#more flash fiction

[inbabylontheywept]

Want Better Things

“You thought that was a bioweapon?” 

The translator broke down for a second as the creature did a sort of broken exhale. Connotations were all that came through. Vague implications. Pity, the software flashed. Disgust. Anger.

A pause as it decided.  

Sadism. 

Valta was already backing away. The final decision didn’t change his behavior, it just made the hall feel far, far too short. 

“I didn’t order it deployed. I didn’t make it.” 

The thing was staring at him, and he couldn’t look away. The two eyes moved in such perfect tandem that he didn’t think it was conscious. It only had binocular vision because it only needed binocular vision. Always the predator, never the prey. 

And now it was moving in on him. 

“Oh, but what if you had? Then I could tell you all the things that were wrong with it.” 

One of its hands - a sprawling, five fingered  spindly thing - traced carelessly along the station's walls. 

“No incubation period. Symptoms arrive within 40 minutes of exposure. No time to spread undetected. Minimum should be one week. Embarrassingly low.” 

The pressure the thing was putting on the wall increased, the gentle glide turning into a buzzing scratch. Humans were strong, but not strong enough to cut through metal like this. The suit had to be powered and clawed. 

“Spread through contact. Limited waterborne. No airborne. Intended mechanism of infection is viral load being put on hands from scratching, and then passed into the environment. Pathetically inefficient.” 

The translator was working, but the thing was overeunounciating each word. The meaning was being passed along by a clean, helpful voice in his suit, even as the sound was being passed on through the environmental speakers. And the sound was dreadful - clicks of ceramized bone jarring against each other, wet muscles modulating air into something sharp and rasping. 

“Mechanism of death? Lysis overload. Could be dangerous if it was transmitted into the lungs, but since the initial load tends to be dermal all we wind up with-”

It took its helmet off. 

It took its helmet off. 

It took its helmet off it took its helmet off it took its helmet off in a biozone it - 

It looked a little pink, actually. A little scratchy. It lifted a delicate, taloned hand and rubbed its face against it for a moment before finishing. 

“-is a rash.”

Valta’s prey drive had glued him to the spot. It was too close. The stupid, stupid part of his brain that still thought he was grazing on Duranga hoped that if he stood still long enough, it might not notice him. 

The human paused a moment before continuing. 

“Do you know why they sent me? Alphonse Ericsen, PhD, MD, civilian doctor, here to speak with you?”

Valta’s snout twitched. The suit translated the gesture for him. 

“No.” 

“Because one of our grunts is a dumb fuck,” the human said simply. “And he spent two days fighting on your station with his helmet off. He got infected that way and brought back your stupid, itchy plague to our carrier ship, and now we’ve all spent the last 8 hours scratching ourselves raw. But the jokes on you, because when we were treating that guy you know what we found? That he was in the asymptomatic phase of a COVID infection. So if this-”

It gestured to its pink face with a snarl. 

“-is your idea of a bioweapon, then COVID is going to be your apocalypse. But if you work with me, and shut everything the fuck down for the next three or four months, I might be able to save most of you.” 

Valta unstuck at that. He’d spent weeks down here, worrying about nothing more than the next skirmish. Now he was looking at a genuine existential threat. 

“...What? Why would you help us? We wanted you to die. All of you. I wanted-”

The human cut him off with an exasperated wave of his hand. 

“You wanted something stupid. Doesn’t mean I have to join you. Best I can do to fix you is keep you alive and hope that you feel ashamed later. That, I genuinely look forward to. Now come on, you’re going to be the one explaining to all your friends what’s at stake here. My bedside manner is so bad that they limited my patients to virology slides and USMC marines. I think that’s actually one rung below the guys that just dissect cadavers.” 

Valta would’ve made an amused hum at that, but something already felt scratchy inside his throat. 

[copia]

THIRTY-ONE DAYS OF GHOST ⛧ DAY ONE

first song you heard — Mary On A Cross

September 1969; Papa Nihil and the beginning of the Ghost Project take to the stage at the Whiskey a Go Go club in Los Angeles, under the watchful eye of Sister Imperator. Fifty-three years later, in Tampa, Florida, Papa Emeritus the Fourth performs Mary On A Cross, unaware that he is singing the story of his parents—and that of himself.

[pinkcreek]

‘They Said That She Had Been Killed By Swans,’ a short story by me is now live on my substack.

I remember my late grandmother telling me when I was a kid that I should be wary around the swans in the local waters because they were strong enough to drown a child my age. I have no idea if that is true but it has always stuck with me and I think about it every time I see a swan.

[bookshelf-in-progress]

Good Rich Earth: A Science Fiction Retelling of "The Secret Garden"

Ever since Mary had become an orphan, all adults did was tell each other about her story.

"Raised practically by robots, the poor thing. On one of those military space stations. She's never stepped foot on a planet!"

They talked over her just as if she wasn't there. Mary hated it. But then, she'd gotten used to hating things. Earth had so many things to hate.

She hated the outside air that got too hot or too cold or too humid and couldn't be changed by flipping a switch. She hated the sky with its constantly-changing light levels. She hated the gray clouds that always seemed to hang low over the big stone house where she was supposed to live with her uncle. She hated the vast, barren lands with the short scrubby plants that were all that had managed to grow since the Disasters.

But she hated the echoing darkness of that big house most of all, and so she spent most of her days in the hateful outdoors, looking for something to do. Ben let her tag along sometimes as he tended to the grounds. He called himself a gardener, so naturally Mary asked what a garden was.

"Its where we grow plants on purpose," Ben said.

"Like hydroponics?"

Ben sneered. "Hydroponics!" He lifted a handful of dirt from the ground. "In good rich earth! None of those weak, wispy water-plants with no more nutrition in them than a wet rag!"

Mary couldn't get another word out of him after that--he was too busy muttering to himself about space stations and their unholy, unnatural ways.

But she kept wondering about gardens. She liked the word, liked the idea--having seen nothing similar in any space station.

"If only you'd been here when the mistress was alive," Martha said. "You'd have seen gardens enough then. Always tending to her plants, she was. Trying to bring back flowers what was lost in the Disasters."

But when the mistress was lost, so were her gardens--locked away and left to decay by the husband who couldn't bear to see the site of his wife's death. It seemed unfair to Mary--the one interesting thing on this planet had been abandoned, and now there was nothing left for her.

Or was there? The gardens weren't destroyed--just locked. And locks always had keys.

The search for that locked door became the sole pursuit that filled Mary's days. She searched every corner of the house, looked for cellars, searched among the outbuildings for anything that looked like the wall of a garden. As she searched, she found she noticed the wind and cold less--grew even to like it, as exercise kept her warm. She even found other things that, though they were not the door, proved to be worth finding. A stubby little plant with purple flowers that opened overnight. A stream of clear water from snowmelt. And--best of all--the robin.

He became a companion on her hunt, the little bird--a cheerful voice that flitted about and checked on her progress before returning to his little labors.

It was while following him one day that Mary found the garden. The robin, in his daily fluttering, perched atop a building that she'd passed by a thousand times, sitting on the very edge of the eaves. Then the robin twittered, stepped back--and disappeared, seeming to fall straight through the solid roof.

"Hologram," Ben explained later. "A protective field. Keeps the temperature beneath a bit more stable, lets in rain and birds for water and pest control, and keeps prying eyes from seeing what's inside. Mistress used it to protect her work--plenty of folks who'd steal a cutting and give it to the corporations."

At last! The lost garden!

But still no door. Mary spent days prowling around the walls, searching for an opening, and found nothing but solid brick.

Until one sunny day, when the robin landed on the ground at the base of the wall. As he folded his wings, one of them brushed the bricks, and Mary saw the faintest shimmer of light ripple across a section of the wall.

This, Mary recognized--EtherDoors were a fact of space station life. With the right key, the wall could become permeable enough to let a person through--no need for the extra space or machinery a door required.

The robin fluttered toward a short shrub and sang a cheerful song. As Mary's eyes followed him, she saw a patch of dirt beneath the branches--and suddenly realized that the rock she had seen there a thousand times was no rock at all.

Mary lifted the shining, convex piece of black metal--a simple piece hiding complicated electronics. She pressed it to the center of where the EtherDoor stood--and her hand went through the wall. With two more steps, the rest of Mary followed.

She found herself in paradise.

She had never seen so much green. It covered the ground, climbed the walls, twisted around posts. There were trees with flowers on their branches. Bushes with tiny lacy leaves. Rubbery green stems with silky red and yellow cup-shaped blossoms on top. Thousands of plants, tangled, matted and twisted together, but all alive, drawing food from the earth and reaching up, up, up toward the sun.

For the first time, Mary was truly on Earth, as it was supposed to be.

And she saw that it was magical.

[skykid-nadir]

You are three years old. Your mother tells you a story about a child who fell from the Sky. You don't understand it yet, but that child was you.

You are six years old. Your parents agreed to take you into town, but only if you stay close to them. You ignore them, wander off and find a group of other kids. Playing with them is the most fun you've ever had. But when your parents find you later, you will never forget the scolding they give.

You are nine years old. The older kids play terrible pranks on you, stealing your mask or trying to snatch away the crystal at your heart. They don't say it to your face, but you know they think you're a freak.

You are twelve years old. The Elder arrives to take you away. He says you're special but you don't believe him. You just want to stay with your parents.

You are fifteen. The Elders argue about your future. Daleth reminds them that you're only a child. Teth counters that no one knows what you are. The others say nothing, but you know they agree with her.

You are eighteen. Your body hasn't aged in years. You hear murmurs in the crowd as you take your place on your throne. The Realm of Eden needs a new Elder, and the others finally agreed that it should be you.

You are twenty one. The pressure is too much. You never wanted this. You never wanted Eden. You feel like you'll never live up to their expectations of you. But you learned long ago to keep your mouth shut about that. You saw what happened to Daleth when he dared suggest that you choose your own path.

You are twenty four. You've finally done it. You've finally found a way to make them proud. If they knew that you could harness the power of Darkstone... Surely that will impress them, right? Maybe you'll finally be enough.

You are twenty five. You were wrong. They hated it. They feared it. You should have known. You will never be enough. How far do you have to go to make them respect you? At night you dream of your family, but you can no longer remember their faces.

Who are you? What are you? What do you have to do to prove yourself? Your inventions have done horrible things. But how can you turn back now? You're so close to changing the world. No matter the lengths, you will make them see that you are good enough.

[strangelittlestories]

“What entertainment do you bring before me today?” Squawked Augustine, the king of the birds. “Have the mockingbird players returned from their tour of the provinces? Or maybe that prattling parrot will reprise its human impressions?”

“Alas, milord.” Replied the king’s seneschal, a somewhat fussy flamingo. “You had the parrot killed for excessive repetitions and hesitations.”

“So I did!” The king spread his majestic tail feathers proudly, reliving the happy fuzz of murder. “Well, they knew the rules. Or, at least, *I* knew the rules and they probably should have inferred them.”

“One can never argue with your execution of the law.” Said the long-suffering seneschal, keenly aware that the wrong answer could result in his suffering moving from *long* to *short*. “Or with the law of your executions, for that matter…”

“Speaking of executions,” Said the king, whose mind was never truly far from state-sanctioned violence, “Do we have any on the docket for today?”

“Your majesty, I’m afraid the dungeons are quite empty.”

“What, no traitors left?”

“No, sire.”

“No criminals of any kind? No thieves or fraudsters or comedians who are overly reliant on props?”

“All thoroughly and legally murked, milord.”

“Well, I suppose send in my jester, then. I’m so dreadfully bored.”

At this command, the jester fluttered into the room, wearing a jaunty cap made out of a McDonald’s wrapper with a small lost key jangling from it in place of a bell.

The king and seneschal looked at the jester - the air was heavy with the potential for further royal atrocities. The seneschal crossed his talons.

“Coo.” Said the pigeon jester, hilariously.

A pause. A silence.

“Coo.” Said the pigeon jester again, making unblinking eye contact with the king.

The silence stretched on further. (Surely it could not keep on stretching or it would pull something…)

“Coo.” Said the pigeon jester, tragically.

And at this, the king finally burst into laughter. Uproarious, over-the-top, gut-busting laughter.

Which was just the distraction the seneschal needed. The elaborate flamingo costume was abandoned; the false wooden legs clattered to the floor and the fake neck - a painted length of hose pipe - flopped grotesquely back and forth.

From the costume burst forth a small army of truly tiny owls, which set about tying up the king while he was still prostrate from the laughter.

“What is the meaning of this?” Wailed the king.

“Coup.” Said the pigeon jester, accurately.

“Your reign of terror is at an end, vile tyrant!” Chirped an Elf Owl, puffing up its chest. “Revolution is here and your foul murderous regime will fall. In its place will rise a majestic and fair government! Vive la republic of feathers!”

“This is a conspiracy!” Cried the king.

“No,” Said the Elf Owl. “A conspiracy is ravens.”

“Owls are…” It donned a tiny pair of sunglasses. “...a Parliament.”

[twstgarden]

❀ ❝ 𝗺𝗮𝘆𝗯𝗲 𝘁𝗵𝗶𝘀 𝘁𝗶𝗺𝗲 ❞ ; 𝐟𝐥𝐚𝐬𝐡 𝐟𝐢𝐜𝐭𝐢𝐨𝐧

━ lilia vanrouge x gn! reader ━ he's lived a long life and faced many experiences, but maybe this time, he'll find himself yearning to experience this long-lost feeling once more. (f/n means first name)

this work may contain spoilers for chapter 7, diasomnia’s arc.

do not steal or translate without my permission.

lilia has lived for about 700 years. 700 years is a lot as it brought him several experiences and knowledge that are all unique to him. not to mention, raising kids was one of the things he never expected to do, and yet he already had.

and having you by his side was something he never expected in his 700-year lifespan as well. at first, he thinks you're a total sweetheart, going out of your way to help him and accompany him any time so he won't feel lonely.

until those thoughts are buried deep into his mind and his feelings have developed from familial and platonic to something a little more... like a memory he has long forgotten yet remembered once more.

it has been so long since he felt butterflies or felt the drive in his heart to see you every day, and every single time he feels his heart thumping in his chest at the sight of you, he reminds himself that he shouldn't.

the last time he loved someone, he lost them, and he could not risk repeating the same act with you only to eventually lose you in the end.

but maybe this time, he'll try to take the risk.

© twstgarden 2024 || please do not steal, translate without my permission, or use this to train a.i.

[graceofagodswrath]

She tore across the fields, the deserts and the oceans. She destroyed villages, cities and empires. She jumped across planets and worlds, ravaging, killing, burning. Nothing could stop a woman with such rage in her soul.

And a mother’s wrath in her bones.

It had been peaceful. An out of the way back world planet, green and bright. An oasis form of the planet earth. And it was a secret. A secret she kept between her and her child. A little boy, sweet as can be. With swirling black curls atop his head and big honey brown eyes, he’d stare at the only home he knew with playful awe. He’d dance while she tended to the garden, sing as they walked the wood’s paths. He’d ask a million questions about a million things, and she rarely grew tired of it. He filled her days with entertainment and happiness, and she filled his with knowledge and play.

But all good things end. That is the universe’s constant cycle. She came back from a mountainous trip to find her home ravaged, and her boy gone. She tore through the ruins, a woman of green spirits no longer. Now, she was fire and brimstone. A mountain of storm.

It didn’t take long for her to find the tracks. She called back to her dark past, the one she ran from to keep her child in a net of safety. It only did so much good. So she called back that dragon fire fury of her warrior days, and hunted down those scavenging fools who’d taken her only treasure.

And caught them she did. She stormed their ship, all metal and fang, claw and bullet, sweeping through them like a hurricane. Blood and carcasses painted the bridge in eerie art.

But she did not find her boy. However, She did find her next target. And it would not be long until they’d tasted the rage of her blades.

So beware the venomous scorn of a woman.

And the hellfire of a mother’s wrath.

[writing-is-a-martial-art]

HEY SO I GOT PUBLISHED TODAY

[effloradox]

“I thought we were meeting after lunch?” You briefly look up from your homework to see Haruhi standing uncertainly in front of you. You blink at her before looking over to the clock hanging about the library door. You'd been so invested in your maths assignment that an hour had passed by without you noticing.

“I guess I lost track of time. I’m not that hungry anyway.” You use a foot to push the seat opposite you away from the table, gesturing for your friend to sit down.

“You should go eat. I can keep your seat.”

“I actually brought lunch today.” You push yourself back from the table to reach into your bag, grabbing the bento box from its spot and lifting it onto the table. Whilst eating is usually frowned upon in Ouran’s libraries, you’ve never known anyone to be actually reprimanded for it.

“What did you bring?”

“Sushi. I was craving it this morning but now I’m not too bothered about it.” You don’t miss the way Haruhi’s eyes dart towards the bento box, everyone knows how much she loves sushi. “You can have it if you want it.”

“What? No, I couldn’t eat your lunch.” She laughs nervously as you remove the lid, revealing the contents of the box to her.

“Here, give it a try and tell me what you think.” You push the sushi towards Haruhi without even considering the action, you mind completely occupied by the maths equation you’re trying to solve. You’re so invested in the equation that you completely miss the blush that flushes over Haruhi’s features.

[nicosraf]

can't believe I almost slipped into psychosis last night and wrote the whole first chapter of angels 3 and also started and finished an entirely new short story

[saffronthreads]

Y'all ever think about your f/o's scent? Is it something subtle or something noticeable? Maybe they wear some kind of perfume/cologne, or maybe they don't. Perhaps you find yourself borrowing one of their jackets, or perhaps a shirt, just because it smells like them and that makes you happy. Or maybe they do the same thing with you clothes, whenever they find themselves missing you.

[drowning-in-cacophony]

gentle like a wave

Written for @flashfictionfridayofficial prompt 269: Living Weapon

[Summary: it's not as easy as thought to use this weapon]

“Bloody hell,” one of the men breathe, bug eyed and gaping. She sighs and places down her shears – her flower dead-heading is clearly a job that’s going to have to wait for another day.

They’d burst through the waterfall with gleaming guns and preposterous postures. The same story, then, and she reads that truth in the leader’s eyes as he blusters his way forward, a demand already tracing the shape of his lips. There’s an ugly-looking moustache quivering above his upper lip. She crosses her legs, tucking her ankles neatly away, backed against her latest crop of flowers. Sitting down, she’s found, puts them on the back foot constantly. They expect one image; have no idea what to do with what she gives them.

They’re all clearly shocked by what they’ve discovered here. What story was it this time? A push through the water and there would lie a sword, enchanted beyond all measure. Splash droplets from hair and wrap a hand around the greatest machine gun in history. Wipe eyes and find a bomb that’d end all wars. The leader – a commander, by the badge on his lapel – has begun to put together the pieces. Behind the water, behind all the strife to get here, and you’ll find a weapon. And well, it’s not bloody likely to just be her shears now, is it?

“On behalf of the United Squadrons, I am requesting your use,” the Commander says, wobbling himself to his full height. She presses fingertips against the seam of her trousers.

“That’s not how we do things here, Commander,” she says flatly, and continues before she has to listen to any bluster. “Tell me what you want.”

His eyes water. At his side, his hand flexes, though the handgun tucked in his holster remains sheathed. She hopes it stays that way: threatening their way to what they want never works out well. “You are the thing we’re looking for?”

How am I meant to know if you won’t tell me what it is? But it’s obvious, since no-one other than old Nana ever comes here for other means, so she gives him a gentle incline to blow his heartbeat wild. A bead of sweat hangs like a pearl, suspended at his temple.

“Then you must understand,” he begins, quick-paced, a little sanctimonious. “There is a war going on out there and-”

“No. I said tell me what you want. Not what’s going on.”

The man blinks. Behind him, his soldiers too. She sees the nervous licks of their lips, the hungry ones too. How long have they travelled to find her? There’s a hollow sort of look to their cheeks, but then she finds the soldiers often do end up concaved in face. Cheeks first, then the skulls. Once, such a man had stumbled in here and died before he could even tell her anything. His broken skull, along with his better condition bones, lie underneath the oak tree some stone throw’s away.

At least, despite the blinking, he gets to the point. “I want your power.”

“To?”

“To-? To destroy the enemy, of course! To bring justice to the land, to restore order, to-”

“No.” She nods to herself. “Next.”

The Commander stares at her, mouth hanging open. It’s quite an unseemly look to the man, so she glances to the man hovering a few steps behind. Maybe he’s the next-in-command, standing slightly closer to denote that; mostly, she just finds the next face she can. One hand reaching up, she beckons him forward with a twitch of her fingers, a raise of her brow when his step falters. His eyes dart to his Commander, uncertainty spoiling blue eyes like a damn rainstorm.

“What do you mean next?” the Commander blurts out with, cheeks going steadily red. “Didn’t you listen to me? I said-”

“I heard.” Her tone creaks, an old floorboard in distaste. “I’m not convinced by you.”

“Not convinced? Lady, do you know who you are talking to?”

She blinks, once. “Next. I won’t ask again. Either it’s next, or you’ll all leave.”

“We most certainly will not, not until you have-”

“Remember what you have come for.” Her voice now is gentle, in the way the sea goes before a massive wave rushes in to sweep a land clear. The Commander freezes, a man well acquainted with the gentle sort of danger. His throat throbs, a pulse she can see, easy enough to rip out. His eyes bulge, fish-like; she watches his thoughts go through him like the water from the waterfall.

There is this: the Commander might be the sort she doesn’t deal with, but he knows when to step back.

Stiffly, mind you, with his own distaste echoing around his face, loud as a church’s bell. Bewildered for a moment, his second is left standing on the precipice. There is a space to be filled, and she waits with expectation.

This second man takes a deep breath and a small step forward. His gun, which had been mostly lowered from the moment they’d all locked eyes with her, goes completely slack to his side. She reads his threading nerves, pounding a sickening drumbeat behind his skin.

“Tell me what you want,” she says.

The man exhales, a gust of wind to graze her cheek. “I want you to help us free the people.”

She says nothing. The gap in which to be filled, and he does not disappoint in understanding the intention. Cautious words, stalking a deer through a crispy field, he keeps on speaking.

“They suffer under a regime. I don’t know if what we intend will be better – I can’t predict it – but I know I want to try and make a place better than what it is. I want to improve things, for them.”

She taps her fingertips against the seam. “Thank you for your inquiry,” she says, and purses her lips. The man understands this too, bowing his head and waiting in silence, even as his Commander makes a few huffing noises somewhere behind him. She flexes her other hand, fingers weary already.

But this is how the agreement must go. They can ask, and if they give her an answer that meets her requirements, then she has to say yes, weariness or not.

A weapon cannot be too tired to fire, after all.

She raises her head, and gives him the answer.

[bookshelf-in-progress]

A Daughter's Gift: A Beauty and the Beast Retelling

You never told me where the rose came from. You simply handed it to me among the Christmas gift-giving, a spot of summer in that mid-winter storm. I was too delighted to question it. It seemed another miracle in that miraculous day, all those gifts filling our little kitchen the way they’d filled our parlor in the days of plenty. We all believed your story, that the ship had come home laden with treasures, and that you’d been able to buy us everything we’d asked for and more. Even miraculous flowers that lasted through snowstorms.

When you said you were leaving after New Year’s, no one questioned that, either. Now that we were prosperous, there would be more business to attend to, more money to handle in businesses that didn’t exist in this little country town. No doubt you’d be engaging us a real house again, and we’d be back in the city before Easter.

But then you didn’t return. And didn’t return. The eldest of your sons traveled to the city and found that you’d never arrived. None of the inns had seen you pass by. It was as if you’d disappeared from the world the moment your wagon left our sight. By now there were no signs in the snow, no body to find. You had vanished, and there was nothing for us to grieve.

A year passed, two. We thought you dead, knew you dead, but did not want to believe you dead. And so we searched, and lifted our heads in hope every time there was word of a stranger in town. I wandered into the forest on every snowy day, hoping to find the mysterious something that could have diverted you from your path.

After three years, I found it. I traveled on my normal route through the woods, but I suddenly found myself in an open meadow full of springtime flowers, an arm’s-length away from the Beast.

I capitalize it, because you know, and I know, that there is only one who fits that name. The creature with the fur and head and claws of a wolf that stands and speaks like a misshapen man.

Its voice rumbled like thunder. “You are the thief’s daughter.”

I protested at that—faced with such a lie, I could contradict any monster. “My father is an honest man.”

“And a thief,” it said.

With those words, the rose—your final gift to me—appeared in my hand. I had memorized—could recognize—its every petal and thorn. It had remained fresh through all these long years, and I had questioned that, but not too closely—I did not like to think that my gift had brought about your ruin.

“This is mine,” I said. “My father gave it to me.”

“And he stole it from me,” the Beast said. “The price was his freedom.”

My heart went to my throat. “You have him prisoner?”

“It was his choice. My justice.”

I swallowed. “What...what was the other choice?”

“To send you.”

I cried at that. To know that you’d sacrificed yourself to save me.

How was I to repay such love? There was only one way.

By sacrificing myself for you.

I beg you, do not be angry with me. Just as you couldn't bear to send me in your place, so I couldn't bear to leave you as a monster’s prisoner. Not when I had the power to save you.

The Beast promises I shall be treated as a guest. This palace contains marvels I have barely begun to explore. I shall be safe and happy here, if I know you are safe and happy at home.

Do not search for me. Do not weep for me. Accept my gift as I accepted yours--with love and gratitude--and know that I would give much more for the sake of such a father.

I know well the price of love. I pay it gladly.

Know that, wherever I am, I will always love you all.

[ginneke]

let's do the time warp thing 2 (whoops accidentally a followup)

@flashfictionfridayofficial's prompt for this week is "Take My Hand" -- which gave me more than a few ideas, but this is the one I decided to go with. Because reasons.

This ficprompt follows directly on from my fill for FFF prompt #217 (Portal Fiction), in which Link finds a mysterious stone in a secret chamber at the forgotten temple... and hits it with a sword, like you do.

If I get to the point of a part three, I'll have to find a title for this and port it to ao3. whoops.

--

"–Who are you," the kid demands again, trying to sound authoritative and failing, "and what were you doing down there?"

Link can do nothing but stare. The head of his drillshaft drops to the temple floor. The Rito child looks and sounds so much like the ghost of Champion Revali, but that can't be right. It has to be impossible. Or perhaps there's a simpler explanation. He doesn't know whether Champion Revali had any descendants, but –

"Are you listening to me?"

"Listening," Link murmurs, distracted. In the secret chamber below, the stone still hums – but he doesn't know how long it will stay active. The Slate isn't showing him the right time, even though he's back on the surface again. That rules out interference from the Sheikah tech as the reason why it failed. So why has it failed? What's up with this place? It's the same temple as the one he'd been exploring. But it doesn't look right. Apart from the missing Guardians – and that, at least, isn't something he's sorry about at all – there's altogether too much rubble around, and...

At the foot of one of the giant columns, Link spots the remains of a heaping midden. A monster camp had been here, if not terribly recently. Abandoned long enough that the stink has dissipated, but the ruins are hot and dry enough that the bones remain. Mushrooms have tried to sprout from the rot. They don't look safe to eat.

There wasn't any sign of a monster camp before. The haywire Guardians would have shot down a bokoblin party just as readily they fire on Link.

Same temple. Somehow different. How? How can this place be so different to the temple he was exploring not even a few hours ago, and yet look so similar?

He hefts the drillshaft and makes as if to step out into the cavernous temple; the kid snaps at him, "Hold it!"

Ah.

"Haven't your teachers told you not to aim where you don't intend to shoot?"

The kid bristles. "Who says I don't intend to shoot?"

Bluster, rather than a threat. The kid isn't quite old enough to appreciate quite what a statement like that needs to back it up. Revali would have shot him by now, questions be damned. Link's sure of that much.

And sure enough, the kid lets the bowstring go slack, replacing the arrow in its quiver, though not without aiming a thunderous glare at Link in its place.

"You're not a spy, are you?"

Why is that the first thing this kid thinks of...? Link shakes his head. The kid eyes him mistrustfully.

"Shake on it."

...Huh?

"That's what you Hylians do, right? If you won't shake, then you really are a spy."

What kind of twisted-up logic is that? More to the point, if the kid does suspect him of being some sort of enemy, why insist on a – handshake? Bringing a potentially dangerous person even closer to you is the furthest thing from sensible.

Except the kid's already got a wing outstretched. Left wing, naturally, because the right wing's grip on the bow hasn't slackened off at all. (Probably, Link thinks, in case he does turn out to be a spy.) Almost lethally overconfident, but...

Link lifts his left hand and takes the kid's wing with solemn ceremony. Even so, he can only really wrap his hand around the first pair of fingers, given the difference in their body shapes. It's enough to satisfy honour: the kid finally puts the bow away, and even makes a little half-hopping motion in place, like all previous suspicion has melted like a thaw.

...It's cute. And also a little worrying how quickly the kid went from clumsily threatening violence to making equally clumsy overtures of friendship. Link doesn't get it at all.

He doesn't have much opportunity to think about it. Now that he's deemed trustworthy enough to be allowed out of the tunnel entrance, Link can see far more of the temple. A piece of cloth catches his  eye. It's a tarpaulin, Sheikah tan and red. Another thing different. He moves towards it. The kid follows him like a little shadow; the tallest tuft of feathers in that bright-blue crest barely reaches Link's shoulder.

Link has to put the drillshaft down to be able to navigate the ropes. He pulls the tarp away; what's underneath has him immediately reaching for a sword he isn't carrying. His heartbeat spikes. Swordless and not thinking clearly, he puts his arm in front of the kid like a futile shield --

"It's just a Guardian," the kid says, tugging Link's arm down. "Look, it's not even awake. They've been digging them up all over the place. Even here."

...Excavating Guardians. Yes, people used to do that, didn't they? But Link is used to the Guardians being dangerous. A horrible thought occurs to him and he blurts out, without thinking, "Have they dug up Vah Medoh?"

"...What's a medoh?" the kid asks, a note of confusion entering his voice, and Link has just enough time to think, 'oh', before –

– chime –

The first thing he registers is that Revali – the far too young Revali, who didn't know what Vah Medoh was – is gone.

So is the tarp, and the second thing he registers is the beeping, and the bright red target fixed on his chest.

Link grabs his shield and deflects the now-active Guardian's beam. The parried blast is enough to destroy it, though Link doesn't dare hang around to scavenge the pieces from the husk, because the noise has brought a half-dozen more eyes swivelling in search of him, bright blue cutting through the smoke and dust.

He grabs the drillshaft he'd dropped an eternity and scrambles for the Sheikah Slate, making a hasty retreat.

Later, as he makes camp half a continent away, he takes note of the drillshaft's condition: it's rusty, like it had lain abandoned in the temple for over a century.

It strikes Link that it has.

[strangelittlestories]

The necromancer, Bonaparte, stared at the horizon with bored black eyes. Beneath his gaze, the visitors bearing their flag of truce were ushered forwards by his skeletal honour guard.

“I will accept your surrender now.”

The commanding officer - not the original, but the surviving one - stepped towards the tyrant. She wore a Brigid’s Cross made of dirty reeds on her lapel. 

She could see the setting sun reflected in the necromancer’s obsidian gaze. Soon, the light would fade and dead would be at their strongest.

“I’m afraid I cannot offer you a surrender, Emperor of corpses. But I will beg for mercy, for you are the only soldier in your army with a heart to feel it.”

“My heart stopped beating long ago.”

“Yet I pray that enough feeling echoes in it still to grant clemency, despite your profanities.”

Then did the necromancer turn his gaze towards her. They were eyes that read fate and defied laws. She could have sworn she felt the air curdle, the ground buckle, and the light twist with its weight.

“Oh, your kings and queens are all so horrified by me and by what I do. They call it a crime against nature, a sin against god. Or *gods*.” He gestured to the cross on her uniform. “But if one has a war to fight - and if one believes in equal parts that war is *just* but also that no war *can* be just … is this not the most ethical, most correct thing? To fight the war in such a way that does not harm your subjects? Surely only a coward would let the disapproval of a few dozen gods sway them from saving a life?”

He paused as if to take a breath, but his chest did not move (he no longer needed air and considered it ill-disciplined to fall back into the habit of breathing). 

The officer paused too. His words felt heavy in her head. His dry voice scratching uncomfortably at her mental walls. But in his eyes, she still saw the last dying rays of sunlight…

“I suppose, tyrant of sunset, that were I in your shoes I *would* be tempted to keep harm and death from me and mine. But even if I could, I hope I would not do what you have done. For I would fear what other harm I was doing.”

“And what harm is that?”

“To put it simply, marshal of styx, those bodies that fight for you? They’re *not *yours*. You stole them. Dug up graveyards, cracked open tombs, emptied ossuaries.” She tutted and sunlight flared in her disapproval. “Maybe a few are honoured comrades, true believers, but most? They wouldn’t even know you to say good morning, yet alone to salute. Their spirits may be gone, but that doesn’t mean you get to make their dust dance.” 

“You defy me because you think my army is … theft?”

“That’s my line in the dirt. It may not be a good line. It may be a damned stupid line. I don’t know. But there it is - I know it, I feel it, it’s mine - like the bones that hold me upright.”

Bonaparte permitted himself a small sigh as a luxury.

“And after you die, those same bones will bow to me.”