#it poured on me all day but those misty mountains were worth it

[aimeekb]

Rainy day hikes in Yosemite

[dizzydancingdreamer]

Persephone’s Symphony | Day One | Hades

Hey lovelies— here is the next part! I wanted to pause here and add a little note: the word tiny is thrown around here. I don’t want this to hinder anyone of you to not read this because you think the word doesn’t apply to you. I want to make a couple things clear. 1) All shapes and sizes are beautiful and I, myself, am a wonderfully plump lady. 2) I don’t use the word as a physical description in a way meant to limit a ‘reader insert’ type of fiction— I use it because Bucky Barnes is a super soldier and anyone would be small to him. Thus I hope you can enjoy it the same way I can— because sometimes we all just need to feel like a super soldier could rip us in half. Stay safe my lovelies and please do enjoy!

Synopsis: In which he is the bad one— the dangerous one, the clunky one, the one who only knows how to break things— and she is the good one— the fragile one, the soft one, the one who knows how to put things back together— and he has to keep her alive long enough for anyone else— anyone who can do more than kill— to save her like she deserves to be saved— to save her from him. There are no pomegranates, no three headed dogs, and no requirement to stay— that is, if they don’t count an assassin on the loose out for her neck. In that case, three days in a safe house doesn’t feel like a long time— just long enough for Persephone and Hades to remember why opposites attract.

Pairing: Bucky Barnes x Female!Reader (third person)

Warnings: some angsty moments but overall no warnings

Word count: 4.1k

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Master List

She’s tiny. That’s the only thing he can think for the first couple hours. She is so damn tiny and fragile and soft and he doesn’t know how to be around a human that tiny and fragile and soft. Maybe it’s worse because he has to keep this tiny human alive. He hasn’t had to do that before— all the other tiny people in his life have been perfectly capable of keeping themselves alive. Even Steve all those years ago, when he only came up to his shoulder—barely— would have fought tooth and nail to stay alive. Even then it always felt like Bucky was just there in case. Maybe that was just Steve though.

He blinks— he doesn’t want to think about the man right now. He can’t afford to get lost in his head. Gods only know if he starts thinking about those days— the ‘good’ old days— he won’t stop. Maybe not for days. Maybe because they’ll remind him that he’s not supposed to be here— that he isn’t made to keep tiny, gentle, grilled cheese cooking, question asking things alive. Usually he’s the one hindering people from being alive— hindering life itself. Usually it doesn’t bug him this much but he can’t help but equate the girl in the Caltech hoodie with life—

“Is what they say about New York pizza true?”

— And himself with death.

“S’alright— Chicago is better.”

He watches as she flips through a book that she had picked up off the coffee table a few minutes ago. The Big Book of Dogs. Is he supposed to laugh at that? She is— giggling and flipping through pages upon pages of puppies. It isn’t aimed at him, her musical, soft sounds. She isn’t laughing at him. It only feels like she is. He’s learned to separate the difference these days— it’s just in his head. Still, he has to turn away from her, using the guise— his job— of being a bodyguard to keep his gaze moving.

From the corner of his eye he watches as she lowers the book, peaking over at him from behind a peppy looking Alaskan Malamute— yes, he knows his dogs. He is one, after all.

“You know, I think there are quite a few people who disagree with you on that one.”

Bucky pretends to ignore the way she quirks a brow at him, her eyes drifting back to the page. He also ignores the way his heart spikes at the little movement. Snap out of it, Barnes. He stands, stalking to the living room window and pulling back the heavy green curtain. Nobody is out there— he didn’t expect there would be someone, he just needed to move. How many more hours?

“Thought you were asking me.” He quips, staring out towards the bayou where the water has turned grey and choppy.

He watches as the rain pours down the window pane, tap tap tapping in front of his nose as the sunlight surrenders to the misty storm clouds. As much as he hates to admit it, Wilson was right— the rainy season’s rolling in on the dot. Even he is starting to feel the effects, his bones beginning to leaden.

As if on cue, she yawns, setting down The Big Book of Dogs and curling her legs into her chest, hiding them beneath the mountain of fabric she wears. “I was gauging. Consider it a test.”

Bucky huffs— not sure if he’s annoyed because of her questioning or because of how, despite the tension still laced through his shoulder blades like sailors knots, he isn’t that bothered by it. Annoyed because he isn’t annoyed— that’s a first. He lets the curtain drop again and turns to the TV where Netflix lays open but unused, blocking out one mind numbing haze for another. What would they even watch together?

“Oh yeah? Did I pass?”

Maybe some cheesy sit-com. That feels harmless enough and he’s been catching up on a few of them. Some of them even make him laugh. Maybe that’s in poor taste though. He’s never had to deal with someone else’s grief before— he rarely deals with his own as is.

“Maybe it would be better to just not ask that.”

He doesn’t think before he says it— he doesn’t have time to, it slips out before he can grab it and shove it back in his stupid, sentimental mouth. “You sound like Steve.”

Fuck. Her head pokes up, her doe eyes somehow managing to meet his gaze despite how hard he tries to force his neck to turn in the other direction. How does one person look so soft? He can see the question in her eyes, the way they spark with intrigue. He watches in slow motion as her lips— not glossy like they had been in the picture but still just as pink— peel apart.

“Who’s Steve?” Her voice is too sweet— too sincere. Like she actually doesn’t know. Then again, maybe she doesn’t— they never really used his name.

Bucky can’t answer. It’s too early and Steve is too long of a story. One hundred years worth of story, to be precise. How is he supposed to fit all of that into one answer? He can’t. He can’t answer but he can’t not answer either— not when she’s looking at him like she wants to know every little thing about him.

Bucky can’t answer so he doesn’t answer. “You ask a lot of questions, don’t you?”

She sinks back against the leather cushions, pulling her hands into her sweater. He almost curses when she curls her knees closer to her body. He can’t really see them from under her hoodie but he can see the movement— the way she wraps her arms around her legs so that she looks like a tiny blob of fabric and a head. His chest squeezes at the sight of her pulling away from him. Can he ever say anything right?

He told Wilson— he told him that he wouldn’t be a good fit for the job. What, a man like him? Man, dog, wolf, asshole. What’s the difference? He was right, that’s all that matters. It’s been all of five hours and he’s already making her uncomfortable all because he can’t—

“You’re the one who brought it up.” She grumbles, her soft— less sweet— voice pulling him from his unintentional staring contest with her forehead. His neck flushes with heat. Shit.

Bucky sighs, running a hand through his hair. “I know it’s just— it’s a long story, doll.”

Again, it just slips out. Instead of wanting to push the word back into his lips this time, though, he wants to punch himself in the mouth. Doll? Really? He watches as her eyes blow wide, his stomach sinking when her pink lips peel apart again, her jaw going slack but none of her honeyed words coming out this time. Fuck, fuck, fuck.

Immediately he begins running through apologies in his head. Of course none of them are actually worth their weight— not in gold or anything else. Not even in the energy it would take to say them. What’s he supposed to say? Sorry the last time I spoke to a woman was eighty years ago. That would be even more explaining. Damnit, Bucky!

He tries not to groan out loud, clenching his jaw, still staring into her eyes. Look away, you idiot! He can’t. He’s about to say something— or maybe he’s about to literally throw himself out the window, he isn’t exactly sure which is going to play out just yet— but before he can do either the delicate girl in the Caltech sweater speaks first.

“I— erm—” she squirms in her seat but her eyes stay latched on him the entire time— maybe she’s a fighter after all— “we have time?”

For a moment he just stares at her, lost in the way her nose scrunches, her lips pressing together like she’s the one who said something out of line. Like she, too, is contemplating punching herself in the face. That’s when he caves. It’s to save her from a broken nose. He repeats it like a mantra. He isn’t giving in because he’s weak, he’s giving in because it’s his job to make sure she’s safe— even from herself.

He takes a step forward, only now realizing he’s been standing in the middle of the room the entire time. Has he always been this fucking awkward? Nodding his chin towards the floor, the space in front of where she’s perched, he shoots her a look he can only hope resonates as something along the lines of ‘can I sit?’. She nods and he lowers himself to the ground in front of her, leaning against the side of the couch as gently as the super soldier can muster. Despite his efforts he still lands with a thud, the couch shifting backwards a couple inches. It’s not terrible— she only slightly flinches this time and he only kind of wants to bury himself alive.

“Not that much time—” he watches as her face drops, the way her her cheek twitches like she's sinking her teeth into it, and he hurries the rest of his sentence— “but if you ask—” he tries for a smile that feels more like the right side of his face seizing than anything— “then I’ll answer.”

He waits for a beat, his gaze locked on her hands which she pulls from her sleeves only to twist together again. He has to stop himself from looking down at his own hands— from thinking again about how fragile and delicate she is. He doesn’t have to look to know that both of her hands could fit in one of his. Especially his special hand. She hasn’t asked about it. A few times he’s caught her peeking at it, no doubt a million questions swirling behind those wide eyes of hers, but those are questions she has kept to herself. He wouldn’t blame her if she did ask, though— or if she was terrified.

“Alright,” his eyes flick back to her face, meeting her determined stare and avoiding the way his chest lightens, “deal.”

He nods.

“But—”

Oh no.

“You have to ask me things too. It’s only fair— that way we both know things about each other.”

It’s only fair. He doesn’t know what to say. Again. It seems that every time he feels like he’s beginning to figure her out he gets shoved on his ass. Literally— he is quite literally on his ass right now. All because of what? A little girl? A little girl with small hands and a stare worse than his?

A little girl who thinks he of all people deserves fair. He knew life was cruel but this is worse— this is evil.

“Ask away.”

* * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * *

“Wait, wait, wait— you can’t be serious!”

Her giggles sound more like music than laughter to him. Usually he hates music— the newer stuff at least, maybe Wilson was right; maybe he is an old man— but this is bearable. This is mesmerizing.

He glances up at her from over his shoulder, fighting the same smile that’s been threatening his lips for the better part of two hours now. He isn’t sure why exactly he does it. Maybe because he knows it would be nothing compared to hers. Maybe it’s because it doesn’t deserve to be compared to hers. He isn’t a religious man but it feels blasphemous to even suggest he could exist with a margin of the sanctity she exudes. He’s committed many sins— that he can say with certainty— but to propose that he is the same as her would be the worst one of all.

Of course, that doesn’t stop him from soaking up every pious laugh into his wicked skull— he isn’t a perfect man, after all.

“Deadly serious. Steve was pissed at me for weeks. How was I supposed to know she had a husband?” He is rewarded with more giggles, ones that set his chest on fire.

Is that what happens when demons spend too much time around angels— they start to burn?

She pulls the blanket she acquired around an hour ago over her face, muffling her laughter much to his dismay. “You could have asked her!”

Bucky lifts a shoulder before letting it flop back down again. “You’re right.”

This is how it has gone since he proposed she ask him questions. She asks him her question— usually something light and easy— favourite color, favorite food, what was the last thing he bought. That one threw him for a loop but he answered anyway— Chinese food. She had giggled at that. You don’t seem like a Chinese food kind of guy. She’s not wrong. That is usually what she does after the questions, though— giggles. Giggles and teases him. Tortures him. Same thing. He doesn’t even think she knows what she’s doing.

Then, of course, he asks her questions of his own. They’re pretty much the same— favorite animal, middle name, what Passadena is like. Warm and busy. That was her answer— he’s never been to SoCal so who’s to say whether or not she was telling the truth. He really doesn’t care. He was more paying attention to the timbre of her voice— the way she makes normal words sound important. He didn’t know he could be so enthralled listening to someone talk about a cat named mittens.

For the first hour or so it was questions like that. The easy, no commitment kind. He wouldn’t have minded if they had stayed like that but, as he kept answering, she had grown more and more confident. Honestly, he didn’t mind that either. It was interesting to watch as she became comfortable around him. Well, more comfortable than before— more comfortable than he would have thought she could be around a guy like him. Her knees eventually pushed out of that hoodie and she relaxed into the couch. It was strange— completely and utterly strange.

By the second hour she had braved the first of many hard questions. It wasn’t what he thought it would be— still nothing about his arm— it was nothing close to that, actually.

It was about his mother.

Maybe it wasn’t supposed to be a hard question but it was, unexpectedly so. His mother. He hasn’t thought about his mother in years. Longer. Decades. He wasn’t expecting to feel so guilty about it but there he was, feeling like his throat was being crushed, while describing to the tiny, lovely girl— who has just lost her own mother— his mother’s lily of the valley perfume. He assumed that’s why she asked— because she misses her mother. He doesn’t blame her. He just never thought that he would miss his mother, too, today.

The rest weren’t as bad as that one. They still made his jaw ache, sure, but not like that. The ones about Steve were the only ones remotely comparable. How did you meet him? What was he like? What’s your favourite story with him in it? That was the last question— the one that made her giggle herself into a half hanging, half sprawling position over the arm of the couch— the position she is currently in right now.

He doctored the answers a little bit— he figured now isn’t the right time to tell her he’s pushing a hundred and ten— but he kept the good parts. Like how Steve and he had run through the streets of Brooklyn that night— Steve without a shirt and him in nothing but a pair of boxers that he is pretty sure to this day had belonged to her husband— being chased by the New York police. Good times.

“What, erm, what was her name?” Her voice is extra gentle— airy.

She’s nervous or maybe out of breath. He can’t quite tell, she’s too flopped over to get a proper look. She’s breathtaking either way.

All of a sudden it’s extra hard to fight back his smile. “I thought it was my turn to ask a question.”

Sitting up, she pools back into her seat. She scrunches her nose at him but doesn’t object. He can see that she wants to, though. Her eyes hide nothing. Then again he’s been trained to read people— to see the minute tick of her jaw and the invisible pulsing of her pupils. Invisible to anyone but him. Invisible to anyone who isn’t a monster— the big, bad wolf. His borderline smile dies quickly and he can’t bring himself to search for it again. This is how it should be.

Bucky clears his throat, mulling over what to ask her next. His eyes drift over the tan hoodie, the frays on the cuffs and the fact that there are no strings, and, like that, he has an idea.

“What’s the deal with that hoodie?” He tries to make it casual but he really does want to know— it’s like four sizes too big, there has to be a story.

He tries to make it casual but she still sobers. Like her hands receding once more into the cuffs of her sweater, the last remnants of the giggly girl fade from his line of sight. He chases it as far as he can, watching as her fingers disappear completely and lingering just in case it’s only a fluke. But no, they don’t come back, and he wishes he could disappear with them.

“It was—” her tongue pokes out, swiping against her pink lip and making it shine— “it was my dad’s. He, uh, he went to Caltech too. Was part of their alumni.”

The super soldier nods, pulling his legs up as well, hoping that by copying her she’ll see it as a signal to keep going. He doesn’t want to speak over her and accidentally derail her thoughts. He wants to know about her dad— her whole family actually. Whatever is important to her, like the hoodie.

“We used to go to these big alumni dinners and he would talk at them. Families like us were invited I guess— like a thank you of sorts.” Her eyes take on a faraway look, still latched on his but glassy and distant, no longer actually seeing him. It’s a look he understands too well. “One time he pulled me on stage with him. I think maybe I was thirteen? He said—” she stops, swallowing so hard her throat bobs, and he has to shove his hand under his leg to keep from reaching out— “ah, I’m sorry. He said ‘this girl right here— this is my daughter! If you think I’m good at what I do then you should see her. She’s something I tell you— Gonna be the best this school has ever seen!’”

His chest tightens— not necessarily from her story but from the way her voice cracks, her soft tone becoming scratchy. She swallows again and he hates it. He hates that he can see tears ready to fall and he hates that she’s even here with him under these circumstances.

He hates that he’s still grateful to be here anyway, being the person who she tells her story to.

“Was he right?” He knows it isn’t his question but he has to say something— anything— to make this better. He has no idea if this is it but it’s worth a shot.

Her brows push together, her head tilting slightly to the side, much too elegantly to be normal— are all women this pretty or is it just her? She blinks, clearing some of the mist, eyes drawing over his face. She traces across his brows, down his nose, stopping on his lips for a pulse— like tracing out the rhythm to a song only she can discern. Everything she does is like music. It must just be her.

“What?” She doesn’t say it rudely; she says it like she didn’t hear him— like she was too far lost in the wonderland of her memory to hear anything— and his chest tightens even further.

“You said your father told everyone you were going to be the best— were you?”

He doesn’t take his eyes off of her, slowing his words and waiting for the recognition to creep in. It takes a moment but it does, the last of the glass evaporating into something else.

“I, uhm, I don’t know—”

“You do.” He presses— he can hear the edge of that something in her tone. The downplay is scribed over her feature— lowered eyes, flat mouth, trembling fingers— she wants to say something.

“What do you even know?”

About anything going on in my head— yeah, that’s not familiar at all.

Bucky doesn’t flinch when she hisses the words at him— partly because, despite the clear ice in her words, he doubts they came out as hard as she was hoping they would. Her voice isn’t made to sound wretched. He knows she could tell him the filthiest things— tear him down to the last peg, spit his name out like a curse— and she would still sound like an angel. That makes her dangerous— or at least it would if she didn’t already have tears welling up in those big eyes of hers again.

He flicks a brow, letting one corner of his mouth tick up, telling himself that it’s only for her peace of mind— to let her know that he isn’t angry at her. That he gets it. That sometimes he feels so fucking confused and hurt and scared that he, too, wants to hiss at people because at least then they leave him alone. Yeah, it’s only for her peace of mind.

“Try slamming the ‘you’ harder next time—” he draws the word out, exaggerating the motion while keeping his features a mixture of schooled and relaxed— “usually works out better.”

Her hands— which have been tangling over the collar of her hoodie— drop into her lap with a thunk, her eyes rolling. “Thanks.”

“You’re welcome— but you never answered.”

She shoots him a deadpan stare— well, sort of. She never actually stopped looking at him so her face just morphes from vexed to blank. So far it’s his least favourite expression— he would rather she just got angry. He’d rather see fire— or ice— than nothing.

“I thought it was my turn?” Doesn’t she know that the more she avoids the question, the more he wants to know the answer?

Bucky doesn’t let up— he will if she actually tells him to drop it but she hasn’t and he doubts she will— she’s too determined to win. “Consider it payment for your extra questions.”

He holds her gaze still, waiting for the moment she folds. It takes longer than he expects it would, sitting in silence with her eyes on him for almost three minutes. He almost breaks around two and a half minutes. The girl has a way of looking at him like she can see right into his head. Still, he holds, waiting, waiting, waiting until finally— there it is!

Light a light shining in the darkness, her mouth pulls into a merciful smile— well, if mercy means the coy glint in her eye, that is. “I was the best.”

The super soldier nods, finally letting his gaze drop. He doesn’t say anything— he doesn’t have to. His point has already been made. He never wanted to be right. He just wanted her to say it. Not for him but for herself. He doesn’t let himself mull over what that says about him. Nothing good. That’s the only answer. It says nothing good about him, the lengths he’s already willing to go to keep this soft, icy girl safe. Him, a monster. It only tells him that he’s selfish— but he already knew that. Those are thoughts for another time.

“Your turn.” He reminds her, leaning back against the arm of the couch, all but aware of the foot of space between his head and her hand which is scratching over the leather behind him.

There is no pause this time— no beat, moment, or minute. Just like that she’s back, moving on to the next topic, almost as though she has had the question queued for ages now, dying to know the answer. He supposes it’s only fair— she let him ask his questions.

“What was her name?”

Her voice lacks the airy note it had held the last time she asked, clearly over waiting, and he has to turn to the window to hide the way he finally cracks, his lips sloping up in a grin that’s both too alien and too familiar. It tastes too much like the old days— like peach schnapps and movie theatre popcorn. She’s not ready for that. He knows because he isn’t.

“Delores.”

_______________

Tag List: @xhollycowx @remembered-license @dumble-daddy @hellotvshowtrash @thesummerbucky (if i missed anyone I am so sorry please shoot me a message and I’ll fix it)

[minervacasterly]

TAMERLANE

“KIND solace in a dying hour! Such, father, is not (now) my theme- I will not madly deem that power Of Earth may shrive me of the sin Unearthly pride hath revell’d in- I have no time to dote or dream: You call it hope-that fire of fire! It is but agony of desire: If I can hope-Oh God! I can- Its founder is holier –more divine- I would not call thee fool, old man, But such is not a gift of thine. Know thou the secret of a spirit Bow’d from its wild pride into shame. O! yearning heart! I did inherit Thy withering portion with the fame, The searing glory which hath shone Amid the jewels of my throne, Halo of Hell! And with a pain Not Hell shall make me fear again- O! craving heart, for the lost flowers And sunshine of my summer hours! Th’ undying voice of that dead time, With its interminable chime, Rings, in the spirit of a spell, Upon thy emptiness – a knell.

I have not always been as now: The fever’d diadem on my brow I claim’d and won usurpingly- Hath not the same fierce heirdom given Rome to the Caesar –this to me? The heritage of a kingly mind, And a proud spirit which hath striven Triumphantly with human kind.

On mountain soil I first drew life: The misfits of the Taglay have shed Nightly their dews upon my head, And, I believe, the winged strife And tumult of the headlong air Have nestled in my very hair.

So late from Heaven –that dew- it fell (Mid dreams of an unholy night) Upon me –with the touch of Hell, While the red flashing of the light From clouds that hung, like banners, o’er, Appeared to my half-closing eye The pageantry of monarchy, And the deep trumpet-thunder’s roar Came hurriedly upon me, telling Of human battle, where my voice, My own voice, silly child! –was swelling (O! how my spirit would rejoice, And leap within me at the cry) The battle-cry of Victory! The rain came down upon my head Unshelter’d –and the heavy wind Was giantlike –so thou, mind!- It was but man, I thought, who shed Laurels upon me: and the rush- The torrent of the chilly air Gurgled within my ear the crush Of Empires –with the captive’s prayer- The hum of suiters –and the tone Of flattery ‘round a sovereign’s throne.

My passions, from that hapless hour, Usurp’d a tyranny which men Have deem’d, since I have reach’d to power; My innate nature –be it so: But, father, there live’d one who, then, Then =in my bouhood- when their fire Burn’d with a still intenser glow, (For passion must, with youth, expire) E’en then who knew this iron heart In woman’s weakness had a part.

I have no words –alas!- to tell The loveliness of loving well! Nor would I now attempt to trace The more than beauty of a face Whose lineaments, upon my mind, Are –shadows on th’ unstable wind: Thus I remember having dwelt Some page of early lore upon, With loitering eye, till I have felt The letters –with their meaning- melt To fantasies- with none.

O, she was worth of all love! Love –as infancy was mine- ‘Twas such as angel minds above Might envy; her young heart the shrine On which my ev’ry hope and thought Were incense –then a goodly gift, For they were childish –and upright- Pure –as her young example taught: Why did I leave it, and, adrift, Trust to the fire within, for light?

We grew in age –and love- together, Roaming the forest, and the wild; My breast her shield in wintry weather- And, when the friendly sunshine smil’d And she would mark the opening skies, I saw no Heaven –but in her eyes.

Young Love’s first lesson is –the heart: For’mid that sunshine, and those smiles, When, from our little cares apart, And laughing at the her girlish wiles, I’d throw me on her throbbing breast, And pour my spirit out in tears- There was no need to speak the rest- No need to quiet any fears Of her –who ask’d no reason why, But turn’d on me her quiet eye!

Yet more than worthy of the love My spirit struggled with, and strove, When, on the mountain peak, aone, Ambition let it a new tone- I had no being- but in thee: The world, and all it did contain In the earth –the air- the sea- Its joy –its little lot of pain That was new pleasure –the ideal, Dim, vanities of dreams by night- And dimmer nothings which were real- (Shadows- and a more shadowy light!) Parted upon their misty wings, And, so, confusedly became Thine image, and –a name- a name! Two separate –yet most intimate things.

I was ambitious –have you known The passion, father? You have not: A cottager, I mark’d a throne Of half the world as all my own, And murmur’d at such lowly lot- But, just like any other dream, Upon the vapour of the dew My own had past, did not the beam Of beauty which did while it thro’ The minute –the hour- the day- oppress My mind with double loveliness.

We walk’d together on the crown Of a high mountain which look’d down Afar from its proud natural towers Of rock and forest, on the hills - The dwindled hills! Begirt with bowers And shouting with a thousand rills.

I spoke to her of power and pride, But mystically –in such guise That she might deem it nought beside The moment’s converse; in her eyes I read, perhaps too carelessly- A mingled feeling with my own- The flush on her bright cheek, to me Seem’d to become a queenly throne Too well that I should let it be Light in the wilderness alone.

I wrapp’d myself in grandeur then, And donn’d a visionary crown- Yet it was not that Fantasy Had thrown her mantle over me- But that, among the rabble- men, Lion ambition is chan’d down- And crouches to a keeper’s hand- Not so in deserts where the grand The wild –the terrible conspire With their own breath to fan his fire. Look ‘round thee now on Samarcand!- Is not she queen of Earth? Her pride Above all cities? In her hand Their destinies? in all beside Of glory which the world hath known Stands she not nobly and alone? Falling –her veriest stepping-stone Shall form the pedestal of a throne- And who her sovereign? Timour –he Whom the astonished people saw Striding o’er empires haughtily A diadem’d outlaw – O! human love! Thou spirit given, On Earth, of all we hope in Heaven! Which fall’st into the soul like rain Upon the Siroc wither’d plain, And failing in thy power to bless But leav’st the heart a wilderness! Idea! Which blindest life around With music of so strange a sound And beauty of so wild a birth- Farewell! For I have won the Earth!

When Hope, the eagle that tower’d, could see No cliff beyond him in the sky, His pinions were bent droppingly- And homeward turn’d his softn’d eye. ‘Twas sunset: when the sun will part There comes a sullenness of heart To him who still would look upon The glory of the summer sun. That soul will hate the ev’ning mist, So often lovely, and will list To the sound of the coming darkness (known To those whose spirits hearken) as one Who, in a dream of night, would fly But cannot from a danger night.

What tho’ the moon –the white moon Shed all the splendor of her noon, Her smile is chilly –and her beam, In that time of dreariness, will seem (So like you gather in your breath) A portrait taken after death. And boyhood is a summer sun Whose waning is the dreariest one- For all we live to know is known, And all we seek to keep hath flown- Let life, then, as the day-flower, fall With the noon-day beauty- which is all.

I reach’d my home –my home no more- For all had flown who made it so- I pass’d from out its mossy door, And, tho’ my tread was soft and low, A voice came from the threshold stone Of one whom I had earlier known- O! I defy thee, Hell, to show On beds of fire that burn below, A humble heart –a deeper wo- Father, I firmly do believe- I know –for Death, who comes for me From regions of the blest afar, Where there is nothing to deceive, Hath left his iron gate ajar, And rays of truth you cannot see Are flashing thro’ Eternity- I do believe that Eblis hath A snare in ev’ry human path- Else how, wen in the holy grove I wandered of the idol, Love, Who daily scents his snow wings With incense of burnt offerings From the most unpolluted things, Whose pleasant bowers are yet so riven Above with trelliced rays from Heaven No mote may shun –no tiniest fly The light’nin of his eagle eye- How was it that Ambition crept, Unseen, amid the revels there, Till growing bold, he laughed and leapt In the tangles of Love’s very hair?”

-          from TAMERLANE & OTHER POEMS (posthumously July 1827) by Edgar Allan Poe

[thewarriorandtheking]

Catching Up

The Warrior Queen: The Warrior and The KIng - Book II

Chapter 10. Catching Up

***************************************

Kaylea awoke lying in her bed. She must have dozed off. She felt Thorin against her back, his arm around her waist. The walls were set to a grove of trees on Dorsai, the sky was just turning pink above the mountains on the far wall. She could feel Thorin was awake and put her hand over his, snuggling against him.

“What time is it?” Thorin asked. It had taken him a moment to remember where he was. He was sleeping in the most comfortable bed he had ever been in, but he was also in a grove of trees. Then he remembered, he was on a spaceship with the woman he loved and a giant orange cat who could read minds.

“The projection shows the time outside,” Kaylea replied. “It is an hour before dawn.”

Thorin sighed, he was so comfortable he did not want to move but he knew Kaylea never stayed still for long. This time she did not move immediately, just leaned back against him watching the dawn light grow stronger. Thorin looked around the room, there was not much personal about it. He had seen last night the walls opened up into all kinds of storage spaces: weapons, clothing, tools. There was a narrow desk along one wall and a table beside the bed, both without any kind of object or decoration on them. As he was looking at the desk a rectangular frame appeared on the wall, a blue light blinking in the corner.

A soft, melodious voice said something in a strange language. Thorin started, what was that? Kaylea answered in the same language. The blinking light stopped, the frame on the wall remained.

“Who was that?” He asked.

“That was the Ship,” Kaylea said. “This starship is run by a kind of machine that thinks, it can also talk.” Thorin knew what she was talking about, the ship’s computer. Pilot must have put that one in his head.

“But what was that, on the wall?”  

“Message from someone I do not feel like talking to today.”

Thorin shifted to look at her face. “You can do that? Talk to people across the stars?”

“Yes,” she turned her head to look at him. “I know, I put this off too long.”

Thorin lay back down, hugging her. “All these years, we could have been talking to each other,” he sighed. “I hope you are giving me something so I can send you messages when you leave.”

Kaylea arched her back against him. “That, and a few other things,” she said.

“Are you giving me a rifle, my love?” He whispered in her ear, now he knew what they were called. “I will make it worth your while.” He moved his hand down between her legs.

Kaylea laughed, taking hold of his hand and bringing it back up to her chest. “No. If I give you one of those you will start building them and all Blackwolf’s work to protect this place will be undone. Not to mention he will have my head on a plate.”

Thorin sighed, tightening his arm around her. It got him thinking about the projectiles. Most of the weapon he understood, the barrel would be very hard to make but not impossible. What stumped him was the projectiles. How to move them down the barrel?

“Is this really how you live? I think your quarters in Erebor have more decoration than these,” Thorin told her.

Kaylea chuckled. “You do realize this whole ship moves? You cannot leave loose things lying around,” she reached over and touched the wall next to the bed. A drawer slid out, she reached into it and stood up a photo of Thorin she had taken in Erebor. “You are right here, my king.”

Thorin smiled. “So, you sleep with my portrait beside your bed, as I sleep with yours,” he said. “Do you also dream of the day I wake up beside you every morning?”

“I try not to dwell on things that may never come to pass,” she replied. When Thorin started to reply she put a finger on his lips. “You promised to think about all I have shown you. Do not speak until you do.” Kaylea rubbed his arm. “I suppose we should get up, we have a long ride today. Let me show you what I really miss when I am in Middle Earth.”

She took him to the bathroom and showed him the shower. After explaining the control panel and how the dispensers worked, she turned it on. Thorin grinned widely, feeling the warm water, now that was a great idea. He stepped into the spray and pulled Kaylea in with him. When they were clean, which took a bit longer than it might have, Kaylea hit the dryer switch and held her head under the fast dryer, then moved so Thorin could do the same. All she needed to do was add some oil to her braids and she could go a few days without having to redo them. When Thorin stepped out he looked back at the shower, as if fixing the idea in his mind.

“I am definitely building one of those,” he said with a grin. “Clean and dry in less time than it takes to draw a bath.”

Kaylea had put on her leggings and tunic, when Thorin was dressed they went out to the kitchen where there was already coffee waiting. Kaylea poured them each a cup and took them to the bridge to watch the sunrise. It would be some time before the sun hit the valley the ship was parked in. Kaylea touched the console and a small screen appeared filled with some kind of writing. She scanned it briefly before turning to Thorin with a smile. He was sitting in the chair where Pilot had been yesterday, being careful not to touch anything.

“We still need to do some catching up,” Kaylea said. “If it is not too painful to tell, I would like to know what happened to your wife.”

Thorin took a deep breath, remembering. “As I said, it is an old grief now. She traveled to visit her family every couple of years, she loved to ride ponies and was always jealous of that horse from Rohan that I had. One year a trader came up from the south with some small horses, I bought one for myself and she persuaded me to buy one for her. She rode him to visit her parents that year and used to ride him often around the Lonely Mountain. One day she was out riding. Durin was with her, he said her horse spooked at something on a narrow trail and reared up, fell over backward right on top of her and they both rolled a hundred feet down the mountain. I believe she was killed instantly. As I said, there was nothing anyone could have done.”

Kaylea shook her head. “Durin being there explains his dislike for me. He was there when his mother died and now he thinks you dishonor her memory by trying to replace her.”

Thorin looked down into his cup, shaking his head. “I am not trying to replace her, how can he not see that? And he knew she had a lover, the same as me.”

Kaylea sighed. “One does not often have control over one’s feelings. Your other son has a tremendous crush on me, and Freya likes me, so that makes it two out of three.” She looked out the viewscreen at the dawn breaking over the hills. “You know this war I have been talking about is very close now, it may start any day.”

Thorin nodded. He told her about a messenger that had come to Erebor from the Dark Lord promising the return of three of the Dwarven rings in exchange for information about a Halfling named Baggins and a ring he carried. Kaylea listened intently, then told him the story of how Bilbo came by the ring in the caverns under the Misty Mountains.

“I cannot believe Bilbo Baggins of all people is in possession of the One Ring!” Thorin said, shaking his head. “Turns out he was quite the burglar after all. Is this why you are here now? Is there a plan to keep it safe?”

She nodded. “Yes, that is Gandalf’s part. It does change things if Sauron is now looking for a Halfling, he must know something of the story of how it was found. I am here to investigate other rumors, it may be that some we looked to as allies in this fight have changed their allegiances.”

Thorin looked out the viewscreen thoughtfully. “We could use more allies, not less.” He looked at her. “Do you think your Pilot can tell if my people still survive in Khazad-dum? It has been more than 30 years since we had any word from Balin.”

“You know I doubt any of his party are left alive,” Kaylea replied. “To attempt to retake Moria without a plan to deal with Durin’s Bane was absolute folly, as I told him. But we can ask Pilot. Where is he?”

“Pilot is outside the ship, sir,” came the reply in that melodious voice, speaking Khuzdul this time. Thorin started involuntarily, that voice from nowhere took some getting used to, as would most things in Kaylea’s world. Kayea said they could talk to him when he came back.

“Can you tell me more about is this Lord Blackwolf you serve?” Thorin asked. “You seem to know him well. Are you so certain he would not allow you to travel to Middle Earth when you want to? Even if you told him it was to see the man you loved?”

Kaylea looked sharply at Thorin. “He does not know about you,” she turned to face him. “If he knew I had another reason for coming to Middle Earth beyond the fact I love this planet and wish to defend it, he would probably ban me forever.”  

Thorin gave her a puzzled look. “Because I am a Dwarf?”

“Because everything Blackwolf does is about power. Knowing there is someone here I love is a weapon he could hold over me forever.”

Thorin looked at her gravely. “I assume there is some binding reason you serve this lord. He does not sound just or reasonable.”

“The Empire is a very different place than Middle Earth. To keep a hold on power there he must use every advantage, and he is very good at that,” Kaylea looked out at the mountains around them. “There is a lot of history between me and Blackwolf. Out there I command an elite fighting force, we are said to be the Emperor’s personal guard but we actually work for Blackwolf. He is the true power behind the throne. I trained long and hard to get where I am, dealing with Blackwolf is the price I pay to do what I was born to do.”

“Wait a moment,” Thorin frowned. “You said he was originally from Middle Earth, how did he get to the stars? Did he build himself a spaceship?”

Kaylea smiled. “There are other ways to travel to the stars. I do not believe he is the only Elven lord who knows how, just one of the few who has actually done it.”  

As they were talking Pilot came in and took a seat along the wall. He looked over at Thorin. “You seem to be adjusting well to all this, your majesty.”

Thorin smiled ruefully. “Thanks partly to you.”

Kaylea asked the Kzin what he could see in Moria. Pilot called up a map of Middle Earth on the screen and Thorin pointed out where Khazad-dum lay, astonished to see the land laid out from above in its natural formations. Both Mirkwood and Lothlorien were clearly visible, which helped him get his bearings. The Kzin studied the map for a time with a faraway look in his eyes.

“Goblins, more goblins, orcs, cave trolls,” Pilot closed his eyes. “Something nasty in the water at the western door. There is something…” His voice trailed off, he looked at Thorin. “I do not know, there is some kind of presence there I have not felt before, but it is faint. Sleeping perhaps, or waiting for something. I read no Dwarves.”

“I am sorry,” Kaylea said. “It is as I feared.” Thorin bowed his head. It was also what he had expected, but Balin had been one of his closest friends and advisors, and many of his people had gone with him. Kaylea and Pilot sat in silence with him for a time, to honor the fallen. When Kaylea moved again, she called up a window on the console and made some entries then got up and went to the far wall, taking something out of a slot. Thorin watched her curiously as she brought it over to him. It was a slim metal rectangle that fit easily into his hand, one side had a beautiful brushed finish the other looked like glass. “When you are ready, Pilot will take you through it,” she said, resting her hand on his shoulder. “I am so sorry, my king.” She picked up his coffee cup and went to refill it and make some breakfast.

Thorin was saddened to hear about his people in Khazad-dum, but in a way he had already done his mourning for Balin, he had known when he let him go to Moria that he likely would never return. He turned the thing Kaylea had given him over in his hands. “What is this?” He asked the Kzin. Pilot gave him a closed-lipped smile.

By the time Kaylea came back Thorin was already making a call to her. Her handheld which she had left on the console was chiming. She smiled and hit the receive key. Kaylea could not believe how fast Thorin picked things up, having a telepath there to seamlessly insert instructions in his head was part of it, but it was also his natural affinity for understanding how things worked. She had enabled only a few functions on the handheld she gave him, not wanting to return to Erebor to find electric lights and steam engines.

The two of them set out for Erebor later that morning. Kaylea had given Thorin two sets of the woven armor she used, much lighter and more comfortable than mail and no weapon of Middle Earth could pierce it. She also had let him choose a couple of axes from her armory. They were light, beautifully balanced and sharp as razors. Thorin would rather have had a rifle, but the ax was one of his favorite weapons. Dearest to his heart was the device she had given him, now he would be able to speak with her and see her when she was away from Middle Earth. He carried it in a pocket inside his tunic, he was already thinking about the case he would make for it.

On the way back they talked about what Kaylea’s life was like out among the stars. She told him that she was always working and unless he wanted to play the faithful husband waiting at home he would need to do the same training as her soldiers. The Sardaukar were organized into three-man teams, so if Thorin could pass the training he would become part of her team. She warned him the training was far from easy. Thorin just laughed.

“After all these years you still think threatening me with a challenge is going to stop me?”

“The Sardaukar are the toughest warriors in the galaxy. Training typically lasts three years and less than ten out of a hundred make it,” Kaylea replied gravely. “Some of them die.”

Thorin tightened his arms around her, bringing his lips close to her ear. “And I will graduate at the top of my class. All this time and you still do not know me.”

“I am only letting you know what you are getting into before you decide if you want to continue down this path with me. A few more things for you to think about, before you make your decision.”

As if that decision was not already made, Thorin thought to himself, tightening his arms around her. He would not let her go. He had known that since the first time he saw her in the sunset on the way to Rivendell all those years ago.

Read the complete adventures of The Warrior and The King on AO3 & FanFiction, author is akdogdriver. All three books now also on Wattpad. 

[artificialqueens]

Undone, Chapter 13 (Bitney/Courtney x Fame) - Stephanie/Veronica

A/N: Welcome to Chapter 13 of UNDONE, our slow burn Bitney lesbian AU. Here’s a link to the previous chapters.

Summary: Bianca makes Courtney an epic gown for Halloween, then finally joins her for Sunday Funday at The Abbey, where things get a little too real…(And Miss Fame has a bonus cameo.)

Thank you so much to our lovely beta readers: @kitschypixel , @sheofthethrone ,  @jillybean2314 <3

TW: This story deals with themes of emotional abuse, and since that can be subtle, we’re going to keep a general TW on all of the chapters, even when it seems like it doesn’t apply.

***

It’s probably not the best idea for Bianca to make Courtney’s Halloween costume - not with the mountains of work she has on her plate for the show. Because of course, she can’t bring herself to slap together something cheap and passable. She has to obsess over the design, worry about every detail, agonize over the fit, torture herself to make sure the finishing touches are all perfect.

The direction had been both very vague and very detailed, in typical Courtney fashion. ‘Sasha came up with the theme this year, and all she said was “inspired by your hometown.” And like, Brisbane is not inspiring so I was thinking something Sydney-ish? Maybe use the Opera House design? It doesn’t have to be literal though. Have fun with it! My other plan was just gonna be to dress as a koala so honestly, whatever you do...’

And when she pulls the gown out of the garment bag, seeing the delighted look on Courtney’s face makes it all worth it. She helps her try it on, relieved to see that it fits like a glove. She’d used the Opera House architecture as a structural element on the black corset top and headpiece.

“Well? What do you think?” Bianca steps back, turning Courtney towards the mirror so that she can see the full costume.  

Courtney looks in the mirror, mouth agape, and Bianca feels a surge of pride.

“This is like...I can’t believe I’m gonna waste it on Halloween. I want to wear it to the Met Ball.”

“Are you going to the Met Ball?!” Bianca gasps, and Courtney giggles, shaking her head.

“No, of course not.”

Bianca lets out a disappointed sigh.

“In what world am I famous enough to attend the Met Ball?” Courtney laughs.

“I dunno...you know people.”

“Yeah, maybe in another life,” Courtney says. “But a Halloween party at Rasputin will have to do for now.”

Bianca places the headpiece carefully into a box and then walks over to help her out of the gown.

“You sure you don’t wanna come?” Courtney asks.

“It’s not that I don’t want to. I just can’t do a party in the middle of the week right now,” Bianca says.

“Alright, well, everyone will be bummed. They keep asking when you’re gonna hang out again.”

“Next time,” Bianca says.

“You always say that,” Courtney replies with a slight chuckle.

Bianca zips the dress into the garment bag as Courtney pulls on her shirt. She takes a deep breath, her to do list weighing heavily on her mind.

“And I always mean it...cunt,” she deadpans.

Her snarkiness is met with a gleeful giggle, Courtney lunging forward and capturing her into a hug. She smiles, gazing up at Bianca with an expression that makes her want to claw the curtains down. Bianca clears her throat and steps away.

“So...yeah, I hope the dress is what you wanted.”

“Are you kidding? I’m gonna blow everyone away. Adore is going as a pregnant chola and Shea’s planning to wear a hot dog on her head or something. I think Pearl’s just planning to wear her sluttiest bathing suit? There’s no prize, but I’m gonna win anyway.”

“Glad to hear it.”

Courtney stands for a moment, wanting to linger but knowing better.

“I guess I should get out of your hair now, huh?” Courtney asks, cradling the garment bag like a baby

“Yeah, I have a ton of sewing to do. For like, my actual job.” A guilty look flashes across Courtney’s face, and Bianca quickly adds. “Not that I minded taking a break from all that. It was, uh, fun to have creative license.” She follows Courtney to the door, trying to stop the dogs from jumping all over her.

“Okay, well...thank you, again. It’s so beautiful. You’re the best.”

“Yeah, I fucking know that,” Bianca retorts with a smirk, leaning against the door frame. “Now get outta here.”

Courtney giggles and tosses an air kiss over her shoulder, and Bianca’s cheeks hurt from smiling as she closes the door, when a moment of mild panic flashes through her. “A ton of sewing” had perhaps been an understatement. She heads back inside, realizing that she’s about to have a hell-ride of a weekend playing catch-up.

She works for the rest of the day, only getting up from her work table to brew more coffee, ignoring the ache in her back, the way her vision occasionally starts to blur. She barely even notices the sun going down as she hunches over the sewing machine, having finished almost a full rack of alterations for next week’s shoot. She glances longingly at a bolt of velvet meant for one of the finale costumes she’s designing, promising herself for a break to start draping as soon as she’s done with Linda’s pants.

Jared pushes open the door, saying, “Hey stranger…”

“Hi, when did you get home?” Bianca barely looks up, not wanting to fuck up the seam.

Jared rolls his eyes. “Like three hours ago?”

“Sorry, I’ve been busy.”

“Yeah, I see that. It’s almost nine, aren’t you hungry?” Jared asks.

“God, yes,” Bianca sighs.

“So, then maybe you should take a break…”

Bianca takes her foot off the pedal and looks up gratefully.

“...and make us some dinner?” Jared smirks.

Bianca scoffs and goes back to her seam, muttering, “Ha ha, fuck you.”

Jared’s smug expression goes sour as he spits out, “That was a joke!” and slams the door behind him.

Bianca sighs, looking up at the ceiling for a moment before getting up to chase after him.

“Jared, wait…”

She finds him in the kitchen, opening drawers and then slamming them shut, looking for something he can’t seem to find.

“I’m sorry.”

“Where the fuck is the corkscrew?” he demands.

Bianca walks forward to retrieve it and hands it to him, trying to get him to look at her.

“I’m sorry, please. I know you were kidding but I’m just...I’m just stressed.”

“Whatever.” He opens a bottle of wine and starts to pour a glass, now looking more wounded than angry.

Bianca leans against the counter, asking softly, “You gonna pour some for me, too?”

He takes out a second glass and pours, looking at her with those hurt puppy eyes. When she reaches for the glass, he grabs her wrist and pulls her forward, burying his face in her hair.

“I just...I don’t understand,” he says. “You took all that time to make the costume for your friend, and now you’re mad at me because you’re stressed, and it’s not fucking fair.”

“You’re right.”

“I fucking miss you when it gets like this, and you know that, and so-”

“I know, I know,” Bianca wraps her arms around him. “I’m sorry. Let’s order some dinner.” She feels his body start to relax against hers and closes her eyes in relief.

***

With less than a week left in the season, Bianca has never felt more exhausted in her life. She’s been working over 18 hours a day to finish the costumes for the finale episode, and keep up with her normal workload. More, if she counts all the hours she’s put in at home.

She thought that today, at least, would bring a tiny bit of relief, and end to this seemingly endless election, one less thing to stress about. Instead, she’s in some kind of surreal dystopia - how the fuck could that man be president? It would be hilarious if it wasn’t so fucking awful. She goes through her usual morning tasks, trying to gain some tiny semblance of normalcy. Hoping that the mundane, familiar checklist will soothe her frayed nerves.

The door bangs open, startling her out of her thoughts. Courtney stands at the top of the stairs, hair in a messy bun, eyes red. She looks like she’s been crying all night.

“Hey,” Bianca says, wishing there was something she could say to make it better.

Courtney nods, dropping her bag on the ground and walking towards Bianca, looking so small and lost that Bianca can’t help but wrap her into a hug. Courtney holds on tight and begins to cry, face buried in Bianca’s neck.

“I know,” Bianca whispers, her own eyes feeling misty.

“How did this happen?” Courtney sobs.

“I don’t know…” Bianca rocks her, trying not to think about how soft her hair feels against her cheek. How warm her breath is. Using a national tragedy as an excuse for affection...that’s a new low for her. She feels gross, and begins to loosen her grip.

Courtney pulls away, sniffling.

“Fuck.”

“Yep.”

She rubs her eyes, taking a shaky breath.

“I have to go to hair.”

“Right.” Bianca touches her cheek softly, brushing away a tear, unable to stop from letting her fingers linger just a split second too long. “See you in a bit.”

“Yeah. Okay...Alright, I’m going.”

***

The wrap party was a welcome, much needed night for everyone to blow off some steam. But it’s possible that the combination of exhaustion and alcohol was not the best idea, because Bianca awakens on Saturday to one of the worst hangovers of her life, head pounding, stomach in turmoil.

She rolls over, wondering if she has the strength to get up and walk to the bathroom or if she should just vomit into the trash can by her bed. She notices that Jared’s left her some water and Alka-seltzer and feels a wave of gratitude along with her nausea.

It’s two hours later when she manages to sit up all the way, checking her phone, a smile pulling at the corners of her mouth when she sees the messages from Courtney.  

COURTNEY: Happyyyyy Hiaaaaatus…

COURTNEY: (You’re alive, right?)

COURTNEY: (Please be alive)

BIANCA: Ughhhhhhh

BIANCA: What the fuck happened last night?

COURTNEY: Um, I think you were like, a TINY little bit blackout :)

BIANCA: You don’t say

BIANCA: Omg I’m never drinking again.

COURTNEY: Bummer. Cause I was gonna invite you to Sunday Funday at the Abbey tomorrow.

BIANCA: Sure

COURTNEY: REALLY??????

BIANCA: I promised you I’d come next time!

COURTNEY: I thought you were lying!!!

BIANCA: No, I was just slammed during the season. We’re on hiatus. Bring on the mimosas

COURTNEY: <3 <3 <3 <3 <3

***

“B!” Courtney jumps up from her seat, racing over to the entrance to greet Bianca. Her eyes sweep over Bianca’s body, clad in a form-fitting sweater dress and tall boots, and she bites her lip, pulling her in for a tight hug.

“Hey,” Bianca says, a shiver running through her as Courtney takes her hand, leading her to their table.

“I honestly can’t believe you’re here,” she says, squeezing her fingers.

“I keep my promises,” Bianca replies, stomach doing a little somersault when Courtney tosses her a little smile.

When they’re almost at the table, Courtney leans in and murmurs, “I invited this cute couple I know so that you wouldn’t be the only straight person.”

“I’ve been to a gay bar before, Court,” says Bianca, rolling her eyes slightly.

“Ben! Jinkx! This is Bianca!”

“So now that your friend is here, are you gonna stop trying to steal my girlfriend?” Ben asks.

“Maybe,” Courtney says coyly, with a flutter of lashes.

“Hi, Bianca, nice to see you again.” Shea leans over to give her a hug.

“Yeah, you too. So what are we drinking?”

“Rum and fruit!” Sasha offers a sip of her mango mojito.

As they settle into their seats, Courtney fills Bianca in on their previous conversation, which was a dramatic retelling of the night that Ben and Jinkx met for the first time.

Courtney claims that she orchestrated the whole thing, “Giving Ben the benefit of my stellar game.”

Jinkx scoffs, chuckling. “Uh, sorry to break it to you, hon, but your game is as bad as his.”

“What?!” Courtney gasps.

“I could see them plotting from 3 tables away,” Jinkx explains.

“So, wait, why did you take me home?” Ben asks.

Jinkx casts a sideways look at him, head tilted, and shrugs. “You have a cute butt.”

“Hey, I’ll have you know that I have major game, okay? I was totally just fucking around,” Courtney insists.

“You have no game,” says Jinkx.

“I do so!”

“No. You don’t. You just have...all that.” Jinkx waves her hand around Courtney’s general vicinity.

“Charisma?” Courtney guesses with a flutter of lashes.

“No, sweetie. You’re hot. That’s your game. Being hot.”

“I am somehow...both deeply offend and totally flattered...” Courtney says, then looks over at Bianca, laughing into her drink. “Excuse me, what are you laughing at, ma’am?”

“I mean...she’s not wrong,” Bianca giggles.

“Oh, what do you know. I have game, alright? Maybe it just only works on lesbians.”

“Uh huh. That must be it,” Bianca deadpans.

“Hey losers,” pipes up a low voice, and Shea laughs.

“Hey Pearlie! Come sit. Thanks for joining...over an hour late.”

“It’s fucking Sunday, calm down,” Pearl says, settling into the booth. She nods hello to Jinkx and Ben, then does a double-take at Bianca. “Heyyy.”

“Back off, Pearl. She’s married,” Courtney says.

“When’s that ever stopped me?” Pearl asks, still leering at Bianca.

“And straight!”

“I repeat, when has that ever...Hiii, I’m Pearl, by the way.”

“Bianca.” Bianca lets Pearl take her hand, pretending not to notice Courtney’s clear irritation beside her. A tiny thrill ripples through her and she tosses her hair, flashing her dimples at the sleepy-eyed blonde. She doesn’t actually care about Pearl, but after months of seething silently while Courtney flirts with everyone around them, it’s a little fun to give her a taste of her own medicine.

The server appears just then with a tray of drinks, and Courtney sighs, immediately ordering another round before taking a sip.

“I thought you were a lightweight,” Bianca says.

“Yeah, well...Sunday Funday,” Courtney answers, toasting her with a flutter of lashes.

The drinks take effect quickly. By the time they finish their food, Courtney’s flirting even more impetuously than usual. Bianca can’t help but encourage her, dimples deepening at every teasing comment, biting her lip at every light touch.

Eventually, they all head to the dance floor, and though dancing is not high on Bianca’s list of preferred activities, she’s not prepared to turn down more opportunities to brush against Courtney in the crowd. Courtney barely breaks eye contact with her, even while being constantly interrupted by people who seem to know her - a bombshell redhead with gorgeous tattoos, a beautiful girl with legs for days that Bianca thinks she recognizes from the Rockwell, a go-go dancer on a pole trying valiantly to get her attention.

As they head up the steps for their next round, Courtney waves back to a woman on the opposite side of the bar, and Bianca shakes her head.

“How do you know everyone here?” Bianca wonders.

“‘Cause she’s a slut,” Shea offers, earning a light punch on the shoulder from her girlfriend.

“That is not how I would put it,” Sasha says, but Courtney shrugs.

“Eh, it’s fine. If the shoe fits…”

“Attagirl!” Shea laughs, sliding shots over to both of them.

Courtney raises her glass and Bianca follows.

“What are we toasting?”

“Ummm…” Courtney holds her gaze, head tilted, lips parted. “To keeping our promises.”

“Cheers,” Bianca answers simply, allowing Courtney to pull her back down the steps.

The dance floor slowly becomes more crowded, space between them shrinking to make room for more bodies. Temperature creeping up. Bianca’s cheeks burn as someone passes behind her, pressing her against Courtney, who gives her a slow, sexy grin.

Bianca swallows, the fluttery feeling in her belly being overtaken by a burning ache as Courtney’s hands brush against her hips. For a moment, it’s like she’s having an out of body experience, watching herself, alcohol buzzing through her veins, balance slightly off, leaning forward. She imagines what it would be like to close the short distance between them, to feel Courtney’s lips on hers, to press her against the DJ booth and tangle her hands in that soft blonde hair.

Courtney’s teasing smile fades for a second, looking at Bianca with so much intensity, so much expectation, that it causes Bianca’s heart to pound. Bianca inches closer still, feeling compelled by forces beyond her control.

And then it’s all over. Bianca’s eyes widen in alarm, realizing what she was about to do, booze-addled mind getting crystal clear for a second as she takes a step backwards.

“B…” Courtney begins, guilt rushing in, engulfing her like a tsunami.

Bianca merely shakes her head, stammering out a rushed apology, and bolts from the dance floor, swallowed up by the crowd so quickly that Courtney can’t possibly follow. Once outside, she leans against a concrete pillar, breathing heavily in the chilly evening air, self-loathing pushing all other thoughts out of the way - including the awful nagging feeling that makes her wish that she’d acted upon her desires.

*

Back on the dance floor, Courtney gulps, that hollow ache in her chest making her wince. Why does she always push things too far? Why can’t she just accept reality as it is, instead of trying to bend it to her selfish will?

She slinks onto the patio, spotting Fame at a cocktail table. Courtney grabs two half-empty glasses from a table beside her and sucks them down quickly.

“Classy,” Fame comments, chuckling.

“Don’t judge me,” Courtney snaps, finding anger easier to express than the turmoil and guilt swirling in her chest.

“I’m not.” Fame holds up her hands.

“I’m sorry,” Courtney sighs, deflating as fast as a popped balloon, head on her arms. “It’s been...a weird day.”

“Hmm. Where’s your friend?”

“What friend?” Courtney tries to feign innocence, eyes wide.

Smirking now, Fame takes a sip of her own cocktail and signals to the waiter.

“Hi,” she coos. “Two more double tequilas, please.”

“I don’t know if that’s-” Courtney begins to protest, but stops talking as Fame slides her own drink across the table.

“Come on, baby. Let’s turn the night around.”

Forty minutes later, Courtney finds herself so drunk that she can barely stand, cheeks stained with tears from weepy self-pity, crammed into a stall in the ladies’ room as Fame’s fingers slide into her panties.

All she wants is to feel something, something other than this endless cycle of hope and rejection and guilt. She wants, she needs, to feel something good, even if it’s bullshit - even just for a second.

“Ugh, I can’t believe we’re doing this in here. It’s so trashy,” she moans, arching into Fame’s fingers, digging her nails into her shoulder.

“I know, we’re the worst,” Fame says, biting her neck. One hand braces her hip against the wall as she fucks her, sucking a row of angry marks along her collarbone.

Courtney comes hard and quick, so much tension leaving her body that she nearly slides to the floor. Fame catches her, laughing.

“Feel better?”

“Um...” Courtney pants, leaning on her shoulder for support, ignoring the ‘no’ echoing in her head, the self-loathing that never left, that may actually be worse now that it was before, and says, “Yeah. Thanks.”

***

Avoiding Courtney has been easier than Bianca thought it would be.

First of all, there were the holidays. Thanksgiving with her family in New Orleans, where things got fairly dicey when she got hammered on red wine and spent hours stalking Courtney on social media. Jared was clueless as usual, but her sisters? Not so much. Vanessa goaded her into spilling way too much, and in the morning, that sick, sick feeling was back. So she did what she always did. Pushed her feelings down and denied everything.

And then in December, Courtney was in Toronto shooting a Lifetime movie, and by the time she got back to town, Bianca was already in St. Barts, coping as best she could with Jared’s family. Every time his mother interrogated her about her fertility (or lack thereof), she dealt with it by posting another generic Caribbean beach photo or close-up of a flower. To the point where Courtney posted a teasing comment, asking her if she was working for a stock footage company. Bianca hadn’t been able to help herself, replying quickly. No chill whatsoever.

Bianca Del Rio: Shady

Courtney Hamilton: I miss your face. Post your FACE!

Her next photo was a selfie, face catching the orange glow of the setting sun. With the caption, ‘There. Happy?’

Courtney’s reply, a row of heart eyes, was nearly immediate. Bianca still remembers the mild elation of getting into a public exchange with her. It felt dangerously good, but reinforced the reason Bianca was trying so hard to hard to limit their interactions.

Once she was back in town, she spent a few weeks coming up with excuses to turn down every invite, and by the end of January, her resolve was gone.

The Women’s March seemed like a benign occasion for catching up. In broad daylight, with a big group of Courtney’s friends and hundreds of thousands of other people...that would be safe, right? So Bianca had agreed to come, making it clear that she would not be wearing one of those hideous pink hats.

She paces around in front of the coffee shop where they’re going to meet, taking a moment to gather her thoughts.

She is, of course, excited to see Courtney again. That ever-pervading fluttery feeling she gets whenever they‘re together. The joy she feels making her laugh, the way her smile seems to shine just a little bit brighter for Bianca than for anyone else. But then, on the other hand, there’s also the unresolved tension from the last time - Bianca fleeing in the middle of a song, knowing that if she stayed, it would have turned into something she was altogether unprepared for.

Maybe it’s selfish. Trying to hold onto the parts of their relationship that make her feel good while ignoring the parts that fill her with guilt. She knows, deep down, that the smart thing to do would be to stop socializing, keep things light and professional and force herself to move on from this perverted little fantasy.

And it’s been so long. She optimistically wonders if maybe, perhaps, her confusing feelings will have dissipated. Maybe this time, she’ll see her and feel only friendship. Camaraderie. After all, today is supposed to be about empowerment, right? She takes a deep breath and goes inside.

But the second Courtney looks up at her, Bianca’s chest fills with both excitement and dread. Courtney races toward her, wrapping her into a hug that’s too tight, too long, too deliciously warm, but Bianca doesn’t resist.

All things considered, it’s an inspiring day, and Bianca loves seeing Courtney so enthusiastic. She finds herself glancing over at her more and more frequently during the speeches, enamored by her passion, her exuberance, her cheeks flushed pink in the chilly air.

Later that night, when Bianca is back home, when the excitement has faded, she leans against her kitchen counter and drains glass after glass of pinot noir. As the TV drones in the next room, she clutches her glass, wishing that she could be satisfied with what she has, instead of aching for something impossibly out of reach. The memory of Courtney’s dazzling smile, which filled her with joy mere hours earlier, now feels like a knife in her gut.

“B! Get in here! You’re missing the best part!”

“Coming!” Bianca calls to Jared, downing the last gulp of wine in her glass. She finds Jared sprawled on the couch, oblivious, and sits down beside him.

“There you are.” Jared pulls her closer, kissing her neck, and Bianca squirms away. Her thoughts right now are too confusing, too overwhelming, to let him touch her. “What’s the matter?”

“Nothing, I just…” Bianca trails off, unable to explain.

“Come on, B, you’ve been gone all day. Didn’t you miss me?”

Bianca swallows, guilt blooming in her chest, making it hard to breathe.

“Yeah, of course.” Bianca leans against him, no longer resisting.

“It’s almost Game Day, isn’t it?”

Bianca rubs her eyes, letting out a dry chuckle.

“Um, maybe, I’m not…”

Jared laughs, pushing her onto her back.

“You’re wasted,” he says, a glint in his eye.

“No, I’m just, uh...it was a long day. I had a little wine.” Bianca sighs, eyes falling closed.

“Well, don’t worry, baby, I’ll do all the work...”

She considers resisting for a moment, shoulders tense as he pulls off her PJ bottoms, but then imagines the fight that would inevitably follow, the explanations she doesn’t have, the words she can’t say out loud. She sighs slightly, trying to relax.

“You like it when I take charge, huh?” Jared murmurs against her neck, sinking his teeth into her skin, laughing a little at her whimper in response. “See? Sometimes you can let me be the boss.”

“Jared-”

“What?” His voice is sharp, challenging. His eyes bore into hers, making her heart pound with fear.

She forces a laugh, shaking her head.

“Nothing. Keep...keep going.”

A smile spreads slowly across his face as he grips her hips tightly.

“Thought so.”

***

Courtney takes Bianca’s face in her hands, a thumb brushing softly over her lips. She’s in no rush, wants simply to savor the moment, the feel of her skin, the weight of her body pressing down.

She moves closer, feeling warm breath on her face, lips millimeters apart. She can tell when Bianca smiles just from the feeling of dimples against her fingers, and opens her eyes, pulling back a little to look into her eyes.

Seeing her smile, she feels lit up from within. She gazes at her beautiful face for as long as possible, as long as she can stand being this close without kissing her properly.

When their lips meet, it’s gentle at first, teasing. She relishes the taste of Bianca’s lips, arching up against her as the kiss deepens, hands tightening in her hair. It isn’t long before they are both breathless, panting. As Bianca grinds down against Courtney on the bed, she layers kisses down her jaw, nibbling at her neck. Courtney lets out a sound halfway between a whimper and a moan, making Bianca suck harder on her tender skin.

Courtney inhales sharply as Bianca’s hand drifts down, stroking her slowly, toying with her until she’s dripping wet and begging for mercy.

And then Bianca lifts her head for a second, gazing down at Courtney, blue eyes dreamy with lust. Her fingers are moving faster now, firm and insistent. Courtney continues to arch up against her, moaning softly as she comes.

She pulls Bianca’s face down again, lips grazing her ear as she whispers, “I love you...”

Courtney’s eyes flutter open, and she groans slightly to herself, shutting off the vibrator and placing it on the edge of the bathtub. Detailed sexual fantasies are not new for her, but gooey romantic feelings certainly are.

She sinks down deeper into the water, filled with shame.

[365daysofsasuhina]

[ 365 Days of SasuHina || Day Seventy-Seven: Essence ] [ Uchiha Sasuke, Hyūga Hinata, Uchiha Fugaku ] [ SasuHina, blood, death ] [ Verse: River Runs Deep ] [ AO3 Link ]

“Is it really worth all the fuss? You know how difficult it was for us to traverse those mountains as a group. Surely a singular man stands no chance - I say let the deserter run. He’ll be dead by morning in those cursed peaks.”

Dark eyes stare ahead as the advisor speaks.

“We nearly lost your younger son to them! Would you risk losing anyone else?”

“The knowledge any one of us possesses would wreak havoc in the wrong hands. A traitor bears secrets that are weapons to our enemies. We came north seeking freedom, and we’ve found it. But now that we’ve settled...someone’s turn tail and takes our location with them. Should they find another clan to bargain that information to...it will ruin the peace we’ve sought and found. I will risk a scout for the good of us all.”

“...and who would you send, Fugaku-sama?”

Seated atop a stump in his tent as his people only just begin to settle, the man takes a moment to think. “...you said it yourself. Those peaks nearly claimed my son, but he conquered them alone. Avoided enemies, kami, yōkai...if anyone has better odds to do so again, it would be he.”

“You would risk your heir -?!”

“You forget I have another son yet. Older.”

A tense silence falls as Fugaku dares him to refute it. He knows well the opinion of his ill elder son, Itachi. Anyone who dares question him is aptly punished.

“...of...of course, Fugaku-sama. Forgive me, Fugaku-sama.”

“You are forgiven. Fetch Sasuke. I will give him his task.”

Unable to ignore a summon from his father, Sasuke enters the tent of his commander and sits, head bowed. “You called for me?”

“I have a mission for you, of the utmost importance. One of our own has abandoned us, and retreated into the mountains now to our south. I want you to find him...and kill him. None abandon the Uchiha and live to tell the tale. I will not let his knowledge fall into enemy hands.”

Face still turned to the floor, Sasuke nevertheless feels his eyes widen. The mountains…? But…

“You traversed those cursed peaks unharmed, and alone. If anyone can find and end this man - ensure he speaks to no one - it would be you, my son.”

Pride stoked at the title, Sasuke shifts to bow. “...as you wish, otōsama. It will be done.”

Though he still has his doubts about kami and monsters, Sasuke can’t help but feel...nervous. He was warned to avoid the peaks once. Told that a return would mean his death. But his family has fled their persecution...if someone rats them out, it may be their end. He has to take this risk. As long as he ends the traitor first...that’s all that matters.

And he may yet avoid the misty vale.

Gearing up for his journey, Sasuke leaves on foot, refusing a horse. He won’t risk breaking a slender equine leg on the treacherous paths. It would only be a waste. Staring up at the fog-bathed peaks from the foothills, he finds his prey’s tracks...and begins.

The loose rocks and gnarled roots of the camphor trees make every step a gamble - any moment, one wrong move could send him careening back down the mountainside until gravity deems him ready to stop. Sword at his hip and bow along his back, Sasuke alternates between carefully treading, and ensuring he’s still on the turncoat’s trail.

It’s not until dusk that he finds what he’s looking for.

Rounding a bend in the beast-made path he’s been following, Sasuke pauses as he notices freshly-turned soil, and broken tree branches. It doesn’t take much to guess what happened: the man stumbled, knocked loose stones, and tried to grip the trees...only for their limbs to snap. Bracing his weight back carefully after tying a rope around an obliging trunk, Sasuke rappels down only a few feet before seeing the aftermath.

At the bottom of the small ravine, wedged deep and partially buried by stone, is his man. Blood has splattered over the sides - clearly he impacted more than once. There’s no moans of pain, no stirring of living limbs. A few ravens already begin feasting on what’s lost.

He’s dead. And with him, any chance of his clan’s exposure.

Head bowing with a relieved sigh, Sasuke hauls himself back up, recoiling his rope and staring out ahead.

...something about this spot feels...familiar.

Though pushing his luck, he decides to go just a bit further. Besides, it’s nearly dark - he’ll have to wait out the night either way. If the path is dangerous in the daylight and mist, it’s a death sentence in the dark.

Cautiously cresting the small uprise of earth, Sasuke pauses as the winds afford him a clear view forward, fog carried aside for just a moment.

This is it. The path down to the valley.

Unbidden, his heart leaps into his throat. He refuses to call it fear, but...he is wary. This place - a miracle to be found twice - is not one welcoming. Even now, he easily recalls the threats.

“It is she who keeps us safe. And it is by your grace she allows you passage. She could have ordered you killed.”

“And who here, in a place without swords, would kill a swordsman?”

“She would. With tooth and claw. Then, perhaps, you would believe.”

He’s never believed in gods - not reverently. While he’d never press his luck and seek to anger one - he’s not a fool - nor does he put his faith in them.

...but that sound...it hadn’t been anything human. Nor like any beast he’s met. It was...something else.

But a god? Surely it’s not possible…

All the while, he weighs his options. To sleep on a loose-stoned mountainside is dangerous. But trespassing back into a village he was warned to never return to may be just as perilous. The miko - Hinata, was that her name? - told him none there carry blades. Surely none of the people would be a viable threat.

...but what if there’s something...inhuman?

Making up his mind, he decides to compromise. Make his way to the valley floor, but avoid the village. Find flat, stable land, sleep for the night...and head back home in the morning. He can follow the traitor’s trail backwards to camp.

Simple.

The path is steep, narrow, and growing dark. Through the trees he goes until finding where the land levels.

He doesn’t see the gate...but he feels a strange spark along his skin, like walking through a spiderweb laced with lightning.

...some kind of...tripwire?

In the distance, thunder sounds. Or...it mimics thunder. The air grows heavy. Night seems to fall all at once. And a deluge of rain dumps like buckets overhead, weighing the canopies above him until they offer no shelter.

Panic.

Heart pounding in his chest, Sasuke draws his blade, pressing his back to a trunk. Black eyes flicker back and forth in the darkness, able to see only hints of silhouettes as moonlight struggles to break through. A hand spares to mop back the wet lengths of his hair before gripping his sword again, hold shaking.

Then thunder claps again, closer this time...but it isn’t thunder. A roar, mighty and strong, echoes in his chest like a taiko drum and startles him to a strange stillness. Something heavy lands nearby, and the earth thrums as a beast of legend growls in anger.

“Trespasser…”

Trembling but still holding his blade, Sasuke struggles to see. Every so often, a small beam of moonlight reflects off shimmering scales that rustle like leaves in a dry summer wind, faintly heard over the sounds of pouring rain. Footsteps - heavy with purpose, and yet light with grace - seem to shake the ground.

Then out of the darkness, like a spark from flint, a lantern simply...appears, held aloft before him, but away. Facing him is the miko’s back, long curtain of dark hair sleek with rainwater.

Illuminated in her sphere of light is the dragon.

Scales of silver and ivory glint alongside moonstone antlers, quicksilver eyes sharp as pupils shrink in the light. A white mane still ebbs and flows like tall grass in a breeze, unburdened by the weight of water. A long slender neck arches and bows to hover a snake-like snout mere inches from the priestess’ brow.

“Please, O-Suigin-sama...don’t kill the wanderer.”

Sasuke stares at her back, eyes wide and breath rushing. She’s...defending him? Why? It was she who bore the god’s warning! Why defy it?

“You said when you found me that this is the place of the lost, the forgotten, the abandoned and the seeking. When he first discovered us, he was lost, but did not raise his blade. You gave your warning. He left. Against all odds, he has found us again.”

The god stares.

“You told me I bear the all-seeing white eyes. No truth lies hidden from me. And I can see the essence of this man - his heart is laid bare. He is not our enemy! I obeyed your wishes...I urged him to leave. But fate entangles all men. Surely...he was meant to return, if it went against the wishes of a god.”

Nostrils flare as the beast exhales plumes of vapor. “...I will not kill him. But none may linger who may yet leave. He carries the truth of this place...it cannot be known to one outside this valley’s walls. It invites danger…”

“...O….O-kami-sama,” Sasuke implores, slowly raising his hands in surrender before sheathing his blade. “...I mean you no harm, and no disrespect. I know your fear...it’s what brought me here. One who betrayed my kin risked the same danger. He knew of our hiding place. And I came here to stop him. I know well the weight of the knowledge of a secret. I give you my word on my honor: I have no intention to bring your people harm. I only sought refuge from the peaks. Come morning, I will return...and your secret will be safe with me.”

In a gesture of sincerity, Sasuke swallows his pride and kneels, bowing his brow to the wet grass, braced on his palms.

Both miko and kami stare at the gesture before the former turns to the latter. “...O-Suigin-sama…”

Serpentine eyes blink slowly. “...how odd you are, wanderer. None here found their way...I brought them. You alone have stumbled upon my eden...and you alone seek to leave. You were willing to kill for your secret...as am I.”

The miko moves to speak, but is cut off.

“I chose my miko carefully - she has eyes that see both worlds. If she tells me you are to be trusted...I in turn will trust her. But know this knowledge is heavy with souls. It is here I gather those otherwise unwanted by men. I keep them...they are mine and mine alone, tossed aside by their kin. I will let no harm befall them. If you have found this place - not once, but twice - perhaps my miko is right. Perhaps...fate ties you here.

“Someday... you will be the lost, the forgotten, the abandoned and the seeking…”

Not knowing what else to say - wanting to refute it, but feeling weight in his chest at her words - Sasuke doesn’t reply.

“Bring him to the village. Give him what he requires...then release him come morning. We shall see what path this wanderer takes...and if the vale lies at its end.”

With that, the serpentine dragon coils before leaping skyward, rippling like a ribbon and disappearing into the mist.

“...come. You’ll catch your death in those wet clothes.”

As though heeding her, the rain slows...and then stops.

Still shaken, Sasuke finds his feet, following. “...why did you defend me?”

“Because I meant what I said.”

“You were so distrustful before.”

“Because it is as O-Suigin-sama says: none had found their way here until you. I was...frightened, and wary. But to do so twice assures me: you are meant to know this place.”

“What is...the all-seeing white eye?”

“That is a tale for another time...but it gives me sight into both worlds. The plane of men, and of gods. I know truth without fail. I am O-Suigin-sama’s eyes.” The miko’s head bows. “...she took me when no others would. The people she brings to the valley are those between the planes - abandoned by men, rejected by gods. She gives them what they need. She heals them. Here we are safe...here we are wanted.”

Something in her words strikes a knowing in him.

He’s led to the same small, empty house. “A meal will be brought, and spare clothes. Supplies will be gathered for your journey back. And remember...tell no one of us. Not your most trusted kin. Do not abuse our trust in you.”

“...very well.”

     Oh golly it's late and I'm tired, but...this is done?      This is technically a follow up to day sixty, and...well, just like that one, I'm not sure if I like this one either, haha - at least, I don't know if I pulled it off like I wanted, but...today was a long day, and I couldn't start writing until pretty late. Add in having NO ideas for this until even LATER, and...well, you get this.      Miko (at least, OLD miko) are SUPER interesting, and I honestly need to read up on them more. They convened with gods and in some cases were said to marry them. They had visions, performed rituals...I love their lore, and I borrow it both here, and also for witchy lore in my Nightwalkers universe! While I'm far from an expert, hopefully I did okay with her here - I didn't have time to look things up / refresh my memory.      So yeah, Sasuke's found himself a little tangled up in two worlds: that of his human clan, and now a strange village that seems to exist in-between, featuring a character of my own, though...in a different form than typical. I reference her in a lot of things, actually - she's just typically actually human most of the time, but this is meant to be her god / kami verse. So she gets a little spotlighting in this one, though I try not to focus on her too much, since this challenge is about SasuHina!      ...anyway, I'm rambing really bad cuz I'm tired, so I'll stop here lol - thanks for reading!

[evolutionsvoid]

For some, this entry may seem a little odd. All my other writings focus on the beasts and creatures of the wilds, species that roam the jungles, mountains and fields. Each entry a daring tale of majestic fauna and daunting adventures! Stories of bizarre encounters and incredible observations! Then all of a sudden I am here talking about simple livestock, how mundane! I would, however, ask that you stay with me and read on! For even the simplest of creatures and dullest of species can be a source of wonder and fascination! Yes, even mere livestock can lead to wonderful tales and moving messages! At least I think so. I am not really sure. What was I going on about again? Ah, right! Nectar Cows! Nectar Cows are large insects that share ties to the tiny, pesky aphids. It is honestly hard to believe at times that these creatures are even related! To think that something that is about the size of a cow can be so close to those little terrors! Oof, it is already making my bark itch thinking about them! Regardless, Nectar Cows belong to the same family, but have obviously gained some unique traits. As stated before, they have grown to massive sizes, rivaling that of an ox or bull! Despite this mass of theirs, they are herbivorous creatures who prefer grass, leaves and shoots. This leads to the next key difference, which is the fact that they have developed chewing mandibles. Other aphids have sucking mouthparts which are perfect for piercing the dermis of a plant and feeding on its juices (and perfect for being an absolute pest! I swear I could bathe in vinegar and still not be free of them!). Due to their large size, this type of feeding is a bit inefficient, so they go with the chewing route! With their mouths pointed downwards, Nectar Cows graze upon grass, brush and young plants, snipping them into bite sized pieces and pulverizing them in the back of their throats. They will also feed on vegetables and fruits that are on the ground, though they prefer ones that are more solid and crunchy. It seems that squishy, wet fruits are difficult for them to grab and chew without them falling back onto the ground. If you ever want to give a snack to a Nectar Cow, stick with things like apples, potatoes and carrots! They love those! Since they are grazing herbivores, Nectar Cows take life rather slowly. Their pace can be sluggish at times, and they never really seem to be in a hurry. All that matters to them is that there is food below them, and if there isn't, then it is time to take a few steps to a fresher patch. With such a slow lifestyle, one can imagine that they would be targets for predators. This is true, but Nectar Cows are not defenseless! First is their thick exoskeleton, which shields them from the front and top. Tooth and claw will have a difficult time piercing this sturdy armor, but crafty attackers may choose to approach from the bottom, going after the exposed abdomen. To help prevent that from happening, the Nectar Cow possesses specialized hind legs. As you may notice, these insects possess large, hooked claws on their back feet, which they use as weapons. When a foe attacks from behind, the Nectar Cow will hunker down with its front two pairs of legs and then kick back with their hind ones. This kick will cause the hooked claws to move in a slashing motion, which can slice into foes or even impale them. Those foolish enough to bother an agitated Nectar Cow may stumble away with a nasty gash, if they are lucky. Unfortunately, this defense only works for their rears and nowhere else. Fortunately, though, they have another tool at their disposal! 

Due to their herbivorous ways, Nectar Cows encounter a lot of plants that do not wish to be eaten. There are plenty of species out there that contain bitter flavors, toxic sap and poisonous chemicals. This is meant to deter herbivores, but the Nectar Cow is not easily put off. They are capable of munching through these defenses without pause, taking these noxious juices and storing them in special sacs. These sacs are located all over their body, positioned right below their numerous siphuncule. These hard tubes can be found on their backs and all over their face plates, as they are positioned for defense! When a predator or unwelcome guest comes stalking close, the Nectar Cow will tighten its body and spray a misty cocktail of nasty fluids! Often this discharge is sharply bitter in smell and extremely nasty in taste. I once got hosed in the face with this mist of theirs and I can confirm it is quite disgusting! The taste is like if you took a copper piece, dipped it in a light acid and then stuck it in your mouth. Burning, sharp and somewhat metallic. I definitely would not recommend trying it! Often this spray is more than enough to scare away enemies, and it can even ward off the farmers who raise them! Thankfully, this spray is reliant on the food they eat, so wise farmers will feed them plants and vegetation that do not contain these foul fluids. The other thing to keep in mind is that this spray is not endless. They must eat to replenish their stocks, so if you bait them into discharging all their mist, then they cannot do again until they eat enough food. As you can probably tell from the name and the way I have talked about them, Nectar Cows are a domesticated species. So much so, that they pretty much came into existence through selective breeding and domestication. That's probably why they achieved such a large size! This large mass of theirs is perfect for their role as livestock, and they provide many products for those who raise them. The most obvious resource they create is their "nectar" or "honeydew," which is secreted from their abdomens (For clarification, "honeydew" is used by ants, while dryads prefer the term "nectar"). This yellowish fluid is sweet in flavor and is collected to be used as drink, cooking ingredient or sapling food. Think of it like the milk that comes from a mammalian cow, except that it is not totally repulsively fatty and horrendously curd- bluuugh, I can't even say it! Just the thought makes me want to hurl! How can people drink that stuff raw?! Anyways, this secreted nectar of theirs has made them popular with dryads and giant ants. In fact, it is believed that the giant ants were the first to begin the breeding of these insects, as their honeydew provided an efficient food source for them! Nectar Cows that are kept by giant ant colonies tend to be free-range, though they stay close to tunnel entrances. That way soldiers and workers can keep an eye on them and tear apart any predators that try to prey on their herd. While the ants allow their herds to graze on wild plants, they will supplement their diet with fungi that is grown in their underground farms. Any fungus that is not edible for the ants will be removed and given to the Nectar Cows so that no resources are wasted! How efficient! For dryads, Nectar Cows are often kept in pens at night and let out during the day to graze. During daylight hours is when they will collect the nectar, pouring it into buckets that are then bottled up and taken to market. This will be sold under the name "cow nectar" in order to differentiate between this fluid and the stuff that comes from plants. Due to its sugary content, the cow nectar is often used for baking desserts or sweetening up a dish. For dryad settlements that live in areas where Nectar Pod plants cannot properly grow, they will instead use cow nectar to feed sproutlings and saplings. It is an important source of nutrition for them at early stages, as they have not fully developed their stomachs. Cow nectar and other types of nectar are easy to digest and give them the fuel needed to grow! Good luck weaning them off it, though! That stage is a rough one to deal with!   Besides nectar (or honeydew), these insects also provide food through their meat and eggs. The meat of a Nectar cow is quite juicy and has a hint of sweetness to it. It is often cut from their legs, thorax and abdomen, but careful butchery is needed! For meat that is carved from their abdomen, one needs to be sure to extract the sacs that contain their mist juices without puncturing them. One wrong move and your meat is now infused with a horrid bitterness and sharp metallic taste. That is why no one ever takes meat from their heads, as there are too many sacs to remove for it to be worth it. Due to its juiciness and texture, Nectar Cow meat is best shredded and added into a dish or soup. For dryads, it is a meat that works well on its own, but other species need extra seasonings and flavors to help tone down the sweetness. In non-dryad butcher shops, the flesh of a Nectar Cow is sold under the label "honey beef." Their eggs are also collected and sold as food, as Nectar Cows lay quite a lot of them! To insure survival, these insects can lay over a dozen of them at a time, which is a little much for one farmer to handle! To keep populations in check, the farmer will cull these eggs and sell a majority of them at market. These eggs are wonderful boiled whole or cracked open and baked! Some people swear that you can crack a raw one open and chug its contents, but I am a bit wary of that. They say it is a great pick me up and a quick source of nutrition, but that sounds way too much like a Floral Dryad thing for me to trust it. I have definitely heard that some of those crazy gals apply coats of that nasty mist fluid to their petals before bed, as it is supposed to create a healthy sheen. Pretty sure that is a load of garbage, because if that was true, Nectar Cow farmers would blind the entire town each time the sun came out. Chlora Myron Dryad Natural Historian                     ----------------------------------------- The Nectar Cow is one of the latest victims to the massive backlog. It is one of those wonderful moments where you draw something up, are happy with it, than have it get stuck waiting for months on end for posting, then at last its day comes and you realize that you hate it. Well wouldn't you know, the Nectar Cow came up for posting and I realized I didn't like its look anymore. This called for an emergency redraw, which I am happy with, but it makes me wonder what piece will be the next victim (too late, I already know!).  

[mdlxxxix]

The Rim of Morning - William Sloane (Highlight: 34; Note: 4)

───────────────

◆ Introduction

▪ Charles Fort (The Book of the Damned, Wild Talents, Lo!)

▪ Because they ignore genre conventions, Sloane’s novels are actual works of literature. Perhaps not great literature; no argument will be made here on that score.

▪ writing is drum-tight, but his approach is looser; he pulls the reader in and then begins turning up the heat (Corny/Funny phrases )

▪ He understood that before a pot can boil, it must simmer. (Corny/funny phrases)

◆ To Walk the Night

▪ Therefore I have allowed myself the liberties of adding certain descriptions of people and places, and of attempting to suggest now and again the atmosphere of strangeness, even of terror, which was so much a part of my life while these events were in progress.

▪ There are some experiences which are alien to everyday life; they are “doomed for a certain term to walk the night” before the mind of man either recognizes them for what they are or dismisses their appearance as fantasy.

◆ 1

▪ Only a minute more to lie back in the refuge of this dilapidated sedan and be carried along without effort and without thought. Then the narcotic of traveling, of surrendering myself to the mere forward motion of train and automobile, would wear off. For twenty-five hundred miles and three days I had tried to imagine what I would do when the wheels under me stopped rolling and I should have to rouse myself to action.

▪ The things he would want to know could not be stated in terms of tangible facts, of events and people shaped into a recognizable pattern. For the first time I admitted to myself that there was a possibility of connection between small, disturbing things in the past and the present fact of Jerry’s death. What that common denominator was I did not know, but I was certain that I did not want to find it out. Merely admitting its existence gave me a feeling of tightness inside that was familiar. It was, I realized, fear. And fear of a shapeless, misty thought that was as insubstantial as a ghost.

▪ The pieces of the puzzle were all lying in my mind, of so much I was sure. I felt that if I looked at them, thought about them, they would slip together into a picture of the truth, and the feeling frightened me. My conscious mind rejected the idea of knowing or thinking anything more about the events of the past two years. But Dr. Lister would not consent to that, once started. He would want to get down to the bedrock of the truth. Donne’s tremendous lines went through my mind: Whoever comes to shroud me, do not harm Nor question much That subtle wreath of hair about mine arm; The mystery, the sign you must not touch—

◆ 2

▪ There was—why do I keep saying “was”?— not everything in this story is in the past tense—there is only one door to the place.

◆ 3

▪ The telescope was mounted on a concrete base in the middle of the room, and its long barrel was aimed up and through the slide in the dome, trained on some star a thousand light years away, I suppose.

▪ Prexy’s expression as he looked at us was introspective. He must have been thinking fast with most of his mind and answering us with nothing but the top layer of it.

◆ 5

▪ Ah,” she said quickly, and her tone did not quite convey disappointment. “Equations.” And then, after a moment, “You mean, just notes about his work?” “Yes,” Prexy said gently. “Mathematical symbols that he used to express the relationships of things.” “Thank you.” Her voice was still perfectly level. “I should like to have the last things he used and wrote.” It was a natural sort of request, but somehow it surprised me a little. “I’m afraid the police will have to keep them, for a time at least.” Prexy sounded almost as though he were explaining something to a child. “Yes. Yes, of course.”

▪ It was a cold, clear Sunday. The November sun lighted every twig of tree and detail of building as we crossed the campus. The chapel bell was tolling with bronze insistence as we walked, and our feet scrunched loudly in the gravel.

▪ soda mints

◆ 6

▪ The night was luminous around us. Starshine is the lovely word for the light that is faintly implicit in the dark of a clear and moonless night. But it is not the greater part of it. A radiance from the stars. Jerry once told me that most of it was caused by the fact that the gravitational field of the earth bends the rays of energy from the sun around the curve of the earth and causes the whole upper air of the night to glow dimly from the molecules which those rays strike and excite.

▪ even if her strange beauty—I cut that thought off right there.

▪ The surprise lasted only a fraction of a second, but the cold inner conviction of alarm stayed with me all night. It was too soon. It was too swift. It had passed out of the realm of things that are odd and unpleasant into a sphere where they are so odd that their cumulative effect is terrifying.

◆ 8

▪ Whatever was to happen in the next few hours, I was afraid of them.

◆ 9

▪ He was genuinely busy, all right. I thought for a moment that he was putting me off to let my nervousness and anxiety come to a head, but as I watched his broad, blunt fingers scrambling through the papers in front of him and the quick way he glanced from them to his notations on the pad I realized that he was tremendously concentrated, perhaps even excited. He had something, or thought he did. I filled a pipe and lit it, trying hard to keep the match from trembling in my fingers, and leaned back in my chair.

◆ 10

▪ The question seemed to echo at me from the night that held us suspended like two motes in a drop of dark water. I wet my lips with my tongue. “Yes, I think I have.”

▪ Nothing he had said gave any further substance to the shape without shadow that was haunting my mind. And yet, neither did what he had told me seem to conflict with the growing clearness of its outline.

▪ The ceiling of my room was white with the reflected sun off the snow.

▪ remote as the stars

◆ 11

▪ The whole performance was a piece of self-dramatization, but they got the benefit of it and it was harmless.

▪ But it annoyed me mildly that she should know everything like that. A certain amount of ingenuous ignorance, I decided, was a great factor in feminine charm.

◆ 12

▪ pale gold color (Goldenes Stroh, vgl. Rumpelstilzchen)

▪ His voice seemed to ring in the trench of the barranca where we were. The sound of his words seemed to expand, to go into the ground and penetrate the rock wall under which we were standing. It echoed in the air, in the heat, in the sun that encompassed us. A year and a half had passed since Jerry had married Selena. In all that time she had not told him who she was or where she came from, then.

◆ 13

▪ Below us spread the gigantic sweep of the desert, tarnished gold where the sun still lay, and purple blue where the shadows from the western mountains were racing across it as the sun sank behind us. Watching that great tidal wave of darkness pouring across the valley, I suddenly realized how truly the earth was a ball, hung in gulfs of space and spinning around its axis with majestic precision and power. I almost thought I could feel the eastward surge of the mesa under my feet. (Throwaway description paired with corny revelations/realizations )

▪ I, for instance, didn’t pay any real attention to the things that happened in that room that night. And yet, if I had I would have seen a pattern in them, the pattern of the fifth act of a tragedy, when the play is all played out and only the final words, the ultimate destruction of the protagonist, await fulfillment. I see these things now for what they were worth, the last small events before an unthinkable horror of a thing was to happen.

◆ 15

▪ Neither of us moved. Above and around us the night was undergoing a change; the great constellation of Orion was low on the western sky and the darkness was turning to a tarnished, misty silver. Again, as on Cloud Mesa, I thought of the eastward spin of the earth, rolling through space. The minute area of its surface which the two of us occupied was being turned toward the sun—the house, the trees, the wide reaches of the Sound, the whole eastern edge of the continent borne along in-exorably into the light of a new day. Miles away a train whistled once. A thin, lingering insertion of sound in the silence around us.

▪ and dissolved into the sea foam

▪ Perhaps. But in the instant when the memory of the story completed itself in my mind, another explanation for Selena’s reaction to it occurred to me. She might have cried because the story was moving and beautiful—or because it was true. It was a fantastic, horrible notion, and I wanted immediately to stop thinking it. I remembered Jerry’s face as he looked at Selena there on the settle before the fire she had somehow managed to light. Certainly there had been horror and incredulity in his eyes. It was possible that he had been thinking, then, the same thought that was beginning to crystallize in my own mind. I felt an intense acceleration of every image, feeling, operation of my consciousness. My thoughts were not under my control; they flickered back over the whole of the story I had just told. And nowhere did they find positive proof that the thing which was growing, expanding into unwelcome life in my brain was impossible.

▪ The panic fear that swept over me as I realized that I might have discovered the answer was indescribable. I felt no sense of triumph at having found out the secret of Selena and her life with Jerry and the rest of us. Instead, I was sinking into icy, black water, being suffocated by its pressure, drowning in arctic night and winter. Layer after layer of cold and blackness was piling up above me and the fright of death itself was pounding in my pulse. Fear like that, real fear, is an invasion. A physical thing full of ice and death that enters into every fiber of the body and possesses the mind. The worst of it was that there was no tangible thing with which I could deal. There was nothing to run away from and nothing to confront. This terror sprung from a nebulous idea. A half-perceived theory . . .

[spaceiguana7]

Kerepakupai Meru

AO3

"I'm starting to think that Gideon is still too young for this particular kind of trip," said Belle.

 They had been at it for about an hour and a half, hiking from the main camp to what Belle had said would be a better view.  They must be an interesting sight, Rumplestiltskin thought, an older man who was not properly dressed for the ambiance with his long trousers and light button up shirt, accompanying the human ray of sunshine that was Belle, who did seem to have prepared better for this particular side trip they had taken.  Rumplestiltskin smiled thinking about the other times Belle had done something similar, where they had taken a vacation to a specific place only for Belle to notice that there was a point of interest relatively close by.  She never had to coax him too much for them to take the detour.  

 On this particular vacation the plan had been to visit the beaches along the northern shores of Colombia and Venezuela, and then maybe visit some of the national parks located along the mountain range that flanked said beaches.  But on their second day after having arrived in the town of Choroni, Belle had asked to take a flight inland that would drop them in a campground in the middle of the jungle.  Now here they were, on a trek from one campsite to another with a fuzzy three-year-old in their midst.

“Nonsense, He’s just as resilient as you,” Rumplestiltskin said. “He’s just annoyed because he wanted to keep playing in the water of the lagoon.” The camp they had arrived to was sitting by a red-tinted lagoon that made him glad they were making this trip with Gideon, because Rumplestiltskin could see Belle wanting to swim as far as the people there had told them it was safe for her.  With Gideon there, however, she would remain where it’d be safe for him.

“At least we don’t have much further to go; I think he’s also tired of being carried,” Belle replied. “Aren’t you, Gid?”

Rumplestiltskin could hear Gideon mumbling about playing in the water and eating the plantain snacks they had been having since they’d landed on the first plane. “Ah, so He’s hungry.”

“We’re almost there and then I just have to set up, we’ll have a really good view,” Belle said.

Rumplestiltskin still didn’t understand what they were supposed to be getting a good view of.  Belle had said they would go see the tallest waterfall in the world, but there had been some impressive falls right in the lagoon they had been staying by. Rumplestiltskin thought it was good for this place if it held some sort of record, as he imagined it must be some small point of pride for a country that seemed so turbulent as of late, but he was not sure that the view would be worth the detour they had taken from the perfectly nice beach they had been visiting initially.

Suddenly their guide turned around and started speaking to Belle. Rumplestiltskin was always so impressed by how quickly she picked up languages, albeit not surprised.  It was as if she had been made for adventuring and discovering, and Rumplestiltskin would never get tired of his little explorers, for surely Gideon would follow in his mother’s footsteps.

“Rumple, we just have to follow them to the shore,” Belle said.

Rumplestiltskin looked around. It seemed as if the people in this camp had been waiting for them, and they were led to the spot where they could set up whatever it was that Belle had been planning.  They walked a little further, following the people, until they came out from under the cover of the trees.

They had arrived along the edges of a river, although not as big as the ones they had already seen on their way here. Rumplestiltskin heard the rush of the water before he saw it, a mountain wall and water falling over, so tall that it seemed the water was being poured directly from the clouds. The peak of heaven, Rumplestiltskin remembered the song they had heard on their first night in Choroni, also remembering how Belle had translated some of the lines for him and had explained that the music video had been recorded somewhere in the jungle of this country. Was it from that song that she got the idea to come here, he wondered.

“Over here Rumple!”

Belle had kept walking with the group and they were making their way to a spot where people where settling down, Rumplestiltskin caught up to them and sat down on the blanket where Belle had placed Gideon.

“Here, you hold Gideon and I’ll take those bags from you.”

“Alright,” Rumplestiltskin said. “Now what?” he asked.

“Now we’ll be here for about three hours with the group and then the guide will take us back to the camp by the Canaima lagoon,” Belle explained. “You can take Gideon to play in the water while I set this picnic for us.”

Rumplestiltskin looked toward the river and his first instinct told him that getting too close might be a bad idea, but then he noticed that the water didn’t look violent at all despite the noise coming from the massive falls, and that some people were already playing with the water, even if there wasn’t really space to swim.  

“Okay,” Rumplestiltskin said. “But only very quickly for Gideon to cool down.”

Rumplestiltskin set Gideon down, making sure he held his hand very firmly, lest he got too excited and ran off, and accompanied him to the water.  

  A couple minutes had turned into fifteen, during which Gideon had soaked Rumplestiltskin just from a little splashing, but he had had so much fun that Rumplestiltskin couldn’t find it in his heart to be angry. Walking back to the table Rumplestiltskin saw that the picnic was very simple, but he knew they’d enjoy it all the same.  One of the things that he liked the most about Belle’s spirit of adventure was the fact that it gave him the opportunity of learning how to cook new dishes fairly often, and he loved Belle’s delighted smile whenever she saw he’d made something new just for her.

Rumplestiltskin brought Gideon over, dried him down and sat him on his lap. It seemed that Gideon had been seriously hungry, because once he noticed the food there was no need for either Rumple or Belle to coax him to eat, and so he started eagerly.

“So my dear, will you tell me why you took us away from the beach and dropped us smack in the middle of the jungle?” Rumplestiltskin asked, with a humorous timber in his voice. “This sure is impressive,” he continued, “but I think I would have rather stayed under my umbrella.”

Belle laughed at that comment, her eyes sparkling with it, and spoke.

“Well, this is not some random jungle, Rumple, do you remember that time when Ashley and Aurora got together to order some new children’s materials for the library?”

“Right,” Rumplestiltskin remembered Belle taking on that project with the same fervor that she had for everything else in her life, and how the three women had quickly assembled a good entertainment area for the children that would last for a fair amount of time.

“Among the new stuff they found there was this one film about two little adventurers who dreamt with coming to this place their entire lives,” Belle explained. “They actually dreamt with going all the way to the top of the Tepui, but I thought that might be a bit too much for us on this trip.” Belle was smiling with her adorable smile, her eyes going a bit misty, absorbed by the pull of the falls. Rumplestiltskin looked to Gideon on his lap and quietly whispered: “Mommy is lost in her stories again.”

Belle laughed and said: “I’m not lost, I’m just thinking.” She reached across to wipe some food off of Gideon’s chin.

“You saw a children’s film about this place and that made you want to come here?” Rumplestiltskin asked.

“I had forgotten about it until we heard that song a couple days ago at the beach, I asked about it and they told me the video for that song had been filmed around these parts, Angel falls. When they showed it to me it was unmistakable, I could see the scenes in my mind and I felt as if it were really important that we saw it.” Belle said. She kept looking between Rumple and Gideon and the Falls that were still a good distance from them, but felt incredibly close.

Rumplestiltskin realized then that he could feel water particles from time to time, for the water was coming down from such heights that some of it got separated from the main stream and just showered the general area. He looked at Belle and said: “So, a cartoon couple spent their lives wanting to come here, but why did you feel it was important for us to come?”

Belle thought for a moment. “I know they maybe weren’t real, but people in this world say that we’re not real and that our friends are not real… just because this world believes something it doesn’t mean it’s true.  In any case, even if this couple wasn’t real, I like to imagine that somewhere in this land exists a couple who love each other as much as the characters in this film did,” Belle said. “…maybe a pair who was already right here, in Venezuela, who grew old together and who couldn’t imagine their life without the other.”

“A love for all the ages and a floating house” Rumplestiltskin added. “I might have to watch this one with you,” he chuckled, although he couldn’t imagine for a better rest of their lives with Belle and Gideon than what they already had. Rumplestiltskin looked at Belle, adoringly, loving the thoughtful expression of her face when she realized he did know a little something about the film she was referencing.

Belle took a breath in while looking Up to the falls and said: “I just love you and our family so much; you have definitely been my greatest adventure.” She paused to turn to look at him and continued: “I feel that the kind of true love that we have is not all that common in this or in any other world, and so I felt that honoring that kind of love is important, once it is found.” She finished speaking with an air of contentedness.

At that moment Gideon spoke for the first time since he had started eating, repeating his mother’s words as “twue wuv,” and laughing.

Rumplestiltskin chuckled at that and said: “That’s right Gid, twue wuv.” The words were followed by a quick tickle directed at Gideon. He so loved to hear his son’s laughter.

Rumplestiltskin thought for a moment and said: “You know my darling, I’m glad you brought us here. You know I love you and Gideon, on this adventure and all our adventures to come.”

As they finished their meal Rumplestiltskin sat there, with their son in his arms, his wife right next to him and that imposing sensation emanating from the nature around him.  He felt blanketed by the falls in a warm and cozy sort of way, and realized that it was not unlike the feeling of the true love he felt for Belle and his family, only dampened by his absolute certainty that the true love he had was the kind of love that could move a house without magic and place it atop this impossibly tall Tepui.

Y colorín, colorado, este cuento se ha acabado.

A/N: Tepui is the native name for the formations where the falls originate. “Y colorín, colorado, este cuento se ha acabado” is basically a long way of writting “The End.”

[itswinebyme]

Crushing the Kronos Reveals Beauty of Consistency

(All 16 vintages of Corison Kronos Cabernet Sauvignon, with a few extra bottles thrown inf or good measure / photo by me.)

Right around the time my friends and I were sobering up from our 16-year verticle tasting of wines from Cathy Corison's Kronos Vineyard, Dave McIntyre of The Washington Post, wrote in his weekly column, he, too, had recently tasted through 16 vintages of a particular wine. He said the wines in the tasting were "postcards from time," and as one of his fellow diners told him: "I enjoy each wine less this way, but I learn more."

Those are easy assertions to agree with and capitalizing on the learning and the understanding of time, is exactly why a year after my tasting group wrangled 21 vintages of Corison Napa Valley Cabernet, we challenged ourselves to do it again, this time focusing on the Cabernet Sauvignon she made from her Kronos vineyard. (Ok, we may have did it for some bragging rights, too!)  

(A semi-demolished flight of Corison Kronos wines / photo by me.)

The Kronos Cabernet comes from 45-year-old vines that are grown on Cathy's St. Helena property. She and her husband farm the land, and since 1996 they have produced the single vineyard bottling of Corison Kronos Cabernet. The wines are more powerful than the Napa Valley Cabernet she blends from other nearby by vineyards. But true to her style, Kronos maintains her delicate signature style of winemaking, keeping the wines elegant and at a low alcohol level (about 13%). If you visit the winery for a tour and library tasting (which I strongly recommend), you'll exit the back barn-like doors and step immediately into the Kronos vineyard, located on the Napa Valley floor, stretching about 8 acres back to the Mayacamas Mountains. Unlike many of Napa's vines, this vineyard survived the 1990s phylloxera epidemic because the vines are on St. George rootstock, which is resistant to the tiny bugs. (For more on the vineyard, take a look at this profile Kelli White wrote in 2011.)

(The Kronos Vineyard is literally in Cathy Corison’s backyard. This is the back of the winery. / photo by me)

(Standing in the Kronos Vineyard looking out to the Mayacamas Mountains on a misty day in December, 2016. / photo by me) 

We modeled this year's tasting after last year's. There were a handful of flights with all 16 vintages of the Kronos Vineyard from 1996 to 2012. Each wine was poured blind, but each flight was loosely in chronological order from oldest to youngest. A few ringers were included in the mix including two pours from the same vintage – one from the top half and other from the bottom half of a magnum, and a few of the Napa Valley Cabernets were compared against the Kronos. We had two separate bottles of 2004, so those were poured in separate glasses, as well, making for an interesting lesson in bottle variation. 

Just like last year, there were no clear favorites, but together, the 16 vintages told a bigger story -- a consistent beauty was strung from bottle to bottle. It’s impossible to escape the violets, dust and undertones of herbal mints that at times mixed with some chocolate (Junior Mints, anyone?).

I hit palate fatigue before the final flight. Despite my best efforts to spit and snack on the cheeses and charcuterie we prepared, by the last flight, there was nothing but the violets, dust and herbal mints coating my throat (which is certainly not a bad thing!). But there was something magical going on in the early parts of the aughts. We were told that Cathy's favorite Kronos vintage was 2001, but 2002 and 2003 were slightly lifted from the pack for me. Whether that’s because those bottles had the right amount of age on it for my personal liking, or it was something within the vintages themselves, it’s hard to say.

It’s worth noting, however, that thanks to a very cool and rainy year -- and what Cathy has called a challenging year in the vineyard -- the 2011 bottle was the very definition of letting a wine speak for its vintage. It tasted significantly older -- maybe by a decade -- than its actual year. A bit darker and more savory than the others, but still elegant and restrained. Emanating from some of the darker more savory notes were dusty violets, which reminded one of my friends of Choward’s Violet Mints.

Having the opportunity to taste through almost all of the Corison wines -- both the Napa Valley and Kronos bottles -- is truly an honor. While it’s obvious that aging these wines only brings out more complexity, more structure and more textured flavors, the trouble will always be not popping the cork too early, as they are certainly just as enjoyable now as they will be in years to come.