#i will say though that my muse for her has returned tenfold which might be why this ended up so long

[legaciestold]

@honorhearted continued from x

sounds reverberate throughout the tunnels under the palace, dirt and stones shifting and falling as a battle of magick and swords and dragon fyre encases everything above. her body feels numb, not even the bloody wound to her skin felt as she's half drug along, deeper and deeper until they turn and then begin moving upward again. 'would you truly let your father's sacrifice be made in vain?' sir ben's words ricochet within her mind, the image of her father's gaze as he'd pushed her into ben's arms so clear. the high queen was dead, a prince was dead. the high king was dying or dead, and she'd been forced to flee as men and women died in her name. it was wrong. oh it was so horrifically atrocious! the princess doesn't remember ben raising her hand to the painting to allow them passage. she doesn't remember her screams or the way she'd thrashed in his hold. 'be strong, lyli -- live for him...for your kingdom!' when she'd recall these moments later she thinks that was the moment she'd stopped fighting. when something else had taken hold of her, wrapping around the horror and encasing it in a broken heart, using it as fuel and deciding she had to survive. her people were dying. her father was dying but she remained and her other brother did too. the horrors of this night would be too horrific if such a toll held no purpose. if she died and her people were left to the venomous wrath of an evil witch to rule them in terror.

and so she had stopped fighting ben and instead began leading them through the labyrinth of tunnels until sounds and smells met their senses, day blackened out by rising smoke as they meet quickly waning daylight a distance from the palace, and her dragon standing high and tall at the ready. there's one man too, a man she'd always fondly seen tending to the royal family's dragon companions. he's wounded, she can see, the bodies of three others laying splayed across the ground where they'd worked to aid him in preparing the riding harness on apophis. if their princess was to take to the skies she would not do it without some precaution. without the best chance for her survival and escape. these people had given their very lives to ensure it. other dragons, wild, spiral through the skies as they clash with two who have been enthralled, covering the activity taking place below. apophis moves closer then, laying flatter as the man meets her and sir ben and urges them forward toward the dragon. everything happens in quick succession then. her forcing benjamin with a commanding authority she'd lacked in her previous shock to get onto the dragon first because she hadn't trusted that he wouldn't attempt to cause her to escape and stay behind and her following quickly after, seated in front of him. she seeks to grant the man who had ushered them forward some form of comforting words yet apo rushes onward as a dragon crashes feet from them and takes the man with him in a cloud of dust.

she wants to scream. this time she doesn't.

the battle had raged around them, apo maneuvering in the way sir poe had taught them never having intended for her or the dragon to have to use such teachings in practice. dragons flank them, dragons fall, the capitol is in ruin. there's a point when anger begins to overwhelm everything else, as she watches myra's men slaughter people in the streets below. she knows they can not stop their escape yet she does have her dragon lower toward the ground, a single command for fyre uttered, engulfing myra's men and their dying victims with it before they surge back into the skies and away from the city, out over the water and into the night. fyre did not care what it touched, it was brutal, but it could be wrath and mercy in one. she thinks that's the moment she truly became something new. when youthful innocence had been tore from her and fyre had remade her. the serpentine princess lyliana had never taken a life before this day. in fact she had strived to protect it even when a plot to take her own had once befell her. in the chaos of the usurping she had killed in defense. but in that moment she had killed as justice. she had killed as the queen they'd need her to become.

she'd nearly fallen off apo soon after, consciousness lost in the dampness of flight and apo's voice spoken into ben's mind to hold her before she slipped. much of the following hours had been cold and chaotic, any pursuers lost to the depths of the sea and darkness of the night. they nearly crash through the raised wards of the kingdom of eldenvale. sir poe had made it. he'd warned them. they'd prepared. soldiers meet them with prince jayson pushing past to meet her as she's passed down off the dragon. unspoken words passed between the last remaining children of a dead king and queen. chaos ensues when her uncle commands sir benjamin detained, untrusting of anyone so near to his niece and nephew when reports came of trusted friends having been turned against the royal family. the princess that would be queen can barely stand, though she rages immediately. authority in her voice that causes pause to even the warrior king-uncle before her. they let sir ben remain with her, escorted to rooms and only the carefully spoken words of her queen-aunt causing lyliana to allow healers into the rooms. they use their magicks to close their wounds and restore their skin though the fatigue and blood loss is not so simply remedied. that would take time.

the princess, like ben, argues the moment sir ben leaving the chambers is suggested by members of court though how she has the energy to have such powerful conviction in her upset is a wonder. they concede to her because they have to. the realms are in chaos but the high king and queen are dead. this girl may be exhausted and in turmoil yet she had become their queen the moment her dragon had made landfall. they call her 'her grace' in respect and in mourning, as a symbol of what was to come in the wake of what was transpiring around them yet the title is lost to her because she's beginning to fall apart again the moment the door closes. the moment the world and reality begin to enclose around her again. the moment she can't be strong as ben had commanded of her anymore. she doesn't remember anything after that. she doesn't remember the exhaustion consuming her or how she'd been laid in the bed. she doesn't remember refusing to let go of her hold on him either.

time passes, hours, as others in the castle move about directed by her uncle and aunt. prepare for war. prepare to protect the castle should myra send others upon them. they do not bother the chambers lyliana and ben occupy, not yet though the small trails of colors begin to play in the skies. it's early, extremely early when she awakens with a strangled scream upon her lips, her surging upward in the bed in horror as if she's back in the moment. her breath is labored, eyes searching wildly until they settle on sir ben. thankfully no one has heard her, no one but him and she knows as her light hues meet his that it wasn't a dream though she wishes it all had been some horrid nightmare. it had all happened. it was all real and the weight of that is gut-wrenching. "they're all dead, ben. she killed them. she killed them all and i want her dead!"

[lyrabythelake]

Dear Malon

I wrote this short fic a while ago for an LU zine but realised I haven’t posted it anywhere else, so here you go!

Dear Malon,

I can only hope these letters are finding you. Admittedly, I haven’t had much experience with time-travelling postmen before, nor do I know anyone who has, so my faith in his reliability is limited. However, I do like to imagine my words have reached you, that you know I am safe and well and that I am on a wondrous journey with friends by my side. I know how you worry.

It seems like months since I last wrote, though I know it’s been only days. Our ultimate purpose on this quest is still unclear but the boys never lose hope. They fight with a determination unparalleled by anyone I’ve met and every day I become prouder of them still.

Occasionally I am filled with dread at the way they look up to me as their leader. It’s a great honour that they see me that way, but I am terrified I won’t fulfil their expectations of me. I wake in a cold sweat each night, the afterimages of each of them in harm’s way because of my negligence burned into my mind…

“He’s writing again.”

Eight heroes sit under the cherry blossoms in the still afternoon. The trees are in full bloom and the pink petals fall gently into the deeply grassed meadow and the trickling stream, washed away in a rush of fresh silver water.

They look to the ninth at Four’s words, hunched over the paper with his hair falling over his face, shielding him in his concentration towards the words he writes. Petals rest in his hair, on his clothes but their gentle presence doesn’t catch his notice, nor do the other heroes’ muttering only meters away. His sword is within reaching distance, always prepared for an attack, but otherwise he is a picture of peace, one the others dare not disturb for its rareness.

“Where do you think he sends them?” Hyrule asks in innocent curiosity. It is a question -among others- they’ve all asked themselves at one time or another. They have their theories, even discussed them at times when Time himself isn’t around.

“I bet they’re love letters,” Sky muses, his wistful gaze undeterred from the Hero of Time and the scratching of his quill.

“What? No way,” scoffs Wind. He is not quite as versed in love as some of the others, but he is practiced in the art of longing and desire.

Warriors is the first to raise his eyebrows.

“I wouldn’t be so sure.”

“He’s never talked about anyone before,” Wild argues.

“So?” interjects Legend, “not everyone likes to flaunt their love affairs like the Captain.”

“I don’t flaunt anything!”

“The old man keeps his emotions close to his heart,” murmurs Twilight, drawing the attention of them all despite the softness of his words, “Love is beautiful yet fleeting, like the cherry blossoms in spring. He’s right to treasure it and keep it close.”

“Uh oh, the ranch hand’s off again,” snorts Wild and there is a ripple of laughter in response.

“I think it’s nice he has someone to write to,” states Hyrule and the others agree. They’ve all known the wasteland of loneliness at some point in their lives and it has left its scars on them all.

It is a while before Time, lost in a world of his own, puts his quill down and gets to his feet. He folds the paper neatly into four and slips it into the deepest of his pockets, away from prying eyes and ready to hand over to the postman whenever they might see him next.

His thoughts drift and swirl like the blossom petals that fall around him, content and serene with just an ounce of sorrow like that which comes with the ephemerality of spring. The others’ lighthearted chatter dips and bays as he treads along the bank of the rushing stream.

He thinks of his wife, worlds away, and wonders what she is doing. Wonders if he’ll ever get to see her again.

Dear Malon,

This time of year reminds me of you.

It was around this time, many years ago, that I married you with a promise that the worst of my adventures were over. That from then on, my life would be simple, wrapped in safety with the woman I love. I think you knew back then that it was a promise I could never keep. I could run from it forever, but adventure always seems to find me.

This adventure is different to the others I’ve been on. With the boys here each battle comes with a new terror I never felt when fighting on my own, though I am certain I wouldn’t be alive today without them.

The responsibility I feel for them goes beyond just our age difference and the mutual respect we afford one another. I never called myself a hero. That title has been forced upon me despite my assurances that I couldn’t be further from it. I look at Hyrule and Legend sometimes and the others that have suffered, even if not directly, from my hand and feel all their suffering and sorrow tenfold in the form of heavy guilt…

“I think we should go south.”

Legend’s statement is met with confusion from most and narrowed eyes from Time, an expression missed by all but Legend himself.

“Why south?” asks Warriors curiously. Legend is grateful his words are not dismissed immediately. He supposes it’s not often he makes bold suggestions such as this one without proper reason to do so, so it’s bound to draw their attention. He may have the experience, but he has no qualms in leaving the day-to-day leadership and tactics to Time, Twilight and Warriors.

“I have a good feeling about it,” he replies confidently, like the argument he’s giving isn’t totally redundant.

“You have… a good feeling…”

“Yes. It’s not like we have anywhere we particularly need to be.”

“Don’t you think we should go to the castle?” suggests Twilight, prompting a collective look to Time for the final decision. He knows this land best after all.

Time’s frown has become increasingly more pronounced throughout the brief debate, his eyes fixed on Legend suspiciously.

“Let’s go south,” he decides eventually, his gaze not leaving Legend, missing the way Twilight raises his eyebrows but otherwise holds his tongue. As they set off, Time falls into step beside Legend, his gait revealing nothing of the emotions Legend expects he is feeling.

“You had no right to read it,” he says after a while, and his voice is not angry but rather fiercely neutral.

“I have no idea what you’re talking about.”

“Perhaps I would have believed you if the letter hadn’t mysteriously disappeared from my jacket this morning.”

Legend says nothing. He was sure he had got away with it. His curiosity had momentarily surpassed his guilt long enough to sneak a glance at the heartfelt (and very private) scribbled note before returning it to the old man’s jacket when he was distracted.

It took a simple question to a merchant in the castle town after that to determine the whereabouts of one ‘Lon Lon Ranch’.

Dear Malon, the letter had said, and in his haste to read it, Legend had almost mistaken the scrawled name for someone else’s entirely.

We moved between worlds again last night and the nine of us have found ourselves somewhere very familiar to me. My first thought was to drop any heroic duties and run to you there and then before it struck me how selfish that would be.

You see, homesickness is a perpetual ailment among the boys (and myself) and they have given up so much to embark on this journey with no discernible end. I cannot in good conscience refute that to return to our Lon Lon Ranch. It kills me to do so, particularly as all I can think of is seeing you again…

 The boys are inevitably curious about the purposeful path Time leads them along, but he can’t quite bring himself to answer their inquisitiveness with a succinct answer. He has a one-track mind, all thoughts geared towards the relief of his destination and all other sounds fade into the background to make way for it.

They reach the ranch before nightfall, his companions’ confusion only increasing at the sight of the woman standing outside it. The way he falls into her arms is answer enough; the warmth of her embrace has never felt so inviting.

The others’ voices are a mere echo of disbelief, hilarity and the ending of bets behind him as he focuses on the relief and utter contentment that comes with being home after far too long. The stress of the past weeks, the constant worry for the boys and their respective worlds, melt from him immediately, leaving him as light as a feather.

The Hero of Time has never been one for excessive emotions, but as he clings to the familiarity of his wife, he almost thinks he could cry.

“Did you get them?” he asks, hesitantly, “the letters?”

Her smile is like the sun as she whispers back.

“I treasure every one.”

[sundropscribbles]

A Good Nap | Thirteen x Reader | 7.5K

Gosh, hello. It’s been approximately a thousand years since I last posted anything here for real.  Quarantine has had me in a whole different realm, if I’m honest.  But I miss you guys, and I’m getting back at it, and I’m gonna start with this very sweet request for @gayforthe13th 💕

Your bedroom had been destroyed. 

No — destroyed might not have been the right word, because even that implied that there might still have been something left of it to be salvaged, and, well... there wasn’t. 

The floor, the walls, all of the furniture, the small bit of clothing you’d had stowed away in the closet... it was gone, all of it, completely obliterated with one devastating crash landing. 

The TARDIS had been in crisis, damaged in flight, and her shields had been down. It had been all that she could do to protect the console room ( which you were more than thankful for, as it had, in fact, contained you and The Doctor at the time). 

“Oh, darling,” you heard The Doctor murmur as you made your way back into the console room a few minutes following your discovery.  You come upon her standing at the console, stroking it gently as she looks over what seems to be a map of some sort. “You took some real damage, didn’t you? I’m so sorry.” 

You sigh as you watch her speak to her ship, so softly; it always brings a smile to your face to see it, because it’s one of the softest sides of The Doctor. 

“She definitely did,” you pipe up, folding your arms across your chest and making your way toward the console. You stand by The Doctor’s side, sparing a glance at the map that she’d been examining.  You wonder where your own room might be on that particular map, but you quickly come to the realization that you wouldn’t have been able to read it properly if you had tried.

The Doctor looks your way, then, and flashes you a smile. She straightens up a moment later and turns toward you, and with a glance between the console and your face, she shakes her head. 

“I’m afraid we might need to park someplace for a while,” she says. “The TARDIS will recover — she’s done it before, but it takes her a good bit of time and even more rest.”

You smile and nod at that; it makes enough sense, after all. 

“Can’t go hurdling through time and space with a hole in the hardware, can you?” you point out, and she laughs softly. 

“Exactly right,” she says. She turns her gaze back on the map, first, and then the console itself, which she pats gently once more. “The old girl probably deserves a good rest every now and again, anyways — if you asked her, she’d probably tell you personally that I mistreat her at least a little bit.” 

You don’t even have to ask, in the end; the TARDIS chirps her agreement the moment The a Doctor finishes speaking, and you snort softly at that. The sound of it is a bit tired and a bit insistent, like she’s telling you firmly that it’s definitely more than a little bit. 

The Doctor mutters something in response, you think, but you don’t hear it, not really; now that everything has calmed down, you find your brain melting into an all-too familiar fog.  It’s the type of daze that comes with potentially life-threatening experiences — the let-down of it all. 

Often times, this would be about the time you might head off to bed, or to have a relaxing shower; it was instinct, you thought, to resort to some old-fashioned self-care when you had had a hard day.  The instinct came to you all the same, today, but for obvious reasons, you wouldn’t be able to act on it right now. 

You must wind up lost in thought about it for a good moment or two, because before you know it, The Doctor has turned her attention on you again. She’s all warmth and kindness and concern as she places both of her hands on your shoulders and turns you to face her, and when you find your focus once more, she smiles at you. 

“Are you alright, Y/N?” she asks, and raises one of her hands to touch your cheek gently. You make your best effort not to let it make you blush, obviously, but you’re not entirely sure it’s effective. 

“Oh, yeah — I’m fine,” you reassure her with a tired smile. You subtly avoid her gaze as she brushes her thumb across your cheekbone, not looking very convinced. 

“Are you certain?” she prods, finally dropping her arms to her sides and withdrawing her gentle touch. “Not injured or anything, are you?  You’re looking a bit... spacey.” 

You can’t help but laugh softly at her observation, and as you recover from the brief closeness in proximity, you offer her a much more genuine smile. 

“Spacey?” you ask, eyebrows raised. She scoffs and rolls her eyes at the bit of teasing, but she stays close nonetheless, arms folded across her chest as she eyes you. 

“Yes, spacey — a bit loopy, out-of-it, zoned-out, blank-faced... d’you need anymore synonyms? I’ve got a thesaurus full of ‘em,” she retorts, smiling as she proceeds to poke fun right back at you. 

“Alright, alright,” you sigh, raising both of your hands in surrender.  She raises an eyebrow at that, watching you closely as you go on to explain yourself. “I am a little spacey, I suppose. Not anymore than normal, though — it’s just...” 

You pause momentarily, considering how you might explain to her that your bedroom had been one of the many pieces of the TARDIS destroyed in the midst of all of the chaos. Had she already noticed? Did she even know where your bedroom was? 

“It’s just..?” she urges you on, and when you meet her gaze again and notice the way that her smile has faded into concern once more, you sigh. 

“Well, my bedroom was destroyed. Along with all of my things,” you say, and she blinks, definitely looking rather surprised.  “So more than anything I’m just... thinking about where I’m going to be lying down for the nap that I very much need.” 

“Oh, no — oh, stupid me, I didn’t even realize!” she says, and in the next moment her hands are on your shoulders once more. “I’m so sorry, Y/N! I really hope you didn’t lose anything important.” 

You make a face and shrug your shoulders in response to that, taking a moment to consider what you had actually lost along with your room — apart from the room itself. 

“I mean — not really. Not apart from my clothes, anyways,” you tell her. “Might have lost a souvenir or two — and definitely my favorite jumper — but nothing valuable.” 

She softens at that, making one of those faces that clearly says “alright, I’ll take it, but I’m still not happy.”  You offer her a smile, regardless — it’s not like it had been her fault, anyways. It hadn’t been anyone’s fault but the rogue ship who had seen you in their flight path, apparently, and decided to move you out of it. Forcefully.

“If I had my way, we’d go and confront those lot,” she mumbles, returning once again to touching the TARDIS’s console gently. “Not very often I let anyone get away with using my ship for target practice.” 

You laugh softly as you watch her, looking thoroughly offended on behalf of her TARDIS. You give the console a pat or two of your own, and you sigh softly when you here her respond with a soft hum, sounding just as tired as you feel. 

“I don’t think I’d mind giving them a good telling off,” you say. You allow your full weight to rest against the TARDIS, finally, as you close your eyes for a split second. The energy she’s giving off now seems to be equal parts apologetic and relaxing, and the moment it hits you, your exhaustion seems to increase tenfold.  “But I think what I might like most right now is a good nap.” 

The Doctor looks your way again, then, and the thoughtful upset on her face fades into concern once more. 

“You do look absolutely knackered, Y/N,” she says with a shrug. “No offense.” 

You snort, responding first with a shake of your head as you absentmindedly rub at one of your eyes. “None taken,” you muse, smiling at her a moment later. “I’m feeling it.” 

She mirrors your smile, looking thoughtful for a a brief moment.  She seems to mull over something for a good moment or two, glancing between your very tired-looking face and the map of the ship that she had been focused on earlier. 

“You know...” she begins, seeming to wait for your acknowledgement before she goes on. “My bedroom wasn’t destroyed in all of the wreckage.” 

Your eyes narrow at that — at the hesitant way that she looks at you as she talks about her own room. You cock your head curiously to one side as you consider what she might be implying. 

“Rather lucky, that,” you say, as nonchalant as you can manage.  You’ve got to admit, you’re rather intrigued even at the idea of seeing The Doctor’s bedroom; you’ve always known she had one, and that — like you — she was a bit of a comfort napper.  You had never seen her room, however, no matter how many times she had mentioned it. 

“Right — lucky, yeah,” she agrees, and you smile — you can’t help it. “But, what I was getting it was — well. You could always kip off to my room for a nap, couldn’t you?” 

Your smile grew. 

“The shape that the TARDIS is in, it’ll be some time before she can repair yours, and I can’t leave you without a place to sleep, can I?” 

The laughter that escapes you in response to that is soft, and amused, and rather unavoidable. It’s just... funny, is all, how flighty The Doctor is when it comes to anything even remotely intimate. You’ve always liked to toe those boundaries a bit — to flirt, as it were, with every intention of making The Doctor blush a bit. 

But even so, you don’t want her to feel uncomfortable, because she is your closest friend, after all. 

“Oh, Doc — honestly, I don’t want to go imposing like that,” you insist. As difficult as it proves to be, you right yourself and turn to face her properly.  “I don’t want to invade your space.” 

She mumbles and grumbles for a moment at that, but the next time she meets your eyes, she’s shrugging her shoulders and smiling. 

“Strictly speaking, you wouldn’t be invading my space,” she points out, dragging a hand through her mess of blonde hair. “Not really. It’s sharing a room and a bed and all, sure, but... my bed is big enough for both of us, you know.” 

Your only reaction to that is a rather startled blink.  

It’s not that you’re put off by the idea — you aren’t, not in the least. It’s rather more that you’re surprised that The Doctor isn’t put off by the idea.  

You certainly enjoyed flirting with her a bit every now and again, just to see her go red and hear her stammer for a good minute, but you had never imagined it would go anywhere. Not in a real way, anyhow. And — and not that this was what that meant, either, because it surely wasn’t, it was just — 

“Oh, don’t look so shocked,” The Doctor says, effectively breaking your train of thought. The tone of her voice clearly conveys a bit of a tease, and as your focus returns to the immediate conversation, you snort softly. 

“No, no — I’m not shocked,” you explain, happy to backtrack a bit. “Well, not really, i just — I didn’t quite expect you to be so willing to share.” 

She cocks her head to one side at that, folding her arms over her chest as she gazes expectantly at you. “And why not?” 

You shrug your shoulders, then, not entirely sure how to respond for a good handful of seconds. 

“Well, it’s your bed, innit?” you say — a bit dumbly, you’ll admit. “And you do love your naps.” 

The Doctor snorts at that, still smiling at you even though she definitely looks at least mildly offended.

“Oh, don’t be absurd,” she argues, and you snort. It’s not all that absurd — not as far as you’re concerned, at least. “I do love a nap — didn’t let myself have nearly enough of them, the first thousand-and-some years of my life, mind you — but I can still have a good night’s sleep with you there next to me.” 

You watch her carefully as she makes her point, gesturing animatedly with her hands as she so often does when she feels particularly strongly about something.  The Doctor is a good liar, but you’re also rather good at detecting it.  And looking into her eyes now as she waits for your response, there doesn’t seem to be anything there but honesty. 

“Well, alright,” you begin, cautious, still. “If you say so.” 

“I do!” she insists.  You grin. 

“I don’t think I’d even mind if you changed your mind later, so long as I could have a good, long sleep now,” you comment, breaking eye contact, finally, as you drag a hand through your disarrayed hair once more.  You hear her laugh at that, soft and amused, and next thing you know, there’s a gentle hand on your shoulder. 

“Well m’not planning on it, am I?” she says. You feel her thumb brush across your shoulder blade, then, and it’s a real struggle for you to keep from piling yourself into her arms and demanding a cuddle. “Anyways — you know where my room is, don’t you?” 

You shake your head. 

“I’ve never been in your room before, Doctor,” you point out with a smile and a shrug. She looks a bit surprised at that — why, you’re not entirely sure. 

“Oh,” she says quite simply. “Well, in that case — it’s up the stairs and down that hallway there. You’ll take a left near the end, and my bedroom will be the second door on the right.  You go on and have yourself a nap while the TARDIS and I figure out the rest.” 

You sigh at that — perhaps a little bit too relieved — and nod your head. Before you turn to make your way up the stairs, you make a point of taking half a step closer to The Doctor and pressing a soft kiss to her cheek. 

There isn’t any intention behind it — not really, not apart from expressing your gratitude — but she blushes anyhow, and you can’t help but smile at that. 

You leave the room without another word, content with you goal to seek out The Doctor’s bedroom and kip in for a nap.  It takes you a moment, admittedly, to remember the exact directions you had been given, but you get there in the end.  And as it turns out, it’s terribly obvious which door leads to The Doctor’s room. 

The doors are grand in comparison to all the rest, large and wooden and very french-looking in style. Even the handles are quite elaborate looking, all old-worn bronze, and you smile at that; you can’t help but wonder what the inside of the room is like in comparison. 

To no one’s surprise, everything inside is rather magnificent as well.  Or, no — perhaps eccentric would have been a better word.  The furniture, the decoration, the room itself... if anyone had asked you, you’d have said it was a rather good reflection of The Doctor herself. 

All in all, none of it quite looked like it belonged together; not exactly. Apart from the bed and the room itself, which you had to assume had been put together by the TARDIS as a baseline, everything was quite mismatched. For instance, there was a night table in one corner that looked like it might have come out of early, early times, with chipped wood and rickety looking drawers and legs that looked like they were only just holding the thing up. But to the same tune, there was a massive armoire on one wall — or what you assumed was an armoire, anyways — that looked like it could have been picked up from an IKEA store in modern times. 

There was so much to look at that you spent a good handful of moments just standing in the doorway, admiring each individual item. It was lost in translation sometimes, how much time The Doctor had really spent traveling here and there and seeing this and that and the other, but her bedroom and all of the things inside of it gave every bit of that away at a mere glance. 

Eventually, you gather your bearings and round back on your original plan to tuck yourself straight into bed, but even that proves to be a something of a challenge.  

The bed may not have been one of the most eye-catching things in the room, but even it, in it’s own very, very unique way, had The Doctor written all over it.  The sheets were rumpled and purple and soft, and immediately upon toeing out of your shoes and lying down amongst the (abundance) of pillows, you notice that they smell like her, as well. A bit like amber, a bit like clove, and a lot like some unidentifiable spacey thing that you’ve always liked to think of as moon-dust.  

You’re grateful for it, for the touch of familiarity; you’ve always had a bit of trouble sleeping in rooms that weren’t your own, but wrapping yourself in the sheets of The Doctor’s bed feels a whole lot like wrapping yourself up in The Doctor herself, and if you were honest? She had always felt more like home to you than any old room could ever have.  

Even despite the fact that you’re fully clothed, it doesn’t take you very long to begin drifting off; your eyelids had been heavy to start, and as you make yourself comfortable, the feeling only grows tenfold.  With a a deep sigh and a final tug at the bedsheets, you allow sleep to overcome your exhausted body.  You had come here with the intention of resting, after all, and you’d be damned if resting wasn’t just what you were going to do. 

✦

In the end, you must wind up sleeping much, much longer than you might have initially planned, because when you do wake, it’s not of your own accord. 

What initially rouses you is a soft touch at your shoulder - nothing urgent nor insistent, but firm enough to wake you from your nap. You roll onto your back with a soft groan, quite unwilling to come to at first; you toss one arm over your face stubbornly and sigh, certainly not ready to face the waking world just yet.  That touch at your shoulder becomes a firm grip, then, and a gentle shake within another few moments. 

“Y/N,” a soft, familiar voice — quite close to your ear — says. “Y/N, wake up.” 

There’s a rather insistent noise to accompany the voice that must come from the TARDIS, and you mutter an unintelligible complaint under your breath at that. You’re pouting as you drop your arm back to your side and submit to the idea that you might not be able to get back to sleep right here and now, and with a deep sigh, you give your legs a stretch. 

It’s only when you finally open up your eyes that you come to remember that you aren’t, in fact, in your own bedroom.  You’re still very much in The Doctor’s room, surrounded by her things and sleeping in her bed, and as it turns out, the soft voice that had been attempting to wake you had been hers, too. 

Your cheeks flush as your eyes fall upon her face. 

“Oh, Doctor,” you mumble, still very much half asleep. “Sorry.“

She smiles at you, looking… rather fond? You blink, wondering offhandedly if your tired eyes are playing tricks on you. 

“Oh, don’t be sorry,” she says, waving a hand dismissively.  “Must have been a good nap, eh?” 

You respond with a soft snort, closing your eyes for a brief moment and nodding your head. 

“It was,” you say with a smile, combing a hand through your knotted hair and wriggling a bit until you’re a sitting a tad more upright. “Thanks. But I can definitely leave now, if you want the room—“ 

You don’t have the opportunity to finish your sentence before The Doctor is shaking her head at you, murmuring a little string of “no, no, no’s” and looking quite a lot like she’s the one invading your space. 

“You don’t have to leave,” she insists. She sits back on her heels, and you realize for the first time that she’s knelt down beside the bed, at your side.  “In fact, I wasn’t going to wake you at all — it was just…” 

You raise an eyebrow, watching her closely as she explains herself.  She’s looking almost bashful, now, and altogether it has you feeling curious. 

“What? Was I snoring or something?” you ask her, only half-joking. It wasn’t like you hadn’t been known to snore a bit boarishly in the past. 

She shakes her head at that, laughing softly and fiddling with her hair somewhat nervously. 

“No, no. Nothing like that,” she reassures you. A handful of seconds later she looks you in the eye once more and smiles kindly.  “I came in to check on you, that’s all.  And found you fully clothed.” 

You spare a glance down at yourself and your rumpled clothing, taking in the state of yourself for a moment before you offer up a shrug in response. 

“I didn’t have anything else,” you explain. “Everything but what I’m wearing was in my bedroom when we crash-landed.” 

She nods. 

“No, I know,” she responds. You tilt your head expectantly, then, and she averts her gaze. “I just wandered in to check on you — to make sure you were alright, yeah?  Crash-landings can be tough on a human person, and I just wanted to make sure — never mind.  Not the point. Anyways…” 

You don’t take your eyes off of her as she continues to waffle on for a moment, and you’re just about to pipe up and ask her where, exactly, she’s going with all of this when she finally reaches her point. 

“You looked comfortable enough when I came in, but I just thought — I don’t know, I got the idea in my head that you might like to borrow some of my clothes,” she says. She gestures offhandedly to the armoire that you had caught a glimpse of earlier as she says the words, and you spare a glance in its direction before looking back at her. “Just for now — so you have some proper sleepwear, right?” 

There’s no holding back the fond smile that plays on your lips as she explains herself.  You don’t think that you’d have been able to withhold it if you had tried, because it’s just so sweet, the way that The Doctor seems to be doting on you.  It’s not exactly a common thing — she cares for you, and you care for her (to say the very, very least), but it’s never gone beyond that; not before now.  

It makes you wonder — it does — but you keep your curiosity to yourself for the time being. 

“That would be really nice, Doctor,” you say simply. It’s a stark contrast to her rambled explanation, and she seems to flounder for a moment before she smiles brightly and makes for the armoire. 

“Brilliant! In that case —“ she starts, opening up a door here and a drawer there and pulling out a couple of soft-looking pieces of clothing.  None of it looks terribly a lot like her everyday clothing, but it all looks quite comfortable. “These ought to do nicely, eh? You can take your pick, Y/N — whatever you like.” 

You flash her a smile as she tosses the garments your way, and as you pick through them, you hum quite happily.  Most all of them are as soft as they look, and you’d be willing to bet that they’re just as comfortable, too. 

“You do know how to pick out pajamas,” you comment, and she snorts.  After a bit of sifting, you settle on an oversized, button-up sleep shirt and a nice, loose pair of shorts.  She’s looking rather smug when your gaze finds its way back to her, and you laugh softly as you set the remaining clothing aside. 

“What’s a good nap without some extra-comfortable sleepers?” she says, perhaps a little too proud of herself. 

“Not a good nap at all,” you agree, regardless, and brush a few stray hairs out from in front of your eyes.  You are grateful, genuinely, for her generosity with both her clothing and her space, because if you’re honest?  You still feel a right mess, and having these few comforts makes you feel just a little more human. 

You’re quiet for a moment (and so is she, oddly enough) before you look The Doctor’s way once more, a curious gleam in your eyes. 

“I don’t suppose you would mind if I used your shower as well, then?” you ask, not quite as hesitantly as you might have at the beginning of this day. You might have felt a bit worse about it had you actually asked for everything that The Doctor had given you, but… well, you hadn’t.  And honestly, if there was anything in the world that you might just have done anything for, it was a good, hot shower. 

“‘Course you can, Y/N,” she responds without hesitation.  There’s something a bit softer in her voice, and it prompts you to study her for a long moment as she stands there.  It’s only fifteen seconds or so, but she must begin to feel the scrutiny rather quickly, because it’s not very long afterwards that she turns her gaze away and makes for the door. “I’ll leave you to it, then.  I’m in the console room if you need me!” she calls to you as she goes, and you laugh softly as you look after her for a moment. 

With a stretch and a yawn and a creak of your bones, you crawl out of the bed and go about finding your way into the shower — into the bathroom that branches off of her bedroom, just like your own little ensuite had done.  

No use wasting any time. 

✦

“Oh, shut it,” The Doctor says, firm, but without much fight.  She’s standing at the console in the control room, and she’s just left her own bedroom in a ridiculous hurry, because she just... couldn’t seem to collect herself, as it were.  She was usually rather good at it, if she did say so herself; she had been doing it for such a long time, now, that it didn’t tend to be such a bother for her to keep her guard up around you.  Today, though — today, it seemed that something had slipped.  And it had been a rather significant something, if her current, flustered state was anything to go by. 

Maybe it had been your peacefully slumbering face. She had only seen you in such a state a handful of times, after all, and you had just looked so... so... content. Serene, even. And you’d been in herbed, for crying out loud — 

She groans. Her head drops into her hands as she props herself against the console, and she sighs thickly as she thinks it over. You had never so much as been in her room before (which she had less than gracefully forgotten, earlier), and now you were in her room, her bed, her space — and sooner than later, you would be in her clothes, too.  All of it, as a whole, had her feeling rather flustered. 

“Then go on and do something about it, would you?” she catches the TARDIS insisting. It’s a tug at the corner of her mind, her ship’s intention, but it’s there, and she rolls her eyes, choosing not to dignify the demand with a verbal response. 

The TARDIS doesn’t stop there, though, no — she continues to niggle at The Doctor’s mind, each and every suggestion coming across her consciousness like an insistent child jabbing a finger into their sibling’s shoulder to catch their attention. 

“It’s been months, Doctor. Months!”

“Are you just going to sit by and stare at them forever?” 

“If you paid attention you’d notice that they stare at you, too.”

“Constantly.”

“Doctor!”

The frustrated yelp that she had been valiantly suppressing breaks free, eventually, and she straightens up, staring pointedly up at the TARDIS’s dimly glowing crystals. 

“What do you suggest I do, eh?” she demands, and the TARDIS gives a dissatisfied vworp. “They don’t know. I can’t — ! I can’t just waltz into the room and, what — ask them for a cuddle? Tell them how astounding I think they are?” 

Her words start out just as sharp as she’d meant them to, but the fire in her outburst dwindles rather quickly the moment she really hears herself.  

It’s... different, saying these things out loud. Very different, and the weight of it all seems to bear down on her very suddenly.  The TARDIS appears to catch onto this, and adjusts the lighting in the control room to reflect the abrupt shift in The Doctor’s mood. 

With her features now cast in a delicate, fuchsia light, she shakes her head. Shadows dance across her face as she turns away from the console and makes for a way to distract herself once more.  

“I know your intentions are good, love,” she says, and the light in the room begins to sink into a deep purple as she speaks. “But it’s not realistic.” 

The TARDIS wants to argue the point further — she really, genuinely does. She can, after all, see you in her pilot’s room, fresh out of the shower and wearing her clothing, ever-so-gently perusing the room with that special sort of awe in your eyes. 

But she also knows The Doctor, and she knows better than to force the issue with her.  She had never been one to have any issue forced upon her — thus the ship’s roundabout way of wordlessly guiding her where she needed to go most. It was almost always better (where it wasn’t exactly possible to coax her) to let The Doctor come around on her on, and, with an exasperated thunk of her engines, the TARDIS supposed that that was what she would have to do. 

✦

In the hours following her confrontation with her ship, The Doctor made every effort she could to keep herself occupied.  

She cleaned, she tidied, she repaired what she could; she tinkered with everything that she could tinker with, and read through a solid three-and-a-half six-hundred-and-something page books, and paced metaphorical ruts into the floor.  She was doing anything and everything she could think of to keep busy, to keep herself distracted while you rested, but in the end, her efforts didn’t make the kind of difference that she might have hoped they would. 

No matter how much she paced, she still paused every so often to ponder whether there might be something more she could be doing for you. No matter how deeply she buried herself in thick books written on the most wildly obscure topics, she still found herself distracted at the thought of you sleeping in her bed. 

You had been resting for quite some time, now, hadn’t you? It had been hours. Did you typically nap for this long? Was she overthinking it? Were you okay? Why couldn’t she just stop thinking about it? 

The TARDIS would nip in every now and then, too, much to The Doctor’s frustration. She would mumble and grumble at the back of her mind that she knew bloody well what was going on in her own head — that she had simply refused to acknowledge it. 

“You can only do this for so long, Doctor,” she had sighed at one point.  It had also been at that point that The Doctor had pushed the thick book she’d been thumbing through aside and groaned out loud. 

She was utterly exhausted. 

She hadn’t actually rested since well before the incident with the TARDIS, and the whirlwind of emotions that she was currently experiencing wasn’t doing very much to help her case.  She could hardly focus, anymore, and that — that wouldn’t do.  

It was usually right around this point that she would sneak off to her bedroom for a nap, but — well. 

“You told Y/N that your bed was big enough for the both of you.  That hasn’t changed,” the TARDIS pipes up, conveniently. 

“Get out of my head,” The Doctor mutters, dropping into her seat beside the console and burying her face in her hands. 

“You know full well that I can’t do that.” 

She grumbles once more, dragging her clammy palms across her face as she sits up.  She couldn’t lie in this bed that she had made for herself forever, could she?  Not unless you came waltzing out of her room in the next few moments (unlikely), or the TARDIS suddenly announced that she had been able to pop up a spare bedroom (even more unlikely), she was doomed.  Completely and utterly doomed. 

“That’s a bit dramatic, isn’t it?  Y/N might be offended.”

The Doctor snorts at that, in part because you absolutely would be offended at the phrasing. No doubt. 

She also recognized, however, that it is a bit dramatic.  She was tired — so, so bloody tired, and upon further consideration, the strange way that she had been acting would likely only succeed in raising your suspicions. 

She had to sleep sometime, and tonight, she supposed... tonight, awkward as it may or may not have turned out to be, it would have to be next to you. 

✦

As it happened, you had only just fallen asleep by the time The Doctor came creeping into the room.  And — quite unfortunately for you — you hadn’t even fallen asleep on purpose.  

You had spent a long, long while after your shower perusing The Doctor’s room, and all of the delightful treasures that it had been hiding. Well, you thought — not hiding. Not really. You had been careful not to be too invasive in your curiosity.  Your intention hadn’t been to dig up anything terribly personal, after all, and when it came right down to it, you had only bothered with the things that had been in plain sight; out on bookshelves, lying across an oddly-shaped chair in the corner, that sort of thing.  

And, in the end, that had been more than enough.  Hours had passed, and by the time you had worn yourself out, there had been books and trinkets and clothing strewn around you.  The mess was primarily confined to the bed, where you had propped yourself against the pillows to read through an old, dog-eared book that looked like it had come from a time not so far off of when books had been carved into stone rather than printed onto paper. 

You had fallen asleep not more than a hundred-or-so pages into the story, book in hand and sheets only half-covering your tightly-curled form. 

This was the sight that The Doctor came upon, as she so-stealthily crept into her bedroom.  

Her first reaction was open-mouthed shock, of course.  She had expected to find you asleep, yes, but not like this — not quite literally surrounded by her very own belongings, from the lovely, color-changing crystal necklace she’d nicked from Planet Steppes to a bundle of tapestries and odds and ends she’d gathered from an obscure civilization on the outskirts of Andromeda.  

She very likely should have been much more upset than she was — it was her room, it was, and you had gone and made quite the mess of it.  But regardless of what she should or shouldn’t have been feeling as she stood, gobsmacked in the doorway, she could hardly help but smile. 

You were just so cute.

She stifled soft laughter into one hand as she proceeded to tiptoe into the room, sidestepping a jacket, which looked to have been tried on and then discarded. 

The situation at hand slips her mind as she spends a good few moments tidying the bed around you, and all she can think about is the wonder that must have shone in your eyes as you had inspected all of her favorite trinkets. She considers it, and the sweet smile that never failed to accompany it when you were especially enthralled, and it warms her heart. 

There’s certainly a small part of her that’s hesitant, still, about the situation as whole.  There’s not going to be any changing that.  A good amount of that hesitance certainly dwindles, though, when she gets all of the non-essential things cleared from the bed, gets changed into her own set of comfies, and pulls back the bedsheets just in time to get a full view of your face as you begin to mumble something in your sleep. She grins — she can’t help it.  She grins, and she sighs in a distinctly lovesick manner as she shakes herself from her trance and goes about wedging herself into the bed beside you. 

It’s not a tight fit, not in the least; The Doctor had always been a fussy sleeper, even when she slept on her own, and she had been sure to accommodate herself with a bed big enough to support that.  All roominess aside, though, she still finds herself hyper aware of your presence beside her; your warmth, your soft mumbling, the sound of your breath, every tiny movement — she couldn’t help but be aware of it, and while she tried her damndest to tune it out (she did, honestly), she couldn’t help but gravitate towards it. 

The moment her eyelids began to droop, she became keenly aware of every little noise you made — every hum, every murmur, every stray word. When she allowed herself to sink into the mattress, even just a little bit, she found herself lolling towards the heat of your body. 

It’s somewhere around the fifteen-minute mark (and her third bout of shaking herself away from the edge of sleep — from you), that you begin to stir.  You’re not aware of her presence immediately; you were only just coming back from a very good nap, after all. You couldn’t be blamed.  It’s not long before you do become aware of her, though, because you’ve only just woken up, and the first thing you hear is the sound of her grumbling softly.

“Blimey — “ you hear her mumble as she wriggles, trying (again) to get comfortable in her own space.  It doesn’t seem that she’s successful, though, because she stretches out again not a moment later, mumbling something under her breath that sounds suspiciously like “not getting any bloody sleep tonight”.

Your eyelashes flutter as you process the words, and there’s a crease in your brow as her frustrated expression comes into focus.

“Wh’not?” you ask on the cusp of a yawn, dropping the old book that you’d been holding, still, in favor of rubbing at one of your eyes.  She doesn’t respond to the question for a handful of seconds; she’s quiet for a spell, and then she begins to shuffle, again. You’re just about ready to repeat yourself when she looks your way and finds your eyes on her. 

“Y/N!” she says, soft.  Your name comes out sounding more like a surprised squeak than much anything else, and you snort softly. 

“Doctor,” you murmur, taking a quick moment to stretch the sleep out of your own muscles. You get comfortable again not a moment later, though, and you level her with a curious gaze.  “Why can’t you sleep?” 

The Doctor looks somewhat startled at the question.  She avoids your eyes, looking this way and that and blushing in a rather guilty fashion as she rummages for an excuse. 

“Ah, no, I’m alright — really, it’s just — I don’t—” she stammers.  She bites her lip to quiet herself a second later, though, apparently collecting her thoughts. “I suppose I’m just not used to sharing a bed, s’all.” 

It was close enough to the truth, anyways. 

The face you make, though… the startled blink, the furrow in your brow, the hesitation in your eyes — it still catches her off guard.  

“Oh,” you say. You’re the one averting your gaze, now, and it sends her backpedalling rapidly.  “D’you want me to leave, then? I can leave.” 

She doesn’t think before she speaks. 

“No!” she exclaims, propping herself up on one elbow and looking squarely at you.  She seems to realize the abruptness of her response a moment later, however, because her cheeks flush and she makes a soft, frustrated sound. “You don’t have to go, Y/N.  Really.” 

“Oh,” you say again, a touch baffled. “Alright.”  

The Doctor sighs softly, feeling quite sheepish.  Your response hadn’t been negative, but it was still clipped, still confused.  Clearly you were beginning to notice her odd behavior, and she didn’t want you feeling like you weren’t welcome, did she?  She thinks about it for a moment, about all of the TARDIS’s scolding and about her own racing mind.  And she decides to tell the truth. 

“I’ve been more worried that I would make you uncomfortable,” she admits.  Her voice is soft, and she doesn’t quite meet your eyes at first, but you hear her nonetheless.  

“What, me?” you say.  There’s laughter and disbelief in the tone of your voice, and when The Doctor does look at you again, her worry ebbs, if only a little bit. “Doctor, this is your room, and I’ve had a good sleep already. You don’t need to worry about me.” 

She laughs softly at that, watching you closely as you readjust once more, picking up the book that you’d been reading and searching out the spot where you’d left off. 

“And besides,” you say, glancing at her overtop the pages and smiling somewhat mischievously. “I don’t mind sharing space with you.  So if that’s what you’re worrying about… don’t.” 

If her cheeks hadn’t been red before, they definitely are, now.  Had that been… a hint of flirtation?  Surely she was imagining things, wasn’t she? 

Right on cue, the TARDIS begins to grumble at the edge of her mind, as if telling her to knock it off.  She can’t help but smile. 

“Alright then,” she says, as noncommittally as she can manage. There’s a bit of residual nervousness, of course, but the look of you, the smile on your face and your content posture… it puts her at ease. 

It’s uncharacteristically quiet for a moment afterwards, as she makes herself comfortable and you settle back into your reading.  It’s not a terribly long time before she begins to feel sleep settle over her once again, and she breathes a soft sigh as she nestles against the pillows beside you. 

“Thanks, Y/N,” she mutters, as she allows herself to drift.  The last thing she hears before she falls asleep is your soft laughter. 

“Don’t thank me,” you say, and inch just a little bit closer to her as you settle in. 

✦

Sometime later, The Doctor wakes slowly.   Her hair is a terrible mess, the sheets around her have been kicked into disarray, and there’s a crusty bit of sleep clouding her eyes, still.  Clearly, it had been a good nap. 

It’s only as she makes an attempt to turn over, however, that she realizes why, exactly, that is. 

Beside her, you’re still reading intently.  Your eyes are bleary, your head is propped a bit awkwardly against a couple of pillows, and in the midst of your fascination with the story, you’ve slunk down beneath the covers beside her. 

That’s not what catches her attention, though.  It’s all captivating, obviously, all on its own, but what really holds her interest is the arm you’ve got curled around her shoulders.  Her head is resting comfortably near your collarbone, and as she comes to recognize her surroundings fully, she can feel every inch of your body, too, pressed warmly against her own. 

Her cheeks flush bright red in an instant, and she doesn’t move another inch. 

She doesn’t let herself tense, though, no — she doesn’t want to soil the moment.  The warmth, the closeness, your arm wrapped almost protectively around her… it’s nice.  More than nice. It’s comforting.  She’s craved it, and she’s not about to cut it short. 

Instead of addressing it, she lets out a soft breath and very, very carefully, she turns closer to you.  She lays her arm across your stomach and closes her eyes once more, nestling close.  

She’s not sure whether you realize that she’s woken up or not, but all the same, you sigh, too, and press a sweet kiss to her temple, and that seals it.  She’s not moving anytime soon.

[sweetlittlevampire]

So.

Since I’ve been yelling and crying and whining so much about The Girlfriend Situation, I might as well update you on The Girlfriend Situation, as it stands now.

Mentions of suicide and mental health issues under the Read More (we’re both fine; I won’t mention anything graphic, but just - do what’s best for you. If reading about this topic isn’t doing you any good, then please, feel free to step away. I’ll be adding a  tl;dr at the end of the post in case you’re still interested in what the status quo is.)

First things first: The Girlfriend is still the Girlfriend. 

Not too long ago, my father-in-law tried to take his own life. I knew that he had suffered a major burn out years ago. I had no idea that he is suffering from depression and bouts of psychosis, and that this was the second time he had tried. He did so many years ago for the first time.

The girlfriend never told me about it, because she thinks that it should be his decision as to whom he talks to about this to. Either he never wanted to talk to me about it - which is absolutely fine - or it just never came up.

I don’t know his exact diagnosis. He lives in Switzerland. With what is going on in the world right now with COVID, there’s no way we would be even able to cross the Swiss border to go visit. But I gathered that he was lucid enough to call an ambulance and a psychiatrist for himself, and that he is now being taken good care of. He loves trains and photography, and there have already been new photos popping up on his social media, depicting his favourite hobby. He seems to be doing better; I really hope he is.

The girlfriend...she’s a rational thinker. After his first attempt at suicide, she knew that there was a chance he could try again. Even the doctors said so, she told me, and it must have been at the back of her mind ever since. Logically, she knows that there is not much she could have done. There’s the spacial distance between her and her father’s living places, for one. She did make an effort to visit whenever she could, which wasn’t as often as she would have liked, with work and general life interfering. Sometimes I went with her, sometimes her grandmother did. Sometimes he came over to us to stay with his mother for a few days. When the virus eventually gets eradicated (which might still take a good while, but I’m optimistic that it will, one day), we will resume doing so. In between visits, she kept up with him via phone calls and video calls. They do have a good relationship with one another.

He always seemed well, she says. “I should have noticed something,” she thought. “I should have done something,” she mused.

- even though she knew very well that she couldn’t have done much, or even anything to prevent this, realistically speaking.

She didn’t cry when she delivered the news to me, but I’ve known this woman since she was thirteen years old. I heard instantly that something was wrong. And so I offered up my support, as gently as I could. Because frankly? I had no idea how to react properly. I was overwhelmed and scared and sad. I really like my father-in-law. I care about him, and I care about my girlfriend. 

So I reached out, as gently as I could, and said:  “I’m here, if you wanna talk. Or not talk.” In return I got a  “I’d rather not have you around anymore. Not for a while, at least.” And - gotta be honest, that hurt. I didn’t understand, I had no idea what to do, or how to react. I’ve been dropped by people before, cast out, chased away, but never by someone who means the entire world to me, and who, I thought, cared about me, too.

Still, I know firsthand that people grieve differently, and said: “Okay. Reach out whenever you’re ready”, and tried to give her space.

And proceeded to panic. Because “for a while” - and I also know this firsthand - can easily stretch into infinity. And because I’ve been dropped by people before, cast out, chased away - I was so scared this was going to happen now, too.

It might seem like an unhealthy dependence upon another human being, and maybe it is, but - she’s someone I have in mind when I think about the future. And not just the foreseeable future, but about the “growing old and getting grey hair and dentures” kind of future. I can live without her. I can make my life without her. Meet friends. Do happy things. Laugh. I’ve done this the past few weeks. I know I can do it.

I don’t want to do it ever again. Not this way.

I’ve loved this woman for almost eighteen years, and as it stands now, it feels like I will be doing so for a very long time still, maybe - hopefully - even for the rest of my life. We’ve been through so much together that we shaped our lives around each other. We grew and developed with each other, around each other, alongside each other. It feels as if my heart was molded to fit hers to its side, and that the beating of hers reflects mine.

So this not knowing what to do, not knowing how to help, or when - or even if - I’d be allowed back in her space, was agony. I genuinely was afraid of losing her.

She was the one who reached out to me, as she had promised. Gently, tentatively, by replying to one of my last texts, what feels like countless days after I had sent it. We texted a bit every day. She cracked a small joke. Then asked:

“Hey. My mother’s not here on Thursday. Wanna come over? We could play Animal Crossing...and talk.”

So I went there yesterday.

We did play Animal Crossing. And we talked.

She needed to think. About her own way of thinking, about her own feelings regarding this whole situation with her father, and she needed to do so on her own. She acknowledged that the way in which she had pushed me away had been less than friendly, and she could only explain it by being too suffocated by her own conflicted feelings of guilt that she did not find the right words to let me know what was up. So she got emotional and lashed out.

She said that she regretted her words almost instantly, but was scared that I’d be angry or hurt. So she decided to wait until her mind was clearer, and the storm of emotions had calmed down.

She apologised. I said that I had been hurt, but more because it was so uncharacteristic for her, and because me being scared had worsened it all, but that I was absolutely willing to forgive her.

She said she was scared too, because me being so silent iwa uncharacteristic for me...I told her she had wanted me to step back, and I was to insecure as to what to do that I went completely still. So it was not just me freaking out, it seems.

She’s okay now. It’s still hard, but she’s okay. 

Yesterday was filled with fingers worrying at each other. With avoided gazes, trembling lips. A whole ocean of tears. Hand holding. But also hugs, and eventually, kisses, and laughter.

If I can, I will stay with her for two, three days very soon. Just the two of us, and the calmness of everyday life. She would like me to, and I would love to. Turns out we missed each other dearly.

I’m...emotionally tired. Exhausted, even, but also happy. So so relieved. So thankful that the gift that she is, the love she so graciously decided to give to me, has not been taken from me. And if she’ll have me, if she’ll allow me, I will give it back to her tenfold, and gladly so.

.....

tl;dr : Learned that father-in-law has tried to end his life. His daughter struggled with feelings of guilt, and needed space, which she communicated to me a bit too harshly. We both proceeded to freak out about it. Talked things through and made up.  (That sounds super underwhelming put like that, not gonna lie. XD)

[starswornoaths]

Of Family and Home

Commissioned writing for @anorptron, posted with permission! Thank you so much for your patronage! \o/

Familial bonding between Edmont and Sage, anorptron’s WoL! This was such a delight to work on, thank you again!

Commission info!

Such was expected of the Warrior of Light, after all. 

Watching the ceremony of Ishgard rejoining the Alliance had been easy enough; he hadn’t needed to participate, only be present as a showing of support— not only for the symbolism of the thing, but to support those few he felt close to. Neither Sage’s counsel nor his combat prowess were asked of him, so he offered nothing more than his presence. In a moment of honesty with himself, he wasn’t entirely sure he had it in him to give more than that.

In vain, he had hoped that it would end at the ceremony: at its conclusion, celebrations followed almost immediately after. It was less that Sage had been asked to stay and more that the festivities were so wide spread that it was damn near impossible to leave, and thus he resigned himself to having a flagon of ale pressed to his hand and putting on the bravest smile he could manage.

That, and hoping no one clapped him on the back. That shoulder wound was stinging fiercely in the cold.

For a blessing, Sage’s reputation for having a quiet disposition meant that no one expected very much in the way of conversation from him. A murmur of acknowledgement or a nod of his head seemed to suit, which was a relief: by the time that he managed to leave the festivities behind him, late enough that the sun had fully set, the numbness in his skin and the pain that sunk down to his marrow. It was all he could do to keep moving and cradle his bad arm in a way he hoped wasn’t too conspicuous. 

At first, he had just wanted to get away from the crowds and the cheering because none of it felt right and all he could think of was watching Ysayle fade out like a comet streaking across the aether soaked sky, of seeing Estinien grow gnarled and twisted until there was nothing left of the man and all that stood there was a shade of Nidhogg, roaring out the call for the Dragonsong War to rage on. But then, the moment he realized the festivities thinned out the higher he climbed in the Pillars, his destination became clear to him: he had to go home. There was nowhere else left for him to go.

Fortemps Manor loomed overhead ere long, once he’d managed to hobble up the ramp leading to the Last Vigil. The lights from within washed the cobblestone street with warm lamplight, almost beckoning Sage. He prayed there was no one awake at this hour: he knew they left the lights on just in case he arrived, even if no one said it outright. 

The door hinges creaked as Sage pushed one of the massive wooden doors open and slipped inside. Though the noise was quiet, it seemed to echo in the stillness of the foyer. Despite the carpet lining the tile muffling his footfalls, they sounded loud to him. He struggled to shake the feeling that he might be intruding, even as the Fortemps had insisted, time and again, that this was his home as much as theirs.

“Master Sage?”

He nearly jumped at the attendant’s voice softly calling out to him, but collected himself once his mind caught up with his hyper alert senses, he returned the greeting as well as he could. Just as he opened his mouth to speak, one of the doors down the hall opened, and Count Edmont stepped out to join them from his study. He seemed surprised at Sage’s presence, eyes widening for a moment before he offered a warm smile.

“My, I thought you would be at the festivities well into the night! Welcome home, Sage.” 

“Count Edmont.” He greeted, and were he in better condition, he might have bowed in respect, but even standing and attempting good posture made the pain in his shoulder flare sharply enough that he flinched and curled into himself. 

The warmth in Edmont’s smile guttered out into a look of shocked panic, and before Sage could even think of how to worm his way out of being examined too closely, the count was ushering him onto one of the plush couches beside the fire. 

“Call upon a chirurgeon, if you please.” Edmont instructed the attendant, who was off into the night with a nod.

“That’s not—” 

Necessary, Sage tried to say, but Edmont would hear none of it.

“Nonsense: you are injured, and I cannot in good conscience leave you to suffer so. Come, let me help you out of your coat that the chirurgeon can better look at you.”

Shame and guilt crept up his throat until his face burned with the embarrassment; even if Edmont didn’t view this as a failing on Sage’s part, he did. All the same, he was in no real position to argue with the count, in standing or physical condition, and so used his uninjured hand to work at the ties of his coat.

By the time the chirurgeon arrived, they had managed to get Sage down to his shirt, a simple and thin enough piece of clothing that it was easily moved around as she worked. With each prod and poke of her fingers, the pain spiked, and a frown marred her features. 

“Your shoulder is fractured,” The chirurgeon finally said. “There’s some bruising and a few minor lacerations elsewhere, but that shoulder is what concerns me the most. Let’s get you into a sling.”

Though he couldn’t argue the point, the shame pressed down on him tenfold. Here he was, Warrior of Light, Eikon Slayer, unstoppable Bard and immovable object, reduced to this. Unable to protect those closest to him, what few there were, and now, not even able to draw a bow.

Temporarily. It’s only for now. He tried to remind himself, even as he feared how the injury might affect him once he was recovered. It did little to ease the pangs of anxiety at the thought that he wouldn’t be able to fight anymore, all the more as the chirurgeon manipulated his shoulder and arm into the sling to hold it in place. Even the cool touch of healing magic on the wound, easing the pain into something much more manageable, did little to put his mind at ease.

With instructions to leave it in the sling for the next fortnight and reassurance that she would monitor his healing progress by checking in on him regularly. Leaving pain medication for him to be able to comfortably sleep, she left.

In her absence, Sage thought he might be able to slip away into his room, but Edmont was draping a blanket over his shoulders and asking him to sit with him a while and have tea. “We have scarce had a chance to talk with everything that has happened,'' explained the Count when Sage tried to rebuke his offer. “Even had you come in lacking the wounds you bear, I would still speak with you, if you have the energy.”

Did he? Sage wanted to say no, felt the denial on his tongue press against his teeth, but he hesitated. A not insignificant part of him wanted to nurse his wounds and his wounded pride in solitude, aye, but there was another part of him still that yet grappled with the weight of all of his burdens. That part of him, if he were honest with himself, was tired of being lonely.

Maybe it was because he hadn’t quite gotten his legs back under him yet, physically or proverbially. Maybe it was because he could admit that the small part of him that wanted to talk to someone that wasn’t asking after his abilities had some merit. But after a moment more of deliberation, Sage nodded, and eased himself back into the couch.

The subtle tension in Edmont’s shoulders eased in relief, and that warm smile of his was back, crinkling the corners of his eyes. As one of the wait staff brought over a tray laden with cups, a teapot, and two small plates of cookies, it occurred to Sage that Edmont had already asked ahead, likely when he called for a chirurgeon.

“You planned this.” He said before he could stop himself. “After you summoned the healer.”

“What battles we walk away from can leave us with wounds that take much healing.” Edmont said wisely, and reached for the teapot. “And healing is in itself a rather exhausting process, even when it does not change us forever. Room for milk and sugar in yours?”

“For sugar, please.” Sage replied, voice gruff from misuse. He cleared his throat, and once Edmont poured his cup, managed a quiet, “Thank you,” in a clearer tone.

“A sweet tooth, like myself.” Edmont mused with a chuckle when he saw how many spoonfuls of sugar Sage put into his tea.

Not that many more than the count’s own cup, Sage realized with mild surprise. Not knowing what to say to that, he settled for curling his good hand around the handle of his cup and bringing it up to gently blow on it. The steam curled away from him in long, wispy tendrils, but the warmth from it was already seeping into him before he had even taken a sip. 

“Was this injury from when you went to Azys Lla?” Edmont asked quietly after a companionable silence had fallen over them.

Sage nodded and took a sip of his tea. After a moment of contemplating its sweetness, he set it down and added another spoonful of sugar. As he stirred it in, he spoke up, “Didn’t want to trouble anyone. It would have healed in time.”

“Perhaps, but it could have healed improperly.” Edmont noted with a frown. “I see no sense in letting you suffer in silence for such a serious wound.”

Ah yes. If it healed improperly, he might no longer be able to fight on as the Warrior of Light. And then where would the world be? 

Even as he thought it, Sage winced. Edmont had never made him feel as though he were only kept around for his use— and the Bard reminded himself that it was Edmont who had tried to send him away when the horde had begun to swarm toward the city, intent on casting it into the churning aether below, even knowing that Sage’s might alone could have been enough to turn the tide of battle. 

Maybe that was why he had come here, when he had needed to escape the trappings of his title and the expectations that came with it. Because they couldn’t reach him here if he didn’t want them to. Because Edmont would never wield them against him.

“I’m...not good at relying on others.” Sage finally admitted quietly, half into his tea. “But your words have merit. Thank you.”

Edmont studied him for a long moment, teacup and saucer in hand. On the surface, he was the very picture of a noble Count, posture perfectly straight and hands appropriately delicate on the fine porcelain. His expression was almost unreadable but for those bright, discerning eyes of his gleaming in the firelight. After he seemed to find what he was looking for in Sage, his mustache twitched in the ghost of a smile as he primly set his teacup on its saucer and placed them both back on the table in front of them.

“If I may be candid?” He asked, and waited for Sage’s nod to continue, “I fear in speaking formally to you, I failed to make it clear how cherished you are in this house— and not for your use, I cannot stress that enough. You are a ward of House Fortemps due to circumstances outside of your control and ours, that much is true, but you have come to be so much more than that.” After another moment of consideration, he asked, “Do you know what I felt when I first met you, and realized you were just as mortal as the rest of us?”

“Disappointment?”

“Relief.” He said, and Sage hid surprise with another deep drink of tea. “Because you were real. You were human, and suddenly it all made sense, why you fought as hard as you did to make it to our door.” With a chuckle, he added, “When I told Haurchefant that, he said that we were of like mind, in that regard.”

“I failed.” Sage murmured, side stepping a reply to Edmont’s declaration, even as warmth different than tea or blankets settled over his heart for it.

“As have we all.” Edmont said with a shrug. “To expect perfection is folly— even from you. Yet, I fear that your myriad successes, and the legend you have become, have made you the exception in the eyes of many. And aye, even for a time, I was not immune to such thoughts. From the way Haurchefant spoke of you, you seemed almost otherworldly. Impossible, even.” 

Ah. Another friend he had failed. Haurchefant had always thought too highly of him, and in the wake of his death, Sage only felt more strongly that the knight had gotten him all wrong. Not that he had ever told him that, knowing the effusive man would have just insisted in that way of his that Sage was wrong.

Not that he’d ever get the chance to now, besides.

“When I fail, it means someone dies.” Sage grit his teeth when he thought of Estinien, of the look of sheer terror on his face moments before it disappeared into Nidhogg’s aether. He set his teacup down to avoid spilling the last of his tea; he realized his good hand was shaking. “Or worse.”

“Such is the burden of any who fight for those who cannot.”

Edmont took a moment to spare a glance down at his own lap. Then, his gaze drifted just beyond it, to the cane that rested against the arm of the couch. Something shifted in his eyes, in that moment, and though they still gleamed, there was a certain sort of darkness there now. Familiar enough to Sage that it pulled him out of his thoughts. After the span of another breath, the Count added quietly.

“Even if it means sacrificing something dear to us.” When he looked back at Sage, that shadow in his gaze did not lift. “I had the chirurgeon called upon because I know what it is to have an injury that never heals properly. I know what it means to never feel quite right again, and still continue to fight to protect those dearest to you, until you no longer can. I would not wish that suffering on you.”

“So I can keep fighting?” Sage asked, not quite able to bite back the bitterness in his tone.

“Sage.” Edmont said his name so gently that he looked up at him in surprise. When he had his attention, Edmont reached over and laid his hand over Sage’s. “You could tell me right this instant that you are never again picking up a weapon, that you would never again answer a call to action, and I would be no less proud of you. You would be no less welcome here.”

“Why?” Sage asked around the tightening of his throat. His voice barely came out in a rasp, choking on the tangled knot of complicated, conflicting emotions that whorled in his throat. His chest felt tight. Nevertheless, he pressed, “Why care if I’m not of use to you?”

“Because I view you as family.” Edmont replied, voice calm and patient. “And it was thanks to you that I was reminded of the importance of letting those I love know that I love them, while I still have the chance...and that I can always do better in that regard.”

“My lord—”

“You need never address me so formally, Sage. I have already failed one son by letting him die thinking I viewed him as lesser, and that he was not loved. I refuse to let it happen again. That we are not of the same blood is of no consequence. As far as I am concerned, you are just as much a Fortemps as any of my sired sons.”

That tightness in Sage’s throat constricted all the more, and he felt a peculiar stinging in the backs of his eyes. He blinked rapidly to dispel it. It wouldn’t do to start showing that kind of vulnerability now, in particular when he was wounded in body and pride for the losses that he had stacked against him.

“I don’t—” He tried to speak, but swallowed thickly when his voice cracked. With a deep, shuddering breath, he tried again to find the words. “I don’t know if I feel I deserve that.”

Another twitch of Edmont’s mustache in a knowing, albeit somber smile. He squeezed Sage’s hand as if to anchor him. 

“In all my years, if there is one thing that I have learned, it is that things both good and bad happen to us whether we deserve it or not. The earth does not ponder its worthiness of the sunlight, nor the waxing of the moon. They are merely inescapable facts of life. So it is for me to call you a member of the Fortemps family.” He let go of Sage’s hand and stood, wincing at the way his knee popped as he did. “I only hope that, in time, you will believe yourself worthy of it. Now, it is late for this old and weary man, and you have convalescence to catch up on, if I am not mistaken.”

The twinkle in Edmont’s eye helped Sage swallow the knot of emotions in his throat and nod. The Count’s smile widened.

“To bed, for us both, then— and never you mind the setting: I will take it to the kitchens.”

Shockingly quick for his age, Edmont plucked the tea tray off of the table, though after examining it for a moment of thought, held it out to Sage.

“Take the plate of biscuits, my boy, and have them as a snack if you like.”

Sage did, and as he took it with his good hand, he murmured, “Thank you. I’ll try to be worthy of this.”

“Of the biscuits? I daresay anyone is worthy of biscuits!” Edmont laughed, already on his way to the kitchens before Sage could reply. “Good night, my boy. May your sleep be truly restful.”

Plate of sweets in hand, Sage let himself smile as he wandered to his room— and ah, he supposed he should start calling it his room now, well and truly.

He was home, after all.

[apprentice-lex]

Yes! Thank you for the ask, I really enjoyed writing this. Fluff with the slightest sprinkling of angst (and angst with the slightest sprinkling of fluff) is probably my favorite thing to write. Warnings for unhealthy coping mechanisms and implied/referenced self-harm. Otherwise SFW.

Valerius

In front of everyone else, he pretends he doesn't miss you. He pretends there isn't an aching emptiness somewhere inside him, in the general vicinity of his heart, he pretends he doesn't have to grip the armrests of his chair because his hands feel so empty without yours. The others pretend they do not see the Consul's fingers idly stroking the velvet of his chair, the silk of his sleeve, anything to dull that ache of missing your familiar touch so badly it hurts. Luck would have it that he catches the servant in front of your now-empty quarters, with your pillows in her hands, intending on washing them while you are away. He will also pretend he didn't almost tear those pillows out of her hands, making up some errand on the spot that he needed her to immediately devote her time to. He sleeps with the stolen pillow every night, hugging it close to his chest and pretending he isn't missing you so much. It's completely unbecoming of a Consul, so he pretends. Of course he's not writing your name on the margins of his journal, of course he isn't lying awake at night, staring at the ceiling, wondering where you are at that moment, and if you're missing him as much as he misses you. Of course not...

Valdemar

Usually, they do not like to be touched. But you... you, they trust. In fact, they get so used to those small, idle touches, sliding their long, slender fingers between your own, their arm around your shoulders or yours around their waist... they get so used to it all that, when you have to leave for a while, they find that they terribly miss it. Funny, of all the things they thought they'd miss - your long conversations and shared looks and quiet understanding - your touch wasn't one of those things. And yet, they miss it so, so much. They try distracting themself with work, but even then the ghost of your touch is burned into their memory, into their skin underneath the gloves, like a beacon in the night the warmth of which they can feel but cannot see. There is no tide that can erase you from their mind, and they find themself alone, tugging their gloves off and examining their skin, expecting to find some mark of your touch that they constantly feel there, like an unremembered ache, like heartbreak, now that you're gone. They get more and more wistful, thinking about how much they miss you, that they begin making mistakes. It's unheard of - wrong tool grabbed while they work, re-reading the same page for the third time, and one morning they find themself away from the palace, lost in the maze because they took a wrong turn, thinking about you instead of where they were going. By the time you return, the whole palace has noticed the change in Valdemar's behavior, their distracted mistakes, their wistful looks. Of course, once you're back, the Quaestor doesn't leave your side; finally, finally - with their fingers intertwined with yours and the familiar warmth of your touch - they feel whole again.

Volta

She is devastated. She refuses to go to the palace, instead choosing to remain at her estate; but her favorite dishes do nothing to ease her sorrow. She misses you, and now not even food helps. An idea occurs to her - and she starts choosing your favorite dishes instead. It helps a little, the taste of your favorite spices brings back memories of those times the two of you spent laughing, sharing your favorite dishes, exchanging those little touches and brief hugs. While you're gone, she'll sometimes see or remember something exciting, something she wants to share with you, and she’ll turn around to tell you with the brightest smile on her face - only to realize you're not there, her smile falling, replaced by an expression of sorrow. Choosing your favorite food and the small comfort that brought her gives her yet another idea - she actually leaves her estate, only to go to the market and try to find and purchase your favorite perfume, if you have and wear one. She'll search the whole day, and when she finally finds something that's a good enough match at least, she'll happily pay several times the price, thanking the merchant over and over again. She wears the perfume for the next few days - applying it in the morning tempts a smile to her face, almost as bright as when you were with her. Soon, though, soon you'll be back and she cannot wait to hug you.

Vlastomil

The Praetor is distraught. Before you, no one would really want to touch him. To say that he was starved for simple human interaction was a major understatement. And then you came, and you didn't shrink away from his touch, you'd hold his hand, you'd hug him... and he started needing your touch more than he needed the very air he was breathing. So, when you leave for a fortnight, he can barely breathe for how much your absence hurts. He catches himself reaching for your hand which isn't there, he finds himself aching and alone... the kind of loneliness he'd hoped he left behind forever. During the day, he has his duties in court, and the idle chatter of others serves to distract him, but the nights... nights are the worst. He sits in his study, hands trembling, trying in vain to finish a letter he was writing, only for the loneliness he kept at bay during the day to return tenfold, washing over him like a tide and threatening to pull him under. He is alone, so he allows the choked half-sob that might have been your name to escape his lips, he allows himself to blink away the promise of tears that gather in the corners of his silvery eyes. He misses you so, so much... He wishes he could sleep, because that would mean your return is one day closer. Seeing that he can't, he will stay up, thinking about you, wondering with a mounting heartache whose hand you are holding...

Vulgora

Missing your touch? Of course they're not missing your touch! The fact that they pick twice as many fights means nothing. The fact that they overexert themself during training, because the ache in their muscles dulls the ache in their heart... of course it means nothing! The fact that they may have allowed a punch or two to break through their guard on purpose when they last picked a fight...well, pain is something. At least they feel something in place of that terrible, all-consuming void that was once your presence, your laugh, your touch. You'd be angry with them if you knew, they know this. They know you don't want them hurt. But how to explain that your absence hurts so much more than the bruises they get during their training, so much more than any punch that gets through their guard, so much more than... anything, really. Your absence is a particular kind of hurt they don't know what to do with. They're a demon, their flesh will heal so much faster than that of a human. But their heart...they're not sure if that's due to their demonic nature of the simple fact that they love you, but their heart seems to be healing at a much slower rate. Humans forget. They love one another and lose one another and seem to be just fine in a day, a month, a year. But Vulgora... Vulgora isn't sure they'd ever be alright again, if they lost you for good. Sometimes, they muse, it is a disadvantage to have a demon heart...

[ayuyikes]

Secret Admirer (4/?)

Part 1 part 2 part 3

Sorry I’m on vacation right now and this ones a bit long so it took a while ^^;

Enjoy!

———————

When they came back to the classroom, Claude sighed. “Well, I didn’t see any odd reactions aside from when Dorothea complimented your earrings. Did you see anything, Teach?”

She shook her head. She did see a few odd looks, sure...

But for some reason they seemed to be aimed more towards Claude than towards her.

He ran a hand through his hair. “Well, I guess we will just have to wait for the next gift. I don’t suppose your ring size is common knowledge, eh Teach?”

It was teasing, but the thought of being gifted a ring made her mind go blank.

“Teach?”

He was still beside her, looking a little worried when she didn’t outright respond, but she snapped herself out of it and muttered, “He better not be getting me a ring.”

“What would you suggest he got you, then?” He asked, as nonchalantly as he could.

That made her silent. “I don’t know,” she eventually settled on. “I’m not really one for gifts. I would be happy receiving anything.”

“Well, sure, but he seems set on impressing you, isn’t he? What would you like to get?”

Why couldn’t she shake the feeling that he was inquiring what to get her?

Should she even answer that? What if he...

No, he wouldn’t give himself away giving her a gift she suggested herself, though. He’s too cunning for that.

She met his expectant eyes. “I would appreciate thoughtful gifts, not necessarily expensive ones. A box of my favorite tea would already be a welcome surprise, really.”

He hummed in understanding. “So you’re a secret sap, Professor.”

“Perhaps.”

He grinned. “Let’s hope your admirer knows you well, then.”

Ah. Watching him smile made her realize that every moment they spent together after she got the bracelet she slowly got more certain that he might be the culprit. She was terrified of it being wishful thinking. They have been pretty close so far, even if he was her student... she never had someone as close and dear to her as he was. Not like this.

But even taking status and the taboo of their situation out of consideration, she knew that if she ever wanted to confront him about it she’d need evidence or he’d duck out of questioning. So she sighed. Two can play this game.

“I just wish I had more of a lead,” she said, trying to sound disappointed. Of course it still came out a little flat, but Claude seemed to take notice anyway.

“You really want to know, huh?”

“I don’t know what to make of this,” she admits, the statement holding more truth than she’d like. “Such expensive gifts- they’re a little overwhelming, if I’m honest.”

“Especially not knowing where they came from... what if they expect something from me?”

“People can’t expect something for just being nice,” Claude said, looking surprisingly serious. “If they do, they’re terrible people.”

“Even so... I don’t know them at all. What if they keep giving me expensive things to buy my affection?”

He seemed to think it over for longer than anticipated. “Well, if it makes you uncomfortable, we should scare him off then, right?”

“I’m not that uncomfortable,” she said after the thought popped into her mind that she might’ve scared _him_ off entirely. “I just- knowing who it came from would already ease my worries.”

“Hmm how about...” he put his hand to his chin, “We put a message to your mystery lover on the bulletin board? Perhaps he’d be willing to throw us a bone?”

“It would be a risky move, from his side,” she admitted. “But if he wants to get recognition... he would respond.”

“Wouldn’t hurt to try, right?” He grinned. “I think at this point the rumor is going around anyway, and it’s not like Seteth can do anything about it as long as there’s no lead either. But what should we put in the message?”

Byleth glanced at her desk, taking in the rest of the classroom in the process. It wasn’t as if they were alone, but the other golden deer present were just minding their own business. At least, that’s what it looked like.

“We could compose a draft at my desk?” She offered when she turned back to him again. He smiled back eagerly. “I’ll get another chair, Teach.”

She sat down behind her desk while he went out of the room for the extra chair. While looking through her drawers for paper, a letter caught her eye.

It was the letter that came with her birthday present, near the start of the year. She almost forgot she still had that.

That did give her an idea...

She took out the letter and opened another drawer where she had put the note attached to the earrings. Opening both, she squinted and observed the handwriting.

Granted, the note had been a lot neater, no doubt taken more effort to write, but the way the L’s looped and the crossing of the T’s seemed to match...

Not everything, however, but she wouldn’t put it past Claude to try and alter his handwriting to not get caught. The ‘secret admirer’ note has more elegant writing, while her birthday letter was more nonchalant. However, some core elements still seemed to match.

It wouldn’t be enough evidence, though.

She quickly put both papers in her top drawer as she expected Claude to come back any moment now with a chair, and sure enough: when she took out a few blank sheets from another drawer, he returned with a simple chair he stole from another classroom.

“So I was thinking,” he mused as he put the chair down backwards and sat down, leaning his arms on the backrest, “there’s a couple things you could do...”

He put a finger up. “Number 1: tell him to fuck off.”

Byleth was ready to write his suggestions down but gasped before her quill hit the paper. “Claude, language.”

“Well it boils down to that, really. You’d just say it nicely, like ‘I’m sorry but I’m not interested’ or ‘I got a boyfriend’ or something,” he explained, mimicking her voice in a high pitched manner. She just raised an eyebrow to that.

“But I don’t have one.”

“That might be true, but they don’t know that.” He stretched out his arms. “It is a surefire way to get them to back off, plus if they really need convincing you can use my name for it, if you’d like.”

“Why would I use your name?”

“Some people are plain persistent and won’t leave you alone otherwise. And I really don’t mind helping you out, Teach,” he explained nonchalantly.

“You do realize if we put this on the bulletin board, we will most likely have to explain ourselves to Seteth? At the very least we would be lectured on how our relationship would be improper.”

“Ah, so you’re entertaining the idea?” He teases. “But that’s a fair point. It’s still a plan B for if we have a better idea of who it might’ve been.”

“I don’t think it will be necessary,” she shakes her head, tapping the quill on the table as force of habit. “I don’t want to simply tell whoever sent me these to leave me alone. I want to at least be able to thank them for the gifts and return them if necessary.”

“They’ve been given to you, so you’re allowed to keep them even if you don’t return the affection, Teach,” he insisted while rubbing the back of his head.

“Yes, you’ve told me as such before.”

“It doesn’t make it less true,” he shrugs. “If you want to return them, sure, but don’t feel obligated to.”

“Even so...” she looked at the still empty paper. “You said I had more options?”

“Ah yes,” he leant his chin on his hands. “Option number 2: you can just ask ‘em to give you a clue. It’s likely he’ll indulge you since he already has shown fondness towards you, and he probably wants to reveal himself later anyway, if he wants to win your affection with these gifts.”

“Option number 3,” he splayed his fingers out against his cheek as he was leaning his chin in his palm, “Indirectly ask him. Try and get a correspondence going, and see if he gives you some clues during that. You could place a public request and then maybe he’ll arrange something so you can personally write him letters. We can either try to catch him while he comes to collect the letter or see what he writes back.”

She listened to his suggestions and waited for him to finish, so when he looked at her as if to say ‘so? What do you think?’ she said, “I think I like option 2 the best so far.”

“Ah, direct and to the point, as expected of you, Teach,” he grinned. “I’d be inclined to go for option 3 myself, just to see what kind of reaction I’d get. Oh, and don’t forget the thrill of the chase, of course.”

She dipped her quill into the jar of ink. “Which one would most likely get me an answer?”

He mused, tapping his fingers on the backrest. “Well, definitely option three. But that isn’t to say that option two wouldn’t get you a response, though. I think your anonymous lover would be glad to see your interest in his identity no matter what route you go, to be honest.”

He shrugged. “Hypothetically, if it were me, I’d be glad to feed you a hint about my involvement anyway at some point. So might as well hasten it a little by taking initiative, right?”

She nodded and quickly went to work. He leant forward, tipping the chair to watch what she was writing. Ah, their closeness was comforting. The letter she was writing was making her slightly nervous if she was honest, and even if it wasn’t as much as she _should_ be feeling, his presence soothed her worries. She briefly imagined aiming her letter at the boy sitting beside her- but that just made her nerves return tenfold. She shook her head and continued writing her letter to the nameless receiver and when she finished she looked at Claude for approval.

He quickly finished reading after and he he gave her a look. “Teach, you know that this is all very formal right? You gotta throw the fella a bone here, you know?”

“A bone?”

“You know,” he took the quill from her hands, fingers brushing and while he didnt noticeably dwell on it she felt a quick jolt go through her fingers. He took another empty paper and quickly scribbled his own note. He did get a word smudged, but when he showed off his version of the letter with a “Like this” she immediately was reminded of his birthday card to her.

He had written quickly, but the same loops and t’s stared her in the face and she couldn’t help but smile faintly while she read his letter. Her smile dropped when she finished reading.

“Absolutely not.”

“Aw but Teach,” he whined. “It’s more fun this way. Besides, a little wink and a flirt like this will make him more likely to indulge your request.”

“This will get me fired.”

“I’m sure Rhea won’t permit that.”

“Alright. I will not get fired. But Seteth will have my head if I hang this in a public place where Flayn could read it.”

“Fine,” he sighed resignedly, not without a smile. “We can use your letter. As long as we get the message across it will be fine, I imagine.”

She smiled. “You couldn’t help but want to tease, didn’t you?”

“Ah, you caught me,” he grinned. “But yeah, if they’re so bold to leave you gifts I can’t help but want to tease them right back. It’s our beloved Teach he’s making a move on, you know.”

“That may be so,” she said, not sternly but her eyes would make people that didn’t know better think otherwise, “however I should handle this my own way.”

“Yes yes,” he agreed slyly. “I think you got it handled then, Teach.”

She nodded. “I think so. Where should I put this?”

“How about the bulletin board near the classrooms? The knights of Seiros don’t often go near there so if he responds it’s likely to be a student.”

She tapped her quill in thought. “How about we give him a way to respond? I can tell him to write a letter back to shove under my door.”

“That’d be risky for him,” Claude pointed out. “I know I wouldn’t wanna risk getting seen either by other dorm goers or you accidentally opening the door on me.”

“How about he puts the letter in the advice box?”

“What if Seteth decides to empty that? Besides, Teach, still a public place. The church is always under careful watch.”

“You’re not exactly making it easy for me here,” she sighed. “Fine. What would you suggest?”

“Personally,” he stretched out his arms before resting his chin on the backrest of his chair, “I’d suggest asking him to drop the letter on your desk. So far he has delivered everything to the classroom, right? It wouldn’t go out of his comfort zone.”

“I think I’ll leave the delivery up to him,” she answered and stood up from her chair. “If he wishes to respond he will come up with whatever he is comfortable with.”

“Sure thing,” he wobbled with his chair. “So you’re gonna put it on the bulletin board now?”

“Yes. Hopefully I’ll get a response somewhere in the next week.”

“I’m sure he will send you one,” Claude grinned. “He’s probably eager to have some feedback on his gifts so far.”

He got up himself and spun the chair on one of its legs.

“Who knows? He might already reply tomorrow.”

————

That he did.

The next morning, she came early into class to be greeted with a perfumed envelope put neatly in the center of her desk. It smelled of pine needles and lavender, and since she didn’t have any onlookers she went ahead and opened it, not missing the pretty ‘to my dearest detective’ written on the back.

‘Hope this letter finds itself in your hands before anyone else touches it. I can’t say I’m not flattered by your interest in me, so I put another surprise on your chair. Hopefully you look before you sit down.’

The letter continued, but before reading on she decided to pull back her chair to see what he had planned.

Instead on her seat she found a bouquet. Daffodils, daisies & gardenias. It was a stunning bouquet, and she took it in her hands and smelled it. It was lovely. How did he know she loved daffodils?

She sat down, bouquet in her arms, and continued reading.

‘As for the hint to my identity: give me a little more time. I want to do this right. I will slowly but surely paint a better picture of myself, but it will take me a little more time to get there.’

She sighed before reading the final bit.

‘Meanwhile, enjoy the flowers. Maybe a little hint could be hidden in the meaning of them? Who knows.‘

‘With love, your secret admirer.’

She folded the letter up again, taking another sniff at the envelope. It reminded her of a tea blend. She wondered if that was another clue.

She just figured she’d have to spend her free day in the library.

But first a vase.

[cadlrs]

[   jordan fisher, cis male, he/him   ] ⁠— * oh, here comes CALVIN ADLER ! the twenty-one year old scorpio is often referred to as the recluse. people say they have a tendency to be overwrought and meticulous, but from what i’ve seen, they can be insightful and quixotic too. when they walk by, you’ll probably hear it’s only natural by crowded house playing out of their headphones, but they’re also associated with ink stained hands, glasses that always seem to slip down your nose, and sound of cracking the spine of a new journal. i hear they’re studying graphic design & english and want to become a graphic novelist when they’re older, but who knows what will become of ‘em ! 

hi !! i’m sam and i’m so unbelievably excited to be here !! i’ve been eyeing this group for far too long...i had originally intended to apply for the recluse before the first round of acceptances, but didn’t end up getting to it so when i saw the skeleton was still open...i had to apply ! anyway, i’m a cap sun, taurus moon, aqua rising...we stressed in this home. i live in the wondrous state of california that the group takes place in, i love it dearly, and i am just so so excited to finally get to play my bb calvin ! if you wanna plot (and i’m hoping to plot with all of y’all) you can hmu on discord @ capricorn dad#1278

FULL NAME : calvin jones adler

NICKNAME : cal, cj, he’ll take anything. nicknames are endearing to him. 

BIRTHDAY : tuesday / november 3, 1970 / 4:41 pm

ZODIAC : scorpio sun, capricorn moon, taurus rising 

NATIONALITY : american

RELIGION : christian 

SEXUAL & ROMANTIC ORIENTATION : pansexual, panromantic 

HOMETOWN : san francisco, california 

ACCENT : standard californian 

LANGUAGES SPOKEN : english

MAJOR : graphic design & english

MINOR(S) : fiction writing 

HOBBIES : drawing comics, writing in his journal, 

PETS : a twelve year old tabby cat named pickles

CHARACTER PARALLELS : charlie kelmeckis (perks of being a wallflower), cameron frye (ferrie beuller’s day off)

background/about

born and raised in san francisco. calvin is an only child. his father (robert adler) is a loan officer at a bank and his mother (diane hawke) a professor of english at san francisco state. they were your average, middle class family 

his parents had him pretty late in their lives — they were both already in their 40s. they didn’t meet until they were in their early-mid 30s, got married in their late 30s, and enjoyed a few years of marital life without children before actually trying for a child. not that they had to try hard — calvin was conceived within a short few months of their decision to try for a baby

growing up, calvin had always been a pretty sensitive kid. he was quiet and shy, even around his own family. the one person he could talk and talk to for hours was his maternal grandmother. she had been an english teacher too, like his mother, but she taught high school. she had this one specific rocking chair, and many of his childhood memories are sitting right there curled up in her lap while she read a book to him or told him stories. she had a really vivid imagination, and everyone says that’s where he gets it from. 

Didn’t have very many friends in elementary school. maybe one or two (wc?) friends/neighbors that he walked home with, or ate lunch with in the schoolyard, but he certainly didn’t have a best friend. he always felt like he was missing out on that, but didn’t really know how to take matters into his own hands. his mother would always say, “just march right on up to those kids and say you want to play with them!” but cal didn’t have that sort of mentality or charisma or bravery. 

He wasn’t tormented, but he was bullied by his peers. He spent recess drawing comics, which was looked at as weird. If he wasn’t drawing comics, he was reading them. One boy, Gage London, had been somehow so offended by Calvin reading his comic at lunch that he’d stormed over and ripped it in half, and then in fourths, and had walked away laughing, leaving Cal in tears because...he cried a lot. And his comics were special to him. (bonus wc: your muse gave Gage a piece of their mind? stood up for Calvin?thank u)

He didn’t join the group until he was a freshman in high school, though he may have known your muses prior to that, depending. He tended to blend into the background, so if they had no idea who he was, that would make perfect sense too. The group were the first people to ever take him to a party, where he surely avoided alcohol like the plague because he was nervous, and stood on the sides, watching everyone else, only speaking when spoken to. 

He was 16 the first time he got drunk, obviously with the rest of the group or at least with some of them. It was...a whirlwind of a night. He was drunk on a mixture of wine and cheap vodka, and for a good hour, he felt on top of the world. You would have thought it was a different Calvin. Flash forward an hour later...he had his head in the toilet and was moaning about how he would never drink again. He now knows not to mix drinks like that, thanks very much

He is to this day not much of a talker. He’s a quiet observer but that means he notices the little things. He’s very intuitive and picks up on group dynamics more than the average person might (so if any of y’all were secretly dating...eye emoji...he probably found out LOL)

He feels A LOT. Any emotion he feels, he’ll feel it tenfold. So whether it’s good or bad, happy or sad, he tends to find it draining and overwhelming. He will feel everything very deeply, so as much as he might appreciate constructive criticism, he’ll probably start crying while hearing it. He cries a lot.

So, in regards to feeling things deeply, he falls in love...a lot. Maybe it’s not love and he’s confusing it with infatuation, but it feels like love. He’s probably been in love with half the group for at least one point in his life. He definitely never came clean about any of his feelings for anyone, sooo...

Speaking of that! He’s not quite positive about his sexuality. He knows he’s not attracted to just one gender, because he’s felt a deep love for both. but he also doesn’t know how to put a label on it. he doesn’t feel straight or gay or bi, but he’s figuring it out. 

Senior year, Calvin received his acceptance letter plus a scholarship to attend New York University. He was ecstatic about it. New York was his dream. But he didn’t tell anyone in the group. It wasn’t that he didn’t want them to know, it was that he didn’t want to say goodbye. They were the closest thing he had to feeling like a true family...they were his found family!! And he didn’t know how to leave. But he knew (or thought) when he went to New York, he wouldn’t come back. So he kept his acceptance a secret until the night before he left for school, and when he told them, he had shown up at each of their doors to say goodbye. 

He went to New York, and like he had expected, he didn’t return. His family didn’t have the money to fly him back for all the breaks, so he stayed out there during the winter breaks, and for the summer holidays he found internships which required him to stay in the city. He kept in touch with most (if not all) of the group via letters and the occasional phone call, but even those became sparse as the years went on. 

It’s been 3 school years since he has been back in San Francisco, but he has just returned after finishing his junior year at NYU. He’s back in San Francisco after receiving an internship at the San Francisco Chronicle. 

He’s come out of his shell a little bit more since moving to New York. After all, it is the city. He’s still fairly quiet though, still quite sensitive, and still feels things very deeply. Basically, he’s the same old Calvin, but he can actually start a conversation now. 

[the-bae-who-lived]

Hello! 🍊 for Vael and/or 14 for the relationship ask :) :) if you want to of course!

𝐅𝐑𝐔𝐈𝐓𝐘 𝐇𝐄𝐀𝐃𝐂𝐀𝐍𝐎𝐍 𝐏𝐑𝐎𝐌𝐏𝐓𝐒   ♡   𝐒𝐘𝐌𝐁𝐎𝐋 𝐌𝐄𝐌𝐄

ALWAYS ACCEPTING <3

🍑  :    how meticulously does my muse look after their physical appearance?  do they spend a lot of time on their hair,  makeup,  grooming,  and clothing?  is there a particular reason why they do or don’t?  

eeee!!!! ok i’ve been wanting to write a bit more about vael’s habits and self maintenance because it’s been on my mind lately so this is great!

BODY HAIR:

let me preface by saying that upon my research of elves, dunmer specifically because vael is half, i’ve found that they have no body hair??? correct me if i’ve been misled by articles i’ve read! but vael doesn’t have to worry about body hair other than her brows, head hair and lashes. but i also feel the need to capitalize on the fact that hair growth and hair removal wouldn’t be a taboo thing in skyrim. people could shave with blades and whatnot but body hair removal wouldn’t be a thing in tamriel because like...they didn’t care since it’s natural and it’s literally just hair??? but removal of hair could also be a cultural choice as well. 

basically what i’m saying is that by her genetics, vael is virtually hairless on her body. but if she were to grow hair like crazy, she probably wouldn’t shave it off or care that it’s there. in fact, she’d embrace it and groom herself accordingly for hygienic purposes. 

HAIR:

as far as the hair on her head, it’s quite dense and thick and has a lot of texture to it. vael’s mother would trim her hair to keep it healthy. she also taught her how to braid her hair (just simple braids for keeping hair out of the face. which was difficult for vael to learn at first because coordination of the hands lol). but most of the time, especially as she gets older, she tends to wear her hair down, washes it every few days, and ties it back when doing more strenuous work. 

BODY/SCENTS:

vael keeps up on her personal hygiene. she’s not concerned with looks, but she cared about how she felt and if she smelled good so she would bathe regularly and because she grew up around potions and ingredients, she was taught how to make pretty smelling oils and waters for simple aromas and also to put on herself. 

PHYSIQUE: 

vael was never one for exercise per say but she did eat a lot of plant based things being that they were most accessible on solstiheim. also a lot of seafood because that was also quite accessible. she’s naturally on the lithe side given her elven genetics but it’s also quite easy for her to gain muscle from her nordic side. she mostly kept busy just moving and walking when she was younger. and now that she’s in skyrim, she will be building up her stamina and muscles with all of the dirty work she’s getting into. (i might make a more detailed headcanon about her body stats at some point!)

MAKEUP:

makeup was never something she played with given where she grew up and how she grew up. solstheim is there was never a reason to have makeup. if you give vael makeup, she wouldn’t know what the hell to do with it (and we’re gonna get into some makeup a little later on in the story(((((((((::::::::) but since her mother was fleeing from vvanderfell, she wasn’t making makeup a priority to bring with her.

ship headcanon meme

14. When one has a cold, what does the other do? 

KDSJBGHDFG!!!!

if kaidan has a cold: 

he’s not like most guys in that he would literally rather suffer in silence than admit he’s sick. because most guys are big babies LMAO. it’s not a masculinity thing but a perseverance thing. he was always taught to push forward no matter what and a little cold is no excuse. but now that he’s with vael, and she’s pretty observant (who wouldn’t be with kai he’s so fine), she calls him on his shit and forces him to take a break. she’s an attentive person naturally. she was very much cared for a loved by her mother and elynea growing up. not only that, but they taught her so much about making her own medicines and tending to a home and being resourceful. 

vael would first get kai to chill out and take a break whether it was at a camp they set up or at an inn. she would rather lose time than have kaidan get sicker and have to cope on the road. kaidan would be really stubborn about it but agree eventually because he knows it’s what’s best and that vael is equally, if not more, stubborn and would force his sick ass to lay the hell down whether he wants to or not. 

she would make sure he’s comfortable and warm, get him out of his armor and wrap him up in furs. and then she’d get to making some holistic remedies for a cold. she would also make him soup and remind him to eat even when he’s not hungry or can’t taste anything because he needs the energy and nourishment. he would probably feel a bit strange about letting her take care of him in that he’s not used to a female presence that’s nurturing, (his ex girls ain’t shit and obviously his poor mother is gone) but would eventually just let it happen because it feels nice to be cared for. he would definitely be worried about her catching the cold though and warn her to keep her distance but vael doesn’t really care. 

and when she makes it perfectly clear she doesn’t give a fuck about his snot nosed can’t breathe sick self, he accepts her cuddles. she’d make him a sleep tonic and then hold him through the night and stroke his hair and coddle her grown ass man.

if vael is sick:

vael has gotten sick a few times before but nothing ever too serious. a cold isn’t a big deal for her but it’s uncomfortable being that she doesn’t have a stable home and or elynea to care for her. with kaidan, she tries to conceal it a little because he warned her about getting to close and catching his cold. so when it happens, it’s a joking i told you so. but then he’s quick to return the favor of his care. kaidan’s approach to caring about others or for others is kind of nonexistent or even a tough love type of care. but not with vael. it’s so painfully obvious how soft he is for her and that she’s teaching him how to care for someone else in ways more than just pertaining to emotions. 

since he’s not as well versed in tonics/remedies/potions as she is (not in the way she uses them), he would have her tell him what ingredients he needs and walk him through the process of creation. and if we thought kai was protective always, he’s even more protective now. he doesn’t want to leave her side but will gladly give her space if she wants it. but he’ll sleep at her side to keep her warm. he’s like a furnace tbh. so he’ll lay with her at night when she’s in and out of sleep and just let her snuggle up to him. he tends to stay awake just in case she needs something and so that he’s aware of his surroundings to make sure both of them stay safe. 

kai is actually a GREAT cook.  despite not being able to really whip up potions or knowing more obscure ingredients, he knows how to make a good meal. he’s had to fend for himself a lot and so, he learned how to feed himself well. he came by quite a few cook books during his travels and may or may not have taken one or two of them. he’s not ashamed to admit that he’s spent some of his hard earned coin on spices. he doesn’t have them now being that his camp was raided and belongings stolen, but the man knows how to improvise with natural spices. and they definitely clear sinuses LMAO. 

kaidan will offer to read to vael because he knows it lifts her mood even if he’s sassy about it any other time. he wants to return all of the care she gave to him back tenfold not because he feels indebted to her like how they came to travel together after the prison, but because she deserves to be cared for in that very same fashion with the same energy. 

[ythmir-writes]

If you’re still looking for prompt, Kennyo and window. Thank you.

fandom: Ikemen Sengokucharacter: Kennyo

a/n: alrightey im gonna be upfront and say that Kennyo is a character i am not entirely familiar with. i read through all of my saved up stories of him and still felt wanting of information and characterization so please be gentle with me. Also, i tried something new with my storytelling so if anyone has any thoughts on how… chatty… this one is, hook me up. :>

also, crossing my fingers that mobile won’t fuck up this time.edit: mobile version looks effed on my phone:/

last, well, this one has no warnings. Please enjoy!

Window

The first time he had chanced upon the Oda Princess by the river bank, she had been crying.

Kennyo had not bothered to approach her. He recognized those tears; the quiet kind of fierce bawling that no amount of comforting words or presence could dispel. That, and Kennyo knew from experience those tears were better shed than left to dry from within.So he had kept just out of sight, making sure she had a good cry undisturbed. He left only when the Princess was later on found and picked up by a man who seemed to be Mitsunari Ishida.

The second time Kennyo saw the Princess along the same spot, she was alone again but at least calmer somehow. She was no longer bawling her eyes out though the occasional sniffling told him he had just missed it. Most of the time however, she simply sat and stared at the sky until the blue became red and orange. He had just made up his mind to tell her to go home when all of a sudden she had stood up herself and made her way back towards the castle.

As he had watched her disappear into the forest, Kennyo wondered what could possibly be suffered by an Oda Princess that would make her cry so often as she did.

The question ate at him more than he had anticipated and made him feel restless enough that in next few days, he purposely passed by the same spot by the river bank in the (unspoken) hopes of seeing her somehow. A quiet vigil in the hopes she would come back. But the Princess did not return.

Perhaps she was feeling better? Perhaps whatever was causing her sorrow had been removed? Thatwas a good thought to entertain, wasn’t it? That the Princess had found her happiness or whatever it was that made her so sad had already been resolved.

Or perhaps, the worst had come to pass. And it was the Princess that was gone.

The thought saddened him more than he had thought it could. He had never really spoken to her, much less had any kind of interaction with her that could spark the empathy he reserved for his friends. His only interaction with her after all had been to warn her of monsters in the dark. But that had been months ago. She might not even remember.

No, he told himself. What he was feeling was simply unsatisfied curiosity. He stumbled upon her, distraught and wailing, and had been curious. That she would no longer return left that curiosity without conclusion, which would explain why he kept returning to the spot he had seen her in an attempt to fill-in his thoughts.

Thoughts, he mused, as he passed the river bank for the umpteenth time, that he needed to bury. Because even if she was still alive, the chances of meeting the famous Oda Princess were far and few in-between. It was not like either of them were living under similar circumstances to casually and unintentionally see each other as if they were normal neighbors.

And bury them he almost did.

He was passing by that spot again, thoughts of the Princess replaced by hunting he needed to do to fill in his stock for the week. Out of habit, he turned his head to look at the river and saw the same shock of golden hair.

And the same set of trembling shoulders.

And heard the same near-desperate howl of her anguish.

The curiosity that ate at him grew tenfold that he had to stop himself just short of bursting out of the thicket to ask if she was all right. He had to calm down. After not seeing her for so long, he now doubted if asking was the correct thing to do.

He should not tangle with Oda business, even if the Princess was nothing more than a titleholder than a true blood relation. He was an enemy of the Oda, blood or not. Besides, what good would it do him if he knew the troubles of one of the Oda.

Then again –

One talk was all he needed, he told himself. A simple conversation, is all. If he made her feel better, then that was a good enough end in itself to aim for. It would finally put his own anxiety to rest.

However, if aside from making her feel better she somehow told him a detail or two about the Devil King, then it would be worth more than all the time he had wasted feeling sorry for her at a distance.

With that in mind, Kennyo mustered enough courage (and alibis) to convince himself he could not leave her alone.

He made his way towards her, making as much noise as possible so she could raise her guard. Sure enough, just as he was within earshot, the Princess had jumped from where she sat, and spun around to face him. Though her eyes and cheeks were red, there was steel and a readiness in her that told him she had been waiting. That fact surprised him and made him consider the situation seriously.

There was also the matter of the pistol in her hands.

“I mean no harm.” Kennyo said, raising his arms and opening his hands to show her the kerchief he had meant to give her. “I heard someone crying and decided to approach. I did not know it was going to be you, Azuchi’s chatelaine.”

“How did you…?” Then, she recognized him; no doubt from the wanted posters her clan had circulated. And she raised the pistol higher aiming for his chest. “What are you doing here?” She asked, hastily wiping at her tears. “You shouldn’t be here. These are Oda lands. If he finds you, he will kill you.”

“If he finds me.”

“He could.” She replied. “He knows how to find what he wants.”

“Then if he does, he would have to try really reallyhard for me to not kill him first.” The all-too familiar anger coiled inside him at the mere mention of Nobunaga Oda and he found himself half snarling at the thought. He caught himself just in time – or had it been the look of panic on the Princess’ face – and then he sighed, putting a lid on his emotions. “But I take it you are opposed to the idea of him killing me?”

The Princess opened her mouth and then closed it before looking away. “Not particularly.”

“Not good for you to look away from a man you’ve aimed your weapon at.” He cautioned.

The Princess rolled her eyes, and steadied her aim. “Why are you here, really?”

Kennyo sifted through the dozen of excuses he had on the tip of his tongue, but found he could only tell the truth. “I told you. I could not leave you crying alone.”

That took her by surprise as much as it did him. And this time it was his turn to look away, embarrassed. He hastily put down his arms and attempted a lazy shrug as he pocketed his kerchief. “It leaves a bad taste in my mouth to leave a woman in distress.”

“The stories I have heard about the monk named Kennyo never included that he had a soft spot for women’s tears.” She said.

Kennyo scoffed. “The rumors about Azuchi’s witch have not been kind either.”

She grimaced and Kennyo wondered if he had hit a sore spot. “Then it seems neither of us have very good reputations.”

“Evidently.”

The Princess shook her head, extinguishing the pistol and tucking it away. Or rather, putting it roughly in her obi, the weapon plainly in sight and within her reach. Then, as if resigned, she picked up a rock and threw it at the river. It bounced twice before falling into the water.

Kennyo watched quietly as she repeated the same action over and over again, choosing pebbles carefully before throwing them into the water. However, despite her repeated attempts, her stones bounced no more than three times before sinking. And each time, she only grew more and more frustrated until she dropped all sense of subtlety,hurtling a rock in a throw, screaming. The stone flew silently in the air, to be swallowed by the river with nothing more than a sigh.

Kennyo wondered why his feet remained rooted where he stood.

He could turn and leave anytime. He had been dismissed, after all. And the Princess had made her unspoken promise not to tell her liege lord of the rat in his hunting grounds. As a matter of fact, he should be packing up his things in his makeshift cabin at that very moment, moving his location somewhere deeper into the forest. But instead of doing every practical thing he had planned in case he had been found by the Oda, he stood there watching their treasured Princess skip pebbles in the river.

“I’m not a witch.” She finally said, not looking at him but at her hands, dirtied with mud and grass. “And even if I was, it wouldn’t be that kind of witch.”

When he did not respond, the Princess turned towards him. “Are the rumors they tell about you true, then?”

“Yes.” He answered. “All of it.”

“Even the ones that say you swindle money from the poor?”

Kennyo frowned.

“Thought so.” She flashed him a quick smile and Kennyo felt as if he had somehow lost a bet. “This might sound repetitive but why are you still here?”

Kennyo wondered about that himself. Slowly, he approached her but kept a safe distance. “When I was young, I remember being told a story about skipping stones in the river.”

The Princess remained silent, waiting for him to continue.

“They say that if you manage to have your stone reach the other end, all your worries will disappear and your heart’s desire could be granted.”

“Isn’t that convenient.” She muttered. “Throw a stone hard enough and everything will be all right in the world.”

“Wasn’t that what you were doing?”

A faint blush colored her cheeks. “I was practicing my aim.”

“Well it was a very random aim.” Kennyo picked up a stone and tried it himself. It managed five skips before disappearing into the water.

“Yours ain’t so grand either.” She huffed. And then, with just the barest hints of excitement, asked him, “How did you manage five?”

Kennyo could only barely contain a laugh. “It’s in the wrist.”

“That doesn’t seem right! You barely flicked it!”

“You also need to choose a flatter pebble.” Kennyo crouched down, selected a stone, and repeated his movements. Again the pebble bounced five times before sinking.

He grinned. The Princess clicked her tongue but crouched down anyway and began to search.

“Have this one.” Kennyo offered to her before he realized what he had just done. However, just as he was about to pull back his hand, the Princess took the stone from him, running her fingers around it, oblivious to his discomfort.

“Oh these are smoother.” She said. “And you said it was in the wrist?”

Kennyo nodded, not trusting his mouth.

The Princess practiced the motion slowly several times before letting the stone go. Kennyo wished it would go farther than his. Unfortunately, it bounced only three times before sinking yet again.

“This is rigged.” The Princess kicked at the grass.

“You just need more practice.” Kennyo said. “Try again.”

Despite her complaints,the Princess did crouch down and dutifully selected several stones.

How his plan to weasel information from the Princess managed to end up with them spending time looking for smooth pebbles and throwing them into the water, Kennyo was not sure. He had not dropped his guard the moment he was within range of her pistol. He was sympathizing but he was not stupid. He tensed whenever she picked up a new stone and aimed for the river, knowing that she could easily hurl it at him and then shoot him in the chest.

But then, somehow in the back of his mind, he knew she would not do it. She did not seem to be the type. And even if there was no telling either that any of the Oda would suddenly burst from the bushes to apprehend him, the same sense of peacefulness managed to smooth every anxiety, and assured him that it would not happen.

At least, not today.

“Looks like neither of our problems are going away.” The Princess said, watching the ripples her last throw made until it disappeared.

“Not any time soon, yes.” Kennyo answered after a while. “But I think the moral of it isn’t that there is anything magical in the act. Only that you need to try it again.”

“And if trying and trying doesn’t work?”

“Then it simply means you haven’t tried hard enough.” Kennyo replied.

“We’ve been throwing stones the entire afternoon.”

“Some of us spend lifetimes just trying to reach one dream.”

“That’s bleak.”

“Life has never been fair.”

“That’s…” The Princess fell silent and said after some time. “That’s true.”

They fell silent again, watching the river, listening to the waters lap and gush by. Kennyo glanced at the Princess from the corner of his eyes, watched her hair dance softly in the wind. Her face no longer held any traces of her tears but neither was she any less sad than when they had started.

He wanted to ask what could possibly be wanting from an Oda Princess to have such a desolate look on her face. And more importantly, he wanted to ask what she desperately wanted granted to rely on superstitious beliefs, when she had all of Azuchi’s powers in the palm of her hands.

The quiet moment seemed to be the window of opportunity he had been waiting for. If he could not physically help her, at the very least he could offer some words of comfort.

She was not of Oda blood, right? It would be all right for him to drop the façade just this once, right?

But before he could ask, she had spoken up again. “Let’s pretend we never saw each other today, all right?”

Kennyo felt surprised at the sudden sinking sensation in his stomach at her words. “I was going to suggest the same thing.”

“And you never saw me crying.”

“All I saw was a woman failing at skipping stones that a toddler could beat her at it.”

“Hey! Not fair!” the Princess laughed despite the indignation in her tone. “Well, if you’re going to be like that then I saw a monk with a soft spot for women in distress!”

“You lose. No one would ever believe it was me.”

“Well, nobody would ever believe you either. My aim is amazing!”

“Of course it was.”

The Princess laughed again, turning around without another word and running back to wherever direction it was that she came from. Just before she was swallowed by the forest, she turned back to look at him and waved.

Kennyo waved back before he could stop himself, and half balked half pretended to scratch at his head.

That earned him another wide grin and laughter that seemed to never end. And Kennyo found himself staring far too long when she finally disappeared into the forest.

Thinking that he wanted to see that smile again.

21/182

[misssophiachase]

Champagne Supernova

25 Days of Klaroline + Things

So, this didn't start out this way at all (and to be honest wasn't even planned until a few hours ago) but has become a TO season 5 premiere inspired drabble. After Rebekah asks for Caroline's help with an out-of-control Klaus, she decides to intervene in her own constructive 'Forbes' way to bring him back from the brink.

Someday you will find me, caught beneath the landslide….

Monte Carlo, France

Klaus was supposedly invincible but after waking half dressed, tangled in his white, bed sheets his mouth dry and the headache from hell he was seriously doubting that fact. He'd stumbled to the bathroom to empty the contents of his stomach, the brief glance in the hotel room mirror on his way illustrating his knotted blonde curls, ashen complexion and just how red rimmed his usually dark, blue eyes were.

Turns out even the most powerful creature on earth wasn't immune to a good, old fashioned hang over. He'd spent the previous night gambling at the Monte Carlo Casino not remembering just how well or how badly he'd fared. Klaus figured that given his state, it was most probably the latter.

After immersing himself in the welcoming, hot shower and placing a towel tightly around his waist, Klaus made his way to the bedroom. Ever since Hope had left his life, Klaus had lost his way and reverted back to the beast he'd once been. He wasn't proud of his actions but without his daughter, or his siblings, his life had spun out of control and there was no one there to catch him.

Klaus had travelled extensively the past eight years, never staying in one place for more than a few days. He considered there was no point given he'd usually tasted the best human offerings and terrorised the worst. Klaus had never really possessed the best attention span and wasn't about to start after more than one thousand years roaming the earth.

He'd ordered his usual eggs over easy and was looking forward to pairing it with whomever delivered his room service. Then he'd be on his way. The bell rang a half hour later, Klaus had changed into a dark pair of jeans that hugged his hips, not bothering with his usual henley because he didn't want to stain it unnecessarily. He licked his lips in anticipation, while opening the door to reveal his prey. The hunt was really all he had left to treat the overwhelming numbness these days.

"Room service," she chirped in a rich, French accent, her red waves pulled back into a neat chignon, her black and white uniform perfectly pressed. He could make out the curves of her creamy neck ready for his touch. The excitement was building, his fangs readying themselves to strike. Before he could she spoke again. "I found this on your doormat." He regarded the envelope curiously, the neat cursive of his name confirming it was indeed his. Klaus snatched it from her grasp, not bothering with pleasantries.

Turning it over, he realised there was no return address. Ripping the flap open in one swift move, he pulled out the insert. The invitation was immaculate. Thick, white card, embossed with gold calligraphy. His only clue, the address of the soiree in one week. In Champagne of all places.

Klaus knew the area well; in fact it was one of his favourite destinations in France. It was also the original hometown of a witch he was desperate to track down. A witch that could give him the answers he needed about getting his daughter back for good and exorcising the Hollow once and for all. It seemed like after all his searching she'd found him and Klaus wasn't willing to take that for granted.

He gave the employee an unexpected smirk, he could barely extend his lips past a frown these days so the news had obviously buoyed him somewhat. Her eyelashes fluttered and her breasts pushing forward for closer inspection. Klaus had long since entertained any lustful thoughts, ever since she'd left his life. Caroline Forbes was the only person that could rouse him and had no intention or interest in any other.

Grabbing the tray and slamming the door shut, he could hear her annoyed mutterings that he hadn't offered a tip. Klaus figured she should feel lucky he didn't eat her for breakfast. Now, all he needed was a new suit for the ball, he wanted to make an impression after all.

Les Crayeres Chateau, Champagne

The cool, Autumn night was still and deliciously fragrant with the aroma of ripe grapes. Even though it was dark, Klaus could make out the vines bordering the long driveway and bathed in silvery moonlight as he approached in the chauffeured vehicle he'd commandeered. Klaus had assumed that the house would be brightly lit and filled with noise and activity. It was a ball after all. Although his host was a mystery, Klaus knew Audrey would be somewhere amongst the guests.

Audrey Marchand had grown up in Champagne, a slave and farm hand on one of the original properties when her powers had manifested themselves. The townsfolk were petrified and her parents had immediately sent her away in shame. As she travelled further from her hometown her power had grown tenfold. Instead of fearing others they came to fear her. It had been a fiery incident in New Orleans decades earlier when she'd come up against the Hollow, a Native American witch with unrivalled powers. Audrey had been the one to challenge and immobilise her at the time. If she could do it once, Klaus was hopeful she could again then free Hope and his siblings from their forced exile.

The Chateau looming ahead was built in 1885 then partially destroyed by the German forces in World War I. In 1940's the Royal Air Force occupied the castle, followed by the American Army and then Count Charles of Colignac. But it looked like the witch that had once toiled the land was back with a vengeance to take back what was her childhood home. Klaus only hoped he could convince her that family and tradition meant just as much to him as it did her.

The car came to a stop, the chauffeur opening his door and tipping his hat as Klaus strode purposefully towards the entrance. It was dark and eerily quiet and obviously not a ball as he'd been led to believe, Klaus should have been alarmed but after all these years he was willing to do whatever it took. He rang the bell by the grand, wooden door waiting impatiently for Audrey to answer.

She didn't, of course. A greying gentleman in black tails appeared, taking his coat and gesturing inside mysteriously. It was dark, the only light emanating from a large and welcoming open fire, the vaulted ceiling making the spacious lounge room look even grander. He took a few tentative steps, her lithe form coming into view as she stared into the crackling fire. From this angle, Klaus had the perfect view of her toned back accentuated by the low cut, emerald, silk dress.

There was no way this was the witch he was looking for given her age but another look at her familiar curves was causing him to stir unexpectedly. There was only one person on earth who could make that happen. But it couldn't be her. It was impossible.

"Took your time," she drawled, turning to face him, her rosy cheeks from the warmth obvious in the fire light. Her blonde waves were pulled back dramatically from her face, highlighting the smooth neck he'd familiarised himself with once upon a time. Suddenly he wanted to do it all over again.

"Well, perhaps if I'd known I was meeting with the ever punctual, and highly strung, Caroline Forbes I might have picked up the pace, sweetheart," he murmured, trying to ignore just how delectable she looked in that gown which he had a sudden urge to rip from her body. He decided to blame it on the fact he'd been celibate for so long and the intense power she had over his senses.

"I resent that," she scowled. Klaus was fairly certain she would look beautiful no matter the expression.

"Says the girl who invited me here on false pretences," he scoffed.

"The invite never said..."

"But your intention was to make me believe I was meeting with Audrey Marchand. I'm curious about two things, love," Klaus mused, making his way towards Caroline, his body trying to betray his resolve but his mind slightly winning the fight thankfully. "How you knew to come her and why you're trying to deceive me? Especially given you're supposed to be teaching my daughter in Mystic Falls."

"Same old Klaus Mikaelson, trying to prove he's the alpha male."

"Oh, I am..."

"Yeah, I know how this predictable, wolf-like, testosterone rant goes," she dismissed, her blue eyes blazing angrily in his direction. "I've witnessed it enough times."

"Why are you here?" He repeated, his frustration threatening to overtake his control. Klaus was either going to throw a long awaited tantrum or kiss those perfect, pink lips and knew either of those options wouldn't end well with Caroline Forbes.

"I have been teaching your daughter for eight years," she barely managed through gritted teeth. "But you know that. And not that you deserve an oral report, Mikaelson, but she's bright, engaged and extremely talented."

"She is?" He grinned proudly, feeling the happiest he had in years. Suddenly all his anxieties for her well being had melted away in a brief moment. He'd never doubted Caroline but his absence from Hope had weighed heavily upon his mind. "Well, of course she's bloody brilliant. She is a Mikaelson after all."

"Nice to see that arrogance has been dialled down a notch."

"Last time I checked you hadn't explained what you're doing here," he pushed, trying to ignore just how adorable she looked biting her lower lip in response.

"I heard you were being kind of an ass," she offered. Klaus was now facing her at the mantle, their proximity closer than it had been in a long while. "And after all these years, I kind of feel a responsibility to your daughter."

"Oh really?"

"Fine, you are being the biggest ass." Klaus chuckled, his laugh coming out in full force. He forgot what it was like to really relax and he'd missed it. As usual it was Caroline Forbes that had brought him back to life, even if he still did have his suspicions.

"I've missed that cute but hostile act," he smiled. "So, who sent you here? Kol, Elijah, Freya..."

"Rebekah."

"I really should have known, she is the most interfering."

"I always assumed she hated me," Caroline admitted. "And then she turned up at the school out of the blue demanding I save you from yourself given our connection but I hardly think we're destined for best friend, heart necklaces just yet."

"Probably safer that way," Klaus advised, beginning to pace back and forth now deep in thought. Yes, his sister was doing her best to make his life difficult but there was so much more to this scenario. "Hang on, save me from myself?"

"I knew you'd love that explanation. Apparently you've been leaving a trail of human, buffet offerings in your wake all over the world and between you and me it's kind of gross, not to mention completely unhygienic."

"I've had a lot on my mind," he muttered defensively, his pacing increasing with every word. Klaus never imagined this being their first conversation in so many years.

"Your daughter should be the most important..."

"Oh, you mean my daughter who I can't ever see ever again?" He huffed, coming to a stop. "All I ever think about is what I would say to her the first time we see each other again and just how overwhelming that embrace would be. Why do you think I'm here? Although given your interference, it seems that I've hit another dead end."

"No need to flatter me Mikaelson," she quipped sarcastically. Even given the drama, Klaus stilled. There were many sides to Caroline Forbes but he'd never get tired of any. "That's why I'm here."

"Excuse me?"

"You want Audrey, right?" Klaus nodded, not sure what was coming next. "I found her."

"How exactly?"

"Okay, not sure if your memories have been wiped during this whole reckless, let's eat everyone and hate everyone phase but I have a knack for solving a good puzzle. Remember that whole Hunter's sword, Aramaic, cryptex, DaVinci Code situation back in the day?"

"I didn't realise you'd mastered Aramaic?"

"You can't help yourself, can you?" She shot back. "Always so damn arrogant even in the most challenging of situations."

"You know me too well, so about Audrey?"

"She's holed up in a townhouse in Bonn, Germany," she explained. "Her movements have been limited for a while to avoid magical tracking but the best chance you have is surprising her there."

"And?"

"Explaining how you have the deeds to the very winery she worked at all those years ago in France. A place she has pined for since she was fifteen.”

“But how did you manage to get those?’

“I can be extremely persuasive.” Klaus knew not to argue given he was in complete agreement. “If those aren’t enough to help break the curse between Hope and your siblings I don't know what is, Klaus. If not, I have plenty of alternative plans on the ready."

"You do?"

"You're talking to Caroline Forbes, do you know how many decade dances, proms, homecomings and presidential elections I excelled in before I even graduated high school? I'm pretty certain I could rule the world even without Aramaic, you know just saying."

"I have no doubt," Klaus smiled knowingly, thinking just how perfect she'd be by his side in New Orleans. "With a resume like that you're destined for royalty, love." He held her gaze as she did his, the fire crackling rythmically in the background.

"How about a toast?" Caroline asked, gesturing to the nearby waiter. Two crystal glasses were filled immediately with the bubbling and sought after liquid from that very region and clinked against each other in toast. "This is our thing, after all."

"You shot me down when I said that all those years ago." Klaus argued, his surprise evident.

"I was still technically underage," she argued. "And I suppose I didn't want you to get too comfortable with me."

"And now?"

"I'm well over the age limit, no need to card me, officer."

"That's not what I meant," he chided.

"I suppose comfort has its benefits, especially in the right setting and at the right time," Caroline admitted. "So, do we have a deal?"

"Deal?"

"You stop being a moping, serial killing ass and I promise to help you find Audrey," Caroline insisted, her eyebrows raised curiously. Klaus wasn't sure he could resist with her blue eyes hypnotising him like that.

"However long it takes?" He managed to utter, unable to help himself. The reddening on her cheeks was enough to tell Klaus he'd made his very obvious point.

"One step at a time," she murmured. "But I do give bonus points for longevity."

On FF on my new However Long It Takes drabbles HERE

[upstartpoodle]

Baby Steps

Rating: G

Pairing: George x Elizabeth

Summary: Upon coming across her husband spending some time with their son, Elizabeth contemplates the past, the present and the future.

When Elizabeth entered the parlour of Trenwith, she was not as surprised as she might have been at the beginning of her marriage to George to be greeted by the sight of her husband sat on the floor, attempting to coax their son to toddle across to him from the other side of the room. In many ways, she hadn't known quite what to expect of him when she had accepted his offer, not even when they had walked out of the church arm in arm, the shadow of Ross hanging over her no matter how much she dared hope for happiness. Now that they had been married near two years, she could say that, however uncertain she had once been, she knew she had made a good choice.

"How is our little soldier doing?" she asked teasingly as she stepped fully into the room.

"Ah, my dear," said George, swivelling around to meet her eyes with a soft smile that she knew was reserved solely for her and the family. "So far, I believe he has done some reconnaissance of the terrain and deemed it too risky to traverse. I daresay he will make a fine commander one day."

There was a glimmer of humour in his eyes and in the quirk of his lips, and Elizabeth could not help bit laugh lightly as she turned her attention to little Valentine, who had settled himself quite comfortably on their brand new rug, staring at his father with a wide, cheeky grin on his face. For George surely was his father, she assured herself with ever-increasing conviction. Though, as a newborn, Valentine had appeared darker than his father, he had soon grown to resemble George more and more, and Elizabeth's relief had grown with it. She had resolved to love the child no matter what, but she had hoped deep in her heart that she would not have to look upon him and remember that dreadful night, nor the man that had brought it about.

"Perhaps he will," she replied warmly, her own smile widening. "Or perhaps he is assessing the return he will get for the effort of walking across the room, and is secretly a budding banker."

George chuckled at her jest, the look in his eyes gentle and doting as he craned his neck to gaze up at her. Elizabeth felt a sudden rush of warmth in her chest, as she always did when he regarded her like that. George had his special way of making her feel loved and wanted, not for what she was but who she was, something which she had both craved and almost been overwhelmed by at the beginning of their marriage. She had been so afraid that he would find out about that night, and he would reproach her for it—for concealing the truth, for the act itself. Now, she was beginning to seriously doubt whether George was even capable of reproaching her—so strong was his admiration—and she couldn't help but bask in its warmth after so long in the cold.

At that moment, she found herself particularly tempted to enjoy it, and to offer something in return. It would have been proper of her, as her mother would undoubtedly have reminded her, to sit primly on one of the nearby seats and watch without a single ounce of her poise or dignity lost. But this was their home, with nobody but themselves to see, and George, who so often performed even to himself, had already abandoned the seating for their son, so surely there was nothing stopping her from doing the same? With that in mind, she gathered up her skirts and lowered herself to the floor beside her husband, slipping her right arm through his left and placing a gentle kiss on his cheek. He stilled in that peculiar way of his that had her wondering how often he had been touched with affection before their marriage, his eyes widening slightly, though he did not pull away.

"Maybe if we both persuade him of the benefits, he will be more inclined to try" she said by way of explanation.

George smiled at her, his hand coming up to cover hers where it rested against the crook of his elbow, before both turning to their task.

As they attempted to coax Valentine across the room, Elizabeth found herself remembering when Geoffrey Charles had first learned to walk. He had been a quick learner, and she had been so proud of him, as she always was, but it had saddened her that Francis had never been there to see it, having been...disinterested at the time. Valentine, it appeared, was more stubborn, but he, at least, would have both his parents there to witness his first steps.

Geoffrey Charles was out with Morwenna at that moment, but she had no doubt that, if he had been there, he would have been as eager to see Valentine walk as they were. He had taken extraordinarily well to having a new sibling to play with, and adored Valentine. Seeing her two boys so happy together never failed to make her smile. It was times like those that reminded her that it had not just been her that had been lonely in the wake of Francis' death, and knowing that her choice had brought happiness to her son increased her own tenfold.

Elizabeth was distracted from her musings when Valentine suddenly stood up and tottered precariously over to them, wearing a determined frown on his little face that reminded her so much of George that she almost laughed aloud. Once he reached them, he clambered up into his father's lap, giggling mischievously. George beamed with pride, and she knew that her own expression mirrored his.

It was then that she realised, even if she were still questioning Valentine's parentage, Ross would never be his father. He had not cared about the consequences of his actions when he had barged into her room that night, and he had no right to care now. It was not he that had held Valentine, had seen his first steps, or read to him at night. No, they, and they alone, were Valentine's parents, and their happiness was not Ross' to intrude upon.

It was with this thought that Elizabeth found her heart lighter than it had been in years and nothing, not even Aunt Agatha's scorn when she found them on the parlour floor, nor fear of her barbs about Valentine, nor the memory of Ross, could dampen that wonderful feeling. She could not mend the past, but she could shape the future, and she was determined to make it good.