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feverinfeveroutfic · 2 years

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chapter twenty-three: minstrel in the gallery

“he brewed a song of love and hatred; oblique suggestions and he waited. he polarized the pumpkin-eaters, static-humming, panel-beaters. freshly day, glowed factory cheaters; salaried and collar-scrubbing...” -”minstrel in the gallery”, jethro tull

Lucky for Sam and Alex, they caught the art shop in the heart of town right before the doors closed for the night. She needed those smooth, waxy colored pencils in order to do the trick, especially since she had that thick heavy drawing paper on hand; given she left her journal back at the apartment in Hell’s Kitchen, she decided to buckle down for a travel journal, something to keep with her whenever she went any place.

But in the meantime, she decided on a portrait of that black woman with a wreath of roses about her chest in her honor, even though her mother never said her name once; even though she had a little bit of experience with her drawings of Joey, she knew she had to take it a bit further with this one. Alex suggested she use a blender for the drawing as well, even though she knew the edge of her finger could serve the purpose; but then again, she knew that Scarlett would want to display this drawing in the gallery once she returned home to New York City.

“Suddenly this trip just got a whole lot better,” Alex told her once they returned to their room.

She took her spot there at the desk by the window and she spread out her drawing pad before her. That fresh smell of brand-new paper wafted over her and she took out a fresh new hard graphite pencil for the beginning sketch. The woman turned to the side with a piece of her kinky black hair spread over a part of her face.

Alex took his seat right next to her for a front row view of the drawing for himself. She fixated on the smooth pencil strokes before her. The wax was bright and colorful and left in its wake the smoothest stroke of dark brown. The shape of her face took on that of a heart and her skin was to be as silken as a cup of blond coffee.

He folded his arms over the top of the table and he leaned closer to her for a better look at the whole drawing. Sam held onto the pencil by the end so she used the side of the wax for the shading underneath her jaw and all around her neck. The darkest of black skin, the blackest of the night around them, only for her to be contrasted by the pure whites of her eyes and the sheen on the tip of her nose. She ran the waxy pencil over her skin several times to ensure that she had filled in all of the white parts of the paper underneath her face.

Alex got up at one point and he opened up the curtains for the lights on the street down below to enter the room. He returned to her and that time he moved in closer so his face was right up next to hers: even though she paid more attention to the drawing before her, she could smell his cologne, still there on the side of his neck and through the roots of his hair, as well as the coffee on his lips and the faint aroma of donuts on his fingers as well. At one point, she held back so he could take a better look for himself.

He nodded his head at the sight of the woman’s head and shoulders.

“Could you pass me the solid black, please?” she asked him in a kind voice.

Alex reached into the box and took out the black pencil, and he handed it to her by the pointed tip. Sam looked at the back end of the pencil and then she lifted her gaze to his face and those deep eyes. Those bright blue eyes, as blue as the waters of Crater Lake, that of which stared back at her from their deep sockets and from underneath his dark eyebrows. She looked on at the tip of his nose, so full and prominent and dignified. Nothing like Joey, with his sunbaked tan like that of an Iroquois sunrise. Alex was as dark as the night around them, as dark, hypnotic, and volcanic as the bottom of Crater Lake. It helped that he began to grow out his bangs and push them back from his brow so she could better see into them.

Sam licked her bottom lip and, as she clamped down on the thought of kissing those lips again but while sober that time around, she took the pencil from him. She returned to the drawing before her to begin drawing the woman’s hair from the root outward.

If there was anything she could take away from live drawing Cliff and Joey, both in class and in a hotel room somewhere in upstate, it was that pure black never appeared anywhere on a person’s body except for in the hair. Joey's curls had that black base but she always had a bit of color on top of them to give them some more depth. But she decided to throw out that rule and make her hair mostly black.

She had that blood that ran through her: she may as well seize that opportunity before her. From the roots out to the very tips of the curls and then back again, she made that hair solid black.

“You want a bit of yellow or orange to go with this?” he asked her in a low voice.

“Hang on a second,” she told him.

“Making it intentionally dark I see,” he said with a little nod of his head and a little smirk on his face.

“Might as well,” she explained, “it’s a dark day down in the City of Angels right now. Justice wasn’t served and we have to do something about it somehow.” Once she had swirled in enough black into the hair, he then handed her the goldenrod yellow as well as the vermilion orange. Rather than sweep over the curls with them and use the blender several times over, she used only a small bit of those colors. The tip of the blender spread the colors about the black just enough, exactly what she wanted for the drawing.

“Could you pass me the pink, Alex?” she kindly asked him again, and he picked out the pink pencil for her. He then hesitated.

“What do you say?” he asked her with a raise of those dark eyebrows.

“Please?” she retorted. He then handed it to her and she rolled her eyes at him.

“You did it the first time around,” he pointed out in a singsong voice.

“I’m aware,” she scoffed with a little gyration of her head. She held the wax pencils in one hand and then she sketched out the little flowers around the headshot.

“Did your mom tell you what her name was?” he asked her, and she shook her head at that.

“No, she just said that they killed a black woman and also beat the hell out of a man,” she recalled. “I’m sure we’ll have her name at some point, though.”

“Hang on a second,” he spoke out of the blue right then and there. He set a hand on her right wrist to stop her right in her tracks, even with his gentle grip and his smooth skin.

“What’s that?” She raised an eyebrow at him.

“If you’ve got some black blood in you,” he started, “what do you do about your hair?”

“What, my highlights? I'll just grow them out. They'll go away and back to their original darkness.”

“Oh, good!” He let go of her and leaned back in the chair out of relief. “I was thinking about that just now, like oh man, Samantha’s got those blonde highlights on her head. She's gonna have hell of a time trying to explain it to people.”

“My mom told me that there will come a time where we’re able to talk about that sort of thing,” she explained as she continued on the sketch of the flowers: little chrysanthemums and lilies that were to be bright pink and soft red, complete with that touch of goldenrod for the leaves and the stamins. Alex never left her side as she finished the drawing at a quarter to midnight, and at that point, her eyes burned with her looking at the paper for so long on top of all the driving that they had done up to that point.

She signed her initials at the bottom of the paper and he nodded his head at the sight of it.

“Are you going to put this in the gallery when you get home?” he asked her.

“Absolutely,” she replied. “I might make another black face for the gallery, too, just because I know I can do it now and also because I feel it to be for the better of things.”

“You’re damn right it’s for the better of things.”

“Now, you know what? I can take this whole thing even further,” she declared, “especially if one of my majors is going to be in fashion. If I can draw black and Native American skin, I can draw all manner of skin now.”

“Oh, yeah, be able to fit your clothes onto all manner—of—bodies—” Alex raised his arms over his head and stretched his back and his shoulders: his shirt lifted up again and she caught an even smaller sliver of skin on his waist, right over the waist of his jeans. Sam couldn’t hold it in for a second longer and she threw her arms around his little body.

The sudden feeling of her arms around him sent him aback and he almost fell out of his chair.

“Sorry, that just—tickled,” he confessed, and he shrugged his shoulders; a slight blush crossed his nose and his little cheekbones. Sam put away her pencils and she propped the drawing up against the wall.

“Are you mad at me?” he asked her.

“Why would I be mad at you?” she asked him.

“’Cause I jerked back from you while you were hugging me,” he explained.

“I’m not mad at you,” she told him, and then she showed him a smile. “Never.”

He peered behind him to the clock on the nightstand.

“Oh, shit, it’s almost the top of the hour,” he told her.

“Which hour?”

“Midnight. You wanna turn in for the night?”

“Please. We've got to head back up to Crater Lake tomorrow.”

“Why, ‘cause I gave you that piece of volcanic glass?”

“Yes. And it’s also because I might go into earth science in the future, too. I have to get to know these things first before I go any further. I hope it’s not too much trouble.”

“It’s no trouble at all,” he told her with a sweet smile on his face.

“Did you bring your guitar with you, by the way?” she asked him.

“I didn’t, no. Well, because I figured it’s because we’re heading out on a road trip that I wasn’t going to need it with me.” He paused. “Why, did you want me to play a little something for you?”

“I was thinking that... since we’re here in Oregon and due south of Seattle, that you could whip out a little bit of that alt rock stuff for our girl here.”

“I honestly wouldn’t know how to do that without a reference nearby,” he confessed. He then stood to his feet and he peeled off his shirt.

“Oh, my goodness,” she gasped, complete with a hand to her chest.

“What? Hey, if you can draw black skin and you can look at my naked body, you can look at my body from the waist up.”

“I just—wasn't expecting that,” she pointed out.

“And I’m not mad at you,” he retorted, and he burst out laughing at that. He slung his shirt over his shoulder and he doubled back to his bed.

Sam stood to her feet and she walked into the bathroom just to wash off the residual wax from her hand. She gazed on at her own dark brown eyes, the eyes through which the African continent shone through. So much she had to dig up about her family now. So much to figure out about herself from that point onward.

She switched off the light and she returned to her bed, but then she turned to him on the neighboring bed. Through the dim ambient light from outside, she could see he lay there flat on his back with his hands tucked underneath his head and with his eyes closed.

“Are you still awake?” she asked him.

“Mm-hmm.”

She ran her tongue over her bottom lip again and then she stood over him. He opened his eyes and gazed up at her through the darkness.

“What’s up?” She fetched up a sigh and she put one knee on the edge of the bed next to him.

“Ah, you wanna snuggle?” he teased her.

“Please,” she begged him, “if it’s not too much trouble.”

“It’s never too much trouble,” he assured her in a low voice. “As long as we don’t go any further than this.”

“We won’t, trust me. I've done a lot in the past few days that all I want is to do this.” She lay down next to him, and he put his arm around her. Sam lay her head upon his chest and she paid close attention to his steady breathing paired with his gentle, slow heartbeat. A part of her wished she had enough energy to go further than that with him, but she couldn’t. Instead, she closed her eyes and she fell asleep right there next to him, albeit a dreamless sleep.

She awoke to the feeling of his body having rolled out from underneath her. She opened her eyes and she saw that he had rolled over onto his stomach and with one arm out before him.

Sam sat upright and she gazed down at his bare back as well as the seat of his pants.

He not only had a lovely body from the front but he had a nicely shaped rump, even when docked in dark denim. She pictured him a pair of black leather pants, or something to accentuate his back end; she thought about giving him a nice pat there but then he rolled over again, that time onto his other side. He bowed his head into the pillow and his hair spread over his whole face.

There was no way he could be comfortable, given his upper body had rolled over onto its side, and his hips were cocked out a little bit, and his legs were twisted in the bed sheet before her.

Given she had a dreamless sleep, she wondered if the mysterious man in her dreams was in fact him.

She wished she had her journal with her, but then again, she had that one which she had bought the night before. Her travel journal to take along to any place she went off to outside of New York.

Careful not to awaken Alex, she slid off of the bed and onto the carpet, and she crept over to the table. She opened up the mouth of her handbag and she picked out the journal from its hiding place. It was a smooth dark brown book with a leather backbone and a sepia bookmark attached to the top: she could hide it in her purse and whip it out whenever she could steal a moment. She even bought it when Alex had his back turned to her at the cash register in the shop and she quickly tucked it into her bag when they had returned to the car.

She figured that it would be something private and fixated on the thoughts she never shared with anyone, especially since her very first journal served as that. But at that point, it had long gone. If she was to hang around Alex more and more, she needed a place to put her private thoughts, especially when a few of those thoughts involved him.

It was still early, but with not a lot of time before they could run down to the lobby for breakfast, and thus she could quickly sketch out the figure of the mysterious man once more. But since it had been some time since she had last seen him in full apparition, she needed a reference. She lifted her gaze from the fresh new pages to the slumbering young man before her.

The way his black hair spread over his face and the way his body was curved, especially right around his hips and his waist.

A quick rough sketch of his body on the paper. She knew that he could roll over again at any second and thus, she left the curves and contours of his body unshaded. Her new muse, down in the scratchy graphite on that heavy drawing paper, and she hoped that he would never see it for a fleeting glimpse.

He fetched up a sigh and he rubbed his eyes. Her heart skipped a few beats at the sight of him and then she tucked the journal back into her handbag next to her. She kept the bag open to make it look as though she was looking for something.

“What’s going on?” he asked her in a broken voice.

“Oh, I just woke up,” she told him. She grimaced at the sound of lying to him, but then again, the alternative was telling him that she had sketched out his body while he was asleep, when he didn’t want for that to happen. He just looked so vulnerable, and so soft, and so delicate that she couldn’t resist drawing his body and using him as a model for her dreams. Alex ran his fingers through his hair and rubbed his tired eyes, and then he turned to the phone on the nightstand. He sat up and dialed the number.

Sam didn’t dare ask him whom he was calling as she put her shoes back on and she headed out of there and into the hallway: she turned the latch and rested the door on that so she could push it open without having to rely on the key.

She padded down the carpet to the stairs and she ambled into the lobby for two cups of coffee and two full plates of breakfast, especially since it was right when the buffet opened up for the morning. As long as the secret of the journal never got out, then she would be okay to continue drawing him in secret. She reached the end of the buffet line and placed pieces of sliced fruit next to their muffins and then, with the help of an older gentlemen, she made her way back upstairs to the room.

Alex set down the phone and he turned around for a look back at her. She handed him his cup of coffee, in her free hand, and then he took the plate on top of her own for himself.

“I reckon we can go home now,” he assured her with a wink. “Greg said things are kind of tense but there’s nothing of that stature there in the Bay Area.”

“I’m worried about New York, though,” she pointed out as she took her spot on the edge of the bed across from him.

“Absolutely. All of your great art tucked away in that gallery, too. I really hope Scarlett has a clamp down on that sort of thing.”

“Charlie assured me that she’s the best so—she more than likely does,” she assured him as she sipped on her coffee.

After breakfast, they climbed back into his car and headed back up towards Crater Lake, complete with a quick stop at a rock store in the little town of Chiloquin right before the turn-off. With the study of the earth, there came the lore of Pele, even with Alex’s reluctance. It was only fair to her once they reached the rim of the lake once more and placed the piece of matte black basalt down on the cold ground below their feet. That vista point before them looked out to the face of Wizard Island as well as the scraggly pale formation known as Phantom Ship. If ever another underwater eruption happened, the rock would tumble down the side of the slope and into those bold blue waters.

“There’s a place in—Germany, I think,” he started as he folded his arms across the top of the guard rail, “where couples go to and they carve their initials into locks and put it on this chain link fence.”

She showed him a little smile.

“What, you want to carve our initials into that rock and set it back down on the ground?” she teased him, and he shrugged.

“Doing this just reminded me of that,” he explained. “After the whole thing with Zelda and Testament, I don’t think I’m up for that sort of thing as of yet.”

“Take your time,” she told him. “I know I’m going to.” They fell back into silence, silence except for a little bird in a nearby tree and the gentle lapping of the waters down below.

“Five years, you said?” she recalled. “Five years from now if we’re not going anywhere career wise.”

“Five years, yeah. Five years from today, you and I go off to school together.”

“Where would you like to go to school?” she asked him.

“I dunno yet. I really like New York—I feel so connected to that city all because my parents are from there and I have friends over that way, too.” He turned his head to her and he peered over his mirrored lenses at her.

“You’ve got plenty of friends out here, too,” she pointed out.

“Oh, yeah.” He returned to the vast sheet of blue waters before them: there was a bit of a breeze that day and as a result, little crests formed in the waters, especially all around the island and the rock formation. There was a patch of water near the island that seemed darker than the rest of it. “It's just—the connection that I feel, though. I want to go home. I want to go to a place that feels like home to me.”

He returned to her, and once again with a glimpse over his lenses at her. “Where do you want to go school?” he asked her.

“Don’t know yet,” she confessed. “Probably that new university that’s on Long Island because it’s not just a straight up school but I hear they’ve got a good art program going at the moment. Problem is it’s on Long Island.”

“You’ve done that commute before, though, haven’t you?”

“Oh, yeah. From the Bronx all the way down to the tip of Manhattan, usually to visit Aurora but also to go school. I always took the subway and I never had to pay much because I was a student. Sometimes Charlie came and drove me and Marla home, and Belinda always rode her bike.”

“Nice long bike ride,” he remarked, and he rubbed his hands together. “Another reason why I feel more at home with New York is I want to feel the passage of time.”

“We get the passage of time here in Oregon,” she said.

“Oregon and the Northwest, yeah—California, not so much. You know, in California, you get the nice day. And then the day after that is a nice day. Then the day after that, the day after that, the day after that... and the next thing you know, they stop being nice days. I’m sure you know about that.”

“Absolutely. When I was down at the house in Lake Elsinore, it was like every day melted into each other so it’s almost hard to believe that I had stayed there as long as I have. It makes you wish for seasons.”

“Exactly! Up here, it’s springtime and I can see that with these rich blue waters down here below us as well as the valley over here—” He gestured to the left, towards the Willamette Valley. “Whereas, we saw how brown everything was down south.”

“I also just think of how it is in Carson, too,” Sam recalled, “and sometimes you get winter time in the middle of June.”

“Yeah, we deserve the seasons,” Alex quipped with a slight snicker. “You and I, we deserve the seasons and the feeling that time is passing.” He stood up from the guard rail. “So, when do you wanna head on out and back to the Bay Area?”

“Well, I only paid for two days in the hotel, so—we can head on back there right now, we can check out early. You wanna go down the slope here and check out the Island here, or do we want to head on back to Klamath?”

“I kinda want to go back down the road again just because I don’t think the raft thing down there is open. Did you see a music shop down there?”

“I don’t think I did,” she confessed. “It’d be worth a look, though.”

They headed back to the car and drove back down the mountain, back through that dense forest towards the valley floor. Another hour and they returned to the hotel for check out time: she kept her handbag closed even though he awaited her back in the car.

Within time, they headed back to the highway and snaked back through town on the lookout for a music store of any kind.

“There’s a place,” Alex declared as they reached the southern end of town: indeed, it was a small white building tucked back away from the street, but the windows remained dark despite the broad daylight over them.

“They don’t look like they’re open, though, Alex,” Sam pointed out as they rolled up to the curb. He lifted up his lenses and shook his head.

“Remodeling,” he groaned.

“It’s okay—I'll try and get us back to the Bay Area before the next one closes,” she assured him.

They drove out of town and back to that little place Merrill before the state line, and back down the road. Mount Shasta followed them all the way back down through the desolate landscape, even when they left Weed and took the Interstate once again. It was that time around when Sam spotted Shasta City right at the base of that cold, quiet volcano.

“I see that being a nice little day trip, though,” he said.

“What’s that? From Klamath to Shasta?”

“Oh, yeah. All the way through the hills like that.”

“Having the four seasons all around you all the way down, too,” she cracked, and he shook his head at that. It would be another hour before they rolled into Redding and back into the northern end of the valley. Alex wasn’t as hungry that time around, much to her surprise. She thought about asking him once they stopped for fuel in Vacaville again, but she figured that it was because they were familiar with that road that time around.

They were also headed back to the Bay Area, the home of all of those aforementioned nice days that blended into each other.

The fog bank greeted them once they drove back into the valley and Sam was eager to show Ruben the drawing that she had made. She was also eager to climb out of that car since she only had six hours of sleep the night before and she had driven them for a couple hundred miles on top of that as well. Her eyes itched and burned with the monotony of the road before them. Then again, it would be quite the story to tell to Ruben when she saw him again.

The exit for Marin Heights showed up on the side of the road and she was quick to merge over to the right.

“I think,” he started again, that time in a low voice, “once I had a position with a new band somewhere, I’ll start visiting New York more.”

“Really?” she asked him.

“Yeah. Just visit, you know. Just know what I’m getting myself into if push comes to shove.”

“Well, remember, my porchlight’s always on,” she assured him. They took the road off of the freeway and into the hills outside of San Francisco.

“I do love the Pacific Northwest, though,” he said.

“I do, too! I say we retire up there.”

He burst out laughing at that.

“Retire? You're actually thinking of retiring?”

“You don’t want to?”

“No way! I want to keep on playing and performing until I can’t. I want to keep going with it all until my fingers are too tired and callused to keep up with my mind. Don't you want to keep on going with art until you can’t, either?”

He took a glimpse over at her and she did with him. It was true that she felt art in her bones but then again, after she heard that sentiment from him, she began to wonder if it was all real.

“It’s something you feel very passionately, isn’t it?” he asked her, slightly concerned.

“Absolutely,” she replied.

“I don’t really wanna see you retire from that, Samantha. You stop your job and you stop going to school, but don’t stop being an artist. If you have a brain and a heart and you’re alive and breathing, you’re an artist. It's how you handle it is what makes you great.” He nudged a lock of hair behind his ear.

“You know what?” she started as they wound their way up the hill. “I am gonna keep drawing. I might change careers, but I’ll always go back to drawing, though.”

“That’s what I’m talking about!” He clapped his hands together at that. They reached the crest of the hill and she spotted Ruben’s house there. She also spotted a different car in his driveway.

“Who’s this now?” she wondered aloud. She parked there at the curb and she climbed out first. She recognized that inky black hair as it streamed behind his head. He turned around and showed her his full round milky face and those dark eyes. He showed her a sweet little smile and a friendly wave.

“Hey, Sam!”

“Hey, Eric!” she retorted back to him, and she opened her arms for him. His body as soft as ever, and it helped that he wore that soft pleated white leather around him.

“Where’ve you been?”

“Oregon! Alex and I went up to Crater Lake twice and hung out in the southern part. I made a new drawing, too, would you like to see?”

“Oh, yes, please!” Eric rubbed his hands together and she led him to the back door on the driver’s side. But he rounded the front end and Alex rolled down the window to greet him.

“Hey, little man, how’re you doing?” Eric asked him with a bit of concern to his voice and an extended hand.

“Doing better than I thought,” Alex replied in a low voice, and he gave a friendly shake in return. Sam picked out the drawing pad from the back seat and rounded the back end to meet up with him.

“I’m still just—I'm shocked by what happened,” he confessed, and Alex shook his head at that. “I still can’t believe Aurora forced me to do that to you.”

“Hey, what’s done is done,” he pointed out. “I’m just having to find my way out here in the unknown with what I’ve got.”

“Chuck and I are hoping that she’ll leave soon so you can come back, but—we're gonna be holding our breath, though.”

“It’s okay, Eric,” Alex assured him again, that time with a chuckle. “Really, I have to be the very best ‘me’ I can right now.” He turned his attention to Sam and the pad in her hands. “Oh, yeah, show him that drawing.”

“We heard about what’s going on down in L.A. right now,” she explained, and she opened it to that first page. Eric gasped and brought a hand to his chest.

“Wow! That's—that's fucking beautiful.”

“When I get back to New York, the first thing I’m doing is putting this up in the gallery,” she promptly replied. “It’ll be a nice little story and change of pace for us all.”

“Oh, definitely.”

“Where’s Dad, by the way?”

“I think he’s home? He told me to come on over to talk to him, but I didn’t see his car—oh, there he is.”

“I gotta check my messages, anyway,” Alex muttered, and he unbuckled his seat belt.

The three of them headed into the house, where Ruben greeted them at the front step with his arms open for them. He was at a loss for words with that portrait in her hands, such that he confessed to her that he wanted to share it with everyone at headquarters. All the while, Alex kept the phone up to his ear as he checked on his answering machine. His face lit up at one point however and he nodded at Sam and Eric with a bit of excitement.

“What’s up?” she asked him once he stepped over to them.

“Exodus want me to come audition for them,” he started. “Also, I think I may have landed a spot with the Spin Doctors, of all bands. They need a guitarist.”

“The Spin Doctors, they do that song ‘Two Princes’, right?” Ruben asked him as he handed him and Eric cups of coffee.

“Yeah! It'd be a nice little change of pace for me, too.” Ruben handed Sam a cup of coffee herself, and then she raised it towards Alex for a toast.

“To life and luck,” she declared.

“To life and luck!” Eric echoed her as they brought the four cups together.

#fanfic #fanfiction #testament fanfic #chapter 23 #fever in fever out #fever in fever out fanfic #book five #veritas #alex skolnick #oc tag #eric peterson #long reads #also on ao3 #writing #slice of life #text

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shireness-says · 4 years

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A Fate Woven in Thread and Ink (1/4)

Summary: Two people are trained from childhood for a magical competition they don't fully understand, whose stakes are higher than they imagine, all to be played out in a magical traveling circus. Falling in love complicates things. A CS AU of the book “The Night Circus”.

Rated M. ~15.2K. Also on AO3.

A/N: Presenting my contribution to the @cssns! “The Night Circus” by Erin Morgenstern is a favorite book of mine that I have long thought would make for an excellent CS AU. And so, I’m finally doing it. At length.

I was incredibly lucky to be paired with @eirabach for this event, who created the beautiful art attached above. She has such amazing ideas for bringing this fic to life in all its atmospheric glory that I never would have thought of. Her art is also posted on her tumblr; go give it all the love it deserves!

Thanks also go to @snidgetsafan, my ever-phenomenal beta, and @ohmightydevviepuu, who read the book at my urging and then agreed to read my monster to make sure nothing important was left out. This fic is better for both their efforts.

Tagging the usual suspects for now. If you want to be added to (or removed from!) this list, just shoot me a message: @welllpthisishappening, @profdanglaisstuff, @thisonesatellite, @let-it-raines, @kmomof4, @scientificapricot, @thejollyroger-writer, @superchocovian, @teamhook, @optomisticgirl, @winterbaby89, @searchingwardrobes, @katie-dub, @snowbellewells

Enjoy - and let me know what you think! Next chapter will be posted whenever I get it done.

~~~~~

The circus arrives at night.

There is never any warning of its arrival; no handbills stuck to the lampposts or announcement from some other lucky town that yours will be next. It is simply there one morning, all the black and white tents taking on a particularly mystical quality in the light of the sunrise. At the front gate is a sign:

Le Cirque des Rêves

Open sunset until sunrise

(And what a curious idea, that; a circus that is only open at night.)

The circus is a place where anything can happen, and routinely does. Those who visit leave with an awareness that no street-side carnival or traveling minstrel will ever induce such enjoyment again; everything must naturally pale in comparison. The illusionist is somehow more magical, the fortune-teller more wise, the contortionists and acrobats more daring. The world of the circus, created all in black and white and silver and lit by delicate lanterns and a great bonfire at its center, feels otherworldly - and you somehow feel that it just might be.

In a word, the circus is magic, brought to life right in front of your eyes, and you know you will never be the same for having witnessed it.

Our story does not begin at the circus, however; it only ends there.

———

Our story begins in the back corner of a smoky tavern, or a grimy alley, or a dimly lit dressing room of a theater, or any number of other places that exist in-between the rest of humanity, overlooked, utterly invisible in their mundanity.

(In truth, it does not matter where our story begins - only that it does.)

A woman sits in a darkened corner. More attentive observers might recognize her as the famed stage magician, Circe the Enchantress, capable of tricks beyond their wildest imagination.

(Even the most observant wouldn’t realize that all of Circe’s “tricks” are gloriously real; the human mind is excellent at not seeing things that it doesn’t want to acknowledge.)

(The most observant won’t notice the way she purposefully draws the shadows further around herself, either, just to ensure that the rest of humanity around her can’t penetrate the curtain of dark.)

Circe isn’t her real name, of course; it just sounds good on a playbill, capable of attracting people from far and wide. These days, she goes by Regina Mills, though there’s been other names before that: Corwin and King and Bowen and Smith. Names aren’t much of a concern for those as old as she, just another passing distraction when you’ve witnessed hundreds of years.

Hundreds of years don’t make the waiting any easier when the person you’re expecting can’t bother to arrive on time.

“You’re late,” she comments drily when her companion finally arrives, a slight man with a slighter limp. They may as well be a study in opposites; where Regina plays with shadow to avoid notice, he’s draped himself in a spell that causes an observer’s eyes to glance away without seeing; while Regina tries on names like hats over the decades and centuries, changing with every whim, her companion has allowed his own moniker to become lost to time, known only now to very few and only as Mr. Gold.

“Au contraire, dearie,” he replies mildly, though the irritated glint in his eye would terrify anyone else. “I arrived exactly when I needed to. What is time to those like us, anyhow?”

“A convenient construct that keeps those you have appointments with from waiting around for any longer than they have to.”

Mr. Gold studiously ignores the quip. “Why did you ask me here tonight, Regina?”

“I’m in the mood for a game,” she says, faux-casually. “It’s been so long since we’ve had a proper competition.”

“Ah yes,” her companion smirks. “If I remember right, my contestant defeated yours last time.”

“On a technicality,” Regina corrects through gritted teeth.

“In this world of absolutes, I often find a technicality is all it takes to shift the balance. And magic, true power… that’s the greatest technicality of them all.”

“I’m rather less inclined to deal in technicalities, at least where the matter of starting a new game is involved,” Regina snaps. Any minute shred of patience or humor she might have possessed is long since gone, even if her companion remains unruffled. “It really boils down to: do you want to, or not?”

“Never let it be said I turn down a challenge, dearie.” This time, it’s impossible to miss the menace behind the supposed endearment. “In fact, I’d say you were the one being… shall we say, vague about the details of this all. Do you have a venue in mind? Or are you leaving that particular bit up to me?”

Regina waves a dismissive hand. “Do as you will. You know I’m not much interested in that, anyways.”

“You never did understand the importance of setting.”

“Perhaps I simply have faith that my contestant will prevail regardless.”

That piques Gold’s interest. “You already have a candidate in mind, then?”

“And fully anticipate taking them as a student, yes. I suppose you’ll want to be there to bind them to the competition?”

“You know me well.”

“I should bloody well hope so,” Regina mutters under her breath. They both know, however, that Mr. Gold hears the words regardless.

Carefully, the man in question stands from the table, supporting himself on a gilt-ended cane. Any limp that might necessitate such an accessory has long since been corrected; some things are more about the effect, anyways. “If there’s nothing else, Regina, I have other matters to attend to.”

“I expect you do,” Regina smirks. “After all, I’ve already spotted my player, and you’ve yet to find yours.”

“That is true,” Gold concedes with a deceptive mildness. “But remember, dearie: it isn’t about how the game starts, or when, or where. It’s about where it ends. And I have full confidence my acolyte will be able to last the distance.”

With their business concluded, both magicians fade back into the night. Pedestrians continue along the streets, occasionally interrupted by a horse and carriage, all unaware of the true nature of the beings weaving through their midst.

(Dozens of lives have been altered with this ten minute conversation, but the world at large will never know that either.)

———

Emma Swan spends a lot of time by herself.

That’s to be expected, in some ways; she’s an orphan, after all, having spent all 6 years of her life bouncing between begging in the children’s homes and begging on the streets, desperate for the help of others and receiving very little of it.

But Emma is different, in a way that scares others and has left her to bounce around for years. Emma can do things that others can’t do, like the sparks that dance between her fingers and all the little things that sometimes move, falling off shelves and tables and everything else, whenever she’s upset. She can’t control it, not really, and in a life like hers, there are far too many opportunities to be upset.

A lady had seen her the other day - one of the fancy ladies by the theaters, the kind that usually pretend they don’t see Emma, like her very existence might dirty their skirts. Emma hadn’t meant to - she never means for these things to happen. But the days are getting colder, and when she really starts to shiver, even with her arms curled around herself to conserve heat, sometimes the little sparks just happen. It’s like whatever this thing is is just trying to keep her warm too.

And no one should have seen her, tucked away in that corner, but the lady is already looking around with a frown on her face like she’s searching for something, and when she turns Emma’s way, it just happens. The lady’s eyes focus on Emma, drawn by those little shoots of light, even as she shoves her hands into her armpits. Emma expects gasping, or screaming, or maybe even a panicked shout for the police - it wouldn’t be the first time - but instead, the lady just tilts her head and narrows her eyes, as if she’s seen something interesting. Then she nods abruptly and leaves.

Emma doesn’t expect to see the lady again - indeed, she rather thinks she’s dodged a bullet. But a week later, she rounds the corner with a filched apple and runs straight into the lady.

“Sorry, Ma’am,” Emma mumbles, ducking her head and trying to scoot around the older woman. When the lady darts out an elegant hand to grab Emma’s arm and hold her in place, panic courses through her veins. “Please, Ma’am, I didn’t do nothing, I swear —”

“Oh don’t be ridiculous,” the lady snaps, tugging Emma into the mouth of an unnaturally quiet alley. “I don’t care about whatever you ‘didn’t do’. I want to talk about what you did the other day.”

“I don’t know what you mean,” Emma mumbles, staring studiously at her feet.

“Of course you do - the lights, in your hands. Don’t lie to me. That’s a gift, don’t you know that?”

Emma shakes her head no.

“Your gift - it can do wonderful things. It makes you special.”

“I’m not special.”

The lady considers that for a moment before answering. “No. But you could be. I could teach you.”

Now that catches Emma’s attention. “You can? How?”

“I can do things like that too,” the lady explains with a smile that seems more smug than pleased. Sure enough, when the lady turns her hand upright, a small ball of flame burns there. Emma’s eyes practically bulge out of her head as she watches that little lick of fire - like her own, in so many ways.

“If you come with me, I’ll make sure you’re taken care of,” the lady says. It sounds like an order, not an offer; Emma knows how to recognize those. Still, maybe…

“Like a mother?” she asks hopefully, even if she knows that’s unlikely.

The lady scrunches her nose in a kind of instinctual disgust. It’s about as much as Emma expected. “Heavens, no. Don’t be ridiculous,” she scolds. “No, more like… you’d be my apprentice, and I’d teach you our trade.”

That seems odd to Emma; this lady, with her fancy dress and her fancy hat and her posh accent, doesn’t seem like the type who should have to work. “What’s your work?”

For the first time this whole conversation, the lady bends down to properly meet Emma’s eyes. Emma straightens a bit at the gesture, already able to tell she’s about to impart something important. “Magic,” the woman tells her with a smug, adult kind of smile.

“Magic isn’t real,” Emma says back, almost automatically. Six years in orphanages and left to her own devices have long since proved there are no fairy godmothers in this world, not for little girls like her.

The woman straightens. “The bits of it you have dancing around your fingers right now say otherwise.”

Emma looks down in horror to see it again - the sparks that she tries so hard to hide, that give her so much trouble. For all the mad things this lady says, she’s the first to not look at the display in alarm or even fear.

“You can make it go away?”

“I can teach you to control it,” the lady corrects, “and so much more. I’m offering you the chance of a lifetime, Emma. Don’t be such a fool as to reject that.”

And even at six, Emma is not a fool.

Emma goes with the lady, who she learns is called Regina. She never learns how Regina knew her name, but writes it off as magic.

(There are far worse fates for lost girls like her.)

———

Emma has been with Regina for a week when the strange man shows up backstage at the theater where Regina is performing.

One week isn’t a lot of time in the grand scheme of an apprenticeship, but her teacher is guiding Emma to recognize magic in the world - the way it pulls toward Emma like an odd kind of magnet and traces linger in the air for hours. Emma has learned to see the faint, radiating glow of magic around her own mentor; this man doesn’t quite have the same glow, but there’s a hum that emanates from him that she thinks might be the same thing.

Regina introduces the man as a friend, but Emma doesn’t think that’s quite right. She’s always had a knack for recognizing lies - maybe that’s a kind of magic, she wonders now - and her benefactor isn’t quite telling the truth. Maybe that’s one of the half-lies that adults tell, when they think the truth is too difficult for a child to comprehend.

Regardless of what the man might be - friend, foe, acquaintance, something else altogether - Emma can’t help but feel uncomfortable under his piercing gaze. The sparks burst and dance around her fingertips again, entirely without her say-so - something the man quickly notices.

“You’ve found a natural talent, then?” The words are addressed at Regina, but his eyes never leave Emma.

“I told you I had someone in mind,” Regina bites back, just barely on the right side of civility. “Now, if you don’t mind, I don’t have all day.”

“Patience was never your strong suit, was it, Regina?” The man’s tone is mild, but his eyes flash with displeasure. Still, he crouches in front of Emma, granting her his full attention. Though he carries a cane, the movement doesn’t appear to pain him in the way she expects. “What do they call you, young miss?”

She doesn’t particularly want to answer, but Regina has a particular look in her eye that says that she doesn’t really have a choice. “Emma,” she finally mumbles, avoiding the man’s eyes.

“Emma,” he parrots back. “What a lovely name. May I see your hand, Emma?”

Silently, she offers it, palm facing up. Once she does so, the man slips a plain gold ring off his pinky finger, sliding it onto Emma’s own ring finger instead. Curiously, Emma looks at the bauble; it is far too loose on her small finger at first, but as she watches, the band shrinks to fit until it’s a perfect fit. It doesn’t stop though, continuing to tighten and tighten until the metal sears into her skin, burning the flesh until she cries out in pain and tears spring to her eyes.

And then it’s over. The mysterious man lifts her hand with deceptively soft and delicate fingers, removing that awful ring from her digit to slip it back onto his own.

“You’ll do well, Emma.” The name almost sounds like an insult in his cold voice. “I wish you good fortune.”

(Emma doesn’t notice the item wrapped in a handkerchief Regina passes to the odd man, never realizes that it contains a silver ring to match the one he just used on her, too focused on rubbing at the smooth, scarred skin on her finger where the odd man’s ring just branded her and trying to chase the memory of pain away. One day, she will understand the way that this moment and that ring bound her to a future she didn’t fully understand.

But today, Emma is six, and all she knows is that her finger hurts.)

“You don’t want to do this yourself?” Mr. Gold asks, tucking the handkerchief and ring into his inner breast pocket.

“Obviously not. I’m not nearly as mistrusting as you are,” Regina replies.

(One day soon, Mr. Gold knows he will have cause to execute this binding on a student of his own. It does not matter much to him whether Regina is present for such a binding, though he thinks her a fool for her own sake. After all, knowledge is power - and there is no power greater than knowing your opponent.)

———

A strange man comes to Killian’s school on a Wednesday when he is eight, the kind of day where everything is shifting and changing.

(School is a generous word for this place, as none of the children ever leave, no homes or families to return to at the end of the day. Killian has a brother, three years older, but their mother is long dead. As for their father… as Liam says, the less said about the bastard, the better. There is a reason the two boys have found themselves in this children’s home by any other name.)

The man doesn’t say much, and explains even less. A selection of children, three boys and two girls - including Killian and Liam - are pulled from their regular classes and made to sit for an exam, only instructed to read all the instructions before beginning. The man must have money; the test is printed, each letter pressed in black ink onto the crisp page. It feels like a silly use of money, at least to Killian - he’d much rather use it at one of the concession vendors down by the river - but it’s impressive all the same. The test itself is not fully any one subject; there are translations of languages he doesn’t understand and number puzzles and a curious instruction at the end to only answer questions numbered in multiples of three. At the very end - question 57 - is a short answer question: Why do you think you are here today, and why are you taking this test?

Killian looks around the room at the other children, all diligently working on their own exams. There’s no obvious connector between the five children in the room; Liam has always been brilliant, but Killian is a middling student, and the other boy even lower than that. Some of them are known as quiet and well behaved, but some are not. Some are leaders, some are followers. There’s no obvious pattern.

As to why he’s taking this test… it’s obvious that the man must want to evaluate something, but Killian can’t begin to understand what. As far as his young brain can discern, the exam is about recognizing patterns and following directions. He couldn’t even begin to figure out why.

Killian stares at the space for his answer for what feels like hours. Even after nearly three years in this home, or perhaps because of it, he still has a strong desire to please, to give adults the answers they want to hear; in this case, he just doesn’t know what that is. Finally, as the other children start to put down their pencils, he hurriedly scrawls an answer.

Does it really matter?

After the exams are collected, the children are called in to speak with the man, one by one. None of the conversations are very long, and each trails out with a look of confusion on their face afterwards. Killian tries to catch Liam’s eye as his brother leaves the headmistress’ office, but Liam just furrows his brow and shrugs his shoulders in confusion.

The man holds Killian’s test in his hands when he finally enters the office, appearing to examine his answers. The man is perfectly ordinary in every way; neither short nor tall, thin nor fat, with hair that is not quite brown or blond or grey. The only thing that sets him apart is his clothing - the expensive suit, the perfectly shined shoes, the gold-tipped cane.

“Does it really matter?” the man quips, diving straight in and obviously quoting Killian’s own response.

Killian swallows heavily; he wouldn’t have written that in the first place if he knew this was coming. “Sir?”

“Your answer,” he expands, as if that needs clarifying. “I’d be curious to hear why you gave that particular answer.”

Killian flushes and looks at his shoes, but the man just waits until he finally answers. “It was obvious you had a reason for having us sit that exam,” he finally explains, “and I had no idea why that was. I didn’t want to guess.”

“You could have left it blank,” the man points out. “Several of the others did. Why the question?”

Killian shrugs. “I wanted to know.” Then, when the silence stretches out between them: “Was that wrong?”

The man stares in silence for a moment longer, before shaking his head. “I would like to take you on as my student,” he declares. When Killian hesitates, his tone turns sharp. “Are you opposed to that?”

“What about my brother?” Killian asks, meeker than he’d like.

“I am only interested in taking one student.” His words are dismissive, bordering on uncaring, and Killian’s stomach plummets.

“But what will happen to him? He’s the only thing I have left.”

“I’m more interested in what happens to you, particularly in relation to my offer, than in your brother.”

In a burst of courage (or, he’ll think in later years, foolishness), Killian pulls himself together to make a fateful declaration. “I’ll go with you… but only if you send Liam - send my brother to school.”

“This is a school.”

“A good school,” Killian clarifies. “The best one. One that will let him do anything he wants when he’s grown up.”

There’s a pause as the mystery man seems to study Killian, though his face gives nothing away. Killian’s heart climbs into his throat as he waits, but he holds his ground. That seems important, somehow - like he’s engaging in some kind of unknown battle. Finally, after what seems an eternity, the odd man tilts his head in a half shrug, as if such a concession is nothing to him. Who knows; with the kind of money he obviously has, maybe it really is nothing. “We have a deal. Go get your things - we leave today.”

(Months later, after many lessons that Killian doesn’t yet understand, the man - Mr. Gold - has Killian place a ring on his finger, a loop of silver that burns a band of flesh on his thumb. A binding, Mr. Gold calls it, tying Killian to a contest that he does not yet understand.

However, it is this transaction - Liam’s education for Killian’s own - that binds him far sooner and better than magic ever could.)

———

Magic, Emma finds, is a thread upon the breeze - swirling around them all, lighting upon branches and settling into corners, just waiting to be noticed and harnessed. And Emma does - she feels it, and knows it, and asks it for favors. Dye the dress. Fold the sheet. Heal the dove. The magic deigns to come and wind through her fingers, grip a thread and pull and alter the world to her liking.

Magic, she finds, is whimsy and wildness all in one, there for her to use and set free once again. Magic is power, more than she will ever wield; her role is but to borrow and return, like a toy set neatly back on a shelf.

Magic, she finds, is a living thing all its own, and if she works very hard, she just might earn its trust.

Emma grows to enjoy a better childhood than she ever expected before Regina took her off the streets, though it is far from gentle. It is a childhood spent moving from place to place, hopping all over Europe and even to the Americas as Regina performs in theaters around the world. Regina demands nothing less than perfection in their lessons, and Emma grows used to performing the same tasks over and over until her mentor is satisfied - turning tea cups into mice and materializing all manner of objects from unseen rooms and healing her fingertips from where Regina slices the skin with a knife, each scar a supposed indication that she’s not trying hard enough.

But in time, Emma learns and she grows. At 18, Regina deems her skills honed enough to rent her out as a medium, calling upon Emma’s skills to rattle dishes and peer into people’s deepest, saddest thoughts to echo back just what they want to hear. Emma hates every moment of it - lying to people already wracked with grief, taking their money and offering them little satisfaction. She tries to comfort the bereaved as best she can in these sessions, but it’s often of little use. Emma may dread these hollow performances, but what choice does she have? As long as she’s under Regina’s tutelage and protection, Emma’s choices are not her own.

(She may not know nearly as much about this competition as she should, but Emma longs for the beginning of the contest all the same, if only to finally crawl out from underneath Regina’s thumb.)

———

Magic, Killian finds, is a well of ink, the feeling of satisfaction deep within him when pen births onto page the perfect word, a descriptor for all the things he knew but could never say. It takes hours and years of study, but Killian learns all the ways to channel that pool - each spell, each rune, each intricate bit of charmwork. Magic is hard, but Mr. Gold says all power worth having is; besides, Killian has always been diligent.

(The lessons are much more interesting than his regular schoolwork, anyways.)

Magic, he learns, is there, if one just knows how to look for it. Most people will go their entire lives without being aware of that; he’s special to have learned. Knowing opens a whole universe of possibility; after that, it’s all down to technique, and finding the right language to channel it.

Magic, he finds, is a tool, and if he works very hard, he just might be able to harness it to his will.

Killian’s childhood is a regimented one, filled with books and careful note taking, mastering the theory and principle of every bit of magic he encounters before being allowed to put it to use. As the years stack up, his head fills with runes and symbols and all manner of magical words, like another language he’s slowly become fluent in. In time, Killian learns to piece all of it together into a powerful language only known to a select few - words that can make things happen, that can alter the very world around them. The language of magic, at its very core.

Mr. Gold may be a distant mentor, not prone to affection and rarely even telling Killian he’s proud or pleased, but he keeps his word. Liam attends the best boys’ school that money can secure, impressing his teachers with his innate curiosity and intelligence and making a whole host of friends who are happy to host him on school holidays. Once a month, Mr. Gold takes Killian to see Liam, or brings Liam to see Killian, all with a transport more efficient than any train or carriage. In between, the brothers gladly fill the weeks with exchanged letters, keeping one another apprised of their lives. Killian had told Liam about this arrangement from the beginning - the magic, the competition he’ll one day engage in - and his older brother offers all the pride that Killian doesn’t receive from his mentor. It’s not the path that either anticipated following as children, but it’s a much better life than either expected. There’s a lot to be grateful for.

As Killian grows into a man and learns how to study independently, his enigmatic teacher leaves him to his own devices. Killian prefers it that way, really; though he’s always been grateful for the mysterious, once in a lifetime opportunity he’s been offered, Killian has never been close to his benefactor, not by a long shot. There’s a feeling that hangs over every interaction that he’s never been able to shake, that he owes Mr. Gold in ways he’ll never fully understand. It’s never made for an easy relationship.

Besides, he likes his independence. He is granted a little flat in a quiet and respectable part of the city, with room for a library and a pretty view of a nearby park. It’s more than an orphan like him ever imagined he could have before this opportunity fell in his lap. There are moments of loneliness, but no more than he’s grown used to in youth; besides, as adults, Liam drops by for conversation and a nightcap far more frequently. It’s a little life he’s carved out for himself, with his notebooks and spellbooks and everything in its place, even as he continues the interminable wait for a contest he still barely knows anything about.

It’s all the more surprising, then, when one day the knock at his front door reveals none other but his teacher, as neatly turned out as ever and utterly unexpected.

“Won’t you come in?” Killian asks, stepping aside in welcome. He doesn’t much expect the invitation to be accepted, but he asks all the same; he’s used to interactions with his teacher being strictly business.

Sure enough: “That won’t be necessary. This will only be a moment.” Gold’s tone might generously be described as brusque, if Killian was in a mood to be so generous. He’s not, particularly.

“What can I do for you, then?”

“A Mr. Jefferson Madigan will be seeking a secretary and assistant,” Gold tells him, handing over someone else’s calling card. “You will apply for that position.”

It’s an odd command; Killian’s benefactor has never cultivated much of an opinion about his life of study and leisure up to this point. But suddenly, it clicks. “Is this about the challenge?”

“Mr. Madigan and his companions will be creating a venue.” Technically, it’s neither a confirmation nor a denial, but over the years, Killian has learned to read those answers as well as any book. It’s an affirmative. “It will be to your advantage to become part of that circle.”

“I understand,” Killian nods gravely.

“Make sure that you do.”

Killian looks down to examine the address on the calling card, and by the time he looks up again, Gold is gone. His teacher does that, he’s learned - found a way to move through the world while barely leaving a mark upon it. With the conversation clearly over, Killian closes his flat door.

(All the while, a metaphorical door of possibility has been thrown wide open.)

———

Mr. Jefferson Madigan may be the man for whom the word eccentric was crafted.

The townhouse is only a townhouse in the aristocratic sense of the word, more an elaborate and enormous monolith situated in town than just a normal dwelling. The door knocker is cast in the shape of two dragons, and curtains in a variety of different and garish colors peek through the window. At the bottom of what are otherwise staid, conventional stone steps are marble statues of a rabbit and a dormouse where regal lions might usually be.

It all makes sense when the man himself opens the door. While Killian has taken care to dress neatly in a trim, dark colored suit and tie, making his best attempt at the appearance of professionalism, Madigan is a riot of colors and patterns that Killian isn’t entirely certain match, but seem fitting all the same. Behind him, the entry hall is decorated in a jewel-tone blue with golden patterns and baseboards, but that makes a little more sense now that Killian has seen the man himself.

“Are you here about the vaudeville acts? Because I’m afraid that we’re rather moved on from that idea,” he says without introduction, words tumbling one right over the other in a jumble.

“I… No,” Killian manages to stutter out. A question like that has a way of putting a man off-guard. “I was led to believe you were in need of a secretary or assistant?”

“Ah. That makes more sense.” Mr. Madigan nods as if to cement it in his head. “Have you done that kind of work before?”

“No, Sir.”

“Well, that’s fine, I’ve never had a secretary before either.” By the look on his face, Madigan would be much more comfortable conducting an interview for a vaudeville actor than a secretary. “Then can you… I don’t know. Read and write and do sums? File things? I don’t think I’ve ever filed something in my life,” he mutters to himself.

“Yes, Sir. To all of it.”

“Well then good, you’re hired. Do you think I need to be filing things? It’s something I’ve never really thought about before.”

Jefferson, as he prefers to be called (“Don’t even try that Mr. Madigan nonsense, I won’t answer to it.”), is planning a circus - what Killian imagines is the venue he’s heard about for a decade and a half. And it sounds magnificent the way Jefferson describes it - something otherworldly. More an entire sensory experience than just a show, spanning dozens of tents and food stands and performers scattered across the grounds. The way he envisions it, the endeavor is more experience than anything else - simultaneously a performance space and a theater and a zoo and a venue for all kinds of edible delicacies. Perhaps carnival would be the better word, but Jefferson insists on circus.

“There’s a sense of mystery to the word, Killian,” he decrees while jotting down what is doubtless another half-baked idea on the back of a receipt. “Anyone can hold a carnival, but a circus… marvelous, magical things happen at the circus. It will look better in the papers anyways.”

(Killian will need to do so much filing to keep all this in order.)

It quickly becomes obvious that Jefferson is primarily an ideas man - and while his ideas are spectacular in so many ways, he needs assistance in bringing those ideas to life. It’s immediately obvious why he needs an assistant; for a man who spends so much of his time with his head in the clouds, lost in ideals and fanciful imagining, it’s hard to manage the practicalities of the day-to-day implementation.

There are investors of course, men who flit in and out of the planning at will as if just to make sure that their money is actually being used properly. Killian isn’t fully surprised to see his mentor is one of them; doubtless, that’s how he knew to direct Killian to Jefferson’s door in the first place. He doubts that anyone else truly remembers the man, however; Killian has long since learned to recognize the cloak of forgetability his teacher likes to draw around himself.

(There are different kinds of power, Killian has learned over the years - the kind that comes from everyone knowing what you can do, and the kind that comes from no one knowing what you can do.)

Killian learns that he is a late addition, comparatively speaking; a small collection of people have already been met on the matter, creating a small stack of roughly sketched plans that he’s sure will inevitably grow by the day. Jefferson holds a reputation, Killian has learned, for a series of elaborate late-night soirées known only as Midnight Dinners, famously exclusive events with over a dozen exotic courses and unmatched entertainments. Jefferson is a producer by trade, an entertainer in every bit of his being, and these private entertainments may be the pinnacle of his accomplishments.

(Or may have been, at least; Killian has a feeling that this circus he envisions may surpass anything else.)

The circus is born at one of these dinners - an intimate one, with only five attendees, handpicked by Jefferson as the men and women necessary to bring his vision to life. The vaguest outline was sketched that first night, tacked to the walls in the emerald green study Jefferson has set aside especially for the circus and its plans. Already, there is a stack of opened envelopes on a side table, filled with ideas the other attendees simply couldn’t hold onto until the next meeting.

They’re an interesting collection, certainly. Madame Constance Blue is a former opera singer who’s found a second career in fashion. Her eye for color and aesthetic is fabled as being unmatched - a talent she brings to this endeavor to create a cohesive environment that looks like another world on the outskirts of the city. Elsa and Anna Frost are a pair of sisters, socialites who have tried a little bit of everything, from a stint in the ballet and art school to a time as librarians they will only speak about after great persuasion. Where Madame Blue may create a visual environment for the circus, the Misses Frost are experts on the feel - all of the rest of those details from the positioning of signage to the very scents in the air, those details that so few consider but still manage to sell or doom an experience. Their little group, most meetings, is rounded out by Mr. August Booth, an architect and engineer by trade, who draws up marvelous plans for each tent and attraction. All of it embodies an elegant simplicity centered around a series of circles, one curve bleeding into another in a way that feels organic, nearly living. It makes the straight black and white stripes of the tents all the more striking in contrast to this world of elegant curves. One contributor’s work bleeds into the other, all with Jefferson at the helm to lend his ideas of what kinds of things should be presented, creating a venue that feels like a realization of all their dreams.

(The last attendee, Mr. Gold - who betrays no indication that he and Killian are even remotely acquainted - has no particular, obvious specialty that he lends to the endeavor. In fact, he barely seems to speak and is nearly forgotten in the rest of the bustle of the Circus Dinners. Somehow, though, even if no one can put their finger on what exactly Mr. Gold does, it is agreed that his contributions are essential, and that everything runs smoother and more productively at those few dinners he does attend.)

(He is always referred to by surname; though the other attendees are certain they were told his first name upon first introduction, they have no memory of what that moniker might be, and decide it would be rude to ask. )

With each dinner, the Circus fleshes out a little bit more, each piece carefully filed away so it can all fit together later. There are designs for the gates and August’s wonderful blueprints for the butterfly tents and lists of confections that must be offered. As time keeps churning forward, the members of their little dinner group increasingly start to travel, seeking out the perfect craftsmen and performers and creators to bring this endeavor to life. There are acrobats training in France and an intricate clock being crafted in Germany and Jefferson and Killian will be travelling to Scotland next week to see about a pair of big cat trainers as August travels to Austria to see about some trained horses.

But tonight, they’re all here for dinner, and there’s an unexpected guest at the door. A tall, slender woman, who claims to be a sword swallower.

“What’s the harm?” Jefferson asks when Killian informs him cautiously, sweeping his arm in a grand motion. The Circus Dinners are exclusive, and nearly sacred, but she’s here about the circus. And Jefferson has always been generous by nature. “Show her in, Jones, we’ll set another plate at the table.”

The woman introduces herself as Mulan - no second name, and no indication whether that’s her given name or surname. As the clock strikes midnight and the first plates are brought out, she climbs the low dais usually reserved for a pianist and begins her demonstration.

And it is so much more than just a sword swallowing act. Mulan moves with an almost supernatural grace, whirling her blades in an intricate and deadly dance. She tosses her swords and balances them on the tips of fingers and the ridge of her chin. And she does send the swords down her gullet, in ways that make Anna and Elsa and even composed August gasp. Each move blends one into another into another, beautiful in a savage way that leaves them all on the edge of their seats as she twirls and even flips. It mesmerizes their little audience, as delicate appetizers sit untouched on their plates.

At the conclusion of her display, Mulan resheathes her swords with a satisfying hiss of metal against metal before executing a dramatic bow, nearly bending in half in the process. Their audience erupts into applause; across from Killian, Jefferson springs to his feet in a standing ovation.

“Brilliant! Simply brilliant!” Jefferson darts up to the platform to shake Mulan’s hand vigorously, much to her apparent amusement. “We simply must have you for the circus. A platform out in the open in the crowds, right near the center, don’t you think, Elsa?”

“It certainly would be a shame to hide her away in a tent,” the blonde agrees. “I don’t think we’ll find anyone else to match her talent, either. Would you be comfortable with that? Performing to a passing crowd?” she addresses Mulan to finish.

Mulan nods solemnly, though a slight smile dances in her eyes and on her lips. “My skills are not limited by venue, you’ll find.”

“Excellent!” Jefferson crows. “You know, this is exactly what the Circus should be. More than expected. Anything but mundane. Up close and pressing past anything seen before and - oh! It’s just perfect. Welcome to the Circus, Madame.”

Jefferson’s words become a mantra as they move forward - to push boundaries, to seek people and things that are more than anyone would ever imagine.

It is what may become the making of the circus.

———

Looking back, once they come to know one another better, Killian will find it fitting that he meets Belle in a used book store.

He’s taken to wandering these stores on his rare days off with a pair of notebooks in his jacket pocket - one for little bits of magical research, and the other for chronicling any ideas he might stumble across for the Circus. Over time, Killian has discovered that odd, unusual, and even historic tomes have a way of accumulating in used bookshops, overlooked and nearly lost to time. On shelves such as these, Killian has located alchemical treatises and books of magical theory and even a potions compendium that appeared to the untrained eye to be a simple accounting of folk remedies. In a way, he supposes that’s right; it just overlooks the dash of magic that’s an extra, if necessary ingredient. These old bookstores are a good source, too, of unusual and exotic attractions and obscure ideas for confections. Whenever Killian stumbles across something he hasn’t seen before that he thinks will be of use, he records it carefully in the pertinent notebook, one tucked into each of his coat pockets, before purchasing the volume or returning it to its place on the so-often messy and cluttered shelves.

This particular day had been less than fruitful, though Killian would never call it wasted. Even if he doesn’t manage to excavate any scrap of information, the whole environment is calming - something Killian sorely needs, more often than not. He walks back to his flat at a leisurely pace, just enjoying the crisp fall day, when he suddenly realizes -

One of his pockets is lighter than it ought to be.

Quickly, Killian doubles back to the bookshop. This isn’t the first time this has happened - it’s all too easy to accidentally leave a little leather-bound notebook on a shelf in an environment full of other leather-bound books, and Killian does remember pulling out the notebook to record a particular line of a spell he’d remembered he had already recorded just as soon as his pencil had lifted off the page. A quick check of the notebook in his other pocket reveals that it is, indeed, his magic notes that are missing. It’s a mild irritant, but nothing unusual for a man with a million other things on his mind.

What is more unusual, however, is to turn the corner only to see a young woman outside the shop, paging through what appears to be his own notes with a look of marked interest on her face.

She’s pretty, Killian notes, with prim brunette curls that frame her face below a beribboned, feathered hat and a petite frame that seems dwarfed by the yellow dress beneath a neat burgundy jacket. He only spares a moment to look, however, before he intervenes for the sake of his book. If she’s half as clever as that intent crinkle in her brow suggests, it may be too late.

The young lady jerks her head to attention as Killian clears his throat, a becoming blush staining her cheeks. “I believe you have something of mine,” he comments, nodding towards the book in her hand.

“Ah, yes.” She carefully closes the pages, handing the little notebook back to him. “You’ll be Mr. Jones, then?” Killian nods an affirmative as he takes the book back - not that it stops her string of thoughts. “I do promise that I was trying to bring it back, sir - I saw you leave it down that one aisle where the cat particularly likes to sleep - but you had already left and, I see now, most likely had turned a corner and, well, I’ve already been a little curious and I just couldn’t resist flipping through the pages and —”

“Miss, it’s fine” he smiles. “I’m just relieved to have it back. That little notebook is indispensable to me.”

“I recognize some of the symbols in there,” his companion blurts out. Killian is discovering she has a tendency to do that while nervous. “Alchemical symbols, and astrological ones. Not the rest, but… well, those are all over the pages.”

“And what would you know about alchemical and astrological symbols? Seems an unusual hobby for a proper young lady, Miss…”

“Belle French. I read a lot of books.”

“Books on alchemy and astrology?”

“Yes.” She blushes again. “I came into possession of a deck of tarot cards a few years ago. It seemed worth doing my research. The alchemical bits were an accident that expanded into a separate research project.”

“You read the tarot then? I wouldn’t have expected that of a dignified lady like yourself.”

“Only for myself,” she admits. “It’s not precisely something you can practice at the average tea party. I find myself more curious what a proper young man like yourself,” she mocks his own tone, “is doing with a notebook full of such symbols.”

“Perhaps I, too, accidentally conducted extensive research into alchemy.”

Miss French fixes him with a skeptical look. “I don’t believe that for a moment. What’s the real reason?”

Killian sighs. “That’s… rather a longer story. Best settled somewhere else, if it must be told. Would you care to join me at a bistro I know?”

That should be the end of the matter. No proper young woman would agree to such a thing.

But Miss Belle French seems to be no such proper young woman, and she says yes.

It takes a hearty sip of wine once they’re settled in Killian’s favorite Parisian-style bistro for him to muster the words to speak. “I am… a student. Of sorts.”

“A student of what?” Miss French asks around her own, more delicate sip.

Now is the moment of truth, where she believes him or she doesn’t. “Of magic.”

Miss French’s brow furrows for just a confusion. “Magic? Like the illusion acts you see at the theaters?”

“A little more than that,” he tries to explain. “It’s… well. When you read your cards, does it feel like some rote interpretation? Or like you’re channeling something, the mere conduit for the cards?”

“The latter, I suppose.”

“That’s a form of magic. A very special one, actually, one that not everyone can find. I can’t.”

“So your… magic isn’t like that then?”

“It’s more like… a secret language,” Killian tries to explain. “It’s something I can find deep within me, and speak into existence.”

His lovely companion still looks unconvinced - not that he can blame her. It’s a lot to wrap one’s head around. “You don’t believe me.”

“I don’t disbelieve you,” she’s careful to say. “But you must admit, Mr. Jones, that it’s an awful lot to take in.”

Killian thinks for a moment, before settling in his mind on a way to prove it. “Is there anywhere you’ve ever wanted to go? Someplace you’ve never seen, but always wanted to?”

“I’ve always wanted to visit the beach, and see the ocean,” she replies wistfully.

“I can make that happen.”

“With your magic, I suppose?”

“Yes. Do you trust me?”

Miss French hesitates for just a moment before nodding.

“Then take my hands, and close your eyes.”

With her soft hands in his own, Killian draws upon the words, murmuring them into the back corner of the cafe where they sit. Slowly, the dim lighting and faint smell of smoke dissipates, replaced by warm sunlight and the faint rush of the tide coming in.

Miss French opens her eyes without his asking, gasping as she takes in the illusion of an environment he’s created. Gulls circle overhead; were she to remove her shoes, she’d feel soft sand beneath her toes, stretching as far as the eye can see.

“It’s marvelous,” she breathes. “And you did all this?”

“Aye. And I can do much more.”

It’s evident that in this moment, at least, she doesn’t care about much more; she’s too enthralled with the ocean in front of her.

“You know, Mr. Jones, I think we were meant to meet today,” she murmurs. “And I don’t even need the cards to say it.”

She becomes a friend, over time, over cups of tea and discussions of his studies and her practice with her tarot cards; the first real friend he’s ever had. Mr. Gold doesn’t approve, claiming that she’s a distraction, but Killian doesn’t much care. She makes his life better, in those hours he isn’t called away by the circus. And as the planning rolls on, turning into reality, she lends a listening ear every step of the way.

Neither of them can predict how much will change with the hiring of the illusionist.

———

It’s been years of this - the constant preparing for something she doesn’t fully understand, of being tested, being pushed to what Emma believes are her very limits before discovering that she still has more to give, to bleed, to learn. A sense of anticipation hangs over her entire life, such as it is, and she doesn’t even know what she’s waiting for, or how long it will take to get here. Regina has told her time and again to be patient, that things will become clearer in time, that this isn’t something frivolous, you foolish girl, you can’t rush it, but Emma has never been one for patience. She is 24, and it has been 18 years, and there is still no sign of whatever this competition is, or will be.

Until one day, a neat envelope appears on the dressing table in Emma’s room in the ostentatious flat she has shared with Regina since the very beginning whenever they’re in London.

It would be in your best interest to present yourself at the below address on June the 19th.

The missive isn’t signed, but Emma doesn’t need a signature anyways; it’s evident in the neat gilt letters on the crisp cream-colored parchment that this message is from the man with the cane. Mr. Gold, half a memory whispers, though he’s done his very best to remove himself from memory. There is no postmark, and no messenger; it is clear to Emma that this card has appeared without the intervention of a human hand. Not that the man she suspects would need such mundane means to deliver a message. Emma has grown up surrounded by and steeped in magic, and she has long since learned to recognize true power - and even though she was only a child the single time she met the man with the gold-tipped cane, she’d felt even then the magic clustered all around him like metal filings to a magnet. To a man like that, delivery of this message would be the easiest thing in the world.

There’s a newspaper clipping too, Emma realizes as she slowly moves to find and show her teacher. It’s an advertisement, seeking an illusionist, with the address of a modest theater at which she should apply.

Seeking an extraordinary individual to marvel and amaze, the cramped newsprint proclaims. An unmatched opportunity to become part of an unprecedented entertainment spectacle.

“What have you got there?” Regina asks when Emma enters their parlor, examining every inch of the message and its attached advertisement. The words are closer to a demand than an inquiry, but Emma isn’t particularly surprised; these kinds of interactions have always been her teacher’s modus operandi.

“A note. I found it on my dressing table.” Carefully, Emma passes the documents to Regina for the other woman’s examination. As Regina reads the words, a devious kind of smile inches its way across her face.

“You know what this means, don’t you?” she asks Emma with that same odd smile. It only widens when Emma shakes her head in the negative. “It means we’ve reached the beginning.”

And with those six words, the next phase of Emma’s life begins.

———

Killian thought he knew what to expect - but he never expected her.

They’d placed advertisements in all the major papers, seeking an illusionist for the circus - a magician. Jefferson, for all his endless inspiration and imagination, has never realized that the most fitting candidate for this particular job has been silently at his side for the past two years, through every bit of planning. Jefferson never realizes that there’s a reason that this has all come together unnaturally smoothly, as if aided by unseen forces.

Jefferson, for all his endless imagination, will never believe that humans are capable of anything more than illusion, will never believe that true magic is possible.

(That’s for the best, really; Mr. Gold just needs a pawn to create a venue, and Killian… well, Killian just wants, nay, needs to limit the collateral lives disrupted for the purposes of this competition.)

Attending the auditions as Jefferson’s personal secretary to record any decisions ultimately made, Killian expects a long parade of conmen, of charlatans and fakers and all the normal cast of characters that pass for magicians in a world that refuses to see the truth. And he gets them in spades, with card tricks and pretty assistants and poorly behaved rabbits who are more interested in exploring the legs of the mezzanine chairs than disappearing into hats. Maybe those kinds of displays would be good enough for most undertakings; the public will be expecting the normal sort of “magic” displays, after all.

But this is for the circus - and the circus must be more than that.

(It’s for exactly that reason that Killian draws a tricky bit of magic about himself that he picked up from his mentor years ago - a charm to smother any traces of magic about him, to make him seem so ordinary that strangers’ eyes don’t bother to linger. He may expect a long line of fakes, but on the off chance this attracts someone of more genuine talent… Killian isn’t taking any chances.)

Killian never even sees her coming. It’s their last appointment of the day after a chain of disappointments, and frankly, he’s ready for a cup of tea, or perhaps a glass of something stronger. But then the young man who works at the theater is clearing his throat to announce the next applicant, and Killian looks up —

And it’s her.

The woman before him is beautiful - collected, quiet, but with a confidence that shows in her bearing, in the straightness of her spine and the sure look on her face. She wears an emerald green dress with a black velvet jacket with trailing sleeves, and she looks a picture - possibly the most beautiful thing he’s ever seen. She looks more suited to fashionable tea rooms, or strolling along the street to perhaps visit an acquaintance, or any of those other ordinary things women of means and unnatural beauty do with their days. It’s obvious, though, that ordinary is the last word that could be used to describe her. Even from across the room, he can sense the magic that clings to her skin like traces of ink - true magic, not the facsimiles he’s suffered through all day.

He knows immediately that this woman - whoever she may be - is the opponent he’s been anticipating for 18 years, since he was only 8 years old, and the knowledge simultaneously exhilarates and terrifies him.

(Even if he’s been working for two years to help bring this competition, this circus to life, it suddenly feels real to see his competitor across from him, flesh and blood and blond curls.)

(He has no business forming an attachment, but she already fascinates him on a level far more personal than professional.)

“Your name?” Killian hears Jefferson ask, as if from a distance. That’s not the reality of this situation, really; his employer sits in the seat right in front of Killian’s own, barely two feet apart. It’s hard to focus on anything else, though, with an angel standing in front of them all.

“Emma Swan,” she answers. Her voice isn’t loud, but it’s sure, and with its own particular melody. “I understand you’re looking for an illusionist.”

“We are indeed, Miss Swan. And do you believe you’re the man - my pardon, woman for the job?” Jefferson wears what Killian has learned is his most charming smile, and Killian feels an unwarranted flash of irritation. Can’t he see this creature isn’t for him? Isn’t some simpering young girl to melt at his attentions?

(It’s a relief to see that, while Miss Swan does smile back, it’s only a smirk of seeming amusement. She’s here for other things, they both know, even if Jefferson doesn’t.)

“That’s for your judgement, isn’t it?” As Emma poses the question, she carefully strips out of her jacket, only to toss it carelessly towards a chair. As the fabric sails through the air, however, it miraculously turns into a raven, circling the room before landing back in one of the investors’ laps, abruptly a stack of folded velvet once more. Miss Swan may make it look easy, nearly thoughtless, but it’s evident to Killian that she’s performed a very impressive piece of magic - and evident to all those less observant as well. The amused little smirk returns as Miss Swan calmly folds her hands atop the green satin of her dress. “But I believe so, yes.”

What follows is exactly the impressive spectacle of magic they’d hoped to find, but Killian never believed they would.

The gentlemen’s handkerchiefs turn into doves, which fly to perch at the edge of the stage. The delicate flowers of the wallpaper peel from the walls to beautiful, fragrant life. At one point, their chairs all lift to hover a foot above the ground. One trick flows into the next, and into the next again, all conducted by the extraordinary Miss Swan with graceful hands and barely any appearance of effort. It feels like the entire audience, small though it might be, holds its breath as the magician completes her display, conjuring her crisply folded jacket back into a raven. In a flurry of feathers, the bird dives towards its mistress as the audience watches anxiously, only to reappear as a drapery once again on the pale, delicate arms of the enchanting Miss Swan.

Ahead of Killian, Jefferson and the other producers explode into a flurry of applause - a well earned ovation, in his not-so-humble opinion. That was… spectacular. Amazing. Magical.

“Bravo, Miss Swan!” Jefferson calls, jumping nimbly up the stairs at the front of the stage to shake her hand. “I think you’re just the thing we’ve been looking for. Won’t she look lovely, Constance?”

“She’ll make a statement, certainly,” Madame Blue replies. This might be the closest Killian has seen the formidable woman to satisfaction. “We’ll have to plan the wardrobe carefully, of course. Something… striking. A bit out of the ordinary, with outer layers to remove. That trick with the jacket was extraordinary,” she finally addresses the subject of their discussion. “I imagine you’ll want to incorporate it.”

“I had planned to in some form, yes,” Miss Swan confirms. “Is there a particular… concern you have about my clothing?”

“Please don’t mistake us, Miss Swan,” Jefferson hurries to assure her. “You look absolutely lovely. We’re trying to create an entire atmosphere in this endeavor, you see. An entire circus, all in black and white and silver. Including its members. Madame Blue, here, is an invaluable help in creating that.”

“I see,” Miss Swan nods. “So I suppose you’re thinking something more like this?”

As she speaks, they’re treated to one final trick, as the green of her skirts flees at the touch of a finger, changing to pearly skirts that slowly give way to an ink black hem. As with every display of her magic, it’s graceful, effortless; more than that, as her dress completes its transformation, skirts widening to a dramatic sweep in the process, she looks like the very essence of everything they want the circus to be.

Killian gapes. Madame Blue nods approvingly. Jefferson beams.

“Splendid! Oh, absolutely marvelous. Never tell me how you do that. Yes, that will do very nicely indeed, Miss Swan. You’re hired.”

As if anyone else would ever do.

———

Killian shows up at Liam’s door that night, to the small but comfortable apartment a junior banker shouldn’t yet be able to afford on his salary.

(He’s always been sure to care for his brother, the same way his brother always cared for him.)

He must look a wreck when Liam opens the door, as his brother moves to pour them both a measure of rum without even being asked. His neat necktie has been loosened in the past hour and his hair is doubtless a riot from running his hand up the back, but Killian thinks it’s more whatever look he wears on his face that spurs Liam into action.

“I met them today. Her,” Killian finally confides once they’re both settled into the plush, if hideous armchairs in front of the fire.

“Who’s this, now?”

“My competitor.” Killian attempts a chuckle, but can’t quite manage it. “This game I’ve been prepared for for so long… the other person was always just some amorphous concept. Of course there’d be a competitor, it’s a game. But… I met her today, Liam.”

Liam takes another sip from his tumbler. “I take it that’s a bad thing?”

Killian fiddles with the scar on his thumb as he thinks, the seared band of skin the contract tying him to this competition. It doesn’t bother him, never has, really; most days, he wears a silver ring to conceal the mark from the many curious eyes in Jefferson’s winding townhome, but he’s taken the piece of jewelry off tonight. Tonight is a night for confession, for laying his myriad of confused feelings on the table, not for concealment.

“I don’t know that it’s bad, per se,” he finally replies. “It’s just… she was never a person until today. I know I’ve been working with Jefferson and his colleagues for two years to bring the venue for this competition to life, but meeting a real, live person is something else. It made it real, in a way.”

“And you’d rather it wasn’t,” Liam infers.

Killian says nothing, ready to neither confirm nor deny that. It’s been an unexpected day, and he’s still trying to process the novelty of having a name and a face. This has been years of his life - 18 years of them - and it finally feels like the waiting is done.

Liam tries again. “What’s she like, then?”

“Composed.” It’s too stiff a word for the vibrant creature he witnessed today, but it’s the first that comes to mind. She’d seemed perfectly composed, fully in control of everything around her. There’s more than that, though. “She was confident, mostly, in that kind of understated way where you could tell she knew exactly what she was doing without ever having to brag about it. She seemed bloody brilliant, honestly,” Killian admits.

“That sounds like an awful lot of admiration for a woman you’re supposed to view as your foe,” Liam comments with that lift of the brow Killian adopted himself years and years ago.

“She’s beautiful,” Killian says simply. “She’s perfectly lovely, and honestly? I don’t really want to battle her.”

“So what will you do?”

“I don’t know,” Killian replies truthfully.

He never expected this knowledge to create more questions than answers.

(Killian is beginning to think that just may be the way of this competition; frustration and confusion at every turn.)

(As his mentor has so often says: magic comes with a price.)

———

Now that he knows his competition, it becomes obvious that Miss Swan has an advantage over Killian: while he may exist outside the Circus, maneuvering the board from afar, she’ll live right in the heart of it, manipulating things from within. After all these years, Killian still only knows that the Circus is meant to be a venue for him to test and stretch his abilities beyond anything he ever imagined until, inexplicably, one of them is crowned the winner. From his standpoint, Miss Swan will find that much easier, as she doesn’t have a distance to reckon with. Hell, he won’t even know when she makes a move, so to speak.

Unexpectedly, it is Belle who finds a solution to that.

“I could be your spy, you know,” she proposes. They’ve long since abandoned formal last names and proper tea shops for lounging in his flat, her with a book and he with one of his notebooks or some circus plans he’s perfecting. So, too, has Belle long since been apprised of all the misty particulars of this competition.

Killian frowns. “I don’t follow.”

“Well, you need a way to hear the news of the circus, right? Everything this Miss Swan does, at least in regards to the Circus. All the little changes she might make.”

“That’s right.”

“And it’s true, too, that the Circus still needs a fortune teller.”

Realization slowly dawns. “Belle, I couldn’t ask you to —”

“You’re not asking; I’m offering,” she interrupts. “I can read my cards for visitors. You’ll be so busy with the Circus, anyways, and making your own moves in this competition, that we’ll barely see each other anymore. You can arrange that, right? To hire me as the fortune teller?”

“Of course - but Belle, are you certain?”

“Nothing is ever certain, Killian,” she scolds affectionately, good-naturedly. “But I want to help. And besides, I’ve always wanted to see the world. What better opportunity will I find, or make?”

When Killian personally vouches for Belle to Jefferson, her hiring is arranged as quickly as promised. He can’t help but feel like this is a mistake, somehow, but the benefits are undeniable. Belle packs her bags and promises to be a faithful correspondent - a promise he knows she’ll admirably fulfill.

(He tries not to think about how she’s one more life he’s tied to the Circus, one more article of collateral damage if and when this all ends.)

———

After so long in her contained world, constantly under Regina’s critical eye, Emma finds she loves the communal atmosphere of the circus. Emma’s little compartment is so much more compact than the rooms she’s grown used to over the years, but there’s a particular coziness that feels more comfortable than anything she’s known before. Maybe it’s the knowledge that this space is truly hers, without monitoring or judgement. She lines the walls with spell books and herbal manuals and silly novels, hangs cages for her doves from the ceiling, shoves a small desk in one corner and a well padded armchair in the other, and spreads a brightly pieced quilt over the bunk’s mattress. She makes it home, in a way she’d never thought she’d achieve.

(She’s wanted a home since she was a child, went with Regina in partial hope that she’d find one, but it’s only now at the age of 24 that she’s made it with her own two hands and a good bit of magic.)

She watches the circus come together too, in staging grounds just outside of London. Each tent is carefully constructed in black and white stripes, though their height and circumference vary. The acrobats’ tents soar the highest, starting to fade into the starry skies to accommodate the trapezes and tightropes beneath the cloth surface. On the other end of the spectrum the fortune teller’s tent is barely large enough for two people and a table.

Emma’s tent is somewhere in between. It’s not large, by any means, but there’s enough space for a clearing at the center and two rows of chairs circling all the way around the edges. It’s interactive, in a way Emma never imagined a theater could be when she was a child under Regina’s care. Then again, it’s not really a theater, is it? It’s more a… space. An arena. Truthfully, Emma isn’t sure there’s a word for the intimate feel of this arrangement. Her audience will be right there, enhancing the display in a way Emma hadn’t imagined. Then again, when you’re practicing true magic instead of illusion, you don’t need that extra separation.

Once it’s time to eventually move on, the whole venue has been carefully constructed to fold and stow away into a series of boxcars and containers for transport. It’s all a little unbelievable, really, the ease with which something so sprawling can stow so neatly away. There’s an atmosphere at the circus, however, even amongst its members, that anything might happen, and the logistics are never questioned as the specially hired crew of workers scurry about, practicing folding and unfolding each tent into their respective boxcars. Maybe they already know that something supernatural is at work; the longer Emma spends at the circus, the more she wonders if this is the one place on Earth where magic can exist in plain sight without question.

(There’s something about the traces of magic at the folds and joints of each structure that feels familiar in a way Emma can’t quite put her finger on - like she’s encountered it before. It’s a rare trace of her competitor in an environment where she still doesn’t know their identity.)

If the circus is the first real home Emma’s ever found, then its members may be her first real family. She’s always felt… different, all too aware of how her abilities have set her apart from other people since she was a little girl. The wonderful thing that she’s discovered is that everyone is a little odd at the circus, even without magic. There are contortionists and animal tamers and acrobats and all manner of other performers, all good people who don’t fit within the bounds of conventional society. Even the vendors, the souvenir sellers and the concession dealers, are the kind of people more willing to believe in the unusual without question. It’s a welcoming, accepting, happy environment that Emma revels in.

There are individuals that Emma makes particular friends with. Ruby, who, along with her husband Graham, works with wolves , is an absolute spitfire who keeps them all entertained with her wit and predictions for the circus. Mary Margaret, who performs tricks with a flock of trained birds, and her husband David, one of the stagehands, are as sweet a couple as Emma’s ever seen and determined to spread that love to everyone else around them as well. It feels a little like they’ve adopted her as an adult child, set upon caring for her in any way they can, and Emma finds she kind of likes it.

(There’s the fortune teller, too - Belle, a kind and quiet woman that Emma is friendly with, if not close. Somehow, Emma gets the feeling that Belle knows more about this whole thing than anyone else, but can’t put her finger on why. She’d know if the petite little brunette was her opponent, she’s sure; surely she’d sense her opponent’s own magic, the way she can always see the way her own gathers like dozens of little stray hairs about her person.)

There’s a feeling of comradery amongst the group of them, of family. They’re a stability that Emma craves in the midst of all this uncertainty, a support system even if she can’t reveal the stakes she’s facing. As simple a word as it is, they’re friends, and that’s a thing that’s been sorely lacking Emma’s entire life.

Mulan, however, is a different story. It’s not that they’re not friends - Emma would say that they’re consistently friendly. Emma had immediately noticed the way magic had clung to the other woman in the same way that it does to herself. Here, Mulan may be a sword swallower, but she’s undeniably a powerful magician too.

“This isn’t the first time that such a competition has been staged,” Mulan tells her over tea as her spoon stirs in sugar without apparent human hand, a thread of magic spooling and unspooling about the metal over and over again.

“So how do I win, then?” If Mulan has been in her shoes before - and indeed, the other woman’s particular brand of magic suggests she trained under Emma’s own mentor, Regina - then this could be a critical advantage for Emma.

But Mulan shakes her head. “That’s something you have to discover in your own time. I’m here merely as… an observer. Support, perhaps. But not to interfere.”

(Even as she says the words, Emma can see a sadness in Mulan’s eyes that sends a stab of foreboding through Emma’s heart.)

There’s an entire universe of possibilities contained within the wrought iron gates, different ways this all could play out. Emma feels within her heart that even if the circus hasn’t opened, the competition has already begun; after all, she’s already tied her own magic to its construction, the way it expands and contracts and travels, lending her own abilities to those enchantments someone else already set.

There will be a chance to test that tomorrow, as all of this is folded up and moved to where the circus will celebrate its opening night in barely 72 hours’ time. It’s a delicate business, but will be worth it when the effect is finally unveiled - or at least Emma hopes it will be. It’s hard to imagine anyone not loving the circus, in all its wonder, just as much as they do, but dozens of lives are tied to the circus - now dozens of homes and salaries and futures. It’s hard not to feel a little nervous about all that is to come, for their sakes if not her own.

Above the ticketing booths at the front gates of the circus sits an enormous cuckoo clock, with figures and designs constantly shifting, changing from black to white and back again. Emma likes to come and watch the clock in the moments she takes for herself; there’s something about the simple, elegant mechanics that calms her, shows her the beauty that can exist without magic. Her entire world will change once again once the circus opens its gates for the first time, but the clock is a reminder that change is more than inevitable - it is natural, and sometimes even good.

As the clock ticks the minutes away overhead, Emma closes her eyes and centers herself. All around her, she can feel the energies of all the people who bring the circus to life - happy and excited and good, in a way she hadn’t known existed. All these lives in her hands, caught up in this competition without even knowing it.

And Emma will do her damndest to protect every one.

———

There’s a party, the night before the circus opens its gates for the first time, at the lavish townhouse of the circus’ proprietor. It’s perfectly in keeping with what Emma knows of the man; Jefferson - as he insists on being called, damn the proprieties - is generous by nature, despite (or perhaps because of) his eccentricities. Where anyone else would balk at the collected mass of the Circus’ players and crew showing up on their doorstep and traipsing through their halls, Jefferson welcomes them with open arms, seeming to delight in the chaos they might bring with them.

At the Circus, they might be clad in black and white and every shade in between, but Jefferson’s halls are a riot of color tonight - and not just due to his bold decorating preferences. The circus members have truly let loose for the occasion, in a wide array of colors and patterns - green stripes and purple layered on blue and polka-dotted waistcoats, all melding together into a unique symphony of hues never seen before or since. Emma herself wears a red gown that makes her feel like a princess, with long sleeves and a scooped neckline and beading along the bust. Technically, the dress has looked far different when she started with it - a dark navy blue and rather more demure than this end result, though the cloth itself was of good quality - but she’s always had a deft hand with fabrics. It comes in handy in her small train car room, where she really only has room for a single trunk unless she gets magically creative with her storage space.

The party is, by all appearances, a roaring success. Dinner features the widest variety of options imaginable, featuring dishes seemingly from every corner of the globe. There are fountains of chocolate and tiny little bites of meat and vegetables and the most delicate pastries Emma has ever eaten in her life. After dinner, there’s music and dancing and gaming tables in the parlor. The hired band keeps playing a series of merry dance numbers, reels and jigs and the occasional waltz. It’s joyful, happiness permeating every inch of Jefferson’s brightly colored mansion that makes the whole place shine in a way that has nothing to do with any candles or oil lamps.

Personally, Emma is happier along the edges of rooms, observing everything else that goes on around her. It’s not that she’s somehow opposed to the festivities; far from it, at fact. She easily allows herself to be talked into taking turns on the dance floor with David and Ruby even a delighted Jefferson when they ask her with a smile and, in Ruby’s case, a rather insistent and intoxicated tug towards the dance floor. She knows the steps; she knows the rules. But it is hard, sometimes, after a childhood spent largely alone, to throw herself willingly into the heart of it all. It’s intimidating, in a way. At the heart of things, it’s less overwhelming to observe, a wallflower by choice.

From her own vantage point, however, it’s impossible not to notice another soul doing the same thing - sticking to the walls and to the shadows, absorbing everything while engaging with none of it. The person in question is a man - strikingly handsome, with dark hair and sharp cheekbones that make him look a little dangerous. He’s the kind of man who should have no problem finding a dance partner, if he so desired, but he waits along the edges, the same as her. What’s even more curious is that Emma has no idea who he is. Emma isn’t fool enough to claim that she’s intimate friends with each and every person in the Circus - there’s far too many for that - but she does recognize them by sight, at least. It’s an inevitable result of living and working with people in such a tight-knit environment as the Circus. This man isn’t one of them. Curiously, she still has the feeling that he’s familiar, somehow. She can’t quite put a finger on why; it’s like a whisper in her ear, that she knows him in a way she doesn’t yet understand.

(She sees him looking, too, when he thinks she hasn’t noticed. Maybe he feels this curious deja vu as well.)

At one point, she notices Mulan speaking briefly with the mystery man - nothing more than a few words, but enough to catch her attention.

“Who is that?” Emma asks the next time Mulan passes her by, dressed in regalia that looks more like armor than a dress. It suits her, in a way something more traditional wouldn’t have. “That man in the corner?”

“By that particularly ugly bronze bust?” Emma nods. “That’s Jefferson’s personal secretary. Killian Jones. I’m surprised you haven’t met him before - he follows Jefferson everywhere, records everything. Jefferson won’t on his own.”

Maybe that’s where Emma recognizes him from; it would make sense that he’d have been at her audition, just another face in the crowd. That must account for this odd sense of familiarity.

Mulan waits patiently as Emma turns the information over in her head, as if waiting for her to ask another question. For the life of her, she can’t imagine what that might be.

“I didn’t know that,” she finally replies. “Thank you.”

“Of course,” Mulan nods. “Try and have a little fun tonight. It’s not like we’ll have another chance for this for a long while.”

“I promise I am. Even without the dancing.”

“Good.”

(There’s a little tickle at the back of her neck that says Mulan isn’t sharing the whole story, but Emma doesn’t pry further. The other woman plays her cards very close to her proverbial vest; she won’t reveal anything except exactly what she deems it necessary for Emma to know.)

As Mulan slides silently back into the crush, Emma steals another glance at the corner, but the man - Killian Jones - is gone.

Not that it matters to her. After all, they’ll likely never meet again.

(It is easy to ignore the little voice that whispers Oh, but you will.)

———

The circus opens on a warm June night under a new moon, and it feels like anything might happen. The tents are all set, the costumes sewn, the performers placed along each neatly lined path. All that’s missing is the audience.

At the very center of the circus is an ornately crafted fire pit, with shoots of burnished metal curling towards the sky in imitation of the flame contained within. Over time, the heat of the fire will heat and scar the metal in its own unique way, creating an ever changing statue. Tonight, in recognition of the circus’ opening night, the bonfire will be lit for the first time at precisely midnight in a ceremony for all to see.

Tucked into the grate beneath the fire pit, carefully warded against the flame with a series of runes, is a leather-bound book that no one but Killian knows about. The volume is the circus, in a way that he’s proud to have accomplished. Between the covers are pages and pages of plans for each and every tent, ride, and attraction, with magic carved into every line. This is the way that the circus is brought to life - the way it’s assembled and disassembled, the way it operates, the way it exists. At the back is a list of everyone employed by the circus, from Mrs. Lucas who runs the dining car of the train to the day-old twins of one of their vendors, a craftsman and his wife who sell intricate animals carved out of wood so delicately and with such life that they look as if they might begin to cavort across your palm. Each name is accompanied by a single drop of their blood - something so simple, but powerful. It binds them to the circus, protects them; it’s a safeguard, in case something should ever happen.

(Killian hates to think that there might be collateral damage in all this, but it seems inevitable. Mr. Gold and Madame Mills aren’t the types to worry about the chaos they create, as long as they get what they want. This will protect the circus and all the many lives that depend upon it.)

Most significantly, Killian creates a tricky little bit of magic to link the volume under the bonfire, right in the heart of the circus, to another in his own possession. It’s still unclear, in so many ways, exactly what this so-called competition will entail, let alone how long it will last. It seems inevitable that in order for the competition to move forward, additions and changes will need to be made, ways to demonstrate each of their respective powers. A second volume, directly mirroring the first, will allow him to add attractions as the opportunity arises.

Killian feels somehow in-between as he wanders the grounds of the circus - not one of the performers, but not quite a normal visitor ever. He’s done more to bring this to life than anyone present knows, but it doesn’t feel like a part of him in a way he might have expected. He strolls the paths, cloaked in spells that turn everyone’s attention away from his person so he can place the tome without questioning. That’s fitting, he thinks; he’s not part of the circus in any visual way, now or previously, yet he’s made more of a mark than they’ll ever know. He’s shaped this entire spectacle from the shadows, and his work is only beginning.

It feels like something settles into place as Killian slides the book into its nook. It’s like the whole circus was just waiting for that final piece, as if a breath has been released and this can all finally begin. Something cements in that moment; some piece of ancient magic more powerful than any rune. All that’s left to do is activate that magic with the lighting of the bonfire.

(There are already firecrackers in place to set off with each tick of the clock leading to midnight, but Killian can sense the traces of someone else’s magic lingering on each charge. It seems Miss Swan has left her mark on the fire in her own way, one that will make this a night to remember for all involved. Their work has long since begun, but they both usher in a new phase with their own mark.)

Killian stays to watch the lighting of the bonfire, still cloaked in the shadows even amongst the crowds of life around him. At a few minutes to midnight, they all assemble around the pit - every performer, every visitor, every vendor. Each and every soul. It’s easy to pick out the audience from the circus members; true to their vision, those who are part of the circus are clad in black and white and silver, alternately blending into the night and reflecting like the brightest stars. They stand stark against everyone else and the usual medley of colors, like elegant wraiths.

Killian spots, too, Jefferson across the way, and the Frost sisters, and Madame Blue and Mr. Booth, all here to mark the occasion. They’ve participated in the dress code as well, Killian is amused to see - Jefferson in a white suit decked with tiny black stars, and the ladies in varying shades of white and silver and grey. Mr. Booth’s black suit may just be his usual wear, but the silver necktie adds a certain celebratory vibe. Killian’s lips twitch in a smile to see their little group, looking with varying levels of satisfaction (or outright bouncing glee, in Jefferson’s case) on the experience they dreamed and brought to life. It’s not necessary, really, that Killian disguise himself anymore; as Jefferson’s personal secretary, it would seem natural for him to be here to witness this. Killian has ulterior motives for maintaining the cloak, however - namely, watching his opponent, the lovely Miss Swan.

He’s a little enthralled by her, he’ll admit. Miss Emma Swan is… not what he expected in a competitor. If pressed, Killian will admit that he expected his opposing counterpart to be someone rather like himself - some young man around his age, similarly focused, similarly discreet. Miss Swan - besides being, most obviously, a young woman instead of a young man - wields her magic with an open confidence that he hadn’t expected, at least if her audition and the few times they’ve crossed paths since on circus business are any indication. Then again, it’s not like there’s as much need to hide her magic as Killian always believed; to the public, magic isn’t real after all, and she’s just a circus illusionist.

(She’s a born performer, is what she is, and Killian looks forward to surreptitiously attending one of her shows tonight to relive the particular thrill of watching Miss Swan in action.)

(As much as Killian tells himself they’re different, there’s something in her eyes that says that’s not quite true - the look of someone who’s been left alone for too long. Maybe they are cut from the same cloth, after all. Not that it matters in situations such as these.)

Ten seconds before midnight, the firecrackers begin setting off in bright bursts of color and pattern, causing an audible gasp of awe from the assembled audience. There are swirls of blue, shoots of red, bursts of gold, all perfectly timed to the second hand of his watch. It’s the purest expression of magic made real, and even though Killian knows to watch for the way Miss Swan’s fingers twist at her side to release each round, it still leaves him in a little bit of awe and wonder. It’s displays like these that first enthralled him to the idea of magic, all those years ago when he was still just a boy; it’s nice to reclaim that even just for a moment.

At the crescendo, a previously unnoticed archer - a trick-shot they’d hired, who can hit the smallest targets from the greatest distance - releases a single flaming arrow. It lands dead center in the bonfire pit, just above where Killian alone knows the volume containing the circus rests, and ignites it in a chasing line of flame. It roars to beautiful life, illuminating the beautiful joy and wonder on each and every face.

And just like that - the circus is alive.

———

The circus is a wonder, unmatched by any other.

There’s something otherworldly about it, you think as you take in the sights. There’s a stark elegance and mysticism about the venue and all its players that feels unnatural, in the best way - as if you’ve stumbled out of the real world and into a fairy court, where the very air is laced with magic and anything might happen.

Each tent is somehow better than the last, and you wander without real purpose between each, trusting fate and your heart to lead the way. Even the winding paths, paved in silvery grey pebbles, hold their own surprises, twisting and curving past all manner of performers on pedestals in the night air. There are contortionists in silver and jugglers with patterned balls and clubs, fire swallowers and concession vendors who smile at you and living statues who move so gradually as to be barely discernible to the naked eye.

It is more than an attraction, you realize as the first rays of light peak over the horizon, illuminating the intricate metalwork of the front gate clock; it’s an experience, a wonder, something that sinks into your very soul and changes you in ways you’re not yet equipped to describe.

The circus lingers in your mind and heart, and you will never be the same again.

#captain swan #cs ff #captain swan ff #cssns #A Fate Woven in Thread and Ink #my writing #magicians!cs #The Night Circus

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comparativetarot · 3 years

Photo

Two of Coins. Art by Celeste Pille, from The American Renaissance Tarot.

“The Two of Coins for The American Renaissance Tarot. Here we’ve used the pain on William Wells Brown’s face to dramatic contrast with the happy-go-lucky role he was made to play as a slave. The hare represents the Yoruba trickster character that got translated to “Brer Rabbit” in the United States.” — Thea Wirsching

“The Two of Coins depicts a particularly painful section of Brown’s story, where he talks about how, as a slave, he was ordered to assist a slave-trader in setting the slaves to dancing and music-making so that they would sell for more on the auction block. I think our artist has captured the bitter poignancy of the scene - Brown, dressed in the offensive Jim Crow minstrel costume, shows his turmoil in his face. The gray background and menacing hare, symbol of the African trickster figure, contribute to the ominous feel. This card is our ode to the idea of 'double consciousness' coined by W.E.B. DuBois.“ — Thea Wirsching

#Celeste Pille #The American Renaissance Tarot #Two of Coins #Two #Coins #Minor Arcana #Tarot #Literature #William Wells Brown #Brer Rabbit #Jim Crow #African American #Racial Diversity

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lunarthedragon · 4 years

Text

Bards are Knives and Arrows, Not Sunshine and Daisies

Written mostly from excitable inspiration from a previous post of mine here. Wrote this mostly in my free time at school so bound to have mistakes.

Read on Ao3: here

Oxenfurt University was a school of prestige. Only the best of the best went there to study; which really just meant rich kids or the exceptionally, exceptionally talented. It was a haughty establishment, encouraging space-minded men to keep their minds in space, asking questions no one actually cared to ask in the real world.

That was its reputation, anyway. What the common man or woman might say when asked what they thought of the establishment.

To a degree… they weren’t wrong. The main classes did contain quite a few children of wealth, but that was only the surface. Every old, near ancient, organization is bound to have bones in its closet, and Jaskier was intimately associated with those very bones in Oxenfurt University.

He attends classes, studying the seven liberal arts, bettering his craft, but somewhere along the way he had been noticed. He isn’t sure what it was that drew the Chancellor’s eye to him. He likes to think it was his angelic voice, but he suspects it was his innate talent of talking himself out of trouble. It was a very impressive skill, and it had gotten him an invitation to the “Society of Foxes.”

Jaskier had no idea what a Society of Foxes was supposed to be, but he had assumed it was an elite club. Oxenfurt University had quite a few of them, but Jaskier had never been invited until then.

He’d gone without hesitation, meeting the head of the Society, Anatol, far after the sun had set.

This was when he had been introduced to the dangerous, but invigorating life, of a Bard, and he never looked back.

+++

Jaskier was a marvelous minstrel. He loved to sing and dance and keep people entertained, but he was also observant. He could tell when a room began to shift and the mood of his songs needed adjusting. He knew who to focus on in a tavern or party if he wanted to get the most coin out of them.

“Your honest enjoyment in this work will make you a better Bard,” Anatol had assured Jaskier when he’d first joined their Society. Anatol was an unremarkable man. Not short or tall, not strong or skinny, not dark or light. He wore nice clothes, sure, but he wasn’t much of anything. He had sharp eyes, though, like he’d seen far more than a regular minstrel should ever have seen.

“I thought Bards were just a myth to keep the nobility entertained,” Jaskier says, suspicious and not entirely sure if he’s being hazed or not. “You know… they hire a bunch of performers and try to figure out who the Bard must be? Like a game?”

“To them, it is a game,” Anatol nods, his eyes hardening even further. “Until the actual Bard that has been spying on them for months slits their throat without anyone being the wiser.”

He’d been told he would be hired for some of the most dangerous parties, where the nobility made a point of keeping an eye on their performers and drunkenly trying to declare who the hidden spy must be. A performer might even get executed right on the spot, if a noble was certain, or drunk, enough.

Jaskier would have to ensure that performer wasn’t himself.

But there was training for that.

Jaskier continued with his courses at Oxenfurt University, but in the evenings and sometimes late into the night, Jaskier was in the belly of the school, slipping into hidden corridors and rooms, learning how to twist his words in just the perfect way to get the results he wanted.

Learning every poison imaginable and how to concoct them.

Learning how to wield, sharpen, maintain, and hide a seemingly infinite variety of knives.

Learning how to shoot an arrow near perfect every time.

Memorizing important nobles all over the Continent.

It was grueling, exhausting work, but through it all Jaskier thrived. He complained, sure, but he always managed to find time to write songs, to play his lute for his fellow Bards, to crack a joke and make his peers laugh off their nerves.

They called him the Laughing Fox, most of them got silly nicknames like that, but he was still proud of it. He felt like he was part of something bigger. Not a bigger cause, no. The Society of Foxes, and likely most Bard schools, weren’t associated with anyone. They did as they pleased and their Bards could go off and do whatever they wanted and would always be welcomed back.

They were a family, in a way, looking out for their own kind. They were competitive, sure, and they were literally taught how to murder people without detection… but every family had its quirks, right?

Well, Jaskier loved his quirky, murderous family very, very much. He doubts his blood parents would have ever approved, if they’d been alive, but he never really cared about any of that anyway.

He had a family and he was happy.

+++

Until he wasn’t.

Jaskier was a fidgety man, and eventually the walls of Oxenfurt University felt more imposing than they felt welcoming. He was suffocating within the stone, the horizon a tempting siren’s call.

It came as no surprise to anyone when Jaskier announced he wanted to travel the world. “You could never sit still for long,” Anatol nods, before giving Jaskier a warm farewell hug.

“Aw, Anatol,” Jaskier coos, hugging his mentor back, “You were always like the strange, senile uncle I never wanted.”

“Off with you, heathen,” Anatol responds, swatting at Jaskier as he laughs and flees.

Wojciecha, one of Jaskier’s fellow Bards who had trained alongside him and garnered the title Sharpened Fox during her time perfecting her capabilities with bladed chains, accompanies him to the edge of Oxenfurt territory. Jaskier knew for a fact that those very lethal chains of hers were hidden under her flowing, flashy sleeves, but that was only because he knew her so well. No one else would be the wiser.

Wojciecha, or just Sharp for short, was a tall, dark-skinned woman with severe eyes, long dreads, and not a musical bone in her body. She was a spectacular dancer, however, and often slipped through parties, gaining information, with ease, her flashy clothes and movements distracting any man or woman that suspected her.

She was also significantly taller than Jaskier, which he once felt was a strike to his masculinity. Nowadays, though, he just felt lucky to count her among his family.

“Careful of monsters,” Sharp says as they walk.

“I’ll stick an arrow in their eye and run, if needed,” Jaskier assures, waving off the woman’s concerns.

“I still don’t understand what you hope to gain from this little adventure of yours,” Sharp grumbles, rolling her eyes.

“Hopefully something more substantial than ‘little’,” Jaskier huffs, looking forward along the path.

“Is that what the men and women you sleep with say before you take off your pants?” Sharp smirks, her smile as cutting as her name, and Jaskier shoots her a displeased glare.

“I wish to see the world,” Jaskier answers Sharp’s original consideration, “And, if I really must have a more specific, beneficial goal to everything… I wish to increase my reputation across the Continent. More and more people of power will invite me to perform, Jaskier the Greatest Minstrel, and then I can rob them of all their secrets.”

“And maybe a few hearts?”

“I am not THAT promiscuous, you know.”

“Yes, you are.”

“Yeah, I am…”

They share a laugh and continue walking. Eventually Sharp stops and wishes him a proper good-bye before heading back to Oxenfurt University, leaving Jaskier alone to continue on his grand journey.

+++

Jaskier had not lied when he told Sharp and the rest of the Society of Foxes that he wanted to better his reputation as a minstrel to increase his success as a Bard, but that had not been the entire truth. There was a selfish part of him, the fantastical part of him that lived in his music, that wanted to make just as much coin as a minstrel that he did as a Bard.

A paying job for a Bard usually came from nobles or those with a lot of money to their name. Information wasn’t cheap on any day, and the nobility were willing to pay out their asses if they could get even a little dirt on their rivals.

Thus, a Bard could make a hefty amount of coin if they were consistent enough. A Bard couldn’t be too present, though, for threat of being found out, but still it was a very prolific, if seedy, business.

Jaskier wanted that kind of financial security to come from just his music alone. He wanted people to speak as highly of the Greatest Minstrel, Jaskier, as they did the frightening Laughing Fox.

It was an optimistic dream. It was a foolish dream. But Jaskier didn’t care. He was a great Bard, but he had always been called to his lute and his lyrics more than his knives and his bow.

This was a selfish journey he was embarking on, and he didn’t have enough shame in his body to feel guilty about it.

+++

Bards know monsters. Maybe not the monsters in fairy tales or nightmares, but rather the most terrifying, destructive monster of them all: Man.

Wild monsters, without souls or a care for anything but themselves, were born that way. They had no choice in the matter. Still dangerous, and needing to be eradicated at times, but blameless for their nature.

Man, though? Humans? They had souls, but some actively chose to ignore theirs. They were born with the capacity for greatness and love and compassion, but chose a darker, colder path instead.

Bards knew these monsters. Bards fought these monsters with their own, twisted games. Bards toyed with the remnants of these monsters’ souls to get them to do what they wanted.

Bards knew a few basic facts about wild monsters, too. Just enough if they were travelling on the road and needed to get away, but they were hardly experts. No, that was more of a Witcher’s expertise, not a Bard’s.

So, Jaskier stuck to what he knew. He performed every chance he got, but he knew his situation was going to be bleak for quite some time until he got his feet firmly on the ground. Knowing that, he kept his eyes and ears peeled, collecting secrets, and selling any information or service he could.

He had a mask for in-person meetings, of course, he wasn’t a fool.

It still wasn’t much. Without the direct contracts through the Society of Foxes, he had to begin building his own contacts out in the world. He was tempted to invest in business cards, honestly. Or a nice pamphlet.

Still, he made a decent amount of coin with the information he gathered, along with one or two assassinations here or there. Jaskier was never a fan of blood or murder, but he knew how to work with both when it was required of him.

He even helped a tiny village struggling with a bandit problem. He was rightly proud of that one.

He was complete rubbish in a proper fight. He could bob and weave, but he could hardly throw a punch or square off against a child, much less a fully grown attacker. He wasn’t ashamed to admit his short comings, because he was fully aware of his capabilities in stealth.

No one ever saw him coming.

“I wonder if there is a song to be written here,” Jaskier had wondered aloud, standing alone in the middle of the bandit camp, the bandit leader face down in his cot, an arrow through the back of his skull. Scattered all over the camp were corpses, painstakingly dispatched without a single person ever being made aware, until every, single bandit was dead.

Jaskier looks around the bandit leader’s room, searching for inspiration, but nothing comes. He always had trouble writing songs about himself that weren’t mournful, after all.

“They didn’t seeeee,” Jaskier attempts anyway, under his breath, digging around for some of the villagers’ possessions. “Didn’t see the fox cominggggg. Didn’t seeeee… Didn’t see their death risingggg.”

Jaskier cringes at the words and shakes his head. No, likely nothing worthy of performance would be coming of this.

He drops the stolen possessions he finds off at the village center in the dead of night, mask in place, then slips away to sing at their tavern and get completely boo’ed into silence.

+++

At most taverns Jaskier performs at he is boo’ed and heckled out of the building, or at least into a corner. At a few he is ignored. At far, far less he is applauded.

He knows how to read a ballroom, he realizes with more and more clarity the more he travels. People come to a noble’s gathering expecting music and finery, and often don’t even applaud the performances anyway. The musicians and entertainers are, for the most part, background noise. It is what makes it so easy for a Bard to work in secret.

Taverns, though… taverns have opinions. Sometimes they don’t want music at all, but more often than not they are just going to lay it out, very clearly, exactly what they think of your performances.

Jaskier has always been less successful performing in taverns, but that point is hammered home when taverns are the only venue that will currently take him. Nonetheless, he perseveres on, learning what works and what doesn’t. He gets better, has a few more cheers, but still people boo.

He tries to think of what he can do better. What he can adjust and perfect to assure more success. He has made changes to how he performs, but perhaps it is his subject matter he should be updating.

He has… no idea how to even begin to do that. But, he figures, inspiration will hit at precisely the right time it must.

+++

Bards don’t much believe in Destiny. It isn’t like Destiny wronged Bards in some way, it is more like Destiny ignores them and none of them have time to worry over it.

There weren’t many “Destinies” that took place with a bunch of spies.

“Destiny is a powerful mistress,” Anatol had said once, momentarily distracted from his class lecture when he’d been distracted by questions. “But… she may only garner power if we give it to her. What happens, happens. Do not put weight to it and you will live well.”

Anatol had always been a very straightforward man. Not rough, but he didn’t mince words, either.

Still, despite most Bards not putting much thought in Destiny and what she wanted, Jaskier found he quite liked the romantic element of it all. He’d written a few poems and songs about fate and Destiny before, but even he didn’t think it had much sway over his very life.

And then Geralt of Rivia had entered his life and he wasn’t so sure anymore.

+++

Bards had no reason to gather information on Witchers. Witchers had no human enemies for Bards to sell that information to, and Witchers had no major affiliations with anyone that might make them a target.

Also, they never showed up at parties, which could make things difficult for most Bards.

But, with Jaskier struggling to find new material for his songs, and still with that incessant itch to go out into the world and experience as much of it as he could, he had decided Geralt of Rivia was an exception.

It wasn’t like Jaskier wanted information on Witchers or Geralt specifically to hurt them. He mostly wanted information on monsters and the hunts themselves. He thought that was very reasonable!

But, clearly, Geralt did not share the same idea. He clearly didn’t want Jaskier following him around, that much was obvious. Jaskier wasn’t blind or stupid, he knew when he wasn’t wanted. But, he was also a very, VERY stubborn man.

He offered to be Geralt’s barker, even, to hopefully sweeten the deal. Better his name and reputation through these new songs.

Still Geralt wanted nothing to do with him.

So, Jaskier being such a very, very stubborn man, had followed the Witcher anyway.

The man in the tavern had claimed they were being terrorized by a devil of sorts and Jaskier was frightened, but mostly intrigued to see what such a monstrous beast must look like. Except Geralt claimed devils didn’t exist and suddenly was getting nailed in the head by a tiny cannonball.

A sylvan, Jaskier will later find out. The people are being threatened by a sylvan with a slingshot. Talk about anticlimactic. How was Jaskier meant to write a glorious ballad from that?

The Bard just narrowly dodges a tiny cannonball aimed at his own head. He had been being a bit more boisterous and louder than was necessary, but he thinks that the projectile was completely unnecessary, and he swiftly answers in kind.

A throwing knife is removed from its hiding place and let loose in one swift move, knocking the slingshot out of the sylvan’s hands where he hides in the bushes. The muffled, angry cursing Jaskier hears only makes him smile. Served the bastard right.

It doesn’t look like Geralt noticed Jaskier’s incredibly helpful move, however, as he prowls around the plants, looking for the best place to pull the sylvan from his hiding spot. “Get back, minstrel,” Geralt orders sharply, not looking back at him, and Jaskier pouts but does as he’s told.

“Very well, very well, but if anything happens—”

The sylvan charges at that moment, running at Geralt with a furious cry, and Jaskier instinctively pulls out another throwing knife. He need not worry, however, as Geralt swiftly pins his attacker down with only a minor tussle.

Jaskier watches at a distance as Geralt angrily interrogates the goat-man, but not before some… interesting banter. He tries not to outwardly cringe at what Geralt must assume is witty insults.

A dick with balls? Really?

He, unfortunately, does not notice the shadowy figure moving off to the side before a sharp pain erupts on the back of his head and the world goes black.

+++

Jaskier wakes up before Geralt does, the both of them sitting on the ground, back-to-back, with their hands bound together. They appear to be in a room built out of stone. Either that or a cave, but it seems a bit more charming than just a cave.

Ah, the story was getting more interesting! Jaskier would have to be more excited about that once he stopped being terrified for his life.

What had even happened?

Jaskier tried to get a look around, eyes frantically searching out a clue as to the current predicament. He spots his lute sitting atop a table on the other side of the room, along with Geralt’s swords. Beside them is Geralt’s belt of… potions? Jaskier doesn’t know what he keeps on there. Along with… a lot of knives. Just, a pile of knives. All likely taken off Jaskier’s person.

Oops. Maybe shouldn’t have thrown that first one at the sylvan. Tipped them off to the rest…

There isn’t much else to notice in the room, unfortunately, so Jaskier begins shifting around, feeling out his bonds. They are too tight to wriggle out of, but he could always break his thumb if absolutely necessary and slip out. It was a last-ditch effort, but Bards were taught plenty of ways to escape captivity, along with plenty of healing techniques for afterwards.

The thumb trick is Jaskier’s least favorite, however, because it leaves him unable to play his lute for a few days of recovery.

It doesn’t look to be necessary, however, as he realizes their captors didn’t take all of his knives. His rings are still in place and he easily clicks the side of one to snap out a tiny blade and begin sawing at the ropes.

When Geralt stirs, then awakens, Jaskier is about halfway through the ropes.

“Ah, lovely, you’re awake,” Jaskier hums in fake pleasantness, leaning back to nudge Geralt’s head when it sways too much. He can feel the Witcher’s hair smack the back of his head when he shakes his head out, clearing it.

“Where…?” Geralt begins, but doesn’t finish, likely realizing Jaskier can’t surely know where they are.

“No clue,” Jaskier answers anyway, “I am working on getting these ropes off of us, however, but if you have some Witchering magic you could use to speed things up, this would be the time to do that.”

“This is the time that they kill us!” Geralt snaps viciously, yanking at the binds and growling furiously when nothing happens. “How are YOU supposed to get these off?” Geralt demands after a few more attempts, sounding furious.

“Ah, quite simple, really,” Jaskier chirps, masking his fear with cheer, and taps Geralt’s fingers carefully with the small blade on his ring. Geralt makes a noise that sounds like it could be surprise but is mostly confused. “My mother was always very invested in my safety, you see,” he shrugs, then goes back to sawing the ropes.

It wasn’t a lie… His mother had always been a worry wart, and technically the ring was from her. The modifications, however…

He doesn’t get much more time to work on their escape, unfortunately, because right then an elf, of all things, comes charging in. They both get kicked quite a few times, Jaskier being reminded of just how much he hated fights, and his precious lute is shattered.

Dreadful adventure. Really. Worst in the world…

Jaskier tries not to cry at the sight of his ruined instrument.

It certainly doesn’t get better when Filavandrel arrives and lays out, in no uncertain terms, the mistreatment that has been set upon his people. It makes Jaskier’s muscles go loose in shock, his eyes haunted as he listens.

He’d thought…

Well, he’d thought a lot of things, but he was here to learn truths of the world, wasn’t he? And what a way to start his journey.

Jaskier remains mostly quiet as Filavandrel and Geralt speak. He knows when it is crucial for him to stay quiet, and now is one of those times. It takes a lot not to say anything, however, when Geralt starts talking about his resolution in being killed. Thankfully, that doesn’t play out. But it’s a close call that leaves a pit in Jaskier’s stomach.

They’re freed, actually freed, by the elves, Filavandrel himself taking his knife to their binds. He releases the Witcher first, of course, then pauses as he sees Jaskier’s wrists. “It would appear we did not take all of your weapons,” the elven king says sardonically, then snaps off the remainder of the ropes on Jaskier’s wrists.

“My mother was always very invested in my safety,” he says to the room as a whole, rubbing his wrists as he stands and flicking the blade in his ring back into hiding. The elves all give him unimpressed glares while Geralt ignores him, going to fetch his gear instead.

Jaskier clears his throat and hops after the Witcher quickly, beginning to pick up knife after knife from the pile on the table, assessing them then slipping them back into their hiding places.

Geralt has long finished being ready to go, swords and gear back on his person, and he and the elves all stand in silence, watching as Jaskier keeps picking up blade after blade, the weapons disappearing swiftly on his person, and he only looks up after he’s almost done. He glances around at all of the stares, flushing in embarrassment.

“What? My mother—”

“Was very invested in your safety,” Geralt interrupts, arms crossed and irritable-looking. Jaskier only offers him a sheepish grin, then finishes hiding the last of his knives.

+++

With a new lute, gifted to him from the elves, Jaskier composes his greatest hit, “Toss a Coin to Your Witcher.” Geralt won’t stop glaring at him, but Jaskier doesn’t much care. It isn’t ready for a performance by the time they get back to the tavern and Geralt is paid his coin, but Jaskier knows it will be a hit when he is finished.

The morning after they return, just before the sun has fully risen, Jaskier finds Geralt saddling up Roach, clearly getting ready to leave.

“So!” Jaskier says cheerfully as he steps towards him, his lute on his back and a bag on his shoulder. He’d left the bag in the tavern before, too rushed to catch up with Geralt to go up and get it, but he has no intention of forgetting it again. “Where to next?”

He’s looking at Geralt’s back and he sees the man’s shoulder sag with a deep, unhappy sigh. The Witcher takes a few seconds to probably question his life choices before he says, without looking back, “There is no next. Not for you.”

“Oh, come now, Geralt! You can’t possibly expect me to just back down now? After just one adventure? I’ve only had a taste, a singular glimpse, at the greatness that is Geralt of Rivia, the White Wolf!” Jaskier is grinning, not deterred at all, even when Geralt finally turns around and glares darkly at him.

“There is no greatness, minstrel,” Geralt gruffs and Jaskier thinks this is the most he’s heard him talk to the Bard before.

“I beg to differ,” Jaskier shrugs. In just one mission Jaskier had seen a side to Geralt of Rivia he doubted anyone else ever had. The man was gruff and intense, sure, but… “You are a good man, Geralt,” Jaskier says, his face and tone taking on a more serious feeling, and the other man watches him with a blank expression.

In all honesty, Jaskier is worried. In a way he probably shouldn’t be for a man he’s only just met.

Geralt is far too flippant about people’s general disdain towards Witchers. He acts like it doesn’t matter, doesn’t affect him, but there’s no way that can be true. No one can go through life completely unaffected by constant cruelty. No one. Not even a supposedly emotionless Witcher.

Especially a supposedly emotionless Witcher, who punches supposedly harmless minstrels when they so much as utter the word “Butcher.”

Geralt isn’t immune, and Jaskier knows it, but he hadn’t grown worried until their return trip from the elves.

He’d made a flippant comment, complimenting Geralt’s reverse psychology while dealing with the elves. Geralt’s “go ahead and kill me” schtick had seemed so convincing! Jaskier had been impressed by his acting capabilities and thought it necessary to let Geralt know that.

Except Geralt wasn’t responding to the compliments. He wasn’t looking at Jaskier at all.

Jaskier’s heart had very quickly jumped into his throat.

He still wanted information. He still wanted material for his songs. He still was in this for completely selfish reasons.

But now there was an extra layer. He’d offered to be the Witcher’s barker because he’d hoped it would win the man’s favor. He’d intended to write a song or two for him, it was no skin off his bones, and it would hopefully win him fame and fortune.

The boost to Geralt’s reputation would have just been a nice extra. Jaskier would have claimed it was all on purpose, then moved on to bigger and better things.

Now, though… Now Jaskier’s bleeding heart was demanding he do more. Demanding he not be only selfish.

Geralt really was a good man and he deserved more than the distrustful glares he got from everyone he ran across. He deserved to have people know all his good deeds, even if they had to be a tiny bit altered to be more thematically appropriate for a minstrel’s song.

“You won’t need to worry,” Jaskier continues, cheerfully, as he approaches Geralt when the man doesn’t respond. “I may be rubbish in a fight, but I can pull my weight on the road.”

“Hmm,” Geralt hums and it sounds very suspicious.

“Yes, really,” Jaskier huffs then sets down his bag. It is filled with clothes and perfumes and oils, which he pushes aside as he pulls out a folded-up device. Geralt eyes it, still suspicious but edging on curious, and with a flick of Jaskier’s wrist the device snaps out and takes the rigged shape of a recurve bow.

Geralt’s brows have risen, watching as Jaskier next pulls out a modest, leather quiver with a few arrows rolling around in it. He holds up both – bow and quiver – and beams at Geralt proudly. “I can catch food, no problem,” he announces and Geralt’s brows lower, then one arches upwards.

“You? Preparing food?”

“Well… catch, definitely,” Jaskier mumbles, arms lowering and the quiver bumping against his leg. Geralt gives him a bland look. “What? Skinning them is disgusting!” He knew his limits. Was that so bad?

“Why do you have a bow in your bag, minstrel?” Geralt questions, sounding exhausted and resigned. He likely was beginning to realize he wouldn’t be losing Jaskier so easily.

“Because—”

“If you say it’s because of some protective mother I will drag you back into that tavern and leave you there,” Geralt snaps and Jaskier stiffens, eyes widening, before he clears his throat and glances down at the bow.

He couldn’t very well say he was a trained spy and assassin, now could he? He highly doubted the man who hardly trusted a minstrel would ever trust a Bard. Luckily, though, a good Bard always had plenty of stories at their disposal.

“I had to hunt for my family when I was younger,” Jaskier eventually sighs, glancing away like he’s wrapped up in a memory. “I caught, my father skinned, my mother cooked.”

“And the knives?”

Jaskier looks back at him, head tilting. “Now that one IS my mother,” he smiles, half-joking, and Geralt keeps staring at him. When the silence stretches on for too long Jaskier sighs dramatically. “Glare as much as you like. You aren’t getting rid of me. Your adventures are the best muse I’ve ever had!”

Geralt keeps staring for a long while, weighing his options, weighing Jaskier’s usefulness, weighing a lot in his head. Jaskier attempts to wait without squirming, but he still ends up tapping his fingers over his bow’s grip.

“You will do as I say,” Geralt suddenly says, making Jaskier straighten up. His voice is gruff with authority and warning. “If I say run, you run. If I say stay, you stay. If I say shut up, you shut up.”

Jaskier doesn’t think he’s going to be all that successful with those orders, but he can give it a shot. “Alright,” he nods, a smile pulling at his lips. Geralt narrows his golden eyes at him in disbelief, but Jaskier doesn’t let it deter him.

“Should we stop for breakfast first, though? You certainly got out of there quickly,” Jaskier continues, jabbing a finger back at the tavern and inn, but Geralt is already turning away and pulling himself up onto Roach.

The man grunts, noncommittal, and Jaskier pouts as he hefts his bag back onto his shoulder. He flicks the bow, clicking at a hidden button, and it folds back into itself so that Jaskier can hang it on his belt, the quiver hanging beside it.

Good fashioned Bard gadgets. It was amazing the doodads and contraptions the Society of Foxes had been able to get for Jaskier, and he treated his bow with such delicate care because of it. Even if it was dreadfully dull in design…

He follows after the Witcher as the man begins moving, chattering away about nothing, and giddily looking forward to his next adventure.

#the witcher #the witcher netflix #jaskier #geralt of rivia #geraskier #bitcher #Dragon Age Bards #BAMF Jaskier #fanfic #my writing #hope you all enjoy!

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lucky-minstrel · 2 years

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#commisions open #commissionsopen #lucky minstrel art #lucky minstrel #luckyminstrel #luckyminstrelart #artist on tumblr #art commisions #pony commissions #ponies #mlp oc #mlpfim #ponycomms #minicheeb #chibi commission

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blackinquisitors · 4 years

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hey hey, i just wanted to let you know that minni's letter to xavier was THE sweetest thing i've read all day + had a bitch cryin in the club...if you have time, could you do 9 from the codex prompts?

ty aksjda it was fun to write :)

9. something written about one of your OC’s proudest accomplishments

Today I am reviewing music written by a man whose impact on the world is so large, that his name is known throughout all of Thedas. Some know him as the Inquisitor, or the Herald of Andraste (he has been known to pull a face at this one), or simply Xavier Conway.

Two weeks ago, Ser Conway performed a hauntingly beautiful batch of songs to an audience of surpisingly small proportion. It’s been two years since the Inquisition was disbanded, yet the reverence the people have for him has not diminished. I sat in a pre-booked seat with spaces on either side of me and only a few people scattered about; I felt a little nervous with the quietness of the venue. Where was everyone else?

Before I could ponder this for too long, out walked Ser Conway onto the stage. The underside of his hair had been shaven, the locs on the top longer than they were depicted on the many statues of him. Personal encounters had described him as being a jovial, almost goofy character, but that day he carried a serious air with him. Perhaps it was because this was his first public appearance in years, perhaps it was the fact that he was sharing his art with strangers.

I found my eyes flicking down to the enchanted metal prosthetic on what was left of his left arm. It resembled a hand in an abstract sense, the way that a child’s stick drawing is registered as a person. I stared at it for too long and realized Ser Conway was staring back at me. I waved, slightly panicked, at him, and gestured to my notebook to indicate I am a critic. He nodded his head and began to play.

Let me tell you, dear readers, that I was so transfixed by his music, I forgot to write an analysis of each song. I was born in raised in Ferelden, such as Ser Conway himself, and I have never heard such beauty in a song before. Perhaps it was his family’s Rivaini roots that influenced the sound, or perhaps his connection to a Dalish clan.

Since I neglected to give my real-time thoughts of his songs, I will instead give you an overview of his album: bloody fantastic. Complex guitar lines that made his fingers blur mingle with a grounding beat provided by a drummer behind him. What was most shocking was the sheer artistry of his lyrics. He spoke of the typical song topics- love, heartbreak, sex, but in a gorgeous, classy way. One song was about oral sex, and was so artisic that I didn’t realize how dirty it was until I saw a lady in the audience fan herself.

He closed with an aching ballad of love, comparing the end of the world to the act of falling in love, and how that love made it okay that the world was ending. It sounds a little pretentious when it’s described, but just know that there were tears in my eyes, not just from the lyrics, but the emotion he sang with.

As quickly and quietly as he walked onto the stage, he left just the same. After he stood and bowed to the crowd giving him a standing ovation, I furiously scribbled a few notes. I made a move to follow him to interview him, but he was nowhere to be found.

Dear readers, if you are lucky enough to be in an area where the elusive Ser Conway plays, I would impore you to seize that opportunity and see him for yourself. I have seen minstrels from all corners of the world, world-renowned bards, and amatuers with more skill than sense, and this was a life-changing experience.

-Ser Rockforte, music critic

#xavier #sorry this is lengthyyyy but i think its fun :)#also for the sake of simplicity xaviers music is just hoziers #i was referencing moments silence (common tongue) and wasteland baby #:)#poptartmochi

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pengiesama · 5 years

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The Gang Crashes a Party While in Drag (Chapter 1) (Fic, TOZ, Sorey/Mikleo)

Title: The Gang Crashes a Party While in Drag Series: Tales of Zestiria Pairing: Sorey/Mikleo

Summary:

Sorey and the crew investigate reports of a black market trafficking ring, and zero in on a particularly nasty noble at the center of it all. Luckily, said noble is opening his chateau to host a masquerade – the perfect opportunity to get close. Unluckily, the Shepherd’s fame has spread wide, and Sorey needs a disguise to make sure he’s incognito.

This is achieved by the obvious solution, and that's to disguise him in a dress and pass him off as Rose's sister. What could possibly go wrong?

Notes:

Written for the Sorey/Mikleo 2019 Big Bang!

I partnered up with the wonderful Arivess @minstrels-ink and Nami; both of whom provided their artistic skills to complement my wack-ass ideas. I am eternally grateful to them.

Arivess's art is featured in Chapter 1! You can find her Tumblr here. Nami's art is featured in Chapter 2! You can find her Twitter here.

Link: AO3

Read on Tumblr!

“You’re lucky that you’re such a quick study on running in heels.”

“C’mon, Mikleo, is this really the time!?”

The hellion was fast – very fast – and easily closed in on whatever distance Sorey tried to put between them. His armatus with Mikleo was suited for sniping from afar, not for getting up close and personal with those rows and rows of sharp teeth. A change of tactics was needed, and – one body as they were – Sorey didn’t even need to speak the thought aloud before Mikleo helped him put the thought into action.

Sorey released his hold on the tether keeping them in the armatus, and felt Mikleo do the same. They split in two, and Mikleo allowed himself to be flung from Sorey’s sure and steady grip directly into the trunk of a tree. He vaulted gracefully off the trunk, and used the momentum to spring himself across the clearing and well out of the way of the rampaging hellion – and well out of the way of Sorey’s flaming sword.

“Fethmus Mioma!”

The flames illuminated the dark forest clearing, like morning’s light. The hellion shrank back, briefly stunned. Not that Sorey considered himself anything like an expert on hellions, but he’d never seen anything quite like this before. A wolf-headed hellion that stood at the height of three men, and had the approximate width of one of the emaciated famine victims that were such a common sight in towns these days. It was the width that was, perhaps, the most concerning – by any logic, it should have been wider, so much wider, to fit all the victims that it had been reported to have consumed. How could a hellion that devoured whole caravans of victims – stuffing them into the ever-drooling mouth, with its dozens of long, long arms – still be so grotesquely thin?

As always, Sorey’s certain tendency to get lost in his thoughts was something of a hindrance in battle. Luckily, there was someone still paying attention in this fight. The hellion was knocked over by a lucky hit from Rose and Edna’s armatus, and careened into a nearby tree with a dangerous-sounding crack. The tree lurched and toppled over, pinning the beast beneath it. Howling, the hellion tried to drag its body along the forest floor with those dozens of long arms; like a massive centipede that had been trapped beneath a giant boot. The air around the creature shimmered, and from the glinting aether, glowing chains sprang forth and bound the hellion (and the tree) more firmly into place. Zaveid landed atop the creature from where he’d been slinking about in the treetop cover, and struck a pose.

The hellion was too wounded to flee, too wounded to toss Zaveid off; too wounded and too mad with malevolence to do anything but crouch, drool, and snarl as Sorey and Lailah approached to attempt purification.

Rose wheezed in relief as she stumbled out of her armatus. She shook out her wrist, and flexed her fingers, as if testing to make sure they could still hold a knife.

“Geez! That thing’s skull was rock-hard. Felt like trying to put my fist through a wall…”

“You’re welcome to use your head next time if the Lady Edna’s holy fists aren’t cutting the mustard,” Edna replied drily. “I imagine it’s one of the only naturally-occurring elements that outrank them on the hardness scale.”

“I’m glad everyone’s feeling so energetic after that fight.” Mikleo finished up tending to Rose’s hand and arm with his healing artes, and surveyed the rest of the party judgmentally. “I take that to mean that no one will be whining at me when we head to the inn that their back hurts, then? I’d prefer to be bothered now than have to find out later…”

Sorey felt Mikleo’s stare burning into the back of his neck. He swallowed hard and tried to focus on finishing things up with Lailah and the hellion.

“Yanno, it’s almost a shame that we gotta purify this thing,” Zaveid said. He was still perched atop the hellion, and was holding the chains binding it like a pair of reins. “It’d make a pretty metal mount, don’t ya think? Roll up to a hot date riding this thing and you’ll have ‘em swooning.”

The hellion gave a pained shriek as the flames continued to burn away its tainted flesh. The acrid smell of it filled the night air. Its many limbs clawed at its face and neck, rending the skin there, as if mutilating itself was a relief in comparison to being healed of the corruption inside.

“The more we learn about you, Zaveid,” Mikleo said. “The more we understand you.”

“You’ll want to get down,” Lailah lightly called up to him.

Zaveid winked at her and made a little heart with his fingers. “Ooh, Lailah, no need to be so shy. C’mon up here, the weather’s fine—”

The flames had climbed up to where Zaveid stood, and the hellion’s constructed form finally collapsed in on itself like the frame of a burning house. Zaveid stumbled briefly before managing to catch himself on the superheated updraft of air and bounce off it to land on the ground with a…marginal amount of grace. Or at least without falling on his ass.

“How’s it looking?” Rose called over to Sorey and Lailah. “Human, animal, plant? Bunch of rocks glued together with googly eyes stuck on?”

Sorey took a deep breath to steady himself after the purification, and Mikleo was already behind him to grab at his shoulder. Steady as anything.

“Human,” Sorey said, finally. “Still alive. Not awake yet.”

“Peachy,” Rose said. “Much easier to interrogate a person. I’ve heard that the Sparrowfeathers’ boss is in quite a snit over all those shipments he’s gobbled up, and she’s dying for the full story.”

Which was, of course, part of why they were here. This particular hellion had been targeting caravans navigating this stretch of road between the border of Hyland and Rolance. The harrowing accounts of the survivors was motivation enough for Sorey and Rose to investigate and intervene, but Rose’s own motivation was given a bit of a nitro boost when she learned that several Sparrowfeather shipments had been delayed or lost due to the creature’s activity.

“…delayed…”

The man was waking up. He looked so terribly ordinary, in comparison to the nightmare that stalked the roads on a hundred limbs. He was dressed in simple traveling clothes. Thin cheeks, worn boots. Another person overcome by malevolence by starvation and resentment? He’d hardly be the first. But all he’d need was support, and –

“…delayed, delayed, delayed, delayed, can’t be late again, the boss said we can’t be late again, get the cargo—”

“Hold him down,” Rose said to Zaveid, before moving in herself.

“Anything for you, boss lady,” Zaveid said.

Chains glinted and held the man down, stopping him from thrashing while Rose grabbed his head on both sides and forced him to look at her.

“Hey. We’re passing through. Who’s this boss of yours? We’ll get the cargo to him on time.”

The man’s pupils shrank to pinpricks.

“No.”

He began to shake, then began to weep.

“Gone. Gone, they’re gone, they’re gone, we were supposed to deliver them to Hyland for sale but they’re gone and the boss he won’t like it he’ll know it was me and then Anne, Anne and the kids, they’ll—”

Zaveid pulled his chains tight, cutting the man off and binding him tighter to the ground.

“He’s gonna go hellion again if he gets himself worked up,” he barked at Rose. “And I sure as hell don’t like all this ‘them’ stuff with his ‘cargo’.”

Rose knew when to back down – that conversation was going nowhere fast, anyway. She wisely allowed Lailah to cast a spell that sent the man into the comparative relief of unconsciousness, and mulled over the facts they had.

“The Scattered Bones will take him into custody,” she said, finally.

“Custody?” Sorey said uneasily.

Rose leaned her head on her hand and looked at Sorey, one eyebrow raised. “You saw what happened the second he woke up. They’ll keep an eye on him at HQ and see if they can get the full story out of him.”

Sorey stared at the man for a moment, then swallowed hard. “And…try to help him?”

“As best as we can,” Rose replied, honestly. “You’ve seen this before, Sorey. People getting so desperate that they do things they can never forgive themselves for. He might wake up with a new lease on life, and we’ll put him to work in the company. Or he might wake up and immediately go creepy-crawly again the second he remembers what he’s done. Sometimes you just need to—”

“I get it,” Sorey cut her off. “But…we can’t just…he mentioned a boss.”

“Oh, don’t worry.” A slow, dangerous smile spread across Rose’s face. “We’re not done with them just yet.”

Lailah ahemed lightly, and glided forward.

“The man is purified. The Shepherd’s duty is finished,” she said. “Shall we discuss our next moves in a more…hospitable area?”

“Let’s rest at the inn a while,” Mikleo said.

His hand was a comfort and anchor on Sorey’s back. He allowed himself to lean into it, and be guided by Mikleo’s sure current.

“So, good news first,” Rose began. “It didn’t take long for us to get info on this boss guy.”

But Rose’s tone did not, in fact, indicate that the news was quite as good as all that. Things never seemed to be quite so simple, anymore.

“And the bad news?” Mikleo asked, voicing Sorey’s thoughts aloud.

Rose threw herself onto the inn bed and leaned back on her arms.

“Hooboy. Where to start? The bad news, the REALLY bad news, or the damn inconvenient news?”

“Ooh, now you’ve gotten me all excited.” Edna’s face was utterly expressionless, and her tone likewise. She was perched atop the inn’s tall wooden wardrobe; the vantage point allowing her to better beam her disdain at those below like a judgmental gargoyle. “Spill the beans before I perish from anticipation.”

Rose squinted up at her. “…how did you get…anyway. So. Our friend was part of a black market smuggling operation. First it was just contraband goods, and then they branched out into human trafficking – that was when his conscience caught up with him and he started chowing down on his coworkers and stalking the highways. He was pretty low on the ladder and didn’t know much about the guys really running it; he only ever had contact with cronies. But everything he told us lines up with cases that we’ve been monitoring for months. This ring isn’t just limited to a few scattered caravans on rural backroads. We’ve got reports of it being tied to activity across Hyland and Rolance, which let me tell you, will do peace talks no favors. Hyland’s gonna blame Rolance and Rolance’s gonna blame Hyland and so on.”

“…so, was that the bad news, the really bad news, or the inconvenient news?” asked Sorey.

“It’s all blended together in an intricate tapestry of unfortunateness,” Rose said. “So on one hand, it is Hyland’s fault. All of our sources are pointing to one of their nobles being the ringleader behind it all – his eminence Lord Mardoc of House Melwas. House Melwas owns most of the shipping lines nearest to Rolance’s borders, so the infrastructure was already there for him to pull this off. But on the other hand, even though he’s footing the bills and reaping the profits, these kinds of enterprises tend to be…group ventures. Especially when they’ve got a reach as wide as this. It’s not gonna go away completely even if we manage to take the boss chump down.”

“Even if we were to apprehend everyone involved, Hyland and Rolance would need to work together to extradite the accused and bring them to trial,” Mikleo said. “It could take years.”

“And that’s assuming Rolance will play nice,” Rose added. “Bet they’d only be too happy to set the blame totally on Hyland’s shoulders.”

“So…I guess it’s up to the Shepherd, then?” Sorey said, softly.

There was historical precedent for such a thing: Shepherds, mediating international disputes as the neutral third parties they were always intended to be. Sorey could rattle off at least three or four such incidents off the top of his head – one of them even involved digging up the skeleton of a previous Rolance pope to put it on trial. (The skeleton, judged guilty, was stripped of its papal hat and frockery and then beheaded. Sorey often wondered if any of that was truly necessary.) But reading about it in history books was one thing, and being expected to live it himself was…quite another.

A long, drawn-out fight amongst a bunch of squabbling politicians and nobles, all trying to point fingers while the world around them was falling apart. When the cards were laid out on the table like this, the odds seemed…almost insurmountable. Sorey’s shoulders drooped with the weight of his thoughts. Mikleo’s cool hand on his nape was all that kept him from sinking too deeply into a place that would be hard to return from. Here be darkness, and skeleton popes.

“And you guys wonder why I went into customer service,” said Rose.

“Just want to note that it’s so convenient that your little gossip crew dug up so much dirt so fast,” Edna commented drily. “Almost like they’ve been sitting on said dirt for a while, doing nothing about it until it got inconvenient. Like when it was your turn to get your shipments munched on.”

Edna, unfortunately, always seemed to know how to hit where it hurt. She zeroed in on weak points so easily: Mikleo’s height, Zaveid’s receding hairline, Rose’s sense of justice. Sorey’s heart twisted unhappily at the sight of Rose’s knuckles fisted in the bedspread.

“Kinda feels like that, doesn’t it?” Rose finally said. She lifted her head, wearing a thoughtful expression. “You know, we’d joked for the longest time that we should start invoicing the Hyland knights, since we were doing their jobs for them – upholding the peace and all that. But it seems like we’ve gotten a little lax lately.”

“Rose,” Mikleo said. “It’s not your job to police Hyland’s laws. You can’t take all that responsibility on yourself.

Sorey couldn’t help but sense that comment wasn’t just directed at Rose, for some reason. (Like the fact that Mikleo’s hand found his own when he said it, and squeezed tight.) Still, Rose didn’t exactly seem to take the advice to heart. She jumped to her feet, and set her hands to her hips; a grin plastered to her face.

“It’s a matter of customer service at this point,” Rose said. “The Scattered Bones can’t refuse to investigate a direct request, now can they?”

Sorey blinked. “A direct request? From who?”

“Our friend from last night. Remember? Eight feet tall, big and scary, sharp teeth, loads of arms?”

“I don’t remember him asking anything,” Sorey replied, dubious.

“He definitely didn’t,” Mikleo agreed. “He yelled a bit and then passed out. I’d wager his hellion form was much taller than a mere eight feet, as well.”

“Guys,” Rose groaned. “A little bit of room for interpretation, please. Plus, if this Mardoc guy really is behind this operation, his homebase is probably lousy with malevolence – cleaning that up is right up our alley. So what do you say; wanna do a house-call at Chateau Melwas? It’s on the outskirts of—”

Sorey startled at Rose’s question, suddenly remembering something very important – something absolutely vital. He seized Mikleo’s wrist, urgently.

“Wait! Chateau Melwas. Of course; we only ever saw it written out like that, but of course it’d be owned by House Melwas!”

Mikleo’s eyes went huge, and he seized Sorey’s wrist right back.

“You’re right! It’s only logical. Chateau Melwas, built atop the underground Baudemagus Cathedral. An architectural marvel, built with a mix of Hyland and Rolance techniques to keep its structural integrity. It’s been sealed off for centuries from the public.”

“We could see the archivolts,” Sorey whispered urgently.

“We could see the archivolts,” Mikleo agreed, just as urgently. For just a moment, his gaze grew distant and vacant, as if he was wholly lost in thoughts of archivolts. Sorey could relate. He could so, so relate.

“I know I should be more careful about what I say, but I just don��t ever know what’s going to set them off…” Rose lamented. She looked up at Edna. “Wanna help me find Lailah and Zaveid so we can start brainstorming?”

Edna hopped down from her perch. “I’ll take any opportunity to get out of this room, no matter how unpleasant. Circumstances must.”

They were to infiltrate the chateau of House Melwas, to gather evidence and evaluate the truth of the claims against Lord Mardoc (and admire some archivolts in the process). Luckily for them, they had stumbled upon this mission during a most fortuitous time – Lord Mardoc was opening Chateau Melwas for a masquerade ball. It would be the best chance they’d get to investigate…and, perhaps, the only chance.

To an outside observer, the cards would seem to be stacked in Sorey’s favor. Not only would he have the noise and bustle of the masquerade to hide his movements, but he also had a master assassin and four magical invisible friends to back him up. Surely it would be child’s play for the almighty Shepherd.

Unfortunately, there were a few handicaps in play that evened the odds:

One: Sorey, even at this point in his short career, had become quite recognizable as the Shepherd.

Two: Rose, having a long and storied career as one of the continent’s most successful capitalists, was even more recognizable.

Being that they were famous-slash-infamous, it called for them to attend undercover – after all, if it was discovered that the Shepherd was in attendance, Mardoc would surely rush to dispose of any evidence of his illicit activities, making their entire search fruitless.

Surely a masquerade would make undercover activity simple…if it were not for the final handicap:

Three: Sorey was an absolutely wretched actor, and was sure to give away the game in a matter of seconds.

Thus, this called for a more stealthy infiltration. To this end, they tested out Mikleo’s talents in the safety of their base of operations (being their room at the inn).

“Uh…” Rose frowned, looking Sorey over critically. “I don’t think this is gonna work.”

Sorey was invisible…in some places. One arm, then the fingers of his other hand, and his torso. His right leg blinked back into view, then disappeared again, then slowly regained its opacity once more as the seconds ticked by.

“Just…give me a minute…” Mikleo said through gritted teeth. He was visibly shaking from the effort of keeping up the spell for so long. His skin was even paler than normal, and was beaded with sweat.

Sorey appeared to be torn between the urge to rush over to Mikleo’s side to support him, and the urge to stay in place as firmly instructed by Mikleo at the start of the experiment.

“Mikleo,” Sorey pleaded. “We’ve got backup options, you know?”

“Like what?” Mikleo snapped. He briefly lost his hold on the spell, and Sorey’s torso flickered. “Put a bedsheet over your head and pretend to be ghosts haunting the grounds?”

Rose shivered. “Gonna veto that one. Hard.”

Edna made a sympathetic noise, and patted Rose’s shoulder. “You’re so right, Rose. That’d be so inconsiderate to all the ghosts that probably already haunt that moldy old underground cathedral. Don’t wanna stir them up.”

Rose wailed and immediately retreated under the bed.

Lailah, finally, set a hand on Mikleo’s should and bade him to stop. Exhausted, Mikleo released the spell and leaned heavily on his staff. Sorey rushed over on his reappearing limbs to offer his support, and lead him to sit on the bed that Rose was currently lurking beneath.

“It was well worth attempting, but I must advise overexerting ourselves on this venture,” Lailah said. “Chateau Melwas is well outside of Ladylake’s jurisdiction – and as such, well outside of the reach of Lord Uno’s protective domain. The malevolence is thick here, our powers dampened with it. It would be dangerous indeed to take risks.”

“Back in the day, I’d just…dash up the walls and in through the windows, in and out like a shot…” Sorey heard Rose quietly musing underneath the bed. It seemed like she was mostly talking to herself. “Can’t really do that anymore, can I? Zaveid, he just doesn’t get my style, not like you did…”

Sorey squeezed Mikleo’s shoulder, and tried to get him to catch his eye.

“Rain check on cloak practice?” he asked, hopefully. “Maybe when we’re in a place where the air’s a bit cleaner?”

Mikleo would not, however, catch his eye, and sullenly wriggled his shoulder out of Sorey’s hold. Sorey’s heart sank.

Seeing Mikleo’s already-sour mood, Edna clicked her tongue, ready to make things worse, as usual.

“Why must we bank our hopes on the powers of a single frail Meebo?” she asked. “Just tart Sorey up in something pretty and have him flash the bouncers some leg at the door.”

She clearly did not mean this statement in earnest. She clearly meant it as a joke, as a way to needle Mikleo for being unable to live up to his own unreasonably high standards of personal achievement; to get him riled up enough to stop stewing in self-pity.

But there came a rumble from beneath the bed.

Rose scuttled out from her dark domain on all fours; her hair and eyes wild with inspiration.

“That’s it,” she whispered. “That’s our game. We dress in drag and crash this party.”

This bizarre conclusion at least seemed to break Mikleo out of his sulk. He stared at her, baffled.

“…you’ll do what?”

Rose grabbed Sorey by the shoulder with one hand, and grabbed his chin in the other. She presented him to the rest of the group thusly, very proud of herself.

“I present to you: Lady Soreyella Sparrowfeather, with her dashing older brother, Lord Roseino Sparrowfeather. We are young single nouveau riche siblings travelling the world on our mamá and papá’s dime, looking for fun, excitement, and a suitor who will treat my naïve little sister like the delicate, squishy little cream puff she is.”

“…Okay,” Mikleo said, once he was sure Rose was finished. “Just give me a few minutes and we can try the cloaking arte again. I know that if I can just get a handle on the light refraction, I’ll be able to keep it up for as long as we need…”

Mikleo trailed off. The atmosphere of the room had changed palpably with Rose’s suggestion – it seemed to burn alight with an excitement that tingled the skin. The source of the burning flame was unmistakable: Lailah seemed to almost be hovering above the floor, and was wreathed in a holy aura of light. She clasped her hands together, and lifted them upwards, a prayer to the heavens.

“Splendid,” she whispered. “Oh, how splendid indeed. An undercover mission – not only under the cover of night, but also under cover of the finest finery!”

Mikleo wondered if it would be out of line for him to walk over and tug Lailah back down to have both her feet on the floor. Surely it would be within Sorey’s rights as Shepherd…but what would stop her from arising once more? Would it be better to simply tie a string to her ankle so she didn’t accidentally float away? These questions were all important ones, but they were secondary to the more salient question of the moment:

“Are you forgetting Lastonbell?” Mikleo asked. “Our resident provincial lard? Hello? Oh, not him too…”

Zaveid had joined Lailah in her conference approximately six inches above the flooring, his excitement equally as evident.

“Food, wine, gorgeous sights to see,” Zaveid whispered mistily. “Ladies beckoning with their burning gazes from across the crowded dance hall.”

It was becoming clear that the vote was heading in a certain direction; that direction being “Sorey and Rose crossdressing to crash a party”. Edna smirked at Mikleo and Sorey devilishly.

“Rose’s suggestion really just is so splendid, and the Lady Edna wholeheartedly supports it.” Edna twirled her umbrella as she spoke. “She simply cannot wait to see the Shepherd traipsing about in a shimmering gown and heels, resembling a graceful overdressed cupcake. He will blend right in with the buffet table and remain utterly undetectable. The perfect plan.”

Mikleo gaped at Sorey, speechless. Sorey, for his part, seemed resigned to his fate. He sighed heavily.

“If you guys think it’ll work, I’ll do it,” Sorey said. “But I don’t…I don’t really know anything about, well…any of this. Dancing, and balls, and dressing up…”

Lailah and Zaveid floated over to Sorey, and both took one of his hands in their own, tenderly.

“Fear not,” they spoke in unison. “For we will be at your side.”

“I know,” Sorey assured them. “You always are. But I’ll feel a little, well…out of place…”

Lailah’s grip tightened, and she leaned in, her eyes blazing.

“Please understand, Shepherd Sorey,” she said. “We will be by your side, all of us, in finery as fine as yours.”

Edna’s umbrella stopped twirling. “Excuse me?” she asked flatly.

Zaveid rose several more inches off the floor in his excitement. “You mean…”

“With the powers invested in me by the Lord Maotelus, I decree as Prime Lord that we shall all be disguised in a similar method, alongside the Shepherd and Squire.” Lailah’s voice was clear, commanding – it seemed to echo off the walls of the inn as if the walls were made of the resonant marble of a cathedral instead of ordinary wood. “It is our duty as seraphim to assist the Shepherd in all things, to show solidarity and share in his trials.”

“Pass,” Edna said, then shrieked aloud repeatedly as she was forcibly levitated off the ground to join Lailah and Zaveid.

“Guess you shouldn’t have voted for such a splendid plan if you weren’t willing to participate,” Mikleo wearily commented. He, too, was also being lifted off the ground by an invisible force gripping his capes and dangling him like a scruffed cat.

“Um,” Sorey said. “I really appreciate the company, but…isn’t the masquerade in less than a week? Can we find someone who can make outfits for everyone on such short notice? Especially outfits for, well, someone they can’t even really see…”

Rose threw her arm around Sorey’s shoulder (with some effort, considering the height difference and the fact that she was not currently taking part in the levitation fiesta).

“Sorey, Sorey, Sorey. Are you forgetting who you’re dealing with here?” Rose said. “The Sparrowfeathers have their ways. We just need to hit up this one tailor that owes me a favor or three…”

It was, of course, in Lastonbell that they found this tailor – the city of artisans was home to the most skilled hands on the continent, no matter what the craft. Rose smiled charmingly at the woman who answered the door. The smile was met with a weary stare.

“Ella,” Rose said. “Have I got a project for you.”

Ella slowly tried shutting the door, but Rose wedged her foot in before she could manage.

“Now, now, don’t try to be shy about it; we both know that you’re always excited to do work for me! Like I was saying, I’ve got a project and I just know you’re the only person who can pull it off. Don’t leave me out in the cold, here!”

Ella sighed tiredly. “I’ve told you a thousand times that there’s a limit to what those suits are designed to withstand. A little blood, the sealant can handle. You get sloppy, you get stains.”

Sorey could hazard a guess at how Rose had made the acquaintance of this woman. Rose huffed in irritation.

“Why do you always think I’m here about our suits? I’ve got other stuff on my plate, you know.”

“I also already told you that I can’t make them withstand deep ocean pressure.”

“We can talk about that again later!” Rose muscled her way in through the door, pulling Sorey along behind her. “Right now I need you to make six people look very pretty. Four of them are invisible. Also we’re all crossdressing and in disguise.”

Ella processed Rose’s words, and the situation she was presented. On her worktable, a pencil lifted, and began to sketch fervently on the sketchpad there. After a few moments, the pencil paused, and the sketchpad floated over to present itself to Ella for review. Ella leaned in, squinting through her thick glasses at the designs the phantom pencil had drafted for her. Finally, she shrugged.

“Whatever.” She went to fetch her measuring tape and some paper for notes. “As long as you keep giving me discounts on fabric.”

The day of the masquerade had arrived, and their disguises had arrived to their inn room, not a moment too soon.

“Your tailor friend worked so tirelessly, day and night,” Lailah said with a note of concern, even as she was visibly itching to tear into the carefully-wrapped packages. “I do hope that she didn’t exhaust herself.”

“She gets like that when she’s inspired,” Rose explained. “And it’s not like she did it out of the goodness of her heart. She gets first pick on any of our textile shipments, and every completed commission is a punch on her Scattered Bones loyalty card. Ten punches and she gets a free assassination request.”

The room became palpably awkward. Rose sighed aloud.

“Joking,” she said. “Not about the shipment thing though.”

“We just wonder sometimes…” Mikleo mumbled.

It was the moment of truth. The fashion show of the century. The couture reckoning.

Rose posed with her booted leg on a footrest. She looked sleek, debonair – her fitted suit hid her curves, but could not quite flatten her entirely; giving her a silhouette that would steal the attention of men and women alike. The suit was a reddish-pink the color of the sky at twilight, and the fabric shone and shimmered luxuriously in the candlelight. She looked inarguably well put-together, but had an air of the rogue. Her red hair was pulled back into a low ponytail, and she wore a black handlebar moustache for…some reason.

“A moustache is not a toy,” chided Lailah.

Lailah looked as elegant as ever, and as understated as ever – that was to say, not understated whatsoever. It was a known fact in the study of zoology that the male of a species was very frequently the most glamorously-dressed, and while it was doubtful that Lailah had much interest in the field, perhaps she’d once travelled with someone who did. Or maybe she just saw a peacock one time, and thought, Yes! That is what I want to look like if I ever had to crossdress for a villain’s masquerade ball! Her ruby-red suit’s tails trailed behind her like a bird’s tailfeathers, and the ensemble positively dripped with white lace and golden filigree. Her hair was pulled back into its customary ponytail, but was braided through with red ribbon. Despite her admonishing Rose for moustache crimes, she herself wore a gaudy, dandy top hat atop her head.

“I swear on my last breath that I will smear jam all over this cravat and hide it in your bed at night,” Edna hissed.

Edna…well. Perhaps it was karmic consequence that had landed her in her current outfit, or perhaps it was her complete refusal to work with Ella and pay more than a scornful glance to the outfit designs that Lailah had drafted. She looked like the precious darling scion of a hallowed aristocratic house. She was absolutely drowning in frills and lace, in bows and cravats. Though the design was intended to bring to mind a sailor suit, a rock would have looked more seaworthy.

“You cut a distinguishing figure,” Lailah said sincerely. Rose cackled and twirled her moustache.

Visibly miserable, Edna yanked and tugged at the white stockings that she wore under her bloomers. “I haven’t worn pants in years. If I suffocate tonight I’m going to smear jam all over these tights and—”

“Yeah, yeah, we get it.” Rose twirled her moustache once more for good measure. “Gentlemen, or should I say, gentleladies! You’re up!”

Zaveid’s leg was the first thing that could be seen in the doorway – his bare leg, sporting a gun holster hooked to his garter. He whirled into view, pressing his whole body up against the doorframe, posing like a femme fatale from a trashy stage play. Ella probably did not need to spend much time on his ensemble, considering how…little there was of it. It showcased his entire back, and bared cleavage to the point of obscenity. The sides were slit up to his hips, allowing him to showcase the curve of his ass with very little trouble. Despite the…lack of modesty, he didn’t look bad. It was just…

“I thought we were trying to not call attention to ourselves?” Edna commented flatly.

“You think about how we’d manage that with Zaveid, and you get back to me,” Rose said.

“I’m just…too much…to ignore…” Zaveid said breathily, fluttering his eyelashes on every syllable.

Despite herself, Edna had to give her that one.

“Um,” Sorey’s voice called from the hallway. “Can you guys tell me if I put this on right? I think I’ve got some leftover sashes…”

The group was stunned to silence as Sorey entered the room. It was not as though they expected Sorey to look bad in his disguise. They just didn’t expect him to look this good. Ella had outdone herself. The white bodice, trimmed with blue and gold embroidery, served two important functions: it cinched Sorey’s waist, and pushed up his already fairly large chest to create the illusion of a voluminous bosom. On the other hand, Ella chose not to hide Sorey’s broad shoulders and muscled arms; instead flattering and showcasing them with cutout shoulders and draping sleeves. The blond wig on his head framed his face charmingly; when Sorey gave a shy, awkward smile, those present in the room felt as though a thousand arrows hit their hearts.

“It’s a little tight, you know, in…this area.” Sorey gestured to his honkers. “But I really like the skirts! Did you tell Ella how much I love flappy capes?”

His practice in the armatus gave him the grace and balance to twirl in his heels, allowing the long, flowing skirts to float around him like a princess from a fairytale.

“Your tailor girl’s a magician,” Zaveid said with a note of wonder in his voice. “Man. If she made Sorey look like such a sweet little thing, just think about…”

He trailed off, but everyone knew exactly to whom he was referring. They looked towards the door, on the edge of their seats.

Secretly, everyone really had been looking forward to seeing Mikleo all dolled up—

“Mikleo! Come out, please!” Sorey pleaded. “I wanna see how pretty you look!”

…okay, “secretly” for everyone except Sorey, who was always extremely loud about all things Mikleo. But the fact remained: Mikleo was already stunning enough, with his snow-white skin and striking violet eyes, with his tiny waist and delicate features. Expectations were high, and were only made higher by the clear demonstration of Ella’s skills.

“I took a sneak peek at the dress Miss Ella sent for him,” Lailah sighed aloud as she spoke. “Truly lovely! Mikleo will be a vision in it.”

This assurance only served to heighten the excitement in the room, and served to make Sorey nearly start vibrating in place. They heard a grumble and the sound of footsteps from the hallway, and Mikleo stepped into the room…

…

…well.

“Are you happy now?” Mikleo spat, crossing his arms. That snow-white skin of his was cherry red, from the tips of his ears to his chest.

The dress was indeed beautiful, and was fitted to Mikleo’s envious figure perfectly. His waist, dainty as ever, was only made lovelier by the finely-embroidered and ribboned bodice. The sleeves and skirts flowed like water, shimmering in the room’s candlelight like a pond reflecting the sun. The colors of the fabric complemented his fair complexion perfectly – it was as though a fairy of ice and snow had descended to bless them with a crisp winter’s day.

However, the enchanting effect was seriously spoiled by the sour and uncomfortable look on Mikleo’s face, and the stiffness in the way that he moved. He walked like he was on stilts, and turned in place like he had sacks of barley tied to his hips. It was abundantly clear that skirts and heels did not agree with him on a personal or spiritual level. Putting a beautiful swan in a beautiful dress resulted in something that was less than the sum of its parts. And resulted in a pissed-off swan.

Sorey sighed dreamily, and swept over in his skirts to twirl around the room with Mikleo – Sorey, moving with effortless charm, and Mikleo, moving like a flailing fish.

“You look so great! Doesn’t he!?” Sorey asked the room, though he wouldn’t have heard any answer they gave, so lost he was in their twirling. “If only everyone in that whole ballroom could see you, I bet they’d just look at you and go, ‘wow’…”

At least now Mikleo was pouting, rather than scowling. It made him look marginally more presentable.

“…well, now that the two of us look so dashing,” Rose said, trying to get the subject onto something that wouldn’t horribly offend Sorey. “I think we’re ready to crash that party.”

“As long as our Cupcake Shepherd keeps his mouth shut,” Edna mumbled. She was lying face-down on the inn floor to indicate her displeasure at everything around her.

“Yeah, well, if things go well, Soreyella Sparrowfeather won’t need to do much talking at all,” Rose said. “Roseino will distract all those guests with his charm and tales of adventure, while Soreyella and Miklette slip out to investigate the building and get some evidence of Mardoc’s extracurricular business ventures.”

“Mikleo,” Mikleo harshly corrected. “Will escort Sorey. Without these stupid—pointless—”

In a fit of fury, Mikleo tore off one heeled shoe and threw it across the room. He then hobbled out of the room, one heel still on, grumbling as he lurched back to his own room to find his normal footwear. Sorey gathered up his skirts and hurried after him like a practiced maiden.

The stage was set, and the cast were in costume and ready for their cue. But the question remained: even with evidence at hand, what could be done if Hyland insisted on ignoring the crimes of its nobility?

(Art by Arivess!)

#sormik #sorey/mikleo #suremiku #soremiku #soymilk #tales of zestiria #sormikbb2019 #a tenderly crafted fanfiction

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