#she called me beautiful like a gold rush ill never forget that

[cherries-in-wine]

The way my almost-kiss with a girl left me more in awe and breathless than my actual kiss with a guy

[anghraine]

“the voices of the sea” - fic

I wrote a thing! There might be errors, since I wrote it very quickly, but it was fun (in its way). It’s part of the Aranorverse, where the explicit throwbacks in LOTR (Aragorn, Denethor, Imrahil, and Faramir) are genderbent (as Aranor, Andreth, Imraphel, and Míriel).

In particular, it’s a very belated sequel to “cloven shield and broken sword,” in which Aranor found a dying Boromir:

She remembered him tugging at her leggings, demanding to know but what next? And she remembered him in Lothlórien, haughty and suspicious until he began to speak of Míriel, the sister he had loved and protected through all the days of their lives. Boromir the tall, the fair, the bold, had died, and his treasured sister lived on; what was Aranor’s grief to that?

May the news of his loss come to you swiftly and kindly, jewel-maiden!

The dream always began the same way.

Míriel stood in a city of white and gold, grander than Minas Tirith, grander even than Osgiliath of old, though its domes and towers were similar enough in form that she knew she looked upon the work of Dúnedain. Most of the people around her, however, belied the impression, with their bright hair and soft features—or so it had once seemed. They were handsome, but in a way that unsettled her, like overripe fruit covered in sweet cream. Some particularly disturbed her: tall men in long red tunics, leading lines of bound prisoners towards a building beneath a particularly large and glittering dome.

The prisoners would not have looked out of place in Minas Tirith. Míriel’s stomach turned as smoke trailed up from the dome.

The first time, she still knew not what she saw at this point. It was strange and disagreeable, but little worse, until the winds began to blow. Míriel’s black hair whipped around her face, rain splattering on her head and cheeks and the ground, where it pooled into large puddles. Nobody seemed to notice her. Men came running from what looked like a harbour, shouting things in a language she couldn’t quite understand; her impression of their thoughts was dark and clouded, enough that she shrank back. 

But she was not a shrinking sort of girl, not really. The prisoners had drawn her attention again; the red-robed men seemed to be distracted by the newcomers and the prisoners had seized the chance to struggle with their bonds. She ran over to them.

“Who are you? Do you come from Gondor?” she asked.

No one answered. No one so much as acknowledged her existence. But as the water splashed over her sandalled feet, the prisoners broke free and fled, chased futilely by only a few of the robed men. She caught a single familiar word amidst all the clamour: storm.

Yes, of course. It must have come on very unexpectedly; everyone appeared to be dressed very lightly for this kind of weather. Míriel was herself; her thin tunic soon soaked through, and her skin went numb. The sky grew darker; she almost thought she saw the shadow of some enormous creature flicker across it. And the steady fall of the rain turned into torrential sheets of water that blasted through the streets, scattering the people on them.

Míriel ran as quickly as she could, like the rest, but instead of retreating into houses or flying to the ships, she turned and scrambled towards the clearest sign of refuge: a mountain near the city, rising clear and pure above its buildings. Smoke puffed from its summit, which struck her as wrong in some way.

She was a child at the time, her steps short, but somehow or other, her feet brought her out of the city and to the side of the mountain before the driving wind and rain could wholly flood the city and its environs. Ahead of her, a small woman in an embroidered white tunic, with sparkling bracelets about her wrist and a golden collar at her throat, clambered up the sides of the mountain. The air was hot, hotter than it should be, but Míriel could think of nowhere else to go. She struggled up the mountain after the woman.

“Can you hear me?” she called out. “Let us help one another!”

To her surprise, the woman looked back—but her fair face, though not unsettling in the way of the others’, was filled with utter terror. She didn’t seem to see Míriel at all, her pale grey eyes wide and staring. 

Míriel followed her gaze, and gasped. Water was rushing out of the city and drowning the green valley below, rising with impossible swiftness. Míriel was not craven, but at that, she turned back to the mountainside and struggled to scramble up its ledges, ignoring the pebbles that pressed into her feet beneath her thin, drenched sandals. Now, she could not look back, and she ignored the horror that filled her mind.

They never did make it to the top of the mountain. But they reached a high enough point that Míriel could see past it. Water was flooding beyond it, too, pouring through forests and rising over hills from every direction.

Even as Míriel gazed upon it, the storming water splashed up into foamy waves that roared beneath them. This did not, however, prepare her for what happened next.

To the west, all the waves seemed to join together into one, towering and impossibly enormous. But it grew still larger, cascading up and up and up and up, above Míriel and the woman, above the mountain itself, above everything. The hills and valleys, forests and cities, all fell under its heavy shadow. Míriel’s very blood felt cold, her her breath coming in small, frightened pants as the wave’s inescapable darkness deepened.

The woman, clinging to rocks, screamed something that Míriel half-understood. Then the wave began to crash down on them.

In Míriel’s bedchamber, her eyes flew open. That time, the first time, she promptly burst into tears and cried until Boromir came running, thinking she was ill. He managed to console her, but within a few nights, the dream came again, and then again within a few nights of that. So it continued, on and on, through the years that followed.

The horror of it never really abated. Yet she grew accustomed to it, in a way: to the sight of Númenor in its most terrible hour, only made worse by the understanding of what came next and why, to the glimpses of her namesake, the rightful queen. Indeed, nothing but the wave itself left so strong a mark on her mind as Tar-Míriel’s face, so beautiful and so terrified.

She, Míriel of Gondor, would never forget her, or Númenor, or where the folly and evils of their people had led. She could never forget. Perhaps that was the purpose of the dream. Perhaps it was a warning of what victory could mean in the end, however improbable victory might seem in her waking hours. Perhaps it was something else yet. But it never stopped haunting her.

Nearly thirty years after the first dream, though, it changed. Míriel dreamed again of Armenelos and the Meneltarma and the shadow of death rising inexorably above all. But there was no waking. The wave slowly began to collapse over them, foam and droplets spattering her face before it reached her. Míriel stood tall and straight, refusing to cower, allowing herself no further weakness than blinking the water out of her face. She opened her eyes to more water, feeling it slosh about her bare ankles.

But it was now deep into night beneath a pale moon, just bright enough for her to see that the water in which she stood flowed smoothly past the familiar shores of the Anduin. The terror of the Downfall had shifted to an overwhelming sense of peace.

As she watched, she saw a small boat come floating up the river. In colour, it was a peculiar, shining grey; in design, she could not recognize it. Nor did she expect to, for it cast a dim light all around it. Though nobody appeared to be rowing or steering it, it continued on its serene course without interruption.

Míriel felt a distinct desire to draw nearer the boat, to understand what could possibly explain all this. She thought of resisting the desire; she might have—but it did not strike her as foul in the way of the Enemy’s arts, so she dared approach. 

The boat slowed as she came near, within hand’s reach of the prow. Her instincts warned her against touching it, but she saw illuminated water filling the boat, and a warrior who first appeared to be sleeping in it.

Míriel gasped.

“Boromir!”

She knew at a second glance that he was dead. Anyone might have, without need of fallen Númenor or any other powers of this world. His chest had been pierced with many wounds. His sword lay broken on his knee, and others at his feet. His black hair had been carefully laid over his shoulders. She recognized everything he wore except a lovely belt of linked golden leaves, and his face was not only restful, but beautiful, even more than in life.

She and her mother had already feared the worst, when they heard the echo of his horn coming from the north, unaccompanied by any news of him. But it was one thing to fear, and another to see.

“Where is your horn?” she asked, as if he might somehow answer. 

The boat kept floating under her gaze, drifting past where she stood in the water. 

“Where are you going?” she cried. “Oh, Boromir!”

It passed on, down the stream and fading into the night, towards the sea. Míriel stood alone in the water. No priest of Sauron, no Faithful prisoner, no doomed queen or frightened citizen intruded upon her notice. No brother, either. 

She tilted her head down to stare into the clear river-water, her reflection a dark blur at this hour. With her hair hanging loose around her face, obscuring the sight of the shore, it reminded her of peering into the waters near Dol Amroth on a calm night. Perhaps it had reminded her father of the sea he missed, too. Oh, the sea, the sea! Must it always be the sea?

She felt tears slide down her cheeks—as if the occasion required more water, when Boromir was gone and forever consigned to the fate of Men. They would never see him return. She would never feel his great embrace once more, nor listen to him with their mother, nor ride out to the Pelennor with him, nor ever again see him laugh among the knights of Dol Amroth. Míriel squeezed her eyes shut.

She pressed her fingers to her face, rubbing away tears, and opened her eyes again. She felt no surprise at the sight of her bedchamber in Minas Tirith. Yet she was not lying in bed but sitting upon it, her hands still pressed to her cheeks, as if she had actually woken some time before, or never slept at all. Míriel rose, shaking out her dry shift, and walked over to her window, which looked westwards.

Boromir had risked death constantly; it was his duty and right as Captain-General and heir to the Stewardship. She had always known this. She had certainly known it when he set out on his errand, driven by a dream of his own. Yet, in some way, she had not known—not understood—and now—

Now, she must tell their mother.

[feysandfeels]

Which TS songs remind you of the different couples in SJM’s books???

Boy do I ??

You are a blessed soul for asking me this, and know that I adore you. 

There is now a part II to this.

Feysand:

Begin Again: “I've been spending the last eight months Thinking all love ever does Is break and burn, and end But on a Wednesday in a cafe I watched it begin again” Baby Feyre finding that love is not toxic, that love is supportive, that love can be wonderful. “You said you never met one girl who had As many James Taylor records as you But I do” but think of is as “he said he never met a girl who wasn’t afraid of his power, but i do”. Also also “Walked in expecting you'd be late But you got here early and you stand and wave I walk to you” because Feyre’s used to T*mlin’s mediocre ass but Rhys surprised her by being a decent human and treating her with respect, which makes her realize that she was starved for respect and that T*mlin was not giving her what every decent human being should get from the get go from their partner.

Ivy: Feyre slowly falling in love with Rhys, thinking about Rhys in the Spring Court between Night Court visits Also throughout ACOMAF how she battles with her ever growing feelings for the Lord of the Night, while feeling guilty about T*mlin, because they *just broke up*: “Oh, goddamn My pain fits in the palm of your freezing hand Taking mine, but it's been promised to another Oh, I can't Stop you putting roots in my dreamland My house of stone, your ivy grows And now I'm covered in you” and “I wish to know The fatal flaw that makes you long to be Magnificently cursed He's in the room Your opal eyes are all I wish to see He wants what's only yours”.

End game: I can practically see Rhys singing this in the shower thinking about Feyre, when she decided to work with him and him thinking like “YES THIS HAS TO BE A SIGN”. His reputation precedes him and in rumours he’s knee deep, him and Feyre would be a big conversation, he has enemies, he has heard about her and she has heard about him. He thinks “she’s so dope that he might overdose”. She’s been calling his bluff on all his usual tricks so here’s the truth from his red lips!!!!!

Dress: “Even in my worst times, you could see the best in me Flashback to my mistakes My rebounds, my earthquakes Even in my worst lies, you saw the truth in me And I woke up just in time Now I wake up by your side My one and only, my lifeline”. Need I say more? I think not your honor. 

Call it what you want: “I said you don’t need to save me, but would you run away with me?” That’s Feyre’s whole arc, I rest my case.

Nessian: the happiness I feel about the fact that these two are together is just enough to make me smile on a Monday

False God - The song literally opens up saying “We were crazy to think Crazy to think that this could work Remember how I said I'd die for you” HELLOOOO?? NESTA THINKING ABOUT THAT SCENE IN ACOWAR?? but also feeling that she’s unworthy of Cassian and that there is no way in hell that he will love her with all that she is.

Don’t Blame Me - The power of this song lies in the I unapologetic- powerful-full on I give myself to you and I will do it over and over again energy it has. And this is the energy that Nesta has for Cassian (even when homegirl really tries to pretend otherwise lol boo you tried). The “through your love I found salvation” religious aspect of Don’t blame me is Nesta, because through Cassian’s love and presence she found the perspective she needed on herself. Also this book was a religious experience for me. Jesus fuck.

Sparks Fly: From Cassian to Nesta, with love. First of all Cassian would be a diehard swiftie (all of the bat boys for that matter, merch a the concert, what will we do if we get invited to the rep room?? fans. Az woud be like the quiet yet “no, speak one ill word of Taylor and that’s your end, she did nothing wrong she was framed and I have evidence”). Second of all “The way you move is like a full on rainstorm And I'm a house of cards You're the kind of reckless that should send me running But I kinda know that I won't get far” That’s him alright, that’s him knowing that Nesta is a force to be reckoned with and he wants nothing nothing but to be in that storm and live within the force of nature that she is. Thirdly “My mind forgets to remind me, your a bad idea You touch me once and it's really something You find I'm even better than you, imagined I would be I'm on my guard for the rest of the world But with you I know its no good And I could wait patiently But I really wish you would” 

Elucien: This is an Elucien blog. 

Lover - In all honesty wanted to give this song to Feysand, because they are my main otp and this song is the highest of the high from Taylor, but I can’t deny the fact that this song screams Elucien. “With every guitar string scar on my hand” I think is a beautiful parallel for Elain and gardening, “My heart’s been borrowed, and yours has been blue” this speaks of Gr*yson and Jesminda, “I loved you three summers now but I want them all” that’s Lucien speaking ma’am. “Have I known you 20 seconds or 20 years?”, both of them about the bond. “And you'll save all your dirtiest jokes for me and at every table, I'll save you a seat, lover” we all know Lucien has a mind for dirty jokes and sass and Elain would always save him the sit next to her because he is the one who truly saw her and, in his distance, was the presence she needed while she figured it all out. Finally, The fact that the song has very clear wedding tones I think fits the headcanon, that more than a mating ceremony, Elucien would have a wedding, because it feels like something Elain would feel more comfortable with. 

Treacherous -“I can't decide if it's a choice Getting swept away I hear the sound of my own voice Asking you to stay”..... mmmmmm is this or isn’t it Elain getting closer to Lucien, but still wondering if it’s the bond or her, yet nonetheless surrendering to the fact that she wants him to stay. “This slope is treacherous This path is reckless This slope is treacherous And I, I, I like it” Elain doesn’t want an easy love, to simple do as the bond suggests she wants something that has twigs and branches and where she needs to question herself and truly ask what she wants out of life and this relationship. Also the softness of the melody juxtaposed with the vulnerability, brings a soft rawness that is Elain. 

King of my heart: Neither of them expected to feel like they could love with all the hope and unapologetic free falling feel characteristic of first loves, yet here we are. They rule their kingdom inside the room because they are discovering their feelings for each other away from prying eyes and people that have expectations on how they should work with the mating bond and all that. “Late in the night, the city's asleep Your love is a secret I'm hoping, dreaming, dying to keep Change my priorities The taste of your lips is my idea of luxury” Again, with the love away from everyone, feeling their world shift around what they are starting to feel for one another. “Is the end of all the endings? My broken bones are mending With all these nights we're spending” did we say healing arc through love and support an “not expecting anything to come off this, but I just want to see you well” à la sjm?? I THINK WE DID.

Emorie: I’m working with crumbs here, delicious crumbs that will make a delicious emorie cake, but crumbs nonetheless.. I need more and I need it now.

I think he knows - My girl Emerie crushing hard hard haaaaaaaaard on Mor.

Cruel Summer - “I don't wanna keep secrets just to keep you And I snuck in through the garden gate Every night that summer just to seal my fate (oh) And I screamed for whatever it's worth "I love you, " ain't that the worst thing you ever heard” this is prime PRIME PRIME ANGST, we will get from these two.  

Gwynriel: this is an edit because I'm not a hoe for these two (yet...trust me once I see Az heal this is the tag where you will find me) and I did not know which songs might fit them and then when I posted it I was like WAIT WAIT I KNOW.

Gold rush - Gwyn talking herself out of her crush on Az after finding out about the whole necklace and being like “I don’t want a gold rush”.

Daylight - Az is a Taylor hoe first, spymaster second. She just makes him feel things. But in all seriousness “Like daylight It's golden like daylight You gotta step into the daylight and let it go Just let it go, let it goI wanna be defined by the things that I love Not the things I hate Not the things that I'm afraid of, I'm afraid of Not the things that haunt me in the middle of the night I, I just think that You are what you love” this is Az healing and being in better place where he can reflect on how he used to relate to love and romantic relationships, he now understands that love is not black and white but golden. He stepped into this notion of love and through it he found a beautiful relationship with Gwyn, he wants to be defined by the love he feels for her and the love he feels for his family, not by the things that haunted him, not by his mistakes, not by his trauma. He is golden, he is daylight, shadows and all he is daylight. 

Az + Elain: As a romantic end game they are not my ship, but I do stand by my pre-acosf position that these two would be really good friends

Out of the woods -  Where we stand after acosf I say that it is not far fetched that they might hook up and then realize that it’s not for them and that experience helps them access a new part of their healing: “They lost each other, but they found themselves”. The anxiety that this song mirrors is the anxiety of them knowing something doesn’t quite *fit* right, that they are both in turbulent times emotionally and this relationship is not giving them the peace they thought it would. They are paper airplanes, because they know that it’s not the right call for where they are in their own journeys if they want to heal properly and that neither will get what they truly want from the other one. The monsters who turned out to be trees, they are in the woods in this relationship, they were built to fall apart.. are all images that speak of the dynamic we could see of them, they try it doesn’t work and then after, when they are in better places mentally they will look back and be like “we dodge a bullet there didn’t we”.

Bonus: His necklace hanging around her neck, the image is clear there and so is the commentary. 

Az + Mor: formerly known as Moriel, the ship that used to reign my heart

Breath - This song is entirely from Az’s perspective once he and Mor talk about, well, everything. This is not how he had planned it, this is not how he wanted this to go, but “people are people and sometimes it doesn’t work out, but it’s killing me to see you go after all this time” referencing letting go of the romantic feelings he had for her. They were a crutch for him and now he has to face life and the things that torment him about it, without the protection and comfort his crush on her offered him. “And we know it's never simple, Never easy Never a clean break, no one here to save me You're the only thing I know like the back of my hand,” regardless of what you all want to think, they do love and know each other but shift in their dynamic will mean an adjustment for both of them... it’s not a clean break. “Never wanted this, never wanna see you hurt Every little bump in the road I tried to swerve”, also Idc about what you all think, Az never never never wanted to hurt Mor, if he knew his behavior was in someway affecting her he would have done something, and I think from the aftermath of him going after Eris on ACOWAR we can see that... also this might allude to him actually knowing that Mor is a lesbian and he has tried to make sure she feels safe around him and knows that he has her back agains the whole world if need be, regardless of her lack of romantic feelings for him. 

Feyl*n: honestly who knew there would be so many songs that would fit these two. Such bops for a crappy dude like T*mlin.

Exile - “I never learned to read your mind (never learned to read my mind) I couldn't turn things around (you never turned things around) 'Cause you never gave a warning sign (I gave so many signs)” He never even tried to learn to read her mind, he never turned things around and she gave so so many signs. The way he looks at Rhys like he’s his understudy, but no sugar he’s the principal actor and you got fired.

Getaway car - and I oop. Because that is essentially what they were both to each other. Feyre needed someone to give her security and financial stability, T*mlin needed someone to break the curse: “It was the best of times the worst of crimes”.

Bad blood - LOOOOOL. They used to be mad love and now they have bad blood.

Tell me why -  Imma just leave a collection of quotes here that well allude to them through the first act of ACOMAF: “I took a chance, I took a shot And you might think I'm bulletproof but I'm not You took a swing, I took it hard And down here from the ground, I see who you are” Feyre seeing T*mlin for the abusive person that he is, from the ground.. where his behavior put her. Also “I'm sick and tired of your reasons I got no one to believe in You tell me that you want me, then push me around And I need you like a heartbeat But you know you got a mean streak Makes me run for cover when you're around Here's to you and your temper Yes, I remember what you said last night And I know that you see what you're doing to me Tell me why” The if he loved me, why did he do it and the “it’s not a question of if he loved you but how” conversation she has with Rhys.

I could go on and on forever placing all T-Swift songs around acotar characters, but I think this is getting longer than we all anticipated.. or did we? we all know I am not ✨concise✨. Anywho, thanks for sticking around.

Besos!!

BOOOONUUUUUUUUUSSSSSSS:

Obviously, Invisible String is for all my mated/soon to be mated boos, and I think Peace is a song that can apply to both Feysand and Nessian from Rhys’ and Nesta’s perspectives respectively. 

[teamhook]

Finding Hope :: A CS August Rush AU birthday fic

Hellol! Okay, before I go on. I swear this will be the last WIP I start. I had to. This story is for my favorite dork @hookedonapirate cause I love her to death. She had asked me to write it before but at the time I was writing the Forever My Girl CS AU.

Happy Birthday!! Hope you like your present.

Thanks to my beta @ultraluckycatnd she is the best!!

FFN

AO3

A love for music unites an unlikely pair. The rhapsody they unknowingly created will give life to the hope they still have in their hearts.

Killian Jones and his older brother Liam had arrived from London with nothing more than the clothes on their back to pursue a music career. The lives of the Jones brothers had been difficult since the beginning. Their mother died at a young age and their father had decided he was not made to be a family man.

The Jones brothers had formed The Outlaws with some fellow expatriates they met along the way. The venues they played weren't the best, but they managed to make a name for themselves enough to have steady gigs.

Emma Nolan had grown up with loving parents but after an unfortunate accident, she was left alone. Afterwards, her grandfather took her in. George Spencer was an ill-tempered man. He wasn't a doting person, which caused Emma to become closed off. She focused on solace in the cello. Thankfully, the man valued pomp and grandeur so, at the thought of his granddaughter attending Juilliard, he eagerly made it possible.

On a rare night out with her best friend Elsa, they decide to go to listen to a little-known rock band called The Outlaws they saw fliers for. It was love at first sight. The lead singer mesmerized the young cellist with his voice. The girls waited for the band to finish their set to introduce themselves to them. Elsa and Emma fit in with the band perfectly. The Jones brothers had quickly gravitated towards the blonde beauties.

Emma and Killian had slowly drifted away from the group. It ended up being the most magical night for the young lovers above New York's Washington Square.

Months later, Emma finds out she is pregnant. Somehow, she already loves her kid so much. Her grandfather makes his displeasure known, however, every moment of her pregnancy.

The day her life changed was gloomy and rainy. After an argument with George, Emma had gone to the store to buy some last-minute things for her baby. The drunk driver came out of nowhere. When she gives birth prematurely, her grandfather takes advantage while she is unconscious and gives the baby girl up for adoption. The moment Emma wakes up, she is told the news that her baby is dead. The news shatters her musical dreams and any hope of happiness.

You're not special. You're just like the rest of us... alone, nothing but an orphan.

The music... Can you hear it? Listen... I can hear it everywhere.

It's in the wind ...

in the light...

It's all around us.

All you have to do is open your heart and listen.

Sometimes the world tries to knock the hope out of you.

They tried to stop me from hearing the music...

I believe in music the way others believe in fairy tales. When I'm alone it builds inside me eager to erupt into a melody. I like to believe that what I hear came from my parents. That the music I hear is the same one they heard the night they met...

Maybe that's how they found each other and that's how they'll know I am theirs and find me...

Hope Swan had grown up in foster care. As a baby, she had been adopted but returned once the couple was blessed with their own flesh and blood. After that, she bounced from foster home to foster home.

In her shared room at the group home, she's currently at, Hope records herself humming a song that keeps playing in her mind, but is rudely interrupted by her roommate who mocks her. "You are not special. You're just like us, an unwanted orphan."

The girl walks away, slamming the door.

Hope's eyes water at the mean girl's words. She knows it in her heart that she is wanted and someday she will find her parents. She continues recording her humming of the song in her heart.

Hope is now eleven years old. She stands in the back of the group as one of the younger girls is adopted by a couple. Maybe she should be bitter and want to be adopted but if she was, she would never find her parents. They're out there and she will find them.

Hope runs away once more from her group home. Living on the streets she makes friends easily, but is still guarded. She knows that someday her parents will come looking for her. All she wants is to go home.

As she wanders the streets, runaway Hope Swan is getting closer to find her home. She knows she will find her family. All she has to do is listen to the music in her heart and follow it.

A kind man, Merlin, is assigned Hope Swan's case. She wasn't a trouble maker, but she was reportedly closed off with the couples. He is notified that she has run away. She has a history of running away. The picture of the young girl saddens him. He wishes he can find her and place her in a good home. She is a pretty girl, with blonde hair, vibrant sea-blue eyes, dimples, and a slightly dimpled chin. He posts her picture on the board.

Emma Nolan had moved away after losing her daughter. Her little girl, her grandfather told her the baby was a tiny girl. The heartbreak led her to become a music teacher to kids. She was always surrounded by children and music. That was the way she chose to honor her child. An unexpected call from her grandfather's doctor makes her break a promise she had made to herself years ago. He is the only family she has left.

Once she arrives at his house, she is summoned to his death bed.

His eyes tear up. "I thought you wouldn't come."

"I don't hate you Grandpa, but my heart hasn't healed. Time will never heal this wound," she sniffled.

He closes his watery eyes. "I think I can help with that."

Emma gets closer to his bed, confused. "How can you say that? My child is gone! You didn't want her, so you threw her away while I slept. You took that away from me. I couldn't hold her!"

"Emma, enough!" he screams, then immediately starts coughing from the effort.

"I'm sorry, I made a mistake. I know now that family is precious, that image doesn't matter. Emma, I have a confession. I hope it's not too late and that you will find it in your heart to forgive me."

Emma stares at him.

"She's alive. Your little girl is alive."

"What? How can you be so cruel and say that to me!" Emma says with disbelief and tears pooled in her eyes.

"Because it's the truth. She is alive. I gave her up for adoption, and I was the one who signed the papers. I was your next of kin since you weren't married."

Emma gapes at the old man as she let her limp body drop to the chair next to his bed. "You gave my daughter away as if she was property because I embarrassed you?"

George Spencer can't keep his eyes on his granddaughter. The once-proud man weakened by age and disease casts his eyes down in shame. "In my safe, you will find the documents."

"What good will that do me?" Emma asks.

"Emma, my attorney can help you find her," he says quietly.

"But-"

"Emma, if your parents were here, they would tell you that you should never lose hope," he says.

Emma stands up. "You're right, I'm going to find my daughter."

George sighs as he falls into a deep sleep, his machines flatlining. The nurse that had given them privacy to talk rushes in as soon as the machine goes off.

Emma finds the papers and with trembling hands, calls Mr. Gold, the attorney.

The man is a ruthless slimy bastard. He tries to convince Emma that her kid is better off where she is. Of course, he would say that seeing he had helped her grandfather do this to her; he was just covering his ass. She doesn't care about that. All she wants is to get her kid. She has a daughter and she is out there. She hopes to God that she is being taken care of.

Killian Jones had moved to California not long after The Outlaws broke up. He had given up his dream of singing, but somehow had managed to gain a thriving career as an agent.

He had also distanced himself from the memory of Emma. After the band broke up, his brother and former bandmates had moved to Boston. Killian thought the further away he could get would be better, though. He tried forgetting her, but he knew he could never forget her. It was only one night, but he would belong to her for the rest of time.

Liam had called him a few days prior to ask if he wanted to join them in a reunion of sorts. They were going to play at the little place where he had met Emma. The joint was going out of business so in an effort to raise money to save it, The Outlaws had agreed to come out of retirement for one night only.

Killian had yet to agree, but 'what if' rattled in his brain. Something inside him tugged at his heart. A man unwilling to fight for what he wants gets what he deserves, Liam had told him over and over. He decides he will do it. He will fly to New York and look for Emma. He prays to every deity he can that she is not married. It's a selfish thought, but he couldn't bear it if she isn't meant for him.

Killian picks up the phone and dials his brother's number. "Liam, I'll be there."

"Brother, you'll do it? What happened to never setting foot in New York?" Liam asks.

"Liam, are you going to question my decision? I thought you would be happy," Killian says through gritted teeth.

"I am, I am. I'm just surprised. Killian, this doesn't have anything to do with her, does it?"

"Brother," Killian sighs, "Even if it was, I don't have a way to contact her." Sure he was lying, but his brother didn't have to know all his reasons.

"We are driving out there," Liam says.

"I'll fly. I will text you the details once I've made arrangements," Killian says.

"Alright, see you then," Liam adds. "Brother, it's going to be good seeing you after so long. I miss you."

Killian sighs. "I miss you too."

The line disconnects. Alright Emma Nolan, what have you been up to? he thinks as he enters her name in the browser's search engine. He had thought of looking for her before, but he had never found any sign of her online. He knows her family has money but somehow she has managed to stay hidden. The only information that would come up was of her grandfather's business deals. His heart tells him that this time, though, things would be different.

Sure enough, he finds one headline: "George Spencer dies at home after a long battle with heart disease."

Killian reads the headline carefully and his heart sparks with hope to see Emma again. The newspaper lists her as the sole survivor of her grandfather's Estate. That means she would have to be at his home. He winces at the thought. He knows that his method to approach her while grieving will be considered to be in bad form, but if it is the only chance he has, he has to make the best of the situation. He takes a deep breath and alters his flight plans so he can arrive a couple of days earlier.

Mr. Gold had changed his tune when Emma didn't fall for his manipulations and offered his services. Emma reluctantly accepted his help. He told her to give him a couple of hours and at that time, he would have information to make her search easier. He quickly found out that her daughter had ended up in foster care. He gave her the name of the caseworker assigned to Hope Swan. That was her baby's name. Emma tries to ignore the fact that her daughter is in the care of the state. She wonders what she looks like? Does she take after her or him? Killian Jones, he had never left her thoughts, but before it was painful to think of him because inevitably her thoughts would end on her daughter. Emma smiles, realizing how fitting the name Hope was for their daughter. Emma thanks Mr. Gold and goes to see Merlin Wilde.

Emma arrives at the CPS office. Her nerves are getting the best of her. She approaches the information desk. "Excuse me, I'm looking for Mr. Wilde?"

The woman looks bored. "Do you have an appointment?"

Emma shakes her head. "No, I'm sorry. I must speak to him, though."

The woman rolls her eyes. "Fill out the sign-in sheet. I will see if he can fit you in today." She gets up and heads to a door behind her desk.

Emma is about to sit down when something catches her eye. Pictures of missing kids. Runaways. She gravitates to the board. Her heart is beating so fast as her eyes land on a name, Hope Swan. Emma smiles as she stares at blue eyes that reminded her of the pair that stole her heart all those years back. The sound of someone clearing their throat startles her.

"I'm sorry for startling you, Miss Nolan. I'm Merlin Wilde." He smiles at her as he looks over her sign-in sheet and signals for her to follow him.

"Oh, no it's okay. Yes, I wanted to speak to you in private. My situation is not a common story," Emma says as she follows him to his office.

They enter his office and he kindly motions for her to take a seat.

Emma looks around the office. She tries to get a feel for the man. He seems kind, but looks can be deceiving.

"Miss Nolan, how may I help you? Is there a child in a situation you are concerned about?"

Emma nods. "Mr. Wilde, yes, in fact, that is the reason why I'm here."

"Alright," he starts taking notes. "May I have the child's name?"

"Hope Swan," Emma says. "I'm her mother."

Merlin looks up from his computer. "I'm sorry," he says as he types rapidly on his computer keyboard, before looking up quizzically. "Her case says she is in the care of Mrs. Emerald."

"I'm afraid you misunderstood me. I'm Hope's biological mother." She takes a deep breath. "I was young and unmarried when I got pregnant with her, and my grandfather didn't think having a child was appropriate." Her eyes begin to sting because of the tears. "He took it upon himself to decide that giving my daughter away while I was unconscious because of an accident was the appropriate decision to make. Until recently, I thought Hope was dead. I'm here because I need your help getting my daughter back. I understand she is in foster care, so it shouldn't be a big deal, right?"

Merlin keeps his eyes on her and laughs. "She is a good kid, the people that had fostered her before never had a complaint about her. She loves music and she always hummed a melody to herself. She was just not open to letting them in. It's like she knew she didn't belong there. I'm afraid that has caused her to run away on several occasions. I was just informed she ran away from the last home."

Emma's eyes tear up. "I loved my daughter from the moment I knew she was there. I used to play a song on the cello for her that her father sang the night we met. Until the day I thought I had lost her, I played the same song. I need to find her."

"And we will, Miss Nolan. I have put up fliers all over the city."

Emma nods. "I will look for her myself. I plan on hiring a private investigator. Could I have a picture of her?"

"Of course, Miss Nolan. I will do all in my power to help get your daughter back. I'm going to go looking for her at Washington Square Park. That is a hot spot for runaways. If you would like to join me? We might get lucky," he says as he hands her the picture of Hope from her file.

Emma smiles. "Sure, I will. Thank you for asking."

Hope is sitting on a bench at Washington Square Park and then she hears some music playing. Instantly, she is drawn to it. A boy around her age is playing the guitar. She smiles wide and sits down to enjoy the show. People surround the boy as he plays and they drop change on a baseball cap on the floor. Once he finishes playing, the boy picks up his cap and puts the money in his pocket. He grabs his guitar and thanks the crowd before leaving.

Curious, Hope follows him to an abandoned theatre.

Killian arrives on the first flight of the day. He rents a car and makes his way to the Nolan Estate. He is a nervous wreck. What will Emma think of him showing up unannounced? He hopes she will be happy to see him.

The boy Hope was following introduces himself as Henry. She likes him. He is nice and he promptly explains that all the runaway children live there. They had been taken in by Walsh Oz, the "Wizard". The man provides a roof over their head and food.

"Don't worry, Hope. He will teach you how to perform in street corners to pay for your part. If you're lucky and any good, he will let you use one of the park's spots," Henry says. "When he gets home with food, I will introduce you."

Hope thinks to herself it couldn't be that bad. This way, she won't be picked on for playing music.

Henry smiles fondly at Hope. "So why did you run away?"

Hope smiles back. "I'm going to find my parents. How about you?"

"My adoptive mom didn't love me." He shrugs. "Hope, I know you will find them."

Hope beams. "Thank you, but how can you believe so?"

Henry smiles. "I have a feeling that you will find them and then you will have your happy ending."

The Wizard hadn't always lived in condemned buildings. He once had been a success in his art but lost it due to some scandal years ago, but he could still spot talent. The young girl Henry had brought to him had loads of talent. She had played a song that most of the other kids couldn't play. The girl was magical. She appeared to be a musical genius with savant-like abilities and perfect pitch. He knows he could make a good living off of that girl. He smiles wickedly as the girl plays with his prized guitar, Roxanne. "Well, looks like we found our top earner thanks to Henry," The Wizard says to the group. He pulls Hope to the side. "Alright, you are going to be in my old spot at the park and you will be using Roxanne." He scrutinizes her. "Now what should we call you?"

"My name is Hope," she says.

He walks back and forth contemplating and shaking his head. "I know, I shall call you Odette."

Emma and Merlin arrive at the park. They split up in the hope to cover more ground.

Merlin posts missing posters of Hope on every corner he can; he even hands some to the people walking by.

Emma is walking around the corner when something catches her eye. They have some posters for an upcoming event displaying some talent from Julliard. She smiles wistfully, she misses her music. She takes out her phone to call an old friend. Elsa had ended up at their old school as a teacher.

Somehow her connection is stronger now. She has a sudden need to play. She feels it will help her connect with her daughter.

Tag list:

@rumdrum91 @itsfabianadocarmo @xsajx @hookedonapirate @kmomof4 @searchingwardrobes @seriouslyhooked @profdanglaisstuff @let-it-raines @revanmeetra87 @snowbellewells @hollyethecurious @kymbersmith-90 @branlovestowrite @thejollyroger-writer @shireness-says @ilovemesomekillianjones @thisonesatellite @thesschesthair @winterbythesea @stahlop @resident-of-storybrooke @superchocovian @lfh1226-linda @artistic-writer @thislassishooked @shardminds @winterbaby89 @xhookswenchx @ultraluckycatnd @gingerchangeling @laschatzi @wellhellotragic @xemmaloveskillianx @courtorderedcake @pirateherokillian @optomisticgirl @darkcolinodonorgasm @sherlockianwhovian @andiirivera  @djlbg @nikkiemms @jennjenn615  @scientificapricot @officerrogers @imlaxdris71 @therealstartraveller776 @kday426 @allons-y-to-hogwarts-713  @donteattheappleshook @reggieshamster @lassluna @carpedzem @captainodonoghue @killian-will-do @jarienn972 @tehgreeneyes  @demisexualemmaswan @queen-serena88 @swanslieutenant @tiganasummertree @whimsicallyenchantedrose @bethacaciakay @ohmakemeahercules @jrob64 @klynn-stormz @mariakov81 @sals86 @elizabeethan @brooke-to-broch​ @hookedonhiddles​ @onceratheart18​ @the-darkdragonfly​ @veryverynotgoodwrites​ @jonesfandomfanatic​ @wefoundloveunderthelight​

[tokimihyachi]

Christmas Boy

Happiest Birthday to Clover Kingdom’s very own, William Vangeance! to celebrate his birthday, here’s a drawing— a rushed one, and another special one shot to commemorate such lovely day.

Pairing: William Vangeance x OC

Warnings: None.

24th December. Other than this day being Christmas, it was not much of a special date to one eccentric man in Clover Kingdom. William Vangeance, bare-faced, stood up from the silk sheets of his bed and rubbed his eyes to welcome the day before him, light from his balcony (he has one here, so shush.) casting light upon his face.

Stretching as he stood up, he neatly folded the used quilts and placed the pillows to where they were situated before he slept on them last night, before walking towards the windowsill and opening it, as a flock of various kinds of birds swarmed him like the Snow White that he is.

The sounds of the birds chirping was music to his ears, but to someone else, it was rather a nuiscance.

‘You’ve been doing that for years, William. Grow up will you?’ Patri sneered. The elf did not dislike birds, actually, he’s used to seeing and hearing them chirp every morning since before, he liked to hide in the shade of the tree where many birds live, but to be accustomed with William’s company is another thing.

‘Is that how you should greet me today, Patri?’ the boy with eyes as gold as the sun scoffed.

'I’m sorry. Happy birthday, my friend.’ Vangeance smiled at his friend’s acknowledgement. Carefully placing the newborn bird back in its nest using his World Tree Magic to extend the branched of the tree, he bids his other friends a good day before heading towards the bathroom to freshen up before breakfast.

— — — — — —

Despite reminding them countless of times, members of the Golden Dawn continued to pursue their plans to surprise their captain and greet him a happy birthday. William smiled at them as Letoile lit the birthday cake’s candles up and Alecdora took it from her hands, bringing it closer to his captain.

Hearing them sing the melodous song one chants during birthday celebrations was more than enough to the masked man as his day of birth has never been celebrated before. Considered to be a cursed child, her parents, particularly his Mother, considered December 24th as an ill-fated day he was given to them.

Unlike kids his age, he never received a cake that was decorated with sweet frosting. Never been greeted— locked even most of the time, and never had a friend who would voluntarily give him a present.

He was given a gift once by the kids he used to play with, but when he opened it, it was filled with powder that catapulted to his face.

“You should keep that powder on your face. That way it’ll hide that hideous scare of yours!”

"Why were you even born into this world, you monster!”

“He’s probably the reason why his own father died. Cursed being.”

For years those memories alone haunted him, which is why Julius and Yami had a hard time trying to find a perfect gift to him. In the end though, they treated him to dinner and sometimes agreed to do whatever activity he wanted to for the day.

Yami didn’t like his choices. They were total opposites that got along after all, but William rarely opens up much about his own self so he begrudgingly obliged, as long as there was free food at the end of the day.

‘Truly, I am blessed.’ The purple-eyed man thought as he blew the candles on his cake and the Golden Dawn clapped in cheer. Seconds later, they formed a line while bringing out their individual gifts for him. He warned them several times before that it would only be a hassle if they bought him gifts as there was still a party during the afternoon, but the stubborn girl one of them is, she pushed through with every festivity yearly.

Speaking of, where is she? William’s eyes wander the room, trying to search for the a pair of eyes redder than any rose he’s seen before, but alas he could not find her. ‘Has she, perhaps… forgotten my birthday?’ A pang of an unknown feeling went through his chest like a spear directly piercing his heart as the thought was processed by his mind.

Alecdora notices the unease of his beloved captain’s presence, so he opted to speak up, “Captain Vangeance. If I may, Lady Artemis is still sleeping…” he trailed off, failing to stitch more words together as William stood up from his chair to excuse himself, claiming that he must fetch and reprimand the sleeping woman.

The Golden Dawn shared knowing looks at one another, chuckling lightly afterwards as they were observant enough to know what was about to happen. William cautiously knocked at the door for a good couple of minutes before deciding to walk inside, scared that she might actually be in danger as he could not sense her mana at all.

“Artemis?” he called out. His voice laced in fear anxiousness more than he could ever imagine.

He expected two things or scenarios to play out when he turned the know of her door. One, she was either peacefully in deep slumber, the kind of sleep where her mana almost feels like it disappears completely or Two, she would be there on the floor, struggling for her life. But upon entering the room he stopped, seeing both of the imaginative situations he made were not in front of him.

Instead, there stood Artemis who clearly smelled like she took a bath, with both of her arms open and awaiting him to come forth as if she anticipated that he would walk through the door. The masked man gave her a confused look making the woman sigh and bring her hands down.

“What are you doing, Artemis?” William asked that further vexed the green-haired mage.

“Well,” she began, walking towards her captain slowly, giving the masked man a chance to see how alluring she looked under the touch of the sun early in the morning— her eyes burning brighter than any fire, her skin more supple and radiant than any sky, and her lips… tempting and soft, its presence even more so overwhelming than the usual.

“My gift isn’t exactly finished yet so I’m giving the next best thing.” as their eyes finally locked, Artemis’ gaze landing on his ear that were decorated in a light shade of pink making William cough to divert her attention, “And that is?” he inquired.

The woman rolls her eyes opening both of her arms again, “A hug! Now, come here you big baby!” chuckling at her little patience, probably because she waited longer than he thought, William gladly mirrors her gesture and wraps his arms around her figure.

In the darkness of his life, her cuddles feel like a little touch of heaven, warm, together, cozy. William could only wish that he could extend or perhaps stop time just so he could stay close to her longer, safe in her embrace. Artemis’ arms wrapped right around him brought a peace he’d never known before, calming of the storms in his heart.

The hug was a simple enough gesture - affection, perhaps the fragile beginnings of love. The arms that held him were soft, yet strong. The feel of her body so close to his soothed him more than he had expected. But within seconds she pulled away, his mind swam not with the heady excitement of a new relationship but with thoughts of why his heart was thumping loudly against his chest.

Her presence, more ominous than the usual. Was it because of the war nearing them? He could only guess. ‘You mean you can only deny?’ Dismissing the thoughts of his friend, Artemis took her captain’s wrist and pulled him outside her room, locking it afterwards and giving him a smile.

“There’s still a party ongoing below right? Not to mention one tonight with the captains so let’s go, Willy!” she yelled as they ran through the corridors. The masked man’s eyes dart on her hands holding his wrist and he had to bite his inner lip to prevent himself from making any noise. ‘What is it with this feeling?’

How he wanted to just grab her hand and intertwine her dainty fingers like that of a porcelain doll with his own, but he was not selfish and shamless. Artemis is a fine woman with class and exuding much elegance. She’s kind, selfless, thoughtful, exceedingly beautiful, and above all else, she’s smart. ‘and dense. Don’t forget clumsy as well.’

He could not risk such ripe and fruitful future ahead of her if he consticted her in any relationship with him other than being good friends that relied and trusted one another even if their lives depended on the situation, but he’s considered it— many times, and wondered what if he had the courage to speak his mind.

Alas he told himself not to. Both of them were healthy, given that, they still had plenty of years in front of them. So the possible lifetime they might share can wait, if it means he can treasure her longer and build up the willpower to face whatever consequence confessing might bring.

‘Wait, does this mean… I like her? Romantically?’ he shook his head. After years of denying was he about to accept and let these feelings consume him? Perhaps this was enough for now as he had other priorities to face. Yet in a few days these very thoughts would betray him, but how wrong he was to have not grabbed such golden oppurtune while it was still within his reach.

Complacency was never a good thing. And William Vangenace would soon know of this.

[spaceacealyx]

The Puppet Prince: Prologue

Here’s an intro to a little fic I wrote with @jadeowl19​‘s character Lyxander Coreloius and my own character Jade. Let me know if this is something you guys wanna see more of!

Words: 1100

A great while ago, when the world was full of wonders, there lived a prince in a kingdom, as all stories like this start. Years ago he lived with his mother and father. They had been a happy family until when the prince was twelve. An evil sorcerer that was in love with his mother, Genevieve, put a strange spell on the king and threw Genevieve into a dungeon. He lied and said they both had died, effectively claiming the country as his own and taking the prince “as his own”. Now, the true king lies dormant in another country, awaiting a true love’s kiss.

In the same kingdom as the prince, there lived a girl of noble birth. Her mother had died when she was born and her father only a few years after that. Before passing, though, her father had remarried. The woman was beautiful with eyes as icy blue as glaciers and hair as fair as gold. Her name was Ravenna le Fay.

The first time Jade had met Ravenna was when she was still young and new to the world. All her childish mind could think of when she saw the woman’s silky platinum hair and clear blue eyes was, “she’s pretty.” The woman had a daughter her age. The girl’s name was Cathy, short for Catherine. She had beautiful golden curls but a nasty attitude. Ravenna corrected her when she was around to see it and Jade loved her for it. Finally, she could have a mother and it wouldn’t be so lonely here. 

Ravenna and her father got married quickly, only a few days after Jade had met her and her daughter. Ravenna’s dress for the wedding sparked many daydreams during Jade’s childhood and young adult years. Jade and Cathy were allowed to be flower girls. All Jade can remember of that night when she was six was that she had a lot of fun and Ravenna made her smile. She was even allowed to have an extra piece of delicious chocolate-y cake. 

Lady Ravenna le Fay treated Jade kindly until her father had died. After his death, the stepmother showed her true colors to the young girl, making her do chores to take care of her and her own child. 

Two days after getting married, her father fell ill with a terrible sickness. He died within the week, though it couldn’t have come fast enough. Ernesto was in an immeasurable amount of pain during his last days. 

“Oh, darling... I’m so sorry,” Ravenna had said to her after the news of her father’s death had been broken to her. Through the tears that welled up in her eyes, she saw Ravenna’s arms reach out for her and she let Ravenna hug her until her sadness had subsided. 

The funeral was quick to come as well. Ravenna had an elaborate dress for the burial and she wore black the rest of the week. Jade merely trailed along by her side as adults gave her their condolences. Ravenna always knew when to give her a smile to cheer her up or ease her anxiety. 

As soon as they arrived home from the funeral service, Ravenna’s lovely act had vanished. Her smile faded to a small scowl and she looked at Jade with slight disgust. “It’s a mess in here. As one of the things your father left behind, you should clean it up.” 

Jade hadn’t seen much wrong with that. She assumed Ravenna was still upset over the death of her new husband that seeing a messy home was making it worse. So, Jade asked a housemaid to show her how to clean. She didn’t want to disappoint her new mother after all. 

However, it didn’t stop there. “Jade, darling, Cathy needs you to scrub the spot out of her dress for her. Be a good girl and run along will you?”

“Yes ma’am.”

And from then on, that was how it went. Ravenna asked Jade to do something and she did it readily. As time went on, more of their staff started to disappear and the chores Jade was asked to do started to increase. 

One day, when the young girl turned ten finally, Ravenna called Jade into her study. “Darling, there’s just no way we can pay for all of our bills… I’m going to need you to find a job.”

Jade furrows her eyebrows, childish innocence clouding her eyes. “But what about all of my father’s money he left us when he died?”

Ravenna purses her lips, successfully convincing Jade she really had no control over it. “I’m afraid it’s run out.”

Jade blinks in confusion. “Oh…” Her eyebrows punch together once again. “Where… where can I get a job?”

Ravenna’s lip twitches slightly at Jade’s willingness to please. “Well… perhaps I could send you off with a letter… to the castle of course… maybe they have an open spot as a scullery maid?”

Jade had no idea what becoming a scullery maid entailed but she was up for trying. “Okay… if… if that’s what you want…”

“Oh, darling, it’s not about what I want… but unfortunately, it’s what we need… Thank you, darling. Oh, and don’t forget to finish hanging the clothes out to dry before scrubbing the dishes,” Ravenna says in her sing-song voice. 

“Yes ma’am.” Jade leaves after that, having no idea how easily Ravenna had manipulated her. 

Ravenna smiles snakily as Jade shuts the door, knowing exactly what she’s done. Oh, how easy it is to manipulate her… just like her father was. “Drink this sweetheart. It will make this more fun.” If only he had trusted his first instinct and spit the poison out...

Shortly after their conversation, Ravenna found her a job as a maid at the castle. She was to scrub floors and do laundry. This is when the girl met her first friends, other maids in the castle. This is also when she met the prince. 

She was rushing to meet another maid in a far part of the castle when she turned the corner and slammed into someone. The force of it knocked her back and onto the floor while the other person merely was thrown off balance. She had looked up at them, wide-eyed, and gasped in horror as she realized who she bumped into. Prince Lyxander didn’t give her a chance to apologize before offering her a hand up, which she took gratefully.

The young maid had never forgotten his kindness and developed quite the crush on the twelve-year-old prince. Little did she know where she would end up in her future.

[worryinglyinnocent]

Fic: Days to Change a Lifetime

AU-gust Day Six: Hospital AU Fandom: Once Upon A Time Pairing: Rumbelle

Rated: T

Content Warning: Cancer, character death, terminal illness.

Summary: Mr Gold has a chance encounter with Belle French in the palliative ward, and they get to know each other over the last few days of her life.

Note: As you can probably tell from the summary, this does not have a happy ending.

Days to Change a Lifetime

Gold had always hated hospitals, and he could not for the life of him figure out how his chosen profession had led him to spend so much time in them. When he had decided to become a lawyer, he had reckoned on spending his entire working life in an office. He had not anticipated so many hospital visits. He had definitely not envisaged spending quite so much time in hospice units and palliative care wards.

He was a victim of his own success in a way, having gained a reputation for being good at handling cases involving wills, living wills and medical power of attorney, which was why, on this particular fateful Friday afternoon, he had found himself once more in a palliative care ward. That was how he met her. 

Belle.

He wasn’t sure that he would have noticed her if she had not been looking directly at him and he hadn’t seen that she had the most brilliant blue eyes he’d ever witnessed. Despite her pallor and the dark circles under her eyes, and the gauntness of her face where her illness had taken its toll, her eyes were still bright and mesmerising. 

The second thing that he noticed about her was that she was so comparatively young. Death didn’t discriminate, he knew that, but the patients he met on this type of ward in these types of grim circumstances tended to be a little older.

The third thing that he noticed was that she was alone. Most people had someone by their side during these final days, but she was on her own, and there was no evidence that she had ever had visitors. There were no personal touches in her room, no signs of the life that she’d led. She seemed so desolate, lying there in an impersonal room with no company, and that was what kept him arrested in her doorway, both of them looking at each other and both of them waiting for the next step to be taken. 

“Hi,” he said eventually. 

She smiled. “Hi.”

“Do you…” God, he was making a fool of himself and he’d probably have a nurse telling him to move along and stop disturbing the patients in a minute. “Would you like some company for a bit?”

“That would be lovely, thank you.” She paused. “Don’t you have your own family here though?”

Gold shook his head. “No, I’m a lawyer. I have a client here, but the meeting is over now.” He came into the room and sat down in the chair beside the bed, feeling more awkward now than he had done when he had been hovering outside. It had been a spur of the moment offer and now he had no idea what they were supposed to talk about. How did one go about starting a casual conversation with a dying woman?

“My name’s Belle.”

“Everyone calls me Gold.”

“Nice to meet you, Gold. It’s bone cancer, by the way. It’s in my spine and inoperable. Just thought I’d get that out there to save you wondering but not wanting to ask personal questions. You look like a gentleman like that.”

“Right. Thank you.” They sat in silence for a few minutes as Gold digested this, no knowing whether it had made things more or less awkward. The silence was companionable at least, and there was no huge rush to fill it. Perhaps, for Belle, knowing that she wasn’t alone was enough.

Presently she spoke. “So, you’re not from round here either?”

“Pardon?”

“Your accent. Scotland, right?”

Gold nodded. “Yes, although I haven’t lived there for over forty years.”

“It’s impressive that you’ve managed to keep your accent all this time. I’ve only been here eight years and I’m already picking up a twang.” 

Belle laughed, and it was good to hear it in such oppressive settings. Sometimes Gold felt that laughter was almost forbidden in these places, as if laughing and making the best and happiest time of the bleak situation was somehow not taking it seriously enough. Belle’s laugh was genuine and musical, and it was the most cheerful thing that Gold had heard in this area of the hospital on all his recent visits. 

“You’re from Australia originally, yes?”

“Right on the money. I grew up in Melbourne. I decided that I wanted to see the world, but then I fell in love with Boston and I ended up staying here. What about you? If you’ve been here for so long then I take it you didn’t have much choice in coming to America.”

“No, I came with my father. I was seven.”

“Do you ever want to go back?” There was a wistful tone in Belle’s voice, a yearning for a home that was now unreachable however much she might not have missed it before. 

“Not really. I was so young when I left, and I have no family there. My entire life is here in Boston. What about you? You must have more ties there.”

He didn’t want to ask about her family, not when she clearly didn’t have anyone here in Boston with her right now. 

Belle sighed. “It’s not so much the people I miss as the places. All the memories from my childhood, places where I used to get ice cream and stuff. I guess you just sort of get nostalgic sometimes, especially when it’s out of reach.”

Gold definitely wasn’t going to ask about her family now, and he wondered where to turn the conversation. Luckily, Belle seemed more than happy for him to talk about himself.

“How did you get into law? And specifically, law that takes you into palliative wards?”

He told her the story of how he had got into his particular line almost by accident, and he was amazed by how animatedly she listened, taking everything in and showing a genuine interest in something that most conversation partners decried as horrifically dull. 

“What about you?” he said eventually. “What do you do?”

It was strange to use the present tense when she clearly wasn’t doing anything and wouldn’t be doing it again in the future, but framing it as if everything was already over seemed callous, rubbing it in her face that her life was nearing its end and far before its time. As much as he did not like spending time in hospitals, and as much as his non-medical clients and colleagues might accuse him of harshness, he had picked up a lot in terms of tact. 

“I’m a librarian. I’ve always loved books. I think I love them more than people sometimes. Honestly, that’s been one of the things that’s annoyed me most about being in here. I can’t concentrate to read; the drugs make the words swim. Don’t get me wrong, I love the fact that the drugs take away the pain, but I’d really like to be able to read.”

Gold looked at the book resting on the nightstand. 

“Her Handsome Hero. I’ve never read it, what’s it about?”

“Oh, it’s my absolute favourite. You’d probably hate it, it’s full of romance and melodrama, but it’s a good adventure story too. There’s this young boy named Gideon, who discovers that he’s part of a prophecy and destined to be a great hero who’ll save the trapped princess.”

It certainly didn’t sound like Gold’s type of book, but it was good to see Belle so excited about it.

“I could read to you if you like.” Where was this offer coming from? He’d only just met the woman and she was going to think he was completely weird if he carried on in this vein. 

“Would you?” She took the book and held it out to him. “You probably think it’s silly, I mean, I’ve read it so many times that I can probably recite it word for word, but it never fails to transport me.”

Gold opened the first page of the book and began to read. He had no appointments for the rest of the afternoon; he could stay here until the nurses kicked him out if Belle wanted him to, and he found that he didn’t mind that prospect at all. 

He had read through the first chapter and was getting quite invested in the story when he looked up and saw that Belle had dropped off to sleep. Quietly, Gold closed the book and placed it on the nightstand, making to move away and leave her in peace. He was at the doorway when she spoke, her voice soft and sleepy.

“Will you come again?” she asked. “It’s really nice to have company.”

Gold nodded, although Belle’s eyes were still closed. “Of course.”

X

“They’re beautiful, thank you!”

Gold only realised once he had entered the room that he had nowhere to put down the large bunch of sunflowers that he had brought with him, and he stood there holding them awkwardly for a while until a passing nurse took pity on him and went to fetch a vase. 

“Well, everyone else has them, and I didn’t want you to be the odd one out. I thought that they might give you something a bit more interesting to look at.”

Belle nodded. “Yeah, I have to say that I’m not thrilled with the colour scheme in here.” She looked around at the teal walls. “Why is it always teal? Did a paint manufacturer overdo an order once and all the hospitals in the country decided to take advantage?”

“Definitely.” Gold sat down in the chair beside the bed, and he was surprised when Belle reached out and squeezed his hand. Her fingers were bony and there was not a lot of strength in her grip, but he squeezed back, being gifted with Belle’s wonderful smile in return. When she smiled, it was easy to forget just how ill she was. 

She stayed holding his hand for a long time whilst they talked, until she finally let go and Gold felt almost bereft. Belle picked up the book. 

“Would you read another chapter, please? I really like listening to your voice; you read aloud well.”

Gold took the book from her. “It would be my pleasure.”

They got into a routine over the next week or so. Gold would visit Belle in an afternoon and read to her until she fell asleep. Sometimes that took longer than others; there were occasions where he’d barely got a page or two in before she was back in an exhausted slumber, but sometimes they made it through a couple of chapters. It was one of Belle’s better afternoons when it happened. 

Gold didn’t know what had made him stop reading in the middle of a sentence, other than the look in Belle’s eyes. She was watching him, rather than staring off into the middle distance as she did so many times, imagining the events of the story unfolding in front of her.

“What’s wrong?” he asked.

Belle shook her head with a smile. “Nothing. I think you like this book a lot more than you let on, you know.”

“Well, I don’t dislike it. It’s really not my style, but it’s not bad.”

“You say that every day.”

“It’s still true every day.”

Belle laughed, although there was a lot less power in it than there had been at the beginning of their acquaintance. Gold’s stomach churned; he didn’t want to think about that. 

“You know, I think it will grow on you.”

They fell into silence for a moment, just watching each other. Belle’s tongue darted out to lick her dry lips, and Gold found himself leaning in a little closer. She gave a little nod of encouragement, and he pressed his lips against hers. It was a soft kiss, dry and chaste, but it was given and received in something a little more than just friendship. 

Belle smiled as he broke away, a tired but happy smile. 

“Maybe no more for today,” she said, glancing at the book. “Tomorrow?”

Gold nodded. “Till tomorrow.”

X

Although Gold had known to expect it from the moment that he had first met Belle, and although he’d been feeling a deep sense of foreboding ever since their kiss, it did not stop him being completely unprepared for walking into the hospital that next afternoon and finding Belle’s room empty. 

“Mr Gold?”

He turned, ashen and unable to speak, to find the nurse who took care of Belle most often hovering behind him. Her Handsome Hero was clutched against her chest, and she held it out. 

“She wanted you to have this.”

They’d only got halfway through the story, and even though he’d admitted several times that it was definitely not his type of book, Gold wanted to know how it ended. He took it from the nurse, picking up the note that fell out. 

Dear Gold,

Astrid is writing this for me as my hands are shaking too much. I hope you enjoy the rest of the story, despite your reservations about the romance. 

Thank you so much for being here these last few days. You made me remember what it is to feel alive. Please don’t lose sight of that.

All my love and best wishes,

Belle

[snakeeater17]

hi here are my thoughts as I listened through evermore for the first time. some people record themselves, some people just listen through, and I just write all my thoughts. enjoy :)

willow — immediate speak now vibes !!!!! also so fucking catchy W O W… the bridge !!!!!! “I come back stronger than a 90’s trend” yes you do ms swift yes you do.

champagne problems — NEW YEARS DAY IMMEDIATELY STOP THE PIANO I AM CRYING. her voice…. wow. “You had a speech, you’re speechless, love slipped beyond your reaches” ...”I was never ready so I watch you go” i literally have no words holy shit this was beautiful and I loved it

gold rush — J A C K. “I call you out on your contrarian shit,” !!!! 1989 meets folklore. mirrorball of evermore.

’tis the damn season — the BASS !!! “The road not taken looks real good now,” the ultimate hallmark type movie where the main character comes back to the small town and sees the one person who is the only person who has ever understood them but they are too scared to love so they allow it to happen just for the weekend, because hey, we could all use one weekend. “And wonder about the only soul who can tell which smiles I'm fakin’” ….my heart

tolerate it — that piano is familiar as fuck? …I have no words. my tears ricochet is her most heartbreaking song but this…holy shit this is a new heartbreak this is a dagger to the heart, heartbreak

no body, no crime — HAIM!!!!! Ummm HELLO goodbye earl by dixie chicks but make it Taylor and Haim. I LOVE THIS. Where’s the tv show/film/music video, give it to me nOW. country tay is alive and well. the whisper of “died” whqjehq

happiness — this is a very powerful song. Gatsby reference “beautiful fool” ? !!! I fucking love how she attempts to belittle the woman who comes after her as that’s a normal coping mechanism in our society for women but she quickly takes it back knowing it’s not the other woman’s fault. “no one teaches you what to do when a good man hurts you.” Another Gatsby reference !!!

dorothea — title alone gives me Lumineers vibes, aaaaand yep sounds like it too :) the “ooh’s” give me life !!! “Ooh, from you I’d buy anything.”

coney island — NATIONAL !!!! I’VE BEEN WAITING FOR THIS ONE. Also a song about New York? Yes pls. MATT FUCK ME UP BRO. “But when I walked up to the podium I think that I forgot to say your name” could be Calvin reference?? ….”sorry for not making you my centerfold”

ivy — “Oh, goddamn, my pain fits in the palm of your freezing hand” ummmm this song? I am not mature enough to understand LOL

cowboy like me — Tim McGraw vibes !! Also omg MARCUS MUMFORD SIR !! The B R I D G E… “locked..it..down..” country Taylor girl I see you.

long story short — this beat uhhhh yes. very strong national vibes. going off getaway car??? “Long story short, it was the wrong guy…now I’m all about you.” peace reference :’) wonderland reference :’) hoax reference :’) girl has been through it but long story short she sur-vi-ived.

marjorie — “never be so polite you forget your power, never wield such power you forget to be polite.” my heart ….. “I should’ve asked you questions, I should’ve asked you how to be.”

closure — MY MOUTH DROPPED WOW I LOVED THE INTRO. “I’m fine with my spite, and my tears, and my beers and my candles…” YES !!! main character doesn’t need the closure, it’s unnecessary and fake.

evermore — the piano…I’m not ready. I’m not ready. I’m not ready. “Hey December…” JUSTIN COMING IN. ummmm. Is this what heaven sounds like? justin’s part was SO FUCKING GENIUS. The beat change? Signaling what depression/mental illness feels like? It’s all slow and then bOOM ALL AT ONCE, and then slows back down…”whether weather be the frost” EHFWKJHREKJ

final thoughts: ...I still am processing. I — I just wow. she never misses. she never disappoints. I’m sure I missed little clues and references which I cannot wait to discover later on but for now, I’m just going to sit in awe of her mind. T, I say it every time but you kill it every.single.time and I truly hope you sit back and enjoy what you’ve created here. simply put, evermore is folklores big sister and I’m here for it.

[trashbaggage]

started with a throwaway idea for ridiculous immortal!jaskier

had a breakdown about how one of his biggest fears is probably to matter so little as to be forgotten

bon appétit

He doesn't remember Before.

Before he had become a lost wanderer. Before he had woken, cold and alone, in a nameless town of strange faces. Before he forgot where he came from and started towards a life hopefully worth remembering.

If he focuses hard enough on that blank dark ocean of what was, he can see a twisted shape and a hunger never met with satisfaction. If he traces the small mark at the base of his skull, he can feel an ice-sharp claw of fear reaching in and pulling. He doesn't know how the mark came to be, but he knows it is jagged and hurt and there - an exit wound made raw by the relentless scrape of memories being extracted and consumed.

He had felt so hollow, those days after whatever had attacked him. So full of emptiness he could scream just from the paradox alone. At least he had come to in a room already paid for, with a few possessions that seemed to be his. For three days he stayed in that space, just to feel the walls block out the rest of the world he could not remember being a part of. But he could not stay there forever, and even though he ate during the days, a growing hunger still gnawed; he soon realized he had seen its match Before and he could only hope it would not prove as terrifying and insatiable.

That was a very short hope.

On the fourth day he left his little room, its comfort no longer enough. He told himself he just needed some fresh air to clear his head, some solid earth beneath his feet. But in the back of his mind, centered just by that mark, he knew he was hunting.

As the night fell around him, so did his new instinct, a cloak of stalking need - and even worse, a wanting thrill. He likes to tell himself he doesn't really recall what happened next, that it too was lost to him just like the Before. But this....this he remembers in scarring detail. A man ahead of him in the crowd, making his way between two buildings, thinking the shadowed alley will get him home quicker to his waiting family; following the man and calling out a greeting, a seemingly innocent question of direction - a trap to bring him closer; and the snare of his hands catching fast and quick upon the back of the man's head, his eyes going distant and glass-like in seconds. The only consolation he can give himself is that he didn't drain the man dry, but the man - Szymon, another thing he can't forget though he wishes dearly he could - went home that night with no memory of his ten year old daughter. Those years gone, and he does not know how to give them back; does not know if he even would after they had filled up that cored-out hollow inside, had quieted that hunger. For a time.

He goes back to his room that night and doesn't sleep.

-

He moves on the next morning, packing up his things and walking out of that town with a straight back and feet that want to run. He has no idea where he is going, or who may be waiting for him somewhere, anywhere; he fears, deep down to his marrow, that no one is. He just keeps moving, trying to stick to smaller villages and less-traveled roads; he thinks he has never done so much camping, but that's just an educated guess. Anything to keep away from other people, with their rich pasts calling out to him like feasts waiting to be consumed. He stretches himself thin, starving until he can no longer take the gnashing hunger, and even then he only tries to take the scraps he hopes no one will miss too much. There are a few slip-ups here and there, but his control gets better through gory practice.

And yet another problem arises; he feeds his hunger, and while that keeps him alive and going, it does not change how wrong he feels. Not just the heavy guilt from taking that which isn't his, but another wrongness. He has all these memories of other people's lives, all their mundanities and extraordinary moments, all their loved ones, all their lives lived, and though he owns them, for awhile, in a sense, they are not his. He is still blank. By the gods, he doesn't even know his own name! If anyone bothers to ask it of him, he gives a different one each time - nothing feels right. He knows nothing; he is nowhere and no one.

He is nothing.

-

Another few weeks. A handful of "meals". More names; his victims', that he can't forget, and those he shrugs on for a few days like an ill-fitting coat, soon to be forgotten. It doesn't really matter, anyway.

Nothing he does matters.

He had left behind a pendant, in one of the many cold rooms in the many towns full of strangers that had become a map of his sorrow. Not of his life, as he is not really living - merely surviving. They were mostly running and blurring together, at this point. But that pendant, a delicate lark with topaz chips for eyes, had been one of the few possessions he had from Before - he couldn't bear to lose any of those last ties to his past, no matter how small or frivolous, and no matter if he couldn't recall any memory attached to them. He just liked having tangible proof that he had been a real person, at some point, the kind that was thought of fondly and often, the kind who might have received such a necklace as a gift. So he made his way back to look for it.

He dearly wishes he hadn't.

It took him a few days to realize the item was missing, and by the time he noticed, turned around, and made it back to Velen, about two weeks had passed. He found his way back with little trouble, a cozy place with a red roof (creatively called The Red Roof Inn), just on the border of Novigrad. The same lovely young woman greeted him as he walked in, and he made his way over.

"Hello again, Ada! I know you must be tired of seeing this weary face, but I do believe I left something here and would very much like to see its return. Did you or any one of your lovely patrons find a little gold pendant? In the shape of a lovely lark? It's very important to me, you see." He may be a tad more desperate to find it than he thought - he's using more words and charm than he has in the past few weeks, but it does feel nice to converse with someone. And the girl had been very friendly to him during his first visit; they had even passed one of the nights with silly card games and some really excellent cakes she had made. It seemed they were both lonely souls.

A strange look passed over her face, and she just stared at him for a good few moments. He was about to ask if something was wrong, when she very hesitantly threw his world into disarray. "I'm sorry, sir, but - um, eh, do I... know you? We don't usually get a large number of people coming through here, but I do let some slip through the cracks, as they say." Ada gives a slight, self-conscious little chuckle, and he can see that there really is no recognition in her face. "When, um, when did you say you were here last? And you lost something? Maybe - "

"No, no, that's alright," he breaks in, amazed he can squeak anything out with the way his lungs can't seem to find enough air. She doesn't know him. She doesn't remember him.

Of course.

Of fucking course she doesn't! He can feel himself losing track of his surroundings, but he can see her face becoming concerned. She says something, but the words can't get past the rushing in his ears, and he just mutters out a few more "sorrys" and "nevermind, don't worry about it" and "made a mistake". He turns and runs out the door, almost tripping down the few steps outside, and keeps going until he finds himself in a pocket of quiet around the side of a building. The wood feels solid and harsh against his back as he slides down it to puddle on the ground, and he sits there for a long time, trying to get his breath and his mind back.

He leaves without the pendant.

-

The coin in his bag is running low, and he's not even sure how he gained it in the first place. He starts picking up odd jobs here and there, small things that toss little company and a few coins his way. It keeps him focused during the day, but the nights are still hard, yawning open and calling out for him to fall further adrift. He finally picks up the scuffed but well-loved lute that was with his possessions when he woke - he had only run his hands over the strings briefly, before he shut it away in its case. Now he brings it out and lays it on his lap, waiting to see if it sparks any memory; it doesn't, unsurprisingly - at least, not any visual memory. But as he brings it up, he finds his hands curling around its body, cradling it, and he feels settled for the first time in a long while. The notes he picks out are rough and scattered, nothing you could even generously call a song coming forth. He keeps working at it, though, and as the stars wink above him he welcomes the night with an aching but proud melody. He looks at the calluses on his fingers, built up on years of songs he can't remember, and thinks maybe I can create some beauty for the world, to help pay for my ugliness.

He falls asleep just before dusk, the lute still in his arms, and he does not dream of names and faces that don't belong to him. It is the best sleep he's ever gotten, and in the morning he comes awake slow and warm and refreshed. And so he keeps playing, his hands remembering where his mind forgets, and he makes up new tunes and lyrics and songs aplenty; it seems his hands were just waiting for that first chord to be struck. It creates a different hunger in him, but this one he isn't afraid of.

-

He is in another small town, just on the outskirts, helping out an older couple with their broken fence. They had offered him a warm meal and a warm bed for his work, and he is grateful for the kindness. He tries to keep himself so distant from people, to not hurt more than he can help it, and he gets so very lonely.

The sun is high overhead, the afternoon at its peak, and he has found a shaded spot for a break. The woman, Lena, had brought him a tall glass of cold water, fresh from the earth, and it tastes clear and sharp on his tongue. He decides to bring out his lute for some practice, and starts playing a silly little song about the flowering spring come to play, with her green locks buzzing with the hum of honeybees and her feet waltzing through streams and time alike; it feels the perfect atmosphere to play it. As he finishes a verse and rounds back to the chorus again, he hears a little voice from behind humming along, echoing his words back at him. He keeps playing, but turns to see the couple's granddaughter, a young girl of about eight or nine, dancing there with a basket of fresh-picked flowers; he thinks they will make an excellent wreath. As he winds down his song and slowly fades out the notes, she comes closer to him and holds out her dirt-covered palm, smiling the smile of two friends sharing a secret.

"I like your song," she says shyly. "You have a nice voice. Dziadek says nice things given should be thanked, so thank you." She shakes her outstretched hand slightly, and the little flower resting there catches his eye. It's a sunny and bright buttercup, and it's presented with the same gravitas as if it were solid gold. He reaches out to take it, and twirls it as he brings it up to his nose to breathe its fresh scent deep.

"Well, thank you for the thanks, and I shall treasure this token of our great and legendary friendship!" He cannot seem to stop smiling, and his chest feels like it's blooming. "Would you like to hear another song? I think you'd enjoy the ballad of Zofia the adventurer, who roams across the continent and makes friends with everyone she meets."

Her eyes light up and she plops down before him. "That's my name! Yes yes, play it!" A pause as she settles for a moment and says solicitously, "please", before she's back to dancing in her seat. He definitely can't hold back a laugh at that, and rewards such good manners with the promised song. He plays for her for a good twenty minutes before she's called back to the house, and as she leaves, still humming and singing snippets of the song he made for her, he reaches up to the buttercup tucked behind his ear and doesn't feel that ever-lurking hunger.

-

At the next place he stops, the innkeeper asks for his name as he's buying a room. He smiles as his mouth forms around "Jaskier", and it doesn't feel like a lie.

-

It's been a few years since he became Jaskier, and he still travels about like a petal on the breeze, uprooted but still going. Still alive. He can scarcely believe it himself. Lady luck seemed fond of fucking him over, but there was one benefit she tossed out like a battered bone to a starving dog: he doesn't seem to be aging. He hasn't caught any sickness in the past few years either. He's gotten into a few scrapes and dust-ups here and there, some truly unfortunate misunderstandings, but they healed pretty quick - especially if he'd been fed.

Which is another small miracle as well. The "rules" surrounding his condition aren't quite as set as he'd first believed. Certainly, the quickest way to address the hunger was to glut himself at the source, to find some poor soul and latch on for a quick meal. But other people's memories of their own lives and personal histories are not the only sustenance that can feed him - it seems writing himself in their memories works too. The more lasting the impression, the more energy he gains, and they even....taste different as well.

Memories unconnected to him taste bland in the worst way - like you know it tastes of the sweetest ambrosia to others, but it turns to ash in your own mouth, and you get echoes of what could have been, what everyone else seems to have but you. The memories he creates and becomes a part of have more substance. More zest. He's been playing taverns and inns along his meandering path, and those nights with generous and receptive (and drunk) crowds are the best - as people stumble out after or up to their rooms, still humming his songs, he feels full for at least a week, and he can taste happiness like crisp apples or a cold ale. And as he has become more comfortable around people again, in control enough to sate his loneliness on a more face-to-face basis, if you will, he's found himself some lovely company, and those memories he leaves his lovers with are tangy citrus and refreshing for a quick snack or pick-me-up. Although, of course, there are those few unfortunate misunderstandings he finds himself in, usually, he admits, in conjunction with those romps, and the tang can soon turn more sour and acidic - he's still full for a day or two, but it's uncomfortable and doesn't sit quite right.

He knows he has become louder over the years, everything about him calling out for a look, a remark, for attention. Brightly colored doublets garner admiring glances; a flash of silver or gold about his fingers make others want to reach out and touch; a sly wink and stories told through movement as much as words gathers people closer. After keeping himself so separate and quiet, shrinking himself down to pass unnoticed and hopefully unharmed, for all parties concerned, to let go and be so blatantly present is a thrill; he may be forgotten, but he refuses to be ignored.

(On his more maudlin days, he does wonder if this newfound freedom is truly a blessing - is being Jaskier the slow return of who he was Before? Is there anything real in the artifice he adopted to fit in and make life easier? Getting too philosophical makes his temples throb, so he just gives thanks that he may still be lonely now, but at least he's not so alone.)

[macmilllan]

                                       “ i want to stay. i want to leave. i am                                           three oceans away from my soul. ”

cis male / he/his. ┊ if you’re looking for FINNIAN MACMILLAN, you’ll probably find HIM in the HUFFLEPUFF dorm with the rest of the SEVENTH years. they’re the TWENTY-ONE year old PUREBLOOD who looks kind of like ROME FLYNN. they seem CURIOUS, QUICK-THINKING, & JUDICIOUS to me, but apparently they’re also IMPATIENT, DISTRUSTFUL, & RECALCITRANT. maybe that’s why they remind me of waking up early, so it feels like you have the whole world to yourself; the salty breeze off the sea; making up your own rules to board games;   family photos and heirlooms locked in a trunk you don’t open; the adrenaline rush of thriving at the last minute; a feeling deep down that you’d never make it on your own. ( ooc: zoe, 22, cst, she/her. ) 

WARNINGS:  parental death, car accidents, manipulation, underage alcohol use ADDITIONAL MATERIALS:   finn’s playlist, stats page, & pinterest board  

i.

the macmillans were always a large family, sprawling and warm and bright.  generations ago,  they found themselves written up as one of the sacred twenty-eight and were,  if not quite baffled  (for they were proud to make and display beautiful family trees,  and thought it made sense they were one of the stronger pureblood clans around),  uncomfortable with the company that put them with.

for years they’d been more than content to exist as their own enclave, almost;  existing in the wixen world and attending hogwarts and welcome members of society,  but always,  always happy to return home to ireland away from the larger wixen communities.  it was rare to see a macmillan settle down in hogsmeade or godric’s hollow;  they preferred to do business with muggles in their communities when they could,  only went to diagon alley when it could not be put off any longer.  

it was strange;  but the sort of strangeness easily written off as eccentricity,  that didn’t seem to ruin their standing in good pureblood society.  

perhaps that was because they weren’t reclusive  —  for years and years,  they made friends with other families,  saw their children married off with greengrasses and abbotts and longbottoms and happily attended the large society weddings.   they were proud of their various children and their various accomplishments.

augustine macmillan was only one macmillan out of many.  he was the eldest son of an eldest son,  going back several lucky generations that made him favored.  

if the macmillans were the sort of family to call a certain child the heir over all the others,  it wouldn’t have been a question:  augustine was the heir.  the golden boy.  beloved not just by his family but by everyone who had encountered him at hogwarts,  where he met his wife,  briar shacklebolt.

no one was really surprised when they moved back to the macmillan family home. augustine’s father had recently died.  his younger brother was also recently wed,  and moved to spain to live near his wife’s family.  it fell on augistine to keep up the old macmillan estate on the sea.  he and briar were happy to take on the responsibility;  they agreed that there was no better place to start their family.  

and they did  —  they were,  like,  really good at starting a family,  actually.  they had their eldest son,  shea,  shortly after settling into the macmillan home,  and five years later had lark and lonen,  the twins.  the twins were joined by niamh three years later,  finnian three years after that;  when little astrid was born a year after finnian,  the couple finally decided they were done.   they had their perfect,  large family.  the macmillan-estate-on-the-sea was loud,  filled with love and laughter and a perfect amount of lived-in chaos.  everything was perfect.  

ii.

later,  all the wixen gossip and newspaper tributes would call briar and augustine’s death a senseless tragedy,  an unthinkable thing.  plenty of muggles die from car crashes;  but purebloods,  from good families,  heir to their names,  just  —  didn’t.  they died from well-earned old age or an illness that had them in st. mungo’s for months leading to their demise.  from spell inventions gone badly,  or from being on the wrong end of a duel.  those sort of deaths made sense;  they were noble or expected.  strangers heard news of the macmillans’ death and found it shocking enough to reveal disdain.

it wasn’t altogether strange for a pureblood family like theirs to have a car.  even the ministry used the muggle vehicles,  charmed to weave through traffic with an ease everyone felt wixen had earned.  briar and augustine didn’t have anything flashy  —  just a nice family thing,  affixed with an extension charm so all six of their children could ride in it comfortably,  if they needed to.  

technically, the extension charm was illegal;  but everyone who knew about it looked the other way.  after all,  the youngest macmillan kids attended a muggle school at the local town,  so they could have friends and socialize before moving on to an intermediate academy.  people whispered about that  —  the illegal magicking of the muggle vehicle,  the fact that their children attended a muggle school  —  in the wake of the couple’s death.  the macmillans had spent generations currying enough favor for people to willfully forget that,  despite their perfect lineage,  they were a little too comfortable with muggle things.

no one brought it up,  at briar and augustine’s funeral.  no one wanted to punish those six kids for what they knew were the sins of their parents,  and their parents alone.  little shea macmillan was only eighteen,  barely an adult in the wizarding world and still at hogwarts;  there was no way he would have a car,  and charm it,  and drive it around roads where muggles go like that’s at all safe.  

no,  people were quick to help him,  and jump to his defense and his aid.  because they were quick to want him to turn out different from his parents.  

iii.

finn was seven when his parents died and suddenly everyone turned to his oldest brother like he was the head of the family now,  the one in charge of the gaggle of macmillan kids.  shea was still going to hogwarts.  even the well-meaning strangers who wanted to meddle in their lives didn’t want to steal a hogwarts education from shea.  he had three years to finish out;  everyone knew he’d step up as caretaker as soon as he was done,  because that was the right thing to do,  and everyone was sure shea would do the right things.  

an older woman,  somebody’s grandmother,  if she wasn’t theirs,  came to stay at the macmillan-estate-on-the-sea with the kids during the school year.  finn and niamh and little astrid were still too young for intermediate academies;  so she took it upon herself to pull them out of the local muggle school and homeschool them.  

she was kind and helpful,  and shea was too grateful to wonder at how determined everyone was to keep the last of the macmillans away from muggle life.

she never stuck around during holidays and summers,  when shea was back from school.  finn liked her plenty,  but he was happy when shea finished school and strongly encouraged her to stop sticking around at all. the macmillan home never really felt like it used to;  finn was seven when his parents died and that was old enough to remember what life had been like with them around.  

but it was amazing to have shea back for good.  finn felt like things returned to normal,  a little,  when he had his brother around for good.  their house was filled with love and laughter and a perfect amount of lived-in chaos.  no,  life wasn’t all around perfect anymore.  but it was good.  

iv.

their parents had left more than enough gold in the family gringott’s vault that life was always comfortable for the six macmillan kids.  shea could easily fall into the role of guardian for his siblings without worrying about money.  by the time shea was done with school,  finn still had one more year before it was time for him to start at an intermediate academy.  it was a golden year,  him and shea and astrid,  with lark and lonen and niamh coming home for holidays,  everything feeling as right as it could.

all six kids remembered all too well how often people had popped into their home,  trying to load their ideals off on them.  those distant cousins and family friends never seemed to be around now that shea was back for good.  finn,  for one,  was glad.  he’d been raised to be polite,  and kind,  and so he’d sat and nodded and listened to all those adults like he knew they wanted him to.

but you could only take so much of hearing near-strangers try to disparage your parents without explicitly speaking ill of the dead.  even the not-grandmother who’d looked after him and his sisters when their brother was at school had made more than one snide remark about the troubles that came with forgetting that wixen stood apart of muggles for a reason.

finn didn’t feel all that charitable towards the attempted correction everyone seemed to think he’d needed,  grief-stricken at seven.  pureblood society had seen the macmillan family floundering after a tragedy and leapt on them like vultures.  the intent,  he was sure,  was to sway the kids back towards wixen society.  it probably did the opposite.

the macmillans were still an upstanding pureblood family that no one would look down their noses at;  especially not knowing now that the remaining family members were all orphans,  deserving of canned sympathy even years removed from their parents’ deaths.  people were kind to finn,  and he was kind to them in return,  polite in his careful dismissals and practiced brush-offs.  he had his siblings and had learned at a very young age that he just couldn’t rely on anyone else like he could rely on them.

shea was protective of his siblings,  especially finn and astrid who had been so little when they were thrust into his care like he knew what to do with them.  he encouraged the two of them,  and niamh and lonen and lark,  to keep their distance from anyone who seemed too intent on getting them to believe a certain thing or act a certain way.  

people had ulterior motives,  and they were ruthless in getting children to believe those motives were right and just.  the macmillan family had always been self-sufficient,  and they were all determined to keep it that way,  now that they didn’t need to rely on anyone for anything.  

v.

everyone had their job within the macmillan home  —  the thing they did for their siblings that kept things running smoothly,  everyone useful,  everyone loved.  

finn had learned to cook at the elbow of lark and their brief not-grandmother;  when he was home from school,  first his intermediate academy and later hogwarts,  his first stop was the kitchen.  it was a huge,  spacious room in the macmillan-estate-on-the-sea,  the place where so many of his well-worn memories of briar lived.  he felt most connected to his mother there and insisted,  along with lark,  to be in charge of meals.  he and his older sister were a well-oiled machine.  

it was no surpise to any of them when he followed her lead and was sorted into huffelpuff.

she owled him all the best spots in their common room and the best snacks to request from the kitchens,  and her twin lonen wrote to him with old pranks he’d pulled as a gryffindor,  in case finn felt like keeping up family tradition.  niamh was at hogwarts with him,  and rolled her eyes at how much everyone seemed to coddle little finn  —  but she had a mean right hook and promised her fellow slytherins would have finn’s back if anyone tried anything with her baby brother.  

shea owled him,  too.  but just to say he was proud of finn.  finn glowed with love at that one and decided he’d keep all three letters for the rest of his life.  maybe it was a silly,  sentimental sort of choice to make,  when he was fourteen now and supposed to be a grown-up hogwarts student,  but finn stood by it.  

he’d had an early growth spurt and carried himself with the sort of well-worn confidence that made other people decide he was cool.  he had a tendency to play his cards close to his chest and slap on the same practiced niceness with everyone  —  if other people thought that lent him a sense of mystery,  that it made him cool,  that was fine.  it just meant everyone would leave him alone,  for the most part.  that was how finn liked things.  

there was this potential in him to be soft  —  he was the youngest boy in the family,  and for a while there,  when he and astrid were the only ones not in any kind of school,  everyone looked after them as the babies of the family.  he used to need an army of stuffed animals on the bed at night to keep him safe,  used to cry any time he smelled something like his father’s old cologne.  it wasn’t just that there was a potential in him to be soft;  he was soft,  deep down,  and always had been.  

but that didn’t really serve him well,  did it?  all those well-intentioned strangers had swooped in on him and his family in their greatest moment of weakness.  finn was a good guy,  a sweet boy.  that’s what adults always used to call him,  when they were trying to weave their way into the macmillans’ lives.  

but he could wrap all that goodness and sweetness in steel and wield it like a weapon if need be.  it was safer for him and his family,  that way.

vi.

finn loved himself a task.  he wasn’t a believer that idle hands were the devil’s plaything or anything so brimstone-y as that,  but he just didn’t like to sit doing nothing.  some part of him always had to be moving,  lest his mind take over and decide to race in the stillness.  one summer,  he and lark worked their way through julia child’s mastering the art of french cooking.  it felt like a kind of fuck you to all the wholesome,  magical,  english cookbooks people had left them as gifts when they’d seen how many muggle ones were in the macmillan kitchen.  

they owled their uncle,  still living in france with his wife and kids,  progress reports on each recipe.  when he came to visit during christmastime,  finn and lark cooked his family increasingly elaborate french meals until his wife laughed at them and snorted wine out of her nose.  they just ordered a pizza from the muggle place in town,  after that.

one summer,  finn taught himself to play guitar.  he was awful at it for a while,  and niamh,  whose room was next to his,  cast a silencing charm on it until he promised to keep an eye on the clock when he was practicing so he didn’t keep her up until three in the morning.  he got better,  like,  eventually.  his siblings had never been under the illusion his peers were under,  that finn was cool.  

mostly they made fun of him for picking the guitar when the family had a perfectly nice piano in the living room he could have used,  instead of the guitar he bought second-hand from a shop in the town next to the macmillan-estate-on-the-sea.  

the six of them had elaborate board game tournaments,  and games that weren’t quite board games with rules they made up themselves.  exploding snap was an event at home,  everyone tipsy on mulled wine and cider,  well-fed on whatever finn and lark had made for dinner that night.  they organized three-on-three quidditch games on the beach and yelled at anyone who let the quaffle fall into the water.  

vii.

it was different,  in school.  finn was less himself at hogwarts than he was at home,  where he could laugh with his siblings as they laughed at him and feel like not even his missteps would be looked down on.  despite his years at school fully immersed in the magical world,  finn still felt wary around people who weren’t directly related to him.  it even took him a while to warm up to his uncle and his wife and kids,  once they finally started coming around again.  

finn couldn’t help but feel like he couldn’t fail in front of anyone he didn’t already trust with his life  —  and the list of people he trusted with his life was a very short one.

his peers weren’t as bad as adults were  ( there was not a single professor finn had ever trusted.  the ones who were nice and likable were worse than the ones who everyone else disliked )  but there was something about being simultaneously abandoned and conditioned by strangers when he was a kid that made him not want to let his guard down around anybody.  it felt like both a personal failing and an act of survival.

making friends for him was both very easy and almost impossible.  

people tended to like him.  finn wasn’t sure what it was  —  maybe he just had a face,  or his habit of being unfailingly nice to everyone paid off in unexpected ways,  but there had never been a shortage of people willing to walk with him to class or sit with him at breakfast.  he could talk to them,  and joke with them,  and even fall into something that looked enough like a friendship that he was never really alone.  

but finn wouldn’t have cared if he was alone all the time,  which  —  he was reasonably sure was not most people’s reactions to having friends.  it was fine;  he was fine.  at the very least,  it made it easy for him to satisfy that itch under his skin that said he had to keep moving at all times.  people with friends never sat alone at quidditch games,  and they always knew when there was something fun going on.  there was always someone willing to play wizard’s chess with him,  or go to the library to work on notes.  

finn was technically thriving at hogwarts.  his grades reflected as much,  and he knew he’d have no trouble making it in the world outside of the castle.  but he never really felt like he was thriving,  and was mostly just happy thinking there was a world outside the castle.

viii.

shea and lark ganged up on him,  sometimes.  both of them thought he was doing himself a disservice by phoning so much of his life in.  it was true that all of the macmillan kids had been messed up,  in some way,  by their parents deaths and the three years immediately following them.  finn just carried it differently than any of them;  and despite it all,  he was still one of the babies of the family,  coddled and looked after.  finn preferred to be the one looking after things.  it made him uncomfortable to be seen.  

for them,  only for them,  finn promised he’d try to live more in his life;  to not be so distant and practiced and kindly removed.  it didn’t feel right on him,  like a borrowed coat.  he wasn’t sure anyone else would’ve noticed he difference.  he’d gone through the motions of being involved,  of being a friend,  for years now  —  and he’d been good enough at going through the motions that trying for real felt more like faking it.

honestly,  just this once,  he wasn’t pleased his siblings were looking out for him.  he’d coasted through most of his hogwarts career and then spent his last three years floundering,  trying to act like a real person and then remembering it wasn’t supposed to be an act at all.

the world was changing,  malleable and more malicious than ever,  right outside the warm glow of his family home.  during christmas break,  the ministry made changes to the auror’s office that made all the macmillan kids look at each other with worried eyes.  there were several warring forces shifting under the surface of things.  their home was a safe enclave,  and everyone felt he and astrid were protected enough within hogwarts’ walls.  

but there was no denying that things weren’t going to sit peacefully for much longer,  if there’d ever been any real peace.  finn was just enough of a pessimist to think it was only a matter of time before the world boiled over,  like a pot unwatched.  it sure as hell felt like he had picked a poor time to try and give himself into feeling things for real.

[prncessjosie]

&&. announcing her royal highness, ( joséphine dominique anne de saxe-cobourg et gotha ), the ( 20 ) year old ( princess ) of ( belgium). she is often confused with ( dove cameron ). some say that she is ( aloof & naive), but she is actually ( friendly & optimistic ). ( OOC: EMILY / 25 / GMT +10 / SHE/HER )

( hi, i’m emily, come n love my babe )

( also quick warning: there is discussion of childhood illness (that is poorly researched as hell, i apologise for that) & stuff in here so if that’s triggering for you please just skip to the tl;dr at the end for the basic idea, or just message me! )

the backstory

princess joséphine was born under an unlucky star. she was born over two months early, when her mother - the crown princess anne of belgium - was only thirty weeks pregnant. 

a difficult pregnancy led to an early c-section in the hope of keeping both mother and child alive 

and in many ways it was successful. both survived the traumatic experience, but the newborn princess was too young, and her lungs were under developed.

she was diagnosed with chronic lung disease, and spent the first few months of her life in the hospital, where doctors and nurses and her parents worried whether she would be strong enough to survive. 

but her parents were royalty - her father then the crown prince albert of belgium - and no expense was spared on the tiny baby christened joséphine’s health. 

it took over a year before she could breathe without help, and most of her early childhood was marred by her inability to live a normal, healthy life. 

running around like other children simply wasn’t an option ; too much exertion would have her gasping for breath, and her family became protective of their precious little princess. 

any minor cold or flu would put her in a hospital bed, sometimes needing a machine to help her breathe.

 she was watched constantly, wrapped up in cotton wool by all those around her who wanted only to see her safe.

slowly but surely, though, the princess began to get better. her lungs became stronger, and with each passing year she found herself able to do more and more. 

what once would’ve caused her to need an oxygen mask now only gave her the slightest shortness of breath. 

by her early teens, her health was almost the same as any other her age. but the struggles of her early life were hard to forget. 

her family were protective, reluctant to let her take risks, and joséphine started to believe they were right.

staying safe was better than the alternative ; she’d seen enough of hospital rooms to last several lifetimes. 

she kept herself away from the public eye as much as possible, not wanting anyone to see her weakness.

the present

josie has grown into an idealistic young woman

her health is fairly stable now! she really only has problems if she gets some kind of respitory illness - which is why she’s very careful about washing hands lmao

she’s a bit of a dreamer who likes to see the best in everyone ; she wants the world to be a better, more peaceful place and hates that they’re at war

the recent loss of her mother & her father’s coma have hit her hard. josie’s family have always been the people she spent the most time around, and it’s difficult to think her mother is gone and her father might never wake up

she’s proud of her sister, though, for stepping up in such a difficult time. josie’s certain that in her place, she’d never be able to rule anything. thank god she’s the youngest child, and will probably never have to take on any kind of power

she can be very naive ; an incredibly sheltered life has led her to not always knowing things. it can make her seem kind of dumb, sometimes - but don’t be fooled. one of the few activities josie was allowed to do even when she was sick was read, and over the years she’s learned a lot. she’s very book-smart, just not great with real life stuff sometimes

she’s also got a bit of a hidden adventurous streak that she’s tried to suppress but is starting to make itself known. there’s a lot she’s never really experienced, and josie is beginning to see how much she’s missed out on by being kept safe. it’s making her want to explore all kinds of new things, just because she can - but she’s nervous of the potential consequences of going too far

some TROPES for josie: 

ILL GIRL ;  The ill girl is almost inevitably a sympathetically cute girl.note The disease can be anything from anemia to organ failure. Smart writers avoid such specifics, making it a Soap Opera Disease. It will never disfigure or impair her cuteness, but usually prompts an older brother or sister figure into shady business to help pay the medical bills. Or prompts them to rush into some dangerous/brave deed while she cheers them on. ]

HAIR OF GOLD, HEART OF GOLD  ;  The character is a blonde. Therefore, obviously, she is young, beautiful, pure, kind, and innocent, and the innocence can range up to Virgin Power. If she fights, it's reluctantly and she tends to avoid violence where she can.

CAGED BIRD METAPHOR  ;  Many, many years ago, some artistic young woman destined for marriage looked at a pet bird in a cage and thought, "Look at this beautiful creature of the sky, confined to a cell that we may be entertained by its song... I know how that feels!" And thus this trope was born.

WIDE EYED IDEALIST  ;  A character far too idealistic for their own good.It may be the Naïve Newcomer who Jumped at the Call — he or she has a huge stack of comic books/movies/bards' tales, and thinks they're pretty Genre Savvy. Unfortunately, their universe is more toward the cynical end of the Sliding Scale of Idealism vs. Cynicism than the stories they know. Alternatively, they might just be generally nice people whose idealistic attempts at solving the problems of their world turn out to go horribly horribly awry as no one else plays by their rules. Usually used as nothing more than a device to highlight the realism/grittiness/cynicism of the setting.

BABY OF THE BUNCH  ;  Being the youngest of your group typically comes with some perks and challenges. On one side you're probably the cutest, have a pass to act immature, people like taking care of you, and you can embrace your fun side, knowing that the elders are there to handle the serious stuff. And if there's anything you're naïve about, you have plenty of others to give you the realest unfiltered advice without the generational gap and detachment that your parents or the Old Master have. On the other end, sometimes people don't take you seriously. There you're kinda stuck because no matter how old you get, you'll always be "the baby" in their eyes.

AND josie’s pinterest board is right here for all your aesthetic needs:  https://www.pinterest.com.au/queenemilys/soon-youll-get-better-josephine/

TL;DR - princess josephine, sickly child turned sheltered young woman with curiosity about the real world. also dead parents so she’s probs sad, just for the record! 

if you made it this far congrats ur a hero. i’m open for any and all plots, so please like this post if you want me to slide into ur dms to do that! or just message me any time. 

[momo-de-avis]

Wordtober Day 14: Overgrown

I was a girl when I first developed my passion for painting.

Papa would take me to the Salon and I would marvel at the stacks of canvases hung on every wall, as high as the ceilings went. Though I tended to pay no mind to the classical portraits of ladies or the massive sculptures from the Académie, I became enthralled by the revolutionaries. The naturalists, that is. The men who left the city by train, taking their pochades to paint the natural elements, who captured the forests of Barbizon for posteriority with a curious, famished eye.

I wondered deeply about these matters until it was all I thought about. How does one develop the ability to capture something within just a small frame of time, only to compose it in timelessness and thus devote it to posteriority? And what frame of time could that be? In a passing moment, as we gaze upon nature, what instant, between every flicker of existence, will we decide to depict? Is it possible to freeze one single second and represent it in several instances of daylight, to pour onto a canvas all the beauty we see unravel before a simple leaf, a dense forest, the still waters of a lake, or even the skies?

The artist opens his pochade, sets up his easel, and looks up at the sky. And there, he sees it: one cloud hovering above hues of blue, dancing slowly to the wind’s cadence, cast in heavenly shadows of grey and white and yellow. Then, he picks up his brush and begins to paint, but time has already moved on—and he rushes to capture all those passing moments and lock them into the surface of the canvas.

That is probably why I was always more inclined to paintings of storms. There’s something daunting to de la Peña’s canvases, in the way he paints one vivid golden arm reaching out between the thick clouds to set the brown rocks alight, like hope cast onto something hopeless to come. And probably why I enjoy the desolation of Daubigny’s depiction of Les Sables-d’Olonne. In either of them, there’s something massive, something imposing. It seems that, instead of painting the present, with bits of the past scattered behind, they focused on the future instead. A storm to come; a confusion of grey and yellow hues that announce the incoming night.

There’s one particular painter that has fascinated me for long, though I’ve only ever seen reproductions on bulletins owned by collectors, and on one occasion, one poor copy by some petulant little student of some small studio. It’s called A Monk by the Sea and it’s by this widely ignored little painter from Prussia called Caspar David Friedrich. It’s a massive canvas, from what I’m told, containing just three things: the sea, the shore, and a monk.

If you look at the skies, you’ll see that, much like Daubigny’s, there’s a combination of darker hues with lighter ones, and though the brushwork is far more formal and even academic, you can outline the very rim of the clouds that hover above the horizon. But they contrast greatly with the darkness below, and it gives us the sense of a looming future, a daunting and terrifying one. A storm is coming. And on this bland, sandy-like shoreline, a solitary monk stands alone. He wears simple vestments, long and crisp, and he stares. He just stares at this storm that is slowly forming in the far horizon, at these gigantic clouds that announce nature’s violence, and he is… unafraid.

Burke called it the Sublime. That which is so daunting, so terrifying, it is, at the same time, beautiful. Something able to make us quiver on our legs in trepidation, yet we cannot but reach forth and touch it.

I always did have an inclination for the more mystical of paintings. Friedrich’s in particular touched me differently. It was, obviously, that element of the sublime, but something else. Like in Constable’s landscapes, and even some of Corot’s, it’s nature’s double meaning behind every piece of beauty we admire. Have a look at Couple Contemplating the Moon and see for yourself how those beautiful branches twist like tendrils in the backlight of the incoming night, and wonder: what will happen to this couple once night settles and they are left alone with this disfigured tree, in the complete darkness? Or why is the spectral image of the Abbey in the Oakwood so enticing we almost want to wait for night to settle and the soul of nature to dance in ghostly shapes before us—even when we’re terrified of it?

Yes, I have always loved the art of painting. But there was one problem to my passion, which is my gender.

Of course, I was not exactly barred from painting, I was just left with little options, and watercolours bored me to death. Even less the motifs my family insisted I painted, those proper of a lady: boring landscapes of sunshine over green grass and still lakes and swans and other birds of sorts—I despised it all.

I knew I had a talent, of course. And I knew how to use it, I just needed the right outlet. Watercolours certainly weren’t it—I wanted proper oils, and I wanted to wear long gowns and cover myself in paint, forgetting the entirety of this world who said painting outside, like the men who took the train to Barbizon, was improper.

In truth, my father minded little of it, and it was my sister who raised much a scandal, though it seems obvious today she was also quite envious. For she married none other than an artist.

She always was quite the uptight lady, however. Proper in every aspect, yes, but incredibly dull. Composed in her folded skirts and wearing hats in the summer, carefully adjusting her little laced glove as she opened her umbrella while her husband paddled a boat on the lake. She always did think of me as far too scandalous, but I minded little so long as I could paint—and it just so happened she married a painter.

Gustave wasn’t so much a master as he was an excuse. He proposed to tutor me and for a while Adolphine was eased by the thought that it was her husband the one to guide me, perhaps considering he’d steer me towards those boring watercolours she adored in order to tame my character. But I was better than Gustave. Though he dominated the technique, of course—for a classicist. For him, it mattered only that I copied the masters and understand a composition, study drawing, that mark of intellectualism of a true artist, and the colour comes after, for it is line that is truly scientific—I cared not for any of that! Colour is the true science, I told him! And screw what Adolphine deemed proper, have a look—I screamed at him—at Delacroix or Gros instead, and dare tell me colour is not scientific! How dare he, when even Vasari praised the science of colour for Titian and the Venetians!

Eventually, he gave in, as my condition—as he put it—appeared to his eyes as none but a whim, and perhaps the best thing to do was to simply answer to my fits of rage before they could develop into something… far worse.

I began to suspect at this point that my family saw me as ill and mad, and it would be no time until they threw me into a hospice. It was common of me to hear them muttering behind closed doors, whimpering like dogs, particularly Adolphone, who wailed: oh, my sister will be the disgrace of us, what shall I do?, she will not leave those paintings alone, and what things does she paint?, she never even shows me!

No, Adolphine, I never showed them to you. 

My sister couldn’t possibly bear with my creations, considering my inclination for the grotesque. I remember staring at a Fuseli once and thinking how beautiful his nightmares were. The little goblin-like creature that sat on that fair lady, slouched over her bed in slumber was, to my eyes, not her tormentor but her guardian. And I pondered about it—imagine having a guardian, a protector who watched over your dreams as you slept. So I began to experiment with these pictures that suddenly appeared in my mind at night—just twisting shapes of humanoid presences that always seemed non-threatening to me, and they danced to my will and bowed before me. Once awoken, I would run up to the attic without eating, open my pochade and begin to paint; I would lock the door as to not be interrupted and be cast into this strange world of oils and shapes that composed themselves before my eyes, and time would pass completely indistinct.

Every time I painted, time ceased to exist—or maybe I did. But whatever the truth, I existed outside of this world, and whatever there was to the streets outside my window, it was entirely gone. It was far more than a deep trance—I could feel an intense compulsion I had to answer, or else I’d grow mad! I had to rush up the stairs and begin to paint immediately—and I did. The moment my fingers touched the hardened wood of my brush or the easel, I would cease to exist and transform into something else.

On my canvases, shapes gained form under the dark hues of my nightly landscapes. Explosions of light in the skies, in gold and dull yellow, made way to something lingering in the corner, something large and imposing with wide jutting horns and claws raising above a prey below; and sometimes, the setting sun on a pasture cast an arm of pink and purple onto the skies, enough to illuminate an anthropomorphic silhouette that danced before a farmer, who prayed the Angelus alone; and then, the same creature could be seen upon the corner of a street of Paris as a flaneur tipped his hat back and looked up, right into its big, bulbous, bright white eyes.

There was another thing present in all: the creature, as it appeared, did not hide; it stood right in front of its prey and it gazed upon them in a moment of not doubt, but profound contemplation. And below the enormous hunter, the prey would look up in peace and silence, accepting of their fate, with not a hint of fright nor a bellow of horror. Much like the monk staring longingly at the incoming storm, alone, like a castaway, on an unknown sandy shore—contemplative, silent, peaceful.

When Gustave first saw my canvases he was shaken. I saw sweat pouring from his forehead and laughed in amusement as he moved frantically about the studio, and I could see how much he longed to grab hold of my paintings and destroy them but would not dare to do so. More: how much they frightened him. How he would draw near gently but there was a line he never crossed, invisibly traced on the floors, as he’d freeze on his quivering legs, eyes locked on the monster’s eyes, my monster, cold sweat pouring still as he breathed deep and heavy, and stuttered a compliment that never really came.

I knew he thought my paintings to be outstanding in technique and composition, it was the creature that terrified him, but that only made me feel more confident in my work. That was my creature, my creation, and it stared back at me as if I was its very own God.

It was around this time that I first heard about the disappearances, though I minded them not. Men and women snatched off the streets, to never be seen again, and mere rags from their clothes left behind.

Eventually, Gustave learned to be more at ease with my paintings, though he still would not dare to cross that invisible line he had placed between him and the paintings. Except one time.

He drew near very slowly, quivering at every step, and gazed deeply upon a small figure in the corner, a small man illuminated by a single strand of light coming from a street lamp as he looked up at the creature that stood tall on the left side of the painting, firm and steady on its legs. Something about him lured Gustave, and I watched curiously as his eyes drew away from the ambience of the painting to focus on that one lonely man.

And then, he said: “This man looks eerily similar to Hubert Leblanc.”

I learned later that Huber Leblanc was a frequenter of the Salon and an avid art collector known for being the major buyer of Gustave’s paintings, who seemed entirely disinterested in the revolutionaries of the Beux Arts and instead preferred the boring artworks of a much classical tone. He had even been gifted one of Adolphine’s terrible watercolours, which he treasured delightedly. But at the time, I thought nothing of it. I had never met this Monsieur Leblanc, had no interest in meeting him, merely heard my brother-in-law’s mention of his name and my sister’s adulation of his character, and sincerely cared not for him.

So I kept on painting. I locked the door of my studio and let the word fall into its own insignificance as I painted more and more of my beloved creature in all sorts of different settings: sneaking between the columns of the Palais de Tokyo as a woman gazed up in plenitude to accept her fate; lurking at the edges of the Île de la Cité, obfuscating the Notre Dame de Paris entirely, as an onlooker accepted his fate, stood frozen on the Pont de Saint Michel; standing on the roof of Les Halles, gazing down at an unsuspecting woman who raised her head with a basket of fish on her hand, her eyes meeting the creature’s, waiting placidly; a passer-by exiting the Théatre de L’Odéon, stood frozen in the middle of the Rue Monsieur-Le-Prince, as the monster awaited his arrival at the end of the intersection, an umbrella fallen from the victim’s hand as he watched the creature’s eyes and awaited his ending.

I was ravenous in my dedication. I ate little, for time passed and I saw nor heard a thing, and outside my door, the servants would leave trays of food that would go foul. My sister would knock on my door insistently, but I heard nothing. Whenever we did sit at the table for supper, she’d complain about my behaviour and leave a hint that perhaps I needed some assistance, but her implications angered me and I was driven into a fit of rage.

One afternoon, I heard my sister gasp and turned to find her pale and frozen on her chair as she folded a newspaper and threw it aside with a gesture of disgust. She placed the back of her hand carefully against her sweating forehead and closed her eyes as if she were about to faint, wailing between her heavy pants, as if stricken with a case of consumption—horrible, horrible!, she chanted; such a horrible thing this is, God have mercy on us all!

I picked up the newspaper and read the headline. Seven people had gone missing from the streets of Paris, and at last they had uncovered the body of two: torn to shreds, nothing but gnawed bone, their flesh gone, limbs scattered across the construction site of the Ópera Garnier, abandoned into a rush—a sight so gruesome it had caused several people to faint and be rushed to the doctor.

What struck me as odd, however, was the locations upon which these people had disappeared. A woman vanished from the Palais de Tokyo. A man snatched from the Pont de Saint Michel. An angler caught and taken from Les Halles, leaving behind a basket of fish. An umbrella left behind by an unsuspecting man gone from the Rue Monsieur-le-Prince.

I rolled up the paper and rushed up the stairs. When I opened the door, I saw them: those same locations, painted in hues of black and blue, and sometimes gold, as they told a tale of a person about to go missing, devoured by an enormous black creature that stalked them patiently through several Parisian landmarks. The umbrella left behind was there, fallen on the cobblestones to his side, as was the basket of fish on the angler’s hand.

So I wondered: could my creation be so spectacular it existed beyond my canvases?

It was at this moment that my door swung open and Gustave came running inside, cast into pallor and dabbing his trickling sweat with a white handkerchief he then placed inside his pocket. He ignored me, went straight to my paintings, and gazed upon the figures that lay there, waiting to be devoured alive by this beast, with peace and serenity—and again focused on the tiny little man who stood—I finally recognized—in the middle of the Place Dauphine.

He turned to me with eyes bulging in terror. “That is Hubert Leblanc,” he said. “He disappeared from the Place Dauphine two weeks ago.”

I laughed, unsure what other reaction to have, as he stood in frozen dread before me, unable still to face the monster in my paintings, and said nothing. He turned around then and grabbed the canvas off the easel, with—I knew—the intention to have it destroyed. It burned my insides in horror just to think of it, so I lurched myself at him, and we got into a tussle. Gustave was strong, gripping the canvas until his fingers made dents on my painting, and I shoved him against a wall as I screamed to let go of the painting, but he shouted back in madness: “You did this! You are responsible for this! You are cursed, and have cursed us all!”

Adolphine appeared at my door, screeching in horror at the sight, and began to scream for the servants to come to her aid as Gustave and I tussled still. Finally, he dropped the canvas and I shoved him out of my door, past Adolphine who nearly tumbled onto the ground, and as he tripped on his feet, he fell back onto the stairs and down he went.

I watched from the top of the stairs as he groaned in pain down below, gazing at me in horror. The painting was salvaged, carefully placed against a wall, and Adolphine covered her mouth with a hand, again nearly about to faint. The newspaper was fallen on the floor of my studio, and she picked it up slowly to read its cover. Then, she glanced at the paintings on my studio, the same ones she had never seen, and her pallor turned her into a living ghost. Out of strength, she sought a chair to sit on and fell to it with a tumble of weakness, barely breathing, but her eyes glared only at me.

The servants assisted Gustave, and the doctor was called in as I screamed one last warning: stay away from my paintings. Adolphine, once recovered from her affliction, cursed me and expelled me from her house, saying I had but three days to pack my belongings and leave, lest I wanted to be put into a hospice for the rest of my days.

And throughout it all, I felt… calm.

At night, with Gustave laid in bed, bandaged and tended to by the doctor and his wife, and Adolphine weeping in her privacy words that fluttered back to my ear—oh, she always was such an insolent one, I do not know what to do with her, I don’t want to kick her out, but what else am I to do, Gustave?—I locked myself in my studio and watched my paintings. It was only then that I took notice of the transformation that had occurred in my style: the creature grew in size, becoming bigger and bigger with every new one, sometimes so big I had to relegate it to the background—and as a consequence, so did my canvases, which had grown several meters wide.

Then, an idea occurred to me.

With but one lantern shedding light on the space around me, I grabbed my brushes and began to paint. Though I was in a state of trance still, I was in enough control of my being that, this time, I knew what I would paint. It was my own studio, in a small canvas, and the victim was, this time, me. I drew the shape of the creature in black blotches countered by the flimsy yellow light of my lantern, put the brush down and waited.

I was blinking my eyes wearily, about to fall asleep, when I heard the faintest growl emerging from the corner. As I stood, I saw it then: two big white eyes staring back at me, from a big gaping mouth, fangs began to glisten in yellow and white. I stood, yet I did not tremble. I looked at the creature, at my creation, and smiled as my heart thumped strongly against my chest.

Truly, I was the most exquisite painter alive in Paris, for how many could say their creations had come to life?

The monster stood silently before me, and I felt its heavy, thick breath slapping my face, though it smelled of nothing but emptiness. Its long arms swayed freely, the sharp claws touching the floors enough that scratches were left on the wooden boards, and its legs bent at the knees to fit his jutting horns inside the tight space of my attic, though they too scratched the ceilings. I suppose to any an onlooker it would have appeared as terrifying, yet to me it was… a beautiful sight. For it was my creation, and I was its God.

For a moment, we just stared at one another, and time passed by us unnoticed.

Then, the monster tilted its head slightly and in a guttural yet smoothing low tone of his voice, it spoke: “You are my mistress.”

“What are you?” I asked.

It took a long time to answer. “I am what exists in the corner of the eye. I am the drips of paint left at the bottom of the easel. I am what has been in your mind for very long, set free by a movement of your brush. But I must be fed.”

“You must be fed?”

I felt trapped inside my own canvas, locked in my own creation, my own world, and swore then I’d never leave it.

“I must be fed, mistress,” it muttered. “The day I die shall be the day your painting ends. You might lose your hands, you might lose your fingers, you might go insane enough that painting will bring nought but horrid pain to you. But if I die, you cease to become an artist. Thus, I must be fed to exist.”

I did ponder on it for a moment, on whether or not it was worth to be labelled the most talented painter of Paris if it meant innocents gone and mauled by some mysterious creature. But I knew I would never achieve that status, for I was still a woman who refused mere watercolours, and not even an aristocrat, but someone living in her sister’s attic, who had been lucky enough to marry a successful mediocre painter. No matter how talented I truly was, the city would forever cast its eyes on the men, like Rousseau and Daubigny and Cabanel. But me, I would forever be master Gustave’s apprentice, with no one sparing a second to think of my talents as mine alone, but certainly passed on to me by some man, like charity.

It was either that or becoming some skinflint painter’s muse, bound to be labelled a whore only to die of syphilis. 

No, Paris would never chant for my name as they chanted for the other artists. So I wondered then if it was worth quitting my passion, the one thing that made me feel so alive, while this unsuspecting city slept in terror before these mysterious disappearances, unknown that they happened at the hands of the most masterful artist Paris had ever seen—and a woman at that.

“All you have to do is paint,” the monster said. “Paint my food, and eat I shall.”

“How?” I asked.

“How have you been doing it so far?” It drew near, and there I felt the pulsating definition of the Sublime: how beautiful it was, yet what dread it caused me, something intricate to itself that made my body shudder in cold fear—yet all I wanted was to draw nearer and nearer, to feel its shape closer to mine.

It was an instinct, I learned at last. My talent surpassed that of the easel and the brush, it was something deep into the occult. I had a link with this beautiful creation that was my pet, and in my ravenous hours of work, I could see the present and the future all the same and paint it into a storm to come that would end the lives of those who became nothing but food for my beautiful creation.

I thought about Gustave, and I thought about my sister wanting to put me in a hospice.

So without saying a word, I picked up my brush and began to paint. The monster stood quietly in a corner, watching me in my creation, but in no time I forgot about its presence. Instead, with a smile of delight upon what I considered already to be my magnum opus, I painted my largest canvas yet, locked inside my attic, where the shape of a bed appeared, and by a trembling candlelight, a sleeping man lay, bandaged and bruised from a fall down the stairs, his wife weeping silently by his side, her hand holding his.

It was morning when I was finished. The monster hadn’t moved. He looked at the canvas and its slit of a mouth widened into a smile.

“Eat I shall,” it said.

I did not see it leave. I was so tired I did not retire to my chambers, buy lay on the floor to rest. 

I suppose I was already asleep when it happened, for I did not hear the screams.

___

Past Challenges:

Wordtober Day 1: Ring

Wordtober Day 2: Mindless

Wordtober Day 3: Bait

Wordtober Day 4: Freeze

Wordtober Day 5: Build I

Wordtober Day 6: Build II

Wordtober Day 7: Enchanted (Encantada)

Wordtober Day 8: Frail

Wordtober Day 9: Swing

Wordtober Day 10: Pattern

Wordtober Day 11: Snow

(Skipped Day 12)

Wodrtober Day 13: Ash

[ultralegendarysuitstudentst-blog]

THE STORY OF A BEAST

ALFANTE, BALBUTIN, MISADOR, SABEJON

Adapted from Gabrielle-Suzanne Barbot de Villeneuve’s

“BEAUTY AND THE BEAST”

 “A prince in a not-so-simple abode,

His castle is shining with gold and silver walls.

He looks dashing from head to toe,

Women just can’t help but fall.

But there is one thing people should know,

He has a vicious beast for a soul.”

 People say that one should work hard to earn money. Work for some tiring job, scavenge it on the streets or even beg for it from other people, you need to exert loads of effort to gain some cash, but… that is not the case for others. Some are actually lucky enough to have money chasing after them. It was as if God poured a whole bottle of good fortune into the cauldron when he made those people. Yep, those kind of people exist  and one of them is Phille Ashton Dohler.

 Just by his last name you could actually tell, he has a lot of dollars. What makes it sad for normal people is that he isn’t just born with tons of money. He isn’t just made with that bottle of good fortune; main ingredients include a whole box of genius and a sack of good looks. Any female being would probably do anything to get his attention, like who wouldn’t? Phille is indeed an elite being, anyone would think that he is perfect, well that is until they discover the secret ingredient; a crazy ton of savageness.

 21 assistants, 36 butlers, and 44 maids, 101 people who resigned in a year, sounds like it would actually make a good movie. Phille’s cold demeanor, snarky remarks, patience, and short temper was too much for most people to take. It was all because of those bad points that his popularity went down to the sewers. He didn’t mind the fact that he got lesser attention, but it was affecting business, and that’s not good, but he’s still rich though. It was quite a known fact that it is a nightmare to work for him, but it is also a fact that there are people who stayed loyal and continued to work for him, they’re probably upcoming saints.

 One of these people is Mr. Scotlin, an old hardworking butler. He’s great in doing his job, but unfortunately his body couldn’t handle it, he became a sickly old man. His fellow butlers and maids were naturally worried, so they tried to help him. “Master, Mr. Scotlin is very ill. He needs to rest” Mrs. Kipps, the head housekeeper said. “And what do you suggest that I should do? Babysit him?” Phille replied. “No, but I was thinking that you should let him go home, he broke enough china this week.” At this statement, Phille became concerned for all his expensive silverware. “Tsk, Fine. But make sure that he should be back in no time” “Yes Master”. With that, Mrs. Kipps left to tell Mr. Scotlin about her successful persusion.

 A month has passed and Mr. Scotlin was not yet back in the Dohler manor. Phille was pissed about it. Mr. Scotlin was unavailable so that means he won’t get to drink the butler’s exquisite tea and perfectly roasted coffee. A soft knock was emitted from his office door “Come in” the door creaked as it slowly opened. It was Mr. Scotlin, but he was not alone. He went inside with a fair maiden in tow. “Hello master, sorry it took me long, my daughter wanted me to be in good shape”. He then looked at his side “This is my daughter.” The maiden then introduced herself “Good morning sir, my name is Nikola Scotlin.” Phille just blankly stared at her. “I would like to propose something to you.” Phille scoffed at her statement. “You know I’ve received tons of proposals from women, and I turned all of them down, why would I accept yours?” Even Mr. Scotlin was shocked by her daughter’s words. “I believe there’s a misunderstanding. I meant that I propose that you should take me in as a maid, and in return you must let my father retire and rest.”

 Mr. Scotlin was baffled, but before he could say something Phille replied “And why should I accept your offer?” Nikola smiled as if she already won “Father taught me the recipes to his teas and coffees, and I know that you can’t resist them, they are his greatest inventions after all.” That offer got him good, he’s been craving for it for a whole month “Well then, start making some coffee.”

 “Nikola I would not allow you to do this!” Mr. Scotlin’s voice boomed in the room. “Mr. Scotlin I’ve already accepted her offer now…leave” Phille said, but Mr. Scotlin continued to protest “No! I won’t allow my daughter to work for you!” Though the old man was indeed a loyal worker it does not mean he actually likes the employer. “Father I’m doing this for you because I love you! Now go!” Nikola said. “Tch. So much drama” Phille commented. “Mr. Trair! Take this old man back to where he came from.” A plump man then entered and took Mr. Scotlin away. “And as for you, you cannot leave this manor until I say so or the deal is over. Understood?” Nikola’s eyes widened “What do you mean!? “

“There’s a possibility you are going to stay here forever unless I wanted you to leave, why did you think your father was furious?” Nikola fell on her knees “Oh!And Mrs Kipps will show you to your quarters” with that Phille left the room.

 Day 1

Phille thought that the Scotlin girl looks better than most girls he has encountered. He told Mr. Trair, his plump assistant and Mr. Heinze, the skinny head butler to invite Nikola to his table for dinner; he would like to have someone new to chat with. But for about 5 minutes he grew impatient. “Heinze! Where in the world is that damn woman!” his voice shaking with anger. “She’s currently in her room, she said she was not hungry.” Heinze replied. “But I think she lies Master, she did travel a long distance this morning.” Mr. Trair inquired. “How dare she decline my offer! She’s just a mere maid and she made me wait and starve!?” Phille stood up and began making his way to Nikola’s room; her actions really hurt his ego. He arrived in front of her door and twisted the knob, it was locked. He knocked brashly to indicate to the lady that he was upset “Woman! Open up and eat! I don’t anyone to die inside my walls!” “I said I wasn’t hungry!” a muffled reply from Nikola. “Fine! But if you do get hungry don’t expect me to feed you!” with that Phille stormed off.

   Day 6

She escaped... “It seems she gathered some cloth and used it as a makeshift rope” Mr. Trair observed Nikola’s room which by the way is on the second floor. “What a smart barbaric woman. Let her be, I don’t want to deal with her again” Phille shuddered as he reminisces the interactions,they had for the past few days. “But master! If we don’t go after her she would end up in a wolf’s stomach!” Mr. Heinze said his voice laced with concern. “Oh no! Master we need to help her!” Mrs. Kipps was beginning to panic. “Why would I help that woman!? She infuriates me!” Phille complained. “Well master, if she dies… your coffee and tea…” That was enough to make Phille stand up and rush out of the door “Find her!”

 They managed to bring Nikola back to the manor; well she came back on her own will because she was guilty to see Phille’s arm coated with blood. He managed to save her from the wolves while shouting something about tea and coffee. “Why did you save me?”  Nikola asked as she treated the wound left by one of the wolves. “Because those idiots I call servants begged me to”, Phille replied. “Why did you leave?” Phille asked back. “Because you have attitude problems.” Nikola answered without hesitation. “That’s it?” “Hey! That’s a very serious issue here!” Nikola said as she heard his answer. “Then why don’t you teach me?” Nikola’s head cocked to the side at his words. “What?” That was all she could utter. “I said teach me. Teach me how to be kind “They both stared at each other while the maids tried to hide their squeals as they hid in the background.

 Day 100

It was snowing and it was cold outside. Nikola and Phille sat in a comfortable silence as they were reading in the library. Phille sneaked a peek at Nikola and smiled slightly, he remembered the day he showed her the library. It was just a few days after that wolf incident when he decided to show her the library as a way of apologizing for his “attitude problem”. For some reason he could not forget the way her eyes lit up as she saw the shelves filled with books and the wide smile she showed as she looked at every book. That was the first time she ever smiled.

 When the snowing stopped Nikola asked if they could play in the snow. And by some miracle Phille said yes.

For the first time in the Dohler manor everyone’s face held a smile as they had snow ball fights and made snowmen. It was a day that all the staff could never forget; it would probably be written down in every history book.

 Day 143

Faint sobs could be heard beyond the door. Phille was just standing outside Nikola’s room wanting to shut her up, but at the same time to ask her why she was crying. It did break his heart to know that tears are currently cascading down on the maiden’s porcelain face. “Are you just going to stand there or what?” Mr. Heinze asked with a raised brow. “I get it, I get it, I’m going in” Phille said with slight annoyance. He gently knocked and opened the door, there he saw Mrs. Kipps rubbing the back of a hunched figure in the room. Phille caught Mrs. Kipps’ attention and motioned for her to leave the room. It was just Phille and Nikola in the room. “Are you okay?” He asked. “I miss father, I miss him so much…” she replied while clutching her heart.

 Phille was in a dilemma, he wanted her to be always at his side, but he also wanted her to be happy. He was disgusted at his self. He was so selfish and everyone knew that, but would he want Nikola to see him as some greedy evil beast? He is not having it. He wanted to show her a side that she has created, the side that took everyone, even him by surprise, so he asked Mr. Trair a favor. He was planning a special night just for Nikola.

  Day 148

Everything was shimmery, not even a speck of dust could be seen. Beautiful melodies fill the manor as the greatest masterpieces are being played by sophisticated musicians. Everything was so grand, it is indeed going to be a special night. Phille after being groomed by several staff for several hours was already waiting in the ballroom clad in his blue and gold garments. He was excited and nervous at the same time as he waits for the special person that was the reason this special event was initiated.

 As if by some magic he felt a presence at the top of the staircase. Nikola walked down each step with such grace as the yellow ballgown sways with her movements. Phille was stunned sure he thought that she was beautiful, but tonight took it to another level. He smiled unconsciously as he offered the maiden his hand when she was finally within his reach. She accepted the offer by holding unto his hand, with that Phille guided her to the center of the room where they danced the night away.

 It was now midnight and Phille knew that it was time for him to do what he had to do, to let her go. He brought Nikola to a balcony that was overlooking the garden of roses. “Thank you, Nikola,” Phille said as he stared into her eyes. “For what?” Nikola asked. “For teaching me, for changing me, for staying with me” Nikola was surprised by his words, it was rare for him to be kind, gentle, and thank you was never uttered by this man up until now. “And why exactly are you telling me this?” Nikola was getting intrigued by the second. A long sigh escaped Phille’s lips “Because…I think it’s time for you to go home” “What?” Shock was written on Nikola’s face. “You miss your father, right? Go to him” overwhelmed with emotions, Nikola enveloped Phille in a tight embrace. “Thank you, thank you very much” tears of joy started to form from Nikola’s eyes “I promise that I will come back” “Of course you will, you’re my maid aren’t you?” with that Phille returned the hug and hoped that someday he will be able to do it again.

 Day 160

Twelve days has already passed. Phille despite having a lot of people working for him was feeling lonely. He missed her, but what could he do? A beast like him didn’t deserve a beauty like her. He felt lucky enough to be able to have met Nikola, to have something more just exists in his dreams. Everyday he secretly yearns for her, but he was not secretive enough to hide it from the other people in the manor. “He loves her!” Mrs. Kipps squealed. “I can’t believe how much our master has changed, it’s nice to see him grow” Mr. Trair said with a smile. “We should have let Mr. Scotlin retire and switch in Nikola much earlier” Mr. Heinze said. As they kept talking about their master’s unusual behavior, they were unprepared to greet their unexpected guests.

 A big bang shook Phille’s home. Someone has infiltrated the manor. “Beast! Show yourself!” a man with a gruff voice said. “Who dares intrude the home of my master?” Mr. Trair asked. “It’s I! Crasse Nouille, Ms. Nikola’s dear fiancé!” the buff man said. The staff laughed “As if Nikola would marry you!” they all knew that who Nikola was meant to be with. “What’s the ruckus all about?” Phille said as he approached the people gathered in the room. “You! What did you do to my Nikola!?” “Why? What happened to her?” Phille was concerned about Nikola for days, he needed to know if she’s okay. “She became a crazy woman! How could a beast like you be kind! How could a beast like you be gentle! What witchcraft did you do to brainwash her!” Crasse began to rant. “You’re clearly out of her league! You are a monster that should never be near her!”

  It was true, he is different from her, but he really changed; but was it enough? Has he proven himself worthy of her kindness? Her smile? Her warmth? Her everything? All he wanted was for her to be happy. But can he give it to her? Can she be happy with him? He does not know. Suddenly the doors flew open “Crasse! What are you doing!” Nikola was panting, her face was flushed. “Proving to you that you’re becoming delusional! He is not what you say him to be!”

Nikola was about to retort something back but Phille was faster “I may not have proven it to yet, but I believe that I can be what she believes me to be”, Phille said “In fact, I think it all started since I met her.” He turned to Nikola “I’ll show you that you were not delusional” he then turns to Crasse “And as for you, leave… you are trespassing private property” With that the unwanted guest was thrown out of the manor.

 Day 538

Phille became a renowned man. He became what the people expected him to be. A man with an angelic face and heart. What used to be the most rude man became one of the most charming men in the world. Nikola was not the only one delighted by his wonderful change, everyone from the manor was; even Mr. Scotlin. He became a good man who helps out people in need, he also became a kind and gentle man. This renewed side of Phille was making Nikola fall hard for him. There is without a doubt, she was in love with him.

 Day 777

About 2 years have passed since the two first met. Now they are joined together in life as they say their vows in marriage. Phille was ecstatic, he made her happy. Everyone wished them a happily ever after as they walk the aisle that was laid out with flower petals. From then on Phille promised to continue his life as it is, and never go back to his unlikable past self.

  “Shrouded by darkness he suddenly saw light,

An angel shining with kindness and purity.

Saved from the abyss as both took flight,

Ignored his own obscurity.

A beast saved by a beauty.

The beauty who saw the beauty of the beast.”

  THE END

[themanybloodyhearts]

A letter from Abigail

I have a story I want to share with you. This story involves a woman, young and vibrant with the spirit of fall flowing through her. From her auburn hair to her freckled cheeks she was the epitome of beauty while I was growing up. She and her two daughters were friends of my family while we lived in our little quaint town. Our families were inseparable then, I doubt those two girls remember much of it, they were at that age where you don’t quite remember anything but in glimpses and foggy recollections.

I was lucky though, I saw their mother and remembered her face. I remember all of them even now, the bright smiles they had while chasing each other around our yard. I couldn’t join them at the time, I was quite ill. My parents were rich it’s true, but no amount of gold or land can keep the ravages of disease from taking root. This was especially true back then, as whatever I had didn’t have a name. I suppose it doesn’t matter now, but it shaped a large part of my relationship with that family. The two little girls, Emily and Shelby were wild girls in every sense of the word. The need to adventure and travel was as deeply set in their bones as it was in their mother. Something was keeping her here and to this day I don’t quite know what it was. I apologise but, even now her name fades in my mind although I can remember her face clearly. From this point on I shall address her as The Lady.

You see, The Lady was quite peculiar. She would tell me and my parents wild stories of magic and wonders that the normal world could not even comprehend. She was born to travel not just to see the world but to see how the world worked. I suppose you could call her a witch, or a sorceress even but neither was particularly close to the mark. I personally like to think of her as a druid. I suppose that’s what made me want her attention almost as much, if not more than my actual parents. I wanted to travel like her, I wanted to see these hidden things. I was utterly fascinated with the idea of magic, and I think she could tell.

The Lady always brought me my favourite flowers, which as a child was any that were sufficiently colourful. What can I really say other than I preferred flowers that matched my personality, as my outward appearance was quite rigid and sickly by that point. She wouldn’t coddle me, she’d treat me like an adult and I cherished that. I got my humour from her you know, although as I’m writing this I realise I’m coming off as if it were void. She always had a whit as sharp as a knife, and the intellect to know just when to say what.

Emily was much the same, snarky at such a young age it was truly endearing. She was never mean, nor cruel although she could be rather rough. She was a bright child that would sit with me when I couldn’t move much. She’d tell me these fantastical tales that you could tell were just stories, but she told them so convincingly. Emily wanted to be just like her mother then, her drive burned in her like a spark on kindling. Someday I thought, she would be as bright and as fantastic as her mother.

Shelby was similar although she never believed the stories her mother would tell. She was creative, but she tended to favour the normal avenues of expression. She was always drawing, to the best of her abilities at such a young age. You could call her a prodigy, the next great painter of our generation. She would take ordinary things like paints and at such a young age transform them into her own little version of magic.

I had another friend then, not a part of either of our families but instead the son of one of our maids. Abel was a quiet one then, not so much now but that’s another story. He would sit with me and watch Emily and Shelby play. When he thought that I would be hurt he’d step in and let me rest. He protected me, not out of obligation but as the honest and kind boy he was. He wasn’t the smartest or the funniest, but he was so very kind.

I suppose that would be enough reminiscing. I apologise for the tangent but those memories are dear to me. Because on one night so very long ago it all changed. It would be a long time from then that I could see or hear from all but my family and Abel again.

Overhead was a clear, star filled sky. The wind was calm, I remember it very clearly. I was laying in my bed when the lights started to dim, at least for me metaphorically. I could feel my illness taking its final blow against my frail body. Abel never let go of my hand, hoping to cure me with his tears and soothing words. My father and mother sat looking out the window, too stricken with grief to look at their dying child. I don’t blame them, I don’t think I could handle it either. Their only child was expiring before them and all the wealth they had could do nothing.

That’s when this story comes together. Over the hills, across the path through the trees came the auburn locks and piercing gaze of The Lady. On her neck hanged a clock made of brass. It ticked and spun and turned its gears softly, filling the night’s air with a sombre melody. In the distance The Lady’s husband watched through the trees, before returning home to their children. My parents left the room to greet her at the door.

Soft footsteps filled the long halls of my house as she approached my room. With graceful steps she walked to my bedside and knelt beside Abel. She whispered to him “Remember to cherish her, be her knight and keep her safe.” As she wiped away his tears. She unhooked the clock around her neck, and placed it over mine. She held one of the clocks hands and spun it around slowly. As she did I felt the lights around us become blindingly bright. Sensations sparked through my body that I long since forgotten. I could feel again, clearly and whole as if I was cured in an instant. She placed a hand on my hair and kissed my forehead. Her touch was colder than I expected, her lips chapped and dry. With her sunken eyes she gave me a look that I would never forget, one of calculated sorrow. When she smiled you could almost see the glimpse of hope and warmth, as she stood back up slowly.

I don’t know if she regretted what she did, but as she walked past my parents who had begun to rush in to my bedside she turned to look at me one more time. Her auburn hair that I adored so much had become patterned with grey. I could hear in my head the words she mouthed to me. Amongst the sobbing from Abel and my parents they rang in my ears like bells. It was a promise I had to keep. In exchange for her magic she asked a simple wish from me. She wanted me to watch over Emily and Shelby as a guardian when times were tough. And I accepted, without a second thought. She walked back into the forest, and the night fell silent around us.

 It was hard at the beginning for Emily and Shelby. Their father began taking jobs overseas more and more. Shelby would grow and go to college, her work less focused on the abstract and more on capturing life on a canvas. Emily would go to school, but never further her education. She never left our little town, and as I watched from the porch of my shop I could tell her fire wasn’t shining as brightly as before. I was afraid at first, to approach her. Her mother gone, because of me. I didn’t want to make that choice. I had a promise to keep but I was truly afraid of driving her further away.

 I was lucky though, because on a special day in the fall, during a festival of joy and wonder in the town Emily found her way to my shop. She didn’t remember me, or Abel but she seemed to pick up right where she left off. I’m still afraid to tell her the truth of the time when we were young, but at least now as she visits my little shop I know I have that chance. She takes to my line of work naturally as you’d expect. She’s going to become just like her mother. Where I’m just a lady who runs a fortune tellers in a quaint town, I hope she can become something much greater.

[elanorjane]

Love on Ice: Not Right For Anybody Else

Summary: How Gold became Belle’s coach.

AO3

Gold leaned on the bar, thumb tracing the whiskey glass as he allowed the malt to linger on his tongue. In general he didn’t support bars that sold t-shirts of itself, and the mountain views out the windows were lost on him, but The Old Forge didn’t have televisions and they turned the wi-fi off at 6pm. The patrons thinned out this close to the end of the tourist season so most nights he was left to enjoy his venison stew in peace.

Which is why it disturbed him so much when a man crowded him, “Mr. Gold?” Gold tapped the bar top to signal to the bartender he wanted another before craning his neck.

“Aye,” he acknowledged. The man just looked Gold up and down, noticeably confused.

“Is there a problem?” he growled.

The man cleared his throat, straightening, “Moe French,” he offered his hand. Gold gave it a withering glare until he dropped it, “I was told I would find you here.”

“Is that right?” Gold turned back to his drink, “And who told you that?” He lifted his refreshed glass to his mouth.  

“The International Skating Union.”

The whiskey caught in his throat and he choked. That was a phrase he hadn’t heard in twenty years. Yet the ISU had dictated the majority of his life. His wife divorcing him, leaving him for an Irish Olympic rower of all things, coincided with him leaving the sport to raise his son. Now, his son was grown and in New York living his life, which is how it should be, he repeatedly reminded himself. Gold rubbed the scruff on his neck, “How, exactly, does the ISU know where I am?” Moe’s eyes darted around the bar, not wanting to reveal his source. It took a moment for Gold to put the pieces together. Milah. He vaguely remembered Neal telling him that his ex-wife was running for some ISU council position some years ago. His eyes narrowed, “How do you know my ex-wife?”

“I don’t!” Moe insisted. “I was talking to some other coaches, who suggested you and they talked to...” he made an ambiguous gesture instead of uttering his ex-wife’s name, “who told them, who told me where to find you.”  

Gold let a beat pass, “I’m sitting in Scotland’s most remote bar, Mr. French. What made you think I wanted to be found?”

Moe pulled up the stool next to him, “We need your help.”

Gold smirked at that. The idea of him helping anyone was laughable.

“My daughter needs a coach. We’re in a bit of a time crunch, as you know.” Gold stared at him blankly. “It’s the Olympics in 2 years,” Moe added, incredulous.  

Gold returned to his whiskey, “Is it?” He didn't live his life by that calendar anymore. Hadn’t in quite some time. “I remain..” He searched for the right word. Aimless. Numb. Broken. “Uninterested,” he finished.

Moe tried a different tact, “You might have known Belle’s mother, Colette.”  

Gold cast his mind back. He remembered Colette, an ice dancer. Nice girl, from what he could recall. Their careers had overlapped some and senior level skating was a small community.

“Then why doesn’t Corrine coach her?”

“Colette’s…not well. Cancer. She can’t be up and about as much anymore. We need a…replacement,” he struggled with the last word.  

Gold paused, “I’m sorry for that. But I was never an ice dancer.”

Moe brightened, “Belle’s in pairs. You and Milah were artists. Belle and Gaston have the technical ability, but they need some help in their performance. You were a master.”

He had been a master. He’d chosen the music and choreographed the majority of his and Milah’s performances. Not that any of it had mattered, in the end. He shook his head, “I don’t coach. Anybody, including the ‘ISU’, could have told you that.”

Moe raised his hand and ordered a beer, indicating he was just getting started with his petition. “They’ve won the junior national title last month. We want to move them up to senior and take a run at the Olympics.” Gold remained unmoved. “Please, I flew across the bloody ocean and took a seven mile ferry ride to find you. We live and train in Storybrooke, near Boston. We’ll pay your way. Come see them skate, just once. If you don’t like what you see, I’ll pay for your ticket home.”

Boston wasn’t terribly far from New York. He could have an all expenses paid trip to visit his son. He’d watch some ice princess with Olympic dreams who didn’t have the talent of her mother skate around in circles a few times, tell her she’d never make it, then go spend a week with his son.

“Fly me out of JFK and you’ve got a deal.”

_________________________________

Belle laced up her skates as she watched Anna and her partner Kristoff, ice dancers who also trained in her mother’s rink, finish practice. The rink was built when her mother was her age and was where her mother and her partner had trained. To maintain it during her mother’s illness, they rented the ice out to other skaters and opened it up to the public when they weren’t training.

Anna stepped off the ice. “Heard you’re getting a new coach today!” she exclaimed, rushing over to Belle and forgetting her skate guards in her haste. Kristoff trailed behind, grabbing Anna’s guards with his own and bringing them to her. The gesture made Belle smile wistfully. No one had ever brought her skate guards to her before.  

“Yeah, Rumford Gold,” Belle supplied. Anna paled at the name. “You’ve heard of him?”

Anna picked up her water bottle, “He imploded at the Olympics. You don’t know this story?” she took a swig of water and handed it to Kristoff, who finished it. It was yet intimate moment that was commonplace for them that didn’t go unnoticed by Belle. She shook her head. “Apparently he’s, like, really intense. He had a meltdown in front of everyone, left skating, and and went into hiding. Google it. One second thought, don't, the less you know, the better.” Anna stood and Kristoff picked up their bags, giving Belle a friendly wave. “Well, good luck!” Anna offered brightly.

Belle finished tightening her skates, trying to forget why they were getting a new coach in the first place. Because her mother was sick. They were doing the best they could, but if they wanted to stay competitive they were going to need someone full-time. Perhaps it was for the best. Her mother could rest and get well and enjoy watching them without having to worry about everything else.  

Gaston emerged from the locker room, pausing by the mirror on his way over to her. “Did you know about Gold’s reputation?” she asked.

“Yeah. They were the favorites going into the Olympics but he bombed. Everybody called them Golds Without Gold. And now he’s getting into coaching. What’s the saying? Those who can’t do teach?” He laughed at his own joke as he led them out onto the ice.

_______________________________________

It had been over a decade since Gold had stepped foot into a rink. He followed Moe to the edge of the ice and watched the couple skate around.  

She was beautiful. Of course she was. She was delicate and lovely and watching her made Gold feel…something. He was incapable of putting a name to it because he hadn’t felt anything in such a long time.  

Gaston was fine. He did his job. Gold understood why they’d paired them. He was a big jock that could throw her high. The perfect stem to her flower.  

Even if he wanted to, Gold couldn’t coach this team. Skating had changed so much since he’d left. The kind of  lifts and jumps that were expected were vastly more acrobatic. The scoring system wasn’t even the same. But his critical eye emerged nonetheless. Their throw heights were inconsistent, there was hesitation between elements, and their side by sides weren’t in tandem.

“Belle! Gaston!” Moe stepped out onto the ice. They glided over, Gaston throwing an arm out and forcing Belle behind him. Curious blue eyes peeked at him from behind Gaston’s bicep. “I want you to meet Mr. Gold.”

She tilted her head, her mouth so plump and serious. She didn’t remind him of anyone else, not Milah or any other skater. She didn’t remind him of his old life. Or his current one. She was…special.

“Alright. I’ll do it.”  

[blackwidownat2814]

It All Began When Someone Left the Window Open...

Welcome to my newest story!  I hope you all enjoy it!  I got the title from a children’s book I saw in my library that had one sentence stories or something like that.  I promise that I will try to not leave (too) long periods of time between updates.  I recognize that some may notice this has a few similarities to the story “And I Don’t Want to Go Home Right Now”, but it was never my intention to copy that story.  If you read this, you’ll notice that the only similarities are the Killian has agoraphobia and it happened after an accident.  The way he meets Emma is different and where I’m going with it is completely different.  Another note: I do not intend to make fun of or offend anyone who does suffer or knows someone who suffers from this or any other type of anxiety disorder or mental illness.

AO3

**Please message me if you have any questions or thoughts.  Just don’t come into my askbox and accuse me of stealing the story concept (not that anyone has), because I didn’t and didn’t intend for it to look that way.

                                                   ~*~*~*~*~*~

Chapter 1: Three Years, Four Months, & 16 days

It was a cool night out so Killian decided to leave the window leading to his fire escape open. It wasn’t like Storybrooke was some hot bed of criminal activity, so he had nothing to worry about.  

He went about his normal nightly routine of dinner in front of the telly watching (and yelling at) Drogheda United’s latest match.  At halftime, he put his dishes in the sink and lay back on the couch to finish watching his hometown team’s match.

He awoke hours later when he heard cursing.

“Damn it. Hermione get back here right now!” Killian heard rustling in the kitchen and then light clacking on his wooden floor before a small weight settled itself on his chest.  His eyes snapped open and blue was staring at gold.

“The bloody hell…” He looked to the nearby clock that read 11:23 PM.

“Oh my God…I’m so sorry!”  Killian sat up and turned to the voice behind him.  Surely he was dreaming, because the woman in question was an angel.  Her blonde tresses almost reached her elbows and she had beautiful jade eyes that looked upon him with embarrassment.  “I opened my window for just a second and she just took off and--”

“Don’t worry love, it’s not a problem.”  Killian turned to the she in question, still perched in his lap, and scratched behind her ears, which made her purring go off like a tiny motor.  “The little lass meant no harm.”  He looked up to the woman, who stood with her mouth agape.

“The first time I tried to scratch her head, the day I adopted her actually, she scratched the hell of my hand the second I touched her and she’s done it to everyone who’s tried since…except you.”

Killian stood, scooping the cat with his left arm and extending his right.

“The name’s Killian Jones, 5C”, he said.  The angelic intruder gave him a wary look before taking his hand.

“Emma. Swan…5B.”

“Nice to meet you Swan.”  The brown and white cat in his hold jumped from his arms to Emma’s.  “Nice to meet you as well Hermione.”

“Prrrrr”, was her only response as he tickled behind her ears once more.

“I’m sorry we basically broke in.  Can’t imagine it was a nice thing to wake up to.”

“Nonsense love, waking up to a beautiful lady such as Miss Hermione here is always a pleasure. Your presence was an added bonus.” Killian was happy to see that made Emma giggle.

“Well, aren’t you just charming.”

“I prefer dashing rapscallion.”

“Yeah, okay.” Killian felt his cheeks heat up as he watched Emma rock on her feet.  “Well, we’re gonna go.”  Hermione climbed up on Emma’s shoulder as she walked towards Killian’s open window.  

For the first time in the three years, four months, and 16 days since he’d last stepped foot outside his apartment, Killian wanted to leave.  He wanted to follow the gorgeous angel that was his neighbor, Emma Swan.

Emma stopped, with one foot still inside his home and the other on the fire escape, cat slightly struggling in her arms, and looked back at him.

“Um…well…I never do this…”

“It’s okay Swan. Hermione has done no harm.”

“No, not that…”

“Then what?” he asked, tilting his head to the side.

“The fact that Hermione trusts you, when she doesn’t trust anybody, means you’re cool.  Would you maybe like to have coffee sometime?”

 Killian could see the effort it took for her to ask him such a little thing.  He’d just met her…and he was scared of what she would think when she discovered that he just couldn’t leave.  She would think him a coward and he couldn’t have that.

He must’ve been staring longer than he realized because next thing he knew, Emma stepped completely outside.

“You know what? Don’t worry about it.  I mean, who breaks into their neighbor’s apartment to get their cat back and then asks said neighbor, who she’s never met, to have coffee with her?!  No wonder you’re speechless!  You must think I’m nuts, so let’s just forget it happened, okay?  I’ll see you around Killian.”

She disappeared from view and Killian rushed to the window and stuck his head out, just as he heard the thunk! of Emma’s closing window. Before he knew what he was doing, Killian put one slippered foot onto the metal landing of their shared fire escape.

The smell of car exhaust and the sounds of the city moving along hit him and he tumbled back inside, slamming the window shut.  He scrambled a safe distance away from it, shaking in panic.  When he finally relaxed enough, Killian walked over to the couch to retrieve his cellphone.  It lit up and the clock said 2:37 am, Will was going to kill him but Killian needed to talk to him.  He dialed Will’s number from memory and waited as the phone rang.

“It better be a matter of life and death for you to call me right now…whoever this is.”

“Mate, is Killian.” He heard a rustling and a thump of what must’ve been Will falling out of bed, plus a muttered bloody hell.

“Sorry.  Is everything okay?  Are you okay?  Talk to me Jones.”

“I’m sorry I called so late, but I had another attack.”

“It’s okay bruv.  Just do the breathing and I’ll be right over, okay?”

“Y-y-you don’t have to Will, it’s so late.  I can deal until morning.”

“We talked about this Killian.  You need to accept that I’m willing to help when you need it.”

“I know.  I’m sorry.”

“Don’t be sorry.  Just breathe and I’ll be right over, okay?”

“Okay.”  Killian took a deep breath.  “Thank you Will.”

“You know it’s no problem.

                                                   ~*~*~*~*~*~

Three years ago…

Killian blinked slowly as he opened his eyes.  The incessant beeping and the semi-bright lights of the room bothered him.

“Ugh…”

“Mr. Jones?  Mr. Jones? How are you feeling?  I’m Nurse Fisher.  Do you know where you are or what happened?”

Killian turned his head to see the woman standing on right. Nurse Fisher, with the bright red hair, looked down at him, concerned.

“Uh…I feel okay.  Why am I in the hospital?” he asked.  Nurse Fisher took a seat next to his bed.

“You don’t remember?”

“Obviously not.”

“Mr. Jones, you were in a car accident a couple days ago.” In that instant, Killian remembered: He, Liam, and Milah (his fiancée) were heading home from dinner after celebrating Milah’s promotion when their car was hit by a big truck.  He lost consciousness and didn’t know what happened.

“Liam?  Where’s my brother?  Where’s Milah?”  From the look on Nurse Fisher’s face, he knew where they were.  “No.  No!”

“Mr. Jones, please, you need to calm down.  Your injury--”

“I don’t bloody care!  I want to see them.  I need to see them!” Killian lifted his left arm to rip away the cords attached to his chest.  It was then that he noticed his left arm, up to the elbow was encased in some cage with screws going into his arm.  “Wh--wh--what is this?”

“Mr. Jones…your hand was crushed in the accident but--”

“But what?”

“I should call Dr. Whale to explain.  He can answer all your questions.”

“Please.  Please tell me.”

“I’m sorry Mr. Jones.”  Nurse Fisher left the room, leaving Killian to contemplate his loses. Luckily, Nurse Fisher returned with Dr. Whale 10 minutes later.

“How are you doing Mr. Jones?”

“My entire family is dead.  How do you think I’m doing?”  Dr. Whale gave him a questioning look.

“You misunderstood, I think.  Your brother, Liam Jones, isn’t dead.  However, he is in a coma and will remain so because of the swelling in his brain and he’s breathing with the help of a machine for now.  Unfortunately, your fiancée, Milah, did pass as a result of the accident.  I know that nothing I can say will make this better Mr. Jones, but I am very sorry for your loss.”  

Killian looked at Dr. Whale, seeing that his condolences were genuine.  There was still the smallest of bright spots in the otherwise dark future: his brother still lived, albeit still attached to a machine and asleep for now.

“Thank you, doctor.”

“As for your hand.  It was crushed at impact, severing some nerves.  Now, we managed to save it, but you will have limited mobility…and there’s no guarantee that it will ever be the same.  I’m so sorry.”

Killian was discharged from the hospital a week later and when Liam showed no signs of waking up, he went home and stayed there…with no intention of ever leaving again.