#horrifying to be near them in many ways... the glittering dread

[deathsmallcaps]

@boopboopboopbadoop

April’s Story

Shrek premiered 20 years ago this month! So I decided to honor it with my own illustrated version of the movie for my Win A Commission Contest! If you’d like to see the illustrations in context with the text, please

Once upon a time, there was a lovely Princess

But she had an enchantment upon her of an awful sort, that could only be broken by True Love's First Kiss

She was Locked away in a tower, guarded by a terrible fire-breathing Dragon

Many brave Knights had attempted to free from this dreadful prison, but none prevailed

She waited in the Dragon's keep, in the tallest room of the tallest tower. Where she waited for her True Love and True Love's First Kiss...

A large green hand ripped a page from the Book and revealed another part involving the whole kingdom celebrating on the Princess and her True Love's wedding day, laughing heartily as he slammed it shut.

"Like that's ever gonna happen!" A Scottish voice said dismissively. "What a load of-" A flush of a Toilet drowned out the last part of the sentence.

We look and see an outhouse. It was made of white birch wood, lashed together with a rope for a handle and a black crescent moon facing the right. There was some hanging moss on the tilted roof growing and a pathway of stones, weeds crowding in between. It was set right in front of a thick wood, facing towards a house. The strange thing about all of this is that the outhouse had plumbing with a flushing toilet.

The door slammed open, revealing no Prince Charming nor a Frog, but an Unlikely Hero: an Ogre. Yawning and stretching out before fixing his wedgie, he shook off a ripped page that was sticking to his shoe and stared at his house.

He lived in a giant, white, hollowed out mangrove tree, the trunk thinning out into a perfect chimney. Moss, ivy and weeds grew all around or on top of it, and there was a crude door and some small windows set into the side.

The Ogre breathed in and left the outhouse with the door slamming behind him as he began his day.

Using a bucket and scraping up some mud, he carried it over to a branch. The ogre undressed and pulled on a rope, causing the mud to pour onto him. He made an “Oof!” sound when it first hit him, but continued scrubbing himself with the mud like it was soap. He drank the last dregs of the mud and then spat it out, ending the shower.

Then the Ogre brushed his teeth. He grabbed a red caterpillar, and squeezing it like a tube of toothpaste, pushed its innards onto a bone. He scrubbed well, getting the insides of his teeth, then the outsides. It turned his already unhealthy teeth greener, and the putrid goo shown in his hideous smile caused his mirror to shatter and fall onto the floor.

Next, he plunged himself into a lake and made a huge splash, turning himself right and getting ready; the Ogre let out a loud, horrendous and terrible gaseous fart that bubbled behind him. Feeling relieved and making an “innocent” pose with his finger to his lip, he turned to see that there was not one, not two but three red salmon floating up to the surface; murdered by the deadliness of the stench that continued to plague the rest of the underwater native wildlife. He grabbed the one next to him and proceeded to leave.

Later army crawling into a hollowed husk of a fallen tree, pointing diagonally skywards, the Ogre pushed out a ton of mud as he climbed his way forward like a commando in the trenches of a battlefield. The final mud slopped out as his stained face popped out.

He smiled as he found a green slug right outside the tree trunk. The Ogre grabbed it and the slug squirmed in alarm as it was picked up by a giant green hand, leaving the small maggots once underneath the slug exposed to the air.

Closer to sunset, near a lake with verdant hills in the distance, the Ogre began painting a new sign. Having picked out a broken off- plank of moldy wood form his outhouse, he didn’t bother with a base coat of white. He spent several hours painting. Once he finished, the Ogre placed his palette down, took a good look at his newest masterpiece, and out of sheer joy of satisfaction he kissed the ogre in the picture on the lips. It left red paint all across his lips as he posted it next to an older sign that said, "STAY OUT". It was a rather hideous portrayal of his face with red eyes and red writing that stated, “BEWARE OGRE".

After The Ogre had ate his fishy and sluggy dinner and had lit a fire with the strength of his belch, he sat back on the crocodile flesh recliner. Just as he was settling in, the Ogre's tiny trumpet ears picked up a disturbance in the Swamp.

It was the sounds of people trespassing. With a groan he lurched to his feet and glanced out his window, spotting a group of Ogre Hunters in the far distance, mostly visible due to their torches. Within moments, the Ogre snuck outside his home and was tiptoeing behind them.

The Ogre Hunters, dressed mostly in green and sporting crappy haircuts, pushed aside the tall grass and foliage as they watched the Swamp House, lit from within by The Ogre’s Belch-Fire.

"Think it's in there?" The one with a bowl cut asked

"Alright... let's get it!" The one in the a tall hat declared, holding a torch and about to make a charge forward before he was stopped short by the one with the mustache next to him.

"Hold on, you know what that thing could do to you?" the mustached one said with fear.

"Yeah, it'll grind your bones for it's bread!" The one with the bowl cut told him.

They all froze when a loud chuckle echoed behind them.

Turning around, they saw the Ogre towering over them. He spoke in an almost friendly manner, but what he said was the opposite of friendly. “Ha, yes, well actually; that would be a giant!" He exclaimed, causing the men to back off. The Ogre stepped forward each time they stepped back. "Now Ogres, oh.. they're much worse! They'll make a suit from your freshly peeled skin!"

"No!" A man was horrified

"They'll shave your livers!"

“No!”

"And squeeze the jelly from your eyes!" The Ogre Hunters were cornered as the Ogre added, thoughtfully, "Actually it's quite good on toast."

The bearded Ogre Hunter swung torch at The Ogre’s face. "Back! Back, beast! Back! I warn ya!"

The Ogre simply raised an eyebrow before calmly licking his fingers and putting out his torch with a pinch and a smile.

"Right..." the Ogre Hunter dropped the extinguished torch.

The Ogre let loose an horrible and fearsome ear bursting roar directly into the faces of the cowering Ogre Hunters. Spit flew in their faces as their hair and hats were thrown back. They screamed in response as their torches extinguished as the roar continued. After a long moment, he stopped and wiped his mouth, but the Hunters continued to scream; when they finally stopped they looked like their wits had long been scared out of them.

The Ogre leaned in and whispered to them as the crickets and other hidden wildlife in the night went on in the silence. "This is the part where you run away..."

With a yelp they immediately dropped all their pitchforks and weapons and bolted out of the swamp as the Ogre chortled to himself. The bowl cut Ogre Hunter tripped but kept running in desperation.

The Ogre laughed whole heartily and yelled after the retreating party. "And stay out!"

A piece of paper they must’ve left behind caught his attention. He picked it up, and saw that it had the face of a solemn elf with a green leaf hat and white beard. There were bags of gold drawn around it, but no explicit price was given, just the word, “Reward” written in red. Above it he read, "Wanted: Fairy Tale Creatures...".

He realized they had wanted to capture him for the reward money. He looked towards the fleeing villagers in disgust and shook his head, throwing the paper to the ground as he went back inside to spend the rest of the night in peace.

The next day, as part of his new plan to get people to leave him alone, The Ogre set up some new new signs, even farther from his home. Just as he was setting up his last one (it had a green skull with the words ‘Keep Out!’ in the pupils), something ran into his butt.

The Ogre turned around to face what appeared to be a terrified mini-donkey.

Someone yelled, "He's getting away! Get him!" and the sounds of guards in armor scared the little donkey into hiding behind The Ogre. "This way! Turn!"

The local Captain of the Guard and his men ran up, stopping when they all saw the tall Ogre who stood before them. "You there... Ogre" The Captain grabbed a scroll his waist

"Aye?" Was The Ogre’s reply, hands on his hips and now seemingly irritated that his day was once again involving contact with humans.

"By the order of Lord Farquaad... I am authorized to place you both under arrest and transport you to a designated resettlement... facility...?" The Captain's voice was shaking and nervous due to the face that the Ogre was walking towards him slowly, now standing right in front of him as a deafening silence fell.

"Oh really?" He asked, leaning down so he was face to face with the Captain. "You and what army?" He asked as his teeth glittered with a smile, glancing behind him.

The Captain turned around to see what was once left of his men as their halberds fell down and a shield spun around onto the ground like a coin. He turned back to the Ogre; the mini-donkey smiled as the Captain took his men's example and made a run for it.

Now that confrontation is over with, the Ogre shook his head and walked away; but the mini-donkey had nowhere else to go and decided to follow his accidental savior. He trotted behind him.

"Can I say something to you?" He asked with the Ogre walking on. "Listen, you were really, really, really somethin' back here. Incredible!"

Now fully irritated, The Ogre turned around. "Are you talkin' to..." The Ogre saw no one else, just the ground lit by the sunlight within the forest of the tall trees. The voice was clearly gone. "Me?" He blinked and shrugged, turning before giving out a startled yell as the Donkey now stood before him.

"Yes I was talkin' to you. Can I tell you that you was great back here? Those guards! They thought they were all of that. Then you showed up and bam!" The little donkey caught up to The Ogre before getting up onto his hoofs in front of The Ogre and made a martial arts move with his right hoof, stopping him again. "They were trippin' over themselves like babes in the wood. I loved seeing that, made me feel happy seeing that"

"Oh, that's great. Really." The Ogre sarcastically replied

"Man, it's good to be free!" The burrito declared as the Ogre turned to him.

"Now, why don't you go celebrate your freedom with own friends? Hmm?" He suggested, leaning down to the little donkey, before walking off again.

"But... I don't have any friends, and I'm NOT going out there by myself!" Exclaimed the creature. A flash of inspiration came to him. "Hey wait a minute, I got a great idea! I'll stick with you" Donkey returned happily to the Ogre, deaf to his annoyance. "You're a mean green fighting machine! With you, we'll scare the spit out of anybody who crosses us!"

The Ogre halted and regarded Donkey for a moment. Then seemingly out of the blue, he fully turned and gave off an all might roar right into the animal’s face; hoping this would scare him.

The mini-donkey just stared, now with an impressed look drawn on his face. "Oh, wow! That was really scary!"

The Ogre just frowned and stomped away.

"Now if that doesn’t work, your breath will certainly get the job done, 'cause you definitely need some Tic Tacs or something 'cause your breath STINKS!"

The Ogre continued walking, but then looked back when he didn’t hear the none-stop chatterbox for about five seconds, to his relief and hope that he lost the annoyance.

To his irritation and surprise, the donkey appeared looking down at him from above; atop of a fallen tree over The Ogre’s path.

"You almost burned the hair outta my nose, just like the time..."

The Ogre covered the donkey's mouth, muffling his little obnoxious tale. The donkey still did not shut up as he kept it held there; continuing to talk either way; The Ogre removed his hand. "Then I ate some berries, man I had some strong gasses leaking out of my butt that day!"

"WHY are you following me?!" The Ogre asked, losing patience; nothing could shut this donkey up and he just needed to get away right now.

"I'll tell you why!" The animal leaped off the tree as he followed the Ogre, before breaking out into obnoxious song. "Cause I'm all alone, there's no here beside meeeee." He stopped in front of the Ogre as he wiggled his butt, the Ogre's right eye was half closed and his left eye was twitching in madness as the mini-donkey continued. "My problems have all gone, there's no one to deride me... but you gotta have faith-"

"Stop singing!" The Ogre yelled, he grabbed the burrito by the ears and tail as he moved him out of his way. "It's no wonder you don't have any friends!"

"Wow, only a true friend would be that truly honest!" The small donkey claimed.

The Ogre only groaned "Listen, little donkey. Take a look at me: What am I?" He held out his arms and stood tall before him.

The burrito looked from the Ogre's shoes to his head, whose face looked irritated while he thought to himself. "Really tall?" was his first guess. The mini-donkey wasn’t sure what The Ogre was asking.

"No! I'm an Ogre, you know. ‘Grab your torch and Pitchforks!’ Doesn't that bother you?" He imitated an Ogre Hunter before asking.

Donkey shook his head

"Nope." came the response

"Really?" The Ogre was a bit surprised.

"Really, really" The creature happily assured.

"Oh," The Ogre was not too sure on what to say next.

"Man, I like you, what's your name?"

The Ogre looked a little surprised. For all his time living alone in the Swamp, no one had ever asked him of his name. He had always been The Ogre, not a true individual to the people around him.

"Uhh... Shrek." He replied after a moment, before continuing his walk home.

"Shrek?" Th little donkey echoed, seeing if he got it right before following the now and forever named Ogre himself. "Well, you know what I like about you Shrek? You got that kind of I-don't-care-what-nobody-thinks-of-me-thing I like that. I respect that Shrek. You all right."

He continued to follow Shrek up the hill as they came overhead across a small grassy meadow hill above that overlooked Shrek's Swamp. Donkey (for that was his name) stared looked at the scene before him.

"Whoa! Look at that. Who'd want to live in a place a like that?" He asked with a hint of disgust, mostly discomfort, in his voice.

"That... would be my home" Shrek claimed, his hands on his hips before heading down the other side of the hill.

Donkey could only blink in response, he had really put his hoof in it now. "Oh! And it is lovely! Just beautiful. You know you are quite a decorator. It's amazing what you've done with such a modest budget!"

Shrek only shook his head as he continued downwards.

"I like that boulder, that is a nice boulder." Donkey followed him down. He continued after Shrek once again and stopped in front of the three signs: "BEWARE OGRE", "STAY OUT" and "DANGER". Donkey took a look at each of them all and asked,"I guess you don't uh.. entertain that much do you?"

"I like my privacy." Shrek claimed as he kept walking to his front door, Donkey trotting after him.

"You know, I do too. That's another thing we have in common. Like I hate it when you got somebody in your face. You've trying to give them a hint and they won't leave. Then there's that big awkward silence you know?"

Shrek turned to face him, silently willing Donkey to understand that the creature had just described their exact situation.

"Can I stay with you?" Clearly Donkey did not receive the hint.

"Uh, what?"

"Can I stay with you, please?" He added in the magic word.

"Of course!" Shrek declared lightheartedly as he smiled.

"Really?" Donkey asked.

"No." Shrek bluntly denied.

"PLEASE! I don't wanna go back there! You know what it's like to be living like a freak!" Donkey reconsidered for a moment as he looked at the large green humanoid before him as he pushed Shrek onto his front door with his hooves. "Well, maybe you do. But that's why we gotta stick together! You gotta let me stay, please, please!" Donkey was getting hysterical.

"OKAY! Okay..." Donkey dropped to the floor as Shrek opened his door inwards as he gave his one little stipulation. "But one night only." He was about to enter before Donkey bolted in.

"Ah! Thank you!"

"What are you...?" Donkey leapt onto Shrek's crocodile skin recliner. "No, no!"

"This is gonna be fun! We can stay up late, swappin' manly stories and in the mornin," He trotted around on the chair before sitting down as he finished with: "I'm makin' waffles!"

"Oh!" Shrek groaned as he held his hands out, as though he was planning to strangle the noisy intruder.

Donkey looked around and asked him. "Where do, uh... I sleep?"

"Outside!" Shrek screamed irritably.

Donkey's ears drooped upon hearing that response. "Oh, well, I guess that's cool. I mean, I don't know you and you don't know me, so I guess outside is best, you know. Here I go." He sniffled as got off his recliner and walked out sadly,"Goodnight..." He told him as Shrek slammed the door on him.

The mini-donkey kept talking, of course. "You know, I do like the outdoors. I'm a Donkey. I was born outside. I'll just be sitting by myself outside, I guess, you know. By myself, outside!"

Shrek looked out before shaking his head and sighing to himself, walking away from the door to enjoy himself for the rest of the day as Donkey began singing the same annoyingsong again; although more sorrowfully.

"I'm all alone, there's no one here besides me..."

That night, as the cauldron hanging by chains over the firepit bubbled solemnly; Shrek was enjoying himself with a nice dinner while Donkey was locked outside of his home. He dropped a eye on a stick into his martini glass and slurped it down as he looked at his dinner before him. There was a slug with orange eyes, what appeared to be green grapes, a jar of eyes, spice, worm stuffed pumpkin and a nice large piece of cooked skinless meat on his plate.

These were the times he enjoyed the most out of his solitary life, he was home, nice and warm and he wasn't bothered by anyone at all. Though he had to pause and glance at his front door. Shrek had ... mixed feelings about his new acquaintance. He talked WAY too much, but he was also the first person in a very long time to actually treat Shrek like a person.

He shook his head and sighed, scooting in further to his table as he felt that there was just something missing from the layout of the table. The man he figured out what ir was. He brought his hand to his ear and started to pull hard and painfully as the earwax built up came out like a spear and placed it atop a candle platform; lighting the wick made of ear hair afterwards with a match. Now he can enjoy his meal alone.

The same could not be said for Donkey, who peeked sadly into the window before making his way back to the front door. He laid down as he smiled bittersweetly and went to sleep at his new friend's doorstep.

Shrek continued to eat and enjoy his meal until the sound of his door creaking interrupted his silence.

He put his fork and knife on the table as he got up. "I thought I told you to stay outside." He was hoping to shove Donkey back outside, if that was what had come in.

"I am outside." Donkey’s voice came from the window.

In confusion, Shrek turned and saw a shadow move across the wall. Who was now moving around near his table? He returned and observed it. Everything was normal underneath the table, but then he heard voices from above.

"Well, gents, it's a farcry from the farm, but what choice do we have?" A blind mouse asked, tripping over Shrek's fork.

"It's not home, but it'll do just fine!" The second of the blind mice knocked over the jar full of eyeballs, spilling out the contents.

"What a lovely bed" The third of the blind mice was bouncing on the Slug, Shrek immediately caught him.

"Got ya!" However it escaped his grasp.

"I found some cheese" the third mouse said, biting Shrek's left ear.

"OW!" He cried in pain, grabbing at the mouse again who was now on his other shoulder.

"Blah! Awful stuff!" The tiny rodent jumped down onto the spoon and inadvertently launched a piece of gravy towards Shrek's left eye, which he wiped away immediately.

"Is that you Gordon?" One of them asked.

"How did you know?" A different one asked back.

"Enough!" Shrek grabbed all three of them by the tail, flipping the wooden spoon off the left side of the table as he turned his back and demanded angrily.

"What are you doing in my house?" The dinner on his table was then violently shoved off and Shrek's back was hit with an gold and glass fashioned coffin, labeled, ‘Here lies Snow White, under the curse by the Poison Apple infected by the Sleeping Death curse’.

"Hey!" He turned and saw the Seven Dwarves, one of the waved at Shrek.

"Oh, no, no, no. Dead broad OFF the table!" He shoved her coffin back to the Dwarves

"Where are we supposed to put her? The Bed's taken!" They shoved the coffin back to him.

"Huh?" Shrek stopped short. He hurried to his bed and opened the curtain separating the rooms and gasped. There laid comfortably and in grandmother's clothing, was a wolf of all creatures.

"What?" The Wolf asked irritably.

Shrek was now on the verge of rage, he dragged the Wolf out of bed and held him in the air through his house as the Seven Dwarves made themselves comfortable.

"I live in a swamp, I put up signs! I'm a terrifying Ogre!" He shoved his door open outwards. "What do I have to do to get a little privacy?!" He screamed as he threw the Wolf out of his house.

Then he saw a sight that would haunt him forever. "Oh no... oh no!" Shrek bellowed.

His Swamp. His lovely, silent, peaceful Swamp was no longer the way he intended it to be. It was now swarming with many, many Fairytale Creatures; many, many beings now living in his precious Swamp. Even the old woman brought her entire shoe to his Swamp, with many children running around. Tents were set up, fairies roamed around in the air, Pinocchio and a short yellow elf with a cone shaped hat were arguing and many people were conversing with each other.

“No!" A witch flew past him. "NO!" He screamed out, three more witches came zooming past him and Shrek had to jump for cover as they came flying down with elves helping them land.

"Wha?" Shrek turned his head to the side with the old woman hanging her clothes with a child and two other children pushing each other.

"Hey, don't push!" A girl in the blue shrieked.

The Pied Piper in red was calling over rats with his flute while many other Fairytale Creatures were waiting in line towards Shrek's Outhouse.

In the meantime, Papa and Baby Bear were sitting by the fire, the latter upset and being comforted by his father; no Mama Bear in sight, as many other Fairytale Creatures warmed themselves up by the fire before them. Elves, Lepricons, Dwarves, Fairies, Witches, Pigs, Wolves, a Unicorn and any Fairytale Creature you can think of were all there in Shrek's Swamp; shattering his peace.

"What are you doing in my Swamp?!" Shrek roared out as he got up, his voice echoed all over the sound of his Swamp; everyone and everything came an abrupt half as it was followed by screams and gasps. The Dwarves who held bowls to be fed with soup from the cauldron by the witch dropped them, the three fairies of Sleeping Beauty flew in the tent to hide and two Dwarves ducked out of sight and appeared holding each other out of fear behind a branch.

Shrek wasn't going to have all this; he eyed everyone and began to walk to some Elves and Dwarves. "Alright, get out of here. All of you, move it! Come on! Let's go! Hapaya! Hapaya! Hey! Quickly, come on!" He shooed them all backwards but some of the Dwarves and fairies ran into his home as Shrek turned back. "No, no! No, no. Not there, not there!" He ran after them as they slammed the door on him and a little green fairy, the door now unable to open despite his best efforts.

He stopped and turned to face the large group before them, especially on Donkey.

"Hey don't look at me, I didn't invite them!" Donkey replied.

"Oh, gosh, no one invited us" Pinocchio confirmed.

"What?!" Shrek came over, demanding to know what happened.

"We were forced to come here" He told the Ogre.

"By who?" He was flabbergasted until one of the Three Pigs told him.

“Lord Farquaad. He huffed and he puffed and he... signed an eviction notice." His brothers nodded in agreement.

"Alright. Who knows where this Farquaad guy is?" Shrek asked.

Everyone looked around at each other with no answer, until Donkey answered. "Oh, I do. I know where he is!"

"Does anybody ELSE know where to find him? Anyone at all?" Shrek was desperate to not to go with Donkey of all people.

"Me! Me!" Donkey tried to get his attention, jumping comically into the air. Baby Bear held his paw up, but was stopped by his father.

"Anyone?" Big Bad Wolf and a Green Wizard pointed to each other while Donkey continued

"Oh! Oh, pick me! Oh, I know! I know! Me, me!"

"Okay... fine." He reigned himself to being annoyed; Shrek knew that he would either go with Donkey or risk asking a human. "Attention, all Fairytale... things. Do not get comfortable, your welcome is officially worn out. In fact, I'm going to see this guy Farquaad right now and get you all off my land and back where you came from!" He pointed to the left before the entire crowd went wild.

Shrek shook his head and groaned before walking, four birds draping him in a flower cloak. "Doh!" He swatted them away as he sharply pointed directly at Donkey. "You. You're comin' with me" He told him darkly as he shoved the cape off him and started walking, the birds returning and dropping a flower crown on his head.

"Alright, that's what I like to hear man: Shrek and Donkey, two stalwart friends, off on a whirlwind big-city adventure. I love it!" Donkey rushed after the ogre.

Shrek tried to grab torch from a Dwarf while walking. He refused to let go, so Shrek simply shook him and then dropped the dwarf into the water where the dwarf resurfaced moments later.

"On the road again, sing it with me, Shrek. I can't to get on the road again!"

“What did I say about singing?" Shrek sharply turned to Donkey and grabbed his flower crown before throwing it off of him. They crossed a log that bridged the area between Shrek’s little island and the rest of the swamp.

"Can I whistle?" Donkey asked.

"No."

"Can I hum it?"

"Alright, hum it."

Donkey continued to hum ‘On the Road Again’ while Shrek

focused on the road ahead.

The two heroes marched off into the woodlands while being waved off by all creatures.

Art Explanation

So, it’s obvious I copied the title from the movie! It sure did make my life easier!

And I used a lot of references for my pictures. I hoped to make them true to the movie as possible.

The second picture is possibly my favorite, although I didn’t enjoy drawing all the scenery. It isn’t my specialty.

The third picture was fun! I remember being very jealous of Shrek’s belch power when I was little, lol.

To be honest, the fourth picture was my least favorite. It felt too busy.

The fifth picture is my other favorite, because it has Donkey!

The last picture was hard, for sure. I wanted to ge their reflections right, and not make the background look too crappy. It’s hard to adapt things from such a dark scene. But I think it turned out alright, although the scaling is a little funny :).

So, I was hoping to not have to write out these scenes myself, because it’s ten whole minutes of a movie and let me tell you, it’s hard to do from scratch. Luckily, I found a version, which I’ve left a link for below. I just polished it a bit.

Anyways, I hope you’ve enjoyed!

SOURCE

https://m.fanfiction.net/s/450448/1/Shrek-Adaptation

[whereisstevethestove]

Stealing Kisses and Stealing Bones: Flying Dutchman AU.

Fandoms: Sanders sides and technically the lore behind the Flying Dutchman.

Characters: Virgil, Roman, Remus, Janus

Relationships: Roman/Virgil, Remus/Janus Main

Additional tags: Mer AU, Pirate AU, Human AU, Siren!Roman, Siren!Virgil, Mer!Janus

TWs: Slight Rape (there’s a forced kiss.)  Harpooning

Word count: 1347

Summary:  How does a mer come about with a name and a lover?

Notes: So mer and sirens don’t actually have names.  Some do take names, like how Roman did, but others, like Janus don’t.  Also, Happy Birthday Steve the Stove, this is your gift!

AO3

He floated lazily under the ship, counting the barnacles that had collected under it.  Fallen Atlas was an old ship, probably the oldest still on the seas, despite the fact that she was barely twenty five years old.

But he’s been following it for a few years now, the captain and his husband were a strange couple, both had seen him at some point in time and yet had made no move to catch him.

Strange indeed.

The golden mer sighed softly.  It felt like time to find a new ship, there wasn’t really anything waiting for him here, and the direction that the Fallen Atlas was heading indicated a port where they were to stop.

He decided on one more voyage.  Then he would find a new ship to follow.

…

The mer looks up at the grinning pirate.

“Hello fish.”

The mer can feel his eyes widen.  It has almost been two years since someone acknowledged his existence and he’s not ready for that.   So he bluffs his way through a conversation and leaves.

It was high time to go anyway.  He dives deep, intent on starting a bone collection, perhaps he can show his collection to the purple and black siren that he had heard singing recently.

…

Roman has taken a mate when the golden mer visits him, bringing a string of bones and pearl to gift them.

“You should take a name.”  Roman wraps an arm around him and he shakes his head.

“Names hold power siren.”

“Indeed, but I am tired of singing loudly when I desire conversation.”

“You?  Sick of singing?”  Roman’s mate teases, his storm grey eyes glittering.  Roman rolls his eyes and shoves back gently.

“Hush Virgil.”

The pair look so happy and the gold mer can’t help but feel like the one who’s stuck in the third navigator’s seat, completely unneeded.

He ends up leaving after a bit, promising to return.  

…

Remus may be the captain of The Dutchman , but he’ll be damned if he doesn’t make it so the crew takes breaks.  Currently the crew is below decks and they are anchored far enough from shore that it doesn’t violate the ship's curse.

“Hello?” Remus looks over the side of The Dutchman.   “Hello fish.”

“It’s been a while, hasn’t it?”  The gold mer is looking up as Remus climbs over the ship’s railing, a rope securely in one hand.

He thinks back.  “Five years almost.”

The mer tilts his head.  “You changed ships.”

“Indeed!  I’m the Captain now.”

“Hmmm.”

“Can I get a name, my vision of the deep?”  Remus coyly winks and the mer seems unimpressed.

“I don’t have one.”

“Excellent, I shall give you one… Darian.”

The mer wrinkles his nose.  “No.”

Then he’s gone, diving down and under the ship, leaving Remus to go back to the deck of his ship.

…

Damien, Dee, Deceit, Jeremy, Ethan, Evan, Snake, Scales, Fish, even for one horrifying time, the dreaded nickname of Tiddyliscious are all words that Remus cycles through and the mer rejects it.

Until the fateful storm where he saved the drowning captain and the latter called him Janus.

It’s a pretty name and the mer rolls it over his tongue as he leaves the ship after a few hours of tailing the ship.

He tells Roman and Virgil of it and they both seem to like it.

Janus himself finds it mysterious.  It fits, considering he has gold scales up one half of his face and the older sirens sing of the god of lies, a two faced being.

…

Janus starts bringing Remus bones.  Some are from sailors that he finds, others are from fish and one is a lucky bone from a leviathan.   The captain takes them with a grin and Janus can’t help and blush at the things that the other teases with.

He’s never desired a mate, not like Roman with his fancy whimsy, but being able to tease and have a creature to bring gifts to is addicting and as the weeks pass, he finds himself following the ship more.

It’s nice.

Until he slips up.

…

Remus can feel the burning hot anger coursing through him as he slams a knife into the table in front of him, his first mate sighing and pulling it out.

“Captain…”

“Do not tell me to be calm Ange.”  Remus growls.

He saw it happen, of course he did.  The Dutchman is hardly seen, constantly treading the mortal world and the spirit world and so when regular mortals are near, it’s hard to see the ship.

Of course the other ship had to be pirates.

Of course they had decided to take his lover.  Remus looks back up from his pacing.   “I’ll kill them all.”

“Captain, isn’t that excessive?”  Ange asks and Remus whirls.

“No.  A mer should not be hunted for sport.  And they left him tied to the deck of their ship.  We protect the souls we ferry and we are going to extend that to mer.”

“It’s not just because you like him, right?”

Remus grits his teeth.  “Tonight we take back what belongs to the sea.”

After all, Remus has respected the sea and her children since he was a child.

…

Janus is delirious.  He can feel his gills weakly moving against the sides of his neck, and he knows that he’ll be dead by morning.

He wasn’t expecting the harpoon.  Most pirates don’t believe in mer and sirens anymore and Janus had gotten careless, coming up during daylight with some bones to give Remus.

Instead he had been harpooned and dragged up here, tail bleeding profusely.  The captain of this ship had gripped his jaw roughly, planting a claiming kiss on the mer’s lips, to which Janus had responded by biting the latter’s bottom lip so badly it had almost pierced a hole in the man’s mouth.

Unfortunately it hadn’t and the man took a sharp knife, dragging it across his cheek and through the gold scales on his face.

If he survives, which is unlikely, Janus knows that he’ll never be as hauntingly pretty as he used to be.  Many mer were scarred, but defacing was rare.

He’d cry, but he doesn’t have the energy to.

…

When Remus storms the ship, he lets the crew slit the throats of the pirates, instead heading to Janus and gently untying him.

“Fish?  I’m lifting you up now.”  Remus carefully brushes the matted hair out of the mer’s face.   “Will the water help?”

Janus blinks up at him, gold and green eyes unfocused.  “Yes.”

“Okay.”  Remus lifts him and carries Janus until they’re both at the side, dark water fifteen feet below.

Remus kisses him, a warning before he falls over the side, protecting Janus as they hit the water so the other can breathe.

…

The harpoon scar heals into an ugly ropey thing and Janus hides his face from Remus for a long time afterwards, embarrassed by the scars that clearly show his weakness for the captain.

It’s not until one night when he jumps from the water to the deck of the ship that  Remus captains that the other gently grabs his webbed hand.

“Look at me love.”

Janus turns his face.  “I can’t.”

“It’s about the scars, isn’t it?”

“Yes.”

One of Remus’ hands rests itself on the harpoon scar and the one that was holding his hand travels up to the scales on Janus’ face.

“Love, you could never be ugly.  I promise.”

Janus finally looks up, gold and green meeting hazel.  “You’re not lying?”

“I never would.”  Remus leans forward and kisses the corner of Janus’ mouth, where skin, scar and scale meet.  

…

There will be more moments like this, stolen hours.  There will be times where Janus leaves, after all he is a mer and they belong to the sea before belonging to a human.

But Janus will continue to steal bones to give as courtship gifts and Remus will continue to steal kisses from him.

It’s a precarious balance, but one that works for the pair.

The captain and his mer, stealing kisses and bones.

[vcg73]

Free Kurt - Past Kurt

I wrote one extra story for the Free Kurt, anti-proposal challenge, but it’s a little different. 😊

~*~*~*~*~

“What are you wearing?”

Kurt jumped at the sound of a young and judgmental voice speaking directly in his ear.

He was standing on a wide marble step within the hallowed halls of Dalton Academy, surrounded by dozens of friends, acquaintances, and strangers from the assorted western Ohio high schools that Blaine had brought here today to witness his proposal. A proposal that was currently proceeding from the step below his own, and which Kurt was feeling increasingly pressured to accept in spite of his own very real misgivings.

And while it was a very distracting scene, he had not noticed anyone sneaking up behind him. He turned his head slightly, attempting to pay attention to Blaine’s words while simultaneously taking a quick peripheral peek over his right shoulder.

Kurt nearly jumped out of his skin when the voice spoke again, this time right next to him on the left. “Wait, are we getting proposed to?”

Whipping his head to the left, Kurt frowned. Who was that? He didn’t see anyone.

Blaine faltered a little, apparently noticing his distraction. “Kurt?” he mumbled, hazel eyes darting about as his intended frowned and looked everywhere but at him. “What are you doing?”

“Don’t you hear that?” he asked.

“I’m very good looking in the future!” the voice observed, sounding pleased. “Tall too!  But that suit has got to go. Peacock blue brocade can be beautiful if used sparingly. Maybe a vest or a jacket against an all black suit. Though on second thought that might make it look like you were about to deal roulette in Vegas. But an entire suit?  And with a violet silk shirt to contrast? I know this is just a dream, otherwise I wouldn’t be watching myself, but what has happened to my fashion sense since I got old?”

The young voice was so utterly horrified that Kurt almost laughed in spite of the bizarre circumstance. For he recognized the speaker now. What was even stranger, he remembered now with a startling burst of clarity, that he had had this very dream when he was about 14 years old. Himself standing in what he had thought was a fairy tale palace, watching himself be proposed to by Prince Charming.

Had it not been a dream? For he did recall suddenly that it had occurred following a whack to the head brought about after one of the goon squad, who had already started targeting him in middle school, had aimed badly when shoving Kurt into a locker.  Kurt had told his dad that he’d been hit with a dodge ball during P.E.  His dad had skeptically bought it, not able to prove otherwise, but Kurt had been given a few days off of school that week, and he remembered being watched like a hawk the whole time.

He also remembered having a lot of strange half-remembered dreams that he had written off to concussion.

A little shiver went down his spine. Surely it was not possible that he had done some kind of astral time travel thing. Wasn’t that just a little too sci-fi for the real world?

And yet, he could not deny the voice that was apparently only in his own ears at this moment. For nobody else was reacting as if they heard a young teenager passing judgment on this whole affair.

“Actually, forget our fashion taste. What the hell is he wearing?”

Kurt bit down a smirk. He had forgotten how dramatically fond of italics he had been as a kid. But he focused, really focused for the first time, on that hideous banana yellow creation that Blaine had chosen, and had to give his alter ego a point on it. No doubt Blaine had wanted something that would force every eye onto him. It wasn’t like he had ever been able to stand not having 100% of the attention in any room turned his way.

Blinking, Kurt wondered where that harsh thought had come from. Sure, it was true, but shouldn’t his thoughts be focused toward how romantic this all was? Apparently listening to the point of view of his less inhibited younger self was sparking a little rebellion inside of him.

“He’s handsome, our boyfriend,” the young voice observed in a clinical tone that made his older self want to laugh. He remembered using it when deciding between two equally perfect outfits, trying to decide which would have more of a ‘wow’ factor. “But his fashion taste is terrible and I don’t like the hair. That slicked back Elvis retro thing is so 1995. It also makes him look like he’s pushing 30. Wait. Is he older than us? How old are we?  Are we 30?”

That age must seem ancient to a boy of 14, Kurt supposed. His conscience prickled at the remembrance of his own life plan having been to find someone and become husbands or domestic partners, depending on what the law dictated so far in the future, with him by 30. Before that, he had always expected to live a life of fashionable single fabulosity, with boyfriends by the dozen, while he conquered the career of his choice. It had not been until high school, developing his first bad crush on Finn Hudson, being swamped with insistent hormones, and being constantly surrounded by relationships, that he had started longing for a commitment. Not because he knew what to do with one then, but because he had hated being the only person who did not even have the prospect of a real relationship.

He knew better than that now. So why was he still so determined to do something he knew in his gut that he was not ready for? Even if their ‘teenage dream’ had been perfect, was he really willing to enter into a lifelong commitment before he even hit 20?

Apparently unaware of his thoughts, the voice of his young observer continued with relentless interest. “Oh, my god. Is that Rachel? Tell me you are not thinking of letting Rachel Berry be your attendant. She’s the most obnoxious girl in school!  And she’s dressed better than you! Maybe this is actually a nightmare. Oh, hey, there’s Dad. Hi, Dad!”

Kurt looked at his father, looking slightly confused a few steps below where he stood just behind Will Schuester. Burt looked around surreptitiously, as if he had heard the call, but knew it was not possible for it to be there.

“If he’s here at our proposal then he knows about us!” invisible Kurt said happily. “Did we come out to him, and he’s happy for us?”

The sound of a dreamy sigh made Kurt’s eyes unexpectedly prickle with tears. How well he remembered that feeling. That co-mingling of fear, dread, and hope that had gripped him every time he had considered biting the bullet, and telling his father that he was gay. Of course he would have thought he was dreaming all this, seeing his father in his every day attire in a place like this, while they were both surrounded by the glitter and formality of dozens of smiling peers. Friends were another thing that young Kurt had never been sure he would actually experience in real life.

“If this is a dream, does that mean Mom is here too?” the invisible speaker asked, this note of longing in his young voice going straight to Kurt’s heart. He had heard that question deep inside himself for so many years. The small childish part of him that had never entirely accepted that someone as wonderful, fun-loving, and tenderly understanding as his beautiful mother could just be snuffed out of his world after only eight short years.

“No,” he said softly. He knew suddenly that if his mother had been here, she never would have approved of this. She had held the safety and happiness of her only child as a sacred trust from the day he was born until her very last day on Earth. He had always been able to talk to her about anything, and this would have been no different.  Mom never would have allowed him to compromise his heart and his future for a dream that he already knew did not live up to reality. “I’m sorry.”

He had been speaking to past-Kurt and to his mother, but when he said the words, it caused Blaine to stop mid-sentence with a look of shock. “What do you mean, no.”

Kurt blinked. Suddenly he knew that while he had not meant those words for Blaine, a part of him had actually wanted to say them out loud ever since he walked in the building.

“Kurt, what are you doing?” Blaine said, his voice more annoyed now as Kurt brushed past him to walk down a few steps, looking around at the crowd and realizing for the first time how few of these people he actually knew. “You’re embarrassing me!  I don’t what you’re looking for, but it doesn’t matter. Can we just get on with this thing?”

Kurt turned to look at him, frowning at the irritated question.

“This thing?” he repeated, eyes narrowing. “You mean the thing where I’m missing my flight home so my ex-boyfriend who’s still in high school can ask me to agree to spend the rest of my life with him, even though we’ve only been casually back together as a couple for a couple of days? The thing where we’re both supposed to agree to love and be faithful to one another forever? That thing?”

Apparently he had not entirely lost his love of italics after all. His tone was biting, the reminder of his own youthful hopes and expectations making him feel angry and betrayed all over again.  

Instead of understanding, Blaine actually rolled his eyes. “Not that again. I told you, I thought we were over when that happened! And didn’t I promise I would never ever do it again? Isn’t that enough? Why can’t you just get over it?  It’s not like it meant anything, Kurt.”

That injured way he said Kurt’s voice, the way that usually deflated whatever outrage Kurt felt and caused him to guiltily give in, enraged him this time.

“No, Blaine. I can’t just get over it. Because we weren’t anywhere near over when it happened, and you know it. It’s called a long distance relationship, and what you did was horrible. Our being boyfriends meant everything to me. The fact that you could throw what we had away on a stranger after just a few weeks apart, because I couldn’t devote all of my attention to you while I was starting a new life in a different state? That meant something to me. It meant that I couldn’t trust you anymore. I don’t trust you, and I can’t forget that happened, so I guess I was wrong about being able to forgive it too. I’m sorry, but I can’t do this. I don’t want to spend my whole life with a guy that I don’t believe will keep a vow to honor and cherish me.”

Blaine sputtered. “But, but I . . . what about all this?” He gestured frantically around them as if he could not conceive of such a scene not magically wiping away whatever doubts Kurt had.

“This is all very beautiful,” Kurt said, glancing around at the streamers, balloons, and startled faces that filled the room, “but it’s only a child’s dream. The real world isn’t a pretty song and a lot of smiling faces. It’s hard work, and compromise, and shared joys, and making sacrifices for each other’s happiness. That’s what a real commitment means, Blaine. It means being there for the people you love even when conditions are not ideal. Even when they’re so bad that you don’t know what to say or how to move forward, but you keep trying because you love them too much to ever want to cause that person pain. It means being your best self and making good times for the two of you even when the worst things are happening.”

“I don’t understand,” he admitted, flopping his hands helplessly. “Where is all this coming from?”

Kurt looked at his dad, who was dashing away tears from eyes that carried mingled pride, regret, and new understanding.

“I was reminded on the way here about how much my mom and dad loved each other, and how deeply committed they were to each other. Even when my mom was dying, they never stopped trying to make each other smile. They never would have cheated on each other, or tried to pressure each other into making a decision that they knew was wrong. And when it was just Dad and me, he did the same for me. He wanted me to always know that I had a safe space with him, a home where I could be myself and try to block out all the pain of the outside world. And I did the same for him, even when I was a little clumsy about trying to protect him.”

Burt nodded, his smile wry as he was clearly remembering some of of the awkward, uncomfortable, but always deeply loving moments they had shared together

“I want that again,” Kurt said, turning back to his would-be fiance. “It’s been a long time since I had a place where I know I can always be myself without having to hide half of the things that make me who I am. A place where I can feel safe because I always know that I’m loved and respected. A home where I can be with someone wants to make sure that I’m happy, just because knowing that makes him happy. Because I deserve that, Blaine.  And because I’ll do the same for the man that I’ll agree to spent my life with one day.”

“And I’m not that man?” he asked, sounding genuinely sad.

Kurt looked at him, smiled, and gently kissed his cheek. “No. I hope you will be that man for somebody one day, but we both know deep down that it can’t be me. Our relationship started right here in this hallway three years ago. It’s appropriate that it ends in the same place. Good luck, Blaine.”

They looked into each other’s eyes for a moment, Blaine reading the truth in Kurt’s steady gaze. “I’ll miss you. I’ll always love you, Kurt.”

“Goodbye. Dad, I’ll meet you out at the car.”

Holding his head high, Kurt walked down the steps and past the shocked crowd of onlookers.

“Thanks, Kurt,” he whispered, no longer able to sense his younger self, who had probably awakened from his dream at the same time his present self had ended the swirling nightmare of his unwanted proposal.

Pushing past the great double doors of Dalton Academy, Kurt smiled and stepped out into the sunlight, leaving the past behind him.

THE END

[minijenn]

A Whole Mess of Unused Keys To The Kingdom Content

Because sometimes when I’m working on Keys, I get overzealous and write scenes that don’t contribute anything so I decide to cut them out or change them to make the flow better. So here’s a bunch of unfinished scenes from the first third of the fic (since we just passed the first third of it, I’m sure I’ll make a follow up to this once we get 2/3s done with it). Make of these what you will, I’ll try my best to explain why they were cut as we go along: 

From Chapter 7; I largely cut this bit when I remembered Kairi would actually know who Aerith is because of KH1, but of course I didn’t remember that until AFTER I wrote this scene out, either way its a pleasant interaction between the two, I think, even if I cut it because it makes no sense in terms of what actually happened in past games (I also had to straight up screencap this one bc its on word and my use of word expired so it won’t let me straight up copy stuff anymore lol): 

From Ch. 17; I originally wanted the Moana chapters to sort of carry all of the same songs as the movie did? And for the most part they do, what with Your Welcome and Know Who You Are and stuff like that but when I got to Tamatoa, I realized that the Shiny scene just wasn’t working as a musical number, hence I rewrote the whole thing and cut all this out: 

“Because if you are… I will gladly do so. In song form!”

Sora and Moana only had the briefest chance to look to each other, absolutely confused before Tamatoa launched into said song, one that was filled with nothing but all the self-adulation the crab could possibly give. Which, of course, was quite a lot. 

“Well, Tamatoa hasn’t always been this glam. 

I was a drab little crab once. 

Now I know I can be happy as a clam,

Because I’m beautiful, baby!”

To show off said beauty, Tamatoa began to spin around his cavern, allowing the mass of treasure he’d collected to glisten off its walls as he continued to latch onto his captive pair all the while. 

“Did your granny say listen to your heart?

Be who you are on the inside?

I need three words to tear her argument apart:

Your granny LIED!

I’d rather be shiny!

Like a treasure from a sunken pirate wreck,

Scrub the deck, 

And make it look shiny! 

I will sparkle like a wealthy woman’s neck--

Just a sec-”

Tamatoa’ already wide grin grew as he glance up at the pool of water hanging above his head, one that was filled with a swarming school of fish just waiting to be devoured. 

“Dontcha know--

Fish are dumb, dumb, dumb,

They chase anything that glitters!

Beginners! 

Oh, and here they come, come, come, 

To the brightest thing that glitters!”

The giant crab opened his maw wide as the fish swam down toward him, attracted by his glistening glow as they fell directly into his waiting mouth. 

“Mm, fish dinners!

I just love free food,

And you look like seafood…”

From Ch. 22; I’m surprised the longest chapter of Keys so far doesn’t have more cut content but I had started writing this bit before realizing that it would have been redundant. I wanted this information to be explained to Sora and the reader at the same time to give it more potency and emotional weight, hence why I cut this out (also cut it out to give more flow following the scene between Kairi and Axel near the beginning of the chapter that this would have immediately been after): 

Despite this reassuring thought, the mood the pair was met with upon venturing back into the house was anything but based on the first thing they heard upon entering. “What do you mean there’s nothing more you can do for him?!” Donald asked, both him and Goofy looking to Aerith for answers. 

For her part, Aerith still remained as calm as she had been before, though she did let out a small, sad sigh, stealing a glance back at Sora as he lay, still unconscious, on the makeshift cot behind her. “I’ve healed just about all of his wounds, but… to be honest, there weren’t even that many of them,” she began to explain. “The problem is that he was poisoned. Heavily poisoned at that.”

“So? Can’t ya just get rid of the poison using some sort of spell?” Yuffie asked. 

Aerith shook her head. “I tried that, several different spells in fact, but… none of them worked. I’ve never seen anything like it before. Whatever kind of magic Maleficent created it from must have been very powerful and very devastating, but… she definitely knew what she was doing when she cast it on him. It’s like she gave him just enough to incapacitate him completely. Any more than what’s already flowing through his blood stream would have-” She stopped short as she happened to glance over Kairi’s way, a brief spark of dread flashing through her expression before she put a hasty end to her explanation. “Um… n-never mind.”

From Ch. 26; the longest cut scene so far, pretty much a song-less version of I’ve Got a Dream (which I happen to be listening to while posting this, oh the irony); It’s a cute, fun little scene but it ultimately adds nothing to either the Tangled side of things or the original Keys side of things. In fact it kind of ruined the entire chapter’s pacing as a whole (I didn’t cut this out until the chapter was done as a matter of fact). Anyway here it is, because I still like it but again, it brought the chapter crawling to a huge grinding halt and I didn’t want that: 

“But more might show up,” Sora pointed out. “It’s hard to tell when they might-”

“Yep, exactly,” Flynn interjected hastily. “Which is why maybe we should get out of the woods for a bit. Just to wait ‘em out. Is anyone hungry? I know a great place for lunch.”

“Lunch?” Sora raised a curious eyebrow at this. “I thought you wanted to get to the kingdom as soon as possible.”

“Yeah, well, we can’t do that on an empty stomach,” Flynn urged the others to follow him. “Now come on. You’ll know the place when you smell it.”

***

The place Flynn led the group to was rather underwhelming compared to how he’d described it:  a squat, rather misshapen building that certainly looked its age based on the withering wood it was built from. It was practically propped up against the overgrown tree it stood in the shadows of, casting the entire restaurant in a rather shady light. 

“Aaaaand here we are!” Flynn grinned in satisfaction as he began making his way down the path that led to the diner. “The Snuggly Duckling. Don’t worry, very quaint place, perfect for you, blondie. Don’t want you scaring again and giving up on this whole endeavor now, do we?”

“Well… I do like ducklings,” Rapunzel shrugged with an oblivious smile. 

“Yay!” Flynn returned her bright grin almost mockingly. 

“So, what makes this place so ‘great’ anyway?” Sora asked, curiously. 

“Oh, you’ll see…” Flynn said, an air of mystery even as he threw the restaurant's door open. “Garcon! Your finest table, please!”

Rapunzel couldn’t hold back a terrified gasp upon getting her first glimpse at the other patrons of the restaurant. If there were any men who fit the description of “ruffians and thugs” perfectly, then they were all right at home in this restaurant, or tavern, to be more precise. The dingy dining room was packed with all manner of big, burly men, a vast majority of whom were scarred, unwashed, or weapon-wielding as they all turned their intimidating glares toward the group that had just stepped through the door. Rapunzel didn’t hesitate to lift her frying pan up in self defense and likewise, the trio was somewhat on edge as well, only barely hesitating to summon their weapons since none of the thugs had really made a move to attack them. Even so, they didn’t really rule out the option that they might based on the threatening manner they all mutually carried. 

“You smell that?” Flynn was still grinning as he began to guide Rapunzel onward into the tavern, despite the fact that she was clearly terrified by the frightening assemblage around her. “Take a deep breath through the nose. Really let that seep in. What are you guys getting? To me, it’s part man-smell, and the other part is really bad man-smell. I don’t know why, but overall it smells like the color brown. Your thoughts, sunshine?” he asked Rapunzel, who let out a horrified gasp as one of the thugs suddenly grabbed her hair. 

“That’s a lot of hair…” the thug noted, even as Rapunzel hastily pulled it away from him so she could flee. 

“She’s growing it out,” Flynn remarked. “Say, is that blood in your mustache? Blondie, look at all the blood in his mustache!”

“Hey, Flynn?” Sora interjected, his expression aptly suspicious in light of the circumstances. “What’s the big idea here?” 

“Why, I have no idea what you mean, kid,” Flynn rebuffed, feigning innocence. “I just wanted to give blondie a taste of a real five star establishment here.”

“This is what you call five-star?” Donald asked dubiously. 

“...More or less.”

“I dunno… Rapunzel looks awfully scared... “ Goofy frowned, glancing over at Rapunzel, who had essentially backed herself into a corner, her hair bundled up in her arms and her frying pan still held at the ready to attack. 

“Well, hey, you know, if that’s the case, then maybe we should just take her home and call it a day,” Flynn shrugged apathetically. “She’d probably be better off anyway. If she can’t handle this place, then maybe she should just go back to her tower.”

Despite his smooth, convincing grin, the trio only offered him a shared, disapproving glance at this, none of them on board with his plan to coax Rapunzel back into the sheltered, stifled life she’d known before. Still, Flynn didn’t get much of a chance to sway them otherwise as one of the larger thugs suddenly spun him around roughly to face him. 

“Is this you?” the thug asked, pointing to the wanted poster in his hand that sure enough, depicted Flynn Rider. 

“Uh… n-no?” Flynn shrugged, hoping the man would somehow believe him. 

“Oh, it’s him alright,” another thug, one with a hoof in the place of one of his hands, spoke up with a greedy grin. “You!” he pointed to another nearby ruffian. “Go get some guards. And as for you,” the thug used his hook to pull Flynn in by the collar of his shirt. “That reward is gonna buy me a new hook.”

“I could use the money,” another thug stepped in, grabbing Flynn roughly before another one did the same. 

“What about me? I’m broke!”

“No, that reward is mine!”

“But I want it!”

From there, an all out brawl began to break out between the thugs, with each of them clamoring to apprehend Flynn so they could claim the hefty prize that came along with his capture. Rapunzel and the trio were aptly startled by this sudden, violent shift, and even though they were greatly outnumbered, they all rushed in to try to put a stop to it. 

“R-ruffians! Please, stop!” Rapunzel cried anxiously. 

“Yeah! Leave him alone!” Sora shouted, finally calling upon his Keyblade. Donald and Goofy gaped at this, both of them realizing that Sora was more than likely to get himself into an unnecessary scuffle in doing so, but that hardly seemed to matter to him as he joined Rapunzel in trying to pick through the burly crowd Flynn was struggling to escape. 

The hook-handed thug was just about posed to land a heavy blow to Flynn’s jaw to cease that struggle when Rapunzel finally put a stark end to the aggressive outburst. All it took was using her hair as a whip to land a sharp, yet effective blow to said thug’s bald head, to get everyone to freeze in surprise at just how bold this unassuming girl seemed to be. 

“Put him down!” Rapunzel ordered fiercely, catching an ire-filled glare from the thug in the process. She gasped, afraid as the thug began to approach her, pulling out the axe hanging from his back as he did. Fortunately for her though, Sora hurried in to her defense just in time. 

“Back off!” he warned, brandishing his Keyblade against the much-larger thug’s weapon. 

“Tch, what are you gonna do with a key that fancy, kid?” the thug sneered. “Unlock the world’s biggest door?”

“Oh, believe me, you don’t wanna see what I can really do with it,” Sora retorted, more than ready to use it to keep both Rapunzel and Flynn safe. 

“Sora-” Donald and Goofy tried to mutually protest, though it didn’t really do much good as the thug inched his axe in closer. 

“Try me,” he growled coldly.

“W-wait!” Rapunzel interrupted from her spot behind Sora, not wanting to see any additional fighting break out. “L-listen, “ she pleaded with the hook-handed thug. “I don’t know where I am, and I need him,” she pointed her frying pan at Flynn, who was still being held aloft by the rest of the thugs. “To take me to see the lanterns because I’ve been dreaming about seeing them my entire life! Find your humanity! Haven’t any of you ever had a dream?!”

The thug said nothing to this at first, his expression still just as stoic as dense silence filled the bar. That is, until that stoicism finally wavered into a softer, wistful expression. “I… had a dream once…” With this, he tossed his axe aside, and as it struck one of the bar’s already weapon-ridden walls, he headed over to the piano on stage and began to play a surprisingly jaunty, upbeat tune. “I’ve always yearned to be a concert pianist!”

At this, the other thugs in the pub began to ease up a bit as well as a few of them started voicing their own hopes and dreams. “I really want to make a love connection!” a rather large-nosed ruffian proclaimed with a romantic gleam in his eyes. 

“I want to quit and be a florist!” another thug cried as he quickly began fashioning a surprisingly lovely floral arrangement. 

“Interior design!” a ruffian remarked with a flippant flair as he expertly rearranged a small corner of the pub. 

“Ulf here is into mine,” a thug pointed out his companion, who sure enough was playfully miming next to where Flynn was sullenly hanging as he watched this ridiculous display play out. Even so, Rapunzel was instantly charmed by it, and likewise, the trio eased up, confused yet curious to see where this bizarre and wholesome scene might be going. 

“You have to try Attila’s cupcakes, they’re sublime!” 

“I knit!”

“I sew!”

“I do little puppet shows!”

“And Vladimir collects ceramic unicorns!” 

“What about you?” the hook handed man asked Flynn with a suspicious glare. 

“I’m sorry, me?” Flynn scoffed, rolling his eyes. 

“What’s your dream?” the big-nosed thug pulled him down off the hook he was hanging from. 

“No, no, boys,” he rebuffed with a laugh. “I’m not into the whole sappy dream thing.” He quickly changed his tune however, as just about all of the thugs pointed their deadly weapons right at him threateningly. “Ah-ha… o-ok, well… I-I’d like to be filthy rich and live on my own private island faaaar away from anyone else. Does that work for you fellas, or what?”

The thugs let out a rowdy shout, catching Flynn off guard once more as they all threw him up into the air once more. At the same time, Rapunzel climbed up onto one of the tables, more than eager to voice her own life-long desire as well. “I’ve got a dream too!” she announced brightly, all of the thugs turning to her to hear it. “I want to see the floating lanterns! You know, today’s the first time I’ve ever left my tower, but I’m so glad I did after everything I’ve seen and all of the lovely people I’ve met like all of you!” The thugs all let out a solid cheer of support at this as Rapunzel grinned down at the trio standing on the ground next to her. “What about you guys?” she asked them curiously. “Do you have a dream too?”

“Oh, uh…” Sora hesitated, facing sudden scrutiny from both the thugs and from Donald, who was sending him the unspoken order to maintain the world order in his answer. “W-we… we want to find a special Key and use it and a bunch of others to help our friends!” he proclaimed, knowing that was a very simplified version of the whole story, but fortunately, it was enough to satisfy his companions and the pug thugs alike. 

“So you see?” Rapunzel turned back to the thugs, still maintaining her warm grin. “We’re all not so different after all! We all have dreams we want to see come true someday!”

The thugs and ruffians all let out another round of cheers at this, their excitement palpable in the aftermath of everyone sharing those dreams. The levity wasn’t able to last too long, however, as the tavern door burst open to reveal the thug that had been sent off just a while ago. “I’ve found the guards!” he announced, sending a startled ripple through the entire pub. 

Even so, Flynn wasted no time in grabbing Rapunzel and the trio alike at this, pulling them all out of sight as  a handful of armored soldiers stormed in. “Where’s Rider?!” the captain demanded. “Where is he?! I know he’s in here somewhere. Find him! Turn the place upside down if you have to!”

The captain only barely missed spotting the group hiding under the bar, not really having anywhere else to go, especially as even more guards filed in. Flynn narrowly peaked over the edge of the bar to see that they weren’t the only ones either, as he just so happened to spot them toting in his now-arrested former partners in crime: the Stabbington Brothers. Former, in the sense that he’d been the one to abandon them with the prize they’d stolen together, not only to escape the guards but that first round of marauding Heartless alike. 

Yet despite Flynn’s apt panic at such a daunting situation, the entire group was caught off guard by the hook handed thug. He said nothing as he joined them behind the bar, instead nodding for the group to silently follow him over to the far side of it. From there, with the flick of a single inconspicuous switch, a secret door opened up, revealing a passageway down into a cavern that led out of the pub completely. Just about the best means of escape they were going to get, all things considered. 

“Go,” the thug whispered with a warm smile. “Live your dreams.”

“I will,” Flynn replied, immensely relieved. 

“Your dream stinks,” the thug scowled. “I was talking to them,” he nodded to Rapunzel and the trio. Flynn simply carried an annoyed scowl as he began to crawl into the passageway. 

“Thanks for everything,” Rapunzel said, the trio offering the same grateful sentiments as they also began to make their way into the cavern. They did so just in time as the hook-handed thug closed the door to the passage way up, concealing it from sight right before the guards began to search behind the bar, only to find not a single sign of Flynn Rider, or anyone else for that matter, to speak of. 

From Ch. 27: aka the chapter I’m currently working on. Idk Tangled has a lot of scenes that went unused in KH3′s take on things and I figured this one would be necessary to explain why Rapunzel and Eugene got separated but I only ended up writing a paragraph or so of it last night before deciding I wanted to shift focus back over to the trio instead at that point. So here it is: 

“Ah! There you are!” Eugene greeted the Stabbington Brothers with a show of faux camaraderie, knowing he was just about the last person they probably wanted to see in light of his earlier betrayal. “I’ve been searching everywhere for you guys since we got separated. The sideburns are coming in nice, huh?” The brothers simply eyed him harshly at this, silently telling him to get the point already. “A-anyhow, I just wanted to say that I shouldn’t have split. The crown is all yours.” He tossed the satchel their way, the crown spilling out of it as it landed. “I’ll miss you, but I think it’s for the… best...” 

He trailed off as one of the brothers stood to approach him, hardly paying any mind to the crown as he did. “Holding out on us again, eh, Rider?”

[finnofamerica]

Reincarnated - Remus Lupin x Reader

Summary: In a world of magic and monsters, was it really so hard to believe that maybe death itself reincarnates? That death chooses some poor mortal life to fulfill its claims?

Word Count: 2080

Date: 9.24.2019

|| Masterlist || 

In a world of magic and monsters, was it really so hard to believe that maybe death itself reincarnates? That death chooses some poor mortal life to fulfill its claims? 

Death - the reaper - was allowed to love only once, to a beautiful soul not meant for it. Cleopatra and Marc Anthony, Romeo and Juliet, Hamlet and Horatio. All just stories, legends, but every story comes from somewhere. 

The tale had been passed down through your family for years. Every third generation, The spirit guide - Thanatos - would claim a mortal in their seventeenth year and where they go death will follow. 

You dreaded your seventeenth birthday. Being the first of your father’s children you always knew that you’d be death’s first pick. Even still, you were allowed to attend Hogwarts like any normal witch or wizard. 

You tapped your fingers on the desk, anxiously counting down the days until you would turn seventeen. 

“Don’t worry, dearest,” Your great grandmother’s voice echoed in your head, “This life is not so bad.” 

“What are you thinking so hard about?” Remus paused in front of you. 

Ah. Remus Lupin, the young man covered in scars - braver than anyone you’d ever met. He faces his curse every day and lived. Not that you knew what his curse was, but you knew yours only had one cure. Remus Lupin, with his not-so-outgoing demeanor, commanded your attention from the moment he entered the room. His calming aura battled his shroud of mystery in a way that was all too enticing. Remus Lupin, your most comforting friend. It was really no wonder-

“Y/n?” 

“Hmm? What?” You suddenly started processing the real world again, catching that chocolatey scent that seemed to cling to Remus. 

“What’re you thinking about?” 

“Nothing,” You tucked a strand of hair behind your ear, “Just some family stuff.” 

“Oh.” He certainly knew how that went sometimes. There was a pause as you weren’t sure what to do next. Keep talking? Or go back to overthinking? 

“GG, tell me again.” 

“About the Giving?” 

“Yes.” 

“Hey, Y/n, I was thinking…” Remus hesitated, “I know your seventeenth birthday is coming up and I was wondering..” 

“Yes?” 

“Would you go to Hogsmeade with me? Just us? We could celebrate.” 

Shit. He was asking you out, you could feel it. 

“Oh, Remus, I appreciate the offer - I really do, but I need to spend that day alone.” You said softly. You hate to hurt his feelings because of some stupid curse. 

“It started like any other day. Only there was a tension in the air, you could almost feel it. Remember, when your day comes, spend the day by yourself. You will never know when she appears.”

“Right, of course,” Remus gave you a tight smile, leaving without another word. You groaned, letting your head fall against the table. Dammit. 

“GG!” 

“Right, where was I?” 

“The Giving.” 

“Right. Now, dearest, the giving is different for everyone. My great grandmother said she hardly felt it like it was drawing in a cold breath.” 

“And yours?” 

“Like air.” 

You woke up early on your birthday, long before the sun rose, and snuck through the castle. GG was right, there was a palpable tension in the air. A chill that felt like a skeletal hand caressing your throat. 

You had your bag with food and a muggle novel to pass the time. The plan was to hide out for the day in the most feared place close to Hogwarts. The shrieking shack. Nobody would go near it. You’d be alone, completely. Perfect. 

You settled cross-legged in the center of a room filled with claw marks. You snorted. It was befitting at least. You spent the day there, shifting positions as you read until the sun set and there was no more light to read by. 

“You love once in your life.” 

“Who did you love?” 

“She was beautiful and forgiving.” Your great grandmother smiled wistfully, “and betrothed to someone else. This is the way we live. We get to fall in love, but with someone not destined to us.” 

The air chilled further, despite the spring’s ever-growing heat. The room was no longer comfortable and your heart felt like it’d rupture in your chest if it beat any harder. Anxiety forced you to your feet, standing in the center of the room, ready for whatever was coming your way. You almost relaxed when the only thing you could see was the glittering in the sky through the window. 

“Don’t be frightened, Dearest.” A hollowed voice echoed through the room. 

“GG?” You blinked, unable to erase the image of your great grandmother in front of you. 

“Yes and no,” The image flickered between her and the skeleton cloaked in black, voice two-toned with the voice of your great grandmother, and a hollow rattle resonating in bones with no lungs. “I am only the remnants of what is left of your GG, known by many names.” 

“You’re Death,” You stood a little straighter. 

“The spirit of Death, really, not the act of death itself.” 

“I know why you’re here.” 

“And that is?” 

“You need a new host. GG is dead.” 

“Are you willing to give yourself to me?” The image flickered again, showing only the cloaked skeleton. 

“What will happen to me?” 

“Don’t worry, Dearest, it’s not so bad. You will be called to the dying, to reap them and guide them to the other side.” Death’s rattling voice chilled you. 

“Okay.” 

“Then give yourself to me.” She beckoned, skeletal fingers reaching for you. 

“I, Y/n L/n,” You remembered what GG taught you, “give myself to you.” 

If bones could smile, you were sure she was. Skeleton hands gripped your wrists, instantly heightening all your initial fears. All at once you could feel the pains of your ancestors who died, could feel their wounds sinking into your unmarked skin. A scream was strangled in your throat as frozen shards of air rushed your lungs, feeling like glass splintering inside your lungs. 

You never hear the three sets of thundering footsteps and you collapsed on the ground, struggling for breath as you felt like you were being ripped limb from limb. Death’s cloak settled over you as three pairs of eyes stared on in horror. 

You rose from the floor, body shaking with effort, a translucent cloak surrounding your being as you slowly stood tall on your feet. 

“What the fuck?” James cursed as he watched your eyes fade from pure black to their natural color as the cloak melted back into thin air. 

“Y/n?” Remus rushed forward as you gasped for breath, lurching forward unsteadily with nothing to catch you. Your stomach was churning, threatening to spill out what little you’d eaten. 

“Let’s get her outside.” Sirius pulled one of your arms over his shoulders, supporting your weight where your jelly legs couldn’t. Remus followed suit, practically carrying you while you stumbled along. 

“What the fuck was that?” James panicked as they dragged you outside. 

“Death,” You choked out, lungs and throat burning. “I’m her chosen.” 

“What does that mean?” Sirius and Remus gently let you to the ground, so you could sit and rest. 

“It means that I’m the reaper.” 

“So you kill people?” 

“I only guide them.” You didn’t know where this knowledge was coming from. It was like a feeling deep within you telling you the answers. You were only met with confused looks. You let out a breath, “When it is your time to pass, you will see my spirit guiding you to the other side.” 

“How did this even-?” James began. 

“In the beginning, Death was only a mortal like you and me Only as she grew older she knew her place in the world and her spirit became a sort of parasite. She needs a host. I’m the host. This has been passed through my family for generations. I knew this was coming.” 

“That why you wouldn’t come to Hogsmeade with me today.” Remus mused. 

“Yes.” 

“Is there a cure?” Sirius finally piped up.

“Yes.” 

“What.” 

“I have to die.” 

You could almost laugh at their horrified faces. 

 “It’s okay,” You laughed, “Life goes on relatively normal. I’m more like a housing unit for death, not death itself.” 

When their questions were satisfied, James and Sirius left, heading to their room for the remainder of the night. 

“I’m sorry.” Remus broke the silence. 

“It’s life.” You shrugged. 

“Still, you shouldn’t have to live with it.” 

“Nor should you and whatever it is that has you incapacitated once a month. Why should you have to face such a thing?” 

“Lycanthropy,” Remus said after several moments. “I’m a werewolf.” 

“And I’m Death.” You placed your hand on his shoulder, “We all have crosses to bear.” 

“It’s late.” He stretched, “We should head back. You should rest.” 

“Yeah,” Your breath puffed in the cold of the night, a coldness you were growing numb to. 

The next morning you were slow to rise. The night before felt like a fever dream, but you could still make out the light scars left behind by skeletal fingers on your wrists. They were faint, barely there, but you could never unsee them. 

You could still feel a deep chill in your bones as you slipped on a knit sweater, hoping to soothe your shivers. Groggily you pulled your hair away from your face, braiding as best you could in your haze while your feet moved on their own to the Great Hall. 

You felt shallower like something was missing. It was a gaping hole you wished could be filled with breakfast, but no amount of food could fill what was being taken from you. 

“Goodmorning.” Remus slid into the seat next to you without hesitation, even when James and Sirius shared a look before slowly taking their seats. 

“Good morning.” 

“How are you feeling?” 

“Like I got hit by a truck, but, y’know, the usual.” You joked. 

“You’re not feeling homicidal are you?” James asked, earing a slap in the chest from Sirius. 

“No. But you might convince me.” you rolled your eyes. You were amused. 

The whole change was interesting. In the coming month, you got used to the second entity in you. A burden that led to you a Remus spending most nights hidden away sharing the pains of your burdens. He told you of how he was scared of the way his curse could destroy everything he loves, you told him how when you sleep, you see the souls that death beckoned across the veil. The old finding peace, the young begging for life. The night you both woke in your own beds covered in sweat and tears. Finding solace in the grey hazy mornings hidden away in the shrieking shack where neither curse mattered. Wrapped up in the comfort of having each other. 

It was just any other regular morning, squished at the crowded Gryffindor table in the Great Hall. Remus was groggy, resting against your shoulder, coming down from the full moon the night before. 

“What about you, Y/n?” Sirius asked between bites of sausage. “James is obviously in love with Lily. Have you?” 

“I only get to fall in love once in my life,” You told him, eating with one hand, and combing Remus’ hair with the other, “Due to my special circumstance.” 

“Huh,” Sirius nodded, mulling it over. “That sucks. Remus?” 

He only groaned. 

“You’ve ever been in love?” 

“Maybe.” Remus yawned. “I think I could.” 

“Who is it then?” James challenged. Remus shot him an ‘are you kidding’ look. 

“She the Grim Reaper!” James snorted. “Most people run from death, not fall in love with it.” 

“I didn’t fall in love with Death. I fell in love with Y/n.” 

You always knew how this was supposed to end. 

It was supposed to end with you falling for Remus and him never being meant for you. Probably ending with him deciding he couldn’t have you. 

Fate seemed to pity you because Remus remained faithful to you long after you admitted you loved him too. Fate allowed you to grow old with him, easing the burden of each other's curses. Children, grandchildren, and great-grandchildren came and grew in front of your eyes. 

When generations of the curse said that the persona you would fall in love with was never meant for you, your love for Remus remained strong. As did Remus’ love for you. 

Perhaps it was because you were in love with Remus long before you reached seventeen. 

TAGS: @diggorysghost​​ @niffleurs​ @siriuslyimmoony​ @carolinesbookworld@untildawnremus​ @thoseofgreatambition​ @nosebleednougats​​ @moonynprongs​ @marauderobsessed​ @theboywhocriedlupin​ @astertist​ @swellwriting​ @blimey-ron​ @dyngflwrs​ ​ @fortisfiliae​ @essenceoflumos​  @bluemadcnna

[vincent-frankenstein]

Oooo!! Could you do "I think our house is haunted" with any (or all?) of the sides?

YOU BET YOUR SKELETON I CAN

(i had so much fun writing this that im probably going to write a part two so dont get too stressed over the cliffhanger, there’ll be more in 10-12 business months when i can wrangle my creativity long enough to focus on this again)

Title: Touch-Tone Telephone (Disbelieving, That’s The Real Crime) 

Summary: Roman’s apartment is haunted.

He knows there’s something sinister in their house, something deep and dark and dreadful, and he knows he can stop it, if only his roommates would help. If only they believed him.

But his search for proof brings him face-to-face with something more horrifying than he’d ever expected. Can he survive, faced with the specter of the brother he never knew?

Warnings: ghosts, disturbing imagery (but only for one sentence near the end), knives, sleep paralysis, generally just Spooky Vibes™ also sympathetic deceit and unsympathetic remus

Gen Taglist (ask to be added or removed!): @joygaytrash @ruh-roh-emer-has-an-account @aliferous-ly @im-crunchie @triton-bear @emiisanidiot @jemthebookworm

It was a cold October evening when Roman gathered his roommates in the living room for one of those fam-ILY meetings Patton seemed so fond of. He sat atop his “throne” — a worn crimson armchair he’d had for years — and crossed his hands in his lap, his face set and solemn. His roommates shifted where they sat — some uncomfortably, worriedly, others just confused.

“I assume you’re all wondering why I’ve gathered you here,” Roman said, with the grim air of someone about to impart life-changing news.

Cecil rolled his eyes, sarcasm burning on his tongue. “No, no, Roman,” he simpered, his voice slow and insincere. “Whatever gave you that idea?”

Virgil elbowed him in the side, and Cecil abandoned his sarcasm in favor of wheezing in pain.

“Cecil, this is serious,” Roman said seriously. “What I’m about to tell you will change our lives forever. It may even ruin them.”

“Oh gosh, are you —” Patton cut off with a gasp of horror, his hand flying to his mouth. “Are you sick? Are you hurt?”

Virgil’s face grew pale. Or, well, paler than usual, which was a significant feat, because Roman hadn’t thought that was possible. “Princey, I swear to fu —”

“Language,” Cecil and Logan said in unison, the former reaching to cover Patton’s innocent ears. Virgil growled.

“I swear to Gerard Way, if you die on us —”

“No!” Roman cried, holding up his hands. “I’m not sick!”

“Then what is going on?” Logan asked, sitting forward. “This needless drama is only causing Virgil and Patton unnecessary stress.”

“’Needless’? ‘Unnecessary’?” Roman gasped with over-dramatic offense, an over-dramatic hand pressed against his chest in shock. “Au contraire, ye of little faith. I come bearing news of the most heinous caliber. News that could shock each of you to your very cores, news that —”

“Oh for the love of — spit it out already!” Cecil growled, slamming his hand down on the arm of the couch and making Patton jump.

Roman leaned forward, allowing just enough time to pass, just enough stress to up the shock-value. “I think our house is haunted.”

His words had the exact effect he’d hoped for: profound, reverent silence. Logan sat back, his face set in a serious scowl as he pondered Roman’s words. Virgil and Cecil shared a look, both faces set as stone. Patton leaned forward, his eyebrows furrowing. Roman basked in their shared awe, pride blooming in his chest despite the grim nature of their situation.

Logan snorted, and the moment shattered. Virgil and Cecil both burst out laughing, clutching their stomachs with twin looks of glee. Patton was the only one who didn’t laugh, though the corners of his mouth twitched.

Roman scoffed. “What, might I ask, is so funny? I’m being serious!”

“Mhm,” Logan hummed, raising an eyebrow. “And what exactly is it that makes you believe our house is haunted?”

“I’ve been hearing noises, every night, after everyone’s gone to bed. Footsteps, doors opening and closing, muffled, moaning voices. There’s a shadowy figure that has passed my bedroom door several times, bringing with it a feeling of utter dread.”

Cecil rolled his eyes. “That’s just Virgil,” he said, earning another elbow in the side that left him wheezing all over again.

“No!” Roman cried. “It absolutely is not Virgil! It’s all hunched and baggy and strange, like — like some sort of ghoul.”

Virgil shrugged. “As much as I’d love to live in a haunted house — and as much as I hate agreeing with Cecil — he’s probably right. I go downstairs for midnight snacks all the time.”

“At five in the morning?”

Virgil shrugged again.

“No,” Roman insisted. “I don’t buy it. There’s something — something bad in this house.”

“There are five people in this household,” Logan countered. “How do you explain the fact that none of us have ever seen it?”

“I-I don’t know! Maybe it’s only showing itself to me?” Roman shook his head, scowling. “I should’ve known you wouldn’t believe me. You wouldn’t believe in ghosts if there was one right in front of you.”

“Falsehood,” Logan said. “Given proper evidence of such a thing, I would have no choice but to believe. However, you have provided no evidence beyond your own experiences, which, while strange, can be easily explained.”

“’Easily explained’? How? And don’t tell me it’s Virgil.”

“It could be any one of us,” Logan said, “including Virgil. You cannot expect a household of five to remain perfectly silent throughout the night. The fact that you hear footsteps and doors opening and closing means nothing, and the shadowy figure is most likely one of us passing by your door on the way to the bathroom.”

“And the feeling of dread?” Roman asked, eyes narrowed. “It’s the most awful feeling in the world. It sits on my chest and it’s so heavy I can barely breathe. Unless one of you is capable of doing that —”

“Like I said, that’s just Virgil,” Cecil said, the corner of his mouth quirking up into a smirk. “Feelings of dread are his specialty.”

Virgil readied his elbow, and Cecil reached behind himself and snatched up a pillow, whacking Virgil across the face. With a feral growl, Virgil lunged, and the two rolled off the couch and onto the floor, pillows flying, laughter laced beneath their mocking voices.

“Hey, c’mon,” Patton said, holding the table steady as the two roughhoused beneath it. Cecil kicked Virgil into the table, and Patton’s glass of hot cocoa nearly toppled. “Hey!”

“Enough,” Logan said, eyes narrowed. When the two didn’t listen, he stood, and Roman and Patton both covered their ears. “Enough!” he yelled, at a volume loud enough to rival an airplane taking off, and the two leaped apart. Logan sat back down, rubbing the bridge of his nose.

“Roman, what you are experiencing is purely psychological,” he said, once again the epitome of calm. Virgil rubbed at his ears, shoulders hunched. “Shadowy figures, a feeling of dread, and a weight on your chest can all be explained by sleep paralysis, which is —”

“I know what sleep paralysis is!” Roman said. “It absolutely was not that. I hadn’t even fallen asleep yet! And I could move.”

“Alright,” Logan said, nodding, “then it is just your mind playing tricks on you. Halloween is a handful of days away. Tell me, how many horror movies have you seen so far this month?”

Roman glared at the floor. “… Quite a few,” he admitted.

“Right. And how many horror festivals have you been to?”

“Three.”

“Mhm.” Logan readjusted his glasses, his eyes glittering smugly. “You see one of us pass your doorway, and, believing us to be some creature of supernatural origin, you begin to panic. However, you’ve mistaken that panic for a ghostly feeling of dread brought on by some malevolent outside force. The amount of horror you’ve consumed in the past few weeks has primed your brain for a haunting. You’re jumping to conclusions.”

“I am not!” Roman insisted. “I know what a panic attack feels like, Logan. This isn’t it. Something’s wrong, and — and I’ll prove it to you!”

“How?”

Roman stood. “You’ll see. I’ll get proof, and I’ll make you all believe.”

“Aw, I believe you, kiddo!” Patton said, his smile wide and earnest. Roman managed a smile back.

“Thanks, padre,” he said. Patton’s support, while appreciated, didn’t do much to lessen the righteous fury he felt at Logan’s dismissal. It was like a participation trophy — always there, whether you were right or not. He wanted first place, the golden medallion of Logan’s belief — and he was going to get it.

“Good luck, Dib No-Brain,” Virgil said, offering a sarcastic thumbs up. “Now that that’s outta the way, next order of business: who the fu —”

“Language.”

“— heck has been stealing my eyeshadow?”

Roman tuned out the conversation — which was boring, and overly predictable, really. He already knew who had stolen Virgil’s eyeshadow, but he’d never confess. It looked so much better on him. Besides, he had more important things to think about.

He knew he was right. Logan’s explanations made sense — of course they did, everything that asshole said made sense — but he couldn’t explain away the awful feeling Roman had. It wasn’t a panic attack, or sleep paralysis. It was something darker, colder than any of them could fathom, and it seemed he alone had to shoulder the weight.

Night fell, and Roman prepared for battle. With a camera as his shield and a vial of holy water — a gift from his cousin, Remy, who was as superstitious as he was sassy — as his sword, he sat on the edge of his bed and waited.

And waited.

And waited.

The house was silent. Not a floorboard creaked, not a door moved, not a creature stirred. He’d drained his 12-hour supply of coffee roughly three hours in, and now his head nodded down towards his chest, eyes fluttering, sleep chasing away the last dregs of caffeine in his bloodstream.

What a waste of time. Logan was right — he was always right, really, could he be any more insufferable? There weren’t any ghosts; their house wasn’t haunted. Roman dragged a hand across his face, a heavy sigh falling from his lips. He was wrong again, too imaginative, too overdramatic, too —

Footsteps. There were footsteps in the hallway. There were footsteps in the hallway and by the time Roman stopped fumbling with his camera and managed to lift it, the shadowy figure had appeared, a baggy mass of darkness that stopped in his doorway and —

And laughed?

Wait. He knew that laugh. A small snort, stifled behind a hand, as if the act of laughing alone was enough to indict him as a human being and therefore must be hidden at all costs. “Don’t tell me you’ve been awake this entire time, Roman,” Logan said, stepping into the room with a thick blanket wrapped around his shoulders.

“It was you,” Roman said lowly, his voice thick with ultimate betrayal. “This whole time! It was you!”

Logan readjusted his glasses. “Well, not entirely,” he said. “I’m sure Virgil contributed to your hypothesis at some point, he tends to wander the house during the night. However, I wasn’t doing this intentionally to scare you.”

“Bullshit,” Roman scoffed. “Why didn’t you say anything? I’ve been up all night!”

“I did say something, Roman. I told you that your ‘shadowy figure’ was merely one of us passing your doorway. I could have reiterated, but…” The ghost of a smirk passed his face. “I didn’t want to miss the opportunity to see you like this.”

Roman promptly threw his pillow at Logan’s face. Logan dodged. What an asshole.

“So is that the only reason you came down here? To see me suffer?” Roman placed a hand against his chest, shaking his head. “I never thought you capable of such cruelty. I guess I’m just wrong about everything these days!”

Logan raised an eyebrow. “You are not the only reason I came down,” he said, “and you’re not wrong about everything. Just several, inconsequential things.”

“Thanks,” Roman deadpanned. “Why did you come down, then?”

“For Crofters.”

“Oh. Of course.” Roman grabbed his pillow from the floor and set his camera on his bedside table, rolling his eyes. “Go ahead. Leave me to my shame. Enjoy your jelly.”

He flopped down on his side, hugging the pillow to his chest, and heaved a long, pitiful sigh. Logan hesitated in the doorway, closing his eyes and breathing in for a long three seconds. “Roman,” he said. “Would you… perhaps, care to join me?”

Wow. Sure, Roman had been angling for Logan to offer, but he hadn’t expected the nerd to actually do it. His guilt-trips only ever worked on Patton, and occasionally Virgil, once in a blue moon and every other holiday. First time for everything, he supposed.

“I. Uh. Sure?” He stood, still holding his pillow to his chest. “Only if I get the last of the concord jelly.”

Logan shot him a look. “Absolutely not. Die.”

Roman collapsed against the wall, clutching his chest, head lolling, eyes rolling back into his head. “Agh! Sweet embrace of death, come so soon to gather me into Her arms! How could this beeeeeeeeeeeeeeeee~”

He dropped to the floor, onto his hands and knees, and fell sideways, a heap of limp limbs. When he was sure his performance was enough, he released his final breath. Logan blinked down at him, unimpressed, and kicked him in the side as he passed.

“Fine!” Roman called after him. “You’re not invited to my funeral!”

Logan flipped him off without even looking back. What an asshole.

Roman shoved himself to his feet and scrambled after him, mind set. He was going to get that jelly before Logan could even blink, and he wasn’t going to share a single drop of it. That’d teach him to ignore Roman’s acting gold.

He slid past Logan and rushed into the kitchen, not realizing that Logan had stopped in the doorway, not noticing the dread that settled deep in his bones until he slid to a hasty stop, a sharp gasp flying from his lips.

“Oh,” he squeaked. His heart attempted gymnastics in his chest and only succeeded in lodging in his throat, choking away every attempt at a response Roman could possibly give.

There was a knife.

Floating in midair.

There was a knife floating in midair and really, a sight like that should have sent him running, but there was a knife floating in midair and it wasn’t supposed to do that and simply the shock alone was enough to lock his legs in place. He glanced around; surely there were strings, somewhere. Surely the others were pranking him. Surely —

The knife was moving.

“Logan,” he managed, in a voice several dozen octaves higher than usual. “Logan, please tell me you’re seeing this, please —”

“I —” Logan tried to speak several times. His voice failed, words cutting out again and again. “I — Yes. That’s — mhm. Yep.”

The knife was floating away from them, thank god, and Roman couldn’t help but watch, mesmerized. “What do we do?” he hissed, and he could practically feel Logan struggling to find an answer. He was speechless — the great Logan Sanders, king of Being Insufferable, had been stricken speechless, and Roman didn’t even have the time to enjoy it. “Do… Do we call an exorcist?”

And wow was that the wrong thing to say, because the haunted-demon-ghost-knife heard him, and it whipped around in midair — and suddenly a figure appeared around it, and Roman collapsed backward, wheezing, the weight on his chest so suddenly heavy that he couldn’t draw a single breath. Logan looped his arms through Roman’s and held tight, his own breathing sharp and erratic.

The figure — tall, horrible, green, a rotting face, the barest wisps of a mustache above a skeletal smile, and eyes that Roman recognized, eyes that had stared him down in the mirror every day since he’d been born, his eyes, the ghost had his eyes — grinned, raising the knife. Roman couldn’t breathe.

“Boo.”

[maglover]

Who are the Twins' Parents?

I envision the Tridentarii Twins having an involved relationship with their parents based on how they’ve reference been reference in both Gideon the Ninth and Harrow the Ninth. So I've spent too much time visualizing how Coronabeth and Ianthe's family looks like.

CW: Descriptions of childbirth, pregnancy anatomy, parental abuse

Meet the Parents

I can see their parents having them late in life. Their mom had them when she was in her early 40s. I can also see their dad being much older than their mother; frankly the dynamic of having an elderly father I think would adds an interesting layer to Ianthe’s relationship with Augustine. There’s a lot that could be done there. But it’s really their mother who has defined their lives.

I envision their mother, being of course, impossibly beautiful and actually, I can see Coronabeth looking like a carbon copy of their mother. Similar to Coronabeth, Their mother was beautiful in her youth and it had a huge factor in her subsequent power and status in the Third House. But as she’s aged she feels as if her power, who she is, dies as she loses her youth. She’s neurotically obsessed with holding onto this sense of control. When Coronabeth was born, she and her husband were instantly attached because how could they not be? For her, Coronabeth was her beauty realized and her youth immortalized. In Corona, she will never die. But as you know, Ianthe was now dying inside their mother; that had to be addressed. Their mother didn’t want a C-section because she felt like her body would be "marred by the procedure" but there is no other way. It’s either have Ianthe cut from her or have her child die inside her. She agreed to the procedure because the latter was horrific but also because she was about to have the two most beautiful daughters— both mirror images of herself.

The doctor were able to C-section Ianthe but she was everything Corona was not. She came out pale, sickly, purgatorial and insulting. Their mother felt she sacrificed her body for this child; the well of resentment was an abyss deep. She cannot deny she is her daughter but she is not her child. And she was never going to let Ianthe forget this. Her mother obsessed over Corona to an extent that was too heavy for Corona to bear alone and her father, who was emotionally absent even when he’s standing in the room, indulged this game. Their mother wanted to cannibalize Corona and wear her skin and she wanted to cannibalize Ianthe and undo her. Remove her.

Medical Circumstance around their Birth (Graphic)

I know people have talked about if the twins are identical or fraternal because of how they’re described. But ignoring physical similarities (same height, same eyes, same build), for Corona to have cut off Ianthe’s oxygen during birth, my guess is that they were identical twins meaning they shared a placenta but had two different umbilical cords. When Corona was born, she most likely cased an umbilical cord prolapse which, without getting into gory details, would have cut Ianthe's oxygen-rich blood supply meaning she'd need a C-section. The majority of cases of umbilical cord prolapse occur in monozygotic pregnancies which is why I think Corona and Ianthe are identical. (this is also lowkey why I think the descriptions of Ianthe being "ugly" is actually not literal, but that's for another post).

These are all fan theories except for the scientific parts. I hope we’ll get more background about the twins in Alecto the Ninth. But until then I love fun and brainstorming for a fic I’m working on.

[ooachilliaoo]

Unsatisfied

Officers’ mixers were dull; really, really dull.

One of the worst parts of becoming an officer was definitely the necessity of attending these terrible formal affairs. They were always the same. Always dress blues, always too-little, too-‘fancy’ food, and always the feeling that everyone except the Admiralty would rather be in the bar with the privates, where there was at least the possibility of a bar brawl.

Maybe that last part was just her.

Sweeping another glass of whiskey off a nearby tray, she leaned inelegantly against the bar. She supposed the launch of a new warship required a certain amount of pomp and ceremony, and as the XO of that warship she supposed she ought to be present for it. That didn’t mean she had to be sociable about it though.

Anderson hadn’t arrived yet, probably avoiding the fray for as long as he possibly could. She wished he’d bloody well hurry up. Having the only other publically acclaimed ‘Alliance Hero’ in the room would probably take a little of the heat off of her. If she had to discuss the Blitz one more time…

Her thoughts trailed off as she spotted Admiral Hackett leading a member of the Alliance parliament towards her. She didn’t mind the Admiral, really, but if he was trailing a politician then it was likely that the politician had requested to meet her, probably in order to ask her the same questions she’d answered a dozen times already.

Since there was no reason to suppose that this politician would be any more sensitive about the death of both troops and civilians than the many others she’d spoken to, she immediately pushed herself off of the bar and vanished into the crowd. Determined not to be found for another few precious minutes, she went so far as to make several twists and turns amongst the other guests, before finally spotting a secluded corner near the back entrance.

She was on her way towards that corner when he entered.

Immediately, she stopped short, almost running into him as their eyes met and a bolt of heat and shock and something shot through her.

Of course, she had absolutely no idea who he was, but she did know that she was close enough to see the warm, whiskey flecks in his eyes, and the intelligence that glittered beneath them. Completely unbidden a smile came to her lips.

“Excuse me.”

“Sorry.”

They spoke at exactly the same moment, prompting another shared smile.

She was about to make some no doubt perfectly witty and utterly charming comment, possibly about how handsome he was when he smiled, but more likely about how she’d be happy to run into him again, repeatedly, all night if possible, but sadly, (or not so sadly once she heard the exact cadence of his voice) he spoke first.

“Kaidan Alenko.” He extended his right hand in greeting. “Staff Lieutenant assigned to the SSV Tokyo.”

“Good to meet you, Lieutenant.” She took his hand and ignored the warm tingly feeling that shot through her. “I’m…”

“Commander Shepard,” he interrupted, smiling just the faintest little bit. “Sorry. Seems like the Blitz is all anyone can talk about these days.”

She was fairly certain that the disappointment didn’t show on her face, but for some reason, and she wasn’t entirely sure why, she had expected better from him. However, just as she was preparing to rattle off the usual platitudes; ‘I did what I had to do’ and ‘I wish I could have saved more’ and so on, he surprised her.

“I bet no-one ever asks how you’re coping with it all, do they?” A look of real, genuine concern crossed his face. There was something else there too, almost as if he knew exactly how it felt to be put into such an impossible position. She debated for a moment about calling him on that, but ultimately decided against it.

“I don’t know.” She accepted another glass of whiskey from a nearby server, partly to have something else to do with her hands. “The Alliance shrinks are very keen on asking me that.”

His snort of derision perfectly summed up her feelings on Alliance shrinks. So much so that she couldn’t help but laugh.

And then they were smiling at each other again.

God, he really was handsome when he smiled. Normally, she avoided hook-ups at officers’ mixers, and she definitely avoided getting into any kind of hook-up days before a tour. But, it seemed, she was about to make a very rare exception to both those rules, and judging by what she could see of his physique, she doubted she’d be disappointed by the decision.

Sadly, just as she was about to suggest a sojourn to her apartment, they were interrupted.

“Commander, Lieutenant. I’m glad you two met.”

“Sir,” the lieutenant barked, immediately jumping to attention as well as he was able to while also holding a glass of whiskey.

Protocol dictated that she should do the same, of course, but somewhere during the long course of their association she’d stopped standing to attention around Anderson unless absolutely necessary.

 “Anderson.” She greeted him with only the tersest of nods, more than a little annoyed with him for interrupting her flirtation with the lieutenant.

She shouldn’t be annoyed, she knew that, and she especially knew that she shouldn’t let her annoyance show in her tone, but it seemed she was breaking all the rules this evening.  Anderson shot her a slightly confused look back, but thankfully decided not to call her on her abruptness.

“Looks like we’ll all be working together,” he continued. “I’ve just been given dispensation to transfer staff from the Tokyo. Congratulations, Lieutenant Alenko, you’re now assigned to the Normandy.”

Dread pooled in Shepard’s stomach and three very sobering thoughts sprung into her head as she and the lieutenant shared a horrified glance.

Number one was that she really should have anticipated this, particularly after he’d said he was assigned to the Tokyo. Captains always preferred to handpick their crew from those that they knew could do the job and Anderson was just important enough to be granted such a favour. It was why she was on the crew, after all.

Damn it, this was precisely the reason that she usually avoided hook-ups at officers’ mixers.

Number two was that the Alliance would be monitoring everything aboard the Normandy. Every tiny detail. With a magnifying glass. Every regulation would have to be followed from the ones governing the exact level of shine on a soldier’s boots down to the… well, down to the frat regs. Particularly, she assumed, the frat regs. As the first joint Turian/Human venture that was only to be expected, and it meant that there would be no leniency. The frat regs would have to be scrupulously upheld. Which sucked because, for the first time ever, she really wanted to break them. 

Of course, none of this really prevented her from having him tonight, but what if it was so good that she couldn’t stand not to have more? Or so bad that it affected her opinion of him? Or one of a million other things she could think of that would adversely alter their working relationship?

Number three was that… at least she’d have the opportunity to get to know him better. It was the most dangerous of the three. If he kept surprising her like he had with the Blitz question, she might just be at risk of falling prey to a far more intimate, all-encompassing and frankly dangerous emotion. Especially since the option of… ’getting him out of her system’ was now off the table.

Damn it. This mission had suddenly gotten a lot more complicated. She wasn’t equipped to handle this shit.

“Congratulations, lieutenant,” she echoed Anderson. “I look forward to working with you.”

“Me too, commander,” he said, holding her gaze. “Me too.”

His tone was as carefully professional as hers had been, but she hoped Anderson couldn’t read the look in his eyes.

The look that maybe said those same three thoughts had run through his head as well.

[thunders-warcats-stuff]

Enter Darkness Chapter 21

The  cold  air  chilled Firepaw’s  bones  as  darkness  wrapped itself  around him. He  could hear nothing, and his nostrils were  filled with the musty scent  of damp  earth. 

Out  of  nowhere,  a  brilliant  ball of  light  flared  in  front  of  him.  Firepaw  ducked  his  head,  screwing  up  his eyes  against  the  glare.  The  light  shone, dazzling coldly before it blinked out, disappearing as quickly as it had come. 

The darkness fell away, and Firepaw  found himself in the  forest. He  felt  comforted by the familiar  smells of  the  woods. He breathed in the moist green scents and found himself significantly calmer.  

Without  warning,  a  dreadful  noise  burst  from  the  trees. Firepaw’s  fur bristled. It  was  the  screeching  of terrified cats  racing  out  from  the  bushes  up ahead. Firepaw  recognized ThunderClan pelts  as  they  fled past  him.  He  stood rooted  to  his  spot, unable  to  move. 

Then  came  great  cats, huge  dark warriors,  their eyes glittering  cruelly. They thundered toward him,  pounding  the  earth with  massive  paws, and claws unsheathed. Out of  the shadows,  Firepaw heard  a  high, desperate cry filled  with grief  and rage. Greypaw!

Firepaw  woke, horrified. His  dream  vanished, leaving  his  ears  ringing  and his  fur standing  on end. As  he opened his  eyes, he recognized Tigerclaw peering  into  the  den. Firepaw  leaped  to  his  feet, instantly alert.

“Something  wrong, Firepaw?”  The warrior rumbled questioningly.

“Just  a  dream,”  Firepaw  mumbled. Tigerclaw  shot  him  a  curious  look, then  growled,

“Wake  the  others. We  leave  shortly.”

Outside  the  den, the  sky glowed  with  a  new  dawn, and dew  sparkled  on the  ferns.  It  would be  a  warm day once  the  sun was  up, but  the  early-morning  dampness  reminded Firepaw  that leaf-fall wasn’t that far off. 

Firepaw, Greypaw, and Ravenpaw  quickly  gulped  down the  herbs  that  they'd been given the night before. Tigerclaw  and  Bluestar  sat  watching  them,  ready  to  leave.  It was early enough for the dawn patrol, Firepaw knew, but the rest of the  camp was still asleep.

“Ugh!”  complained  Greypaw.  “I  knew  they’d be  bitter. Why couldn’t  we  eat  a  fat,  juicy mouse instead?”

“These  herbs  will keep  your hunger  at  bay longer,”  answered  Bluestar. “And keep  you strong. We have a long  journey ahead of us.”

“I…” That dream was important. There was no reason for him to be so alarmed at the mere thought of leaving camp if StarClan wasn't trying to warn him.

“Bluestar, I think it would be best if we prolonged the trip to the Moonstone!” He blurted out. Firepaw blinked, shocked by what he'd just said. That certainly hadn't been his intention!

“Oh?” Bluestar purred, interested. “Is there any reason why, Firepaw?”

So he told her about his dream, about the ThunderClan cats fleeing and the fear he'd felt when he woke up.

“Why wouldn't StarClan send that dream to Spottedleaf?” Bluestar wondered. Firepaw shook his head, at a loss for words.

“They might have.” The tortoiseshell she-cat called softly across the camp. The group previously headed for the Moonstone padded over to greet the healer.

“How so?” Tigerclaw demanded.

“I've been receiving dreams of chaos lately, cats fighting everywhere, kits being stolen from their mothers in a nursery, but I could never make out who was under such strain or why StarClan would send us such a message. 

I think Firepaw might have a better idea as to what our ancestors are trying to say, and I think that now would not be the best time to be so far from camp. Send out patrols, because surely we must eat and be on alert, but keep our strongest here. Keep everyone here.”

Spottedleaf sounded scared, so that Firepaw had never witnessed before. She wasn't always happy, no doubt about that, but true fear was not something he'd ever witnessed in any cat older than him as an apprentice in either life.

Bluestar dipped her head, perturbed.

“It would seem that StarClan has spoken through the two of you, and who are we not to listen?” She insisted. “You may all sleep well into sun-high, and rest well, young ones. Your Clanmates may have saved us from a grave danger.”

Sure enough, ShadowClan cats burst into the camp. It was nearing sunset the next day when Firepaw was torn from his nest by the sounds of battle. 

He, alongside Ravenpaw and Dustpaw, raced out of the den to be met by a  frenzy  of fighting; ThunderClan cats  battling  furiously  with  ShadowClan  warriors. The  kits  were  out  of sight,  and Firepaw  hoped they  were  safely  hidden in  the  nursery. He  guessed the  weakest elders  would be  sheltering  inside  the  hollow  trunk of their fallen tree. 

Every corner  of the  camp  seemed  alive  with  warriors. Firepaw  could see  Frostfur and Goldenflower clawing  and biting  at  a  huge  gray  tom.  Even  the  young  tabby queen Brindleface  was  fighting, though she  was very close  to  kitting.  Darkstripe  was  locked  in  a  fierce  tussle  with  a  black  warrior. Three  of the  elders, Smallear, Patchpelt, and One-eye,  were  nipping  bravely at  a  tortoiseshell  that  fought  with  twice  their speed and ferocity.

The  apprentices  hurled themselves  into  the  battle.  Firepaw  caught  hold of a  tabby warrior queen, much  larger  than  him,  and sank his  teeth deep  into  her leg.  She  yowled with  pain  and turned  on him,  lashing out  with  sharp claws  and lunging  at  his  neck  with  her teeth bared. He  twisted and ducked to  avoid her bite. She  couldn’t  match his  speed, and he  managed to  grasp her from  behind and pull  her down into  the  dirt. 

With  strong  hind  legs  he  clawed  at  her  back  till she  squealed  and  struggled  away  from  him,  running  headlong into  the  thick undergrowth that  surrounded the  camp. Firepaw  glanced  around to  see  that  Bluestar  had scrambled out if her den and launched herself from Highrock onto a tabby. Firepaw  had yet to see her truly fight in this life, but knew that she  was  a  powerful  opponent. Her victim struggled to  escape  but  she  held  him  tightly and clawed  him  so  fiercely that  Firepaw  knew  he  would bear  the scars  of this  fight  for many moons. 

Then  he  saw  a  white  ShadowClan  cat  with  jet-black  paws  dragging  a  ThunderClan elder away  from  the nursery. 

Blackstar! 

He’d forgotten what the white tom had done in his former life as a ShadowClan rogue, having known the cat solely as a headstrong and cunning leader. 

The  ShadowClan deputy  made  quick  work  of  killing  the  elder someone he didn't recognize but  who  had  been  guarding  the  kits,  and  began  to  reach  into  the bramble  nest  with  one  massive  paw.  The  kits  were  squealing  and mewling,  undefended now  as  their mothers wrestled  with  other ShadowClan  warriors  in  the  clearing. 

Firepaw  prepared  to  spring  toward the  nursery, but  a  claw  sliced  painfully  down his  side  and he  whipped around to  see  a  scrawny tortoiseshell  leap  on top of him.  As  he  slammed into  the  ground, he  tried to  call  out to  the  other ThunderClan cats  that  the  kits  were  in  danger. Fighting  with  all  his  strength  to  escape  the tortoiseshell’s  grip, he  wrenched  his  head  around so  he  could see  the  bramble  nest. 

Blackfoot  had scooped two kits  from  their bedding  already and was  reaching  in  for a  third. Firepaw  saw  no more  as  the  tortoiseshell  raked his  belly  with  her hind claws.  Firepaw  scrabbled  onto his feet  and crouched low,  as  if  in  defeat. The  trick had worked  before  and it  worked  now. As  the  tortoiseshell gripped him  triumphantly  and began to  sink her teeth into  Firepaw’s  neck, Firepaw  sprang  upward as  hard as he  could and flung  the  warrior away. He  spun around and was  on the  winded warrior in  an  instant. 

 This  time he  showed  no mercy, plunging  his  teeth deep  into  the  cat’s  shoulder. The  bite  sent  the  she-cat  howling  into the  undergrowth. Firepaw  jumped  up, dashed  over to  the  nursery, and thrust  his  head  through the  nursery entrance. Blackfoot  was  nowhere  to  be  seen. Inside  the  nest, crouching  over the  terrified  kits, was  Yellowfang.

“Thank you, StarClan!” He panted.

Her gray  fur was  spattered with  blood, and one  of her eyes  was  painfully  swollen. She  looked up at  Firepaw  with  a ferocious  hiss,  then, realizing  it  was  him,  she  yowled,

“They’re  okay. I’ll  protect  them.”

Firepaw  looked at  her as  she  calmed the  helpless  kits, nodded quickly  and ducked back  out  of the  brambles. There  were  now  only a  few  ShadowClan  cats  left  in  the  camp. Ravenpaw  and Dustpaw  were  fighting side  by side, lashing  out  at  a  black tom  until  he  fled  howling  into  the  bushes. 

 Whitestorm  and Darkstripe chased  the  last  two intruders  out  of the  camp, sending  them  off with  a  few  extra  scratches  and bites. Firepaw  sat  down, exhausted, and stared  around the  camp. It  was  devastated. Blood spattered the clearing, and tufts  of fur drifted in  the  dust.  

The  surrounding  wall  of undergrowth was  ripped open where  the invaders  had crashed through. One  by one, the  ThunderClan cats  gathered  beneath the  Highrock. Greypaw  came  to  sit  by him,  his sides  heaving  and blood trickling  from  a  torn ear. Ravenpaw  flopped down and began to  lick a  wound on his tail.  

The  queens  ran to  the  nursery to  check  on their kits. Firepaw  found himself waiting  tensely for their return, his  view  blocked by the  other cats. This was Yellowfang's chance to prove her loyalty to ThunderClan, and he hoped she wasn't too gravely injured for it. Frostfur wove  her way back  through the  crowd, followed by Yellowfang.  The  white  queen  stepped forward  and  addressed  them.  

“Our  kits  are  all safe,  thanks  to  Yellowfang.  A  ShadowClan  warrior  killed  brave Rosetail  and was  trying  to  steal  them  from  their nest, but  Yellowfang  fought  him  off.”

“It  was  no ordinary ShadowClan  warrior either,”  Firepaw  put  in. He  was  determined  to  let  the  Clan know  how  much  they  owed  Yellowfang.  “I  saw  him.  It  was  Blackfoot.”

“The  ShadowClan  deputy!”  meowed  Brindleface, who had fought  so  bitterly  to  protect  the  unborn kits in  her swollen belly. There  was  a  stir  at  the  edge  of the  group, as  Bluestar  limped  forward  and  made  her  way  over  to  the apprentices. The  grave  expression on her face  was  enough to  tell  Firepaw  that  something  was  wrong.

“Spottedleaf  is  with  Lionheart,”  she  murmured.

No… in trying to get to the kits he'd forgotten all about his original mission of keeping Lionheart alive past this battle.  

Bluestar went on.

“He  was badly injured in the  battle.”  She  reported, turning her head  toward the shadow  on the  far side  of the  Highrock  where  the  warrior lay, a  motionless  bundle  of dusty  golden  fur. 

A high-pitched  wail  rose  from  Greypaw’s  throat  and he  raced  over to  Lionheart.  Spottedleaf, who had been  leaning  over the  ThunderClan deputy, stepped back  to  let  the  young  apprentice  share  tongues  for the last  time  with  his  mentor. 

As  Greypaw’s  howl  of grief echoed around the  clearing,  Firepaw’s  fur tingled and his  blood ran cold. That  was  the  cry he  had heard in  his  dream!  For a  moment  his  head  swam;  then  he  gave himself a  shake.  He  had failed once again, and now Tigerclaw was closer to his goal of becoming leader.  Spottedleaf  looked exhausted and dull-eyed  with  grief.

“I  can’t  help  Lionheart  now,”  she  mewed quietly  to  him. “He  is  on his  way to  join  StarClan.”

She  pressed her body against  Firepaw’s  side, and he barely felt  comforted by her warmth.

“Do not despair too much, young one. Some things are set in stone. There are things that even our ancestors cannot change.” She murmured.

“And you think this was one of them?” Firepaw growled, wrenching away from her. “Then what use are we as warriors if we can't defend our Clanmates?”

“Death is apart of life!” Spottedleaf insisted. “And the sooner you understand that you can't control anything, the better off you'll be.”

“No!” Firepaw snapped. “That can't be true, I wouldn't be here if that were true!” He snarled. “I'm not dog-headed enough to believe that I can save everyone, but StarClan warned me that this would happen, warned us both, so why did things still end like this?!”

“Growling at the medicine cat will do you no good.” Goldenflower informed him cuttingly from where she laid beside Lionheart. Firepaw glanced up to see Frostfur pressed against the golden warrior’s other side, Greypaw curled into the white she-cat's flank.

“StarClan has more power than any living cat because they know the future, but not every stone can be taken from the river.” Goldenflower insisted.

“If you had any idea of what I've been through, you wouldn't say that so easily. What's the point of telling us that something was going to happen if we can't do our best to stop it?”

“You did your best, Firepaw. That battle would have been a lot harder had the five of you gone on your Moonstone journey. More cats would have died and had you not noticed Blackfoot, the kits would be gone for sure. 

The only reason Yellowfang was able to reach them was because she noticed your struggle from where she fought, and was closer than you. Had no one gotten there, our kits would be with ShadowClan or worse.”

That was the most he'd ever heard Frostfur say, and knowing what happened to Cinderpelt not too long after this made his stomach turn. He didn't deserve her praise when he seemed to be the main cause of her sadness.

It seemed like seasons passed before Goldenflower lifted her head.

“Rest well, my dear brother. May you find good hunting, swift running, and shelter when you sleep.” Frostfur buried her head into Lionheart’s ruff and Greypaw curled tighter into himself.

Spottedleaf  padded lightly  around the  camp, tending  to  wounds  and battered  nerves. Firepaw  watched her approach  Bluestar  twice,  but  each time  the  leader  sent  her away  to  see  to  the  others. Only  when Spottedleaf  had attended to  the  wounds  of all  the  other cats  did Bluestar  allow  her to  treat  her bites  and scratches. 

When  she  had finished, Spottedleaf  turned  and walked  back  to  her den. Bluestar  stood and slowly hauled  herself up onto the  Highrock. The  Clan  seemed  to  have  been  waiting  for her. As  soon as  she  had settled  herself in  her usual  spot, they  began to  gather  in  the  clearing  below,  unusually silent  and somber-faced. 

Firepaw  and Ravenpaw  got  stiffly to  their paws  and joined  them, leaving  Greypaw, Goldenflower and Frostfur behind with Lionheart’s  body. The  gray  apprentice  was  still lying  with  his  nose  resting  against  Lionheart’s  cooling  golden pelt. Firepaw  guessed Bluestar  would excuse those closest to Lionheart  from  the  Clan  meeting  this  time.

“It  is  nearly  moonhigh,”  meowed  Bluestar  as  Firepaw  slipped into  place  next  to  Ravenpaw.  “And it  is once  more  my  duty, much, much  too soon, to name  ThunderClan’s  new  deputy.”  Her voice  was  tired and cracked  with  sadness. 

Firepaw  looked from  warrior to  warrior. They  were  all  looking  expectantly at  Tigerclaw.  Even Whitestorm  had turned  to  watch the  dark tabby. From  the  bold expression on his  face,  and the  way his whiskers  twitched  in  anticipation, Tigerclaw  seemed  to  agree  with  them. Bluestar  took a  deep  breath  and continued. 

“I  say these  words  before  the  body of Lionheart,  so  that  his spirit  may hear  and approve  my  choice.”  She  hesitated. “I  have  not  forgotten how  one  cat  avenged the  death of Redtail  and brought  his  body back  to  us. ThunderClan needs  this  fearless  loyalty even  more  now.”  Bluestar paused  again and then  meowed  the  name  loud and clear. 

“Tigerclaw  will be  the  new  deputy  of  ThunderClan.” There  was  a  yowl  of approval,  with  the  loudest  voices  belonging  to  Darkstripe  and Longtail.  Whitestorm sat  calmly, his  eyes  closed and tail  wrapped neatly  around him. Tigerclaw  lifted his  chin  proudly, his  eyes  half-closed as  he  listened to  the  Clan. Then  he  stalked through the  crowd, accepting  tributes  with  the  smallest  of nods, and leaped  up onto the  Highrock  beside  Bluestar.

“ThunderClan,”  he  yowled, “I  am  honored  to  accept  the  position of Clan  deputy. I never expected  to  gain such  high  rank, but  by the  spirit  of Lionheart,  I vow  to  serve  you as  best  I can.”  He  gravely dipped his head, fixing  the  crowd with  his  wide  yellow  eyes, and jumped  down from  the  Highrock.

nonononononononononononoNoNoNoNO!

He stared, wide-mouthed at Ravenpaw, who gaped back at him. Tigerclaw was officially the most powerful cat in the Clan. How in the word would they be able to convince anyone of his extreme ambitions now?!

[foreversillythings]

roses are red, roses are white

This is a Wars of the Roses Hunger Games AU.

I've had to take certain liberties with the actual history of the Wars of the Roses (especially the dates) as well as with some of the HG characters (namely their ages), for this to work. Still, I hope you enjoy it, because as a giant history nerd, this is something I've been dying to write!

roses are red, roses are white prologue a king of death and blood and bones

Madge of Bedford is born to an England on the cusp of war, soon to run red with its own rebellious blood.

The year is 1453 and her mother falls terribly ill, nearly dies in childbed. Midwives rush about in a panic as the Duchess of Bedford turns ghostly pale, blood pooling on the floor and outside, Madge's father the Duke paces along the stone floors of the hall, worry gnawing at his nerves.

The healthy, screaming child is hurried away from her dying mother and the nurse that attends to her cannot hide her disappointment that the wilting Duchess couldn't have given her husband a son and heir. What use will a small daughter have to so great a lord?

(greater than you could imagine)

The Duchess of Bedford does not die, manages to cling feebly to life but the midwives and physicians are clear, she will have no more children.

The newly christened Madge of Bedford will be her parents' only legacy.

(and what a legacy it will be)

Lady Madge of Bedford is adored and cherished, showered with the affection her parents cannot give to the bevy of children they had planned to have. She spends her early years raised in the comfort of her father's grand estates, far from court life and all its intrigues. Her father is the only one to travel all the way to London, always brings her back a gift, an exquisite dress or beautiful doll.

(she does not notice what he brings back for her mother, whispered words and frightened looks)

The world outside is rather foreign to her, the tumultuous landscape of England entirely unknown but then she enters her ninth year and with it, comes the invitation.

Her father returns from a session at Court but he is not cheery as he usually is, looks older even to Madge's young eyes. Her mother pales as she looks at him and Madge begins to feel anxious, looks from one parent to the other in question. Her father takes note of her and smiles, though it does not reach his eyes.

"Would you like to go to Court, my love? The King and Queen have requested that you and your lady mother accompany me to the Christmas celebrations. Would you like to meet the King and Queen?" he asks and Madge nods a little eagerly, perhaps not quite as dignified as a young lady should be. She cannot imagine anything more exciting that going to glorious royal palaces for the festivities, meeting the great King and his Queen. She is lost in the wonder of it, does not notice the silent words that pass between her parents, the fear in every line of their faces.

It wouldn't have mattered though, would it?

What the King commands, they follow.

What other choice is there?

(death)

Time moves far too slow for the young Madge, eager and bursting to go to London.

Her father commissions a new dress for the occasion and Madge feels like a princess in periwinkle blue. She concentrates with new passion on her lessons, is determined to be the perfect lady, impeccably mannered and well versed in court etiquette. She practices dancing as often as she can, is so short only one of her father's pages is suitable as a partner. He is clearly an unwillingly partner, only there because her father has insisted but Madge hardly notices, is far too focused on each and every step.

While Madge dreams of the beauty of England's royal court, her mother grows pale and ill, spends long hours of the day in bed. Her father too looks weary, nervous lines deepening in his face. There is a fear in Bedford Castle, a terror of the King she has never met that Madge does not quite notice, too caught up in her own excitement. To Madge, the King and Queen are fairy tales, shining and noble.

Soon, though, they will be her nightmares.

They leave for London at the end of November, in the hope of arriving before the weather reaches its worst.

Madge attempts to remain composed as she sits with her sickly mother in a litter, her father riding beside them. Her parents have told her little of the royal family, but she knows King Coriolanus has been king for many, many years, far longer than Madge has been alive. She knows the Queen, Enobaria, is from Anjou, though she cannot quite remember if Anjou is in France, or just very near it. And finally, she knows Prince Cato, heir to all of England, is near her own age, perhaps a year or two older.

Madge cannot wait to meet them, imagines the Queen will be beautiful and kind, the King just and strong, Prince Cato handsome and brave.

(she is wrong)

Madge has never been in a city like London, is breathless with awe at the sheer size of it, at the throngs of people spread throughout the streets. The smell would normally horrify her but she barely registers it, doesn't even notice how gray her mother's skin has become as they trundle through the city. It is magnificent and Madge is instantly enamored, never wants to return home. She cannot understand how her parents could choose to live on their estate in the country when they could live here, in the jewel of King Coriolanus' kingdom. Westminster Palace looms ahead of them, majestic and awe inspiring, steals the breath from Madge's lungs.

"Look Mama," she whispers in excitement, her mother moaning in response. Madge doesn't notice, can't take her eyes away from Westminster, her imagination racing ahead of her. Magnificent balls, handsome knights, beautiful gowns, they flitter across her mind like birds, bright and mesmerizing.

When the litter stops, when Westminster towers darkly above them, when her mother is so weak and grayed she has to be carried down, Lady Madge of Bedford blooms, unfolding like the rarest blossom. Springs bounce in each of her steps, thrills shine in her blue eyes and her smile stetches wider with every second. The Duke and Duchess of Bedford are quiet, menaced by the evil lurking in Westminster's halls but Madge, Madge comes alive for the very first time.

(oh, how times will change)

Madge is fairly certain her insides are humming when they go to present themselves to the King, her ears buzzing like summer bees. Her mother leans heavily into her father, each step slow and labored but Madge is the opposite, has to keep stopping herself from running. She shivers all over with anticipation when the great doors to the King's audience chamber are opened, her stomach writhing with snakes.

A smartly dressed herald announces them and they step inside, Madge's eyes magnetized to the heavy gilded thrones at the far end of the room. There is a great puprle banner hanging behind them on the wall, with the King's badge stitched in with fine thread. Madge feels a tingle in her spine as she looks at it, a wolf wearing a crown and surrounded by the red roses of the king's royal house of Lancaster. She drops her gaze to the people sitting in those great thrones, her breath freezing in her lungs.

Prince Cato stands to the King's right, dressed in fine burgundy velvet. He is young, with still rounded cheeks and fair hair, but there's something in the darkness of his eyes and the curve of his smirk that makes Madge shy, her heart thudding with nerves. The Queen sits on the King's left, wearing a sumptuous golden gown dripping with jewels. Rubies dangle from her ears, emeralds shimmer at her throat and sapphires shine on her wrists, the whole of her glittering like a precious gem. There are pearls woven into her dark hair and she smirks just like her son, her teeth sharp and pointed. Madge almost flinches, something foreboding slinking into her chest and she rests her eyes on the King then, the one man who holds all of England in his fists. He is much, much older than his wife, his hair a snowy white, his face lined and waxy. His lips are swollen and red, blood kissing the corner and Madge stifles a gasp as he looks at her, his eyes frozen over with ice.

The Duke of Bedford sweeps into a low bow, "your Majesties," he murmurs and then his Duchess wilts into a curtsy, her skin nearly translucent. Madge hurriedly drops into her own curtsy, chest feeling tight. They wait like that, heads bowed as the King's observes them, his eyes prickling over Madge's skin.

"You may rise," he says, a note of humor in his voice that has Madge wondering if she missed a joke. They all stand and Madge tries to remember her manners, but she can't help but take in the royal family with wide eyes. Prince Cato sneers at her and she frowns, would make a face but knows she isn't allowed.

"It has been too long, our dear Margaret," the King says, addressing Madge's mother. The Duchess of Bedford doesn't meet his eyes, her voice almost too quiet to hear.

"Indeed, your Majersty."

"We insist you visit more often. We won't have you hidden away from us in the countryside." His tone is almost light, almost joking but there's enough of an edge to it that Madge's father stiffens and her mother closes her eyes with a pained expression. Madge is confused, because the King is speaking as if he knows her mother, but neither of her parents have ever mentioned any sort of relationship before (she's also wondering why he keeps saying "we" when he seems to mean "I"). She wants to ask them but can't here in front of the royal family, Prince Cato's mean eyes digging into the side of her head. She wants to glare back but knows she isn't meant to, well brought up young ladies aren't supposed to glare.

(manners are sometimes dreadful)

"And this must be your daughter, then?" the King asks and Madge startles as she realizes he's talking about her.

"Yes, your Grace," her father answers and Madge turns in the King's direction, but doesn't raise her eyes, knows that would be improper. She can feel the King's heavy gaze on her and it makes her hot and uncomfortable. He doesn't speak, scrutinizing her and she holds her breath, anxious to hear what he has to say.

She never finds out, the oak doors exploding open before he can pass any sort of judgement and she nearly jumps out of her dress in surprise. The two doors crash back against the walls and a well dressed man about her father's age comes striding in with purpose.

"The Duke of York!" the herald calls in a shocked voice and the King frowns deeply. The Duke marches right up to the King, bypassing Madge and her parents, and drops into a hurried bow.

"What is the meaning of this?" the King asks in a rough, unhappy voice.

"Your Grace, four men have just been apprehended at a local pub. It is reported they were in the midst of plotting an assassination." There is a pause and the Duke rises up from his bow, face dark. "According to the Captain of the Guard, their plan was against your Majesty."

Madge knows it is undignified but cannot help her mouth from dropping open. Why would someone want to plot against the King (she's not really sure what assassination is, but it can't be good)? The King does not look frightened though or even angry. He smiles, wide enough that his lips look like they're cracking, blood dribbling down onto his chin.

"Well, Lord York, tell the Captain that we will punish these men immediately. Send them to the square."

There's something ominous in the way he says "the square" and Madge wonders what could be there. The Duke of York looks startled, in a bad way, his eyes widened with what could be outrage.

"Your Majesty, they have had no trial. We do not know all the facts."

"You may not, but we know enough. Give the order, Lord York." There is a brutal finality in the King's voice and the Duke straightens up, his spine stiff, his face an emotionless mask.

"Of course, your Grace."

"They are to be hung, drawn and quartered. Make sure everything is prepared."

The King is smiling again, wide and amused. The Duke turns and sweeps from the room, the door echoing closed behind him. The King stands and claps his hands, fresh and excited.

"Come along, we shall all witness justice being dealt on these traitors." His voice is raspy with anticipation and there is a cruelty in his eyes, one that makes Madge move closer to her mother, knotting her fingers in her dress. Prince Cato vibrates, his expression lit up with joy and the Queen bares her teeth in a grin, all the royal family clearly enthused at what's about to happen.

"My daughter, your Majesty-" her father begins but the King silences him with a dismissive wave of his hand.

"It will be good for the girl to see what becomes of traitors," he says, barely casting a glance at her hidden by her mother's skirts and there is something about the King that reminds Madge of the monsters under her bed.

Madge follows her parents with nervous curiosity, wondering just what "hung, drawn and quartered" means. Her mother can barely walk, her father having to support her and he looks terrified, so terrified Madge feels the sudden urge to cry. Fear flutters in her bones and all her shining dreams start to crumble, crushed to dust beneath the King's booted feet.

He leads them up onto a large wooden viewing platform hung with silks and with two large thrones, one each for the King and his Queen. It has clearly been here for quite some time, shows no sign of being fresjly erected. Whatever happens in this square, clearly the royal family watches it often. The Queen sits down on her throne and Prince Cato eagerly throws himself against the railing at the edge of the platform, desperate to be as close to the action as possible. Madge and her family shuffle over to the Queen's right and Madge looks out at the square with trepidation. There is a scaffold hanging with four ropes and four large tables with four smaller beside them. What could those be for? she wonders. Beyond that is a crowd of London's citizens, hemmed in by palace guards in sturdy armor. The people gathered look pale and frightened, hunched over and clumped closely together.

King Coriolanus moves to stand beside his son at the front of the platform and as if summoned, four burley executioners arrive, each dragging a man in chains. The King's eyes are narrowed in approval and his tongue comes out to run over his bleeding lips. Madge bites her own lip and fastens a hand in her father's doublet for comfort. The King opens his mouth to speak but the Duke of York steps to his side with urgent eyes.

"My King, these men are peasants, hungry and desperate for their families. They could not possibly have succeeded in their plot. Might there be a lighter sentence you could impose?"

King Coriolanus does not look at him, eyes shadowed.

"A lighter sentence?" he questions, voice sending shivers across Madge's skin. The Duke nods.

"Perhaps a simple beheading? Mercy might dissuade others from pursuing such avenues."

His words hang in the air for a moment before the King turns to him, eyes dark like a midnight sky.

"My cousin of York," he begins, poison in each of his words. "These men are traitors. They have conspired to commit high treason against the King's person. If we pardoned them, we would be condoning their actions. Do you condone treason against your king?"

The air feels suddenly colder and no one speaks. The Duke of York's face is pinched tight and King Coriolanus regards him with glittering eyes, something dark Madge doesn't understand hovering between them. Her father places a sweaty hand on her shoulder and finally the Duke of York's expression wilts, eyes drooping and closing.

"Of course not, your Majesty," he says, voice almost lost in the wind and the King smirks, red stains on his teeth. He turns to face the crowd, made up of haggard faces and glassy eyes. Madge is terrified but doesn't know why, a low whimper struggling from her mother's lips.

"These men have tried to assault their King, who has been anointed by God himself! The Lord has preserved us and condemned them, for there is no power on earth great enough to topple His mighty King! For their heresy and treason, we give you their blood! Let it quench the unholy fires of any foolish enough to believe they could depose a King, set upon the throne by the Lord himself!"

King Coriolanus' voice booms but no one cheers, the silence of the crowd like a thunderstorm at midnight. The nooses are placed around the necks of all four men and her father's fingers dig painfully into Madge's shoulder. One of the men whispers a prayer and another starts to cry, tears and snot mixing on his chin. The King takes a seat in his specially erected throne, draped in red velvet and smiles, his eyes bright bright bright.

He waves his hand and the floor beneath the four men disappears. Madge squeaks in shock as they thrash about, legs kicking wildly. She clamps her hands over her eyes to block out the sight but she can still hear their gurgling, choking struggle and Prince's Cato laughter, enthusiastic and energetic. Then comes a series of heavy thuds and Madge's lowers her hands to see the men have been cut down. They breathe heavily and oh, she thinks, they're still alive. She feels relief but then confusion, because hung, drawn and quartered. What does drawn and quartered mean?

Executioners in black haul the men up onto the tables and strap them down, her father's fingers bruising on her skin. Her mother swoons slightly, sagging against her husband and Madge hates the fear needling her heart. Each executioner turns to the smaller tables beside the ones where the men are tied down and pick up silver tools that glint in the late November sun. What are they-

Madge would scream but her voice seems to have died in her throat, the Executioners carving each man open. She flinches back and squeezes her eyes closed, hands clamped tight over her ears to block out their screams. It doesn't work, their agony cutting into her as they are disemboweled and her stomach curdles with horror. It goes on forever and Madge wants to wake up, safe and warm in her bed.

Silence settles like a shroud over the square and Madge chances to open her eyes. There is a moment of suspended terror and then she watches four axes rise, fall and four heads roll across the scaffold, severed from their bodies. The executioners lift each dripping head and show them to the crowd, but no one cheers, all except the royal family who applauds heartily. Madge feels sick but the brutality isn't over, each man sawed into four equal parts.

Her mother collapses, blood coats the ground, the crowd is pale and lifeless and King Coriolanus smiles, wicked like the Devil himself.

Madge of Bedford is nine years old and she has learned a harsh lesson.

There are no fairy tails here.

chapter one

[siodymph]

Symmrat Week Day 7

Alright people here it is! The final submission for Symmrat week! I really have to give my most sincere thanks to all of those who have been reading, liking, kudosing, commenting and so many other ways of showing appreciation on all my prompts for this week! You have no idea how much it means to me to get so many kind and supportive responses to my writing. It's really boosted my confidence in my own writing and kept me motivated. So from the sincerest bottom of my heart, thank you everyone see much for all your engagement and support!

Now to finish off this week this prompt is actually a continuation of yesterday's theme "Wash the rat"! (link) So be sure to check that out and as always, I hope you enjoy!

You can read my story under the cut or you can read it over on my AO3 if you like!

((Also don't forget this weekend doesn't have to end here! Send me any and all your Symmrat requests until the 22nd and I'll be happy to write them!))

When the day of the Gala finally arrived Satya found herself both looking forwards to and dreading the event. On one hand, if the whole ordeal went smoothly the press would eat it up and they’d continue to be seen as heroes in the world’s eyes. On the other hand though despite tonight being for them they would have to do a lot of what Junkrat had eloquently put “kissing all them crazy-rich suites’ asses” for the evening, something Satya had plenty of experience with but many members of Overwatch didn’t. It’s what had to be done however if Overwatch wished to remain legal and adequately funded.

She still worried as she got dressed for the evening. She had decided to go with a lilac gown that was embellished with gold embroidered shapes and patterns. By a happy surprise it complemented the gold sparkles that were still stuck on her skin from the bath bombs yesterday. She also aligned her make-up with the dress and bombs with tiny accents of gold blended into her eyes and lips. And she pulled her back into a long sweeping braid that was simple yet elegant as it fell off her shoulder.

And while physically she was ready, emotionally she wasn’t quite sure. Regardless though the team would be preparing to leave in an hour. Outside her room she could her Hana, Lena and Mei shouting down the hall as they complimented one another so she could assume they were ready early as well. She took one last look at herself in the mirror, making sure every aspect of her appearance was perfect and stepped out of her room to join them.

“Oh my Symmetra!” Tracer called out as soon as she stepped out of her room. “Just look at you! You look lovely!”

“Thank you, and I the same goes for you two as well.” She said smiling. They both looked stunning, especially Satya had never seen either wearing anything besides their normal suites before.

“So are you all ready for tonight?” Hana asked grinning ear to ear.

“I’d certainly hope so. It’s in an hour.” Mei said managing to be chastising in such a friendly tone. She turned to Satya as Hana started listing off everything she wished to do at the Gala. “And your Junkrat will be ready by then, Yes?”

“I’d certainly hope so.” Satya mimicked teasingly.

She tried to keep a light, happy attitude while her stomach churned. Usually when someone was excited they were said to have butterflies in their stomach but Satya only felt like there was a heavy stone weighing down on her insides. Everything had to be perfect, to ensure Overwatch’s safety. But if her experience on the team had shown her anything it was that Overwatch and the people in it were anything but…

~~~

Satya felt like she was slowly having a nervous breakdown. The team had all come here separately and Satya had been one of the last to arrive. As soon as she stepped out of her ride several reporters were in her face and an assistance was ushering her to go talk to the mayor of the city. It was chaotic ad she could already feel pressure begin settling on her shoulders. But she still had to keep a level head and hold a legible conversation with three different reporters at the same time. And that was just entering the Gala!

It got a bit easier once the reporters were satisfied with her quotes and let her be. And all the cameras were left outside the entrance so once inside the ballroom she began to feel much better without so many cameras and eyes focused on her like she was a bug. The Mayor even turned out to be an amiable fellow who had been fascinated with the science and art of hard-light.

But once she was finally left to her own devices that pressure fell back onto her. In one corner by a bar Lena sat with her girlfriend and a whole troop of piolets surrounding them. They were all laughing loudly, loud enough to draw attention and scowls from some of the ball-attendees and Satya feared what might happen if they actually all got drunk. Hana had her own army of fans following her around as well. She could see a few boys actually threaten to fight each other to get a dance with her. Many members of Overwatch had people following them about Satya realized, like baby ducks imprinting on a leader. And each group looked like they were just on the cusp of becoming unruly. To make matters worse it seemed like more and more people were streaming into the party byt the minute. Now even being near the center of the room there were people brushing elbows with her. Honestly, they really should have held this Gala at a larger venue, this was ridiculous!

And to make matters worse she couldn’t seem to find Junkrat anywhere. Unlike everyone else she couldn’t find any sort of group following her boyfriend nor any other trace of him. She tried straining her ears over the obnoxiously loud smooth jazz but she still couldn’t hear his familiar crow nor his cackle.

She really hoped he was here, but what if he wasn’t? The thought disappointed her but she could still understand it. All while practicing throughout this week Junkrat kept saying things like he wasn’t “cut-out for this sorta shit”. But he had been putting forth so much effort to learn everything, he’d even taken a bath for goodness sake. Never in their entire time of knowing have one another had he ever taken a complete, submerging himself in actual water, bath! Junkrat had really done a lot to prepare for tonight. She’d really hoped to see him put his practice into action.

She was about to go back near the entrance and ask if her boyfriend had come in when someone suddenly stepped into her pathway and almost ran into them. They were too tall to see their face in such a dense crowd.

“My apologies.” Satya said, horrified of what might of happened if she had actually run into the man.

“No apologies necessary darl!”

Satya stopped dead in her tracks and looked closer at the tux, she immediately recognized the size and cut and those blue and purple accents. And she looked up she saw none other than Jamison “Junkrat” Fawkes. He had been standing so tall she somehow hadn’t even recognized him!

“ ‘Bout time you saw me! Passed by two times already!” He said giggle a little.

A man violently cleared his throat and glared at both of them. “I can see when I’m unneeded. You two have a nice night.” He said with an acidic tone before snapping around and walking away with a huff.

“Fucking cunt.” Junkrat muttered watching the man leave. “Didn’t even know who I was but as soon as I mentioned the big O.W. then suddenly the guy wouldn’t leave me alone! I had no idea what the hell he was talking about most the time. I just kept fake laughing and prayed he’d leave me alone.”

“Hopefully he didn’t say anything important.”

“Eh I doubt it, all these suits say the same things over’n’over.” Jamison said brushing off Satya’s concern.

Satya couldn’t help but smile and elbow his side. “I’d watch what I say if I were you, Junkrat. Look who else here is wearing a suit?”

“Hey hey hey! This ain’t a suit, it’s a tux! And it’s just for tonight so I’m good!”

Satya was about to comment back when several people shoved into her from behind, almost making her loose her footing and crash into Jamison. They didn’t even apologize as they forced their way through the crowd. Suddenly the small space that had been doable while talking to Jamison felt too chaotic, too claustrophobic to Satya. There were too many people. Everywhere. She felt overwhelmed. She could barely think.

“Hey darl! How’bout we take this outside? I cans see a door way over there.” Satya couldn’t see where he pointed too but she took his hand as he lead them out of the terrible, overheated crowed and over toward a set of cool glass doors.

Outside there was a small balcony overlooking the cityscape. Trails of lights lit up the area and a bar table covered in drinks stood by the entrance. A few couples and groups milled about the space but compared to inside the ballroom this balcony was a beautiful ghost town. Satya felt like she could breathe again out here.

Junkrat looked down at her and she could she how worry pinched his face. “You feeling better ‘Metra?”

“Yes actually.” Satya answered still focusing on breathing steadily.

Junkrat gave a low whistle as they stepped towards the edge. “Hooly-dooly ain’t that a pretty view!”

He seemed entranced by the sight and leaned further over the ledge to take everything in. Satya noticed how his face glimmered as lights reflected off of him.

“The glitter, you’re still wearing it?” Satya asked.

Junkrat laughed before scratching at his neck. “Oh believe me, you ain’t the first to notice. Tried scrubbing the stuff off but I could never get it all. So decided screw it, looked good on me anyways. When I got here all those blokes with cameras went completely bonkers! They wouldn’t get outta me face. Hog actually had to shove some of the away from me! They kept asking if I was making a ‘statement’. Like the fuck does that means?”

“I believe that would be referring to a fashion statement.” Satya explained. When Junkrat gave her a questioning look she decided to elaborate. “Celebrities will often wear outlandish things as a way of promoting idea or being rebellious. But most often it’s simply an attempt at gaining quick attention.”

Junkrat looked confused at first but then suddenly went into a giggling fit. “Oh well that certainly does the trick! Can’t imagine what sorta ‘statement’ all them blokes thought I was making! They act like that toward ya too?”

“Huh?”

“Cause you’re still coated in this shit too!”

Satya looked down at her arm and sure enough there were still an array of sparkles sitting on her skin like freckles. From all the stress of tonight she had completely forgotten about them. “No I don’t believe so.”

“So it was just me then? Making such rebellious fashion statements?

“Perhaps since you are a male they considered it so, as such styles would be considered unusual by some.”

“Oh really? Ugh, city wankers sure are wild! Sparkles is what makes the front page for’em!” He shook his head and peals of laughter started spilling out of him.

“I believe so.” Satya said, unable to stop the smile on her face. Junkrat could be downright infectious sometimes. And with the subject at hand she couldn’t agree more.

“Oh-ho I see how it is!” Junkrat giggled as he gestured to himself “Show up at a party all sooty and people call you a miscreant but show up coated in glitter and everyone says you’re making a fucking fashion statement? That’s how it works? Ain’t that calling the kettle black!”

“Or gold in this case, I believe.” Satya couldn’t help but grin when that made Junkrat cackle harder.

When he calmed back down he sighed and leaned up against the balcony. “Ugh, city wankers always got all these contradictions. Don’t think I’ll ever figure it all out!”

“I won’t even try to defend that.” Satya said regaining her composer. “I remember when Vishkar first began training me there were so many unsaid social rules that everyone just expected you to know. Like maintaining eye contact and not saying what immediately came to mind. It’s a wonder sometimes that I made it through school at all! … But I guess I was alright in the end.”

“Well if you ask me, you turned at much better than just alright.” Junkrat said, pushing off the balcony and stepping closer towards Satya. He lifted a hand and held it open palmed towards her. And she took the hand gently.

“If you ask me you turned out utterly brilliant…” He said slowly pulling her closer.

“As are you.”

“Aw sure.” Junkrat snorted and looked away as she said that.

“No. I mean it.”

Satya gently lifted a hand to pull his gaze back towards her’s. And for a moment their eyes locked, one fire enchanted to another. Then moving slowly she lifted up her head and tried to capture his lips with her own. It was a soft kiss, only pressing their lips together. The sort of kisses that had occurred at the beginning of their relationship. But every tender thought and feeling going through Symmetra’s head she was transmitting out into that kiss. As Jamison leant in closer and reciprocated the kiss and deepened it she hoped that her message was being received.

Satya didn’t know how much time had passed but eventually they both separated and breathed on their own.

Junkrat seemed dazed, just looking at Satya. It was the stillest she had ever seen the man, standing so stock-still and wide eyes focused solely on her. But suddenly a loud cheer from the crowd inside snapped Junkrat out of whatever thoughts were going through his head. And like that he burst back to life as the sparatic man she recognized.

“Shit! Forgot about the drinks! You want a drink? Cause I could use one about now.”

“I would enjoy a drink, yes.” Satya said trying not to laugh too loudly and watched Jamison hurry towards the bar. He scanned over the rows of bottles before shrugging and just grabbing a bottle and two glasses and bringing it back over.

“Alright, this looks legit. Nothing too heavy.” Satya looked over the label but she didn’t recognize the name. But it seemed fancy enough to appear at a high-end party such as this.

He poured out the drink into the glasses and handed one to her. It was a reddish-pink liquid. Probably a wine of some sort. She was about to take a drink when he stopped her.

“Wait! This being such a fancy, formal event we ought to make a toast?” He said smirking.

Satya smiled back. “Yes, I believe that would be proper.”

“Roight! Then let’s see what the hell should we toast too? Overwatch? ...Not being in prison?”

Satya thought for a moment till an idea came to her. “How about… Why don’t we cheer to new beginnings?”

“I like that! Here’s to new beginnings!” Junkrat said beaming.

The glasses clinked together with a happy chime.

“Cheers!” Satya said before bringing the glass up to her lips. The drink stung her tongue lightly as she took a sip.

They spent the rest of their night away from the party and out on that balcony in peace, watching the city below them glow with electric lights and the night sky above them drew on in a vast, deep darkness.

[zacknano17]

Day 20: words 38,019 - 40,047

In which, yet another beloved recurring character shows up and steals the show.

“I don't know,” Salvatore says.  “She kept secrets from me too, I'm afraid.  But if I had to guess...well, she and Alfonso had a home on the other side of town.  She's been living here, as near as I can tell, but she never sold the old house.  I always assumed it was a sentimental thing.”

“Great. So she teleported across town, huh?” Merle mutters.

“Show us the way,” Magnus demands.

“I can get there faster if you give me the address,” Kravitz says.

Salvatore shook his head.  “I would take you two to save your friend, but I can't knowingly invite an emissary of the God of Death to my lady's side,” he says.

“Listen. I wouldn't worry so much.  We've cheated soooo many souls back from this guy already, I'm sure it'd be no problem to do it again,” Magnus replies.

“You people make my job extremely difficult,” Kravitz says.  He sounds irate.  His accent is shifting again.

“Well, I mean, we did,” Merle points out.

“All right, you listen and you listen good,” Kravitz continues, focusing on the orc now.  “I have her name, and if you think I won't find her on my own, then you don't know much about the Raven Queen, do you?  Either you take us to her now and try and convince me why I ought to let her soul remain here, or I will find her myself and Reap her myself.”

Salvatore falls silent for a moment, and the book still in Kravitz' hand is snapped open again.  He drags his finger down the page, as if searching for something.

There is a mighty sigh, and Salvatore seems to make up his mind about something.  He turns toward Magnus, deliberately ignoring Kravitz' threats.  “Fine.  I will lead you to her house,” he says, resigned.  “Follow me.  I will show you the way.”

Kravitz' finger stops midway down the page and then quite suddenly jerks his finger to the side, raising a small cloud of golden dust.  He snaps the book closed and plucks a feather from his cloak.  As soon as the gold glitter on his finger touches the black feather, it begins to float, point down, about an inch above his palm.  The gold slowly overtakes it, until it is completely gold.

The book, apparently no longer needed, vanishes from his hand, and he adjust the feather so that is hovering horizontally over his hand. The point spins like a compass and settles on a direction.

He gives a pointed look at Salvatore.  “I will know if you're trying to trick us,” he says.

“I don't know if she is at the house,” Salvatore reminds him.  “I respect what you are trying to do.  But I can't know for certain where she is.  I will take you there, but if she isn't there, you cannot find fault with me.”

“Also, Krav, my man, you're gonna freak a lot of folks out if you walk down Main Street in that get up,” Magnus points out.

“...that is a fair point,” Kravitz admits.  He drops the scythe, and, as soon as he lets go of it, it dissolves into thin air.  Then his skeletal features sort of melt away and in their place appears a handsome face with an elaborate three piece suit, all done in black and deep purple and gold.  His hair is adorned with gold and purple beads and trinkets, and his fingers are heavy with rings.

The feather remains suspended over his hand, pointing insistently to the west.

“Shall we?” he asks.

Salvatore seems unfazed, but he does blink a few times at Kravitz before nodding.  “Please follow me.”

He leads them up out of the basement and takes a moment to turn the store sign to 'Closed' before he closes and locks the door behind them.  Alfonso, still quiet and apathetic, comes with them.  The creepy as fuck fake Taako does not.  It's a long walk, and the sun is slowly setting over the horizon in front of them.  The feather continues to point vaguely in the direction they are walking.

“You know,” Merle comments, breaking the silence that has overtaken the five of them, “did we even ask what she's got Taako for?  I don't quite get why she took him in the first place.”

“Hey, yeah.  That's a good point,” Magnus realizes.

“This I cannot help you with,” Salvatore admits.  “She took a shine to him as soon as she saw him, though I suspected at the time it was because he bears a superficial resemblance to Alfonso.”

Magnus looks at the elf accompanying them.  Now that Taako has gone back to his original hair color, he sees it a little.  Alfonso doesn't have that same ethereal beauty as Taako does, and his hair is cut quite a bit shorter.  His clothing is more...sensible, definitely less flashy.  But they are roughly the same height and have similar builds.

“Salvatore...you said that she tried to make Alfonso whole again with necromancy, right?” Magnus asks, with a sudden feeling of dread heavy in his mind.  “And that it didn't work?”

“That is correct, but I don't know what it is that she tried to do.”

“Hm.” Kravitz is looking Alfonso over again, not appearing to like what he sees.  “I assume it's the same sort of thing that went down in the Miller Lab.  I deal with this sort of situation a whole lot more often than you'd think.  People are always trying to fish people's souls out of the Astral Sea, as though it's that simple.”

“But instead of putting his soul into a robot, like Lucas did, she was going to put it into this dude she made,” Magnus suggests.  “But that didn't work.”

“Of course it didn't work.  This -- this isn't a vessel.  She used the Relic to make a person, and that's what it made,” Kravitz explains. “He isn't empty.  A body without a soul is a doll, completely catatonic.  This man walks around and speaks.  He doesn't have a whole soul, because she didn't try to make one of those.  But he isn't empty.  You can't put a soul into a body without taking the old soul out first, and that really isn't as easy as it sounds.”

Magnus looks over at Alfonso.  His expression is still the same and he is staring straight ahead as he walks, as if they aren't just talking about him right over here.  He doesn't seem to have any particular interest in the conversation, for the most part.  But he glances over at Magnus.

“I'm a person,” he says.  “I'm not empty.”

“Seems that way,” Magnus agrees.

“That still don't explain what she needs Taako for,” Merle points out. “If she can't rip his soul out to make room for a new one, then how is Taako gonna help with that?  Does Taako know how to rip people's souls out?”

“I doubt it.  That's a rather high level spell,” Kravitz replies. “Difficult to perform, even for the most skilled necromancer.  And, as far as I know, Taako's specialization is transmutation, not necromancy.”

“That's true,” Magnus muses.  “Is she a necromancer?  I guess I just assumed she was an illusionist.”

“She is an illusionist,” Salvatore clarifies.  “She didn't study any necromancy until she got her hands on that awful grimoire, and that was simply because she didn't know how else to get Alfonso's soul back.”

“And it's all just written down in a book?” Merle asks.  “Easy as that?”

“It isn't easy,” Kravitz insists.  “But it is possible. Usually at great cost, literally and metaphorically.  I assume our friend here had an advantage on that front, thanks to the fact that she can use the Relic to just create all her spell components.”

“Yes, that's it,” Salvatore confirms.  “The spell components were either unbelievably rare or difficult to obtain, or ridiculously expensive.  Bypassing the components would take a great deal of necromantic proficiency, of which she does not have.”

“Great, so she's got a Grand Relic and access to a bunch of necromantic spells that she shouldn't be able to do,” Magnus sighs. “Sounds like we're going to have a lot of fun with this one, huh, Merle?”

“Oh, I'm so excited I can barely stand it,” Merle deadpans.

They walk in silence for a few more minutes.  Salvatore turns the party down a few side streets, and Magnus watches as the houses they pass fall further and further into disrepair.

“Is it possible,” he says thoughtfully, “that she could learn the ability to pull someone's soul out of their body from that book?  You said it was difficult, but possible, right?”

Kravitz, now that he has a face, looks distinctly uncomfortable at the possibility.

“It would depend on the book, but...it is conceivable, yes.”

“So what if she made Alfonso here and, when she figured out why he wasn't her Alfonso, she figured it was because she had done something wrong instead of because he already had a soul or whatever he's got? Then she thinks the body is wrong, so she...took Taako instead?”

“She wouldn't do that,” Salvatore insists.

“Okay, but she did make a fake Taako, and also kidnapped Taako, apparently,” Magnus points out.  “She's done a lot of shitty things that she wouldn't normally do, right?”

“...I suppose she has.”

“So would it really be that far out if she had kidnapped Taako in order to rip his soul out of his body and put a different one in?”

There is silence after this question.  No one wants to admit that Magnus might be right.  Not even Magnus.

“Boys, we should probably hurry,” he decides.

No one argues.

The grimoire bursts into flames, and Rebekah screams.

Taako's aim was true; nothing but the book has suffered damage.  Rebekah has fallen backwards, away from the flaming pages, and Taako's body seems unburnt.  She whirls around in shock, but before she can see the umbra staff that had turned to aim at the grimoire, something else catches her attention.

“Rebekah? Rebekah!”

A ripple of shock goes through Taako at the sound of his voice.  It's weak and scratchy, like he hasn't had anything to drink in a while, but it's still his voice.  He hadn't said that.  He hadn't said anything.

The ritual.  Rebekah had completed the ritual before Taako had managed to destroy the book.

Rebekah turns toward the table, and Taako is horrified to see his body twitching and moving.  “...Alfonso?  Alfonso, love, is that you?” she asks.

“What...what's happening?  I'm...chained to the table?” not-Taako says.

“Please, be calm.  I had to make sure the ritual worked before I let you free,” she replies, stroking his hair gently.  There are tears on her cheeks, but she's smiling.  “Are you all right?  How do you feel?”

Taako understands what is happening, finally.  She has taken his soul out of his body and used his body to house the soul of her dearly departed husband.  And he can't do a fucking thing about it, but to watch.  Just casting those mage hands has all but depleted his magical energy, and he couldn't be sure the staff would just fire on its own again.  It doesn't do that very often.

He is aware then, dimly, of another presence in the room.  It's not something he can see as much as he can feel.  It's odd -- he can't feel anything touching him, but it's a different sort of feeling.  And maybe it's because he's just a soul and, in a way, he is sort of dead (or undead?), he can sort of put a shape to the feeling.  It's like seeing, but it's not actual sight.

He is aware of a pair of skeletal hands just before they carefully wrap around him and lift him from his perch on the desk.  He senses the brush of red fabric from the sleeves of the mysterious intruder's robe.  He knows who this is.  He wants to cry.

Lup?  Lup, is that you?

It has to be Lup.  It has to! He has forgotten her for so long -- how could he forget Lup?  But she's here now!  She has saved him!

[sosorryyall-blog]

Part 1: The Phantom of the Opera. One.

Paris, 1887

Christine Daaé closed her eyes as the heavy, sumptuous silk billowed down over her laced form. She’d never dreamed she’d wear a costume of such finery, with the glitter of so many gems and the gushing fall of lace from every edge and flounce. The silk was pale rose pink and the jewels a rainbow of crimsons, fuchsias, and peridot green. Lace of all tones of white—pure snow, blue white, eggshell, aged ivory—dripped from the sleeves and brushed the floor. Tiny rosettes of pink and red silk grew in the holes of the lace pattern.

The costume was heavy and smelled like Carlotta’s cloying rose perfume, and when it surrounded her, it clogged Christine’s nose and caused her eyes to water. The aroma was not the pure scent of roses sent by her Ange de Musique, the scent that she gladly buried her nose within and drew deeply from. The smell from Carlotta’s discarded costume was rank and overpowering, just as Carlotta herself was.

Yet, and yet…Christine would wear it, for tonight she was to take the prima donna’s place in more than her gown. She would sing the aria of Juliet, from Gounod’s Roméo et Juliette, in front of the entire Opera House because Carlotta, the Opera House’s star, had stormed off in a great snit earlier today. During rehearsal, one of the backdrops had fallen from its moorings a bit too close to the very costume Christine was now donning, but which at that time had been worn by the diva Carlotta. She had just had the pleasure of meeting the Opera House’s two new managers, Messieurs Moncharmin and Richard, when the wooden pole clattered to the stage. It brushed the edges of her gown, landing in a loud thump at her feet,

Carlotta bolted away as quickly as her generous form would allow when the length of heavy canvas tumbled to the ground, her bosoms and jowls bouncing and her outraged screams echoing in the sudden silence. She clapped her hand to her chest, sending off a puff of white powder from her bosom. “How dare it! How dare it!” she shrieked, yanking off her tall, feathery headdress and tossing it at one of the costumiers. “La Carlotta is ill! La Carlotta shall not sing!”

She stalked off the stage and disappeared in a froth of skirts and feathers, the new managers staring after her in shock.

Horrified whispers skittered around the stage and pit in her wake.

“It is the Opera Ghost!”

“He has done it again.”

“She could have been killed!”

“It was he who stole my powder puff,” hissed one of the dancers.

“He moves like a shadow,” added another.

“An evil creature he is,” chortled Joseph Buquet, the chief stagehand, bugging his eyes out to frighten the young dancers. “His eyes are like coals! His teeth blackened and rotted. His face is stretched tight, and yellow, and his black clothes hang from his bones. He will hunt you down and eat you for dinner!”

Madame Giry, the mistress of the corps de ballet, silenced the gossip with a sharp snap of her fingers and the glare of her jet-bead eyes. “Do not speak of what you do not know,” she ordered, looking sharply at Buquet, who had not troubled to keep his voice to a whisper. “Now, to work! You also, Sorelli. You might be our star dancer, but you must still focus on your practice!”

She directed the dancers behind the steel curtain that separated the ballet foyer from the rest of the stage. Mairie, the lead choreographer, bade the performers to continue their practice. If whispers and undertones continued, Madame Giry did not hear them… or, at least, did not acknowledge them.

It was surely a most unfortunate occurrence to happen on the very day the two new managers took over the reins of the famous Paris Opera House. The outgoing managers, Debienne and Poligny, had been respected and feared by the performers. But these new managers, Messieurs Richard and Moncharmin, who came from the trash-removal business, looked merely wide-eyed and full of consternation.

“Opera Ghost?” Christine, who had been standing near enough to hear their conversation, overheard Monsieur Moncharmin ask his companion. “Debienne and Poligny mentioned nothing about such a thing when they turned over this Opera House! What can be meant by this?”

Monsieur Richard, the taller and more dapper of the two men, tucked his hands in his waistcoat pockets and tipped onto his toes, murmuring in response to his companion, “Likely it is nothing but some bizarre legend, Armand. We are now in the theater business! They have many superstitions and stories and we shall learn of them as we progress. I’m sure it shall prove to be quite entertaining, in more ways than one.” He chuckled indulgently, then sobered. “More importantly, how shall we replace La Carlotta for tonight’s gala performance? There is no one else who can sing with such grace.”

“We cannot cancel the performance,” Moncharmin muttered. “Chagny shall be attending and everything must be in order.”

Then, before Christine could blink an eye, Madame Giry had whisked over from her management of the dancers and pulled her forward, thrusting her in front of the managers. “Miss Daaé will be a more-than-adequate replacement for La Carlotta this evening. Her singing has improved enormously in the last three months.”

Monsieur Richard looked down at Christine, arching one brow as he scanned her simple chorus costume, patched where it had been burned by a careless hair-curling iron, and frayed at the skirt’s hem. Christine’s palms dampened as she clasped her hands together, uncertain whether to dread or hope. It was the chance she’d never thought she’d have. “One of the dancer girls? I do not see how—”

“Come, Richard, it cannot hurt to give the girl a chance,” Moncharmin prodded. “After all, who else is there?” He made a sweeping gesture for Christine to step forward onto the main part of the stage, then turned to the maestro and snapped an order for him to play.

Her throat was so dry she wasn’t sure any note would come forth, Christine walked to center stage, her full, calf-length skirt bouncing with each step. The platform, which pitched at a gentle slant from the back down toward the gaslights along the edge, seemed vast and frightening, despite the fact that the seats in the stalls were completely empty.

A few awkward notes as the violinists found their chairs again, and the cellist readied his bow, for the orchestra had left their seats when the accident with the backdrop occurred and had to get re-settled…and then, as if she had waited an eternity, the melody.

She knew the music, and opened her mouth to sing, pushing her breath out as her angel had taught her, keeping her mouth rounded and her notes long and true until the end. As her song poured forth—hesitant at first, then a bit wobbly, then soft, then louder and clearer—Christine basked in the wonder of the most exciting moment of her seventeen years.

She closed her eyes, every detail of the beautiful Opera House printed on her memory, but in her imagination, she added people filling the rows of stalls that curved in an easy arch in front of the pit, and in the gallery beyond. The high, domed ceiling of the auditorium was painted with Lenepveu’s colorful rendition of the Muses, dancing gracefully in a circle of clouds. In the center of the painting stretched a long chain from which hung a magnificent crystal chandelier.

Boxes with crimson interiors adorned the walls of the auditorium, the closest ones near enough that Christine would be able to see the detail of any female spectator’s gown. Massive gold columns separated the boxes, and the front of each balcony was decorated with an ornate design of flowers, fleurs-de-lis, and cherubs. Above Christine’s head, over the proscenium, trumpeted more angels with their elegant instruments.

Even if the managers did not let her sing tonight, she was standing on the stage and doing it: doing the thing she had dreamed of, fantasized about, since she was young.

If this was to be her only chance, he had prepared her well for it, and she would enjoy every moment of it. Christine had learned that things changed much too quickly in life, and to seize joy when it was offered…for it was much too rare and precious.

When she finished singing, Christine could not resist making a grand curtsy, though there was no audience to see her. When she straightened up, she glanced first at Madame Giry—whose stern face held the barest sketch of approval—and then at the skeptical Monsieur Richard

He was smiling.

Now, as they prepared for the evening performance that was to celebrate the Opera House’s two new managers, as well as its new patrons, Madame stood behind Christine and surveyed her in the floor-to-ceiling mirror.

“You look beautiful, Christine,” she told her, critically examining her from the fall of the gown to the pile of dark hair at the top of her head. Their eyes met above the three busy costumiers that poked and prodded at Christine’s headdress, her shoes, her flounces. “He will be very pleased.”

At the mention of him, Christine felt the air stir in her small dressing room. It became warm, suddenly, yet the tip of her nose cooled; the hair on her arms lifted. Her cheeks burned while the shift in the air felt like a caress over the back of her bare shoulders and neck. If only her angel would show himself to her…come to her in person, instead of just in that hypnotic, pulling, beautiful voice he used when tutoring her in her singing.

“It is my greatest hope that I shall do so.” She was looking at the mirror directly in front of her, the item that dominated the small, narrow dressing room. The room he had insisted she use now that she was no longer in the chorus, according to Madame Giry.

“Come, now, you have done with the fussing!” Madame snapped at the frithering girls, who seemed to have noticed a change in the air and were casting about in fright. “Out!”

She shepherded everyone out and, with her hand on the door, turned to look at Christine. “He wishes a moment with you before you sing.”

Christine was startled. Their lessons, where he taught her to master her untutored voice and to feel the music throughout her entire being, occurred in the chapel, where she prayed for her father and mother, and where he had first spoken to her, or in the conservatoire. But never had he communicated with her at any other time. Would he speak to her now?

Madame was gone, and Christine stood in front of the mirror, looking at herself and the long expanse of empty chamber behind her. The light burned low and warm, yet the shadows loomed tall into the curved ceiling.

She felt him. He was there, her Ange de Musique, her Angel of Music. The air trembled and the gas lamps blinked out with a soft pop. Her heart fluttered in her chest; her palms grew damp just as they had done this afternoon. Yet she did not move, but watched as what had been her reflection in the grand mirror slid into nothing but glinting shades of silver, gray, and black.

And then…something light and warm, heavy and gentle, brushed over the back of her shoulders, along the curved edge of the back of her dress. She released her breath, and the warmth closed over her skin. Her heart beat rapidly; he was there! He was in the room with her!

Leather—smooth, cool, pliable—fingered over her skin, the dip of her delicate bones, brushing the long bareness of her neck. Heat rushed in the wake of his touch, sending sharp pleasure down into the depths of her belly. She closed her eyes, drew in a shudder, and reached out for the cold glass of the mirror in front of her. Her hand imprinted on its unyielding chill, an anomaly from the warmth that burned against her back.

He breathed, standing behind her, and she felt his height, strength, darkness wrapping around her. “On the stage, you will sing for me this night.”

As always, the timbre of his voice frightened her with its intensity, warmed her with its smooth cadence, teased her with its hint of mockery. It embodied the beauty of the music she loved so, with its rhythm and tone and its cool, unforgiving command. And tonight, instead of coming to her from some disembodied location, it was there, behind her, next to her. Touching her.

“I will.” She started to turn, to face him, desperately wanting to see him…but his hands on her shoulders stopped her. Firmly.

“No.”

She had never seen her ange, had heard him speak to her only in darkness such as this, or even in the low light of the conservatoire when she visited there alone to practice…in the chapel, when he sang in a low, ghostly murmur whilst she prayed for the soul of her lost father, and that of her mother, who’d died so long ago. Perhaps once she had felt him touch her, as he did tonight, but she had been sleeping and was not certain if it had been a dream.

This—his leather-covered hands smoothing over her shoulders and around to cup her neck, curving around her throat, leaving delicate shivers in their wake—was no dream. She’d often wondered if he was a spirit or a ghost. But the warm solidness behind her answered her question: He was no ghost.

He was a man, perhaps more…but he was no specter to dissolve into thin air. The Opera Ghost was an angel, with a darkly rich voice.

When he sang, a tenor.

When he coaxed, velvet smooth.

When he raged, cold and cutting as a stiletto.

“Christine…,” he breathed in her ear, his mouth close and warm. The syllables of her name were a deep, ringing well of elegant, coaxing tones.

The fingers of her right hand, splayed on the glass of the mirror, slipped a fraction from the nervous moisture beneath her palm. Her other hand reached up behind her head, collided with soft, sleek hair that did not belong to her. She dug her fingers into the heavy strands, felt the shift of his scalp under her finger pads as something behind her moved, pressing into the back of her hips. Hard, solid, hot, he was, and she felt it even through the layers of silk and crinolines. It caused a burst of warmth to flood to the place between her legs and Christine removed her hand from the mirror.

Her fingers were cold and moist, and they sought back behind her, brushing over the top of his head as her left hand had done…and then slid down over his temples, and touched something smooth and unexpected where his forehead would be—lifeless, cool, and yielding. Not flesh, not hair—

He shifted away from her touch, grabbing her hands and pulling them down behind her, between them, trapping them at the base of her spine, where the folds of his cloak billowed about. “Your boldness surprises me, Christine.”

“Why can I not see you?”

“When it is time.” Something hot and warm, faintly moist, touched her neck and sent shivers down to the base of her belly; she tried to turn toward him, but his hands gripped her wrists too tightly. “When it is time,” he repeated, his mouth against her delicate shoulder. “Now…you sing for me tonight. And if you please me, you shall be rewarded with my devotion.”

And then he was gone.

The lights fluttered back to life, and Christine was alone in her room. The only sign of what had occurred was the streak of fingerprints on the mirror…and a glistening trail of moisture along her neck.

The sea of faces, the heat from the hooded gas lamps at the edge of the stage, the strange constriction of the heavy costume…the blur of light and sound and the deep breaths that she needed to take…the mosaic of sensations swam in Christine’s mind as she sang. She felt the music tear from her body as if released by some pent-up energy. She heard the reverberation as the clear, high notes swelled and filled the stage alcove. And then she drew in her last breath and expelled the last note, and the sea of rapt faces turned into a mass of thunderous applause, cheers, shouts.

L’Ange de Musique would be pleased.

And over the shouts and whistles, she heard it, deep in her heart.…“Brava…bravissima…”

And in the wings of the stage, she saw Madame Giry, nodding and beaming with clear, studying eyes.

Christine was left in the midst of the stage to make a careful curtsy in her heavy, formfitting gown, over and over. Flowers, gloves, even hats, were tossed onstage at her feet.

From the box in which they were sitting, the Comte and Vicomte de Chagny watched Christine Daaé’s bowed head as she made her third curtsy. Still the crowd roared and applauded.

“Quite a lovely woman. Very lush,” mused Philippe, the comte, settling back in his seat. “It is no wonder the dancer La Sorelli never cared to introduce her to me during our attachment. Miss Daaé is her name? I wonder where she came from and how long she has been here. I have never seen her in the dancers’ lounge, nor in the singers’ lounge. I wonder where she has been hiding.”

“Her father died some years ago,” replied Raoul, his younger brother. “I do not know how long she has been here at the Opera House. I only learned she was here this week. I have not spoken with her in years.”

“So it is no wonder that you insisted that you would attend tonight, without your regular companion of Mademoiselle Le Rochet.”

Philippe noticed that Raoul had not taken his eyes from the dark-haired figure below. “I met Miss Daaé at the sea near Perros-Guirec some years ago.…Do you recall that summer? You were there too, that first day I met her and her father.”

“I am sure I would not forget such a lovely form if I had seen it before.” No, indeed. He was not accustomed to passing by such lovely womanhood without finding a way to sample it. And an actress, of course, would be simple and easy for the picking…despite the growing strength of the bourgeois, who believed that with the Third Republic and the rise of their class, the actresses had miraculously become modest and moral.

A laughable assumption.

“We were younger then. She was but a girl. I saved her scarf from being blown away by the surf—oh, look at her! She looks as though she might faint!” Raoul stood from his seat as if to rush to her side.

Philippe grabbed his arm and pulled him back. “Sit, dear brother. It is not fitting for a Chagny to make a fool of himself over a singer or dancer, even one as beautiful and gifted as she. And see, the others have caught her. She is not about to crumple to the floor in front of an entire opera house without someone else noticing.” Indeed, several of the dancers had rushed to her side and caught her as she began to sag. Her face did look pale. Philippe turned and considered Raoul thoughtfully. “You appear quite taken with her.”

“I’ve never met a more lovely, endearing woman. It was an unforgettable summer, and I spent a great deal of time with them. You were too busy with your own affairs to notice. I met her father, a great violinist, who would play for us…and she would sing. Only passably then, but with great promise. She sings more beautifully now than she ever has. Before Monsieur Daaé died, he would tell us wonderful stories about the Angel of Music and Little Lotte…tales from Sweden, where they were from. He never came to love it here in France, and often told us stories from their homeland, for which he was strongly homesick.” Raoul seemed lost in his memories, a fact that greatly annoyed Philippe, who preferred to live for the moment.

Philippe stood. “Then I would imagine you must hasten to congratulate Miss Daaé on her lovely performance. She will be delighted to renew your acquaintance, whilst I make my way to the dancers’ lounge, where La Sorelli is waiting to renew mine.” A smile played about his lips. This could be quite interesting, Philippe thought. When at last she came offstage, Christine was surrounded by the girls of the ballet corps, of which she had been a member until just this afternoon. Even if her new role was only temporary, the entire day had been like a dream. The girls squealed and clapped and bore her like a hero in their midst back to her dressing room, for what she had accomplished was in the heart of every one of them as well. Still light-headed from her experience, her fingers trembling and her knees weak, Christine nevertheless felt as though she could be no happier. She’d sung perfectly, clear and true, dressed in the heavy, gorgeous gown that looked as though it belonged to a queen. The applause had been for her, and her alone. The enraptured faces, rows after rows of them, had been in her honor.

It was as if she’d traveled back in time to the moment when as a very young child, she’d seen the beautiful lady…dressed in a glittering golden gown, seeded with pearls and rubies, her honey-colored hair coiffed in whorls and braids and little puffs around her ears, with more jewels and slender golden chains woven throughout…and she, little Christine, gazed up at her in adoration.

She would never forget that beautiful woman opening her lovely pink lips, so soft and plump and shiny, and the incredible sound that came from them. She remembered how her voice made Christine’s little heart expand in her chest, and how she wanted to touch the lady’s skirt where its scalloped hem brushed the stage directly in front of her eyes. How, looking up in awe, she had wanted to be up there herself, like a splendid bird, capable of making such sweet, pure sounds, and looking like a faery princess.

And she was certain that standing on the stage, in the midst of all the adoration, garbed as richly as a queen, the woman was happy. Joyous. Loved. She had to be. One could not be that beautiful and that adored and not be happy and secure.

Eventually, young Christine somehow convinced herself that the beautiful woman was really her mother, who had died when she was five. She used the memory as a talisman, as an aspiration and an escape from a life that was as colorless and bland as the woman’s gown was brilliant and warm.

Her lonely life, spent with her father, who still swam in his own grief for the loss of his wife, had few pleasures. Master Daaé was a famous violinist who traveled and took Christine with him everywhere; thus, she had no home, nor friends, and merely saw city after city from coaches and small hotel rooms. It was not until that long-ago summer by the sea at Perros-Guirec that her father decided to stay in one place. But that was years after Christine had seen, and fallen in love with, the beautiful lady.

And tonight, with shaking knees and churning belly, she’d become that beautiful lady of her dreams.

And now all would be well. She would be happy and loved and safe.

Now, as Christine reached her dressing room, a deep, masculine voice penetrated the high-pitched tones of her girlish companions. “Miss Daaé?”

The voice, not the disembodied one of her ange, but an earthly one, was close behind her and drew Christine from the task of unlocking the door of her room.

As she turned, his name came to her ears, hissed in the under-tow of voices from the excited girls.…“The Vicomte de Chagny! It is he! The new patron’s brother!”

She turned and saw him, recognition following immediately. “Raoul!” she exclaimed without thinking, for he was a friend from her childhood, one whom she’d come to know for a short, happy time during that summer by the sea.

How handsome he had grown, how tall and chiseled and elegant he was, from his slender fingers to his small, clipped mustache. His long blond hair, clubbed at the back of his neck, gleamed golden and tawny in the light. Clear blue eyes smiled at her, taking her back to those days when they’d played together and listened to her father’s stories about the Angel of Music. She recognized that he was wearing a naval uniform and was not surprised, for he’d loved the sea, even all those years ago.

She wondered what Raoul would say if she told him she’d been visited by a true ange, and that he’d been tutoring her for months. And that it was because of his tutoring that she had become the beautiful lady.

He stepped forward and the sea of girls parted before him like he was Moses. He removed the tasseled key from her hand. “Allow me, Miss Daaé.”

He unlocked her dressing room door, sending it open with a flourish. She brushed past him, noticing how the heavy gown dragged against his shiny boots and cuffed jacket.

He closed the door and they were alone.

Lamps glowed, and the shadows that seemed so often to be dramatic were now low and brown, and did not lurk in the corners as they were often wont to do. Flowers had already been brought into her room, and vases rested on every surface—the floor, the dressing table, the tea table, even the sitting stool. Roses, daisies, gillyflowers, lilies…filling the air with their perfume.

“Christine, you were magnificent.” Raoul came to her side, clasping her hand with his and drawing it to his perfect lips.

“Raoul, how lovely to see you again,” she replied, slipping her hand from his and brushing her fingers over his fine cheek. It was warm and smooth.

“You have grown up so. I could not believe it was you, my little Christine, singing like an angel.”

An angel.

Christine stepped back, suddenly nervous. “Raoul, I am no angel.”

But he did not seem to notice her apprehension. “You are, you are, beautiful angel. I shall have to make a point of returning to the opera every night, now that Philippe and I are the patrons and now that you are to be the new star.”

“I hope that I shall see you often,” she replied, and felt a change in the air. It was him. For some reason, she didn’t want him to know about Raoul, that she had an admirer. “Raoul, shall we leave here? I must speak to Messieurs Richard and Moncharmin, and I am hungry, and we have so much to talk about. It has been so many years.”

“Yes, indeed, I would be happy to escort you to dinner.”

She opened the door, and was greeted by a throng of admirers clutching flowers and waiting eagerly. “Oh, my,” she said, pleased and warm, but very, very aware of a barely tangible shift in the room’s mood behind her.

Raoul pushed past her. Blocking the door, as if to keep the others from seeing into the room, or, perhaps, seeing much of Christine, he turned toward her. “I shall bring my carriage around and come back for you shortly. Shall I call someone to help you change?”

“No…no, thank you, Raoul. I shall be able to take care of it myself.”

He closed the door and she was alone.

And then she realized that she wasn’t. “Madame Giry?”

“You did well tonight, Christine. But he will not be pleased if you neglect your rest in favor of social activities.” Madame Giry had moved behind her and was working quickly at the buttons that lined her spine.

The heavy costume fell away, and Madame’s warm hands moved over her shoulders and down her arms to push the silk to the floor. “Take care not to anger him, Christine. His wrath is not to be borne. Are you certain it is wise to go with the vicomte?”

So Christine’s worry that her angel would not be happy to know she already had an admirer was correct. “But…I must eat, madame. And he is nothing but an old friend, and the brother of the new patron. It can only be good for the success of the theater if he wishes to dine with me.”

Madame’s face, aged but still beautiful, turned hard with concern. She bent close to Christine’s ear, her breath warm and moist, sending prickling shivers along the edge of her neck. “Have a care, Christine, for as his pupil, you have the chance to be great, with or without the favor of the patron’s brother. If you please him, you will be cared for beyond your imagination. If you displease him, his wrath will be immense. He is brilliant and kind, but he is selfish and would not be willing to share you. Note well what I say, Christine. With him as your tutor, you need not worry about finding a protector, as the other girls do.”

Did she mean that her angel would be her protector? Or that he merely wished to be certain that she did not forget about her lessons?

Instead of asking, for Christine felt a strange squiggling feeling in her middle at the thought that he might hear, she twisted the subject. “A protector? Raoul? I do not think he has such an idea in his head. He is only an old friend, pleased to see me again. Nevertheless, I will heed your warning, madame,” Christine replied earnestly. She did not forget that it was her ange who had tutored her to this wondrous night. “It is only a dinner, to celebrate my debut.”

“I hope that you shall remember that, my dear. And it is fitting that you should celebrate. Now, quickly, let us change your clothing and get you prepared for dinner. It must be a short meal, so that you sleep well tonight. Look, I have brought you a gown to wear.”

Surprised, and embarrassed that she hadn’t thought for herself of what she would wear to dinner with a vicomte and the theater managers, Christine turned. “It’s beautiful. Where did it come from?”

It was striking, and very stylish, and nothing like any gown Christine had ever owned, or even seen up close. Certainly the opera costumes were all beautiful and bejeweled and ornate—the better to be seen from the boxes and the stalls—but they were too heavy and fancy to wear in the real world.

“I bullied Tiline into letting you borrow it,” Madame explained. “Her Monsieur Boulan has gifted her with many lovely gowns as of late.”

It was a dinner gown of deep garnet satin trimmed with gold lace that gathered in soft folds at the tops of her arms. The lace made a narrow vee from shoulder to shoulder in front and back, and where the dark red bodice gathered over her breasts, more gold lace hung along its lower edges.

The skirt was nearly as heavy as the costume Christine had been wearing, and fell in generous folds that were gathered up into a bustle at the base of her spine. A wide swath of gold satin draped from each side of the front of the skirt and was fastened over the bustle with a huge bow made from more gold lace festooned with white and red satin roses.

When she saw herself in the mirror, she hardly recognized herself as shy, lonely little Christine Daaé.

“Thank you, madame,” she said as she left the room at last.

Outside of her dressing room, the passageway was empty. Still, shadowed, silent…so unlike what Christine was used to, with the comings and goings of actors and costumiers and musicians, prop hands and stagehands…it was quiet and lonely. As she had been, it seemed, forever.

But now, tonight, she was a star. Everyone wanted to see her, speak to her, be with her. No longer the shy mouse of a girl, she was sought after by a vicomte! Even if he was an old friend, he would not have sought her out if he did not wish to see her.

She was no innocent girl. Madame Giry had seen to it that none of her little dancers—called rats de l’opéra for the fact that they often came to the theater young and straggly, and were seen as always being underfoot—were innocent ingenues, though they might appear to be. She instructed them in more than simply ballet. Madame felt each of the young rats was her responsibility, for many of them had chosen the profession over being a schoolmistress or working in manual labor, upon being orphaned or because their family became destitute.

The theater was a profession, Madame told them, that allowed a woman quite a bit of control over her life, including her choice of lover or protector—if she was young and pretty, or at least if she was talented both onstage and in the boudoir. Thus Madame had ensured that none of her charges were waiting to be deflowered and left with nothing to show for it. Her rats were taught how to take advantage, rather than be taken advantage of. She instructed them how to attract and select a good protector who would not be physically cruel in the boudoir and who would otherwise treat them well.

But Christine could not fathom that Raoul—good, handsome, polite Raoul, who had dashed into the surf to retrieve her scarf when it blew away—would dare have the thought of being a protector. It made her warm to even think of it.

Raoul did not fit the image of one. Christine had met the older gentlemen that took care of the two former dancers Tiline and Regina when those two began to have solos of their own and thus attracted attention to themselves. Their protectors had bloated cheeks, were pompous, and had squinting, beady eyes that seemed always to be looking right through the girls’ costumes—yet they patted the girls on the heads and brought them gifts and trinkets whenever they visited. If one did not look in their eyes, one might think they were no more than a father or favored uncle. But of course, that was not so, and Christine, who had not been a virgin since her sixteenth birthday, recognized all too well that the looks in their eyes were anything but paternal.

Now the two girls, who hardly had time any longer for the other dancers in the corps de ballet from which they had so recently graduated, complained of having to juggle the attentions of the older men, who paid for their costumes and jewelry and for their own small flats, with their interest in younger, more attractive and virile men who did not have the pocketbook…but had other amenities.

Christine herself had never been in a position to attract the attention of a possible protector. Even if she had, she would have taken care before doing so, for she was known as one of Madame Giry’s most virtuous girls. She was one who did not flirt, who did not make promises with her eyes, who took care that her bosom didn’t show and her ankles didn’t flash.

But perhaps tonight had changed everything. Now she had attracted great attention! Perhaps that was why Raoul had made his way so quickly backstage, and barricaded them in her dressing room. Perhaps he was merely trying to protect her from any other men who’d found her sudden, triumphant debut of interest.

No, she did not place Raoul in the same category as those pudgy, false-fatherly gentlemen who scanned the dancers and singers and actresses as if they were clusters of horseflesh…but neither did she dismiss him. Not at all. For he had been handsome and charming, and quite obviously pleased to see her.

Now, Christine should have been hurrying along the passageway toward the back door that led into the side alley, where Raoul would be waiting for her…but instead, she found herself moving back toward the stage. The place of her triumph.

She had rarely had occasion to be on the stage when the room, with its vast rows of seats and high, domed ceiling, was empty of everything but…echoes. Echoes of performances past, echoes of smoke from the doused lights, echoes of perfume and applause.

She wasn’t sure what drew her, but she heeded the innate call and walked out onto the stark wooden-planked stage. Her footsteps, nearly silent in slippers, took her to the monstrous stage’s center, and Christine stood, facing the invisible audience.

A whisper of air stirred, raising the hair all along her arms and at the base of her neck. She resisted the urge to look behind her; instead, she smoothed one hand up along her arm, then down, over her long glove, and then back up again. Waiting.

A sudden beam of limelight shot down from above, circling her in its white glow, cutting her off from the darkness around her. The sphere was compact, just large enough that she might walk two small steps before moving out of it and back into the empty black if she chose. It was warm; even though it had not pounded on her for long, the heat from the light above played across her bare shoulders and bosom, and over the upper parts of her arms that were not covered by her gloves.

The light dulled her eyesight as it did when she performed. She could not see the shadowy seats in the theater, nor could she see the red velvet curtains swagged at the edge of the proscenium. All she could see was the white beam of light; all she could feel was its increasing warmth.

“Christine…”

The sound of her name, faint, hollow, erotic, came from behind. Or perhaps above. She wasn’t sure.

“Ange?” she managed to ask. Her heart was suddenly thumping madly.

Before she could turn to look, she felt him behind her again, just as he had been in her dressing room. He had spoken to her, taught her, sung with her…but he had never appeared to her before. And now twice in one day.

His hands closed over her shoulders, the supple, tacky leather of his gloves grabbing at her delicate skin as he moved his palms down over her arms, pulling at the low, sweeping neckline of her gown. The fabric tightened over her breasts, uncovering her suddenly hard, sharp nipples, baring her skin to the heat of the light above.

“You pleased me greatly tonight,” he murmured in that low, melodious voice. It burned in her ear and sent waves of sharp prickles along her neck, down her arms, over her breasts and nipples, to her belly, and lower.

Christine dared to look down, and she saw black, gloved hands dark on her white shoulders and the deep, dark vee between her breasts lifted and pushed together by her corset, and the hint of pink from her areolas above the dark crimson gown. “Thank you,” she breathed, reaching up to cover one of his hands with hers. She felt the faintest tremor in his fingers, beneath her own, and wondered suddenly…was it from anger?

Or was it the same sudden trembling she felt over her body?

Now her white-gloved fingers splayed over his wide black ones, and she could feel the heat from him burn into her skin beneath. His free hand moved, threading fingers up into the back of her coiled hair, combing gently through it and then grasping to pull her head back. The beam of light struck her gaze and blinded her; she closed her eyes as sudden tears stung them.

From behind, his face moved against her; she felt warm flesh brush against her right jawline and then hot, soft lips press against her skin. Her head held immobile, her eyes closed against the searing light, Christine struggled to draw in a breath and succeeded only in shuddering and faintly sobbing as pleasure burned where he kissed her, drawing on her flesh, slowly, insistently.

His lips, warm, moist, gentle, inched along her jaw, down the side of her taut throat. Her neck ached; her lips parted; her knees weakened. Her fingers closed around his hand at her shoulder, while her other hand reached up to touch him behind her. She needed to feel him, to know him.

“No,” he snarled against her skin, and, releasing her hair, snatched at her questing fingers and pulled them away from his face. He moved quickly and imprisoned both of her wrists in one leathered hand, above her head.

He moved. She could feel him reach up, behind her, and then suddenly she felt something wrapping around her wrists. She gasped, and tried to pull her arms free, but he was too strong. Before she knew it, he’d secured her hands above her head, wrists crossed, elbows bent gently.

“Did you not know that curiosity killed the cat?” he murmured gently into her ear, his sudden anger seeming to have defused. He circled around so that he stood just next to her, but still slightly behind so that she could not see any part of his face…only the gloved hand and the long, black arm to which it was connected, the strong black leg that crossed in front of her skirt, and the shiny black shoe that stepped in the pool of light below.

She tried to move her hands down from the top of her head, but something held them there, something from above. She could do nothing but tug and pull and feel the sway of the rope as it swung from the catwalk above. Her heart beat faster; she could not seem to draw in a full breath.

“Now…,” he sighed, moving close to her, one hand in a vee at the front of her neck, cupping her throat, the other at her nape. “I shall show you how well your performance pleased me tonight.”

“Ange, please…” She could scarcely form the words…and for what she was pleading, she did not know.

His chuckle was quiet, but he did not respond with words. Instead, she felt his hand moving down her spine. The heavy weight of her gown loosened, gapping and falling away in the back where his nimble fingers undid the buttons Madame Giry had fastened only a short time ago.

His other hand slipped under the steel ribbing of her corset, sliding under her left breast and to lift it from the cup of her stays. His leather-covered thumb moved over her stark, hard nipple and she felt a jolt of pleasure spear into her belly, and then to the place between her legs. It flooded moist and hot there, and she pulled, trying to bring her arms to touch him, forgetting that she could not. The rope held, and she succeeded only in straining her arms and causing her ange to chuckle again.

“Relax, ma voix,” he murmured, his voice rougher than before. His thumb continued to rub across the sensitive part of her nipple, while the other hand slid down beneath the open buttons of her gown, down and around her buttocks.

Christine jerked when that hand found its way under her chemise and down into her drawers, cool leather fingers slicking down stickily, spreading the cleft of her rear. She tried to buck away, but he only pressed harder, his fingers sliding to cover the underside of one round buttock while his front hand slipped to the vee of her legs. His palm pressed there, into her sex, through her gown, and moved in a circular motion over the silk and lace that covered her.

Wrists bound above her, she was trapped between his hands, one set of fingers pushing her skirts down and between her legs, and the other urging her forward from behind, into his palm that cupped her. Her breasts were tight, her nipples painfully hard. Her arms were cold and prickly from lack of blood. The beam of light burned down on them and sweat dampened her face and shoulders and breasts, making her skin slick and heavy. She bucked her hips, trying to get free, or closer, or away—anything to relieve the pressure building inside her.

As he massaged her with his hands, pressing her between them, one warm leather finger slipped from behind, sliding through the wetness that pooled between her legs. Christine moaned when that finger, impersonal in its black case, slid inside her. He pushed her back, his other hand still in place at the juncture of her thighs, massaging just where the edge of her mound was.…How could he feel it, through all the reams of cloth?

Such thoughts fled when he removed his hand from her front and yanked hard at her corset, pulling it down and away from her heavy, tight breasts. She was poised, balanced, on the finger deep inside her, and her breasts were bare in the hot white light, pink nipples hard and pointing, aching when he brushed his hand over one, then the other. Mon Dieu, what if someone came upon them?

He pinched, tweaked, rubbed, and she moved her hips, swimming on that leather finger, trying to find something, some relief, some end. “Ah, yes,” he breathed into her ear. His voice was thick and deep. “You open yourself to me.…Yes, ma voix, yes, you may shudder and moan. It is a beautiful music you make now, on this stage. Performing only for me.”

Christine was no innocent when it came to pleasure of the body, but she had never felt the hot rush of lust combined with the inability to move as she wished, touch as she needed to. She’d never felt this rage of need she now felt, standing—no, dangling, for her knees sagged and she could no longer hold herself upright.

When he bent his dark head and closed his mouth around the nipple nearest him, Christine could hold back no longer. She cried out, felt the weight of her body straining on the rope above, dangling with her wrists held high and helpless. Wetness, moisture, liquid everywhere…between her legs, on her breast, sweat from the heat of the light—she was dripping, throbbing, panting.

She cried out, unable to hold back the frustration that built inside. His lips sucked at her nipple, drawing it so tightly into his mouth that she thought she must scream from the pain, and cry from the pleasure.

The finger inside her slipped free, rubbing over her engorged pip, straining between her nether lips, as she circled her hips, trying to move it closer, harder, faster, in the rhythm she needed. He lifted his mouth. “Come for me, Christine.…Come…now.”

His other hand again pushed back on her, holding her hips in place as that nimble finger worked from behind, round and round, slipping and gliding through her, until at last the pleasure peaked and she shuddered, crying out her orgasm from deep within.

Then there was only the aftermath: silence, but for their twin breaths, harsh and needy. The dull throb between her legs; the ache at the breast where he’d sucked so hard. His warm leather hand as it glided up and over her ass, bringing her wetness along with it over the round swell of her buttocks. He drew away from her breast, moving back behind her before she saw more than the gleam of dark hair. His hands settled on her shoulders and he pressed into her from behind.

She felt his erection; it pushed into the base of her bare back, through his trousers, insistent and promising. Hard, and it sent a renewal of lust through her middle, stabbing into her stomach.

“I trust that your pleasure was as great as mine,” he murmured, back at her ear again and safely out of her view. His voice was not smooth; it was uneven but low, as though he struggled to keep it steady. He moved his hands up along her arms, moving from her bare skin to the fine cotton gloves that stretched from elbow to wrist.

“I believe mine was the greater,” Christine replied, her own words shaky. “But if you will untie me, ange, I would like to touch you…and see you.”

“My name is Erik. You may call me that, but now is not the time. Behave yourself this night, ma voix, and I will come to you again soon. Your tutelage has only just begun.” She felt his chest lift and press against her from behind as he drew in a long, deep breath, held it, then released it.

His gloves, fingers spread, ran down from her wrists, over her face, jaw, and neck, smoothly over her bare breasts, pausing to massage them…then close and hard over her belly and to her throbbing sex. Heat followed the leather, and she sagged again under the weight of desire, closing her eyes and tipping her head back into the blare of light.

And then suddenly, he left. He left her burning and aching for more, her nipples hard and pointed, one redder than the other from his mouth, and sore. Her sex throbbing again, in memory and need. Her back cold without him behind her, her gown sagging from her uplifted arms.

And then, before she could fathom that he’d left her stranded and half-naked on the middle of the Opera House stage, something fell from above. Her arms dropped, still tied, to her waist, the rope slapping onto the hard wood at her feet.