they accepted the jacket. They had been given ‘favors’ before, so there was no danger in wearing the noble’s. There might’ve been a time when there was, but Remy had been careful to insure otherwise.

“I’m an empath.” The noble answered.

Remy nodded, now only slightly confused. While being an empath did answer their original question, it also proposed a new one: what were they doing here? Empaths were not considered of high social standing, but instead as workers, made to help lift others up and be crushed under foot if they weren’t careful. The only way an empath would be at one of the king’s parties was if they were rich beyond good reason, and Remy found those types were never charming.

Trying to put their confusion out of mind, Remy pulled on the jacket, feeling relieved almost immediately. The jacket was heavy, but not tight or restricting, and the material of it felt nice against their skin. Though there was still the lingering feel of everyone who had touched them in the last hour, it was mostly gone, blocked out by the jacket.

“You’re comfortable now. Good.” The noble observed, and Remy felt their heart rate spike, even if only for a moment. So that was their angle. Comfortable. At least it was classy.

“I suppose I am.” Remy responded, as neutrally as possible. Of course the empath would want them to be comfortable, wouldn’t want to sense any negative emotions from Remy. And if Remy had any chance of making sure they didn’t have to deal with any of said emotions, they’d have to start working on blocking them out now.

The noble nodded, and Remy was ready, ready for them to make their move, to step forward or grab Remy’s hips or angle their chin or-

“May we talk?”

Once more, Remy found their thoughts slamming to a stop, the change in course sudden and completely unpredictable. Talk? Why would the noble want to talk?

“You’re confused.” The noble pointed out unhelpfully.

“I- Why aren’t you kissing me?” Remy blurted out before they could stop themself. They knew it was rude, and in horrible form, and if the king was anywhere nearby he’d be having a fit, but for the moment Remy didn’t care. They could only hold off sickening anticipation for so long, and they just wanted this over and done with as soon as possible.

In response, the noble blinked at Remy. Once. Twice. Coughed, adjusted their glasses, looked away a moment.

“Apologies.” They said, sounding awkward. “It appears I failed to properly explain the situation to you when I first left you to find the king. I have no desire to kiss you, I merely wish to talk to you.”

“That’s not why people normally bring me out onto the balcony.”

The noble ran a hand through their long dark hair, the quick, unthinking action giving Remy the impression it was a nervous habit. “And that is part of the reason I am here. But I assure you, I only want to converse. Nothing else.”

“...It’s your money.” Remy finally said, the noble’s uncomfortableness with the whole thing convincing them that they spoke the truth. The noble simply nodded, looking relieved that that conversation was over.

“It is best we speak outside of sight of possibly prying eyes.” They said, gesturing towards one of the balcony’s corners that meant the wall of the palace. Only in pressing their faces to the glass would anyone be able to see them there. Remy made no complaint, allowing themself to be pulled over to the corner, trying to ignore how many times they had been pushed into it.

Once they were situated there, the noble standing directly in the corner and Remy in front of them with more personal space than they normally got out here but also not nearly enough, the empath spoke.

“I do not think I remembered to introduce myself earlier- I am Logan, ay-em-air pronouns, empath.” Logan told Remy, only sparking their confusion as to what ay was doing at a party for nobles even more. The breaking of the gender binary was considered informal, improper, and a peasant thing to do. All nobles were cis, or at least acted as if they were. Logan being open with air identity was just another strike against em being a proper noble, much less one invited to balls. So why was ay here?

“May I ask your name and pronouns?”

Remy frowned. “I’m Maria, the queen, I-”

“You can’t lie to an empath. Not easily, anyways.” Logan corrected, offering Remy a small smile. “Even without my magic, it’s easy to tell you weren’t at ease when the others addressed you by such terms. While I understand your inability to correct them, I assure you, you will face no consequences for being honest to me.”

Logan’s ability to seem trustworthy despite giving Remy very little concrete reason to trust em was beginning to become annoying. But it still won out in the end, and Remy found themself quietly admitting, “I prefer to go by Remy. They-them works for now.”

“Alright then, Remy,” Logan began, prompting a brief small smile from Remy, “I have a question for you.”

“Oh?”

“Do you want to leave?”

Remy tilted their head to the side, confused. “Leave where?”

“Here. The palace.”

“Surely you know I can’t do that, babe.” Remy said, biting down on their tongue hard the moment the sentence was out of their mouth. Petnames weren’t proper, they weren’t noble, and they weren’t used by royals. The king hated hearing them, and was always quick to use Remy’s slip-up as a chance to remind them they were queen by title only, that there was no royalty in their blood and never would be. The verbal reminder was easy enough to block out and ignore, but the days without food? Not so much.

Remy swallowed before continuing, trying to clean their mouth of the fresh taste of blood. “Only the king can take me off the grounds.”

“That’s not what I asked.” Logan replied evenly. “I asked if you want to leave.”

“Of course I do.” Remy said, quickly glancing back to check no one was trying to approach them, turning back towards Logan when they didn’t see anything or anyone. “But that doesn’t exactly matter. Want to or not, I have to stay in the palace.”

“You don’t have to.” Logan corrected. “I can help you escape. You can leave.”

“No offense, su- Logan, but you and what army?” Remy asked, vaguely gesturing behind Logan. “The walls surrounding the palace are enchanted, there are four guards stationed at the gate and dozens more all across the grounds, and if I’m absent too long I will be sought out. I can’t just leave because you’re escorting me.”

Logan didn’t respond to that immediately, instead looking past Remy for a moment, likely at the doors to the balcony. After a moment, ay gave air attention back to Remy as ay spoke. “I understand your desire to have more concrete facts and reasonings behind what I say, but I do not have the time to answer all your questions now. I can get you out of here, but you have to trust me, and we must leave now, before we’re out of time.”

Remy bit their lip, hesitating. “If I’m caught…”

“You won’t be.” Logan assured them. “But as I said, you have to trust me, and we must leave now. Do you want to be free again, Remy?”

The question was more than just whether or not Remy wanted to be free, they knew. It wasn’t asking if Remy wanted to be free in a vacuum, asking whether or not they preferred freedom to what was more or less enslavement. It was asking if they were willing to take a risk for freedom, if they were willing to be free at a cost, if they were willing to take their chances at freedom despite the danger. It was asking if they were willing to trust Logan.

They shouldn’t have been. No one could be trusted, not anymore.

And yet…

“Yeah.” Remy answered, letting out a shaky breath as they wrapped their arms around themself. Logan’s jacket pressing closer against their skin, reassuring Remy, if only a bit. “I’ll trust you.”

The hint of a smile flickered over Logan’s face. “Good.” Ay said, before proceeding to flip emself over the balcony railing without even glancing back first.

Remy knew ay was probably fine, the drop not being a large one, and Logan clearly being prepared for the move, but it was still sudden enough to shock Remy into pushing themself against the balcony railing, making sure ay really was okay.

Ay was- at least, Remy was fairly certain an injured person wouldn’t be so focused on adjusting air tie. Ay flattened it down against air chest before ay looked up at Remy.

“Your turn.” Ay called up, only as loud as ay needed to be. Ay also opened up air arms, clearly planning to catch Remy.

Remy just scoffed to themself and jumped to the side of em, landing firmly on the ground.

Logan looked mildly impressed, raising an eyebrow at Remy. Remy shrugged. “I’m not completely helpless.”

“Never said you were.” Logan defended, though air expression was odd in a way Remy couldn’t place. Ay only allowed for a moment of staring, however, before ay turned from Remy. “This way.”

With that, ay set off across the expansive palace yard, Remy following close behind em. They were on high alert, constantly waiting to spot one of the many wandering guards who patrolled the estate day and night, but to their surprise, none seemed to be around.

Soon enough, the two of them came to the path that connected the gate to the palace, made of glistening white pebbles and smooth marble. Remy expected Logan to lead them over the path and back into the yard, where ay would soon enough lead them to a hole in the wall or something similar. What Remy hadn’t expected, however, was for Logan to stop on the path and begin heading towards the gate.

Remy grabbed air arm before ay could make it far, hissing under their breath, “What are you doing?!”

In response, Logan offered Remy a small smile, carefully looped their arms together so as that ay wasn’t too close or touching them too much, and once more moved forward, murmuring, “Trust me,” under air breath.

Only against every logical bone in their body did Remy do so, trying to focus on not falling over as Logan led them forwards, closer and closer to what Remy was certain would be the doom and ruin of this plan.

As soon as they were close enough to be recognized, the two guards stationed on the inside of the gate drew their swords, pointing them at Logan and Remy, and Remy was fairly certain their heart rate had never been higher than in that moment.

“The queen doesn’t leave the palace grounds.” One of the guards said, as if there was some way Logan could be unaware of the fact.

“Return to the party.” The other added, brandishing their blade just a touch to reinforce the point. “Unless you’d like things to get messy.”

Once again, Remy expected Logan to respond with some sort of attack, via a blade hidden in air boot or something of the like.

Once again, Remy expected the wrong thing.

Because instead of attempting to fight the guards, or even to just turn around and head back to the party, Logan simply smiled and said in a voice that didn’t sound entirely like air own, “The king has instructed me to take the lovely queen Maria out, for reasons of his own. Would you stand against the will of the king?”

One of the guards lowered their sword as soon as Logan had finished speaking, looking abashed for having challenged em. They stepped back, indicating that they would allow the two of them to pass.

The other guard hesitated for a moment, sword lowering, but they didn’t step back. “The king’s never done anything like this before. Do you have any proof of your claims?”

“You challenge the king’s wishes?” Logan replied, which Remy thought was a horribly suspicious answer.

The other guard seemingly didn’t agree, however, looking away from Logan as they sheathed their sword and stepped back. “My apologies, my liege.”

Logan curtly nodded once at the guard before moving forwards, having to tug a bit on Remy’s arm to get them to move as well. The guards made no move to ambush them or question them as they passed through the gate, simply remaining to the side, looking away from Logan.

“How did you do that?” Remy whispered to Logan as they passed under the archway of the gate, for a moment left alone in near-darkness.

“Ask me later.” Was Logan’s only response, and a moment later they were on the other side of the gate and the wall, officially outside of the palace. It was nothing much to look at, simply a round parking lot lined with cars and carriages of varying aesthetics, the road leading back towards the rest of society, trees to the left and water to the right, but it was still breathtaking to Remy. The last time they had been outside the castle walls had been nearly a year ago, and the same walls tended to grow boring fast.

“Hey! Is that the queen?!”

Ah, right. The second set of guards. Well, freedom had been sweet while it lasted, at least.

Logan didn’t seem nearly as ready to fold, however, looking between the two new guards and the two new swords being pointed at em as if ay was looking at old friends and balloons.

“It is indeed. The king has requested she be taken outside of the palace, for purposes of her safety.” Logan said, voice smooth and almost honey-like, drawing the guards in and making Remy feel as if everything about the situation was just a bit too sweet tasting. “He wishes all guards to be relocated within the palace walls until the issue has been addressed.”

Just as with the first guard from before, these guards seemed over-eager to do as Logan had asked, nodding at em as they hurried past the two of them and inside the king’s estate. Remy turned to watch them go, and that’s when it clicked.

“You’re an illusionist.” Remy said, turning back to look at Logan, eyes wide behind their sunglasses. “I thought you said you were-”

“I’m both.” Logan answered prematurely, letting go of Remy’s arms and stepping within the circle of parked vehicles. “Pick one of these for me, would you?”

Remy gave a distracted look around before pointing at one of the carriages, one with a framework of gold and crimson red silk wrapped around it. “I didn’t think it was possible to be an empath and an illusionist.”

“It is possible.” Logan responded vaguely as ay moved towards the carriage Remy had pointed out, checking inside of it quickly before moving to stand at the back side of it. “Care to assist me?”

“With what?” Remy inquired even as they came to stand beside Logan.

“We’re going to push this into the ocean.” Logan said, gesturing air head in the direction of the water. “The ground here is packed down hard enough it won’t leave enough tracks for anyone to see. Seeing the missing carriage, the king and his guards will assume we left for the town in it.”

“Where will we actually be?”

“In the forest, on the trail to a place I know you will be safe.” Logan explained as ay put air hands on the back of the carriage. “Could you kick out the block of wood, right up there, in front of the back wheel?”

Remy did so, and the carriage lurched forwards almost immediately, albeit in the wrong direction. They moved to join Logan at the back, helping to push it in the right direction as much as they could.

It took longer than Remy would’ve liked, but soon enough they were at the edge, and the carriage was over it, smashed against the jutting side of the cliff before being swallowed by the waves below. They remained there for a moment, Remy enjoying the feel of sea spray and the smell of the ocean while Logan caught air breath.

“How can you exist?” Remy asked after a few minutes, still watching the crashing and foaming waves as they spoke. “Empaths and illusionists are opposite classes of the same magic. You can’t be both.”

“That’s just something cowards say.” Logan responded, but neither the tone nor the phrasing sat right with Remy. They glanced over, catching Logan’s gaze, and ay sighed.

“I’ve accepted the consequences of my choices. There’s no point in wondering after things that are already set in figurative stone.” Ay said, not leaving any room for follow-up questions. “The sooner we leave, the less likely it is they will catch us. Are you ready to leave, Remy?”

Remy glanced back at the palace, at the harsh stone walls that had imprisoned them, at the tops of the towers they used to wander pointlessly for hours with nothing to do, at the bright lights that had only ever given them horrible headaches.

“I’ve wanted to leave that place even before I was in it.” Remy answered, turning away from it to look at Logan. “Let’s go.”

Logan nodded before turning away from the ocean, leading Remy in the opposite direction.

And with the palace, and everyone and everything within it, behind them, Remy and Logan disappeared into the forest.

[kandoesfanfics-writes]

A Century of Friendship

Hi guys! Sorry for not updating in a while, but I got really sick. I’m still sick, but I found it in me to finish this piece that’s been sitting unfinished since about November! Updates for Head Omega, The Bat and The Peahen will be coming soon!

This is a Jasonette prompt based off this post. This was my first crack at writing Jasonette, so I hope you all enjoy!

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His stomach clenched in the most unpleasant manner.

Today was the day.

He had to tell her.

He’d been putting it off for almost a century now, and his family had told him it was now or never. None of them really remembered how long humans lived, but they knew it wasn’t even a blink in the lifespan of a demon. He needed to come clean with her before she died. He needed her to know what he truly was...and just how special she was to him.

Befriending her had been an accident. He had been wandering around the city, looking for some sinners to terrorize when he came across this small scrap of a human woman. She had been assisting the homeless by passing out clean blankets and giving them directions to a shelter. She had even gathered a bunch of local homeless children and was reassuring them that she could lead them to a safe place.

Before his...change...he too had been a child of the streets. He knew that people lied. He knew what life on the streets was like. He knew it was oh so easy to fool a child. He knew what people on the streets could trick a child into, so he had followed her as she led the children away. He’d been shocked to see that the woman had been telling the children the truth.

The woman had led the children to the Leslie Thompkins’ Children’s House. The children had immediately taken inside, fed, and bathed. The volunteer at the house seemed to know the pretty woman. She had spoken to the strange woman, calling her Marinette. Marinette had made small talk with the other woman, and they had spoken of what was going to happen to the children she’d brought.

He didn’t entirely understand why he’d stayed so long, even now, but he had watched her until she returned to her apartment. He had repeated this routine for days, wanting to know more about the young woman who was rescuing people around this city. He hadn’t been able to recall such a being existing when he’d been brutally murdered. He had been fascinated with her, and he had been simply content watching her until someone had gotten it into his head that he was going to try and rob the little lady.

He had decided at that point to take on a human form in order to help her. He had barged into her apartment, only to find the would-be robber crying on the floor. The would-be robber had been a teenage boy who told Marinette that he needed money for food for his family because his mother had lost her job. Marinette had then given him some money and suggested places for him to apply for work.

Marinette had thanked him for coming to aid her, but told him she had things under control. She had then asked what his name was. He had panicked for a moment, struggling to think of a name when a voice in the back of his head whispered, “Jason Todd.” He had introduced himself under that name.

Their friendship had blossomed from there.

Jason began spending most of his time outside of work with Marinette. They went to bookstores— somehow she always knew where to find the old classics— and talked about literature. Once Marinette had expressed her love of fashion, Jason had immediately inundated her home with books on fashion through the ages. Marinette was delighted, and Jason enjoyed watching her create ‘modern takes’ on historical clothing. He’d even modeled for her several times, enjoying the one-on-one time with her.

Marinette always seemed to be making something. Whether it was food, new clothing, or some kind of art piece, the small woman seemed to thrive off creation. She always looked the happiest when she was creating something. Her hands were never still. She was never content with just completing one thing and then stopping. Marinette seemed to be an endless wellspring of creation.

Jason didn’t quite understand it, but chalked it up to a human’s need to feel like their time on Earth meant something by leaving behind their creations. Luckily, Marinette never took it hard when he admitted that he didn’t quite understand her passion. She had told him that creation wasn’t for everyone, and she understood why he didn’t seem as excited about her projects as she was. Not to say Jason didn’t love helping her! He just wasn’t as enthused about making something that would be destroyed eventually...which made Jason think about his relationship with Marinette.

He was immortal now, thanks to Bruce. She wasn’t. Jason would have to watch Marinette grow old and grey. Eventually, he’d watch her pass on...and given the type of person she was, Jason highly doubted he’d ever see her again after that. She’d become an angel, live in heaven, and forget all about Jason Todd. She’d definitely forget once the angels told her what he was…

A demon.

Jason felt bile rise up in his throat as he knocked on her door. It was now or never. She would probably start growing old soon, and Jason wanted to tell her the truth before the angels did. He knew Marinette valued honesty, so perhaps if he told her now she’d forgive him for hiding it. His green eyes bored holes into the chestnut door as he waited for it to open, trying desperately to steel his resolve.

The door swung open to reveal his best friend, and Jason remembered once again why he’d put off telling her the truth.

“Jason! It’s so nice to see you again. Are you sure you’re okay with helping me take the delivery down to the gala? I know those kind of events aren’t really your thing,” the tiny woman said with a smile brighter than the sun.

Marinette was all dressed for tonight’s event. Her silky looking hair was pulled into a low bun that rested against the nape of her neck. Her brilliant grey eyes were highlighted by peach and bronze eyeshadow and pitch black eyeliner. She was wearing a darker nude lipstick that made Jason want to lean over and kiss her to see if her lips were as soft as they looked. It didn’t help that her lips were pulled into the most adorable smile Jason had ever been graced with even before death. What also didn’t help was the fact Marinette was wearing the pearl earrings Jason had gotten her, and that made him feel even more fuzzy inside.

She was wearing a baby pink cheongsam that fell a little past her mid-thigh. It was hand embroidered with plum blossoms all around it. To complete the look, Marinette was also wearing pale pink heels that brought her to about Jason’s upper chest. She looked gorgeous, amazing, and...well... Jason had to fight to keep his more inappropriate thoughts to himself. 

“Yeah, yeah, Cakepop! Show me where the goods are so we can get this show on the road!”

More like show me where the deserts are before I decide to have you as my desert, Jason thought to himself.

The sensible part of Jason growled back that he wasn’t sure if Marinette even liked him that way! And even if she did, Marinette was mortal, and Jason was not. Even if she loved him, they could never be together. His sensible part argued and argued until it was all he could think of as he walked into her apartment. He followed her into the kitchen where he knew the boxes of baked goods would be.

As Jason went to pick up a few boxes, he caught Marinette’s eyes roaming over him. The hopeful part of Jason preened, shooting back at the sensible side that Marinette was interested in him! After all, he’d gone through a lot to make his human form look good! He’d borrowed a tux for the occasion— thankfully Alfred ensured that it was a proper fight and highlighted his good points— and had made an attempt to tame his hair. He wanted to tease her, but once Marinette caught him watching, the dark haired girl had scooped up several boxes of her own.

“Onwards, my good man!” she said. “The gala awaits their deserts!”

He laughed at her over dramatic acting, and almost blurted out another terrible truth he was keeping from her.

The truth was that the infamous demon known as the Red Hood had gone soft for a mortal woman. The infamous Red Hood— adopted son of the fiercest bat-demon, Batman— had fallen in love with Ms. Marinette. He did not desire her just for her body...which some demons couldn’t understand. Jason had fallen in love with Marinette’s good heart. Jason had fallen in love with whispered secrets and shared grins. Jason had fallen in love with a woman who in another life would have been his salvation. Jason had fallen in love with someone doomed to die.

And Jason would sooner cut his head off than admit to that.

He followed Marinette to her car and assisted in loading all the sweets into the vehicle. Marinette was singing another random tune, one she’d come up with herself, and Jason couldn’t help but smile broadly at her. She was such a sweet human. Jason was going to miss her terribly, but he had forced himself to face the fact he was destined to lose her. He just didn’t know if he’d lose her from death or because of the fact he was a demon.

“Jase? Jase, are you okay? You’re spacing out on me.”

Marinette was shaking his shoulder, one hand on the wheel with her eyes forward. Her face was scrunched in concern even if she never took her eyes off the road. Jason quickly responded, wanting to wipe the frown off her pretty face.

“Yeah, I’m good. Just lost in thought, Cakepop. How long do we have to stay at this shindig?” he responded.

“We were invited to attend, but we can leave right away if you want. You’re doing me a huge favor already, so I won’t ask you to stay at the party,” Marinette chirped. 

“Do you want to stay for a little, Cakepop?” Jason asked. “Forget about me for a moment. Do you want to attend this party?”

The look on her face told Jason everything, and he sighed deeply. The things he did for love...well, the party wouldn’t be as bad with her by his side. He’d stay glued to Marinette, ignore the sinners, and enjoy himself. The only bad thing was that the odds would be high that they would run into Dick.

Jason loved his brother dearly, but Dick was...well he could be a lot. His older brother loved the party scene, and that’s where he hunted his victims. Dick could charm the pants off of anyone. He was also a hell of a dancer, and Jason was slightly worried he’d try to flirt with Marinette if he spotted her. Dick wasn’t stupid. He knew what he found attractive, and since Jason was rather inclined to agree with him, he would most certainly find Marinette attractive.

He told Marinette that they could hang around for an hour or two, but then he wanted to go home. The smile she gave him nearly caused his heart to stop and restart. She was so happy that Jason was willing to spend time with her, doing something she liked. She began to chat about everything she wanted to do and who she wanted to speak to. Apparently Marinette had grand plans in the works and was really hoping she’d be able to speak to them tonight.

Jason listened to her chatter, smiling, relaxed against the passenger’s seat. He could listen to her talk for days. Her voice was sweet and soothing. It made Jason melt every time he heard it. He’d been brought back from the edge several times by Marinette’s voice and a small hand on his forearm. He wanted to hold her hand so bad, but he figured he’d get to do that once they’d delivered the goods.

As they pulled up to the kitchen entrance, Jason smoothed his tux once again and inhaled deeply.

He could do this.

Especially if it was for Marinette.

—————— 

Marinette would like to make it clear, first and foremost, that she was not stupid by any means.

She knew Jason Todd wasn’t what he said he was.

She was definitely certain that he wasn’t human either.

It had been almost a century since the pair had met, yet Jason didn’t seem to realize that Marinette’s lack of aging wasn’t normal for a human. She’d had to erase a few memories already of her existence, replacing the last century’s Marinette with a new one. She had also noticed that Jason hadn’t aged either. He still looked the same as the day he burst into her apartment. 

Jason was over six feet tall, something that infuriated her to no end, with pitch black hair. He had a strong jaw and the most enchanting pair of green eyes she’d ever seen. He was muscular and knew how to fight. He had scars splashed across his body, but Marinette never asked about them. His soul though...his soul was what drew Marinette to him. 

She could almost hear Plagg’s laughter…

Despite the intimidating appearance, Jason had the potential to be an unbelievably kind person. He’d assisted Marinette with more projects than she could count. When she helped the homeless, Jason was gentle with the children and mothers while fiercely reminding the drug peddlers what would happen if he found them selling to the kids. When she helped at the local orphanages, Jason would read and play with the children. When she went around to the hospitals, Jason had an empathetic ear and a sympathetic shoulder for those grieving...especially if drugs were involved.

Marinette found herself developing an intense fondness for him early on in their friendship that eventually grew to love. If she were being honest with herself, she’d admit that she’d been in love with Jason for at least twenty years. She never told him because she was waiting for him to come clean with her about what he was. Marinette wanted their relationship to be built on honesty, and she couldn’t think of anything more difficult to admit than the fact one was a demon. Once Jason had admitted it to her, then Marinette would allow herself to begin to entertain the thoughts of a relationship with him.

Her mother, Tikki, had approved of her plan.

Plagg— her mother’s lover/friend/husband(?)— had told Marinette not to wait too long. He explained that his creatures were not the most patient bunch, and while they would never force a relationship, they would give up on a love interest if it appeared the affection was not returned. He was happy that Marinette had found her match in one of his children. He told her that Jason was a good one, and Marinette readily agreed.

Plagg had created the demons as a balance to Tikki’s creations. They were not necessarily bad, like a lot of humans thought, but they were agents of chaos and destruction. Sinners, as the humans had deemed those who attracted the demons, were simply just humans who caused/welcomed chaos and destruction in their lives or in others’. Some demons punished them, and some demons joined them...but put too much chaos in anyone’s life, and it will become a punishment. Jason was a special case, given life by Plagg after one of his demon’s requested it.

Plagg had allowed Jason to become a demon because he pitied the dying human child. The God of Destruction and Chaos had refused to tell her anything else about Jason, insisting she’d need to learn it for herself. Marinette didn't have many qualms with that. She already had several theories, and none were pleasant.

Marinette, on the other hand, was a muse and daughter of the Goddess of Creation, Tikki. Tikki had created Marinette and other muses to inspire and promote creation in the human world. Tikki admitted that perhaps she’d put too much of herself in Marinette, making her more like a daughter than a mere muse. Marinette could create wonderful things, and Tikki had encouraged it. Eventually, Tikki had declared the muse her child and heir should Tikki somehow be unable to fulfill her duties.

She had begun to lose hope until she saw the palpable anxiety on Jason’s face. 

Today would be the day...hopefully...that Jason told her the truth. 

————

Jason couldn’t bring himself to come clean until Dick almost caught them.

He’d pulled Marinette out onto a balcony and hid off to the side, ignoring his brother’s shouts. He was holding her close, pressed firmly against his body. She was looking up at him with her damnable grey eyes, face flushed, mouth gaping slightly. She was so close to him. If he just leaned down a little more, he could capture those lips in a kiss like he’d been dying to do.

But there was one thing he needed to do first.

“Marinette, I’m a demon.”

She blinked in confusion before tilting her head slightly. Jason took a deep breath before pulling away from her. He rested both hands on her shoulders before looking her squarely in the eye.

“Marinette, did you hear me? Because this is really important. I used to be Jason Todd...but that was a very long time ago. I’m actually an immortal demon known as the Red Hood. I’m sorry I didn’t come clean sooner, but I was afraid. I was afraid that I’d lose the companionship of one of the most spectacular women I’ve ever had the privilege of knowing. But I knew I’d have to come clean with you before...well before you got old—” 

Jason’s sentence trailed off as he stared at the woman before him. 

She was laughing.

Marinette was almost hunched over, trying to contain her laughter. Her eyes were shut tightly, tears almost leaking out from the corners of her eyes. Jason felt a spike of anger at this. Didn’t she know this conversation was important! Did she not believe him! Did she think he was lying to her! 

Before he could open his mouth, Marinette straightened up and asked, “Jase, how long do you think a human lives?”

“...I dunno the exact numbers, but like a century or two?”

“Oh, hun, they might reach a century if they’re lucky. Most humans only live to be in their 80s in most industrial countries. Other humans don’t even make it that far. Now tell me, how could we have known each other for almost ninety-two years, and neither of us have aged?” Marinette said sweetly.

Her smile showed teeth.

Jason was taken aback a moment. Did humans really live such short lives? It had been so long since he was human, and if so, why hadn’t Marinette aged? Why wasn’t she dead? Unless— but she didn’t feel like any demon he’d ever encountered before! If she wasn’t a demon or other creature of darkness, than what was Marinette?

“I’m a muse,” she replied.

Jason jumped a little, not realizing he’d asked the last question aloud.

“Just a muse? Don’t muses normally specialize in one area or something?”

“That’s right, a muse, and the average ones do. I’m the daughter of Tikki, so my powers are not as...limited.”

“Tikki as in the Goddess of Creation, Tikki?”

“The very same.”

Jason was stunned. Of course he knew of the great goddess as his boss, Plagg, never shut up about her. Tikki was the opposite of Plagg. Tikki was his other half. Tikki was creation and order while Plagg was destruction and chaos. Tikki could make anything, and rumor had it, she’d created a muse who’d ended up becoming her favorite. She called this favorite her Ladybug, and this muse was not limited like the others.

He just never thought he’d actually get to meet the legendary lady herself...let alone fall madly in love with her! But if she was Tikki’s daughter...then that meant she could sense energy just like he could...maybe even better than him. Did she know? Did she know this whole time and still befriend him?

“Did—”

“Yes, I knew. I’m glad you told me yourself though,” Marinette said softly. “I’m glad you trusted me enough to tell me the truth, even though it could have hurt you had I been human.”

Somehow...Jason wasn’t angry.

Irritated? Oh most definitely. She’d watched him sweat about telling her several times and never came clean that she already knew! If they’d had this talk earlier, Jason probably wouldn’t have been so stressed out! They could have done more together! He wouldn’t have been so worried about how much time they had to spend before she was gone for good!

At the same time, Jason understood why she didn’t tell him. 

Just as people were not fond of demons, not all demons were fond of the muses and vice versa. Had Jason known she was a muse, had Jason been able to recognize her energy for what it was, he probably wouldn't have stuck around. Batman had warned him time and time again about the muses, and how certain ones played with demons for the thrill of it and left when they got bored or scared. After watching one break Tim’s heart, Jason would admit that he wasn’t fond of them at all. He’d avoided them completely, despite never actually meeting Tim’s ex in person.

Besides, muses normally didn’t go into the void as deep as Jason liked to venture, so his contact with them had been extremely limited. He would have stormed off, thinking that this was a trap for him.

“Soooo…” Jason said, anxiously rubbing his palms on his pant legs.

“Sooo?” Marinette echoed, grey eyes still fixed on him.

“...where does this leave us, Cakepop?”

“...I was hoping this leaves us together.”

“Like...together as we were? As friends? Or…”

“Or.”

“Or?”

Marinette smiled mischievously before grabbing the black tie Jason was wearing. She tugged hard, forcing him to bend down. As he did, he felt a very soft pair of lips collide with his. The smell of flowers invaded his senses as she snaked the hand not holding his tie around his neck. She tilted her head and allowed the kiss to deepen. She was determined to pour as much love as she could into that one kiss. 

Jason’s hands had flown to her hips. The silk of her cheongsam was soft against his skin and warm from her body heat. He pulled her close once again, savoring the feeling of having her close. He also couldn’t help but realize how tiny his muse was when she was pressed against him.

The second she deepened the kiss, Jason let out a muffled moan. She tasted like the confections she baked, sugary with a hint of spice. He ran his hands up and down her sides, noting which places made her shiver into the kiss. He would have consumed her then and there, but fate had other plans.

“There you are Jas— SO THAT’S WHY YOU WERE RUNNING AWAY FROM ME! I’m offended, Jason! Didn’t you want to introduce your big brother to your cute little girlfriend!”

The pair broke apart at mach speed, embarrassed and surprised. Jason glared at his older brother and snarled, fangs showing.

“Now, now, Little Wing! I’m not here to steal possibly the only woman, human or otherwise, who could put up with your dumbass. I’m just trying to be friendly!” the slightly shorter man said.

Marinette noted that he had black hair like Jason, but his eyes were a crystalline blue, too clear and too bright to be human. This man also wasn’t as muscular as Jason, but it was still clear he worked out and was strong. He had an easy going smile, even if those eyes read mischief, and he was carrying a glass of champagne.

He walked over to Marinette before grinning, exposing his fangs. He held out his hand and said, “Good evening, miss! My name is Richard Grayson, but my friends call me Dick—”

“Clearly because you are one.”

Both Dick and Jason froze as those words tumbled out of Marinette’s mouth. Both demons finally took a good look at the little muse and felt a mix of fear and attraction run through them.

The little muse did not look happy with Dick, not at all. Her eyebrows were furrowed as her grey irises disappeared into her sclera, giving her narrowed eyes an all white appearance. A frown was cemented on her face...but it wasn’t so much a frown as it reminded both demons of a snarl. Perhaps muses couldn’t snarl the same way demons could, so she was making up her closest interpretation?

Her fists were clenched, and her body was tense, as if she were trying to hold herself back.

“I’ve waited at least twenty years for that kiss, and you interrupted it!” Marinette hissed. “Quit being a dickhead to your brother and leave!”

Dick’s smile brightened before he laughed, “Aw, she’s going to fit right in! You’ll have to bring her around sometime, Little Wing. Alfred’s going to love her and so will—”

Dick never got to finish his sentence as a swarm of bees came barreling towards him, completely ignoring Marinette and Jason. Jason watched in silent awe as his brother tried to defend himself, but it didn’t seem to matter how many bees he killed. There were always more bees to take the place of the others.

He ended up running away from them, and it wasn’t until he was all the way down the hall that the bees ceased their swarming.

Jason turned back to Marinette, whose eyes were just returning to normal. He gave her a grin before wrapping her up in a hug. He felt her slump against him a bit, tired after using some of her power to create enough bees to make Dick leave them alone. He rubbed her back for a few moments before asking her if she’d like to return to her apartment now.

“I have a few terms,” Marinette said, turning her head so her voice wasn’t muffled against his chest.

“Oh?”

“One, we strip down into our underwear and kiss and cuddle. Two, we watch old movies and make popcorn. Three, we’re boyfriend and girlfriend!”

Jason barked out a laugh before scooping Marinette into his arms.

“Sounds like agreeable terms, Cakepop,” he said, holding her bridal style. “Let’s go home.”

Marinette wrapped her arms around his neck and pecked him on the cheek. Jason carried her all the way to where her car was parked, feeling joy coursing through his veins. She wasn’t going to die. She was immortal like he was. They had a chance. They could make this work. If Jason did his best, he’d never have to say goodbye to Marinette.

Jason set Marinette down again once they’d reached the car. He gently took her head between his hands and kissed her softly. This kiss was not as heated as the first, but simple, sweet, and brief. He kissed her nose and eyelids next before hugging her tightly. He promised her more kisses later, and opened the door so Marinette could get in the passenger’s seat.

Later on the couch, snuggled up under Marinette’s favorite blanket, Jason would hold Marinette close to his chest. She’d be nodding off, feeling safe and content in his arms. Just before she would drift off to sleep, Marinette would sleepily murmur something Jason had been waiting for years to hear.

“I love you, Jason.”

And he would reply.

“I love you too, Marinette.”

[franciegummstarstruck]

My new JG holiday fanfic, “Fun in Acapulco” 🌞🎅🌲🌶

It was mid-December in 1964- Judy Garland was taking her final bows at the prestigious London Palladium. 

 Judy and her eldest daughter, Liza were performing there in concert for a solid week. Miss Garland's English audience showered the mother and daughter team with love, admiration, and rousing applause. Let's face it, London adored Judy. And it was a mutual love affair. Miss Show Business beloved her British fans. And she developed many good, close friendships with a few devotees who were founders of Judy's biggest fan club based in England.

 Christmas was just around the corner and Judy and Liza flew back to New York to relax for a few days. After the twosome settled into their suite at the Regency Hotel on 61st Street in Manhattan, Judy telephoned her younger children Lorna and Joey. They were staying with their dad, Sid Luft in California since her London concert tour.  To Judy's shock, Sid's attorney answered the phone at her soon-to-be her ex-husband's Los Angeles residence. He callously told her that there was a court ruling stating that Sid had full custody rights of the children. And that he had taken Lorna and Joe to Palm Springs for the holidays. He added that the children wanted to be with their dad for Christmas. Judy briskly hung up the phone and informed Liza of the current situation.

 "That louse has kidnapped the children."

 "What's goin on Mama?"  Liza sympathetically asked. She couldn't help but see Judy's peeved expression on her face.

 "Sid. He got the damned Santa Monica court to rule in his favor about keeping Lorna and Joe away from me, that's what!" Judy exclaimed.

 "Oh, no. How could he do this to you Mama...and right before Christmas!" Liza uttered.

 "Because darling,  Sid Luft is a devious, heartless human being. This is his way of getting back at me for divorcing him." Judy quipped, lighting a cigarette.

 Liza shook her head. 

"But, he's not going to get away with it. I'm calling my attorney."

 Just then, as Judy reached for the phone..it started to ring. She abruptly answered the call, thinking it may be Sid on the other line.

 "Hello, who's is this?" 

"Hello Judy, it's Lana." a soft voice perkily replied.

 "Lana...Oh my goodness.. it's lovely to hear from you. Darling, how are you?" Judy warmly spoke up. 

"I'm doing well, thank you. My agent told me sweetie that you and Liza were in New York. And it just so happens that I'm in Manhattan too for a few days, so I thought I'd give you a ring to say hello and ask if you both would like to spend Christmas with me and Cheryl in Acapulco.. that is if you don't already have other plans?"

 Judy’s luscious brown eyes widened. 

“Acapulco? That sounds marvelous darling. I really didn’t have big plans for Christmas this year, Liza and I are so beat from our London concerts engagements.  And my younger children are spending the holidays with their father...’’

 “So, is that a yes? Oh, Judy you’ll love Mexico this time of year. You and I can relax on the beach and Cheryl and Liza can shop and boy-watch.” Lana giggled. 

“That does sound like the kind of vacation Liza would enjoy."  Judy replied with a chuckle.

 “Wonderful!” Lana said. 

“But, I’m not sure if I should go. My press agent may have some interviews lined up for me here in New York..’’ Judy expressed. 

“Oh, Judy all work and no play isn’t healthy..” Lana quickly remarked.

 Liza, over hearing the conversation in the room.. sprinted over to her mother and rambled in a whisper, “Say yes Mama! It’ll be fun! I've never been to Acapulco!" 

Judy flashed a motherly eye roll. 

"Letting Liza out in Mexico could be disastrous." Judy mused. 

However, she never could say ‘No’ to her children, so Judy accepted Lana’s invitation. 

“Alright, you’ve convinced me girlfriend. And my teenage daughter." 

"Great! I'll pick you both up on my way to the airport a week from today!" Lana cheerfully replied. 

"Ok, darling. Marvelous."

 "Till then love. Bye."

 "Bye-bye" Judy uttered before hanging up the phone.

 By now, Liza was dancing around the room with a broad smile on her pretty face.

 "Ok, darling we have lots to do before we take off for Mexico. I have to call my business manager, agents, and have my hair done." Judy declared.

 Liza nodded, then in a burst of enthusiasm exclaimed, "And I have to pack my French bikini!" 

The airline flight to Mexico was a glorious one for all three ladies. No turbulence and the stewardesses kept plying them with tasty desserts and asking for autographs. It helped Judy take her mind off the fact that Lorna and Joey wouldn’t be spending Christmas with her and Liza. And the minute the girls stepped off the jet, there was a sleek, black limousine waiting there for them on the tarmac. 

“Thank Goodness, I brought my sunnies with me. It’s so bright and warm here!’’ Judy vocalized, slipping on a dark pair of cat eye shades. 

Lana grinned. “Sunnies?’’ 

“You know, sunglasses.” Judy matter-of- factly replied.  

“Oh, I see. Now, I recall that’s what the British call em don’t they? Well, you can’t live without them down here darling. It’s year around sunshine south of the border.” Lana said with a giggle, putting on her large tortoise print shades.

 “I’m not used to it. I’ve been living in England for too long I guess. Mr. Sun doesn’t make an appearance there..”

 Lana and Liza chuckled, following Judy into the town car. 

  Lana was the perfect hostess. The moment Judy and Liza entered the gorgeous beach villa in Acapulco they were showered with attention and shown a good time. The striking blonde actress gifted them with colorful sombreros, embroidered Mexican dresses, and beautiful Mexican opal necklaces. The coral and white stucco home was decked out with hanging Christmas lights and boasted an enormous, sparkling swimming pool with cabanas. And it was only a short walk to the pristine ocean.

 Lana enjoyed showing the girls around town and took them to a quaint outside marketplace where they splurged on ice cream and taquitos And they browsed at a few street art vendors. Judy bought a colorful canvas for 1,000 pesos from a local artist because the children in the painting reminded her of Lorna and Joey.

 Lana’s 21-year-old daughter Cheryl drove Liza around Acapulco and the two enjoyed taco bar lunches in town while Judy and Lana lounged on the quiet white sandy beach soaking up the plentiful sunshine. 

The villa’s living room was filled with an array of bright festive flowers and  there was a beautiful garland draped on top of the colorful Spanish tile fireplace. She ordered a gigantic white Christmas tree which almost touched the ceiling! Cheryl and Liza decorated the tree while listening to Elvis records on the stereo. 

On Christmas Eve, Lana threw a small dinner party for a few close friends who were visiting the region. Noel Coward, Ava Gardner, and Ricardo Montalban were among the tight guest list, as was 28-year-old actor Robert Redford. Judy had met him and Elizabeth Ashley backstage after their performance in the Broadway hit play, Barefoot in the Park the year before in New York.  The strawberry-blond actor wasn't very talkative nor overtly receptive to Judy but his eyes were  fixed on her all evening. He didn’t seem to  take notice of the other beautiful ladies, including the villa’s charming hostess. Which was especially odd, because Lana Turner made a spectacular entrance. Glamorously dressed in a tight-fitting, very chic Edith Head original frock along with several diamond bracelets adorning her wrists. 

 Lady charmer Noel complimented her fine taste in clothes and the spicy rum cocktails that were on hand. Ricardo asked Judy to dance while a little mariachi band played outside on the patio. And Liza sang a favorite Broadway show tune at the piano. Before long, everybody was singing Christmas carols and sipping eggnog. And Judy was asked to sing, 🎶Have yourself a Merry Little Christmas🎶 Then, Ms. Turner’s guests were served an elegant authentic Mexican dinner in the villa’s dining room by the best black-tie caterers in town. After dinner, everyone went back into the living room to talk and play records. 

At one point, Judy excused herself and took off for the guest room to repair a nylon tear. Entering the room, she was utterly surprised to see Robert Redford reclining on top of the bed in the room with a wine glass in his hand.  

“Hi. I’ve just been sitting here thinking of you.” he composedly voiced. 

"Oh My Goodness..you startled me dear!" Judy replied with an uneasy giggle. 

Robert slid off the bed like a stealth cougar and placed his glass on a nearby table.

 "I want to make love to you." the handsome young man directly uttered.

 “What?" Judy gasped.

Robert let out a haughty little laugh. 

"You act like I’m the first guy that’s ever said that to you at a Hollywood party.” 

‘‘Well, it’s been a-while.’‘ Judy quipped. 

 Robert burst out in laughter. 

“First of all, we’re not in Hollywood and secondly, I don’t make it a habit to make love to strange men at dinner parties.” Judy saucily retorted. 

Robert smirked and quickly maneuvered over to Judy, while unfastening his cuff links. 

"But, we're not strangers. Don't you remember, we met in New York last year.. backstage after my performance in "Barefoot in the Park?" 

"Yes, I  remember. But, I still don't know you well enough to accept your hasty invitation. Not to say that I'm not flattered..."Judy said in a teasing manner. 

"So, you're turning me down?" 

"I'm sorry darling, but I do find you resistible." Judy said playfully fastening his necktie. 

"Me? You've got to be kidding. Why I'm the hottest young star in show business." he exclaimed in a joking way. 

Judy just grinned, seeing through Robert's star complex facade. 

 "Well, I guess I better go now. It's getting late and did you know there's still a party going on out there?" Robert bantered. 

 Judy chuckled  watching the young man make his way out of her bedroom.  

"Merry Christmas darling." she added. 

"You know, you're a woman of high values." he stated looking back and then quietly walked out of the room.

 Judy didn't say a word to anyone about the little episode between Robert and herself. She spent the rest of the evening yakking with Lana and Ava about clothes and ex-husbands. Young Mr. Redford left the swaray early and sped off in his little red sports car. 

The next day, Christmas day ..Judy slept in till 1 p.m. Liza and Cheryl spent the day relaxing on the beach with Lana and later Judy joined them. That evening, the ladies feasted on a tamale pie that Judy baked out of leftovers in the fridge and watched an old Christmas movie on television. 

 The following day, Lana drove Judy and Liza back to the airport. The gals exchanged hugs and said their 'goodbyes' before Ms. Garland and Liza scooted off into the terminal to catch their flight. While they were hurrying over to the correct gate, Judy's suitcase buckle snapped open and everything inside spilled out on the floor. A good-looking kindhearted passerby went over to assist Judy in need. 

“Here let me help you senora.” he politely said in a thick South American accent. 

“Thank you so much. It’s the first time this has ever happened to me.” Judy anxiously replied. 

The brown eyed man knelt down and helped Judy put her belongings back into her luggage. And then, the gentleman took off a luggage strap he had on his suitcase and wrapped it around her baggage. 

‘’I’m sure that will hold everything together now.” he uttered. 

 Judy graciously thanked him and took some money out of her purse to repay him for his kindness. 

“Please, there’s no need to repay me. It was my pleasure to help a pretty lady in distress.’’ 

“You’re very sweet. Thank you again.’’ 

The handsome stranger flashed a big, buoyant smile.

Judy and Liza brightly smiled back at him and then continued on their way to their flight’s boarding gate. 

“What a lovely man..” Judy said looking back.

‘’Yes, and don’t you think he looks a little like Gene Kelly?’’ Liza bubbly interjected.

Judy chuckled. 

“Yes, darling.. he does!" 

Liza nodded, clutching her satchel. "Well, they say everyone has a double."

                                                The End

©KristenRaeJohnson

[wangxiangiftexchange]

Winter Solstice Gift for xzstudios

Rating: Teen and Up Audiences

Warnings: None

Summary: Wei Wuxian, a covert intelligence agent of Yunmeng Jiang, is slated to marry His Highness Lan Wangji, the Second Prince of the Empire. Unfortunately, he’s caught feelings for the Mysterious Beautiful Assassin Man who has started accompanying him on missions.

Hope you like this, @xzstudios!!! Thank you so much for the prompt!

Read on AO3

******

Spies in Disguise

Wei Wuxian's new and improved teleportation talisman drops him onto a very nice light fixture in Wen Ruohan's war room. It’s very red, very gold and very pointy. It is currently digging into his thighs and catching on his burgundy tunic. He hisses as quietly as he can—he doesn’t want to blow his cover right at the start of this mission—and tries to shift his legs off the pointy bits without making a noise.

The fixture wobbles, and the chain attaching it to the ceiling creaks loud enough to rival Jiang Cheng’s shouting.

Well, shit, Wei Wuxian thinks. He unsheathes his sword and jumps onto it. He floats to the floor, careful not to make a sound. Then he turns around, pulling a talisman out of his pocket to freeze the talisman so it stops making noise—

The fixture stops moving. Someone is holding onto it with one black-gloved hand. Their whole body is swathed in black fabric, save for a dark braid and two golden eyes glaring at Wei Wuxian.

With that getup, he is probably not a Wen soldier. “Um,” Wei Wuxian whispers. “Nice to meet you?”

The person’s eyes narrow. “Leave.”

“No, no!” Wei Wuxian leans closer to the man and favors him with his most charming smile. “I’m a spy too! We can work together, gather intel more efficiently!”

“Not necessary,” the man says. His voice is very deep. Wei Wuxian wouldn’t mind listening to it some more.

Unfortunately, he doesn’t get the chance, because at that moment seven Wen soldiers storm into the room.

Wei Wuxian grabs his three remaining freezing talismans and hurls them at the soldiers. Two of them hit their targets, paralyzing one Wen soldier mid-yell and another as he is unsheathing his sword. The third Wen soldier drops into a crouch, and the talisman sails over her head. Wei Wuxian lifts his sword to block, but she’s fast. Moonlight glints off her blade as she thrusts at Wei Wuxian’s stomach. Wei Wuxian closes his eyes and prays that his death will be swift.

Nothing happens.

He opens his eyes. The Wen soldier is kneeling in front of him, blood oozing out of her mouth. The tip of a sword protrudes from the center of her chest. The man in black is looming over her, and Wei Wuxian realizes that it is his sword that has impaled the Wen soldier.

He pulls it out. The Wen soldier crumples to the ground. Wei Wuxian looks around. The other Wen soldiers lie on the floor, their blood dying the smooth wooden slats a dark red.

“Wow,” Wei Wuxian says. “You work fast, huh?”

“Mm,” the man says. He bends down to inspect one of Wei Wuxian’s freezing talismans. “You made this?”

“Yeah,” Wei Wuxian says. He presses two copying talismans onto the map in the center of the war room. After a few seconds, they spark at the corners—proof that the copying is complete. He stuffs them into his belt and heads for the window.

“Come on!” he says to the other spy. “There’ll be more soldiers soon!”

The man blinks, then nods. He follows Wei Wuxian into the night.

“Here,” Wei Wuxian says, handing him one of the copying talismans. “If you channel spiritual energy into this, you’ll get a copy of Wen Ruohan’s battle plans.”

“Thank you,” the man says. His dark hair shines in the moonlight.

“It’s nothing,” Wei Wuxian says. “You saved my life after all.”

The corners of the man’s eyes crinkle. He unsheathes his sword, sets his feet onto the blade and flies away. Wei Wuxian sighs and does the same. He hopes these battle plans are good enough for Madam Yu.

—

Wei Wuxian continues to run into the man in black (who Wei Wuxian likes to call Mysterious Beautiful Assassin Man in the privacy of his thoughts) as the war progresses. They make a good team. Wei Wuxian’s quick thinking and array of talismans complements Mysterious Beautiful Assassin Man’s fearsome cultivation and whisper-quiet movements. Both of them have saved each other’s lives more times than they can count. Once, Wei Wuxian blacked out from blood loss and came to with his cheek pillowed on Mysterious Beautiful Assassin Man’s thigh. Mysterious Beautiful Assassin Man was sewing stitches into his side with a determined-looking glint in his eyes. When he finished, he carded his fingers through Wei Wuxian’s hair and sang to him until Wei Wuxian fell asleep again.

Sometimes Wei Wuxian drags him to a restaurant in Yiling that never closes and never asks questions about their attire. Mysterious Beautiful Assassin Man tucks his face covering around his ears so that it covers his nose but not his mouth, and they eat congee while the sun rises.

Once, Wei Wuxian convinces Mysterious Beautiful Assassin Man to try it with his favorite extra-spicy chili oil. Without hesitation, Mysterious Beautiful Assassin Man mixes a spoonful into his congee.

“Wow!” Wei Wuxian says. “I didn’t think you would actually try it!”

“Of course I would try it,” Mysterious Beautiful Assassin Man says. “I would gladly try anything Yuandao recommends.”

Wei Wuxian can feel a flush crawling up his cheekbones. The name Wei Wuxian used when he was undercover sounded so nice in Mysterious Beautiful Assassin Man’s voice.

“Don’t say things like that without warning me!” he says.

Mysterious Beautiful Assassin Man ignores him and puts a spoonful of congee into his mouth. His ears, which were a rosy pink, darken to the red of wine. Wei Wuxian can’t help but smile at the sight.

Oh, Wei Wuxian thinks. Oh, I like this man.

—

Over the course of the next few months, Wei Wuxian makes some Plans.

He has a Plan to determine exactly how Wen Ruohan is expanding his army, even after the other sects have killed enough soldiers to fill Nightless City to its brim. He has a Plan to learn how to channel spiritual energy through music, in the style of the royal family’s legendary ancestors. Last but certainly not least, he has a Plan to worm his way into Mysterious Beautiful Assassin Man’s heart.

His adoptive parents are doing their very best to blow this Plan to smithereens.

“There are two potential matches with reasonable compatibility,” the astrologer says, “and one that is truly spectacular.” He leans a little closer to Wei Wuxian, his eyes sparkling with a troubling smugness. “Young Master Wei’s horoscope is almost perfectly aligned with His Highness Prince Wangji.”

Jiang Fengmian smiles. Madam Yu’s grip on her teacup tightens. Wei Wuxian tries very, very hard not to grimace.

This was not how this meeting was supposed to go. The astrologer was supposed to trot out two possible names, each with moderate compatibility and a terrible reputation. Madam Yu was supposed to reject both with extreme prejudice, giving Wei Wuxian another two years at least to do what he did best and woo Mysterious Beautiful Assassin Man without the shackles of marriage holding him back. He had even bribed the astrologer with a fistful of rubies and a sachet of purple dye.

Wei Wuxian shoots the astrologer a glare. A smile slithers over the astrologer’s face and he strokes his chin, his fingers glittering with rings that bore very familiar rubies.

Well, time for damage control.

“Surely this lowly one lacks the pedigree to be wed to the illustrious Light-Bearing Lord,” Wei Wuxian says.

“Nonsense,” Madam Yu says. “You are the only child of Cangse Sanren. Pedigree is no issue.”

Wei Wuxian stares at her. Madam Yu, of all people, defending him ? He pinches himself hard, then winces. He isn’t dreaming.

“A marriage to the Crown Prince would be an invaluable asset, especially during wartime,” Madam Yu says. Oh, Wei Wuxian thinks. This makes sense now. “It would be foolish not to pursue it.”

“There will be a party,” Jiang Fengmian says. He favors Wei Wuxian with an indulgent look, like Wei Wuxian is a spoiled child who needs to be bribed.

“Well,” Wei Wuxian says, his lips numb. “I do like a good party.”

—

As far as Wei Wuxian can tell, he’s only getting out of this marriage if he could find sufficient dirt on Prince Wangji. He combs through all of Yunmeng Jiang’s intel on the royal family, but comes up short. According to every scrap of information they have on him, the Light-Bearing Lord lives up to his name.

Wei Wuxian needs to think outside the box. He starts by sidling up to Jiang Cheng while he’s supervising swordfighting practice for the youngest disciples.

“Hey, Jiang Cheng,” Wei Wuxian says. “What do you think of the Crown Prince?”

“What?” Jiang Cheng frowns. “Can’t you see I’m busy?”

Wei Wuxian scrunches his nose. “You’re always busy.”

Jiang Cheng bends down and adjusts a disciple’s grip on their sword. “So are you.” He peers at Wei Wuxian, the orchids embroidered on his robes glittering in the afternoon sun. “Don’t you have better things to do?”

“I’m just curious, Jiang Cheng!” Wei Wuxian pouts. “I’ve never even met my betrothed and you’ve met him at war councils and things! Tell me what he’s like, please?”

“Ugh, fine,” Jiang Cheng says. “He fights like a demon, but he’s a frigid bastard. I don’t think I’ve ever heard him say more than five words at once.”

“Is he rude when he talks, though?” Wei Wuxian asks. “Does he treat others well?”

“How should I know? The only person he willingly spends time with is his brother.” Jiang Cheng grabs a wooden practice sword. “Now leave me alone. I need to demonstrate some stances.”

Wei Wuxian nods and makes himself scarce.

He’s tried combing through existing records and getting first hand information. The only other option he can think of is going through Prince Wangji’s things and looking for anything incriminating there.

Well, Wei Wuxian thinks, compared to Qishan Wen, breaking into the royal palace will probably be a piece of cake.

—

Wei Wuxian teleports into the Crown Prince’s bedroom and immediately hits his knee on a table. He bites back a curse and staggers, steadying himself against the wall. While he’s getting his bearings, Wei Wuxian scans the room. It is remarkably tidy—Wei Wuxian’s own room resembles a rat’s nest on a good day—which means Wei Wuxian will have to be careful not to disturb anything as he looks around.

The Second Prince’s room contains no untoward books, no bottles of wine. Everything in the room is elegant and understated, from the tea set adorned with blossoming gentians to the empty bed’s folded sheets. It looks like the room of a cultivator twice the Second Prince’s age.  

Wei Wuxian searches the room for any hidden compartments, wondering where the Second Prince could be. The royal family’s famous three thousand precepts supposedly included going to bed by nine, and it was well past midnight.

A sudden hollow noise draws him out of his thoughts. He kneels and inspects the floorboard that the noise had come from. When he pries it open, he finds a white ribbon with silver filigree in its center. He grabs the ribbon and holds it up to a shaft of moonlight. There seems to be a cloud pattern embroidered into the ribbon. He squints at it and brings it closer to his face to get a better look.

The sound of footsteps reverberates through the floorboards. Wei Wuxian hears the door to the Crown Prince’s room creak. He drops the ribbon and slaps another transportation talisman onto his chest. As he disappears he catches a glimpse of long dark hair, a flash of something golden, and the glint of steel.

—

A couple weeks later, Wei Wuxian’s procrastinating on his Prove the Crown Prince is a Degenerate Plan (which remains wildly unsuccessful) by making experimental shrinking talismans when some Yunmeng Jiang disciples walk past his quarters.

“Did you hear?” one of the younger disciples asks. “They’re tightening the security for the wedding! Someone snuck into the royal palace!”

Another disciples murmurs something that Wei Wuxian can’t make out.

“Yeah,” the first disciple says, “I heard only members of the royal family can touch that ribbon! And they found it on the floor!”

Oops, Wei Wuxian thinks.

—

The day of Wei Wuxian’s wedding arrives without any further progress on the Prove the Crown Prince is a Degenerate Plan. The Get Into Mysterious Beautiful Assassin Man’s Pants Plan has also stalled—Wei Wuxian hasn’t seen him in months.

He sighs and adjusts his veil. Embroidered gold phoenixes dance over black lotuses on his vermillion wedding robes. Jewels the color of twilight drip from his ears, and a gold chain studded with starlike diamonds loops around his throat. They are meant to be proof that Yunmeng Jiang’s coffers are full, even in the depths of wartime.

Jiang Cheng leads him to his wedding palanquin, which is swathed in red silk and festooned with clarity bells so that the cultivators carrying the palanquin would know if there were spirits nearby. Wei Wuxian moves some silk to the side and steps in. Madam Yu and Jiang Fengmian are already in the palanquin, dressed in robes of deep violet and gold. Wei Wuxian sits on the cushion furthest from Madam Yu, who has already started glaring at him. After a few minutes, Jiang Cheng enters and takes the cushion next to Wei Wuxian.

The palanquin shudders and takes to the air. Wei Wuxian savors the feeling of weightlessness. For some reason, he never feels this way when he’s flying on his own sword.

“Behave yourself,” Madam Yu says. “We cannot afford to lose face in front of the royal family.”

Wei Wuxian nods. Jiang Fengmian smiles and touches Madam Yu’s hand. She scowls.

The trip to the royal palace is mercifully short. After they land, Jiang Fengmian takes Wei Wuxian’s hand and leads him out of the palanquin.

During the day, the royal palace is lovely, all smooth white stone and babbling rivers. Vines so dark they’re almost black wind around lustrous pillars. The main hall, where the wedding will take place, is flanked by huge stained-glass windows whose panes depict the life of Lan An, the royal family’s founder. The King stands next to his brother, his white robes a stark contrast to his brother’s wedding red. A white ribbon almost identical to the one Wei Wuxian had found in his brother’s rooms is tied around his forehead.

Wei Wuxian steps forward and takes his bethrothed’s hand. They bow thrice to their family and their ancestors, then kneel and pour the ceremonial tea. When Wei Wuxian knocks his back, it tastes like jasmine and lychee.

They head to the banquet hall for the wedding feast, which consists of bland congee garnished with medicinal herbs. Despite the taste, Wei Wuxian shovels it down his throat—he hasn’t eaten anything all day. Next to him, his husband eats with dainty, dedicated precision.

Mysterious Beautiful Assassin Man would like this, Wei Wuxian thinks.

He blinks and puts his spoon down. It seems that he’s lost his appetite.

When the banquet finally ends, he and his husband are brought to their wedding chamber. The biggest bed Wei Wuxian has ever seen takes up most of the room. Wei Wuxian sits on it with a plop and takes off his veil.

“Well,” he says, looking back up at his husband, “how—”

The words die in his throat. His husband has removed his veil, revealing a pair of golden eyes and a lush that mouth all too familiar.

The Crown Prince’s legs wobble when he walks towards Wei Wuxian. He falls to his knees in front of him and traces his cheekbone with his thumb.

“Yuandao,” he says. He says that name like it’s a prayer, in a voice Wei Wuxian has missed for months. “Yuandao, how—”

Wei Wuxian grips his husband’s biceps and pulls him up so their eyes are level. “I gave you a false name,” he says. “I was—I was on a mission. You know that.”

“Yes,” the Crown Prince—no, Mysterious Beautiful Assassin Man—says. “Yes, I know.” His thumb moves back and forth over Wei Wuxian’s cheekbones, his palm cupping Wei Wuxian’s jaw. Wei Wuxian shivers and presses his face into his husband’s hand.

“I missed you,” Wei Wuxian says. He can feel tears sliding down his cheeks. “I missed you so much.”

“You came into my room.” Mysterious Beautiful Assassin Man’s voice is soft. “You—you touched my ribbon.”

“I was looking for intel on you,” Wei Wuxian says. “Something incriminating. I didn’t want to marry Crown Prince Wangji.” He meets his husband’s eyes and smiles. “I wanted to court the lovely spy who saved my life.”

“Mn.” His husband sits on the bed next to him. “And now?”

“You like me, right?”    

“Mn.”

Wei Wuxian rests his cheek on his husband’s shoulder. “Then it’s a good thing I couldn’t find anything. Your virtue is unparalleled, Crown Prince Wangji.”

“Lan Zhan,” his husband says. “Call me Lan Zhan.”

He puts his arms around Wei Wuxian. Wei Wuxian closes his eyes and smiles.

“You can call this husband Wei Ying, then.”

Lan Zhan presses a kiss to his hair. “As my husband wishes.”

[falling-feuilles]

Chapter 2

CHAPTER 2

 CW/TW: Parental Death

Y/N rose early the next morning, sitting up in bed. Soft, golden sun had just begun to seep in through the window, filtering through the curtains. She stretched her arms above her head, wincing as the movement adjusted the bandage on her wrist. Remembering her promise to Alexandra, Y/N stepped out of bed, quickly moving over to her wardrobe. She quickly prepared herself for the morning, struggling to perform simple tasks such as lacing her own stays and closing her own dress. 

Eventually, she opted to call in one of her maids to assist her, an aged woman by the name of Anna. Anna had been working in the household for as long as Y/N had been living there, probably for longer. She plaited Y/N's hair with practice ease, lifting and pinning it into place.

"How's your sister?"

Anna looked up, locking eyes with Y/N in the mirror they sat in front of. She let out a sigh, continuing to finish her task as she answered.

"She says she feels better, but the doctors don't think she'll last a fortnight…"

"When's the last time you visited her?"

"About two months past, my lady."

"You should be there with her, she must be terribly lonely. Take the next few weeks, spend some time with your sister; I'm sure it would increase her spirits greatly."

"You are too kind, my lady."

"Nonsense. Now, be sure to keep me updated on her condition."

"I will, my lady."

 After ensuring that Y/N's dress was situated properly, Anna exited with a curtsy, leaving her to finish any last bits of necessary preparation. 

Y/N adjusted the embroidered shawl around her shoulders to sit on her forearms, assisting the sleeve of her blue dress in covering the bandage, allowing her to avoid any suspicion from the general public. The sun, at this point, denoted the time as roughly seven in the morning. 

The halls were empty as she traversed through them, making her way to the back door and out to the stables. Inside, a stable boy was refilling the water troughs, being careful not to spill. Y/N knocked lightly on the door, trying to avoid frightening the boy, who couldn't have been more than eight or nine in age. He turned, searching for the source of the disturbance; when he saw Y/N, his eyes widened and he quickly set down his bucket, sloshing a small amount onto the dirt floor.

"M-my lady! How c-can I help you?" he stood as straight as possible, attempting to brush the dirt and hay off his trousers.

"I was wondering if you knew where Sergei was, I have a request to make of him," she moved closer to the boy, noticing him tense up as she did.

"Papa's not here right now, he's getting more feed for the horses." 

"Sergei is your father?"

"Yes, my lady," he fidgeted nervously, seemingly preparing for a beratement.

"You must be Ivan! Your father’s told me so much about you; I'm glad we finally had the chance to meet."

 Y/N extended her hand to the boy, beckoning him to take it. When he placed his small hand in her own, she shook it, causing the young boy to smile broadly.

"He's really mentioned me? What did he say?"

"He's always told me what a hard worker you are, and how much you love working with the horses." she continued in a conspiratorial tone, "He tells me you're quite the horse-whisperer." 

Ivan clearly looked up to his father very much, and was more than overjoyed that his father was so impressed with him. 

"Would you like to meet the horses? They're all really nice, except for the big, gray one," he pointed to the large shire on the end. Y/N chucked quietly; that large horse was hers, had been since she was about thirteen.

"What's wrong with him?"

"His name's Emil, he's mean," Ivan whispered, not wanting the horse to hear him, "And he's scary…"

"Maybe you just haven't given him a chance yet; let's go say hello, shall we?"

"If you say so, miss, but I don't think he'll like you very much."

She led the boy over to the stall, feeling his hand grab hers as Emil snorted, moving his head towards the two. Y/N held out her hand, allowing Emil to sniff it before nudging his muzzle against her fingers, blowing hot breath on them with his nose. After seeing this new change in attitude, Ivan seemed eager to interact with the horse. He stood on an overturned bucket with his hand out; he giggled a little when Emil nuzzled his hand, nibbling it with his lips.

"Ivan?” Y/N turned, seeing Sergei enter, cloth sack in hand.

"Good morning Sergei, how are you?"

He seemed surprised to see Y/N in the stables, quickly dropping the feed and bowing.

"What brings you to the stables, my lady?"

"I came to ask a favor of you, but I seem to have gotten distracted. I wasn't aware your son had started helping you care for the horses."

"I'm terribly sorry, my lady, whatever he's done-"

"He's done nothing wrong, Sergei, he's just been introducing me to Emil over here."

Sergei caught on quickly, smiling proudly at his son.

"Thank you for your help Ivan, would you mind feeding Emil a carrot for me?" she continued in a hushed tone, "I think he likes you more than me."

The boy nodded eagerly, moving back to the horse after grabbing the orange treat. Y/N beckoned Sergei to the doors of the stable

"Do you have the time this morning to drive one of the maids to Doctor Federov's then to her aunt's house? She'll direct you where to go."

"Of course, my lady; when are you planning on heading to the Rostovs' today?"

"I was planning on leaving at ten, do you think you'll be back by then?"

"No, my lady, but I will arrange for a cab to take you."

"Excellent. I expect you'll be done by the time the party ends?"

"Yes, my lady, I'll be there."

"Thank you Sergei," she made to leave, thought for a moment, before turning back, "Will you need someone to keep an eye on Ivan for the day while you're away?"

"Yes, my lady, but I expect the women in the kitchen wouldn't mind watching him for me."

"Wonderful. He's a fine boy, Sergei, your wife would be very proud of him."

Sergei smiled, looking over to the boy; he stood in front of Emil, stroking his muzzle and talking to him animatedly.

"Thank you, my lady, I'm honored you think so."

Y/N smiled, waving goodbye to the boy before continuing on her morning stroll.

~

The morning had been a busy one for Y/N. She had accomplished a number of tasks, including, but not limited to; ensuring that all her necessities were packed for the trip, arranging the finances to send to her mother's relatives, and, finally, responding to the influx of letters directed to her Father.

Now, she was finally able to make her way to the Rostovs'. Y/N had become close to the Rostovs through her relationship with Sonja. Sonja's mother had known Y/N's and had been one of the driving forces in helping her parents elope. Y/N's mother had sworn Sonja's to secrecy after discovering her pregnancy. Eventually, at Y/N's christening, Sonja's parents were named her godparents. Until their deaths, they had been a staple in Y/N's early life. Although they had never brought Sonja with them during visits for fear she would expose their activities, Y/N had grown up hearing stories of the girl and, when they finally met at Y/N's first name day celebration with her Father, they connected closely. Through Sonja, Y/N became familiar with Natasha and the other members of her family.

The short cab ride to their home was uneventful. However, when she arrived, she discovered she was not the only guest that day. As she entered the front doors, a butler directed her to the sitting room. A small number of people sat in various locations around the room. This small number consisting of the Rostovs, save for Natasha and Sonja, who were nowhere to be seen, as well as Anna Drubestkaya, her son Boris, Julie Kuragina, and, surprisingly, Pierre.

“Ah, Princess!”  exclaimed the Count, rising from his seat to kiss her hand, “It’s wonderful to see you! I hope you are well?”

“I am, thank you, and yourself?”

“We are doing well, thank you. You know everyone here do you?”

“Yes, I believe so.”

“Well, do sit down, we were just talking about Pierre and his bear friend, have you heard?”

Y/N looked to Pierre as she sat next to him, he was clearly embarrassed. He looked her in the eyes, desperately begging her to change the subject.

“I have, I have; a… strange business that was,” she paused, quickly looking for any other thing to speak of, “Where are the girls? I’d have thought Natasha would be more than happy to receive guests on her name day.” The Count nodded, gesturing to the far door of the parlor.

“Natasha went to comfort Sonja, she’s upset for some reason or another, you know how it is.” Just as he finished, Y/N saw Natasha peek her head through the door.

“There you are! Natasha, look who’s come to see you!” Natasha’s face lit up, and she moved over to hug Y/N tightly. Y/N returned the hug, pressing a kiss to each of Natasha’s cheeks before pulling away. Natasha moved to her arm, clinging tightly to it. Y/N winced, feeling hot, stabbing pains move up her arm; no one noticed, save for Pierre, who saw her discomfort. 

“I’ve come to wish you a happy name day from myself and Lise, are you excited for your party?”

“Yes, very! Don’t leave yet, I have to help Sonja and Nikolai,” The last part was whispered, as though she was trusting Y/N with an important, yet very obvious, secret.

Natasha moved quickly away from Y/N, seeming to have remembered her true purpose for entering the room. She dragged Nikolai out into the hallway with her, shutting the door behind the two of them. Y/N sat back down, unintentionally cradling her wrist with her left hand, gently adjusting her sleeve. While the other guests continued their conversations as if nothing had happened, Pierre leaned closer to Y/N, whispering in her ear.

“Are you alright?” she started slightly, calming when she noticed Pierre staring at her arm. She placed it back on her lap, turning to respond. 

“Yes I… I’m fine,” she paused, realizing the conversation she wanted to have shouldn’t take place in front of everyone. She stood, beckoning Pierre to follow her into the hallway. The others were too preoccupied in discussing Nikolai and Boris’ future service to notice their disappearance. They stopped in a small alcove, near the sitting room but far enough to avoid being overheard

“Listen, I wanted to apologize to you about last night, It wasn’t-”

“There’s no need to apologize,” he interrupted, “You were right…”

“No, I… are you alright?” she asked, noticing Pierre’s paleness and the light sheen of sweat on his forehead, “You look awful Pierre, are you ill?”

“Y/N, my father...” he grabbed her hand, looking for some semblance of support; Y/N breathed in sharply, feeling her wrist spasm in Pierre’s hand. His brows knitted in confusion, “What-? Y/N, what’s going on, are you hurt? Do I need to call a doctor?” the concern in his voice was evident, but she didn’t want to trouble him.

“No, I-I hit it on a… a dresser last night, it’s nothing serious.” 

He clearly didn’t believe her, eyes finally noticing the bandage edging out beneath her sleeve.

“N/N…“ he reached out, resting his hand gently on her other forearm, “What happened?”

Before Y/N could answer, she heard their names being called. Pierre made to ask again, but she shook her head, gesturing that they should go back into the room. Apparently, they hadn’t moved quickly enough. Anna Drubetskaya came into the hallway, looking suspiciously between the two before continuing.

“Pierre, shouldn’t you be with your father? Hasn’t he been worsening?”

“Your father?” Y/N asked, seeing the distress on Pierre’s face, “Oh, Pierre…” He shook off her concern, plastering a weak smile on his face.

“Yes, I’ll be heading there later.”

Anna dragged the two back into the room, away from their brief reprieve, and back into the reality of their lives.

~

Natasha’s name day party was just as Y/N had expected. It was packed full of loud music, dancing, and far too many people for her tastes. She made a concerted effort to stay by Pierre’s side; she didn’t want to force him to see his father, nor did she want to make him feel guilty by not going. That is, until the message came. When Pierre discovered his father had another stroke and wasn’t expected to last the night, Y/N, with help from Anna Drubteskaya, managed to convince him to see his father in his final moments.

In Y/N’s carriage, Anna was talking quickly to Pierre, explaining how he was to go about dealing with the situation.

“It's a matter of life or death. You must be a man now. You have to look after your own interests. Don't expect your Cousin Vassily to. You need to let the old Count see you before he dies. He might give a little sign, you know,” she paused, allowing him a moment to think before continuing, “In any case, it will be so much better for your soul if you can kiss him before he goes, he always loved you.”

Y/N sat beside him, holding his hand out of Anna’s sight; after seeing the two alone earlier, she had continued to pester them all evening. Y/N rubbed her thumb across the top of his hand, attempting to lessen the tremors stemming from it. He looked at her sadly, before turning to the window.

“Yes, yes, I've been a poor sort of son to him…”

~

When the trio arrived at the Counts’ residence, a group of men, dressed all black, stood outside near a hearse. Pierre, seeing this, rushed out before the carriage fully stopped. Y/N chased after him, holding her skirt to allow for freer movement.

“So,” sneered Prince Vassily, seeing them enter, “At last you deign to turn up at your father’s deathbed.”

“Am I too late?” Pierre was winded, eyes scanning desperately about for any sign of his father, “We saw the undertakers outside and I thought…”

“Just touting for business; The Count still lives.”

Pierre let out a sigh of relief, shoulders relaxing slightly.

“But really,” the Prince continued, looking disdainfully upon the man’s ruffled visage, “What were you thinking of?”

“I’m so-”

“You have no business here, I think.” Vassily glared at Y/N and Anna, who had followed close on the heels of Pierre.

“I have a perfect right to be here. You know very well the Count is my near relation, and poor Boris his dear godson.” Anna paused, allowing herself a moment before continuing, “Who has more claim than us to be here at this sad time?”

“Yes, yes, very well. But she,” he gestured to Y/N, “Has no claim to be here.”

“But-”

“He’s right, Pierre. I’ll wait in the hall for you.” She exited as Anna and Pierre entered the old Count’s rooms. As soon as the door closed behind her, she heard whispers between Vassily and Catiche; they spoke of the will naming Pierre as the rightful heir, plotting to destroy it. Y/N listened, furious at the pair. As soon as she heard the click denoting the opening of the Count’s doors, she cracked the hall door ajar.

“Anna!” she whispered, trying to catch her attention. Anna noticed Y/N peering around the edge of the door and moved quickly to her.

“What is it?”

“Vassily and Catiche mean to remove Pierre from the will, they have a copy naming him as the recipient for the Count’s fortune. You must do something, they’ll surely leave him destitute!” Anna nodded, spotting the folder Catiche held.

“Wait here, I may need your help.” Y/N did as she was told, peering through the crack in the door. She saw Anna approach Catiche, grabbing at the paper in her hands. Pierre stood off to the side, miserable and dissociated, unaware of the squabble between the two women unti Anna called him to her. Vassily attempted to break it up, halting only when a woman ran out of the Count’s room, proclaiming his death with a sob. In the chaos, Y/N was able to reenter the room, heading straight for Pierre and Anna.

“I don’t understand…”

“You are Count Bezukhov now, my dear friend.”

Pierre stood, clearly in some state of shock. Y/N grabbed his arm gently, moving to guide him out of the room. He stared at her blankly, unable to understand his new place in the world. Anna patted him on the arm, leaving to return to her home.

“My friend,” Vassily approached, catching the attention of both Y/N and Pierre, “We sin so much and deceive so much, and all for what?” His philosophical question was left unanswered, and he moved away from the pair, back into the Count’s room.

“Pierre, let’s go.” he nodded slowly, allowing her to lead him to her carriage. Sergei noticed the guest, looking to Y/N for instruction. Y/N looked at Pierre, quickly deeming him unfit to be alone for the time being.

“He’ll stay with us tonight.”

“No… I-I don’t want to impose,” Pierre protested weakly.

“Pierre, you could never.” 

Sergei nodded, moving to open the door; Y/N guided Pierre up the steps, sitting him down next to her on the bench. The carriage began to move, lilting back and forth on the uneven road. Y/N looked at Pierre, noticing his expression shift from one of shock and disbelief, to one more akin to sorrow. Despite not knowing his father well, Pierre still cared for him deeply; the Count had provided Pierre with things he would never be able to attain had it not been for his father; an education, social status, but… not the affection one would expect from a father. Still, Pierre had loved him.

“Pierre… I’m sorry about your father…” he nodded, unable to speak. They sat in silence for a few minutes, shoulders pressed together. Pierre reached for her hand, being mindful, even in his dazed state, to avoid the injured one. He placed his head in the other hand, trying to contain himself.

They sat like that for the carriage ride, neither speaking; there was no need for words. Nothing Y/N could say would change what lay in the future for Pierre, and Pierre couldn’t bring himself to speak, knowing he wouldn’t be able to maintain the last semblances of composure he still had. When the carriage finally stopped, Y/N helped Pierre down again, making sure he exited the carriage safely. He was despondent, following her around like a young child. She led him inside, instructing the nearest maid to arrange for a tray of tea to be sent to her sitting room. 

Y/N’s cousin, a young man named Vladimir, had stayed at her house for a number of weeks the previous year. He had left abruptly, never returning for the clothing he left behind. Y/N sat Pierre down on the bed of one of the many guest rooms; she opened the drawers of the dresser placed against the far wall, rummaging through the neatly folded clothes. She found a night shirt that seemed as though it would fit Pierre, as well as a navy house robe to wear over it, instructing him to go to her sitting room after he’d changed. Y/N moved back to her chambers, changing quickly into a nightgown, covering it with a thick, maroon robe. She removed the pins in her hair, permitting the singular braid to rest on her shoulder.

When she walked through the door, she noticed Pierre sitting on the couch, tea in hand. She sat next to him, pouring herself a cup as well. The tea was very aromatic, causing the air to smell strongly of citrus and bergamot. Steam lifted slowly from the cups, twisting slightly in the drafty room; spreading the scent. Pierre’s spectacles were discarded on the table, lenses shimmering softly in the low lights.

“Do you want to talk?”

He didn’t answer at first, opting to sip slowly from his teacup, formulating his response.

“I… I don’t know how I’m to be Count Bezukhov… It just, doesn’t feel real.” He looked towards her, eyes searching for an answer, a suggestion, anything. Y/N tasted her tea, allowing herself a moment to think before answering.

“Well, it is real and, as much as I know you’ll disagree with me, you are most definitely worthy of the title. Don’t shake your head, Pierre. You are one of the most intelligent, compassionate, brilliant men I know; if anyone deserves that title, it’s you.”

“I… thank you. That means… more than you know.”

“I’m sure you’re exhausted, I’ll leave you to rest,” she stood, setting down her cup on the tray.

“Wait, please…” she stopped, turning back to face him,”Would you just… sit with me for a while? I don’t want to be alone…” She sat back down beside him, placing her hand on his.

“Of course. I’ll be by your side for as long as you’ll have me.”

A/N: If you find any spelling mistakes, please message me the part, chapter, and sentence. I’ll do my best to fix it, thank you!

[moon-ruled-rising]

as the rain hides the stars | xvii

Read it on ao3... or Wattpad...

Babe, there’s something lonesome about you.

Something so wholesome about you,

get closer to me.

-Hozier, “From Eden”

The Godswood of Winterfell was always magical. Something about the overgrowth of the plants gave it a mystical quality and enhanced that it was a holy place. It was surrounded by activity and noise but remained quiet and peaceful, wholly removed from the frenetic atmosphere of the castle. Jon found himself there often, listening to the soft bubbling of the hot spring and the light birdsong. He’d spend hours there if he could but somebody always discovered him and the moment was ruined. 

 Now, instead of the uninterrupted nature scene, there were a hundred or so chairs arranged in front of the heart tree to form a long aisle lined with white and wine colored flowers and twinkling lights. The decorators even wove them around the tree branches, letting the strings dangle off and wave like the branches of a willow. At the beginning of each row of chairs stood an arch, laden with flowers and greenery. There wasn’t an altar or arbor, the Weirwood provided all of that, its red leaves stretched over the place they would stand. 

On top of the ethereal decor, the excited energy from everyone gathered for the rehearsal ceremony created a palpable buzz. Jon hoped it was enough to cover up his apprehension. He refused to be nervous, it wasn’t any different than all the state appearances and functions he participated in. But there was still reason to be hesitant.

“I’m sorry I’m late,” Dany’s voice called from the back of the seating area, “The final fitting took longer than expected.”

The wedding planner assured her it was okay as Dany charged up the aisle. When she reached the front, a bundle of fabric was pushed into her arms and she settled into the seat next to Jon.

“Is that a bride’s cloak?” “Yes,” she sighed, “I had to make a compromise with Her majesty so I could repay a favor I owe someone.”

He assumed she meant the single photographer that prowled around the area of the Godswood, whose obnoxious camera clicks interrupted the soft bird song and whispers around them.

Dany unfolded the bundle and swept the black cloak around her shoulders, fastening the clasp with ease. Jon was a little pleased to see it was lined with fur.

“You’ll be glad to have it tomorrow,” he commented.

“Why? It feels fine right now.”

“There’s going to be a cold snap.”

The forecast didn’t predict for anything other than a rain shower over night but Jon could tell. The drizzle would turn to flurries and the snow would stick around long enough for the wedding ceremony around noon. At least it would be ice and snow instead of muddy and damp.

“Let me guess, you can feel it in your bones?”

“Something like that.”

“Doctors say that’s a sign of arthritis.”

Jon splayed his hands out in front of him and then turned them so Dany could see, “They look fine to me. Would you like to assess them, considering you have a wealth of medical knowledge?”

“Mm, I’ll pass, thank you.”

He shrugged and dropped his hands but unconsciously popped the joints. He noticed Dany doing the same thing.

“Alright everyone, let’s get started,” the wedding planner said, “We will be running through the whole ceremony so everything goes smoothly tomorrow. After the processional we will have the opening remarks and invocation from His Highness, Benjen Stark, a reading from both sets of Their Majesties, then the unity promise and changing of the bride’s cloak, then we’ll exchange vows and rings, and finally the recessional. It should be noted that the vows and rings section will only be mentioned.”

They were given the run down of the processional order and dismissed to their starting positions. Dany retreated back down the aisle with Sansa and Arya right behind her, wrangling a gaggle of high born children. A stirring, melancholy melody started from the string quartet behind the seating and his father and Catelyn started down the aisle. They were followed by Elia, escorted by Bran as her husband would be responsible for leading Dany.

As was a royal wedding custom, the bridesmaids and pageboys followed the bride down the aisle, so Dany walked before them. With her brother absent, she forged down the lengthy walkway by herself. She was far enough away that she looked small and lonely despite the bodies behind her.

That Dany reminded him of the version he’d first met, the outer shell of Daenerys that the media observed and critiqued. Jon would’ve assumed she used her solitary nature as a form of elitism. Keeping people at an arm’s length and seeming to float above them just to show she was better. But he knew her at least a little bit better than that and was starting to understand it.

Being alone was easier for Dany. He noticed that long and lengthy social events weighed on her. She still smiled and made conversation, like any good Princess was taught, but she always slipped away quietly when things settled down. It made sense then, why she skipped the gala to swim in fountains.

As she neared, Jon saw that instead of a bouquet she had a sword in her hands. It took him by surprise until he remembered that she was supposed to have it. The presentation of a weapon the groom could use to defend the bride was meant to further reinforce the idea that she was under his protection. Rheagar would carry it tomorrow but, for now, it was hers. And paired with the stoic look on her face, Dany looked like a painting of a warrior queen Jon saw at a museum opening once. A romanticized rendering of a woman standing against the backdrop of a dark, furious storm. Her dress and hair caught in the forceful gales before the skies opened up, the sword held tight against her chest. 

Then the breeze picked up, tousling Dany’s hair and fluttering the white silk of her rehearsal dress. And Jon wondered if the Gods pulled that warrior out of her frame and set her walking down the path toward him.  

“You picked a fine young woman, Jon,” Uncle Benjen remarked.

There weren’t priests for the old gods so the wedding committee picked the closest thing they had to a holy man. It helped that Uncle Benjen was ordained by the state too.

“We’re just lucky she hasn’t sprinted back down the aisle yet.”

Jon elbowed Robb in the ribs, “That’s because this is a rehearsal, dumbass.”

“You never know.”

But they did know and there was no chance anyone was allowed to get cold feet. 

Finally, Dany was standing at his side, her stoic expression as they turned to face Uncle Benjen. As he started in on his opening remarks, Dany set the tip of the scabbard into the ground and rested her crossed wrists on the pommel. 

The invocation started when Uncle Benjen started asking the Gods to watch over the ceremony and provide a number of things to the couple about to be married. It was during this that Dany leaned toward him and whispered,

“So, do you have a huge bachelor party planned for after this?”

“You mean like a stag party?”

“Yes, that.”

Jon hadn’t wanted to tell her about the custom practiced in the North so it would come as a surprise. But he figured Dany wasn’t a big fan of those, so he decided to tell her. The ceremony moved on to the readings.

“Actually, we have this… tradition-” the look she gave him was full of annoyance- “where the groom has to steal their intended from their family. Otherwise he isn’t worthy of her.”

“I think we’re far past needing to worry about ‘worthiness’ but continue.”

“And we get out of the castle for a while.”

“Just us?” she raised an eyebrow.

“And the security detail.”

“Alright, I’m in. Just one more question.”

“Yeah?”

“Am I supposed to put up a fight?” the smirk on her face…

“You can if you want to,” Jon agreed.

“I’m in.”

Uncle Benjen stated it was time for the unity promise and motioned to Dany.

“If you plan to steal me, then you’ll probably need this.”

She offered the sword to Jon, the modestly embellished scabbard glinting as he took it. A hand-and-a-half, a bastard sword. A small smile bloomed on his face, he wondered if Dany knew it was called that. The hilt was wrapped in black leather, a little worn from use, and the silver pommel contained an egg shaped fire opal that shifted between orange and green and red. He pulled the sword out of the scabbard enough to reveal the swirling texture of the blade. Valyrian steel, the technique of making it was long lost to the world. Owning one was rare as the Targaryens kept them in a private collection. 

House Stark had one in their possession, the greatsword Ice. It was gifted to them by the original dragon lords of Valyria who settled on Dragonstone, before Aegon’s ambitious conquest and the doom. The greatsword was only used in the coronation ceremony of a new King of the North now but it was still considered to pass from king to king as though they still used it in battle.

It would belong to Jon, without question. But there was a time when it couldn’t be. He couldn’t remember if he really wanted the sword and he certainly didn't expect it. But what young, bastard boy doesn’t want to rise above his station by some miraculous means?

“Does it have a name? All the best swords have names.” Jon prompted, wondering if Dany knew any of the history behind the weapon.

“If it did, we don’t have any record of it. It’s one that we loan out to museums but I’ve always been fond of it so I figured it could find a home here.”

There was something wistful about her tone, as though she wasn’t really talking about the sword.

Jon handed the sword to Robb, who placed the Stark bride’s cloak in his hands. He turned back to Dany and she removed her Targaryen one. The direwolf embroidered in pearls and jet gave the cloak weight and her shoulders shifted trying to distribute it and keep the clasp from her throat.

“May you each bring your best self to the other. May you each bring commitment as well as faith to the task set before you. May you maintain enduring respect and trust. May all who follow your lives have cause often to rejoice, not only in happiness, but also in your brave and generous living,” Uncle Benjen recited.

Jon couldn’t think of a more perfect blessing for a marriage forged in politics. There was no reflection of love, merely neutral intent and factors that would make any business relationship successful. 

They had to go through the recessional, Dany and Jon retreating down the aisle to the playful cheers of their family. Luckily, the wedding planner deemed the single run through acceptable but there was still one more rehearsal waiting for the happy couple.

The tables of the Great Hall were pushed to the sides, as they would be after the dinner portion of the reception, to create a dancing space. Above them hung the banners of every house in the North, from Karstark to Reed, and the decorators hadn’t spared the hall in their descent upon the castle. The same flowers and lights were strung through the heavy chandeliers, similar bunches near sconces and on window panes.

The choreographer gave them last minute reminders before the music started. An old fiddle, guitar, and pipe ballad at a walking speed, perfectly paced for two arguably amateur dancers but a tad melancholy for a wedding celebration.

“Are you ready for this?” Dany asked over the music as they circled each other.

“As ready as I can be. You?”

“We’ll see.”

The first pass of steps was easy and they stayed far enough away to avoid injury. The next part brought them closer until Jon offered his hands and Dany accepted them. They both had to focus harder to keep from making mistakes. However, their little blunders still happened. 

The instructor once explained the symbolism behind the steps and their order. Something about the development of his and Dany’s relationship but also the expected camaraderie between North and South. Jon didn’t know if any of the wedding guests would pick up on it, they would be too drunk to really care, and all he could focus on was how complicated the steps were despite the slow pace of the song.

Jon second guessed his hand placement and missed the intended mark entirely, colliding with Dany’s rib cage. She stumbled but recovered.

“Sorry,” he muttered, trying to remember what piece of the overly complex choreography came next.

She chuckled and shrugged it off, “If it boosts your confidence, you’re better than a good portion of the partners I’ve danced with at court.” 

She looked up at him, inclining her chin in the slightest hint of movement. Their bodies were pressed close together as they moved back and forth across the floor, allowing them to lower their voices. 

“I highly doubt that.”

“Not all noblemen are light on their feet. I’ve had my fair share of toes and fingers crushed.”

“Fingers?”

“It’s a long story,” she dismissed.

“One for tonight?”

“If the conversation leads us there.”

They quieted as they came closer to the end of the dance, the series of steps and passes and small hops requiring their full attention if they wanted to get through it. Dany stepped on Jon’s foot when she was behind the music. 

The apologizing started again but was cut off when Jon wrapped his arm securely around her waist for a small lift, foreheads bent close to offset the gravity. Dany’s cheeks were a deeper shade of pink when he set her down but whether that was from the dance or something else he couldn’t tell.

They entered the last section of the dance, a series of spins and twirls ending with the two facing each other, palms touching. Instead of the expected applause, they were celebrated by a groan from the choreographer.

They received a sum of all their mistakes, accented by looks of disappointment, but Jon and Dany fell into their regular fit of stifled laughter that came with the hilarious thought of broken toes and misplaced hands. They would run it two more times before they were allowed to leave the Great Hall, tired and sweating.

Jon found Robb and Theon in the smoking lounge with a large group of people fussing over a pile of foam swords. Left overs from someone’s birthday party long ago but they would serve their purpose. 

“We’re going to have to split into teams, Dany doesn’t have enough family for it to be any fun,” Robb said as Jon approached.

“Sansa and I will be with her and the Southern Queen tonight,” offered Arya as she poked her sister with the soft weapon. 

Sansa knocked it away but when Arya stuck her again, she gripped the foam blade and pulled it from the young troublemaker.

“And I plan to be there too,” Rhaegar Targaryen, who arrived at Winterfell only an hour ago, pitched in.

“Just don’t give Dany a sword. She’d love to knock me senseless right about now.”

“I will make no such promises,” Jon answered, not wanting to deny Dany the satisfaction taking her anger out on her brother in a relatively harmless way.

After double checking the transportation and destination arrangements and sending Sansa and Arya off to ‘guard’ Dany, Jon was able to relax into some light drinking with the men who joined him. They lounged around with their glasses and laughed at stupid jokes they had heard a millions times before. He was already feeling a little more like himself, ready to run through the halls of the ancient castle wielding a foam sword like a damned idiot. It wasn’t long before they were ready to begin that night’s fun.

Jon stood, raised his glass and said, “Alright boys, let’s go steal my bride.”

Cheers and laughter rose up as Jon drained the contents of his glass and slammed it down on the table in front of him.

[alj4890]

None But You

(Thomas Hunt x oc*Amanda) in a regency era romance as requested by @pixieferry​​

A/N *squeal* We are getting so close to the wedding. Things are moving along better than I hoped with these characters. I love it when that happens. Sigh. But just as happiness awaits, so does that one other thing...evil intent. Yes, Duke Viktor Montmarte is still very much a part of this story.

@graceful-popcorn   @krsnlove   @alleksa16   @hopelessromantic1352    @pixieferry   @emceesynonymroll   @buzz-bee-buzz   @hopefulmoonobject    @rainbowsinthestorm   @lxaah11   @my-heart-beats-for-ya @everythingmarvelsherlockspn @friedherringclodthing   @aworldoffandoms   @ab1901   @i-bloody-love-drake-walker​  

Masterlist

Summary: The traveling party arrive at Kirkwood Manor. Thomas spends a pleasant afternoon showing Amanda around her new home. Lord Ryan is a bit perplexed about his feelings for Lady Millie. And we see what our villain has in store for the engaged pair.

Chapter 13

"Welcome home, my lord." Thomas' butler, bowed him and his traveling party into the foyer.

"Thank you, Berger." Thomas introduced him to Amanda.

The middle aged butler stoic façade eased as he bowed to her. "Welcome to Kirkwood Manor, my lady. On behalf of the staff, we wish you every happiness for your upcoming wedding."

"Thank you." Amanda smiled at him. "I look forward to getting to know you and the rest of the staff."

Thomas asked for refreshments to be brought to the drawing room.

"Perhaps someone could show Lord Summers to his room." Millie spoke up. "The journey has been quite difficult with his wound."

Ryan gritted his teeth. "I'll be fine. I just need a moment of not being jostled all over Creation."

Berger quickly called for a footman to take the wounded man upstairs.

"Do you need me to help you?" Millie whispered.

He shook his head, lips curving in a brief smile. "I'm certain Lady Bridgerton will wish to talk wedding plans. I will be fine for a few hours." He lifted her hand to his lips and pressed a tender kiss. "Thank you for all that you have done."

She watched him ascend the stairs, worried at how he leaned against the bannister for assistance.

"Millie, dear." Her mother waved her toward the drawing room. "We have much we must take care of before the wedding."

"Coming Mamma." She checked over her shoulder to make certain he made it upstairs safely and continued on to join her parents and friends.

*****************

A few hours of planning later, Amanda managed to escape when Thomas expressed his wish to show her his home.

Lady Lucy couldn't help but chuckle at the pleading look on her niece's face. "Be off with you now. I can already tell that neither one of you will be able to keep your mind on anything else."

The young lady pressed a kiss to her aunt's cheek and happily left with her intended.

With each room he took her to, he shared a piece of his childhood or family history. She laughed at his humorous stories, while admiring the home that was now to be hers.

Here was where she would bear and raise their children, watch them grow up, and hopefully see the next generation of Hunt's that followed them.

"I spend most of my time in here." Thomas opened a door to the manor's library.

He watched her closely as she walked around the room, her fingers trailing the many leather-bound spines.

Her eyes touched on the different sections he had his books divided in. Philosophy, Botany, Nautical History...she paused at one near the large cherry wood desk. An entire case was filled with novels.

He stopped behind her and pulled a book off the shelf. With a quick flip, he opened it to the last chapter.

Her eyebrow lifted while she fought her smile at the memory of first meeting him in a London bookshop.

"See here, sir. You are ruining each story you pick up!" She tried to mimic how gruff his voice had been a few months ago. "Why are you only reading the final chapter?"

Thomas felt a warmth within him at her remembering his first words to her, even if they did reveal his temper. He repeated her own words said to him so long ago. "For a very simple reason, Miss. I prefer certain types of endings in stories. The only way to ensure such is to read the last chapter of books that have been recommended to me."

Her eyes widened at his memory of her argument.

She recalled his eyes narrowing at her and mimicked the action as she continued their beginning. "Can you not simply read what is recommended without spoiling it for yourself?" Her lips twitched with her need to laugh. "Dash it all! People spend months to years creating such for someone to enjoy. They do not do so to be judged solely by the final chapter!"

Thomas set the book back on the shelf and wrapped his arms around her. He repeated the question she first asked him. "Did you write this?"

Her arms looped around his neck. "I did not."

He pressed a long, gentle kiss to her lips. "Then you, Miss, have no right to be offended."

Her laughter was muffled by his next kiss.

"Who knew that would be the beginning of all this?"

"I should have known then that you were going to be the one to turn all my preconceived notions upside down from that initial argument."

"True. But what did you think of me?" She asked, caressing his cheek. "It must have been favorable for you to appear at Almacks."

"Though I thought you quite pretty, it was our conversation that won me." Thomas explained. "I was not used to encountering an intelligent lady."

"Then I am very grateful for a lack of education amongst ladies of the ton." She guided his lips back to hers. "For you sir, captured my attention from the very beginning."

He softly groaned as their kiss grew in passion. He reluctantly ended it to finish showing her about. "I want you to feel free to come in here whenever you wish." He set her hand within the bend of his arm. "I know some gentlemen refuse access to what they consider their domains, but I would enjoy discussing books with you or simply being able to glance up from my desk and see you reading or sewing near the fireplace."

"I think we will spend a good deal of our time in there." She squeezed his arm. "Thank you, my love, for welcoming to your home. I already feel myself growing attached to it."

He led her upstairs to show her the bedrooms. "You feeling at home here is one of my most desired wishes."

"One?" She looked up at him. "What else do you wish for?"

His lips curved. "Our wedding."

"That's less than two weeks away." She pointed out.

"And I am grateful for such." Thomas paused outside the bedrooms meant for the viscount and viscountess of Kirkwood. "But it still cannot come soon enough to suit me."

He opened the door and smiled at her gasp of delight.

"Thomas! This is beautiful." She stepped into the set of rooms that made up the viscountess' bedroom. He explained that he had it redecorated with what he hoped pleased her.

The walls were adorned with vivid paintings of landscapes around the manor. With so many windows having views of the ocean, the rest of the room was done in blues and whites. She trailed a hand along a small escritoire he had made specifically for her. Paper and ink wells were set at the ready for any letters she would wish to write.

The bed was plush with numerous pillows embroidered with blue flowers.

Everywhere she turned there was some little thing that he had insisted on to make this room perfect.

Thomas waited patiently near the connecting door as she explored the bathing chamber and wardrobe.

"Amanda?" His tone held a hint of hesitancy.

She twirled around. "Yes?"

He opened the doors. "This leads to my bedroom."

Color bloomed on her cheeks as she stepped into his personal quarters.

His room continued with the landscape paintings though these were more of the wooded areas near Kirkwood. Golden oak wood dominated the furniture. Rich shades of green and brown were used for the bedding and cushions on the chairs.

It was just as inviting as her room.

"Amanda, I..."

She turned toward him and noticed the flush creeping up his neck. "Is something wrong? You're not unwell, are you?"

"No. It is merely that I hope you," he grimaced at his foolishness for wanting her with him as much as she allowed. He knew it wasn't typical of members of the ton to do so, but he never really worried about their trends.

"Thomas?" She reached out for his hand.

"I want this room to be yours too." He searched her eyes for understanding.

Her brow furrowed. "You want me to have both chambers?"

"No. I mean, yes." He closed his eyes for a moment. "I hope you wish, are willing, to share this chamber with me every night." His eyes widened at how that might sound. "Not that I expect you to, er, perform your--rather, I," he cursed, causing her eyes to widen even more. "Forgive me. I wish for you and I to sleep together each night regardless of any intimacy occurring."

Her lips curved. "Then I will."

He blinked. "You don't mind?"

A slight blush bloomed on her cheeks. "I have enjoyed these past nights of being near you while I slept." She averted her eyes. "I think they will be even better once we are married."

"They will be." He vowed.

Her lips parted when he yanked her against him, kissing her with a preview of the passion he intended to unleash on their wedding night.

She could do nothing but hold onto his shoulders throughout the exchange.

His lips tenderly brushed hers as he spoke. "I have asked that all your things be brought up here and stored in your room. It can be used however you wish." He moaned when she kissed him. "But if there is anything you want to keep in here, then please feel free to do so."

"Thank you." She murmured.

******************

That evening, Lord Ryan joined them all for dinner. His color had improved and he swore he was feeling much better now that he was not being, "bumped about England."

He even encouraged Millie to take a walk in the night air with him.

He hadn't considered though to have not only Amanda and Thomas as chaperones, but also Chris and Matthew.

The first two he didn't worry about, considering Thomas was most likely going to take his lady off somewhere shrouded in shadows.

Sadly the two gentlemen who were sadly losing the moniker of friends was also tagging along. Since Thomas had decided to settle down with his love, Chris and Matthew were ready to help hurry along Ryan's courtship with Millie.

Ryan considered himself a gentleman with an excellent sense of humor. He was one of the few lords among the ton who was intelligent enough to know when not to take life too seriously.

Much to his chagrin, this wasn't such a time.

He wasn't exactly sure how he felt about Lady Millicent Rawlings. When he all but heard her admit to Ms. Fontaine that she was in love with him, his view of her had changed.

It had sharpened with a clarity that he had yet to experience with any other young lady.

What was he to do? He believed much like his misguided friend that marriage was not for him. Not for a very long time. Yet, no sooner had those words been spoken than Thomas pursued the one he had won.

"Good lord." Ryan muttered with the thought. "It can't be."

"Did you say something?" Millie asked.

"Er. No." He quickly replied. "Nothing of import."

His hopes that she wouldn't question him were met.

If only he had wished the same for the ones on their heels.

"He said Good lord, followed by, It can't be." Chris readily answered.

Ryan could all but hear the smug smile the young man must have on his face.

How he longed to be the type of gentleman that was well-trained in pugilism.

He decided right then that he would begin attending sessions at Gentlemen Jack's as soon as be was back in London. Then he would know exactly how to punch friends in the face without causing serious damage.

Oh yes. It would be worth it.

"Makes one wonder what can't be, doesn't it, Lady Millie?" Matthew spoke up in a cheerful tone.

"It does." She admitted. "Though if Lord Summers doesn't wish to share what it is then I shan't be the one to pressure him."

Good lord, she was making him fall in love.

This won't do. It was one thing for her to feel deeply for him but quite another for him to reciprocate such emotion.

"How are you feeling?" She asked softly. "Are you certain you are up to a long walk?"

"I'm fine." He managed.

"No doubt he is in need of romantic moonlight." Chris loudly whispered between the couple.

"Shouldn't you go trail Hunt and Lady Amanda?" Ryan snapped. "If anyone needs to be kept an eye on then it is them.

"Perhaps." Matthew conceded. "But they are already settled. Chris and I have decided that we want to see all we care about also so happily shackled in the bonds of matrimony."

"Shackled?!" Millie gasped. "I never!"

Ryan took a cautious step away from her. If anyone deserved her temper it was the ones behind them. The only way they could be worse is if they were two matchmaking mothers on the prowl for the highest title and fortune in the land.

"Now Millie," Chris smiled warmly at her. "We only want the best for you."

"There's no finer man in England, that is free of romantic entanglements, than Lord Ryan." Matthew added. "If I had a sister, I would push her in his path at every opportunity in the hopes he would take her."

"Take her?!" Millie stopped in her tracks and crossed her arms, glaring at the two men

"What about me?" Chris demanded. "Why wouldn't you push your sister upon me?"

"Push?!" Millie sputtered.

"You must be having trouble hearing tonight." Chris grumbled before turning back to his friend. "Why wouldn't Lady Rodriguez be pressed upon me?"

"First off," Matthew replied, "there is no Lady Rodriguez. Second," he gestured silently toward Ryan and Millie.

"Oh good grief." Millie rolled her eyes. "I think that is enough ridiculousness for one night." She gathered her shawl tighter about her shoulders. "I bid you all a goodnight."

"I'll escort you back." Ryan reached out and grasped her elbow. "Goodnight gentlemen."

"'Night." The two chuckled at having gotten them to finally go off alone.

"Idiots." Millie muttered.

"Indeed." Ryan replied.

Millie chewed nervously on her bottom lip. "My lord?"

"Hmm?"

"What did you mean by saying, it can't be?"

He softly groaned. He should have known she wouldn't let the matter drop.

"It is nothing. Just a passing thought."

She tilted her head and studied his profile. "Oh."

He grit his teeth at the sound of dejection he could hear in her voice. "Oh what?"

"Nothing, just oh." She responded.

"Your oh's rarely mean nothing. So what did it mean?!" He demanded.

"I beg your pardon." She huffed. "I wasn't aware you and I were anything special that allows you to demand explanations to my words and thoughts."

"Millie." He practically growled.

"Don't you take that tone with me, Ryan Summers! I don't care what lofty title you hold. I refuse to acknowledge such brutish behavior." She let go of his arm and hurried ahead of him. "Your escort is no longer appreciated or needed, sir."

"Oh no you don't!" Ryan's long legged stride caught up to her quickly. He grabbed her arm and swung her back around.

The momentum had the pair crashing against each other. Millie's gasp brushed his lips, causing his own to part in surprise.

All the irritation disappeared when he cupped her face. Her eyes met his right before the two met in an impassioned kiss.

Her hands lifted to his cheeks, gently holding him in place as their kiss came to a slow end.

Ryan's breath was ragged. "Millie, I think I'm in--"

They jerked apart when they heard Amanda's laughter coming closer to them.

"Ready to go in?" Thomas asked when they saw them..

"Yes, of course." Millie tugged her shawl up over her shoulders.

She set her hand on Ryan's arm as they followed the couple.

Matthew and Chris appeared behind them.

"I look forward to more treks while we are here. Don't you Lady Millie? Chris teased.

She narrowed her eyes at him, causing his smile to be even more unrepentant.

****************

A private room in a tavern near Kirkwood Manor...

"I believe the best time will be during all the confusion of getting to the church." Charles explained. "What do you think, your grace?"

Viktor slowly nodded to his valet's recommendations. "I agree." His eyes then lifted to his coachman. "And you John?"

"After what I viewed of the viscount's activities, then I think the moment he departs for the wedding will be the best opportunity to take the lady." He replied, feeling quite uneasy with such a devious plan.

"Hmm." Viktor took a long sip of his brandy. "I suppose I should be glad they didn't issue me an invitation. Imagine how much awkward that would be."

He chuckled at the thought of Lord Hunt's face when he found out his bride was not coming. How he wished he could witness it when he discovered she had run off with a better man. But, his being the better man in this scenario meant he would have to miss it.

After all, he couldn't be at Kirkwood and on the Great North Road at the same time. Not when he had his own elopement to attend to. Gretna Green would be the final slap to Lord Hunt's pride.

Who knows? Along that long dark road to Scotland, he might very well tire of the Lady Amanda and leave her for the highway men. After a sample of her body, he could be magnanimous to those less fortunate.

His lips curved at his plan becoming even more clearer in his mind.

[desperationandgin]

Strawberry Wine (Part 1, Chapter 10)

Rating: Mature

Author: desperationandgin

Previous Chapter

Also Read On: AO3

Summary: Claire and Jamie settle in their separate locations and write to one another.

Chapter 10: Kisses With Dreams

September 1, 1938

Jamie,

I promised I would write the moment I moved into my dormitory, and I can assure you that my unpacked suitcase is at the foot of the bed. Thank you for the surprise photographs of us in my purse; I hadn’t realized your father took any at the gathering, though I’ve never been more grateful. I realized belatedly that while I had two wonderful photographs of you, I didn’t have any of us together. It caused a tearful moment on the train. Fortunately, there was a kind Reverend sitting beside me; he distracted me with his own recollection of Jacobite history. It was interesting, but only made me want to return to you more.

I’m no stranger to new beds in unfamiliar places, though this is the first time I can’t unloosen the knot that’s formed in the pit of my stomach. I’ve never missed someone before, with so much of myself. That last kiss at the station, in front of God and everyone no less, will have to get me through until December, won’t it? I think even Jenny blushed.

I hope you’re settling alright. Were you and Ian able to share an apartment as you’d wanted? Do you have a wonderful view? By the time you receive this, you’ll have started your classes; please tell me how you’re finding them, and I’ll let you know how school is here, as well, in my next letter. We begin on Monday, and I’m not sure if I’m worried or if it’s just nerves causing me to doubt myself. What if I’m not capable enough when it comes to real-life scenarios? What if I have the drive to help others, but am rubbish at nursing?

I already know you’re shaking your head in protest. It’s nerves, and by this time next month, I’ll be settled and things will be fine. That is what you were going to say, wasn’t it?

In half an hour, I’ll have to attend an informal dinner to meet my fellow classmates, so I suppose I should at least unpack a suitable outfit. I don’t want to stop writing; if I stop writing, then I’ll have to face the fact that you’re not really here, listening to everything I’m telling you.

Sorry for the smear of ink. I’m homesick, I suppose, only you are my home, and I already miss you desperately.

Please give my best to Ian. Write soon, and put me out of my misery.

Yours,

Claire

The weekend before I left for London, Brian hosted a two-day party of sorts for all the tenants he rented land to. It was grand and festive, with enough food to feed an army and no shortage of laughter. Old friends arrived, including a delightful man named Mr. Raymond whom I could remember cropping up throughout my childhood; someone who brought me rare toys and exotic candies when visiting. He hadn’t expected to see me, I knew, but still managed to gift me something unique: a dragonfly encased in amber. When I tried to find Jamie to show him, he was busy watching his father, gaining real-time experience as the future laird of Lallybroch. I was captivated by him, the way he drew people in. His eyes seemed to meet every single person’s in the room when he addressed the group at large, and he always seemed much wiser than his age suggested.

Privately between us, the things that could come out of Jamie Fraser’s mouth were like lines from old, romantic poems. Sonnets written in 19th-century fields of heather. The best part was that he always spoke true. He meant those fantastic things he said, and it made me love him all the more.

The first night of the festivities, we’d stolen away to a hayloft, drinking pilfered Drambuie straight from the bottle.

“Did you know this is the secret drink recipe of the Bonnie Prince Charlie?” I’d asked slowly, my speech a bit languid in my not-quite-drunkenness.

“Oh? I only ken my uncle Dougal enjoys the drink verra much, it’s why there’s so much of it for the weekend,” Jamie’d informed me before taking another swallow from the bottle.

“Well, when he escaped to the Isle of Skye, he was offered protection by – oh, which clan was it?” Pausing, I’d looked out at the sky, squinting before remembering. “Clan MacKinnon! Clan MacKinnon sheltered Prince Charles, and as thanks he gave them this very recipe.”

I had been given a kiss for my useless historical knowledge – and a bit more.

Shaking myself out of my thoughts, I sealed the envelope, fished a stamp out of my handbag, and neatly scrawled Jamie’s address, plus my own. It took a half-hour to settle on a suitable dress for supper, and I made my way downstairs, intending to keep to myself. Taking a seat at the far end of the dining room table, I listened as the rules of the dormitory were laid out (no non-familial men in our rooms unchaperoned, period. No alcohol except for one glass of wine with supper) and studied the other women. All of us seemed to be about the same age, and the one next to me leaned over to speak.

“What do ye think, could we sneak a flask in our brasseries and get away wi’ it?”

My eyes widened first at the accent, and then at the suggestion.

“You’re Scottish?” I asked somewhat dumbly.

“Aye. What gave it away, the accent or the flamin’ red hair?”

I couldn’t help but laugh, though I stifled it quickly to avoid the attention of Mistress Hildegarde.

“My name’s Gillian,” my new acquaintance introduced herself. “We’re roommates, you and I. I was down the hall when ye were comin’ out of the room earlier.”

She had hair not quite as red as Jamie’s, a fair complexion, and definite mischief in her eyes.

“Maybe down my knickers,” she mused, and I hid a laugh behind my napkin. While eating (an unfamiliar to me meat dish and potatoes), I decided if I was to live here for four years, perhaps befriending at least one person would be nice.

I was proven correct over the next few days; Gillian was smart and took good notes, but had a penchant for knowing when to throw down our study materials and go out for a drink. On a Friday evening after the third week of classes, we were planning to go to the cinema until the mail call happened.

“Ms. Beauchamp, one letter, one parcel.”

When Mistress Hildegarde said my name and I saw the handwriting on the envelope, I apologetically canceled my plans with Gillian and ate my supper in record time before racing upstairs. The package was a square box, and I put it aside in favor of reading Jamie’s letter first.

September 17, 1938

My own,

You are correct; I was shaking my head at what you said of yourself. And was I right? Was it nerves and are you settled? I know you can do anything, and I am eager to read all about your classwork. Your roommate as well, is she a nice lass?

Ian and I are faring well and do share a small apartment. He’s writing to Jenny now as I write to you. A few things are as I thought; the Latin exams will not be very easy to pass with top marks. I’m not sure speaking Latin will come up much in daily farm life, but I suppose for Mass it will be nice to know exactly what is being said. At least it may be something that could impress Father Bain.

Hopefully, the parcel I’ve sent along makes it as well. Inside is a wee bit more than chocolate, all things I thought you might enjoy. I had the idea, as well, to take a flight to London before Christmas, then together we could go to Scotland for the holidays, perhaps even spend a night in Edinburgh before going on to Lallybroch. We can work out the details a bit closer to the time, it is only that I’m eager to see you now. Being apart from you feels as though something is missing – even at Lallybroch I felt it, on the days we weren’t able to see one another save for breakfast and supper, only not as keenly. I miss you, Sassenach, down to the very marrow of me. I’m glad you have photographs; I have one of you in my back pocket always. Sometimes, I need to see you.

Do not weep, lass. Soon, it will only be the two of us.

The next few months will go by in record time, though perhaps I will be able to find a way to see you sooner. I love you, Claire, and you’ll do well to remember it. Write to me soon, a nighean.

Yours always,

Jamie

His name was a flourishing signature, and down in the very corner of the page, he’d drawn a small heart. Touching it with the tips of my fingers, I smiled softly and read the letter again. It was comforting to read something so normal, that everything was going perfectly well so far. Folding the letter and tucking it back into the envelope, I tore the parchment paper off of the box next, removing the lid. Inside was something wrapped in pale pink tissue, and when I unwrapped it, found four white handkerchiefs with lace, scented to smell faintly of roses. They were beautiful, and only after closer inspection did I realize my initials were embroidered in the corner, though not CB.

CF.

After taking a moment to whisper my name with his aloud, I tucked one into my purse, another into my coat pocket, and slipped the other two into my dresser. Digging through the rest of the contents had me finding all sorts of different chocolates, beautifully hand-painted postcards of Parisian landscapes, and a book: The Postman Always Rings Twice. There was another note, written on the inside of the cover.

Sassenach,

I wasn’t sure if you’d read it, but you mentioned wanting a good mystery novel to puzzle out. This one is controversial, if you’ll remember. I read it, and I can see why Boston went up in arms. Don’t go getting bawdy ideas.

–JAMMF

I laughed aloud at his last sentence and laid the book to rest on the nightstand. Looking at my bounty, I quelled the urge to write back for a mere twenty minutes before sitting down at my desk once more. I went on about my schoolwork, about the things I was learning and told him about Gillian, then reassured him all was well and I had indeed settled. I promised to write more once I’d finished the novel, then changed into my nightgown early, tucking into the book. Hours later and over half-way through, Gillian returned home, letting herself in and flopping down on my bed across my legs.

“Have fun?” I asked, putting down the book for now and stretching.

“When isn’t watching Fred Astaire a delight? Though, it wasna the best of his films, ” she informed in response, filling me in on the plot of Carefree. I half-listened, my thoughts on the book, which she called me out for.

“Where’s yer mind, Claire? Surely a book cannae be that good that ye–” Her gaze drifted toward the box, eyes wide by the time she looked back to me again. “Is that from yer fella, then? Let’s see, what did he send?”

As I proudly showed off my bounty, she touched the embroidery on one of the handkerchiefs. “Yer wee fox cub truly wants ye, I’m jealous. Does he have a brother, by any chance?”

Rolling my eyes, I shook my head. “Only a sister.”

“Is she available then?”

We laughed at the joke together before scrubbing our faces and turning in for the night, a picture of Jamie tucked under my pillow.

The weeks rolled by, my latest letter arriving on October twelfth. It was short, mostly about how hard he’d been studying and all of the places to eat he was eager to take me to. There was no parcel this time, but he promised something would arrive in time for my birthday.

On the twentieth, I could hardly sit still in my classes, eager to get home and see what had arrived for me. As soon as my day was over I raced to the dormitory, calling out even as I opened the front door.

“Mistress Hildegarde, have you got any parcels for me?”

Her voice rang out from the parlor. “Yes, I would say so, Ms. Beauchamp. Come, it is here, with me.”

Removing my hat and placing it on the hook near the front door, I was pulling off my gloves as I entered the room and paused in shock. “Wot?”

“Mind the rules, my dear,” Mistress Hildegarde reminded on her way out of the room, and I merely nodded, a slow smile spreading so wide it made my cheeks hurt.

“Happy birthday, Sassenach.”

NEXT CHAPTER

[blankdblank]

Next Caller Pt 27

@c-s-stars​, helped me with these collages since i am not able to make them. Sorry for making you wait so long. :D

Saturday morning, post fist bump to shoulder awkward goodbye from you to your Cuddle Monster the night before, you were underwear clad prepping of your hair for the day ahead. Braiding up the upper half of your hair into a long woven pattern secured with hidden pins you moved onto pulling your strapless dress on over your corset, making sure to use pins to keep it in place even with the tight hidden zipper on the side. Tall heels were next so you wouldn’t have to fidget with them underneath your cape, the lovely pair stirring a smirk across your lips at seeing how nice they looked and how comfortable they were.

On top of your head you added the feather topped golden leaf band forming a mini crown you pinned in place before moving onto your cape. The golden layer of feathers laid over the white swan feather cape reaching your hips secured with a single strap around your neck. Exhaling sharply you moved onto your makeup next. A simple stripe of gold across your face in a mask coating from eyebrows to just under your eyes stretching from ear to ear once you added the facial primer. Primer for your lips came next for your black glittery lipstick to finish off the look and just in time for you to pace in your living room when you had assured you had all you needed in your hidden pockets of your dress.

Fidgeting with your golden leaf accented arm bands you answered the doorbell trying not to worry about what the hell your Cuddle Monster would be wearing. Opening your door you couldn’t help but smirk seeing Mal with her hair pulled back underneath a flower circlet with flower pins in her hair matching the flowers on the wrist bands covering most of her forearms on pale green vines and the green fishnet flower coated stockings under her gladiator sandals. Her silver corset topped tutu-like skirted dress accented with pink, yellow and red flowers matching the shades in her fake wings strapped to her dress. “I told you mine would look-,”

Open mouthed she took in your look and replied, “You look stunning. No one else could pull off the feathered fairy like you.” Shifting on her feet she asked, “Are those real wings?”

You shook your head, “Just a cape with real feathers, more fancy dress than festival outside of the makeup.”

“Speaking of which, where did you get that lipstick? It was all gone when I went, wanted this rouge-,” the honk of the horn had you giggle and step out behind her drawing her eye to your shoes, “Again with those shoes, kill me now, I love your friends, how do I get them to buy me shoes like that?”

“I’m certain if you mention to the boys your taste they would certainly start to fill your collection.” Locking your door to join her with skirt folded in your fingers lifting it just a bit higher on your path to the car with the burly bright red bearded silvery maroon haired Dwarf at the wheel while his dark haired Hobbit wife with silver streaks in her tight pulled back curls took pictures of you both together. Like Mal she was dressed but in a longer silvery green flower embroidered dress with a cape surely embroidered with folded wings chosen over the strap on pair like Mal’s. Her father wearing brown and golden layers from his trousers, folded over boots, tunic and pirate like jacket to go with the bear mask.

Climbing in you said, “Mr Ganir, Mrs Clover, you look incredible.”

Lowly he chuckled and said, “And you are beyond words our dear girl. Beyond words.”

Clover giggled and in sharing your nerves with Mal you reached over folding your hand around hers on the seat between you hers tightened around the fingers on as her mother said, “Come on, before we miss it all you old flatterer you.” Making him chuckle and shift gears to head to the festival. Joining the lines of cars you found your way to the very same place in the heart of the city. The squared off Grand Palace Theatre in white and blue surrounded by immaculate gardens with swirling patterns of hedges around copper pathways leading to each entrance. Through which you would be party to several shows to pay tribute to various figures and creatures of old and several food and stands of trade woven through the inner gardens laid out inside the Theatre’s courtyards within the square layout.

Parked in one of the many garages around it you joined the group in exiting the car and flashed grins to the parents who nestled you and their girl between them proudly as they always had since meeting you. Mal seemed to have ample friends from her other job at the shelter but it seemed you were the one she chose to enforce her friendship upon at the station, no matter how willing countless others had been to have earned her favor over exhausted frazzled little you. Far beyond distracted to think of making friends while keeping your head above water, only to realize you did have just a hint more time to make a bigger effort for a new friend.

“And just where are we meeting the Durins in all this?” You asked.

Mal replied, “Next to the Bird display, apparently they assumed it would be the least crowded spot.”

“Oh ya, Bird display, what Dwarf could ever want to be seen near that.” Making the trio chuckle around you while you turned your head to glance at a group staring and whispering about your costume. Looking back forward again you inhaled deeply taking hold of your skirt again in eyeing the cobbled copper path to keep from stumbling in the change from concrete to that. Bodies folded around your group and again Mal’s hand folded in yours for the woven path.

At least until you spotted the first lion mask in a trio of blondes including Vili and Fili with Kili and his wolf mask. Next to various lions and fairies from the Findis clan that was available to attend. All in pirate like outfits in their clan colors. Under Vili’s arm stood Dis in a strapless black and orange flowing dress with a dramatic butterfly wing painted cape and a headdress with butterflies floating around her braided bun coating in silver glitter matching her silver glittery painted on mask.

Dwalin in a boar’s mask stood beside Bilbo with a chipmunk outfit matching Frodo’s he seemed to love and had chosen. Balin and his wife were sheep along with their little girl as a goat propped on Balin’s hip. Frerin in his badger mask stood between his parents Dis and Thrain, with grey ram masks and horn headdresses in similar blue and gold accented gown and jacketed outfits, and his brother Thorin similarly dressed but with a black battle ram mask with horns secured by the braids in his hair.

A wide grin slid across Frerin’s lips in spotting you had him tapping the chest of his brother while readying his phone. The single moment of shock when eyes shifted to your group captured in a picture only deepening your adopted brother’s expression. Fili and Kili inhaled deeply shifting on their feet grinning to Mal between stolen glances a her parents while Dis, Vili and their families readied to greet their hopefully one day in laws.

The distance was closed and in an awkward moment of silence you stepped closer at Frodo’s reach for you, “Feathers!”

In a giggle you let him inspect your cloak you brought closer to his reach and you said looking at Dis in her glance your way, “Um, Dis and Vili, Findis, these are Ganir and Clover Mereng,”

A subtle shift of Ganir’s feet had you halfway rolling your eyes in his creeping grin at your accent having you pronounce his clan name like the dance over its true hard g at the end after the forget-ably silent n. The clan name Took Mal preferred using over Mereng for being teased by others saying it like meringue in school. Playfully he rumbled, “Always makes me want to dance that accent of yours.” His eyes shifted to Dis and Vili for the trading of pleasantries after you had so rightly broken the silence. Though when he stepped forward to greet the boys he said, “And you must be the lads attempting to court our Malachite.” His eyes looked them over and he said, “Call me Bubbles.”

You giggled as Mal said in the parting of the boys’ lips, “Adad!”

At which he chuckled and said, “Just giving them a good ribbing.” He flashed her a wink, “I am allowed you know.”

Frerin subtly snapped a picture of you and while Thorin kept staring at you his brother whispered to you softly until Ganir asked, “And who might you be staring at our honorary Stonefoot so long.”

Curiously you looked his way and said, “I’m a bit too light to be called stone anything.”

Clover giggled saying, “All the same, nearly kin.”

Mal said, “Thorin bought her that necklace Adad.” Making you give her a pointed gaze earning a shrug from her in return.

Thorin shifted on his feet finally looking to the Dwarf now posing as your protector as well, “Well it seems I have three suitors to inspect.” At that your voice cracked trying to argue while Thorin’s eyes in a glance your way flinched wider a moment.

Clover patted her husband’s arm saying, “Ganir is jesting, we know well enough her kin initiate courtship with granting nicknames and vying for a blush out of the males. And here she has been silent about the young fellow.” Dwalin and Balin both bit their lips to keep from beaming dumbly at their cousin who had missed that fact.

Again Thorin was staring at you in both confusion and a glimmer of hope while Mal burst into giggles at the boys’ hushed compliments on her outfit making Ganir turn his focus back to the boys as you turned hearing, “There you are.” Glorfindel and Ecthellion both in fox masks complete with ears and clipped on tails visible under their jackets and sideways capes covering one of their shoulders.

Both leaned in giving you hugs and pecks on your cheeks with Thranduil and Legolas behind them claiming their own turn before looking over Frerin and the boys. Though in Gloin’s trot over excusing himself for being late with the Dam you imagined to be Gorgo as a mountain lion between the pair of mountain goats. Her eyes scanned over you and Mal hopefully before being unable to help but ask, “Is Bunny enjoying her day off?”

Mal forced a grin and said, “Pretty sure, she’s around, somewhere.”

Gorgo looked at you asking, “I heard we have you to thank for putting the show on air.”

“Well, five hours of dead air or hop in the seat no one else wanted, not a hard decision.”

She smirked saying, “Still, with a story like that, should have taken so long to rehearse-,”

Ecthellion broke off her moment to say, “I thought I recognized that voice, Miss Gorgo, I am Ecthellion.”

Her lips split into a wide grin and she said, “Yes, it is nice to have a face with a voice. You’ve known Miss Pear long?”

He said, “Since we were children. Even longer than Glori has known her. Though not as long as Thran has known her.”

Thorin broke the conversation saying, “We should head in.” Stealing a glance your way finding you already looking at him for the first time since Ganir had made his courting comment.

Straight to the steps you followed the crowds and when Frodo asked him a question his head turned granting others a chance to split your group. The Durins and the Merengs along with the Findis continued on while Thranduil kept his hand on your back guiding you after them ensuring you at least got into the same show they were being ushered to. In the crowds however familiar copper and cocoa skinned Elves with snow like hair tied back with various paint sprays and glitters added under their bird costumes had Thorin looking around for you.

Inside the theater for the first show their group took up a large section and more scattered through the crowds of the familiarly featured Elves all taking notice of your entrance to claim the section across the row from theirs had him on edge. Subtle taps however of your fingers to your chest easily mistaken first as a nervous fidget of your necklace when he noticed you spotting one couple especially near the far wall only to have the motion mirrored by them and every other one you locked eyes with. It was a hello, a very distant hello from cousins to one another that the men around you granted nods of their heads in the distance in their own greeting to mask just who their focus might have been on. Clearly not to you the visually anonymous one on the group of very public figures stirring whispers since their arrivals.

With a quick grin you settled down and crossed your legs eyeing Thorin as he sat down stealing another glance your way with a quick grin of his own. Silently hating that there was a spot between you. The show however began and off the lap behind you a little girl on the lap of another assumed relative with deep cocoa skin and glowing swirling clan markers across her skin that dimmed in her child’s escape had him shifting to see where she was going. Teetering around the chair you were in she planted her hands on your knee and across your cheeks swirls matching the pairs’ faintly began to shimmer in the dip of your hands you lift, turn and plop her on your lap widening her grin. Around her middle your arms settled and the girl eased back comfortably while her mother leaned forward. Her fingertips settled on the back of your chair and in the backwards tilt of your forehead it met hers in a trading of whispered Vanyar greetings before turning your attention to the show again.

From children opening with a song and dance that branched into a tale of old you nuzzled and whispered to the child in your arms that stirred more than a few glances from the Durins your way along with Mal when Fili and Kili traded whispers about it. Moving to the next show in the theater over you then had two toddlers come over with that woman now mingled in your group. Thorin had the seat beside you but couldn’t help but chuckle at the pair of boys clambering over him to get to you as their parent grinned in the aisle watching you tap foreheads and noses with the pair between pecks on their foreheads between their eyes after their tight hugs before clambering back to head to the next show.

More and more of your braver relatives milled in and out claiming their own focus for brief snippets of time with the same woman at your side until the second show when her daughter got fussy and she was off to go browse the shops then head home. Bitter sweetly each Durin looking on got to see your scattered family and the lingering fear of remaining too close for too long all coming to greet them wish you a nice festival.

Three shows came then a round of food carts you all sampled and between the groups you were told what each was and chose accordingly slyly passing off your samples to others who volunteered for the seconds to keep from insulting anyone. Two more shows came and then you were freed to the inner courtyards for browsing stalls and various mini shows. Off in their own world it seemed the future in laws were settling to learning one another keeping you to your friends, Thorin and Frerin, the brothers who refused to abandon your side once your family had seemed to all have slipped out again as soon as they could have been noticed.

As the sun was setting Thorin’s hand folded in silent warning around yours breaking your focus from the cart to draw your eyes to him that only snapped up in the shot of a firework into the air that then exploded lighting the sky in silver. Leaving the crowds filing closer to the stage you had missed being assembled along the far wall. Another show began and from the massive group of all the children in all the shows who were there to present the subject of their wish for protection Thorin grinned along with you while they held up their pictures of bunnies they hooked to floating lanterns they let free. The action making Mal shift closer to you to rub your arm in a silent but proud moment shared with your friends and Thorin all in on the truth.

From there the wishes were open for everyone while the fireworks and final musical and dance filled acts blending into a parade started up. Freed to mill about again you lingered around until Mal’s yawn had her parents calling an end to the night taking them past the wishing booth. Lowly in a bend forward Ecthellion said they would take you home freeing you to keep browsing. Tightly Mal hugged you good night while making sure to keep hold of her ribbon she had been given from one of the silent judges grading each type of fairy and animal costume present.

While Mal’s ribbon had come in her reach for the bag holding her new charms for her charm necklace the boys picked for her to be draped over her arm in the fleeing of the judge. Yours came in the reach for your cup of blue raspberry shaved ice Glori had pointed you to for a cup of kiwi for himself that had your head turning feeling something touching your ear. In a chuckle Legolas pulled the ribbon off your head as Frerin called a Khuzdul comment at the giant squirrel costumed Dwarf that had you hugging eyeing the second ribbon gifted to you that way for this costume. “I get that I’m short but my head?”

You turned at deep chuckles finding Thorin scowling at his ribbon having been hung from the adorable ridge under his Battle Ram nose on his mask enabling better breathing and eating for him. Runoff his head when he removed it he said, “I saw your bracelet I know where you work!” To the now cackling raccoon costumed Dwarf rushing back to the crowds.

Rolling his eyes he muttered while Balin chuckled out, “Hey you won again for Battle Rams.”

Thorin grumbled back, “I’m the only Battle Ram.”

Dwalin pointed, “Not true, oh wait he’s a sheep. Never mind. Still a win though.”

“You know what you gotta do?”

Lowly he rumbled back playfully, “If you bleat at me I’m walking home.”

As if on cue Balin’s daughter gave off an adorable bleat making you giggle and him chuckle with his family as Balin said, “That was a very good bleat Billi.”

Under various colored flashes of light you felt the bag from your t shirt you had chosen getting heavier from gifts from your friends to the wall of wishes on your way out. Entire sections were dedicated to various people with an entire chunck of the wall coated in runes of the names of characters from your show mirroring the names they had written to add to the fire pits and small lanterns for each child. Inhaling steadily seeing that others had written down nicknames and that Thorin had tried to subtly write out ‘Mafioso’ on the wall after having written it down in his slip now burning you smirked and wrote down on the paper then wall what the boys them repeated, “Cuddle Monster?” That sent ripples of the nickname through the Durins wondering who it was while Frerin smirked taking his own guess by your faint blush.

That had their uncle turning around and a stolen stick of your tongue at him he shook his head and turned around to wait on you while your friends all copied down their remaining parents names, each having lost one. They were all their children had left of the once vast clans and while you ached to add your mother’s name right then you were wishing more that Thorin was doing well and had a good night after having ran into his ex the day before. His family was nice and again for the walk out you eyed all the dancing costumed people all the way through the street back to the garage the Elves parked in across from the one the Dwarves had used. Waves and brief hugs later you could hear Dwalin calling out, “Get some sleep and relax this weekend.”

Giggling to yourself you turned away keeping at Thranduil’s side looping your arm around his and leaning against his arm making him ask, “Tired?”

“Not really. I had fun, you?”

He nodded and said, “It was nice to finally see Marya and Ringwe in person.”

To yourself you giggled saying, “Yes, Ringwe’s gotten so big, and the twins too. For how long our childhoods last it goes by so fast.”

Making him chuckle and pat his hand on his son’s shoulder on his right guiding him through the first turn to the lift while he uploaded his photos from the night. Trying not to be too obvious I’m pulling the note up from his phone to search for the username he spotted on young Gimli’s phone screen at their having shared pictures from the last year from their pages including a picture surprisingly they were both in. He had partially gotten distracted when his cousin Tauriel had shown up late in one of the second round of shows showing off her latest bout of carvings on her next gallery show coming up.

“Big plans tonight?” He asked lowly.

“I kind of want to dig into that bag of fan mail.”

Glorfindel chuckled, “Good, I think I spotted some addressed in crayon, no doubt some classes have been rooting for Bunny all along.”

 *

The first of a long string of messages to come in the new friendship had Gimli distracted while Gloin glanced at his wife asking, “Something wrong My Love?”

Gorgo replied unpursing her lips, “She has a bunny tattooed on her foot.”

Gloin glanced at her again, “Who?”

“Miss Pear. She has a Bunny on the top of one of her feet. I was looking at her shoes and I noticed it.”

Gloin replied, “Ah,”

Gorgo, “She has that tattoo, she works on the show, it can’t be coincidence. You said she writes-.”

Gloin, “I can see where you are going, My Love. However, you stated Bunny wished to have anonymous publishings.”

“I’m not going to out her. Just, if it is her I could get the draft so much easier.”

“I understand that, but don’t you have to wait on the ad first? That was the deal to see how it faired and then an advance settled to schedule a hand off of the draft?”

“Before I left the office we had 3 million and counting responses and 5 million clicks on the sneak preview sketch of the Countess Ecthellion gave us.”

Gloin nodded, “Ah yes, and Dwalin mentioned something about a round of stickers available soon for the station for the show.”

Gorgo, “How much?”

Gloin chuckled replying, “I doubt they wouldn’t have a supply for us seeing as it’s our clan.”

She nodded, “Right. Plus I suppose they would always have a supply for the cast to have as well. We could at least get a sneak peak.” Gorgo paused then said, “Still don’t know why Thorin stopped me from asking questions about the show.”

Gloin chuckled, “Probably because it’s a day of relaxing. And in crowds like that no telling who’s listening in for secrets when they hear the girls work on that show.”

“True.” She said then sighed leaning her head back making him chuckle and reach over to take hold of her hand he lifted to kiss then kept hold of on the arm rest between them.

 *

Tucked safely in the back seat you listened to Glori and Echo chatting in the front seat while you sat between Thranduil and Legolas, both immersed in their phones for the dragging ride back to your place. By the end of which Thranduil had finished details for the next press event he had and he grinned at you saying, “Sorry, they keep trying to involve foxes in my press shows. Post one picture of my fox footie pajamas and now it’s a thing.”

You giggled and Echo asked, “So, do we get a tour at least?”

You nodded and said, “Sure, not much to show in most rooms still.”

Thranduil said, “There is nothing wrong with that.”

Glorfindel, “And we won’t linger too long, have to get these angels back to our place for their beauty sleep.” You giggled in Thranduil’s fake laugh, “Plus we get to hear about the ad in the morning and discuss the advance for securing a read of your book.”

“It doesn’t have to be huge.”

Echtellion, “The basic would be at least 15k, the very least, that was where they started in mentioning it the other day.”

“So that’s, how does that work for when the book comes out exactly?”

Ecthellion replied, “That means for the first 15k in book sales the Publishers get that. And from there you start to earn your 48 from each book.”

Thranduil said, “Only 300 books to pay back the advance, not bad, if we get everyone in our circle and just a few from the Durins with the rest of their kin surely granting you a huge bump on their own before others could even get their hands on it.”

Glorfindel, “Hopefully Gorgo will calm down once she gets to read the book.”

Legolas glanced up, “She did seem a bit intent on learning secrets.”

“Well, she has been waiting five years. I mean, I doubt she’d spread it around,”

Glorfindel, “Still, out in the open like that. It’s a good thing Thorin stopped her.”

Thranduil, “I doubt he would wait much longer to offer courtship.” Rolling your eyes in parking in the driveway you slid out of the car behind the smirking blonde offering his hand to keep you from getting caught on your skirt and help you up to your feet again. “Welcome home, I love it already.”

You giggled and led the group up to your door stirring up curious glances from your returning neighbors who all settled for their own comfort that they were all relatives due to your Elf ears noticed by others. Inside you went and excitedly they took in each detail they could including those you had on the sketches for each room with ample adoring comments for each including for the furniture waiting to be painted showing you had been using your time off well and keeping busy. The greenhouse especially halting them in their tracks, first by your plants and hard work on the incredible fountain then by your birds all excitedly taking you the details of your costumes. Tight hugs later and back to the car they went wishing you a nice weekend leaving you to head to your bedroom.

Headdress first you removed that and then washed off your makeup. Strolling into your closet you removed your bracelets you put back with your few pieces of costume jewelry. Reaching up you removed and hung up your cape then reached down to unzip your dress you hung up as well. Switching from your corset to a comfy bra you looked down at your heels and pouted a moment then decided to pull on some comfy shorts and a tank top keeping them on a bit longer. For a moment you paused remembering where you put the bag you went to fetch it and bring it to your bed along with an empty trunk of shelves from your pantry things you opened allowing the cubes to rise up to a couple inches away from the ceiling.

Opening the bag you dumped it out onto the bed a quarter of the way and started to eye the envelopes and gave off a soft sigh, “Ok, runes first.” By the return address you separated out the ones with Dwarf Runes laying them on one shelf filling each box, two shelves down you started to fill with Hobbit Rune letters and the few Elven ones you added three shelves down from there. More and more you sorted through the rest of the bag then looked up at the final results seeing the Dwarf shelves packed with a pile on your bed still.

Pulling those back out a cubby at a time you sorted by which Dwarven Kingdom they came from and from there got to dividing the majority from Erebor into different counties. In the mix you smirked seeing common names you eased together when dividing them up alphabetically in each county. Skipping those from the other countries you moved onto the Hobbit letters and sorted those by where they were from, sorting those from Erebor even more down to alphabetically as well.

The last portion for Elven letters didn’t take long at all with those you recognized to be from friends of your father’s clan you set in a cubby on their own on the very bottom shelf. Sitting on your bed you opened the first one and the first few you skimmed through noticing it was all criticisms on your show and how irritating it was to have another tale about the Durins while great Elf clans were being ignored entirely. Clearly from before your latest shows adding more in. Those you set aside with the downright hate mail being put back into their envelopes you put into another pile all its own. All of which you sorted onto the same shelf in different cubbies.

By the time you got up to pull out one of the Dwarf countries outside of Erebor you couldn’t help but giggle at the handful of History Professors and enthusiasts critiquing your story while also praising the plot that in no way followed true history that had you barefoot and cross legged on your bed reading their thick packs of letters. All around positive but ready to stick up for the great clan’s history that you put in their own pile. A few nearly had you in tears you would save to finish for later as it delved into issues the writer was dealing with that somehow the story had helped them with. Hate mail was separated and the rest seemed mostly positive with a few collections of kids in between who had sent pictures or had mini requests or questions that you set aside to answer later.

Jumping from Dwarf territories to Hobbit ones you steadily got to the Erebor letters and started to work your way through it. More and more assumptions were made with hopes for possible future books only added to your hopes that the book would go well. The closer you got to Durin clan members the thicker the letters got with more than half with family attachments to certain events you had mentioned. In the mingled clan lines you couldn’t help but giggle finding letters from Gorgo, three to be exact, with two from Dain mentioning their wish to speak with you that you set aside for its own box. Fully sorted you sat back eyeing the now sorted mail and let out a deep breath wondering if this week would bring more or less mail.

Out of bed you climbed and added it to your study then went back to bed switching on a film to hopefully distract you from blushing so madly remembering what Mal’s father had shared about nicknames and the goal of earning a blush that had Thorin staring at you so intently. You had flirted, you had tried and it would be a lie that even with clashing cultures making him ignorant to your tries he had still turned you down seeming to wish to be nothing but a friend and bad influence on your pocket book.

 *

“An offer of courtship! Mug Dealer! All this time!” Stripping down Thorin spoke through the walls to his brother while the boys stripped to their waists and had collapsed into deep sleep leaving Frerin smirking as his brother had just found out what was so obvious.

“Come on now, you knew!”

“Obviously I turned her down! Obviously or I would have had to have missed some clear markers that we’re courting? What if we are?! If I did?!” Thorin walked wide eyed and shirtless into the doorway after having dropped his boots and socks in his closet to stare at his brother, “What if I’ve missed steps?!”

Frerin smirked at him pulling off his boots he’d just unlaced, “You haven’t, because you aren’t courting. You have however spooned and she trusts you. It was obvious she liked you, that she was flirting and you did in return. She likes you and is wearing your token openly. Clearly she’s not quite the best with courting either, at least ours, don’t-,”

“Don’t tell me not to worry. She has half a house and tons of birds to take care of and hatchlings coming soon, including possibly Roac’s one day.”

Frerin stood crossing to his brother resting his hands on his shoulders, “Breathe, step one, take Roac over tomorrow, she’s got two weeks left on leave, find the time to tell her how you feel. She’s family, even if it takes longer than her leave, it’s a big step to court again. We all know the lows you got to before she strolled in for tea, you are happy with her, she’s happy with you, be happy.” Turning his brother around he said, “Now, let me help you with your horns so you can sleep and take Roac over tomorrow without being moody from staying up and brooding all night.”

“I-,”

“Are brooding and worrying about a woman who is already head over heels about you but just as timid in snagging you against your will as you’ve been convincing yourself you are with her.” He said undoing the braided lower half and working one side at a time to help remove the horns he left on his brother’s dresser. With a nudge he guided Thorin back to his own room saying, “Bed, Rin.” Thorin huffed and Frerin said, “If I don’t hear snoring in ten minutes I will come in here and snuggle with you until you go to sleep.”

To himself Thorin rumbled, “Oh ya, now I’m scared.”

“I heard that,” Frerin called back while Thorin undid and dropped his pants in the dark room at his younger brother cutting the lights off on him. Shutting his own off he went to plop on his own bed and hug his pillow listening for snoring with a smirk spreading at remembering you and Thorin writing out each other’s nicknames on the wall of wishes, a great sign for courting pairs to do that, especially before courting has officially begun.

Snores soon came through the wall and lasted for hours until an early morning shower led to lengthy primping for the Dwarf wondering if it would be too early to head over. Finding your number in his phone he gave you a call, biting his lip he waited through the rings and  heard your waking grumble, “Morning Cuddle Monster.”

Instantly he was smirking remembering the morning waking up with you in Helms Deep. “Morning, I didn’t wake you did I?”

“No.” Again you sighed clearly shifting from under your covers to sit up, “Been up.”

Near to a hum he asked, “So not too early for me to drop by with Roac?”

“No,” you sighed out, “You and Roac are welcome whenever. I’ll be here.”

Pt 28