#it seems so peaceful! aside from if I were a winged insect

[gallusrostromegalus]

I'd been meaning to ask about if Hanatarou had any role in AEIWAM, because I'm an incurable minor character lover and still apparently very fond of him even though it's been upwards of a decade since my Bleach fixation. And then I see you mentioned him in a post and I am activated! I'd love to hear more about him in AEIWAM if you want to share 👀

One afternoon, Retsu Unohana noticed a strange ant crossing her desk.

It was a slow afternoon- the calm before the return of the 11th division from New Recruit Boot Camp and the annual 4th division game of "Match the limbs!" began.

She sat up and leaned in to examine the ant- the 4th division is kept PRISTINE by no small dint of effort and interlopers are Most Unwelcome. This foreign contaminant was rather puzzling, however. It appeared to be a Highly Carnivorous Izumo Island Acid-Spitting Ant, somewhat famous for not living anywhere but Izumo Island.

"What are you doing in my office?" She interrogated the Ant. She may have been engaged in some light chemical alteration to deal with the frustration of having her favorite stress-reliever out of town while he was running New Recruit Boot Camp.

The ant, being an ant, failed to respond, save to wave it's little antennae and continuing on it's search for fleshmeats to bring back to the colony.

...Return to the colony... Retsu considered, and a flash of inspiration struck. Very carefully, she extracted a small slice of hot dog from the commisary's wednesday lunch of "Beanie Weenies" and places it in the ant's path. As she had hoped, the ant located the hot dog piece by the subtle sensory method of walking into it face-first, examined it to determine it's acceptability as a food source, and then hefted the hot dog slice over it's head, and made an about-face, returning from whence it came.

Grabbing a laser pointer, Retsu followed.

Seeing the captain slowly walking up the hall, hunched over and watching something with intent was hardly the strangest thing to happen in the fourth, and being told "Move aside, I'm tracking a problem" while she drew a laser-light circle around the insect in question was downright understandable, and so she was left to stalk in peace.

Eventually, the ant disappeared under the door of a Broom closet. It was a Perfectly Ordinary Broom closet, just off the Neonatal wing, and utterly unremarkable, save for the handwritten sign on the door:

"DANGER! VENOMOUS ANIMALS! KEEP OUT!!"

The sign was illustrated with remarkably good drawings of snakes, spiders and wasps.

"Hm." Said Restu, considering the closet's proximity to the Seireitei's tiniest and most helpless infants. "Not Ideal."

Carefully, she tried the door.

It was locked, at least.

Slightly less carefully, she rattled the knob until the ancient pin-tumbler inside rattled open, and then she more carefully opened the door.

When a cobra failed to leap out and bite her in the face, she reached in and turned on the light.

Inside was a fascinating little gem of zoology. Easily Twenty terrariums had been crammed into the tiny closet, filled with meticulously cared-for venomous animals of every shape, size and persuasion. Near the door were the Izumo Island Acid-Spitting Ants, gleefully examining and disassembling the Hot dog slice, whose terrarium lid seemed to have been bumped askew by the door at some point. After watching another sentry return, she pushed the lid closed with a snap, before turning her attention to the rest of the Menagerie of Pain.

Whoever had assembled the collection had organized them by care needs- the room had a Hot and Cold side each, as well as Dark and Bright sides, and the animals that needed dry enclosures were at the top, getting progressively damper until the aquariums at the bottom. And so many splendid creatures! Klein-Bottle-Web Spiders! Barking Scorpions!

"...Is that a Sea-Cave Remipede? I didn't know those could be kept in captivity!" Retsu blinked in surprise. Minazuki emerged, fluttering as she peered into the aquariums- and down here-! Orange-cubed octopi! and good grief are those Horned Sea Snails? Brave man whoever keeps these- they have to be hand-fed and if the snail decides to dart his finger instead of the feeder fish he's a goner.

"Never mind that, he's got half the Elapid family up here-" Retsu said, standing on her toes before getting on top of the folding chair in the middle of the room. "Look at that! Morel Snakes, Farter's Sea snake, a Queen Cobra- and this tank's got Vipers- good grief where did he even GET a Lance-de-Fer?"

Look at these things, the look like little plastic toys, or candies! Minazuki chortled as the tank of brightly colored frogs. The devil is this? A ...Pitohui?

The Apparently-Venomous bird whistled at her, intrigued but not alarmed. Something in The Big Tank at the back of the closet splashed, and both Doctor and Zanpaktou turned their attention to it

"A turtle?" Retsu pondered, for the size and shape of the amphibious enclosure, but once her eyes adjusted to the tanks dim light, she and Minazuki stood there for several silent minutes, watching the strange creature paddle about, digging it's beak into the mud at the bottom of it's tank for worms, and surfacing to breathe and rake the long claws of it's webbed feet through its... fur.

..It looks fake. Minazuki finally said, bewildered. I'm watching it move and eat and swim and it looks fake, like some badly taxidermied curio meant to swindle tourists.

"-Not some strange spirit made flesh then?" Retsu said, squinting at the label in the corner of the tank. "Ornithorhynchus paradoxus- it sure is!" She laughed.

Well? What should we do about this? Minazuki waved a flipper to indicate the entire zoo. I'm not sure if we should promote their keeper for his dedication to the study of venom, or if we should fire him for putting his lab next to the neonatal ward.

"Let's see what he has to say for himself." Decided Retsu, moving the folding chair to the middle of the room, re-locking the door, turning the light off, and sitting down.

...You always were one for Dramatics. Sighed Minazuki, settling on the floor beside her and waiting, eye wide in gleeful anticipation

She did not have to wait long before there was the sound of someone running up the stairs, panting, and a carabiner of keys jingling, the door being unlocked and a small, moderately disheveled and scatterbrained-looking young man stepped in, apologizing for being late he couldn't find his boss anywhere-

"-so I had to submit the paperwork for all the research I've been doing with you guys to the drop-box which is hidden on the 7th floor next to urology for some reason but I'm here now and I've got nice juicy crickets and mice for-"

He flicked on the light to find his aforementioned boss sitting in a folding chair, waiting for him like some kind of fucked up ghost.

"-UNOHANA-TAICHO!?"

She regarded his appropriately terrified visage for a moment. "...Yamada, right?"

The young man nodded mutely, still frozen like a better-taxidermied-than-whatever-the-thing-behind-her-was rabbit. "Y- Yes Ma'am. Um. Captain. I'm Hanataro Yamada. Sir."

"...I'll take a cricket, but after you explain what the hell this is." She decided.

"Oh!" he yelped, startled to still be alive. "Well- uh- I actually just submitted the paperwork for the research permissions for this upstairs but the thing is, see, venom is, well, are- they're all terribly biologically active substances, and I was reading your research paper you submitted for your seated officer's proposal about toxic plants and the medicines that could be derived from them because so many medicines are really just poisons, dosed between "fatal to the problem" and "fatal to the patient", and um- well I thought, that's got to be doubly true of venomous animals because venom is meant to cause profound chemical reactions in other animals, so I figured if I could extract, analyze and isolate specific compounds, that there's a lot of new potential drugs and cures lurking in these creature like, um- oh, uh, the Vipers up there kill their prey primarily through the use of fast-acting anticoagulants, which have potential applications in heart disease cures, but the Klein-Bottle-Web spiders work with fast-acting coagulants, produced in the same glands as their silk, so I was hoping to develop bandages that can stop bleeding on a chemical level as well. And- oh! these Sea-cave Remipedes can cause intense hallucinations, which is not ideal when you're scuba-diving in a cave to find them but in smaller doses, it looks like the compounds they produce act as anti-psychotics, and um- oh yeah, the little butter frogs- the yellow ones- yeah, the venom they excrete has got a ton of really interesting anti-inflammatory properties and the bird up there excretes a mild neuroinhibitor and the Platypus- It's an extremely primitive mammal, even moreso than marsupials, and the males- that one is Billy, for Billabong- um, bad pun, don't worry about it-um, it's got these venomous spurs on his hind legs that produce a venom that is a Neuro-enhancer, of all things, as well as a host of anti-microbial compounds that STING if he gets a kick in, but apparently they really only produce them during mating season so I may have to get him a sheila- that's what the guide said the females were called- and. Um. Yeah. That's. Well, I was hoping to get a research grant so I could keep them somewhere a little more secure. and. not right next to the neonatal ward." he sputtered.

Retsu watched him blankly for a second, then held out her hand, expectant.

Yamada looked down at her hand, confused, then, remembering their earlier conversation, cautiously opened up the plastic tub he was clutching and delicately placed a single cricket in her open palm.

Without hesitation, she popped it in her mouth, the crunching audible in the awkward silence of the room as she made up her mind.

"Seventh-Seat Maomao is retiring later this year, and I will need a new Toxicologist." She declared. "If you've been hand-feeding the horned snails, you're brave enough for the job, and if you've figured out a different method, you're smart enough for it. I want all of this packed up and in level 4 Secure onditions by morning, Doctor Yamada." she nodded.

"Th- thank you taicho!" he yelped, Billy The Platypus splashing excitedly. "I look forward to your work, Hanataro." She smiled, and the boy very nearly fainted.

[joz-yyh]

Acta Est Fabula - Ch. 1

SUMMARY: Crimson Court AU. Tardif is an arrogant and upcoming vampire hunter sent to protect Hamlet from a new reign of pestilence. He serves the Order, a religious faction sanctioned by the Holy Flame. His next mission sends him to the Baroness' estate, to find and exterminate an exiled nobleman by the name of Damian. What will happen when these two meet? Expect conspiracy, love and of course, lots of blood. No Beta. Read at your own risk.

PAIRING: Bounty Hunter x Flagellant

RATING: M (just to be safe because it will get spicy later)

WORD COUNT: 3,147

READ ON Ao3: -> HERE!!

A/N: Meant to post this sooner, but despite how much I've tried to work on it, it's been fighting with me for almost a year (9 months to be exact). Happy to finally be able to share the first installment with y'all! Please, let me know if you enjoyed it! ^v^/ (Title is in reference to one of my favorite horror games, "Haunting Ground!")

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Tardif's clay-crusted boots card through the thick underbrush, toeing just outside of the water line, his keen eyes tracking along the surface of the marsh. 

Aside from the droning hum of a few bloodsucking skeeters, the area seemed relatively placid, unoccupied by larger prey. Disappointing, considering how many sycophants he had to hack through on his way to get here, that despite his best efforts, there were still no signs of his mark, his true quandary. 

Tired of these winding mazes and subpar loot, Tardif unclasps the cage fastened to his belt, the modest contraption housing one such common pest. 

“Ye sick or somthin,” he warns, fixing the winged parasite with an intimidating stare, “He ain’t here. Don't make me quash yer little behind now fer wasting my time.” 

He rattles the cage in his hands, watching as the creature crashes around inside, it's thorax jostled against every corner.

The insect buzzes frantically, it’s long tapered nose an arrow, reiterating it’s previous navigation.

Tardif sighs, “Fine, I’ll take a closer look, but ye best hope he’s here.”

He ties the cage back into place, noticing a suspicious outcropping of broken cattail reeds waiting just beyond, none too far away. His biggest lead thus far, he resolves to investigate, the cause for such an anomaly being that of pale body, one waterlogged foot sticking out into the open, almost causing him to trip.

He’s hunted enough bloodsuckers to know a bait trap when he sees one, the warrior unsheathing his axe in preparation for battle.

"That trick ain't gunna work on me," Tardif grunts, kicking at the listless corpse.

A chuckle erupts from the water, piquing his curiosity.

"Run along, vampire hunter. Let me find absolution in peace."

“I've got yer ticket to absolution right here," Tardif smirks, wielding the notorious symbol of a slayer's blade.

"Oh," Damian says, suddenly energetic, erupting from the bog, "I think not.”

With a heavy slosh, the vampire leaps further into the lake, putting distance between them, exposition spouting from his lips, “My soul is still blackened by their filth, tarnished by impurity. The Light would never accept me as I am now. I cannot depart until I reclaim what's been stolen from me."

"Ye think some sob story is goin' to stop me from turn' ye into ash," he taunts, changing his stance, going on the defensive.

Damian isn’t taking the bait though, instead, he wades deeper into the lagoon, more of his haughty apparel submerged beneath polluted lily pads with arms outstretched, wearing a ridiculous grin to match.

What is this bastard thinking? Is he trying to drown his way out of this?

"Hasn't it,” Damian retorts, goading him with much the same strategy, “If you were so worried about killing me, why didn't you strike me down when you had the chance?"

"Where's the fun in that," Tardif shoots back, savoring the thrill of the chase, the challenge it provides.

The vampire hunter is not overly fond of the water; however. He’s perfectly content to remain on dry land, where he holds the advantage. He doesn't trust what he can't see and for good reason. Soon enough, the calm waters ripple, an oddity just subtle enough that it could have gone unnoticed, but Tardif sees them, the ridgeback of quills, the precursor of a tail breaking through the mystic surface to strike.

Massive jaws leap out from the water bank, the crocs known to traverse the estate living up to their reputation.

Tardif jumps back, opposite the shore, seconds away from losing a leg to the snap of it's jaws.

"I see you've met one of my friends," Damian says, looking awfully smug, having gained the upper hand.

As much as he wants to glare at the vampire, stagger his amusement, Tardif isn’t stupid enough to take his eyes off the fight. The croc lunges for him again and it's too fast, too strong, the warrior barely able to hold his own against it, losing more ground to it’s attacks.

"Ah, so this must be the fun you spoke of," the flagellant taunts, a pompous spectator in his viewbox, "Well, I am certainly in a better mood. If you survive, maybe we'll meet again sometime."

With that, the elusive vampire dives into the cover of water, leaving Tardif to defend himself against a much deadlier foe.

The caged insect on Tardif’s hip buzzes a frantic hum, its carapace ramming against the bars in attempts to escape.

“I know,” the axeman grumbles in distaste, sharing the same fear.

This croc was much bigger than most, the biggest he’d ever seen, and as much as Tardif hates to admit it, he’s severely outmatched. If there was any chance for him to win this battle, ingenuity would be his greatest ally, his sharpest weapon.

Taking a smoke bomb from his belt, he pulls the pin with his teeth, casting it towards the trample of insectoid claws.

An explosion of mist billows around them, adding to the ever-present gray smog of the swamp, the thick miasma masking Tardifs location as he dodges, anticipating where the apex predator will be. 

The reptile needs only a moment to gather it’s bearings, huffing at the air with it’s muzzle, the long quills on it's back quivering before such illusions are thwarted. The crocodillian's snout claps through the smoke a little too close for comfort, just missing the huntsman's face. 

Tardif swings out his axe in defense, breaking off a few of it's mismatched teeth in the process, wrecking it's smile, enraging the animal further. The oversized croc snatches the axeblade between its jaws, biting into it, denting metal. 

With what mortal brawn he had, the brute struggles to dislodge the two, but the croc gives him no quarter, ripping the weapon from his grip, tossing out it into the lake. He watches on as his axe makes a considerable splash, lost in a pitch of treacherous depths, never to be found again.

Tardif takes a step back, realizing with eerie clarity that this might be the beginning of his end.

The croc takes it’s time now, boxing him in, surrounding him with it’s bulk. It seems to know it’s won, dipping it's head low, eyeing him down, savoring the moment before the kill.

Tardif knows what’s coming, relies on the contents of his utility belts, throwing a tranquilizer dart into it's gaping mouth just as it opens, about to snatch him inside. 

The reptile hisses in pain, waving its snout around, hoping to expel the meddlesome sting, clambering through the muck, leaving a siege of angry footprints in it's wake.

While the beast is distracted, Tardif takes this opportunity for what it is. Wielding his trusty metal rope in hand, he casts a lariat around it’s sizable jaws, wringing it shut. 

The battle seems to be going in his favor now, and as this comforting thought fills his mind, it becomes readily apparent that he failed to account for the length of the beast’s tail.

With a powerful blow, it lashes out at him, whips the vampire hunter along his spine, the magneton force sending him sailing off his feet, hurtling into a tree. 

He collides with the unwelcoming trunk of bald cypress roots, body bending around its misshapen girth. 

With a distinctive crack, Tardif hears something break, intuition telling him it came from inside, a fracture of bone and not from the split of hardy branches.

The momentum weens and the human crumples, the slough of marshland his cradle.

He lies there, a listless shamble, listening to the impactful steps of his enemy amongst the wild ringing in his ears, splatters of mud at his vision. 

There’s something curling around his boots, latching onto his ankles and suddenly he’s being dragged helplessly through the dirt by the same menacing tail that had struck him from before.

This isn't exactly the warrior's death Tardif had pictured for himself, covered in sludge and strung up in the air with all the blood rushing to his head, movement and motion lost to his will.

He stares into a void of blackness and teeth, knowing that there will be no grave, no body left for the Order to find, but they will know he failed nonetheless.

"Enough, Sebastian. Release him," a voice demands, cutting through the static.

The world spins inside Tardif's head, his vision doubles, triples, fading out and then back again. He hardly has any sense of what's happening around him, let alone that he’s being rescued.

The croc's long, toothy snout claps shut, turning to face the man who issued the command, a contentious growl reverberating up from it's gullet and out it's scaley throat.

"I've brought you something else to eat,” lilts the voice, goading the semi-aquatic creature with delicious temptation, “It's your favorite." 

The vampire dangles the carcass of a deer, shaking it around in a tempting bribe.

"Now, release him," he orders, holding the meat of venison back, keeping it at ransom.

Compliant, the serpent grip around the huntsman's legs unwinds, the back of Tardif's head hitting the damp earth first, the rest of his body following soon after with a limp thud.

"Good boy," Damian praises, throwing the four-legged treat up in reward. 

The croc jumps, claiming it's prize with a sharp crack of its jaws, deer bones crunching beneath a powerful overbite.

Tardif blinks, eyesight still fuzzy at the edges, but he can smell peat moss and algae, hear the water-logged patter of damp clothes as his savior kneels down beside him.

"You're lucky. Sebastian is rather aggressive when he's hungry," Damian chuckles, watching as his pet devours what remains of his meal.

Tardif grunts, his boot tips scraping against the slick of the mud. He finds that he cannot bring himself to stand, his limbs are too weak for such a task, muscles shuddering with exertion before giving out entirely. 

He's never known defeat like this, never been so damn vulnerable . The warrior slams his fist into the wet soil in an act of rebellious aggravation, his teeth gritting as he attempts to regain some dignity, whether it be propped up on an elbow or a knee, he doesn't care, so long as he's spared the shame of laying face-down in the dirt.

"How badly are you hurt," the vampire asks, a tone of surprise, observing the man's struggle.

Tardif glares at him. The severity of his condition should be obvious.

Realizing this, the vampire urges the other man to stay still. "I can help you," he implores.

All the huntsman can do is obey, unable to protest even if he wanted to, his body a broken husk severed of it's roots.

Damian's pointed nails extend, growing more claw-like as he slices open his palm, a line of bright red trickling down, marking the path of his index finger. He waits a few precious seconds for the wound swell, clenching his fist around the gash of fresh blood.

A warmth spreads throughout the axeman's body, blood magic making him feel flush like a bottle of ale, reminiscent of a lover's touch with the way it clouds his judgment and numbs his mind of fear.

The haze is intoxicating, a tease of power beyond that which he’s known and then it’s gone, extinguished, and to his utter amazement, he can breathe without the consequence of pain. His broken ribs are mended, probably stronger now than they were before, without so much as a sling, a stitch of thread.

He wonders how he's been healed, wants to ask the bloodsucking parasite how he's achieved this without the force of a bite, but all he can muster is one word.

"Why," Tardif asks, panting heavily, trying to understand what motivation Damian would have to help him, being both his enemy and a vampire at that.

The blonde man releases a winded laugh, his energy exhausted from treating the latent iceberg that was the warrior's wounds.

"You wouldn't understand."

It’s an intriguing answer, one Tardif thinks he would understand, if only the other would explain it.

The hunter assembles himself into a sitting position, legs crossed under him, one hand poised on his thigh as he stares, unblinking, at his ambivalent savior. Perhaps, if he glares long enough, the vampire will cave under the pressure and tell him exactly what he wants to know. 

"Do you wish for our eyes to do battle,"  the vampire teases, hooding his gaze, staring right back.

Tardif grunts in amusement, a smirk on his lips. He had a knack for coercion and would soon win this staredown or any other contest put before him. The vampire only need present it. 

Damian endures the treatment for a few beats, chuckling lightly.

"You're so unlike the others that have come," he purrs, raking crimson irises over his opponent's form.

Now that he has an excuse to, he appraises the huntsman’s appearance, noting how he is still relatively young, close to Damian in age, but experienced enough with victory to know the allure of arrogance. He wears it well, donned in stray pieces of armor, though his helmet is missing, knocked off during the tussle. 

Long, raven wisps fall over his eyes, the color of their uniqueness hidden behind these thin veils of midnight. The rest of his dark hair is fashioned into a braid, laying behind his broad shoulders. His chainmail is still intact, pauldrons, bracers and greaves fastened to light-weight leather, belts of gadgets lining his front, their sole purpose to aid in the extermination of those plagued with the curse.

Damian discerns the man to be strong, cunning, and agile, adding handsome to his description as well, pleased by the rippling muscle of his arms

"I hope you’re not thinking of attacking me again," comments the pale noble, a coy contemplation, “At least, not with Sebastian around.”

Tardif’s eyes widen, somehow so engrossed in their game he’d completely forgotten the danger poised at his back. He turns, frantic, to find that the reptile’s jaws consuming the last of the deer’s legs, cloven hooves sliding down, disappearing into the dark hallow of it’s throat.

“The tiny vessel at your waist is of no threat,” Damian reminds him, calling his attention back, “and I cannot guarantee I will be able to save you again.” 

So his energy does have a limit. Tardif logs this important discovery away for later, along with the knowledge that Damian would heal him again if given the chance. 

"Tis not a weapon,” Tardif corrects him, a flush of shame coloring his cheeks, “This here’s my scouter.”

"Oh, is it,” Damian says, expression cheerful. He leans forward to rake in the creature, the tiny bloodsucker giving a shy buzz of it’s wings in greeting.

“Hello, little one. A pleasure to meet you,” Damian says, humbly bowing his head, “Does the master treat you well?”

The insect is much more animated, bursting into a reverberation of sound, using it’s wings and legs to conduct an elaborate tale. 

“My, my that is quite a lot to digest,” the vampire nods, sympathizing with it’s enslaved kindred.

“Quiet,” Tardif barks, rattling the cage, shutting it up. He doesn’t know what the traitorous pest said about him, but it obviously wasn’t good.

“Yes, I see what you mean,” Damian says, regarding the insect's large pleading eyes, “I pray he takes better care of you. Unless of course, you'd like to come live with me?"

Tardif cuts off the insect's affirmative buzz, shielding it from view. Being gossiped about right in front of his face pries a growl of displeasure from his lips.

"Everyone's stayin’ right where they are," he snaps, putting an end to such drivel.

"Yes, of course masters orders," the vampire sighs, waving the idea away.

The insect seems to deflate as well, slouching in it’s confine of bars.

"Yer damn right," he growls, crossing his arms in triumph. Regardless of what sentiments they had, Tardif is happy to have thwarted their plans. 

"Alas, as fun as this has been, I must cut the festivities short," the vampire laments, masking the severity of his condition, a spell of dizziness catching him by surprise.

Not about to accept this, Tardif’s expression hardens into something more gruff, challenging, "Think ye can just decide that on yer own, eh?”

“You must excuse me,” the vampire hums, his attention not all there, pale eyelids growing heavy, “I grow weary. Let us resume our conversation another time.” 

“Went through a whole lotta trouble to find ye,” the brute tells him, fist curled in opposition, reiterating his oath, “I ain’t leavin' til the job is done.”

"Fret not, brave hunter," consoles the undead one, succumbing to fatigue, "You found me once. You can do so again. Have faith."

With that, the nobleman falls backwards, collapsing into the marsh in much the same position Tardif had discovered him in, overpowered by his deteriorating faculties.

Bewildered by this sudden turn of events, Tardif wonders if this was another trick, some last-ditch evasion technique to extend his pathetic life. 

Cautiously, he leans over to inspect the undead figure, observe him more closely. He waves a hand over his face, testing if the nobleman had truly passed out, holding his hand over his nostrils to see if he was still breathing.

Do vampires breathe? Tardif hasn’t shared the company of one long enough to know for sure.

With this thought in mind, his hand treads lower, running over a frilly ascot speckled with blood and a brooch laden with a crimson jewel. His inspections continue, until he reaches his chest, prying under his heavy coat to press against the layers of his vest, noting how it still rises and falls beneath his touch. Good, seems he was still alive (as alive as vampires could be), though unconscious.

He lingers there, taking in the rest of him, noting how all of his aristocratic attire is drowned in red, dyed velvet fabric ruined from prolonged exposure to the swamps' mulish conditions. His tights are also ripped, dirty and frayed beyond repair, one buckled shoe missing, lost to the elements, leaving him to walk awkwardly without it.

At the sound of a territorial hiss, the warrior looks toward the killer croc laying in wait, it’s beady eyes fixated on him.

Apparently, Sebastian doesn't take kindly to strangers touching his master and Tardif doesn’t trust the beast not to eat him for dessert while the other is conveniently indisposed.

Perhaps, Damian was right, they could reconvene later.

“Ye better keep an eye on him,” Tardif grunts at the looming guard dog, returning to his feet, “make sure he lives.”

The obedient reptilian is of kinder disposition after hearing this, the quills on it’s back rattling, a chitter gurgling out from it’s jaws, the two coming to a silent agreement.

The hunter smiles, nods, resolving to leave his quarry behind for the moment, taking to the path of trees, making his retreat.

[botaniqueer]

More Indoor Sun Shoppe Pinguicula. I think one of the staff said the purple friends were P. cyclosecta? Those ones are my favorites. Also I would like to shrink myself down and live on their rock.

[fanfoolishness]

five denials and a truth (The Mandalorian)

Written for @fake-starwars-fan, who suggested this idea.  Five times Din Djarin denies he is a father, and one time he doesn’t.  Canon-compliant, spoilers for seasons 1 and 2, and gets angsty as hell. I’m so sorry, Din.  Featuring Din, Grogu, Omera, the Armorer, Peli Motto, Ahsoka Tano, Boba Fett, and Cara Dune.  3800 words.

***

i.

The sun fell beneath the crowns of the trees, leaving them awash in blues and golds, and the insects sang their chorus in the growing shadows.  Din Djarin sat at the edge of the fire, watching the child play with the other children.  Wariness hummed in the back of his mind, long years of training deeply entrenched despite the seeming peace of Sorgan.  Still, though, it was hard to remain battle-ready here, as the children laughed and played their silly games.

Omera sat on the log beside him, waving a hand to her daughter.  The girl took off eagerly to join the others.  Pinpoint flashes of light sparkled around the children as they played, the evening lightning-beetles taking wing.

“The children love your son,” she said, turning back to Din, her eyes aglow in the firelight.  “I’ve never seen a youngling like him, but they’ve truly taken to him.  My daughter’s quite envious of his frog-catching skills.”  She chuckled, voice sweet and warm.

“He’s not my son,” said Din in polite, careful tones.  He shifted slightly on the log.

Omera tilted her head.  He found her direct eye contact discomfiting, but he did not look away.  “Because he isn’t human?”

He shook his head slightly.  “No.  That has nothing to do with it.”

“Then what?  I see the way you watch out for him.  You’re watching him now, making sure he isn’t getting into trouble,” she said lightly.  “Every parent does it.”

“There are terrible people after him,” said Din, feeling uneasy in a way he couldn’t pin down.  Imps, bounty hunters, who knew what else?  The less said about it, the better.  “I’m just trying to protect him until I can find a safe place for him, that’s all.”

She arched an eyebrow as the child toddled over to them, holding a squirming lightning-beetle in his small hands, its green-gold light pulsing between his fingertips.  “Looks like he has something to show you.”

Din bent down, reaching out to take the child’s hands.  “You, uh, you caught this?” he asked gruffly.  “Huh.”  He’d seen the other children trying to do the same and failing, the agile beetles getting the better of them.  Despite himself, he was impressed.  

“Good for you.  Just don’t  -- no!  Drop it!”  He pulled the squirming beetle out of the child’s mouth and tossed it aside, watching it flash up into the sky.  The child looked at him with big eyes, ears sinking down to his shoulders.

“Oh, they’re perfectly safe to eat,” said Omera, laughing.  “We eat them now and then if things are lean.”

“Oh,” said Din.  He felt his mouth form into a smile, a reflexive action beneath the helmet.  “Uh, sorry,” he said to the child.  “Maybe next time.”

The child took another step forward, then leaned against Din’s leg, small arms curling around his shin.  Then he was off again, toddling back to the children and the waiting lightning-beetles.

“If you aren’t his father,” asked Omera, “what’s stopping you?”  She gazed at him, her face kind, her eyes questioning.  

“I’m not what he needs,” Din said.  He turned away from her, staring off into the forest, where the bandits waited.  “That’s all.”

***

ii.

The Armorer watched Din Djarin carefully, grateful that another member of the Tribe had survived.  Of course, he and his actions were the reason so many had fallen, but the Creed was unflinchingly clear.  Death in the service of protecting another Mandalorian or a foundling was the noblest end to a warrior’s life.  The price had been paid, and paid again, and she bore him no anger for it.

She asked to see the child, to see the one whose protection had merited the fragmentation and destruction of the Tribe.  The creature stared up at her, clearly tired and frail, but its eyes held a spirit she understood.  This one had seen suffering.  It was always written in the eyes of those who did not hide their faces.

She saw, too, the way Djarin angled himself toward the child.  She had heard of how he had protected it, blaster, body and beskar, against the storm that drove him from the planet.  And she remembered the tale of the enemy that had helped him defeat the mudhorn.  She began to understand.

She explained to Djarin what he must do, what the Creed demanded.  No matter that the child was linked to the Jedi, nor that Djarin knew not where to find them.  He was a resourceful man.  She had faith that he would fulfill the Creed.

The others pressed him to leave, their urgency clear.  The Imperials were coming, as they had come upon them before in the night, and she understood their fear.  They knew not the Way of the Mandalore, the honor of a warrior’s death.

Djarin dissented.  “I’m staying.  I need to help her, and I need to heal.”

His desire to assist was welcome, but she knew that this was not his path.  His path was clear. It lay in the child’s wide eyes, in his small hands, in the way Djarin spoke of the foundling with a measured distance she knew he did not keep.  The truth could not be hidden.  A Mandalorian could fool an outsider, but she was the Armorer, and the depth of his feelings toward the child was laid bare in voice and stance.

“You must go,” she said firmly.  “A foundling is in your care.  By Creed, until it is of age or reunited with its own kind, you are as its father.”

You already are, she wished to say, but she did not.  He was not ready.  Not yet.  Denial showed plain in the set of his shoulders.

“This is the Way,” she said instead, voice brisk.  “You have earned your Signet.”  Her hands were swift and precise upon his pauldron, affixing the gleaming mudhorn to its rightful place.  

There it was, the emotion she knew lay deep within him.  “Thank you,” he said, and she saw the warrior’s heart within him gentled, humbled, made vulnerable.  “I will wear it with honor.”  

There were certain truths she had long known.  The best warriors did not harden their hearts.  Too hard, and they found their deaths too quickly, the potential glory of their sacrifice fading into a meaningless waste.  Yet those that succumbed to the pain of the world could be too soft, losing the will to fight and turning to the follies of pacifism.  

The finest warriors, the truest, walked wounded through the world.  It was their battles that burned brightest in the minds of their people, their struggles that most honored the Way of the Mandalore.  

She watched Djarin and the child leave with the others, and she waited, her hammer at the ready.  She would protect the beskar and buy time for those of her Tribe to escape.  She knew she would not fall this day.  

Beneath her helmet, she smiled.  For she believed Clan Mudhorn would earn their place in legend.

***

iii.

Din returned to Peli Motto’s shop, laden with supplies from the market.  Ammunition, food and water for himself and the kid, a few more packs of bacta patches.  Wouldn’t do to head out into the deep desert unprepared, and he wasn’t sure this mining town Peli was talking about really still existed.  He unloaded the supplies onto the ramp into the Crest, and turned to look for the kid.  He’s fine, he reminded himself, but he still hated how hard it was to leave the kid sometimes, how he always felt like something was missing when the kid wasn’t in his sight.

As expected, Peli was in her office, the kid in her lap.  She was having an animated discussion with him, judging by the way his ears quivered.  As Din drew near he picked up some of their conversation.

“So there I was, fighting an infestation of womp rats the size of banthas, and this no-good nerfherder shows up wanting to know why his ship’s not ready.  I tried telling him the droids were overrun and that I’d already busted one blaster trying to shoot the damn things, and he had the nerve to -- Mando!  Back from the market, huh?” Peli asked, looking up at him.  

The kid let out an excited squeal and reached towards him.  Reluctantly, Peli lifted him up, and Din took him into his arms.  The kid settled down in the crook of his elbow like he’d been there all his life, and Din finally relaxed.

“Not the best selection I’ve ever seen, but I got what we needed,” he said.  “Thanks for watching the kid.  He’s gotten me into trouble with more than one vendor.  Sticky fingers.”  And having the ability to move things with his mind, while impressive, wasn’t exactly a good recipe when combined with a youngling who was hungry all the time.  Din tilted his helmet down to look at the kid, his mouth tugging invisibly into a grin beneath the beskar.

“This angel?” Peli scoffed.  “I don’t believe it.”  Din simply looked at her, and she relented, “Okay, okay, he ate half my lunch when I wasn’t looking, and tried to eat a sand roach when I was.  I get your point.”

“I told you to be good for Peli,” scolded Din.  The kid let out a small, sad burble, and he sighed.  “I know, I know.  You didn’t mean it.”  He reached up, fingers cuffing gently against the kid’s cheek.

“You guys should do more business on Tatooine,” said Peli, leaning back in her chair and taking a long drink of caf.  “Always a pleasure.  It warms my sandblasted heart, seeing you two.”

Din nearly choked.  “Excuse me?”

“You know what I mean!” she said, waving her hands.  “Mos Eisley’s got some pretty nasty dealings in the back alleys.  Orphaned younglings, drunks, slavers looking for easy marks…   It’s just nice to see a dad actually taking care of his kid for once.”

Din was still.  The kid grabbed his thumb with one small hand, holding it tight, and reflexively he curled his hand closer to the little one.  He didn’t speak.

Peli raised her brows, looking concerned.  “Did I say something wrong?”

“I…”  He swallowed.  “I’m not his father.”

“Well, I don’t know what exactly you look like under that armor, but no shit, Mando,” she said.  “But dads aren’t just a blood thing.  I thought -- I mean, the way you take care of him, and all.  You’d do anything for this kid, or I don’t know a damn thing.”

“I would,” he said slowly.  “Do anything for him.”  The kid brushed his hand against his cuirass, his claws making tiny ting noises against the beskar.  

“But you’re not his dad.”

If you aren’t his father, what’s stopping you?

You are as its father.

“He’s a foundling,” said Din, and he fought to keep his voice steady.  “I would die for him.  This is the Way.”

Peli held out her hands skeptically, face shifting into clear confusion.  “And again, you’re not his dad?  I’m not getting the distinction here.”

He looked down at the kid, whose ears quivered with curiosity, his mouth slightly open as if asking a question.  

Red robes, blaster fire, the smell of smoke, the sound of screams --

Until it is reunited with its own kind --

“It’s complicated,” he said, turning away from her.  “Thanks again for watching him.  We’d better get a move on before it starts getting dark.”  

He headed back out toward the ship and the speeder, her indignant voice following him.  “It’s noon, but whatever you say, Mando!”

***

iv.

Mist lay heavy in the secluded forest, muffling the sounds of the grazing beasts in the distance, the township far away.  Din stared out at the falling darkness, his stomach twisting.  It was nearly time.  Time to fulfill his quest, to deliver the child.

Time to say goodbye to Grogu.

His feet felt heavy, so heavy, though the distance to the little sleeping area from the hold was only a few steps away.  He stood in the doorway, watching the child sleep in the small hammock.  He’d picked up the cloth in a small market on a forgotten world.  He remembered asking the shopkeeper if it was soft enough for a youngling, remembered taking his glove off to make sure the fabric wasn’t itchy.  He remembered the kid -- Grogu -- cooing to himself that first night in the hammock, remembered how well the kid had slept.  

He remembered how he’d laid awake half the night, missing the kid curled up on his chest.

Din raised his hands.  They trembled.  

This is what I came to do.  This is for him.

“Wake up, buddy,” he said, voice breaking.  “It’s time to say goodbye.”  He reached a hand into the hammock, brushing against Grogu’s chest.  The kid made a small, sleepy sigh, a sigh he’d heard dozens, hundreds of times now, a sigh that had become as familiar and homey as the engine’s hum.  He lifted him carefully out of the hammock, but Grogu just yawned, smacking his lips, and closed his eyes again.

Din sat down, leaning against the wall with Grogu on his knee.  He looked at him.  Really looked, though his vision blurred.  I have… I have to remember.    

He drank in the sight of those long, delicate ears, soft with thin white fuzz on the edges, the inner skin shell-pink rimmed with mossy green.  He memorized the curious ridges and bumps on his forehead, between his eyes, remembering how they crinkled when the kid was happy and flattened when the kid was being obstinate.  He looked at the mouth that had eaten a horrifying number of frogs and spiders, and nearly laughed despite himself.

Grogu’s hand twitched, curling over Din’s fingertip.  Din shifted his thumb to cover the back of his small hand, and the kid blinked sleepy eyes at him.  Those eyes, so wide, so curious, so expressive.  He would never forget them.  

“You’re gonna love being a Jedi,” Din whispered.  “You’ll learn how to use your powers.  You’ll get even stronger.  You’ll see.”  You won’t need me.

Grogu’s weight on his knee was so light.  

Funny, then, that Din felt so crushed.  

He bowed over the kid, arms curling around his small body.  Grogu leaned into him, and Din held him, and he told himself that it was time.

He was never sure, looking back, how he piloted the ship safely back to the town and landed it without a hitch.  He only remembered walking down the ramp, seeing the Jedi Ahsoka waiting for them, and going cold, cold, cold.

They regarded each other for a moment.  The Jedi’s eyes were sad and distant.  She gazed down at Grogu, nestled in Din’s arms.  

“You’re like a father to him,” she said finally.  “I cannot train him.”

His legs felt fuzzy and weak.  He straightened up, forcing himself to stand firm.  He had to try again, for the kid’s sake.  “You made me a promise, and I held up my end,” he accused.

The Jedi spoke.  Part of him held onto her words, kept them safe, directions to a planet, another option to find more Jedi.  He could do this.

The other part of him was dizzy, punchdrunk, even as he held the kid safely in his arms.  You’re like a father to him echoed, and somehow the words struck deeper than they ever had before.  He ached with them, ached for them to be real -- weren’t Jedi supposed to be noble?  Weren’t they supposed to tell the truth?

But he knew he couldn’t be that lucky.  

He thanked her politely for the information, and set a course for Tython.

***    

v.      

“We’re coming up on Nevarro,” came Fett’s voice in his ear, and Din jerked awake.

It took him a moment to get his bearings.  This wasn’t the Crest.  This was Slave I.  This was Boba Fett.  Fennec Shand was down below.  And Grogu was… gone.

His head reeled. Gone.  Not safe in the arms of a Jedi, no future secured and sheltered.  He’d been stolen, been lost.  Under his watch.

“You still asleep?” Fett asked, glancing back.  His helmet rested beside him, half-cleaned of its scorch marks and scars.  Fett had been busy while he was sleeping.

“No,” said Din, trying to clear his head.  He lapsed into silence.

“It’s a fair plan,” said Fett.  “I hope it works.  For the sake of the child.”

“You didn’t have to --” Din started.  They’d been through this already, though, and he knew it would be insulting to keep up his protests.  “I’m… grateful for the help.  Thank you.”

Fett shrugged. “We tracked you for a while, you know.  Before Tython.”

Din stared straight ahead.  He didn’t care about that.  But he realized in the waiting quiet that Fett expected an answer.  “I didn’t know.”  

There; the man should take it as a compliment.  Din knew he wasn’t easy to track.

“I saw how you were with the child.”  Fett’s scarred face was thoughtful.  There was something complicated there behind the older man’s eyes, but Din couldn’t read it, unsettled and numb as he was.

“I was to return him to the Jedi,” Din forced out.  “I failed him.”

“You took care of him,” Fett pointed out.  “I saw it.  That’s not nothing.”  

“He was a foundling,” he said mechanically.  “Any Mandalorian would have done the same.  The Creed demands --”

Fett sighed.  “You can keep your Creed.”  The words still sounded so wrong -- to view the Creed as a myth, it was sacrilege.  Still, though, he’d seen the chain code, and he knew Fett’s claim was valid.

Din watched the other man cautiously, but was taken aback by the next words Fett spoke.  “You were a father to him.  That much was clear.”

Din chuckled, a brittle, awful sound.  It hurt his throat.  “People keep telling me that.”

“Are they wrong?”

He thought of Grogu taken, held captive by droids’ arms harsh and cold.  He thought of him in a cell, thought of tests and needles and experiments, thought of the little youngling toddling after him and laughing sweetly about cookies.  He thought of standing there helplessly on the rocky slopes of Tython, watching the world end.

He was grateful, not for the first time, for the helmet shielding his face.  “Does it matter?” he gritted, and Nevarro loomed before them.

***

vi.

Cara Dune caught up to him, about six months later.

He’d been half-expecting her for some time.  Knew that rumors of his doings would reach certain ears.  Knew that she’d put two and two together.  Even if he no longer wore beskar, he knew the patterns would be noticed.

She found him in a scuzzy bar on an ocean moon, where the damp seeped into everything and the cold never faded.  She sat beside him, tossing a few credits onto the bar, and was rewarded with a sea-brewed ale.  She drank about half before she finally turned to face him.

“Hey, Mando.”

He didn’t look at her.  Didn’t want to see the pity in her face.  He could hear it well enough in her voice.

“I knew I’d see you again,” he said quietly.  “Galaxy’s never as big as it seems.”

“No,” she said.  “I guess it isn’t.”

In the silence, water dripped, dripped, dripped behind the bar, a constant rhythm.

“I know it was you,” she said presently.  “The Imperial bases on Corux and Raethe.  Two cruisers downed, the troops dead long before the ships crashed.  Imps dead in the streets of a dozen backwaters.  And a lot of high-ranking officers found in pieces.”

“A lot of people hate the Empire,” he said.  He took a drink of his ale.  He hated the taste, and hated the burn more.

“Not a lot of people hate them like you do.”  Lightning-fast, she twitched aside the cloak hanging over his hip, revealing the Darksaber hanging like an anchor at his side.  He ignored her, covering it again with his cloak.  “Let’s just say you have a signature style these days.”

Din glanced at her out of the corner of his eye.  She looked different, hair a little shorter, upgraded armor, a new insignia on her shoulder.  And sympathy etched in every line of her face.  He looked away, shaken.

“So what?” he asked.  “Don’t tell me the New Republic has a problem with fewer Imps running around.”

“They don’t.  They’d probably give you a medal, if they knew who was behind it,” said Cara.  She finished her drink.  “I have a problem with it.”

He nearly snorted into his foul ale.  “Really.  You’re worried about the Imps.”

“I’m worried about you, Din Djarin.”

He froze.  She’d never used his name before.  Slowly, he turned to stare at her, fully aware that his naked face was on display.  “Stop.”

Cara flushed.  “I was on the ground at that Maelstrom-class cruiser.  I saw what you did to them.  It wasn’t…”  Her mouth twisted.  “Killing Imps doesn’t bother me.  You know that.  But that was… brutal.”

“Again,” he said defensively, “you’re worried about them?”

“About what it’s doing to you,” she said, her voice flat.  “Mandalorians… I thought you were known for noble kills --”

“I’m not a Mandalorian,” he spat.

She pounded a fist into the table, a sharp crack that left a mark on the flimsy surface.  “You’re torturing yourself about letting him go.  This isn’t you, Mando.  And I think a part of you knows it.”

The weight of the last several months loomed.  It pressed.  It shattered, a shield failing, a dam breaking.  He saw the Darksaber flaring, scorching, searing, amputating, saw his bare hands on the hilt, saw the bodies piled.  He remembered enjoying it in a way that felt sick, felt dirty, an insult to the Way of the Mandalore, but he’d already burned that bridge, hadn’t he?  Already bared his face to the child, to the Jedi, to all of them; already desecrated his beskar; already severed his clan of two into one, alone --

“I know,” he said hoarsely, ashamed.  “I know it’s wrong.  I -- I broke the Creed --”

She reached up slowly, rested her hand on his shoulder.  She waited, her eyes soft.  

He bowed his head, shaking.  “And I gave him up,” he whispered, burying his damp face in his hands.  “I lost my son.”

My son.

The truth he’d hid from so long flared white-hot, burning through him.  Denial had done nothing for him; all it had done was rob him of the chance to tell Grogu how much he loved him before it was too late.  It hadn’t saved him from this agony at all.  The pain roared, a howling void opening up within him, a darkness he could never hope to see through.

“I was his father,” he choked.  “What am I now?”

Cara’s hand was firm on his shoulder, steady, kind; but she had no answers for him.  In the end, the only sounds were his broken breathing and the drip, drip, drip behind the bar.

[avaritia-apotheosis]

Phantom Children Ch. 7

Massive thanks to my awesome betas for this chapter!

In Which: A Story is Given to the Locked Room

AO3 | Prologue | 6 | [ 7 ] | 8

DICK DOESN’T REALLY KNOW WHAT TO FEEL. Surprised, maybe? Though he really isn’t all that shocked. Not that the revelation of another Wayne kid isn’t surprising, it’s just that—well…

Bruce has a tendency to attract foolhardy kids with a strong sense of justice and a willingness to harp on Batman until he gives them wings and teaches them how to fly. It’s the way of the world. The sky is blue, the sun sets in the west, and little Robin-hopefuls flock to Batman like ducklings to their big, brooding, mother duck. (That most of them are black haired and blue-eyed with some sort of traumatic backstory is a coincidence. Probably. The universe is just weird that way.)

And Bruce, bleeding heart that he is despite all the steel walls and nuclear spike fields he placed around it, always had a soft spot for children. It’s what people don’t get when they call Robins and Batgirls, former or current, child soldiers. They think that Batman picks these children up from gutter alleys and unfortunate homes, breaking and reshaping them into crusaders for his war against crime.

(What most don’t get is that the easiest way to gain ‘favorite child’ status in the Wayne household is to just stay home and live the most normal life possible. All of them—with the exception of Damian and Cass—chose this life. And even those two chose to stick with it, even when Bruce was more than happy to give them a way out.)

Dick was one of the first to stand at Batman’s side. The original. The ‘golden boy’ as Jason always put it. He’d been there so early in Batman’s career that, years later, it’s nearly inconceivable to imagine Batman without his Robin. He’s been there for Bruce’s soaring highs, his crushing lows, his mundane middles, just as Bruce has been there for him. Sure, they’ve had their fights, but Dick had always settled himself with the knowledge that he was one of the few people that knew everything about Bruce Wayne.

But this . This nursery—no, this memorial . This monument that spoke of a life that could have, should have, would have been, is something that predates Robin’s existence. A story, a memory that had hurt Bruce so badly that he would rather hide it away than breathe even a word of its existence.

Until now. Until Bruce had no choice but to rip the wound open once more.

“Bruce. I—what’s going on?”

“Perhaps,” Alfred interjected. “Perhaps it may be best to take this to the cave. Such a story should be told once.”

Bruce laughed, a broken, shuddering thing. “What is there to tell? I was naive with a heart too open and full of longing. I let myself hope, and I let myself get crushed . I picked myself up, moved on, end of story.”

Alfred raised an imperious brow. “As you are the one who always insisted on detailed reports, I do hope your summary to the boys downstairs would have a little more detail.” His face softened as he placed a comforting hand on Bruce’s shoulder. “What recent information that has been passed to us paints a worrisome picture, given what little you have shared, but know that this time you are not alone to deal with this matter. Regardless of what you do, the rest of the family is involved by proxy."

Bruce seemed to release some of the tension in his shoulders at that. “Yes. Of course. Dick, why don’t you see if Tim is back yet. I don’t want to explain this more than once, if possible. I’ll be down in a few minutes.”

“Yeah. Yeah, sure, I’ll get right on that.”

“And, Dick?”

“Yeah?”

Bruce’s gaze was intense. “How is Damian doing?”

He remembered the way Damian sunk deeper into the chair, hands clasping and unclasping at air. The white of his cast hanging limply as Damian’s legs could just barely brush against the cave floor. Dick swallowed a lump in his throat. “I don’t know. But I do know that he could really use his father right about now.”

Bruce gave a shaky nod and Dick left.

_______

Everyone has heard this tale before.

His boys have learned about the birth of Batman, of how a boy lost his parents in an alley at the age of eight. How at 14 he took to the study of criminology to an almost religious fervor. He took and aced every AP test, graduated high school at 16, headed off to get a college degree, then disappeared off the face of the earth.

Batman may have been born kneeling in the shadows of a dirty alley, but it was on the streets abroad where Batman grew up. Learning and studying and fighting until he knew what made the criminal underworld tick, how to escape almost every type of restraints, how to solve a murder with only the smallest of clues. He trained under a demon and met his daughter. When their ideas of justice clashed with each other, he tried to leave, they tried to stop him, and he set their base on ablaze.

He returned to Gotham the prodigal son, the favored prince, the charming socialite. Bruce Wayne took his place at the center of Gotham’s solar system, shining and bright and unbelievably foolish. Batman put on a cowl and learned the shadows of Gotham’s streets, and built himself up to be a symbol of fear and justice. Soon, he acquired a Robin to temper that darkness. To bring a light of hope, to instill a sense of peace— something more than vengeance and the night.

The rest is history.

Here is the part of the story that Bruce had omitted:

Early in his career as Batman, a man named Quayin had plans to steal a weather modifying US satellite. This, and certain other events, led to Bruce and Ra’s al Ghul crossing paths—and working on the same side. The details of that mission, in the long run. do not matter. Not anymore. What’s important is that accompanying him is his daughter, Talia al Ghul. She was as deadly as she was beautiful—and Talia was very, very beautiful.

It was a whirlwind romance. A storm of passion. Gotham’s Bruce Wayne and socialite Miranda Tate. * Batman and the Daughter of the Demon. The tempest reached its peak on that fateful day in the gardens of Wayne Manor. The hot summer sun and buzzing insects fading away as she pulled him aside and said “Beloved, I am with child. I am pregnant.” **

Bruce was caught unawares by the news. Stared dumbfounded at her until his brain caught up with his ears and he felt such unbridled joy bubbling in his chest. He laughed, clear and bright. He held her tight against him as if she held the world in her hands—because she did . Talia held his world within her and Bruce vowed to protect it with every fiber of his being. He called Alfred immediately to tell him the news and started arranging for discreet interior decorators and shipments for everything they needed for a nursery.

Thomas, for a boy. Martha for a girl. He swore that very day that it would be the happiest baby in the world. **

And then—

And then…

As Ra’s and Bruce planned their next move to stop Quayin from initiating a war between America and the USSR, Talia collapsed.

Talia collapsed and the baby was just…

Gone.

And suddenly Talia wanted nothing to do with him. Told Bruce to leave her alone, that their relationship would never be the same.

His child was gone .

By the time the rogue satellite was recovered, Quayin defeated, and all loose ends tied up, the nursery was fully furnished. Bruce took one look at it and then turned away. Locked the door and hid the key god-knows-where.

His child was gone.

Batman continued to work.

There was no use for an empty nursery.

--------

End Notes:

The story I'm using for the circumstances surrounding Danny's birth is basically a modified version of what happens in Batman: Son of the Demon. Modified so that people knew that Bruce Wayne and Miranda Tate were a couple and to give enough time for a nursery to be built along with the rest of the events of that comic.

*Miranda Tate is the name Tahlia al Ghul went by in 'The Dark Knight Rises'

**These lines are taken from Batman: Son of the Demon

[whirlybirbs]

MOONLIT DUNES.    ;    boba fett / reader     ;     1 / ?

summary: you’ve found many things in the dunes. a gravely injured mandalorian is a new thing to add to the ever growing list. set directly after return of the jedi. 

word count: 3.5k

pairing: boba fett / scavenger!reader

tags: some body horror, injury mention, boba loses his leg, reader does first aid,  the great pit of carkoon really did one on our man

a/n: my hand slipped i swear.............. (this has been in the works since may)

In all your years spent drifting about the land of Tatooine, you’ve found many things in the dunes.

Rare racing pod parts that had been discontinued after years of upgrades... Discarded weaponry, no doubt used for something more nefarious than Bantha hunting... and many, many skulls, sentient and otherwise.

Such comes with the life of a scavenger — live off the land and the things buried deep; harvest trinkets of lives long since forgotten in the ever changing tides of glittering sand.

However, never in your life —  in all the days spent beneath the twin brother suns —  have you ever found someone alive in the dunes.

Until today, that is.

You should have known venturing North of Mos Eisley was a bad idea. After all, the plains beyond the space port were ridden with starved sarlacc pits. But, with Tanto — the resident Junk Boss — down your throat about catching up on your few owed debts, you’d decided to weigh the risk and trek on towards the looming beast on the horizon: the Great Pit of Carkoon. With any luck, you’d be able to scavenge what little undigested pieces the massive creature had belched back up — maybe some Gamorian armor, or a blaster or two — after one of Jabba’s usual disposal runs.

Ah, Jabba.

Rumor had it that Jabba Desilijic Tiure was dead.

You knew better than to ask about mere rumors being tossed around the clock-out lines as you turned in your hauls for the day. Like you did every evening, you kept your head down. But, you did listen. You always listen — and from what you could gather, there’d already been a few scavenging parties dispatched to the Northern region.

Something about a jedi, a princess and a hell of a mess.

Not that any of that mattered — because dwelling on some fantastical retelling of a lie by Frokop Golp, the resident drunk swindler, wasn’t going to keep you fed. You were hoping that at the least, the part about one of Jabba’s sail barges going down by the Great Pit of Carkoon wasn’t a lie. Then, you could maybe find a few transistor coolant coils...

The dawning realization that you were betting another day’s ration portion on a spun half-truth embellished by the local drunkard hits you as your dewback, a kindly older male you’d named Scud, finally reaches the crest of the highest dune overlooking the Carkoon wastes. For a moment, as you squint into the setting sun, you wonder if this is even going to be worth it.

You sigh, adjusting the light linen face covering over your nose and mouth, and gently urge Scud forward.

No use in dwelling. You’re already here.

“Hup.”

As you near, the wreckage seems to have been picked over completely. Scud plods slowly towards the wreck, tail swatting cautiously as the sarlacc a few meters ahead gives a low hiss at the vibrations riling it awake through the sand. You rock with the slow canter, one hand on the horn of the saddle and the other moving to reach behind you to your pack.

There rests a longspear — the top is crowned with the head of a gaderffii. You’d made it ages ago, well before your fifteen birthday, and it had become as much as a steadfast companion as Scud himself. With a flick and a satisfying click, the longspear extends from it’s compacted state. Resting the butt end against your forearm as Scud continues his meandering pace, you run the spear tip through the sand to your left.

No give.

The dunes creating a wall around the beast’s mouth stand strong. Over the large ridge, and a handful of meters away, tentacles swing eagerly through the air like malicious little whips, hungry for their next meal. The hulking beast, well over 10,000 years old, knows you’re here now — the desperate moan from it’s gaping maw is enough of an indication of that fact.

For now, keeping your distance and guiding Scud towards the barge, you’re safe.

The party barge had certainly seen better days — seems like a bolt from the main gun had ruptured a fuel line below the deck. Half submerged in an encroaching dune, you’re not surprised to be greeted by the foul stench of sun-rotting corpses as you hop down from Scud. Your boots, made of stretched and tanned Bantha hide, kick up a cloud of dust when you land.

Even with the twin suns beginning to set, the sand is hot.

There are footpaths leading to the barge, partially washed away by the wind pulling the sand closer to the mangled helm of the ship. Patting Scud’s neck as you pass, you grip your staff tightly — one tap of the durasteel spear to the twisted hole in the starboard side sends a scattering hiss of a pack of womp rats caught lounging in the evening shade. Carefully, you duck beneath the warped siding and over the lip of metal, eyes flicking around the cavernous sail barge.

The engine room is where you find yourself… or, well, what’s left of it. The engine has since bottomed out of the barge, no doubt laying in the dunes a few meters away. The smell of propulsion liquid burns in your nostrils, even with your white linen head-covering wrapped tight across your face.

You move on, hauling yourself towards the engine and grabbing two of the smaller propulsion pistons from the transmission. You swing your staff across your shoulder. The strap digs into your neck as you lean into the engine and try to disconnect the main hydraulic line from the engine part.

There’s a part of you, small and girlish, that remembers being scared of dark wreckages like this when you were younger. The terrifying scenario of stumbling into a krayt dragon’s nest used to play over and over in your head; and even now, the irrational little thought nags the back of your mind like a bite from a sand flea. What was rumbling beneath the sand, ready to make you its next meal?

In reality, the most likely scenario would be Tusken scouts roughing you up over encroaching on their territory.

Scud, though, you trusted enough to give holler at the sight of another being — skittish was one of his best traits, especially when sometimes the biggest danger out here in the dunes (aside from sarlaccs) was other sentients.

If the Kiqan tribe spotted you this far out? At worst, you’d lose some of the scavenged parts from earlier in the day as a barter. The Kiqan, the tribe local to this region, knew well enough that the majority of scavengers meant well. Unlike some of the tribes native to the Western lands, the Kiqans have come to terms with the traffic coming in and out of Mos Eisley.

Their chief, a broad and strong woman called Rhaza’hoq, led a clan of twenty Tusken men and women. On more than one occasion, you’d crossed paths with her — you’d come to recognize the womp rat jaw as a part of her head covering and a pelt of bantha donning her shoulders. Though their native tongue felt wrong to you, like prying dry sounds right from your throat, you’d tried to apologize for your trespass.  

That seemed to have been enough respect garnered for the chief to allow you to pass through the Bo’mar Flats in peace. You’d even offered up an armful of rifle components as a gesture of good faith — one you haven’t regretted since.

If they were to catch you here, you’d lose a good lump sum of money. The two battered sheets of durasteel strapped to the side of Scud, each four feet by four feet, would catch a fair price at the Junkyard in Mos Eisley. So, you quietly resign your attempt to dislodge the third propulsion piston and shoulder the two others. Your sack swings heavily against your hip as you plant your boot on the lip of the engine and reach through the hole the ignition blast caused in the floor.

Almost as immediately as you haul yourself up do you regret it.

The smell is wretched, and as you cough and gag you can’t help but recoil in disgust.

Your arrival on the main floor of the sail barge brings with it the cacophonous sound of cave beetles wings; the insects scatter as you press your forearm to your face — you’re left only to stare in horror at the sight before you.

Jabba Desilijic Tiure was very dead.

The infamous Hutt is little more than a snack for the various animals who have come and gone from the wreckage, now. Reduced only to a rotting mess of flesh and bones, you feel the swell of bile creep up into your throat as you tear your gaze away.

“Gods above,” you heave, coughing loudly.

That’s when you hear it.

A weak sound.

A strangled moan.

Small, quiet, and nearly nothing but a whimper.

For a moment, your muscles seize up so tightly that you're left holding your breath — was that you? Had that sound slipped from your throat the moment you’d let your eyes slip to the open windows along the starboard side of the ship, overlooking the Great Pit beyond the dune ridge?

Then, you see him.

It’s the single weak raise of a gloved hand in the dirt that spurs you into motion.

Scud, too, in that moment must have realized you both weren’t alone — he gives a great baying moan as you scramble, slipping through the whole and back down the engine. You scale it with ease, staff swung over your shoulder at the ready the moment your boots hit the ground.

You dart out into the sun, escaping the festering wreck, and bolt towards what you had previously thought was just a mangled, twisted piece of a rear booster. Making your way up the rising dune, you groan and push your muscles to reach what you now recognized as a destroyed jetpack — and beneath it, a man.

Your spear greets his body first, rounded butt end planting itself beneath his side and with one good nudge, rolling him over.

That’s when you realize he is very much alive and he is very much missing a leg.

Almost immediately, you sink to the dirt.

He’s big. His chest bears a cracked and scathed piece of armor. One arm, with a tattered sleeve and no glove, bears a shoulder pauldron with an insignia long since charred away. It seems like the entire left side of his body had been scorched by some sort of blast. His jetpack, mangled and shredded, is the first to go. You unbuckle the straps along his arms with an utterance of apology.

You’re greeted with a low groan. Slight protest.

Confusion.

His eyes do not open. Swollen eyelids stay shut.

Clicking your tongue and hollering in Huttese, your lumbering dewback trods closer.

His face is sunburnt, the plains of his sharp cheekbones blistering from the exposure to the sun and sand — though, something ticks in the back of your mind. These burns are fresh. From the last day at least. Suddenly, you’re wondering if he’s a fellow scavenger who’d fallen into the pit.

The jetpack would explain the escape.

You toss the pack down the hill.

You follow it, tripping down the sand towards the side of Scud as you scramble for one of the durasteel sheets. Laying it flat on the hot sand, you wonder how on earth this man had survived this long…. A day at least, judging by the sand swept around him and the burns along his arms and face. How long had he been in The Pit?

Gods above.

The Bo’mar Flats were not a kind place when left to the elements.

You land beside the man once more, this time speaking loudly.

“I am going to help you.”

You’re not sure if you’re saying it more for yourself or him.

There’s a part of you, as your eyes flick down to the stump of his left leg, that would give anything to turn away. Ride off, forget the gorish scene. Yet, the better part of you knows you’d simply come back come morning and do the same thing you’re doing now.

And then, come daybreak, he may not even be alive.

You tell yourself, as you squat and try and get a good grip, that you’re doing exactly what anyone else would do. But the reality is that’s far from the truth. Out here, it’s eat or be eaten.

With your luck, you’re stumbling into a metaphorical krayt dragon’s nest helping this man.

If only you knew.

You root both your fists in the material around his shoulders, worn enough to show the outline of where armor used to sit. And you pull.

It’s no easy feat. Even with gravity working in your favor, you’re struggling to haul the large man down the dune. The sand simply drags along, digging him into the dune as you curse in Huttese and spit out profanities sharp enough to make Scud shift on his peds. Your knuckles ache, fingernails having dug half moons into your palms through the material of his under-armor tunic. Landing backwards, you curse. But, you get back up again, and you pull.

It takes ten minutes to move him two meters to the durasteel sled downhill — and even longer to maneuver him onto the steel piece of scavenged material. By the end of it, you’re prying your scarf from your mouth to breath. Sweat tickles the back of your neck as your hands hit your knees and you groan.

“Koochoo,” you hiss at yourself in Huttese. Idiot is right. This is stupid.

Throughout this, the wounded man has offered nothing, not a single peep — you wonder if his last ditch hail of his hand was the only bit of energy he had left.

With him now on the makeshift sled, you move towards Scud’s left pack. Inside, you dig out your canteen and a spare bacta pack. The water sloshes around the hollow metal sphere. Once cold from your early hour of embarking, it’s warm to the touch.

It’s been a hot day.

Overhead, the twin suns have melted into a hazy coral color. They hang low across the horizon, suspended in a flickering bob of heat that dances across the clouds.

You fall to your knees in the sand. You need to move quickly. Soon, the sun will set and getting back to your hut just north of Mos Eisley is an hour’s ride at best.

The lower part of his left leg, from the knee down, is gone. The bleeding had long since stopped, clotted up from the sand and what looks like corrosive burns… Sure enough, the same patterning around his wrists tell you he sure as all kriff has been in the belly of the Great Pit of Carkoon. It’s the stomach acid that has melted the skin together just enough to halt the bleeding along his knee.

You exhale. Short and quick. Then, you pour your water across the limb.

That earns a loud groan of protest. Good to know he’s still alive.

The bacta is next, squeezed from the age old tube in a glob that lands above the wound. With an iron gut and quick sense of criticality, you rinse your own hands with water, all before holding your breath and pushing the palm sized amount across the mangled flesh and muscle. You try not to think about the way your own knee twitches, and instead, focus on planting your hand on the man’s chest — for the first time, he gives a true indication he feels it. The man writhes, contorting himself as a painful series of expletives fly from his mouth.

The chest plate buckles slightly, and when you lift your palm, the dirt smeared away shows a small emblem… Tan and green and red. What looks like wheat and a drop of blood…

It’s familiar, but you can’t remember why. You’ve seen it somewhere. Chewing the inside of your lip, you tear your eyes away and you move on. In a flash, you’ve hauled the linen head wrap from your hair. With the sun setting, you won’t need it as much as he will — keeping the sand out of the clean-enough wound will make a difference once you get him back to your home.

A part of you wonders if this man has any credits at all — truth be told you certainly don’t have enough to cover a visit to the local doctor. As you finish tying off his thigh, you reason that conversation is a bridge you can cross when you get there. For now, let’s just hope you can get him back to your dwelling alive.

Away from this wretched wreck.

By the time you’re mounted back up on Scud’s back, the suns have begun to dip below the dunes on the farthest horizon — the stars melt as they disappear, casting the shadows of the dunes in inky blacks. Behind Scud, the stranger is dragged, rigged to the saddle by two extending cables originally scavenged off an abandoned pod-racing setup, out by Bestine. The plating he rests on glides across the sand, leaving patterns in the dunes. You crane your neck, turning in the saddle, and frown.

There was certainly a first for everything.

⋆   ⋆   ⋆

Boba Fett wakes to the sight of a dirt ceiling.

The stirring confusion of unconsciousness subsides and almost immediately he is roused by pain — then comes the startling panic.

Is he dead?

Where is he?

What in the hell happened?

This is not the barge; there is no Luke Skywalker here, nor Solo nor the Wookie... The Pit… He’d fallen in. Yea, yea, he remembers that. But, he got out. Jetpack punctured. Flew him straight into the air. Burns. That’s the pain he feels. Burns? Yes. His back.

His leg. Something feels different. An ache. He tries to move his feet.

Boba groans, angled features contorting into a pained look as he tries to sit up on the cot; but suddenly, there’s a hand on the center of his chest. Gently, the hand pushes him down to the pillows.

Slowly, dark brown eyes follow the hand. Wrist, arm, shoulder, face.

Headscarf.

The first thing he realizes is that your eyes are beautiful, but soft. There’s kohl lining your eyes, making your stare piercing. Your brows are knotted in concern, and though he cannot make out the words that fall from your lips, he can understand the tone to be gentle. You’re speaking Huttese.

… Gods damn it all.

The Hutts.

Jabba.

Son of bitch was probably dead. He’s sure that the Desilijic Clan will have something to say about that.

Boba’s eyes slip shut as he exhales.

Sleep takes him easily.

⋆   ⋆   ⋆

When he wakes again, it’s evening. There are candles burning in the room, and once his eyes adjust he can make out your figure through a blanket covering the doorway at the end of the room — through the crack, he can see that you’re cooking over a small stove-top. He is laid up in the bedroom, he realizes, and on the floor across from the cot he lays upon is a pile of pillows.

You must have been watching over him.

Instantly, he’s looking for his blaster.

Call it a habit.

The mere act of bending sends pain shooting up his spine; and Boba finds himself gritting his jaw tightly as his knuckles tense and he tries to see any remnants of his armor or pack or weapons.

The commotion summons you in a flash.

This time, you have no headscarf on; Boba can now see the swell of your lips and the kind slope of your nose. You’re beautiful — his bruised and bloodshot eyes follow you as you glide into the room and duck beneath the patterned blanket separating the bedroom from the kitchenette.

There’s a plate of food in your hand. A fork and a knife rest on the edge of the painted plate.

“Careful,” comes a gentle utterance as you place the food beside his head on the table there, “Take it easy.”

Your basic is dashed with the light accent of Huttese. The syllables are melodic and gentle. You reach to help him into a sitting position, keen on making sure he’s comfortable —

Like a sand viper, the man before you has snatched the knife from the plate, swinging his hand quickly with a lethal sense of precision that stuns you silent. The coolness of the durasteel utensil is pressed right to your throat.

You can see the muscles in his arms tense, the sharp rise and fall of his bare chest. The blanket across his lap has slipped to his waist. Your jaw tilts upward, expression souring quickly. The kindness in your eyes quickly turns to ice.

When you raise your eyes to meet his, all Boba can see is defiance.

“Who are you?” he grits out hoarsely, “And how did I get here?”

“I found you,” you hiss, words scathing and hot as you raise both hands. There’s a wrinkle forming on the bridge of your nose, giving way to the angered expression flooding your face, “I’m beginning to see why The Great Pit of Carkoon spat you back up.”

The tension that builds settles heavily between you both.

And then, Boba Fett lowers the knife.

[fbfh]

hello, bluebell (leo x fairy!reader)

genre/vibe: soft fantasy/the gentle etherial vibes of the princess bride and pixie hollow (books and game)

word count: 1.6k

pronouns: they/them - gn reader - probs some fem vibes cause i was imagining my fairy daydream self while writing this lmao

au: you’re a fairy but no others 

pairing: Leo x fairy!reader

requested: nope, just obsessed w fairies bc who isn’t

warnings: brief mentions of memory gaps, a few mentions of caterpillars and other bugs, you wake up in the woods somewhere, mentions of changlings

summary: leo trips over a stranger sleeping in the woods, and know they’re something else because of their etherial aura. And the fairy wings. That was a pretty clear sign too.

reccomended songs: aventurine - paul baker, fairy garden asmr ambiance

a/n: baby stepping back into the writing game babeeeeyyy aLsO if you played the online pixie hollow game or read mary engelbreit magazines or watched the princess bride growing up i wanna give you a double high five also jfc how many more times can I say fairy in a description lmao

 requests r open xo

When Leo left Bunker 9 to take a (long overdue) break from his current projects, he didn’t expect to almost trip over someone lying under a tree. He had begun walking to the dining pavilion as usual, when the smell of wild violets engulfed him in a passing breeze. He slowed down a little, taking in the beautiful August morning, and felt his mental to do lists melting away. Time seemed to slow down as he looked up at the sunlight glinting through the trees, his eyes falling on a cloud he decided looked like a giraffe in a suit.  The sight made him laugh softly. Gods, he couldn’t remember the last time he’d gone cloud watching. Sun broke through the trees, and he looked down at a bush with little red berries as warm tingles danced over his skin. Light bells rang in the distance, and he looked around for the source. He stopped, eyes falling on a small inchworm. 

“Hey little guy,” he said softly, waving to the insect. He smiled to himself again, noticing the large patch of clovers he was passing through, a strong sense of peace settling through him. His eyes instantly began scanning the patch, debating being a little more late to breakfast to see if he could find a four leaf clover, when he tripped over a foot, and narrowly avoided stepping on a few innocent mushrooms growing in the ground. He felt himself get snapped out of the relaxed cloud that had engulfed him moments before. He caught himself, and looked down. Gods, who would nap this deep in the forest? He was about to nudge you awake, when he saw you. He staggered back a step, breath catching in his throat. 

You were laying on your side, eyes closed, soft lips parted gently. Mid morning sunlight glinted off your hair and skin, giving off a surreal glowy effect. Your white flowy pajamas had dirt smudged on the hem, one of the straps beginning to slip down your shoulder. The light weight material fell around your legs and spilled onto the ground like sea foam reaching for the shore. A butterfly sat on your head, tranquilly opening and closing its wings.  He took a few more steps, careful not to step on the mushrooms that seemed to surround you, but stopped dead in his tracks when he saw your back. Caterpillars had spun silk all over your upper back, connecting to the tree. He felt like he should do something, but before he could begin to think of what, three crows started cawing from the branches of the tree. He walked back over to see if the harsh noise had woken you, but you didn’t seem to move. He let out a sigh of relief a little too soon, as he watched your eyes flutter open. 

You took in a deep breath of forest air, and your eyes opened, trying to take in your surroundings. Your head spun with violins and harps and flutes, and your body felt heavy. Sense crept in and you tried to piece together how you’d gotten here. What had happened last night? You struggled with gaps in your memory for a moment, before trying to get up. Your palm slipped on a patch of moss, and you caught yourself on your elbow. In an instant, someone was right beside you, helping you off the ground. He was beautiful; like a beam of light, he seemed to fill you with warmth and life instantly. He smelled like woodsmoke, and his touch was gentle on your arm. You became aware of a very dull, almost soft burn on your upper back, but your attention turned back to the boy as he started talking. 

“Are you okay?” his voice was like the crackle of a bonfire.

“Uh,” disorientation was still fogging your mind, “yeah, I think so.” He helped you into a standing position, a hand in yours, the other still on your arm. You felt stiff and sore enough to wonder what you had been doing. 

“How did you get out here?” he asked, his tone a distinct blend of amusement and confusion. 

“I don’t know… I probably just-” memories flooded back; moonlight caressing your skin, beautiful music you couldn’t quite remember, fireflies guiding your arms and legs as you danced and danced and danced, drunk on the movement.  You shook your head, snapping out of the sudden train of thought. 

“Um, probably just wandered here by mistake.” you finished the half truth with a laugh, “My apologies,” you continued, “is this your property? I can leave, I didn’t mean to intrude,” He looked at you for another moment before speaking again.

“Oh, no, nothing like that. We usually don’t get a lot of… visitors. I’m-” You felt some kind of rush building up inside, like what a venus flytrap feels as a beetle is about to land. 

“I'm y/n," you cut him off suddenly, pulling away, and the feeling immediately began to subside. You waited in near silence for a moment, then chose your words carefully. 

"What do you like to be called?"

"Leo…"

You turned a little on your heels, wondering what had come over you as his voice trailed off. He stared behind you for some time, let out a soft oh, then tore his eyes away and back to you.

“There’s someone you should meet,” you agreed, slightly confused, and he began to guide you through the forest. After a few minutes he brought you out to an open field. He left your side for a minute to tell a passerby something about sending someone over, you couldn't be sure, then continued leading you over the grassy expanse. You went past a very old looking building, over a small footbridge, and onto the porch of a house. 

“So…” you started, unsure where the sentence was going, “who is it that I’m supposed to meet?” The burning on your back had subsided to a pleasant tingle right by your shoulder blades. A breeze brushed your cheeks, and you could smell strawberries - lots and lots of strawberries. The idea excited you. 

“The director of this camp. He should be able to explain -” his eyes hovered just behind you again, “everything.” You wished he would talk more, you loved the lilt of his voice. You wondered what this director would need to clear up, your eyes falling on a scatter of rainbows cast on the floorboards of the porch. You tried to turn to see what was making them, maybe a hummingbird feeder or a light catcher - you’ve always loved stained glass - but when you began to spin on the balls of your feet like you’d done a thousand times before, there was a strange resistance. You spun slower on the wood, and lost momentum. In an effort to catch yourself, your foot caught on the leg of a patio chair, and you knew you wouldn’t be able to stop the fall. The spike of adrenaline made your back burn more, and you braced yourself for impact. An impact that didn’t come. 

This didn’t make sense. You should have been falling; you were barely touching the ground. Instead, you were suspended midair. You opened your eyes to your outstretched arms, and glanced down curiously. You were pitched forward, one foot barely making contact with the wooden floor, the other tucked behind it, frozen mid fall. Shifting rainbows and prisms seemed to light up the whole floor now. You became aware of the strange wind rushing around your face and hair, and saw Leo staring behind you again, with that odd, fascinated look on his face. You looked behind you and let out a startled gasp.

Wings.

Big, beautiful, iridescent wings that looked sort of like you had stolen them from a dragonfly fluttered behind you keeping you in place. Your arms fell and you straightened up, feet gently making contact with the ground as your wings slowed to a stop. 

“Ah, hello,” came a man's voice from behind you, “I haven’t met someone as special as you in a long time. Please, come inside if you’d like.” He ascended the stairs. You felt like you should have been more surprised to see he had the bottom half of a horse, but it didn’t seem to phase you. Then again, you weren’t one to judge.

“Just one moment,” Chiron said, pulling Leo aside, and once out of earshot, explained the significance of you and your appearance at camp. He took a moment to process this.

“A fairy,” he breathed, mind reeling.

“A changeling from the looks of it. A fairy raised in the human world. They’ll need help navigating this new world, finding out about themself.” Leo nodded, remembering how confusing things were when he was first thrown into a whole other side of his life. He looked through the crack in the door, watching you nibble on a snack cake drizzled in honey. Chiron looked at him watching you, infatuation on his face. He put a hand on Leo’s shoulder. 

“They deserve an explanation. Would you like to help with this, er, complicated conversation?” Leo thought back to when you had taken his hand, the way your laugh sounded like bells, the way the corners of your mouth never seemed to drop. The idea of going to the dining pavilion, continuing on with his life as if he’d never met you seemed impossible. He knew in that moment leaving you wasn’t an option. 

“Of course.” He answered, more sure in that moment than he had been of anything.

[the-mirror-witch]

Violet Eyes

Maleficent could feel a headache coming on, pressure building in the front of her skull. Could anything else possibly go wrong? There had been four border disputes in the past month alone. More and more humans were becoming misguidedly brave enough to venture into the Valley of Thorns to seek the magic that was embedded into the very soil of the land. Nevermind the Treaty Maleficent herself had signed centuries prior after the last Dark War. Humans were such fickle creatures with poor memory.

Many of the fae in her court wanted to go to war. Had Maleficent been a few hundred years younger, she wouldn’t have hesitated. She would have cursed entire villages with a flick of her hand, making the sleeping curse she was most famous for look like a simple magic trick, running the risk of Overbloting easily as she once often did. However, Maleficent was older and wiser and, most importantly, tired of war. For centuries she fought a never-ending conflict. She had signed that infernal treaty that was certainly beneath her only so her battle-weary soldiers could finally return to their homes. Now, Maleficent had a fondness for peace. Now, not only was she a mother, but a grandmother. The thought of her young Malleus engaging in such brutality that is war was enough to give her pause.

“Tullius,” Maleficent called, knowing the bird-like fae wasn’t too far away. Even when she couldn’t see him, she knew he was near. The damned, darling bird was convinced that he was her shadow.

“Yes, my Queen?”

Sure enough, there he was, leaping down from the rafters where he had been perched. Maleficent leaned back against her throne, allowing her back to slouch. She rubbed her forehead. Tullius was by her side in an instant, his brow furrowed in concern. Of course, he knew what was ailing her. He had witnessed that circus of a court meeting that had just adjourned. She had even dismissed Malleus, a true sign that she was in a foul mood.

“Tell me what you desire my Queen, and I shall make it so,” Tullius said. Bless his feathered soul.

“I’m in need of a soothing melody,” Maleficent said. “Fetch Lilia for me. His lullabies never fail.”

Tullius nodded, “Of course. I shall fetch him from the border.”

Maleficent, who had closed her eyes, snapped them open, “The border? Is he on patrol tonight? I was under the impression that he was in the castle.”

“It is of no consequence, my Queen. If it is your will, he shall be here within the hour.”

Maleficent frowned. Was she so unfocused that she couldn’t remember the whereabouts of one of her most loyal knights and dearest friend? Was she that old?

Speak of the devil, and he shall appear. With a swift, rhythmic knock on the thorn embroidered doors, Lilia himself pried them open.

“Greetings, your Malevolent-ness! I do hope you haven’t missed me too severely.”

Maleficent smiled tiredly. Ah, there was the cheeky little bat. He was lucky she was so fond of him. If she wasn’t, she surely would have locked him away centuries ago.

“On the contrary, I seem to have barely missed your absence.”

Lilia, true to form, gasped in the most overdramatic manner he knew. The back of his hand pressed against his forehead, he moaned, “Oh, how you wound me. My unbeating heart can’t stand it. I fear I may never recover.”

“I’m sure you’ll manage,” Maleficent drawled, to which Lilia giggled.

Lilia floated into the room, his arm wrapped securely around…

“Lilia, what is that?” She asked.

In his arm was a bundle of baby blue blankets. Something akin to horror settled in her stomach. He didn’t.

“Oh, this little owl?” Lilia looked down at the bundle as if surprised.

Please be an owl, please be an actual owl or Guivre help her.

“It is my pleasure to announce the arrival of Silver,” Lilia declared as he revealed the sleeping face of a human baby in his arms.

Tullius fainted.

“LILIA VANROUGE!”

“Yes, my Queen?”

“Tell me this is a jest,” Maleficent steamed, flames of green bursting to life behind her throne. Lilia appeared to be unconcerned. “This had better be a very poor jest. You better not tell me that you stole a human child when we are one disruption away from all-out war.”

Lilia tilted his head, “...Okay, I won’t tell you then.”

“LILIA! TELL ME RIGHT NOW!”

“All these conflicting orders are giving me whiplash,” Lilia sighed, that insolent little bat.

“Lilia, there are more proficient and less law-breaking ways to have a child than kidnapping one.”

“Now where’s the fun in that?”

Maleficent had enough. She stood up, allowing her leathery wings to flare out behind her in a dreadful display. She was one poorly thought out sentence away from fully transforming into her draconic self, and that was a situation that would not end well for anyone.

Lilia seemed to have gotten the hint, “Your highness, I did not steal the child. He was with a band of foolish humans who slipped past the borders. Once the transgressors were dealt with, this little one was found sound asleep in a basket.”

Maleficent calmed down, folding her wings and allowing her flames to die out. Well, at least her people couldn’t be faulted if the human party had already crossed the border.

“Why would invading humans travel with an infant?” Tullius asked, having recovered enough to stand up, somewhat unsteadily.

An excellent question. One that would have to be set aside.

“Lilia, listen to me well,” She said. “The human cannot remain here. You shouldn’t have brought it in the first place.”

Lilia tilted his head, eyes cold, “...Should I have dealt with him with the same mercilessness shown to his companions?”

“Lilia, it will not survive here. Dispose of it quickly.”

It was a much kinder fate. Humans were not meant for the Valley of Thorns.

Then, Lilia did not fail to surprise her. He floated up to her, without an ounce of fear, and placed the babe in her startled hands. It squirmed in her arms.

“The insolence!” Tullius looked to be one transgression away from attacking Lilia.

“My Queen,” Lilia began. “I have done nothing but serve you loyally and without question for most of my immortal existence. I shall continue to serve your memory long after this world has been burnt to ashes. I have never asked anything of you in all my years of service, despite your many offerings. However, I’m afraid this is an order I must decline. I do not have it in my heart to slay this poor child after I have held him so close to me. If he must be snuffed out, then let it not be by my hand. If he must die, let it be from yours.”

“Lilia Vonrouge, you go too far,” Tullius yelled, the feathers around his face puffing out in indignation. “You presume too much, to make demands of the Queen.”

Maleficent was sure that he continued to lecture the little vampire, but Lilia paid him no mind. His dark red eyes were focused solely on her, waiting.

She looked down at the sleepy little creature. She almost huffed a laugh. Silver indeed. Lilia was very unoriginal if he could not think of a better way to name a child than after the color of their hair. Like woven moonlight, thin strands of silver hair covered the babe’s head. He was a few months old at the most, practically the life of an insect. It yawned, it’s eyes opening as if it pained the creature to awaken.

Violet eyes stared up at her. She knew those eyes. A memory from long ago crept upon her, unwanted for the pain it brought. A girl with similar eyes stared at her through the child, smiling a gentle smile that could bring the cruelest of creatures to salvation.

Hello, beasty, Maleficent thought sadly.

“My Queen, if it pleases you, I would be more than willing to dispose of the human,” Tullius offered.

Maleficent sighed, “No, that won’t be necessary.”

“But, my Queen-”

“Silence, Tullius.”

His mouth clamped shut audibly.

Slowly, Maleficent handed the child back to Lilia. Lilia happily took the child back, looking down at the child with such tenderness. Ah, what a powerful little human. Lilia had only held him for a few hours, and already he was at the child’s mercy.

“A human child is very different from a draconic one, Lilia,” Maleficent said. “It will not be the same as the times you cared for Malleus.”

“I am well aware, Lady Draconia,” Lilia said, his teasing smile returned in full force.

“He must be fed regularly,” Maleficent continued. “He will require constant attention.”

“He shall have mine, undividedly,” Lilia assured her.

Maleficent dismissed him. As he floated away, Lilia glanced back over his shoulder, “Oh, before I forget, how should I teach him to address you? Fairy Grandmother or Queen Granny?”

Oh, spare her.

“Watch his head,” Maleficent said in lieu of responding.

Lilia, curse him, laughed.

[eggytranslations]

Volume 1, Chapter 3-Promise

Content warnings: ableism mention

The young master of the Shen family had his snake venom purged clean, and he has regained consciousness; the young master of the Shen family can take a meal without help, and recline in bed to read; the young master of the Shen family was once again sunbathing in the courtyard…

The good news came one right after another. Although for Shen Qingxuan, it only meant that he could yet again linger on death’s door for another few years. Still, this did not hinder the old steward from burning the articles for the funeral rites to ashes in a fire. Even still, it did not prevent Master Shen, in his joyous exultation, from sending out a caravan to the southernmost wild lands and forfeiting high interests as thanks to the merchants who sent those two “detoxifying panacea” pills that year.

The banquet was set up, with family and friends filling all the seats.

The fragrant smell of wine lingered in the mountains, and the servants who were on edge for several days could finally dare to speak loudly.

Shen Qingxuan sat upon his wooden wheelchair, draped with a fox fur cloak and a silky soft quilt on his knees completely covered his legs. In one hand, he held a very thin little book, reading it quietly with his head tilted. Some of the noise from the outer hall slipped through the half closed window, laughter and drumming, as well as the tinkling sound of crisscrossing cups coming together.

Except, these things seemed to have nothing to do with him.

After a while, Shen Qingxuan felt a bit thirsty, but the tea was already cold. As he held the cooled porcelain in his hand, Shen Qingxuan thought of the palm that covered his forehead that day. Although it was a completely different sensation, that hand and this porcelain cup, however, had the exact same temperature. Ice cold, without a trace of human warmth.

His train of thought meandered and then returned to the matter at hand. Shen Qingxuan shook the brass bell, and after that, grasped this object that had been with him for many years, fiddling with it in his hand as he usually does.

The maidservant who heard the summoning bell quickly opened the door and came in. Without needing his prompt, she cleverly dumped the cold tea, resteeped the pot hot water, and stoked the charcoal fire in the handwarmer

before placing it back onto Shen Qingxuan’s lap.

Only once everything was done properly did the maidservant stand aside and quietly say, “Although shaoye did not drink wine tonight, perhaps it is better to rest earlier. Your health has just improved a little bit, yet you are already taxing yourself by reading a book.”

Shen Qingxuan lightly inclined his head, drank a cup of tea, and picked up his book again, continuing to thumb through it.

Upon seeing this, the maidservant lit a couple more of the oil lamps in the room, making the light a bit brighter, and only then did she withdraw and close the door.

After only a moment’s time, the doors of the wing-room were pushed open again. Shen Qingxuan raised his eyes to look. Outside the doors stood a young woman with her beautiful hair brushed high, and looking inside with hesitation on her face.

The two of them locked eyes, Shen Qingxuan slightly blanked, but very quickly smiled faintly. Although he could not make a sound when he opened his mouth, his mouth clearly formed a greeting: Er Niang.

“Xiao Xuan.” Although young, the lady was still poised, and relaxed her expression as well. She crossed the threshold and came inside. “You feel better now?”

Shen Qingxuan nodded his head.

“Ever since you were bitten by a venomous snake, the whole family has been worried sick.” The woman leaned down to sit in the chair that was to the side, expression tender, and stroked his face not without some sorrow, “Jiejie was praying for you in the family Buddhist hall. When she heard you recovered, she went back to fulfill her vows. She could not make it to see you today, so I only brought your didi here.”

Shen Qingxuan merely smiled, fetched the brush and ink at hand, and wrote on the paper: I have inconvenienced Er Niang with worry. Since didi also came, why not call him over to converse with me? How is my mother’s health?

The lady looked, and carefully replied: “The time was late, and your didi’s temperament is noisy, so I just told him to wait until tomorrow to keep you company. Jiejie is in good health. Just yesterday, she even went into the kitchen and cooked bamboo shoots for the family to try. Except, not sure who but, some mouthy servant told her about your snake bite accident, and she cried for two days. Luckily, you have great fortune and great blessings. Once jiejie found out you were alright, she went back to fulfill her vows at the shrine.”

Hearing this, Shen Qingxuan’s heart naturally found it difficult to bear. Only after being lost in thought for a while, did he pick up the brush and write some words, making idle talk with her.

The woman said, “The fierce animals and poisonous insects in these mountains are so impossible to guard against. You might as well return home with me. It would also save everyone at home from being concerned. Jiejie and I are womenfolk, and it is not proper for us to frequently leave home to visit you.”

Shen Qingxuan wrote: Although there are many fierce animals, they do not easily injure people. The servants take good care of me, this time was just a mishap. The climate here is just right, even the physician says that my body needs quiet rest to recuperate. Although returning home is wonderful, in the end, it is unequal to the quiet calm of the mountains.

Seeing this, the woman sighed softly, and thought of yet another thing. She hurriedly said, “Before coming, jiejie told me to ask you, do you have any girls you secretly admire?”

Shen Qingxuan was stunned for a moment, and promptly wrote: I understand my mother’s wishes, but I am afraid my body would be unable to bear the responsibility since my health is at this point. Even if there are good, unmarried girls willing to match with me, I would only let them down. The responsibility of carrying on the incense inheritance would be better taught to didi so he can assume these responsibilities in my stead.

While looking at the still wet words, the woman sighed again, “Even if you did not say, everyone at home understands. It’s just, you are such a good kid. Coming to this world for a turn, not to mention, suffering many sorrows, and now, to not even leave behind an heir...Even though I am not your mother, yet I also…” Before she finished speaking, the rims of her eyes had reddened completely. At once, she lowered her head, her voice choking with sobs.

Shen Qingxuan also stayed silent, and stared straight at the woman’s trembling head. Without knowing what he thought of, his eyes turned deep and unmeasurable, his thoughts appearing to be full of twists and turns.

In an instant, however, he had already returned to normal, and raised his brush to write again: Er Niang does not need to be sorrowful. My life ought to be like this. Perhaps I did too much evil in my previous life, and I am repaying it in this life. Except, as the eldest son, I cannot even contribute meager efforts for my country and for my family. What a shame.

Writing up to this point, his strokes took a turn, and he changed the subject, continuing on: Didi just became an adult. Although he is bright, he lacks experience. Recently, I heard he intends to join the court as an official; the rises and falls of officialdom are unpredictable. He still needs Er Niang by his side to give advice.

Since the topic involved her own son, the woman held back her tears as expected. She softly said, “I am a mere woman, so what could I understand of anything? You, however, are well-read. If you are able to help your didi, then that would be perfect.”

Shen Qingxuan: Er Niang need not be modest. Didi is exceedingly intelligent, but when he runs into problems, he lacks tact. With Er Niang at his side to assist, in addition to having Father to organize, then it should not be hard for him to rise quickly in rank.

“You always provide me with comfort.” The woman put down the paper, slightly showing a smile.

Shen Qingxuan also smiled, and started to write again: However, didi is still young, and yet he has to take up an elder brother’s duties: filial duty to his parents and loyal duty to his country. This is quite tough for him.

Shaking her head, the woman said, “You two are brothers, this is within his responsibilities, do not speak so distantly.”

After they spoke a bit more, Shen Qingxuan’s face showed weariness, and the woman promptly urged him to take care of himself before finally leaving.

After she left, Shen Qingxuan sat alone in his chair for a long time. His gaze lingered over the white papers covered with writing. No one knows what he recalled, but his face dimly showed a helpless smile that was brimming with ridicule. Only after a moment did he lift his hands to tidy the papers. He rang the bell to call in the maidservant who fetched the metal basin, and in a blaze of fire, turned the ink-infused pages into ashes.

At this point, it was late into the evening, and the bustle of the outer hall had settled down. Shen Qingxuan told a servant to open the window. He tightly wrapped the fox fur coat around himself as he leaned in the chair looking at the darkness outside the window. This night, the moon and the stars were all thin. Occasionally, there was the brush of mountain wind, which raised and lowered the wisps of hair on his forehead, over and over again.

After another long moment, Shen Qingxuan suddenly stirred, took out his hand from the cylindrical warmer

, wheeled the wheelchair to the table, and once again spread the paper and ink, writing: You have come.

He pushed the piece of paper to the middle of the table for the person to read. The air was peaceful.

Shen Qingxuan only smiled and did not speak, waiting quietly.

After a moment of stillness, the room he was sitting alone in had an extraordinary sight.

One could only see the paper on the table had moved by itself, without a breeze. The brush that was set on the ink slab

also stood by itself. Dipped in ink, the brush moved onto the paper with a slight pause, and then the dense ink gradually carved out words on the paper. The handwriting was refined, and seemed to be answering Shen Qingxuan’s question, writing: How did you know?

Shen Qingxuan, was still smiling, even winking in a teasing and suspenseful manner, to the empty air.

The air, just like that day, was suddenly entangled with the delicate scent of flora. The smell was like the forest after the rains; it had a cool freshness.

On the dizzying day that he vomited foul blood from his body, while he was surrounded by a rotten stench, this smell appeared at his side like a sudden light in the dark, profoundly branding itself onto Shen Qingxuan’s heart.

He was unable to forget for his entire life.

Shen Qingxuan suddenly sniffed his nose, and then with some surprise he lifted his brush to write: You went to the hot spring on the mountain peak?

The man still did not show himself, but took another brush from the brush stand, and right next to his question he wrote a Yes.

His original confusion was naturally answered by Shen Qingxuan’s question. The distinctive sulfur smell of the hot springs was the reasoning behind Shen Qingxuan’s question. He also found out how Shen Qingxuan easily knew of his arrival.

Yi Mo thought, His sense of smell is like that of a wild animal.

However, no one continued this topic, and turned to converse about other things instead.

Although Shen Qingxuan was indebted to his mercy for allowing him to keep his life, internally however, he constantly remembered that he was a snake yao, and not of his kind. He was not unguarded.

Yet, who knew yao were similar to humans, and had names and surnames, not to mention, enjoyed the hot springs. He was even here using brush and paper to converse with him for a double-hour.

Even though his words were concise and to the point, he still possessed patience unparalleled by ordinary people.

For remarkably powerful yao like him, it was not like there were not more direct modes of speaking; Shen Qingxuan had already experienced it before. However, this snake had laid that method aside.

After he lost the ability to speak, Shen Qingxuan would still frequently interact with others. But there was no one who was like this: willing to patiently use brush and paper, and little by little, write for him to hear. A double-hour of time is not at all lengthy, merely a speck of sand in a person’a lifetime. Never mind that it allowed his heart’s defenses to crumble, he had even felt a spark of subtle intimacy.

Taking the handwriting-sprinkled piece of paper and putting it to the side, Shen Qingxuan wore a smile on his face. He dipped into the prepared ink and continued to chat with Yi Mo on the newly spread white paper: If I help you successfully survive the trial, will there be a gift given in return?

Appearing very quickly next to the clear and neat handwriting was a line of refined writing, concise as usual: I will grant you recovery to be just like an ordinary person.

Shen Qingxuan’s wrist trembled, and the brush tip filled up with ink roughly slashed across the snow white paper.

********

Quick note: Hi thank you to @yunmengclouds​ and @t110n​ for your comments! Sorry I can’t reply directly since this is a side blog...Also if anyone has any issues with the translation or site so far, feel free to let me know~~~

[lonelypond]

Calypso

NicoMaki, Love Live, 5.3K, 1/1

Exiled by angry parents, Nishikino Maki washes up on an isolated island.

Calypso

“I refuse.”

Nishikino Maki still heard her own words, her own shout, echoing here, where the angry winds, laden with a storm of punishment had pushed her. By the docks, up to her knees in surging, stinging sea water, hungry, angry birds rushing from the open sea for safe havens, their wings sharp against her soaked skin, their fearful velocity another wind pummeling her. She would fall. Her fingers would ache for that which had been torn from them. And perhaps a crueler wind would take her, push her out, away from this cramped place where her defiance echoed. She fell back, for just a minute, letting a surge push her, hoping for a breath to rest before fighting again, but then another surge, and a crosscurrent that ripped her coat away, a strike of lightning that bit into her and a spar that slashed her torso, and a wind that drove her against a door, a vine coiled around the frame, bright green, heavy with grapes ripe for plucking, lit with a banked glow as if sunlight still lingered to bless it. Maki fell, but the landing was softer than she expected and new winds, soft with scents of cypress, citrus, and pine welcomed her to a kinder darkness.

###

Maki, surprised to be lying on a bed of soft cloths, sat up, her ears sharp for any sound. Only a song, in the distant, a beautiful, lilting melody full of longing that should have pleased Maki but only reminded her of what she was now missing, a worse loss than if her parents had ripped her arms from her side. The top linen fell away and Maki shivered, suddenly cold. Her shirt had been removed and her torso was wrapped in a bandage, ichor starting to leak through the layers. Had the singer done this?

“Hello!?!??!?!” Maki called, confused. From the sounds around her, she could still hear the sea, but as if she were near a calm shore, with birds flying and insects buzzing through meadows and trees, not the bustling port she had last been standing in. Where had the floodwaters washed her?

The song stopped. Maki waited, alert for the sounds heralding the singer’s approach. The steps were light, swishing through grass and flowers, petals and pollen perfuming air and ankles. No sound of a door, but then, at the archway, a small beauty, long sable hair loose, flowing silver robe, a golden belt around the waist, deep carved rubies for eyes.

“Welcome. Nico is glad to see you awake.”

Maki pulled up the sheet, “How long have I been here.”

Nico...that was the name, right? Maki thought, moved to the bed, reaching under the sheet to check Maki’s wound, “Not long enough to heal.”

Maki fought a sudden urge to apologize. “I didn’t ask for help.”

A raised eyebrow. An expression full of textures, laid over weariness like concealing makeup on an actor’s skin. A lilt in the voice. Flirty. Maki recognized all the signals, they’d washed over her so many times, calm tides, flowing, then ebbing from so many beauties. Was she really the icy stone this exquisitely, aesthetically pleasing stranger might be carved out of.

“Here, you must be hungry.” Nico left, returning with a tray heaped with ambrosia, a goblet in her other hand. “Drink this.”

Maki took the goblet in both hands, cautious, but the scent of the finest wines and fruits wafted up. Nectar. Deep red, a match for the rubies watching her. Bowing a thanks, Maki drank, feeling the immediate effect of the immortal delicacy.

“You’ll be fine now.” A quick hand tousled Maki’s hair and then she was alone.

###

Maki sat on the shore, amidst the cries of hawks and gulls, hunting, splashing in the sea, and then returning to this grove, sacred alders, poplar, and pine, returning to home, to cede the sea to owls hungry after rest. Her fingers ached. A natural music surrounded her, buffeting her, taunting her with notes she could not pluck from air to join the melody.

“Maki!”

Nico’s voice disturbed nothing, drove none of the singers away, it was as natural a feature of this grove as all the winged songbirds and hunters. Hunter. Maki felt hunted, here always, found always, and never understood. A hand grasped hers. Maki had stopped pulling away, but her fingers laid limp in Nico’s grasp.

“Longing for wings?”

“A voice.”

Nico tilted her head, still puzzled, after this year’s pass of the seasons, by her latest visitor. “You have a lovely one.”

Maki almost raised her hands, to show the empty space between them, but still reluctant to share. Her own parents raising all of their might to assail her, who could she trust? Had she washed up here as a trap, the storm ready to rip her away if she ever relaxed her vigilance?

Nico shrugged, eyes now on the sea, Maki uncertain what thoughts raced underneath the pleasant mask that only showed hints of fiery passion, like the pulsing sun pushing through the dark night’s horizon.

“Nico has made you a home here, a place to heal, but you still grieve.”

“Why are you alone?” Aside from animated wood carvings that seemed to serve as servants, Maki had seen no gods or humans since that stormy night. Was Nico a jailer or an exile?

“Nico loves the peace, the chance to weave and sing, the beauty and the bounty.” Nico inhaled, Maki found herself doing the same, a bright, sharp mix of pine and sea invigorating, “No place compares to here.” Maki, sensitive to every note, could hear the lie.

“No truths live on this island.” Maki’s fingers turned fist in Nico’s grasp.

Nico spun, her fingers now capturing Maki’s face, a gentle touch, but demanding, as ruby fires sought to spark a response, “κρυβόμαστε. We all hide.”

The ancient tongue jarred, Maki’s mind made a picture of it rather than an understanding, their cave, hidden, grown over with vines, surging waves and solitude another fortification.

Then Nico kissed her, lips ripe with honeyed fruits. Maki closed her eyes and heart to awareness, the sweetness merely a plucked grape on her tongue.

###

Maki woke, restless, muscles sore, sunlight bright through the crown of trees that surrounded this platform. She rose, Nico still oblivious next to her, smiling softly, sleeping, wrapped in some secret satisfaction left by their joining last night. Curious, dared by a dangerous boredom to unite, Maki had sweated and sobbed and finally, exhausted by exertion, relaxed into a slumber that skimmed above the depths of dreams, but she woke clear eyed, untouched by any comfort, still the ache, a longing for her hands to reach for what had been stripped from her.

The drop to the ground was easy, her landing cushioned. She had yet to explore this part of the island. Rocks that reached out from the shore until the sea swallowed them, diving pale birds eager for their morning meal. Beyond the rocks, down the beach, Maki saw a shadow. Was this another cave, exposed by the low tide? Was this an exit? Maki hurried, eyes only on what she might find, the freedom that might be open to her, not a glance backward for the woman she’d dropped away from.

A cave, shallow, the air thick with sea and saltwater and perhaps, a thin, sour strain of smog and sweat and scores of hasty mortals. Maki, splashing in her own haste to rejoin the throng, reached the back wall, its stone cold, with the irregularity of uncarved nature. She could barely see, morning sunlight had not joined her as the tide rose, but her fingers quested. To her left, she felt wood. A door. But locked. Marshalling what magic of will she had, she forced her intent into the grain, perhaps this wood, though not supple, could be charmed to strum an exit open between notes. But it remained dull, unmoving, beneath her fingers, deaf to her demands, while she could feel the world she’d been pushed out of throbbing on the other side, with rhythms fast and fond to her, a familiar call chased away by Nico’s voice, grating as it interrupted her effort.

“Maki? The tide’s coming in.”

Nico was not surprised by the door.

Maki whirled, “Open this. Let me go.”

Nico glowed faintly, as if she had carried sunlight there. “Go where? To the people who called the storm on you, who stabbed you with lightning?”

Maki held her hands out to strum, then letting them fall helplessly to her side. “To where I have power, where I can sing. They took it from me.”

Nico had both Maki’s hands in a gentle grasp. “Took what?”

“Music. My lyre.” Maki wrenched away. The strings the opposite of this dissonance, always perfectly tuned, the exuberance of their enharmonic engagement, the life brought to poetry.

“We can make a new one, one you craft yourself…”

“To sing songs in this private prison? To be blind to anything but prettiness?”

The waves were up to Nico’s waist, Maki’s anguished angry gestures splashing both of them until their hair was dripping, plastered against their faces. Nico, suddenly, grabbed Maki’s hand, to pull her out, into the sun, running for the uncovered beach, Maki stumbling to catch up. Maki was always stumbling to catch up. But now she had had pressed her palms against the truth and she felt the full falsity in the weight of the hand misleading her.

### The cave had never felt so empty as when their angry voices echoed.

“Nico cared for you when no one else did. I found you, I brought you to my bed, I...I sang for you...Nico…”

“Nico always knew where the exit was, Nico watched me cry out for wholeness, Nico…” Maki didn’t want to bend, didn’t want to cry, but there was no understanding in the eyes glaring at her, only accusation, betrayal, a deep rage Maki couldn’t stand against.

“Which god will come for you, plead your case, demand your freedom, tear you away?” Nico hissed.

Maki raised her head, confused. “I am. Isn’t that enough?”

Nico took the linens and furs on the bed and threw them across the room, “And this? What was all this?”

“You took consolation I had no understanding of.”

Nico looked furious, “Consolation? You think this was comfort...pity?” Nico stormed up to Maki, shoving her back onto the bed, suddenly pouncing, on top, staring down, her eyes a muddled mix of anger, lust and pain, “We were, you were....you were mine.”

Maki, after a slow blink, turned her head, as Nico’s dark tresses teased her cheek, but her breathing remained even, her hand twisting the sheet beneath her, “I’m no one’s in this prison.”

“I rescued you, I cared for you, I love you, beyond kindness, even in sorrow. Don’t you care for Nico?”

“Do you have to kiss to care?”

Nico froze, eyes wide, then narrowed as they pored over Maki’s expression, as if seeing her clearly for the first time.

No words, Nico panting out heavy breaths as she sat up, her weight an anchor. Finally, she threw herself back. “Nico would love to hear you sing.”

And then Maki was alone,

###

Nico kept busy, gathering wood, weaving, twisting fine twines. Maki would visit the hidden cave at every low tide, to try the door, but its solidity taunted her. Above the hidden cave, a rock jutted. Maki often climbed there, away from Nico, away from the sharp, clear scent of pine and poplar, and longed for a storm. The days drifted on, like the leaves that fell to be carried on a scented breeze. Late one afternoon, skies gray as harsh winter winds blew across the open sea, Nico found her there. Nico carried something more than half her size, wrapped in silk. She bowed to Maki, offering the object, but no words of explanation.

Maki unwrapped it, carefully, her hands finding smooth, polished wood, bounteous, inviting vines carved up the arms of a beautiful lyre, tortoise shell markings carved in its body, strings perfumed with flowers.

“Nico knows how cruel”...her gesture gathered in the air, “they are. No one should be kept from what they love.”

Hope surged in Maki. Her fingers shook as she freed the lyre, finding strings to free her voice, seeking out the tension, plucking the notes that had always grounded her, had always woven her thoughts into truths...but the melody lay flat, like a red tide on a stagnant sea, not leaping free with the joy of dolphins. Notes once sweet and soothing now bit into her fingers and poisoned her ears.

Maki dropped the lyre, barely hearing it crack, as she sprinted away.

###

As Spring brought new life to the island, flowers pushing green buds pregnant with vibrant color, They ate together, sharing ambrosia and red nectar, on the beach, wide apart on an gossamer light blanket of moon silver threads, as the sun sank into waves, staining them as darkly bright as the nectar. There had been a few nights, as snow fell and squirrels skittered to find their store of sustenance, when Nico had been as busy, slowly, longingly storing scraps of skinship, but now Maki knew how uncomfortable pity felt as Nico kept deliberately apart, watching her sadly, often spending nights on parts of the island Maki never ventured to, as she kept her daily watch on the sea hidden cave, gulls screaming impossible tasks.

“Nico can’t open the door for you.” Nico whispered.

“Can’t….won’t...doesn’t matter…” Maki muttered as she lay on her stomach, tracing lines in the sand.

Inhale. A hum that caught Maki’s attention, a thrill coursing up the back of her neck. “Nico can sing you a storm.”

Maki turned, gazing up into the ruby eyes that had as many currents and tides as the sea, with no guide to steer by. How had she ever thought Nico a work of art carved out of stone when so many expressions could cross the smooth skin in a breath, so many emotions stir in the galaxy depths of her eyes.

“You can’t leave by the door, no one can, but you came by storm and Nico is betting a storm will return you.” Nico reached into a bag, offering Maki the repaired lute. “Tomorrow, there’s a raft prepared, a sail newly woven, and a world you know waiting.”

Maki held her hands back from the lute, “This is a trick, another cruelty.”

Nico shook her head, “No, Maki, this is no cruelty. This is your key. Your power. Nico can’t watch you weep anymore…” a sigh, a gentle hand through Maki’s hair, “I give you the freedom I would give myself.”

At that hope surged like a dolphin in Maki’s heart. Seeing no guile, only sorrow in the soft gaze above her, Maki, suddenly restless with a fervor for all things, pulled Nico into a kiss, swallowing Nico’s gasp of surprise, pushing into an embrace no longer strange. The waves claimed the sun as Nico melted into Maki, and in the darkness, only murmurs of pleasure were heard.

###

Maki had not looked back. Lingering briefly with an embrace, Nico had gently wrapped her in a fresh woven cloak, purified by incense. There was water, nectar, ambrosia, sustenance for several voyages. A gentle wind filled the sail, until the raft had left the island behind, and then, as Nico had directed, Maki took the lyre in her hands, ignoring the alieness of the strange wood, focusing on the smoothness that Nico’s hand had crafted, the reminders of the island, the grapes, the vines, the feathers of hunting owls, offering wisdom and sharp eyesight for the journey. The strings had softened or Maki’s will had steeled, and notes of longing for home carried over the waves as Maki caught the scent of storm in the air, dark clouds speeding to add the percussion of thunder to her harmony. Rain drops fell with speed sharp enough to edge, cutting across her skin, the sea raising a fog to meet the striking clouds. Maki could see nothing, her lips cold and thin, her fingers cramped but still supple enough to play a plea to the gods to open a route home. Could she hear another voice added to hers, a familiar one, full of a gentle plea for safe harbor? Even as the storm lashed and punished. A wave swept over the raft, tossing Maki against the mast. Wind pummelled from all directions, another wave crashing, Maki’s voice swallowed in the gray, the lyre knocked from her hands, but Maki had tied a rope around her waist. She would not be lost again. A crescent moon winked down at her, the clouds suddenly splitting and then a dark, wave three times the height of full grown pine crashed down and Maki knew no more.

###

Maki sat up, a rough blanket against her skin, a guttering candle illuminating a small bedroom. A purple haired woman sat behind a table, placing a card in a pattern.

“My wife has rarely pulled such a rare fish from the sea.” The card player didn’t look up, but her voice carried her amusement.

“Your wife?”

“Eli-chi. She is teaching our children the ways of her people.” Purple hair looked up, her eyes turquoise, “It’s adorable. Enough to not regret the loss of Olympus.”

Maki recognized power. Was this another prison?

A laugh, a shake of the head, “Don’t worry about that. Eli-chi will take you wherever you want to go.”

“Home.”

A look that twisted Maki like the pain of a piercing arrow. “Where you will be welcome?”

“Where I belong.” Maki said evenly, refusing to allow this stranger to confuse her.

The woman shuffled the cards into a pile, disappointed, “You are fortunate then, to be certain in your choice, Maki.”

“How do you know my name?”

“She just does. Don’t question her or you will find out too much of your future,” A strong voice, holding back laughter announced a new presence, a tall blonde woman, mortal, strong, stepped in to throw her arms around the card player. “I’m Eli, this is Nozomi, welcome to our home, for however long your stay is.”

“I wish to return to Otonokizaka.”

“She is very stubborn.” Nozomi leaned back against her wife.

“Well, I have had a long journey to bring you here and if you will not begrudge me a few nights in my own bed, we will start off soon enough.”

Maki nodded, feeling drowsy again. She needed to rest, for soon there was another storm to swim through

###

Maki sat on the end of the pier, her feet dangling in the water, Nico’s lyre in her hands, still an awkward weight. Nozomi and Eli’s three children played on the shore, giggling. This was a solitary inlet, Eli usually sailing out to work, Nozomi patience at home, waiting for nights by the fire when all her family surrounded her, and gentle songs kept them all company through the night. Currently Eli and Nozomi were...Maki shuddered, not wanting to add imagined pictures to what Nozomi’s too descriptive enthusiasm had painted of words.

She wondered what Nico was doing? Planting a new garden, plucking blooms to paint, pruning the best vines so their grapes could be pressed into wine. Nico had rarely stopped moving, never claiming a moment’s rest, Maki wondered how the days didn’t seem endless. Perhaps she should have played a song for Nico, but Nico’s song had such a natural charm, even the songbirds listened attentively. Maki could feel the notes of it fading, her fingers on the lyre attempting to recapture the sweetness. Sweetness? On the island, Nico’s voice had been like the sea breeze and the scent of cypress, often in the air, an easy comfort. Maki’s hands fell away from the lyre, her head suddenly full of images of Nico leaning forward, priceless eyes bright, always listening, always kind. Who was Nico listening to now? The sea? Maki felt a new restlessness, a new dissatisfaction. It was time to reclaim her place, her gleaming throne in the high roofed hall of her ancestors, and her voice, brought to full force by the bronze lyre with golden throated strings that had been bound to her at birth.

###

The journey had been easy, Eli, a strong and sure captain easily handling the helm in seas mostly glass. Maki could hear the bustle, the cloying, the hurry before they sighted the harbor. Excited, returned to her home, about to claim her rights, she could barely restrain herself long enough to let Eli tie up the boat.

“You’re as eager as the twins.” Eli chuckled. “I’ll be in port for a few nights if you need a ride anywhere else.”

“Thank you for the kindness.” Maki stepped on shore, feeling power surge as she reconnected to her native ground, “Are you sure you won’t join me for dinner.”

Eli glanced at the tall hall, resting above all else, a golden shimmer against the pure white of the snowcap. “My dinner waits elsewhere. I have humbler tastes.”

Maki shook her head in disagreement. “I have met your wife.”

Eli grinned, “Clever. Then my reply is that as I have a banquet, I have no need for scraps.” Eli pushed Maki forward, “Good luck, my friend.”

Maki nodded, pulling her cloak, incense faded, over her head, long legs striding with confidence, ready to reach out and reclaim her seat.

###

Crowded, noisy, trays of ambrosia, pitchers of sweet red nectar poured into golden cups raised in cheer and challenge. All those her parents ruled, sauntering, shoving to grab the chair closest to the want...dancer, food, conversation, sweet. A few glances of recognition, but Maki began to feel invisible as she moved through hall after hall. Finally, the grand hall, with its three thrones on the glittering dias, her parents’ seats as empty as hers. Maki, ready to wrestle with accusations against her rightful return, felt an emptiness here in this hall, wrong footed, as the cacophony of other’s joys jarred in the distance. Eli and Nozomi’s cozy cottage had not prepared her for immersion in this city after so many seasons on the blissful, serene sonic soundscape of Nico’s isle. Her outer ears had almost turned up against her head, bruised by the physical presence of such raucous roaring. Eager to return, Maki had left Nico’s lyre on Eli’s ship, her mind on what she had to gain, not what she might have lost. But there it was, her lyre, a bronze gleam, familiar, welcoming, waiting, undisturbed. Maki raced up the stairs, falling into her seat, pulling her oldest companion into her lap, fingers reaching to strum...and the first notes of the lilting lullaby Nico had often song to ease the sun into its everchanging bed entered the air of the hall, and twisted, tainted by unclean smoke and so many warring words and wants pummelling Maki from the crowd now crowding the entranceway, her father at its head, not as tall as she remembered, his goblet in the air.

“Ah, she’s here, we need a song, Maki, play something finer, something to rouse us all, the better to enjoy this night.”

Maki stared, her fingers stilled. Her father offered no greeting, no apology, no challenge, no change. He smiled, always a genial host, chattering to those surrounding him, carrying him forward to his central throne. Too jaded by easy luxuries, indulged by all, in his wanton world , it was if his daughter had never gone, had never been thrown away. As if there had never been the hard words, the exile, the attack that Maki still bore the scar of, that Nico’s hands had traced so tenderly, listening as Maki told of how the betrayal had torn through more than her skin. But here...home…time had stopped...no one had changed...and all eyes were on Maki as if she’d just stepped away for a breath of air, not years of weeping exile.

Her mother swept to the center of the room, partners too eager, “Give us a fast tempo, a galliard. We dance.”

Once the lyre had seemed full of potential, alive with Maki’s moods, but now the strings thudded on clanging metal, notes sheared off, tempos too heavy. Still the dancers swirled and danced and promised and embraced, the room dark but for torches, other musicians more tuned to the mood carrying the melody as Maki fell out of harmony, watching the vulgar display as if for the first time, outside of this moment, longing for someone to listen to her, suddenly wanting nothing more than Nico’s smile as bodies fell into each other, and Maki remained alone, turned away from the spectacle, arms around her knees, studying her own heart, listening to its pulse, which had always wanted something other than this, something stronger, something woven with time, threads chosen with care, not born of a moment’s collision.

###

Without Nozomi’s hinting, Eli would have been surprised by the redhead, too quiet, wrapped in her cloak, sleeping against the mast, clutching the battered lyre she’d forgotten last night. Shaking her head, Eli dropped her purchases, awakening her stowaway.

“Good morning.”

Maki stood, “Teach me.”

“Teach you?”

Maki hesitated, “To sail.” Maki turned to the ocean, her arm sweeping out, “I need to return.”

“Nozomi’ll be glad to see you again, but I thought you had business here.” Eli began to replace worn ropes.

“To where you found me.”

Eli stopped. “I’m not sure…”

Maki closed her eyes, guilt bowing her head. “I left someone…”

Eli sighed, “Those were tricky seas. So many islands, rocks everywhere.”

Maki ran her fingers over the wood Nico had smoothed. If Nico had summoned a storm, could Maki summon a path? So much of power was will and Maki wanted this, a spark of a wildfire racing, the first taste of desire on her tongue, the first thrill of the hunt in her veins, a craving to connect to match the lure she’d felt from Nico.

“If you get us close, Eli, I can find her.”

Eli smiled at the confidence, remembering her own chase after Nozomi, not stopping to listen to naysayers or even resting for more than a breath, pushing her boat until it shattered, relying only on her own strength to swim to shore through surging tides, to fall half dead at the feet of the goddess who’s lonely beauty had haunted her.

“All right. But you’re going to work.”

Maki nodded, eyes bright with hope, ready to put her hands to new tasks, she had made a harness so the lyre could rest on her back and not interfere with her actions, “Where do I start?”

Eli threw Maki a heavy coil of rope. “We’re replacing the anchor rope.”

###

There had been no answering call. Not even when Eli’s ship came in sight of the island.

“I’m sure she’s fine.”

“She’s been alone since I left.”

“She was alone before you came.”

“Sometimes.” Nico had never said much, but Maki had realized that there had been others, thrown on the shores of Nico’s island to punish them, only to find kindness and caring, and then returning that with turning away. As Maki had done.

“Nico!” She was wading to the shore, waves washing over her knees, water warm, sun beating down, no echo, the birds strangely still and silent. Eli had stayed off shore, Maki wanted a private moment, planning to signal Eli. Had Nico finally opened the door? Was she elsewhere? There, at the edge of the grove, someone slumped. Maki ran.

“Nico!”

Tiny, frail, almost breathless. The birds remained in their nests, not hunting, silent and strange, the air empty of melody. Maki picked Nico up, so light, dark hair lank, sand a gritty blasphemy against the smoothest of skin, eyes closed, mouth slack. Their cave, with the vines around the entrance, by the melodious springs, Maki ran there, careful of her stride. There, in the bed Maki had woken in her first morning here, Maki laid Nico, a gentle, loving touch, covering her with the lightest of linen. Maki knew where the storerooms were, she ran for wine, nectar, and ambrosia, surprised at the layer of dust. Nothing moved, nothing sung.

Kneeling, Maki raised Nico to pour nectar between her lips, rewarded by the movement of Nico’s tongue clearing the last drops from her lips. Maki had wrapped her lyre in oilskin, protecting it from the seawater, and now, she opened the package, settling next to Nico, her fingers searching the notes, to play a tune as lively as Nico running along the shore, daring Maki to chase her. Now Maki was daring Nico, birds playing over the water, clouds teasing the moon, wind moving shady trees to tease sunbeams all of this woven in her song, all of the days they’d had that now gleamed, Maki’s heart suddenly opening to new feeling, daunting, dangerous impulses, Maki a fledgling hawk poised on the nest's edge to test flight feathers newly grown.

“Maki?” A weak question but at the sound of Nico’s voice, Maki’s certainty surged.

“I’m home.” Maki had said this in her head, over and over again, until repetition had smoothed out the stutter. “I can take you anywhere.”

Ruby eyes watched her, cautious, suspicious, Nico’s emotions hidden.

Less confident about this part, Maki’s voice neared a whisper, “I never meant to leave you alone...I didn’t realize…”

“Humpphh…” With an energy that cured much of Maki’s panic, Nico flipped to her side, facing away from Maki.

“Nico…” reaching a hand out, Maki stroked Nico’s hair, humming.

“Don’t talk to Nico. Nico wasted away on the beach…”

“So you missed me that much.”

Another flip, angry red eyes, looking for a target, a hand reaching for a pillow, “You used to be quieter.”

“I was naive. Arrogant. Ignorant. Thoughtless.”

“So who taught you?” Anger was mixed with accusation.

Maki chuckled, “You. Not being there.”

“You take Nico for granted, leave Nico to die, and then just…”

“Save Nico from an angry sea…”

“Wasn’t angry….”

“It was too quiet. Everything is too quiet without you.”

Nico pulled the pillow in, half her face hidden, eyes wary, “What do you want?”

This was the moment. Maki had no idea what happened next. Everything they had done before, Maki had never made herself this vulnerable, had never hovered on fragile winds over an unknown depth, fly or fall, “I want you to kiss me, Nico. And then I’ll take you anywhere.”

Nico, eyes glittering, surprise shocking her expression into hope and hunger, surged forward, holding Maki’s glance, as her fingers tangled in Maki’s hair. Coral tongue licked crimson lips, Maki’s mouth watering, Nico’s eyes searching Maki’s. Maki glanced away, feeling herself flush, but Nico pulled her back. Maki, her heart racing, her ears full of a thrumming that must be hummingbird’s wings beating, had Maki known she was such a rare, colorful beauty before the mirror of Nico’s eyes told her?

“Yes?” Nico asked, her finger across Maki’s lips leaving Maki shivering.

“Yes.”

And then lips on lips, hands finding hands with a painful grip that anchored this soaring flight, falling back into clouds of new born love, no awareness but skin to skin, lip to lip, hand to thigh, fingers digging into backs, sable and crimson hair mingling as sweat dropped freely, suddenly more sweet than salty to Maki. All new, all blinding, and Maki shut her eyes, finally finding a harbor for her heart home.

###

Much later, a murmur, a quick kiss, a caress promising so many more, “Let’s stay here for now.”

Nico felt Maki nod into her shoulder, and sleep wrapped them up in buoyant arms, as they sailed together through shared, joyful visions of future travels winging through the horned gate as a blessing.

A/N: This was an AU Yeah August request for a modern fantasy riff on the story of Calypso from The Odyssey. I recommend Emily Wilson's translation, which I used as a poetic inspiration.

[jasperwhitcock]

02. DISTRACTIONS

i’ve decided to continue with the au of bella as a vampire & edward as a human inspired by a post from @bellasredchevy, so here’s another installment (you can read the first chapter here). if anyone has thoughts on if it’d be more preferable for me to post this fanfic on wattpad/fanfiction.net/another website rather than posting it on tumblr, let me know :-) if not, i’ll continue to post here & figure out some tag to make it easier to find!

The boys had left for a hunting trip, so I found myself falling victim to what Alice liked to call a “sleepover”. It was a ridiculous name for this kind of occasion. An unfortunate part of what we were consequently lost us the ability to sleep and thus, dream. I had found this to be something I considered an advantage when I was first changed. I had so much extra time I could devote to reading! Unfortunately, the excitement didn’t last very long. I still enjoyed the benefits of all the ample time, but I did miss the creativity of my subconscious that allowed me to live in other worlds unrestricted by the more sentient, aware parts of my mind. I missed escapism.

I even missed the nightmares at times. I had been such a vivid dreamer.

Additionally, it was even further ridiculous to refer to this as a sleepover when we spent every night together. Without the sleep and the ‘over’ aspect of spending the night away from home, this was definitely the worst sleepover I’d been to in the course of my existence.

Although, as a bonding time amongst the women of the Olympic Coven, with the exception of some of Alice’s ideas for activities, I enjoyed this kind of night very much. I’d have gone with the boys to hunt if I had any intention of returning to school tomorrow. I’d owe them an explanation when they returned as for the tension that filled the car as we drove home from school. I hated to be the center of attention, so I was appreciative when Alice and Rosalie agreed to keep the horrific encounter a secret for now. I didn’t want the scrutiny of their concern nor the dramatics of the situation.

I was lucky that they had plans with Carlisle. Rosalie was able to convince Emmett and Jasper to begin their night early by allowing us to drop them off at the hospital – much to the dismay of my bulkier brother who had spent his day eagerly anticipating our rematch. My other sister easily dismissed their suspicion of our motives. Nobody questioned Alice twice. I was glad to have more time to mull over what to say to Carlisle. As much as I wanted his guidance, if I could put off growing the audience to my moment of weakness for another couple of hours, I’d gladly take the distraction of Alice braiding my hair into a long plait down my back while she blasted music in the garage where Rosalie worked.

Typically when we had nights like these, we each selected an activity to do together. Alice made the choice  – unfortunately for me – to sort through all of our closets and rid them of items she no longer deemed wearable. With the exception of a few favorites, we rarely wore the same things twice, so it seemed like a waste of time. That is until I realized that this was all just a ruse to chastise me for the items of clothing she stocked in my closet that I didn’t wear. My small, voyeuristic sister was pleased with Rosalie and Esme, creating a nice, substantial pile of clothing to donate, whereas my closet ended up acquiring even more clothing than before. I was far too moody to care to protest.

Esme arranged for the four of us to paint together while some french movie played in the background. As an added challenge, she had Alice describe a vision to us, and we all attempted to capture the image on our canvases. Rosalie simply wanted our company as she continued her ongoing project of restoring yet another classic car that she’d eventually gift as an item for a charity auction. My activity of choice usually was the same: I’d select a book for us to read, and we’d have a book club to conclude the night once we’d all finished.

Tonight, however, I wasn’t feeling entirely up for it. Although I definitely wouldn’t mind the fictional escape away from Forks, I didn’t have it in me to sincerely participate in the conversation that would follow.

I wanted to move beyond the events of this afternoon already. As much as it disconcerted me, I didn’t want to be so severely consumed. I was growing irritated with the feelings of disappointment that preoccupied me. I had taken my ease in this life for granted.

Although I knew it wasn’t his fault, I found myself becoming frustrated with the Masen kid. When I began to see eyes materializing in the green brush strokes of the trees of my painting, I unintentionally destroyed my canvas. Something about the perplexity in his shockingly perceptive irises and the intelligence that marked his thick eyebrows when they pulled together was inexplicably haunting me. The irony of feeling haunted when I was the undead creature was not lost on me.

“I’ll grab you another one, dear,” Esme soothed, exchanging worried glances with Rosalie and Alice before disappearing to bring me another large square of coarse, woven white fabric to vandalize.

When the lyrics of the song Alice sang along to as Esme handed Rosalie the tools she needed began to creep into my head and develop new meanings I didn’t want to hear, I abruptly sprang from the driver's seat of Rose’s convertible and ran from the garage. I wanted to unravel in peace.

I stopped when I reached the large, grey stones of the riverbank.

The forest was peaceful. It was nearly dawn; a pale, purple-grey tinted light cloaked the scenery before me, the orange and pink hues of the morning sun that should fade into the navy-black of the night sky were hidden behind a thick layer of rain clouds. The water of the river flowed sinuously by as some birds sang far in the distance. The greenery was enveloped in the fallen rain of the night, droplets of water clinging stunningly to every blade of grass, every needle of pine of the lush vegetation like crystals and diamonds. A cold mist intimately caressed the river, enveloping the landscape in a fresh haze. I could now see the vision Alice described a few hours prior come to life. Here I stood now, quietly, amongst the skyline of trees in daybreak.

I closed my eyes to the muted beauty of this morning, indifferent to the ephemerality of the moment. How many mornings had I seen like this? They were all already cemented in my infallible mind. I breathed in, the cold air whistling deliciously down my throat. On my tongue I could taste the minty, rain-kissed evergreens, the warm streams of blood pumping the tiny, fluttering heartbeats of the smallest animals, the earthy, sweet brooks leading back to the river. The wind softly stroked the sparkling spring water, and as I focused on the faint whisper of an insect’s fluttering wings, I heard the lithe, recognizable stride of my adopted mother approaching. With her came new scents and sounds – white gardenia, freshly baked bread, honey, peach blossoms, a whisper of lush silk, a hiss of air, a gentle nuzzling of fast footsteps on glossy moss.

She arrived by my side but said nothing, joining me in my silent reverie.

“You have nothing to say?” I asked after we stood there for some time, Esme watching what I assumed was the faint hint of the sun rising beyond the clouds, lifting the overcast view into lighter shades of blue-grey. I could feel the slight difference in temperature against my skin.

“Is there something you wish for me to say, sweetheart?” Esme asked gently.

I finally opened my eyes, turning to meet her topaz eyes full of love and patience.

“Not really,” I half-smiled, feeling guilty.

Her beautiful mouth widened into a smile, lighting up her heart-shaped face. She seemed to find some humor in my honesty, letting out a peal of laughter that frightened some distant creatures into silence at the unexpected sound of bells. Her caramel-colored waves of hair shook lightly with the motion.

“Oh, my Bella.” Instantaneously, I was enveloped in her warm, velvet arms. “It is absolutely valid to feel such despondency, but we must celebrate that we are not mourning the loss of another life! For that, I am very proud of you. And I’ve been so relieved that in this life you’ve never had to grieve the mistakes that even I have made...but we would never feel differently towards you if you had. Nor do we feel differently that you’re experiencing a struggle much more strenuous than before.”

She paused before continuing more fervently, “it makes you no less strong, and you will have the strength to resist...I believe that with all my heart. Please don’t feel so disappointed with yourself. You must give yourself some credit and patience and forgiveness. It pains me to see you so cheerless!”

“I’m sorry I seem so...down,” I sighed, resting my head dejectedly on her shoulder. “I guess, to be frank, it just...sucks to feel like I don’t have the super sense of self control that I thought I did. I’m beginning to feel bad for Jasper now,” I snorted bitterly.

She laughed again at my colloquial choice of words.

“Perhaps you owe him an apology. You and your brother have given him an awful lot of trouble for how he struggles,” my mother accused me teasingly, stroking my hair just as my sisters had. The comfort was nice, but I also felt irrationally remorseful to have any need for it.

“Yeah, maybe I do,” I frowned, thinking of having to put aside my pride.

She pulled away to hold me at arm’s length, cautiously studying my face.

After a moment, she pulled me against her again in another embrace.

“I will leave you alone now. It seems you would benefit from some more time by yourself to think without your sisters’ futile attempts to distract you.”

I could tell she was smiling from the way the words left her mouth. “But I won’t allow you to wallow in pity forever.”

Esme released me from the hug and reappeared four yards away from me, the expression on her perfect face stern. “So take the time you need to process how you’re feeling. But only be alone if you need to be. Don’t let yourself be lonely. That’s very important...You know where we will be.”

With that, she was gone.

I couldn’t understand why I was so inconsolable. Of course, I valued her words and the sentiment. My family’s understanding and support were wonderful to have, but I couldn’t shake the upheaval the boy’s blood had wreaked on my thoughts. It seemed to me a cruel joke, that after all these years of so naturally adjusting to this life, I now experienced the true, macabre consequences of this form. Would I have traded the ease that had accompanied me until now if it meant I’d never have experienced a magnetism as strong as the sweet scent that lingered just beneath the Masen boy’s frail skin? Would I have chosen to struggle more the entirety of my existence if it meant I’d have avoided the ferocity of that moment in my suddenly not so banal biology class? Maybe I would have.

This must be some kind of punishment from some god somewhere. Why else would I experience such effortlessness only to be met with an unendurable, unassailable call to reject everything good about my existence? I never gave much thought to religion in either of my lives. I suppose that after I’d been changed, it’d seem like a far more interesting subject because what could be the implications of an existence such as mine? Did my being a monster provide more validity to the existence of a god? If mythological evil creatures plagued the earth, then couldn’t a supernatural deity who created the universe exist as well? Or did my being a monster provide evidence that there was no god – because who could create such a despicable creature?

It had been far more evocative a topic to Carlisle who had spent much of his life after his transformation pondering these questions, but in all truthfulness, it never bothered me much. I adjusted well to this life. I understood why I was changed and didn’t long for my humanity the way some of my other family members did. Of course, I hated the risk I posed to human life, but my conscience felt clear as my record remained clean. I never endured any self loathing for what I was.

Only now did I question myself. Only now did I wrestle with the ramifications of my immortality. Only now did I feel in its entirety – I had experienced strong desires for human blood before but never like this – the true shame of lusting for the end to someone’s precious life. Only now did I truly feel like the monster I was.

I was finally recognizing the wrongness within me.

I was mistaken to feel resentful and angry with the human boy. He did not make me this way. I had always been this way. I had just been blind to the fact for all these years. I had been naive.

He was entirely innocent and deserving of the life he would live. One where his future would not be stolen in a high school biology classroom as his body emptied. One where he would graduate and go on to better schools. One where he would have a successful job in something he was interested in that provided him with purpose. One where he would meet someone smart and kind. One where he would marry, have a family, and grow old surrounded by his progeny.

I suddenly experienced a strange sensation. A feeling I hadn’t felt in years – jealousy. Though I’d never envied a human before, I envied the possibilities this boy had. I never mourned the choices that were no longer available to me. I graduated countless times. I held countless jobs. I felt fulfilled in providing to the world with our philanthropy and loving my family. In that, I found purpose. I didn’t care to have children.

But did I care to experience romantic love?

I loved romance, but I never minded that it was unattainable to me beyond the pages of a novel. I’d met other vampires, but were the odds in my favor to find a soulmate amongst such a rare kind? I didn’t think so, and I was fine with that. I was happy in my solitude. At times, I was the odd one out in my coupled-off family, but I had often felt like the odd one out in my previous life. It wasn’t a new experience, so I never cared. But in thinking of this human boy’s life, free of monsters, free of me, I came to the realization that unlike myself, he could have anyone he wanted. He was not bound by anything other than maybe his own inhibitions. He had the luxury of choice in every aspect of his life but also in love. He had simply the luxury of love itself.

Why were these thoughts coming to me now? I had so much time to ponder my existence, and suddenly this encounter had me incomprehensibly considering inessential things.

I take back my previous feelings about the boy’s innocence. He is stupid and culpable. He’s inspiring stupidity in me.

He’s very fortunate that I have a conscience. I could just as easily murder him in irritation of the havoc his existence is inflicting on my life.

I refocused my thoughts on the scenery before me, longing for the previous morning where I watched the verdant motion of the trees outside the car window after Emmett’s silly destruction of the novel I still had yet to fix. Somehow, it seemed like a long time ago.

In that memory, I eventually found a small moment of peace again.

No painted eyes could haunt me here.

And yet, I was left with a sense of uneasiness, feeling as if my life thus far had been a long exposition, and I had just encountered the inciting incident. I was feeling – though I’d been irrevocably altered once before – as if something would soon change me forever.

we all know stubborn bella wouldn’t yeet herself to alaska like edward’s dramatic ass. hope y’all enjoy hehe <3

[arthurjdrake]

Painting By Numbers : Lydia & Arthur

TIMING: Current PARTIES: Arthur & @inspirationdivine SYNOPSIS: Arthur and Lydia are hired to restore a painting, little do they realise what else comes with the canvas. TW: None

When Arthur had received a rather cryptic call from Fran about the possibility of restoring a painting she couldn’t outright name that had unfortunately been damaged in transit from the Uffizi Gallery in Florence, his interest had immediately been piqued. There were countless in their collection - a great number of masterpieces and to have a chance to stand near to any one of them for any brief period of time would be an honour. Let alone to add in some small fashion to a legacy that had been revered and deified across the centuries. Apparently, it was such an important piece there had been a second specialist called in to aid in ensuring the job was done to the highest quality.

They were scheduled in for a week possibly more or work on this piece which had been placed in a moderately sized climate-controlled workshop attached to the gallery for any such necessary works. What Arthur hadn’t anticipated after swiping in with his ID on the reader and walking past a couple of security that were apparently an attaché to the painting was to come face to face with the one and only primavera. “Holy shit,” he breathed, the words hushed in reverence as he looked upon the intricate and detailed masterpiece that rested on a stand. Lifting his glasses up for just a moment to admire the piece with his natural sight before returning them to the bridge of his nose with a shake of his head, mesmerised by the piece. “Been a while since I’ve seen one of you…” he whistled under his breath, Fran hadn’t been joking about this one being important.

It wasn’t altogether uncommon for art restorers to collaborate on a piece together, although this was certainly the first time Lydia had collaborated with someone in White Crest. She’d heard of his work before, this Arthur fellow, and had only heard good things. So the call had been entirely welcome, although she wished she’d had a few more details as to the nature of the piece before she had arrived. Lydia stepped into the workshop and set down her bag by the door, before walking over to where the gentleman was that she was supposed to be working with. “Good afternoon. You’re Arthur, am I right?” she asked, offering her hand to shake as she turned to face the painting he was admiring. “Oh, wow, this is a beauty.”

Arthur was completely taken with the piece, it wasn’t often these days he could stand in the same room as something so magnificent. So Arthur was going to take all the time he could to appreciate this piece of work. That said, at the sound of footsteps approaching Arthur turned smoothly and smiled warmly at the woman approaching, “and you must be Lydia, I think we’ve spoken a little online yes?” he greeted in kind. Taking her hand to shake it, though the action while meaningful was brief to minimise skin-contact with him soon retracting his hands and tucking them into his pockets. It was hard to explain to people the excessive heat that seemed to radiate off him at any given time that was exceptionally noticeable on contact so it was easiest to try and minimise it if possible. “It’s stunning isn’t it? Have you seen a Botticelli before? It’s been an age since I’ve stood in front of one.”

“Yes, I believe so! You recommended the lighthouse as a viewing point. You were entirely right, by the way.” Lydia took his hand ever so briefly, thinking little of the warmth she felt ever so briefly. She turned her attention back to the painting, breathing deeply. Oh, you could see the Leanan Sidhe inspiration in this piece too, woven in to the inherent beauty of the piece. “Never for me to work on. I’ve seen one or two in private collections, recently.” She frowned as she heard a faint buzzing sound. “Oh, this is the worst part of summer. Insects get everywhere.”

“I did, yes,” Arthur’s grin brightened considerably to hear that she thought it was a nice place to go, “quite a vista up there wouldn’t you say? And rather peaceful with the waves rolling in.” But their respective attention turned to the masterpiece in the room. “No, I’m not sure that work of this calibre typically graces White Crest’s shores… But in this instance I suppose primavera has come to treat us both.” He stepped aside to where a few sets of gloves were placed alongside the necessary tools for the gouges that seemed to have taken out a fraction of Zephyrus’ face and Venus’ robes. He was pulling on a pair when Lydia spoke and he looked up “bugs? I didn’t notice anything when I came in… And I know Fran is particular about making sure this room is controlled to the best of her ability. Do you think it will be an issue?”

“No, I doubt it does, and certainly not on display that often.” Although Lydia knew first hand now that the inhabitants of Harris Island were sometimes older and much richer than one might assume. Or, thinking of Mercy, that they were more than eager to steal things that weren’t hers. “Do you have the report of what previous work was done on this piece?” She asked, slowly beginning her own analysis of the piece. Previous layers of paint and repairs - the back of the canvas revealed so much, like careful repairs to tiny tears. “I certainly hope not. I know Fran is meticulous, but… it is irritating. Can’t you hear it buzzing around?”

“No, it’s quite a gift. I just hope those that do get to see it can truly appreciate it for what it is,” Arthur remarked tilting his head to look once more at the figures poised within the frame. The classic Botticelli style apparent within their stances and the lengthened stature of their bodies delicate yet bold in its portrayal of the scene of Venus’ garden. “Yes,” he picked up a bound set of plastic wallets. “According to this the last restoration work done on it was around 1978 to restore the colouration of the paint which had darkened considerably over time.” He set the folder down once more, a small furrow appearing at his brow as Lydia drew his attention to focus on the buzzing. It was only when he moved nearer that he heard it, “oh dear… that’s not good.” He squinted wondering if he might be able to see what was making the noise but nothing came to view “can you see anything? I can hear the blighters…”

“I’m sure they will. How can you look at a piece like this and not appreciate it?” Lydia replied, reaching behind her to tie her hair back and out of the way so they could work. She picked up the plastic wallets, flicking through them to see what varnishes had been used and which had been removed. At least the last restorer had been meticulous in their notes, leaving a long trail of clues for Lydia and Arthur to follow up on. "I haven't the faintest idea where it is," she replied, as she heard something buzz right close to her ear. Lydia rubbed the back of her head. She froze, her fingers hovering over the skin just behind her ear, where her skin was swollen. "That horrible insect has bitten me!"

“You would hope so, unfortunately not everyone has the patience art often requires - particularly in this day and age.” It was a shame but not so many people wanted to walk through a gallery and few cared for the interpretation and meaning behind the pieces often put up on display or so he’d found. “That’s strange…” he remarked looking around and trying to spot the blighter, it was at Lydia’s exclamation that Arthur saw the bright emerald green critter just over her left shoulder. “There!” he tried to wave it away from her but it was faster than he’d anticipated, dipping mid-air out of the course his hand had taken and flitting behind him. Turning around to try and spy where it might’ve gone his eyes pivoted around the shop finding nothing but thin air. “That’s strange I was certain it was-- it was--” Arthur frowned, not realising the creature he was looking for had blended in with his own hair a mildly perplexed look crossing his features as a mildly disorentating sensation started to overcome him.

“Hey sweet pea, are you alright?” The woman speaking sat on a stool, holding a paintbrush in her left hand and easel in her right. She was tall and willowy, greying hair tied in a tight bun. She’d been painting, but not all of it was on the canvas in front of her - she’d painted her thighs, the easel, the window by which she sat. The girl she talked to glanced in the window, to find herself amongst the park scene her mother had been painting. It was dark out, so the windows were a mirror. Unlike her mom, her skin glowed. Where her mother had brown eyes, hers glowed blue, her teeth glinted pink, and her wings fidgeted uncomfortably. It was Lydia, still acne ridden as a teen. She held a loaf of bread in her hands, that she was slowly chewing.

“Mommie, I’m so hungry.” Her voice was plaintive, confused. Her stomach felt so heavy and thick, but her body still growled for more. She felt queasy with that gnawing, terrible hunger.

“Your father will be home soon. He’ll explain, my dear. You’ve just started early.”

“Started what early?”

Lydia’s mother stood up. She didn’t share her daughter’s ears, nor eyes, nor wings, but in so many other ways they were spitting images. They held themselves the same, and while Lydia’s hair was made of pearl it was undoubtedly her mother’s colour. Her mother smiled, cradling Lydia’s face in her paint covered hands.

“You know your father can explain better than I can. You’re being so brave, my dear. Just one more day, and he’ll help you.” She pressed a kiss to her daughter’s forehead, and Lydia hugged her gratefully.

Her mother staggered, and Lydia’s stomach felt less queasy.

“Oh non, pas encore!” the view followed a disgruntled man in his mid-fifties dressed in a sapphire blue tunic, black breeches and muddied riding boots as he swung down from the back of his mount who pranced with nervous energy. The moon sat high on the horizon illuminating vast farmlands otherwise deserted at this time of night as he walked towards the stone cemetery.

A group of three or four alghouls perched around the dug up remains of a grave busy stuffing their faces with decaying flesh and bone. The man turned moonlight reflecting off familiar features: Arthur, but older, black hair streaked with grey at the temples and a braided beard as he trudged into the space a familiar axe engraved with runes drawn from the scabbard on his back and a confidence of having done this several times before.

“Ça suffit,” the blade glinted in the moonlight before with a crunch it lodged in the neck of the first alghoul and dislodged with a forceful kick the other three hissing in anger and lurching back in surprise at the assault as a second swing had the head cleaved clean off leaving it twitching on the ground. How many times? They never learned.

The alghouls gnashed circling, but kept their distance taking the time to try and flank their prey. But as the second and third darted forwards, the axe was swung again, cleaving one clean through the shoulder near its neck causing it to wail inhumanly and topple ass over teakettle into a nearby set of rocks. But the third was faster, latching on to Arthur’s shoulder and biting down with razorlike teeth and ripping away with a bloody chunk of flesh drawing out a pained cry as he jabbed the tip of his axe forwards to pry the creature loose and shove it away staggering back panting with the effort. The second was trying to right itself, but limped from the tear of the freshly sharpened blade and where it tried to dive forwards Arthur side-stepped and grunted as he drew the axe back and down dispatching its head that rolled to a stop near another grave.

The scene played on, assailants taking swipes out of one another until a bloodied Arthur seemed to come to a conclusion and where he stood in the middle of the cemetery flames erupted around his body. A living pyre of flame and heat in the silhouette of a blazing gold and orange bird soaring up amongst them that had the two remaining alghouls screeching and trying to turn their eyes away as they stumbled, blinded. Using this to his advantage he lunged forwards, and two more heads were added to the pile as the flames died away leaving Arthur alone once more bleeding but alive in the middle of a graveyard. Exhausted, he dropped to his knees besides one such grave touching the piled stones carefully. “You’re safe… I’ll protect you.”

Lydia crumbled to the floor of Fran’s workspace. It wasn’t that the bite hurt, but it was the feeling that she had left something in the other room, although she never had. Something was missing. Unlike memories that faded over time, crumbled, but this was a sudden, sharp loss, something she couldn’t identify. The more she tried to remember, the more she tried to chase whatever it was she’d forgotten, the more she found something else. It sat in her head jarringly. Whatever it was, definitely not hers.

She saw it through his eyes. He was tall, his axe glinting in the moonlight. Lydia recoiled as he charged through the monstrous beasts, slashing into their necks without flinching. She remembered how the adrenaline had charged through him. She could smell the rain and mud as he worked, methodically. Lydia recoiled as she remembered the sharp pain in her shoulder. She - or he - was surrounded, the beasts readying to draw their last breath. She remembered weighing her options, both not what those options were until her skin burned, and erupted into flames. What followed was exhilarating, terrifying. Nothing like Lydia had never seen nor heard of.

Lydia blinked away the memory of the gravestones uncomfortably. “What was that? Did you see that? The man in the graveyard?”

Arthur wasn’t sure how he managed to stay standing at Lydia staggered and fell, perhaps it was the strange sense of fulfilling nourishment that seemed to have filled him as he blinked out of the strange vision that felt so achingly familiar. Away from a place that felt like home to the rather jarring appearance of a painting on a stand and Fran’s workshop.

How had he forgotten about that? No, he hadn’t forgotten… Or had he? There was a keen sense of something missing and yet in such a vast catalogue of memories who could say for certain? He’d forgotten many things over the centuries. His mother and father’s faces lost to the river of time. Yet this felt like an acute and sudden loss and the more his mind chased after whatever it was that felt as if it had been taken the more his head started to ache.

His hand went to his temple rubbing it at the throb and thinking back to the little girl and the painter. “See what? The little fae girl and her mother… She was painting I think,” his confusion muddled his mind enough that it didn’t catch up to what he was saying or who he was talking to. But Lydia’s own statement made him freeze for a moment, searching back because there were many graveyards but… “No... “ he said uncertainty lacing his tone, “what man? What graveyard?“

“What fae girl?” Lydia asked, standing upright sharply. What did he knew about fae? He was just some random art restorer. Except that he wasn’t in any sense of the word, if he knew what fae were. So now the question was how he knew and why. Nosy humans and monstrous hunters knew what fae were as much as every other species, but those were the ones that concerned her. “I don’t know. Maybe I’m misremembering. Do you think… Can you hear the insect? Do you think it bit you?”

The sudden change in demeanor was alarming but the more Arthur thought about the memory and looked at Lydia the pieces seemed to fit together. “I saw you I think…” there was still doubt in his voice but he could distinctly recognise certain symmetries between the girl in his memory and the woman before him even if other features didn’t match at all. But then again fae glamorous were powerful “and your mother? She was a painter too.” But if he’d seen that… Arthur’s frown deepened at her mention of being bitten, a hand going to rub at the nape of his neck in discomfort at the situation they’d been placed in. It was only then that he felt it, the little bump “oh that little bugger” he cursed his eyes widening in alarm at the dawning realisation. “What was he doing, the man in the graveyard?”

“There’s no way…” Lydia swallowed. Except that he was right. She didn’t remember much of her mother, or rather, she chose to forget as much as she could of the human woman who had withered throughout her teen years. She’d been a painter. Lydia still had some of her paintings, hidden in the deepest recesses of her home. “Whatever you think you saw, you’re… surely you’d have to be mistaken. How might you ever see such a thing?” Her stomach turned as she danced too close to a lie. She looked up to him, with deep concern. “Let me see,” Lydia said, stepping behind him hesitantly. “You have two bites. Another… there. The man in the graveyard, he was fighting. Ghouls, possibly?”

The denial earned a crease in Arthur’s brow, “but I remember it… Like it’s right there.” It was strange and perplexing to apparently have someone else’s thoughts at the very forefront of his mind. Like a strange intrusion of privacy that he had no right to view and yet they were stuck right there as if they were his very own. The song and dance Lydia - if she was this fae girl in his mind was understandable, but what was more concerning was what she might’ve seen. “Magic for one. Or a bloody magic bug.” He didn’t protest as she stepped around, pulling the collar of his shirt down and tilting his head forwards. His concern rose at the news he’d been bitten not once but twice, “what? Oh bloody hell…” He stepped away, scrubbing a hand through his hair eyes bewildered at the prospect of revelation by something so simple. What were the chances? They were both in it now. He grabbed a piece of paper and pencil starting to scribble a rough artistic impression of an axe with ornate filigree embedded on its metal turning he held it up. “Was he using an axe? Double headed? Like this?”

Magical insects. Lydia, in theory, knew that they existed, but she’d never been bitten by such disgusting creatures before. She shuddered, grossed out as he grabbed a piece of paper. Peaking over his shoulder, Lydia nodded, her mind going the same way Arthur’s was. She twisted her ring around her fingers as she watched him sketch the piece, cogs clicking into place. He knew something about whatever she had remembered, in the same way that she recognised his own vision’s description, if perhaps not in its entirety. Lydia had spent so much time with her mother when she’d been a child. “Indeed. I also felt an immense fire. Was he, perhaps, you?”

“Ugh,” he grimaced at the thought of being bitten by something foreign and unknown, in the name of Frigg, he hoped there were no magical diseases that could be contracted like that. That’d truly suck. His hand rubbed the little bump uncomfortable with the thought and the other thoughts that weren’t his own rolling around in his head. Perhaps it would have been smarter to play dumb, act like he knew nothing but there was a quiet kind of excitement that came with finding someone else… Someone unique. And her mention of burning well, Arthur huffed as he looked down at the sketch. The question was posed and Arthur lifted his head paper held gingerly as he tried to mentally compare the little girl he’d seen in a reflection to the woman standing before him now. “Perhaps, but I guess that answer would depend on whether you were the fae girl I saw.” Quid pro quo was a funny sort of deal after all. The fact she hadn’t bolted was a pretty telling sign in itself. “But... yes. I think you saw one of my memories… Just as I saw one of yours - you said you were bitten earlier didn’t you?”

“Which is an answer in itself, is it not?” Lydia smiled. “Fortunately for the both of us, neither of us appear to be human. Although I must admit I have no idea what you might even begin to be. You don’t think there are others, do you? I don’t know how to search my mind to find missing memories. Most are just remembered at the most inopportune times, when you smell something or hear something that reminds you of them.” Lydia sighed deeply, sitting down on a nearby work bench. “I hate this. I didn’t really mean to come here today to intrude on your past.”

“Well, sometimes there’s a joy in being mildly cryptic” Arthur smiled a little bashfully raising a hand to rub at a patch of skin just behind his ear in mildly erratic nervousness. “Apparently not… Which I suppose makes this uhhh- beneficial? I don’t make a habit of typically sharing that- well, my secret with strangers.” The claim to not know earned a quiet huff of laughter as the paper was set aside and he clasped his hands together bracing his elbows on his knees. “I’m… well, what some would call a phoenix. But I’ve been called a great many things over the centuries. Messiah, miracle worker, wiseman. It’s funny watching people trip over themselves trying to label what they don’t understand.” His smile turned into a mildly bemused expression as he thought on the question, “I don’t recall seeing any more… You said I had two bites? So it must have bitten both of us twice… And I guess taken and then transferred a memory with each subsequent bite.” His expression softened into something more amicable, “nor did I plan to intrude on yours. But I suppose we’re here…” His eyes glinted amicably as he processed the information, “but I guess we find solidarity in the strangest of places don’t we?”

“No, I don’t either,” Lydia replied, running her finger over the bite on her own neck. Imagine if he’d been a warden. Lydia pushed away the thought abruptly. That was more than enough considering of her death today. It was just a memory, not even the ones she valued so highly, of her terribly human mother. Who would have almost certainly died not long after he’d seen it. So why did her heart ache for the loss of it? Lost in her own thoughts, she almost missed his initial description of himself. Lydia raised her eyebrows very high as he described all the names he’d been given. “I imagine I’ll stick with phoenix, if it’s all the same to you,” Lydia chuckled. She kicked herself off the table, and back on to standing on her feet. “At least it is solidarity.” She smiled weakly. This memory wasn’t hers, and it felt like he’d been robbed of them. She might as well return them. “You were speaking in french. The moon was out, but it had rained recently, you could smell the wet dirt of the farmlands. There were monsters digging through graves. That you fought with that axe. One bit you…” Lydia pressed her hand to her shoulder, to show where he’d been hurt. “But you beat them. You were looking at a grave, and promised that you’d always keep them safe. It meant… The grave meant a lot to you.”

How many more memories would he lose? If not to magical creatures and parasites then simply to the ebb and flow of time. Had it not taken enough already? Arthur couldn’t even recall the face of his mother, or his sister or his brothers… Did he have one or two? There were only ghostly outlines of indistinct people with dark hair and kind eyes. Was that right or just his imagination? He’d never know. At least with more recent events he had a little longer with which to keep the memories. He listened to Lydia speak trying to place the thoughts of where they might fit. French was hardly distinct nor was the act. “I’ve protected too many graves…” a wan look crossed his features but the nearest he could place it was “maybe 12th century at a guess… Our gravesite was always being ravaged.“ Thinking of the memory he had Arthur folded his hands, pressing them together before he spoke in turn. “You were a teen standing near a windowsill with some bread… Your mother was painting… It was beautiful. But you were hungry… She said your father would help when he got home and then she hugged and kissed you. She didn’t look very well though…”

“Twelfth century? That’s… beyond belief. What a difficult memory to lose.” Lydia said softly, her eyes creased with empathy. That disappeared the moment he started describing what he had seen. It was as if a cloud had descended over her. “She would have died not long after that.” Lydia shook her head abruptly. She knew what he could not - that her mother’s hug had been what sustained Lydia. That just being around her had been enough for Lydia to unknowingly and unwittingly drain the life from her. No kiss required. Her father should have known better - her siblings had all taken years to control their hunger, and while growing up in an Aos Sí had protected her well, he should have never let her mother around her for so long. He should have never had children with a human to begin with. His love had killed her better than any knife. “There’s no need to dwell on such things. If you see the insect, let’s crush it before it takes any more.”

“I’d lose it eventually anyway,” Arthur admitted, his expression a little more misty than it perhaps was before. “There’s not much to be done for old age, hm?” A touch of humour in the face of a sad reality. “Oh… I’m sorry-- I didn’t realise...” it was his turn to look apologetic after all how could he, a glimpse of a moment of fractured time that didn’t belong to him, “I’m sure you miss her a great deal.” After all, what child didn’t miss their parents in some capacity? Not that he knew anything of Lydia’s life but the fragment seemed to show a good home with kind people. He grew quiet after that, clearing his throat a fraction “you’re right… It seemed to be coming from near the painting originally wasn’t it? Perhaps that’s where it was hiding.”

“All the same,” Lydia replied, looking into his wet eyes with concern. “I do not wish to discuss my mother, if I’m honest. It was a long time ago. She was not as good a mother as she could have been.” In that she wasn’t fae. In that she had never deserved to be a fae’s mother. Lydia’s heart felt tight all the same. She looked around, wondering if she might spot it wandering along on a surface. She picked up one of her big books, walking around with supernaturally silent steps. Lydia walked half way around the room before spotting it, a big bloated beetle resting against the table. Using her enhanced strength a little too keenly, Lydia smacked it with the book, and it squelched against the counter. “If nothing else, it’s dead.”

“Oh…” Arthur echoed unsure quite how to follow up a comment like that. So he chose to not say anything, sometimes it was better that way. Instead, he helped in scouring the room searching for any sight of the thing that might’ve been responsible. But ultimately, Lydia served the final blow, squishing the bug under a finer points to art book. “Well, at least it won’t be an issue for anyone else… I wonder how many other people it’s done this to.” It was a little disquieting but at least it was dealt with. “I suppose now that that little fiasco’s dealt with… Shall we get to work on this painting?”

“I hate insects ever so much. Which I realise is ironic considering my own beetle anatomy, but eurgh. Keep them away from me. At all costs.” Lydia shuddered at the corpse remains of the insect, squelched on her book. She looked up at Arthur with a smile. “Yes, let’s!” As she picked up her tools to start preparing to remove it from the frame, though, she couldn’t shake the memory of fire bursting from her body. Well, his. That quiet graveyard, and the ones he wanted to protect. He wasn’t fae, so… “Thank you for not pushing on the matter of my mother,” Lydia said softly, before turning all of her thought to their work, and enjoying the pleasant company of the ancient gentleman beside her.

Arthur couldn’t help but laugh quietly at the irony presented and while he could recall the reflection of what she had looked like, he couldn’t help but wonder what she actually looked like behind the glamour. His head tilted a little in acknowledgement, “you’re welcome. I understand some things aren’t the sort of things you want to talk about with strangers you’ve only just met.” He opened a small collection of tools attention focussed there for the time being. They’d need to file the gashes down and repaint from there and he had so many questions he wanted to ask. “I doubt you get much opportunity to not hide your true form do you?” Arthur remarked after a little while of working “I can only imagine it must be tiring… Hiding what you are day in and day out, it’s rather impressive. The capability of fae glamours… I’ve always wondered - does creating them get easier with time?”

Lydia nodded in response to his comment, and let sleeping lions lie. It twisted her stomach enough to just think about her mother, let alone have someone else know it. They worked in quiet for a moment before Arthur interrupted. “It is like maintaining good posture. After a while, it’s second nature to hold that tension in place. It requires thought, but I’ve worn this same face for decades. Same wrinkles around the eyes, pock marks, venation. It’s like putting make up on.” Lydia shrugged. “How does it feel to have lived so long?”

“Huh,” he mused thoughtfully, “it’s something I’ve always wondered… I’ve never really spent much time around many fae considering I know most of your kind prefer to stay in your own communities…” Arthur looked back to the painting considering the work “you think you’ve seen the breadth of what lies on the spectrum of the supernatural and yet there’s always so much you find out you don’t know.” He resumed working, hands moving in slow methodical strokes as he worked the groves down wondering how best to answer a rather loaded question. “Honestly it really depends on the day, some days it’s exhilarating - especially when there’s a new discovery or invention… Other days it feels like you’re carrying the weight of the world on your shoulders… It’s easier to begin with - when you don’t remember and life is just… life.”

“We often do, but not always,” Lydia agreed. “Then again, I hadn’t been too sure Phoenixes really existed until just now. Even for us, separating fact from fiction can prove challenging.” When he worked on the canvas, she didn’t, so that they weren’t applying tension unevenly, and didn’t want to knock each other. She focused on the solvents, the paints, setting things up for each next step. “That sounds like an intense existence. I am so old to so many here, but I am a child to my peers. My age compares nothing to yours, and yet it’s hard to imagine another three life times after this.”

“We’re a more inconspicuous type than most, I’ve never met another one of my kind in all the time I’ve been alive” Arthur admitted his brow creasing a little with the admission. How many were out there really? Who could say for sure. “It can be. Considering we have to restart our lives from scratch each time…” His smile grew a fraction, a knowing look passing his features “it takes time but you often end up coming to terms with it eventually… It’s different though - a sustained life and existence over that extended period you know? Fo rme it’s just like someone hitting reset every century.”

“That seems to me to be rather lonely,” Lydia said softly, listening to him curiously as he talked about his rebirth. She could not imagine. “There are many, many things one can get used to with enough experience, I suppose,” Lydia replied, trying to imagine it. Dying and restarting life afresh, over and over. She shed her name with frightening frequency, but she still remembered her past, and did not let go of those she loved. She wondered what Deirdre thought of it, people who died and lived over and over, with each new rotation of the clock. She had such interesting perspectives on death.

“It is, but you learn to move on, you have to or what’s it all for in the end? Plus I often meet people along the way that make it worthwhile. Like today I made an unexpectedly new friend.” Arthur smiled at her, eyes creasing kindly even if there was sadness with the admission. So many lives had flickered in and out of existence. So many friends gone and lost to the trial of time. But today he had made a friend, and in his mind that made today a good day.

She didn’t reply to that. Being Fae was fundamental to her identity, being part of the fae, that she couldn’t imagine being without them. People were fine, but fae were best. They deserved to be around each other. Lydia’s heart ached for people like Jared, and Regan, who had lived without other fae for so long and had ever so clearly suffered it. Lydia grinned back at him. “Boticelli and bugs sure have a way to bring people together, I must say.” She winked, and turned back to her work, cheerfully.

“Who knew?” and so the afternoon drifted on, light chat intermingling their progressive work in restoring the damage done to the painting. It would take around a week to complete but in good company Arthur was happy to take the time to do a job right, plus, if he’d made a new friend out of today’s shenanigans then there was nothing really to complain about. Maybe bugs weren’t so bad after all?

[fanfoolishness]

The Scent of Whiteleaf (The Mandalorian)

Grogu and his protector visit a calm and peaceful world, searching for those who could help them find a Jedi. They find something else instead. Grogu POV. Grogu & Din, some of Din's backstory, and several gentle family bonding moments. 4800 words.

***

The air smells clean and crisp and biting, underlaid with the scents of dry soil and bitter plants. Grogu blinks against the wind, his ears fluttering, and he feels safe in strong arms.

His protector explains to him what they are doing here. Grogu leans against the man’s chest, feels the metal warmed by the late afternoon sun as the familiar voice speaks. He likes the sound, even if it comes out metallic; when the man talks to him, there is a gentleness that comes through, clear and shining, in the Force.

“This is Ysedros Major,” the man says, gesturing to the hills beyond them. “I used to live here long ago with other Mandalorians. Some may have returned. If they did, maybe they can help us.”

The man’s footsteps are wide on the narrow path. It looks rocky and overgrown. Grogu is jostled with every step, but it’s fun with all the bouncing. He looks up at the man’s head, gleaming silver in the sun.

“I know, I know,” says the man. “It would be quicker if we could take the Crest, or use the Rising Phoenix. But we don’t want to scare anyone if they’re still there. And there’s creatures here that don’t like things flying in their airspace.” He points high above, and Grogu squints, following his arm. Great winged things soar together in the distance, keeping close to one another. “We called them baj’uliik. Beasts of the air. I remember they were… feisty.”

Grogu shrinks away from the beasts, though they are far away. The man chuckles. “Don’t worry, kid. They only attack things on the wing.” He takes a few more jostling steps as they descend. “Are you thinking about the creatures on Nevarro?”

Grogu curls one hand over the man’s thumb. It’s strange how the man understands him perfectly sometimes, and other times, seems so confused by what he is trying to say.

“It’s okay. The baj’uliik will only bother us if we bother them first.” His steps are steady on the rocky path. Grogu watches the way the man’s boots avoid big rocks on the path, brushing against bushes and leaves as he walks. Grogu squirms in his arms, reaching down to try and grab a few leaves as they pass. The man walks faster, lifting him up high enough so that he can’t reach them. “Not those ones,” the man says. “That’s fire-nettle. It won’t hurt me in my armor, but it would give you a horrible rash.”

Grogu lets out an annoyed sigh. The leaves are pretty, olive green and clustered in groups of three, their edges reddish orange and serrated in an interesting pattern. Maybe he’ll find a way to touch them later.

The path twists and turns as they descend lower into the valley. Grogu watches the plants and rocks as they walk, sniffing deeply as they pass a plant of shiny, spiky dark green needles, or a plant of pale long leaves and purple-pink flowers. He settles into the man’s arms, his eyes growing heavy with the rhythm of the footsteps.

***

Grogu yawns, opening his eyes and stretching his arms upward. It’s getting dark now. His ears swivel, picking up sounds of bugs chirruping, birds calling hoodu, hoodu, a trickling sound. He smells water.

The footsteps stop and the man lowers him to the ground. “Stay close, buddy. I’m gonna check and see if this stream has fish for dinner.” Grogu scrubs his eyes with his fists, blinking, and hurries to keep up with the man. His feet sink into mud and he giggles, feeling the squishy sensation between his toes. This might be a good place for --

His ears twitch. Little sounds, familiar sounds, skitter along the water’s edge. Grogu’s stomach rumbles. He reaches out through the Force, feels a little creature hiding in the mud, feels its heartbeat -- he pounces!

The frog squirms in his hands, wet and slippery and smelling delicious. He shoves it into his mouth, and the man finally notices him. “Hey! What have I told you about --” The man sighs. “Oh, go ahead.”

Grogu swallows his prize, grinning. He will never understand why the man doesn’t seem to like frogs, the best food in the galaxy.

The man turns back to him, holding up a fish squirming on the end of the cord that comes out of his wrist sometimes. “Come on. We’ll have some real food, too.”

Grogu scowls. Frogs are real food.

The man cooks the fish over a little fire. It does smell good, though. Grogu sits close to the man’s boot, leaning against it. He likes dinnertime with him. The man always gives him tasty things to eat, and he likes to talk some while Grogu eats.

Sometimes the man is so quiet, and Grogu can only get little flashes of him through the Force, focus and duty and… and fear, sometimes. Grogu knows that one. But he never feels fear when the man sits with him in these moments, around the fire.

“Hey, look here, kid,” says the man, stepping away from the small flames. He beckons to Grogu, and he follows curiously. The man crouches beside a bush. It smells good, crisp and herbal. It’s one of the pale bushes that he saw on the path, instead of the one with the pretty red-edged leaves. “This bush is okay for you to touch. It’s called whiteleaf. We can cook the fish with it.”

Grogu reaches out, stripping a few leaves from the plant. He crushes them against his palms, smells the clean herbal scent, and grins up at the man. He plucks a few more, then carefully holds them out for the man to take.

“Thank you,” he says. He takes the leaves and adds them to the fish. The smell is rich and Grogu licks his lips. He holds up his hands, grasping for the food.

“It’s hot,” the man warns, putting a portion of fish into a small dish and handing it to Grogu. “Let it cool for a minute.”

Grogu sits down with his treasure, balancing the dish on his knees. He blows on it to cool it down, and glances up at the man, who is taking the rest of the fish.

“We’ll rest up tonight,” says the man. He lifts his helmet slightly to take a bite of food. Grogu watches intently. He had known right away the man was not a droid -- he could feel the man through the Force, hear his heartbeat pounding -- but it had taken some time to realize that his silver skin, his armor, could be adjusted or removed. He looks at the man’s chin, watching as he eats the fish. He senses contentment, ease.

“Aren’t you going to eat?”

Grogu startles at the man’s question, then takes a bite of his fish. The whiteleaf tastes rich and earthy under the delicious fishy flavor. He hums a cheerful sound, then leans against the man’s boot again, giving him a gentle nudge.

“There you go,” the man says. “It’s pretty good. We used to eat a lot of fish here. River trout’s the best, but greengill are all right, too.”

Grogu finishes up his fish, his eyes getting heavy. A content feeling of fullness spreads through him, and he sighs, leaning harder against the man’s leg.

“Getting sleepy, pal?” he asks. “It’s been a long day. C’mon.” He picks Grogu up, cradling him in his lap, and Grogu curls up against him. Up above Grogu can see the stars, swinging bright and glittery in the darkness. The insect chorus gets louder, and Grogu senses them, tiny pinpricks of light in the Force all around them. It makes him feel relaxed. He remembers the Jedi temple, feeling others around him all the time, safe and content in their home.

“I think we’ll make it to the covert tomorrow,” the man says quietly. “If they’re there, maybe they can lead us to a Jedi for you. Wouldn’t you like that?”

Grogu frowns. The Force contracts around the man, his normally bright signature darkening. Fear. Dread. Sadness. Grogu doesn’t understand. Usually the man’s words match the way he feels, strong and strong, sad and sad, angry and angry. But when the man brings up Jedi, the words and the feelings never match.

Grogu grips the man’s hand with his own, closing his eyes and holding on tightly. He tries to send an image of the two of them by the fire in the cool evening breeze, the sound of insects buzzing in the dark, good fish in their bellies, and he tries to send happy, safe, now.

But the man just pulls him a little closer, hand brushing over Grogu’s ears, and says, “We’ll find that place where you belong.”

***

Grogu shifts in his soft blue blanket, a gift from the nice lady on the planet of trees and krill and frogs. He misses the children he used to play with there, Winta and Soris and Nibs. He wonders if he will see them again, but no visions come to him, no future sight showing the children delighted to see his return. He pushes his blanket aside.

The dawnlight is bright and fierce, and he squints against it. He gets to his feet, standing up tall and looking over the man, who still seems to be asleep beneath his own blanket on the rocky ground.

Maybe he can find something for breakfast while the man sleeps. Another frog, maybe, or even a fish! Wouldn’t the man like that? He carefully walks to the stream edge, watching the water sparkle beneath the sunlight. He glances to his side and sees the pretty red-edged leaves, fluttering in the breeze. Fire-nettle. But maybe the man is wrong, maybe he’s mistaken --

Grogu grabs the pretty leaves. For a moment he feels excited, seeing the way the green and red looks against his hands. And then he realizes --

He can’t help it. He closes his eyes and lets go of the leaves and wails.

The man is there, flinging his blanket aside and rushing to the stream’s edge. “What is it, kid? What happened? Are you okay?”

Grogu holds out his hands, quivering. They burn! His skin prickles and sears, and he whimpers, stumbling towards his protector.

The man carefully takes his hands in his own, examining them. “Did you -- oh, no, the fire-nettle,” he groans. “Come here, come here, quick.” He plunges Grogu’s hands into the cool stream-water, and the burn lessens. He holds Grogu’s hands deep in the water, and Grogu trembles.

“I told you,” says the man, but his voice is gentle. “You have to be careful, okay? Don’t scare me like that. How are your hands?”

Grogu shakes his head back and forth, wincing. They still hurt. It isn’t fair! The leaves were so pretty.

The man sits him on his knee, holding him there with one hand while he rummages in his belt for something with the other. He pulls out a little packet of ointment and squeezes it into Grogu’s palms, then rubs his hands together. Cooling relief spreads over his hands, and Grogu sighs gratefully.

“Feeling better?” the man asks. He rubs Grogu’s back with one hand, cradling Grogu’s sore hands in the other one. He is quiet for a moment, but when he speaks again, Grogu feels it coming from him, that warmth, that gentleness.

“I learned this the hard way too,” he admits. “I was young when I lived here, and it was only for a few months. We had to move a lot to stay safe. I heard some of the older fighters talking about fire-nettle, about getting it on their armor and their hands. I thought --” He chuckles. “I thought they were being too cautious.”

His knee bounces slightly, Grogu bouncing with it. He smiles a little at the bouncing as the man continues. “One of them dared me to hold some. I took off my gloves and… Well, it has that name for a reason, kid. Which you now know. My hands didn’t stop burning for a week.” He shakes his head. “But this ointment should take care of you. You let me know if you need more, all right?”

Grogu nods, looking up at him. He’s so bright in the sun, bright enough it hurts his eyes, but Grogu keeps looking at him anyway. He loves the way he shines.

***

They travel through the morning. Sometimes Grogu walks at his side where the path is relatively flat, and he enjoys the feeling of silty, sandy soil under his toes. He smells the plants as they walk through scrubby hills and valleys, and though he stays far away from fire-nettle now, the man teaches him names of some of the other things they see. Whiteleaf and bitterbush, good for cooking. Shivertree: the man lifts Grogu’s hand and rests it on the smooth reddish bark. It’s cold! Much colder than the warm outside air. It makes Grogu’s mouth drop open in surprise.

They pass short trees the man calls buckleberry, golden bushy plants he names shimmershrubs. The coarse grass waving on the hillside he says is red cheatgrass, and the white flowers like soft bright stars he says are snow weeds. Grogu looks at all of them, and he marvels that the man knows so many names.

Sometimes there are animals. In the distance they sometimes see the baj’uliik, but there are nicer things, too; the man points out wild bantha, flower beetles, no-no birds and grub worms. (Grogu eats three before the man notices and scolds him.)

Lunch is a hill hare the man shoots with a blaster and roasts over open flame, flavored with bitterbush that Grogu helps him collect. The meat is rich and juicy, savory and tender. The man cooks well. Grogu belches broadly as he finishes his meal, and the man laughs, a sound that rings out metallic and true. Happy and happy. There is no talk of Jedi.

***

The evening sun slants low over the canyon. There are small buildings below them, a little group of them clustered together. Plants grow on the roofs, mostly hiding their forms, but with the sun hitting them Grogu can see streaks of gold and red in windows and on the edges of the walls. He looks up at the man curiously.

“That’s the covert,” the man says, his voice rough. “It may still be in use by others of my kind.”

Grogu thinks of the strange word the man keeps thinking, feeling, when he says things like that. Mandalorian. He talked of it a lot on the planet of ash and lava, when the Ugnaught and the droid tried to help them; others say it, too. He wishes he understood. He knows it’s important. Is it like Jedi?

The man carries him close on the path down into the canyon. Grogu catches determination and something complicated that he doesn’t have the words for. It’s like hope and fear combined. The man’s footsteps are careful and measured, and Grogu scans the environment as they walk, looking for signs of other people.

He casts his awareness out into the Force. He has grown used to the lonely feeling of never feeling anything reaching to him, but there is still a part of him that hopes something will touch back.

It doesn’t, this time. He closes his eyes, reaching, reaching, and finds only tiny creatures among the walls, beings even smaller than himself. Little grass mice, scurrying in the empty buildings. He reaches up to the man, his claws tapping against the metal armor, but the man just nods at him, absently patting the back of his head. “We’ll be there soon, kid.”

Grogu sinks back against him, letting out a long breath. The man will find out soon enough.

***

The man sits quietly on a stone bench in a solitary courtyard, secluded and hidden by the canyon walls. The last rays of the day’s sun line the edges of the walls in gold, leaving the rest in deep blue shadow. Grogu walks through the gritty soil, bending down periodically to poke at a glittery green beetle or play with a patch of blue-flowered grass. He tries to distract himself, but the man’s feelings buzz in the back of his mind, louder than they ever have before. The more the man protects him and keeps him safe, the easier it is to feel him, all the time.

The man sits very still and calm on the outside. But confusing memories flicker through him, snatches of sound and image that Grogu can only catch little pieces of. He remembers far-away lessons in the Temple, Master Yoda teaching him about people who could use the Force the way they do, and people who could not. He remembers Master Yoda saying the Force is in all living things, that even if a person cannot use the Force, the Force still surrounds them. Grogu concentrates and he sees --

The young man in the silver helmet, training hard in the courtyard, taking blows that make his head rattle and his teeth ache, but he has to -- has to prove he’s worthy --

The burn of fire-nettle on his hands, slipping gloves back over the skin despite the throb, the laughter of the other young people --

A language Grogu doesn’t recognize, but its words mean home and family --

Hurrying to gather his things, the voices of the others urgent and metallic, fleeing through the canyon paths --

The dark tunnels beneath the town, the man sinking to his knees, loss rolling off of him in waves --

The shining woman in gold and red, metal sparking under her hands, speaking words of clan and quest --

Grogu walks back to the man, his hand held tight around the stem of a bluegrass flower. His palm feels smooth and whole again, the burning of the fire-nettle a distant memory.

He tugs at the man’s leg, holding up his flower when the man’s shining head tilts to look at him. The man sighs, a long, shivering sound. “For me?” He reaches out and Grogu presses the flower into his hand. “Thanks, buddy.” He lifts Grogu onto his lap, stroking one of his ears gently between his fingertips, and in his other hand, he carefully holds the flower.

“I wish we could have found them,” the man says. “I thought I could help you here.” Disappointment, loneliness, relief. Grogu shakes his head, confused. He reaches to the man’s arm, tugs on his sleeve.

“I never thought I’d see this place again,” he says, gazing down at Grogu. “We were safe here, for a time.” He looks around at the courtyard, the light vanishing into darkness. “Come on, kid. Let’s get some rest. It’s too late to hike back tonight.”

He carries Grogu through the halls, switching a light on his helmet that shines bright in the dark. The hallways are lined with bunches of cheatgrass or climbing vines, and Grogu can hear the grass mice scampering on the floors as they pass.

“There’s the public quarters,” the man says mechanically. ��If your meal and training and work were done, you could spend time here. Talk to people. I didn’t do it often.” Grogu nods. That seems right.

“Here’s the mess. We’d prepare food here, take shifts serving. We ate alone except for family groups. Easier, that way. It’s where I learned about some of the food on this world.” He waves at the empty hall, and dust shifts as they move onward.

“There’s the weapons lockers. We each had one for our own weapons. The whole room was cleaned three times a day to keep the dust out.” But the dust is thicker here than anywhere else.

“And here’s my quarters,” he says suddenly, stopping in front of a narrow doorway. He jimmies the door open, since it doesn’t light up, and they slip inside. There’s a small bed inside, barely bigger than the one back on the man’s ship, and a cramped refresher unit wedged into the back. A narrow metal cabinet leans against the wall, its drawers open and empty. The man shoves the drawers back in and settles on the sleeping surface, and Grogu coughs in the dust.

“Sorry,” the man says, fanning the air rapidly to try and move the dust away from him. “I guess it’s been a while.” He wipes away as much dust as he can from the bed and stretches out on it, holding Grogu carefully against his chest. Grogu holds himself up on his forearms, looking curiously at the man.

“What is it, kid? What do you need?”

Grogu sits back down against the man’s armor, huffing. He doesn’t need anything. He just wants. That’s different. He looks around at the little room and he wonders if it was like the temple, long ago. He tries to see inside the man’s mind, but it’s gotten muddled again, and Grogu gives up, frustrated.

“Well, you tell me if it’s something major,” says the man. “Vacc tube probably still works. And I have more of that bacta ointment, if your hands are bothering you. You let me know, okay?” He pauses, then realizes. “You need a story?”

Grogu babbles, climbing up so that he can rest against the little spot of softness between the man’s face and the metal on his shoulder. The man rubs his back, holding him close.

“Hm,” the man begins. Grogu has noticed it always takes him a little while to come up with a story. He doesn’t know any of the Jedi stories, the tales of heroes of the past, the ones they used to tell him in his old home. But sometimes the man tells stories of his own people, and sometimes he tells stories with Grogu in them, too. Grogu loves them all.

“I learned a lot here,” the man says thoughtfully. “I had just sworn the Creed, and there was much I still needed to learn. I practiced with weapons and the Rising Phoenix. I know -- I told you the baj’uliik didn’t like the Rising Phoenix -- well, we used to use them for target practice. One of us would practice our flying. The other one would practice their aim. Sometimes there were some close calls.” He chuckles. “One day the baj’uliik came flying right toward me. I tried to fly away, but I couldn’t shake it. It took a bite out of me.”

Grogu’s mouth falls open. He grabs the man’s cloak, holds onto it tightly.

“I was fine!” he says hastily, patting Grogu. “But I lost my training Phoenix. The baj’uliik swallowed it, I fell about twenty feet straight down and broke my leg, and my partner was so surprised she let it get away. For all I know, it’s still flying somewhere out there, just a little bit heavier than all its friends. That’s why I didn’t have a Phoenix until our last trip to Nevarro.”

Grogu turns around, looking at the man’s leg. Is this why the armor on his legs is not the same, why one leg is heavier, why it’s nicer to hug the leg wrapped in leather instead of the leg clad in metal?

“Yeah,” the man says, bending the right leg and tapping it below the knee with his knuckles. Metal clinks on metal. “This helps keep it steady. It never healed quite right. But it still works fine, kid, don’t worry.”

Grogu swallows his worry. He feels mild embarrassment coming from the man, but nothing like pain, nothing like fear. Grogu relaxes, letting out a sound of curiosity.

“Tomorrow we’ll keep an eye out for the baj’uliik,” the man says. He leans back against the dusty bed, considering. “It was an opponent worthy of respect. Even if it tried to eat me.” He chuckles again. “Especially since it tried to eat me.”

Grogu isn’t sure if it’s his favorite bedtime story the man has told him -- it’s a little too scary -- but it seems to make the man happy, and the happy feeling soothes him. He curls up against the man and the warmth inside him, and the weight of the man’s hand on his back helps him fall asleep.

***

The man wakes him up far too early, and Grogu is grouchy as the man works through their morning routine -- using the vacc tube, a quick bath for Grogu and a hasty breakfast of ration bars. Grogu’s not too fond of them, but he munches his bar as the man carries him out of the lonely compound and up the steep hill.

He falls asleep halfway up the canyon and doesn’t wake up for some time. When he does, he realizes the man’s footsteps are quick and long, nearly a run. Like there’s nothing left to see here. It makes Grogu feel sad, though he isn’t sure why. He holds the man’s hand as they journey, and he watches the paths for creatures.

The long day stretches on, and the sun begins to swing low once more. The man’s faster stride and their early start mean they will reach the ship before night falls. He wishes they could stay and hunt frogs instead.

They reach a narrow canyon and look down. To Grogu’s surprise there’s the ship! They had reached it even faster than he had thought. He looks up at the man, resting a hand against his chest. The man is tired, he feels. “All right, kid. We’ll have one more dinner here before we head out. I could use a break anyway.”

He sets Grogu down on a flat stretch of land, the cheatgrass tickling his toes. Grogu sniffs, rotates his ears. He senses another hare, and he looks meaningfully up at the man, then waves a hand in the hare’s direction. The man nods, and it’s just a few moments later that the man has a cleaned hare over the fire while Grogu hunts for bitterbush and whiteleaf.

He finds a small whiteleaf plant a little ways away, and he sits beside it, carefully pulling a few leaves from the bush. It smells so clean! He hums to himself, pleased, then shivers at a ululating cry, carried on the breeze.

He stares up at the sky and he sees it -- a baj’uliik flying overhead, its leathery wings shimmering in rippling gold and green and scarlet, its long feathered tail streaming behind it, glittering in the fading sun. He watches it fly away, each wingbeat slow and methodical and so, so beautiful. He is sad that one hurt the man, but happy that it got away.

He lifts one hand and waves as it goes.

“They’re something else, aren’t they?” the man asks him. He kneels beside Grogu, carefully taking the whiteleaf leaves from him. He watches the creature fly, head tilting to one side, then shakes himself into action. “Come on, kid. Dinnertime.”

They eat the hare together, Grogu making a mess of his meal and thoroughly enjoying every bite. The man just laughs and helps to clean him up.

They sit quietly together as the sun vanishes and the moons begin to rise. Grogu leans against the man’s thigh, full and glad. He knows the man did not find what he came here for, but there is the cool evening air, the cry of the baj’uliik far away, the scent of whiteleaf.

The man clambers to his feet, lifting Grogu into his arms. “Come here a minute, kid,” he says. He carries him back to the whiteleaf plant, its leaves glimmering beneath the moonlight. He crouches down and sets Grogu down beside him, then begins digging with his hands. Grogu watches curiously.

“There’s a little UV light on the Crest,” the man says to Grogu. “Helps me keep a schedule for day and night, when I want. But… we could use it to help grow a plant, too.”

Grogu claps his hands together. He senses from the man hope, longing, things hard for Grogu to understand. But they are good things, he thinks, and he likes it when the man feels good. The man lifts the plant from the ground, its roots tangled up in a ball of soil, and he gently sets it in Grogu’s arms.

“Keep hold of that til we get back to the ship,” the man says. He picks Grogu up again. “I know you’ll keep it safe.” He cradles Grogu carefully so that Grogu can keep good hold of the plant. “Ready to go, buddy?”

Grogu nods. The fresh scent of whiteleaf flares with every step the man takes toward the ship. They reach the Crest and it lights up with their approach, the door opening as the man adjusts something on his arm. Grogu curls a sweet-smelling leaf between his fingertips, feeling warm and safe; and in the Force, he feels the man is happy, proud, home.

[unclefungusthegoat]

Will The Circle Be Unbroken? - Far Cry 5 Week (Day 6): Music

Hello all! So in all honesty, I wrote most of this an entire year ago hahaha, for the Hope County Gothic Festival but got really shy about posting it. But I figured I could use it for the Far Cry 5 Week, for the Music day! It’s a songfic, featuring a song that I really wish had been in the game - Will The Circle Be Unbroken and it’s FUNERAL FIC HOOORAAAAY. 

Here is the song: https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=9F1l6xXLSI0

Get ready for some ALTERNATIVE EULOGIES too, because sadness is fun.

This can be read on AO3: HERE

All my FC5 Week fics can be read: HERE

Trigger Warnings: Canonical Major Character Deaths, Mentions of Child Abuse, Mentions of Drowning, Decomposition, Fire and Funeral Pyres

The ceasefire was fragile.

Undefined.

No flag upon ramparts, or ink marked on a page. Just an agreement, whispered, gestured and silently promised, that a single night would be set apart for retrieval and burial of the dead. Sundown until sunrise. Not a shot to be fired, confession to be heard, building to be bombed, or heretic strung up. Just stillness and rest. A new Sabbath, of sorts. And for the people of Hope County who spent vast swathes of the day clinging to their lives, it seemed nothing short of a miracle.

It was on this night, on a dusty road through the dead farmland, that a procession of faithful came marching. Their faces were turned to the darkened sky. Eyes burning with sorrow, searing vibrantly like stardust. Alight with fury. Dampened with grief. And with their gaze, they spared no glance for the heretics who lined the path. No care for the vengeful, who bit their tongues and held in their spittle, and sought a glance of the dead to ease their blood lust. Not even a thought for the sinner who had taken so much, challenged their holy purpose. Given them this weight upon their shoulders.

The Father led with faltering step.

His eyes were hazy behind tinted glass. His fingers trembled. His scars, his sins, seemed to burn. But his voice was resolute, the melody echoing through the dark:

There are loved ones in the glory, Whose dear forms you often miss; When you close your earthly story, Will you join them in their bliss?

Carried aloft upon the faithful’s shoulders, upon beds made from velvet, slept the Heralds of Eden. Stilled into a long awaited peace, punctures incarnadine between their ribs a stark reminder of how they had suffered.

Each lay daubed in their own decay.

Will the circle be unbroken By and by, Lord, by and by. There's a better home awaiting In the sky, Lord, in the sky.

It was a song they had always known.

And though it was his flock that called the hymn forth, Joseph could only hear Jacob's low timbre, humming it to ease him into sleep when the belt marks on his back cut too deep. After Old Mad Seed had bellowed Bible verses in his ears, and torn heathen drawings from where they were pinned proudly on the bedroom wall. On the school bus after another endless night hearing Mother scream.

Then slowly he heard his own voice, tinged with a weariness too antiquated for how young he had been. He heard it reverberate through the orphanage halls, the eve before John had been taken away. He'd stroked his brother's hair and caught his tears with his thumbs, and sang until the sun rose:

In the joyous days of childhood, Oft they told of wondrous love, Pointed to the dying Saviour; Now they dwell with Him above.

The lyrics had been worn down by their use when he had been alone. Comforting. Protective. Like an old pair of boots too reliable to cast aside, or a threadbare blanket that still smells of home.

Or the memory of a brother stood boldly in the fire’s glow.

“Jacob...”

Dog tags now around his own neck, metal scraping with every step.

A blood soaked rabbit’s foot.

“You sought purpose. You were lost. I showed you who you once were, and opened your eyes to the Garden you were born to protect. And you cast aside your weakness- the weariness wrought deep within your soul by governments and generals who sought to use your compassion for their selfish ideals. You became strong, brother. You sheltered our Eden with a heart forged in battle. You asked nothing but brotherhood in return. You embraced your family with the strength of gods. And you carried that strength until the end.”

The Soldier, freshly slain, lay proud, like a Viking martyr. Knife threaded between his fingers, the ancient burns that speckled him like rust on the armour he still seemed to bear. His Judges crowned the mountain ledges, howling to the night sky. In the torchlight, his fiery hair shimmered like copper wire; a fleeting glance might think it a halo encircling his skull. His mind, once full of the horrors of war, now quieted. His mouth, that knew the taste of man, free to taste the soil.

Will the circle be unbroken By and by, Lord, by and by. There's a better home awaiting In the sky, Lord, in the sky.

“Faith...”

He had yet to choose another.

None else had her heart, her spirit, her devotion.

“There were some who thought you cruel. Calculating. Jezebel incarnate. They did not understand that you were a mother, and with the burden of motherhood comes a heavy hand. I chose you because you did not shy away from the lessons children must learn. You took the lost and gave them wings. You took the despairing and gave them hope. You took the sick of soul and gave them peace. You took the name of Seed and let it’s glory shine through you. Rest well, my sister. Sleep well, my Faith.”

The Siren once wielded beauty. Now her face was swollen and pallid, bloated where the water had filled her pores and the creatures of the lake had begun to strip her skin away. Yet how sweetly she was scented by the flowers in her flaxen hair! It mingled with the fresh smell of the trees and the distant tang of smoke, heightened in the darkness, when the senses are keen. Even in death, she seduced onlookers with her song. A song composed of silence, of hope and dreams now lost, underscored with the cries of those who mourned.

You remember songs of heaven Which you sang with childish voice, Do you love the hymns they taught you, Or are songs of earth your choice?

Will the circle be unbroken By and by, Lord, by and by. There's a better home awaiting In the sky, Lord, in the sky.

“John...”

He’d finally reached the sky.

Feathered his wings.

Joseph’s heart was fracturing. Oh, the things he wished to say...

“I carry your sin upon my shoulder, that same shoulder three times you felt bitten by wrath. It is a sin of neglect. Neglect of your faith and your body, and by that, God, for we are made in his image. You saw a god every time you glanced in a mirror. A cruel world made you vain and selfish, and the child who had suffered so greatly thought you invincible. You drowned in your pride, as I drown in my regret that I could not save you. I pray that you know my disappointment, John, and I beg mercy for your soul. In all my prayers, and my dreams of eternity together, I ask only that God sees how very hard you tried.”

The Baptist had rotted where he had fallen, swallowed by the damp earth. Shards of dirt had claimed the sorrows inked upon his flesh, the stories he’d wanted to the world to know. His palms were frayed by rope. His lungs were lined with lead. But now he lay in the starlight, arisen from nature’s oesophagus to be cleansed and laid to rest with honour. The bones of his collapsing face seemed testament to how he’d be forgotten. But oh, how they cried his name! A saint, redeemed. A sinner, saved.

You can picture happy gath'rings 'Round the fireside long ago, And you think of tearful partings, When they left you here below.

Will the circle be unbroken By and by, Lord, by and by. There's a better home awaiting In the sky, Lord, in the sky.

In the distance, he could see the pyres silhouetted by the moonlight. Though their bodies were cold, his Heralds would soon feel warmth again, and the embers that rose from the flames would carry their souls to the stars.

It would be a sight remembered for an age; the first flames of a Collapse long awaited.

And soon, all would burn-

-------------------------------------------------------------

Joseph’s eyes flickered open, and the fuchsia tinge of this new world’s morning mist settled into view. He sat lost in the blossoming forest, somewhere near the old compound. Sweet nectar scented the air. Damp grass and sodden earth cocooned his feet. He shivered slightly, his naked chest baptized by the dew.

Before him lay a single grave, shallow and solitary. Dirt was unceremoniously cast across it, and a rusted iron crucifix of Eden’s Gate, now New Eden, stood guard.

No flowers.

No velvet.

No choir of lamenting brothers and sisters.

Not even their names.

His body had whined under the strain of shovelling. Age and years of almost starving had weakened his arms, but when the Judge had offered to accompany him, to put to rest the overwhelming guilt that had consumed them, and to move the dirt for him, he gently refused. He owed it to his family to do it himself. It had taken him days to hike across the county, alone with only his memories, to collect their remains. What little remained of them after all those years.

He had had not the strength, or enough of them left, to dig three.

But they were reunited now, in eternal embrace. No ceremony. No procession. No pomp and martyrdom, as he had dreamed. Their resting place was the picture of modesty. Humility. A grave for the truly devoted. Their bones would turn to chalk and clay, and they would feed the insects and the reawakened soil.

Watch the new Eden grow.

Someday he’d be buried there with them.

Together forever.

And he thought, as he rested beside them to finish their song:

What more had they ever wanted?

One by one their seats were emptied, One by one they went away; Now the family is parted, Will it be complete one day?

Will the circle be unbroken By and by, Lord, by and by. There's a better home awaiting In the sky, Lord, in the sky.

[macabrecabra]

For @mal-likes-biscuits Time for the chaos to come back home > u > 

---------------------------------------

The night was quiet over Tristram. That same quiet, lazy peace extended to the countryside, far beyond its boarders as well. The night insects were humming softly, occasionally punctuated by the cry of some animal hunting in the night or the melodious thrum of a bullfrog hiding in the bulrushes next to small, creeks and rivers. 

The peace of the countryside was destroyed suddenly. Light erupted within a meadow, bathing the trees in a hellish light and turning the forest into a sudden wash of black shadows.The rift opened wide, crackling before two figures crashed through, slamming into earth and struggling.  The larger figure was a massive demon, appearing like some sort of bony encrusted pig with the melded remains of humans into its hide and skittering limbs that seemed too long for its hideously obese form. The skull-like face was far too human with a set of tusks protruding from the face and two pairs of horns from the grown. The demon howled, managing to buck the other figure off, sending them flying across the ground.  Fire erupted from the fields as the fire from the second figure’s wings ignited the ground, managing to roll onto his feet and slide along the ground, one clawed hand grasping onto the earth. The demon snarled, rearing up, the hundreds of quills along its back clattering together. 

“You think you can stop my master’s plan, Imperius!? You think you can defeat me with these pultry attacks!?” 

The archangel scoffed, rising to his feet, spear in both hands, “I’ve slain more impressive demons than you...Hamorath. I’ll see this earth stained with your blood!”  The demon snarled, tensing as he looked aside to the rift as two more figures exploded through it, just before it closed. Tevar smirked, resting his shotgun against one shoulder while Rakanoth let out a low growl slamming his blades point down against the ground. The demon paused,looking between the three, tense before he let out a loud roar, ripping up the ground and sending up a suddne cloud of dust and burning sulfur. Imperius cursed teleporting forward and slamming his spear down to clear the cloud..

Nothing remained but the stench of the demon, the slow crackle of the burning grass as hit slowly smoldered to ash, and no sign of Hamorath anywhere.

“Looks like he slipped away...” Tevar murmured, coming up beside Imperius, “So we heading back?” Imperius looked about, wings spreading some. He was silent for a moment before he shook his head, gripping onto Solarion tighter, “No...that rift....it wasn’t one to another part of the world Tevar....” he let out a frustrated growl, “It was a rift in reality.” 

Rakanoth cocked his head before lifting it, taking a sniff of the air before tensing, “...is this....I feel the taint of Diablo, the cries of evil in these lands...”

“We are near Tristram.” Imperius murmured, looking in the direction of the town, merely a small blip of light in the distance, “And if that is the case, we are either back in time or in another reality of the past. However....if that is the case-”

“We got to clean up our mess because we accidentally let lose an evil future demon into the area,” Tevar grumbled, “And Hamorath is plague wherever he starts spawning.” 

Rakanoth lowered his head, turning it in the direction of Tristram, “...he will be attracted to large populations of mortals. Just like how we found him in the city. No doubt he will lay low and he will spawn under their noses.”

“We flush him out before that happens,” Imperius growled, already starting to stalk towards the glimmer of civilization among the dark rolling hills of farms and wild land, “Come. We still have a hunt to complete.” Tevar looked at Rakanoth before letting out a sigh, shoulders slumping, starting to follow after Imperius, “I’m getting a souvenir and taking so many pictures though. We are hunting, but I’m not officially a hunting tourist....” *He grumbled.

The three vanished into the night, leaving behind only the remnants of battle, far from where anyone would discover, their fiery arrival covered up for now. The hunt was on.

------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------

The market of Tristram no doubt welcomed its share of strange visitors passing through on their way to the larger cities to the East or West. Yet even by those standards, the traveling trio that had entered the market that day were odd. 

The three had arrived in town just before noon and did not look like they were companions, although they talked to each other as such. 

The most normal of the three was a man of average height and rather unassuming appearance, clearly hailing form the Eastern continent from the cut of his facial features. His armor was more form fitting than usual for armor and had a rather Heaven-like design to it. A cloak akin to a demon hunter was pulled over the top and a long strange weapon was strapped to his back and two smaller ones resting in holsters at his hips. A large backpack was slung over one shoulder as he looked about, gawking as if he had never seen a market before. 

Beside him was a tall, hunched over dark figure, dressed in robes and a cloak that seemed to suck up the light. there was glints of steel armor beneath the robes. From the back of the hood, a long braid cascaded down his back. Whenever the dark stranger lifted his head, a glimmer of his face could be seen. He was far too pale, his teeth a bit too shark-like, barely fitting inside a twisted mouth. He wore a cloth over his eyes to hide them. His hands were gnarled, useless looking things, a s if he had suffered an injury that had left them permanently curled. A crippled spellcaster perhaps? Some noble who had come under a curse? It was hard to say.

However both were dwarfed by the larger figure behind them, wearing brilliant robes of an orange and gold coloration with a pattern and design very much linked to Heaven and a wrapped spear in one hand as he stalked forward. His face was half hidden by a cloth pulled over the nose, much like one of the horadrim, leaving only his eyes, a burning gold-orange revealed against dark sin akin to a native of Lut Gholein. He seemed to be constantly looking about, as if on the hunt for something and keeping close to his other two companions as he held up the rear.

They were odd but not terribly out of place, but the sort of travelers that would no doubt attract some attention were someone to spot them.  Tevar only hoped no one would stop them and they could figure out where the demon they had been looking to slay would be easy to flush out before well....things happened.  Not to mention the slow sinking misery starting to settle on him as he looked about at the town, letting out a soft groan, “....nothing here looks good to eat and I’m starving. And I need to use the bathroom but I’m pretty sure the restrooms here are a hole in the floor or a piss bucket.”  “It seems bigger. They might have basic plumbing,” the disguised Rakanoth rasped, “I wouldn’t count on the paper thing to be here though...”

“I’m going to die here...going to die in the Renaissance fair that is too hardcore from starvation and pit potties,” Tevar groaned, looking over at one of the stalls they passed and the small knickknacks on the table, “Why couldn’t Aladria be here instead of me? She would enjoy ye old timeless town. How am I suppose to find a good souvenir when everything here is just so....basic!?”

“Cease your complaints,” Imperius growled, “And remember why we are here. I want this over with as well.” He paused to look around, “We should probably ask the locals if they had noticed anything unusual...”

“You mean...other than us?” Rakanoth asked, grinning toothily, “Because they will probably say we are the oddest thing here....”

Tevar rolled his eyes before scanning the crowd, “...how about we just...find some inn or something first. In every adventure, the inn is where all the important quest givers hide....”

[bluebird722]

Demon Bride

Summary: When he was eight, he met a girl. By twenty, they were engaged. Demon Bride AU. 

Rating: T

Author’s Note: The inspiration came from @sallychanscraps ’s “Demon Bride” storyline, but this is my take on the events leading up to the arranged marriage and consummation, using elements from Royal elements across different historical cultures and how far we’ve come.

When he was eight, he met a girl.

His father, the Emperor, requested that his son and wife prepare themselves for a “royal visit”. He did not know what his father meant, but he saw in this mother’s face that this was a rather serious event, and his own stomach filled with dread. Apparently it was too grave an issue to discuss via letters of exchange. Better to meet face to face than to communicate via paper and unintentionally begin a huge misunderstanding.

Still, the Emperor and Empress insisted that their Shinjiro spend most of the “royal visit” in his room, playing with his toys and practicing his lettering, without explaining why. He did not disobey, but he asked his former nursemaid if they could stop as soon as they heard the trumpets blaring the royal arrival. She lifted him over the balcony, looked down at the approaching figures down the red aisle, and gasped. 

“What?” he asked. The man below seemed harmless–black robes with “squiggly” tails and red and green cuffs, a six-horned headpiece, and a red beard. Even from a distance, he could see the man’s eyebrows stood up, like flames. Trailing behind him was a young girl, wearing clothes identical to his, but on her back, unlike the folded clothes on the women and girls in the empire, were red, black, and green things that looked like fire. He did not know what that was or what it was made of, but it must have been the stash around her waist that held it in place.

“That’s Aku, Shogun of the Underworld Empire,” his nursemaid whispered.

Shinjiro immediately felt ill. Aku, his father’s greatest enemy, here in the Empire of Japan? They, according to his tutors and astronomer, have been warring nations since Aku came to his throne, when Shinjiro’s own parents became emperor and empress. Many have died in battle, wives and mothers and sisters and daughters absent for months or wearing full mourning clothes for years. Even boys born after he were learning to fight and use swords to carry their fathers,’ grandfathers’, brothers’, uncles’ names at war. Shinjiro glared at the demon–they say his ancestors were born from a meteor and produced offspring unusually–with confidence that he as emperor would slaughter this creature and put an end to this misery.

But what was he doing here?

Once Aku and the girl walked under the balcony, the nursemaid carried Shinjiro back to his room, but he could not go back to playing anymore. Mother and Father were down below with evil. He could not feel anything but pure terror.

It had been later in the day when the guards escorted him down to the master room, where only the Emperor and his councilmen met and he was not allowed in. Aku was there, kneeling at the table with the Emperor and Empress. The little girl had her back to them, facing a corner.

Shinjiro looked at his parents’ faces, his father annoyed and lightly pale, his mother’s eyes wide and her face slightly green. She saw her son and reached for him. “Shinjiro, come here.”

He stood by her side and got a closer look at Aku’s face. The features–curled nose and fiery red eyebrows and beard–were sharper and made him shiver. He slowly lowered himself onto his knees and knelt with his arms and hands in the “appropriate” position. Then he stood up and looked to his parents.

The Emperor took deep breaths before he spoke: “My son, as emperor in the future, when I depart this life”–Shinjiro didn’t like that idea, a life without his father, or mother as well–“it is important that you will be married and have produced at least one heir. The time has come to prepare you for this…um, delicate matter.”

Shinjiro’s eyes widen. He had to be married, already, at age eight? He had not yet even finished his schooling; he was still learning astronomy, and he had much more to learn, as his parents had told him. Aku cleared his throat and turned his upper body to the girl in the corner. “Ashi, I require your presence.”

The girl stood up, and Shinjiro saw her hair was rather odd–spiky on top and a long spike down to between her eyes, and sideburn-like spikes a little past her ears. She did not smile; rather, she looked annoyed and affronted. As she crossed her arms, pressing her tiny red lips together, Shinjiro picked up a vibe from her that she wanted to ask, “What are you looking at?”

Shinjiro stood there in silence and wondered, “Does she ever smile?” He’s never met a child that didn’t smile, nor did he ever see a girl with short hair.

“Shinjiro,” his father said in a shaky voice. It was clear he didn’t want to say whatever he was about to. “This is Ashi. Someday she will be your wife.”

Shinjiro’s stomach, once so ill with fear, nearly ripped apart in shock. He was to marry this girl, this child of his country’s greatest enemy?

Even though he didn’t want to listen, he reluctantly absorbed his mother’s explanation: “As you know, we are warring nations. Shogun Aku”–Shinjiro was surprised at her composure– “has proposed an arranged marriage between our children–you and the eldest of his daughters who are not yet betrothed, in hopes to establish peace and perhaps unify our nations.”

Shinjiro felt paralyzed with shock. A marriage to stop a war that has gone on longer than he had been alive, a marriage to a girl he just met, who didn’t smile, who looked angry to even see him? He was only in his eighth year of life, and his parents had told him whom he was to marry.

He wondered if his own parents had married for love or for any other reasons. Then he wondered if the girl in front of him was even capable of love or even laughing.

“Guards,” his mother said, “please escort my son and…Ashi outside. Shinjiro…you can…get to know your future wife.”

Shinjiro felt dizzy. Half the guards in the palace walked him and…Ashi out of the room and then outside the palace to the fields. On his own, he liked to play amongst the tall grasses, chase crickets and ladybugs, and make toys with long grass. Sometimes village children would be in the fields and get to play with him. Now, although it was a warm day, he shivered as the sunlight hit him. He looked nervously at the girl he would someday wed. “So…do you know how to play?” he asked.

Her nose slightly wrinkled, her arms still crossed. She was either a mute or instructed not to speak. After two minutes of silence, he pointed with his thumb to a pathway. “Can I show you something?” he asked. She briskly followed him, her footsteps like stamping feet. Shinjiro walked ahead of her while the guards, as he could tell, spread out to ensure the safety of the next emperor and empress…Shinjiro felt sick again. He actually had to marry this…creature for political reasons.

Suddenly, he saw a grasshopper fly in front of him. Determination overcame his dread. He had struggled for weeks to capture one to then free, yet for some days none would ever cross his path. He turned excitedly towards Ashi, her face red and swinging her arms even though nothing was in her way. She crossed her arms again at him.

They stood in awkward silence until to both their surprise another grasshopper jumped between them. Though her mouth did not change, her eyes lightly widen, and it hit him that she had probably never seen a grasshopper before. He smiled, put his finger to his lips, and pointed to where the insect had fled.

It took twenty minutes for them to find a grasshopper, one resting on a leaf of grass. He helped her push away the longer strands to stare at it. Perhaps it was sleeping, or waiting for the right time to jump again. They stared until it stood up and jumped away. His smile widen. “Come on,” he whispered, instantly grabbing her arm and leading her to follow him. It sent a shock through her system, his hand touching her, but she had to keep a straight face despite this newfound excitement.

When they saw the grasshopper again, it was in a spacious clearing, and again they pushed aside the grass to watch it rest. Ashi stared at its pale-green body and wondered what its use was. The boy poked her again, and she trembled when she turned to him. To her surprise and confusion, he had something black and red on his finger. “Ladybug,” he said. Ashi watched as it spread its wings, flew from his hand, and landed on his nose. He lightly smiled in a way that she understood that meant it tickled and he had done this activity before. Ashi looked down and saw the grasshopper hadn’t moved.

Chasing insects was new to her, and for the first time in her life, despite her parents’ training to keep a stoic face even in joy, anger, or grief, her mouth twisted into a smile.

Just then, Shinjiro whined and annoyed her for distracting her from the grasshopper. “Aw, it flew away!” She saw he was right, and the ladybug had gone. Behind him, she saw a flicker of red and pointed. He looked over his shoulder and asked with his eyes, to which she nodded with a smile. His own eyes slightly widen–so she did smile–and he kindly took her wrist under her wide sleeve. They spent the afternoon running around in the grass, chasing grasshoppers in both hands and letting them go, letting ladybugs crawl up her arm and his forehead until his mother gently called out for him and Ashi. Running back to the palace was also the first time he heard her giggle, if not for the first time in her life.

He replayed these memories in his sleep for the next several years and thought of seeing her again soon. Although he still played with other girls, and boys, during the day, all of whom were more lively than their someday empress, he missed teaching her to have fun but wondered if she herself remembered what it was like to laugh.

By thirteen, they met again.

The Emperor and Empress requested from his current combat teacher, a wrestler from a land where often times men and wild animals fought to the death for the amusement of others, two days’ rest for Shinjiro’s attendance in a serious meeting. Shinjiro was upset, for he was so close to being done and then learning to shoot a bow and arrow with a “master green archer.”

Again, his parents had him hide in his room while the trumpets blared, but he knew what was going on; his parents told him last night that Aku and Ashi–the future empress–were arriving so the men could discuss battle procedures for when their nations would unite, and in preparation for a potential war with another nation. Ashi, it became clear, was to receive basic training and skills required of an empress. Before the Empress could lead her away, however, Aku insisted his daughter pay attention to what the adults were saying; it was his wish that she remain aware of the troops that protected her and how they would continue to do so should anything happen in the future.

When he saw her at the corner in which he first laid eyes on her, she was struck with how she changed. Her hair was still the same–short with spikes in the same directions, and the robes were similar to hide her feet and most of her hands, but her body had changed. She had curves down her sides, her jaw sharper, and her chest was no longer flat. He could see under the cloth that wrapped around her torso with a collar tight around her neck that she had started developing, though not as much as the other women he had seen in the village and palace.

She was at an age in which she would cease to play outside and her formal schooling; she would have to learn the duties of a royal wife. Much to his displeasure, she looked as if she had not smiled at all ever since their day playing in the field.

They knelt and bowed to each other. Since they had not yet earned the right to sit with the adults, they had to kneel at a distance so that they could hear everything, as the Emperor had motioned. Shinjiro did not listen to the adults as they discussed what a future emperor clearly needed to know. Instead, he kept his eyes on his still-faced future bride, staring at her father and someday in-laws. She had beautiful curves that he might be able to embrace someday, in the privacy of his room. Her chest was blooming; he wondered if they would one day be big enough to hold in his hands. Would she allow him to kiss her neck, her jaw, her cheeks when they were wed?

Might he convince her to let her hair grow out, for him to let hang down her back, to give her face a more flattering frame? He wondered if she had started some “cycle”, as he overheard his mother worriedly express to one of her attendants, that meant she was ready to hold children in her womb. Though the words were new and strange to him, he knew that he would not force her to carry a child yet; he wanted enough time to know and understand his new wife, to love her and make her feel loved.

Suddenly, her eyes dangerously flickered in his direction, and he looked away in terror. He hoped she could not see in his eyes or face what he was thinking about her. Worse, what if she could look into his mind, like a power she had for being half-demon?

They say the Shogun of the Underworld Empire did not have a traditional marriage ceremony as here. Once a new shogun came to be, his councilmen inspected all of the young women who had not reached their twenty-fifth year for the healthiest of them. Once they selected the one of the best health, regardless of whether or not she was married, she became the High Priestess–not only the woman in charge and conductor of worship services, but also his mate and producer of his offspring.

From what Shinjiro heard, the current High Priestess��Ashi’s mother–had produced seven daughters at once, in a childbirth ceremony with all the men and women present–that nearly killed her. Aku, who was in his palace, had her deliver in the cave where all the adults worshipped him, but the councilmen urged him not to attend; the Shogun of the Underworld Empire had to focus on other matters.

It took the High Priestess months to recover, by the time her daughters started to get their first teeth. Shinjiro worried about Ashi herself, if she would deliver seven children and end up dying? What would happen to the peace treaty and their current momentary ceasefire before the wedding?

His mother eventually led Ashi out of the room–perhaps to teach her music–but he continued to pretend listening to the men, for his thoughts were on his beautiful betrothed…and how to make her a more beautiful wife.

When he was eighteen, she was in full bloom.

His parents requested that Ashi arrive one last time before the wedding so she could spend two weeks concentrating on everything she needed to know as empress. He felt slightly satisfied that she did not have to learn everything back in her country, for he wanted to see how much she had changed in five years.

As five years before, he saw her knelt in a corner away from where his parents sat. “Ashi,” her father said.

His future son-in-law could not believe what he saw. Her hairstyle had not changed, but her body had–more curves, more decorative clothing that flattered her figure, and darker eye paint. He had never noticed before that she painted her lids, as some of the wealthier women and girls in the village had.

Shinjiro hurried to his father–the parent closest to him–and forgot about the appearance required of a prince. “Father, Father! She’s beautiful!” he exclaimed while bouncing on his feet. “She’s so beautiful–oh, Father, I love her–”

The more he said it, the more he believed it, that she would make a beautiful wife. His mind soared with thoughts about her and–

His father’s firm hands on his shoulders stopped him, and he did not have to turn to see the look of shock and embarrassment in his mother’s face, horrified with his prince-like behavior. Then he remembered that also presented was his someday father-in-law. He turned red and faced his bride in years to come, who still looked bored. They knelt and bowed to each other, and the Empress walked between them. “Ashi, please follow me,” she said.

Her son’s heart sank. He forgot about her “training” to become the next empress and everything needed of a wife in the empire. Instead, he had to remain at their father’s presence and learn about how the Underworld Empire and Japan would unify following the marriage–marriage to Ashi. He hoped that he would see her during the midday meal, which they would not allow of him before.

At last, his head aching from so much he had to learn about trade and communication interwoven with her, the bell tolled, and the men stood up to walk to the tearoom. The women were already there, and he was shocked to see Ashi’s hair down, barely touching her shoulders and ending in spikes.

Shinjiro noticed how Ashi carefully watched his mother prepare and serve each cup of steaming tea before helping herself. She was slow to drink and set down her cup, still studying how the Empress drank. Shinjiro hoped that his mother treated Ashi well and made her feel at ease with what she was learning.

Ashi, on the other hand, wished he would stop staring at her like that, like an animal pondering its prey before attacking. Her hands and back ached from relearning the tea ceremony, instruction on weaving hats, lessons to play musical instruments, and other duties required of an empress. The worst of it began when she arrived in the room where she was to sleep after her wedding. There had been a large tub and a screen, but she didn’t see the futon or dressing closet.

Two servants extended the screen, but she could see the silhouette of her someday mother-in-law watching her. “This is how we will prepare you for your wedding day, unlike how they bathe you back home,” she said.

Though her mouth was still stoic, Ashi was terrorized. The servants whispered for her to lift her arms so they could undress her piece by piece until she was left to hide her breasts and crotch with her hands. Mother and Father always said that one needed a white gown to bathe in, for nudity was acceptable only at birth and wedding nights.

Her face burning, Ashi entered the tub that was freezing, like melted snow. She couldn’t stop shivering, and her teeth were chattering. “Please put your head under the water, my lady,” the older one said.

It was worse to wet her entire body, and Ashi hid her face under her hand. Then someone’s hands were on her head and apparently tried to wash her hair. It was difficult, Ashi knew. Every six months, a hairdresser styled her and her sisters’ hair in the same style since they first learned to walk and used wax to hold it in place. It used to to hurt so much, but Ashi eventually endured it. The hardest part was washing it all out.

Once her hair was free of the wax, for the servant had coiled as much onto the top of her head, they had her sit on the edge of the tub while they scrubbed her until her skin was red. It gave her pain, and it became harder for her to remain emotionless.

Afterwards, she rinsed off in the cold water and looked away as they patted her dry, but they were kind enough to help her redress into her clothing. The Empress looked displeased to see her hair down, barely touching her shoulders. She rubbed her fingers over the handful of back hair she held. “As empress, as a woman of Japan, you will have to let your hair grow to be styled as I have. Only women without morals have hair this short.”

Ashi hoped the Empress could sense how hurt she felt. Her bitterness helped her remain stoic as she followed the Empress to her lessons.

She had learned rather terrifying expectations to be an obedient wife, to do as he says no matter how unwell or unwilling she was. Her mother had already taught her how a baby came to be, but the Empress expanded her knowledge: To prove she had come to her husband for him alone, on their wedding night, he had to make her bleed as they consummated the marriage. If she did no shed blood, she would have to return to her father in shame, with little to no chance of remarriage. Also, unlike the Underworld Empire, it was expected of her to immediately produce an heir–by this, the Empress meant, a son, for no daughter could inherit the throne. It did not matter how long it would take; she could bear as many as seven daughters until she produced a son. Ashi was too scared to ask what might happen if she died before producing a son.

Upon arrival home, she informed her father that she was now to let her hair grow, as expected of her future people. She tried to envision a life with her hair down her shoulders in her sleep and forever twisted over her head.

Age 20

It felt strange to walk to the palace alone, without her father. She glanced at her future commoners, who still looked as if she was a wild creature from a dirty lake. It was worse that Father was not there. He would have given these people more reason to fear her. Ashi stared ahead and tried not to think of the parents she would never see again, the sisters who could now communicate with her only via letters, the way the sun rose and set from her old bedroom.

Some young girls stepped forward and handed her fistfuls of wildflowers, which she gingerly took. The Emperor and Empress were waiting for her; she knew it was inappropriate for the bride and groom to encounter one another before the wedding.

When she reached the couple, she lightly bent at her waist and stood up straight to follow them inside. The doors closed behind her, making her feel more cut off from the life she used to know.

As taught, she followed the Empress to where she would sleep from now on. There, the woman turned to her. “I hear you have allowed your hair to grow out,” she said, “even after that horrible lice infestation since we last saw you.”

Ashi remembered the pain of blades shedding her hair to nearly birth length and nodded. When the Empress motioned for her to free her hair, she removed the pin that held her locks in its bun and let her black strands fall over her shoulders, reaching towards the middle of her back.

“You look beautiful,” the Empress said. Then she turned and nodded to the ladies-in-waiting.

They pulled out the screen shielding her from the still-watching Empress, and Ashi held out her arms for the servants to undress her, this time knowing what to expect but also sad for the last clothes she ever had from her homeland. As the bride could not retain anything from her birth country, she wished they could just send back her old clothes instead of just burn them. The only thing they could not burn were the horn hair ornaments every daughter of the Shogun of the Underworld Empire had to wear at their weddings, no matter whom she married into. Once the ceremony was over, she was to send the horns to her parents as a sign that their daughter was no longer their own. Now everything she wore had to be like what the Empress wore.

Once she was naked, she resolved that she had to get used to this if this was how to bathe from now on. She was surprised that the water was warmer this time and was quick to wet her head. Also, there was no scrubbing, but rather gentle shampooing and full-body rubs not as harsh as the years prior. Perhaps once they accepted her as their current Empress’s successor, they had to act nicer to her. She took her time rinsing herself and did not feel embarrassed when they patted her dry.

The servants led her into the adjacent room, where, to her surprise, the robes strongly resembled that of her home country’s, with the green, red, and black. Perhaps she would dress more like the Empress only after the ceremony. The plate that shielded her torso and had an arrowhead-shaped point over her breasts was tight but not as much as her hair curled into a shorter twist. She was quick to take control and not show any discomfort until they were done. She was so focused on them applying lip color that she did not feel something being wrapped around her waist. Ashi pressed her lips together and saw they had somehow constructed flames similar to what she wore at home, flames made from the finest wood. She stared sadly at the flames, which they would certainly burn later.

Then the Empress came in, after she stepped into her geta, and Ashi swore the woman had never smiled so much wider. “You look absolutely beautiful,” she spoke as if she was going to cry. Then she saw the younger woman look towards her own back. “Yes, it is customary for any foreign bride to dress in her country’s colors until she becomes a wife.”

Ashi wondered why the Empress had not said that to her earlier. “You must be ready,” the older woman said. She led the bride out of the room to the palace entrance, where the red aisle led to the altar. While the Empress and her servants lined up behind Ashi, she closed her eyes as the men servants opened their umbrellas to shield her from the sun until the doors opened, and the red aisle came into view.

Commoners and people of different garb and skins–they must have been from the nations where Shinjiro learned to fight and use weapons–watched her approach the men in black at the altar. She saw him smile sweetly at her, his mouth only growing the longer he stared. When she reached the altar, she struggled to lift the corners of her mouth, but his smile never faltered as he took her hands.

I pray to protect my father’s people and to serve as a good wife to my new husband and a good mother of the next heir, she thought to herself as the priest began to speak.

They stared at the pristine white sheets over his futon. Her heart pounded when she remembered her mother-in-law’s words to present these sheets in the morning as proof of the marriage consummation. Ashi wondered if the Emperor had informed his son that the bride had to bleed after he entered her. Of course, Ashi had experienced pain before–stubborn hair knots, the shaving her hair, tripping and falling onto her face and knees–but she did not know what it mean to shed blood…other than, of course, when the moons changed, and all demons’ daughters cleansed their bodies to carry children.

The newlyweds bowed before she moved first and lied on her back, still wearing her wedding garment. Although he was still smiling, as he had at the altar, she could see in his eyes the hunger and nervous anticipation for what he had to do as groom. This was it, she thought. She pretended not to think of what his mother told her, but what her own mother said: He would be merciless, touching and squeezing parts of your body so unlike his, enough to give you pain, and he would use you for his own pleasure and give you enough pain to stop you from walking for days.

He had untied what they called her kimono, but she could not contain her emotions anymore. After years of resistance, she gave up and started to cry. She was scared, of this marriage, of this new life, of her in-laws’ expectations and fears of her. She wished her own parents, as cruel as they could be could have attended the wedding, to be with her as she entered her new life, so she wouldn’t have to see them for the last time in a country that was no longer her home, that she would never see again. Now she had to bleed and ignore pain, and to serve as her new husband’s servant for sexual services and to provide an heir–a male heir, the Empress had said–as quickly as possible.

Shinjiro stopped undressing her and stared at her face. “Ashi?”

She wiped her face and shook her head. Not knowing what to do, he slid her hands under her back–she didn’t like it but was too overcome with emotions to fight him off–and pulled her to his chest. Surprisingly, she curled in his arms and sobbed over his heart. He guessed that she was frightened of what they had to do, so he stroked down her hair and kissed her forehead. “It’s all right, Ashi.”

It’s not all right, she wanted to scream. I can’t do this! I can’t do it! This is just too fast! I have to marry someone as a peace treaty for my father’s people, he’s going to value me for my body and has the right to hurt me, maybe even take me against my will, my in-laws are afraid of me, I have to produce a son and they clearly don’t want a grandson of demon heritage, but I can’t control if I have a son ever, I have to wear my hair  up and suffer through horrible headaches for the rest of my life, I…

What stopped her thoughts was a thumb wiping her cheek, but it wasn’t hers. She also felt a set of lips on top of her head, and his hand stroke up her back. “I know you’re scared,” he whispered. “I can tell, but–”

“I’m sorry,” she said. “I–I should–shouldn’t even be crying…I’ll–I’ll just…” The words, however, left her throat, and she timidly broke free from his embrace. She rested her head on the end of the futon, flattened her back, and closed her eyes. He was probably annoyed at her enough to brutally ravage her.

But then…why would he hold her, wipe her tears, try to soothe her? Did he really care about her and want to show her he cared, or was he pretending to, trying to calm her down only to use her for his sick pleasures?

She could hear him move and visibly twitched when she sensed him hover over her, but then his hand–so big, so warm–cupped her face, and she didn’t have the heart to scream for him to leave her alone. “Ashi,” he whispered, “I don’t know what they’ve told you…but I know I will not force you into anything.”

When that didn’t ease her, he sighed. “Ashi, could you, you know, do me a quick favor?”

Ashi swallowed but nodded. Then he asked her, oddly, to keep her eyes closed and sit up. Confused, she obeyed but listened to the shuffle of removed clothing. Oh, what was he going to do to her?

“Give me your hand.”

She slowly held up her right arm, which he took in both hands. Would he make her touch or do something sickening with the body part he had to put in her? Her heart fluttered until she felt something bare, smooth, and…fluttering. “Open your eyes.”

Slowly, she lifted her lids and blushed. He had removed his gi and wore only a wrapping around his waist. She had never seen a man nearly naked up close, nor one as muscular. Her hand was on his chest…his heart. He put her hand to feel his heart.

“I can tell you’re scared,” he whispered, and he smiled at her deepening flush; she was clearly struggling to look at his face, but her eyes roamed over his arms, chest, and abdomen. His free hand held her jaw tenderly. “I do not know what to say to make you feel better, but I vow to you that I will be a loving husband to you. Even as children, so young, playing in the fields, I promised myself that as long as we were married, I would make sure you felt loved and comforted as my wife.” He did not mention the first time they met, when he wondered if she ever smiled, that she scared him. That was something he would never tell anyone else.

To his relief, the corners of her mouth slowly lifted into what had to have been the first smile since they played in the fields. “All right,” she whispered. “Thank you.”

He kindly curled his thumb under her bottom lip. “Do you want to wait until the morning or–you decide,” he added gently.

Though her eyes were still flickered with worry her features looked softer. “May I kiss you?” he asked.

She lightly nodded and quickly bit her lower lip. He stared into her eyes as he slowly leaned forward. The first kiss was messy, as he would kiss her cheek by accident or she would push her teeth against his lips, but once they managed, they each felt small senses of accomplishment. They lightly smiled and felt each other do the same. She moved her hands down his bare arms and neck, and he kindly traced up her backbone. She broke away and whispered, “Could we move back a little?”

He felt surprised but gently lowered her onto her back. Her hair looked so pretty fanned around her head. He kissed her with the same gentleness until she motioned for his hands to lower her sleeves off her shoulders. To her relief, he did not look down at the rest of her but kissed every inch of her shoulders, collarbone, and neck. He loved her gasps and moans, her fingers smoothing over his hair. Something slowly poked her between her legs, but he didn’t seem to notice. “How do you feel?” he whispered.

“G-Good,” she said. Her lips ached from the kissing and she loved it. “Do-Do you want to…tonight…”

“Only if you want to,” he said despite the desperate sensation under his ribs and between his legs. What stopped their kissing session was him breaking away to yawn over her head.

She laughed a little. “Maybe morning,” she said. “For now, let’s sleep.”

He kissed her nose and lips one last time. “I love you,” he whispered. Then he moved to her side and pulled the blanket over them, where he wrapped his arm around her waist and positioned his chest against her back. When she turned to sleep against his shoulder, he fell asleep smiling.

When morning came, they took their time kissing and exploring naked bodies. Contrary to what her mother said, he did not paw at her breasts like a feral animal but instead used his lips, teeth, and tongue to give her a sensation she never before felt but could not get enough of. She held the certain body part in both hands and smirked with every shudder and hiss he released. He kissed from her lips down her body to between her legs, but he told her that someday–perhaps even tonight–he would use more of his lips and tongue there.

After they agreed to do it, her eyes paralyzed with fear again, he wrapped his arms under her back with her own around his neck. “I love you,” he whispered one last time before he sealed his mouth over hers and pushed between her legs and into her. She screamed into his mouth and scratched at his upper back with her fingernails, drawing blood. Shame tore at his heart, that he gave his new wife horrible pain even though they both knew it had to be done. He let her adjust to the pain for several minutes, he kissed her trails of tears and jaw, and was slow until she urged him to quicken the pace. She stopped crying and was now begging for more speed, her arms tightening around his back and shoulders. He kept kissing her mouth and neck, complying as best as he could with her requests. Sometimes he kissed and suckled on her breasts to give her more pleasure.

“Are you close?” he asked her when her face contorted and her hands tightened their grip on his back. He moved a little faster until she screeched and smacked her head against the futon, her arms slipping to her sides. Once he saw his stars, and cried out, he stopped himself from collapsing onto her and moved to her side. They panted, stared at the ceiling, taking their time caressing themselves, feeling more beautiful for her and much stronger for him. He turned his head and saw her already staring at him.

“Are you all right?” she asked.

Although he was tired, he cracked his back and pushed himself up to kiss the dried blood between her thighs. “As long as you are,” he said. “I love you.”

Two graceful hands, bloodied at the fingernails, lifted his head to look into her eyes, which were less broken, as if his reassurance of his love mended the pieces together. “I love you, too.”