#his next entry is just a blackened burned page

[moonsun2010]

pain

[ace-in-a-shopping-cart]

Was it All a Trick?

Word Count: 1,134 Summary: Halfway through the Ayorthaian trip when Ella’s final letter reached Char, his anger and hurt burned bright. Vaguely based on the song Stitches by Shawn Mendes.

Char looked up from his book when the door opened. He smiled, inclining his head at the messenger. “Anything for me?”

He nodded, handing him a single letter addressed directly to Char. Char thanked him with another incline of the head and moved away from the common room. He reached his own quarters and shut the door, sitting down at his desk.

The envelope wasn’t in Ella’s usual spiky handwriting, nor was it addressed to the general Ayorthaian court that the messengers had come to deliver to him. Instead, it was in a swirling script that was hard to read, addressed directly to himself. Frowning, Char opened it and gripped the pages tightly as he read.

His eyes scanned the lines faster as he went on, his anger beginning to boil below the surface. It reached a new peak when he read the torn sheet that came with it.

When he was finished reading, he read it again, hoping it was a trick. Upon a third reading, he realized there was no use for it. The note was in Ella’s familiar hand, the one he used to look forward to getting and reading in the early hours of the morning when all was still in the castle, and it was in her manner of speaking. He could almost hear her voice as he read it, the last few lines standing out to him the most.

“I’ve lost nothing.” He stood to pace. “I’ve lost nothing.” If he repeated the words enough times, would he begin to believe them? “She wasn’t who I thought she was, so I’ve lost nothing.” Still, his heart ached and there was a sharp pain in his chest that didn’t go away for the rest of the day.

A noble briefly enquired if everything was well at home as Char seemed troubled. He smiled and put on his princely mask, pretending all was fine even as his heart was slowly shattering inside. As soon as he could, he escaped back to his quarters.

Sitting against the wall, elbow resting on one knee, he thought back to every interaction with Ella he’d ever had, every time they had talked or written to each other. “Was it all a trick?” He asked the empty room, as if the crackling fire could give a response. “Was she truly just leading me on for her entertainment? Were we ever actually friends or was I just a plaything to her?” He shook his head. “I can’t imagine it but it must be true.” He wanted to ride to Frell and demand she tell him the truth herself but he couldn’t.

He stood and pulled out her letters before resuming his position on the floor. Rereading every letter, he wondered if anything on those pages was true. She never spoke of her life, didn’t say what she occupied her time with. She kept up a game of saying she wasn’t able to marry for some reason or other. When he got to the most recent one, he sighed and put them down again. “It must be true. The letters are too vague to not have been leading me on this whole time.” He reread that last note, reading the last phrase again and again until it was burned into his memory.

In a spark of anger, he gathered the pages together and thrust them into the fire, watching the words become illegible, the pages blackened, and the past six months reduced to ash. It left a bad taste in his mouth, to even think of her lying to him, but there was too much evidence against her.

Still, he couldn’t help but feel betrayed as he wrote his journal entry for the day. He’d thought he’d found a friend in her and instead had only been led by a string of laughter and the promise of companionship. That ache in his chest grew, feeling as if he truly were bleeding from a wound.

That night, for the first time in twelve years, he cried himself to sleep.

When he woke, he vowed not to think of her nor say her name. Even so, his thoughts were filled with her as the silence in the halls suffocated him. At least his pen and voice kept the vow. The only thing that kept him there in those silent halls and rooms was his duty to his country and the peace they held with Ayortha.

The days dulled, now that letters from Ella stopped coming and he stopped writing to her. He wanted to, wanted to keep writing even if he never sent them, but his anger was still too great for that. His thoughts were filled with Ella, replaying everything she had ever said or did in his presence. She had seemed so genuine, so caring, so real. He wished she were there with him, to explain to him that it wasn’t true and Hattie was pulling a cruel prank on him.

At night, he dreamed of her. Dreamed of seeing her, in that carriage she had written about with a smile on her face and a ring on her hand. Dreamed of her running to him and saying she was just the right age to marry, that she loved him, that she would only ever love him. Sometimes, he dreamed of her laughing as she read his letters aloud, mocking him. The best, and hardest to wake from, dreams were the ones where she was his wife; the ones where she smiled at him as they stood side by side and faced the future of their country head on and their future together head on. He always woke from those dreams with a pillow wet from tears.

It would only ever be her. Even if the Ella he knew was one fabricated to intoxicate him and make him love her, it had worked. He was still just as deeply in love with her as he had been that day by the weeping willow. Even if she was married to someone who would die in the next few years, he could not stop loving her.

His aching heart faded to the background of his awareness in those next six months but his anger didn’t. That pain and anger were still raw even when he was packing his things to leave Ayortha and return to Kyrria. Against his will, his eyes roamed the streets for her as he went. Still, there was nothing. No sign of her walking nor in a carriage anywhere. Even at the last, as the first ball started and his parents’ expectations for him to find a bride loomed over him, his thoughts turned to Ella and how she would be the only one he ever loved. Even if her love had been a trick.

[virtueangel]

limitless.

chapter eleven. 

wc: 2,526. original publish date: october 23, 2020.

"Vincent," JFK says, leaning back against his pillow. He and Van Gogh are in the bedroom with the balcony, Vincent sitting cross-legged at the far corner of the bed and Kennedy at the headboard, his long legs stretched out in front of him.

"Hm?" Van Gogh mumbles in response, barely looking up from his sketchpad.

"How come you never let me see what you're drawing?"

Vincent pauses for a second to look up at the boy. "How come you never let me see what you're drawing?" He volleys.

JFK laughs. "Because I can't draw."

"Can't, or don't?"

John shrugs. "Same difference?"

Van Gogh sighs, chewing on the end of his pencil. He nibbles off some of the yellow paint, flaky and crinkly against his tongue. "No, not really. Maybe if you drew more often, you'd get better at it."

JFK pulls himself away from the headboard, folding his legs underneath him and walking on his knees to the edge of the bed, where Van Gogh is sitting. He tilts the top of the boy's book down, peering at the graphite curves etched onto the paper.

"How long have you been practicing that for?" Kennedy asks wryly, snickering up at Vincent.

Van Gogh snatches the sketchpad away, embarrassed to admit how long he's really been drawing JFK for. "I've been drawing people for years. I've mastered them."

John smiles softly, and Vincent nearly melts. "You have."

Van Gogh closes his sketchbook and places it on the bed next to him, away from JFK. He places his pencil down on top of it before brushing some hair out of his eyes and looking up at Kennedy. He smiles sweetly, a soft look in his eyes. JFK smiles back, feeling free under Van Gogh's gaze.

"You know what I really like, Jack?" He whispers.

"What do you really like, Vinny?"

Vincent's smile widens, and his insides are set ablaze by the nickname. In an instant, he is transported back to his childhood. It wasn't good -- at least home life wasn't -- but to feel so simple, so uncomplicated and happy with JFK. He'd do anything to have it back, to leave all of his sadness behind.

"I like candles."

"That's not at all what I thought you were going to say," JFK replies, his tone light like the clouds in heaven.

"But aren't they fascinating?" Van Gogh challenges, sinkhole brown eyes widening. The corners of his mouth tick up, up, up, until he's grinning so wide Kennedy can see his teeth.

"You're just fascinated by fire," he says.

Vincent shrugs, but he's unapologetic. His smile hasn't faded, and JFK imagines pulling him in by the collar of his shirt, kissing him hard and deep, deep, deep. "Aren't you?"

"It's mesmerising," John replies, his voice hushed.

"Do you have a match?" Vincent asks.

Kennedy smirks. "It would be useless without a candle, don't you think?"

"Okay, then do you have a candle?" Van Gogh laughs, leaning in closer to JFK.

"There's probably one in this house that no one lives in," Kennedy volleys, leaning closer as well.

"We live in it now."

"You'd want to live with me?"

"It can't be any more of a sacrifice than you living with me."

JFK and Vincent sit with their noses touching, eyes darting down to mouths and back up to eyes. Van Gogh opens his mouth and his eyelids flutter shut. He wants for Kennedy to close the gap, but he doesn't. Instead, he pulls his face away and slides off the bed. Vincent opens his eyes and frowns, closing his mouth and holding his jaw shut tightly. He swallows.

"I thought you wanted to find some candles," JFK grins deviously, and Vincent rolls his eyes in response.

"Yeah, yeah, okay. But I'm going to get you back for that," Van Gogh promises, sliding off the bed himself and following John out of the room.

Kennedy turns around, the same devious grin still lifting his face. "I'll be patiently awaiting that, my dear."

Van Gogh rummages through some of the drawers in the kitchen while JFK searches the rest of the house, both looking for candles. Kennedy manages to find a few tapers, magenta and coated in petrified wax droplets. Vincent finds two tea lights in the back of a drawer, one with no wick and the other with barely enough wax to burn. In the same drawer, he finds a box of matches.

"What do you intend to do with these candles, Vincent?" John asks, setting the tapers down on the kitchen table.

Van Gogh strikes a match and it fizzes, the sound searing like carbonation through the air. He watches the flame on the match grow, flickering before licking the thin wood and charring it black. He turns the match sideways, letting the fire grip onto the blackened wick rising out of one of the tapers before it burns to life. He lights the other with the same match before blowing it out in one breath, precisely and with no struggle.

"I don't know," Vincent replies. He shifts his gaze from the lit candles to JFK. "I just like the smell of fire."

***

That evening, Vincent sits on one of the plush outdoor chairs set on the balcony. He has a novel opened wide in front of him. He sits quietly and unmoving, concentrating hard on the words in front of him. The fog is cold and wet against his nose, his ears, his fingertips. The bandages around his head are getting soggy. He'll need to change them soon. He probably won't get to wait until the morning, thus throwing off his normal routine. He ignores the moisture in the air, immersing himself in his novel. He can't remember the title of it or the main character's name. He just likes the story, the way he feels while he reads. Silent and composed, with a hint of sophistication unparalleled. Van Gogh doesn't even notice when JFK climbs out the bay window and sits down on the chair next to his. It's a matching set.

John watches Vincent as he reads, breathing deeply through his nose. He blinks slowly, a shy smile turning up the corners of his mouth. He unfolds a novel of his own on his lap. He'd pulled it off one of the bookshelves in the living room. It's old enough to not have a cover -- the title isn't printed across the front, only on the spine. It's written in old English, and the author is clearly British. He thinks the protagonist's name is Eleanor, but he's only been paying half attention to the text. He likes to read, but he's slower at it than Van Gogh. He can sit in uninterrupted silence for hours, whether it be to paint or read or write. That's one of the many things JFK admires about the boy; it's also something he can't do himself.

"Vincent, can I ask you something?"

The boy jumps, nearly dropping his book. "Jesus, John, why didn't you warn me?"

He laughs. "Because you looked so peaceful."

Van Gogh smiles. "Sure, you can ask me something."

"Why don't you write a book?"

Vincent looks taken aback. He shakes his head, a nervous smile twisting his lips. "I couldn't write a whole book."

"Why not?" John asks in his soft tone, closing his novel and marking his page with his finger as he leans across the armrest of the chair.

"Because I don't have the stamina for something long-term."

"But you do write a lot," JFK states.

Van Gogh shrugs. "Yeah. But, like, poems and letters and stuff. Journal entries. None of that is intended for public consumption."

"Would you let me read any of it?"

Vincent blushes and looks away, pretending to be fascinated by the fog. All it ever does is hang in the air. Van Gogh wonders if Marshtown ever isn't foggy. It seems impossible to never see the sun. "I wouldn't want you to go into it with high hopes and then be disappointed. I'm not as good as you think I am."

"Then I'll set my expectations low and be presently surprised."

Van Gogh closes his own novel and leans across the armrest of his chair, his face inches away from JFK's. He stares into the boy's eyes, a raw smile spread across his face. Kennedy returns it. "I haven't anything to write about."

"Then I'll give you something to write about."

Vincent stifles a laugh. "I'm not writing about you, JFK. Love stories are tired out."

Kennedy looks down at the balcony floor and shrugs before meeting Van Gogh's eyes again. "I wasn't talking about me."

Vincent sits back in his chair and looks out into the fog, thinking instead of avoiding. "So show me." He turns back to the boy. "Show me what you were thinking of."

"So get in the car, and we'll go."

"No," Vincent shakes his head. "No more driving," he pleads. "I like it here. Let's stay here for a while. I want to stay here for a while."

JFK smiles. "We're getting in the car, but we're not leaving Marshtown." He reaches out to rest his hand upon Vincent's. "I like it here, too."

***

"So remember when I told you that this town was built to look abandoned?" JFK asks once they're in the car. They're driving down a line of houses; the residential part of Marshtown. Neither boy knew there was a non-residential part.

"Theorised. You theorised that Marshtown was built to look abandoned," Vincent corrects him.

JFK waves him off. "Yeah, yeah, same difference. Well, I was right."

"You have no proof."

Kennedy turns to look at his passenger, grin so wide it crinkles his eyes.

"Watch the road!" Van Gogh laughs.

"Marshtown isn't actually a residential town," John says, peeling his eyes off of Vincent. "You know why it was on that sign by the freeway exit?"

"No. Why was it?"

"Because..." JFK prolongs the word, pulling into a parking lot Van Gogh has never seen before. "It's actually..."

"Just get on with it!" Vincent demands with a smile.

JFK stops the car and twists the keys out of the ignition. He and Van Gogh get out of the vehicle, closing their doors at the exact same time.

"Come on," Kennedy says, interlacing his fingers with Vincent's. The smaller boy's breath catches. He forgot that there's romantic touching without kissing, and that romance is much more than just kissing. He squeezes JFK's hand, feeling the warmth wash over his skin. Vincent's hand is cold against John's, but he doesn't say anything. It's a comforting kind of cold; not clammy or sweaty.

"So, while you sent me off to look through that ginormous house for fucking candles-"

"You did that at your own free will," Van Gogh reminds him.

"-I stumbled across a book that had a map of Marshtown on the cover, so I was like, hm, let's see where this leads us..."

"Oh, so that's why you took so fucking long?"

"And, as it turns out, Marshtown actually used to be an amusement park!" JFK exclaims, a childish twinkle burning in his eyes. Vincent can't help but kiss his jaw.

"What do you mean 'used to be'?"

"Well, it's shut down now, but I guess all the houses used to be, like, activity centres in one way or another."

"So you brought me out into a grassy field in cotton-thick fog... just to tell me that Marshtown used to be an amusement park?"

"Well, I'm also going to tell you that our house is probably haunted because it's the only one that was built with the intention of having tenants."

Our house. "You could've just told me that back at the house, Jack."

"No, no I couldn't have," JFK squeezes the boy's hand, still walking. He seems to be leading Vincent somewhere.

In a couple more seconds, the fog thins, and Van Gogh understands why they had to get into the car and drive to the far end of the town. In front of them is a rollercoaster, rusty and paint-chipped. There's no cab, only a track, that seems to be missing pieces. Disappearing into the fog, it seems to go on forever. Most rollercoasters only run for thirty seconds -- it can't go on for that long. But the fun of this particular track, without any loops or steep drops, is probably that it plunges into the grey-white abyss. It seems like a perfect place to come and lose your mind.

"It's a rollercoaster track," Vincent states.

JFK grins and lets go of the boy's hand. "Yes."

Van Gogh takes a step toward it and rubs his hand along one of the metal pillars, the once-white paint tainted with water-stained rust. "How long has this been broken down for?"

"Since the early 1980s," JFK replies.

"You really did your research, huh?"

Kennedy flashes his giddy grin, Colgate teeth piercing through the limitless blanket of fog. "I wasn't gone for that long, now, was I?"

"I guess not."

Vincent continues to feel around the track, skeptical of its reality. Marshtown is a dumb name for a town, but an even dumber name for an amusement park. Everything about it seems so surreal, so made up. He doubts that it was really abandoned as soon ago as the late 1980s.

"Do you wanna climb up?" John asks hopefully. Even through the fog, Van Gogh can make out the burnt orange of his letterman jacket.

"It doesn't run anymore, Jack."

"We could go for a walk," he suggests.

Vincent looks up to the track and then down to the grassy floor, considering. "What if I fall?"

"I'll catch you."

Van Gogh rolls his eyes, but can't suppress his smile. "Jesus, so this is what it's like dating you."

"We're dating?"

Vincent's smile falls. "No."

JFK frowns, the twinkle flickering out of his eyes.

"I mean, yes. I don't know. If you want us to be."

Kennedy takes a step closer to Vincent, and wraps his arms around the boy's waist. "How much clearer do I have to make it that the answer is yes?"

Van Gogh swallows and resists the urge to wrap his arms around JFK's neck. "You have to say the word."

"Yes."

"No, I mean... the one that you call a person when you're dating them."

"You mean boyfriend?"

"Say it."

"Vincent."

Van Gogh tilts his head up, catching Kennedy's eye. He knows this is childish. He knows it's stupid to want to be someone's boyfriend -- even the word sounds juvenile. He's always known that he's same-sex oriented -- that was never something he had to question twice. But hearing JFK say it out loud, to know in his head where he stands once and for all, would make it real. "I'm waiting."

Kennedy hesitates, but before Van Gogh can look away in defeat, he says, "Vincent, I want you to be my boyfriend."

Now, Van Gogh lifts up his arms and wraps them around JFK's neck, pulling his head down and kissing his lips. "Good, because I want you to be my boyfriend, too."

[another-dr-another]

look at the monokuma file

/Tsurugi boots up his E-Handbook, displaying a new accessible page.

Tsurugi, narrating - "Monokuma File"...?

/The Monokuma File lists information about the case.

Victim: Kurokawa Mikako, SHSL Exorcist

Time of Death: ??? Kurokawa was last seen alive around 9:45 PM, and was discovered around 8:30 AM the next morning.

Cause of Death: ???

Other Injuries: Blow to the back of her head, Rug burn along arms and neck, Bruising on lower back, Hole below collarbone.

Location: Found on the Entry Hall floor, laying down.

Maki - Great! We don't even know the two most important things.

Yamaguchi - And even what's said here could be lies!

Uehara - I... don't think you're right on that one, Yamaguchi.

Tomori - Check the info page, I think that'll explain it.

/Tsurugi pulls up the info page, which explains that the Monokuma File only lists what the average student would know without any discussion, to be fair to the blackened who may try to hide information.

Hatano - ...

Hatano - Was it fair to Kurokawa for her to just be murdered like that?

Iranami - Hatano...

Ōtori - She's kinda got a point, yknow?

Kobashikawa - Yeah... though I suppose, wouldn't it be impossible to get away with murder if the Monokuma file said everything?

Uehara - ...

Yamaguchi - Kobashikawa that's the most suspicious thing I've ever heard.

Kobashikawa - Wait! What I mean is that... well, they want us to kill, right?

Hatano - Oh... and if the Monokuma file told us everything...

Iranami - Then between the 13 innocents among us, we could track down the culprit quick enough...

Tomori - And no one would want to risk a murder no matter the motive.

Kobashikawa - Exactly.

Tsurugi - ...

~*~

Tsurugi, narrating - The file seems pretty useful, even with the redacted information.

{Investigate the Rest of the Entry Hall}

[Try to break the doors down]

~*~

New Truth Bullet: Monokuma File #1

[yandere-wishes]

Demon Tomura Shigaraki

When (Y/N) had first heard that she would be inheriting her great aunt's house she was overjoyed. Sure it was in a secluded woods outside of a small town, but to the young girl, it just seemed like a new adventure. (Y/N) had never personally known her great aunt outside of the occasion stories her grandmother would let slip. From what little (y/n) had heard, the old women had seemed rather... anomalous. Always running off to some abandoned church or spooky old woods in the dead of night. Mumbling what her grandmother had described as spells in an unknown tongue. And sometimes even rambling on about monsters and demons and the macabre in all its glory. (Y/N) was easily able to shrug off the women's odd habits as an adolescent phase. It was more so her death that seemed to intrigue the young women. About a two weeks ago in the early hours of dawn, her mother and she had been awoken by a call from (Y/N)'s grandmother, informing them that her sister had died under what doctor we're calling "mysterious" circumstances. She’d been discovered by the mailman, who had smelled something burning when he’d come to deliver the mail and had thought it best to investigate. Bizarrely the front door was open, yet inside showed no signs of a break in. When the young man had reached the elderly women’s room he was nauseated by the sight that awaited him. One half of her body had been burned so severely that it was unrecognizable. Parts of her nightgown had melted and dissolved into her now crispy blackened flesh. Her eye on the right side of her face was closed, the eyes lids covered in black ash. Her left side, on the other hand, was scratched so vigorously that blooded had leaked from the wounds and dripped onto the bed. her left eye was missing or at least it was until the mailmen took two steps in only to feel something squish beneath his shoes. When he’d look at the bottom of his shoe he noticed small red droplets. Upon looking at the ground he noticed a white, black and blue mush with red and blue veins lying about. More blood pooled around the compressed optic. The mailman had run out and informed the police immediately, they found him tucked in on himself crying and shaking. Four hours later (Y/N)’s grandmother had been notified and she had called her daughter and granddaughter seconds later. The police could not find any clues leading to a murderer and had thus dubbed it an open investigation. This all happened two weeks ago, and now (Y/N) found herself face to face with the alleged house of horrors. For a place that had withstood a horrific murder, it looked rather nice. It had a forest brown color, camouflaging it in with its scenery. The roof was pointed and a darker shade of brown than the rest of the house. The windows were large, yet covered by curtains preventing the new owner from getting a glimpse inside. Steedly (Y/N) made her way for the giant oak doors, slipping her silver key into the hole and turning it with a click the door unlocked and the (H/C) turned the doorknob opening the barrier between the forest and whatever lurked inside. Once inside (Y/N) looked around the house it was dusty and somewhat missed matched yet intact. In front of her, a wooden staircase leads up to the second floor, where (Y/N) guessed the rooms where located. A quick glimpse around and she found a hallway to her left that led to a spacious living room. To her right was yet another hall, this one thinner in width and shorter in length. It led to a dining area with a connected kitchen. (Y/N) made a quick mental note to empty out the fridge when she finished unpacking. Trudging her way up the old staircase suitcase in hand the young lady’s mind wandered back to what her grandmother had said about her great aunt. She desperately wanted to look around for evidence, maybe she could find out what had really happened that fateful night. Making a sharp turn the girl was greeted by four rooms huddled in a corner. She blinked then slowly opened to door closest to her, the wood creaked as she stepped inside. There was a large bed in the middle of the room, an old dresser with a mirror, a wooden closet, and a tiny nightstand. Opening the closet (Y/N) quickly deduced that this must have been her great aunt's bedroom. The clothes inside were all dark and dreary looking, noting you would expect an old woman to have. In the next room there where book selves all placed next to each other covering the three walls. “The library, Nana never said that her sister liked to read..” (Y/N) mumbled. Leaving the door open as a reminder to return later, she quickly headed for the next room. This one was large and didn’t seem to have had a previous occupant. “Perfect” she cheered. (Y/N) quickly started to unpack. Throwing her pajamas on the bed and grabbing some hangers from the closet, halve heartedly putting each clothing item on one and moving onto the next. She plugged her charger by the nightstand, deciding to give her mother a call tomorrow. Figuring it best to sleep now and commence with cleaning the house in the morning. By the time that (Y/N) had finished her chores the next day, it was already late in the afternoon. Putting off shopping for food and new modern furniture until the weekend just planning to outside at whatever fast food joint was closest. For now though (Y/N) decided to go and explore the library, maybe by some miracle it would reveal a clue or two about the old owner's death. Once inside the book filled room (Y/N) ran her fingers over the spines of each book. Shock and confusion overtaking her as she read each one. “Curses of the forest”, “The book of the dammed”, “Rites of hell” man Nana wasn’t kidding, her sister really was unhinged.” One book however made (Y/N)’s finger stop in place, she turned to the book that seemed much older than the rest. Gentilly plucking it from the shelf, she ran her hand over the cover removing the thick coat of dust that lay on it. “Decay” was the only word written on the title, the black ink almost seemed to slither about, each letter twisting and looping around the other. As the young girl flipped to the first-page eyes scanning the first word. She was suddenly pulled back, a strong hand grasping around her neck, slender fingers digging into her neck. “Hey, little girl that’s my book!” the voice was definitely masculine and seemed to have a childlike edge to it. Automatically (Y/N)’s hands flew up to the one assaulting her neck, scratching it and choking out pleas to be set free. Yet the man kept squeezing, tiny black circles danced in (Y/N)’s vision, multiplying by the minuted, one last choked out, unintelligible pleas and she went limp. When the (H/C) came to she gasped for air, greedily taking in as much as she could, inflating her lungs with more oxygen then they truly needed. Her fingers traced her neck searching for some reminder of the assault, for a moment she thought she must have hit her head and imagined the whole thing. But then her fingers reached a certain spot that was tender and hurt to be touched. Were these bruises? She quickly ran to her great aunt’s room looking into the dresser mirror, sure enough, there were four bruises on her neck where the fingers had grasped. there however seemed to be a missing one separating the second and fourth finger. Panicked the girl turned around to run out the door, only to be hit something solid the force pushed her back and she quickly elevated her gaze to stare at two blazing red eyes. Petrified the girl screamed, a loud piercing noise, that she hoped would carry out into the town. The intruder flinched and took a step back. And just like that, he disappeared. (Y/N) didn’t stop screaming until her throat was raw. What the hell had she just seen? The next few days where queer and unsettling, things in the house would mysteriously turn to dust, doors and windows would randomly open and shut, to top it all off a blood-curdling laugh seemed to ever be present. (Y/N) had tried to leave the house on multiple occasions only to end up pinned to a wall or be faced with a door that just wouldn’t open. A handful of days had passed and the limited amount of food that the girl had found in the basement was running dangerously short. Opening one of the remaining cans of beans (Y/N) made her way into the living room. Upon entry, her gaze automatically flickered to a man with light blue hair and grey horns sitting on the couch. Her grip on the can went limp and it fell to the ground with a “CLUNK” noise, spilling its contents on the floor. The man merely laughed the same blood-curdling laugh that had been circling the house. He slowly pushed himself from his resting place, trudging to where (Y/N)  was. Without hesitation (Y/N) fisted her hand and leaned in to punch the pale man. Faster then she could have thought he cough her punch with four fingers, straining his thumb out at an odd angle to avoid touching her fingers. “Who the hell are you!!” (Y/N) demanded. The pale thin man simply tilted his head. “Tomura Shigaraki” came his simple reply. “Thank you that was helpful but I was kind of hoping you’d explain why you're in my house!” (Y/N) yelled furiously. “Who said this was your house sweetheart? I’ve been haunting this place since my old plaything summed me here decades ago” Tomura explained annoyance evident in his tone. Plaything what did he mean by that and summon who would want this chapped psycho living with them. Reading the confusion on her face, Tomura began to explain “I’m a demon you idiot surprised you haven’t figured it out yet, man brains do not run in your family! The old hag summoned me some time ago when she was still young and fun to mess with. But well she grew old and I grew bored.” (Y/N)'s eyes widened “You killed her! You freak she was tortured how the hell can you be so cruel?!” Tomura’s shoulders slumped “You really are stupid aren’t you! Demon, women, I literally crawled out of hell. And hey the women’s been boarding me for years it was time I got something new to play with!” (Y/N)’s eye twitched ever so slightly “ Listen freak she wasn’t a plaything and I’m not a toy!! Also what kind of stupid demon is named Tomura?” The pale creature glared at the audacious girl. “Where you expecting something like Azazel or Malacoda!” He yelled. “Kind of” she replied. The demon began to shake in rage, within a split second he pinned (Y/N) to the ground. his knees jabbing into her thighs. His fingers wrapped around her wrists, middle finger hovering right above. “Toys aren't supposed to talk back you're supposed to do as I say!” (Y/N) struggled under the demon’s hold. Yet all he did in return was title his head and smile a nerve-wracking smile showing off his sharp fangs. “oppos don't struggle now I don’t want to denigrate my new dolly so soon”. (Y/N)’s eyes widen as tears pooled at the sides. She didn’t want to remain in this haunted house a second longer with this cruel, murderous demon. At that moment though her thoughts weren’t on how much she regretted coming here, how much she despised her great aunt or even how much time she had before he killed her. No all she was thinking about was the blazing red eyes that stared into her own eyes and how much terror they felt her with

[caseybanning]

Friday.

(Major late-game Fallen London + Ambition: Nemesis spoilers, do not read if you have not finished through Ambition Nemesis 80-90)

Finding how people cope with the light, or the lack of it, are the obvious next steps. Anyone from the blind men at the Observatory to the most persevering of the Revolutionaries telling stories of the false-sun, everyone's got an answer on the matter of sight. Casey's answer to how to proceed comes from a more unlikely source: a geologist at the University hawking stones unearthed from deep in the caverns.

"Oh, my gems are always sought out," He mutters, walking amonst his display cabinets. Casey waits, albeit awkwardly, near the doorway while he contemplates the stones. "Nowadays mostly I hear about spies trying to get their hands on them."

"For cash?" Casey asks.

"As protection against irrigo," He explains, pulling his spectacles down over his eyes. "Ah, here we go!" He chirps, opening one of his cabinets and pulling out a wooden block. The exterior is painted a matte black, right down to the lock on the front. He puts his hand on the top, cradling it carefully as he turns to face them. "These..." He pats the box. "These don't know the light."

Casey's hands twitch, as if they're considering reaching for the box but stop. "Are they fragile?" They asked.

"They'll work for your needs," He states. "High price for them though. It takes a lot to excavate more and I can always use a sponsor for my trips into the caves. My advice though--" He states as he hands Casey the box. "I know a specialist that can carve them to fit your eyes. Mention my name for a discount."

--

"Hmmm..." The Lensmaker tutted, leaning in close to Casey's face. They tried to hold still as she stared intently into their eyes, resisting the urge to look away or put their hand up to create some distance. Her expression remained set in neutrality, gaze flickering back and forth between eyes, brow bone, lids. "How is your eyesight?"

"No problems for me to really speak of," Casey says. "I've never worn spectacles, though I am unable to see red and green. The colors of the Neath are exempt somehow." They pause. "I never understood that."

"Very fascinating," She says, but her tone suggests otherwise. She finally backs off and goes to her desk, picking up some measuring instruments and a stack of papers. "I must warn you that the jeweled lenses are quite uncomfortable. Earlier models used blown glass, but here I have been able to develop better models from jewels and pigments. These cannot be worn for more than a couple hours, so whatever you're planning, you must accomplish it quickly. Here."

She thrusts the papers at Casey and turns away again for an inkwell and pen. "Please read through this and sign if you agree to the terms. I'm bound by confidentiality if you were to share what these are for, and also I hold no responsibility for injury. I stand by my work." She takes a deep breath. "I've the steadiest hands in the Neath." The Lensmaker says, and for the first time the stony expression gives way to a touch of pride.

She starts setting up her measuring tools while Casey reads through the contract. Without naming names or exact circumstances, she muses out loud on past clients while she conducts the measurements of Casey's eyes.

"Some of my clients come to me just to improve their sight, but I've been known more now for protection against bright lights and irrigo," The Lensmaker states. "For a time there was a rumour that studying the Correspondence could blind you." She pauses to write down more notes. "The bigger risk is losing your mind or blowing your eyebrows off, but revenue is revenue." She looks up. "You're not a scholar of the Correspondence, are you?"

They both stare at each other blankly for a long moment. "No," Casey finally says. "No, can't say that I am. I don't get along well with fire."

The Lensmaker nods and leans back in her chair, flipping. through a planner. "If you're available, you can come back in two days for the initial fitting and instructions for use." She says. "I'll be free in the afternoon. You can stop in that day if you like."

"Perfect!" Casey says.

=====

Once more through the door, again down the rice-paper corridors, again to the staircase, and then up... finally spiraling upwards again. This time, once Casey faces the door to the marble gallery, they pause. A small wooden box lined with black velvet is tucked into their pocket, and they retrieve it to pull out the new jeweled lenses. The Lensmaker had warned that at most they can only be worn for up to a couple hours. It better be enough time.

The practice of inserting them was difficult even with her there to help, and even more so in the dim of the Spires. Casey takes a deep breath and, with a slight tremble in their hands, pulls back the eyelid of one eye to insert the first lense. It's an immediate unnatural sensation--cold and unyielding, but they do their best to quell the discomfort as they insert the next one. Their hands feel along the door frame for the handle and finally open the door.

The gallery light is less obtrusive to their vision now, dulled to a manageable glare, though the heat is still overwhelming. Casey gasps at the rise in temperature as they creep along the wall, finding that (now able to see clearly) there are more stairs leading up even higher. Even quickly, the spider-silk of their shoes dampens the noise as they hastily make their way up the remaining staircase. A wretched sharp smell reaches their face, and they begin to realize it's that of burning hair. As they ascend faster, they reach up to touch the longest strands from their head and find that the ends break off into their fingers.

The stairs are soon coming to a final end near the top of the mezzanine. Here, a pedestal stands in the room with an enormous book on top. As Casey approaches, they can observe that the spine is coated in a layer of unmelted frost, and the cover such a deep pitch black that the light seems to disappear around it. Casey approaches the book and flips open it's cover, and immediately the written ink on the pages begins to writhe and hiss.

They jump back, all at once their mind scrambling through several simultaneous stories --the Iron Republic with words floating off the page, no--Jane, was it Jane that had said something? It's like it's alive, it's alive, it's a living... what is it, from Polythreme? Does it have a name? It must have a name.

"Shhh," Casey murmurs. "Don't be scared. I know who you are."

The letters pause just centimetres from their fingertips. "I know you who are," They repeat. "I'm a friend. I'm not here to hurt you..."

It's not long before the ink calms itself and settles back into the pages. As they flip through, it finally hits them: living poison. An old zailor's tale about the six living poisons of Polythreme. With a shudder, they continue through the book until they finally happen upon the section for Cups. Most days, it seems to have a full schedule save for Thursday through Saturday, which are blackened out with broad strokes of ink. Jasper and Frank's names appear quite often. Casey keeps looking, hastily going through more entries until--there, Mirrors.

Thursday through Saturday are quite occupied, but Sunday through Wednesday reflect opposite of Cups: no entries, all blackened out.

"What?" Casey whispers under their breath, flipping back and forth between the two schedules. The meaning of the correspondence sigil comes back to them again: That which is empty, whose purpose is to be filled. Two halves of the week, slotting together perfectly like a machine. Combine their schedules and the week is quite full indeed.

That which is empty--Cups, existing to carry something. Mirrors exist but we only regard them when our reflection is in it's glass, when we need something reflected back--whose purpose is to be filled. The revelation is nearly enough to knock Casey back: two of the Masters masquerading as one or the other? Their eyes scan over the schedules again, trying to pick out any discrepancies..

The Friday entries for Mirrors catch their eye because of a name: Lilac.

Casey retrieves their notebook and a small pencil and begins to take as many notes as they can. Only a minute or two passes before they hear the click of a doorknob and a creaking from higher above. Their breath stops, the only sound now the shuffling of clawed feet on the stone floors. Gently, Casey closes the book completely and gathers their things, shuffling as quickly--and as quietly--as they could back down the marble stairs and away from the heat of the Gallery.

It's not until they've fully exited the Bazaar when they're able to grasp this discovery. Why would one Master masquerade as the other? What would have happened to the one that's gone? Is it tied to the murders? Casey pulls off their bombazine cloak as they begin to walk home, taking in deep breaths of the cooler London air. They scratch their head, brushing away the burnt ends of their hair and letting it trail onto the ground below. It's difficult to gauge if their quest is much easier now, or more difficult. Regardless of precisely whom, their nemesis is a singular Master.

[thecrookedtower]

22. The Book of the Whispering Dead-V

[Takes place after the sending of entry 21, the night before receiving the letter in entry 23]              

  The book’s very presence seemed to darken the room, as if the leather that covered its surface devoured the light with an insatiable hunger. Removed from the leaden box, the book gave off a soft hush of what seemed to be a cascade of whispers. Overlapping and twisting together, they were impossible to parse, but there was a pressure that bore down on the necromancer’s shoulders. It felt as if slavering beasts were breathing down his neck, and the walls felt as if they would soon close in on him.

The sensation stopped as he opened the tome, the voices quiet, save for the passing whisper of promise. Of all that could be achieved by learning the contents of these pages, inked in abyssal glyphs that seemed to shift and shiver on the aging paper. Vitor opened the top door of his desk, retrieving his own spell book and ink. He turned the pages of each book to the place he had last left off, and began to trace his fingers across the glyphs, translating them, copying them, speaking them, and internalizing their meanings. Understanding was so close, the hushed voices urged him onwards, his quill flew across the paper. The final word of the page left his lips, and the tower seemed to still.

The candles were snuffed out in an instant, and a cold entered the room that seemed to pierce all the way to the necromancer’s heart. Every fiber of his being seemed to freeze, gripped in the hold of the energy he’d summoned. Vitor tried to move his fingers, tried to speak, but he was overwhelmed by a pain that wracked his entire frame. What little he could make out of the dark room faded as the wizard collapsed, falling out of his chair and onto the stone floor.

It was morning by the time he woke, the first rays of light spilled in from the high window. His entire body ached, and his head throbbed in a way that made the simplest of thoughts seem dizzying.

“I was hoping you wouldn’t wake up from that one, and that your hubris had truly killed you this time. We all would have been better off.” A heavy sigh came from the desk above him, and Vitor peeled himself off of the floor, somehow managing to prop himself up.

Larc sat upon the wooden desk, or at least appeared to. His spectral arms were crossed over his chest, and he stared down at the tower’s current master with the same expression he had once given its previous keeper: unbridled disgust.

“I’m sure you hoped to finally be rid of me, but how kind of you to actually show yourself for once, Larc.” Vitor’s voice was hoarse, it came out a weak whisper. As he rubbed his face of the weariness, his hand came back with speckles of dried blood. Pulling himself up onto his chair, he brushed the ghost aside, his hands touching nothing. Larc’s image swayed and drifted up, watching reproachfully from the high corner of the room.

“You couldn’t hurt a fly as you are now, I needn’t fear showing myself.” The spirit remarked as Vitor gazed down at the work that had put him in such a state. The tome and his spell book were still where he’d left them, though they were now closed. He slid the tome back into its lead box and thumbed through the pages of his spell book. The page he’d worked on last night was completely blackened, as if charred by fire. He had failed, then; he was not yet capable of sustaining that magic.

“Whatever promises that book whispers to you, whatever gifts it would bestow, they will not be without consequence. The ink in those pages will darken not just your soul, but also the lands that stretch out from this tower.” Larc hissed from behind him.

Vitor plucked the silver mirror from his desk and gazed at his own reflection. Dried blood covered the side of his head from where he’d fallen, and streaks of it ran from his nose. It had almost felt attainable, but the power he’d held for those moments had almost consumed him. His thoughts were not on his failure, but rather on how it had nearly succeeded. With more study, with more discipline… next time, surely…

“But your soul is already as black as they come, Vitor Monteiro. You won’t stop until you feel the world crack under your boot, will you?” Larc traced the wizard’s eyes to the book and knew the desires that burned behind them.

“If I promise to be careful, will you cease doting upon me like some mother hen?” Vitor choked out a dry laugh. “You’re stuck in this tower; you could at least endeavor to be a little more pleasant. We do spend a lot of time together. Perhaps if you got to know me you would like me more.”

“I know you. I knew you a lifetime ago as a similar man that sat in this tower, bringing misery to those around him. I’ve known you since you first stepped into these ruins, your eyes holding the same treacherous curiosity and hatred I knew for so many years.” Larc’s own gaze was ice as he glared down at the wizard. Vitor was younger than his old master but learned quickly. There was surely only one path for him.

“I do wish you could hear how inane and repetitive you are, Larc.” Vitor waved him off and caught notice of a cream-colored envelope on the corner of his desk, neatly perched upon the transposition stone. “You didn’t tell me I had mail.”

“I hoped you wouldn’t notice, or that if I wished hard enough it would vanish back to where it came from, and its writer would come to her senses.” The ghost shrank back into the wall, though still watched from within the stones. Vitor broke the seal deftly with his letter opener and reclined into his chair. His eyes swept across the letter, and a smile twisted onto his lips.

“What was that you said before, about losing her? Ah, Larc, I will enjoy having an eternity of proving you wrong about all manner of things.”

[huntsman-ash]

World of Remnant: The Umbramancer "Invasion" of Solitas.

Anyone with even a basic understanding of tactics will tell you there are three things you NEVER do; Overestimate yourself, underestimate the enemy...and invade Solitas in the winter. Which...is all the time. 

Of course, if something is NEVER to be done, there is always someone who does it anyway. As the losses and victories of any war will tell you, all three rules have been ignored more than once. 

The most recent variation of this ignorance covered all three of them, and was perpetrated by a particularly annoying needle in the side of Atlas and Mantle both, the opertunistic"umbramancer" (ONI is unsure of the actual meaning of this term, as no records of any previous existing humans bearing this title exist) who formerly was known as Tarn, and then by "Noctus". 

Tarn originally came to Mantle's attention when, following the Fall of Beacon, he made himself known to HK Ash Vulcan, requesting a face to face challange of some kind. Vulcan reportedly answered with Mantle standard contempt, and a single round from Mantle's Super MAC, which effectivly pulverized Vale's Mt. Eclipsestone, which Tarn had been using as a base of operations. Official reports from captured files of his note the apparent lack of effectiveness of this strike and Tarn's own laughter at it, but ONI probes as well as Atlas aeiral recon indicate the strike was lethally effective, killing most of the Grimm that Tarn had managed to amass there with shockwaves and the resulting multi-million ton landslide. 

Foiled but unwilling to admit defeat, Tarn spent the next few months building up what any nation would consider a "massive" army, as well as apparently undergoing various power mutations and gaining new abilities. ONI is unsure of the exact series of events however, as only his scattered, rambling notes have been found, with more than half of them seemingly being Tarn raging at invisible or imaginary question-askers. With this new force at his back, Tarn attempted to face Ash once again, apparently to settle the score set last time...only to be foiled once again as Vulcan utilized the Nikos's Spear's anti-matter laser array to boil the ground he stood upon, barely escaping with his life. 

This event is particularly noted in his journals, as he spends several pages describing how he "totally planned" for Vulcan do do such a thing, and how he "got away safely without a scratch", despite one entire half of the page being covered in what analysts believe is half-boiled skin. Defeated once more, the umbramancer finally made his move, advancing his 12 million strong army of cultists, machines and some kind of machine known as a Titan on to Solitas. His target; Mantle. 

His journals tell of this being a glorious time, of Mantle falling without any real threat back. It is believed he was writing these entries as he fought, as the journal abrubtly stops at this point, with no further entries. Luckily, combat footage picks up where it left off. 

As Tarns forces moved in, destroying what they BELIEVED to be Mantle, they slowly realized something was wrong. They faced little resistance, no actual damage done to them...it was too easy. A burst of light and the vanishing of the entire city of Mantle, to reveal nothing but an empty wasteland of ice and snow, showed the reason; a hardlight construct, of massive size and accuracy, projected from above. From the one vehicle capable of powering such an illusion. The most horrific machine in all of Remnant. 

The sky seemed to blacken as the mighty 2 kilometer long form of the Atlas airship Eclipse hovered above the confused, rapidly panicking cultists and still machines, behind it, the equally menacing form of the Nikos's Spear. The very earth rattled with the thrum of their engines, and the temperature dropped noticeably as their power supplies drew in every calorie of heat energy in the area in preperation for the coming barrage.

There was silence. A moment, perhaps, for the coming fallen. Or, perhaps...just long enough for Tarn to shout "WHAT THE HELL?! THATS NOT FAIR!" And then there was noise. The ventral turbolasers aboard the Eclipse, not even her largest armament, and most certainly not the most lethal of her equipment (the Suppression Field aboard her was never powered up during the fight) opened up, high-intensity packaged energy vaporizing dozens of tons of dirt and ice with each impact, hurling bodies hundreds of feet into the air, flash-boiling the water in tissues and the ground into explosive steam, and slagging anything metallic with even a near miss. The few enemy forces with their wits still about them to fight back watched hopelessly as their fire bounced off the feet-thick durasteel hull. With nowhere to run and nowhere to hide, the  umbramancer's army fell into dissaray, and then full retreat, fainly trying to escape the pounding energy raining from above. They never made it past the edge of the field. The Spear's hydrofuel laser saw to that, boiling a mile-long strip of ground into liquid glass, an impassible barrier of superheated material that burned any who went near it alive. The rain continued. The field became a sheet of glass, rapidly cooling in the cold...and as the two ships moved away, nothing stood, bar the panicked, sobbing Tarn, who stumbled off into the wilderness, half-dead, somehow still on his feet despite the fact that most of his skin had been boiled off the bone.  The Umbramancer's invasion had met the same fate of all who invaded Solitas; the long, cold death.

[thelastswallow]

A much needed resurgence of @space-baegel‘s Fairy Tale AU is happening right now, to wile away the winter months.

@tb5-heavenward will be no doubt shattering more hearts with The Captain’s Glass, but in the meantime, here’s a short sequel.

The morning after the night before. Happy Ever After is lived one day at a time.

THE MORNING GIFT

She wakes to a rumbling that fills her chest and makes her bones shiver.

She wakes in a lustrous canopied bed, decked out in blue and silver.

She wakes alone. The other side of the bed is cold and empty.

She smiles and her heart seems ready to burst with joy.

The rumbling hum creeps in from the doors that lead to her balcony, strange and inviting. It makes her blood race.

She pushes her hair out of her eyes and throws back the blankets. Her morning dress is laid out for her on the stand at the end of the bed. It is Melchior blue slashed at the sleeves with her own royal pink. A staid, demure dress, with high collar and seed pearls on the cuffs of the long sleeves. It’s a dress fit for a queen-in-waiting and the mother of the future heir. It takes three maids to get her into it.

She ignores it and walks, naked, to the great armoire. From inside she selects her favourite summer dress. The pink and cream silk underdress is cool as she slips it on, and as she ties up her laces she smells the scent of rose water imbued into the fabric. She binds up her hair in one of the ribbons slashed from her wedding dress and slips on her favourite doe skin slippers. Then she steps out onto the balcony.

The sun is already climbing the sky, and by its light the turquoise sea glows silver. She can smell brine in the air and taste it on her tongue. The sun feels warm on her skin. The whole air hums like a plucked bow string.

At last, she sees the source of the strange and strangely beautiful sound. Poised atop one of the gargoyles that sit on the highest tower, perched with great delicacy for a beast so massive, it’s wings half-spread, the dragon is singing.

*

Her father had insisted on placing a guard on her door to ensure the princess’s modesty is preserved. She smiles at the two women who jump to attention as she opens the door but waves them away as they try to follow her, preferring to descend the stairs alone.

The castle is very quiet. In the blue solar the servants have put out a modest breakfast for those guests brave enough to venture down to breakfast. However, neither guests nor servants are brave enough to enter the great hall, where the splendid royal wedding feast lays untouched from the night before. She nudges it open and steps inside.

Her stomach rumbles at the sight of all that delicious food, most of which has not even begun to spoil. She has eaten nothing since a small breakfast of oatcakes and cheese yesterday morning before they bound her into her corset and her beautiful, constricting wedding dress.

There are mounds of strawberries and cream, towers of delicate pastries, joints of lamb and beef and a lamb, and a whole roast suckling pig, it’s mouth stuffed with a green apple. There is a white swan still in its plumage, it’s neck wrapped in an embrace with a black swan – these she avoids – and there is the towering tier of the wedding cake, six feet high and decorated with white spun sugar roses.

She crosses to the table and snatches up a fat peach. She bites into it greedily. The juice is running down her chin when she hears a sound in the corner of the room.

A young man lies asleep on the divan tucked against the wall of the great hall. Light from the stained-glass window covers him in a cloak of red and blue harlequin diamonds. Beside him is a sword of unsurpassed calibre, its blade bare and sharp as a whisper. One hand rests lightly on the hilt of the sword. The other rests on the head of the enormous dog that sleeps across his legs.

It is the dog that has made a sound. It’s the biggest, greyest dog she has ever seen. It nudges the young man’s hand gently and raises its head, stares at her with soulful brown eyes, it’s ears pricked. Then is slips off the couch, shakes itself rigourously and trots out of the room.

A moment later the young man, the prince, her bethrothed-as-was, begins to stir and Penelope hurries to daub peach juice from her chin.

He yawns, opens his eyes – still the strangest sort of blue, though his curse is broken – and looks around, unsure where he is. Then his eyes fall on her and his nose crinkles as he smiles. “Princess, you look very beautiful.”

He is trying to be kindly and gentlemanly and good. But it doesn’t stop her breath catching like someone has pulled tight on her laces. For all his gallantry, she thinks he will always frighten her, and that she will always hate him, just a sliver.

Maybe he senses this, or maybe he just recognises that his surroundings are misplaced because he sits up suddenly, looking around. His mouth falls open. “It is a brand-new world.” Even the words seem to taste funny in his mouth.

“Yes,” she says.

He stares at her. “I told your father I could not marry you.”

“You did.”

“He said that any wedding on which the sky threatened to fall was deemed to be inauspicious by God and that anyway, a wise monarch didn’t want a kingkiller as a son.” He says it as if he is reading from a page.

“Yes.”

“He even said that he would not look unfavourably on Melchior or feel your honour was besmirched so long as I gave you one of my brothers instead and he proved to be more of a man than I am.”

She grimaces. Her father will have his little jokes.

He sits back in his chair as if stunned and shakes his head. Then he says, slowly, carefully, “Nevertheless, Princess, I wish you every happiness.”

She is saved from having to make some elegant reply by the door being thrown open and his brother entering the room. Prince Virgil is still tying up the wooden buttons of his undershirt. His jacket is in his hand. He stops by the long table and grabs a leg of lamb by the bone, taking an enormous bite. “The day has stolen a march on us, brother. Time to get up.”

“I’m up. I’m up.” Prince Scott runs a hand through his hair. “And you, you’re…” he coughs. “Are you quite well?”

“Quite well.” Virgil takes another huge bite from the lamb leg. In fact the scars that were so wicked last night have faded considerably in the day time. “Hungry.”

“Where are the others then?”

“Alan left the palace before dawn in the company of Princess Kayo.”

“Queen Kayo,” says Scott quickly. “She’s the queen of Balthazar now that her uncle is dead. Do you think that’s safe?”

“I’m sure Alan won’t let anything happen to Her Majesty.”  Virgil is brusque and cheery. He jumps up on one of the couches and peers out one of the high windows. “And anyway, you’ve got matters to attend to, Your Highness. Tell me, will you be slaying the dragon or offering it a position on the royal council?”

“The dragon? It’s still out there?”

“It’s singing,” says Penelope.

“I suppose a virgin sacrifice might get it to leave,” says Virgil and then seems to realise he has misspoke by the sudden way Penelope becomes absorbed in the carpet and Scott turns bright scarlet, because he adds, “I’m sure John might oblige.”

“Where is John?”  she asks.

Virgil seems to think about this. He cocks his head to the side and his nostrils flare. “He’s in the library,” he says at last.

“The library!” She glares from one of them to the other but neither seem particularly perturbed by this news. With a snort, she grabs her skirts and races up the steps.

As long as she’s known him her dear heart has been trapped in that cursed library. That he might be trapped there again, or worse, that he might feel that he has no choice but to return there, that he feels he doesn’t belong anywhere else, has her heart in her mouth the whole way up the tower. She will burn the library and every stinking book in it rather than let him languish there one minute…

“No. No, Eos, I said put it back. Just Hooper’s Field Guide and Anderson’s Annotated Guide of the Three Kingdoms. Thank you.”

She bursts through the door, to find John sitting cross-legged on the floor of the library, sorting through a pile of books. He looks up when she enters and pushes the spectacles he’s wearing onto his forehead. “What’s the matter with you?” he asks.

Penelope leans against the door frame to catch her breath, her chest heaving from exertion. “What,” she demands, “Are you doing here?”

“Packing,” he says. “There’s an empty suite of rooms down in the east wing next to Virgil’s. Excellent view of the ocean.”

“And what’s all this?” she demands.

He shrugs and places his hand on a pile of books. “I thought I’d bring a few favourites with me. For old time’s sakes. Don’t worry,” he adds in the face of her stabbing glare, “I’m checking them all out.” He shows her the ledger and the fresh entries in his precise hand.

She sags. “You are incorrigible.”  

“And shouldn’t you be down at the dock? Gordon’s been down there for hours.”

She places her arms across her chest in just the way her governess taught her not to do. “And does that mean I have to go down to the stinky old docks. Must I go where ever Gordon goes from now on?”

“Yes,” he says. “Now go away, I’m busy.”

She throws her nose in the air in her most royal manner and stomps down the stairs. As she leaves she sees the little pixie arrive carrying a book ten times her size. John sighs and shakes his head. “No EOS, not Faust. She’s ethically unsound. I don’t care if you do like the bright illustrations.”

Her mood is further blackened when there is no one in the stable yard to saddle her horse or help her to mount, so she must set off on foot to the sea. There is no one about at all this morning and that may be because everyone had a sore head from drinking all those tapped barrels and uncorked bottles of wine that hadn’t been used to toast the happy couple or it maybe that everyone is locked up indoors because they are all afraid of the dragon.

She arrives at the docks sweating and out of humour and finds no one there to meet her. All the boats are out in the harbour and there isn’t so much as one tied up in the pier. She’s about to stamp her foot and curse John for a paper munching sack of carrots when there comes a roaring noise like thunder and the sky darkens. The dragon descends on her like a vast shadow and every beat of its wings tears at her skirts and causes great waves to slam against the harbour wall. The ribbon rips free of her hair and goes sailing out into the harbour.

The dragon perches on the top of fidelity rock, the narrow spire of stone that has been used for hundreds of years to measure the depth of the harbour’s water. Gordon had once told her that the rock had been one of the sea’s lovers, turned to stone for being unfaithful.

The dragon raises its head, braces its wings and begins to sing it’s rumbling, roaring song, which she can feel all the way through her chest.

“Why are you singing?” she shouts up at him.

The dragon turns a single golden eye and bends its long neck until she can almost reach out and touch it. It laughs, a low, rumbling sound. “Because today my three souls can be happy,” it says.

She’s about to ask him what it means when there is a clatter of hooves and a grey horse gallops onto the pier, skids to a stop just before careening off the end. “Keep away from her.” From the horse’s back Scott brandishes the magic sword and comes quite close to pricking the dragon’s snout. “Princess Penelope, get behind me.”

“Oh, for God’s sake, Scott.” Penelope does not move.

“Hmm.” The dragon sniffs at the tip of the sword. “You are early. Did your brother send you down here?”

“How did – ? Scott shakes his head. He draws himself up to his full height, which is still insignificant when compared to the bulk of the dragon. “Never mind! Beware, dragon. You shall not harm the princess.”

The dragon tilts his head to the side. “You’ve been reading too many books, boy? Or is it your experience that dragons particularly favour princesses?”

Scott colours. “Everyone knows dragons eat… young women.”

The dragon laughs and picks his fangs with a claw, a surprisingly delicate movement. “Maidens. Everyone knows that dragons favour eating maidens. Are you offering yourself as a delicacy, Your Highness?”

This time Scott goes so bright a shade of red he is almost purple. His grip tightens on his sword, but the dragon just laughs and showers them both in a sulphurous blast of his breath.

“It’s not funny!” splutters Scott.

“No indeed. We are going to be good friends, you and I, little witch-prince.”

“W-we are?”

“Indeed. But not before you try to kill me.”

Scott tenses, but the dragon just roars with laughter again, spreading out his wings. “Not today however. Our duel of fate is scheduled for another time. Besides, there is much to do. I have a ship to find and a princess to snatch.”

And with a whoosh of wind she is grabbed between the dragon’s claws and jerked up into the air. She screams.

Down below Scott drops his sword in surprise and reaches for his bow. He notches an arrow but by now they are 50 feet in the air and he at least has the sense not to shoot. She screams.

“You usually enjoy this,” says the dragon. “Or you will.” They soar out over the harbour, high, high above the sea. Below her the ocean is like a glittering pond. The boats upon it are like toys.

“I do not! Put me down.”

“As you wish.” He plummets suddenly and the bottom drops out of her stomach as she plunges down. She shuts her eyes…

…And lands with incredible gentleness on her own two feet.

She opens her eyes and finds herself in Gordon’s arms. He grins and looks up as the dragon flaps overhead. “Woo! That was some entrance, Pen.”

They’re on a large fishing boat in the middle of the harbour and Gordon is naked to the waist.

She thumps him, hard, in the chest. “What were you trying to do? Scare me to death?”

His face falls. “You didn’t find in charming and invigorating?”

“No.”

“Rascally and exciting?”

“No. I was terrified.”

“Oh, well, obviously. I told Alan it was an obnoxious idea. That kid. He’s pure evil. Did you hear that Alan?” He raises his voice. “When I tell you not to get your dragon to carry the princess out here, don’t carry the princess out her.”

Alan, who is standing at the prow of the ship with the new queen of Balthazar talking to the dragon, gives a cheery wave. “Did she like it? That was a great idea Gordon.”

“Of course you can’t believe a word he says,” says Gordon, sotto voce.

She thumps Gordon. “I’m going to kill you. Again.”

He grins. “You like me really though.”

“I don’t. I detest you.”

“So, then you won’t miss me if I do this?” he asks and bounces onto the boat’s railing and then into the water in a graceful swan dive.

“Gordon!” She runs to the railing, but there isn’t even so much as a ripple where he disappeared. “Gordon!”

“Don’t worry milady.” Parker appears at her elbow. “He’s just gone to get something.”

“To get something? Where? The bottom of the ocean?”

“Near h’enough, milady, yeah. We’ve been searching hall morning. Lady Kayo was insti-umental there. Seems he forgot something in his cabin what with having to bail out in a mite of a hurry. Cap’n’s gone to get it back.”

She looks but she can’t see any sign of the ship in the blue water. “What did he lose? His crown?”

“No, Milady. Something a smidge more important than that.”

A moment later Gordon surfaces in a shower of seaspray and his men throw a rope down to haul him up. He swings himself up like a monkey, hand over hand, and she tells herself she is certainly not affected by the way the saltwater glistens off his shoulders and abdomen, and that the hitch in her breathing is only left over from her flying lesson.

“You’re very active for a dead man,” she says as he clambers onto the deck.

He grins and crawls forward, takes one of her dainty, slippershod foot in his hand and kisses the arch of her foot. “You’re right, of course. From now on I intend to do nothing but lie in bed from dawn until dusk. Care to join me?”

She arches an eyebrow.

“But first,” he says and opens his hand like it’s a magic trick. Inside is a string of diamonds as perfect as any she’s ever seen. “Did you ever hear the story of the Moon’s Tears? No?”

He clears his throat. “The moon had a daughter,” he says. “And she was the most beautiful women in all the world. She lived in the moon’s silver palace and every night she would sing.” His thumb slides back and forth along her foot. “Now there was this idiot, you see. Some say he was a farmer, or a fisherman, or a wandering knight but all agree he was a humble man and mortal and had no business being in love with a goddess, but love her he did, and by some miracle the moon princess noticed his love and began to love him back. In fact, she loved him so much she decided to go to earth to be with him.

“Now the moon was sad because by going to earth she knew her daughter was choosing a mortal life and a mortal death. But her daughter just smiled and said that she would rather live one life with love, then 10,000 years without it. So, the moon cried five tears. One for wisdom, one for health, one for joy, one for courage and one for love.” He holds up the five diamonds. “She hung them around her daughter’s neck and sent her off with a kiss and a song and the princess joined her true love on Earth, where it’s said they became the first king and queen of Melchior.”

The diamonds wink in the morning sun, casting rainbows on the deck, but Gordon isn’t done. And in time she had a son, and when he was old enough she gave him the diamonds and sang him this song. ‘Seek a made that’s fair and true, whom you love and who loves all of you, to your love be faithful and true, and my blessings will be her blessings too.’”

He shakes his head, bashful.  

Gordon holds out the jewels. “They were my mother’s. They should only be given by a prince of Melchior to his one true love. Virgil… Virgil sold them to buy me a ship, to save my life. It took me two years to track them down and win them back from the vicious old trader who had them so I could…”

He blinks, as if the sunlight has got into his eyes. “Penny… Penelope, Princess of Caspar, I understand you have found yourself fiancé-less.” He clears his throat again. “I mean, Penelope. You are my day and my night. My rose and my thorn. My sea and my sky. You are all I live for. I can’t build you a sky palace, but I can love you until my bones are dust and my name isn’t even a whisper on the wind. I will love you until the sky falls and the sea boils. Penelope, my own true love, would you wear the moon’s tears for me? Would you… could you… will you…” He glares up at her. “Come on. Are you going to make me say it?”

She pulls him to his feet and kisses him. “Gordon of Melchior,” she says, “Marry me.”

He grins. “Yes, Ma’am,” he says. “My own.”

At the prow of the boat Alan shields his eyes from the sunshine. “Did you ask her yet?” he shouts with a grin. “I want my breakfast.”

And overheard the dragon is singing.