#her aes always immaculate

[theseulgis]

hi_sseulgi

[auspicioustidings]

Ae Fond Kiss - Part 4

A Prayer in the Prospect of Death

Summary: The years pass and you find out how Simon feels about you before a familiar face arrives. Words: 2.8k

Parts: 1 2 3 4 5

“Tell me luv.”

Simon had his fingers tucked under your chin to tilt your head up so you could no longer easily hide. Urgh he was so bloody perceptive. 

“It’s silly.”

“You’re always silly, now tell me.”

You fought the urge to blow a raspberry at him. He was truly the most stubbornly protective human you had ever met and he never just let things go if you said it was fine. He always knew when something was bothering you despite your attempts to hide it. 

“What am I supposed to do when Joey starts nursery?”

You sighed and dropped any attempt to hide how miserable the thought made you. When you and Johnny had gotten married you had decided that you’d be a stay at home mum. You didn’t have a career you were attached to and Johnny made enough to support the household. Honestly you had come to enjoy it in the last year. You decorated your home for every holiday, experimented in the kitchen until you were actually a very good home cook and baker, always felt safe and content with how well you knew your own space and how cosy and clean you kept it. 

It was never how you imagined yourself if you were honest, a homemaker. The idea of you actually sort of enjoying cleaning would have made you feel somewhat ill 5 years ago. But now you were in your own home with a toddler you loved to death and, though you often were reluctant to admit it out loud, a man you loved to death. You had been front and centre for all of Joey’s firsts and you wouldn’t trade that for anything. 

Simon missed his first steps. Johnny had been fine doing video calls while he was on base during off hours, but you didn’t even have the number of Simon’s work phone. It used to frustrate you that it felt like he didn’t even exist the moment he left for work, but he had spoken about his family on your first Christmas together and it made you understand. He would never carry anything on him as the Ghost that could link back to you, even in the relative safety of the base during downtime. 

Now Joey would be out of the house for most of the day. You could have waited, not sent him to nursery and just kept him home until school, but you knew it would be for your sake rather than his. He loved being around other kids and some of the friends he had made from you taking him to every toddler group in the area in an attempt to be a good mother would be starting nursery as well. 

Could you just do nothing all day? Between Johnny’s insurance and death in service benefits and Simon insisting on funnelling money in, you could certainly afford it now, but it felt so wrong when Johnny was dead and Simon was doing the exact job that had killed him.

“What do you mean? You do the same as you do right now if you’re still happy doing it but without him.”

“Lounge around and do nothing while you are out risking your life you mean.”

Simon considered, always careful to think the situation through rather than reply impulsively. He was annoyed with himself for not seeing sooner that you were undervaluing yourself, only considering taking care of Joey which was a full time job in itself as contributing. While it had been a source of bitter guilt in the beginning, he had started to forget how much younger you were than him. He really should have seen it, no woman in her early 20s saw her full worth. 

“Princess, you decorated this whole house while I was deployed and you’re the one that fixes things or organises for them to be fixed when they break. You cook almost all our meals from scratch and then make extra to donate to the community kitchen. The garden is immaculate because you follow the planting plan you made yourself and are out there doing maintenance every day. You do not now nor have you ever lounged about doing nothing, even if I would like it if you did.”

He already felt bad enough about it. When he was home he threw himself in, tried to take as much off of you as possible even when he was nowhere near as fast or good at things. If anything he was contributing nowhere near enough money to cover all the full time jobs you were gracefully juggling (only because it had already been a fight to accept any money at all, he gave you what you accepted and then put almost the rest of his pay into an account for Joey).

“Shut up!” you whined, battering fists against his chest as your face flamed. 

You had lived together now for just around 3 years. You had been intimately involved for 2. It still absolutely floored you when he was nice to you and made butterflies erupt in your stomach. It was so ridiculous to feel like some wide eyed teen with a crush when it came to this idiot. Unfortunately his favourite hobby was fucking with you when you were taken off guard like this.

“Aww baby girl, you know how much I appreciate everything you do for me and Joe don’t you? We’d fall apart without you beautiful” he said in a smooth rumble, peppering kisses across your cheeks and down your neck. 

It wasn’t fair that he could just tease you with a version of him that adored you. A version that you enjoyed even if you didn’t really think it was real. Sure there had been a maybe ‘I love you’ years ago after all that sexual tension broke and he seemed to be happy enough, but you could only imagine that if he ever knew how you felt about him he would run. The last 3 years you had fought at every turn to protect your heart, but you had stopped denying at least to yourself that it was pathetically his now.  

“Don’t do that.”

“You don’t want praise and kisses?”

He raised an eyebrow and tried to hide a small smile. You loved praised and kisses, he knew that because in the bedroom he could use that to turn you into a pile of obedient princess who did whatever he said if it would earn you his adulation. But it was just sex wasn’t it? 

“I don’t want you to pretend.”

He was confused by that and you wanted to sink into the floor to avoid this conversation. You had been avoiding it for a while now. 

“I… fuck. Simon, I don’t- it’s not just sex to me” you choked out, not sure how to put it into words without straight out admitting that you were hopelessly in love with him and wanted him in you and J’s lives permanently. 

“Christ, you pretty little idiot” he growled, grabbing your face roughly in his hands. “I love you. I am in love with you. I’m not Johnny, I don’t do big romantic gestures. I’m not the kind of man to tell you all the time how I feel. I’m the kind of man who is a selfish bastard because I don’t give a fuck if you deserve someone who does. You are mine. You have been for years. Do you understand me?”

You could only blink wide-eyed as your brain tried to catch up with the whole world restarting itself after the shock.  

“Do you understand me?” he snapped. 

“Yes sir.”

“Good girl… wanna get married?”

You stuttered out an outraged shout, feeling the tears that had been building drying up at the audacity of this man. 

“Johnny took me to the cabin. He made me a replica of the first dinner we had together and set the table outside during the sunset. He organised for fireworks!”

“Told you I don’t do romantic gestures.”

“Fine!”

“Fine?”

“Fine, let’s get married Casper. You’re the fucking worst.”

“Don’t I know it princess. I’m not wearing a tie.”

“Then I’m not wearing a dress.”

“Yes you bloody well are!”

“Wanna bet?!”

-

He did not wear a tie, but Joey did. Your dress was beautiful. Gaz officiated your wedding for the second time. Price said there was an emergency so he couldn’t make it - you weren’t really sure you believed him.

-

As you cleared up after the whirlwind that was breakfast in a house with a 9 year old late for school, you sighed and stuck on a heat patch. You were starting to wonder if being off birth control was maybe a little pointless because in the past 18 months it had only reminded you how much you hated periods after years of them being gone as a useful side effect.

It had been something you were speaking about since you got married. You had always wanted more kids. Simon had never even expected he’d have one. You were terrified of a repeat of your first pregnancy, he was terrified that his genes were poisonous. You had enough money with his hefty pay and your small business (you had started it up soon after Joey had started nursery and you got a lot of orders for events, birthdays and weddings for sets of biscuits. You imagined wherever Johnny was he was howling with laughter that you had turned into a home baker after all the kitchen disasters he had seen). 

In the end it had been Joseph who made the decision. One shrugged mention of how he thought it’d be nice to have a little sibling and that was that. There was not one thing in the whole wide world you and Simon would not give him if it was in your power. Although you were starting to think it wasn’t in your power at all. 

It wasn’t like you didn’t have an active sex life and in honesty it had only gotten more active from the breeding kink Simon had uncovered as soon as it was a possibility. But it just hadn’t happened. 

You wondered if it was better that it hadn’t, at least until Joey was 10. That was when you had agreed you would tell him everything. On advice of a psychologist you had told him that Simon wasn’t his biological father very early on, as early as he could understand the concept, although stressed he was still his dad. The only thing you mentioned about his biological father was that he had died even though that was very much against the psychologists advice, she had said to tell him everything about Johnny.

But in 4 months he would turn 10 and he knew that you would answer his questions then. It was shitty of the two of you really, to hide Johnny until now. Joey’s grandmother still saw him, but she never talked about her son or who he was. It was cowardice. Simon had been speaking with a therapist for years about how to let go of the idea that Johnny died because he couldn’t save him. You felt ill at the idea of your son knowing you had married his dead father’s best friend. Both of you were so scared of Johnny’s ghost that you kept him from his son for nearly a decade. 

Well sort of. Joey knew who Johnny was, just not that he was his father. There were photos of him in the house. Whenever Gaz, Price and their partner (that had been a whole drama, but you were happy the three of them finally worked it out) were around, sometimes they would reminisce about him. Well Gaz and Simon did, Price would just look pained and excuse himself to get a drink.

You could only hope that Joey wouldn’t hate you, but then he was such a great kid. A little wild, but incredibly kind and empathetic beyond his years. He had Johnny’s eyes. You thought that he’d understand when you explained it all. Maybe he’d yell at you for thinking he would blame you for falling in love with his dad, but he’d understand. 

You focused on cleaning up and getting the kitchen back clean and cosy how you liked it, deciding not to borrow worries from the future.

–

Price had told him to settle his arse down in the base and let him travel down and talk to him before he went anywhere. Johnny ignored him. He had just saved the fucking world, there was not one thing that was going to keep him from his wife and child one second longer.

He had debriefed already, been medically cleared to leave. He knew the paperwork was going to be horrendous given that he was legally dead, but frankly he’d leave it for the intelligence agencies to deal with given how much of a big bloody favour he had just done them. He got your address off of them given that Price hadn’t given it to him, just telling him to wait until he got there. Fuck that.

It didn’t take too long to get himself there. It was oddly comforting hearing all the English accents after a decade of hearing almost entirely Russian even if he’d be moving your pretty arse back North of the border as soon as he could. Not a chance was his family living in Carlisle. He wondered why you would move that far from the Highlands where his family was. You had always been no contact with your own family, maybe you had reconciled with them and moved to be closer? 

He would find out. Whatever it was he’d support you. God he loved you, he had missed you so fucking much. He had imagined the reunion for years, thought of your smile and your laugh when he needed to remind himself what he was fighting for, thought of your soft skin and tight pussy when he needed to relieve some tension with his right hand. Whenever he sent up a prayer in the prospect of death, it was for you that he prayed he would survive.

He thought of how he’d hold you for days when he got back. He knew you would have raised a wonderful son and he could not wait to meet the person he had become. He’d hold him as well, spend days cuddled up and watching movies with his family. 

And then he’d take you to the cabin and lose himself in your body. Fuck it was strange to think he’d have to consider it wasn’t just you two anymore. He didn’t want to lose any time with his son, but he needed alone time with you as well. He’d work it out. 

The house was nice, sort of quaint with the pretty flowers both real and painted on the door. It hurt knowing if he hadn’t been away you’d have something bigger. You would have had to for a growing family. 

He wished he had stopped and gotten a change of clothes and a haircut. He was in military issued sweats and a hoodie and his hair had grown out to curl around his ears. He really should have shaved as well, a task he hadn’t had time for in the chaos of the last few months. But fuck it, he was here and he couldn’t wait. 

It was almost like an out of body experience knocking on the door, knowing he was seconds away from you. He should have realised that there was another person around who could answer the door, but he hadn’t been thinking. The Joseph he knew was a tiny baby, not a bright eyed kid with a toothy grin in a football strip (a bloody Man U strip at that, Johnny just knew his uncle Simon would have had a hand in that and it made him grin knowing his best friend was still in his son’s life).

“Ye got big!” he belted, excited beyond proper introductions at seeing his son. 

The kid furrowed his brows for a moment before he brightened with recognition. Johnny assumed now was about the time for crying and yelling and hugging. He was unprepared for the alternative. 

“I know you! You’re dad’s Sergeant! I thought you died.”

His heart lurched, putting the dots together well before his brain could. 

“Joe hurry it up! We’ll miss kick-off!”

Johnny knew that voice. It was not yours. 

“I’m ready!”

“You better be! Right, who’s at the door then?”

The voice got closer and even though he wanted to run Johnny was rooted to the spot. It felt like the next 10 seconds as the footsteps and voice came closer was hours. The door swung wider open as a hand pulled on it from behind and then he was looking into the eyes of Simon Riley. The silence was deafening until Johnny broke it.

“What the fuck did you do Si!”

[nestadevries]

Chapter 10 | The Mission In Ashes

Notes: A bit of hurt before the comfort (in the next chapter) - around 4k words

The air in the training yard was sharp with the scent of sweat, dust, and the soft hum of power. Liandrin stood in the center, her golden hair immaculately braided, as always. Her sleeves rolled back to reveal bare forearms dusted with bruises. She moved like a storm contained, precise and unrelenting. “Again.” she ordered.

Across from her, Nesta stood with her feet shoulder-width apart, her hands clenched in front of her as she channeled. The flows of Air and Water trembled in the air around her, weaving into a complex pattern. There was a natural authority in the way she held herself, a tension coiled in her shoulders.

Nesta’s blue eyes sharp as a blade, watching every move that Liandrin showed. Her own body ached from her morning drills, muscles coiled tight with purpose. The Arches loomed, and with them, the final trial. 

"You’re clenching your jaw again." Liandrin’s tone was dry, but there was a flicker of warmth in it.

"I’m trying." Nesta muttered, glancing sideways at her.

"Trying is not enough." Liandrin circled her slowly, the way a falcon might observe its prey, not to strike, but to test, to push. "The test will not wait for your nerves to settle. You’ll be watched by Aes Sedais, who would rather see you fail than rise. You know this."

Nesta swallowed the sting of truth and nodded. “Then I’ll make them regret watching.”

That earned her the smallest curl of Liandrin’s lips. But before she could reply, the sound of brisk footsteps echoed from the entrance.

Alanna Mosvani emerged from the corridor, her green shawl trailing behind her, and approached with purpose. Her expression was unreadable, though her eyes flickered briefly over Nesta with something between concern and calculation.

"Liandrin Sedai, the Amyrlin Seat requests your presence. " she said without preamble, her tone clipped.

The Red Sister didn’t turn at first. She exhaled slowly, then pivoted with calculated grace. Her brows knit together in annoyance. “What does she want now?” she muttered under her breath, then louder: “Fine. Tell her I’m coming.”

Alanna didn’t move. “It’s not a request. She’s waiting.”

Liandrin stalked past her, pausing only when she passed Nesta. Their eyes met “Keep training and don’t be stupid.”

“Am I ever?” Nesta arched an eyebrow.

Liandrin’s lips twitched, barely. But she didn’t answer. She walked off without another word.

The younger woman watched them go, the sharp line of Liandrin’s shoulders held stiff with control, as if expecting an ambush at any moment.

The yard felt emptier without her. It always did when Liandrin wasn’t nearby, though Nesta would never admit it out loud. Still, her pulse beat with a new kind of agitation now, different from the frustration of training. It was heavier, a quiet fear that dug in behind her ribs like a hook.

Please come back safe soon, she thought, though the words burned with how unfamiliar they were in her mind. She’d never worried like this about anyone before.

-

Liandrin followed Alanna through the winding halls of the Tower, her stride purposeful but tightly coiled. Something was off. The air felt too still, the light from the windows too harsh as it sliced across the flagstones. The longer they walked, the more her instincts bristled.

Siuan Sanche didn’t summon Red Sisters without cause. And certainly not alone.

When they reached the outer chamber, Alanna stopped short.  “She’s waiting.” 

Liandrin gave her a long, narrow look. “Are you only here to fetch and deliver?”

Alanna’s gaze flickered, “Don’t keep her waiting.” she murmured instead, and turned away.

Liandrin stepped inside, and Siuan Sanche stood in the middle of the room. The golden flame of Tar Valon shining behind her on the banner. Leane stood to her right, arms crossed in front of her deep blue dress, her expression a blank mask. The Keeper of the Chronicles didn’t so much as nod in greeting.

“Mother, you summoned me.” she said coolly, inclining her head in shallow respect.

The Amyrlin studied her for a long moment. “You’ve been assigned a mission, in a border village, not far away from here. There have been reports of disruptions in the Pattern. Whispers of someone channeling.”

“So you think it’s a man.” Liandrin didn’t blink.

“Possibly.”

Liandrin’s lips curved faintly. “And who will accompany me?”

“You’ll have one sister, Joline Sedai.” Siuan said, voice like ice cracking.

Liandrin turned her head slightly, eyeing Leane, still unmoving and silent. “And Joline is to be my backup?”

“Yes.” Siuan said curtly, the word clipped and final.

Liandrin raised a brow, her voice cool. “Why not a full party?”

Leane’s lips pressed thinner. Siuan’s tone remained calm, but iron-clad. “Discretion is necessary. This needs to be handled quietly.”

Liandrin tilted her head, eyes narrowing slightly. “Strange to send only two Aes Sedai to investigate something like that. You’re either underestimating the threat or hoping we don’t return.” She smiled in a sly way, as if she knew there was something wrong with it.

“Watch your tongue, Daughter.” Siuan’s words came out sharp and aggressive, like a lash.

“I always do.” Liandrin said smoothly.

Her blue eyes felt Leane’s eyes on her, unblinking. “Departure?”

“Within the hour.” Siuan replied, her voice hard as stone.

Liandrin nodded once. “As you command, Mother.”

But as she turned to leave, her gaze lingered on Leane just a moment longer. Liandrin’s every instinct was screaming. This wasn’t just a mission. It felt like a trap or maybe a punishment.

-

Liandrin’s fingers froze on the edge of her cloak, the fabric cool and unyielding in her hands. She closed her eyes for a moment, letting the silence press down around her. She needed to hear Nesta’s voice, to feel the warmth of her body near hers, to see the fire in those blue eyes that had been the only thing to keep Liandrin grounded in this shifting game of power and deception.

But there was no time. She couldn’t risk being late for the mission, not with the stakes so high. The Dark One’s machinations were always lurking, always pulling at the threads of every decision, every movement. She had no choice but to leave.

With a sharp exhale, Liandrin forced her mind to focus. She quickly began gathering her things, pulling her cloak around her shoulders with a practiced motion, every movement tight with urgency. She should leave a note for Nesta, a quick reassurance, something to keep the girl from worrying.

Her eyes drifted to the desk in the corner of the room. She grabbed a piece of parchment and quickly scribbled a few words.

“Gone on a mission. Be safe. -L.”

It was simple, straightforward. But there was so much more she wanted to say, so much more that she was too afraid to admit to paper.

She put the note on the pillow where Nesta preferred to lay down her head, a quiet promise hanging in the air. If she couldn’t tell the girl in person, at least Nesta would know that Liandrin hadn’t forgotten her, hadn’t left her behind without a thought.

The door to her quarters creaked open, and Joline stood in the doorway, waiting impatiently. Liandrin’s eyes met hers for a split second before she nodded, the words unspoken between them. There was no time for more than that.

-

The weight of Nesta’s training session still clung to her, the sharpness of her focus having dulled after hours of practice with the weaves. Each strike of her Power felt like a small victory, but the intensity of it was exhausting. Her muscles ached from the relentless effort, but there was something more pressing in her mind, something that wouldn’t let her rest, Liandrin.

Her feet knew the path to Liandrin’s quarters before she’d even consciously decided to go. The halls of the White Tower felt quieter than usual. Perhaps it was only her mind playing tricks on her.

As she neared the chamber, the familiar comfort of the space called to her, but as she stepped inside, her heart sank. It was empty.

The room felt too quiet, too still. Liandrin’s presence, which usually filled the space with a commanding warmth, was absent. Nesta walked in further, her gaze flicking to the shelves filled with books and trinkets that told the story of Liandrin’s life. She went to the bed, where her eyes were immediately drawn to the note on the pillow.

Gone on a mission. Be safe. -L

The note trembled in her hand as she reread it, the simplicity of the words slamming into her harder than any weave she’d cast all day. There was no explanation, no hint of when she'd return, no mention of what the mission was.

The worry twisted in her gut, tightening her chest. She had always known Liandrin was powerful, fierce, and capable, but this mission had been sudden. And for the first time, Nesta was afraid for her.

Be safe. Her thumb dragged over the final letter, as if by touching the ink, she might pull something more from it. Some secret meaning, some echo of Liandrin's voice. But the room stayed silent. Empty.

Nesta sank onto the edge of the bed, the note still clenched in her hand.

She had no idea where Liandrin had gone. No idea why and that unknown scraped against her every nerve. The bond between them may have remained unspoken, undefined, but it had grown roots. Quietly, without permission. And now those roots twisted painfully.

Nesta sat in silence for a long time, her mind drifted to the way Liandrin had cared for her. The way she'd scolded her when she skipped meals, the subtle touches of her hand on Nesta’s back after training, the comfort in her presence even when neither of them spoke. She thought of how Liandrin would frown and tell her off in that sharp voice that somehow always made her feel steadier, more whole and safe.

With a tired groan, Nesta leaned back on the bed, folding the note and pressing it to her chest for a moment. The scent of Liandrin’s perfume lingered faintly on the sheets.

And then the absurdity of it struck her. She hadn’t eaten again. The older woman would have already launched into a scolding tirade by now.

With a sigh, Nesta turned toward the door. She would go get something to eat. It was what Liandrin would want her to do. But even as she walked away from the room, her thoughts lingered on the note, on the absence, and on the woman who had come to mean so much to her.

-

The dining hall was half-full, buzzing with quiet conversation, clinking utensils, and the occasional barked laughter of Warders. Nesta moved through it all like a ghost. Her steps were steady, but her thoughts were far from present.

She gathered a simple tray of roasted chicken, root vegetables, and bread, barely glancing at the food before she sat alone at a small table tucked into the corner.

She could still feel the ghost of Liandrin’s presence on her skin. The faint warmth of her last touch, the sting of her absence echoing louder with each bite she forced down. She hadn’t realized how ravenous she was until halfway through the plate, but even then, she ate with mechanical focus. No real pleasure, just pure need.

Her mind was still on that note, tucked away in the inner pocket of her robes. Every time she blinked, she could see Liandrin’s handwriting burned into her thoughts.

“You’re eating alone?” came a familiar voice.

Nesta looked up, fork halfway to her mouth.

Alanna Sedai, dressed in green robes, her hair tumbling around her shoulders. The Aes Sedai had a softness to her that masked her power. Her presence was warm and radiant in the way all Greens seemed to glow. There was something softer in her eyes today, though. Not the usual tension that used to spark between them. But more like the tentative openness.

“I usually do, Alanna Sedai.” Nesta said coolly, placing her fork down.

The Green Sister took a slow breath, then gestured toward the chair across from her. “May I?”

Nesta studied her for a moment, then gave a small nod.

Alanna sat gracefully, folding her hands on the table as if she were preparing for something delicate. “I heard about your training.” Alanna said gently. “You’ve been pushing hard.”

Nesta’s eyes flickered. “That’s the idea.”

“You’re close to your test.”

“I’m ready.” Nesta said confidently.

Alanna tilted her head, eyes flickering with something fond. “Of course you think you’re ready. That’s the kind of fire you’ve always had. It’s admirable.”

Nesta didn’t respond.

Alanna’s voice softened. “You still haven’t chosen an Ajah.”

“I have." Nesta said, her tone firm.

Alanna let out a quiet sigh. “You’re not Red.”

Nesta’s expression didn’t change. “And you don’t get to decide that.”

“I’m not saying that to insult you.” Alanna replied, her voice carefully measured. “I’m saying it because you’re too full of love to wall yourself off like that. I’ve seen it in you, Nesta. The way you protect or the way you care. Even when you try not to.

Nesta leaned back in her chair, eyes narrowing slightly. “You don’t know me.”

“I’ve been watching you since the day you arrived at the Tower. You burned like fire, angry at the world, angry at yourself. But still, there is so much strength in you.” Alanna’s voice lowered.

“And where exactly do you think I do belong?”

Alanna smiled, though it didn’t quite reach her eyes. “Somewhere you’re allowed to feel. To protect others and not just to punish. We fight for the world, for life, for balance, and for hope.”

The Green Sister’s eyes softened further. “You care deeply and that’s not a weakness, Nesta. That’s a strength. Especially for someone who’s chosen such a hard path.”

“I didn’t choose it for comfort.”

“No, you chose it for her.” Alanna said.

The silence between them cracked like ice. Nesta blinked, not because she was surprised, but because the truth of it struck deep.

“She’s Red. And you think that if you follow her, you’ll stay close. That you’ll be stronger together. Maybe even protect her from whatever path she walks.”

Nesta’s throat tightened. “And what if that’s true?”

“Then I hope she’s worth what it costs you. But promise me one thing.”

“What?” Nesta’s defensive gaze lifted again.

“Don’t lose yourself in her.” There was something deeply maternal in her tone.

“I’m not some wide-eyed novice clinging to the first woman who touched me with tenderness.” Nesta snapped, but there was no heat behind the words.

Alanna didn’t flinch. “No, you’re not. But even steel bends under the right pressure. And real love changes the shape of things.”

Nesta simply stared at her, and after a long pause, Alanna whispered, “Just don’t shut the door completely. The Green Ajah would welcome you if you ever wanted to feel something beyond the need to prove yourself.”

The younger woman said nothing, as she stared down at the half-finished plate and pushed it away. Alanna’s words had landed like seeds. But the only thing Nesta could feel right now, beyond frustration or stubbornness, was the hollow ache that had bloomed in her chest since she found that note.

She had no idea where Liandrin was, and she hadn’t even gotten to say goodbye.

-

The morning fog clung to the forest floor like a shroud, thick and heavy as damp wool. It curled around Liandrin’s boots with every step, swallowing the sound of twigs snapping beneath her. The stillness stretched taut across the trees, not even a bird’s call.

Something was wrong. She didn’t like the silence. It felt designed.

Blue eyes scanned the path ahead, narrowing beneath her hood. She wore fitted red trousers tucked into scuffed leather boots, more practical than elegant.

Joline walked at her side, younger and greener in every sense, though still a full Aes Sedai. Her confidence hadn’t yet been tested, but she clung to her pride like a shield.

Her Warder had been sent ahead to scout. They hadn’t seen him since. “Something’s not right.” Joline said under her breath.

Liandrin didn’t respond, but she felt it too. The stillness wasn’t natural. It was the kind of silence that sank into your bones. A silence that only came before death. Her fingers curled and uncurled at her sides, already brushing the edge of the One Power. She didn’t dare seize it yet, not until a deafening roar split the air.

Then the trees exploded.

The first Trolloc came charging through the fog, an axe the size of a wagon wheel in its grip. Joline cried out, but her reaction was too slow. The axe caught her clean through her head. With a wet, horrible sound, she dropped without a word, lifeless before she hit the earth.

Blood splattered across Liandrin’s face, hot and sharp-smelling. She didn’t scream, she didn’t gasp.

The Power flooded into her, a sharp and electric burn, almost painful in its fullness. It crashed into her like a storm tide, boiling in her veins, pushing past her ribs, into her skull, making her fingers buzz with heat and light.

Trollocs poured from the woods, five, ten, twenty of them, snarling with inhuman fury, blades and axes raised. The fog behind them seemed to part for their charge like the breath of the Dark One himself.

Liandrin didn’t hesitate. She twisted her arms forward and sent a whip of fire arcing through the first line of beasts. Flesh burned. Bones cracked. The stench of charred fur filled her nose, made her stomach twist.

She fought with practiced precision, each weave sharp and deadly. But they didn’t stop.

A massive Trolloc rushed her. She dodged left, but it was too late. Its axe caught her thigh, slicing through fabric and muscle. The pain exploded through her like lightning. She gasped, stumbling back, but she quickly turned the pain into rage.

With a growl, she drove fire through the beast’s gut and watched it collapse.

Another came from behind, moving faster than the others, its heavy steps shaking the ground. The force of its attack hit Liandrin like a mountain. Claws raked across her ribs, digging deep into her flesh, the sharp pain flashing white-hot through her body. She gasped, the air torn from her lungs as she staggered back, struggling to stay on her feet.

Before she could react, it was upon her again. The Trolloc’s thick, matted fur brushed against her as its monstrous hand shot out, curling around her braid with a terrifying grip. The world tilted as it yanked her off her feet, her head snapping back. The braid, a signature of her identity, her strength, was now the weapon that had betrayed her.

Liandrin gasped in shock, her breath catching as her body was lifted, the force of the pull disorienting. For a brief, terrifying moment, she was weightless. Then, with brutal finality, she was hurled into the nearest tree, her back slamming into the trunk with a sickening thud.

Her bones rattled with the impact, the breath punched out of her chest. For a second, all she could hear was the ringing in her ears, high-pitched and relentless, drowning out the world around her. Her skull cracked against the rough bark, sending shards of pain into her brain, like a bolt of lightning splitting her head open.

The ground spun beneath her, a dizzying vortex of movement that seemed to swallow the world whole. Her breath came shallow and rapid, each inhale a struggle, the air burning as it passed through her cracked ribs. Everything hurt, every muscle, every bone, every inch of her body screamed in protest. The raw pain from the gash on her side pulsed with every movement, the blood from the wound slick and cold against her skin. Her head throbbed, her skull still ringing from the impact with the tree, a dull, pounding ache that clouded her thoughts.

Despite the agony, despite the overwhelming desire to collapse and surrender to the dark embrace of unconsciousness, Liandrin pushed herself upright. Her arms trembled with the effort, the strength in her limbs fading with each passing moment. She swayed, her vision swimming, as if the very world itself was uncertain of where it should be.

For a moment, the only sound was the ragged rhythm of her breath, a desperate, gasping thing that echoed in her ears. Her heart thundered in her chest, each beat sending a shockwave of pain through her battered body. She felt as if she were a hollow vessel, every part of her body consumed by agony and yet still too determined to fall.

Her vision flickered, black spots danced in her sight, threatening to pull her back into the darkness, but she refused to let it. She fought to steady herself, focusing on the single thought that kept her tethered to the world, she had to survive.

And so she did. With a ferocity born from desperation, Liandrin raised her hands, calling upon the One Power. The weave burned through her like fire, her fingers trembling as she forced Air to tear limbs from torsos. Her control was slipping, her weaves growing sloppier as the exhaustion of battle and the searing pain in her body clouded her focus. She could feel the power slipping through her fingers, but she clung to it. Desperation and fury fed her.

The Trollocs fell before her, one by one. She lashed out, the Power crackling in the air like an inferno, her eyes wild with rage and agony. The trees around her were scorched, their once vibrant bark blackened by her fury, the fog that had surrounded them dissipating into a cloud of smoke and ash. The ground was soaked, not just with blood but with the remnants of battle. The thick scent of burning flesh, the metallic tang of spilled life, and the acrid smoke that clung to the air.

She didn’t stop until there were no more of them. Until the clearing was littered with the twisted bodies of the Trollocs, their dark blood staining the earth beneath her feet. And even then, she could barely bring herself to acknowledge the silence that settled over her like a weight. The battle was over.

Liandrin dragged her leg behind her as she took a step forward. Her muscles were shredded, tendons torn, and she could feel the wetness of blood seeping through the fabric of her pants, sticky and thick. Every movement was agony, each step like walking through fire. But she moved, one foot after the other, because she had no other choice.

Her side was on fire, the pain a constant companion that gnawed at her with every breath. The gash was deep, she could tell, maybe more than one cracked rib. It wasn’t the worst of her injuries. Her face, however, felt like it was swelling by the second. She could barely feel her cheek, her nose throbbing with each pulse of blood. But she didn’t care, because she didn’t have the time. She had to keep moving.

The thought was a steady drumbeat in her mind, keeping her grounded, even as her body screamed for rest. Her legs trembled with each step, muscles torn and weak, but the force of her will was stronger than the pain. The ground seemed to shift beneath her, and she grabbed for a nearby tree, her hand shaking as she wrapped her fingers around the rough bark, using it for balance. Her vision swam, her head spinning with dizziness, but still, she forced herself upright, refusing to fall.

Her breath came shallow and labored, each inhale a struggle. She set her sights forward, to the direction of Tar Valon. The White Tower. She didn’t know if she could make it all the way back, but she couldn’t stop.

It was then, amidst the hollow, painful quiet of the woods, that her thoughts flickered to Nesta.

The name washed over her like a soft, fleeting breeze, a gentle reminder that not all was lost. Not everything had to be as grim as it seemed. Her body ached, but her mind held onto that image, Nesta’s fierce, burning eyes. The way she looked at her like she saw something that others didn’t. Something that Liandrin didn’t often let herself believe in. She wasn’t just another Aes Sedai to her. No, Nesta really saw her for who she is.

And that thought, that one tiny piece of warmth, anchored her as she limped forward, dragging her battered body through the trees.

Not duty. Not vengeance. Not the weight of the Tower’s demands. What fueled her now was simpler than that. It was the thought of Nesta’s smile, the touch of her hand, the sound of her own name on Nesta’s lips.

Her body was a ruin, but she refused to fall. She couldn’t let herself die out here, not alone, not in this forest where no one would remember her. The thought made her stomach twist, the cold bitterness of it rising in her chest. She had lived too long, fought too hard, for this to be where her story ended.

No. She would crawl back to the Tower if she had to. She would fight through every wave of nausea, every staggered breath, until she could hold onto the feeling of being wanted, of being needed by someone. Especially when, someone who saw her as more than a tool, more than a weapon. Someone who made her feel like she was worth something beyond just her power.

Nesta was waiting. That thought alone was enough to pull her forward, to drive her when her body threatened to give out. She had to make it back.

[thereareeyesinsidethetrees]

thoughts on every gravity falls episode except the last time we watched the full series was back when we had our wisdom teeth removed and they range from actual insightful thoughts to ‘heheh >:]’

first!! honorable mention: the pilot episode! ae always liked this one, though the show we got definitely is much better. also boo-berry

tourist trapped - immaculate intro episode. introduces the characters we’ll be seeing most often, gives us a decent idea of what they’re like (even stan, we get to see him giving the kids stuff for free just to cheer them up), and it introduces the weirdness of gravity falls, all in a pretty well-paced manner. good episode, very good, 10/10

the legend of the gobblewonker - fiddleford introduction episode!! also gobblewonker our beloved <3 the photos of them spending time with stan in the end are so wholesome, they all look so happy, *squeak of delight*

headhunters - so incredibly depressing once you know about ford. is so startled to see a statue of himself that he shouts and falls backwards (is that how he would’ve reacted if ford had shown up in the shack suddenly?). screams and stutters when he finds the statue beheaded, something we never really see him doing, at least not all that often. cries and has to run out of the room when he’s in the funeral. is so happy to get the statue’s head back and put it back on the body. :[

the hand that rocks the mabel - UNCOMFY. it was good! we learn there’s another journal, and it introduces an antagonist we’ll be seeing a lot of. dipper being willing to break up with gideon for mabel because she feels too trapped to do so herself is so lovely, ae love them. episode really nailed the whole icky squirmy bad she was feeling

the inconveniencing - this was our favorite episode for a while, and it’s still one of our top beloveds

dipper vs. manliness - TRANS TRANS TRANS TRANS- oh ahem sorry. got overtaken by a ghost or somethin for a moment there

double dipper - the clones were fun, ae liked them a lot. it’s a very neat concept that a lot can be done with, it was nice to see dipper and tyrone make up and talk, and ae’m very glad they kept dipper 3 and 4 alive to the very end. also ae completely forgot the reason the clones were even made was cause romance or somethin

irrational treasure - ae live for mabel having it affirmed to her that her silliness is not a bad thing, and that’s she’s best just being who she is and not trying to dampen that

the time traveler’s pig - waddles yippie!! also stan turning mabel, who is so depressed she’s been standing in the same place long enough for vines to grow on her and just keeps knocking her head against a pole and muttering ‘waddles’, into a tourist attraction is wild. time travel is confusing, that too

fight fighters - ae am firmly under the belief that stan’s fear was not as cured as he thought it was. mabel and him being on the water tower was neat. we liked those scenes

little dipper - always liked the scene with stan in the mirror maze with gideon. he’s so clever, but then gideon starts breaking shit and stan’s like ‘hEY KNOCK IT OFF’. stan just sort of. kicking him out the door and closing it with such a ‘done with this bullshit’ expression on his face

summerween - another one of our top beloved episodes, and the most nostalgic one for us. we love summerween <3

boss mabel - this was an interesting, but good, one. ae saw some really neat fanart of a scene from it, but ae don’t know who made it and ae have since lost it. basic rundown is that it was art of the scene where the couple look into the gremloblin’s eyes and need to be brought to the hospital, except there was like. a gif of multiple pictures of real eyes in the gremloblin’s eyes. cool stuff

bottomless pit - ae liked the stories :]

the deep end - it was good, we just aren’t that into it personally. it’s like…one of those episodes you put on in the background cause you like it so you don’t mind listening to it but it’s not your favorite enough that you’re going to be distracted by it y’know

carpet diem - ohhhh this is also a very very very good one, yes yes yes

boyz crazy - remember lebam

land before swine - yippie, dinosaurs!! but also a very uncomfortable episode for us, just for. personal reasons

dreamscaperers - wh- there’s two ‘er’s?? since when??

gideon rises - spoilers, he, in fact, does not. also poor waddles :[

scary-oke - ae like this one a lot!!! that’s it! ae like it! it’s good!

into the bunker - idk shifty seemed kinda like. murderous. and intentionally traumatizing. to us. more than anything

the golf war - poor sergio man. honestly the first thing that comes to mind when watching this episode is 1. pit colas have actual pits in them and 2. pacifica getting yanked backwards into the bushes

sock opera - puppet boy puppet boy you’re the one ae glooooooooooovvvvveeee

soos and the real girl - melody intro!!! also soos has a cousin that looks almost exactly like him but is significantly less desirable

little gift shop of horrors - ae liked stan’s stories. also he canonically kidnapped someone and put them on display

society of the blind eye - gives much more characterization to fiddleford plus a bit of his past. the scene of him accepting it and thanking the kids for helping him is so heartwarming

blendin’s game - ae invoke gLOBNARRRRRRRRRR

the love god - ae’m sure you can guess our thoughts on this one

northwest mansion mystery - ae love this one just for the characterization and growth it gives pacifica. main reason that she’s one of our top favorite characters

not what he seems - FERAL SCREECHJNG (POSITIVE)

a tale of two stans - 12/10. it was the best of times. it was the worst of times

dungeons, dungeons, & more dungeons - this is where one of our favorite ford quotes came from

the stanchurian candidate - we never really liked this one. not sure why. it’s just not for us, ae guess

the last mabelcorn - very good episode! very very…imperch

roadside attraction - is it bad that we consider stan getting baited and fucked over by a spider lady the best part of the episode

dipper and mabel vs. the future - top favorite episode of all time. our number one

weirdmaggedon one - oHHHHHH SHIT

weirdmaggedon two - mabel and dipper. pat pat. you agree

weirdmaggedon three - sobs it’s so perfect…stan :[ and the credits ❤️‍🩹❤️‍🩹❤️‍🩹❤️‍🩹❤️‍🩹❤️‍🩹❤️‍🩹❤️‍🩹❤️‍🩹

y’know. ae think making this list was a good idea. reminds us why we love this series so much. yeah, the fandom sucks, but that was never what it was about. it was about the world and the characters and what it all means to us. and what it means to us is everything <3

[asweetprologue]

me lámh le do lámh - Part II

First | Next | Masterpost

He went straight to Vizima to find Triss, once he’d made his way out of Kaedwen. It wasn’t directly on the way to Oxenfurt, but it was close enough that he didn’t feel he was making an unreasonable digression. Though he was nervous about locating his bard, he needed to know what this Ida person could tell him.

Triss was as welcoming as always, greeting him with a brief press of cheeks and a light embrace. Yennefer had told her of Geralt’s mission, but she was unable to assist him on the first day, busy with treating several commoners who had come down with a sickness. Nothing of a magical nature, but it did detain her for much of the day after Geralt’s arrival. He busied himself in the city, restocking on potion ingredients that he’d run low on over the long winter, dropping his armor off to be reinforced, and picking up a slim cloth bracelet for Jaskier. It was a soft blue color, with silver beads spaced evenly over the surface, and Geralt thought it would please him.

Gods. He was in trouble.

That evening he dined with Triss in her quarters, despite the fact that it was wildly inappropriate. Geralt asked after it, and Triss laughed dismissively.

“That is a delightful sentiment, but no one is questioning my dalliances,” she said with a grin. “They’re too afraid I’ll turn them into toads if they irritate me. And besides, half the Continent believes that you’re courting Yennefer because of the bard’s silly songs, and the other half thinks you’re courting the bard.”

Ah. “Well,” Geralt said, articulately.

Triss smirked at him over her wine. It was exceptionally good, a vintage from Toussaint that was nearly as old as Geralt. Triss’ quarters were fairly large, befitting a court mage, but decorated in a way that made them seem almost cozy. She favored muted colors that turned rich in the light of the candles scattered around the room. There were dozens of tables and shelves crowded with books, herbs and knick knacks that made the space feel distinctly lived in. It was a stark contrast to Yennefer’s lodgings, which were always immaculate and finely organized. The clutter was a refreshing change of pace. “Yennefer told me that you’re trying to make the bard immortal,” Triss said. One of her eyebrows rose, and Geralt wasn’t sure if the look she gave him was impressed or judgemental.

“Not necessarily,” Geralt said defensively. “Just not so, uh.”

“Excessively mortal?”

He hummed. Triss sighed.

“I don’t know of anything to lengthen a human lifespan to that of a witcher’s,” she said. “But the elves have been dealing in things relating to life force for longer than there have been human mages on the Continent. If anyone has any knowledge of what you’re after, it will be the Aen Saevherne.”

Geralt nodded. “Yennefer told me to ask after a woman named Ida. A sage?”

Triss set her goblet down, looking grave. “Ida Emean. An old acquaintance of mine. Perhaps one of the last elven sages alive, though they’re so secretive it’s difficult to tell. She works occasionally with the Brotherhood, when their goals align. But you need to know, Geralt, even if she has an answer for you, this kind of magic comes with a price. Always.”

“I’m willing to pay it,” Geralt said. “Jaskier, he’s—”

Triss interrupted him with a gentle smile, brushing her fingers over the back of his hand on the table. “I know what he is to you. I want to help. I just want you to be careful.” Geralt wondered when he’d become this transparent to, apparently, half the Continent and every one of his close friends. The sorceresses were probably gossiping behind his back.

“How will you contact her?” Geralt asked, pushing through his embarrassment. He wished saving Jaskier’s fragile human life didn’t involve so many conversations about his unrequited love.

“Megascope,” Triss said, rising. “We’ll need to do it soon, when the moon rises. It will make the connection stronger; I’m not sure where she is.”

Geralt followed her into a room off of the main sitting area, a small space that was almost entirely dominated by Triss’ megascope. He’d seen its like numerous times at Kaer Morhen, where Yennefer had set her own up in the highest tower still standing. The large crystal disks swam with a cool blue light as Triss waved her hand through the air. Three brass arms rose up to hold them at shoulder level, facing inwards to form a triangle. The soft light filled the dark space, throwing Triss’ face into sharp relief before Geralt snapped a finger to light the candles in the room.

Triss stepped up in front of the negative space between the stands, uttering a few words in Elder that Geralt wasn’t familiar with. After a moment the light began to shimmer and twist around itself, slowly solidifying into a human form.

The figure was indistinct, as they usually were in megascope projections, but Geralt could tell that the woman was beautiful. Used to dealing with elves in the south, whose genes had been diluted with human blood over so many centuries, Geralt was taken aback by the sharpness of her features. Her neck was long and elegant, and her hair fell in sheets around her alien features. He was reminded suddenly of his encounter with the elves of the Blue Mountains so many years ago, the inhuman angle of Filavandrel’s cheekbones.

The smoky figure turned towards Triss first, her head dropping in a brief nod. “Triss Merigold. Keidmil.” Ida said in greeting.

Triss nodded in return, her curls bouncing with the motion. “Keidmil, Ida. I apologize for summoning you with so little warning. I have done so as a favor to a friend.” At this Ida’s eyes, empty orbs of swirling blue light in the megascope, fell on Geralt.

“Vatgern,” she said, with the tone of someone who has just discovered something fascinating but slightly repulsive on the bottom of their shoe. “You have friends in high places, wed. What business does a witcher have with me?” Her accent made the words almost musical.

Geralt’s nod of acknowledgement was more of a bow. He wasn’t normally one to show deference to those with power, but this time his heart was pounding in his ears as he leaned forward. If Ida wouldn’t help him, he would be back to square one before he’d even really begun. “Keidmil, Aen Saevherne,” he said as demurely as he could, which probably still came out sounding like gravel. “I was told by Yennefer of Vengerberg that you might have some knowledge on extending human lifespans.”

Ida’s head tilted a tic to the side, clearly intrigued. “Witchers already live near as long as any half-elf on the Continent,” she replied. “There is no spell that could give you the lifespan of a true Aen Seidhe.”

“It isn’t for myself,” Geralt said quickly. “It’s for a human. Someone I… care deeply about.” He ignored the way his face flamed at this admission, no matter how clear it was that Triss obviously knew about his infatuation. He’d barely admitted it aloud to himself, let alone anyone else.

Ida hummed, the sound vibrating through the megascope. “This has precedent. But the spell you seek does not come without cost.”

“Tell me,” Geralt said firmly.

“There has always been conflict between humankind and the Aes Seidhe. Our peoples have crossed gweld an gleidyf many times over the millennia. But there were always times when there was peace, coexistence. In the early days, before the blood of men diluted our own, the Aes Seidhe could live through half a dozen human lifetimes or more. It was taboo to form relationships with humans, and many did not bother. But there were, of course, exceptions.

“It is unclear where the ritual comes from, but the tales say that one of the Aen Saevherne fell in love with a human woman, who then fell gravely ill as she entered her twilight years. The sage, terrified of losing her, bound her lifeforce to his own, effectively extending her life at the cost of some of his own longevity. Over the years the ritual was refined by others. It has fallen out of practice, in this age; many of the Aes Seidhe’s bloodlines are so diluted that they live for no longer than twice a human lifetime. But the ritual remains.”

Geralt swallowed. “Can you explain it to me?”

“I can,” Ida said, her chin raising slightly. “But I do not need to tell you, vatgern, that all such magic comes with consequences. You cannot create those years from nothing; they must be drawn from somewhere. And you will be binding yourself to this human. I cannot say how this ritual will impact someone who is not of elvish blood.”

He could feel Triss turning worried eyes on him. She too knew the price that magic could demand. “Will Ja—the human, could he be harmed?” Geralt asked.

Ida’s head shook back and forth, her hair swaying. “You assume the responsibility of the ritual,” she said. “Is this human worth so much to you?”

“Yes,” Geralt said instantly, surprised by his own lack of hesitation. “Anything.”

Ida looked at him for a moment, as if judging his truthfulness. “Very well,” she finally said. “I will give you the words, but the ritual requires additional pieces. Gaes carraigh, an oathstone, for the vow; ghealachlíon, night’s linseed, for the binding; and ionad, a place of great power or great personal meaning. Once these elements are combined, you bind your hands with the moonflax over the oathstone and speak the incantation. It is straightforward, but your pronunciation and your intent must be exact. Me lámh le do lámh, me cáerme le do cáerme.”

“Me lámh le do lámh, me cáerme le do cáerme,” Geralt repeated. The words were easy, close enough to their modern counterparts that he was certain it would be nearly identical in southern Elder. It was almost too easy, romantic in its simplicity. Ida nodded, satisfied. “And that’s all?” Geralt asked, breathless.

“That is all. There need be no officiant, no further ceremony. You will be bound by Chaos herself.”

“Officiant?” Geralt blinked, confused. “Why would we need an officiant?”

“I have been told that human marriages tend to involve quite a few witnesses,” Ida said, sounding amused. “Ours are a bit more personal.”

“Wait. This is a marriage ritual?” Geralt felt his heart starting to sink down into his stomach.

“I thought that much was obvious,” Ida replied. “Now, if that is all you require, I have my own business to attend to.”

“Me grasha, Ida, for taking the time,” Triss piped up again. “If you ever need a favor in return…”

“I will keep that in mind,” Ida said. “Va feil.”

“Va feil,” Triss replied, and the megascoped dimmed and cast the room back into darkness.

Geralt stood in utter stillness for a moment, blinking into the dark. “Fuck,” he burst out. “I have to marry him?”

Triss just laughed.

*

Triss, luckily, knew the locations of most of the components Ida had mentioned, though the last location would be up to Geralt to determine. The first of these, the oathstone, was used frequently enough in larger elven settlements before their people were displaced. She had recommended the ruins of Ban Aine as a likely findspot, and it was situated not too far from Oxenfurt. That was to be his first real stop, to collect Jaskier and convince him of Geralt’s plan.

Hopefully without revealing too much about the exact nature of the ritual, which still made Geralt sweat when he thought about it for too long.

He couldn’t help but think of it with a strange mix of giddiness and dread, churning together in a nauseating concoction. Marriage wasn’t something that witchers got to do, ever. Their lives were transient and drawn out, and often ended in violence. Even if any of them had the time to court lovers, it wasn’t the type of life that one would wish on someone they cared for. It could only end one of two ways: the witcher outlived their paramour, or their love was left to grieve them after they were gutted by some beast or strung up by an angry mob.

Even when Geralt had been infatuated with Yennefer he hadn’t truly considered anything like marriage. He had imagined a kind of loose commitment, maybe, but he had always known somewhere deep in his own mind that Yennefer would never stand to be tied down to anyone for long. He had been desperate enough for her love that he’d been willing to settle for anything she could give him.

He had never dared to hope for more, no matter how he might want it. Still, once he had come to understand his own feelings towards Jaskier, he had been unable to stop himself from thinking about it at times. He wondered what things might change between them, if they tied themselves together. Things might stay much the same; Jaskier would come to Kaer Morhen most years, and journey with Geralt when he could throughout the rest of the year. He would bring trinkets and books and stories for Ciri, and teach her how to be human, and trade quips with Yennefer and the other wolves when they all gathered. He would still help Geralt clean up after a hunt, help him stitch his skin back together and wash away the grime and curl up at his side when night came. But maybe he would also let Geralt wake him by pressing his lips to Jaskier’s eyelids like he had so often yearned to do. Maybe he would reach out and hold Geralt’s hand as they walked through a new town; maybe he would close the distance kept between them when they lay in tiny rented beds.

Maybe he could be Geralt’s, and no one else’s.

He was successful, most of the time, in keeping these kinds of thoughts at bay. It did a witcher no good to dwell on what could not be.

Now it would be, if only technically, and only if Geralt could convince Jaskier to perform the ritual without giving away its origins. He considered telling Jaskier the full truth of it, of course. It was probable that Jaskier wouldn’t even care. In his mind, they were only friends; it would be easy enough to set aside the implications of the ritual in favor of practicality. It would be ridiculous to turn down the chance at potentially doubling his own lifespan just because hundreds of years ago an ancient ritual was used for romantic unions.

But every time Geralt thought of telling Jaskier, and of hearing him dismiss Geralt’s concerns, he felt something black and dreadful crawl up his throat. Jaskier would think it was silly, the idea that he could ever be married to a witcher. He would laugh, with that sly grin he always got when they were sharing a joke between them—isn’t that funny, the look would say, the idea of you and me.

No. If he said nothing, Jaskier would never have to know, and what he didn’t know wouldn’t hurt him. Geralt would never hold him to any sort of bond that the ritual created between them; he would be happy knowing that Jaskier wouldn’t be taken from him by time and old age, at least not yet.

And at least he would have something of Jaskier for himself, even if he’d had to steal it.

[i-mybrunettelady]

Promises

Preface: I recently played Liberating Apatia with my alt and it hurt. Seriously. I was grasping at the screen, as if I didn’t know what would happen. Coincidentally, I also did this with Nyra like.. 4 years ago. So, have this brain fruit.

--------- Hoelbrak, 1325 AE

Her cheeks are red, whether from cold or drink or both Trahearne doesn’t know. She’s a weight on his side, her hair, once tied but now a mess blown by the cold, night wind, tickles him but he doesn’t have the heart to let her drop to the snow beneath their feet.

“I can always hoist the Commander up and carry her if she’s too heavy,” merchant Leif offers.

“No need,” Trahearne says, but hides how little he likes the idea. Nyra - Lyss, less than immaculate perfection of the human goddess, but nevertheless aptly named, looks up, baring her teeth.

“I can walk on my own,” she slurs but squishes herself against his side anyway. “Apatia didn’t-” Heaving stops her from continuing that thought.

“You can’t,” Trahearne says softly. “It’s a good thing we chose to stay the night. Just try not to slide down the rise, alright?”

She blinks. The redness of her cheeks clashes against the blue of her eyes. “It’s a rise?”

“Indeed,” Trahearne agrees. It’s remarkable, how she switches between otherworldly brave and so frailly human without so much as an effort. Her cheeks are stained with tears, full lips open as she tries forming words that are more than mumbled breath.

“Gods,” she says finally. “Gods somewhere in the Mists.” 

“Commander, you can carry your drink,” Leif comments. “How much do you humans drink in Kryta?”

She releases her iron grip on Trahearne’s side to fall to the ground and throw up as a response. “Remember, after we retook Claw Island,” she mumbles when she’s done, “Apatia drank the tavern like the norn she was.” She then sobs and it echoes in the night where not even animals dare leave the comfort of their warm dens. “She didn’t deserve it, I’ll drown Zhaitan and the krait in-in-in-”

“Lyss,” Trahearne sighs, helping her up. He feels her tremble in rage she can’t express any other way. He wonders what would’ve Riannoc looked like this carried away, would he have grabbed on Trahearne’s body like this, but she isn’t Riannoc. Her skin is more gentle, warm, she has a heartbeat and she feels warm against his side and he just wants to whisk her away from whatever pain this war causes her and kiss her senseless.

By the Pale Tree.

“Hearne,” she says weakly, shaking still. “Don’t call me that, I’m not Lyss, I’m not-”

“Sh, sh,” he kisses her head. “We’ll go up and you’ll sleep this off, alright?”

“My offer still stands,” Leif adds. Suddenly Trahearne wants him to leave somewhere else.

“I can continue on my own from here,” he says as firmly as he can. “Dismissed.”

“But I want to kiss you,” she says, like it’s the most obvious thing in the world. And it is. He’s known for a solid while that the lingering glances aren’t accidental and a part of him still can’t believe someone like her could possibly return his feelings, but she also hasn’t moved beyond that.

And he wants to do the same, and he’s been gathering courage, but there was no time between the missions and organisation and now she’s drunk and he can’t take advantage of her like this and who knows when will the next free moment strike?

How he wishes Lief were gone!

Lief cackles. “I’ll go, lovebirds,” he says, as if they haven’t just left a funeral. Trahearne watches him turn and leave, annoyed, only to feel Nyra’s gaze boring into him.

“Kiss me,” she repeats.

“You’re drunk,” he tries not to get his irritation in his response. “Not when you’re drunk.”

“Hearne, please. I’m cold and I have Apatia’s blood on my hands. Please.”

“Almost there. You’ll warm under the furs.”

“Please. I can’t think of anything else, please.”

He’s unsure what she means by that, so he doesn’t respond. Instead, he holds her close and crosses the rest of the distance to their room for the night in a tense silence. She’s crying against his shoulder.

Once they’re inside, he guides her to the bed. “Sit,” he orders, though he can’t resist adding, “Marshal’s orders.”

“A kiss request, sir?” she repeats, looking up. Fire from a nearby torch shines on her face and her hair, softening the lines of her cheekbones.

“Denied,” he says, giving her hair a little order. His hand stays on her cheek, wet under his fingers. “When Zhaitan falls, I’ll give you all the kisses you wish. But not now, not like this.” He leans in, rests his forehead against hers. “And it will fall.” He almost feels like has to convince himself, but somehow, with her here, it’s easier to believe it.

And he has to believe it, for Tyria, and the kisses he’s promised her.

[sleepless-in-starbucks]

I am living. I remember you.

Ao3 link

Summary: There is a special sort of pain to be found in the aftermath for a victim who was only hurt through watching. Your sword is gone. You can’t fight. You can’t run. You can’t move. You can only cry out, barter, plead, beg, your words not just landing on deaf ears but theirs, in pain, needing you, screaming for you, only to hear your pitiful screams back, the only resistance you offer against their tormentor. Prompt from @villlainarc​ Content: I Should Have Been Better, ~trauma~, panic attacks, flashbacks to blood/violence (nothing explicit), mentions of knives/claws/cutting, self-blame/victim-blaming (as in roman’s the victim and he’s blaming himself), 2nd person POV, enby logan and remy Pairing: Rolosleep ( @badthingshappenbingo​ )

     You are in bed. Your partners are in your arms. They are asleep.

You should be asleep too but you are not, due largely to a lack of trying. You do not want to be asleep. You cannot be asleep. You have people to protect.

For a moment, you close your eyes. You will not sleep, but it is still a sweet moment, with the warmth of your partners and the not-quite-silent silence of sleep.

Blades. Claws. Cuts. Bleeding. Blood, so much blood, it’s drowning you out, drowning them out, blood, blood, blood- screaming.

Your eyes shoot open and you force yourself not to flinch, even as you feel your heart beat like it’s trying to win the race you lost. You cannot wake them. They need their sleep.

Deep breath. In. Out. You are okay.

You turn your gaze on them now; your partners, your loves, your life encompassed and encapsulated within two people. Remy, your sun, with a smile that burns almost everyone else but warms you and confident eyes you love to sink into. Logan, your moon, with a voice as calming as gentle rainfall and a charm as cool as finest poured-silver.

They are your day and night, your confidence and strength, your most fanciful daydreams given form. It is almost too blasphemous a thought to let cross your mind unchallenged, but if they were to reveal themselves to you as gods taken earthly form you wonder if you would even be surprised.

Their blood is red, red like your sash, red like the rubies in your crown, red like the crest you were wearing when you swore to protect them.

If they are gods, they have the most earthly of forms.

Deep breath. In. Out. In. Out. In. Out. You are okay.

You hold them closer to you. Stiffen when you feel Remy begin to stir, shifting against you. Relax when ae does, pressing aeir face closer to your stomach and curling tighter around you before ae resumes sleeping peacefully.

You trace patterns with no meaning lightly into aeir skin as you admire aeir, peaceful and calm in sleep. Ae is always beautiful, but you can’t help but fall in deeper in love with aeir as you watch aeir now.

Logan does not move, but you still turn your gaze upon them too. They’re leaned against your side, your arm around their shoulder anchoring them, keeping them beside you. Their face is not hidden against you, their countenance worry-free and immaculate. 

If it were a better night, you would kiss the both of them, let impulse guide you and wake them with your adoration. But they need their sleep. 

Instead you focus on their serene beauty. The lack of stress lines creasing their faces. You consider how dearly they must trust you to be so at ease with you in such a vulnerable way.

Your sword is gone. You can’t fight. You can’t run. You can’t move. You can only cry out, barter, plead, beg, your words not just landing on deaf ears but theirs, in pain, needing you, screaming for you, only to hear your pitiful screams back, the only resistance you offer against their tormentor.

They should not trust you.

Deep breath. In. Out. In. Out. In. Out. In. Out. In. Out. In. Out. You are okay.

Normally you are even more okay than this. It has been months, rapidly approaching a year. You have moments, but nothing that consumes you like this.

But then you had seen the dragon figurine left carelessly in the hall, a paper witch hat tapped to its head. It was nothing but a toy. It could not harm you. There was no reason for you to believe it would.

Yet you still collapsed, chest heaving but not taking in any air, heart racing in your ears rather than in your chest, world tunneling down to nothing but that figurine, that toy, that prop, that stand-in for the real nightmare, as if it were taunting you, a reminder of your greatest failure.

You are frozen, magic-bound. She is half witch and half dragon yet all beast, whether it be knife or claw that finds flesh to mutilate. You are begging. She is smirking. You are watching. She is destroying. You are watching. You are watching. You are watching. You are wa-

Deep breath. In. Out. In. Out. In. Out. In. Out. In.Out.In.Out.InOutInOutInOutInOutInOutInOut-

Panic spikes your heart rate and closes your throat, turning the ringing in your ears into shrieking and the black spots in your eyes into blood splatters. You can still feel your partners beneath your fingertips but it is no longer grounding, as they are not safe, not with you, they never have been.

You cannot move, no longer frozen by magic but by your own failings, the weight of your sins bearing down upon you and refusing to let up. You want to drown it all out but you will never be able to bleed enough to make it up, to pay back your failure in full, to be forgiven. You are choking on a pain that was never yours to claim and there is no way to save yourself from what you know you deserve.

But your plight has been noticed, despite how still you are as you fail to breathe, and there is a rhythm weaving its way through your chest as you are spoken to with a tone you recall and words you can not yet grasp.

You do not deserve to be rescued, but you allow yourself to be, because you are not so selfish as to force them to aid you any longer than strictly necessary when they should be resting.

Remy is still asleep, your tremors masterfully constrained to your upper half, but the consequence of such is that Logan is the one who has awoken, no longer leaned against you but instead sitting up, one hand on your back and one tapping on you chest. They murmur reassurances as your panic recedes, but you can not (will not) process them. You are not worthy of them. You have not been worthy of them for months, rapidly approaching a year.

“Go back to sleep” You say, quietly. You are still trembling, but this is no longer their problem. You are breathing. They need rest.

Logan does not listen to you. “What’s wrong?” Their words are gentle, but firm. They will not push, but they will not let you evade their question either. They are wonderful like that. You do not understand why they are still wonderful to you.

“Nothing.” It’s not believable. You’re aware of this. You still hope it’s enough.

But it’s not. Nothing you offer is enough. 

The hand on your back moves to your shoulder. The hand tapping your chest cups your cheek. A thumb runs underneath your eye.

“You’re crying.”

You’re crying. On top of everything, you are crying. It feels like too much.

“Talk to me.” Logan coaxes, softly, lovingly, as if you are the only thing they care about in that moment, as if all they want right then is to help you.

You don’t know what to say.

Do you tell them to sleep once more, dismissing the concern that you have not earned? Do you lie and say you’re fine? Do you lie and say it’s something else? Do you acknowledge the truth you know they could not have forgotten, that you are not worthy of their care, that you failed them when they needed you most, that you should have been better and can now never make up for the fact that you were not?

“I’m sorry.” Slips out instead.

Logan does not ask what you are referring to. Their hand does not withdraw from your shoulder. Their touch does not leave your face.

“You have nothing to apologize for.” They say instead.

You break.

You’ve heard the sentiment before; from them, from aeir, from both.

You were her victim too.

Just because she didn’t leave you with physical wounds doesn’t mean she left you unharmed.

It wasn’t your fault.

It’s nothing new to you. And you know they are right. You know you could not have seen the attack coming. You know you could not escape the magic as a mere mortal. You know there is a reason she never touched you, only made you watch. You know you didn’t hurt them. You know you were hurt too.

But these are logical reasonings, not emotional. It is your emotions that pull you back to your panic and self-loathing. And it is your emotions that leave you feeling blindsided every time you are reminded of the truth.

You have nothing to be forgiven for.

Logan guides your head to their shoulder and you fall against them without protest, sobbing soundlessly, refusing to wake your sun even amidst your breakdown. Logan holds you close, their arm now around your shoulder, taking on the role of protector while you cannot. Their hand comes to rest upon your head, fingers carding through your hair, more venerable than the weight of any crown.

They do not speak as you cry, but the silence is made comfortable by their actions. Your tears do not last forever, gradually lessening as you sink further into the embrace of your lover and the reassurances you once more believe.

Tenderly, they press a kiss against the top of your forehead. “I love you.” They whisper, like a reminder, like a fact, like an infallible truth.

    You feel Remy shifting once again even as your sight is lost to the crook of your moon’s shoulder, moving with an ease you would not expect from the slumbering as ae settles aeirself higher up your body, head resting directly atop your heart, movements stilling only then.

The motion is familiar. Remy says it calms aeir. You had always assumed it was from the safety of another person promised by the living rhythm. You wonder now if it’s from the reassurance of your safety instead.

You outline a heart symbol on the skin of the back of aeir neck. Ae manages to press closer to both your touch and your body.

It’s a quieter way of saying “I love you”. It holds as much power as the words.

The fingers in your hair are slower now, dragging deliberately against your scalp. The exhaustion you had been putting aside through the night creeps back into you, sinking into your bones and laying heavy on your eyelids.

“Sleep?” You’re not certain what question you’re asking. You’re not certain who you’re asking.

“Together.” Logan answers, and somehow it is exactly what you were looking for.

Remy’s ear is pressed to your chest. Your eyes are pressed to Logan’s shoulder. Logan’s lips are pressed to the top of your head. The hand in your hair moves to cross over your stomach and rest on your sun’s back. Your hand remains at the nape of aeir neck. Your other arm wraps around your moon’s back. Their other arm does not leave your shoulders. It is unclear whose foot is whose in the tangle of your legs.

You have never known a more encompassing feeling of Together then here, so intertwined with your beloveds it is unclear where one stops and the next begins, unclear if there is even a seam to be found or if you have all three become something singular. It is hard to exist Together when you feel undeserving of the parts.

But you are deserving. And you are wanted. And you are loved.

Together, you fall asleep.

[cynicinafishbowl]

your DVD meme for ch 5 has renewed my interest in the first conversation between tristan, evie, and darcy where the topic of elizabeth bennet first crops up. if it wouldn't spoil anything, can you elucidate? many thanks! :D

I give you: a brunch scene (under the cut)

Meanwhile, in an immaculately appointed breakfast room in an imacculately appointed house in an excellent part of London [Caroline keeps an excellent house], the subjects of that conversation were, unsurprisingly, given the room they occupied, breakfasting.

“Fitz…”

“Yes?”

“Why is it that when I unlocked your phone and opened your facebook I found that you were stalking the profile of a certain woman?” [Evie you little shit]

“Evelyn…”

“Yes?”

“How is it that you were able to unlock my phone?”

“Because you were too busy getting prodigiously fucked during Question Time to spend a few hours setting it up, and so knowing that you hate fingerprint activation and so would never use it, I set it to my fingerprint. Which, before you even bother, is not something you can change until you get a new phone.” [This struck me as the easiest way for someone to have access to someone else’s phone, and I wanted Fitzwilliam to always be able to hack into Darcy’s phone]

Darcy didn’t expend the effort of responding, because he had to admit that that was an impressive level of deviousness.

“Christ, Evelyn. That’s got to be some kind of security breach,” said a woman seated to his right, through a bite of pastry. [Caroline is, as usual, the voice of reason]

Fitzwilliam shrugged. “I like to think that if anything should come of it, I’m well enough connected to get away alright.” [He’s right. He’d be fine] He paused for a moment. “Say, Caroline, where is Charles?” [neat segue there, homie. Nobody noticed that shift in the conversation]

Caroline took her time taking a sip of tea [Yes, girl. Make them wait] and presently attended the conversation. “Charles is at work, or making eyes at his new girlfriend, or probably both. We can return to him later. Who is this certain woman you were alluding to? I must hear everything.” [Darcy doesn’t generally waste time mooning over ladies, so this is an interesting one]

“It’s nothing,” Darcy said sharply. [bullshit, mate. Now everyone smells blood]

“Well then, now I truly am intrigued. Who is this woman?”

“A civil servant from the media department, who was sent to upbraid Fitz for making the mistake of allowing himself to be photographed next to a crackpot. She seemed to make quite a lasting impression on him.” [that is, as with many things I write, certainly one interpretation of events]

“Well come on, don’t leave me hanging,” Caroline instructed, “show me photographs.”

“Pass me your phone, Darcy,” Fitzwilliam said. [Boundaries? What boundaries?]

Darcy responded a particularly rude hand gesture. [Show, don’t tell] “Use your own phone.”

“You know full well that mine doesn’t have facebook on it [he’s one of those weirdos], and Caroline’s isn’t set up to unlock when I show it my fingerprint.”

Darcy rolled his eyes and handed over the requested item [he knows that everyone’s going to find out sooner or later - Caroline and Tristan are far too nosy]. Fitzwilliam presently unlocked it, opened Facebook, and handed it to Caroline, who took the phone and flicked through the photographs. “Elizabeth Bennet,” she said, scrolling. “She really hasn’t gone the aggressive security route.” [Elizabeth ruthlessly polices her online presence so that she doesn’t need to worry about security. This is my personal method of choice, because when (for example) a place you’re applying at wants to check on your online presence, finding nothing just makes them suspicious. It is far better to have an easily visible, innocuous presence]

“All the better for Fitz to stalk her with,” Fitzwilliam smirked. [it is terribly convenient for the lad]

After a moment more, she looked up, made aggressive eye-contact with Darcy and drawled, “Why she looks to be exactly your type.” 

“She’s a bit short,” Fitzwilliam chipped in. “And that’s stepping past the fact that she’s a bit left wing [everyone agrees that she is very much, essentially, his type]. And also the first time they met, he referred to her as, and I shit you not, ‘some chit’, to her face, so I don’t really see things ever happening betwixt the two of them.”

Darcy glared at his audience.

“You said what?” Caroline asked, looking up from her scrolling with a very disapproving glance. [Caroline as unimpressed matriarch is a fave]

“It was not my finest hour,” Darcy admitted grudgingly. [no shit]

“I probably ought to note that she also seems rather your type, E,” Caroline continued to drawl [Caroline is the first to articulate what basically everyone was thinking], returning to the screen.

Fitzwilliam leaned back in his chair in an affectedly louche manner. “She’s certainly, to quote Fitz, tolerable enough, [I couldn’t very much leave that line out of the fic, now could I?] but she’s slightly terrifying.” [and herein lies his problem with Elizabeth - she is too hardcore for him]

“Oh don’t be a weak bitch,” Caroline insisted [Caroline Bingley, everyone’s wingwoman since 19--], returning Darcy’s phone to him.

“And how about you, Caroline?” Fitzwilliam asked, a wicked glint in his eyes, and in a most unctuous tone. “How’s the love life?” [A quote from Bridget Jones’ Diary, when everyone keeps asking ‘So how’s the love life, Bridge?]

“Shocking, as always, thanks for asking,” Caroline replied with a flick of her hair. “Every time I try dating another DJ I’m reminded that they’re all insipid little morons, and that’s why I don’t date them.” [real is her struggle]

“So find yourself a nice lawyer.” [always a safe option, especially given her study]

“How on earth would I happen to find myself in the path of a nice lawyer?”

“I seem to recall you gaining a degree in that general subject, and then throwing it all away to become a DJ. It’s not too late to, oh I don’t know, use your law degree to be a lawyer, rather than to simply negotiate your own contracts.” [She’s getting some use out of the degree]

“Evelyn, darling, my parents have been trying that line of argumentation on me for years. What makes you think it’d work coming from you?” [ah yes, disappointed parents]

Fitzwilliam shrugged. “I suppose it was worth a shot.”

Caroline sighed. “If I were still in the closet, I could just marry Darcy. That would be so much easier.” [she is, after all, exactly his type]

Darcy decided that it was time to attempt to get in on the conversation [it’s getting a bit dicey vis-a-vis his social life]. “I am actually in the room. What makes you think that I’d be interested in marrying the closeted lawyer sister of an old friend?” [apart from the fact that she’s entirely your type?]

Caroline laughed, light and bell-like, with a swish of her hair which she had practiced painstakingly until it looked effortless when caught on camera. “I’ll have you know that I would be the perfect politician’s wife [she’d be such a great society wife]. I’m old enough money for the Party not to be horrified when you eventually make that bid for the leadership which we all know is coming; there’s nothing contentious about being a lawyer; we photograph excellently well together; and most importantly, we both know that you have better things to do than engage in trivialities like enjoying human contact. Which is why I would be ideal. I would exist literally only for photo-ops.” It was an oft-rehashed discussion, and had been ever since Darcy, seeing that she would be a most advantageous match, had asked her out that one time [honestly, Darcy, you don’t ask your best mate’s older sister out on a date. It’s just not done], and she had informed him, in a very straightforward manner, that she wasn’t really into the whole ‘penis thing’ [much to his disappointment]. “Alas, it is now a little too well known that I frequent the lady train,” she sighed. [She’s been pretty vocal on the subject]

“That and the fact that ‘popular DJ/recording artist’ doesn’t have quite the same cachet as, say, distinguished lawyer’, beloved of society,” Darcy pointed out.

Caroline made a non-committal noise, as if to indicate that she could see the potential merit in what he was saying, but wasn’t quite sure she agreed with him [after all, she could always go back to Law]. “Say, Darcy, is Georgiana showing any indications of being interested in women?” [A nice inversion of Caroline’s continual obsession with Georgiana as a means to Darcy in Pride and Prejudice]

“Not lately. If that should change, I will be sure to let you know.” [Darcy has no problems with this]

“I’d have hoped that she’d let me know herself,” Caroline sighed, before changing the subject a moment later. “Oh, fun fact!”

“Enlighten us,” Fitzwilliam invited.

“I’ve finally landed on the final iteration of my stage name.” The menfolk at the table raised their eyebrows [any occasion to use the word ‘menfolk’ will be shamelessly exploited]. “I’m switching from DJ Carolinnaea to DJ Carolinnæa.”

There was a pause before Darcy spoke. “They sound exactly the same,” he ventured with some hesitation, wondering what terrifying explanation awaited him. [I enjoy having characters very hesitantly say something which is blindingly obvious - so obvious that they’re confused as to how nobody else has commented on it, to the extent where they’re convinced that they must have missed some vital point, because nobody else seems to find it weird]

“It’s all in the spelling, Fitz. Instead of ending in a-e-a, it now goes double-n-smushy-ae-letter-a.” [describing niche things with the vaguest language possible in a flailing manner is another favoured trope of mine]

There was another, longer, pause before Darcy finally responded with “Why?” [more confusion as to ‘how is nobody else asking this, have I missed something?’]

“Why not? I was bored, and now I’m teaching the little fan-children about the existence of alternative letter forms.” 

“Should you really be using an aesc in your stage name if you don’t even know what the character is called?” Fitzwilliam mused. 

“That’s what it’s called!” Caroline exclaimed, delighted. “I knew I’d heard the name of it before, but I didn’t want to have to google ‘smushy ae letter’.” [I also just like the word ‘smushy’]

“I still don’t understand why you went with that name,” Darcy commented.

“Everybody loves a good Botany pun, do they not?” Caroline responded.

Darcy and Fitzwilliam just gazed at her blankly, until Fitzwilliam eventually remarked, drily even by his standards, “No, not really.”

Caroline shrugged. “So it’s just me. No matter. I think it’s bloody hilarious.”

[maskedinstructor]

Get To Work-Mrs Prouty

I was that new kid on the block, the one who falls victim to all the jokes and pranks. The boys and I had just competed in a fierce game of punch ball. Exhausted, we headed toward the corner grocery store to fill up on grape, lemon-lime and Pepsi. for some reason, an uneasiness overtook me. " Oh, it's prank time. I sensed it in my bones. Theses were no ordinary pranksters. As soon as the realized I was on to them, they shifted gears and decided to wait for a more appropriate time when my antenna was down. About 3 days passed and it happened. As we progressed down the block, the group shifted so that I was the leader. All went well until, I came upon this brownstone and a little old lady sprang out of her house and engaged me in conversation. I was seven days into living in the neighborhood and she spoke to me as is she had known me for years. I searched for my compadres...Not a one. All had conveniently disappeared. We chatted, the lady and I for a few minutes and she invited me in for cookies and milk. Now, I was deathly afraid. " Why should enter the house of this old white lady? This is going to be a problem." Again, I sought out advice form my colleagues in crime. I found them ...across the street...LAUGHING.

That was the joke. I was caught by this old lady who wanted company. I would be subjected to many minutes of unwanted and unnecessary conversation while they remained free outside. To demonstrate the fact that I could handle and to also show that I =was not a victim, I agreed  to enter the house. Before the door closed I glanced back at my evil partners and smiled.

The house was immaculate. Mrs. Prouty lived alone . Her husband had recently passed and she refused to abandon her house because the neighborhood was changing. The one odd feature in the house was that the dining room table was set for four people. I later learned that the table was always set. AS promised, there were cookies and milk. Well, Graham crackers, at least. I ae and drank and as soon as I was comfortable, she reached in a side drawer of her dining room closet and retrieve  a Bible. That was when the teaching began. " Oh , my word, I'm going to be here for a while. " I listened respectfully for what seemed like hours. Finally, she completed what was basically a cathecism and released me to the cruel world outside. there the boys doubled over in laughter. Some even had tears in their eyes." Welcome to the neighborhood, You have met Mrs. Prouty. You are one of us now."

Theoretical Framework: Nothing is as it seems, ever