#freshly misted and now its time for Apple

[bugkissersunited]

holy shit baby time!

[ashasmonsters]

The Orchardkeeper pt. 3

Female reader x Male minotaur (Goran)

Prev: [Part 2] Next: [Part 4]

Citrus rating: Lime

Content: Vague nudity, bigotry

Words: 8k

Several months ago, you hated apples. Now you hated peaches. The orchard was properly into the summer harvest season, making peaches the target of your ire. Just as the spring harvest brought with it rain and mist, the summer harvest brought scorching temperatures and humidity. You carried yourself about the orchard with a sour expression, your face permanently scrunched at the heat. Heat was much worse than the cold and the rain; heat was inescapable. You could only take off so many layers before becoming indecent. Even when you used the privacy of your bedroom to lounge around naked, your cheap oscillating fan was only marginally better than nothing.

To the summer’s credit, though, there was one particular upside to the sweltering heat: Goran was shirtless pretty much all the time. His only clothes that saw use were the pairs of breeches he brought with him. To say that the sight of him kept your morale high would be an understatement; coupled with the scowl Reina gave you when you worked alongside him in the peach trees, you had all the motivation you needed to bear the summer heat and fill buckets with the fuzzy little bastards.

Reina wasn’t the only one displeased by your relationship with Goran. It was several months ago when you visited him in the barn and returned with a giddy heart and the feeling of his lips on yours. Not long after, when you decided to make it “official,” Lilia feared you would be stealing away Mr. Fluffy for yourself. As such, you used your sisterly wiles to negotiate a deal involving Goran reading her bedtime stories and a limit on public displays of affection.

Your mother and father, as those whose opinions mattered the most, were supportive. Goran was by far the politest boyfriend you had ever introduced to Mom, and Dad had been won over by his ability to work. In turn, your mother did as much as she could to keep Reina’s quick tongue in check.

“Hey! Your cow’s laundry is done. Take it out to him.” Reina called from the other side of your bedroom door. Mom couldn’t have your back all the time. You made yourself modest with some sweat shorts and a tank top, then opened the door. Reina’s scowl met your own.

“He’s a minotaur, not a cow,” you futilely clarified. Reina replied only by dropping a pile of freshly laundered breeches into your arms. She plodded off down the hallway to her own bedroom, presumably to scowl at you through the window as you made your way to Goran.

While the shower in the house was much too small for him, the basic facilities in the barn had sufficed during the early spring. Now, with the summer heat at its peak, Goran had taken to bathing in the creek that meandered on and off of your family’s property. You stopped yourself just before reaching the creek’s banks. You could hear Goran gently wading in the water just past the thin copse of young trees.

“Goran! I’ve got your clothes,” you called out. Then, the sound of his large form emerging from the water and droplets raining from his fur.

“Thank you,” he rumbled. One of his large, furry arms poked through the greenery and accepted the pair of breeches you offered him. You waited patiently, listening to him towel off. While you were more than willing to see all of him, Goran had been quite conservative about his privacy. Even getting him to shed his cloak and go shirtless for the summer took some coaxing and brushes with heatstroke.

“Done yet?” You asked, your arms starting to tire under the weight of his laundry. His breeches, the minotaur equivalent of lounge shorts, felt large enough for you to camp inside. It didn’t help that you were holding a week’s worth of them.

“Sorry,” he said, the rope hissing as he fastened it around his hips, “I didn’t mean to keep you waiting.” He emerged from the thicket and met your eyes. Wet strands of his mane fell between them, bouncing as he walked. His fur was still damp and slicked down, making his impressive musculature even more apparent than usual. You instinctively lowered your gaze to the pile of breeches in your arms.

“Here.” You handed him the pile which he took effortlessly. “We should get you fitted for some more clothes,” you suggested. He looked at the breeches in his arms and then at you.

“These will suffice,” he said, beginning the walk back to the barn with you. You playfully punched his arm.

“I’m sure they suffice, but don’t you think it’d be nice to have a couple of full outfits to wear that aren’t your work clothes?”

“Hm. Perhaps,” he rumbled noncommittally. “I feel that finding clothes my size would be difficult in a town like this one.”

“We’ll make them custom. One of these days, I’ll take your measurements and we’ll get some shirts and a jacket made for you. It’s hot now, but autumn is going to be chilly.”

“You don’t need to hire a tailor for me,” Goran practically pleaded. He had come a long way in recent months but continued to struggle with accepting acts of kindness. He

thanked Dad for building him his bed back in the spring.

“Don’t worry! We won’t need to hire one. Reina and Mom are great with their sewing machines. It’ll be a fun little project for them.” You smiled.

“Reina?” Goran muttered skeptically.

“If my Mom’s sewing something, she always gets Reina to help her. Personally, getting Mom to force Reina to do something nice for you sounds amazing,” you chuckled deviously.

“I’ve made peace with Reina not liking me.” Goran looked at you with his dark eyes. “I’m not sure you should be forcing her to do anything.”

“Please, Goran, let me annoy my big sister a bit!” You teased. “It’s not that she doesn’t like you, she doesn’t like that I like you… if that makes sense.”

“I’m not sure I follow.”

“Reina and I have both had our fair share of bad boyfriends, right? But we’re different for it. She thinks that relationships are just chances to get hurt. I don’t. Besides, I know you’d never hurt me.” You sidled up to him as you walked, wishing his hands were free.

“Never,” Goran rumbled resolutely. Due to his height, you had to settle to embrace his upper arm and plant a kiss on his bicep. These bicep kisses were a mainstay of your relationship as the only kisses you could plant on him while he was standing and the only kisses that Lilia wouldn’t gag at. The good stuff would have to wait until you got back to the barn.

“Hey! Excuse me!” A shrill voice called, draped in the thinnest veneer of politeness. You turned your head to face it: between you and the barn was your neighbor: an elderly homesteader type named Deborah. She rarely made trips this far from her own property.

“Deborah, how can I help you?” you asked plainly. Your first instinct was to say “it’s good to see you,” but you were a poor liar.

“I don’t appreciate your minotaur friend swimmin’ around in the buff. It’s indecent,” Deborah said with an accusing, crooked finger.

“He’s not swimming, he’s bathing. The shower in the farmhouse isn’t big enough for him,” you explained, trying your best to keep your tone from getting confrontational. “And the creek is mostly on our property anyway.”

“It doesn’t matter whose property he’s on if I can see him scuddy from mine,” she retorted.

“With a pair of binoculars, maybe,” you muttered under your breath.

“What did you say?!” The elderly woman took a step forward as if to challenge you to combat. Your blood burned at her lack of self-control.

“Hey, Deb, I get you’re feeling big and strong ‘cause of your new hip, but that doesn’t mean you can—” Goran placed a hand on your shoulder, halting your insult and stepping between you with his laundry tucked under his arm.

“I apologize if I made you uncomfortable, ma’am,” Goran soft-pedaled. “It won’t happen again. I’ll bathe somewhere more private from now on.”

“Good!” She scowled, only barely placated. “You better learn to hold your tongue, miss, because if your minotaur isn’t around I’ll hold it for you.”

With Goran squeezing your shoulder gently, you got the message and remained quiet. Nothing could erase the glower you gave Deborah, though, and you maintained the expression long after she started to walk away. You pulled away from Goran’s gentle hand in a huff.

“Come on, let’s get your laundry back to your room.” You puffed. Goran followed you silently into the barn.

“It’s bullshit.” You groaned, dropping your hands onto the dinner table. “Me, Reina, and Lilia used to swim in the creek all the time! Not a single stitch on us either!” Your parents wore sympathetic expressions while Goran chewed with a furrowed brow.

“Bull-shit?” He repeated, confused.

“It’s just a human term of frustration, Goran,” Mom explained before shooting you a displeased look. “One we shouldn’t use at the dinner table.” You shrunk in your chair a bit.

“Deborah is being unfair, that’s true,” your father agreed measuredly. “But if there is a line of sight from her property to where Goran was bathing, she technically has the right to ask him to stop.”

You opened your mouth to complain more, but your father cut you off.

“Do I think Deborah is being a good neighbor? No, especially since we did her a favor and stored her hay during the rainy season. But I know if we push back she’ll get the police involved and we’ll lose.” Your father looked down at his plate and sighed.

“It’s really no big deal, sir.” Goran attempted to reassure everyone. “The barn shower is fine.”

“I feel like we should do something…” you said, still feeling the anger in your veins.

“We could wait. She’ll probably die soon,” Lilia chipped in.

“Lilia!” Mom scolded her, giving her a look. Lilia returned one of confusion.

“What? We all know she’s old and nobody likes her!” Lilia defended herself. You stifled a chuckle; your sister’s blunt honesty was refreshing. You didn’t find yourself wholly disagreeing with her either.

“You shouldn’t say mean things like that, Lilia. Even if you’re sure you’re right,” Goran gently cautioned her. Lilia’s expression softened.

“Sorry, Goran,” she said, eyes downcast.

“It’s okay, just try not to say stuff like that.” Goran patted her tiny shoulder, his fingers almost as thick as her arm. Your mother simply looked on in amazement as Lilia’s fiery temper made a rare admission of fault.

“Goran’s right, Lilia. I’m glad you’re listening to him,” your father added before turning to your boyfriend. “Listen, Goran… I’m really sorry this happened, and—”

“Sir, you shouldn’t apologize. I’m used to it.” Goran interjected.

“...I know. Look, I wish you didn’t have to be. I just want you to know that if anyone from town really steps out of line, you can let us know. If your… er…”

“Anxiety,” you helped out your father.

“...your anxiety ever flares up while you’re working, you can take a break or the day off. Whatever you need. You’re a good worker and I want you to be comfortable no matter what.”

“You’re too k—” Goran stopped when you elbowed him. He sighed. “I appreciate it, sir.”

“You’re welcome, Goran.” Your father grinned, your coaching not gone unnoticed. Reina was uncharacteristically silent, even as you finished dinner and walked with Goran out the door. That was usually the moment when Reina would take a cheap shot in a sarcastic tone; not wanting to look a gift horse in the mouth, you went with Goran to the barn as usual.

“I’ve never seen Lilia back down like that before,” you said, clinging to Goran’s side as you walked under the dusk sky.

“She’s growing up.” Goran reached over and wrapped an arm around you.

“Don’t say that,” you chuckled into his fur, “you’re going to make me feel old.”

“Growing up isn’t only a product of time. It comes from teaching and mentoring, too,” Goran explained. “I think you’re a great big sister.”

You smiled as the compliment struck you. You didn’t feel like a

sister, but you knew you tried your best. “Well, I think you're the only person she’s ever admitted being wrong to,” you replied, ducking under his arm and letting him wrap it around your shoulders. Goran squeezed you a bit to fill the content silence.

The barn loomed over you. Goran pushed the heavy doors open, allowing you to enter and start climbing to the hayloft while he closed them. You took your usual spot on the oversized mattress: a nest of pillows that met the slanted ceiling. This pillow fort was one of your own creations, built over many post-dinner visits with him. Lying there, you gazed up at a selection of Lilia’s crayon and pencil drawings pinned to the planks. Many of them adorned with arrows specifying which figure on the page was “Mr. Minotaur.”

“We should decorate your room more. I bet some fairy lights would liven the place up perfectly,” you said, the ladder to the hayloft creaking as Goran pulled himself over the top rung.

“That’s a good idea…” Goran sighed and gently set himself down on the bed. The whole thing shifted and sunk; you rolled right into a cuddle. His fur was at your back. “I’ll go into town one day.”

You reached over and grabbed his arm, draping it across yourself. “Don’t rush yourself. I want you to be comfortable, ok?”

“I know. I just don’t like feeling like I’m—”

“Like we’re harboring you,” you added softly, finishing the sentence for him. He said that a lot whenever he had bad days, especially involving people like Deborah. Your anger still sparked at the thought of her. “Goran, it’s okay if you’re feeling down, especially with jerks like Deborah literally trying to make you feel bad. That’s why I’m always going to be here. I’m always going to come to cuddle with you for a bit after dinner. I want you to know I’ve got your back.”

Goran rested his snout on your shoulder. “I’m glad,” he muttered. You sensed something off in his heart, his bare chest flush with your back. He was still bothered.

“Tell me what you’re thinking,” you whispered to him. He shifted awkwardly, sighing.

“I’d never doubt having your support. You’ve proven that to me,” he prefaced, speaking slowly and deliberately, “but that’s what I’m worried about.”

“What do you mean?” You rolled over so you could see his eyes.

“When I said I was used to being treated poorly, I meant it. Before I met you and your family, I was complacent when I was kicked out of a human town. It wasn’t pleasant, but my problems were gone once the path turned and they were out of sight.”

“What changed, then?” You studied his expression. He was thinking something over.

“When I was alone, all I had to worry about was myself. Here, I… I worry that harm intended for me might befall you.” He readjusted his embrace on you and pulled you in. “Just as you wish me well, I do to you. Seeing that woman anger you saddened me; it was proof that my presence affected you negatively.”

“You affect me positively, too. Like right now.” You squeezed him as hard as you could, burying yourself in his fur. “You’re worth it, Goran. I think so and my family does too.”

He said nothing, only returning your embrace with a gentle squeeze of his own. His slow breaths fell in time with yours, the only sound in the air save for the cicadas outside. You were content to lie there in warm silence, but… something stirred within you: an urge to go a bit further than cuddling.

With your head still tucked into his shoulder, you slowly started to intertwine your legs with his. Your feet barely reached his knees, and your thigh started to press against the low crotch of his breeches.

“What are you doing?” He asked, his voice rumbling.

You paused your advances. So far, you had only touched fabric. “Do you want me to stop?”

“I don’t know.” He sighed. You withdrew yourself, returning to the normal cuddling position.

“That’s okay,” you apologized, “I’m sorry if I made you uncomfortable. I should have said something first.”

“No, I’m alright, I just… I don’t know. Just not tonight.”

“Hey, no rush. I won’t mind waiting until you’re comfortable.” You reassured him with a quick kiss. “I’m comfortable with you, okay?”

“I’m sorry.”

“Don’t apologize. You’re not doing anything wrong.”

“Thank you for being patient,” Goran murmured. “This kind of relationship… it’s new to me. This isn’t how they do it in Crete.”

“I’m happy to be your teacher, then,” you replied, your face still buried in his shoulder, “no matter how long it takes.”

“Am I doing well?”

“You’re doing perfect, Goran.” Another pause. The chirring cicadas outside had slowed down considerably, meaning the sun had already set. It was getting late.

Goran’s embrace loosened slightly. “You should probably return to the farmhouse.”

“You’re probably right.” You sighed. It wasn’t uncommon for Goran to remind you to sleep in your own bedroom, but you worried about the advances you made. It was easy for you to see why human desires would be a thorny subject for someone who wasn’t familiar with them.

You reluctantly detached yourself from your minotaur and got up from the enticing pillow-strewn bed. The boards below your feet creaked as you made your way over to the ladder. Before you climbed down from the hayloft, Goran rolled over to look at you.

“In a human relationship, would it be normal to have… bed one another by now?” Goran asked, his voice unsteady. You smiled at his awkward straightforwardness.

“Maybe. Depends,” you shrugged, “who says we have to be normal?”

His expression softened a bit as he nodded. “Good night,” he rumbled.

“Good night.” You smiled at him before descending the ladder.

When you made it back to the farmhouse, night had fallen and Reina took position by the door. You expected her to simply glare at you as you walked past, but she spoke.

“Hey,” she stopped you, her voice soft. You turned to face her in the darkened kitchen.

“What?” You asked, not used to her new tone of voice. She hesitated and drew a short breath.

“I don’t want Goran to think I hate him.” She spat out. You couldn’t believe your ears.

“I already told him you don’t. If you want to prove it to him, though, maybe chatting with him at dinner instead of staring at him would be a good start,” you replied, hands on your hips. While Reina wanting to make amends was new, her disparaging treatment of your relationship wasn’t. Her olive branch, offered in the sleepy hours of night, was hard for you to grasp.

“I’ll… try.” She fidgeted uncomfortably, the wooden floor squealing beneath her. “Look, you’re my little sister, and I’m always going to have this urge to keep you safe. If I’m being real, I’m not going to ever like the idea of you being with someone…”

“But?” You prompted her.

“...but I’m not Deborah. I don’t hate Goran because he’s an outsider. I don’t hate him at all. I hate the idea of you taking the fall for him.” She looked at her feet.

“Funny. Goran said the same thing,” you breathed.

“Really?” Reina looked at you, the whites of her eyes glimmering in the half-light. You nodded solemnly, recalling the pang you felt in Goran’s heart when he spoke about his worries.

“He might be the only person worried for me more than you.” You chuckled weakly. Reina said nothing for a long moment. The refrigerator hummed and the clock ticked.

“I think I’ve misjudged Goran. And your relationship with him.” She continued gazing at her socks. You could barely withhold your surprise.

“And?”

“And I’m…” she took another sharp breath. “I’m sorry. I want to make it up to you.”

“Make it up to me how? Other than dropping the cold shoulder,” you replied.

“I don’t know… you name it. Remember when we would fight as kids, and Mom would make us owe the other a favor?” Reina was stewing. You could tell a formal apology was just as shocking for her to give as it was for you to receive.

“I think I’ve got an idea,” you said, “but I’m tired. Let’s sleep on it.”

Reina nodded at you, turning towards the bedrooms. You could tell the apology took a lot out of her as you followed behind. Before she hid fully behind her bedroom door, you stopped her.

“Oh, one more thing,” you said, your hand holding her door open a crack. Half her face peeked at you. “Thank you. For talking to me honestly. I appreciate it a lot.”

She gave you a tired smile and a nod, then finished closing the door. You lingered in the hallway for a bit to make sure you weren’t dreaming, then went to bed.

The next morning, at breakfast, you woke up in time to catch Reina and Mom at the table. It was a day off, so Goran had slept in while Dad and Lilia went into town to run some errands. You took a bite of your potato-plentiful breakfast hash and looked at your mother.

“Hey, Mom, you’ve been wanting to sew some more, right?” You asked.

“Well… it has been a while. My sewing machine

getting dusty. Why do you ask?”

“I was thinking—if it wasn’t too much trouble, that we could sew Goran some proper clothes,” you said. “All he’s got are his breeches and that old cloak.”

Reina’s eyes widened as she realized this was the favor you intended to call in. “That’s, uh… quite the project,” she mumbled, careful not to protest too much.

“I think that’s a good idea. I’ve been wanting to give Goran a gift, but it’s hard to tell what he would like,” Mom pondered, “besides, your father built Goran that bed and I think it’s high time I catch up.”

“I’d like to help,” Reina uttered, meeting Mom’s surprised eyes before quickly returning to her food.

“I was just about to ask, actually. Thanks, Reina.” Mom turned to you. “You should get Goran’s measurements. I’ll grab you my measuring tape and my notebook.”

“Will do,” you nodded. “I should probably wake him up anyway.”

After finishing your meal and patting Reina’s back, you walked to the barn with the measuring tape and mom’s notebook in hand. You heard the sound of the barn shower running when you made it to the door.

“Hey, Goran! Can I come in?” You knocked hard, careful not to get any splinters. There was a noticeable pause.

“Go ahead,” Goran rumbled. The shower kept running as you entered.

The far corner of the barn, where the large shower was, had been enclosed by a wooden three-quarter height wall. Goran scrubbed himself behind it, the suds decorating his wet fur. Alluringly small glimpses at his body tempted you from between each wooden board; instead, you respectfully gazed at the floor as you walked over. The privacy wall had been built to preserve human modesty, so Goran’s head and a bit of shoulder peeked squarely over the top.

“Good morning,” Goran greeted you. He regarded you briefly before returning to his scrubbing.

“Morning, Goran,” you said. You leaned against the wall so that you were side-by-side rather than face-to-face. “Sorry to intrude on you like this.”

“No, it’s alright. I trust you.” He continued showering.

“Thank you, I’m glad you do.” You gave the measuring tape a few tugs with your idle hands. “Anyway, I’m here to measure you if that’s okay.”

“Measure me?” Goran paused, turning away from the hot water to look at you.

“For the clothes. I mentioned my idea to make you some clothes to Reina and mom, and they’re on board,” you explained proudly.

“I see,” he huffed a little. “I’ll be out of the shower in a moment.”

“Take your time, there’s no rush,” you replied, holding the measuring tape in your hands. You flipped open Mom’s book and checked the measurements you’d need to take: chest width, torso length, waist and hip circumference, followed by… inseam. The measurement beginning at the crotch. You imagined getting up close and personal with Goran, leaning into his wet fur and placing an end of the tape near the one part of him you hadn’t seen yet.

A squeaky shower knob interrupted your daydream. The sound of running water had ceased, followed by your heartbeat and blood rushing in your ears. Goran turned to face you over the privacy wall. “I’m ready,” he rumbled.

“Goran, um… You can measure yourself if you’d like. The measurements need to be of your naked body and some of them are, um, personal.” You sheepishly rubbed the back of your neck. The last thing you’d want is for Goran to be uncomfortable, and here in the barn with steam rising from his wet fur, you were a bit nervous too.

He looked down, either at the floor or at himself, pausing for a moment. “No, it’s alright. You can measure me.”

You drew breath and nodded. “Ok, well…” you began, not expecting him to allow it. “Towel off and I’ll start.”

Goran nodded at you and reached over the privacy wall to grab his towel. He shimmied about in the shower stall, patting his fur dry, before wrapping it around his waist and stepping out.

“I’m ready,” he said, his voice still as if he was preparing for an ordeal.

“You don’t have to let me see you naked if you don’t want, Goran.” You tried your hardest to keep your gaze to a respectful part of him. With the human-sized towel around his hulking middle, this was the most scantily-clad you had ever seen him.

“It’s alright, really,” he rumbled resolutely. “I don’t want to conceal myself from you, and I don’t want my habits to impede my trust in you.”

“Well… thank you.” You adjusted your grasp on the measuring tape and readied it for action. “Let’s get started, then.”

You tried your hardest to stay composed and respectful as you sidled up to a dripping, practically-naked Goran. It was difficult to stay on task as you measured his upper body, running your hands across and wrapping your measuring tape around his upper arms and torso. His muscles showed off all their details with his fur damp. Goran stayed stoic and statue-like through all of it, hardly reacting as your measuring tape traveled about the hills and valleys of his firm, fuzzy body.

One by one, the empty spaces in the notebook were filled with numbers and fractions. You and Goran even started to share a few giggles when you made it to the two remaining measurements: thigh and inseam. A lump formed in your throat.

“Uh… yeah. Two more measurements left, Goran. You gotta… um…” You looked at the towel wrapped around his waist, the lower edge barely past his mid-thigh.

“Remove this?” He gently grasped the edge folded around his waist.

“Yeah…” Nervously, you played with the measuring tape. “You can take these measurements yourself if you want, Goran. I don’t have to be here for it, really.”

Goran shook his head and chuckled. He still grasped the edge of the towel, though, hesitating. “My own nudity didn’t always bother me. In Crete, Minotaurs were practically naked more often than not. I should get over my trepidation.”

“Why does it bother you now?”

“The only occasion for covering up fully was human visitors. Something to do with the very first minotaur: monstrous and confined to the labyrinth, out of sight. As if the mere sight of us fully exposed would drive men to sickness.” He looked at his hooves. “I liked bathing in the creek. It reminded me of home… one of the few good things about home.” He shot the shower a forlorn glance.

You remembered Deborah existed and your temper flared. Goran noticed it, too; he took a step back as your knuckles grew white, clenching the tape like a weapon. If that old bigoted hag was here, you’d… do something regrettable. There was only one option. If you were going to be angry, you would be angrily positive.

“Nuh-uh. Goran, you’re beautiful. Handsome as hell.” You stepped towards him, brandishing the measuring tape.

“Erm… thank you?” He gripped his towel even tighter.

“You’ve got the muscles of a statue in a museum. Do you know how happy I was when you finally stopped wearing that cloak and started going shirtless?

“Uh…”

“Very!” You readied the tape and stood resolute. “Alright, drop the towel. I’m gonna measure you and I definitely won’t be driven to sickness or whatever. In fact, I’m going to enjoy it—respectfully.”

Goran took a deep breath. “As you wish.” He hesitated again. “Are you sure?”

“I’m sure if you are.”

He nodded. “You’re right. My nervousness is unnecessary.” He still hesitated a little, but he looked in you in the eye instead of floor-gazing. Staring at your own reflection in his large, dark eyes, you heard his towel hit the barn floor.

Wow was all you thought to yourself. Of course you looked there first, how could you not? Goran’s last remaining mystery was… proportional to the rest of him. Even in its relaxed form, it nearly rivaled your forearm in size. You hoped the blood rushing to your face didn’t show.

You repeated in your mind, closing the distance and wrapping the measuring tape around the widest part of his thigh. You jotted the resulting number in the notebook.

“Time for the inseam.” You placed one end of the tape just above the knee, where his usual breeches ended, and froze when you readied the other end. Two large, pendulous, dangling… bits were in the way.

“Should I… move?” Goran noticed your hesitation.

“Yes, please.” You were eager to get up close and personal with your boyfriend earlier, but now, with his goods at eye level, you were a little intimidated. It was like the high-dive at the pool: from a distance, it seems simple and inviting, but up close, faced with the sheer scale of it, you can’t help but hesitate.

Goran obliged you, clearing the way for one end of the tape. You recorded the number and promptly finished the measurements in Mom’s notebook.

“All done,” you declared, satisfied in more ways than one. Goran nodded at you, collecting a pair of breeches and sliding them on. You handed him the rope he stashed nearby. “When your clothes are done you won’t need to use this old thing as a belt anymore.”

“I’m looking forward to it. Again, thank you.” Goran fastened the rope around himself.

“Thank you as well for trusting me.” With Goran decent you could finally look him in the eye without taxing yourself. “I’d hug you but you’re still damp.”

Goran chuckled and picked up his towel, draping it over his shoulders. “It’s the thought that counts.”

Gently, you grabbed both ends of the towel and reined him down to your height. His lips and yours came together like magnets. You enjoyed the gentle, prolonged, kiss, but were interrupted by a knock at the barn door. A heavy one, loud and stern. You pulled back from Goran as he straightened his posture.

“Who is it?” You called, the thumping much too heavy-handed to be one of your family members.

“It’s Officer Nash. I’m here to have a word.” You recognized the voice immediately, and you were set at ease if not a little confused. Officer Nash had been working at the police department since your childhood; he offered you rides when Mom and Dad were busy and never gave you anything worse than a warning. Once, he even obliged your pleas not to tell your parents.

You opened the barn door to find him looking just as you remembered. “What’s the occasion, Officer?” You asked, not quite sure what could have brought him here.

“Er… It’s to my understanding that you’re hosting a, um… foreign resident here?” Officer Nash drawled, clearly outside his usual jurisdiction of parking tickets and delinquent-scaring. He stumbled over the phrase “foreign resident” like he was at a spelling bee.

“You mean Goran? He’s a farmhand here, yes.” You felt a bit of worry in your stomach. The last thing you wanted right now was trouble, especially if it stoked Goran’s anxieties about living here.

“Could you get him for me? I’d like to speak with him. Not in private, unless he wishes.” Officer Nash wore an uncertain smile.

“Before I do, could you tell me what this is about?” You glanced back at Goran who was still watching you at the door and clenching both ends of his towel.

Officer Nash sighed. “I’ve gotten calls about a foreign resident working here, so I need to see all his documentation to make sure it’s in order. That’s all.”

“Don’t tell me Deborah put you up to this,” you hissed. It would be typical for Deborah to escalate things even after Goran apologized.

“I can’t tell you who—”

“It was Deb, wasn’t it? She’s been giving me and Goran trouble already, that old…” You stopped yourself from swearing.

“As I said, I can’t tell you who called, but it wasn’t Deborah. It was multiple people from town.” Officer Nash explained with a creased brow. “Look, I know people around here aren’t exactly forward thinkin’. If Deborah ever calls the police department for something silly, I promise to tell her to pound sand. But askin’ to see Mr. Goran’s documents is a legitimate request, no matter who’s calling me to tell me about it.”

“Okay…” you relented. “Wait, how did you know we were in the barn? You didn’t knock at the farmhouse and ask my family first because they would walk you to me.”

He tugged at his collar. “Well… the callers were very forthcoming. They told me a lot.”

“This

just people messing with us, then!” You accused. Blood rushed to your face as your annoyance turned to anger.

“Look, I’ll be out of your hair as quick as I can. Just let me talk to him.”

“Don’t you need like… a warrant or something? You can’t just—!”

A large, fuzzy hand gently gripped the barn door and pushed it further open.

“Officer. I believe you’re looking for these,” Goran rumbled stoically. He extended his other hand, holding a red passport and a neatly folded piece of paper. “My passport and Wanderjahr visa.”

The officer took the passport and flipped to a page, reading off a number silently and looking satisfied. “Looks good.” He handed the red booklet back to Goran. The visa puzzled him a bit more, despite being a single piece of paper.

“This… is a bit above my pay grade.”

“It’s a Wanderjahr visa. It’s valid for one year, renewable up to four times. I’m granted the same permissions as a tourist visa in addition to working, taxes payable only to the host country.” Goran recited the blurb as if he had rattled it off countless times already.

“I’m gonna need to take this back to the office to verify.” Officer Nash looked at the two of you.

“No! No way you’re taking his visa so you can…” Goran rested a hand on your shoulder as if to say,

“Keep it, officer. I have copies.” Goran looked at you to make sure you had calmed down a bit. “They always ask to take it,” he said, showing visible annoyance for the first time ever.

Nash smiled weakly and nodded. “Thank you for cooperating, Mr. Goran. I’ll be off now. Sorry for bothering you.” He turned away and walked towards his police car which was squarely parked in front of the barn. Goran’s hand remained on your shoulder and pulled you in for a hug.

You and Goran were cuddled up in his bed in the hayloft. Both of you had been silent until you felt the profanities building up within you.

“Godammit,” you sighed. “I didn’t want you to have to deal with all this shit.”

Goran said nothing, instead running his thick fingers through your hair. He held you in his embrace from behind as you wrapped yourself around his other arm. His only reply was the slow rise and fall of his chest against your back.

Tears began to well in the corners of your eyes, but not sad ones. You had no regrets or misgivings. They were angry ones that burned. “Say something, Goran,” you sniffled, voice shaky. “Say anything.”

Goran didn’t miss a beat. “I’ll be alright,” he whispered. “You’ll be alright too.”

“I know,” you mumbled into his forearm. “But I want more than ‘alright.’ I want you to be happy. I want you to get through each day without people treating you differently. I want you to stop feeling like we’re ‘harboring’ you, because we’re not. You’re part of the family, Goran.”

“Things will turn out fine, I’m sure of it,” he cooed. He paused for a moment, enjoying the feeling of your bodies breathing in time together. “You should take the notebook to your mother.”

You nodded reluctantly. “Yeah… it’s almost time for dinner, too.”

“Go ahead, please. I…” Goran hesitated, his voice catching. “I need a moment.”

“Sure thing, Goran. I’ll see you at dinner?” You untangled yourself from his gentle embrace and stood on the hayloft’s creaky floorboards. He only gave you a shallow smile. Not wanting to force him to come to dinner if he didn’t want to, you simply returned a smile of your own and started descending the ladder.

You picked at your food. Goran hadn’t come to dinner, and it was uncharacteristic of him to be late. You were dismayed, but that didn’t stop you from loading up a tray with Mom’s cooking. If Goran wanted to be alone, you’d respect that; you wouldn’t let him go hungry, though. Lilia volunteered for more cheering-up duty as well.

“It’s like the first time I met him!” Lilia said excitedly as you crossed the grassy distance from the farmhouse to the barn.

“Yeah, kinda,” you replied. It hurt you a bit imagining Goran alone in the barn, the events of the day weighing on him. The memory of that first night with him made you smile, though, and you imagined a hot meal would help him smile as well.

Lilia pushed open the door for you, both your hands full holding up Goran’s tray. The barn was dark and quiet.

"Oh well," you thought, if Goran was asleep you would have to leave the food at his bedside. Either the aroma would wake him up or he’d have a midnight snack for when he inevitably awoke; he never slept this early in the day.

Your little sister forged ahead in the darkness, treading quickly and quietly like a mouse. In case you hadn’t figured it out, she pressed a finger to her lips.

“I think Mr. Fluffy’s asleep,” she whispered, only to punctuate it with a giggle.

“Yeah, I figured.” You stepped in, carefully handling the tray of food so the utensils and dishes didn’t jangle. Lilia, barefoot, scampered across the cement to the hayloft’s ladder.

“I’m gonna wake him up,” Lilia whispered back, a hint of mischief in her voice.

“Lilia…” you wanted to explain to her that he had a long, rough day without having to explain everything to her.

Lilia sensed your incoming admonishment. “Mom says I have to finish my plate if I wanna grow big and strong. Mr. Fluffy has to too, it’s the rules.”

“He’s already big and strong,” you whispered back. Lilia turned away and started climbing the ladder. “Lilia!” you hissed, trying to stop her. It was futile.

Lilia summited the top of the ladder and pulled herself over the threshold to the hayloft. You stood at the foot of it, dinner tray in hand, helpless to protect Goran’s sleep.

“Mr. Fluffy!” You heard Lilia shout from above.

“Goran, I’m sorry!” You called out, figuring it was over already. “I couldn’t stop Lilia. I’ve got your dinner, though!”

Silence. Even from Lilia. A pit formed in your stomach.

“Goran?” You called out again.

“He’s not here…” you heard Lilia squeak.

“What?”

“He’s not here! He’s gone!” Lilia added, stomping her feet. Dust fell from the floorboards above. In an instant, you set the tray down and climbed the ladder. Lilia flicked the lights on. The bed was empty and he was nowhere to be seen. Nothing remained but your pillow fort and Lilia’s drawings pinned to the slanted ceiling.

“Shit,” you swore. Lilia didn’t even flinch. You walked to the bed as if Goran could be hiding under a pillow and you’d find him curled up and snoozing. You had no such luck, instead finding only empty sheets faintly smelling of his fur.

“I found this…” Lilia said, beginning to sniffle. In her hands was a neatly folded piece of paper. “It was on the bed. I didn’t read it yet.”

You accepted it and unfolded it. You had never seen Goran’s handwriting before, but you knew it was his. Neat, blocky, and deliberate.

“What does it say? Where is he?” Lilia pleaded.

Your eyes scanned the text, shaky in your hands.

First and foremost, I would like to apologize for my cowardice. I hope you can find it in your heart to forgive me. I have never known a greater fear than that of seeing you hurt, and that is why I leave you this note instead of an earnest goodbye. The fear of seeing you hurt is why I am gone. You are much braver than I, so I can only hope that you understand my reasoning.

This has all happened to me before. Though you are special and unique to me, the circumstances I have found myself in are not. As you know, I have fled several towns previously after coercion from the locals. It always occurs the same way: I provide a copy of my visa, scrutiny reveals I am completely within my rights to stay, thusly causing the townspeople to take matters into their own hands. This has occurred without fail in every town I’ve visited. The only exception to this rule is you: you are much braver than I.

I have avoided violence only by fleeing. I know you would try to protect me. I know you would contest their attempts to force me out. I know you would act bravely and courageously.

I know if anything happened to you, it would be my fault. I know I would never be able to forgive myself.

Please believe me when I say we are both safer apart. I love you in the way one loves a blooming flower: from afar, without intervention. I will never forget the moment you kissed me goodnight, our nightly cuddles after dinner, the way my heart raced when you touched me. I will never forget that you taught me to love myself; something that would be impossible if harm were ever to befall you.

Goodbye. Know that I am well.

The note grew blurry as your eyes filled with tears. The paper wrinkled as your hand clenched it.

“What does it say?” Lilia asked, frantic. “Tell me!” Tears fell freely from the corners of her eyes. She knew something was seriously wrong by only looking at you.

“He ran away,” you choked, “he was scared of something happening to us. He was worried about being run out of town. He didn’t want us to deal with that.”

You could tell Lilia didn’t fully understand. You didn’t either. Wordlessly, she clung to your waist and held you close. The note crinkled in your grip as you embraced her, still holding it.

The dinner table was still cluttered with empty, dirty plates and drinking glasses. Your family was gathered around it, listening to you explain everything instead of cleaning it. Goran’s note sat in the middle like a centerpiece. The entire room burned a bright orange from the setting sun coming through the window.

“We’ll find him,” Dad said, standing over the table and casting his shadow on the note. “He’s on foot, so he won’t be far from here. I’ll talk some sense into him.”

“Honey…” Mom said uneasily. “What if he’s right? What if—”

“Then I’ll talk some sense into the morons from town, too! Officer Nash, Deborah, all of ‘em!”

“That’s what Goran was afraid of, honey.”

“Then at least we’ll get a proper goodbye!” You had never seen Dad this angry before. It was the same anger that forced burning tears down your cheeks; not anger at Goran, the town, or yourself, but the unfortunate combination of all three. Anger at the world that had no reproach other than to make your blood boil and tears fall; to make your hands tremble and your voice shake.

“Mom… Dad’s right.” Reina had taken the note and inspected it for herself. Her voice was steady and measured. “Either we get Goran back and the town learns to deal with it, or Goran gives my little sister a goodbye, face-to-face. The only wrong thing to do is nothing.”

Mom shifted on her feet uncomfortably. “Okay, but…” She looked out the window, her face bright orange in the dimming light. “You all need to rest. It’s getting late, and I won’t have you searching for him in the dark. Save your energy for tomorrow.”

The rest of your family at the table solemnly nodded in agreement. You wanted to run out there right now and catch him, just like when Lilia sent him away on accident and you hurriedly called him back in, but you also wanted to curl up in a ball and do nothing. Your feet ached to run but your heart and eyelids felt immeasurably heavy. After a pause, you assented and nodded as well.

“Go on, get some sleep. I’m sure everything will be okay,” Mom said, bringing you in for a hug. You held her there for a long, quiet moment. The clock ticked. The refrigerator hummed.

You changed into your pajamas and went to the hayloft. Like a child wishing for a unicorn on their birthday, you silently wished for Goran to have magically returned, having had a change of heart. It was just as empty as you had left it. The embrace of his bed, your pillow fort still untouched, his lingering scent; it made you feel better, if only a little bit. Any sleep you would get would be restless, but still better than none at all.

The barn door creaked open. You jerked, unsure if you were truly on the precipice of sleep or simply startled by the noise.

“Who’s there?” you asked, your voice tired.

“It’s me,” Lilia responded, sounding equally drained. “I can’t sleep.”

“Then get up here. There’s enough room for both of us.”

She rose past the top rung of the ladder, yawning and rubbing her eyes. She took her place in Goran’s bed next to you, resting her head in your lap.

“I can’t sleep either,” you admitted. There was no response but Lilia’s shallow breathing and crickets outside. You rested an arm on Lilia’s shoulder as you shifted in the sea of pillows and got comfortable. It felt like an eternity, but eventually, you fell into a stirring, dreamless sleep.

You would set things right tomorrow, one way or another. Somehow.

[yedlihmad]

The Sentimentalist (pt. III)

(cw: violence, heavy emotional themes)

Refr, though–there was the crux of it. The part of the performance with the dramatic pause: ‘and then, Refr.’ Every step he took was so calculated, so planned and carefully thought out. If he annoyed you, it was because he meant to annoy you. And he was good at it. He played mental chess; he over-under-overstrategized; he nenna-ed to the tune of his own drum. 

Sometimes it astounded Rafi, how well his brothers took to the ways of outsider men. So many of their male comrades subscribed to the belief that tough things were best handled by not really handling them at all. Or by destroying them, which was bad, almost worse. Rudi could grin and punch through life, but Refr devoured it. He thrived and excelled at it. Refr, the sly fox; Refr, the snake. Sixty summers since they were exiled–living between kingdoms and cities and slums and palaces–and he was still most at home five fulms up his own princely ass. 

“...exiled?”

- 🌿 -

The last time they saw her, he couldn’t speak; he was panting, throat searing, lungs pumping for breath. They had raced down from the canopies, him and Hrudr, tearing over roads and bridges, frantically loping ahead of the other men, who did not yet know. 

The women already did, however; the Mist must have told them. Two guards caught the brothers at the gate and dragged them in by the arms.

Hrudr thrashed. “Where is Refr?” 

“What happened to him?” Hrafn added, struggling, dreading what they were going to say. 

The guards did not answer. Mothers were coming out of their houses with fat babies on their hips, while squads of gangly children gawked at them from behind bushes and stumps. 

Maja was on the pavilion by her bench, wide-eyed. Her hair beat wild around her in sheets.

“The Serpent,” she shrieked, anguished. “The Serpent! Is it true? Is it true, did it–did he–?”

Her hands. He saw them in great detail then, like a lens flashing up close. Raised, narrow, wandering sinews made the most perfect circles around her knuckles, and tiny spots, each vaguely translucent, bloomed above her plum-colored veins. Her palms, cupped and crinkled, were like the skin of an onion, so thin and fine; the talon-nails, dark as bruises, were limned black with dirt. They were grabbing him, shaking him, cursing him and his brothers–these, the hands that had given him life. 

- 🌿 -

“So you didn’t leave?”

Silence, again.

“You all were exiled?”

Nothingness. A vast, unavailing blackness. The Wood is not a quiet place, but on that night–the night of the Serpent–he couldn’t hear anything. Not even his own pulse. 

“But what happened?”

Now, it drummed like a hammer in his ears.

“What did you do?” 

- 🌿 -

There was a tree. Several of them, actually; if you mapped them, the dots would span the realm from east to west. A date palm in Yedlihmad, a silver laurel in a field below the Abalathian foothills. He once visited cedar saplings freshly planted, their tiny needles fanned out in the La Noscean breeze. Columnar pines, waxy-leaved apples and persimmons overburdened by fruit–the wiry, winding, spindly little larch jutting over the salt rock shore north of Shoal Rock. From Kugane to Coerthas, Gangos to Gridania, they all sufficed, when he needed a tree. 

This is what he did, the ritual: the thing nobody knew, not even his brothers. He went to each tree and put his hands on its trunk. He touched the bark gently, examining for sap, splinters, stinging caterpillars; carefully, almost lovingly, he brushed away the moss. He put his forehead to the bark. With his eyes closed, he would lean there, touching the tree for moments, minutes, long meditative hours–sometimes only a second. It depended on how badly he needed it. Needs like this are timeless. One day he may stand there for days.

He would let go. Sinking down the side of the tree, crouching and squatting, hunching over the imprecise space where the tree met the ground, he’d wait. If there was undergrowth, he’d part it, mindful not to uproot anything vital. The moment his fingers touched earth, however, he began to dig.

Serpent, serpent…

A lot depended on the soil. The dirt and sand–it could be both, or very rocky and dusty, stubborn with pebbles–reached further up his fingers. His forearms were umbered with silt. He scooped away worms, beetles, the opaque red pellets of pupating moths. He dug and dug and dug. 

Come, serpent, come–heal the pain. 

Often, he wept. Tears pushed up and out of him, beading clear and hot on his eyelids. Dirt on his tattooed cheeks would blacken them as they rolled down, darkly streaking his beard. Big, heaving sobs shook his chest. It was habitual in these moments for him to wail. 

Serpent, serpent, take this pain! Maja–

He sat back, staring in.

What did he see? What did he find? 

Maja? 

Nothing. Usually, agonizingly, nothing–just rocks and dirt. He never dug too far. He went by instinct, sufficed when his tears stopped, clearing the view of this small, desperate hollow carved out of hurt and ache. 

But sometimes there were tree roots, kaleidoscoping with shards of fungi. Or salt crystals and earthworms, a cluster of snails in opaline whorls. The curve of a dead carnivore’s jaw. 

Depleted, exhausted, wholly empty of what he carried, there was nothing left to do but fill the hole. Slowly he packed it in fistfuls, evening out the recess. He wanted it to look as if it hadn’t been recently disturbed. Finished, he got up and wiped his hands. 

Some day, he would tell his brothers. He might even bring them, just one, or both–it didn’t matter. Where one went, the others went, too, in time. And if they had rituals of their own, he would observe them, listen; he might even join in. That was their nenna. He would be patient and understanding, their chronicler of the ways things are. 

- 🌿 -

(pt. I) | (pt. II) 

[artoodeeblue]

A Lady on Paper

Find the French version along with my other original writing on this blog!

I can barely remember my birth. My first one, anyway. The cornerstone. It is shrouded in mist, cloggy like the swamp of my cradle-town. Someone must have fathered me – towers and spires rarely sprout up unannounced, I have gathered. In the echoes of my nave, I still hear the scratching of quill over parchment, the heavy bangs of the hammer, the heaving of my creators’ breaths.

The little details give me real life. I take my first breath when Gaultier chisels his initials on one of my rib vaults. His upturned tongue sticks out, almost touching the freckles on his nose. The light bounces through his walnut hair and lands on my freshly-carved stones.

“Hello,” I whisper, gently caressing his mind.

“Hi.” He smiles. Wipes the sweat from his forehead. His voice is tentative. He doesn’t quite know what he’s doing, but his tender name glows, etched into the millennia.

“Pleased to meet you, Gaultier.”

With a professional hand, he scratches another layer of mortar on his stone. In the growing mass that will become my visitors, the sound is both grounding and appeasing. Painfully, heavily, I rise.

“Me too, my Lady.”

Someone must have sired me, but my loyalty has always been to my children.

 They give me jewellery and thorn crowns, which I accept like a mother concedes to her child’s present. I don’t need them, but if they reassure them – if they can feel less alone in this world – I can carpet my walls with a thousand tapestries.

Gaultier is long gone, but his laugh still echoes in the choir. It spins around, playfully blowing out candles and raising my children’s hair. His parting gift to the generations.

 They give me eyes. I count three, round and gleaming. They flash with pastel, sketched with a delicate mix of stone and glass. With them I see my cradle-town. I see the steaming chimneys, the palace, the paved dampness of the city. I finally see my children, immersed in pink and blue light. Kneeling, muttering, singing. Confessing. They come in processions, light candles most cannot afford, speak a language I do not understand. I pray as well – that they find the answers they ask of me.

They add more intricate buttresses, for fear that I fall. I chuckle. Of course I will fall. I will burn down and crumble and fade until I am nothing more than a lady on paper. But Raymond will have none of this. He gives out orders, holding his parchment, counting steps and scratching on his board.

His touch is firm and steady. He pats me like his pet, running his fingers in the tiny creases between the stones.

(He misses Gaultier’s carvings, which I hide covetously.)

“You will become the most beautiful temple ever to stand upon this earth,” he tells me. His pompous language never fails to pry a laugh. “You will be thin as a sheet of parchment, yet your towers will stand strong until Judgment Day.”

“My sisters have not,” I try again. “Can you not hear their screams, as they fall to pieces and flames in the East? Only their ruins will see the sun rise on Judgment Day.”

“Not you,” Raymond insists. “You are better. You are good. You are holy.”

“Holier than the entire civilisation your people slaughtered in the name of God?”

His blue eyes glint with stars and hubris. He jerks his chin upwards. “Yes.”

My children are strong, and proud, and will burn themselves for a touch of the sun.

  I wonder if this was how my sisters felt in the East.

They plunder my crypt, behead my kings and saints, but I never knew them anyway – they are all mere faces tattooed without my consent. Fake jewels. Kings never come to say hello; they just waltz in, kneel, smirk, and declare war over heretics.

Julien’s little kick is nonchalant, patronising.

The pavement is coated with a thick layer of blood. It swirls around me, inside me, churns my stomach and stares at me. They don’t do much to me – maybe, underneath the harsh gaze of the Raymond they so despised, they can hear Gaultier’s murmurs of hope. I never really understood hate, but I know it quickly dissolves under permanence.

“Not so powerful now, huh, girl?”

He wears a blue and red tricorn which awkwardly frames his childish face. He cannot be over twenty, yet his tongue sticks out as if he had finally brought a lion to its knees. Still, it has been decades since I have spoken. I nudge him back.

“Never,” I answer.

Julien smirks, and waves his little flag. “We control you now,” he gloats. “You’ll never hurt anyone else again. You’ll be forgotten, just like every other part of the Old Regime.”

“So will you.”

With a giant, heaving swing, the rod comes smashing towards St Thomas. His head explodes, and the fragments scatter through my bowels.

“I despise you,” he snarls. His breath is ragged, and his chiselled jaw twitches in its socket. “You’re everything that’s evil in this world.”

I am only rocks, I want to tell him. How can stone, oak, mortar and carved initials rival with the bloody smoke-trail of a musket?

But he is already gone, running on the pavement, carried by youth and homicidal optimism.

They change my name – it belongs sometimes to Reason, sometimes to the Supreme Being, sometimes to Liberty. My children are creative, and fickle. Anything to prove that they have changed.

But a few chopped off heads do not change the tell-tale glimmer in your eyes.

  A man with almond eyes and a high forehead like mine pushes through my heavy door. His steps break my trance-like slumber, and I stir. Shy sunlight cracks through my unused eye. I blink. Slowly.

Gaultier’s laugh is no more than a whisper now. It has lost its music – has grown as lethargic as mine. Raymond’s promise flies over me like the angel of Death.

The man blows, sending a streak of fresh air over the piers. Dust materialises in the diffused rays. He stumbles around the half-ruins littered on the floor.

Electricity courses through his fingertips as he brushes my stone. I shudder. I haven’t been touched like this in centuries.

There’s an aura around him. Not divine – not like the few priests who still roam my sleepy aisles. Something rich and brown, scented with paper, ink and starlight. His eyes seek, blink, and dart in rhythm with the turn of the earth. His feet are posed firmly on the checkered tiles, yet his posture is light and dream-like. Grounded, physical, yet full of wonder. Not broken – not yet.

He smells so intensely, decidedly human.

I take a breath, and guide his hand towards the tiny alcove I made. It hides in the joint between walls, covered by dust and inconsequence. His breath gets caught in his throat, Adam’s apple bopping up and down. He religiously traces around the tired G, the sloppy H. It stings up to my spire, but tickling nerves feel much less lonely than numb inattention.

“Six hundred and fifty years,” he murmurs. “We must look like insects to you.”

I brush his skin, watching his eyes light up with Muses. Deep in the bowels of my bells, a slow rumbling comes to greet him.

“I think you look like giants, Victor.”

 Out of everyone who said hello, he’s the only one who comes back broken.

“Look at you, all pampered,” he says. “You’re a proper lady on paper now. On your way to your old beauty.”

“It is your doing, my love. Your beautiful story set the spark.”

Victor smiles, a weary, tentative thing that contrasts with the navy bags under his eyes. His back is hunched, shoulders drawn tight under his jacket.

Sometimes, Victor reminds me so much of myself it sends sparks of pain down to my crypt.

“I am so very sorry, my dear.” I send him a tender sunray, but he recoils – flinches – away. He takes a shuddering inspiration.

The clangs and thrusts of the renovation scaffolding reverberate inside the nave. Victor’s knee fidgets back and forth, up and down, synchronised with my heartbeat. His breath comes in long, trembling sighs. He dips his head a little more, letting his brows cloud his gaunt expression with shadows too old for his age.

“She was…” Victor falters. “My Leopoldine, she was only nineteen.”

He whimpers, shoulders trembling. Never in his life could he withhold emotions from his features. My Victor has always felt everything so viscerally, so fiercely, that the force of a hundred hell fires could not possibly restrain him.

His hands are linked together and his eyelids close – a small, awkward attempt to connect to something far above my spire. I stay silent.

“You’re supposed to know everything.” His mouth moves, yet his voice comes from another realm. His brow twitches. “If you’re so omniscient, can’t you at least tell me… Tell me why?”

That is the one question I cannot answer, that I can never answer.

“Why can’t you bring her back?”

His broken sobs do not echo. Neither do Gaultier’s laugh, Raymond’s hopes, Julien’s fire. They are absorbed in the scaffolding above, in the heavy oak framework, in the centuries-old mortar.

 Sometimes I wish I could speak to God. After all, am I not named after his mother?

Perhaps I am condemned to share her fate, forced to watch my children break and die, suspended to the cruel post of Time.

Demain, dès l’aube, à l’heure où blanchit la cathédrale… Je partirai.

  It feels…strange, to say the least. I am smaller, lower. Reduced.

Smoke and ashes fly from my spire over my cradle-town, my beloved light-city. My children are cut from me, staring powerless behind murmuring firemen. They pray, they sing, mutter words of comfort that I barely catch over the screaming in my mind.

It aches. The intricate carpentry consumed, the flames licking up my roof, the crashing water relentlessly boring into my shoulders. The tireless wind ramming against my walls, whistling between my towers. It carries the bystanders’ collective gasp as they watch my spire crumble and impale my flank.

A young fire woman fixes her gaze on the brazier, a stoic jawline firmly maintaining her illusion of control. I can barely discern the tell-tale glimmer of her eyes through the smoke.

“You must be in so much pain.”

Maybe, but my pain is not unbearable. My children’s is.

“Don’t worry. We will protect you.” Her voice is wobbly, with a higher pitch than usual, yet her hand on the hose could not get any steadier.

 When the sun rises over my still smouldering body, I hear relief, and I hear grief. The city, my radiant, proud, boastful people, hang in exhausted silence. It drapes over me.

My close call to destruction caused thousands of individuals to turn their heads towards an old remnant of the Regime.

“We will rebuild,” they say. From my undamaged eye, I spot their leader, surrounded by a shifting mass of microphones and cameras. “We will restore Our Lady to her former glory, and make her even more beautiful. We will make these stones alive again.”

Raymond’s voice resonates through millions of television sets. His eyes bore straight through the country.

I think of Gaultier’s sweat-filled affection, of his cheery compassion.

Of Julien’s anger at the vices of the world, of the passionate curve of his eyebrows.

I think of Victor the writer, of his beautiful smile and his magnificent tears, of his unconditional love for humanity.

I think of the three or four billionaires I have never met, who will claim to adore me by bedecking me with fake jewels, by cajoling me with impersonal wood and long-dead cold stone.

I think of my other sisters in the ocean, in the forests, in the air. Cathedrals that will never be rebuilt nor remembered, in the small scheme of political power. Monuments older than my cradle-town disappearing with the snap of two fingers, never to be seen again. Killed by hubris, disdain and general disinterest.

 My stones do not make me alive. Just like you, they decay, wither, and burn.

No. I do not remember the placing of my cornerstone.

I took my first breath when a young, gap-toothed bricklayer chiselled his initials on the slabs of my rib vault.

[mykingdomforapen]

first light of dawn

Yvon has read more words than many have spoken in their lifetime. In several languages, too. He carries a book in his belongings even when they take up too much room, John Milton immortalised by sheets of paper. The works of poets and scholars can live on without a single utterance, their words and stories carried onward by black ink. 

Even so, when he reads, he reads out loud, so that he can taste the weight of them on his tongue, and hear them ride on the backs of breezes so that it carries forth, as if Paradise Lost is a pebble dropped in a still lake, and it ripples forward until it reaches the ocean. After all, the hemlock trees and the riverbank pebbles have no eyes to read; he does not tell anyone this, but he reads poetry from his little black book so that the forests can listen along, until they all can recite the stanzas nearly from memory. 

Hamish finds this politely exasperating. 

“Does it have to be Milton?” he says. 

Yvon does not look up from his book. 

“Have you got anything better?” he says. 

“I prefer Bradstreet,” says Hamish. “She isn’t quite as long-winded.” 

Yvon turns a page, but he permits himself a smile.

“That sounds like a personal problem,” he says. 

His companion scowls, but saves the rest of his protesting for later. Yvon defends Milton not out of favour. Milton is a master of the English language, naturally, and he retells ancient stories with fresh blood--a practise that Yvon finds familiar, even if the story itself is not. Milton puts into lilting verse the dark beasts in each man, and Yvon finds comfort in their company.

But no matter how many stanzas of the fall of Lucifer that Yvon can memorise, Milton is a lease more than a gift--the English have given Milton to him in exchange for gratitude and devotion. They think that the fact that he can read and write English is a testament to the victory of their presence in this land. Never mind that Yvon can speak about three different languages from his mother’s side, and has learned English and French on his own before attending Harvard. Sometimes, as he quotes, “Neither man nor angel can discern hypocrisy, the only evil that walks invisible except to God alone”--he hears the English pat themselves on the back, and the thoughtful words taste bitter. 

No, Yvon defends Milton simply because it irritates Hamish, and he finds that amusing. 

“Tell a story that I haven’t heard before instead,” says Hamish. 

The request makes Yvon laugh. Hamish has likely seen fewer winters than some of the bears wading in the river. There are thousands of stories he has not yet heard. Yvon closes his book, as he does not need it. 

“Then let me tell you about Wenebojo,” he says, and Hamish listens. 

-

When Yvon first met Hamish Goames, he expected to underestimate him. Hamish was young, barely past twenty-seven years of age, and he had that perpetual sullenness about him that only emphasised his youth. Yvon heard in passing that Hamish’s brother-in-law also worked for the Hudson Bay Company, which gave Yvon an amusing impression of a little boy tagging along with his older brother’s gang. 

“Hamish Goames,” he had said with the sort of tone one would reserve for a funeral. “At your service.” 

He had pale grey eyes, like the sky after a heavy storm had already passed, and his lips were constantly fixed in a worried line. He looked not the type that would last here. He seemed like someone who cared too much, and the Company wanted little to do with those sort. 

“Yvon Fitzpatrick,” Yvon said. “At the Company’s, or whoever is putting the coin in my purse.”

There was a hint of cautious curiosity in Hamish’s eyes as he tried to affix the French name to Yvon’s face. Yvon smiled in spite of himself.

“It is not my only name,” he said, “if that is what you were wondering.” 

Hamish had the right mind to look humbled. 

“What other names are yours, then?” he said. 

“I have given you one already,” Yvon said. “Don’t be too greedy.” 

Their colleagues of the Company laughed at Hamish. Don’t mind Yvon, they said. You won’t find it easy to understand him. He speaks in riddles.

But Hamish shook his head. No, he said. Yvon had spoken very plainly. You just don’t like to understand when you’ve been refused. 

Hamish was earnest, and honest men do not survive Turtle Island when they live among the English and the French. Yvon knew not to get too attached, but he already knew he would be sad to see Hamish go. 

-

Some of the Company do not hide their distaste of the Iroquois. Savages, heathens, uncivilised--white men come up with many dramatic synonyms just to declare someone different. 

“Skin crawls at the sight of them,” one Company man says, with a shudder. “Always feel their eyes on the back of my head when I go out. Can’t even take a piss without feeling watched.”

“I wouldn’t flatter yourself like that,” Yvon says. “There isn’t much to see.” 

Only Hamish hears him. Yvon knows this because he sees Hamish choke on his drink.

“Their lot wear nothing but skins,” says another. “And usually, just their own. Bloody mad.” 

Yvon resists to comment, because that is obviously bullshit. Especially in the dead of winter. The company he keeps do not resist to pitch in their two cents, because men will hallucinate rumours when they apparently have nothing better to do. 

“Oi, Richards,” says another. His eyes dart sheepishly towards Yvon with a semblance of discomfort.

“Who, Fitzpatrick?” says the one named Richards. “He’s different, isn’t he? Wearing britches and a proper hat, like a proper Christian man.” 

The man nibbles on their supper, satisfied with the answer. Yvon finds himself surprisingly disappointed. 

“And they were both naked, the man and his wife, and were not ashamed,” Yvon recites. 

The men’s heads turn to Yvon, as if only just now comprehending that he can hear them. Yvon regards their attention with a slight smile. 

“In the day that God created man, in the likeness of God made he him,” recites Yvon. “Buck naked, too.”

Now all conversation has been silenced. Yvon is unbothered. Normally, he would carefully consider preserving the peace of the community, but that is apparently Anishinaabe priorities--which, according to the English, is not applicable to them. So Yvon does not give a shit. 

“It’s been a while since I studied all of your books,” he said. “But I think I remember correctly that it wasn’t until the devil got a hold of man did man start wearing underwear.” He shrugs and takes a bite of an apple. “But what do I know?” 

Richards sputters. 

“You are a sensible man, Fitzpatrick,” says Richards. “Now that you’ve come to live in our world, would you ever truly want to go back into the dark?”

Yvon crunches through his apple methodically. 

“Does that mean that you think you turn into the devil’s spawn every time you strip to take a bath?” he says. He rubs his nose for good measure. “That would explain much.” 

Someone snorts with amusement. Everyone’s head turns to see who it was, but whoever it is covers themselves quickly. Yvon has a sneaking suspicion he knows who it is, because when he excuses himself to walk along the creek, Hamish leaves the group and follows him.

-

Hamish is naturally inquisitive. Behind the glower and the monotone is a young man in a new world who wants to know everything about the rivers, the mist in the mountains, the incense of a burning hemlock. It turns out that Yvon is the only one who has the patience to temper that curiosity. 

“How can you tell it is a hemlock?” he asks, and Yvon shows him the hair-thin white stripes on the back of its pines, and the tough mushrooms that sprout from the jagged bark.

“What are your stars’ stories?” he asks, and Yvon tells him of Biboonkeonini, and the coming frost ahead. When the mornings grow colder, and Hamish has to blow into his hands to feel his fingertips, Yvon hears him mutter complaints of the Wintermaker. It makes Yvon snort. 

“Do you have a family?” he asks, and Yvon says, That’s enough questions for today. He spoons an extra heap of beans into Hamish’s bowl, and it shuts him up, for now.

-

Yvon still dreams of his mother. She looks the way he last saw her, before he left for Harvard. She is cooking soup of wild rice for him, even though he is grown and can look after himself. I do not know when will be the next time I can share a meal with you, she says. 

He is no longer dressed in coats and stiff boots. He sits cross-legged beside her; there is no book of Englishmen’s words in his bag, no musket around his shoulder. He speaks in his mother’s language, and in his dreams he never stumbles over his words. 

In his dreams, she is just about the same age as he is now. She had departed at least twenty-five years ago. The fires have died down, the tobacco reduced to ash, the grief internalised. And yet his mother returns, and brushes the hair behind his ears as if he is small again. 

I’ve gone too far, haven’t I? he asks her.

She smiles. She calls him by the name the elders gave him. It is only in dreams now when anyone calls him such. He holds his breath for the morning when he will wake up and forget what it is. 

How far can you possibly go, she says, before you can never come westward? My son, you can never go far enough that you cannot come to me one day. Follow the setting sun, and you will. 

Before her hand can touch his head, he wakes up, twenty years older, in white men’s clothes with a white man’s name. 

-

Yvon is reminded of his mother by the snowfall, when he presses a handful of the freshly fallen winter against his cheek. Hamish remembers his mother through his sister. 

He carries the miniature of his sister’s face wherever he goes. Yvon initially assumed her to be his wife, and when he made a passing comment with that belief, Hamish narrowed his eyes and protectively shifted the miniature away. Alice is my sister, he said mulishly. Although any man would be lucky to have her. Which makes Randall an idiot. 

“Isn’t she beautiful?” Hamish would say when he showed Yvon the miniature. And Yvon would agree to be polite. 

From what Yvon gathers, Hamish’s mother had passed not long after he was born. Alice was his close companion as together they navigated a childhood coloured by London fires, tumultuous revolutions, and an imposing father. Yvon risks to ask, and Hamish pretends he does not hear. Yvon does not push. Neither of them want to speak of their fathers. 

“It’s strange to think,” Hamish says once, in a rare moment of honesty, “that with an ocean between us, she and I do not share the same sunrise or sunset.” 

The simple longing makes him seem childlike, which Yvon does not tell him this because Hamish becomes defensive easily. 

“Well,” Yvon says. “It’s still the same sun, isn’t it? Or do you English believe we don’t even share that?” 

Hamish smiles wryly. He does not protest. 

-

“Waaseyaa,” his mother calls him, in his dreams. 

He wakes at the first light of dawn, and so he remembers. 

[zecaeruwu]

Sweet

Waltz / Lucette fluff. After Waltz breaks his Neverland Curse.

*********

“Waltz, we promised Delora we would be back by dusk, did we not?”

Lucette’s heart sank as she saw the copper sunset rays shine onto the town, the sun itself lingering just above the horizon. She unconsciously let out a sigh, realizing Mr. Broom awaited her arrival home. Shifting the bags she was carrying from one hand to the other, she felt their combined mass slowly take their toll on her. Waltz, of course, had insisted on carrying the bulk of their groceries for the Marchen. Despite this, she was very much looking forward to just heading back and relieving herself of the weight.

The dark haired boy spun around to face her, the items inside his bags clanging audibly against each other. His crimson eyes glittered with excitement. “It won’t take long, little star. We’ll be back in no time.”

Gazing at him, Lucette couldn’t help but nod and concealed a small smile. Ever since he had introduced her to candied apples, Waltz had stopped at nothing to fulfill his promise of assisting Lucette in reliving the childhood her mother had denied her many years ago.

She continued to follow him through the alleyways and streets, breathing in the smell of fresh produce and cooked food alike as families readied their homes for supper.

Waltz skidded to a stop at an impasse. “Right here.”

Lucette turned to look at the rustic building they were standing outside of. She peered into the shop through the misted display windows. “You wish to visit this dessert shop, Waltz?”

“Yes.”

Noticing her struggle with the bags, Waltz walked up to her, carefully relieving Lucette of all of her bags. He beamed at her. “I promise to get you something too.”

Oh well. Delora can wait. 

*********

The miniature bells dangling from the top of the door jingled lightly as the pair walked into the shop. Lucette instinctively took a deeper breath to inhale the scent of freshly baked goods, the welcoming scent luring her further into the store.

The croissants, cinnamon rolls, cupcakes…

She scanned the confectioneries, each pastry bringing back vivid memories of trying them for the first time – with Waltz, of course. He was on a mission to introduce her to the finest desserts in Angielle.

Sweet, Lucette reminisced.

The desserts? Or the memories?

“Do you mind carrying this for me, princess?” She was roused from her reverie by the rustling of paper bags and by the voice of the person whose company she has grown to enjoy.

Waltz was standing in front of her, delicately juggling the bags in one hand and an éclair, clamped delicately in a pair of bakery tongs, in the other. He jabbed at a brown paper bag with his elbow. Instinctively, Lucette picked one up as he dropped the éclair, perfectly glazed and shiny, into the bag.

“Hold onto this for me, please. I’m going to buy it later.” 

“Is this pastry for you or for me?” Lucette wondered aloud.

Her partner let out a soft chuckle, tilting his head and messing up strands of his long, ebony hair. “This is for me. I have something else for you.”

“Are you going to tell me what you are getting me, Waltz?” She questioned him curiously, following Waltz as he stalked off to find his next target.

Waltz paused at a display cabinet filled with crispy looking pastries and slid open the transparent door. Still holding the tongs, he brushed a few lone strands of hair from falling into his eyes. “You can guess,” he finally managed, almost teasingly, while he picked up a mille-feuille.

Was that his way of issuing a challenge?

It couldn’t be that hard.

She nodded at the mille-feuille, currently being clutched tightly by Waltz. “Is it that?”

“Guess again, little star.”

He released the pastry into the paper bag; it fell on top of the éclair with a gentle thud. He glided towards a cabinet brimming with an assortment of cakes, another small smile gracing his lips.

Lucette’s eyebrows knitted. “So it’s a cake, are you getting me one of those?”

“That’s not it either!” Waltz reached into the cabinet and retrieved what appeared to be a black forest cake, dotted carefully with cherries, dollops of whipped cream, and chocolate shavings.

This was frustrating. “Oh, Waltz, just tell me, please?”

He looked unimpressed.

“At least give me a hint,” she said firmly.

Waltz brought the cake to eye level as he scrutinized the surface thoughtfully, scarlet eyes darting from one cherry to the next. Lucette couldn’t help but notice that the fruit was the same color and texture as Waltz’s lips.

“Fine,” he said after a brief pause, lowering the cake into a basket, “it’s something sweet… and unexpected.”

Of course he would give her such a vague hint. He just wanted the satisfaction of winning, didn’t he? Was this his way of getting back at her for winning that one game of hide-and-seek with the children? Waltz was usually so enthusiastic when it came to sharing things with Lucette, whether it was a story about his puppet show, their childhood adventures, or simply whatever was on his mind.

This was rather peculiar.

“Your hints need work,” she said plainly.

He looked hurt. “Lucette, there’s no fun in me just giving you the answer.”

If this was the game he wanted to play, so be it. She pouted. “I will find out what it is either way, with or without your hint.”

The all-too-familiar smile had reappeared on Waltz’s face. Wordlessly, he hooked the basket into his arm, progressing to the next section of the shop.

*********

The duo continued through the store in the same fashion, Lucette’s curiosity growing by the second. They reached the cashier. Waltz instructed Lucette to close her eyes while he paid for the desserts and “whatever he was buying her”.

“You wouldn’t want to ruin the surprise, little star.” With her eyes squeezed shut, Lucette flushed as she felt his whispers travel down her ear to her neck.

Lucette then heard Waltz and the shopkeeper mutter inaudibly to each other. It was then followed with the pressing of buttons, the whirring of the register, the clinking of copper coins.

“All right, you can open them now.”

She cracked one eye open, then the other. She saw the brunet smiling in front of her, clutching one large paper bag, his eyes sparkling brighter than the brilliant gold cross hanging from his left ear.

Waltz playfully tossed his coin pouch into the air like a small child. He caught it and pocketed it in one swift flourish. “Let’s head out, Lucette. I have your surprise.”

He gestured to the door, giving the shopkeeper a wave as he pushed it open. The bells attached to the dessert shop clinked faintly as they exited.

*********

The pair stepped out onto the streets, the smell of newly made pastries fading, the evening wind blowing into their faces and sending a shiver down Lucette’s spine.

They stopped outside the closed door, Waltz turning once again to face her. “Okay, you have one more chance to guess what it is.” His face was tinted a rosy pink. Lucette wondered if it was from the cold gusts of wind.

Lucette furrowed her eyebrows and she racked her brain for potential answers, thinking of what it could possibly be.

And then, she thought of it. 

That must be it.

She scrunched up her nose, taking in the sight of Waltz’s beautiful red eyes, his appropriately matched earring, his perfectly tinted cheeks that matched the color of his soft lips.

Lucette grabbed Waltz’s hand, pulling him close to herself.

“Could it be,” she whispered quietly enough for only Waltz to hear, “this?”

She pressed her own lips on his.

Lucette felt her partner’s body freeze in shock and his face flame up hotly.

And, all too soon, Waltz pulled away from the kiss, a generous sprinkle of blush making its way on his cheeks.

“Did I guess it correctly?” Lucette asked cautiously.

The bags of groceries clutched in Waltz’s hand fell to the ground with a resounding thump. He shook his head no.

Lucette averted her gaze, her own face also dashed with pink. “What was it then?”

The boy reached into the paper bag and silently produced a box of rainbow macarons, white lilies made of icing on each of their surfaces.

The two looked at each other awkwardly. Lucette reached out to take the macarons as Waltz’s heated gaze pierced through her.

For a moment, the two friends were silent.

Taking a deep breath, she forced out the words. “Thank you, Waltz.”

“You’re welcome, Lucette.”

More silence.

“Hey, Waltz?”

“Yeah?”

“I am sorry.”

Waltz turned to Lucette, his velvety red eyes gleaming brighter than the lampposts that peppered the street ahead of them.

“Don’t be. I loved it.”

He leaned in again, bridging the gap between their lips.

Sweet.

[exactlyenoughglitter]

On the River Styx

‘There is no destiny,’ his own voice. ‘There is none. None. It does not exist. The only thing that everyone is destined for is death.’

 ...

 ‘How… How will it happen?’ he finally asked, cold and emotionless.

 ‘I’ll take you by the hand,’ she said, looking him directly in the eyes. ‘I’ll take you by the hand and lead you through the meadow. Into the cold, wet fog.’

 ‘And then? What is there, beyond the fog?’

 ‘Nothing,’ she smiled. ‘There is nothing more.’

- A. Sapkowski Sword of Destiny

She wakes to the chill of night, feverish with fear.

Mist cradles her soul, hobbling her limbs on the doorstep between this life and the other one. Frozen in the woods of her dreams, she hears a word – a dear and painful word, a word that used to mean something – hammering against the inside of her skull. However much she wishes though, she cannot utter it; a sudden and irresistible forgetfulness washes over her, scattering the beguiling images in a swipe of a careful hand across her mind. The mist swirls beautifully. It shapes itself into wild horses, unicorns, and apple blossoms blowing in the wind that is coming in from the sea. And the forest in which she had stood but a moment ago crumbles and morphs, delicately, like when salt is sprinkled onto freshly painted canvas. The touch coaxes her with a promise of a peaceful, dreamless sleep, and a part of her listens obediently. She must heal, eventually.

Yet, the pain used to mean something. It had had her entire world wrapped up in it, and worlds did not end at the sound of her footsteps – they embraced her. She can feel the unease in her blood: there are things she can never forget, wounds she reopens just to feel cradled by their significance again. Thus, Ciri clings to the remnants of this feeling through fear, which runs potent and hot under her skin, for she does not want to forget. The painterly touch against her mind halts at these thoughts, second-guessing its course for the briefest of moments, and Ciri hears a woman crying out with a voice that is her own, though not.

She jerks upright.

The air is damp and smells of pine resin. She breathes it in, shifting uncomfortably against the shirt that sticks to skin now that she has stopped undressing for sleep entirely; too inconvenient. The smouldering tension in her limbs does not disappear at these ‘comforting’ signs of the mundane, however, since the sight of pale, blue eyes above her is anything but ordinary and comforting. Wary, frowning. Ciri realises with some alarm that her skin still tingles with his magic – as if she had just stepped in from the cold.

She does not wait for him to speak or explain but flings herself off her cot and clears out of the low chamber of the barn dwelling. Somewhere on her way out, she hits herself against a broken damper, forgets her boots, and forgets her sword and cloak even – forgets everything but the vestiges of swirling mist inside of which she has lost her dream. Stranded like this, she clings to the other sensations in her body – the gnawing anxiety, the fast evaporating adrenaline, the unexplainable dread – and hardly notices the cold rain hitting her sleep-warm shoulders, or the shadow that follows her outdoors.

Someone waits for me in the woods, she thinks as she stares into the dark treeline where the wind growls in the treetops, breaking branches, and plays a second fiddle to the pounding of her heart. She had sought someone; or somebody had wanted to find her, perhaps? Remembering hurts. It brings back terrible, disorientating memories of her first flight across time and space. But the people she had wanted to get to then are both gone now; Ciri herself had given them away.

She is alone, and no one is waiting for her.

  ‘Do you know what it was that I saw?’ she asks over the patter of rain. ‘Can you see what I see in my dreams?’

He does not answer, nor does he have to. Nightmares had always been a staple of her existence. Yet these ones – ones that had started frequenting her after she had believed she could start her life anew – had stopped as suddenly as they had started. When he appeared.

The fine fabric of his clothes remains dry and undamaged even in pouring rain, even after she has hit him square across the chest. She does not look at him, does not care to see the reproach and odium in that inhumanely calm face. She focuses solely on what he deserves, what they all deserve. Ciri knows this emotion intimately; it cleanses and purifies. It grounds her in the face of the unknown. She knows even more than that. For instance, she is aware that her explosive anger comprises so much of what the elf cannot stand in her. And yet, as he stands before her, tall and unflinching like a statue of granite, with eyes that express pity – she should not have looked, why can she not stop looking –, he too is being the epitome of what she detests about him. So she hits him again. Let him get angry! And again, and focuses on the certainty of her rage, which nevertheless does not manage to overshadow the anxiety that blazes on in her heart.

  Deflecting her gracefully and finally catching her hands in his, the sorcerer looks at the witcheress for a long time in the grey hour before dawn. And she knows by his telling silence and extraordinary composure that she is right about him. He knows about what I see and has known all along.

‘They terrify you,’ he starts calmly, holding her fists together between them. ‘You do not know your way through them, and that is how we found our way to you.’

She jerks away from him at the reminder of her weakness, and though his grip feels like iron at first, he yields quickly to her.

‘But it will not happen again; not as long as I am with you,’ he continues softly. ‘Still, I would rather you did not frighten yourself while we remain on the Spiral and vulnerable.’

‘You frighten me!’ she hisses through clenched teeth, satisfied when he flinches. ‘I do not remember asking you to do this! Hell, I would not have even known if… I do not want you inside my head!’

He makes no effort to argue with her, observing her silently, expectantly. Looking at the withered shrubs near the wall of the dwelling, she wonders if there should not be snow instead. Snow white and wild crimson. Somehow she simply cannot shake the feeling that she may have lost something important tonight. She shakes her head.

‘If it is as you say and these are visions, then I – I need to know.’ He closes his eyes briefly, mercifully. ‘I have every right! I do not care if it is Eredin, I just – dreams do not have to be true. But they can be…’

‘Zireael…’

‘I know that this one was different!’ she does not let him interrupt her. There’s a pressure building in her temples.

‘Whatever you did, it did not work. I can still feel it,’ the forest, tall and dark, pulls at her. ‘Don’t tell me I do not know what I’m saying, because I do. And you do. You have to understand me, I only want him to hear me before –’

And just like that, the bone-deep chill of her rain-soaked clothes, the tiredness of her injured body, and the overwhelming guilt and regret rush in and douse the fire of fear that has so far kept her burning. Her shoulders sag a little, muscles relaxing as the shadow passes and the torrent of recognition slips through the dissolving mist with merciless knowledge. The air pricks with petrichor.

Suddenly empty and freezing, she leans against him, and he lets her as the lakes of her eyes glaze over with tears like spring ice.

There is a path in the frozen alder woods, branching and bare, and it leads out into an open meadow – into white, wet fog.  It’s the path she had taken to get somewhere. And at the end of this road, branching and bare, stands a lonely figure of a man. Alone. Afraid? Or is that only me? Earth crunches under her boots. She wants to run to him to reassure him, to reassure herself. But her linen dress tears under the jealous grasp of rose hips and the white and frozen ground underneath the bushes turns crimson with squashed fruit.

When she glances up again, she sees a fair haired woman, barefoot and in a pale linen dress, reaching out her hand to the man and waiting. Waiting at the edge of a black forest which has no end to lead the man through the meadow, through the fog that is wet and white. It smells of the sea around them; she does not smell it, she just knows. And as he is earnestly considering the pale hand offered to him, dread grips Ciri’s heart and she calls out, ignoring the frost that nips at her bare heels. She has become wholly what she sees. So, in that very instant, Ciri has become the fear before the eternity, before the nothing that lies beyond the fog. And the man that is so dear to her heart does not hear her. But the woman turns her head; her eyes are pale and blue.

You can save him, Child of the Elder Blood. Before he plunges into the nothingness which he has come to love. Into the black forest which has no end.

Father! Do not go, father! Don’t leave me…

But he does not hear her. He does not come for her. He is leaving her in the mist where the crooked soul of the alder forest will eat into her spirit – forever. And all of a sudden Ciri becomes unsure as to who it is that she sees in the enchanted mist, at the end of the road that she chose. So she turns around, a garland of daisies falling from her brow, and runs.

‘I took them both,’ she mutters absentmindedly. ‘I took them both so they would never be apart, never alone again. I wanted them to remain together even if I could not go with them, because no one – no one should be alone when –’

Her voice breaks in an ugly, painful manner that she has no will left to subdue. While the rain is letting up over the small, abandoned dwelling at the end of an overgrown path that winds through the woods, bitter tears continue to water her face.

And how they can choke her. ‘I bring death.’

She senses him denying it over the light buzzing in her ears, but for a long while all else around Ciri falls away. The pain is too acute and makes her limbs freeze as her heart trembles in the whirling pool of guilt and regret. Father – I never called him thus, and yet… it could not have been anyone else. It is worse than any of her nightmares about future peril because the things she has dreamt about tonight have already happened. In Rivia, in a story she once lived. And she knows that nothing and nobody can change what happened in that story. So, an unappeasable longing devours her – longing for something she had always yearned for and imagined to have had possessed in various places and times, though she had never really gotten to experience it with those who had been bound to her by destiny. And what good was a destiny like that?

‘We awake from the dreams we have been dreaming for too long, screaming, because we mistake the hope in them for our just and fair due.’

She hears the elf’s deep voice against her ear and his closeness startles her. It makes her absurdly self-conscious in the middle of grief, yet it comes as a welcome distraction too. How unallowably pathetic she must look, she thinks as she hesitantly tries to put some distance between them again. Her skin tingles with the same warmth as before – as if she had just stepped in from the cold.

He does not appear bothered, but his eyes, pale and blue and ordinarily so indecipherable, seem sad to her now that he looks at her. ‘Destiny rarely concerns itself with fairness, O Swallow.’

Ciri does not know how to respond to that. So she doesn’t.

-

He is sitting on the shore of a lake.

Under weeping willows and wispy alders he weaves his spell and waits. In the middle of the lake, clear and mirror-like, lies a small, green island. For a keen-eyed observer, serene light would always reflect off the apple trees in full bloom there regardless of the weather and the translucent mist that hung forever over the lake’s crystalline waters. Once you crossed the lake water, the fruit would already be ripe for picking. It was truly a singular place in many times, which did not mean it was not many different places in a single time. And as it turns out, this one was exactly the one he needed today.

The trick was not in getting across, for that was only natural. Rather, it was in finding a reason to depart because that was thoroughly against nature to everyone who had found their way onto the island of apple trees. He knew it only too well. He did not even mind that the island was being associated with him anymore. Stories were always a little bit more fantastic than reality, and that was very good indeed, because reality was stranger than fiction and not easy or satisfying to recall and talk about. After all, one’s actual person mattered very little in the grand fabric of myth and meaning.

Immutable and untouchable, it was a plane of healing and waiting, and many stayed in the gardens for a long time, while others passed on despite the sweet smells of the orchard. However, once they had decided to venture forth, they would never again meet with those they had once known in life. So on the steps of the gate that had stood open since time immemorial, many continued to exist in dream-like days that were regularly dreamt by all life. Yet, prosaically enough, this too was but another time and another place; and he had come to know it for what it was, though it had taken a part of him in exchange for the knowledge. At the end of the day Crevan knew the way, for he knew truly many astonishing things, even for an elf, but at the twilight of his own days, no one would wait for him on the island of apple trees, on the Malus Island, Ynys Afallach.

I left you.

I did not do what I should have done back then, and now everything hangs by a thread. I should have taken you with me. By force, I should have taken you back home, dragged you behind me, kicking and screaming, if necessary. I should have killed that dh’oine, and I will never forgive myself for not having managed to. And had you hated me for the rest of eternity it would have mattered very little, for you would have lived. In time, you would have forgotten your hatred of me, just as you would have forgotten him. Life, after all, contains many a maddening multitude, and nothing and no one could ever hold your affection and attention for long. But I did not do everything in my power to bring you back home again.

I left you to your fate.

For a moment his voice quivers, as he chants under his breath and rolls a little green stone in various configurations in-between his long fingers. He knows that when his eyes catch the likeness of his beloved in the enchanted mist, that when he senses the presence of death, that it is truly naught but his own tired imagination and not the daughter of Shiadhal. For Lara had left these shores for Avalon long ago; happily or unhappily, he does not know. She had, ultimately, always done as she had wished… and what had he done?

He finishes the spell, letting the stone fall on the palm of his hand and looks at it. Its jade-coloured surface curls around itself in the shape of a tree-leaf trefoil knot. A bond of destiny was a simple and elegant thing; a dream that had to be dreamed – and he dreamt of destiny often, and accurately. Why, they say he never makes mistakes. Well, stories are always a little bit more fantastic than reality. And his reality, for the longest time, has been strange enough to make him scream.

The thought that ‘something more’ could have called for Lara, that something could have been more important than her people, than all of them, … than him; and that this unfathomable something could have been correct in taking her away from him – the notion does not fit inside his head. It never will; by which he means that he can comprehend it, naturally, but he cannot submit to it - not unconditionally, and not in his heart. And to have that arrogant, foolish, beautiful, green-eyed monster repeat the insult then, as if in her uncompromising desperation to get back to the witcher and the sorceress, to her friends – fated to die – was hidden the deep wisdom of the ages –

It is growing cold under the weeping willows and alders by the lake which is now filling with fog, thick and white as milk. Crevan had, once, mistaken destiny for a dream – something to be followed, rather than lived. Although he thinks it an unfair interpretation, all things remaining equal, he is willing to accept it now that everything is hanging by a thread. It certainly had never stopped haunting him since, and he pays attention to his haunts more than most.

‘Did you bring the creature?’ he asks with interest, his voice betraying nothing once more.

‘No,’ the Hawk replies. ‘It slipped away from us in the Alnitak system.’

‘That’s a pity.’ He would have been very interested in what the young unicorn could have shown them about the Swallow.

‘I agree. Correct me if I am wrong, but that should not change anything for you, should it now?’

‘Not at all.’

They look at each other, the General and the Knowing One. For the moment, everything between them remains as it has been for centuries: balanced and by the book, with each enabling the other to the best of their ability in an alliance and friendship that sets the interests of their people above everything else. Both can claim to know the other’s modus operandi appropriately well, yet neither can deny that the scale underneath them has conclusively shattered with Muircetach’s passing. It is as if both have awoken from quiescence in their own right, though neither thinks the other quite realises the depth of it. And so, for the moment, everything remains as it has been for centuries.

‘I must admit, the thought of this expedition makes me uneasy if only because I do not condone disturbing the dead.’

Avallac’h snorted.

‘Yet there is nothing,’ the king of the Hunt continues, unperturbed, ‘that I would not do for this unfortunate girl, Dana forgive me. For it is clear to one and all that time for decisive action is well overdue.’ Even now, he wears an understated onyx circlet set with rubies on his brow and his eyes, sharp and attentive, are lacking all hesitancy; a huntsman who, for a long time now, has fancied himself a ruler. And will get his wish.

‘She will come,’ he says with indifference, stepping down to the lake. ‘Everything has been foreseen.’

An unpleasant smile twists Eredin’s striking features. ‘Of course it has.’

‘You’ll see,’ he brushes off his disbelief easily for he is feeling delightfully expectant all of a sudden, lighter and nimbler than he has felt in a while. ‘You will have no trouble recognising or finding the vatt’ghern; this is the correct time and place. One that belongs to the ones on the island. Follow the light, as I told you. Oh, and do not eat from the apple trees.’

‘Why would I… eat from the apple trees?’

‘Because the forbidden fruit is sweet and you deny yourself very little?’ he shrugs and takes the jade trefoil knot in hand, letting the primal force that permeates the waters that separate the planes of the living and the dead tie itself together with the spell he has wrought. ‘Now watch, if you please.’

And without further ado, he throws the stone flatly across the crystal clear waters, right into the milk white fog. In an instant, the faint sunlight that for keen eyes always reflects off the blooming apple trees scatters into tiny threads in a flash of dark light and then reformulates into an intricate webbing that encompasses everything, the elves included, tying them together. No sound ever comes from the fog, only a faint light begins to shine in the distance where the little stone has disappeared to.

He had, once, mistaken destiny for a dream – something to be followed, rather than lived.

Now and always he thinks of timeless, emerald eyes in which one can trace the threads that hold together galaxies, and thinks: very well, my dear; we will do it your way and see. Under the weeping willows and wispy alders, the Knowing One steps onto the surface of the lake in the middle of which lies a small green island and walks on the waters of Avalon. In a few moments, the Hunt overtakes the Fox in their billowing crimson capes on the bridge that he has wrought through the mists of time.

In another time and place, an ashen-haired woman stirs with a nauseating sense of premonition, fending off a night terror. And eerie lights flicker faintly over the azure lake she can see from the window of her chambers in Camelot.

[alitheamateur]

A Taste of Home

Chapter 3

(giphy credit for gif)

The welcomed flow of conversation, and booze tickled like velvety ribbon over your creaking, rickety heart that night. Between the yelps of protest at his television during the game, Chris would often find you. Whether it be just the simple pairing of an assured smile and concerned glance, or a walk across the room to offer you a refill. His awareness to your presence was elating, whether it’s intensions be romantic, or not.

When you’d had all the reminiscing your scrambled mind could take, and all the wine you would allow yourself, you readied your coat and searched the rack for your purse. Apparently being watched surreptitiously from the shadows.

“Leaving? Not already, Millie. You haven’t even had the tour yet.” Chris appeared, his hair a bit settled and ruffled from his muddling hands during the Red Sox game.

Tour? No, tour, my painfully pretty friend. I’ll be stripped naked before we get to the laundry room if you take me anywhere but the safely crowded space of this kitchen.

“As much as I would love to drool enviously over your beautiful home, Chris, I have an early morning. I’ve got to scrounge up some sort of buzz for my blog, and hungover, reeking of booze and throw-up won’t exactly snag me the publicity I’m looking for.”

He pulled at your jacket that dangled over your forearm, and offered up its opened sleeves to you. As you slid into it, both arms in unison, he settled it atop your shoulders, pulling your wild hair loose from the collar. The way his hands felt latched onto the knot of your golden waves curled your core with pangs of white-hot heat. His exhales, unexpectedly hitching, at the back of your momentarily exposed neck made your eyes close secretly in a bitten back mewl of desire.

“Another time then? We didn’t get to talk nearly enough.”

Your heart leaped, and you didn’t hear anything else he had said after ‘another time.’

“I don’t know, Evans. I’m a terribly busy, successful woman with quite the demanding schedule. I’m certain you don’t have any idea what the lifestyle entails.” You winked.

Your words could play coy, and cool. But, between your legs, you begged for him unremittingly.

Slinging the petite satchel of your purse over your shoulder, you swiped your keys from the very bottom, and huffed before exchanging goodbyes.

“Well, I have your number and if you don’t answer, Calvert…..” He pointed a warning finger to your face, his eyes narrowing with the charade of villainous caution. “I know where to find you.”

Let’s hope he doesn’t know to find you in your parents’ attic, and he’s simply referring to the coffee shop.

You nodded your head, mocking him with dramatic heed of his little threat, and pat him on the bicep. The bowling ball trapped beneath his freckled skin there taking you by surprise.

“Goodnight, Chris. Thanks so much for the invitation. I enjoyed myself! I was super happy to see Tucker, and I even made plans with Colby’s wife for lunch next week. So, I owe you.” 

Ready to tiptoe around him towards to doorway, he scooped you up into a bear hug, smothering you between both of his solid arms. Falling into place like it’s where they were meant to be, your wobbly limbs wrapped around his torso. Only halfway, seeing as his body was nearly as broad, and equally as stout as the trunk of a tree. He smelled…. hot. Like the sun sweltering over an acre of freshly cut grass, stained with a spill of whiskey.

“You’re welcome here anytime, you hear me? Besides, Dodger likes you too much for you to never come back for a visit.”

……………..

Only 48 hours of sunrise and sunset since your journey to Chris’ house, and you were already sweating profusely that he hadn’t reached out. You battled firmly with your mind that even if this million-times-out-of-your-league-man was interested in you, it would not be the typical courtship. He was a celebrity, a literal Hollywood big-wig filming blockbuster after blockbuster. Time was definitely not to spare in his world, and you were lucky to have even ran into him by happen stance less than a week ago.

As if the universe was harshly toying with your teetering, raise and fall of emotions, your cell buzzed in the pocket of your rain jacket and your heels clapped over the concrete of the city sidewalk.

C: check your email.

If there was one perk of the job he played off to his advantage with no shame, it was somehow digging up your every form of contact information.

You stepped to the side, tucking away under the dry cover or a storefront awning, and fiddled with the screen of your device to locate your unread folder of e-mails.

You didn’t know who, or why in the hell, or how he had done it, but as you scanned engagingly over every word of the message, you cursed with confused glee under your breath.

Amongst his plethora of resources, and maybe spying of some sort, Chris had managed to acquire the help of someone in his circle of the fashion world, who now wanted a piece of you blog. The details were a bit foggy, and you barely understood English in the blissful moment for God sakes, but you were already scheduled to meet with the individual to co-conduct a photo shoot for a half-page spread in a magazine for an overseas publication.

A: You’re too much, Chris. Truly, it wasn’t necessary.

A weird conflict suddenly ate through your joy like a warm to a ripe apple. If you accepted Chris and his overly generous assistance in your work field, were you taking the easy way out? Riding the coat tails of a well-equipped friend? And did you want that to be how you made a name?

C: We all need help getting on our feet sometimes, Mills. The blog is fantastic, you work hard, and I wanna help. So let me.

You began your pursuit back towards your car in the drizzling mist of a Spring season rain shower, careful not to slip and faceplant on the slick lumps on the brick walkway of the café parking lot. Your unruly mane had already yielded to the damp assault of the humid forecast for the day, and you needed nothing but to rush home and study for your meeting. Study what, you weren’t entirely sure since you knew nothing about the shoot, or the magazine. But, you were certain reading at least 10 issues from the last 5 years of Harper’s Bizarre would do the trick.

As you checked the directions of your right and left before galloping across the lanes of traffic to your car, something wrapped over the handle of your drivers’ side door puzzled you from a distance.

The closer your eager heels drug you towards the evidence, you could make out the thorny stem of the fullest white rose you had ever seen.

As you pulled up the hood of your soaking jacket when the rain slightly began to persist into a heavy downfall just as you were about to sink in the dry confines of your vehicle, you heard the clearing throat of a man who only gave you his back to look at. Under an umbrella, the lean legs of the mystery man turned towards you, and it was none other than the generous man of the hour. Smiling, fully, but hiding his teeth behind pink lips.

Suddenly, you connected trace of his appearance to the rose safely help in your hand, and you let yourself outwardly laugh as your natural blush lit up your dimples.

“Don’t look at me.” He held up a hand to protest his innocence. “It was all Dodger here’s idea. He’s quite the ladies’ man, if I may say.”

Whether it was the torrential pour of aromatic storm clouds that sent you running to the awaiting cover of amply sized umbrella, or simply the need to be close to his side, is unclear. But, wheels up, you dug in, and your heart already wept inside with begging dispute as you ran for him with unyielding, giddy cheer.

“I was going to grab some ice cream around the corner if you’re interested. And judging by the way you nearly ate the paper bag just to get to those cupcakes from Celia’s Cakes the other night, I think you may have a raging sweet tooth to tend to.”

“Lead the way. But, you’re buying.”

Chris offered up his ushering arm, and you tucked yourself inside it, altogether clueless of the tow truck rounding the corner sent by the order of your marvelous adulterous ex-husband.

TAGS: @miidailyinspiration @eap1935 @mollybegger-blog

[pengiesama]

The Snow Prince (Fic, TOZ, Sorey/Mikleo, Fairy Tale AU)

Title: The Snow Prince Series: Tales of Zestiria Pairing: Sorey/Mikleo

Summary: Upon a beautiful day in late summer, Mikleo's heart is frozen by a terrible curse, and he is spirited away by a woman in dazzling winter white. Sorey sets out on a journey to save his one true love, and winds up making friends with half the continent along the way.

(A variation on The Snow Queen, written for the 2018 Chocomint Fairy Tale Compilation. With illustrations by Nami/defragmentise/@shamingcows!)

Link: AO3

This was written for the 2018 Chocomint Fairy Tale Compilation. @chocomint-srmk is a Sorey/Mikleo fan project!

The zine’s purchase period is now over, but you can check out some of the other fic and art from the zine in the links below. You might start seeing more of the Fairy Tale pieces go up now that the exclusivity period has ended!

Chocomint’s Tumblr: https://chocomint-srmk.tumblr.com/ Chocomint’s Twitter: https://twitter.com/chocomint_srmk

Read on Tumblr!

Once upon a time, there was a mirror, and the mirror came with a most terrible curse.

The mirror did not reflect, it only distorted. Even the loveliest of landscapes would show as a barren wasteland in its glass. A delicious feast would be shown as rotted, stinking refuse. Art that should properly stir the heart with exquisiteness would be transformed into something repulsive. It turned beauty to disgust, love to disdain. The stronger the feeling, the greater the deformation.

What kind of being would craft such a wretched artifact?

It was the work of a terrible spirit known as Symonne.

Symonne loathed the world and everything in it; from flora to fauna to humans and her fellow spirits. One can presume a fairly tragic event that caused her seething hatred, but her resulting behavior did not inspire sympathy. She was cruel and merciless, and tormented all living creatures that crossed her path, regardless of whether they had done a thing to deserve her ire. But this did not satisfy her thirst for terror, and she set her sights higher – most high. Symonne’s spirit magic allowed her to craft powerful illusions, and with this skill in her arsenal, she set forth in crafting her awful mirror. She poured every ounce of her magic into the mirror, and planned to carry it to the throne of Maotelus, the king of the spirits, to force him to look into its glass and behold the truth of his form.

However, the crafting of the mirror had exhausted Symonne’s strength, and while carrying the terrible thing to the heavenly palace, she dropped it. The mirror shattered into a thousand tiny shards, and the thousand tiny shards flew over the world to lodge in the hearts of humans. Symonne was furious, but when her raging calmed, she realized that this presented an altogether wonderful opportunity to terrorize the world that wronged her – on a scale that she had never achieved before.

This is what brings us to the matter of Sorey and Mikleo.

These two boys were friends from the cradle, and played and grew and learned together. Their hearts were as one, and their love for each other was a simple truth of the world – like the movement of the stars, or birdsong in the morning. This made them a perfect target of the wretched mirror, as it was an artifact that craved the distortion of everything right and true in the world. If it could destroy the love between these two kindred souls, it could surely shake the very foundations of the world.

Sorey and Mikleo were adventurers and scholars, and adored all things archaeological and natural, all things great and small, just as much as they adored each other. They would often race each other on the dirt-and-cobblestone path from their tiny town to the ruined castle in the nearby forest. This ancient stone castle was a beloved play spot of theirs, and over the years, they continued to explore and examine and study its crumbling walls and aging artwork. Sunlight shone through the cracks in the ceiling, and rainwater pooled in the ruined floors; blanketing the ground with a soft cushion of moss to nap and read upon. The very walls echoed with the sounds of their laughter and the warmth of their love.

One fateful day, Sorey and Mikleo were walking the path to their castle, with packs full of notebooks and sketchpads on their backs, and a picnic basket in Mikleo’s hand. It should have been a wonderful afternoon, full of happiness and joy. But a glint from the sky and a terrible whistling noise heralded the arrival of a mirror shard. The shard was thin and crystalline; too fine to be seen by the naked eye, and too sharp to be felt even as it pierced the skin. The shard pierced Mikleo’s chest, and his heart.

Mikleo fell to the ground, causing their picnic lunch to spill over the path. Sorey was at his side in less than a moment, carefully helping him to his feet and dusting the dirt from his clothing. Sorey’s own heart ached with sympathy at Mikleo’s bloody palms; scratched and cut from his tumble.

“Mikleo, are you okay?” asked Sorey. “Did you trip?”

Mikleo looked around them, at the apples and prepared sandwiches and treats that he had so carefully packed for their afternoon trip. His lip curled in revulsion.

“It’s okay,” Sorey assured him. “Five second rule, right? We can just pick out the grass and--”

Mikleo’s gaze finally fell on Sorey, and Sorey could hardly understand the disgust he saw there. Mikleo shoved Sorey’s comforting arms away, and stumbled backward, shaking his head.

“…Mikleo?” Sorey said quietly. He reached out to him, still. “Are you hurt? The castle still has the supplies we stashed there, let’s go in and get you bandaged up--”

“And just why,” Mikleo said with annoyance clear in his voice. “Would I want to traipse through that crumbling wreck with you?”

“Because it’s…fun?” Sorey offered helplessly.

Mikleo rolled his eyes and wandered off in a random direction, scowling at everything around him. Sorey scrambled after him.

“Mikleo! That’s not the way back to town--”

“I know,” Mikleo said irritably. He yanked his arm out of Sorey’s gentle grip. “Why would I want to go back?”

“Because…” Sorey grasped for words to try and describe the obvious. Why wouldn’t he? “Our families are there. And…and the harvest festival will be on soon, and then the merchants from the city will probably be by and we can buy more books with the money we’ve been saving up…”

Mikleo just shook his head at every word out of Sorey’s mouth, as it the very sound of his voice repulsed him. Sorey was at a loss. They’d fought before, but Mikleo wasn’t like this when he was upset with him. This was something different. Something terrible, and something that Sorey had no idea how to handle.

“…if you don’t want to go back to town, where do you want to go?” asked Sorey, finally. He would go with him, if Mikleo wanted to leave. He’d follow him anywhere. “Please. If you want to leave, let’s treat your hands, first, and get some supplies and money from home before we--”

“‘We’?” Mikleo repeated coldly. Blood dripped freely from the scrapes and cuts on his hands; dripped from his fingers to the grass beneath his feet. It looked so painful, and Sorey’s heart ached at the sight.

“Your hands,” Sorey said. “Can you at least let me help with them?”

Slowly, Mikleo looked to his sides. His arms were slack, and he seemed to be observing the sight of the blood with the same detached disgust as he now regarded everything else. He did not resist as Sorey touched his shoulder to guide him into the ruined castle; their special place. He did not resist.

The castle, their little home-away in the forest, was well-stocked with supplies that they had carried in from town over the years: food, medicine and bandages, blankets, and books. All things necessary for a happy home. Sorey washed and tended to Mikleo’s wounds, and was pained himself at his cruel silence. The water was fresh and clean, but it surely would sting such raw and deep cuts. Were the bandages too tight? Mikleo did not respond when asked. He did not even spare Sorey the flushing of his cheeks when Sorey leaned down to kiss his freshly-bandaged palms. He would only stare into the distance; his disdain such that he would not even look at the things that repulsed him so. Sorey despaired.

The supplies in their special place kept them in comfort for that night – Sorey did not dare to bring up the subject of heading back to town, lest Mikleo try to wander off by himself once more. However, before the morning sun broke the horizon, while there was still dew on the grass, Sorey awoke to a commotion outside. Panicked, he looked beside him – to find nothing. Mikleo was gone.

Sorey raced outside, to find a frozen world of dazzling white.

It was early autumn still, and the heat of summer still thrummed in the soil. It was far too early for frost in the mornings, or for Sorey to see his own heaving breath. But there it was – frozen grass, and puffs of mist, and a grand silver-white sleigh pulled by a team of silver-white reindeer. A woman in a snowflake crown and white robes was helping Mikleo up into the sleigh. Mikleo’s chestnut-brown hair had become frosted with white. It shimmered in the first rays of the morning.

“Mikleo!” Sorey called out, racing forward. “Mikleo, wait! Wherever you’re going, please, let me come with you--”

The woman turned her attention to Sorey as she settled in the front seat of the sleigh and picked up the reins. Hers was an expression of great pity, and with a wave of her hand, she summoned a herd of little snowflake-capped creatures to block Sorey’s path. Mikleo’s expression was completely blank as he quietly settled himself to lie down on the back seat of the sleigh – Sorey would have preferred his previous cruel disdain. He did not appear to hear Sorey at all, no matter how Sorey screamed his name.

The woman in white stole Mikleo away, and left behind a remnant of winter. Sorey wanted to race after the sleigh, but was stopped by the little creatures that surrounded him.

“Whoa there! Easy, buddy,” said one. “Don’t worry about your friend. Lailah will take good care of him.”

“Where did she take him!?” Sorey demanded, tears stinging his eyes. “Please, tell me – he’s hurt, and barely ate anything last night, and--”

“He’s hurt more than you know,” said another of the little creatures, solemnly. “Mistress Lailah has taken him in, and will do what she can to save him.”

Sorey’s stomach dropped out. “What happened to him? Please, tell me…”

The creatures murmured amongst themselves for a moment, peeping over their shoulders to make sure Sorey wasn’t eavesdropping. After their discussion, one of the creatures stepped forward to speak.

“A terrible curse is spreading throughout the world, and your friend was unlucky enough to get hit by it,” the creature said. “It’s a curse that…makes people hate everything good and beautiful in the world. Makes them cruel to the people they love. Miss Lailah’s been charged by Lord Maotelus to gather up the people who’ve been cursed, and take them away to try and break the curse before…”

The creature trailed off.

“Before what?” Sorey asked quietly.

But the creature was silent. The whole troupe of them joined hands in a circle, and began to dance. The summer snow swirled and blew into the air, blocking them from sight. When the air cleared, they were nowhere to be seen. Sorey rushed forward in a panic, and begged the empty clearing for answers.

“Please! Please, I’m begging you, tell me where she took him! I can help save him, I know I can!”

An answer rang out from the trees:

“Seek the mountains beyond Meirchio. Your Snow Prince awaits you there.”

And after that, there was silence.

Meirchio was the northernmost city of the land. Beyond it, there was nothing but impenetrable mountains and frozen lands. But if Mikleo had been spirited away there, if Mikleo’s life was in the balance, there was no other possible trajectory.

The compass of Sorey’s heart was pointing north, and he would follow it to the ends of the earth for Mikleo’s sake.

Sorey set out on his quest from his tiny home village that very evening, loaded with what supplies the town could spare, and the tears and well-wishes of his own family and Mikleo’s.

His mother provided him with warm-weather clothes: a scarf, thick gloves, and a warm woolen travelling cloak, with wool from their family’s own sheep. The love woven into it would surely keep the cold at bay, even in the forgotten, distant mountains beyond Meirchio.

Mikleo’s mother provided him with the money she had been keeping safe for them: the money that Sorey and Mikleo had been saving for the harvest festival that autumn. It pained Sorey to take it without Mikleo’s permission, just as it pained him to use it on fares and inn stays instead of the books and gadgets that he and Mikleo had dreamed and talked about all year. But coin was a necessary thing, when it came to the matter of adventuring and rescue.

And Mikleo’s uncle provided him with the gift of knowledge: a copy of his beloved encyclopedia, filled with maps, wisdom, and countless fond memories. Turning its pages, Sorey could recall any number of nights where it was just him and Mikleo under the covers; just them, a candle, and this book. They would read about the wide world beyond town and whisper and dream until dawn; curled around each other, two hearts as one.

Meirchio was a far trek, and it took Sorey a few nights’ worth of camping under the stars before he stumbled onto the first roadblock of his quest. The thicket of trees had looked like a lovely spot to settle in for the evening, and Sorey had done just that. However, when he was lighting a fire atop a pile of gathered sticks and fallen leaves, he heard a sneeze from the surrounding trees. He looked up to see a small girl there; bedecked in spring flowers and lace, and sporting a miserable scowl as she shivered. While it should have still been summer, ever since Sorey saw that mysterious woman and her sleigh, ever since Mikleo was stolen away, the weather had been…strange. Winter seemed to be seeping into everything overnight, and was becoming keener with each passing day. Sorey was warm in his cloak and scarf and gloves, but his guest was clearly suffering.

Sorey smiled and beckoned her close to the fire.

“Are you cold, miss? Please, come sit by the fire and I’ll make you a hot drink.”

The girl snorted, then sneezed again.

“C-c-cold? W-why would I want to accept drinks from a t-t-trespasser—ACHOO!”

Sorey blinked, then looked abashed.

“I’m so sorry. There are no towns or farms anywhere nearby – I thought this was un-owned land. I’m but a traveler, passing through on a mission to save someone I love. Please let me stay on your land for the evening.”

The girl, despite her scowl and dismissive words, had bundled herself up to the fire to get warm. She glared at Sorey, then huffed through her nose.

“You may address me as Lady Edna, human. And where is the drink you promised?”

Sorey prepared hot tea for his host, and presented it with a smile.

“Here you are. Lady Edna, are you a spirit? Have you heard any gossip of a mysterious woman stealing people away in her sleigh? Or word of what is causing this strange weather?”

“Yes to all three,” Edna said, snatching up the tea and warming her hands around it. Her shivering began to ease, which gladdened Sorey’s heart. “I suppose you want me to spill the beans on it, though.”

“If you have any information, any at all, please tell me,” Sorey said. “I have to find Mikleo before it’s too late. I’ll do anything.”

Edna eyed his warm clothing.

“…give me that scarf of yours. The gloves, too.”

“Of course,” said Sorey, already winding it from his neck.

Edna arched an eyebrow. “That’s it? Honestly. I was hoping for something more dramatic.”

Sorey blinked as he held out the scarf and gloves to her. “Hmm?”

“Normally when I make a trade with humans, there’s a lot more haggling involved. You could’ve argued me down to just the scarf, you know.”

Sorey tilted his head to the side, confused. “…but you’re cold, and need it more than I do.”

Edna eyed him suspiciously, and huffed again as she snatched up the offerings and put them on.

“Whatever. Don’t come crying to me when your fingers fall off in this weather.”

Edna took a deep drink of her tea, cleared her throat, and began to explain.

“That woman in the sleigh is Lailah, a spirit. She serves the Great Spirit, Maotelus, and does his dirty work for him. If she stole away your little boyfriend, then he was probably collateral damage in some drama at the big palace upstairs. Said drama is probably also to blame for this weather.”

Sorey’s heart twisted in worry. “Her little creatures said to go to the mountains beyond Meirchio to find Mikleo. Do you know what I’ll find there?”

Edna shook her cup at him, wordlessly demanding more tea before she spoke. Sorey obliged.

“The Killaraus Mountains. Home to a dazzling array of absolutely nothing at all. It used to be the seat of the heavenly palace until they moved it to somewhere more hospitable, so Lailah and her irritating little normins might have your boyfriend locked up in the old ruins somewhere.”

Sorey smiled happily and bowed low to Edna in thanks. He had so much more to go on now – he had evidence that Mikleo was being taken care of, and would remain so until Sorey reached him. It renewed his hope that he’d be able to reach Mikleo and save him.

“Aren’t you going to beg me to teleport you there with a snap of my fingers?” Edna drawled. “Whine at me for a map? Try to threaten more information out of me?”

“Do you have a map? Or – the finger thing?” asked Sorey, curiously.

“No,” Edna said. “But I don’t know what you humans think we’re capable of, anymore. I know what your kind is capable of, though, so you’ll excuse me if I keep some information to myself.”

Sorey nodded in understanding. He bundled his cloak tightly around himself – he was already feeling the chill from the loss of his scarf and gloves. His money was carefully rationed, but perhaps he could find some inexpensive replacements when he next encountered a town. He knew he was careless, and foolish, but he was not so inexperienced to run full-tilt into the icy mountains without protection.

He was quite tired, and his eyes were heavy. He closed them, just for a moment; just so he could conjure up the image of Mikleo’s sparkling eyes and smiling mouth beyond his lids.

“Sorey,” dream-Mikleo laughed as Sorey buried his face in his neck. He smelled so sweet; like the dampness of the soil at the start of spring. “I swear. What am I going to do with you?”

“Do with me what you will,” said Sorey. “You’ll never get rid of me.”

Mikleo’s smile went so soft, then, and Sorey’s heart soared.

“Is that a promise?” Mikleo asked.

“A promise.”

Mikleo’s lips, too, were very soft.

When he opened them again, it was morning, and the fire was nothing but embers. Edna was gone, and there was little more to be done than to pack his things and keep heading north.

Sorey noticed the root vegetables and apples that had not been in his pack before. He also noticed a small, perfect yellow bloom. He thought upon these gifts as he continued to travel another three days, then another three days after that, until he reached the outskirts of a harbor town. He would have to buy passage on a ship headed to Meirchio – Sorey suspected such a vessel might be difficult to come by. Meirchio was a distant, quiet town, and was certainly not a hot tourist spot or business destination. He would potentially have to wait weeks for a vessel to have business going there; camping outside the town the whole while in the freezing cold, with dwindling supplies.

One day, after a week of asking at the docks for any vessels headed to Meirchio – after a week of sailors laughing in his face, acting like Sorey was asking them to ferry him to the moon – he came across a ship he had not seen make port before. It was a small but stout vessel; clever-looking, even. Sorey spotted a red-haired woman on its deck, inspecting a shipping list, and shouted for her attention.

“Hey! Are you guys headed to Meirchio?”

The woman eyed Sorey and his ragged countenance with an amused expression.

“Meirchio? That dinky little mining town? Who’s asking?”

Sorey bowed deeply, and let his desperation show clear on his face. Though he likely looked desperate enough already – the cold nights of camping were taking their toll.

“My name is Sorey, and I have to get to Meirchio as soon as I can. Please. I’ll pay you everything I have, I’ll work your ship during the passage. Anything you ask.”

The woman put her hand on her hip and looked Sorey up and down. He lowered his head.

“I know it doesn’t look like I have much,” Sorey admitted. He looked an utter mess – he was filthy, and his clothes were wrinkled from days of travel on the roads. His hair was wild and windblown. Dark circles bloomed under his eyes – a good night’s sleep was hard to come by, sleeping on the ground. His bare hands were stiff and aching from the cold; the inclement weather having skyrocketed cold-weather gear to a price he simply couldn’t afford. “I’m but a traveler, passing through on a mission to save someone I love. I have to get to Meirchio to find Mikleo before it’s too late.”

Sorey dug in his pockets to present the woman with his travelling funds – the money he and Mikleo had saved up all year, through chores and hard work.

“All I have is yours. Including an extra pair of hands on your crew.”

The woman traipsed down the plank to the dock, and took Sorey’s money pouch from him to count it out.

“…it’s not really enough to make me consider deviating from our delivery schedule,” she said.

Sorey’s heart dropped. But then, the woman was twirling the flower Edna had given him between her fingers, examining it with great interest.

“But this herb here more than makes up for the difference. A single petal from this thing sells for a cool mint in the spice market. If you’re willing to trade it, I’ll be more than happy to put my deliveries on hold to shuttle you to that frozen wasteland.”

Sorey gave an excited shout, and bowed deeply from his waist.

“Thank you, thank you so much--”

“But if you’re coming on my ship, you’re gonna need to clean up first,” the woman said firmly.

Sorey’s cheeks flushed, and he scratched at his wild hair in embarrassment. The woman tossed the coin pouch back to him.

“Go to the inn with the green sign on the main road, and tell them that the Sparrowfeathers sent you. You’ve got enough in there for a hot bath and a good meal. And believe me, if you’re going to Meirchio, you’ll need all the help you can get.”

Sorey bowed again in thanks, then turned and headed down the road. The woman called after him again.

“The name’s Rose, by the way. And your flower is back in your pouch – were you just going to leave it with me while you ran off to blow all your money at the inn?”

Sorey blinked in confusion. “…Yes? You wanted it as payment, after all…”

Rose snorted. “And you were just gonna trust me to not run off with it? You barely know me.”

Sorey smiled a sweet, self-conscious smile. “I guess I don’t. But you seem like a good, trustworthy person to me.”

Rose laughed and shook her head in disbelief. “Go and get washed up, and make sure you keep that herb safe. We leave at sundown.”

Sorey dutifully parted with the money required for a bath – he knew Mikleo would never let him hear the end of it if he showed up to rescue him looking like this, after all. However, though his stomach growled at the thought of hot stew and warm meat, he saved the remainder of his coin for the trials that surely awaited him in Meirchio.

As his freshly-washed clothing dried next to the fireplace, Sorey brushed his fingers over the illustrations in their beloved encyclopedia. Just as its knowledge of edible plants and berries had kept him fed over his journey, just as its maps had kept him on the right path, the memories of reading this book with Mikleo kept his heart and spirit strong. Sorey’s eyes fell on his own stiff, frozen fingers as they turned the page. They were a sorry sight in comparison to the memory of Mikleo’s beautiful hands.

“So to the capital first,” Sorey said in the haze of his dreams. “We’ll check out the libraries and architecture, and then heading south, we’ll be on the pilgrim’s path, so there’ll be plenty of roadside shrines to examine--”

Mikleo laughed. What a beautiful sound, even as a memory!

“You say that as if you’d ever be finished ‘checking things out’ in Pendrago,” he chided. “I know you could happily set up camp in a library for a year. Or a lifetime.”

“A lifetime?” Sorey teased. Head on Mikleo’s lap, he buried his face in Mikleo’s thigh, making Mikleo squeak. “Only if you’re there too.”

Luckily, Sorey awoke from his fevered sleep with time enough to get down to the docks and Rose’s ship. He handed over the herb, and she was true to her word – they set sail for Meirchio.

It was a journey made longer and all the more difficult with the terrible weather; that grew only more terrible as they approached Meirchio. It was proof enough to Sorey that they were approaching where Mikleo was being held, and it was enough to make Sorey pace the deck anxiously as the ship slowly wove its way through the icy waters. Sorey hoped Mikleo would forgive him for being late, just as he hoped Mikleo would forgive him for spending their money, and losing his clothing in this weather. Mikleo had always fussed over his health, ever since his sickly childhood. Sorey hated making him worry, but he seemed rather incapable of not doing so, all the same.

They arrived in Meirchio, and Rose called to him as Sorey made his way into the town proper from the docks.

“Hey! If you’re looking for info, you’re going to have the best luck chatting up the miners at the tavern.”

“Thanks!” Sorey said cheerfully, waving farewell to her. “I will. Mikleo and I owe you so much, Rose.”

Rose watched him go, and quietly said a prayer aloud for his safety. He was a clueless young idiot, and needed all the help he could get – lucky for him, that smile of his could melt the heart of damn near anyone, Rose would bet. It was like the light of spring. Or something cheesy like that. She sighed and wondered if Sorey would question why there was more money in that coin pouch of his than he remembered, and hoped that he wouldn’t get scammed out of all of it anyway at the tavern.

Rose’s prayer did not go unheard, for unbeknownst to her, there was a young wind spirit accompanying her ship. This wind spirit was named Dezel, and, being a spirit, was bound by ceaseless compulsion to grant the prayers asked of him. Heaving a sigh, he trudged unseen by all along the roads after Sorey, irritably sending out gusts of wind to knock over suspicious-looking individuals who were eyeing Sorey like a walking target. The town was not wealthy to begin with, and the cold weather had made people all the more desperate. With Dezel’s assistance, Sorey made it safely to the tavern. Cheerfully, Sorey turned and opened the door for Dezel to enter after him.

Dezel paused. “…you can see me?”

Sorey smiled. “Of course. You’re Rose’s friend, right? I saw you on the ship on the journey here. Did you want a drink before you headed back out?”

Dezel sighed and entered the tavern wordlessly. He could understand why Rose was so concerned about this idiot’s safety, and maybe even understand why she was fond of him. Maybe. A little.

As they entered, they overlooked a sea of dour-faced miners. Sorey didn’t really know where to start asking for information – the bartender was likely a good start, in any case. Sorey walked up to the bar (Dezel following him, still unseen by most) and sat down stiffly. The bartender raised an eyebrow at him and waited for him to speak.

“Do you. Um. Know anything about a lady in a white sleigh? Or a palace in the mountains?”

The bartender wordlessly polished a glass. Sorey fumbled out his coin pouch and carefully counted out a few coins – what, exactly, was a good payment for information?

“Less than that,” Dezel hissed in his ear. “You don’t know if this chump knows a damn thing.”

Still, the coins that Sorey offered seemed to make the bartender more willing to talk. He hummed, as if deep in thought.

“A lady, not so much. But I’ve heard talk about a white sleigh, being driven by a lad with white hair. Dressed like a prince. Sightings started ramping up when this damn weather rolled in, and people constantly whisper about seeing that sleigh when the worst storms roll in. As for your mountain palace, that’s just a fairy tale. If you’re planning on heading into the mountains to go looking for some palace, or that snow prince, may the gods have mercy on you.”

“Is there anyone who knows anything about the palace? Anyone at all?” Sorey asked. He held up his pouch. “I have money, and…”

Sorey heard someone whistling for him nearby, and swiveled his head. A man sat in a corner, and beckoned him near. Sorey nodded his thanks to the bartender, and moved to where the man was sitting.

“Lookin’ for the old palace in the mountains, eh?” said the man. “Has that snow prince stolen your heart away?”

“I – well, maybe,” Sorey said. “You see, my friend Mikleo was stolen away by a woman in a sleigh, and his hair had turned white when she got to him, and he’s so beautiful that anyone would think he’s a prince, so I thought that it’s possible that--”

“He’s a spirit, you know,” Dezel interrupted, gesturing with his chin to the man Sorey was speaking to. “A wind spirit, like me. He’s probably just looking for juicy gossip, and doesn’t have a damn relevant thing to tell us.”

The man clutched at his chest dramatically. “You wound me, my brother-in-elements!”

Sorey hummed thoughtfully. “I figured he was a spirit,” he said. “I’ve always been able to sense them, even when others couldn’t. But I thought a spirit would know better than anyone where the old heavenly palace is in the mountains. Especially a spirit that looks as old as him.”

The man looked far more legitimately heartbroken at that comment. “Really? Do I look old? Is it my hairline? It’s my hairline, isn’t it…”

He patted at his hairline mournfully.

“No, it’s just that you have a certain…air around you,” Sorey said. “An air of worldliness?”

It wasn’t a lie, but it was also kind of the hairline. Still, the man puffed up a little at the compliment.

“The name is Zaveid,” he said with a little flourish of his hand. “And I too have had my heart stolen away by someone driving that sleigh. Her name is the Lady Lailah, and she has had to freeze her fire on the order of the Mao-Man to clean up after some heavenly politics.”

“Politics?” Sorey asked. “Please, tell me whatever you can – I have to save a person I love, and his life might depend on your knowledge.”

Dezel sighed in irritation. Sorey didn’t even need his help to make this Zaveid character talk – there was nothing wind spirits loved more than drama and gossip. (Except Dezel. Dezel was proud to Not Be Like Other Wind Spirits. He was entirely and perfectly undramatic.) Zaveid’s eyes sparkled with tears.

“A romantic rescue…” Zaveid whispered mistily. “You see, there’s this spirit named Symonne who’s a real piece of work. She’s got it out for Mao-Man, and made some crazy cursed mirror to make him think he’s ugly or some shit, I dunno what her endgame was. But she accidentally smashed the thing in the process, and all those little mirror shards flew across the world. They pierce people’s hearts, and suddenly, they’re not who they were anymore – full of hate for everything they once held dear.”

Mikleo’s strange behavior before he was kidnapped made sense now, but the knowing was almost worse than the mystery. Sorey swallowed hard, his heart beating in his ears.

“How can they be fixed?” Sorey asked quietly.

Zaveid shook his head sadly. “That’s something Mao-Man is still trying to work out. In the meantime, he’s having Lailah head out and spirit away the victims and keep them in the palace on the mountain. If she stole your man, he’s there.”

And that was enough for Sorey. He stood up and bowed to Zaveid.

“Please. Lead me to the heavenly palace,” he begged.

Zaveid blinked at him. “…why don’t you ask your other spirit buddy there?”

“I’m not his to ask,” Dezel shot back. “And I wouldn’t do it anyway. I’m not venturing that far away from Rose.”

Zaveid nodded sagely. “We are all slaves to love, I see.”

Dezel sputtered. Sorey bowed deeper.

“Please, spirit; Lord Zaveid. I’m so close to finding Mikleo again – I just need someone to lead the way. Won’t you please grant me your assistance?”

Zaveid grimaced and leaned forward, waiting for Sorey to look him in the eye.

“Leading someone to the heavenly palace is no small thing to ask,” he explained. “Even though the big cheeses have since moved house, the enchantments are still there on the old place. You’ll need to give up something incredibly dear for me to even be able to help.”

Sorey had gotten used to giving things up on this journey. But he had so little left – and he knew that Zaveid wasn’t talking about the few coins he had left in his pouch. Sorey took out his and Mikleo’s beloved encyclopedia, and touched the cover with aching fingers and an aching heart. It was a precious memento. The notes they had made in the margins, the memories in the pages, were irreplaceable.

But what was more precious and irreplaceable was Mikleo himself.

Sorey bowed again, and offered the book to Zaveid.

“Please, spirit. Lord Zaveid. I’m but a traveler, on a mission to save someone I love. Won’t you please grant me your assistance?”

Zaveid accepted the book, and tucked it into his pack.

“It ain’t gonna be easy. Let’s set out while the sun’s still high.”

They parted ways with Dezel, who quickly beat a retreat back to Rose’s ship, and set out from Meirchio into the barren snowfields and towering mountains beyond.

Zaveid spoke true – the road to the palace through the mountains was difficult indeed, even with the assistance of a wind spirit at Sorey’s back. The weather made their way all the more treacherous. The snow weighed down Sorey’s cloak, freezing the fabric and making the cold bite through deep into his bones. Even tucked firmly under his arms for warmth, his bare fingers felt numb and useless. Sorey truly did not know if he could make it through. He kept the memory of Mikleo close to his heart, a gentle warmth that prevented him from freezing all the way through.

“Sorey! Buddy! Eyes up ahead!”

Sorey squinted through the blowing snow, and thought he saw the outline of a structure. Zaveid shoved him forward, and guided him to what looked like a chasm standing between them and the palace. Zaveid whistled aloud, and the chasm glowed with white light. A beautifully-designed bridge appeared to shuttle them across – Sorey would have loved to examine it closer were it not for his duty to Mikleo, and his imminent death in staying outside a moment longer. He and Zaveid hurried across, and Zaveid grabbed him by the hand, dragging him along through the strange glassy doors with their intricate silver filigree work. Through them – as if they were passing through mist.

Sorey had not known what, exactly, to expect when he found where Mikleo was being held. Perhaps maybe Mikleo, chained to a wall, swooning sweetly into his arms. Perhaps that was a bit too much. But what he did not expect was a receiving-hall filled with frozen statues. Sorey wandered up to one, and to his great dismay, he found that these statues were not statues at all.

“Zaveid! These are – these are humans! Frozen humans!”

Zaveid was examining a few of the statues himself, with a grim expression.

“This was their solution to the mirror problem, huh…” Zaveid murmured.

Sorey dashed from statue to statue, trying to find one that was still alive, dreading finding one wearing Mikleo’s face.

“Solution? What do you--”

One statue’s eyes stared back at him, listlessly. Sorey nearly jumped out of his skin, but calmed himself enough to take action. He loosened his cloak, as if to drape it around the frozen person – as if they had any warmth left to keep in.

“Sorey!” Zaveid yelped. “Keep your clothes on! You’ll freeze just like the rest of ‘em!”

Sorey hesitated at the thought of not being capable of saving Mikleo, but – but he couldn’t just leave this person to…to…

“Useless,” said the person in a flat, emotionless tone. The ice around their lips and neck cracked as they spoke. “Why would you sacrifice yourself so readily? Our frozen hearts are beyond saving.”

Sorey’s own too-soft, foolish heart ached. “Who did this to you? That spirit Lailah?”

“The mirror filled our hearts with hate,” said another frozen statue across the way. Their neck snapped with an awful sound as they slowly, painfully slowly, turned their head to look at Sorey. “The spirit Lailah froze our hearts before they rotted from it.”

There were so many statues. So many people. Some murmured their assent to the previous statue’s statement, but others were silent – frozen through with the silence of death. Sorey’s pulse raced, his eyes darting around the room. Not Mikleo, not there, not there either; none of these poor souls were Mikleo, so where—

The gate that Sorey and Zaveid had entered through glowed. Another guest stepped through – but truthfully, this was no guest. A trumpet blew, and snowflake-capped normins raced from every nook and cranny to form a receiving-line. The doors at the end of the receiving hall flew open, showing the throne room – and the throne, perched atop a dazzling frozen lake.

Through the front doors came that same familiar sleigh that stole Mikleo away. But instead of Lailah at the helm, it was Mikleo himself.

He was so beautiful. Mikleo was always beautiful, always, but he was simply…otherworldly. It was no wonder why there were whispers of a snow prince. Mikleo was dressed in a suit and cape fit for royalty; white and icy blue, trimmed with silver and royal navy. His high boots clacked against the marble floor as he dismounted, and his white hair glimmered in the iridescent light of the strange silver flames that lit the lanterns around the palace hall. Mikleo reached up to help his passenger off the sleigh, and led them to stand with the rest of the frozen people. The passenger went wordlessly, and stood without complaint or comment next to their new neighbors. And then Mikleo turned and walked, straight-backed, toward the throne room. He made no indication of seeing Sorey, or caring about the plight of the frozen people around him.

Mikleo was a kind and warm person, who cared deeply about the pain and suffering of those around him. What had that mirror done to him? What had that Lailah done to him?

“Mikleo!” Sorey cried out in despair. “Wait! It’s me!”

Mikleo did not turn to acknowledge Sorey’s voice, nor did he even slow down. He walked across the frozen lake confidently, without slipping a bit on the ice, and arranged himself on the throne with the same air of wordless complaint as the new arrival to the receiving hall. Sorey raced down the hall toward the doors to the throne room, his muscles aching with weeks of stress and strain, his heart aching, also—

The normins blocked his path, again. Sorey gritted his teeth and was about to just vault over their tiny heads, but one stepped forward. They raised their trumpet, and tooted another receiving flourish.

“The Lady Lailah approaches! Show some respect to your host, human.”

Sorey whirled around, trying to see where Lailah was approaching from, trying to see if he had time to grab Mikleo and run (he was sure driving that sleigh wasn’t that hard). And then, she appeared in a crackling of silver flame in the doorway to the throne room. Her expression was pained, and she extended a hand to Sorey.

“You are Sorey,” she observed. “I am Lailah, servant of the great spirit Maotelus--”

Zaveid wolf-whistled. “Lailah! My heart was about to waste away without you. Why don’t you turn those flames of yours back on to warm us up--”

Several of the normins rushed Zaveid to whack him in the shins with their trumpets, causing him to yelp and stumble back into the arms of one of the frozen people. Lailah’s cheeks were colored pink, and she coughed lightly, and started again.

“I am Lailah, servant of the great spirit Maotelus. Sorey. You have travelled so far, and touched so many hearts. Truly, you bring spring wherever you set foot.”

“What did you do to Mikleo?” Sorey demanded.

Lailah folded her hands and stared at her intertwined fingers.

“I am Maotelus’ closest servant,” she began. “And the only one who can wield even a portion of his power. Maotelus charged me with the mission of gathering those afflicted by the shards, and bringing them here for safety…and freezing their hearts so the shards do not destroy their very immortal souls. But I am a fire spirit – the taking away of heat is within my purview, but a more graceful application of the art of ice magic is…beyond me. My clumsy attempts at it have only caused more disaster – this terrible weather, for example.

“However, your friend Mikleo is possessed with a gift for magic. When I froze his heart, it awakened his latent abilities. He was able to take up my duties with far more dexterity and finesse. He has saved so many souls from eternal damnation, and once the Lord Maotelus has determined how to purify the mirror shards--”

Sorey slowly approached her as she spoke, and carefully, bones aching, went down on one knee. He bowed his head.

“Please, Lady Lailah. I’m but a traveler, on a mission to save someone I love. Won’t you please grant me an audience with the prince of this palace?”

Lailah extended a graceful, smooth hand, and Sorey accepted it with his battered, bloody one to rise to his feet again. Lailah made no indication of disgust – only pity.

“You may speak to him,” she said. “But he is unlikely to respond or recognize you for who you are. His heart is frozen through – were it not for his magic talents, he would be just as stiff as the poor souls you see here.”

That seemed like a challenge Sorey was willing to take up. Sorey would never be able to forget Mikleo – through trial and tribulation, through death and on to the ends of the earth. Sorey limped across the frozen lake; his feet not as sure on the ice as Mikleo’s, but his path just as set.

The throne room was dazzling, and an architectural marvel. Intricately-carved white marble spires twirled up to the high ceilings, which were under some strange enchantment – it showed the night sky, and an ever-moving map of the moon and constellations. These enchantments reflected onto the surface of the frozen lake, making Sorey’s path an otherworldly journey through the cosmos. The room sparkled with a sheen of ice and snow, which grew into flower-like blooms around the foot of the throne.

Mikleo did not acknowledge him as he drew closer. He did not acknowledge him as Sorey collapsed to his knees in front of the throne. He was as pale and lovely as a fine marble statue, but his eyes – those beautiful, expressive violet eyes that sparkled with love and intelligence – were so terribly blank. Sorey felt his tears freezing to his cheeks.

“Mikleo,” he said quietly. “It’s me. Sorey.”

Mikleo did not respond. Sorey continued.

“I was so worried when you got stolen away,” Sorey said. “I was worried the night before, when you were acting strangely, too. I’m so sorry I didn’t realize what had happened. You must have been in so much pain from that shard, and your hands were all scratched up on top of that, and you didn’t even eat the lunch we’d packed. Have you eaten since?”

Mikleo remained impassive.

“I wish I had more to offer. I only have some jerky left in my pack,” Sorey went on. “It’s not really a meal meant for royalty. You look even prettier than usual, Mikleo. I didn’t think either of us would have our hair going white for a few decades yet, but it really suits you. So do those clothes. Do you remember how we used to dress in our best for the village festivals? You always looked so nice in that vest and ribbon tie. I always just looked like a barn animal stuffed into a suit. Or I think that’s how you put it, once.”

Sorey flexed his battered hands, watching as fresh blood oozed from the cracked skin. He was battered, as a whole. He was dirty and ragged from travel, he was bruised and bloody and looked like he hadn’t slept in weeks. He was a sorry sight, compared to how stunning Mikleo looked.

“I lost my gloves and scarf on the way here,” he admitted. “And all the money we saved up for the harvest festival. And…and our encyclopedia. I’m so sorry, Mikleo. I’m…I’m so sorry…”

Sorey crumpled, and crawled forward, shuffling over to press his forehead to Mikleo’s knees.

“Mikleo,” he sobbed. “I’m so sorry.”

He wept, and wept, and wept. Perhaps if he stayed here long enough, tears frozen to his cheeks, he would become a statue like the ones in the receiving hall – a statue that crouched at the foot of the throne like a loyal dog waiting for his beloved master’s return.

He almost didn’t notice the soft touch to his ruined hands.

Mikleo examined Sorey’s hand, turning it this way and that. Sorey felt color flood his cheeks, and pouted, despite himself. He knew his hands looked terrible, but Mikleo didn’t need to rub it in. Mikleo blinked slowly, and rubbed his thumb across the dried blood on Sorey’s knuckles.

“…hurts…hurts?”

Sorey stared at him, tears beginning to fall from his eyes anew. Mikleo bent, and pressed his other hand to Sorey’s chest, over his heart.

“Hurts here. You too?”

Sorey nodded, and reached out with an aching hand to press his own palm to Mikleo’s heart in turn.

“It hurts for me, too.”

Mikleo’s hand twitched, and as if on reflex, he moved it to cup Sorey’s cheek and brush his tears away with his fingers. Sorey gave a choked-off wail, and buried his nose into Mikleo’s hand – he thought he’d never feel this touch again. He closed his eyes, and pressed a kiss to the soft skin of Mikleo’s palm.

He heard a sharp intake of breath, and slowly opened his eyes. Mikleo was looking at him – really looking at him – and he looked absolutely distraught.

“Sorey,” Mikleo whispered. “What happened to you?”

Sorey really had thought his crybaby years were over, but here he was, weeping again. Mikleo scrambled down from his seat on the icy throne, and wrapped Sorey in his fur-trimmed cape, rocking them both back and forth and shushing him with gentle noises. Sorey had thought he’d never be fully warm again – how wrong he was.

“I had my heart stolen away by a snow prince on a white sleigh,” Sorey said, through his sobs.

Mikleo pouted at that, and color rushed to his cheeks. It was the most beautiful sight Sorey had seen in weeks, even after travelling the whole of the kingdom. Sorey smiled up at him, and leaned up, tilting his chin, pleading for a kiss. Mikleo leaned in as well, ready to oblige.

They were interrupted by sloppy crying from the throne room’s door.

“I-i-it’s so beautiful,” wailed Zaveid, sobbing into the arms of a normin who was weeping just as hard as he was. “Love! Love is what melts hearts and purifies cursed mirror bullshit! LOVE!!”

He trailed off into more crying. Lailah tugged a hankie from her sleeve and dropped it on Zaveid’s head for his later use, then approached Mikleo and Sorey, happy tears in her own eyes.

“Mikleo,” she said. “You are well again. Though the Lord Zaveid’s explanation was…simplistic, it seems that Sorey’s love for you has rid the shard of its corrupting power – in addition to melting your heart of my magic.”

Mikleo touched his hand to his chest, as if testing it for any sort of pain.

“…I can’t feel it at all, anymore. The shard. Do you think it’s gone?”

“I do not sense its presence within you any longer. A tiny piece of glass is surely nothing in the face of such powerful love. The Lord Maotelus thanks you so much for your service. Do you remember where you are, what has happened…?”

Mikleo nodded slowly. “…I do. Those – the people I spirited away, whose hearts I froze. Will they be…are they…”

“When the Lord Maotelus finds a way to purify the shards, it will be safe for them to be unfrozen. Your skillful work with your magic will ensure that they will live again – it will be as if they wake from a deep winter sleep.”

“And the rest of the shards?” Mikleo asked.

Lailah hemmed, and plucked at her sleeves. “I will tend to those shards that remain. You must tend to Sorey, to get him home and back in his own bed – you have gone above and beyond your duties, and Maotelus will surely bless you in all your endeavors for the rest of your days--”

“I do need to get Sorey home and patched up,” Mikleo said. “And bathed. But please. You saved my life, so I want to make sure no one has to suffer while we wait for a cure. I’ll come back to help, I promise.”

“I’m coming too,” Sorey said, a bit miffed at the bath comment. “You’re not leaving without me this time.”

“Do I really have a choice in whether you tag along?” Mikleo asked mildly, though he already knew the answer. Sorey smiled mischievously.

Lailah gave a watery smile of her own, and curtsied. “Thank you. Please, take the time you need to make Sorey well. He has journeyed far to save you, and his heart has melted a path through the coldest winter.”

A pair of normins trotted up to slide a pair of warm snowflake mittens onto Sorey’s hands, and wrap a matching scarf around his neck. To top it off, he was blessed with a snowflake cap, like the little creatures themselves wore.

“I will see to it that this foul weather is lifted,” Lailah said. “Now that I can rekindle my flame to do so. Mikleo, please take your sleigh and carry Sorey home to care for him.”

“Can I drive?” Sorey asked as Mikleo helped him to his feet.

“Absolutely not,” Mikleo said.

Zaveid stumbled up to the two of them, still crying, and bundled them both into a bear hug.

“You’ve allowed me to bear witness to the greatest romance in the past few centuries,” Zaveid sniffled. “Sorey, my man, you’ve overpaid me for my services.”

With that, Zaveid handed Sorey the encyclopedia back. Sorey took it gratefully, and clutched it close to his chest. Zaveid loudly and obnoxiously blew his nose into Lailah’s hankie, and it was clear one of the normin at his feet wanted to nail him in the shins with their trumpet again out of spite.

They journeyed home with incredible speed, sailing across the skies and making it back to their tiny village before the sun rose. They were welcomed back with open arms and tearful faces, and Sorey was bundled into his family home for a hot bath, a fresh set of clothes, and a big warm breakfast.

“The fruit trees are blooming all over the village,” Sorey noted to his mother and grandfather as he stuffed himself. “And the harvests look even bigger than I remember them. What happened?”

“Well, we thought we’d lose the whole harvest to the early frost,” his mother said. “But somehow our little village was spared the worst of it. It was a miracle.”

Sorey had seen Edna on the way back to his home, sitting on a bench in the town square, pretending to ignore him. She had still been wearing his gifts. He hoped she hadn’t strained herself too much.

Luckily, Sorey and Mikleo made it back just in time for the harvest festival – although they were out the funds they’d saved for it (“Sorey, stop apologizing for spending the money – I would have done the same for you!”), they enjoyed the hustle and bustle, and each other’s company, and the sight of each other in their festival clothing. On the second day of the festival, a caravan bearing the name “Sparrowfeathers” rolled into town, bearing an array of goods and gold to be traded for the village’s envious harvest bounty.

“For the wool, cloth, and goat cheese,” Rose said, handing Sorey’s mother a hefty pouch of coins. “And this here is on the house.”

Rose handed Sorey a stack of freshly-printed novels and journals, straight from the capital. Sorey smiled at her brightly, and thanked her profusely – and waved to Dezel where he sat atop the caravan, also pretending to ignore him. Spirits were so moody, sometimes.

The festival went long into the night, and Sorey and Mikleo curled together under a blanket in front of the bonfire, sipping at hot cider. Sorey was healing up well, and soon, they would be off on their mission to gather the remainder of the shards – Sorey wanted to make the most of this evening together. He nosed at Mikleo’s still-white hair, and watched as the firelight played off the silky strands.

“Is the fire too warm for my snow prince’s comfort?” Sorey murmured.

Mikleo idly traced the air, sending a few snowflakes flying into the night sky. “Hardly. I’m not a delicate, swooning thing, Sorey. I help you and your mother wrestle sheep for shearing.”

Sorey laughed. “I know. But isn’t that below your station, now? Wrestling with barn animals.”

Mikleo slanted a look up at him, and the side of his mouth twitched.

“Wrestling with barn animals is something I’m quite passionate about, thank you.”

It was Sorey that was a bit too warm, now. But with the light of the bonfire, and the beauty and crispness of an autumn night to enjoy, Sorey could make do for a while longer before they headed inside. He tucked his cheek against Mikleo’s silky white head, and sighed happily.

Yes, a while longer.

--

[customscents]

How to Make Your Room Smell Fresh All the Time

A lot of scents can emanate from your house. For instance, it can smell like that slice of homemade apple pie you brought over to binge-watch Netflix. Or it can also smell like that bouquet of freshly picked flowers that’s on the table next to your bed. 

While having a fragrant home is ideal, there are also instances when stinky odors can fill your home as well. Fortunately, there is no shortage of various ways you can make your home fragrant. 

There are also various home fragrances you can use to ensure your home smells pleasant. Below are some of the most effective ways you can make your room smell fresh all the time.  

Plug-in air fresheners

Investing in a plug-in air freshener will leave your room smelling fresh. Instead of having to spray a liquid from a bottle throughout each room, plug in air fresheners can freshen up the air all on its own. Just plug one into the outlet in every room and let it do its magic! 

A plug-in air freshener is nice to have in the summer as well. Temperatures can get high and as people sweat, the air can get humid and stinky. Plug-in air fresheners can ensure the air smells fresh and pleasant. As soon as the fragrance runs out, you can purchase a refill and you’re good to go. It's an easy way to keep your home smelling fresh.

Wash beddings regularly

According to a 2012 poll by the National Sleep Foundation, 91% of people change their sheets every other week. Although this is a common rule of thumb, many experts recommend weekly washings.

This is because the sheets can become the breeding ground of things you can’t see: thousands of dead skin cells and dust mites, for starters. Think about it, you spend at least 7 or 8 hours in your bed every single night. You don’t even want to know how much dirt, sweat, and oil builds up in your bedding.

Essential oil diffusers

There are two types of evaporative diffusers to select from when it comes to home fragrances. One type comes with a fan, where a fan blows air from the room through some sort of pad or filter that has essential oils dropped onto it. 

The air blowing through the pad causes the oils to evaporate more quickly than normal, and the air with the vaporized oil is blown into the room. The other type of evaporative diffuser doesn’t require a fan to blow the oil around but instead uses the air current in the room to subtly diffuse around a small area.

Wax melts

Wax melts are long-lasting and have more burn time when compared to traditional candles. Studies have found that wax melts absorb heat slowly and release fragrance without burning or being heated. Ultimately, this slows down the evaporation process, which makes wax melts last for a longer duration. 

Furthermore, candles require a flame, which means that the wax has to be at a high temperature whenever the fragrance is being released; because of this, traditional candles tend to evaporate faster. Also, unlike traditional candles, wax melts are safer for the environment. 

The chemicals produced by flames impact a person’s overall health. When a person constantly inhales these flames, it affects their oxygen, which leads to dizziness, headaches, and fatigue in the body. Additionally, carbon monoxide is harmful to our health, so it’s critical to avoid inhaling it from the flames.

Linen sprays

Linen spray is a household product usually containing deionised water or neutral alcohol and some scent such as essential oils. It is typically a liquid supplied in a spray bottle so that a fine mist of the product can be sprayed over linens, towels, soft furnishings, clothes and carpets. 

It is used to freshen linens and soft furnishings between washes or sprayed onto fabrics while ironing to provide a pleasing and therapeutic scent. In short, remember to try to apply at least three of these methods. 

One solution alone might do the trick, but if you want long-lasting fragrance in your room, then be sure to use whatever tips you found valuable in this article. It’s effortless to reduce the odours coming from your room. 

Most people don’t take a second to think about ways to mitigate roomy odours, but now that the quick fixes have been made aware to you, you’re less likely to have to deal with foul-smelling closets ever again.

[momaeder]

MICHELIN GUIDE REVIEW

MICHELIN GUIDE REVIEW

The day has come, I had gotten a reservation at the restaurant that is most mysterious to the world. It is for that mystery that we decided to make an exception in the Michelin Guide policy of reviewing the restaurant with two inspectors, as the cook Lenny Bellardo only allows one single diner per night to enter his premises. What morbid curiosity! The whole world is dying of curiosity. [...] We all want to see that which is hidden. We all want to stare the forbidden in the face. [1] I turn the corner of Kundmanngasse and it appears infront of me.  A dark place, and the veil in front. [2] The flat veil is always bright: on it the world of the palais casts a shadow; light creates a shaded area. My knowledge is limited to these shadows [3] The silhouettes of the cooks, the moving leaves of the trees and the birds, the ortlolan. Forms, lights, shadows and colours have been mixed by the meeting of humans, the Grand Narrative of time and the trip around the world. [4] A world for me to experience and transcend as I will eat the ortolan tonight. I hear the murmur of honey bees, the varied songs of many birds [5] a tremendous flurry calling of slaves and butlers, and pandemonium among the cooks. [6] shaping, all, on one great tune with bees, insects, flowers and trees. [5] Trembling with anticipation. I am welcomed at the gate by a man of stained white clothes ushering me in. I am handed a drink in which, floating on the surface of the freshly poured armagnac, I find a small feather. 

I feel a jet of warm air cascading over myself. [7] The smells are simple: roasting beef, some wine, presumably some scent of baking bread [8] There are truffles, flowers, animals, fruits, grasses, and vegetables of the Old World and New; an aviary, so to speak [9] For here we are in the Land of Birds, whereon for the force of their flying and the flapping of their wings, we cannot hear one other speak. [10] I feel the softness in the depths of the Earth, beneath my feet. [11] Roots around me growing into the ground as I am placed at the table with its rum stained lace tablecloth: beneath fig trees. [12] The first course is served. The truffle is nothing else but an agglomeration of elementary earth. [13] The soil on which vegetation rests. I trace the nature of the soil, on which depends the growth of plants. [14] The figs. I hear the myth of the forest primeval providing the legendary site where we started our evolution toward civilization under the hidden guidance of divine providence. [15] As the ortolans sing above my head we follow the ramp sinking down into the earth  [25]  As we move further down into the soil i grasp a last sight at a single white plastic deckchair sitting amongst the white clothes hung up to dry dancing in the wind of the buildings exhaust system.

As we move out from under the trees and my feet touch the harsh asphalt it rises from behind the greenery. The birds circling around it as it had a magnetic pull to it, catching the light emitted from the different compartements of the building. Duplicating each of the birds and throwing them back onto the veil the shadows denser and more concrete than its substance [16] The compartments which light reveals to advantage; the image of these is distinct and tangible within us and without ambiguity. [17] The frozen kaleidoscopic whirl of colors and shapes. [18] below the shimmering of waves, the scattering of the red hot light imprisoned in vapour [19] Divided by the nervous system. Pipes discharging wastewater into a well [20] large ducts that feed downwards or upwards. [21] Superefficient fixtures for heating, cooling, and ventilation [22] breathing into the night air. Wrapped around the building, connecting it to detached cabinet of curtains behind. The stairs and the corridors leading away from them at each level, like the veins of our bodies the pulsating arteries of a building. [23] Moving freely around the World of Creation [24] the cooks rushing from one door to the other, from one floor to the next. Like worker bees swarming around their queen in the hive. Drawn in by the building we follow the ramp sinking down into the earth,  [25] As we move further down into the soil i grasp a last sight at a single white plastic deckchair sitting amongst the white clothes hung up to dry moving in the wind of the buildings exhaust system. As we move further down into the soil i grasp a last sight at a single white plastic deckchair sitting amongst the white clothes hung up to dry dancing in the wind of the buildings exhaust system.The ramp widens and the concrete wall becomes an opening. [26] Above the entrance I see an array of slow turning axial flow fans [27] whispering the scents of the kitchen into the atmosphere of the garden. Below blurry traces of the cooks rushing carts full of crates through the hall. The merchants dealing with cooks about imports and sales settled over here. [28] Selecting from the goods travelling [...] between continents and oceans. [29] I hear the rustling of a cart pushed towards me by a cook. In the gray plastic crate on the top the next course is revealed to me. 5 tiny eggs that give rise to a new life [30] coated in the most exclusive spices. A movement of intercontinental exchange [...] constituting a world conspiring with new bodies. [31] My neural network becomes one with the moving lights of the globe. Strings of movement connected to the nodes that are the becoming of the ortolan. I feel a special sense of power, of entitlement as I walk through this gate and into the intestines, the inner workings of the building. As if I was some kind of mobster in the movies walking through the dark and twisted hallways of the establishment he owns. I can’t help but picture myself walking through the kitchen experiencing all the scents and maybe even hear an ortolan squeal as it is drowned in armanac.We stand infront of the heavy chromed door. Open the wall, open the hymen, open the veil : death.[32] Cold. Silence. As if we were a thousand meters below the surface. This interior is not “frozen music” but “arrested maelstrom.”[33] All the delicacies of the world buried deep in blocks of ice : intact to all appearances [34] The most bizarre thing I see? That would have to be a frozen lizard. [35] A Catalogue of 10, 000 stars.[36] The noisy echo of a thousand voices, the white light with ten colours,[37] broken through the ice into the spectrum of the rainbow absorbing it. [38] And in the middle the gleaming white table with a single frozen flower I feel the crunch of fresh snow [39] between my teeth and let the frozen history of the petal dissolve on my tongue. The element becomes a multitude of crossroads or nexus of relations, a network of connections [40] of temporalities. In this closed cell, this temporary sepulchre, the myths of resurrection arise easily enough.[41] Locked in frozen layers, a universe of ancient creatures awaits another chance at life.[42]

I witness a transformation of substances and a dissolution of forms [...]  such that my body or the room do not end at a precise point. [43] There is nothing but the immense noise of the ocean. Chaos, noise, disorder. The base of existence  [ ...] noise spills out into space. [44] In this collapse of the surface, the entire world loses its meaning. [45] On the ceiling the pipes inhaling the fumes trying to make sense of the molecular essence of things just as I am. And here I see him for the first time Lenny Bellardo the mixer of meanings or voices, [ ...] He warms the room, gives a fever, increases agitation and thermal disorder. [46] His arms raised like the conductor of an orchestra [ ...] violent rhythms succeed a graceful andante. [47] In the corners the mist condenses, stains running down the walls, letting us percieve the boundaries of infinite space. On my spoon I sense Aphrodite herself rise, living, erect and naked, in the ruffles of the waves, of the prebiotic soup. [48] where things and organs are distinguished solely by gradients, migrations, zones of proximity. [49] On the aluminium table the reflection of the dancing mist. As Lenny bellardo conducts the heat.

The raging noise of the heat now distant. The only thing I feel is warmth. In this windowless room in the heart of the building. The only light coming from the fireplace. The dancing flames projected onto the thick curtains. A shadow moving along the wall carrying to my table a large silver platter enhancing the reflections of the warm flames. The pig that picked the truffles invariably impaled on a stick and roasted above a fire. [50]  There, I sense the ancient elemental things : the smell of the meat as it turned golden on the spit, the trees, the dry branches, the fire that brings men together. [51] Intelligence enters into time, into the most rapid, lively, and subtle shifts and fluctuations of turbulence, of the dancing flames. Dancing the dance of the ortolan. A single cut out of the apple of the pigs mouth and I am back in the garden. The circle has closed. From growth to selection to conservation to dissolution. The eternal circulation of the elements of bodies. [52] passing from one form to the other. [53] Becoming. Circulating around the central void. A void that in itself begins to take on colour. [54] For it is now time to go beyond. Ready to be taken to another dimension. [55] As Lenny enters the room. bearing in his hands two cast-iron cocottes. Inside each I assume a tiny, stillsizzling. roasted bird head, beak, and feet still attached, guts intact inside its plump little belly. [56]

A stairace moving upwards in the concealed atmosphere of the garden. Into the white space [..] circumscribed, redoubled by a veil or a net which is superimposed, and gives it a volume. [57] I understand that it is not the environment that is unknown, but rather, my own body, that becomes the point of interest of the room [58] Depicting the physical setting would be superfluous and divert the  gaze away from the ritual action. [59] Everything has been experienced, everything enjoyed to the full, the whole  [60] But yet something remains missing the bird that made men to kings and kings to gods. I lean forward as the host high pours from a bottle of Armagnac, dousing the ortolan then ignites it. The flames in the cocottes burn down, and the ortolans are distributed. One to me, one to him. Everyone at this table knows what to do and how to do it. [61] Eager to indulge upon the bird I look around the table for the napkin that is traditionally used to cover the faces and allows diners to savor the aromas and enjoy some privacy while devouring the bird or hide their indulgence from the eyes of God. [62] But it is missing, instead Lenny looks me in my eyes affirmatively as to tell me to go ahead. Here I am in turn, the last, at the pinnacle of power, at the very instant of committing the sin. [63] An internal law rules up to a threshold, after which the law is changed. [...] The five senses stop at these thresholds which it is now a question of going beyond. the Gates of Hell or Paradise. The horror, rather, of those who detest experience, or the ecstasy of those who bathe in it. [64] A quick exchange of sights and I accept my dissolution in the burning plasma of matter. [65] First comes the skin and the fat. It’s hot. So hot that I’m drawing short, panicky, circular breaths [...] breathing around the ortolan, shifting it gingerly around my mouth with my tongue so I don’t burn myself. [...] [66] Trying to hide my pain as I quickly glance up at lenny who sits calmly staring into the atmosphere. There’s a vestigial flavor of Armagnac, low-hanging fumes of airborne fat particles, an intoxicating, miasma. Time goes by. Seconds? Moments? I don’t know. [...] I bring my molars slowly down and through the bird’s rib cage with a wet crunch and am rewarded with a scalding hot rush of burning fat and guts down my throat. Rarely have pain and delight combined so well. I’m giddily uncomfortable, waiting for the aromas to unfold breathing in short, controlled gasps as I continue, slowly ever so slowly to chew. [67] On the other side of the table, lenny unfazed as if he already knew what was coming. With every bite, as the thin bones and layers of fat, meat, skin, and organs compact in on themselves, there are dribbles of varied ancient flavors: figs, Armagnac, dark flesh slightly infused with the salty taste of my own blood as my mouth is pricked by the sharp bones. [68] Now for the last part the final bite the last step, ready to transcend. I close my eyes. 

I swallow, I draw in the head and beak, which, until now, had been hanging from my lips, and crush the skull. [69] I look at lenny. The smoke from his cigarette flowing up into the sky. Where just moments ago the cloth of the veil had covered us, now stands tall and judgingly the reflection of the moon mirrored in the façade of the neighbouring building. Bright, distorted and fragmented by the still lit windows. No Language or sound, breezes, scents, shadows, songs or shapes but nothingness [70] Mixed with the taste of my own blood.

My face is frozen in terror. [71] Without a word I get up. On the oposite side of the roof an elevator door opens behind the white curtains waving in the night breeze. Seeing myself cross the catwalk free in the air among the birs towards the elevator taking the perspective of the neighbouring building, disintegrated. With a dull clank the doors close. I am alone. Just me and my distorted image in the claustrophbic chrome walls. A blank look from my reflection to me, from the black box to its lit up threshold, from the hidden to the publicly posted, from veil to unveiling, from the entangled to taking apart thread by thread. [72] Madness surges upon me. The justice of this form of madness lies precisely in its capacity to unveil the truth. [73] I have no option but to consider myself guilty. My torture had been my glory : my deliverance was my humiliation. [74] Gluttony, laziness, lust, and anger pass from the confessional to the laboratory, from spiritual and subjective intention to rational evidence and obligation, both final and causal. [75] Sitting on a rooftop, on two plastic chairs, among two greasy paperplates and a cherry coke zero. Lenny Bellardo unveiled the terminal truth of man : he showed how far he could be pushed by the passions, life in society and everything that distanced him from a primitive nature that knew no madness. [76] he has found a new way of judging life, of universalizing the condemnation of life, by internalizing sin “ [77] But the bringer of sin and death necessarily also brought healing and life. [78] 

Lenny Please forgive me. 

For having left your restaurant without a word to you.

For believing that carnal desires can be satisfied. [79] For wanting to see what is behind the veil. For I came to the house that showed to me the becoming of man but wanted more. What strong and simple science will tell me the moment of denouement, of being stripped bare and untied, the moment of true casting off, and tell me to take nothing, to go completely naked, overwhelmed, burning, trembling in all my limbs, from this Earth toward the void. [80] For kings are not gods; they are but men, who are often enchanted by the Sirens’ song. [81] I see that it has not changed; and yet I see it differently.[82] For I am free now. For I am lost now. Why write about an object that is disappearing, in a language that is dying? [...]The five senses, still on the verge of departure towards another adventure, a ghost of the real, timidly described in a ghost of language .

this is my confession [83]

[naturepointstheway]

Together

Just a sweet little post-curse Potts Family fic. 

@tinydooms @sweetfayetanner @gryffindorbraids @astudyinchocolate et al.

The scent of tea rouses Jean from a dream that quickly dissipates like mist in the warmth of sunrise. He doesn’t open his eyes yet, letting the aroma of tea drift into his nose, a scent that had been long absent from his home. He can’t help but smile when he feels fingers rake through his hair, pushing it back from his face with a soft, loving touch. He doesn’t need to open his eyes to know it is his Beatrice who touches him, long fingers lost in graying curls, mussed from a long night’s deep sleep. 

Opening bleary eyes, he squints up at his beloved wife gazing down at him from where she rests with her back cushioned by pillows against the headboard. Though her hair is unbrushed and she still has the mask of sleepiness about her eyes and corners of her mouth, Beatrice looks beautiful in his eyes, always, no matter what. She has already wrapped herself in a dressing gown, stretching her legs out over the unmade blankets, her bare feet stretching and flexing in tune to the rays of the rising sun that peeps through the partially opened curtains. 

“Good morning,” she greets him, voice still husky with sleep, hand stilling a little in his hair. “How was your sleep?” 

Better than it had been since he remembered her again. A deeper, more peaceful sleep, his bed no longer feeling strangely wrong without someone else’s weary head upon the pillows, body curled up under the blankets, back just touching him. 

“Good,” he says, “Better now that you’re here again.” 

She removes her hand from his hair to lean over to her side table to pick up a steaming cup of tea. The curling steam catches the sunlight, forming ringlets of gold that rise to the ceiling. 

“Good?” she echoes, “Good as in alright, or good as in much better now we’re together again and you remember me?” 

He extracts a hand from the sheets and rests it lightly on her elbow, thumb rubbing gently against the soft fabric of her dressing gown. 

“The latter,” Jean assures her, “How long have you been awake?” 

“Not long. Just long enough to make a cup of tea.” 

“Did you make one for me?” 

She drains the last of her tea, replacing it on the sidetable. “The teapot will still be hot. I’ll bring you some tea directly too.” 

Mrs Potts shifts her legs off the bed, planting her feet on the floor, pushing herself up to a standing position. That side of the bed empty again, Jean has a second’s urge to ask her to stay just a minute or two longer. But she already has the empty teacup in her hands, and she reaches out one hand to slip it in his with a little squeeze. 

“I won’t be long, dear,” she promises, “Weak tea with milk as always?” 

“Hasn’t changed, Beatrice.” 

“I’ll be back--I won’t come across any Enchantresses on the way to the kitchen.” 

“Is Chip awake?” he asks just as she reaches the door. 

She turns her head back to look at him, “No, I think he’s still fast asleep, but he’s sure to wake up soon and come seek us out.” 

With that, she disappears, her dressing gown the last he sees of her, and the reminder of the Enchantress pulses in his heart. He knows the likelihood of her coming across Agathe while in the house is next to nil, and yet a needle of fear that somehow he’ll forget her again pricks his mind. He really does not wish to forget his Beatrice again, his beloved wife whom he’d known for over two decades.

He remembers again the letters he had come across while the curse had still weighed heavy on the village and the castle. Most of the letters had been from Beatrice, courteous and polite, not overly flowery and full of love-lorn prose. He apparently had not been--and still wasn’t--the most eloquent of letter writers either. A few words in response with some affection, but not overly so. In contrast with his letters, Beatrice’s had looked downright poetic, written in the light of a glowing full moon pouring onto the page. 

Jean hears her footsteps padding back in the direction of their bedroom, and he pushes himself up till he is half sitting up under the blankets. Tucking the pillows up behind him, he settles back against them, waiting for his own cup of tea to arrive. He can already smell it from down the hallway, carried in the soft, caring hands of his wife. 

She emerges into the bedroom, a wooden tray in her hands, the two cups of tea hot and freshly brewed. His heart skips a beat as it always does when she beams at him the way she did only for him. The apples of her cheeks are dusted with light pink from the warmth of tea and a mild summer morning. 

Setting the tray down on her side table, she picks up a teacup and carefully brings it forward to him, the liquid never once sloshing over the scalloped rim. Bringing the cup to his lips, he takes a tiny sip. Milky and weak, just the way he always liked it.

“Perfect,” he says, “Thank you, dear.” 

She pulls back her blankets, straightening the tangled sheet out again, and, satisfied, slips back into bed. She wriggles her legs under the blankets as if to find a comfortable position, one of her feet brushing against his, unintentionally, but the second brush against his foot is clearly intentional. Settled next to him, she reaches a hand out to retrieve her freshly filled cup of tea, balancing it between her hands as she rests her back against her pillows. 

“I’ve spent so much time as a teapot I nearly forgot how soft beds are,” she remarks, her shoulder leaning gently against his, “Or how good it is to share one with someone you love.” 

“Same,” Jean agrees, “Not the teapot part, of course.” 

She takes a sip of her tea, lips pursing on the rim as she catches sight of a bird hopping around on the window sill, cocking its head side to side, dark eyes trapping morning light in their irises.

“I’ve missed this,” Beatrice sighs, the teacup clinking back on its saucer, “I’ve missed this so much, just spending a while longer in bed, watching the morning awaken. I might just stay here all morning.” 

Jean gives her a little nudge with his elbow. “Did I just hear Mrs Beatrice ‘what a waste to stay in bed all morning’ Potts say that?” 

She closes her eyes, the lines stenciled in her forehead becoming a little deeper. “When you’ve spent so long as porcelain, wondering when you’ll feel a soft bed again...I think I’ve gained my right to stay in a little longer. Chip too--I tell you, I was more worried for him more than I was for me.” 

Jean remembers back to the talk they’d had the other night about the curse and all that happened during it. He shakes his head in disbelief. 

“Our boy turned into a teacup. With his energy, it’s a wonder he never--” he stops himself in time from saying “shattered”. It would not do to remind her of that.

“I’ll never understand why the Enchantress chose a teacup form for him. He’s a rambunctious boy, our Chip. Teacups are surprisingly fragile.”

“As are teapots,” Jean adds, recalling the night of the castle battle, “What made you think you could survive a fall from a chandelier as a teapot?” 

Beatrice winces. “Yes, well, I clearly didn’t think that through did I?” 

“No.” 

She raises an eyebrow as she looks over at him. “You haven’t lost your keenness for a blunt answer, have you, Jean?” But a smile manages to emerge nevertheless, deepening the crows feet at the borders of her eyes. 

His cup of tea finished, he sets it aside on his side table. “I haven’t seen the point of it otherwise, Beatrice. But I would never hurt you with words, you know that.” 

“Oh, maybe once or twice you have, back when we were in our twenties,” Beatrice says, “Good thing I’ve always been unafraid to let you know, if you do.” 

The clinking of her empty teacup and saucer as she sets it back on the side table brings his mind back again to the curse. 

“A teapot,” he marvels again, taking one of his wife’s hands--was she always this warm before?--cradling it between his own two. He’d always loved how long her fingers were, a contrast to his own short, stubby ones. Her nails were always clean and tidy, kept short for practical purposes--she was, after all, a housekeeper.

Beatrice leans her head against his, her other hand laying itself atop his hand. “I could handle myself just fine, you know.” 

“This Enchantress is fond of irony, don’t you think? One of the strongest women I’ve known, relegated to being a fragile, porcelain teapot.” 

“Believe me, when you’re dealing with the prince, you have to be strong. He could be very stubborn, you know.” A little laugh, and he is sure there’s a catch of sadness there--bittersweet. “He’s changed for the better, Jean, he’s so much like that little boy I once knew again. All thanks to Belle. Speaking of Belle--how had you come to know her?” 

“She moved into the village with her father,” he explains, “I’d seen her on the regular--was good to those who were good to her. Questionable tastes in books, but kind all the same.” 

Beatrice’s shoulders shake a little with quiet amusement. “I believe Prince Adam found her taste in Romeo and Juliet questionable too. You’re not alone.” 

“Clever girl that Belle--inventing, teaching girls to read, reading while walking through the town without getting knocked over. I’ve never understood how people who love reading can manage that.”

“Nor have I,” Mrs Potts concurs, “It’s a sure way to pick out the people who love books, I find. I remember Adam, when he was five or six, doing the same thing. Walk down the stairs, navigate around the staff, all of that, and never hurt himself. I shouldn’t be surprised if we find him or Belle doing that--at the same time, I shouldn’t wonder--around the castle a lot more now everything’s alright again.” 

They fall into a comfortable silence, grey head resting against auburn, their hands clasped together, fingers interlocked between each other. The rays of morning stretch out and smooth out the blankets, wipe away the last dregs of sleepiness that catch in their lined faces. The bird on the windowsill turns its tail to the window, flutters its black wings and tucks its head under to preen its feathers. 

A couple minutes pass, and both Jean and Beatrice perk up, smiles alighting on their faces, eyes brightening with happiness as little feet scamper down the hallway, and seconds later, Chip has pushed the door open, not even bothering to knock. 

“Good morning!” he shouts, frightening the bird on the windowsill into flight. “I’m still human!” 

Both his parents chuckle, Beatrice stretching an arm out to him in an unmistakeable invitation for a snuggle. 

“Morning, Chip,” she greets him as he clambers up onto the bed, snuggling up under her arm. “Good sleep?” 

An enthused nod, “I like sleeping in a bed again, mama--it’s better than sleeping in a cupboard.” 

“It is, isn’t it,” his mother agrees, dropping a kiss on his head. 

“And--” Chip adds, his voice softer, “I missed morning cuddles.” 

She plants another tender kiss on his head, brushing back his hair. 

“I think we all have, dear.” 

“I don’t want to be a teacup again, mama,” he whispers, “I missed being a little boy.” 

“I reckon it won’t happen again,” Jean says, “Your mother will make sure of it.” 

Chip seems to be assured by this, and cuddles under his mother’s arm, his head resting on her chest, a smile on his face. 

“I like being a boy,” he murmurs, “It’s nice to run around and sleep and cuddle again.” 

His parents catch each other’s eyes and smile relieved smiles, their hands holding on just a little bit firmer than they might have before the curse had happened. If they held on a little tighter, both their hearts seemed to reason, and if they clung a little closer to each other at night, then no curse could separate them again. 

[paperbackcat]

Amnesiac (Franticshipping)

Amnesiac

Word count: 6,299

Pairings: Franticshipping (Ruby/Sapphire)

Of all things she could conquer, his heart was the missing puzzle piece.

Of all things she could conquer, his heart was the missing puzzle piece.

An impossible space.

Almost intangible.

There’s that saying after all, to “Hold on tightly, let go lightly.” In the end, you’ll only find yourself hoping for something that’s almost non-existent and with any luck, realise that you don’t need to keep tugging on it anymore.

She sits at the edge of her bed, legs swinging aimlessly against the cooper-wood. Bright cerulean eyes stare wistfully outside the window, watching the indigo hues flutter into a cloudless morning, eloping the vast expense with the sun’s rays. It was beautiful, to say the least. She never believed in the sublime of anything other than nature and came to think of it as the world’s form of apology. An apology for the calamities of nights that she held on to nothing but purposeless faith, floating into the great abyss of her memories – an insignificant shade of claret that haunted her mind, constantly, constantly.

Life was none but pulchritudinous. That and misfortune.

A breath escapes her mouth as she quietly stumbles out of bed. There is a thud as her feet hit the floorboards and she trudges through her cupboards, ransacking the compartments for something decent. Two hours, she gives herself. Two hours to pull herself together and do something – productive. What else can she do? Meandering through the days as she waits for competition to arrive, it’s almost meaningless now. There’s a sad ache in her heart as she recalls the moments where she truly once felt alive – stinging fire in her veins, battling others who fell through with their great desires to triumph the Champion of the Elite Four.

The conqueror, they call her.

The four spend their lives waiting for opponents but only a few do manage past – rarely anyone manages to reach to the pinnacle of the battle and even if they finally did; she’d crush them. So what if she’s crowned the Champion? It feels hollow now as she struggles to figure out what to do in her life. She peers reluctantly at her bathroom mirror, tracing her cheekbones tenderly. It’s a train wreck of waiting and training, intervals of fighting and resting. There’s not one trainer who can dance toe to toe with her. It used to be fascinating to watch different people come and go: now it’s just a pain.

But, then again, there’s so much magnificence in that agony.

She finally trudges out of the bathroom and decks on a pair of slacks and her training top; the usual sleeveless one she dons on for battles. At the corner of her eyes, she sees an old outfit sticking out like a sore thumb in the mist of the dullness. The striking rubicund that resembles the ruby of his eyes and the bandanna laid upon it, almost like a broken warrior. She realises that she’s stopped breathing. It’s so nostalgic and she wonders why she still keeps it there in the first place.

A reminder that she’s not of his world.

A reminder that he’s just going to forget everything again.

When she walks out the door, she swallows that haunting thought and feels the morning mist chastely kiss her skin.

There’s something about mornings that shatter her dismal feelings, the brilliance of morning dew sprinkled onto the fur of the forest. The constant patter of her footsteps on gravel keeps her heart at pace, the crowing and cawing of diverse brightly feathered Pokemon in the distance. There is a spring in her step as she trudges down to Mauville’s market, unobtrusively wishing for something stimulating to happen.

Turns out she shouldn’t have coveted for so it transpired.

The market was bustling with people, both Pokemon and trainers alike pushed around the marketplace, eyeing the morning fish catch and trying to haggle prices with vendors. Shouts from vendors came from every which way, shrieking about freshly picked apples and fascinating stones obtained from the beaches. The salty stench of fish fills the air as she shoves her way through the crowd, distinctly murmuring under her breath. It’s slightly uncanny that the crowd chose to flock Mauville’s marketplace this morning – is there some sort of event going on today?

Further daydreaming in her distant mind, she did not anticipate the sudden barrelling boy and his Pokemon. There’s an instant crash as she realises the hurried figure and tries to dart hastily away, but to no avail. She accidentally knocks him onto a fruit display and oranges, berries and apples fall ungracefully onto the ground, pummelling by the hustling passer-by’s. Rapidly, she finds herself speechless at the display and almost cowers at the fierce glare of the fruit seller lady. Clumsily, she picks the fruits up from the floor and stacks them neatly back into the carts, all whilst quietly murmuring an apology.

Being a Champion has its perks.

Usually, people will stop and gasp in unison – it’s the Champion, they would shrill in fascination.

Today didn’t seem to be her day.

In fact, she’s still slightly taken aback that no one has recognised her yet.

The boy whom had stumbled onto her and cast her an annoyed stare before hurrying off with his Azurill in his hands, not even turning back to help her pick up the fallen fruits. Internally irate, she groused about the fact that nothing seems to be going her way today. Apologising one last time to the fruits seller, she found herself trying to find the boy and give him a piece of her mind. After all, any decent Pokemon trainer should be able to recognise her face – unless to which he isn’t a Pokemon trainer and she’s about to make the biggest mistake of her life.

Then again, he barrelled his way into her.

He deserves to know how she feels about that.

Scurrying through the sea of people, she spots the blue flash of Azurill, it’s huge tail giving it away almost instantly. The trainer seemed to be in a panic, urgently pushing past the crowd and for a moment, she decides to focus of his object of haste instead of reprimanding him. There’s usually nothing interesting happening in this part of town. Not that she knows of. An accident of some sort, perhaps?

Then she spots it.

Or rather, spots him.

She can recognise those crimson eyes anywhere.

A snarl escapes her mouth as she halts her chase. The trainer with his Azurill struggles his way out of the market crowd to dive deeper into a sea of a starting throng of Pokemon fans, all gathered near the contest hall entrance, seemingly entranced by something – or someone.

So that’s where the crowd is coming from. She can’t help but let out a irritated huff.

And he’s still wearing that stupid white hat.

She’s been meaningfully avoiding contests halls and it just takes one imprudent trainer to lead her right to one. Not just anyone, the one with him, standing arrogantly in his senseless glory and his obtrusively over-dressed Pokemon. For a splitting moment, she feels a tinge of jealously. They recognise him but not me? The green eyed monster envy twisted into rage.

He’s calling out in that melodramatic way of his once more, adjusting his hat as he scans the crowd of Pokemon maniacs, seemingly to try to spot out someone. The boiling rage simmers a little, is he looking for her? The ruby eyes stop at someone and he yelps in fascination. There’s hankering and movement as the same trainer and Azurill, who had obliging barrelled past her, steps up next to him, nervously grinning as if he won an award. He grabs the trainer’s Azurill gently and looks, stingily she thought, lovingly at it.

So much for looking for her.

She can’t hear them through the vast crowd chatter but she can tell for a fact that he’s just picked his apprentice. If the television holds true, he’s probably been finding an apprentice or some sort to fall under his wing. Again, not that she keeps up with news like this, contests disgust her. Immensely. And he makes it ten times worse. She has avoided all associations with him and she plans to keep it that way.

He’s currently talking in that excited tone of his as he praises the hand-picked boy and his Pokemon. Of course, trust him to pick the boy who decides to bash onto her in a crowded marketplace, of all people. The gathered troops yell in congratulations and she can’t help but let out another livid huff. She doesn’t pick an apprentice like that because of the dramatics – again, not like she knows of anyone whom she’d like to put under her wing. Not one single soul approached her anyhow and she feels that green eyed monster bob back up to surface.

It immediately vanishes when his eyes reached hers.

There is a very pregnant pause before she flushes wildly and breaks eye contact.

Harshly, she twists away from that gaze and stalks back into the marketplace, ignoring the burning stare behind her back. She feels no remorse nor guilt as she speedily maneuverers through the masses. So what if he sees her – he’s never been the one to admit anything after all, nor did he even think about visiting her. Ever since he forgotten the embarrassment of Mirage Island, she treats it as a gift – a cruel gift bestowed to her and she’s never once looked back.

Nor at him.

She lives her life as a Pokemon Champion and waits for challengers to battle.

Secretly, part of her waits for him too.

Silently, she turns back and there is a tinge of sadness when she realises he’s not chasing after her – nor were his eyes trained on her any longer. A wave of relief swallows her as she trudges through the marketplace and heads to where she initially wanted to visit. There’s a few stares on her way but they seem more engrossed in the contest crew in the distance. It doesn’t matter either way, she just wants to get her things and be on her way. There’s no point standing around here, especially with him around.

The crowds lessen at the corner of the marketplace where a small wooden stall shop owner is rearranging bottles. Small ink pots filled with umber coloured liquids stood forward, tiny labels read ‘Protein’ and ‘Iron’. She gives a little wave as the shop keeper finally emerges from his reshuffle, a concentrated look upon his old face. The wrinkles on his face etched into something of a grin as he acknowledges her wave with his very own.

“’Ay lass,” he greets with a lopsided smile, folding his arms onto the wooden cart table. “The usual?”

She eyes the ember liquid anterior of her. A pause follows as she tries to formulate the words in her mind; she hasn’t spoken in a while – there’s almost no need to anymore.

“Yeah,” She manages, her voice gritty and monotone, “I’ll have the usual.”

She’s surprised at the fact that she accomplishes a smile.

The old man flashes her a cheery wink and dives into his backpack, digging rapidly for something. He grabs two vials of russet coloured liquid and hands it over to her, beaming the way he usually does. She pauses, almost entranced by that silly old grin on his face before obtaining the vials.

“That’ll be 20,000.” He chirps.

She nods slowly. Quickly, she shoves her hands into her pockets, as if excavating for gold from the mines.

“Been a while since ya’ve come around yonder’,” The old store keeper watches her as she succeeds to pull out a few notes, gently placing it on the table. “What’cha been up to?”

She hurriedly stuffs the vials into her emptied pockets and looks up, a blush creeping to her face. She used to shop at Mauville’s open bazaar market fortnightly. Used to. Of recent, she’s just been lounging around her house, training at her nearby forest and not opting to socialize outside. Not that she enjoys it, after all. She prefers being in solitude.

She shrugs as a reply and the old man takes it as his que to start some small talk.

“Ya’ here for the contest picking?” He counts the notes on the table leisurely, tracing the edges. “Heard some famous laddies’ here to choose a student.”

She shrugs again, her cheeks filling in the rosy blush. Inaudibly, she internally curses at the fact that she’s partially upset at the fact that he’s more well-known that she is. One might say she’s just cross at her comeuppance, being less than what he is. One might say she’s just upset that people know him better than she does.

“Not much for talking huh,” The old man pockets his payment and casts his bright green orbs at her. “I’ll see ya around, lassie.”

She nods and flurries away.

The crowds are lively. Much too lively. She doesn’t mean to eavesdrop, nor does she wants to, but she catches little snippets of banter from the throng of people. Squeals of “he’s here!” to “I should’ve been the one he picked” ranged from the chatter of noise; she shakes them off, not wanting to participate in banal conversations. However, as she makes her way out of the market, she hears a morsel of something most unfortunate.

Most unfortunate for her indeed.

“Even the contest champion scouts for students,” The voice goes, shrill and petty. “Why doesn’t Elite Four’s champion do anything like that?”

There’s a snort from her friend.

“Haven’t you heard?” He grunts, a nasally snuffle. “She’s just a recluse. Doesn’t even go up to Evergrande city unless the four are completely thrashed.”

She sucks in a sharp intake of breath. She’s done here for today. Nothing is going her way and she’s not about to sit here, and take it all in like a punching bag. She pushes her way out, purposefully knocking onto the people who had misguidedly gossiped about the Elite Four’s own champion right in front of her face. There’s an angry retort but she smirks snidely away – they deserve it. Silently, she shakes her head at her own rancorous behaviour.

A loud thunder clap catches her attention and her sneer forms into a frown.

Perhaps if she runs, she’ll get home without getting wet.

Her footsteps thump heavily onto the ground as she forcefully glares at everyone in her direction, causing them to avoid her like the plague. She doesn’t care about the stares that come her way, it was a stupid idea to go out anyway, she should’ve stayed home. The sky above swirls into a dull dark mess, almost like her mind, lightning now streaking across the grey shades of painted storm clouds. There’s a drizzle of raindrops and she curses her luck, feeling the droplets grow heavier as she brisk walks through the pathway back to her home.

It’s located quite a distance away from Mauville but thankfully, she reaches to her doorstep just in time as the rain started to pour down heavily, the pitter patter drowning the disappointed yelling in her heart. It’s invigorating, she decides, as she steps into her small cottage home, at least she knows how the public eye views her, even as malicious and partially untrue as it is. It’s not that she’s a hermit, she just feels misanthropic. Who needs people when you have Pokemon?’

Then again, she thinks as she dries herself off with a soft towel, she hasn’t spent much time with her Pokemon either.

She’s still a hypocrite but she’s fine. She’s fine with people forgetting about it. She’s alright with it, she can live with the fact that she’ll possibly be forgotten and replaced.

She takes a warm bath to sink her hollowed thoughts away. The scent of citrus fills her nose as she plunges into her bathtub, soaking, drifting off to a distant memory of her an- there’s a sudden panicked banging on her front door. For a moment, she’s distraught: no one knows exactly where she lives. What if it’s those kids she vehemently bumped onto? Did they really stalk her back – I mean who would?

Then it hit her.

Oh. Right. The Elite Four. It’s not a daily occurrence but it’s not rare either. She doesn’t stick around Evergrande to watch the battles take place every day – not that that’s a daily occurrence either, but they do come knocking on her door from time to time, requesting her to make her way for a battle.

Perhaps the Elite Four have met a challenging competitor. She’s bound to have her pedestal taken away from her one day – perhaps it’s today. The same thought toyed with her mind constantly, but it’s never truly come to light. She doesn’t know if she’s thankful or upset. She’s back in her clothes in a flash, draping a towel over her head as she clumsily shuffles to the door, wondering which one of the four has decided come this time.

The knocking on the door grows insistent and she elects that it’s most probably Phoebe. She’s the only one impatient enough to keep banging against the wooden door.

It’s not Phoebe.

In fact, it’s none of the Four.

As soon as she opened the door, she slams it shut

She’s hallucinating.

He is not here, dripping and soaked to the skin, with that puerile smile on his face.

She’s dreaming.

Another knock on the door confirms that she’s not.

His voice, however, almost kicks her in the teeth.

“Sapphire,” And it’s the same way he’s said it since they’ve seen each other. That soft gentle melodious tone that’s almost honey-sweet yet sincere, resilient – something she’s missed awfully. His voice hangs in the dreary patter of raindrops on her window panes and she stares at the door; she stares at it with utter disbelief.

The second thought that crashed in her mind was the fact that he potentially pursued her back home.

Is he here to laugh at my misery? She reaches for the doorknob once more, unhurriedly, feeling each second tick pass morbidly. Is he here to quote my misfortune? Why is he here? Why is he here when I’m nothing but forgettable to him? She feels the cold brass of the knob and tries to still her heart to freeze the same way. There’s no point in pretending that she’s fine but there’s no point in telling him the truth.

There’s a click as she opens the door slightly and peers out.

He’s still standing there, drenched to his toes and looking rather put out. At the sound of the door creaking open, his pursed lips form into a big grin and he adjusts his soaked hat, seemingly trying to tip it as a form of salutations. She doesn’t respond to his smile nor does she invite him in. She avoids all eye contact, inwardly bellowing at him to leave.

Leave. Leave. Leave.

“Can I come in?” He questions unobtrusively, rapping his fingers on the wood door.

She finds herself making way for a rain-marinade boy to enter her abode. Something is bawling at her to halt, to chase him out, but she doesn’t have the heart to do it. Today’s just not her day. There’s complete silence between the both of them as he unlaces his boots and places them neatly near her shoe rack. She’s not ready for this, she’s not strong today and she’s definitely dreaming.

The wine-coloured eyes beseech her gently.

“I –“ She doesn’t know what to say. Instead, she noiselessly takes her semi-wet towel and passes it to him. It’s silly really. He’s the closest thing she can call a friend and yet, she feels as if he’s nothing but a stranger. He grabs the towel and pats his face dry, shooting her a jovial beam as he slings it over his shoulders.

They stand there for a while and she realises she feels so very naked.

She doesn’t like feeling vulnerable.

He lets out a strangled cough.

It’s awkward. She’s awkward. She trains her eyes to the ground and tries to remove that lump in her throat. It takes a few moments before she decides to speak again.

“You’ve got a student.” She manages to splutter. How eloquent. It’s not like she’s ever been expressive with him anyway. His eyes were possibly burning holes in her head but she refuses to look back up. She doesn’t want to look at those eyes, it’s unbearable. What a way to start a conversation, no wonder she’s never really been the conversationalist.

“Uh, hah. Yeah.” He sounds tired. Almost defeated, even.

“Great.” She replies unenthusiastically.

There, she felt the most excruciating obstinate silence ever in her life. They didn’t speak. They stand motionlessly in front of her shoe rack, and she began to observe nothing else but her running shoes. The sky thundered in the distance and it sounded as if it was laughing mercilessly at them.

She breaks the silence first, unable to stand the heat of his stare.

It’s agonizing to spectate the loudest silences in the world.

“Um, do you want dry clothes?” She gestures to his wet clothing, slicked to his skin. It’s probably designer, she thinks to herself, and he’s most likely upset that it’s wet.

He chuckles lightly.

“I doubt I can wear your garb.” He jokes.

“I’ve got some –“ She stops herself quickly. She’s got some of his old clothes lying around somewhere that she refuses to throw. “Extra bigger sized clothes.” She finishes lamely, scratching her head. Without waiting for a reply, she manages to move her rooted legs and scurries to her bedroom, thrashing through her cupboard. It’s crazy. She’s dreaming. He’s clearly uncomfortable and he’s made it clear he’s nothing but an amnesiac. What is she doing?

She picks out the slightly torn white shirt and oversized shorts from a pile of her old outfits that he designed for her. Once.

She doesn’t waste time.

There footsteps as she flails gauchely down the hall and catches him taking off his white hair, shaking it as it dangles like a pair of floppy ears. She halts for a second, her eyes now drawn to the two deep claw marks on his head, a memory that laid like a dormant volcano in her mind. Ruby orbs flashes to her. Noticing her sudden gaze, he immediately shoves his soaking hat back on, a false smile plastered on his face and all of a sudden, she wants him, very badly, to leave.

“Those look familiar,” He tries to jest and she’s this close to just kicking him back out in the downpour. “Don’t they belong to me?”

She grits her teeth and nods ever so stiffly.

Handing over his clothes, she points weightily at the toilet door, signalling for him to change there instead. With that, she turns on her heel and retreats to the kitchen, once more feeling his gaze burn a huge hole in her back. She ignores the slam of the toilet door and tries to figure out a way to make him leave, politely. Years ago, she would’ve thrown a fit that even toddlers couldn’t compare with. She’s too lacklustre. She’s exhausted. She’s worn out from years of being incensed. The fire has been put out, strangely enough by those flame-coloured pools.

There is a click as the bathroom door reopens and he’s standing there, in his old shirt and shorts. She frowns deeply at the obviously wet hair that sits upon his head but doesn’t say anything about it. If anything it’s the trigger to all things awful and she doesn’t want to go through all of that again. He begins to travel through the hallway down to the kitchen, observing the very portrait of her and her Pokemon team that defeated the Elite Four and crowned her champion. He probably realises that it’s the very first thing people will see when they walk in.

He’s judging her. She knows it.

So what? She thinks grumpily, pouring a jug of tea into two small cups. At least she doesn’t create her own Pokemon cosplay costumes.

“Here.” She offers him a small porcelain cup as he approaches, bagging his wet clothes before smiling back at her. “So,” She clears her throat, feeling awfully hot all of a sudden. “How’s life?”

It feels strange.

Speaking to him so formally as if she’s carefully treading on thin ice.

“Great.” He answers politely, cupping the sky blue porcelain demitasse fondly, “I’ve gotten busy with my own fashion line but other than that, it’s been well,” He takes a small sip of the tea and exhales slowly. “It’s been the same.” His eyes trails over to her and she quickly looks away, feeling her face heat up.

“How about you?” He enquires. There’s something hollow about their conversation. As if something is missing. A large chunk of what they want to say is coveted by politeness. There’s so much to say, she thinks, examining her fingernails as if they were the most fascinating objects in the world, there’s so much to say but she’s happier if she’s mum.

“Fine.” She answers almost robotically. “Battling, training and living. It’s the life.” She sounds like she’s rehearsed this too many times.

Silence engulfs them once more.

They sip tea.

The rain patters violently against the windows.

She wonders why he’s here but doesn’t voice it out. There’s no point, she tells herself.

“I visit Evergrande sometimes.” His voice drifts off and she freezes, her cup hovering near her mouth. “I never see you there, though.” He lets out a chortle.

She tries to smile but it ends up more of a grimace.

“Uh-huh.” She looks away, thinking of an excuse. “I’m busy training.”

“Even though you’ve conquered it all?” There’s a clank as he places his cup on the kitchenette.

She nods.

“Worried you’ll lose your title?” He quips lightly.

She bristles suddenly.

“At least I’m not giving it away willy nilly.” She scowls.

There’s a pause.

The atmosphere turns tense once more and she’s got this uncontrollable urge to just ask him to get out. She halts herself from doing so, quickly dusting her pants quietly, pretending that she’s occupied with something else so she doesn’t need to look back into those pools of hurt.

“I –“ She tries to salvage it but to no avail.

She can’t seem to form words.

He decides to finish them for her.

“I came here for a reason, actually.” He speaks tentatively, turning away from her. “What?” Curious, she looks back up and sees him rubbing his chin thoughtfully. They don’t make eye contact. They remain in that silence for a moment and she’s never felt this anxious for his reply.

He breathes a sigh.

“I wanted to –“ He stops himself.

She bites her lip to stop herself from shrieking at him.

What? She begs internally. What do you want?

“I want to be your understudy.” He finally exclaims, covering his face with his hands. “I know it sounds crazy –“ “Yes it does.” She agrees uncommittedly, feeling light-headed. “But I’m done with contests, I want to try something new.” “How is battling new?” She cuts in sharply, ignoring her wailing heart.

“You’ve done it before.” She points it out, lightly pissed. “What do you mean you want to be my apprentice?”

They have sparred side by side, they have sparred against each other – she knows what he’s capable of. She’s befuddled and her mind clouds over, has he really forgotten every single thing about her? The last time she checked, he only forgot everything that happened at Mirage Island, the confrontation, the confession. It burns like an unwavering flame at the back of her mind, an endless cycle of ruby red.

He looks perplexed as he peeks out from his fingers. There’s another beat of silence before he drops his trembling hands and starts fiddling with them. There’s so many things she wants to say to him yet she finds herself as silent as he remains. It’s excruciating to stand here with his endearing shyness, it’s definitely a nice breather from his usual constant flamboyance but it’s uncharacteristically uncanny.

“I’m sort of retiring after all,” He explains, twiddling his fingers around his tea cup. “Awards, trophies, they all will rust someday.”

“So will titles.” She adds on, glaring at his pale face. “And if you haven’t noticed, I don’t take in apprentices.”

“Are you afraid to be beaten?�� He jests, sipping his tea once more and examining her kitchen. She lets out an annoyed huff as he continues, “I’ve heard you’ve gotten many a contender but never lost one.”

“They weren’t worthy enough.” She waves her hand dismissively in the air, recalling how she faced off with challengers filled with determination to win, it was adrenaline rushing – it was. Now it’s just stale competition, nothing fazes her because she’s pretty sure she’s nothing but numb from all the battles.

“Why not train one to be worthy?” He taps his fingers on his cup, trailing his eyes over to hers, “The Sapphire I knew valued challenges.”

There’s a point where time stops completely.

It’s peculiar how it just decides to slow-down so that you can witness each agonizing second and heed every single word.

The Sapphire I knew, she doesn’t hear anything other than that. You knew? She feels the bristles on her skin, face flushing with heat. There’s a moment where she berates herself to being over-sensitive but she sojourns when she noticing that cheeky smile on his face. You don’t know anything, she screams, clenching her fists. You forget me, you come in here and ask for something incredulous.

You don’t know anything.

It doesn’t escape her mouth.

It’s stuck in her throat and it tastes like bile.

There’s a long pause.

He seems to have notice the sudden terse look on her face and his smile falls flat.

“I’m just trying to help.” He says, rubbing his chin thoughtfully, “I’ve heard about how you isolate yourself away from everyone else.”

She grits her teeth.

“I’m busy training.” Her reply is stained with bitterness.

“There’s more to life than just holding your title.” He ripostes quietly, “You don’t stay long after your battles at Evergrande, you barely leave the house unless it’s to get food and you don’t even try to do anything else other than defeat people ceaselessly.”

There an awful lot of silences today. She can’t find the strength to scream at him, grab him by his shoulders and shake him till he realises – realises what? Her fists uncurl and she remains completely noiseless. The thunder outside chimes like a gravely growl, an impressive roar that seems to come from inside her chest and she can feel her heart sink. The rain continues its disastrous downpour as she silently stalks to the sink and drops the teacup with a loud clang.

It’s almost hopeless.

In fact, standing here in the dull lit kitchen, it feels like a nightmare.

“It’s been too long.” He murmurs.

She doesn’t turn around.

I don’t know what to do anymore, part of her yells; and that’s all she can say because that’s become her answer to everything. Even still, she knows that she still finds him in cold shallow coffee, in the pastel colours of the sunrise. He exists in the pages of the book she’ll never finish. He smells too much like wooden panels in the bedroom, it’s too comforting and she hates that. She detests it to her very core of her being. Something inside of her fights, pounds on the walls of her ribcage and finally the words tumble out of her lips, clawing it’s escape.

“You forgot.” She finds her mouth working thoughtlessly on its very own. “You forgot everything and yet, you stand here with the gull of asking me something I cannot do.”

On his part, he smartly remains stoically quiet.

“Everything fades away.” She breathes, feeling the cold kitchen panel with her palms. “Titles, trophies, friendships, memories,” her eyes linger on her fingertips, “It only hurts when it stays.”

There’s a trickle of a smile as she turns to face him.

“Why can’t I be an amnesiac?”

There’s an echoing thud in her chest as the tip of her ears turn rosy, her face is flushed – not out of embarrassment but disappointment. She finds herself seeking for something, something in those glassy eyes; perhaps a haunting cloud of recognition but all she sees is a solid wall.

“The thing is, I just can’t forget you,” There’s a dull ache where she thinks her heart used to be, it’s shattered now, bits and pieces dangling from her veins. “And no matter how hard I try, I still remember. It’s a burden, a huge cloud over my head and I can’t think straight because I wonder how you are and how you’ve been – and then it hits me.”

She can feel warm tears welling up.

“I realise you’ve forgotten everything and I can’t help remembering.”

It starts like a drizzle. Then a downpour.

It’s a mess. She’s a mess.

And he does nothing but watch.

The rain slows down to a halt.

It’s over. She tells herself. After this, everything will just go back the way it used to be. It’s just her and it’s fine that way. She insists. It’s fine. I’ll be fine.

And then he speaks.

“I’m a mess.” He whispers and there’s a light hoarseness to his voice. “I’m a mess without you.”

She looks at him and his eyes are glossed over, she’s never noticed the dark rings under his eye lids or the sparkle of the umber red against the glow of the dull overhanging lights. She knows he’s crying, there are tears, she’s unmistaken – tears of years of running.

“But then again,” he continues, letting his teardrop fall down his cheek and he’s trying his best to not falter, “I did this to myself.”

It’s almost too innocent, the way his brows are furrowed and the way he wipes his tears with his sleeves. There’s a sniffle somewhere as he rubs his eyes a little too roughly and when he opens them; they are as red as the flames in her gut.

“I tried to protect you,” he mumbles, clenching a fistful of his shirt. “I thought it was better if we just pretended we didn’t care. I failed before and I’ve failed again.”

He reaches out to his hat and drops it onto the floor.

“Every day, it’s a reminder of how I should forget.”

The scars are still deep. She knows them by heart. It’s sickly looking, darkened in colour and etched into the side of his forehead. It’s a memory etched in skin, of the time when they were just mere children, just playing around until they had to face the biggest challenge of all: the inkling of protecting someone you love. He was hurt and she was terrified.

She’s still terrified.

And he’s still hurt.

“I’m sorry.” His voice shakes. It shatters. “I’m sorry.”

She doesn’t say anything.

If he’s a mess, he’s the most beautiful messes she’s ever seen. It’s tragic. It’s chaotic. Like a painting dipped into water, the colours are delightfully frantic, falling, seeping and pouring out of the outlines. There’s a mixture of deep blues and awfully bright yellows. Pale pink and dark brown. But it’ll be the most magnificent thing you’ve ever laid your eyes upon.

Watercolours. His eyes are like watercolours.

It’s a wreck of splash paint but everything falls delicately into place.

“I’m sorry.” He finally stops repeating himself and picks up the soggy wet hat. “I’m sorry I hurt you. It’s okay if you’ll never forgive me, I just needed to –“ He lets out a snivel and squeezes his eyes shut. “I just needed to know you’re okay.” He turns to leave.

“I just needed to see you.”

With that, he leaves.

And she breaks. Like an ice sculpture shattering into smithereens upon the ground. It feels as if someone is crushing her heart, desperately trying to cling on and she lets out a breath that she didn’t know she was holding. Her feet start moving on its own and she finds herself flinging her arms out in despair, trying to grab the air as she bolts out the front door – not caring if it’s left open.

Her heart’s left open.

She catches sight of his hunched back, his hands shoved in his pockets, head down and she hurries forward.

“Stay.” She begs, reaching an arm out to stop him. “Please stay.”

He stops and turns, eyes widening in surprise.

She doesn’t halt and barrels directly into his chest, burrowing her face and sobbing uncontrollably. It’s awkward, it’s clumsy but she wraps her arms around him and wails for him to stay. It’s juvenile, she thinks, but she’s missed him so much – his way he gently tucks his chin next to her ear, an arm snaking around her waist. His stupid hair tickles her ear but she doesn’t care. He smells so much like sandal wood and mint, he smells so desperately of home.

His hand draws calming circles around her back as she tries to swallow back her tears.

“Don’t forget me again.” She snuffles, burying her face at his neck, “I don’t want to fade away.”

There’s something in his voice that assures her.

“I won’t.” he promises, “I won’t.”

Of all things she could conquer, his heart wasn’t the missing puzzle piece.

It was a possible space, forced apart by fear.

It was fear that she could not master.

And all she had to do was to hold on tightly, let go lightly.

[rachelvalente]

Summer Beauty Favorites

As we inch closer & closer towards summer, I’ve been testing out a bunch of products to incorporate into my beauty routine for the warm weather months.  I personally feel my best wearing minimal makeup & embracing my hair’s natural texture during the summer.  I don’t know of many women who want to be putting on a full face of makeup & dealing with 20 minutes of blow-drying during a heat wave!  So today I’m sharing with you the products that have passed my test & that I’ll be stocking up on for the next few months:

BEAUTY Unless I’m getting all glammed up for a wedding or special event, I keep my beauty routine as pared down as possible during the summer months.  I prefer a natural dewy finish for my makeup & I like to choose multi-tasking products that are lightweight & will give me a natural glow.  Here are my favorites for achieving this:

1) Fake Bake Platinum Face Self-Tan Lotion Last month, I began testing several different self-tanners and this one was by far the best for face.  I like that it has the anti-aging properties built right in and that it doesn’t irritate my sensitive skin.  It comes with gloves for a mess-free application – I put mine on after washing my face at night and then I wake up the next morning with realistic looking tan.  It doesn’t come off on my pillowcase + it lasts for 2-3 days (may be less if you use an exfoliating scrub).

2) Charlotte Tilbury Hollywood Flawless Filter After months of hearing all my friends rave about this product, I finally caved and ordered some to try.  Turns out that it completely lives up to the hype & I’m officially obsessed!  I wish it wasn’t so expensive but the good news is that a little goes a long way.  I’ve been applying this as a primer underneath this CC Cream and I love the lit-from-within effect it creates.  I will also use this on its own for those days when I don’t want to wear foundation, but want a little coverage & glow.

3) Physician’s Formula Butter Highlighter Thanks to the pretty rose gold finish, this works as a highlighter, bronzer & blush all in one.  I love that it isn’t too glittery but just gives me a nice warm glow.  I apply this to the apples of my cheeks (sweeping up towards my temples) & on my eyelids (in place of eyeshadow) for a quick sun-kissed look.

4) Anastasia Beverly Hills Lip Gloss (Parfait) I finally found the perfect color lip gloss for summer – I’ll be wearing this non stop!  The best way to describe it is a pinkish nude with a rose gold finish.  This gloss is super-pigmented & doesn’t have a sticky texture – it only takes one coat for full coverage & it lasts longer than more sheer glosses I’ve tried.

HAIR & SKIN Having naturally curly hair is a real challenge during the warm weather months because even the slightest humidity produces unwanted frizz.  I try to embrace my natural texture by letting my hair air dry as much as possible and using a few key products to keep it healthy & shiny.  For my skin, the key is keeping it exfoliated & moisturized – I use a dry brush before showering to remove dead skin cells & improve circulation and then follow it up post-shower with a liberal application of rich body butter.  Here are the products I’m loving right now:

1) Alterna Bamboo Smooth Dry Oil Mist This super lightweight oil helps eliminate frizz & gives my hair that shine I’m always after.  A lot of the shine serums I’ve used in the past work well but they tend to weigh down my fine hair.  I spray this on before blowdrying & sometimes I will also spray a little more at the ends once it’s dry for some added moisture & shine.

2) Ouai Anti-Frizz Smoothing Sheets There’s nothing worse than leaving the house with your hair freshly styled & walking out into the humidity to have it completely wrecked.  I have lots of fine hairs that love to stick up & these have completely changed my life!  Just swipe the sheet over the area(s) where you need it to help tame flyaways and eliminate frizz.  These are such a quick & easy solution – great for throwing in your purse to use on the go or for travel.

3) SheaMoisture Castor Oil Hair Masque Ever since having more blonde added to my hair, I’ve noticed that it needs more moisture to keep it looking healthy.  I’m actually planning on chopping it short very soon too!  Most of you know that I’m a huge fan of this brand and already use their body wash & scrub (mentioned here).  This intensive hair masque is my new holy grail product – after just one application, my hair was softer & smoother without feeling weighed down (I use this weekly as a deep conditioning treatment).

4) Renpure Coconut Water Sea Salt Spray Because I have natural curl to my hair, sometimes I like to skip the flat iron/curling iron and let it do its thing!  When I discovered that my favorite sea salt spray was discontinued, I began the search for a new one to replace it & this was the clear winner.  So many that I tried were really drying to my hair or left it crunchy, but this one kept my hair soft & shiny.  I let my hair air dry about 50% of the way and then spray this on & scrunch it through my strands to create effortless beachy waves.

5) Hydrea London Dry Skin Brush I’ve been dry brushing for a couple of years ever since my naturopath recommended it to help with my autoimmune disease.  Not only is it great for lymphatic support & circulation, but I’ve noticed such an improvement in the overall texture & brightness of my skin.  You want to begin at your feet & work your way up using light but firm strokes, brushing each section of skin 10 times.  Be sure you’re always brushing towards your heart where the lymph system drains.

6) Raw Sugar Coconut + Mango Body Butter This might be the best body moisturizer I have ever used!  The scent is heavenly, it’s paraben, phthalate and sulfate-free & it absorbs into your skin so nicely without leaving a greasy residue.  It also comes in another tropical scent here.  My only complaint is that it doesn’t come in a larger size because I have a feeling my daughter & I will be going through it pretty quickly this summer!

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