#just rotating thoughts. spinning plates. chewing you know how it is.

[roychewtoy]

roman roy has never once said anything true and honest and beautiful and his heart is also surgically grafted to his sleeve btw

[flakk]

RAID - X

The roasted chicken leg was a welcome change in Aksel’s diet. In reality, he would welcome anything that wasn’t salted or 5 days old and smelled like leather. Braum sat in front of him at the opposite side of the table drinking from a wooden mug of ale. A clean wooden plate lay in front of him on the table. A dim, warm candlelight filled the tavern with hardly enough light to read. There were a few windows but the clouds overcast the sun that day and little sunlight found its way into the establishment. The raider sat there on the bench, Hrafnfiða hung from his back, secured by a leather strap; the source of many of the conversations inside the tavern. Braum had tried to convince him that keeping the axe would undoubtedly bring unwanted attention, for Aksel, it was no choice.

Braum asked facetiously, “Will you finish that?”, gesturing to the rest of the food on his companion’s plate. Aksel could hardly hear him over the bantering and conversation filling the tavern, “Someday… Aye,” he replied. He took another bite of his chicken leg before he gestured at Braum with it, drawing his partners attention, “Kyklingr…” he said factually and took another bite. Braum’s brow raised and he repeated, “Kick-linger? That means ‘chicken’?”, Aksel nodded an affirmation with a full mouth.

His eyes wandered past Braum, a wench brought a tray of 3 ale mugs to a table of three men in the corner of the tavern. From his estimate, they were each around their mid 20’s in age. Unconsciously, he looked at the waists of the two men he could see fully. ‘Four blades. Two swords and a seax… So many swords with these people.’ he thought to himself as his chewing slowed. The woman set the drinks down on the men's table, “Oi, love…” the man sitting on the left side of the table said loudly, “What I gotta’ pay fer’ yer’ arse next round insted’?”. His companions laughed at his remark. The woman scoffed and recoiled in disgust and spat, “I’m no strumpet.” she then turned to walk away with the wooden tray. As she did, the man took the hand he wasn’t resting on his mug and slapped the woman on the ass. Aksel raised one brow at the SMACK sound that resonated through their area of the tavern. She gasped and jolted slightly, not wanting to give the man the satisfaction, she hurried back to the bar in front of the cookery and Aksel relaxed slightly.

“Axe,” Braum began and Aksels eyes returned to his friend for a moment before falling to his plate once more, “We haven’t spoken of your return to the North…”. His gaze wandered away from the table, looking at the other patrons in the tavern. The Scandinavian replied without breaking his gaze from his plate, “Must ve’?”, Braum answered, “I’d prefer it”, looking at Aksel now. Aksel paused, looking at the chicken he held with two hands, elbows propped up on the table, planning his next words. He looked up at the Anglo-Saxon, “Vhat’ is to be discussed?”. Braum answered as Aksel took another bite out of his chicken leg, “I, for one, would like to know how you intend on returning to the North.”. “Vho’ says that is my intention?”, Aksel prodded after swallowing the succulent mouthful of kyklingr, “Is it not your intention?” Braum asked forcefully. Aksel wasn’t certain what his answer was, he would love to be back with his family but he didn’t think that he would be able to be happy with his family, knowing that he had taken this young boy from his, regardless of if the boy was Kristían or not; he was a person. “If it was, would you stay here in North Umbria? Vith’ your people?” Aksel returned, his companion processed this for a moment before answering in a solemn tone, “I know not… Not yet” Braum’s gaze became glossy and unintimate.

It was then that the tavern wench nervously made her way back to the men's table with more ale. She moved to replace their mugs when the man on the left announced, “Oi I’m done with the fuckin’ ale. I asked for yer’ arse bitch!”. This attracted Braum’s attention along with many of the other patrons; he looked over his shoulder, annoyed, “The hell-...?” he said softly. The man's tablemates encouraged him on through exaggerated reactions and facial expressions; a monkey doing his monkey dance to convince his friends he’s a good monkey. He then gripped the wench firmly by the arm and pulled her down closer to him, she gasped in a mixture of shock and dread. In the commotion, some of the remaining ale the woman was carrying on the tray spilt onto the table as she attempted to steady the tray again.

Aksel sat his food down, sat upright, and leaned around Braum to look at the man; hopefully communicating that he was out of line and everyone knew it. Then, the man on the right side of the table exclaimed, “Watch yerself’ cunt!” as the first man stood and struck her across the face. She screamed and recoiled, all the patrons heard it. As she hid her face behind her hand Aksel could see the tears welling up in her eyes now. The Northerner shot up from his seat as Braum watched him with an expression that said, ‘Please don’t do what I think you’re about to do…’. Aksel saw his friend's expression and disregarded it immediately, moving around their table. The wench tore her arm away from her aggressor and retreated behind the bar, the man on the left forced himself up from the table, visibly heavily inebriated. Aksel approached quickly with his open palms raised to the man saying, “Woah have yourself a seat friend, she’ll be back I’m sure.”, taking care to not sound sarcastic as he so often did unintentionally.

The man swatted the Scandinavians hands away from him, “Oh, piss awf’ ye’ twat!”. This was not the response he had hoped for and he set his hands on the man’s shoulders and pressed downward, expecting him to stumble about further and fall back down on the bench. Braum sat turned about on his bench watching the scene in front of him unfold and eating the remains of Aksels chicken leg, only pausing to turn and wash it down with his ale.

Suddenly, Aksel was struck across the face and the voices in the tavern collectively raised in excitement. Upon opening his eyes, Aksel saw the dancing monkey holding his hands up clumsily in what seemed to be a sloppy excuse for a fighting stance. Amidst the strike, Aksel had moved backwards slightly, leaving enough room between him and the table for the monkey to spread his feet out enough to pose somewhat of a threat. After Aksel realized his circumstance, it was obvious to see when the monkey dropped his right shoulder in preparation for a right cross punch. The raider waited for a moment; ensuring his opponent completely committed his momentum. He was past the point of no return and, in one fluid motion, Aksel ducked down left, bringing his right hand up to his right ear. He felt the knuckles strike his forearm then slip past his head totally. He rotated his torso and twisted his rear foot, driving his left fist into the monkey’s midsection.

As soon as the blow connected, the rest of the tavern erupted with the sounds of cheering. Braum had finished Aksels chicken leg and sat with his right arm resting on the table behind him, “Oi, just yell if ya’ need help there Axe!”, Braum shouted over the commotion and cheering. Aksels strike had thrown the man into a mild panic at the sudden difficulty to breathe; while recoiling from the blow, he pulled his right arm back and rotated himself so that he could grab Aksel by the side of his neck. He snaked his arm around the arm Aksel still had covering the right side of his head and gripped the young man by the back of the neck. Slightly confused about his opponent’s plan, Aksel moved forward, raising his elbow above the centre of the monkey’s arm. He pulled down with his arm, shoulder, and core, buckling the man’s elbow downward, pulling the two closer, and releasing the man’s grip on his neck. Multiple people in the tavern released an enthusiastic, “Oooohh” upon seeing this. In the same motion, Aksel brought his left arm around to strike the monkey across the face. The awkward angle and distance of the strike caused his fist to deflect off of the monkey’s face, the inertia of the movement caused him to push his left forearm into his opponent’s face. The man stumbled backwards and fell back into his bench seat on his back, Aksel managed to catch himself on the table the men were using and pulled himself up. The raider saw his opponent was staring at the ceiling, opening and closing his mouth; one often does that when they can’t feel their face, so that was a good sign, Aksel thought.

Which was cut off by an explosive pain in the right side of his ribcage, causing the Scandinavian to topple on his side underneath the monkey’s feet. Upon seeing his new aggressor, he saw that the man on the right side of the table had stood and kneed him in the side. Aksels right arm folded in front of his injured rib, supporting himself off of the floor with his left arm, he watched the second man pull his right leg in; preparing to kick Aksel into submission. Aksel was in the process of trying to spin himself so his feet would face the assailant when Braum launched himself at the second man, throwing them both onto the top of the table covered in mugs and half-eaten food. Aksel let out a relaxed exhale as Braum and the second man fumbled around on top of the table. The third man that sat in the far seat of the monkey table had braced himself against it, spectating the encounter in front of him. He clamped a strip of venison that hadn’t finished yet in his mouth; both hands on the table and genuinely disappointed at the waste of his mug of ale that had been thrown off of the table by Braum and the second monkey’s altercation.

Aksel laid on the floor, trying to slow his breathing and minimize his internal pain. Braum had the gravitational advantage on the tabletop. The second monkey was throwing his right elbow behind himself at Braum, the first connected with Braum’s mouth, splitting his bottom lip on one side. The smithson raised his left forearm up to deflect the incoming strikes, as a result, Braum fell off of the man. Trying to maintain his momentum, he turned into it, rolled off of the table and steadied himself on the corner of the wall. Once Braum no longer pinned the second monkey to the table, he threw himself off of the table as well and turned to face his opponent. “Come on en’!”, the man yells and taunts Braum to approach him with fists raised. 

Braum began closing the gap between himself and the man when he noticed Aksel, still on the floor but he was sliding himself along the floor closer to the second monkey’s rear with his feet. Attempting to stall the assailant to provide time for whatever Aksel was planning, Braum visibly let his guard down; his arms fell to either side, “Mate, you couldn’t hit me if you tried for a thousand years.” Braum prodded. The man moved closer to Braum, his hands shot up in surrender, and Braum pleaded, “Woah! Hey, I didn’t mean that sir…”. It worked, the second monkey lowered the fist was preparing to strike with and squinted in confusion. Aksel was still on the floor, approaching Braum’s opponent. Once he was close enough, he threw his legs up, turned slightly, and hooked the man in between his legs with his right foot and pulled him downward to the floor. He grabbed onto the man’s ankle with both hands, with his left leg, Aksel threw it along the other side of the man’s leg and hooked his feet together at the man’s right hip. It was then that the man began to panic; realizing that there was not going to be a way out of this submission, spasming and struggling violently. The tavern quieted with suspense, Braum and the third monkey, craning his neck to see past the table, watched the two on the floor with a morbid curiosity.

Aksels left hand moved up to catch the man’s shaking foot, he did after a few failed attempts and rolled left onto his side, trapping the man’s left hip between his right foot and the floor. In a final desperate plea, the monkey screamed, “Alwin! Fockin’ help me damn it!”, flailing his arms around in front of him; a toddler who had their binky stolen. The third sat paralyzed in the far seat of the table, wide-eyed. The second began again, “Chad, wake up you-!” he was cut off by the sound of his ankle being dislocated with a sickening CRCKK followed by his ear-shattering cry of pain that cut any conversation still being had in the tavern off. Aksel felt the resistance of the bone give way and released himself rolling on his back and picking himself up with his feet. His mouth hung open, panting and his hands rested on either of his hips. Braum stood beside him still trying to understand the logistics of what he’d just witnessed. Upon looking away from his victory, Aksel saw the entirety of the establishment onlooking in a quiet shock. It was interrupted only when Braum found the words to ask, “Where the hell’d ya’ learn that one?'' without taking his eyes off of the flailing man on the floor, cradling his ankle as best he could. Through exhausted inhalations, Aksel responded, “Glima…”, Braum repeated, “Glihma?”.

“Já, I’ll instruct you sometime if you wish.” Aksel said. A noticeable interest shone through Braums expression.

[ozocho]

17/20 Bob as an amateur Photographer

He no longer needed an alarm clock. He would wake up at six and once awake he would be awake for good.

Unless it was raining. The steady, window tapping kind; buildup rolling off the gutter and knocking like a grandfather clock, massaging the plaster on the ceiling through the boards and shingles. Under the drum around him the paralysis would allow his neck just enough range to check the clock and look out the window.

He woke up at eight twenty three, and the room was so bright that he had to  remember where he was. He felt like an intruder in his own bed. Somewhere past the cracks in the window frame the rain and the cold air stirred together and landed on everything, and without being at least half awake he was already on his feet and at the dresser, pulling on a fat sweatshirt.

When he opened his bedroom door the smell of cooking grease was in the hallway. He swung down the stairs, and when he reached the landing he saw that Jane had boosted herself up with a kitchen chair and had a black pan on the gas range sizzling with eggs. It was loud enough for her to not hear Bob, and he saw that Wagonwheel was just off to her right with his nose over the cast-iron edge, lusting after either the blue flame or the eggs, Bob couldn't guess which.

Jane knew how to cook without setting the house or herself on fire, but Bob had made a point that if she wanted to he absolutely must know ahead of time. Waking up at six, he would have enforced this small but important point by taking over and wagging the spatula at her, maybe telling Wagonwheel to never have a part in it again whether or not he did now. Waking up at eight twenty three, he saw himself as having no business interrupting something that was going relatively well, and he turned around and went back up the steps.

In the bathroom he fumbled around, relieved himself, cut up his neck with a safety razor and got blood on the collar of sweatshirt. On the way back to his room he heard Jane doing an impression of himself downstairs. He pulled out  a new sweatshirt. There was a broad orange stripe around the chest of it and when he looked into the mirror on the back of the door he thought it made him look swollen and feminine. He put on another one, but paid no attention to his ragged pajama bottoms or the bare feet with the uncut toenails.

When Bob went back downstairs both Jane and Wagonwheel were sitting at the kitchen table eating off of painted porcelain plates Bob had never seen before. Jane spotted him first. She already had a mouthful of egg and rose up in her seat, getting all the air ready for what she had to say by taking it through her nose and trying to choke down the bite as fast as possible. She spun in the chair and pointed towards the counter.

"We made you eggs." Swallow. "We didn't want to wake you up."

"It's alright, just ask next time."

There might have been a combined total of two eggs swimming in a pool of lukewarm grease. Their shape, and material, was almost unrecognizable. But it wasn't burnt, and after beaching the more solid chunks on the edge of the plate with a fork, it actually looked appetizing.

They sat around the breakfast table eating, quietly, until Bob commented on how nice the eggs tasted and Jane and Wagonwheel realized that they weren't going to get trouble, then Jane started prodding Bob for more critical insight towards the meal and its comparison to other meals. Bob mostly nodded and chewed. Wagonwheel slipped into the devil's advocate role, gradually. Yeah they're pretty nice eggs, but they're a little wet aren't they? Eventually Jane stopped looking at or talking to Wagonwheel at all.

Finished, Bob stared down through the shallow lake of oil and at the wreath of bluebirds staring back up at him.

"Where did you find these at?"

"The others were dirty."

Six o'clock Bob would have laughed and played the forgiving parent. Eight twenty three Bob just wanted to know.

"I really want to know where you got these from."

It took almost a minute for her suspicion to fade, replaced by the excitement of showing an adult something they didn't already know. She slid off her chair one foot at the time and led him into the parlor.

The drawers were still open, and all around its corner of the room were piled smoke colored packets and photo albums with old flaking leather covers. What was left of the set of dishes was another spare plate and a matching set of teacups, with saucers, still half wrapped in tissue paper. Bob could make out a roughly Jane shaped clear spot in the middle of it all, and once Jane was certain that Bob wasn't angry with their, she fit herself back into it again. She unwrapped and held up the delicate porcelain items for him to see, but when she noticed that he was more interested in the photographs and scattered baubles she shifted focus and started unwinding the string bindings on the packets and pulling out fistfuls of glossy cards. She did her best to get him involved.

"Who is this?"

A fat baby in a nautical outfit sat in front of a painted shoreline backdrop, it's body tilted like a bad drawing.

"It's you."

Jane smiled at the picture and then looked up and back at him. "Boy I looked stupid."

"Yeah."

She rotated it to the back and then held up another. A young man with two much hair and a chin that was little more than a smooth bump, reclining in a wicker chair. He was drowning in a sweatshirt and trying to contain a tabby kitten in his arms.

"Is that me?"

Wagonwheel was watching them from over the arm of the couch.

"I think so." Bob took it and passed it over to him. "I found you, but Jane wouldn't let me name you."

Wagonwheel held it so close to his face that Bob could no longer read his expression. He handed it back, stonefaced.

"Not anymore." And he disappeared into the kitchen.

It was late morning by this point and Bob was starting to feel his agency creep back in. Every minute he felt another year older than Jane. He started to shift things from the floor to his far hand and back into the drawer, without making it obvious to Jane, until there were hardly any more packets left lying around and they had settled into a less hyperactive process of holding and reminiscing. They had tucked away a glass mallard when Bob reached for a bright cardboard box a little bigger than his hand. He wedged a fingernail under the lid and pulled out the cardboard braces, flipping open the top. Inside were two old disposable cameras, side-by-side. He removed one from the box and held it up for Jane to see.

"It looks like a toy." She said.

"It sort of is."

Through the spyhole he saw Jane's dark, vague face, fisheyed.

He took it away from his eye and checked the counter on the top of it. It was past zero. He tried winding it and it wouldn't budge.

"It's out of pictures." He put it back in the box and lifted the other out. The counter on that one was between six and five. "Here we go." He wound it until it stopped, then held the camera up. Jane's face snapped into a predatory, broad smile. There was a plastic click. She reached over and spun the camera around in his hands.

"Do we get to see the picture now? Does it come out?"

"It doesn't work like that. We'd have to take it into town and get it developed." He put it back in the box.

"Oh."

"Maybe I'll get them both developed the next time I'm out there."

He set the box aside.

They had the rest of the stuff put away by lunch, and the two of them went back into the kitchen to make sandwiches, still running in a conversation about time and how the colors of plastic change. Jane made comments towards odd things around the kitchen that she had never thought to ask about but found the moment more opportune than any before. With only crust left on the plates, there was a pleasantly exhausted silence.

Jane got up and walked up the stairs after a while. Bob put the rest of their plates away and washed about half of them. He warmed up a pot of coffee that was sitting on the stove and sat down at the kitchen table to enjoy a small cup of it, listening to the rain on the kitchen shutters and the trickling spout outside the back door. The cup steamed. The caffeine made him a little elated, but anxious, and he rose up from the chair and started pacing the kitchen slowly, musically, one hand knuckling the handle of the cup and the other slightly curled in his pajama pants pocket. When the kitchen ran out of floorspace, he swayed into the parlor.

He had loosely planned on starting a fire, but he slid over to grab a log and spotted the small box lying on the coffee table. He sat down at the couch and pulled the lid open again, removing the camera with the spare shots.

He didn't bother looking through the viewfinder, he tipped it around in his hands and examined the cardboard shell and the texture of the winding mechanism. Then he started raising it to eye level. Almost everything in the unlit parlor was too dark to see through the foggy lens. The only clear target was the rainsoaked light coming in through the window over the armchair, and through the lens it looks like stained glass.

He set the cup down and took the camera into one fist. In the kitchen he stepped into his boots without tying them, threw on a long overcoat and opened the door to the treble of the drizzle outside and plunked out onto the back steps. The first picture he took was from the second step. It was a shot of the backyard, wet and misty as it was, with the crooked tree on one side of the frame and the edge of the shed on the other. Jane's bike was in the foreground and the stone pasture wall beyond it.

He wound it and stepped down into the rain.

The second shot was of the garage door and a large slice of the driveway, puddles included. It wasn't until afterwards that he noticed how much paint was flaking off the front of it, but in a romantic spin on it he said that no true image of it would have left something like that out. He had to keep the camera palmed up to prevent it getting too wet. The third picture was taken off to the side of the shed, of the sad face of his old truck, crying rust. The fourth was a his late wife's car, just as smothered with weeds. He thought he was out, but he wound it down again and saw through the moisture bubbled counter that he still had one shot left. There was the determination to make it count, and despite the rain picking up, he wandered all over the yard and the pasture behind it. He was out there so long that his fingers chilled and the constant patter of the rain on his hood turned into a kind of auditory blindness that disconnected him from himself. When the elements were finally getting to him he was halfway up hill and closer to the treeline that he was to the house anymore. He couldn't feel the camera in his hands. The last shot was lazy, but he had to get it over with. It was aimed uphill, at the combined smear of the shiny yellow grass and the shiny orange leaves beyond them, and the white sky above it all. The camera went into one of his pockets and he turned around for home.

And there were the footprints. They were slightly smaller than his own and they hugged the track of his own on its way up the hill and through the mud. At a grassy patch a little before him they had circled around twice and merged into his.

[sterekationstation]

Concept 4:

Stiles is drunk. The party slides around him in washes of color and sound– everything transient, nothing sticking. Bass thumps in his eardrums, turning his stomach. Derek appears as a blessing, half out the door before he even makes it through the foyer, but still the most solid thing Stiles has seen all night.

“I hate this,” Stiles whispers, his breath hot against Derek’s sensitive ear. “You’re the only person here worth talking to.”

“Okay,” Derek says, his hand settling solid and reassuring on Stiles’ hip. “So let’s go somewhere that isn’t here.”

EDIT:

"What were you even doing there?" Stiles peers at Derek curiously over the rim of his mug. The coffee isn't quite strong enough to dissolve tooth enamel, but coupled with the brisk walk from the rave to the diner, it's doing wonders for counteracting his buzz. "A warehouse party isn't really your scene."

Derek shrugs, placidly plowing his way through a mountain-high portion of chicken souvlaki. His knees keeps knocking against Stiles' under the chipped Formica tabletop, and Stiles can't find it in himself to pretend to mind.

"Didn't really look like your scene, either," Derek says, meeting Stiles' gaze unblinkingly. His wackadoo eyes make Stiles' head spin, and it's easy to blame it on the booze. Bourbon, Stiles thinks admonishingly. When will you learn that bourbon is not your friend.

"It seemed like a good idea at the time," he huffs, darting his hand across the table to snatch a few of Derek's fries, nearly knocking a glass of water over in the process. Derek rolls his eyes heavenward with a sigh, and then rotates his plate so that the truly impressive mound of deep fried potato is facing Stilinskiwards. Stiles bites down on a victorious whoop, and grabs another handful to cram into his mouth.

Derek watches him chew happily, his ridiculous eyebrows drawn together in the expression Stiles has categorized as "exasperated but fond." It's much preferred to the look that Stiles used to get, which was better classified as "imminent manslaughter".

"So, this is nice," Stiles begins, at the same time Derek sets down his fork and says, "Scott told me about your fight."

All at once, Stiles feels the cold weight of sobriety hit him like an Acme anvil. Every muscle in his body clenches, his back snapping ramrod straight.

"That bastard," he hisses, shoving his coffee away like the blood offering it apparently is. Dread mixes with shitty whiskey in his stomach, threatening to curdle into nausea. "How dare he–"

"Stiles." Derek holds both hands up in supplication, his perfect mouth twisted in alarm. "He didn't tell me anything other than that. You guys fought, and you stormed out. When he couldn't get ahold of you, he called me."

The panic ebbs, slightly, and Stiles flops back against the diner booth, trying to get his jackrabbiting heart under control. When Derek seems sure that he isn't going to make a break for the door, he picks up his fork and goes back to demolishing his chicken. After a moment, he nudges the plate towards Stiles, nodding meaningfully at the fries.

Stiles grimaces, but takes one of the more burnt wedges and crunches on it furiously. At the counter, the waitress watches Derek eat with a dazed, heavy lidded expression, so Stiles turns his glower on her until she blushes and glances away.

It's never been easy for Stiles to hang on to anger as far as Scott is concerned, but this time it feels like a live wire in his chest. It's his fucking Romeo complex, that's the problem. Scott's got this over-simplified idea of love– always has– and the frustrating part is that because it always works out for him, he thinks it'll work out that way for everybody.

"Just tell him," Scott had yelled. The 'or I will' had gone unspoken. "You're miserable and it's making you lash out at everybody, and you're too chickenshit to do anything about it!"

Stiles watches Derek spear a hunk of souvlaki with his fork, careful to keep the cuff of his soft gray sweater out of his side of tzatziki sauce. He scoffs at the memory of Scott's words, and steals another French fry.

As if it were that easy. As if he could just tell Derek that he's been ass-over-elbows in love with him for the better part of five years. Wonderful, awful Derek, who goes to yoga with Lydia on Saturdays, who helps Scott study when he gets overwhelmed with work and veterinary school, who volunteers at the local women's shelter whenever he can and thinks no one's noticed.

"Scott's an asshole," he grumps, tugging a few packets of Sweet'n'low out of the sugar holder and stacking them like a house of cards.

"He's just worried about you." Derek's voice is uncharacteristically gentle, and Stiles steadfastly refuses to meet his eyes until he feels the pressure of a knee against his own. He immediately regrets it when he glances up against his better judgement and sees the look on Derek's face. His eyebrows are drawn in concern, eyes soft with affection and understanding.

Jesus.

Stiles stamps down on the fluttering of his heart.

"Stop that," he snaps, without really meaning to. Derek blinks at him, confusion wiping away the worst of his expression.

"What?"

"Never mind." Stiles sighs, dragging a hand across his face. "Sorry. Really sorry. I'm not mad at you."

"Okay." Derek fiddles with his napkin, picking at a tear in the paper. "If you want to talk about it–"

"No." It comes out more caustic than Stiles had intended, the possibility of Derek finding out sending a shudder of panic across his skin. Derek flinches at his tone, his eyes widening with a flash of hurt before the shutters come down, leaving an impassive mask in its place.

Stiles hates that mask.

"Derek, I–"

"It's fine." Derek shifts in his seat, digging into his back pocket for his wallet. He drops a twenty on the table and reaches for his phone. "I'll call Lydia to come drive you home. I know I'm not– I don't know why Scott called me."

Because he's a surprisingly manipulative asshole with unwavering faith in True Love, Stiles doesn't say, guilt flaring hot and shameful in his chest.

"Wait, that's not–"

"I get it, Stiles." Derek's voice is flat, his face expressionless as he slides out of the booth. The line of his shoulders are rigid with tension. "It's none of my business. It's not like– we're not friends."

Stiles jolts back like he's been slapped. Derek might as well have hit him– the pain twisting his chest into knots hurts more than a punch would have. Stiles knows his faults. He knows that he's abrasive, and irritating, and somehow always manages to take up too much space, but he'd thought that Derek was okay with that. He'd thought they'd gotten to a good place– nowhere near where he wanted them to be, but still better than he had ever dreamed possible. He'd thought–

"You don't think we're friends?" He hates how small his voice sounds. Derek's nostrils flare, and his mask wavers, frustration and guilt breaking through that awful blank.

"Do you?" Derek jams his hands into the pockets of his jeans, staring down at the tabletop. "You've been avoiding me for a while now. I make you anxious." His jaw clenches, and he resettles his weight like he's bracing himself.

"Look," he mutters, his voice raw and vulnerable in a way that Stiles has never heard it, "I'm sorry if I– if my feelings make you uncomfortable. I know you don't– I get that you don't feel the same way, I don't blame you, but I–"

"Woah." Stiles stands so quickly he gets head rush, although that might be because his heart is suddenly beating so hard that he can feel the thudding in his own temples. He holds his hands up in the universal 'time out' gesture. "Hold up, big guy. Rewind for a sec. What are you talking about? What feelings?"

Derek's glare is vicious. It could probably strip paint. It would have thoroughly intimidated any sane person it came into contact with. Because Stiles is a grade-A piece of work with some seriously crossed wires in the sections of his brain that control fear and lust, he has to bite back a sigh as his dick twitches in his jeans. He watches in fascination as a flush spreads from the tips of Derek's ears to his cheeks, disappearing beneath his full beard.

"Don't." Derek hunches in on himself, like he needs protecting. He turns to go. "You're an asshole, Stiles, but you're not cruel."

"We were fighting about you." He blurts it out without thinking, is just desperate to stop Derek from leaving. "Because I– I'm so gone on you it's stupid, and I didn't think you'd ever– I mean, why would you?"

Derek freezes, still half turned away, his face unreadable.

"You're right," Stiles says, laughing hollowly. "Scott's right, too, the fucker. I am an asshole. And I've been a dick to everyone for ages because it was easier than telling you that I–" he cuts himself off, clears his throat. Can't quite say the words, even now.

"I spent ten years getting my feelings thrown in my face, and that was okay because it was Lydia, and once I really got to know her it was like, nothing that I felt for her ever had a foundation, you know? We never even really knew each other until I let that stuff go. So that was okay." He scrubs his hands through his hair, trying to find the right words. "But I couldn't do that with you. You, uh, you know me. And I'm not– I know I'm not– well. You'd be, y'know, nice about it. It would kill me."

Silence stretches between them for a long, uncomfortable moment. For the first time, Stiles becomes aware of their surroundings. With a sick lurch, he realizes that he's just poured his heart out in the middle of relatively crowded diner. There's a vaguely familiar off-duty cop sitting at the counter, texting rapidly on her phone. Two teenagers have their heads bent together, whispering furiously. The waitress is gaping at him, eyes wide, frozen in the act of refilling a cup of coffee. And still, Derek is a wall of silence.

"Right," Stiles says. The room is too small all of a sudden, his breath not coming fast enough. "Cool. I'm just gonna–"

He grabs his coat and all but runs out the door. He makes it halfway down the block before Derek catches up with him.

"Stiles." Derek darts in front of him, blocking his escape route. "Stop. You forgot your phone."

"Great. Thanks," Stiles mutters, accepting the offered device and jamming it in his jacket pocket. He tries to step aside, but Derek uses his bulk to cut him off. "Get out of my way."

"Stiles. Did you listen to anything that I said?"

"Sure," Stiles says, through gritted teeth. "You said you had feelings, which I took to mean something it obviously didn't. And I just stood there and told you everything, like some kind of– like some kind of Scott."

Derek kisses him.

On the Richter scale of first kisses it barely registers, because Stiles' mouth is still open indignantly, so their teeth click and Stiles bites his own tongue when he jerks back in surprise.

"Ow," he mutters, grabbing at his jaw.

"I'm so sorry," Derek says, face turning a mortified beet red, "are you–"

""Shut up," Stiles says, and throws himself into Derek's arms. The second kiss goes a long way towards making up for the first.

After a while, Stiles pulls back, panting. His whole body feels sort of tingly and glazed over, like he might melt away at any moment. Derek looks wrecked, his lips swollen and flushed, his hair a total disgrace thanks to Stiles' roaming fingers.

I did that, Stiles thinks giddily.

"So," he says, and if he had any presence of mind he would be humiliated by how low and carnal his voice sounds. "We should do that more often."

"You–," Derek breaks off and shakes his head, like he's trying to clear it. Stiles crowds closer, lets his hands fall to Derek's hips, sliding under his sweater and shirt until his cold fingers meet warm, smooth flesh. Derek's nostrils flare again, and he drops his head into the junction of Stiles' neck and shoulder, breathing him in. "Jesus, Stiles. You make me crazy."

 "Yeah." Stiles tries to get himself under control, with very little success. His heart feels like it's doing cartwheels in his chest. "The feeling is mutual. Um, the feeling is mutual. Right?"

Derek pauses, his mouth soft and hot against Stiles' pulse point. Stiles valiantly doesn't whine when he pulls away.

"Stiles, I–," Derek's face is so open it's almost painful to see. He's never looked quite so young. "I love you. It feels like I've loved you forever."

"Oh." Stiles' breath catches in his throat, and he clutches at the fabric of Derek's sweater. "Um, me too. Obviously. You're, like, it for me."

Over the years that they've known each other, Stiles has often lamented the fact that Derek almost never smiled. Sneered, yes. Smirked, definitely. Grinned that fake, shit-eating grin whenever he wanted to con someone, absolutely. But now, watching the soft, slow smile take over Derek's face like the rising sun, Stiles can't help but be grateful that he does it so infrequently. He'd never get anything done, otherwise. He's pretty sure that smile just obliterated any chance he had of not being ruined for literally every other person on earth. Lord knows what it would have done to him as a teenager.

He falls into Derek like a magnet, capturing that beautiful mouth with his own, letting himself cup Derek's jaw wth a gentleness he hadn't known he possessed, because that's allowed.

"Now what?" he asks huskily. He's close enough to rub his cheek against the scrape of Derek's scruff, shivering deliciously at the knowledge that he'll have beard burn to show for hours. Derek tightens his arms around him, nuzzling at his temple.

"Now I take you home," he says, "and you go to bed." He cuts Stiles' protests off with another kiss, this time nearly chaste, and Stiles can almost taste the sweetness of it.

"In the morning," Derek continues, "you'll call Scott, and you two will work out whatever it is you need to work out, because you always do." He chuckles softly when Stiles pulls away to scowl at him. His ridiculous eyes are bright. Happy, Stiles realizes, and his scowl melts away into a truly embarrassing smile of his own.

"Then tomorrow night, I'll come pick you up at six, and we'll go see that movie you've been telling everyone about for weeks, and afterwards we'll go get takeout and you can explain to me why it wasn't as good as the book." He brushes his thumbs across Stiles' cheekbones, searching his face. "Okay?"

"Yeah," Stiles sighs, letting himself lean back into him. "That sounds good to me."

He groans when Derek smiles that blinding smile again.

"Scott's going to be totally impossible about this, you know," he complains as they make their way to Derek's car, never straying too far from each other.

"I don't mind," Derek says mildly, his pinky catching Stiles', tangling their hands together. Stiles peeks at him from the corner of his eye and is delighted to see his cheeks flushing. The sap.

"Yeah," he sighs, squeezing Derek's hand in his. "You're worth it."

[ericjuneau]

Reprise (Chapter 22) [Frozen/Tangled/The Little Mermaid]

CHAPTER 22: Enchantment Under the Sea

Elsa met Rapunzel in the hallway. "You look gorgeous," she said.

Rapunzel had oysters clipped to her tail, as she had seen some others do, and put a sangria flower in her hair. "Thanks. You too."

Elsa wore a sash around her waist with a set of sapphire beads hanging in ringlets from the center.

"Can you believe that dressing room? All the cosmetics and frills and ornaments? There were colors I didn't even know existed. And so many things to put in your hair," Rapunzel said.

Ariel swam up behind them. "All ready?"

Compared to her, Elsa and Rapunzel felt underdressed. She had traded her ordinary top for one with star-like glitter. A string of pearls wound around her tail down to the fluke. In her hair lay a tiara of honey gold accentuated with mint emeralds.

"All ready," Elsa said.

Ariel clasped them on the back and led them to the grand hall. Melodious sounds of the band beckoned them in. The mermaids looked dazzling in their bright vestments covered with jewelry. Mermen wore auroral sashes, medals, and metal shoulder pads.

The seahorse herald floating in the doorway coughed.

"Announcing, her royal highnesses, Princess Rapunzel of Corona, Queen Elsa of Arendelle, and Queen Ariel of Atlantica."

The crowd cheered. Ariel leaned in to the herald and whispered, "Oh, no, I'm not actually a queen. I'm-"

Rapunzel grabbed her shoulder and pointed. "Are those neon eels? Wow. And look at those lantern fish. So many colors."

"This is the first time I've wanted to go to a ball," Elsa said.

Mermaids and mermen danced with each other in synchronized lines. On the surface, movements were limited to the floor. But in the sea, couples weaved in and out of lines, circled in spheres and loops. Just when they might run into each other, they rotated or slipped past in perfect grace. Spinning and diving and looping, but with the refinement of royalty.

The dance ended. The merpeople bowed to each other wherever they were--on the ceiling , in a corner, or floating in space alone.

The noise died down and Rapunzel heard Ariel describing people present.

"That is King Augustus of Olympia. They're kind of war-like, but they've never actually been to war. And his son Prince Thor is kind of snobby, but good at aquabatics." She gestured to the young man who had an odd blond mohawk with a ponytail. Both father and son wore gold-plated armor as their formal dress.

"Wait, Thor is a Norse name," Elsa said. "But they rule over Olympia, which sounds Greek?"

"Don't ask me. That fat one is King Orto." Ariel pointed out a rotund man wearing bright orange and holding up a goblet. He was laughing hysterically. "He's from Infernius, around a ring of undersea volcanoes. He's great at parties."

"How many kingdoms are there?" Rapunzel asked.

"Eight total. But they all unite under Atlantica's banner. Our kingdom is like the capital."

"Just as long as I don't offend anyone by doing something against customs," Elsa said, looking around nervously.

Now that the dance floor had cleared, the band struck up a bouncier tune. Merpeople cast aside their snack plates. Everyone from the highest lord to lowest knave swam to the dance floor. Rapunzel began shifting her shoulders with the beat.  

"That's, uh... that's a pretty good tune," Rapunzel said. "Can anyone dance?"

Ariel laughed. "Go right ahead."

Rapunzel squealed and dove right in. She swirled around as if she were a goldfish in a bowl. Some of her neighbors gave her strange looks, given the human moves she was trying to make in a mermaid's body.

Ariel caught the eye of her six sisters at the other end of the room. They stood in a stolid receiving line as guests of great regard came up to them. Aquata's gaze pierced through the gyrating dancers.  

"I think I better join my sisters," Ariel said. "It looks like they're welcoming guests."

"Can I come with you?" Elsa asked. "Dancing's not really my thing."

"Are you sure? It's pretty boring. Maybe go get some snacks first."

"Good idea," Elsa said. "I'll get some for you too."

Elsa positioned herself horizontal and swam to the snack bar. Ariel glided along the walls and set herself in her traditional spot at the end of the line. Alana and Andrina whispered hi, but a lean merman with a thin mustache approached, interrupting their conversation. Ariel recognized him as Satya, the viceroy from the Indian Ocean.

"Princess Ariel. I didn't expect to see you here," said Satya.

"Oh, I'm... just visiting," Ariel said.

"I heard you had gotten married, but didn't know to whom. Who's the lucky merman?"

Apparently, news of her breaking taboo hadn't reached all seven of the seas. "Oh, no one you know."

"Is he here tonight?" the viceroy asked.

"No, no, he had... other business."

The viceroy sniffled. "Must be important to miss the mermaid's ball."

"I'm sure he would have come if he could," Ariel said. Eric would like to see this.

"What kingdom is he from?"

"It's... it's a very small kingdom. Far away from here. You've probably never heard of it."

"Perhaps that is a blessing," Satya said. "If Atlantica wasn't so large, the queenship wouldn't always be in the turmoil it's in. You can hear the arguing all the way to the Caribbean. If three of them agree on something, it's a guarantee the other three won't. Too many crabs in the pot."

Ariel looked over to see if her sisters were hearing this. They were in conversation with other dignitaries, out of earshot. "Atlantica seems fine to me. The fish are happy, the music's playing," she said.

"Well, the nice thing about always being deadlocked is that nothing changes for the worse," Satya said. "Take for example, utility renovation in Eel-lectric City. They had dozens of proposals put to them. All kinds, good and bad. But they couldn't put their tail down on one because none were the perfect solution. They don't understand being a ruler means sometimes having to make a decision. Whether or not it's not all-encompassing. And the longer they take, the more citizens suffer."

"I... I didn't hear about that."

"See, you get it. I don't know why they can't. Anyway, I see the regent from the Gulf of Guinea. I must go to rub in my victory of our last game of pinochle." They shook hands again, said their goodbyes and swam off.

In fact, Ariel had only just "got it" She had watched Eric long enough to know if the kingdom had an issue to deal with, waiting did no good. It wouldn't get better on its own. And on occasion, he had made the decision that didn't make everyone happy. Raising taxes on crops meant angry farmers but, in the long run, better roads and schools.

To her right, a man was kissing Andrina's hand. She was doing her best trying to shake him off, but he wasn't getting the hint.

"Thank you. So much. Prince Finneas. Your sea cottage sounds lovely. I will definitely look into thinking about possibly being interested in joining you there for vacation someday."

Finneas waggled his eyebrows one more time and moved on.

"This happens all the time," Andrina said to Ariel. "They think these dances are just opportunities to court us. It's exhausting."

"Be lucky you don't have these problems," Alana whispered before facing another merman with a monocle. The dance music transformed into a crowd-pleasing mid-beat, encouraging couples onto the floor.

Rapunzel would not stop dancing her tail off. Twisting and turning to the beat while onlookers applauded. She was painting a picture that sound alone couldn't communicate, floating in a serenity no one could interrupt.

"Ariel!" someone shouted. A boy was waving and rushing toward her. Ariel cringed, remembering Andrina's and Alana's warning, until she recognized him.

"Gil? Gil, is that you?"

Her cousin Gil swam up to her. They hugged.

"I haven't seen you in years," Ariel said.

"I thought I'd never see you again." He brushed the stringy cinnamon bangs out of his face. "You went to live in the human world, right?"

"Right. But I'm here for... well, just lucky I guess."

Elsa swam up to them, holding a hand-sized seashell with various tidbits. She wasn't paying much attention, as her eyes were glued to the new food. "I didn't know what you wanted so I grabbed a bit of everything. Most of them taste like different combinations of sugar and salt. I bet they'd be great with some chocolate." She popped something rectangular and grainy into her mouth. "Thif one'f fticky. Like peanut butter and molaffeff. Also, thefe thingf that look like cupcakef are feaweed?"

"Gil, this is my friend, Elsa. Elsa, this is my cousin Gil."

Elsa looked up. Her eyes widened, mouth trapped in mid-chew. She swallowed. "Wow... I-I mean 'how'. How do you do? How are you?"

Gil's eyes didn't blink either. "Fine, fine... great... beautiful. I mean, I'm not beautiful. You're beautiful. Wait, what?"

Ariel smirked. "You know, Gil was just saying how he wanted someone to dance with."

"Oh... really?" Elsa muttered.

Gil offered his hand. "Would you like to?"

Thoughts of this new body, memories of the coronation two years ago, never materialized in her brain. She took his hand and let Gil lead her to the floor. Ariel grabbed the dish out of Elsa's hand before she dropped it.

The music followed the tempo of a waltz. Elsa fell into it naturally, vigilant of Gil's cues while gazing into his eyes.

"I don't dance all that much," Elsa said, clutching for things to say. "At least I can't step on your toes." She forced a laugh.

"Huh?" Gil said.

Agh, stupid. He didn't even know what a toe was. "Um, I mean, I'm used to a different kind of dancing."

"What kind?" Gil asked. He had amazing chestnut eyes. Elsa imagined Gil would be an archer in the human world. His chest was narrow and sculpted, with long lithe arms. Perfect for drawing a bow.

"Oh, um, the kind... from my kingdom. This is my first time in Atlantica. But Ariel's been great helping me out."

"How do you know Ariel?"

"Oh... it's a funny story actually." As funny as you can make trying to kill someone. "I was caught in a shipwreck- um, exploring one I mean. My tail... got trapped under some boards and Ariel saved me."

Gil smiled. "She does love her shipwrecks. You'd never guess she's such an explorer."

"I'm so often surprised by how looks deceive. Especially these days. I mean, look at all these people around us. They're all kings and queens and dignitaries. But I'm sure they've got secrets and things we'd never guess by looking at them."

"What's something I'd never guess by looking at you?" Gil asked.

Where would she start? She was a human. She was a queen. She had ice powers. Most recently, they had fought a wizard capable of bending time. Her cousin had hair seventy feet long that could cure wounds. There was plenty to pick from, if she wanted to end this dance right away.

"Oh... lots of things... If I started telling you my secrets, they wouldn't be secrets, would they?" she chided. Then wanted to throw her head in her hands for sounding like a nanny. "I mean, I just..."

"No, no, it's my fault. Sorry. I didn't mean to ask something so personal. But at least you're honest." He smiled.

She smiled back, realizing he was just trying to get to know her. "How about you? I know you're Ariel's cousin. I wouldn't have guessed that. Does that make you a prince?"

"Technically. But we don't hand out titles or rule any land. Unless you count the ranch for giant seahorses we own."

"You raise giant seahorses?"

"Sure. Most of the seahorses in Atlantica's stable come from us. When Ariel and I were merkids, we raced them into the kelp forests. In fact I was late today because one... well, it's a long story."

"Tell it," Elsa said excitedly.

"Okay. So we've got Starflash. He's usually good, but he's been getting ornery for some reason. I thought it was because of the new feed. When we got them all in for the night, he wasn't there. Now when a seahorse gets out, that's loads of trouble. They wander off and they're easy pickings for a shark."

"They must be hard to find too," Elsa said, spinning as he raised his arm. "It's not like they leave tracks."

"Darn near impossible. But I volunteer to go out and look for him. Which makes me easy pickings for a shark. But I'm thinking I can't just do nothing and write him off."

"That sounds so brave." The story made Elsa tense, even though he obviously survived. "Did you find him?"

"Yup. I felt like the luckiest guy in the world. Found him nestled up in some rocks under a plateau. And right beside him was a brand new baby calf. Can you believe it? I had no idea he was carrying."

"Wait, he had a baby calf?" Elsa asked.

"Yeah, the males keep the baby in their egg pouch. Didn't you know that about seahorses?"  Gil gave her a quizzical look

"Oh. No I didn't." Clearly this was something she should have known so Elsa redirected him. "So Starflash is all right?"

"Oh, yeah. It's the calf that's the ornery one now. Fatherhood must be taking it out of him. Little girl's always tail-wrestling. In fact, that's how she got her name--Curly."

Elsa couldn't stop grinning. Her cheeks were sore from smiling so much.

Trumpets sounded. Merpeople cleared the dance floor. Gil escorted Elsa off to the side as the herald stood at the end of the room.

"What's going on?" Elsa asked.

"It's time for the Atlantican Royal Dance," Gil whispered. "It's a tradition."

"Ahem-hem..." the seahorse herald said. "And now, for your enjoyment, the seven royal sisters shall conduct 'the dance of the princesses'."

The herald swam to the side as the crowd applauded. Arista and Aquata led the sisters two-by-two to the dance floor. They reformed into a circle, hands in the middle, waiting for the music to start.

The band played a smooth, low-toned melody of nobility and awe. They rotated along the circle, changing direction with the rhythm.

"First time we've done this all together in years," Adella whispered.

"Wasn't I here the year before?" Ariel asked.

"No," Arista snapped, still whispering. "You left after the first song. You said you had to write a letter."

"Arista, ease up. She's here now," Andrina whispered. She turned to Ariel. "Do they dance like this on the surface?"

"A lot like this," Ariel said. "We actually have a lot in common. There's an instrument just like the sea calliope. And they have a version of the crab scouts. And the same games and art and music."

Arista sniffed. "Good to know you've been having such fun since you left. Meanwhile we're just down here, running a country the size of the ocean."

"I have my own kingdom too, you know," Ariel said.

"Then the human world must be a real paradise. It can run itself without a leader."

"That's not true. We're having problems," Ariel said. And she knew exactly why--because of her. "It's hard... making decisions."

"You have no idea how hard it is, even when it's peaceful," Arista said.

The circle spun round and round, faster and faster.

"It's up to you all to share the leadership. Daddy always said working together was-"

"Don't you dare talk about Daddy," Aquata chimed in. "You didn't even come for his funeral."

"How could I have?" Ariel asked. "I was human. I was in a totally different world. How was I supposed to get there? I can't change back and forth."

"You should have found a way. They still have magic on the surface, right?" Aquata snapped.

"You got here, didn't you?" Adella added.

"That's different. And that's the whole reason I'm here. I'm trying to find a solution to get rid of it," Ariel said. Were they all taking the opposite side? The spinning faces whirled, spitting out arguments she couldn't keep track of.

"So you do hate being a mermaid," Arista said.

"No!" Ariel said.

"Daddy wouldn't have died if you hadn't gone to the surface," Arista said.

Arista, Andrina, and Alana gasped. "Arista! How can you say that?"

"Well, it's true. He died of a broken heart." Arista looked at Ariel. "When you left, everything went bad."

"That's not my fault," Ariel said. "This isn't my kingdom anymore, it's yours. I don't know why you aren't getting along, but it's not because of me."

"You had a responsibility to your kingdom. To Atlantica," Arista said. "Now you aren't here, so you don't know. You went to the human world and left us. I just hope you're proud of yourself. Because we're all miserable."

The music stopped, as did the conversation. All seven raised their hands in the air, reaching toward each other in a halted circle. The crowd was applauding, but no one saw the eyes making dirty glances at each other within.

The sisters turned away and swam from the dance floor, leaving Ariel in the center, breathing deeply.

Elsa didn't notice how stoic Ariel was. She was still clapping. "That was amazing," she said to Gil.

"Thing of beauty," Gil said. "Something about royalty makes it more elegant." He put his hand on her arm.

She seized, heart pounding. His touch felt like an invigorating blast of ice. "I- I- I- I-"

Her eye caught someone in green floating into the hall. It was Dudley, holding a large bound book.

"Oh, excuse me," she said. "There's... I... someone just came in... I need to speak with... not another guy, just... information... he has. Excuse me." She turned away and started to swim, cringing from that stew of nonsense.

"Oh... okay." Gil gave a confused, half-hearted wave.

Elsa turned back. "I loved dancing with you." Then turned around again. Ugh, why did she say that? It was true, but it sounded so awkward.

Elsa found the yellow ribbon trailing in a corkscrew from Rapunzel's maneuver.

"I'm not even tired," Rapunzel said. "This is so fun! I have a sugar headache from all the snacks. We should all dance together." She twirled around, her hair trailing behind.

"Dudley's here," Elsa said.

"Oh." Rapunzel stopped. "Let's get Ariel."

Ariel was still in the middle of the floor as others danced around her. She tugged on her arm.

"Wh-What?" Ariel said. Elsa pointed to the sea turtle in the doorway.

The three of them swam off the dance floor and approached him.

"Dudley, did you find something?" Elsa asked.

"Ah-huh," Dudley said in his weak little voice. He handed them the book wrapped around his flipper.

Elsa held it out for them all to read. "This book is ages old. Written by... Abirmus nyz Ikstus."

"He was an ancient sorcerer and scholar, before Atlantica was founded. This must have been deep in the archives." Ariel turned to Dudley. "How long did it take you to find this? It must have been hours."

"Uh... no... it was... on the shelf... right next to me... Just... rushed here."

Elsa studied the text. "It's talking about relics of the gods. Artifacts and fragments left behind... Here. 'The sands of time are a divine essence leftover from the creation of the world. Eternally falling from the beginning of infinity to its end. It has no guardian and no destructor. It always has been and always will be."

Ariel took over. "'A single grain made its way into the realm of mortals, where it faded into the terran macrocosm. There it lay for eons, indistinguishable from any other speck of earth'."

"'Until someone discovered its existence'," Rapunzel continued. "'By prying open the mouths of the long dead to hear the whispers of the gods.'"

"'Knowing what its power meant, sorcerers and necromancers went mad trying to find it. Mere preparation for pursuit meant tapping into ancient dark magics. Few remained uncorrupted. Those that weren't lost track of their goal, possessed by their power," Elsa said.

"What's the last thing it says?" Rapunzel asked. "Is there a way to destroy it?"

Elsa skipped to the bottom. "It doesn't say. It's all about the people trying to find it. Messing with fundamental essences, like hate and sorrow. The last man they mention, the madness and chaos deteriorated his spirit. He deteriorated little by little, until nothing remained but hate and anger. He became an incarnation of discord itself."

"Does it know who that was?" Rapunzel asked.

"No." Ariel took a deep breath. "But unfortunately, I do."