#please pardon my poor handwriting

[knightthyme]

sorry i havent posted in forever i am tired all the time and cannot draw and also have been playing too much bg3. but since people have been doing this lately: how i draw yoohankim!!!

[shimmershae]

My thoughts on Episode 6--On the Inside

Very appropriate title by the way.  Works in a multitude of ways.  

As always, my randomness is going beneath a cut again to spare the eyeballs of those of you that don’t want to see it at all and also?  Help those of you that have somehow stayed spoiler-free in this brand-new age of early release episodes.  It is still so wild to me that I’m a full episode ahead of half the fandom.  I don’t know what I’m going to do when we get to the final episode and they decide to make us all suffer together--because somehow I do feel they will do exactly that after spoiling us for the first 23 episodes.  It is going to be agonizing.  

Anyway.  Without further ado, Shae’s stream of consciousness review (of sorts).  

Not fair, Angela.  Opening the episode with that shot of that big ass spider.  I hate those suckers.  So naturally, they’re an easy sell for setting the horror scene to me, lol.  

Okay.  Who the hell’s chasing Virgil and Connie?  Walker No-See-Ums?

Barely a minute in and the atmosphere for this episode is moody AF.  

What is this?  Tara Jr. The Walking Dead?  LOL.  Where’s the Scarlett for this mini plantation house?  Anyway.  First three minutes of this episode?  Just as attention grabbing as the first five episode openings this season.  I don’t think people out there are giving our writers enough love for that.  Every episode so far has opened like a mini movie.  

With the way the Walking Dead logo keeps crumbling away with each successive episode, somehow it wouldn’t surprise me at all if the Carol and Daryl spinoff was eventually titled The Living and had flowers growing out of each letter, lol.  I mean, there would be a certain sort of life-affirming symmetry in a show that’s been promised to be much lighter in tone doing just that.  

More Carol and Aaron?  Yes, please.  I don’t necessarily like Carol staying at home and sitting the sidelines like a figurative happy little homemaker in the B story while the rest of the mains are trying like hell to sell the A story, but if she’s going to be totally prohibited from the main storyline until it’s time to blow shit up?  I’m going to continue enjoy getting to see her do what she should have been doing for seasons--interacting with others in the community, especially Aaron and the ladies.  

Truly.  I really am loving my girl getting some quality Aaron and Rosita time.  It’s so long overdue.  

Bless sweet Kelly.  Riding off to her sister’s rescue.  

Why isn’t Lydia shown as part of these plans?  For someone that could barely read last season, I doubt that big ass map was a piece of cake for her and it’s all just guesswork anyway without her guidance.  I mean, why does it feel like they are cutting some of this stuff that might not seem like much plot-wise but would go a long way toward establishing different character beats?  Personally, I would have loved to see her involved in the search and sharing scenes again with Carol and bonding with Kelly. 

Virgil be having that “I always feel like somebody’s watching me” feeling.  Don’t you hate that, lol?  

“You haven’t slept in days.”  But how many days, Virgil?  I’m going to need a number because I’m confused AF about this timeline at this point.  What we’re seeing and what different pieces of dialogue is telling us is not exactly lining up.  I’m going to find it awful hilarious if it hasn’t even been two weeks since the cave in.  For reasons.  

Connie’s spidey senses are clearly tingling.  

Alrighty, then.  She’s clearly got PTSD.  Understandable.  They’ve all had it.  Some have been treated more sympathetically than others, though.  

I mean, it never seems to cross anybody’s mind how Carol probably sees Henry’s head on that pike, Mika’s pale and bloody body, Lizzie crumpled face down in a bed of yellow flowers, Sophia with a smoking bullet hole through her undead head whenever she closes her eyes but whatever.  

Okay though.  But what if Connie had really shitty, impossible to read handwriting?  AKA doctor’s  handwriting.  What then?  

Leah’s face honestly twists my insides whenever I see it, lol.  It’s quiet a visceral thing.  No, that does not make me a horrible person.  Not everybody wants or has to drink the awesome, great, redeemable villainess Kool-Aid.  IMHO, she’s got a face meant for a Walker.  Perfect makeover idea.  Eh.  Mostly it’s her expression and the deadness of her eyes.  

Anyway.  Why is it always the fingers?  Eff that.  

Listen.  If ya’ll can’t tell Daryl’s conflicted AF with the situation he’s landed in, you don’t know how to read NR’s face and eyes.  He’s not a masterclass like MMB but he’s pretty darn good when he wants to be.  

I honestly feel sorry for Redshirt Frost.  

“You do what you gotta do.”  Frost knows what’s what and he’s willing to walk the walk for Maggie.  Impressive loyalty.  I’m left wondering how the current, colder incarnation of Maggie inspired it because I’m still struggling to see it.  Anywho.  My point is the dude knows the score and just gave Daryl the okay.  

Daryl taking off his angel vest before stepping into the role of torturer/interrogator=him shedding the persona/the man Judith and RJ and Lydia and Carol know him to be.  Pushing away his man of honor status so he can just survive somehow.  

Pope never quits chewing whatever the hell he’s got in his mouth.  It’s kind of distracting.  

Ohhh.  We’re back to the Haunted Mansion.  I mean house.  Where are the Hitchhiking Ghosts?  

All the eyes scratched out of those creepy pictures=spooky.  

The good old fogged up bathroom mirror shot.  Somebody’s been watching and studying their horror movies, lol.  Not gonna lie though.  I’m legit bracing myself for the jump scares I know have to be coming.  

I’m loving the music/score in these scenes.  

Truthfully, I could care less about these Reapers.  But they are hella attractive, lol.  Listen.  Angela knows what she’s doing.  

Kelly’s horse is so pretty.  Prayer chain for that baby.  

More dead horses?  Why?  

Connie’s slingshot?  Sorry.  I maintain, no matter how much I like these two, that they have the lamest weapons ever.  Endless supply of Virginia rocks or not.  

So.  Did Virgil and Connie enjoy a little equine for dinner?  Did they kill it before the Walkers fed?  What monsters!  Yeah, no.  Not if they were starving even if I personally could not have.  The more probable story is they fled the camp in a panic and left the horse behind and then it went down.  Sorry.  I didn’t exactly study the wounds on the poor animal because it is so traumatizing to me to continue to see them meet such dastardly ends on this show.  I don’t know who the hell has such a score to settle with horses but stop it.  

Days.  It’s only been days.  Not weeks.  So many times with all that Daryl and Company have had to contend with since the cave in?  Those do not exist, lol.  They’re just a convenient, appeasing piece of dialogue thrown at a fanbase primed and ready to read everything into not much of anything.  There’s just not been enough time for it to happen unless Daryl has literally been up 24/7 for all of them.  You know, strategizing how to attack the remainders of Alpha’s horde, figuring out how to defend Hilltop before it fell, healing from the wound he sustained at Alpha’s hand, sitting on that log all damn night with Negan waiting on Carol to come home, having a lover’s quarrel with his best damn everything, taking care of the Grimes babies and Lydia, being the reluctant leader.  Kang, why you playing them like that?  Daryl’s a super guy but he’s not a superhuman with clones.  So many times my ass.  

Seriously.  Who been watching Connie and Virgil?  The MIA Oceansiders?  Beta’s Fee Fi Fo Fum Ghost?  

Nice.  A Michonne mention.  Maybe the truth will start to trickle out.  

LMAO at Connie’s “I’m not staying here.”  Me neither, girl.  I would be outta that house so fast.  

They really “Quiet Placing” this episode.  Honestly?  I’m kinda loving it.  

WTF was that?  I know she can’t hear but you telling me all the little hairs on her arms, legs, and neck didn’t stand the fuck up and say fuck this shit, I’m gone?  Pardon my language, lovelies, but that moment had my heart kicking up several beats.  

Okay, okay.  To be fair to Connie, every hair on her body been doing that since the front door closed.  Maybe they’re desensitized.  

Gollum’s chasing Connie!!!  He/She wants their Precious!!!

The knee jerk reactions about this episode sight unseen are OTT, honestly.  And I mean no disrespect by saying that.  I can understand completely where they’re coming from because we’ve been burned so long in this fandom.  But it’s obvious the spoiler source has their particular biases and reads into things in such a way that don’t line up with what’s actually being shown onscreen.  Daryl’s loyalty in this episode and all along quite clearly lies with his family and his community.  He’s been playing Leah since the start and is truly just trying to survive somehow.  

Awful thought.  The Reaper that’s so suspish of Daryl--haven’t quite caught his name or really cared to.  I feel like he might try to get to Daryl somehow.  When he realizes that Daryl cares no more for Leah than any human would care for somebody (they thought) they used to know?  He’s going after Dog.  Or Carol should she finally join this story. 

I refuse to believe Carol isn’t going to be a part of this story.  Because they messing with her mans, lol.  

“You’re ever with us or you’re not.”  Now where have I heard those words before?  I wish I could find that Daryl gif because that had to be one of the funniest things ever, lol.  

Unrealistic suggestion to Daryl, Leah?  Breathing oxygen seems to piss off Carver.  Oh look.  He finally has a name for me, lol.  

I love how all three of the ladies--Carol, Magna, and Rosita--look at Kelly with such indulgent, adoring “little sis, you alright?” eyes.  

They are seriously the most beautiful quartet of characters.  I mean all of them are lovely but Carol and Rosita this season?  Ugh.  The unfairness of the pretty.  

Human bones.  Terminus callback, lovelies.  How it all would have eventually gone down if Gareth and Co. hadn’t met the business end of Rick’s red machete.  

So many horror movie homages in this one.  

Virgil’s like “let’s leave this Texas Chainsaw Massacre behind.”  

Connie and Virgil have obviously bonded, ya’ll.  I’m surprised by how much I’m enjoying their scenes together when the character mostly got on my nerves with Michonne.  He’s a good actor and the core of his character is sympathetic, but I’m not going to lie.  I wasn’t super enthused when he was the one that rescued Connie because I didn’t know how their scenes would play out. But there’s a nice synergy there.  

Okay.  Does Carver want Leah for himself?  Because I’m sure Daryl at this point would love to scream “take her, I know where I fucking belong!”  

Daryl’s digging in deep because Carver has shown him Leah’s potential weak spot.  Nuance is truly lost on some people, LMAO.  He cares about Leah as a human being probably.  He’s Daryl, after all.  The sweet one.  But he sees her as his way outta this and he’s going to exploit it.  

It’s nice to have a silent Negan for once, lol.  I can pretend he didn’t take my baby Glenn away from me and enjoy JDM’s pretty.  

So.  These cannibal people were the watchers?  Hmm.  

I’m really digging Virgil 2.0.  Yeah.  Nobody’s surprised more than me.  

Sweet, sweet scene between Virgil and Connie.  His determination to reunite her with her family brings back the sympathy I felt for him when he told Michonne “I promised her flowers.  Every day.”  

Damn.  How many of those creepy crawly cannibals are there?  

How brave of Connie to confront her fears to save someone she’s obviously grown to care about.  

The Kelly/Connie reunion gave me chills and made me cry.  Thank fuck Angela didn’t cheapen that moment by having it focus on literally anybody else.  Kelly is the most important person in the whole world to Connie and vice versa.  Just like Carol is the most important person in the whole world to Daryl and vice versa.  Angela fucking knows.  Everybody does.  Except the people busy building castles out of sand while the waves of Carol’s and Daryl’s converging stories keep crashing closer and closer to shore.  

Such a beautiful moment given to us by Angel Theory and Lauren Ridloff.  So authentic and sweet.  Kelly and Connie are home to each other.  

Poor Frost.  That’s all I gotta say about that.  

WTF, though.  Was Mel just not available or what?  I want to see more of the ASZ characters that I care about, not the Reapers.  Like I’d be fine with the story if all the characters not named Maggie, Negan, or Daryl weren’t surviving on crumbs during it.  Especially the 2nd billed actress on the entire show.  Angela.  Please.  Fix this.  

One last WTF.  Seriously.  WTF has Maggie done to inspire Pope’s obsession?  It better be juicy after all this shit.  

Overall impression of the episode--

One of my favorites of the season so far.  The horror aspects were fantastic, IMHO. I truly didn’t expect to like Connie and Virgil’s scenes as much together so that was a nice surprise.  She got the reunion that felt most true and earned for the character and her story and I thank Angela from the bottom of my heart for that.  

I would have loved more Carol but I always want more Carol.  I’m okay with her taking a backseat because ultimately?  This was Kelly’s moment with her sister.  Carol and Connie will eventually have their time to sit down and talk.  And pick back up their blossoming friendship because I truly do not feel Connie blames Carol at all.  

I do wish Lydia had been included with the girl group.  Last episode felt like it was leading up to that.  

The Reaper storyline continues to be the weakest link because every time we see them the dialogue and interactions feel totally recycled from the time previous.  I feel like it would have totally been helped by a tighter focus and less stretching out because 8 episodes of this is really diluting what I feel like Angela and Co. are going for.  I’m not here for Leah being redeemed or being a bigger focus in any of the episodes because she does nothing of interest for me.  I’m just peeking in on that story for the Daryl of it all.  

Speaking of the Daryl? You lovelies out there gotta stop taking that spoiler source’s recaps at face value because it’s obvious to me at least that there’ some bias at work.  Every action and word coming from Daryl is coming from a place of loyalty to his family and wanting to protect them, no matter how he has to dirty his hands.  Leah is just a means to his ultimate end.  She’s not his future.  She never was.  His future’s already spoken for and 2023 can’t get  here soon enough.  But like Daryl, we have to just survive somehow.  

Oh goodie.  More Maggie and Negan next episode and looks like no real follow up on Connie and the ASZ reunions.  Hopefully, this is yet another instance of the previews being deceiving but I’m not holding my breath.  

Until later, lovelies.  

Hope my word vomit didn’t bore you too much.  

[thatsassyhufflepuff]

Stronger Than Blood Chapter 25: Felicity

Summary: Hufflepuff witch Felicity Zabini struggles to find normalcy as she enters into her 6th year at Hogwarts, reeling from her father’s sudden death and her mother’s quick remarriage into the Zabini family. If only she had known that discovering Draco Malfoy falling apart in the bathroom would spiral into so much more.

Word count: 3.8k

Warnings: cursing, angst, fluff

Ao3

I woke up to the sound of tapping against my window, Draco’s arm slung over my waist. He hadn’t even covered himself up with a blanket. I had to roll my eyes at that, but I appreciated the gentlemanly gesture all the same. I glanced around my room before transfiguring one of the bean bag chairs into a blanket. I made quick work of draping it over my boyfriend’s sleeping form before I moved to my window as quietly as I could.

A truly majestic owl greeted me with an indignant hoot, as if to say, “What in Merlin’s name took you so long?” I couldn’t help but chuckle at that.

“Who might you be?” I murmured in a low voice, stroking the snowy white owl’s feathers with two fingers. It only allowed me to pet it for a few seconds before he -- it seemed like a he, anyway-- pecked at my hand impatiently, practically shoving the letter tied to its leg at my hand. I glared at it before untying the envelope from around its leg. The little wretch left as soon as I offered it an owl treat from the jar I kept on the windowsill.

I glanced at my alarm clock. It was only six in the morning. Who on Earth would be writing me this early? I tore open the envelope. The parchment enclosed inside the envelope was exquisite, with intricate designs on the corners, some sort of family crest embossed on one corner. I was reminded of the stationary Mr. Zabini used. Whoever sent this letter came from money, that was certain. Before I had the chance to read the letter, a little handheld mirror fell out of the envelope and into my lap.

“What the--” I caught it before it hit the ground, placing it back in my lap. Now I had to know who had written me. I turned my attention to the letter, hoping it contained an answer. The handwriting was breathtakingly beautiful, reminding me of calligraphy, except it was easier to read.

Miss Zabini,

I apologize for writing to you at such an early hour, but I’m afraid my curiosity has gotten the best of me. Would you join me for tea as soon as you’ve read this letter and prepared yourself accordingly? No need to dress up. Your Hogwarts uniform will do. The mirror included in the envelope is a Portkey to Malfoy Manor that will activate in half an hour.

Sincerely,

Narcissa Malfoy

I nearly choked on my own spit. Draco’s mother invited me to tea! I glanced over at him, wondering if I should wake him. He looked so peaceful that I decided against it, instead getting dressed as quietly and as quickly as I could.

***

Thirty minutes later, I was standing in front of Malfoy Manor. It was enormous, even bigger than my own home. I shoved my hands into the pockets of my robes, gripping my wand, which helped me calm down just a bit. If this was a trap, I knew how to defend myself.

The sun was just beginning to rise as I approached the front door. I couldn’t quite stop my hand from trembling as I knocked.

To my immense relief, Narcissa didn’t answer the door. Instead, a male house elf stared up at me, covered in a rather dirty dish towel. “Miss Zabini?” he asked in a timid voice. I smiled, hoping to put him at ease.

“That’s me,” I confirmed, kneeling so I was at eye-level with the house elf. “But please, call me Felicity. What’s your name?”

“M-miss wants to know my name?” The elf wrung his hands, looking around nervously, as if waiting for someone to appear out of thin air to beat him, the poor thing.

“It’s alright, I’m not going to hurt you. Do you know Draco Malfoy?”

The elf shrunk back unexpectedly. “Y-yes, I know the young master. He h-hurts Dobby. Says mean things to Dobby.”

Of course he does, I thought, rolling my eyes. I made a mental note to scold him about that later.

“I promise I’m not going to hurt you, Dobby. Is that your name? Dobby?” When the elf nodded, I grinned conspiratorially. “You see, Draco is my boyfriend, and I promise that I’ll scold him most severely for hurting you. He won’t do it again.” I stood, holding out my hand to Dobby. “Would you please escort me to your mistress?”

Dobby’s eyes shone brightly as he took my hand. “Dobby likes you,” he announced. “Miss Felicity keeps the young master in line.” He patted my hand before leading me further into the Manor.

Though I didn’t have a lot of time to take in the Manor, I noticed that the layout was very similar to the Zabini estate. Perhaps all of the rich pureblood families compared blueprints when they built their homes centuries ago.

In any case, Dobby pulled me into what must have been the drawing room. I turned, opening my mouth to thank the house elf, but he disappeared with a crack before I could get the words out.

“He has a bad habit of disappearing on you,” An amused voice noted from the corner of the room, and I turned back around quickly. Narcissa Malfoy stood from an overstuffed armchair, seeming to glide over to me. She was beautiful, with Draco’s platinum blonde hair that was oddly mixed with black. Her eyes were cornflower blue, and she wore an elegant black dress that fit her like a glove. I brushed off my robes, feeling severely underdressed.

“Mrs. Malfoy, I’m so sorry, I didn’t--”

The Malfoy matriarch held up a hand to silence my apology. To my surprise, her eyes softened when she saw the way I shrank back from the sudden movement. “You’ve nothing to apologize for, dear.” she said. “And please, call me Narcissa. Mrs. Malfoy makes me feel old.”

I laughed at that. “You’re beautiful, Mrs.--I mean, Narcissa. I doubt anyone would dare to think of you as old.”

She gestured towards the table where the tea kettle already sat. “You’re sweet. Please, won’t you join me?”

I nodded before following her hesitantly. Narcissa sat in her original chair once more. I opted to take a similar chair that was seated to her left, a coffee table between us. “How do you take your tea?” she asked as she rang for Dobby, who appeared right away.

“Two sugars, please.” I answered.

Soon, we were both settled in our seats, sipping at our tea. “I, er…” I started, setting my cup to the side. “I thought about waking Draco up, but he looked so peaceful that I couldn’t bring myself to wake him.”

A perfectly sculpted blonde eyebrow lifted at that, her gaze sweeping my attire. “I confess, I can’t quite imagine my son sleeping peacefully in the Hufflepuff Prefect’s dorm.”

I felt my cheeks burn. “He’s been nothing but a gentleman, I promise. Last night was the first time he stayed, and he slept on top of the duvet.” I shook my head, smiling fondly. “I think the Disney movies wore him out.”

“I beg your pardon?”

“I…” I swallowed hard. “Well, he was being a bit of a prat, and so I figured I would make him suffer through Disney movies to make it up to me.”

Narcissa laughed, surprising me. “He’s always hated musicals. And he sat there with you the whole night?”

I snorted. “I threatened to burn his balls off. Of course he did.”

His mother laughed yet again, and I smiled at her shyly. “Oh, I like you, Miss Zabini, and obviously my son does, too.”

“Call me Felicity,” I insisted, which earned me a gentle smile and a nod.

We chatted for a little while after that. She asked me questions about myself, about my likes and dislikes. She asked about Draco, about how long we’d been together, about how we came together in the first place. Narcissa didn’t seem surprised that I couldn’t stand her son at first.

“I’m sure you’re wondering why I’ve called you here now...of all times especially.” Narcissa stood from her chair. “Come, take a walk in the gardens with me.”

I chewed on my lip. “But Draco…”

She waved her hand impatiently. “He won’t be awake for another hour. I’m his mother, I know these things. Walk with me, Felicity.”

The words were polite enough, but they weren’t an invitation--they were a command, so I rose from my seat, hurrying to follow the older witch.

Her garden was beautiful. Flowers of every kind bloomed, some that weren’t even in season, no doubt sustained by magic. The tense lines of Narcissa’s mouth seemed to relax as she breathed in the fragrances of her garden.

“First and foremost,” she began, turning to me. “I wanted to thank you. As I’m sure you’re aware, this year, and the last, honestly, have been…” Narcissa searched for the right word. “Difficult for Draco, to say the least.”

“I know,” I murmured, shaking my head. “I wish he would let me do more to help.”

“That’s what I wish to thank you for,” She took my hands, squeezing them briefly. “You’ve helped him more than you realize, Felicity. I’ll be the first to admit that he’s always been spoiled. That’s my fault, I’m afraid. I’ve doted on him too much. But with the Dark Lord’s task, and now…” She shuddered. “That is to say, I haven’t seen my Draco happy for a long time. You’ll understand more of what I mean when you have children of your own, but it’s hard to watch your children suffer. You’ll want to do anything to ease their pain.”

Narcissa sat on a bench nestled in the middle of the garden, patting the spot beside her. I took a seat obediently. “My family is everything to me, dear. I would do anything for them. I’ve had no idea how to reach Draco. He was so bitter, so withdrawn, that I was afraid he was turning into…”

“His father,” I guessed. She nodded grimly, but then her eyes were brimming with tears.

“I was afraid that I’d never see him happy again. I never expected for him to be happy during all of this.” Narcissa gestured around the Manor vaguely. “But you’ve given me my son back, Felicity, and for that I can’t thank you enough.” Then, the Malfoy matriarch surprised me yet again by wrapping her arms around me in a hug. I only stiffened for a moment before I was squeezing her back.

“You’ve raised an amazing son, Narcissa.” I told her, my breath hitching with emotion. “He just...just needed someone to care for him. Someone stubborn enough to force their way into his life.”

I realized I was crying when Narcissa reached forward and wiped a tear off of my cheek with a silken handkerchief.

“I’m sorry,” I wiped my eyes. “It’s just been so long since…”

While Draco’s mother had let go of me, she wrapped her arm around my shoulders, hugging me to her side and stroking my hair gently, just like my mum used to do before dad died. I let out a strangled sob at the gesture.

“Dry your tears,” She let go of me after a moment, turning to face me on the bench. “There’s something else we need to discuss. But any time you need a mum, you know where to find me.”

I wasn’t surprised that Draco had told his mum about my family situation. I simply nodded, giving her a smile as I tried to rein in my tears. Once I composed myself, Narcissa took my hand, covering it with both of her own. While her eyes were still warm, something else lurked behind them. Sadness? Guilt? It was impossible to tell; she had an impressive poker face.

“How much has Draco told you about our family traditions?”

I blinked. “Um, not much, honestly. I know how your family feels about those who don’t have pure blood. I know that you don’t marry for love in your...circles.” I paused, pursing my lips in thought. Draco and I had been dating for around 6 months at this point, and I didn’t think I was in love with him, not in so many words, but I was definitely falling for him. His presence was intoxicating, equal parts beautiful and terrifying. He may have annoyed me to no end at times, and he was so bloody stubborn, but it was getting harder and harder to imagine my life without him by my side.

Narcissa sighed. “You have to understand, the...disdain for those not of pure blood has been passed down for centuries. Lucius’s father would be horrified to see a half-blood on the grounds of the Manor right now.” Her smile was apologetic. “I can’t say that I’ve been any more tolerant in my lifetime. To my ancestors, magic is a birthright.”

“So…” I started slowly. “In your eyes, I don’t deserve to be a witch because my father happened to be a Muggle?”

Narcissa looked away from my face for a moment, her gaze distant. “Six months ago, I would have said exactly that. But seeing how happy you make my son, and meeting you now…” Her blue eyes focused on me once more. “You’re good for him. That much is clear. It’s been a pleasure to meet you, my dear. You’re lovely, and anyone who can keep my son in line is a saint. I should know, having raised him. You have my utmost respect.” Her lips twitched with a smile.

“I think you’re the saint here, Narcissa,” I laughed. “But thank you.”

She patted my hand before brushing an errant curl off of my forehead. I was struck yet again by the motherly gesture but managed to hold myself together.

“Draco will be waking soon.” she said. “But there’s one more thing you need to know.”

I found myself holding my breath, a feeling of dread spreading over me.

“If the circumstances were different, I would give you my blessing to court my son. As I said, you’re good for him.” She took a breath. “But I’m afraid I can’t afford you the luxury you deserve.”

My stomach dropped. “What are you saying?”

Narcissa was the picture of graceful serenity. “I cannot give you my blessing to court my son.”

I was sure I’d heard her wrong.

“You're not serious?”

Her lips thinned. “Quite, actually.”

I stood up from the bench, backing away from her, grabbing on to the arm of a marble statue that was situated behind me so I wouldn’t fall.

“You said…” I gulped. “You said I’m good for him.”

“Indeed.”

“Then why…?”

She gave me a sad smile as she folded her hands on her lap. “Because, Miss Zabini...Draco is promised to another.”

My world tilted on its axis. I backed away further, nearly tripping over a small statue of a garden gnome.

“You’re lying.” I said, my voice shaking.

“Believe me when I say that I wish I was. I’m sorry.” Narcissa’s reply was so calm that it made me want to scream. My eyes stung with tears.

“Why on Earth did you invite me here, then?” I asked, a single tear slipping down my cheek. “Just so you could…” My voice caught. “Just to see my face when you tell me I’m not good enough for your son? That he’s been engaged for Merlin knows…” I felt like retching, screaming, and crying all at once.

Narcissa didn’t rise from her seat on the bench. I clenched my fists at my sides. This can’t be happening. This can’t be happening...

“How long?” I whispered.

“My dear…”

“I am not your dear.” I gritted my teeth as more tears fell. “How long, Narcissa?”

She let out a breath. “I sent Draco an owl just before Dobby led you into the drawing room.”

“You what?”

Mrs. Malfoy chose that time to rise from her bench to move towards me, but I backed away. “You have to understand,” she told me softly, her blue eyes glittering with tears. “If it were up to me, Draco could be with someone like you. All I want is his happiness, and it seems that you are his source of happiness. But his father...our family is closely linked with the Dark Lord, Felicity. He would never accept you, nor would Lucius. I’m sparing you that pain, not to mention the danger--”

“You’re sparing me?” I scoffed incredulously, wiping at the tears that trickled down my cheeks. “Sparing me because pleasing You-Know-Who matters more than your only son’s happiness? Because your husband is a bigoted fool?” I glared at the woman. “Forgive me if I fail to see how that’s sparing me pain.”

Her blue eyes turned chilly. “I am doing what’s best for my family. A war is beginning, Miss Zabini, a war where you and Draco will be enemies. Besides,” she sniffed. “Astoria won’t talk to me, her mother-in-law, as you just did. You’re lucky I told you in the first place. It’s the least I could do. And I am sorry.” The woman turned away from me after she tossed me another handheld mirror. I barely caught it in time before it hit the ground. “Your Portkey activates in thirty seconds. Farewell, Miss Zabini. In a different world, we might have been family someday.”

With that, Narcissa Malfoy strode back towards the Manor without so much as a glance back at me.

***

“Fliss?”

Draco’s whisper was the only thing that made me realize I was back in my dorm. My head snapped up. He had gone to his dormitory to get a fresh uniform and a shower, judging from the wet strands of hair that clung to his forehead. When our eyes met, I couldn’t contain my sobs any longer. I let out a cry and rushed into his arms.

The Slytherin embraced me so tightly that it was almost suffocating, but I was crying too hard to care. Draco wisely cast a wandless Muffliato, whispering reassurances that I didn’t have the heart to comprehend, stroking the back of my head with his free hand.

“Did you know this was coming?” I choked out, my voice scratchy. He grimaced.

“I--I was afraid they might try something like this, but I’d hoped…” He rested his forehead against mine, taking a deep breath. “I had hoped that since we’ve been dating for six months now that they’d finally let me be happy. I should’ve known.” The laugh he released was hollow. My heart clenched painfully inside of my chest.

“Who is she?” I asked after a moment, squeezing my eyes shut. I didn’t want to know, yet I had to.

I felt him cup my cheek in his hand, the Malfoy family ring cold against my skin. I leaned into his palm, my throat tightening. “Open your eyes, Fliss.”

I didn’t want to. It was too painful to look at him, but I opened my eyes anyway, hating the tears that leaked out when I did. Draco wiped at my tears with the pad of his thumb before lowering his head and kissing me desperately, his hands drifting down to grip my waist. Usually his kisses were gently passionate, but this was different. This was intense, like he couldn’t get enough of me and was afraid this kiss would be our last.

“Draco,” I breathed his name, pressing a palm against his chest and giving him a little push, feeling his thundering heartbeat under my fingertips. He chased my lips with his own as I pulled back, though I wanted desperately to kiss him until I forgot about everything else.

“Who cares who she is?” My boyfriend mumbled, his hands tightening on my waist. “She’s not you.”

“Draco,” I repeated firmly, reaching up to fiddle with his tie. “Who is she? We have to be realistic, we can’t--”

He cut me off with a firm kiss. “Stop. I don’t want to be with bloody Astoria Greengrass, Fliss! She’s a Slytherin two years below us. Practically wizarding royalty.”

I wrinkled my nose. “She’s what, fifteen?”

Draco shuddered. “The giggly phase. And spoiled as hell if her older sister is any indication.”

“Dray…” I reached up to pat a platinum blonde lock down. “Have you looked in the mirror recently?”

He frowned. “Why, is my hair sticking up?”

“No, Draco. You look as perfect as ever, don’t worry.” My boyfriend’s grin turned smug even though I rolled my eyes when I said it. “What I mean is, it’s rather ironic to complain about someone being spoiled when you are, in fact, spoiled yourself.”

“You see!” He threw up his hands triumphantly. “It would be a terrible match. I could never be with someone so similar to myself.”

“You…” I snorted. “You do realize you just admitted that you’re spoiled, right?”

“Don’t be ridiculous,” he scoffed. “I said no such thing. Can we go back to the part where you said I’m perfect? I liked that part better. Care to tell me more?”

“I’m sure you did,” I wrapped my arms around him and pressed my cheek against his chest, inhaling his familiar, musky scent, relishing the feeling as his arms automatically encircled my waist. “And as much as I’m sure you’d love me to stroke your ego until its size is unbearable,” He laughed into my hair at that. “We have to talk about this.”

Draco blew out a breath, tilting his head so his lips were against my ear. “What is there to talk about?” he asked, running his fingers through the hair that hung halfway down my back. “I don’t want to be with her. I want to be with my bloody girlfriend.”

“Tell that to your mum,” I mumbled into his chest. “She’s already referring to herself as Astoria’s mother-in-law. And apparently Astoria won’t talk to her like I did.”

He held me loosely away from him. “Do I even want to know what you said to my mother?”

“Probably not.”

“Now I definitely want to know.” Draco pulled away from me, beginning to pack up my bag and his, but he raised two pale blonde eyebrows at me in his, “I’m waiting,” look.

I shifted my footing. “I...may have called your dad a bigoted fool. To her face.”

Draco laughed loudly, forgetting our bags for a moment as he crossed the room and pinched my cheeks between his fingers. “You’re adorable if you think I’m going to let you go without a fight, Felicity Grace Zabini.”

I giggled as he kissed both of my cheeks, but my expression quickly sobered as his words sunk in.

“I’m afraid you might have to.”

He arched an eyebrow at me. “Might have to...?”

I swallowed hard.

“Fight.”

Chapter 26

~~

taglist: @beforeoursunsets @typewriting101 @sadgirlnumber92899

[loveless-scribes]

Lovely LS Art!

A lovely piece of art from the fabulous and talented @dags-sz​ for the story I’m currently co-writing, Angelus Mortis. A wonderful visualization of our secondary couple’s first meeting! Thank you so much Daguer for lending your fabulous talent to this story! Please check out her work, she’s absolutely amazing and a pleasure to work with! <3

You can find the story here: https://www.fanfiction.net/s/13642600/2/Angelus-Mortis https://archiveofourown.org/works/26736001/chapters/69569037#workskin And the scene here: The third day, the sky split suddenly overhead, releasing a downpour that drenched her to the bone. She went on wandering the streets, now with renewed desperation, cursing herself for not better informing herself on the workings of the mortal realm. Wishing she had thought to ask Jui what "money" was. She was accustomed to the conveniences of the Underworld. Hunger meant seek out the kitchens. Boredom sent her to the gardens, to Kayt's cheerful banter. Tiredness sent her to the servant's quarters. The mortal realm meant searching and searching without quite knowing just what she was searching for.

She was beginning to despair of her rash decision. Bitter tears lodged in her throat. Even if she were to be killed by pickpockets and die in the rain on this cold night, she decided, it would still be better than the humiliation of having to see Thanatos again. Of walking him back to the castle even one more time.

She paused, catching sight of the dim windows of an establishment that was clearly closed. A forest green sign overhead read Wings of Freedom in gold lettering and underneath that, in smaller cursive the addition, Tea Shop. She approached the locale to seek shelter from the rain under the overhanging awning. Peering inside the windows, she saw an impeccably clean little café, with tables and chairs furnished out of warm cherry wood. She sighed and turned away from the view. What she wouldn't give to be sitting at Jui's side by the warmth of the kitchen fire with a mug of tea in her hands.

A shiver passed through her as she looked down and watched the water snaking down her arms and dripping down the hem of her chiton. What was she doing here? What did she think she would achieve by leaving home? What was she hoping to accomplish? Surely, she was the most foolish nymph in all of existence to have attempted such an imprudent escapade. She was a half-witted, bumbling, poor excuse of a – the sudden tinkling of a bell roused her from her thoughts.

A young man stood in the doorway of the tea shop, a large bag of parchment paper in his left arm as he opened the large, glass door to the locale with his right. His black hair was parted in the center and damp from the rain. His expression was one of annoyance that seemed characteristic rather than provoked. Cool, icy blue eyes were hooded by narrowed eyelids, his annoyance emphasized by his furrowed, thin eyebrows. He held the door open with his foot as he ran a hand though his wet hair, pushing the strands back from his face.

He seemed then, to notice her. Drawn, perhaps, by her own gaze. He looked her once over and Slayte was suddenly uncomfortably aware of her appearance. The flower garland Kayt had adorned her black hair with had long since been removed. Her hair was a wet, tangled mess. Her lavender chiton, ridiculously out of place in the mortal realm, dripped water like a wet rag. Try as she might to stand up tall and meet his eyes confidently, she could not banish the shivering of her bare shoulders. All in all, she knew she made for a pathetic picture.

He looked over his shoulder up and down the abandoned roads to confirm what he already knew. No one in their right mind would be out in this weather.

"We're closed." He told her. His tone was brusque, but his voice surprisingly calm and gentle, in contrast to his expression. It was oddly pleasant, Slayte thought. A voice she should like to hear again, when she wasn't soaking wet and being looked down on.

"I am aware." She answered quickly, avoiding his gaze, "I seek only shelter under this awning until the storm passes. Pray, pay me no mind."

The man blinked at her odd manner of speech. He turned his eyes heavenward, as if already regretting the next words to leave his mouth.

"Come in, it's better to get out of the rain inside." He wiped his shoes on the mat before stepping inside, holding the door open only for the fraction of a second it took her to make up her mind. She followed quickly, catching the door before it closed on her.

He switched on the lights and Slayte got her first, good look at the quaint establishment. All of the surfaces were polished to a gleam and the lighting was warm on the dark wood furniture. The chairs were lined with green cushions that seemed to be a trademark color of the little shop. Beyond the counter she could see a neat line of appliances, along with shelves that lined the entire wall filled to the brim with various assortments of tea, each labelled neatly in careful handwriting.

The kind stranger gestured vaguely to a table to her right and she pulled out a chair to sit down, glad to finally be off of her feet. The warmth of the room settled in slowly, and she soon stopped shivering. Although it was embarrassing to be dependent on the kindness of a mortal, it was the first such kindness she had been shown in the last three days and she was grateful for it.

She looked down on her leather-sandaled feet that had gone blue from cold and wondered if perhaps she would be able to survive in the mortal realm after all. She looked up as a cup of hot tea was placed on the table beside her and watched the steam rise from the dark liquid, spellbound.

"Drink that." The man commanded with the same careless expression before turning away.

"Oh! But… I'm afraid I don't possess any of the required money," she protested, hoping she was pronouncing the foreign word correctly.

The man in question gave her an incredulous look before answering, "it's on the house."

Slayte took this to be a reassurance of some sort, that it was alright to drink the tea. She breathed a sigh of relief, thanking the gods for listening to her prayer. How badly she had wished for a cup of tea!

"Thank you," she whispered, "That is truly… most kind of you."

She closed her hands around the teacup reverently, allowing the warmth to seep into her fingers before taking a long, indulgent sip.

"Did the rain wash your brain out of your head?"

She sputtered at the rude comment, swallowing quickly so as to avoid spitting out the precious tea. "I beg your pardon, my sir?" she asked, wondering what she could have done to warrant such a response from her benefactor.

"The way you talk. It's bizarre." He added, watching her with that same devil-may-care expression.

She flushed. She had taken notice that the mortals seemed to speak quite differently than the Underworld dwellers but had not had time to adjust to their speech.

"I…" she stammered, "I will take care to speak more appropriately."

"Eh?" he looked disgusted by her response. "Who cares? Just do what you want." He turned away from her and headed instead to the kitchenette behind the counter. She watched as he unpacked the groceries, washing the vegetables with care and laying them to the side. He set a pan on the stove and turned a dial. A faint click was heard before the stove burst into flame, heating the pan.

"Sorcery…" she whispered, spellbound.

The man pulled a knife from a block, and tossed it into the air, seemingly without thinking about it. It glittered in the lamplight before he caught it and flipped it between his elegant fingers before setting to work chopping up the vegetables. Salt wondered if it was normal for a mortal to be this adept with a knife. Even the robbers that had attacked her a day prior were fumbling with their knives in comparison to this man. She had narrowly escaped them by slipping into the shadows themselves, a skill she possessed by virtue of being born from them, but the fear they instilled in her had been very real. Their words had been deceptively charming and flattering. In contrast, this man's rude and brusque demeanor made her feel very safe.

Soon, her teacup was empty, and the delicious smell of spices and cooked vegetables wafted over to her nose. She was fearful of outstaying her welcome and her eyes darted to the window, wondering if the rain had let up enough for her to take her leave.

"Where do you live?" The stranger asked over his shoulder. "I can drop you off, if you want."

She had seen any number of city signs over the last three days but could not now recall a single one. She needed to say something, but she was oddly tongue-tied. What if he caught on that she had no home?

"That's quite alright. I'll just go on foot. It isn't far from here." She lied awkwardly. Only an entire world away, leagues beneath our feet.

"If it isn't far, why were you shivering out there in the rain?" he tossed back, unconvinced. His scowl making apparent that he knew she was lying to him.

She opted instead for silence, not wanting to make it worse. He walked back over to her table and placed two plates of noodles and mixed vegetables down. Had he cooked for her? A stranger? She had always heard that mortals were cruel and amoral creatures and although she had seen nothing the last three days to suggest the contrary, this man was swaying that belief. Warm and with a meal set out in front of her, Slayte was beginning to see that mortals were not all the same.

He took the chair opposite from her and began eating without preamble. Salt whispered a thank you and did the same, glad to finally be eating real food. It wasn't Jui's cooking, but it was delicious all the same.

"If you have somewhere to go, then go home after this. If you don't, there's a room for rent upstairs. I'm looking to hire someone anyway, if you want the job, I'll just take the rent out of your pay."

Overwhelmed by the number of words she didn't understand. Rent? Job? Pay? Slayte merely looked on mutely. "You will give me a… a job?" She queried, nonplussed.

He looked at her as if she were particularly dim-witted. A justified impression, she reluctantly admitted.

"You work. For money." He deadpanned.

"Oh." Slayte thought hard. Money was apparently a form of currency required for transactions, not unlike the coins she used for passage over the Styx. Only in the mortal world, money was required for nearly everything imaginable. Including resources required for life such as food and water. In her short time in the mortal world she understood that money was essential for survival. It was something everyone had asked her about. That, and…

"I'm afraid I don't have any identification." She admitted. "That will be a hindrance, will it not?"

The man chewed his food slowly as his mind worked. His expression somewhat softened, he answered, "Then we'll just make do with a verbal contract and I'll pay you in cash. That works out, right?"

"Does that mean…" Her eyes went wide. "I can stay here?"

"Yeah, sure, if you want the job." He rose to clear the table, and Salt jumped to her feet, unable to contain her excitement. "I do! Very much so!" She was close at his heels and followed him into the kitchenette, ignorant of the way he winced as she tracked footprints over the clean floor.

"I'm Levi." He introduced curtly. "You?" he asked, tearing his eyes away from the dirtied floor.

"My name's Slayte." She announced, extending a hand in greeting.

He looked her in the eye with that same irritated expression, ignoring her outstretched hand altogether before commenting, "That's a shitty name."

[weartirondad]

Sometimes Home Is A Mess

Prompt: “Please don’t leave me, I can’t do this without you.”“(With bby Peter and Tony) The Avengers are paroned from the according and return to the tower but haven't really asked for forgiveness. Baby Peter remembers days his dad returning with a limp and dent heart. Peter being a little genius connect the dots is now clinging to his father he felt he could have lost. Seeing the avengers gives no only Tony anxiety but to Peter as well. He scream and cries when he's so much a inch away from his farther heart. begging him not to go or leave his side.” (Anon)

A/N: Set after You Made Me A Believer. You don’t hafta read it together but you could.  Also check out this amazing song Home - by Stefanie Heinzmann 

Summary:  When the Avengers break apart, Tony is tired and worn and broken but Peter is there and it helps. -- When the Avengers get pardoned a year later because the world decides they need their heroes back Tony is worn from the fights he fought to get them there and Peter is still there.

FF.net I ao3 

--

There’s a dull ache behind his temple when his fuzzy mind clambers back into consciousness and a throbbing pain sits right behind his sternum. The feeling of his chest split open and his every muscle battered and bruised is a distressingly familiar one and for the briefest of moments the air around him feels too humid and dirty.

He can taste the blood and the sweat and smells the burned flesh and metal. He hears the crunching of sand between his teeth when he moves his jaw. He sees red and feels cold.

He’s not there, though, he knows that. Knows it by the way his ribs are cracked in a meticulously designed half-oval and by the memories he can’t push away.

His near death experience years ago in that cave in Afghanistan feels small, manageable, compared to the new betrayal. The new incision cut open scar tissue he’s been trying his hardest to forget but it’s different this time, somehow, more personal.

A humorless laugh slips past his dry lips at the thought of something being more personal than what Obie did to him and soon after he starts coughing, wincing when each and every fiber of his body is cataloging more pain until he feels it’s all he is.

“Jar?”

The name is out before he can think better of it and when it is – warm and familiar and soothing on his tongue – the wrong voice replies, hesitant in a way JARVIS wouldn’t have been. But Jarvis is Vision now and doesn’t have to answer to him anymore – not like that at least. Just another soul slipping from his desperate fingers that are always searching for a meaning, closeness, a family.

“You seem agitated, boss. Do you want me to call for help?”

He wants to scoff at the notion but thinks better of it, eyes still closed, mouth still dry.

“No,” he croaks out eventually because he doesn’t want help – doesn’t deserve it either. If he has to keep living, he wants to do it like this – in darkness and alone. He wants to embrace the shadows that have been hovering at his doorstep for as long as he can remember.

Some famous dead guy once said ‘We're born alone, we live alone, we die alone.’ and that’s exactly what he wants to do. Somewhere without the hurt, the constant betrayal and disappointment. He just wants peace.

That's all he’s ever wanted.

It’s all he’ll never get.

When F.R.I.D.A.Y. stays quiet he feels tears burn in his eyes. JARVIS would’ve ignored his orders.

He’s close to drifting off again when a small commotion startles him awake – survival instinct kicking in, even in a tower better secured than Fort Knox he’s always alert, always expecting something to attack.

This particular assault, though, makes his heart lighter and his muscles relax for the first time since… since that bunker probably. Since that god forsaken video.

“Peter is here to see you, boss, he asks if you’re up.” The AI’s voice is fond and it eases the pain of missing his old friend. F.R.I.D.A.Y. and Peter are getting along. Peter loves the Irish voice and the way she’s coded. To him she’s family just like Vision is.

“Let him in.”

It’s only been a few months since that fatal shooting that lead him to the boy and his aunt but ever since then they have taken up such a huge part of his life that he can’t remember a time when he didn’t have a kid running through his living room, dropping pens and paper and Lego everywhere.

When Peter is there, every corner of the empty tower is filled with life and laughter and love. He drives the ghosts and memories away, replaces them with new ones – better ones, purer ones – without realizing what he’s doing.

The squirt comes barreling into the room, arms clutching a lime green notebook to his chest, eyes twinkling and lips moving with rambles Tony’s dazed mind doesn’t quite catch.

He is young. He is life. He is hope.

He is everything Tony isn’t.                                                          

But then he stops and takes him in and his mouth slams shut, the audible click of his teeth like a gunshot in the sterile room. The smile in his eyes drains like a plug being pulled and there’s something wary in them now – a mind trapped in a memory – and there’s fear and hesitation.

“Tony?” he asks, voice eons away from the happy one he craves to hear. “Wha – What happened?”

Peter doesn’t drop the notebook like Tony might have. Instead he clutches it more tightly to his chest when he slowly steps closer to the bed, entire posture guarded and tense, ready to bolt at any second but not really wanting to.

“I,” he sighs because he hates lying and then tries not to wince which goes less than successful, “I got into a fight,” is what he settles on but he can see by the frown forming on Peter’s forehead that he’s suspicious. “You know how the super hero life goes – criminals don’t like being stopped.”

It’s a pathetic attempt at a joke and he knows that even with six years Peter can see right through his façade. Damn this kid and his emotional intelligence.

“Normal criminals don’t get that close,” he retorts quietly and then adds, voice dropping: “Pepper said you went out to help Captain America.”

Ah. Well, that’s just unfortunate.

“I did.”

“He hurt you.”

“Maybe I hurt him too.”

That makes the boy pause and look down, gaze stopping on his bruised hand that is connected to an IV stand next to his bed. Somehow, when he looks up again he looks older.

“Mister Vision had to fly out to get you back. If Captain America was that hurt he would’ve brought him back, too.”

Tony hates the matter of fact way he says it and the distrust that swings in his voice when speaking about one of his child hood heroes. He wants to take it all away but he finds that he’s too worn to lie, too tired to comfort, so he does what he does best and deflects.

“I thought you didn’t like hospitals.”

Peter shrugs like it’s not a big deal but his knuckles are turning white with the force he uses to clutch his notebook and when he mumbles a reply he doesn’t meet his eyes, “’S not a real hospital. ‘S like home. I was –“ He breaks off blushing and voice small when he finally looks at him again, “Are you okay?”

A small smile graces Tony’s lips and, to his utmost surprise, it doesn’t feel fake. He likes it when Peter calls the tower home. It feels like a spark of hope that it might be one again one day.

“I’m better now that I’ve got my favorite person in the whole world around to blow kisses on my booboos,” he grins and scoots over to make room on his bed for Peter.

It’s what they usually do when he gets back from a mission and is resting on the couch or his bed and Peter doesn’t waste another second to comply, jumping up and nestling into his side like a cat like he always does.

Like clockwork Tony’s arm winds around the boy’s back despite the pain the movement elicits and Peter leans forward to receive the usual kiss to the top of his head. When he leans back to scrutinize Tony his nose is adorably scrunched up and he looks slightly indignant. “Y’ know, booboo is a baby word and I’m a big boy.”

“Oh, you’re a big boy now, are you?” The offended puppy eyes melt away the last of the Siberian ice and he yields to the little boy. “Okay, okay. You’re a big boy,” he acquiesces, “So what kind of big boy stuff have you been up to while I was gone?”

Peter jumps right into it, pulling up his notebook and showing him how he has been practicing writing cursive. It became a thing just before Peter started school in summer that Tony would start to teach him the art of cursive writing. The moment he saw May’s awful handwriting for the first time he knew he couldn’t let the poor boy learn on that alone, so he took it upon himself to coach him on the intricacies of it.

Despite popular belief he actually loved writing things by hand and he had a good handwriting – it was just impractical most of the time and when did he ever do things for fun?  

The kid is still flicking through his book looking for a particular page when Tony startles both of them with a laugh.

“Did you,” he snorts and blinks away the moisture in his eyes that he’s not sure comes from the pain or the laughter, “Did you really write my name on there? C’mere, show me that!”

The hand not holding Peter in place tugs the book out of his hands and flicks to the side where he had painted a big Iron Man helmet and had written his superhero’s persona’s name next to it for Peter to practice writing the capital I. Peter, being Peter, though had decided to defy him on all accounts and had written his name – Anthony Edward Stark – over and over until the page was full. Ending on a half- finished Anthony Edw –

The writing is shaky and awkward because some of the letters they haven’t even practiced yet but all of them are correct and in that moment Tony loves Peter more than he could ever put into words, more than he ever thought he could love someone and he laughs again and this time he knows the tears are from both the pain of what he’s lost and from the bliss – the future – he’s holding in his arms.

“You think you’re being really funny, don’t ya?”

Peter scoffs and sticks his tongue out at him. “I am funny.”

Iloveyouiloveyouiloveyou

“I really love you buddy, you know that?”

“’Course I do. You tell me all the time.”

 -.-

When the Avengers get pardoned a year later because the world decides they need their heroes back Tony is worn from the fights he fought to get them there.

He’s scared and anxious and angry but when he steps out into the penthouse Peter is sitting there – the picture of a content child – working on a LEGO set Tony is sure is above his age range and his inner storm calms when he approaches and sits down cross-legged next to him, watching him align the pieces carefully and with his tongue tucked between his teeth.

Maybe it’s selfish to break him out of his concentration, maybe he should just let him be but he needs Peter’s strength right now, needs his smile to build up his own because he’s tired and he’s wary and he needs to be reminded what he’s doing all this for.

“Hey bud,” he greets him with a hair ruffle and presses a kiss to the top of his head, lingering an instant longer than he normally would to breathe in the familiar scent. It’s home and it’s safe and it’s wonderful.

“Whataya up to?”

Peter beams up at him and somehow it makes his heart lighter and heavier at the same time. “May got me an AT-AP Walker Set! Pepper promised to help me build it but Morgan was hungry and I think she pooped herself,” he sniffs as if thinking back to a truly awful memory and Tony can’t help the smile forming on his lips. “Do you wanna help, too?”

“I would love to,” he sighs dramatically and leans back against the couch, watching Peter with a lazy smile. When he’s here like this he can almost forget what comes after. “But I still got an important meeting in, uh, five minutes and just wanted to drop by to, uh, say hi.”

Almost.

Slowly Peter puts down the grey bricks he has been working on and eyes him critically. “You never come home early when you still have a meeting,” he notes, “Unless you’re not going to the meeting but I think Pepper’d be mad if it’s important.”

“Shush,” he rolls his eyes and reaches out again to ruffle his hair. A part of him just wants to hold his boy close and never let go but the bigger part doesn’t want to worry him and to keep him as far away from all of this as possible. Which might not be very far for long.

“I promise I’m going. I just wanted to see something cute before I spend the next few hours with all these boring old folks.”

“I’m not cute,” the squirt quips back and goes back to sorting his bricks, “Morgan is cute. I’m –“

“Yeah, you’re what, Petey? Adorable? Precious? As sweet as the marshmallow fluff that’s giving you cavity? Delightful, maybe? Or what about-“

Suddenly his mouth his covered by a small sweaty hand and he can see how Peter is trying to be serious but he’s failing to suppress a giggle. “I’m not cute.”

Seizing the opportunity he tackles the kid into a hug and holds him close, “Okay, whatever buddy,” he breathes into his hair, “You know I love you, right?”

Soft curls tickle his nose when Peter nods dutifully and he knows he has to leave soon, knows he’s already running late and he can’t be – not for this. But suddenly letting go is so much harder than just getting his muscles to release the small body. The conference room suddenly seems so much farther away than just two stories down, it feels like they’re worlds apart and he likes this one better.

“Steve Rogers is requesting entry to the penthouse,” F.R.I.D.A.Y. interrupts his musings and just like that he feels Peter freeze in his hold and look up at him, eyes wide and betrayed and scared.

“What’s he doing here?” he demands, “What does he want? Why’d you let him in? Wh –“ Then, suddenly, he stills and glares, pushing away from Tony’s grasp and crossing his arms in front of his chest in a way that looks less like defiance and more like he’s shielding himself.  

“He’s your meeting, isn’t he?” he all but spits out and it sounds like the ultimate betrayal. His voice is shaking with anger and his doe eyes, usually soft and loving, are as closed off as Tony has ever seen them.

He pushes himself up to sit on the couch instead of on the ground so they’re eye-level and leans forward to rest his elbows on his knees. Without looking away from Peter, he raises his voice to talk to his AI.

“Tell him access denied and I’ll be with them in just a sec.”

“Them,” Peter narrows his eyes, “Who’s them?”

“The Avengers, Peter, I’m sure you’ve heard of them,” he retorts and immediately feels guilty when there’s a flash of hurt in his eyes. He sighs, head hanging, “Look, I’m sorry, Pete. I’m –“

Before he can decide on what to say, he’s being interrupted, something Peter rarely does and never when it’s important but the boy in front of him who dropped his arms and has his hands clenched to fists, shaking with fury isn’t the boy he usually deals with.

“Why are they here?”

“To talk.”

He wants to walk over to him and take him in his arms again to stop him from shaking like a leaf but he doesn’t want to tower over him, doesn’t want to crouch to be on his level either. This conversation is important and he knows he needs to stay put for now.

“The world needs the Avengers, Pete. We need them to protect the world. I need them to protect Morgan and – and to protect you. To protect my fa-“

“NO!” He all but screams and it has Tony mentally take a step back and stare when he’s stomping his foot and pulling his hair.

“No! No, no, no, no, no. NO!” he yells again, “I don’t need them! We – We don’t need them. We have you!” He scowls angrily. “You’re – You’re Iron Man! And they – I don’t trust them! I hate them! I want them to – I want them to go! Tell them to go away!”

Now, without trying to be braggadocios, Tony would say after helping raise Peter for almost two years and having a toddler of his own he has a pretty good grip on the whole parenting thing but – for fuck’s sake – he’s had it easy so far and never really had to deal with an actual tantrum before.

Sure, Morgan fusses and cries and wails like the world is ending sometimes but a four-month-old tantrum is much different from Peter having a meltdown in front of him. Peter, the most well behaved boy on the planet who rather screams into his pillow than at people and who, for reasons he tries not to dwell on, never ever pushes May or him away in fear of pushing too far and losing too much.

Peter is a good kid. Sometimes he’s angry, sometimes he’s sad and sometimes he has so many emotions he doesn’t know how to deal with that he shuts down but the last time Tony has seen him this helplessly angry was the night he found him in a dark alleyway bend over his uncle’s dead body.

The entirety of his small body seems to be filled with rage. He’s trembling with it, overflowing with fury and what looks like something that’s much too close to hatred for Tony to ever want to see it in his boy’s eyes ever again.

He remembers the first time he had to calm him down, remembers the blood and the pain and the harsh light of the streetlamps and he hates it. Hates the Rogues for making Peter feel that way again more than he hates them for leaving in the first place.

“Kiddo,” he murmurs and slides down from the couch, sitting cross legged and with open arms in front of the shaking kid. He doesn’t scoot closer even though he wants to and tries to beckon him towards him with his voice alone. “They won’t hurt you, I promise. I would never let anyone hurt you.”

“But they hurt you.” Peter hasn’t moved yet but his voice has dropped a few pitches and some of the anger is seeping out of his shoulder. Tony would only count it as a half-win, though, when it’s instantly replaced by sadness and fear. Those he knows how to deal with at least.

“I don’t want them to hurt you again,” he whispers, taking a timid step forward and letting Tony reach for his hands that are hanging listlessly by his side. He watches him uncurl them quietly and when he looks up to meet his gaze again there are tears running down his cheeks. “You have to take care,” he demands reverently and takes another step forward, dropping into Tony’s lap and throwing his arms around the older man’s neck.

“You have to take care and come back,” he presses into his collarbone, “You can’t – Please don’t leave me all alone. I only have May and you and I can’t do this without you. I can’t. You have to promise!”

Oh Peter.

Tony pulls the small boy impossibly closer, rubbing a hand over his back and pressing a kiss to his temple.

“I promise I’ll always come back home to you, kiddo.”

And maybe that’s an unfair promise to make when he can’t ever be sure he’ll be able to keep it. Maybe lying makes him a bad parent. But right now he has his kid crying into his t-shirt and he’d do anything to make it better and so he promises himself that he’ll always do his best and fight his hardest to make sure he’ll always be there to make it better.

[concreation]

Hold up, Milk-Drinker

Intro

"Hold up, milk drinker," the guard laughed.  "What's your business with all this… merchandise?"

M'Sava pulled up the corners of his mouth, an affect he had been told by a caravaneer would soothe men-folk.  Speaking past his teeth, "M'Sava… eh… This one… eh… this one has heard tell of the Man-Mane's Potluck, of the dances and the swords and the sweet smells of…" M'Sava trailed off, a new expression upon the guard's face, one which M'Sava had not encountered yet from a man.  It seemed to accentuate the hard features of his mouth, to make him even less like the Ohmes from his homeland.

Finally the guard spoke, motioning to the closed city gates behind him.  "Well, cat, as you can see, it is night, and the festival begins during the day, so you'll have to wait outside.  Preferably where I won't see you or have to smell you."  The guard hissed, the sound invading M'Sava's ears.

M'Sava took a step backward, trying to process this strange behaviour.  Men seemed so quick, yet so hard, like cones falling from jungle trees.  He closed his eyes, going through his lessons, back to Khaanin'fa's teaching, 'a hard deal is like a soft deal, just curdled.'  At the time, this of course had made no sense, and M'Sava still wondered if it had even made sense to her.  But wisdom could be pulled out of anything, and he figured now was as good a time as any.

"M'Sava's friend!  Let this one uncurdle you with the gift of the moons!" M'Sava went to his camel, J'Mashe'ra, pulling a small bowl from its pack.

"Oh no no cat, we'll not have any of that in here, begone!"  The guard brandished his sword, he hissed again, and shooed M'Sava away.

Confused, M'Sava turned back down the road.  To the south, the sandy desert across the bay reminded him of home, and he led his camel slowly around the bay, searching the sands for a good spot to set up his tent.  He turned several times next to a tall palm, before settling into a small dune, laying out his carpet and raising his tent.  During his strange journey, this process had soothed him, reminding him of home.  Pulling a slip of paper from his camel's pack, he took it within his tent to study quietly.  Every night he pulled another slip of paper from the pack, so regularly that J'Mashe'ra seemed to anticipate it once the tent was up.  Tonight's paper read simply, "Don't eat too much darling", in his mother's austere handwriting.  M'Sava smiled at this, having scarcely had anything to eat since leaving home.  The men and mer who had been willing to have conversations with him were more interested in trade, or skooma, than in enjoying a meal together.  He looked to the moons and wondered if his mother saw the same moons.  Of course not, he thought, but maybe him seeing them would be enough for her.  She wouldn't have let that guard treat him like that, but then, he had headed for the Potluck on his own partly to learn to be independent from the memory of her.  He snuggled into the dune, content that he was making some progress.  He thought ahead to the next day, and what fun he would have at the Potluck.  Sleep took him quickly, as it always had.

"Ahem, Khajiit!  Awaken please, I aim to do business!"  An angular face poked past the entry flap of M'Sava's tent, golden eyes peering into the darkness.

M'Sava awoke with a start, letting out a soft hiss before climbing to his feet, again aware of where he was.  Light poured in above the stranger's head, and M'Sava began to realize that he had overslept.  "No no, this one is no caravaner, this one must go to the city!"

"Ah, a shame, I was hoping for a little moon sugar for some experiments, I know you Khajiit always have some, isn't that so?"

M'Sava frowned, finally looking the intrusive Altmer in the eye.  He was young, at least for a mer, and seemed out of place, for his head looked to have been bared to the sun for too long, leaving an orange sunburn.  "This one really must be going, the Potluck may already have begun!"

Now the Altmer frowned, pulling his head out of the tent, and called from outside, "I am patient Khajiit, but I must have some moon sugar!"

M'Sava frowned.  Men and mer alike considered him barbaric, but their tastes were truly barbaric.  It was as though they could not see the subtleties of moon sugar, the holiness of it.  It was all corrupted to them.  He thought of another piece of wisdom from Khaanin'fa's teaching, "To lick the self completely clean is to have a clean outside and a dirty inside.  This is why one should lick themself half clean, to achieve balance."  Why did he think of these things?

Finally, M'Sava had rolled up his carpet and taken down most of his tent from within.  He went to his camel, but stopped when he noticed that same Altmer, standing over a body a little way up the road.  The body was hooded, but M'Sava could see that same golden skin poke through the robes.  Fear gripped him, for he had heard tales of powerful Altmer wizards, wizards who might not take kindly to being told no.  This scene also stood between him and the Potluck.  He pulled the bowl from his camel's pack again, and slowly moved toward the young Altmer.  "Say… M'Sava could part with some sugar… This one offers it freely!"

The Altmer turned, a glow fading from his eyes.  "Oh lovely!  And for free?  You Khajiit are inscrutable!"  M'Sava handed off the bowl, and the Altmer put it in a pouch hidden within his robe.  It seemed he had many pouches hidden away, and his movement caused much clinking and bubbling.  "Now Khajiit, you say your name is Emshava?  A pleasure to make your acquaintance!  I am Loviril.  Many pardons about our pursuer here, he did not appreciate my being so candid about my search for your sugar.  You say you're headed to the Potluck?  For I am as well!  Shall we travel together?  Your pack beast appears thirsty!  Shall I provide?"

The barrage of questions took M'Sava aback, so much so that he did not try to correct the poor pronunciation of his name.  "Ehhh… Why not?"

Loviril went to J'Mashe'ra, and, producing a small vial from his robe, fed the camel a few drops.  He giggled excitedly at the soft lips on his hand, and pulled another small vial from his robes, smearing it full of spittle.  He turned to M'Sava, and smiled, full and bright.  "Well, off we are then?"

Curious, M’Sava went to his camel, who seemed lively and cheerful, or at least more cheerful than it had been other mornings.  He pulled the reins, and the camel went along much easier than it had before.  M’Sava was curiously grateful, but he still gave the dead body a wide berth, especially after noticing the green tinge working its way through her veins.  Loviril spoke loudly, "Ah, apologies for that little incident, can't have anyone taking my business the wrong way, can we?"

M'Sava gulped, careful to avoid looking at Loviril too much.  His father had been like this, with questions he didn't know the answer to.  They made the rest of the way to the city uneventfully, though as the sounds of music and market bustle billowed over the walls, he began to be more excited about the Potluck instead.

The same guard that had driven him away the night before was just exchanging keys with the new shift, and grinned mischievously as M'Sava and Loviril passed.  "Don't bring in anything you shouldn't Khajiit!"  The other guards looked curious, but the first guard laughed again, leaving them to wonder.

1

As they made their way through the gates and into the first hold of the city, Loviril took his leave.  "If I see you again, N'shaza, may it be in happy times!"

M'Shava shook his head ruefully, his tail twitching at again being called the wrong name.  He led his camel through the market, his nose overwhelmed at the smells of many foods, spices, and the sweaty men and mer who dominated the market.  The smell of sweat was terrible to M'Sava, it was like these people pissed when it was hot.

"Oy, cat!" called a nearby fish merchant, "how about some dried fish eh?  Or maybe, fresh?  That sounds good doesn't it?  Here kitty!"  The merchant laughed, her belly shaking, the greenish stains on her shirt heaving.  Her fish was decidedly not fresh, a fact clear from the fact that in the packed market, her stall had plenty of space.

M'Sava avoided her gaze as he passed her stall, and she called out in a lower voice, "do not think you can avoid what is to come Khajiit, the past repeats itself."

M'Sava furrowed his brows, pressing on without looking behind.  She continued her mongering, but soon he could no longer hear her, just the sounds of the Potluck market.  He would stop every once in a while to sample something, and give something feom his pack.  The spices and food he had brought with him were of great interest to those he passed, as they were usually expensive in High Rock.  M'Sava relished this, as the strangers he had met on the road did not seem nearly as happy to see a Khajiit.  And to trade rather than pay, with no bartering or finagling, was like being at home with his clan.  His mother had told him, "M'Sava, this one will do anything for you, but don't forget to do everything for this one!"  He laughed softly to himself, remembering that he hadn't known at the time whether or not she had meant it.

2

He had worked his way up through the first keep and was passing into the second when a burst of darkness caught his eye, a Suthay like him on a nearby rooftop with most of his face concealed by a dark mask, but for his mouth, which held a rotten fish.  He stopped, but the other Khajiit was gone as quickly as he had appeared.

Shuddering with shame, M'Sava heard the sounds of swords, and came back into himself.  He saw the radiant glow of the singing before he saw the actual performers, but when he got closer and could see the dance, he fell back, afraid.  The sound cut the air, his ears confused.  The song seemed not to come from the swords, but from within his own head, to leap and parry and break, then reform, just as the sword-dancers did.  The crowd around him seemed just as enthralled, swaying as one to the bizarre rhythm of the swords.

And suddenly M'Sava felt a small, cool bottle pressed into his hand, and felt a rush of air as another dancer, no Redguard, but a Dagi-raht, danced through the crowd, gifting small bottles of what M'Sava knew from old experiences was skooma.  She was one second here, then another second there, her dark clothing glinting with purples and golds, vicious laughter clashing with the sound of the swords.  She landed blithely between the dancers, stark against the reds and browns of the dancers' garb, and threw a handful of soul gems into the air.  The gems were caught up in the waves of tonal magic in the air, and they began to dance to the rhythm of the swords, trails of soul magic following and tangling together.

The dagi-raht disappeared again, and the soul magic began to extend out through the sword dance into the crowd, compelling them to drink their bottles.  As the wave of magic pushed through M'Sava's chest, he lifted the bottle to his mouth, something he had not done in years, but as he did he saw that same suthay from earlier, rotten fish hanging from his mouth and perched atop a nearby rooftop.  He cleared his thoughts with a shake, and stowed the small bottle in a pouch.

The dancers had halted their performance, and abruptly the soul gems rained down on the crowd.  A child began to cry and calls for guards rang out.  M'Sava tried to hurry away, not wanting to be associated with the strange khajiit who had disrupted the dance, but Loviril stood behind him, empty bottle of skooma in hand.

"Fascinating!  Simply fascinating!"  Loviril smiled widely at M'Sava, his pupils wide and glistening.  "How did you manage to resist the urge Maba?  What magic have you got hidden away my friend?"

M'Sava tried to push past him, growling, "this one is M'Sava, and nothing else, elf!  Allow this one through!"

Loviril maintained his smile, but his eyes grew darker.  "The skooma has not taken hold of me yet, Khajiit, and I must know your secrets.  Reveal them to me and I shall depart from you with dignity."

M'Sava hissed lightly, and pressed his palm to Loviril's chest.  "Move."

Loviril sighed, "very well khajiit, but I warn you that our next meeting will be much less cordial.  A good day to you, and may greater knowledge find its way to you."  He turned, chugged another potion from within his robe, and set off for the third keep.

M'Sava scowled, as he was also planning to head there.  He lingered, but ducked into an alley at the sight of guards approaching.  They seemed more interested in the now rowdy crowd than anything else, though he was beginning to learn that men and mer could change in an instant.  These people who were so enthralled with the sword dance not a minute ago had been corrupted much more than any Khajiit beggar under Sheggorath.  Truly he did not understand how they could allow themselves to fall victim to another’s whims so easily.

An Alfiq refined in the same purples and golds as the Dagi-raht dancer pranced across the alley further in.  M’Sava hesitated, then followed, his curiosity overtaking his excitement for the Potluck.  His grandmother had told him, “ Little Sava, do not trust the alfiq, they are tricksters, and rely on the good nature of others to cast their evil magics!  Now, be a good kitten and bring this one her sugar!”  His grandmother had been an Alfiq herself, but he had not met many others, though he did not doubt her words as he could apply them squarely to her as well.  This Alfiq seemed to jump and twist erratically, little pockets of magic holding it aloft, then pushing it hard into the dirt of the alley, though it did not cry out in pain.  If it knew that it was being followed, it did not give any indication of such.  M’Sava slowed his pace as he passed a pile of food scraps from a tavern, containing the rotted out shell of a dreugh.  Flies had found it first, and had laid enormous eggs, some of which had burst, leaving rapidly drying sticky white residue all over the dirt of the alley.  The smell of rotting fish returned to M’Sava’s nostrils, and he breathed deeply.  His stomach growled, and he realized how long it had been since he had eaten.

“Hey now!” called the Alfiq ahead of him, now facing him, though relaxing on a resplendent pillow, which had not been there before.  “You’ve got to focus!  Get your mind back to where it should be… On me!”

M’Sava was startled, as he had not expected the alfiq’s voice to be quite so gravelled, yet so… songlike.  “What do you mean, alfiq?  Is this some sort of spell?  Begone if you plan to cast magics on this one!”

“Ha!  Haha!  Hahahaha!  Foolish mortal!   Silly mortal!  It would be no fun, no fun at all to place a charm on you.  Though a hex… nay, maybe later.  Ooh, or maybe a melon spell!  No no, focus Sheg!”  The alfiq shook its head, and appeared to refocus its gaze on M’Sava.  “This is my Potluck, and you have brought something in which I did not plan for!  You, a khajiit, who refuses to drink freely given skooma!  Unbridled chaos, wanton destruction of minds and souls, an overabundance of cheese, aye!  Yes!  More!  But it’s almost like you’re competing with me, seeing who can show the more madness!  It’s unacceptable!  Or is it too acceptable?  Who’s to say?  I am!”

M’Sava took a step back, the smell of the rotten dreugh calling him and the alfiq confusing him.  “No!” cried the alfiq.  “You are too small, too mortal to be the cause of your own madness.  You will resist, and become the more mad, so that your cause will show itself to me.  And if no cause is shown, I will destroy you.  It is not time for Jyggy.  Or I’ll turn you into a footstool!”  An alfiq-shaped portal then opened in the side of the alley, and the alfiq was gone in a flash.

3

M’Sava turned heel and ran back to the square where the sword-dance had been, and turned again toward the third keep of the city, a guard ordering him to halt.  The guard gave chase, but M’Sava was too fast for him, and managed to lose him in the milling crowd just inside the third keep.  He breathed a sigh of relief, but it caught in his throat as he saw that same suthay staring down at him from one of the now much more ornate houses.  A small chunk of rotten fish fell from his mouth, flopping onto the cobbled stone below him, but no one in the crowd seemed to notice, enthralled as they were with the riches of the city being disposed of.  Nobles were tossing drakes down into the crowd, some with great force, some from chamber pots, with some in neat packages.  There was a mad scramble to pick up as much coin as possible, with dresses held high being used as improvised scoops, and old wheelbarrows piled with gold.  The nobles above laughed, and their bards played what were probably glorious hymns from high windows, though with so many different songs and the frenzied clinking of coin, the scene seemed far from sacred.  M’Sava looked up, finding his stalker again had vanished.

The clattering of sounds and the smell of so many sweating peasants rushed into M’Sava, knocking him off balance for a moment, his tail reacting faster than his mind.  Growing anxious, he began to bound on all fours like a senche.  The bursting energy of the Potluck was starting to grow in him now.  He had not seen his camel since the entrance to the second keep, and now that he was in the third keep, he had also forgotten that he had planned to gift the man-mane with his grandmother’s moon sugar.  He bounded over the backs of the crowd, unintentionally tearing their clothing and flesh, though he did not notice the blood and viscera on his claws.  He rushed on until the crowd was gone, and the city seemed to calm around him.  His anxiety left him, but he felt something wet in his mouth.  Worried that he was drooling, he swallowed, but whatever was in his mouth resisted, moving the opposite direction of his swallowing.  He stood up again, and gingerly pulled an enormous slug out of his mouth.  It raised its front at him, its eye stalks moving independently to take him in.  

“Hello little one,” he cooed.  “What were you doing in there?  Waiting to warn this one that he should or should not drink the skooma, eh?  This one knows you Sheggorath, and this one will not obey!”  M’Sava had grown tired of this madness, and had decided to confront it head-on.  He felt a clarity that he had not felt since arriving.  This thing, this aspect of his madness could not be real, and neither could the suthay on the rooftops.  He had simply overreacted, because he had been too excited.  It had happened before, but he had grown so much, even since yesterday, and he would not allow it to continue.

The slug oozed out of his grasp, a small puddle plopping onto the cobblestone below.  M’Sava laughed.  He had defeated his madness!  Free at last!

But now, a sound both soft and heavy, gentle but harsh, as a gargantuan arachne emerged over the roofs of the mansions around M’Sava.  The torso of Namiira hung limply before him, obscuring his view of the road before him.  Pus dripping from her head, her spider body crouched above so that she could rest her head on the cool cobblestones.  She croaked, bubbles forming in her throat, “my champion.  How quickly you forget your place.  It has not even been an age.  And yet you come here.  To the abode of an enemy.  You do not follow your baseness.  My gift to you is squandered.  Why do you hunger?  Where is my ring?”

M’Sava crumpled to the ground.  He had forgotten.  He was older than he remembered.  It felt as though a different M’Sava had received his ring, a different M’Sava had worn and used it, and a different M’Sava had forgotten it.  But there it was, on his finger.  And oh, he was so hungry.  It had been months since he had eaten.

“There you are my champion.  Now.  Eat.”  Namiira pulled up from the road, and light and colour returned to the world.

M’Sava rushed through the empty streets, higher and higher, his ears popping every so often and his chest heaving.  The architecture around him grew more and more fantastical, the magic of the bretons and the Direnni history made manifest.  He ignored all this, these empty mansions, for riches would not sate his hunger.  He had to reach the king.  He had to complete the Potluck.

The lone guard at the gate frowned at the cat rushing toward her.  The Potluck did not go this high up, why would it come up here?  Unless… was this cat some sort of assassin?  It certainly wasn’t approaching with any degree of stealth.  She lowered her spear and ordered the cat to stop.

M’Sava could see the guard and her little spear, but he did not fear her.  He rushed headlong into her spear, and he heard her cry out as the spear appeared not through his back, but back out through his belly, near where it had entered, and poked up into her head.  He fell over from the pain, though he was in better shape than the guard at least, who lay quite dead before him.  It had been quite some time since he had killed, and the hunger poured into his mind, and out his mouth came more slugs and spiders.  They roped their way to her open head, and pulled him downward, until his jaws were around her, and he fed.

4

His energy returned, and his wound healed, M’Sava continued into the castle.  The courtyard was empty of life, as were the halls, though books and scrolls covered every available surface, and magically, some otherwise unavailable surfaces.  The stairs had once been wide, but were now narrowed with books.  M’Sava, his hunger unfulfilled by the guard, continued up and through the narrow passages between stacks of books.  The man-mane would be the solution to his hunger.  M’Sava understood now.  How could he have been so blind!  The Potluck, the whole city!  It was like a miniature plane of the Shimmering Isles!  Of course Sheggorath ran this place.  A Potluck?  What could be more mad?  And these piles of books?  Madness!  M’Sava finally felt right here, he had resolved his madness!  He would find the man-mane, and the source of the Potluck, and restore it all to The Void!

But the castle seemed much larger from the inside.  He started to wonder if he was lost, though he had not stopped climbing stairs since he entered, so how could he be?  He paused a moment to look behind him, and there was the alfiq.  He languished lazily, as though M’Sava had not just been on that step.  “Greetings khajiit!  It’s me again, old Sheggorath!  Or should I say not young Sheggorath, compared to your eminence!  Hehe!”

M’Sava sat, resting his back against an unsteady pile of texts, apparently organized by variety of skin cover.  “What is it Adversary?  Do you come to taunt, to gloat against this poor khajiit?”  He reached his hand out to Sheggorath, scratching behind his ears.

“Don’t think I don’t know how absolutely degrading a real alfiq would find this behaviour, Champion of Namiira!  Though I do prefer it to our previous conversation, so don’t stop or you’ll be a sweet-roll in no time, being fought over by children at a birthday party!”

M’Sava continued stroking the alfiq’s neck.  “Er… Right.  This one has figured out your game Sheggorath, and M’Sava will have no part in it.  This one wanted you to know this after he met with your man-mane, your champion, but you’ll know it now.”  He prepared to extend his claws, to tear out the alfiq’s throat, but Sheggorath looked confused.

“Me champion?  Me man-mane?  Nay, this man, this place, they do not belong to me.  I prefer to do the fishy-stick below, with the common rabble.  And they prefer me!  It’s a path of least resistance, if you will, or even if you won’t!  Hahaha!

“Now, go on, don’t let me stop you!  See to this king, and give him Sheggorath’s regards!”  And Sheggorath was gone.

M’Sava was unsure for what felt like the hundredth time today, though this uncertainty seemed much more deadly than any before.  If the man-mane was not a servant of Sheggorath, why would he allow his town to be taken up in this way every year?  Why fill his castle with so many books if he were not totally mad?  Why have his castle be so damned confusing?

Determined, M’Sava continued upward, travelling for an hour, then another, then another.  Bells below rang out, but they seemed quieter every hour, so M’Sava took this as a sign of progress.  The dusty tomes also did not seem to grow any more or less dusty, but he kept noticing new and intriguing works on topics for which he had neither the context nor the capacity to understand.  Only his hunger drove him ever upward, or he would have stopped to sample the literature, to delve into its secrets.

Finally, after several hours of climbing, he reached a platform with no books, papers, or scrolls of any kind.  And here sat Loviril, hovering naked above the platform, Daedric runes carved into the floor, walls, his body covered in them.  Even the air around him had been carved into, runes floating and congealing neatly before the elf.  His back was turned to M’Sava, but he called out to him just the same.  “Hello, Champion of Namiira, please do not make too much noise in my library, I am learning.”

A chill ran up M’Sava’s spine.  This was not what he had expected.  This was a mer corrupted.  This creature was dark, but not evil.  Loviril was cold, but piercing.  M’Sava stood still for what he thought was eternity.  He wondered if Loviril had forgotten he was there.

“No, M’Sava, I have not forgotten you.  You have done this to yourself.  Your dream has lasted for longer than its dreamer.  You have not left this world, this Mundus, as you should have.  And I have watched you enter this city, as I have watched all things in this city.  And I have learned.  But you have not learned anything.  You have regressed.  You have rotted away.  Your knowledge has festered.  There is a wound on you, but rather than allow it to scab over, you have picked and picked, you are your obsession, nothing more.”

Suddenly Loviril was upon M’Sava, a potion being poured into his agape mouth before he could react.  The bottle was a deep jade, and the potion burned, grey vapour filling the air around him.  He could not move.

Loviril’s voice changed, dropping several registers, the timbre becoming older and lilting.  “I would understand you, Champion of Namiira.  She cannot bring you here and expect to defeat me.  But I can give you an understanding of yourself that she never could, infant.  We will exchange in this way, for I am the master of knowledge, and your master is a master of fading away.”

Loviril sprinkled M’Sava’s grandmother’s bowl of moon sugar across M’Sava’s face, and began to eat.

[ineffably-good]

Flufftober 23: Letters

Summary: Aziraphale still has secrets. 

One of Aziraphale’s most prized possessions was his old, secretary-style desk. It was filled with big drawers, little drawers, cubbies, and pigeon holes. He had purchased it in the 18th century; two hundred years later, it had that glow unique to well-loved and well-maintained furniture. Of all the individual pieces of furniture in his shop, it was undoubtedly his favorite.

Among the many valued features of his desk was a small, hidden compartment just behind the smaller drawers on the top. By placing your fingers exactly so, you could press a small bump that in turn slid a panel back and opened up a space just the right size for hiding away a stack of papers or a small book. The angel used it to hide away things that he had formerly wanted to keep from the archangels’ eyes – letters of a personal nature, some of them between him and Crowley, and some of them from humans he had been close to over the years.

Even Crowley didn’t know about the compartment, as far as he was aware. Not that he wouldn’t have shown him, if asked – but sometimes it was nice to have an inconsequential secret in reserve, something to keep to yourself like a magpie with a shiny pebble.

He hardly ever opened it, so he was somewhat surprised when the bump caught his eye one morning as he sat with his cup of English Breakfast tea, getting ready to start his day.

Curious, he pressed it, and it slid open with a soft snick.

There were a few dozen letters inside, tied with an old blue ribbon, and a few other ephemera he’d collected over the years. Most were old, quite old. Several of them had antique wax seals on them. One was even a scroll.

Aziraphale took a sip of his tea and let his eyes roam over the envelopes. Most of them, the ones from Crowley, he knew by heart, having read them innumerable times. A few of them were less familiar, because he hadn’t returned to them as often. It was one small set of these that he pulled out – a half dozen missives from his dear friend Oscar, a cherished memento and one he didn’t often examine because the loss was relatively recent and fresh. And also because Crowley tended, even now, to bristle somewhat adorably whenever Mr. Wilde’s name was mentioned, so he tried to spare him the aggravation. Still, Crowley was out, and he felt that he’d gained the distance to re-read them.

He sat back in his chair, tea in hand, and unfolded the first one. Oscar’s letters were an experience just to look at – his wild handwriting looped and sloped across the page, and he was downright profligate with spacing, sprawling his large words across them without regard to margins or line height. Aziraphale smiled, remembering his exuberance from this small thing.

The first letter he pulled out was from 1882.

  My dear boy, it began. 

How are you in London? Having found much delight in our recent visit, I thought I would share with you the depth of doldrums I find myself faced with at your absence. Truly you are cruel to withhold yourself from further visits with me; please remedy this at once by joining me in North America, for this tour is interminable. I arrived in New York on Wednesday and was immediately set upon by …

He read it closely in silence, a smile on his lips – this, he knew, was one of the few happy letters in the pile, and his heart broke in advance thinking of what was to come. He read through one other relatively pleasant, chatty letter from his London days, then got to the difficult materials – two letters written from jail, and finally two increasingly desperate letters from his final days in France.

When he finished, he put them down on the desk and laid his face in his hands, overcome with sadness for his lost friend.

“Angel?” came a voice behind him. “You okay?”

Aziraphale actually jumped. Somehow he hadn’t heard Crowley come in. He discreetly wiped his eyes and straightened his shoulders.

“Oh!” he said nervously. “Crowley, love! You’re back! I didn’t see you there!” He stood up with his back to the desk, hiding the contents from view.

“Why’re you upset?” Crowley asked, worried. “Has something happened?”

“No, no, nothing like that. Just thinking over some old memories, got myself a little worked up, I’m afraid. I’m fine!” He gestured to the back room. “Shall we go make some more tea? Mine’s gotten quite cold.”

Crowley narrowed his eyes. “No, thanks, I’m fine. What’s all that?” he asked, pointing at the desk.

“Correspondence,” the angel said lamely. “Nothing important.”

“Nothing important that has you crying at your desk at eleven in the morning?” Crowley said, arms crossed. “’fess up, angel. What’s going on?”

Aziraphale sighed petulantly. “Well if you must know I was reading through old letters. From a friend. And they’re quite sad.”

“What friend?”

Aziraphale just shrugged.

“What friend?” Crowley insisted.

Aziraphale huffed. “Oh for Heaven’s sake, they’re from Oscar. I came across them this morning, haven’t read them in years.” 

Ah, Crowley frowned, that explains it. Old Oscar. The demon tried to bite it back, he really did, but he couldn’t help himself.

“Sitting here crying over your old love, angel?” he said bitterly. “That seems a bit maudlin, doesn’t it?”

Aziraphale glared at him. “We weren’t lovers.”

Crowley wasn’t sure if he believed him. At a minimum, Wilde had definitely been a flirtation, if nothing else. He suspected a bit more had occurred than the angel was willing to admit. It was his own fault for missing that century, but that didn’t make it any easier to bear that the angel had had feelings for someone else.

“I’ve heard that story before,” Crowley said, kicking himself mentally even as he couldn’t stop the words from coming out of his mouth. This was an old and tired argument and he couldn’t believe he was starting it when the angel was clearly upset.

“Not,” Aziraphale said with increasing testiness, “that I have to explain myself to you, dear. You chose to sleep through that century and if I took comfort in someone else that’s no one’s fault but yours.”

“Oh really, now, is it?” Crowley snapped. “Because I was away from you lots of times for decades and even centuries and I never ‘took comfort’—” he paused to make the appropriate air quotes “—in some human.”

“And if you had it would have been just fine,” Aziraphale snarled back, standing up and taking a step towards him. He looked frighteningly cross. “I certainly wouldn’t be bullying you about it a hundred and thirty years later, you overbearing –”

The angel cut himself off, just in time to prevent whatever insult had been about to escape his lips. Instead Crowley watched as Aziraphale’s face shuttered closed and he set about straightening his coat, waistcoat, and cuffs, which he knew from long experience was always a defensive move.

“Pardon me,” Aziraphale said formally. “I’m going out.” And he brushed by Crowley and was out the door before the demon could even form a thought.

“Shit,” the demon said to the room around him. “Shit, shit, shit.”

He took one last look at the pile of envelopes on the desk and then walked away, avoiding temptation like any proper demon would certainly not do, and went upstairs to sulk at his own idiocy.

++

He received a text a while later.

A: Read the letters, if you want.

C: I don’t have to, angel.

A: I want you to.

C: Come home.

A: Read them.

Crowley, reluctant but intrigued, went back downstairs and sat down at the desk, where several things became immediately apparent to him.

One, the majority of envelopes spread out across the desk were from him, and they had obviously been handled frequently from the crumpled, soft edges of the envelopes and the worn corners.

Two, there were a small pile of objects scattered among the letters that he recognized. A black feather he knew was his. An oyster shell. An old hankerchief with a small snake embroidered on it. An old wax sealing ring with his insignia on it. Things of his.

Three, there were only a few open letters, perhaps six in total, and they appeared quite crisp in comparison to everything else. He took a moment to sort them into chronological order and began reading.

When he finished, his thoughts were spinning. The letters were mostly sad. The first two were flirtatious, yes, but Aziraphale’s friend mostly wrote to him about his despair in prison, about the friends who had abandoned him after he was disgraced and ruined, about the loves who turned against him, about his poverty and poor health in France. The last letter, terribly short and brutal, discussed his failing strength and impending death in a dingy hotel room with dismal wallpaper and few comforts. He thanked Aziraphale for his friendship and begged him to remember him.

And then the letters stopped.

I am an ass, Crowley thought.

Aziraphale showed up about thirty minutes later, looking drawn. Crowley met him at the door, helped him out of his coat and gently led him to the couch.

“I’m sorry, angel,” he said. “It doesn’t matter what he was to you. I’m going to stop with this whole routine, okay?”

Aziraphale sniffed, clearly not quite ready to forgive. “We shall see, shan’t we?”

“The letters were really sad,” Crowley admitted. “Not what I expected. And there weren’t very many of them.”

“No.”

Chilly, still, Crowley thought.

“Doesn’t look like you’d read them much," he commented gently, still trying to find a way to open up a conversation. "They were all crisp, compared to the other ones.”

That seemed to work a little.

"No," Aziraphale admitted. "I haven’t read them often. It’s hard to see the downward spiral of someone who was brilliant and full of life.” He flushed and looked as if he’d said too much, and Crowley saw him tense up again.

“I can see that,” Crowley said softly. He was going to be good if it killed him. If the angel wanted to reminisce about how wonderfully and sensitively Oscar kissed he was going to sit here and be supportive, even if he had to stab himself in the hand with a fork to let the feelings out later. Because honestly, the angel was right. It didn't matter.

Aziraphale relaxed fractionally and took a breath.

Crowley steeled himself to offer the first positive comment he had ever made about Mr. Wilde in recorded history. “He’s… he’s interesting. And I can see that he cared for you.”

Aziraphale looked at him consideringly. “He did.”

“Well then, he wasn’t a complete idiot, was he?” Crowley said with a smile.

Aziraphale cracked a small smile back and the room thawed considerably.

“Want some cocoa?” Crowley asked. “I’ve got those fancy marshmallows that are shaped like squares and those peppermint spoons that dissolve.”

“Oh,” the angel breathed. “That does sound nice! Thank you, dear.”

Crowley wandered off to the kitchen, quietly magicking both of the things he had just mentioned (and which he did not, in fact, have) into existence as he went, and set about making the best Belgian cocoa he could, then setting it up on a lovely tray with a flower and a plate of biscuits. He was going to spend the rest of the day being exceedingly nice to his angel.

Aziraphale watched carefully as the demon left the room, then went over to the desk and straightened up the pile of letters and objects. He slid them back into the compartment and sealed it quietly before Crowley could return and note its existence. It gave him a small thrill of satisfaction to do so.

He thanked the lord he hadn’t also gotten out the admiring letters from Noel Coward and Truman Capote.

The demon didn’t have to know everything, after all.

[lewiscarrollsocietynorthamerica]

CHAPTER XII. Alice’s Evidence

‘Here!’ cried Alice, quite forgetting in the flurry of the moment how large she had grown in the last few minutes, and she jumped up in such a hurry that she tipped over the jury-box with the edge of her skirt, upsetting all the jurymen on to the heads of the crowd below, and there they lay sprawling about, reminding her very much of a globe of goldfish she had accidentally upset the week before.

‘Oh, I beg your pardon!’ she exclaimed in a tone of great dismay, and began picking them up again as quickly as she could, for the accident of the goldfish kept running in her head, and she had a vague sort of idea that they must be collected at once and put back into the jury-box, or they would die.

‘The trial cannot proceed,’ said the King in a very grave voice, ‘until all the jurymen are back in their proper places—all,’ he repeated with great emphasis, looking hard at Alice as he said do.

Alice looked at the jury-box, and saw that, in her haste, she had put the Lizard in head downwards, and the poor little thing was waving its tail about in a melancholy way, being quite unable to move. She soon got it out again, and put it right; ‘not that it signifies much,’ she said to herself; ‘I should think it would be quite as much use in the trial one way up as the other.’

As soon as the jury had a little recovered from the shock of being upset, and their slates and pencils had been found and handed back to them, they set to work very diligently to write out a history of the accident, all except the Lizard, who seemed too much overcome to do anything but sit with its mouth open, gazing up into the roof of the court.

‘What do you know about this business?’ the King said to Alice.

‘Nothing,’ said Alice.

‘Nothing whatever?’ persisted the King.

‘Nothing whatever,’ said Alice.

‘That’s very important,’ the King said, turning to the jury. They were just beginning to write this down on their slates, when the White Rabbit interrupted: ‘Unimportant, your Majesty means, of course,’ he said in a very respectful tone, but frowning and making faces at him as he spoke.

‘Unimportant, of course, I meant,’ the King hastily said, and went on to himself in an undertone,

‘important—unimportant—unimportant—important—’ as if he were trying which word sounded best.

Some of the jury wrote it down ‘important,’ and some ‘unimportant.’ Alice could see this, as she was near enough to look over their slates; ‘but it doesn’t matter a bit,’ she thought to herself.

At this moment the King, who had been for some time busily writing in his note-book, cackled out ‘Silence!’ and read out from his book, ‘Rule Forty-two. All persons more than a mile high to leave the court.’

Everybody looked at Alice.

‘I’m not a mile high,’ said Alice.

‘You are,’ said the King.

‘Nearly two miles high,’ added the Queen.

‘Well, I shan’t go, at any rate,’ said Alice: ‘besides, that’s not a regular rule: you invented it just now.’

‘It’s the oldest rule in the book,’ said the King.

‘Then it ought to be Number One,’ said Alice.

The King turned pale, and shut his note-book hastily. ‘Consider your verdict,’ he said to the jury, in a low, trembling voice.

‘There’s more evidence to come yet, please your Majesty,’ said the White Rabbit, jumping up in a great hurry; ‘this paper has just been picked up.’

‘What’s in it?’ said the Queen.

‘I haven’t opened it yet,’ said the White Rabbit, ‘but it seems to be a letter, written by the prisoner to—to somebody.’

‘It must have been that,’ said the King, ‘unless it was written to nobody, which isn’t usual, you know.’

‘Who is it directed to?’ said one of the jurymen.

‘It isn’t directed at all,’ said the White Rabbit; ‘in fact, there’s nothing written on the outside.’ He unfolded the paper as he spoke, and added ‘It isn’t a letter, after all: it’s a set of verses.’

‘Are they in the prisoner’s handwriting?’ asked another of the jurymen.

‘No, they’re not,’ said the White Rabbit, ‘and that’s the queerest thing about it.’ (The jury all looked puzzled.)

‘He must have imitated somebody else’s hand,’ said the King. (The jury all brightened up again.)

‘Please your Majesty,’ said the Knave, ‘I didn’t write it, and they can’t prove I did: there’s no name signed at the end.’

‘If you didn’t sign it,’ said the King, ‘that only makes the matter worse. You must have meant some mischief, or else you’d have signed your name like an honest man.’

There was a general clapping of hands at this: it was the first really clever thing the King had said that day.

‘That proves his guilt,’ said the Queen.

‘It proves nothing of the sort!’ said Alice. ‘Why, you don’t even know what they’re about!’

‘Read them,’ said the King.

The White Rabbit put on his spectacles. ‘Where shall I begin, please your Majesty?’ he asked.

‘Begin at the beginning,’ the King said gravely, ‘and go on till you come to the end: then stop.’

These were the verses the White Rabbit read:—

  ‘They told me you had been to her,    And mentioned me to him:   She gave me a good character,    But said I could not swim.   He sent them word I had not gone    (We know it to be true):   If she should push the matter on,    What would become of you?   I gave her one, they gave him two,    You gave us three or more;   They all returned from him to you,    Though they were mine before.   If I or she should chance to be    Involved in this affair,   He trusts to you to set them free,    Exactly as we were.   My notion was that you had been    (Before she had this fit)   An obstacle that came between    Him, and ourselves, and it.   Don’t let him know she liked them best,    For this must ever be   A secret, kept from all the rest,    Between yourself and me.’

‘That’s the most important piece of evidence we’ve heard yet,’ said the King, rubbing his hands; ‘so now let the jury—’

‘If any one of them can explain it,’ said Alice, (she had grown so large in the last few minutes that she wasn’t a bit afraid of interrupting him,) ‘I’ll give him sixpence. I don’t believe there’s an atom of meaning in it.’

The jury all wrote down on their slates, ‘She doesn’t believe there’s an atom of meaning in it,’ but none of them attempted to explain the paper.

‘If there’s no meaning in it,’ said the King, ‘that saves a world of trouble, you know, as we needn’t try to find any. And yet I don’t know,’ he went on, spreading out the verses on his knee, and looking at them with one eye; ‘I seem to see some meaning in them, after all. “—said I could not swim—” you can’t swim, can you?’ he added, turning to the Knave.

The Knave shook his head sadly. ‘Do I look like it?’ he said. (Which he certainly did not, being made entirely of cardboard.)

‘All right, so far,’ said the King, and he went on muttering over the verses to himself: ‘“We know it to be true—” that’s the jury, of course—“I gave her one, they gave him two—” why, that must be what he did with the tarts, you know—’

‘But, it goes on “they all returned from him to you,”’ said Alice.

‘Why, there they are!’ said the King triumphantly, pointing to the tarts on the table. ‘Nothing can be clearer than that. Then again—“before she had this fit—” you never had fits, my dear, I think?’ he said to the Queen.

‘Never!’ said the Queen furiously, throwing an inkstand at the Lizard as she spoke. (The unfortunate little Bill had left off writing on his slate with one finger, as he found it made no mark; but he now hastily began again, using the ink, that was trickling down his face, as long as it lasted.)

‘Then the words don’t fit you,’ said the King, looking round the court with a smile. There was a dead silence.

‘It’s a pun!’ the King added in an offended tone, and everybody laughed, ‘Let the jury consider their verdict,’ the King said, for about the twentieth time that day.

‘No, no!’ said the Queen. ‘Sentence first—verdict afterwards.’

‘Stuff and nonsense!’ said Alice loudly. ‘The idea of having the sentence first!’

‘Hold your tongue!’ said the Queen, turning purple.

‘I won’t!’ said Alice.

‘Off with her head!’ the Queen shouted at the top of her voice. Nobody moved.

‘Who cares for you?’ said Alice, (she had grown to her full size by this time.) ‘You’re nothing but a pack of cards!’

At this the whole pack rose up into the air, and came flying down upon her: she gave a little scream, half of fright and half of anger, and tried to beat them off, and found herself lying on the bank, with her head in the lap of her sister, who was gently brushing away some dead leaves that had fluttered down from the trees upon her face.

‘Wake up, Alice dear!’ said her sister; ‘Why, what a long sleep you’ve had!’

‘Oh, I’ve had such a curious dream!’ said Alice, and she told her sister, as well as she could remember them, all these strange Adventures of hers that you have just been reading about; and when she had finished, her sister kissed her, and said, ‘It was a curious dream, dear, certainly: but now run in to your tea; it’s getting late.’ So Alice got up and ran off, thinking while she ran, as well she might, what a wonderful dream it had been.

But her sister sat still just as she left her, leaning her head on her hand, watching the setting sun, and thinking of little Alice and all her wonderful Adventures, till she too began dreaming after a fashion, and this was her dream:—

First, she dreamed of little Alice herself, and once again the tiny hands were clasped upon her knee, and the bright eager eyes were looking up into hers—she could hear the very tones of her voice, and see that queer little toss of her head to keep back the wandering hair that would always get into her eyes—and still as she listened, or seemed to listen, the whole place around her became alive with the strange creatures of her little sister’s dream.

The long grass rustled at her feet as the White Rabbit hurried by—the frightened Mouse splashed his way through the neighbouring pool—she could hear the rattle of the teacups as the March Hare and his friends shared their never-ending meal, and the shrill voice of the Queen ordering off her unfortunate guests to execution—once more the pig-baby was sneezing on the Duchess’s knee, while plates and dishes crashed around it—once more the shriek of the Gryphon, the squeaking of the Lizard’s slate-pencil, and the choking of the suppressed guinea-pigs, filled the air, mixed up with the distant sobs of the miserable Mock Turtle.

So she sat on, with closed eyes, and half believed herself in Wonderland, though she knew she had but to open them again, and all would change to dull reality—the grass would be only rustling in the wind, and the pool rippling to the waving of the reeds—the rattling teacups would change to tinkling sheep-bells, and the Queen’s shrill cries to the voice of the shepherd boy—and the sneeze of the baby, the shriek of the Gryphon, and all the other queer noises, would change (she knew) to the confused clamour of the busy farm-yard—while the lowing of the cattle in the distance would take the place of the Mock Turtle’s heavy sobs.

Lastly, she pictured to herself how this same little sister of hers would, in the after-time, be herself a grown woman; and how she would keep, through all her riper years, the simple and loving heart of her childhood: and how she would gather about her other little children, and make their eyes bright and eager with many a strange tale, perhaps even with the dream of Wonderland of long ago: and how she would feel with all their simple sorrows, and find a pleasure in all their simple joys, remembering her own child-life, and the happy summer days.

             THE END

[fushigi-no-kuni-no-alice]

Chapter 12: Alice’s Evidence

“Here!” cried Alice, quite forgetting in the flurry of the moment how large she had grown in the last few minutes, and she jumped up in such a hurry that she tipped over the jury-box with the edge of her skirt, upsetting all the jurymen on to the heads of the crowd below, and there they lay sprawling about, reminding her very much of a globe of goldfish she had accidentally upset the week before.

“Oh, I beg your pardon!” she exclaimed in a tone of great dismay, and began picking them up again as quickly as she could, for the accident of the goldfish kept running in her head, and she had a vague sort of idea that they must be collected at once and put back into the jury-box, or they would die.

“The trial cannot proceed,” said the King in a very grave voice, “until all the jurymen are back in their proper places—all,” he repeated with great emphasis, looking hard at Alice as he said so.

Alice looked at the jury-box, and saw that, in her haste, she had put the Lizard in head downwards, and the poor little thing was waving its tail about in a melancholy way, being quite unable to move. She soon got it out again, and put it right; “not that it signifies much,” she said to herself; “I should think it would be quite as much use in the trial one way up as the other.”

As soon as the jury had a little recovered from the shock of being upset, and their slates and pencils had been found and handed back to them, they set to work very diligently to write out a history of the accident, all except the Lizard, who seemed too much overcome to do anything but sit with its mouth open, gazing up into the roof of the court.

“What do you know about this business?” the King said to Alice.

“Nothing,” said Alice.

“Nothing whatever?” persisted the King.

“Nothing whatever,” said Alice.

“That’s very important,” the King said, turning to the jury. They were just beginning to write this down on their slates, when the White Rabbit interrupted: “Unimportant, your Majesty means, of course,” he said in a very respectful tone, but frowning and making faces at him as he spoke.

“Unimportant, of course, I meant,” the King hastily said, and went on to himself in an undertone,

“important—unimportant—unimportant—important—” as if he were trying which word sounded best.

Some of the jury wrote it down “important,” and some “unimportant.” Alice could see this, as she was near enough to look over their slates; “but it doesn’t matter a bit,” she thought to herself.

At this moment the King, who had been for some time busily writing in his note-book, cackled out “Silence!” and read out from his book, “Rule Forty-two. All persons more than a mile high to leave the court.”

Everybody looked at Alice.

“I’m not a mile high,” said Alice.

“You are,” said the King.

“Nearly two miles high,” added the Queen.

“Well, I shan’t go, at any rate,” said Alice: “besides, that’s not a regular rule: you invented it just now.”

“It’s the oldest rule in the book,” said the King.

“Then it ought to be Number One,” said Alice.

The King turned pale, and shut his note-book hastily. “Consider your verdict,” he said to the jury, in a low, trembling voice.

“There’s more evidence to come yet, please your Majesty,” said the White Rabbit, jumping up in a great hurry; “this paper has just been picked up.”

“What’s in it?” said the Queen.

“I haven’t opened it yet,” said the White Rabbit, “but it seems to be a letter, written by the prisoner to—to somebody.”

“It must have been that,” said the King, “unless it was written to nobody, which isn’t usual, you know.”

“Who is it directed to?” said one of the jurymen.

“It isn’t directed at all,” said the White Rabbit; “in fact, there’s nothing written on the outside.” He unfolded the paper as he spoke, and added “It isn’t a letter, after all: it’s a set of verses.”

“Are they in the prisoner’s handwriting?” asked another of the jurymen.

“No, they’re not,” said the White Rabbit, “and that’s the queerest thing about it.” (The jury all looked puzzled.)

��He must have imitated somebody else’s hand,” said the King. (The jury all brightened up again.)

“Please your Majesty,” said the Knave, “I didn’t write it, and they can’t prove I did: there’s no name signed at the end.”

“If you didn’t sign it,” said the King, “that only makes the matter worse. You must have meant some mischief, or else you’d have signed your name like an honest man.”

There was a general clapping of hands at this: it was the first really clever thing the King had said that day.

“That proves his guilt, of course,” said the Queen: “so, off with—”

“It proves nothing of the sort!” said Alice. “Why, you don’t even know what they’re about!”

“Read them,” said the King.

The White Rabbit put on his spectacles. “Where shall I begin, please your Majesty?” he asked.

“Begin at the beginning,” the King said gravely, “and go on till you come to the end: then stop.”

These were the verses the White Rabbit read:—

“They told me you had been to her, And mentioned me to him: She gave me a good character, But said I could not swim.

He sent them word I had not gone (We know it to be true): If she should push the matter on, What would become of you?

I gave her one, they gave him two, You gave us three or more; They all returned from him to you, Though they were mine before.

If I or she should chance to be Involved in this affair, He trusts to you to set them free, Exactly as we were.

My notion was that you had been (Before she had this fit) An obstacle that came between Him, and ourselves, and it.

Don’t let him know she liked them best, For this must ever be A secret, kept from all the rest, Between yourself and me.”

“That’s the most important piece of evidence we’ve heard yet,” said the King, rubbing his hands; “so now let the jury—”

“If any one of them can explain it,” said Alice, (she had grown so large in the last few minutes that she wasn’t a bit afraid of interrupting him,) “I’ll give him sixpence. I don’t believe there’s an atom of meaning in it.”

The jury all wrote down on their slates, “She doesn’t believe there’s an atom of meaning in it,” but none of them attempted to explain the paper.

“If there’s no meaning in it,” said the King, “that saves a world of trouble, you know, as we needn’t try to find any. And yet I don’t know,” he went on, spreading out the verses on his knee, and looking at them with one eye; “I seem to see some meaning in them, after all. “—said I could not swim—” you can’t swim, can you?” he added, turning to the Knave.

The Knave shook his head sadly. “Do I look like it?” he said. (Which he certainly did not, being made entirely of cardboard.)

“All right, so far,” said the King, and he went on muttering over the verses to himself: “‘We know it to be true—’ that’s the jury, of course—‘I gave her one, they gave him two—’ why, that must be what he did with the tarts, you know—”

“But, it goes on ‘they all returned from him to you,’” said Alice.

“Why, there they are!” said the King triumphantly, pointing to the tarts on the table. “Nothing can be clearer than that. Then again—‘before she had this fit—’ you never had fits, my dear, I think?” he said to the Queen.

“Never!” said the Queen furiously, throwing an inkstand at the Lizard as she spoke. (The unfortunate little Bill had left off writing on his slate with one finger, as he found it made no mark; but he now hastily began again, using the ink, that was trickling down his face, as long as it lasted.)

“Then the words don’t fit you,” said the King, looking round the court with a smile. There was a dead silence.

“It’s a pun!” the King added in an offended tone, and everybody laughed, “Let the jury consider their verdict,” the King said, for about the twentieth time that day.

“No, no!” said the Queen. “Sentence first—verdict afterwards.”

“Stuff and nonsense!” said Alice loudly. “The idea of having the sentence first!”

“Hold your tongue!” said the Queen, turning purple.

“I won’t!” said Alice.

“Off with her head!” the Queen shouted at the top of her voice. Nobody moved.

“Who cares for you?” said Alice, (she had grown to her full size by this time.) “You’re nothing but a pack of cards!”

At this the whole pack rose up into the air, and came flying down upon her: she gave a little scream, half of fright and half of anger, and tried to beat them off, and found herself lying on the bank, with her head in the lap of her sister, who was gently brushing away some dead leaves that had fluttered down from the trees upon her face.

“Wake up, Alice dear!” said her sister; “Why, what a long sleep you’ve had!”

“Oh, I’ve had such a curious dream!” said Alice, and she told her sister, as well as she could remember them, all these strange Adventures of hers that you have just been reading about; and when she had finished, her sister kissed her, and said, “It was a curious dream, dear, certainly: but now run in to your tea; it’s getting late.” So Alice got up and ran off, thinking while she ran, as well she might, what a wonderful dream it had been.

____________

But her sister sat still just as she left her, leaning her head on her hand, watching the setting sun, and thinking of little Alice and all her wonderful Adventures, till she too began dreaming after a fashion, and this was her dream:—

First, she dreamed of little Alice herself, and once again the tiny hands were clasped upon her knee, and the bright eager eyes were looking up into hers—she could hear the very tones of her voice, and see that queer little toss of her head to keep back the wandering hair that would always get into her eyes—and still as she listened, or seemed to listen, the whole place around her became alive with the strange creatures of her little sister’s dream.

The long grass rustled at her feet as the White Rabbit hurried by—the frightened Mouse splashed his way through the neighbouring pool—she could hear the rattle of the teacups as the March Hare and his friends shared their never-ending meal, and the shrill voice of the Queen ordering off her unfortunate guests to execution—once more the pig-baby was sneezing on the Duchess’s knee, while plates and dishes crashed around it—once more the shriek of the Gryphon, the squeaking of the Lizard’s slate-pencil, and the choking of the suppressed guinea-pigs, filled the air, mixed up with the distant sobs of the miserable Mock Turtle.

So she sat on, with closed eyes, and half believed herself in Wonderland, though she knew she had but to open them again, and all would change to dull reality—the grass would be only rustling in the wind, and the pool rippling to the waving of the reeds—the rattling teacups would change to tinkling sheep-bells, and the Queen’s shrill cries to the voice of the shepherd boy—and the sneeze of the baby, the shriek of the Gryphon, and all the other queer noises, would change (she knew) to the confused clamour of the busy farm-yard—while the lowing of the cattle in the distance would take the place of the Mock Turtle’s heavy sobs.

Lastly, she pictured to herself how this same little sister of hers would, in the after-time, be herself a grown woman; and how she would keep, through all her riper years, the simple and loving heart of her childhood: and how she would gather about her other little children, and make their eyes bright and eager with many a strange tale, perhaps even with the dream of Wonderland of long ago: and how she would feel with all their simple sorrows, and find a pleasure in all their simple joys, remembering her own child-life, and the happy summer days.

THE END

[talasdoodles]

Another quote drawing based on something from @incorrecttmntquotes Please pardon my poor handwriting.

[ontheoddoccasioniwritestuff]

Complementary (Collins x OC) Chapter 16: Shortbread

Summary: A belated gift and a belated confession arrive to ease the boredom and worsen the nerves.

 Perma-tag: @tomgcsglasses and @lowdenglynnstyles

 Complementary tag: @you-are-the-first-dream and @disneydirectioner

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 On night duty, Genevieve surveyed the borders through her binoculars. Nothing. No doubt the Germans were enjoying the summer air while the rest of the world sat tensely awaiting their non-existent attack. Genevieve plonked down her binoculars and leant back on her sandbags. Her rifle was loaded and prepared, leaning on the wall next to her. Her partner Wilson was pacing up and down like he had ants in his pants.

 As boredom combined with tension hit its peak, Genevieve pulled the small brown package out of her pocket. It had arrived just before her shift. She decided to bathe in the anticipation a little before she opened.

 The twine was done up so tightly, Genevieve had to use her Swiss Army Knife to undo it. A small tin box fell out of the brown paper. Torn between which one to open first, Genevieve went for the letter, hoping it would shed some light on the package.

    14/08/41

Ginny,

Thank you for your photograph; I’m glad you had a good leave. I almost forgot how beautiful you are, what a crime. I have it on the windshield in my Spitfire. The other pilots were so jealous when they saw your picture, even more so when they heard you were a sniper in France. You have the opportunity to do the same with my photo (although I do look less dashing without the life jacket and sea water sticking my hair up). It was a reject from our official one. Farrier had cracked an awful joke from behind the camera and messed this one up. Had to wait two months to get it redone.

The feeling of being in the air is indescribable. Words fail me like how they fail to define how I feel about you. Perhaps I can take you in the air someday and you can feel how I feel without the danger or threat. You’d love it. You really would.

I’m glad my letters make you smile. Yours do the same to me. Many men at my end have lost hope but you keep me going, my darling. I would love to know this story behind the nickname. Maybe in your next letter, you could tell me.

Your Jack x

PS. I realised as I finished writing this that today is your birthday. Hope you enjoy these. My ma’s recipe so you don’t have to worry about it not being made “proper” by yours truly.

     Genevieve was pink by the first paragraph. The photograph was sent at Jack’s request; it wasn’t even a good one, just one of her at in the garden with her nephew that her mother wanted her to keep. Now Jack was showering her with compliments hundreds of miles away and she was reacting like a teenager.

 Jack sold himself short. The photo of him in his RAF number ones was attractive enough without the realisation that he was laughing in it, unable to hold the pose long enough for the photo. He was doubling over, looking past the camera – probably at Farrier – his smile wide and mid-laugh. Even in the dark and the poor quality of the photograph, it was still Jack.

 “What’s in the tin?”

 Genevieve looked up at her partner for the night. He was a bit simple, a bit blunt but not the worst person to be stuck on duty with. Also, he wasn’t the worst person to get in a thumb war with.

 “Dunno,” Genevieve left out the part of the letter that hinted at the contents being food, hoping to open it later and enjoy it in private. But Wilson sat opposite her on a bunch of sandbags expectantly.

 “Open it then.”

 “Alright,” Genevieve didn’t fancy irking him since they still had six hours on their shift. She prised the lid off whilst convincing herself that she was gonna open it eventually hence why it was not acceptable to bite Wilson’s head off. Pale crumbly biscuits lined the tin, dusted in sugar.

 Wilson perked up when he peeped over the edge, “Ooo, shortbread.”

 “Want a bit?” She offered out of courtesy. Wilson eagerly accepted a finger and stuffed it into his mouth.

 “Happy Birthday, me,” Genevieve popped a bit in herself. Crunching down, she reread the letter and grinned through the crumbs.

 “You read the back yet?”  Wilson said through a mouthful.

 “Pardon?”

 “The back,” Wilson mimed flipping something over, “There’s more writing.”

 “Oh, neat,” Genevieve said cheerily, turning over the page. Sure enough, a small paragraph – the handwriting a tad more erratic – was in the centre of the parchment.

     I have to admit now, I spend each day wishing that I’d kissed you at the harbour, in the B&B, when we were dancing, before we left each other, remembering how your lips felt against my fingers. I feel an ache in my chest every time I think about you. I miss you so much and I want you to know that I care about you more than a friend. What keeps me going is maybe when this is over, when I find you again, that I can hold you like how I did when we were dancing in the living room to Glenn Miller. I understand if you don’t feel the same and I’m sorry you had to find out via letter instead of me telling you in person. But please write back to me and tell me how you feel. I need to know.

     “What’s it say?” Wilson swallowed, reaching for more shortbread. Genevieve swiped the tin away and shut the lid down, much to Wilson’s indignation.

 “Just a PS. about his new address,” She slipped it back into its envelope. Removing the other letters from her pocket, she fumbled to untie the scraggly twine she had used to tie them up with. At least she had a tin to keep them in now.

[retschina]

Little dances

The honourable Miss Fisher volunteers to assist Inspector Robinson by reading some ... scandalous letters. 

If one looked closely one could still see the blood stains on the splendorous carpet, a fine piece of Persian work, high knot density, and very rich in its details, as the honourable Miss Fisher noted a few minutes ago.

“Jealousy, a crime of passion, don’t you think, Inspector?” Miss Fisher asked and turned around, giving him this sweet and second-to-none-smile she always used when she found something important.

“Beg your pardon, Miss Fisher?” The Inspector answered and noticed the nifty movement of her hand, which opened a secret drawer in the desk.

“Love letters. Always an interesting read.” She said, taking a pile of papers out of the drawer and sniffed at it. “Mitsouko, Guerlain it is.”

“I see. May I?” The Inspector asked and reached out for the letters.

“Uh-uh. Secrets beyond ladies. I found them, so it’s me first. Are you familiar with the case of Edith Thompson?”

“Not that I remember, Miss Fisher. Collins?”

“No, sir.” Collins answered and shook his head.

“Oh, it was a case in London, Inspector, not in Melbourne. Mrs. Thompson’s lover killed her husband and because of the very ... explicit letters she wrote to her lover she ended at the scaffold, in Holloway Prison in London. It was tragic. Even her executioner was so deeply shocked he tried to commit suicide afterwards.”

“How direful. Did she give a summary of plotting the murder of her husband in her letters?” Jake asked and Miss Fisher sighed: “No. The letters were ... scandalous in another way. If you ever asked yourself how it feels for a woman to experience an orgasm, these letters I could recommend.”

She winked at the Inspector and gave the blushing Constable a big smile before opening the first envelope. The Inspector turned around, searching the mantlepiece for whatever evidence you could find between candles, a vase and a statuette of Juno. Or Artemis.

Miss Fisher’s lovely voice sounded excited as she spoke again: “Do you remember the night your tongue did this little dance all around the entrance to paradise? Dear Matthew wanted to call for the police, not knowing what a real man like you can do to a woman. Not many men know how to transform a decent wife into a screaming, begging mess – do you remember? We laughed so much this night about poor Matthew. I needed an unscheduled appointment with my coiffeur after that night, because my hair was a spectacular catastrophe in the morning. I remember every second of bliss, every touch. I’m looking forward to the first week in October, when we’ll meet again. I can barely wait to close my lips around your ...”

“Thank you, Miss Fisher, I think we got the picture.” The Inspector interrupted, not able to take his eyes of her face, shining with joy, red lips forming these scandalous words, painting pictures in his head.

He took a deep breath and left the mantlepiece well enough alone. With two steps he stood at her side, picking the letters out of her hands.

“Confiscated. Mr. Collins? Mrs. Parks, the housekeeper, is waiting for us in the kitchen. The usual questions, please. I’m joining you in a minute.”

“Sir.” Collins said, suggesting a little bow to Miss Fisher and left the room.

“If you have problems reading the letters, Inspector ... her handwriting is as messy as her hair after a long night of ... screaming ... of laughter, I’d volunteer to read them for you. Aloud, if you want to join me.” She winked and walked gracefully out of the room.

The Inspector swallowed hard and closed his eyes for a second, trying to force his semi-erection down by pure will power. But her lips, closed around ...

“Miss Fisher?” He called. “Are you free for dinner tonight?”

[instantregret101]

2p!England x @yanderehetaliareactions

This is for the lovely @yanderehetaliareactions for her birthday! This is an insert story, but not for reader! I’m sorry this is so terribly late and I know it should have been posted sooner! Happy late birthday, sweetie! ((Also forgive me, I did this all on my mobile, so it may look odd to anyone reading on an actual computer!))

—————————————-

Oliver watched the recording with rapt interest for what seemed to be the six trillionth time that day, the upbeat pop songs blaring from the TV along with his angel’s incredible voice telling all her fans to have a nice night. So polite! Oh yes, Marvi was absolutely perfect and cute. Oliver stared at her long brown hair and her oh so stunning green eyes as he clutched one of his colorful throw pillows. That’s his Marvi alright. Always so sweet and soft and kind.

A knock on the door distracted him and, with a slight irritated growl, the Brit stood up and marched to the door, baby blue eyes swirling with a venomous pink. If it wasn’t important, then everyone else should just leave him alone to plot how to get his love. He paused for a moment with a blush. Yes. His love sounded very nice. With a slightly rough yank, the door was opened. All of a sudden, the pink haired man couldn’t see for something was thrust into his face. He didn’t flinch.

“Here. Louis said you’d like this gift…. it’s a sorry thing, I guess. Me and James breaking your window and shit.” Allen’s voice muttered the words and Oliver sighed, remembering the incident and Al and James’s promise to make it up to him. He had long since fixed the shattered glass and vacuumed up all the shards that were too small to pick up.The irritation melted slightly at that, realizing that the American was trying to be nice in his own standoffish way.

Though that didn’t exactly stop Oliver from making a sarcastic comment. What fun would it be if he couldn’t ruffle Al’s feathers once in awhile? “Allen, dear, I can’t exactly see my gift if it’s right in my face.” Al snarled at the use of his full name and pulled the envelope back a little before thrusting it into the Brit’s hands and stomping away. Poor Oliver couldn’t even remind him to put fifty cent in the swear jar before he stalked off. “Thank you!” He called after his brother, smiling slightly when his truck door slammed hard and the sound of tires squealing left his driveway.

Genuinely curious at this point, Oliver looked down at the pure white envelope in his hands, which had a messily written ‘my bad’ on the front. He shakes his head before heading back to his living room and sitting delicately on the couch, careful not to wrinkle Al’s gift. “I wonder what my dear Allen has gotten me.” He cooed as he grabbed his knife off the end table closest to him, slicing the top in one neat flick of his wrist. The first thing he pulled out was a piece of notebook paper with James’s handwriting on it as well.

‘Oliver, sorry we broke your window. Louis said this would be a good makeup gift or whatever. -James’

The Brit smiled at his son’s attentiveness. Gently setting the letter aside, he dumped the contents of the manila envelope next to him. Shock nearly caused him to drop his knife as he screamed in absolute joy. There, on his sofa, laid a ticket and a VIP pass. Not to just anything. To a concert and not just any concert. In bold lettering at the top of the ticket, sat her name. His Marvi’s name. What a perfect opportunity his sons had gifted him!

The concert that was scheduled for tomorrow! ‘How in the world have those two managed to get their hands on a ticket and a VIP pass on such short notice?!’ Oliver thought as he squealed happily, pressing play on his remote as he placed the pass around his neck, walking towards the TV. “Soon, darling… Soon, we’ll be together. Forever and ever.” He purred at her form, grinning like the cat that ate the canary.

——————————————————–

Exhausted from another wonderful show full of adoring fans, Marvi waltzed to her dressing room, wiping a bit of sweat off her skin with a soft towel. Feeling tired and smiling a little in joy as she took a breath. Her manager and long time best friend, a tiny Vietnamese woman with bright amber eyes and raven black hair peered in. “Your VIP guest will be here in two minutes.” She said, her voice soft and gentle, befitting the soft looking woman. Marvi whipped around with a smile, brown hair fluttering and her green eyes shimmering with a mirthful light, waving at the woman.

“Thank you, Linh! You should get some sleep. You must be exhausted from all the work you’ve done for tonight’s show.” She said, concern for her friend and manager evident in her voice as Linh opened her mouth to protest. “Good! I’ve already sent everyone else home. Now, get to the hotel and rest!” Marvi ordered good naturedly and pointed towards the parking lot, smiling as the smaller woman gave a sigh and a nod before heading to her car.

“If you’re sure…” Linh mutters softly, looking a bit conflicted as Marvi waved her off before heading back to her dressing room and shutting the door.

“I can totally deal with one fan! How hard could it possibly be?!” She asked with a large grin. Linh sighed and began walking down the corridors of the stadium to get to her car. Large blue eyes watched the scene and the scowl on Oliver’s face twisted to a large grin as he pulled the small Asian woman to him, knowing that Xiao had his eyes on her as well…Come to think of it, Kuro had mentioned some woman managing a famous singer too. Someone who came on TV during an interview, maybe…? Oh well. Two birds with one stone, as they say. She let out a sharp cry before Oliver put his hand over her mouth and placed the knife at her neck.

Linh froze and looked down at the blade slightly before tensing up as an arm snaked around her waist. “You’re going to allow me to escort you to Marvi’s dressing room and you two are going to come with me quietly.” Oliver stated cheerfully, though his swirling eyes told her a different story as he glared at her. She gave a small nod as he allowed her to lead the way. She took a deep breath, but before she could say anything, Oliver pressed the knife closer.

“Try to warn my angel… try to scream… try anything that could ruin this… and, poppet, I’ll slice your throat open so quickly, you’ll be wondering what happened. I don’t care who wants you.” He growled slowly as the Vietnamese woman let out her breath shakily, tears welling in her eyes as they made it back to the dressing room. “Knock, dear. It’s only polite.” Oliver said sweetly as Linh brought her trembling hand up and knocked twice. “Did you forget something, Linh? I didn’t expect you to-” Marvi started before seeing her friends testy eyes and the shine of a silver blade at her neck. Linh sniffles slightly and bit her lip as Oliver leaned over her shoulder. Marvi opened the door wider. “Well, hey there… As rude as this may sound, please get that knife away from my friend’s neck.” Marvi spoke, anxiety welling up in her chest as her friend began to panic lightly.

Oliver leaned closer to her, gently grabbing a few strands of her brown hair and smelling it. “Oh, angel, your hair smells better than I thought it would,” He stated dreamily as he smiles. “But I’m afraid I can’t do that. Please, grab your things, darling, and come with me. Or else Miss… oh goodness, I didn’t catch your name, poppet.” He said to Linh as she trembled.

Silence rang heavily over the three for a moment before the Brit quickly sliced the Asian woman’s cheek, causing a small cry of shock to come from Marvi. “Name?” Oliver asked, the pink swirling faster in his eyes. “L-Linh! M-my n-name is Linh Kieu!” She gasped and Oliver grinned. “Lovely. Now I know you’re the one they’re looking for. Oh! Right! My angel, Marvi, please grab your things and come with me or Miss Kieu will not be breathing much longer.” Oliver threatened, his heart shattering at the upset and fearful look on his love’s face as she grabbed some clothes and pulled the bag over her shoulder.

Marvi nodded and grabbed Linh’s hand gently as they both trembled. “Alright, Sir… Are you the fan I was supposed to meet? Oliver Kirkland, I believe the name was on the ticket?” She asked softly as his eyes lit up with a joyful glint. He could not have looked happier as he took a step forward. “Yes! Yes, I am! I’m so glad you know my name!” He squeaked as a blush made its way across his freckled cheeks. “Oh! Pardon me for my lack of manners! I just got so excited!” He said softly and pulled out a needle and stabbed Linh’s neck and injecting half the liquid. Marvi screamed as her friend let out a slightly strangled groan and fell limp into their captor’s arms. A horrified and concerned look crossed Marvi’s face as she looked to her limp best friend, whom Oliver was now tossing over his left shoulder.

“What did you do to her?!” Marvi shrieked as Oliver grinned. “No worries, angel. It was just a sleeping medicine… I didn’t need her to run away if the chance arose…. The same as you.” He spoke softly as a sharp pain registered in Marvi’s brain and soon, darkness overtook her.

——————————————————–

Emerald eyes blinked blearily open as the sharp sound of a deadbolt lock opening reached Marvi’s ears. Cheerful humming swam through the air and cut into her pounding head. A small groan escaped her lips as she sat up, body aching as she did so. The pop star, looked around the room, her heart pounding as she looked all around and down. Her heart seemed to stop as she found he had changed her from her jeans and top from her concert to a pink and baby blue Lolita dress, complete with frills and Mary Janes strapped to her feet. The next thing she noticed was the pain, hot and throbbing. It radiated from a large area on her left arm and as she looked around, she lifted the appendage and nearly threw up.

Gauze covered her forearm and a pink spot told her that she had been bleeding there. Gasps escaped Marvi’s lips as her eyes looked frantically around the room. In the corner, dressed in a qipao dress, a short one at that, was Linh. Her friend was still unconscious, but was breathing deeply, giving the brunette a sense of relief as Oliver pranced through the door. His eyes lit up and he clapped his hands loudly, causing his angel to jump. “Oh goody! You’re up, darling!” He squeaked and rushed over to her, sitting beside her on the mattress she was chained to by her ankle.

Marvi stared at him intensely for a moment as she took a shaky breath, wanting nothing more than to scream and cry. He gave her a sympathetic smile and placed a warm hand on her knee. “I understand this is a lot to take in, yes? I’ll be frank. You’re mine.” He states and leans in, kissing her porcelain cheek gently. The pop idol immediately draws back, trembling as tears bubble in her eyes, falling down her cheeks as she shakes her head. “Wh-what?” Her voice was small before she broke out into sobs and Oliver grasped her hand.

“Oh dear, did I frighten you? I apologize, dearest… Would you like for me to wake your friend so you two can chat a little? Would that make you feel better?” He asked sweetly as he stroked her hair, knowing that Marvi was a little too distressed to resist the small advancement. She quickly nodded, green eyes looking towards Linh quietly as she sniffled. He nodded and quickly lifted the small Asian woman into his arms, unlocking her own chain and carrying her to the bed. New chains were soon placed on Linh’s ankle and handcuffs placed her hands behind her back. Oliver produced a phial from his inner vest pocket and read the label that had been lovingly written in blue glitter pen. Opening it, he waved it underneath the woman’s nose for a moment before she surged forward, her leg shooting up to kick him and hands jerking to try to hurt him.

He sighed and grabbed her leg by the thigh, just as quickly as she had thrown it towards him, and grabbed the other. Her legs were soon spread open and Marvi jerked forward to try help her friend, blood dripping from her wrists as she yanked on her own handcuffs too hard and heart hammering in her chest. Was that why he took the two of them? To rape them? Linh shook horribly as Oliver placed a knee in between her legs and loomed over her. “Now, poppet, this is very ungentlemanly of me and I’d prefer not to scare you like this, but you’re struggling and it is useless and if you try to hit me once more, there will be consequences and then I’ll have to give you away all damaged,” The Brit spoke, his voice saccharine sweet, but his eyes betraying the vicious bitterness he felt. “Am I getting my point across, dear?” He asked as the Vietnamese woman beneath him shakily nodded her head, agreeing. Visibly displeased, Oliver pressed his knee to the apex of her thigh, causing a terrified whimper to escape her as he leaned in closer, staring straight into her liquid golden eyes. “I asked, sweetheart, ‘Are. We. Clear?”

Marvi frantically wracked her brain on how to help her friend, who was almost crying too hard to answer the seemingly mad man on top of her. “U-umm.. Oliver,” The emerald eyed woman started softly as Linh let out a pitiful sounding ‘y-y-yes’. Oliver immediately whipped towards the speaker, his eyes going back to the electric blue they normally were as Marvi’s shaking voice continued. “Linh and I are terribly hungry… You see, we forgot to eat dinner after the show… s-so I was wondering if we could possibly have something to eat since we missed dinner… Please.”

Oliver’s eyes shone in unbridled joy. Oh how polite his angel was! He nodded enthusiastically, jumping up and away from the terrified woman. “Of course, love! Anything for you!” He said and skipped up the steps, closing the door. The sound of a deadbolt lock sliding shut allowed Marvi to relax slightly as Linh tried to compose herself. “Linh… Linh, listen,” Marvi called gently, her voice soft and urgent, the woman beside her casting hopeless golden eyes into her own strong emeralds. “We need to stay calm and think of a way out of here, okay? Be strong, girl.” Marvi encouraged as Linh tried to wipe her tears on her shoulder. Linh’s face twisted into a more thoughtful one as she stopped crying and took deep breaths. Marvi knew that her original plan would fail. To ask for the chains off and to try and hit him would practically be suicide.

A small exclamation escaped her friend and Marvi turned to her, anxious about any plan that she could come up with. Linh looked to her friend, her eyes hard with determination. “I have a plan,” she said slowly, as if unsure of the idea. Marvi nodded, an attempt to look encouraging and comforting to the still tense woman. “I’ll try to hit him again once he unlocks my hands. Then, when he does, I’ll take the keys from his sweater’s front left pocket… I’ll toss them to you, you unchain yourself, and you run for help.” Linh whispered softly, Marvi shaking her head furiously. “Do you have a deathwish?! There’s no way that would work! Besides, you know that he’d ra-” Marvi cut herself off, bile rising to the back of her throat as Linh gave a wan smile, her face pale in terror and her eyes darkening. “It’s crazy, but it might work… just as long as you run, okay?” She asked softly, her voice barely above a whisper as she bites her lip gently. She looked positively sick to her stomach, Marvi noted as she rolls her shoulders.

——————————————————–

Oliver giggled softly. So, the little Asian thought she could help his angel escape? How funny. The baby monitors he had kept from the time Allen and James came around still worked perfectly and neither of the women knew he had them under the bed and in the nightstand drawer. A large, Cheshire Cat grin curled on his face as he baked the cupcakes with the ‘special ingredients’ he had taken from his little songbird down the stairs. Oh, she had absolutely no idea that what she would be eating was the sweetest thing he could think of.

He poured the mix into the wrappers in his cupcake sheet, humming a small tune as he grabbed his oven mitts and placed the tray into the oven. He ruffled his hair slightly and took a small breath, picking up his landline and dialing a familiar number. One ring…. Two rings…. Three rings…. Oliver silently decided that if he didn’t pick up, his brother would be called and he would get the prize. The early bird gets the worm or so they say. Four more rings permeated the silence he had created, the only sound being the shuffling from his basement. An additional ring happened and then a click.

“Mōshi mōshi…” the tired, groggy voice rang out and then Oliver checked the calendar on the wall and winced. It was his friend’s day off. Of course he would be sleeping this late! Working for Luciano Vargas was absolutely exhausting! “Ah! Kuro, darling! How nice it is to hear your voice! How have you been?” “Oliver… I have been doing well for myself, thank you for asking… what is so important that you decided to wake me at this moment in time?” The tone was polite, but the edge in his voice was anything but pleased and it was a bit threatening.

Oliver didn’t mind. He would soon change his attitude once he got his prize. He had to separate the two women completely. Or else they’d make good on their plan and Oliver didn’t exactly know how Linh would try and take him down.

“I have a little gift for you, my dear friend… You’re very lucky I decided to give this gift to you instead of your brother. I just trust and like you more than Xiao.”

“A gift..? You called me on this day for a gift? If it is another two dozen cupcakes, I will politely decline. I’m still eating the four dozen you sent me last time.”

“Oh no, no, no! Kuro, this gift is much sweeter. For you anyways. Would you please come over, old chap. It will only take a moment or two and you can even take a nap in the guest room before going on home.” Oliver knew his offer was too tempting for Kuro to resist. Through his stolid nature, he was quite the curious soul. Additionally, he had gotten the mattress in that room specifically for Louis’s bad back. The entirety was made of the most cushiony material he could find. A few minutes past and Oliver was almost afraid that Kuro had hung up on him.

The silence was broken by a soft breath being taken. “I’ll see you in ten minutes… please make my favorite sweet. No one can create it as well as you do in this god forsaken country…” Then Oliver got the dial tone. He clapped his hands together, quite pleased with himself, taking the sakuramochi he had made the previous evening (after settling in the two ladies, of course! What sort of gentleman would he be if he didn’t make sure his guests were properly settled in?) and setting them on marble counter. Oliver then grabbed his kettle, brewing some tea for his good friend and took the cups to his sitting room. Oh how much fun!

The Japanese man arrived forty-five minutes after the phone call, not living all too far from their ‘work acquaintances’, but far enough not to bother them. Pleasantries were exchanged, quiet conversation, and then Kuro raised a brow, looking around the sitting room and noted how itlooked more like an old woman’s house than a grown man’s. He wisely didn’t say anything about that. “You told me you had a… ‘gift’ for me… sweeter than the treats we have on the table.” He spoke, much more alert and awake at this point than he would have liked. Oliver grinned, the pink swirling happily with the ice blue in his eyes. He was absolutely delighted. Tickled pink. This would be perfect. “I do! Stay right here and I’ll bring it right up!” He exclaimed, bouncing from the antique lounger he had been sitting on to go and get the ‘gift’. It wouldn’t be hard to hand the chains over to Kuro. Then at least he’d be alone with his sweet angel at last!

——————————————————–

Marvi and Linh talked softly, tense. “Do you think… we’ll escape if we put the plan into motion like this?” Marvi asks tentatively and Linh sighs. The pop star sat quietly and bit her lip, silently hoping so. This was nerve wracking. Soon enough, the deadbolt slid open and Oliver quickly stepped down. “Miss Linh, I would highly suggest not going through with your plan. Because I have an eager guest upstairs awaiting your presence.” He said and quickly slapped cuffs over her wrists behind her back and slid duct tape over her mouth as he unlocked the chains from the walls. “Up you go now, dearie. Don’t make him wait.” He said and Linh looked over at Marvi, tears streaking down her face.

Marvi felt her own trailing down her face. “Please, please don’t!” She shouted to Oliver as her small Asian friend was taken away for god knows what. “No! Bring her back, you son of a bitch!” She shrieked as she heard Linh’s muffled cries for a moment before the soundproof door sealed out all noise. Marvi trembled. The chains and cell were more bearable when she had her friend with her, the soft breathing and rattling of chains other than her own were so much better than the silence she now had. “Bring her back!” The emerald eyed woman shrieked before she dissolved into broken and terrified sobs.

——————————————————–

Oliver presented the woman to his friend with a flourish. “Ta-da!” He exclaimed as she looked up towards Kuro and tried to motion towards the basement. Kuro just smirked after the shock in his bloody red eyes died down. Oliver grinned, knowing he did well. And in return, Kuro would tell everyone to leave him alone for a few weeks, and that included his family. No one needed to know about Marvi until she was well and trained to love him.

Kuro nodded approvingly, his gaze hungry. “So you managed to acquire my little blossom? How?” He asked and Oliver put his index finger to his lips. Oliver’s eyes shone as they swirled once more. Kuro, sensing the mood perfectly, gave a smirk and nodded. “Alright then, friend. I’ll make sure you aren’t bothered in exchange for her. Wonderful choice in outfits, by the way.” He said and Linh shook her head, the tears in her eyes coming back full force after her hope had been crushed.

The Englishman’s eyes glimmered in delight as he transferred the chains in his hand to Kuro’s. “Thank you. The pleasure was all mine.” He said silkily and the Japanese man nodded, pulling his new prize to the door and towards his darkly colored car.

“Thank you for the tea, friend.” Kuro called, slamming the trunk closed once he had his prize in there. Oliver waved as he drove off, smirking once his car was out of sight. “Distraction is gone. She’s all mine now.” He said softly before heading back to the basement. He just couldn’t let his angel sit there all by herself, now could he?

——————————————————–

Marvi hadn’t known that she had fallen asleep. She could still practically hear the muffled sobbing of her best friend as she was taken away and the psycho who had taken her just turned back and gave a gentle smile. Did he expect that to help?! She tried to sit up, heart nearly beating out of her chest when she realized an arm was wrapped around her waist. A pale, freckled arm.

“Oh, goodie! You’re awake! I’m just here to hold you!” The Englishman exclaimed happily and cuddled into her back even more, resting his face in the crook of her neck. Marvi could feel herself tremble from rage and fear. What had he done to Linh? What was he going to do to her?

Marvi didn’t want to be here. She wanted to go home. Her emerald eyes searched around for an escape before Oliver flipped her onto her back and looked at her. “Poppet, I’ll only say this once. You’re not ever going to escape here and after awhile, you won’t want to. Because I love you and you’ll be mine…. Forever.” He said and kissed her despite her struggling.

“Mine… Forever and ever…” He said and tears blurred her vision once more.

[rumbelleshowdown]

The Note

by AsToldByKi

Prompts: Note, Romance, Ralph Waldo Emerson

Give all to love; Obey thy heart; Friends, kindred, days, Estate, good fame, Plans, credit, and the muse; Nothing refuse.

It started with a note, scribbled in his library book. It would be terribly uncommon, if the note had been in his handwriting. However, this note was written in her own print. She had wondered where it’d gone. Now, she wondered why it had landed in this book. She looked for the owner of the book, and realised that it had been Mr. Gold who’d brought the book back most recently.

The thoughts pervaded her mind throughout the day. Why had Mr. Gold had her poetry page? Did he read it? Did he - perhaps - share the liking for Emerson? She was unsure how to proceed, unable to form syllables in his presence.

The only person who didn’t know about her crush on Mr. Gold was Mr. Gold himself, it seemed. Perhaps she was less obvious than she thought, which was a comforting thought. Perhaps it was all in her head that everyone knew about her feelings.

That thought vanished almost as soon as it came, though. Whenever Mr. Gold walked in the room, Ruby shot her a look with raised, wiggling eyebrows. Belle would groan quietly, glaring back at the waitress - who was, after all, her friend. She couldn’t be very mad.

She was about to gather up her courage and walk over to Mr. Gold’s pawnshop. She really was, cross her heart and hope to die. But then it was lunch time, and Ruby took her to the diner to treat her for a meal.

Luckily, Mr. Gold was in the diner as well. Belle bit her lip almost unconsciously, looking over at him. “Rain check on lunch?” Ruby asked at her side, a wolfish grin on her face.

“Uh…” Belle chewed on her lower lip, trying to decide. “Yeah. Unless he laughs at my request.” she agreed at last.

“If he laughs at you, I’ll punch him.” Ruby assured her friend. “Now go!”

Belle barked out a nervous laugh, but she did go over to Mr. Gold’s booth. “Hey Mr. Gold.” she said quietly. “Do you mind if I uh, sit with you?”

“Miss French.” Mr. Gold greeted her. “Not at all, please, sit.” he said.

Belle slid into the booth, smiling. “Thank you,” She said. “I’ve been meaning to sit with you.” She said awkwardly.

“You have?” Mr. Gold looked up in surprise. The surprise is so evident on his face, that Belle almost laughs. Almost.

Belle nodded instead. “Yes,” she stumbled over her words, “I was wondering…” She must have had something wrong about her face, because his own wore a mask of indifference.

“Yes?” Mr. Gold prompted her. “What can I do for you, Miss French?”

“Oh, I was just wondering what about the poem you liked so much.” Belle assured him, her face clearing as she realised what’d happened. “I don’t want anything more from you, Mr. Gold.” She promised. “Except your name.” her eyes danced with mischief.

“Pardon? My name?” His confusion was evident.

“Well everyone just calls you Mr. Gold,” Belle pointed out. “And I…. I’m not so naive as to think that is your first name, mister, I mean.” she joked.

“What will you give me if I tell you?” Mr. Gold asked, appearing to consider her thoughtfully.

“Um…” Belle appeared to think about this for a moment. “I’ll leave you to eat in peace.” She suggested.

But Mr. Gold shook his head. “I don’t think I want that,” he said presently. “What else would you offer?”

Belle looked over at him, considering the man delicately. He was just a man, like any other, except she wanted this one. “A kiss.” She said at last, quietly. “If you tell me your name, I’ll kiss you.”

Mr. Gold’s beautiful brown eyes widened to the point that Belle giggled.

“Okay?” She asked him.

“Okay. Deal.” Mr. Gold nodded.

“Your name, sir?” Belle grinned at him.

“It’s Ciaran. Ciaran Gold.” The man answered. 

Belle did not quite let him finish his sentence before her lips crashed onto his. She brought her hand up his chest and yanked him closer.

The table inevitably got in between them, but Belle wasn’t bothered. They kept kissing, kissing, kissing until she finally pulled back. “Oh…” She whispered. “I’m sorry, Ciaran. I got a little…”

But Ciaran did not let her finish this time. Instead he gave her a slow kiss, his lips touching hers just barely. “It’s ok.” He whispered. “But, I’m afraid now we’re the center of the diner.”

He pulled back.

“That’s alright.” Belle giggled, her hand grabbing his. “I’ve been waiting to do that for months now, and the whole town knew it.” She pretended to glare around her.

“Really?” Ciaran asked her. The shock in his voice nearly brought her to tears. What had happened to this poor creature, this man, to make him so surprised at her interest?

Belle smiled, nodding vehemently. “Yes, absolutely.” her voice was coy, yet shy. She hadn’t meant to attack Ciaran’s face with her own, but now that she had… It was all she wanted to do.

She was just about to avail herself of the privilege once more, when Ruby walked over. “So. Anything you’d like to share with the class?” she tsked, feigned disapproval clear on her face.

Ciaran blanched. Belle squeezed his hand. “I’m just too deliriously happy to form syllables for the class just now, Rubes.”

“Oh alright then.” Ruby chuckled. “What do you want to eat? Noting that Mr. Gold is not on the menu.”

“I’ll settle for a hamburger.” Belle nodded.  “Iced tea.”

“I’ll have the same, please.” Ciaran managed to say.

“It’ll be right out,” Ruby assured them before leaving.

“Sorry about her,” Belle murmured. “I would never…. I mean… I didn’t want to embarrass you.” She shook her head, looking down.

“I’m a little embarrassed, but it’s ok.” Ciaran assured her. “I’d rather be embarrassed with you than without.”

And she smiled.

[readbookywooks]

Alice's Evidence

`Here!' cried Alice, quite forgetting in the flurry of the moment how large she had grown in the last few minutes, and she jumped up in such a hurry that she tipped over the jury-box with the edge of her skirt, upsetting all the jurymen on to the heads of the crowd below, and there they lay sprawling about, reminding her very much of a globe of goldfish she had accidentally upset the week before.

`Oh, I BEG your pardon!' she exclaimed in a tone of great dismay, and began picking them up again as quickly as she could, for the accident of the goldfish kept running in her head, and she had a vague sort of idea that they must be collected at once and put back into the jury-box, or they would die.

`The trial cannot proceed,' said the King in a very grave voice, `until all the jurymen are back in their proper places-- ALL,' he repeated with great emphasis, looking hard at Alice as he said do.

Alice looked at the jury-box, and saw that, in her haste, she had put the Lizard in head downwards, and the poor little thing was waving its tail about in a melancholy way, being quite unable to move. She soon got it out again, and put it right; `not that it signifies much,' she said to herself; `I should think it would be QUITE as much use in the trial one way up as the other.'

As soon as the jury had a little recovered from the shock of being upset, and their slates and pencils had been found and handed back to them, they set to work very diligently to write out a history of the accident, all except the Lizard, who seemed too much overcome to do anything but sit with its mouth open, gazing up into the roof of the court.

`What do you know about this business?' the King said to Alice.

`Nothing,' said Alice.

`Nothing WHATEVER?' persisted the King.

`Nothing whatever,' said Alice.

`That's very important,' the King said, turning to the jury. They were just beginning to write this down on their slates, when the White Rabbit interrupted: `UNimportant, your Majesty means, of course,' he said in a very respectful tone, but frowning and making faces at him as he spoke.

`UNimportant, of course, I meant,' the King hastily said, and went on to himself in an undertone, `important--unimportant-- unimportant--important--' as if he were trying which word sounded best.

Some of the jury wrote it down `important,' and some `unimportant.' Alice could see this, as she was near enough to look over their slates; `but it doesn't matter a bit,' she thought to herself.

At this moment the King, who had been for some time busily writing in his note-book, cackled out `Silence!' and read out from his book, `Rule Forty-two. ALL PERSONS MORE THAN A MILE HIGH TO LEAVE THE COURT.'

Everybody looked at Alice.

`I'M not a mile high,' said Alice.

`You are,' said the King.

`Nearly two miles high,' added the Queen.

`Well, I shan't go, at any rate,' said Alice: `besides, that's not a regular rule: you invented it just now.'

`It's the oldest rule in the book,' said the King.

`Then it ought to be Number One,' said Alice.

The King turned pale, and shut his note-book hastily. `Consider your verdict,' he said to the jury, in a low, trembling voice.

`There's more evidence to come yet, please your Majesty,' said the White Rabbit, jumping up in a great hurry; `this paper has just been picked up.'

`What's in it?' said the Queen.

`I haven't opened it yet,' said the White Rabbit, `but it seems to be a letter, written by the prisoner to--to somebody.'

`It must have been that,' said the King, `unless it was written to nobody, which isn't usual, you know.'

`Who is it directed to?' said one of the jurymen.

`It isn't directed at all,' said the White Rabbit; `in fact, there's nothing written on the OUTSIDE.' He unfolded the paper as he spoke, and added `It isn't a letter, after all: it's a set of verses.'

`Are they in the prisoner's handwriting?' asked another of they jurymen.

`No, they're not,' said the White Rabbit, `and that's the queerest thing about it.' (The jury all looked puzzled.)

`He must have imitated somebody else's hand,' said the King. (The jury all brightened up again.)

`Please your Majesty,' said the Knave, `I didn't write it, and they can't prove I did: there's no name signed at the end.'

`If you didn't sign it,' said the King, `that only makes the matter worse. You MUST have meant some mischief, or else you'd have signed your name like an honest man.'

There was a general clapping of hands at this: it was the first really clever thing the King had said that day.

`That PROVES his guilt,' said the Queen.

`It proves nothing of the sort!' said Alice. `Why, you don't even know what they're about!'

`Read them,' said the King.

The White Rabbit put on his spectacles. `Where shall I begin, please your Majesty?' he asked.

`Begin at the beginning,' the King said gravely, `and go on till you come to the end: then stop.'

These were the verses the White Rabbit read:--

He sent them word I had not gone (We know it to be true): If she should push the matter on, What would become of you?

I gave her one, they gave him two, You gave us three or more; They all returned from him to you, Though they were mine before.

If I or she should chance to be Involved in this affair, He trusts to you to set them free, Exactly as we were.

My notion was that you had been (Before she had this fit) An obstacle that came between Him, and ourselves, and it.

Don't let him know she liked them best, For this must ever be A secret, kept from all the rest, Between yourself and me.'

`That's the most important piece of evidence we've heard yet,' said the King, rubbing his hands; `so now let the jury--'

`If any one of them can explain it,' said Alice, (she had grown so large in the last few minutes that she wasn't a bit afraid of interrupting him,) `I'll give him sixpence. _I_ don't believe there's an atom of meaning in it.'

The jury all wrote down on their slates, `She doesn't believe there's an atom of meaning in it,' but none of them attempted to explain the paper.

`If there's no meaning in it,' said the King, `that saves a world of trouble, you know, as we needn't try to find any. And yet I don't know,' he went on, spreading out the verses on his knee, and looking at them with one eye; `I seem to see some meaning in them, after all. "--said i could not swim--" you can't swim, can you?' he added, turning to the Knave.

The Knave shook his head sadly. `Do I look like it?' he said. (Which he certainly did not, being made entirely of cardboard.)

`All right, so far,' said the King, and he went on muttering over the verses to himself: `"We know it to be true--" that's the jury, of course-- "I gave her one, they gave him two--" why, that must be what he did with the tarts, you know--'

`But, it goes on "They all returned from him to you,"' said Alice.

`Why, there they are!' said the King triumphantly, pointing to the tarts on the table. `Nothing can be clearer than that. Then again--"Before she had this fit--" you never had fits, my dear, I think?' he said to the Queen.

`Never!' said the Queen furiously, throwing an inkstand at the Lizard as she spoke. (The unfortunate little Bill had left off writing on his slate with one finger, as he found it made no mark; but he now hastily began again, using the ink, that was trickling down his face, as long as it lasted.)

`Then the words don't fit you,' said the King, looking round the court with a smile. There was a dead silence.

`It's a pun!' the King added in an offended tone, and everybody laughed, `Let the jury consider their verdict,' the King said, for about the twentieth time that day.

`No, no!' said the Queen. `Sentence first--verdict afterwards.'

`Stuff and nonsense!' said Alice loudly. `The idea of having the sentence first!'

`Hold your tongue!' said the Queen, turning purple.

`I won't!' said Alice.

`Off with her head!' the Queen shouted at the top of her voice. Nobody moved.

`Who cares for you?' said Alice, (she had grown to her full size by this time.) `You're nothing but a pack of cards!'

At this the whole pack rose up into the air, and came flying down upon her: she gave a little scream, half of fright and half of anger, and tried to beat them off, and found herself lying on the bank, with her head in the lap of her sister, who was gently brushing away some dead leaves that had fluttered down from the trees upon her face.

`Wake up, Alice dear!' said her sister; `Why, what a long sleep you've had!'

`Oh, I've had such a curious dream!' said Alice, and she told her sister, as well as she could remember them, all these strange Adventures of hers that you have just been reading about; and when she had finished, her sister kissed her, and said, `It WAS a curious dream, dear, certainly: but now run in to your tea; it's getting late.' So Alice got up and ran off, thinking while she ran, as well she might, what a wonderful dream it had been.

But her sister sat still just as she left her, leaning her head on her hand, watching the setting sun, and thinking of little Alice and all her wonderful Adventures, till she too began dreaming after a fashion, and this was her dream:--

First, she dreamed of little Alice herself, and once again the tiny hands were clasped upon her knee, and the bright eager eyes were looking up into hers--she could hear the very tones of her voice, and see that queer little toss of her head to keep back the wandering hair that WOULD always get into her eyes--and still as she listened, or seemed to listen, the whole place around her became alive the strange creatures of her little sister's dream.

The long grass rustled at her feet as the White Rabbit hurried by--the frightened Mouse splashed his way through the neighbouring pool--she could hear the rattle of the teacups as the March Hare and his friends shared their never-ending meal, and the shrill voice of the Queen ordering off her unfortunate guests to execution--once more the pig-baby was sneezing on the Duchess's knee, while plates and dishes crashed around it--once more the shriek of the Gryphon, the squeaking of the Lizard's slate-pencil, and the choking of the suppressed guinea-pigs, filled the air, mixed up with the distant sobs of the miserable Mock Turtle.

So she sat on, with closed eyes, and half believed herself in Wonderland, though she knew she had but to open them again, and all would change to dull reality--the grass would be only rustling in the wind, and the pool rippling to the waving of the reeds--the rattling teacups would change to tinkling sheep- bells, and the Queen's shrill cries to the voice of the shepherd boy--and the sneeze of the baby, the shriek of the Gryphon, and all thy other queer noises, would change (she knew) to the confused clamour of the busy farm-yard--while the lowing of the cattle in the distance would take the place of the Mock Turtle's heavy sobs.

Lastly, she pictured to herself how this same little sister of hers would, in the after-time, be herself a grown woman; and how she would keep, through all her riper years, the simple and loving heart of her childhood: and how she would gather about her other little children, and make their eyes bright and eager with many a strange tale, perhaps even with the dream of Wonderland of long ago: and how she would feel with all their simple sorrows, and find a pleasure in all their simple joys, remembering her own child-life, and the happy summer days.