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wwilloww · 4 years

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athair lusa | pjm

athair lusa, the ground ivy, springing up from the soil with rich, purple flowers and broad green leaves.

Origin: Ireland

Pairing: Jimin x FaePrince!Taehyung

Genre: Folklore. Suspense. Fae!Au.

Rating: NC-17

WC: 2.4k

Summary: “Is it not a strange request,” Jimin says, “to ask me to dance when there is no music?” While on his way to draw water from the well, Jimin slips on a rock. When he stands up again, the world around him seems unrecognizable, as if everything has been dusted with an unfamiliar enchantment.

Warnings: Possessive behavior.

A/N: This story, also known as “The Fairy Dance,” is a story I grew up to, one that was told to me over and over. I consider this to be part of a larger personal project to queer the stories I grew up on. It’s an effort to normalize the presence of queerness in lore and unravel gendered expectations within folktales. Because of this I’ve done my best to stick to the oral telling of this story in both content and style - meaning the writing differentiates itself significantly from my usual style! This project is special to me and I truly hope you enjoy it. I can’t wait to hear what you think of it.

Thank you to @jingabitch for helping me when I felt most stuck with this! Thanks a million to my love @ot7always for editing the image in this banner and listening to me ramble. And of course a hUGE THANKS to the lovely folk in BTS Smut Hub for being my constant inspiration and motivation.

And finally, this is part of @ksmutclub’s Twisted Fairytale collaboration!

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Athair-Lusa.

In a town on the western most coast of the Isle, there lived a young man with hair that shone like the rays of August sun. He was beloved by the townspeople, known for the enchanting melodies that lifted from his lips like birdsong, ensnaring anyone in range. His name was Jimin.

One day in late November, as the night began to draw in, Jimin set down his reading and readied himself to go out into the darkness. He preferred the stillness of sunset and often went out at this time, just to hear the soft hymn of the world slipping slowly into sleep.

Now, it has long been known that the Veil between worlds is thinnest in November. As the remaining veins of summer fade from the land, spirits and creatures of the other worlds come to press up against the thin border between their world and ours. Even nighttime comes to linger, snatching time away from the golden fingers of the sun.

On this night, Jimin decided to take his walk to the well to gather water. He swung his wooden bucket over his shoulder and set off into the darkness. The trees stood tall above him, watching his path. Jimin felt the hair on his neck raise, as if something was watching him from the shadows. However, rather than turning home, he lifted his face to the night sky and sang. The music spilling from his lips split through the darkness of the night, and Jimin felt a sense of peace wash over him.

As the small stone structure of the well came into sight, his foot slipped. He could feel his ankle twisting, and then the feeling of falling through empty space. The air wooshed up around him as he fell.

His back hit the hard earth of the path, crushing the breath out of his lungs. For a moment, Jimin simply lay there, taking deep breaths to calm the fright in his body.

When he lifted his head, his old wooden bucket was nowhere to be seen. Instead of a path hardened by thousands of years of travelers, Jimin lay on a soft field of grass, shimmering emerald green beneath the full moon. Around him, everything seemed as if it had been touched by an enchantment. The trees, whose leaves had dropped a month ago, were now blossoming with flowers of the most brilliant colors. The chill of the winter air was replaced with a soft and warm breeze, lifted off a summer sea. And as he looked up at the sky, the moon hung twice as large, as if she had come down from her high throne in the sky to take a closer look at the goings-on of the people below.

As Jimin sat up, he saw a great crowd gathered a short distance away. As his vision cleared, he realized that they were circled round a fire that danced and leaped and seemed to reach out to the figures surrounding it. As if his mind had been wiped clean of thought, Jimin stood and began to move towards the crowd, mystified by their tall frames and slender figures.

Jimin himself was of average height, his body built like the land. Ready to work, ready to dance. But at this moment in time, Jimin’s body drew him forward towards the beings that stood round the fire, till at last, he stood in the very midst of them.

They held onto their silence, watching his every step. It was at this moment that he thought to be afraid. But as he made to step backward, to step out of their circle, he realized he could not.

Panic began to rise in his throat like bile, setting his muscles alight. Just as he opened his mouth to scream, the crowd around him turned and parted and a handsome young man stepped into view. Jimin’s eyes widened as he took in the figure, who walked like a prince. He wore a red sash, deep as freshly drawn blood. A golden band dressed his long dark hair, shining like the sky on the eve of a new moon.

Jimin’s heart thrummed in his chest as he realized the handsome prince was approaching him. He walked slowly towards him, allowing his eyes to rove over the young man. When he finally reached him, he bowed and extended a hand. An offering.

“Is it not a strange request,” Jimin said, “to ask me to dance when there is no music?”

The prince raised his head from the deep bow and swept his hand into the air. Instantly, the sweetest music carried through the night, surrounding them. He took Jimin’s hand with one of his own, wrapping the other one tightly around his waist. Jimin gasped as his chest was brought to the prince’s, their closeness sending warmth to his cheeks.

"What is your name, dear stranger?" Jimin asked, his brow furrowed. His words seemed to stick in his throat, bewilderment flooding his mind. Such a handsome stranger had never wrapped him up like this before, in such beauty, in such enchantment.

The prince smirked. "You may call me Taehyung."

"Are you a prince of these people?"

"If that is the word you use—then yes."

Jimin opened his mouth to ask more, but the Prince silenced him with a twirl, sending all thought of questioning the strange being before him out of his mind.

They danced until the moon became tired and went to sleep beneath the darkness of the horizon and the stars took their leave from the dance floor. As the prince twirled him round the fire, it seemed as if Jimin was gliding through the air. He had always been known by the townsfolk for his light touch and graceful step. But in the prince’s arms, Jimin’s body felt different. The strain of the movements was eased and he felt boundless energy spring up in his chest beneath the attentive gaze of the prince.

"I have never seen a man dance with your grace," the Prince mused, his gaze falling to Jimin's lips. "Or known one to capture such beauty in his every movement."

Jimin was not used to such flattery. His cheeks were painted with his embarrassment, he ducked his head. The Prince was quick to lift his chin, bringing his face ever-so-close.

“Do you like me, sweet boy?” the Prince asked, tilting his head.

“I do not know you,” Jimin replied, slowly. “How do I know if I like you if I have just met you?”

“There is an eternity to get to know me.” A smirk flashed across the Prince’s sharp features before he pulled Jimin tightly against his tall frame and spun him further into the dance.

Twirling around the fire, it became easy to forget the rest of the world. For that moment, all that existed was the feeling of his feet leaping off the ground, and the low music, and the feeling of being held so tightly by his partner.

Just as Jimin began to feel like time was slipping away from him, the figures around him stilled and the music slowed to a complete halt. The prince still had his arms wrapped around the smaller man, his face pressed close and curious.

"Will you dine with us tonight, dear Jimin?" the prince asked, his voice threaded with sweetness. Jimin's gaze fell to the prince's lips where a small smile played along the pink, plush corner. He wondered when the Prince had learned his name.

Before he could answer, the ground rumbled and split open, a long staircase descending into the darkness of the earth. The prince held out a hand, and hesitating, Jimin took it. Despite the warmth of the tall man's palm, Jimin's skin erupted in goosebumps.

The prince led him down the flight of steps, the rest of the dancers following silently behind. It seemed as if the stairs might never end, the rock around them becoming darker and warmer as they descended. After an unspeakable time, the steps widened and a great hall appeared before them, lit by thin candles that stood as tall as Jimin. As he looked up at the ceiling of the hall, he realized there was no roof, despite the depth to which they had descended. Instead, a yawning darkness looked down upon the company and untethered, unsourced lights bobbed gently through the air as if upon an invisible current. Before them lay a great table, heaped with every delicacy Jimin had ever conceived of and decanters filled with the most aromatic wines.

The Prince squeezed his hand tenderly, guiding him to the head of the table. There, the Prince took the golden plated chair and motioned for Jimin to take the one beside it. Gratefully, he bowed his head and slipped silently into the seat, admiring the gentle merriment and splendor laid before him.

As Jimin took the scene before him in, the Prince leaned closer to him, reaching out to twirl a piece of his light hair between his fingers.

“I’ve always wanted this,” the Prince said, his eyes never leaving the man’s hair.

“W-what?”

The Prince seemed to catch himself and pulled himself out of his reverie.

“I am a collector of beautiful things,” he said, as if that explained his strange words.

“I don’t understand.”

The Prince smiled softly, running his finger down Jimin’s nose and over his lips.

“Then drink and be merry,” he sang, his voice strung together in the most beautiful melody.

A dark-haired lady came between the Prince and Jimin, holding a jewel-encrusted decanter. Bowing her head, she first filled the Prince's cup, her hands wrapping slender and delicate around the silver handle. But as Jimin watched, he realized there was a slight tremble to her movements. He looked up at her, only to see her eyes darting to and from the Prince and his newest companion.

The young lady came around Jimin's other side, and as she leaned over to pour his golden goblet full of the sweet wine, she whispered in his ear, "Eat no food, and drink no wine or you will never see your home again."

With that, the woman stood abruptly and disappeared down one of the many hallways that spotted the great chamber.

Jimin quickly set the cup down on the table. The Prince took note of this, his eyebrows raised in curiosity.

"My dear, sweet Jimin," he said, his voice threading through the air like song. His voice spoke of softness, of tender touches exchanged in the dark. And yet, as Jimin gazed upon him, he saw the coldness in the Prince's gaze. "Do you not enjoy the taste of my wine?"

"No, no," he said, quick to unravel the tension of the moment. "I am simply not thirsty."

The Prince leaned into him, a smile spreading across his lips. "After all that dancing, you must be thirsty." He brought the cup to Jimin's lips, but he held his mouth shut.

The others at the table had fallen silent to watch the Prince hold the goblet to the man’s lips.

A large one with silver hair that fell to his waist stood abruptly from his chair, knocking it back in the process. "Whoever comes to our table must drink with us," he growled, grabbing Jimin's arm. A deep shock ran through him, stopping his heart.

At that moment a red-haired lass, her hair split into intricate braids, snatched Jimin's free hand and tugged him from the grasp of the large silver-haired being.

"Run!" she commanded, tugging Jimin towards the stairs. The pair wove their way towards the entrance, dodging the grasp of the dancers.

Around him, Jimin could hear the bellowing anger of the Prince, echoing off the walls of the hall as if he stood in every corner. Chairs and platters crashed to the floor as his subjects jumped up, attempting to stop his exit.

While Jimin was not large and while he did not hold the brute strength that many men boasted about, he was graceful and swift. Guided by the red-haired woman's agile steps, his pace was quick, as if he had learned this kind of dance many many years ago.

The pair sprinted up the steps, hand-in-hand, until they emerged into the dark night. The coolness of the early winter air washed over them, bathing their red faces and stinging their lungs. From the satchel that hung round her waist, the woman withdrew a vine. She grabbed Jimin’s hand, opening it up so she could place the plant securely. With tenderness, she wrapped her hand around his, closing it in a fist.

"You are safe for the time being," she said, her breath heavy with effort. "Take this, and hold it until you reach home. No one can harm you." Jimin opened his palm to look down upon the large-leafed plant. Athair-Lusa. Ground ivy.

"Thank you," he whispered.

The woman nodded, a sad smile playing across her lips. Her eyes shone with the kind of grief that only one who knows their own destiny can hold.

Jimin could hear the sounds of footsteps running up the stairs and so he took the white and green plant and turned his back on the field, the stairs, and the man who had held him so tenderly; and he ran. He ran along the sward and through the forests surrounding the town, past the well, and across the path. At last, he reached his home. He threw open the wooden door and locked it behind him.

His heart beat so quickly and furiously he worried it would pound its way straight through his ribcage. Behind his back pressed to the door, he could hear a great sound emerge from the forest and a voice cried out to him—

"The power I had over you is gone through the magic of the herb that ties you to this world. But when you dance again to our music, you will stay with me forevermore, and nothing shall hinder that eternity."

Jimin closed his eyes, clutching the herb to his chest. When he had regained his breath, he made his way over to the small bed tucked in the corner of his small home, folding the leafy plant carefully beneath the collar of his shirt.

It took a while before sleep came for him, and when it did, it was restless and dreamless.

However, Jimin kept the magic branch safely tucked into his clothes every day and the Fae never troubled him.

But it took many years before the sweet, low sound of music and the searing eyes of the Prince left his dreams.

taglist: @ppersonna @thatlongspringnight @myimaginationsrunningwild @ladyartemesia @ezralia-writes @ggukcangetit

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bluebrush09arts · 5 years

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Completed Commission- Full Detail

@fireheart7600

Little pic to go along with an RP they did. Will put it below if anyone wants to read it. Always interesting doing Full Detail comms. Get to remember how I do certain things and learn new ways to do them. Thanks for commissioning

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Please do not trace or repost my art Commissions | Patreon | DeviantArt | Twitter

A scene based on My Little Pony: Friendship is Magic by Lauren Faust and Ask Queen Moon by Gloomy, with characters and story by Fireheart and Dalken Starbyne. ________________________________________________________________

“The moon is quite lovely tonight,” said Moonbeam. The bat pony watched it in the sky as it illuminated the world around her and Fireheart as far as the eye could see. A gentle breeze blew across the grassy plains surrounding them, off and into the mountains beyond. “I wonder, though. Do you remember it ever being just a little brighter?” She glanced over to the pony 1000 years her elder. Despite his experience far beyond what she could hope to imagine, still she couldn’t help but feel protective of him. The Moons had been watching over their dear friend and ward for close to a millennium, and Moonbeam took that responsibility very seriously. Fireheart’s voice came back to her after a moment. “Yes, perhaps once...when I was a colt. The moon was brighter then...” He trailed off as he tried to draw forth memories long past. “But that was such a very long time ago. I can’t--it’s hard to remember...ugh...hurts my head to remember...”

Moonbeam reached a hoof over to settle her friend. "It is alright. Do not fret over it too much. I simply wonder about my ancestors' writings sometimes. The nights never seem quite as clear as they described."

“They are still beautiful stars though aren’t they? Like millions of little gems in the sky...”

"Indeed. I find that if I listen closely enough, I can hear them sing of hope. Perhaps eventually I will see a night like my ancestors described, and we can count the stars together as they once did.”

Fireheart sighed while looking up at the heavens. “I’ve watched these stars since I was a colt and yet...it’s as if something were missing, but I can’t put my hoof on it.” He grunted and put a hoof to his temple. “And it hurts my head to try and think about it.”

"Perhaps this will help," Moonbeam said, and she retrieved a set of scroll cases from her saddlebags. "Then you will not have to focus so much on recalling memories from lifetimes long past." She removed the scrolls from their cases and spread a set of star charts out on the grass, placing rocks on the corners to keep them from furling back up. "My family have kept these since before even you were born. These in particular cover the constellations over this part of Equestria this time of year." As she continued, she pointed her hoof to one that looked particularly worn, then to another on parchment that looked as if it could have been purchased just a few weeks ago. "This chart was drawn by Moon Sabre approximately a decade before you were adopted. The newer one is one I documented last year. Notice anything different?"

Fireheart looked at the document quizzically. They were very similar but, aside from one being older than him, something was...off. “There is something different about this one, but...I can’t put my hoof on it.” Absentmindedly, the pegasus rubbed the scar on his neck, a wound received long ago. “It’s just....ugh. Something different about this one, and it’s not just the age of the paper.” He then threw his head back and looked again to the stars. There was always a kind of solace there, a peace that he found when gazing at them.

Moonbeam pointed her hoof to one of the constellations in particular. "Look at Numina," she said, her hoof gliding over the constellation, and then stopping at a star that was a prominent dot on the old parchment. "This is Luminus, one of the brightest stars in the sky. It is nearly always visible, as am I sure you are familiar. Many ponies use it to navigate by." Her hoof hovered down to another star, marked with significantly less ink. "This is, or at least was, Candela. While not as bright, it was still considered part of the constellation. But at some point, it disappeared from the charts." She pointed to her copy, which, while having the constellations in different positions in the sky, was also missing the noted star, and then leaned over to Fire to point up to the constellation in the sky above them. "With a looking glass, I sometimes think I can see it, but it is difficult to tell if it is just my imagination. Even Luminus is not as bright in the sky as the old charts would imply." She leaned back and looked to Fireheart. "I do not know why. It is possible it is simply due to the changes in our society. More ponies awake at night means more lights, and more lights mean the sky is often dimmed. But I still hope that one night I might see Candela for myself."

The orange pegasus looked at the chart, and then back to the constellation in question. He did this several times, squinting his nocturnal eyes when looking for the missing star. “You’re right. It’s gone. Stars don’t just disappear...” He trailed off again in thought before continuing. “I must ask Mother about this. I’m sure she will know! After all the night sky is her realm. We should ask her.”

Moonbeam tried her best to hide the sadness in her smile. "I would not wish to trouble Her Majesty with such things when she has so many important matters to tend to," she replied.

She removed the stones from the scrolls and started to roll them back into their cases.

Fireheart had a bit of disappointment as well but chose not to push the issue. “Ah...you’re probably right, I suppose.

“Still, though, I appreciate your coming out with me. There aren’t many ponies these days who truly want to be my friend...” He did his best to hide the stinging pain he felt and pushed a smile through.

The mare tucked the scrolls, cases and all, back into her saddlebag, and leaned over to nuzzle against Fireheart. "You will always be cherished, Fireheart," she said. "I am very glad, even if I never get to see the sky as my ancestors did, that they at least passed your friendship along to me. Knowing you has always been and will always be one of my greatest privileges. The sky, at least, always seems a little brighter when you are near." She smiled, more warmly this time, and just stared up at the night sky as she settled into a comfortable silence.

#MLP:FiM #mlp oc #mlp commissions #commission #art #bluebrush09

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lacrossepapi · 5 years

Text

Movement

The skeleton of this fic is Movement by Hozier so here’s the link

Words: 1871 Ao3 Link

Peter wasn’t sure why he did this. Perhaps he was more masochistic than he thought, since he continued to find himself at Jungle drunk and enraptured by Stiles. The boy was edgy most of the time, movements jerky and rigid, but somehow he came alive with a little bit of booze and the anonymity that comes with dancing in a big crowd. His movements became slow and flowing from one to the next instead of the anxiety and fear filled motions he usually made. Peter was enchanted by the peace he found there. Both the peace within Stiles dancing and within himself watching Stiles be unburdened. He had never thought he’d feel the sort of happiness that comes from others happiness again. Derek no longer radiated pleased contentment, and Cora no longer grinned so fiercely her cheek ached. The Hale’s were broken and damaged, and Peter blamed himself for their hardships. He chased any momentary peace he could get safely, which is how he found himself going out with the pack one weekend after their weekly pack meeting. He discovered the beauty of Stiles’ body in a way he’d never noticed before. Stiles was alive in a way Peter never remembered being. Even standing still, the boy was constantly buzzing with activity. It was in his darting eyes, twitching nose, and bitten lips. Everything about Stiles was filled with more life, energy, and even more love than Peter thought he would ever have the capacity to have himself. Peter had been attracted to the man for some time, but it was that night that Peter thought that maybe he loved Stiles.

I still watch you when you're groovin'

As if through water from the bottom of a pool

You're movin' without movin'

And when you move, I'm moved

“Let go of him!” Stiles’ scream of fury and rage echoed in the clearing, forcing its way passed the sounds of battle all around him, as he charged the giant holding Isaac by the ankle.

The giant stopped swinging Isaac around as if he was a fly swatter and his pack flies at the sound of that rage. Peter was moving before he even registered that Stiles had moved passed him, his body automatically racing to catch up and protect the human.

“Interesting. You’re only human.” The giant laughed after a sniff.

“And you’re an asshole!” Stiles shouted in response, but his eyes weren’t on the giant, they were on Peter.

Peter would give him hell about this later, he always did, but right now he knew exactly what Stiles wanted and he was helpless to deny him. He planted his feet and readied himself just in time for Stile turn and approach him at a dead run. His foot landed squarely in Peter’s waiting palms and Peter threw his fragile human with every ounce of strength he had. Stiles shot him a smile before twisting in the air, his body long, lean, and beautiful in the light of the moon, and flying directly at the face of the giant. As he rushed quickly towards certain death he smoothly slid his bat in the strap on his back and pulled his gun from its holster. Three shots later and the giant fell, with Stiles holding on by its hair as they both crashed to the ground.

Later when they were safe and healing Peter pulled Stiles aside and looked him over further, the human always tried to hide his wounds from the pack. This time he was laughing at the ‘wolf’s protectiveness.

“If you really hate when we do that then tell me ‘no’ next time.” Were his parting words as he ran his hand down Peter’s arm and smiled at him.

Peter was never a religious man, but in that smile he found divinity and a warmth he’d never felt before. He would never tell Stiles ‘No’.

You are a call to motion

There, all of you a verb in perfect view

Like Jonah on the ocean

When you move, I'm moved

“You guys!” Stiles’ whine brought Peter’s attention away from the discussion he had been having with his nephew.

Stiles was trying to make dinner and the pups were buzzing around him, eating anything they could snatch while he was distracted. It reminded Peter so achingly strong of his little sister.

Cherri had been a light in Peter’s life since the moment she was born. He had once heard that little siblings were born to be the person their older sibling needed, and he believed that sometimes when he watched his life. Peter did anything and everything for Talia, but it was Cherri would would seek him out to spend time with not Talia. Soon he realized that the reality is that younger siblings just want to be around their older siblings as much as possible.

He supposed this was true with the pups and Stiles too. Stiles, though younger than most of them, was the first one of the bitten ‘wolves and other supernaturals to know about their world. He was the one that taught Scott control, and he still taught most of them something new every day. In many ways Stiles was the first beta, and it seemed the others viewed him as an older brother they could push around because he loved them too much to punish them.

It reminded him so much of the boy he once was, who yearned to be a man. A man who others needed, who others loved, who others wanted. Stiles was a testament to what Peter could’ve become, what he still can become.

Peter watched on with a twist of nostalgia, regret, and hope in his stomach as Stiles interacted with the pack. A long fingered hand gently pushing a beta away even as he cursed them, a smile pulling at his lips as he hip checked another beta into the refrigerator, an eyebrow raised at the beta watching him from across the room.

When you move

I'm put to mind of all that I wanna be

When you move

I could never define all that you are to me

So move me, baby

Shake like the bough of a willow tree

You do it naturally

Move me, baby

It should be a sin the way Stiles captivated Peter every moment of every day. Peter felt like he was observing a long forgotten god not meant to be seen by the likes of him. He wasn’t worthy. Sitles was light and love and Peter was so full of darkness and hatred, he would only taint him.

“You’re gloomy today.” Peter blinked, his head slowly rising from the feet of the man walking in front of him to his face.

“What makes you say that?”

Stiles shrugged, his thumb coming up to his lips so he could chew his nail, “Normally you’re more talkative. We’ve barely spoken in the half hour we’ve been on patrol.”

“I will taint you.” Peter breathed out in a moment of vulnerability he’d never admit to later.

His eyes snapped back up to Stiles’ face as the human laughed, his head thrown back and his shoulders shaking. Even when he’s laughing at Peter he is beautiful. Stiles was created to be in motion, he radiated an erratic aura that usually unsettled people, but Peter was drawn to every twitch and fidget. He was drawn to everything about Stiles and now that he’d shown some of his feelings Stiles could only laugh at him.

“I am a serial killer and an insane one if you remember correctly, Little Red. I could gobble you up right here and no one would know.” Peter threatened with a leer, the only way he saw out of this embarrassment was to turn the tables.

Stiles blushed and stopped laughing after that.

“You haven’t been insane in a long time, Peter, and frankly I would’ve killed them too.” Stiles shrugged again before turning back to the path they were on.

“So don’t be so gloomy and get up here. I’m lonely.” Was all Stiles had to say to summon Peter to his side.

They chatted about various things like movies and songs, until Stiles tripped on an exposed root. Peter caught his arm and had him back on his feet before anything dire could happen, but it still pulled a chuckle out of him.

“You go dancing every weekend, you glide through the air to kill monsters, and you maneuver through the pack with a tray full of hot food, but you can’t watch where you step.” The words seemed like a criticizement, but the crow’s feet that crinkled at the corners of Peter’s eyes as he laughed showed something softer underneath them.

“Oh hush. I normally pay attention to everything, but with you here I know it’s okay to lower my guard. The root snuck up on me is all.” Stiles huffed indignantly.

With Peter there Stiles could lower his guard. What a wondrous piece of information. Peter had always known Stiles carried too much by himself when it came to both the pack and his father. He always tried to fix everything by himself. He hid his wounds, and cared for everyone else. Stiles never lowered his guard.

Except apparently with Peter.

You are the rite of movement

Its reasonin' made lucid and cool

I know it's no improvement

When you move, I move

You're less Polunin leapin'

Or Fred Astaire in sequins

Honey, you, you're Atlas in his sleepin'

And when you move, I'm moved

Peter wasn’t sure how he got here. There were hands on his chest, long elegant fingers pushing against him. His hips swayed to the music and the rest of his body followed suit, all of him focused on worshipping the lithe body in front of him. Stiles had dragged him out to the dance floor and Peter was drunk on the feeling of Stiles moving against him alone.

They danced until Stiles was panting and covered in sweat. Peter thought once again of the boy he’d been, the life he’d had.

“My mother would’ve loved you.” Peter whispered the words like a prayer.

Stiles heard that prayer, ever proving to Peter worthy of his worship and devotion, and smiled at him so sweetly he thought he might cry.

“Mamo would’ve said you were divine.” Stiles gifted him with those words.

The next song was an old punk pop hit that had Stiles flashing a grin so bright Peter felt something in him snap back into place.

Once again Peter found himself observing the destructive, all consuming power of Stiles dancing. It was erratic and uncontrolled, often leaving him apologizing to nearby dancers, but Peter and never seen something so enchanting.

That night they crashed together in a collision of limbs and teeth. Hands roaming skin and tongues darting out to taste what their hands felt. Eyes burning into the night as they created a crescendo of movement and devotion between them.

When you move

I can recall somethin' that's gone from me

When you move

Honey, I'm put in awe of somethin' so flawed and free

So move me, baby

Shake like the bough of a willow tree

You do it naturally

Move me, baby

#steter #peter/stiles #peter hale #stiles stilinski #Peter Hale/Stiles Stilinski #song fic #kyla writes #kyla creates

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7deadlycinderellas · 7 years

Text

Deals with Dragons, ch10

Ao3 link

Emma has never been to Kelt before. The islands were technically under the rule of Camelot, but remained very sovereign and insular. Her and Lily are grateful for the extra time under disillusionment to get their bearings.

The villages they encounter are all small, with some sheep and cattle, and very little in the way of merchants. Since the people here are awake, they return to foraging in the woods. Thankfully, there are a lot of woods.

The snow that’s falling is light enough to not impede their travels, not even close to what the wind and rain had been. The midwinter lights are out, and the harvests brought in. Time has kept on here, even if it hadn’t at home.

The rumblings that the two of them have gathered about the fairies here are already apparent. The women of the houses put out bowls of milk every night. Roads wind around areas rumoured to be dens. And they pass one family, weeping over a child, that they swear had been changed in the night.

Lily’s been a bit restless. She wakes at night, shifting under Emma’s arms and waking her too, before rolling back and resettling. She says her skin itches here, which makes Emma think it might be a reaction to being close to the fairies that are her ancestors.

One day, they cross into a new village with the festival poles up, and the barrels of cider smoking.

“It must be the last evening of the year”, Emma whispers.

It looks perfect, the light dusting of snow, all the lights still up, everyone gathered in the square. But the people in this town seem...different.

Lily picks up on it too.

“Why is everyone here so….tired?

“Maybe it’s been a hard winter?” Emma suggest uncertainly. This is unlikely, considering the snow is so light, and the festival tables seem well filled.

They stay on the fringe of the group, sneaking roasted nuts and trying to listen. The poles are wrapped and light, the lights go up and then down, but they are no closer to the truth.

Then in the darkest of night, the first door creeps open.

The first out of the house is a well dressed young man. He is followed by a willowy girl of about eleven. One by one, all the young people of the town mindlessly march out of their houses and head towards the forest.

“Should we follow them?” Emma asks.

“I guess that’s how we find where this goes”.

Stories have made their way back to the mainland. A prince, or a princess, or a gaggle of them, drawn into the forest by the power of the fairies, forced to dance all night, into exhaustion,

The trees here are tall and thin, blocking out most of the light from the moon. Then the group reaches the break in the trees, when the light pours through.

“Oh!” Emma exclaims, “We have these back home, but I thought the name ‘fairy ring’ was just to make it sound fancy”.

One by one, the crowd steps through the ring of mushrooms on the forest floor. Emma and Lily are last, and, a little apprehensive, they clasp hands before stepping through.

When they go through, Emma feels a gasp escape her throat, and Lily beside her physically quiver.

The cold winter light has lifted, transforming into the gentle haze of a midsummer’s night. The green grass and trees seem to have been turned up a notch, almost too green to be real. The meadow they were in has widened. Tables line the edges, laden with plates heavy with every kind of delicacy imaginable, And floating through the air, are the faeries. Small people, of all ages, bearing delicate wings and murmuring in a language that almost sounds human. A few sit to the head of the clearing, playing their instruments, awaiting instructions from the caller.

Emma and Lily briefly cling to each other as the others glide their way into the fairy ball,

“What do we need to remember?” Lily says, hushed and rushed.

“Don’t touch the food- even you- or we’ll have to stay. The trance will probably be harder on me than you. Try to find information through conversation, don’t agree to anything. And above all, don’t lose track of each other or we could end up getting out days or even weeks apart”.

They stand in each other’s gaze for a moment, and Emma leans forward to kiss her once, before they part and join the party.

Emma’s never been a huge fan of parties. True, they were fun, but more often than not she found herself sticking to the people she knew and stepping out as early as would be polite. But being in among the fairy ball had the effect on her head of a strong lager. The music was loud enough to be enchanting, near loud enough to drown out thought, the dancers whirling and twirling, around her, and when she joined in, in perfect sync.

She breaks loose of a Virginia reel, and finds herself near the refreshment table. It’s nearly impossible to pull herself away. The roasts, piles of sea creatures, jellies and desserts, all emit an otherworldly aroma. Only the threat of never leaving, is enough in her vaguely drunken head to force herself to ignore it.

The other humans they came in with look worse off than her. Rather than under a trance, they seem well and truly hypnotized, barely responding to others.

Lily is walking on the edge. They were right, it turns out, that because of her fairy heritage, that the spell their magic held over the humans did not affect her. And for the first time since they had left Aurora’s forest, the others were noticing her.

Strangely enough, they don’t seem to be paying her any mind.

Two fly by, with the faces of old women, and she hears them mutter about, “Halflings, come crawling back”, that she assumes is aimed at her, but overall, she doesn’t get the sense that this group thinks terribly deeply about things.

The party is in the forest clearing, and there are lights leading up a hill, where fairies are coming and going. With trepidation, Lily decides to investigate.

The grass on the hill is thick and dark, and the lights are spaced further apart. The path follows the hill to its low peak, then over it into a shallow hollow.

In the shallows, sits the Faerie Queen atop her throne, the others attending her. And then Lily realizes, that now they’re all watching her.

Lily clumsily attempts a curtsy.

“Have you returned to serve your Queen, halfling?”.

Lily doesn’t even get a chance to respond before Titania rises. The fairy is as tall as Lily, but somehow still seems to tower over her, swathed from head to toe in frothy green.

She raises a finger.

“Your mother was never pleased with the land of her birthright. Always wanted more. Left and bought and traded magic with common beings. Even when she returned, all she did was blather on about some curse she traded with a human, that somehow seemed to slip from her grasp. So covetous she was, of the magic of a common imp”.

She taps Lily on the forehead, and suddenly she feels dizzy.

“Such a bore, “ Titania declares, before sending Lily off with a quick twitch of the hand.

She returns to the dancers in the clearing and finds Emma just as the caller calls out the Black Nag.

She finds Emma quickly, and takes her hand. Emma looks a bit stupified, but manages,

“What happened? Did you already find…”

They step and twirl in line, and then separate.

When they reunite, Lily manages to get out,

“Something that was traded….she had to find...a spell….something about a human and an imp”.

The music doesn’t stop, it’s intoxicating. The air is warm and full of the smell of the fairy feast they have to avoid. Emma’s hands are warm and solid in hers, and when they step forward and turns, Lily can feel her breath on her cheeks. And she can suddenly understand how people get stuck here.

Then she catches sight of the other dancers, seemingly moving at though on a track. Stiff and empty, like clockwork figures. Many are dressed in old fashioned clothing, and appear emaciated.

Emma laughs, sounding borderline delirious.

“We have to….” she hiccups, “God you look beautiful in the moonlight….gotta….gotta get out of here.”

Lily takes a deep breathe, and when the line moves them out of sight, she counts the seconds until they clasp hands again, and then with a hint of roughness, pulls Emma out of the arrangement.

They barely make it into the trees, just within sight of the edge of the ring of mushrooms when one of the fairies lunges in front of them. It’s face is narrow, and young, and when it says, “Leaving so soon” they can see it has fangs.

It extends its hands, full of fruit.

“Can’t we offer you a refreshment?”

Emma whispers, still with a giggle.

“Do not trust goblin men, do not eat their fruit”.

They turn abruptly, and push to speed up.

Then Emma trips, and Lily stops to pull her up.

“Why’s a chest here?” Lily grumbles.

Then Emma freezes.

“Wait”.

Then suddenly there’s a loud crack and a borderline fearsome squeal.

Emma pants, then grabs her again and they run.

They break the ring and tumble to the ground, heaving.

“What was that?” Lily asks.

Emma stands up and shows her. It’s a heavy chain, with a set of shackles on the end.

“Iron. Fairies can’t stand it. Touch it, I want to see if it affects you top”.

Lily reaches out, and is immediately overcome by the feeling of pins and needles in her skin. When she actually touches it, it sends chills through her from head to foot. She jerks back.

“Good to know” Emma says, tucking the chain into her pack.

She then slumps to the grass, flat on her back. Lily is suddenly overcome by exhaustion and joins her.

“It’s warm” Lily comments. It is, and the sky is clear and blue. “How long have we been gone?”

Emma rubs a cheek against the grass, seemingly sunning herself in the warmth. She asks.

“So what do we know now?”

“Titania said something about Mom seeking a spell that she had traded and then lost. Something extremely powerful, made by an imp. “

Emma stiffens.

“What?”

“My mother’s stepmother- the former Queen. When my mother was woken from her spell, she had reappeared and threatened the kingdom with a spell created by Rumpelstiltskin. He said, after helping banish her, that it would have sent the entire land to another world. But he never would tell about where the instruments of the spell, and then he vanished, never seen again.”

Lily thinks,

“Titania did say that Mom was never satisfied with the world she came from. A spell that would allow her to escape to another one...I don’t know, maybe she would do it. Or she might just be upset that it slipped away from her“

“Another world. God, I can’t even imagine that. What do we ever have on our side?”

“Knowledge, just a little. The fairies enchantments. And those shackles. Mom’s full blooded fairy, those could bring her to her knees.”

“And we have you”, Emma says, sleepily.

“What?”

“You said that she always wanted you to be your best. Well you have, she might even be happy to see you. “

Lily is left, with her stomach squirming, when she realizes that Emma has fallen asleep.

#once upon a time #emma x lily #lily swan #swan flower #runaway swan #fic

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Episode #41 - "A Spell to Signal Home" by A.C. Buchanan

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Episode 41 is part of the Spring 2017 issue!

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A Spell to Signal Home

by A.C. Buchanan

“Ash.”

The voice is at once close beside me and yet muted, as if the sound is being filtered through a dream or a long stretch of time, a universe drawn out like an endless vibration of music. I can taste the sweetness of blood in my mouth, but no syllables emerge and my body feels heavy and soft.

“Ash.”

Beyond the voice are the sounds of a living planet. It’s hard to pinpoint how the noise of life and the noise of machines differ, when one can so easily mimic the other and both contain so much variety, the boundaries between them blurred, but it’s unmistakable. This is no barren outpost, no hub of spinning metal; this is a result of millions of years of evolution, web-like ecosystems tangling into one another. It will differ from all others and yet on another level it will be the same as all others, interlocking chains of consumption and relation and habitat.

“Ash, we’re going to need to get you out. Can you talk to us?”

[Full transcript after the cut]

Hello, welcome to GlitterShip Episode #41. This is your host Keffy and I’m super excited to be sharing this story with you. We have a poem and a GlitterShip original for you today. Our poem is “Songs of Love and Defense in the Dawn” by Hester J. Rook.

Hester J. Rook is an Australian writer and co-editor of Twisted Moon magazine, a magazine of speculative erotic poetry (twistedmoonmag.com). She has previous prose and poetry publications in Strange Horizons, Apex Magazine, Liminality Magazine, Strangelet and others. She’s on Twittter @kitemonster and you can find her other work on her site http://hesterjrook.wordpress.com/.

Songs of Love and Defense in the Dawn

by Hester J. Rook

I am bird song the whole of me, thrumful the nattering hiss of the seawind through my whispered bones.

They seek to rewrite me call me raucous, unwieldy, liar, schemer, temptress until I am heavy (but weightless) like a pelican skimming belly over water. They speak as though their story can varnish them with righteousness despite the hurt they cause; rewrite our histories.

But I am birdsong and ironbark; my words are warnings and heralds of the crisp lipbitten dawn bright as the frosted wingtips of the black swans gliding through silver.

I am birdsong

and I am louder than the thunderstorm and softer than the gathering dusk on the hills fiercer than teeth in a kiss and unafraid I gather up my feathers and

I shield.

Our original short story is “A Spell to Signal Home” by A.C. Buchanan.

A.C. Buchanan lives just north of Wellington, Aotearoa New Zealand. They’re the author of Liquid City and Bree’s Dinosaur and their short fiction has most recently been published in Unsung Stories, the Accessing the Future anthology from FutureFire.net and the Paper Road Press anthology At the Edge Fierce Family. They also co-chair LexiCon 2017 – The 38th New Zealand National Science Fiction and Fantasy Convention and edit the speculative fiction magazine Capricious. You can find them on twitter at @andicbuchanan or at www.acbuchanan.org.

A Spell to Signal Home

by A.C. Buchanan

“Ash.”

“Ash, we’re going to need to get you out. Can you talk to us?”

I keep thinking that it’s important to answer, but each time the thought begins it’s pushed away into sucked up by the humid air. My mind drifts back, past the negotiations on Feronia station, through the twelve years of my blossoming diplomatic career, to Volturna, the ocean planet where I grew up, and the warm waters we splashed and played and relaxed in, and I think it might be my sister Francie’s voice calling me but I pull myself far enough into consciousness to realize that it’s too high-pitched, too alien…

There are hands on my body, and words: don’t think anything’s broken, still breathing. I realize the air is breathable, which means we’re almost certainly on a terraformed planet, and yet there’s so much life, much more than is usually imported. I feel hands beneath me, my body being lifted, dragged, set down. There’s a bright light—sunlight—through my eyelids.

Fragments of words come to me, words that I memorized long ago. A spell for safety in travel. But it’s in an older English than my native tongue, and so, so far away that I see only occasional words, faded ink on thick paper. I still don’t know what sandalwood is, and I think I need to stay awake, but I’m so tired…

When she was ten, Francie had edited the family spellbook, inserting “she or” and “her or” and “hers or” in blue ballpoint, her unsteady hand unused to holding a pen. I thought Dad would yell, even though he didn’t yell often, because the book was hundreds of years old and had come from Earth, but instead he turned the large pages one by one and said it was a fair point, and that it was at least a more useful amendment than the “tastes disgusting” comment written in cursive on at least two pages.

Dad didn’t really believe in spells, but the book was important enough to him that when our parents first came to Volturna he’d asked for an exemption on the dimensions (but not total volume, he’d never push it that far) permitted for cultural and religious items, family heirlooms. Mum brought a Bible from the Scottish arm of her family, and the korowai she graduated in, even though she didn’t feel right taking it so far from her whanau, because her grandmother—approaching ninety at that point—insisted, saying she’d have her own children one day and they needed to be connected.

We didn’t quite know what that meant. Earth fascinated us, but in the same ways as tales of every other world fascinated us. Volturna was our home, and we knew its waters in an instinctive way our parents’ Terra-born generation couldn’t quite understand.

And so on the day that Francie narrowly avoided being in trouble for her annotations, much like any other, we stripped off and yanked on our rashguards and shorts, a process we’d perfected through practice to a matter of seconds. Mine were in the wash so I was wearing my slightly-too-small spare set, lilac with a frill around the edge of the shirt. All Francie’s pairs were black.

In a few years I would be required to tell the doctors about how much I hated my body, and I’d rewrite this scene for them then, tell them I cried every time I had to change and was too ashamed to do so even in front of my sister. The truth was that as long as people got most things about me right I could deal with my body. I’d never love it, but I could not think about it easily enough.

“Go!” Francie yelled, and she yanked open the hatch and we dived out without hesitation, over the narrow platform, into the warm water around us. I ducked to wet my hair and then Francie did the same, hers chopped short and uneven. I envied it for a minute as mine smacked across my face.

“Oy!” Dad’s voice yelled at us from inside. “What have I told you about closing this thing after you?”

We’d heard him alright, but if we were going to close it we’d have to walk onto the platform and down the first two steps before we could reach to close it. Waste of time.

“Sorry, Dad. Could you throw me a hair tie?”

“You kids will be the death of me.”

But sure enough one dropped down into my outstretched hand before the hatch grated shut.

We’d been in our new apartment a little over two years, moving because our parents had decided Francie and I should have our own rooms. It was on the edge of town and taking a few strokes out we could see it spread out before us; the buildings and walkways rising out of the waters that covered the planet. The flag the council had chosen, a blue circle ringed with white light against the black of space, fluttered from the higher structures. We had never seen land, and it was only when we opened the spellbook that we felt we might be missing out.

When I wake again there are drugs coursing through my veins and dampness seeping through my clothes. I open my eyes and see sunlight mottling through the trees above me. I remember being at a reception to mark the conclusion of negotiations regarding access to the route between Feronia Station and Auuue. The subject had been straightforward in itself, but was critical in its implications, setting the terms for future engagement between the Terran and Auuueen governments.

So, having sealed a new treaty, we were feeling good. I’d had a key role in these negotiations, more than was typical for a third level diplomat, and it was hard not to take that as a sign that promotion was on the horizon. I had a glass in my hand and the sweet after-taste of spiced Auuueen seafood in my mouth, and was surely blessed that I’d not only secured a career that gave me the opportunity to travel the galaxies, meet high ranking people and hopefully effect some change for the better, but also one where the gown I wore—shimmering layers of deep-green over a blue-black underlay—was an utterly appropriate expense claim.

I sit up and dizziness hits, nausea growing in me. I force myself to stay upright, pressing my knuckles firmly against the damp ground. There’s something rustling in the bushes to my right, birds flying overhead.

My memories after the reception are brief and fragmented. I remember a distress call, drawing us out of FTL, being unable to get back to anything beyond light speed.

“Cay?” I say, operating by guess work. My throat is dry.

“I’ll be right with you.” His voice is behind me. I ease myself round, bit by bit, every muscle hurting. He’s tending to the injured leg of the ambassador, who seems, mercifully, to be otherwise unhurt. The only non-human on the shuttle, Cay’s wiry frame belies its near unbreakability.

I shift my weight so I can balance, rub my eyes. “We crashed?”

“Emergency landing. This shuttle is built for capitals and ambassadorial stations, not wilderness, which seems to be all this planet has.” Looking up I can see the blue sky, the gaping wound in the forest canopy we must have hurtled through.

“Is… did everyone?”

“Everyone’s alive, yes. Some injuries, but I think with treatment everyone will be okay. Getting out of here is going to be more of a problem. Don’t try and stand up—I put you on Combamex to speed up your healing time, but it will make you woozy for a while.

Flashes of memory.

“There’s a… this is classified information…” the ambassador had said, as we all stared in panic. She’d paused, briefly, grappling with the weight of disclosure even though all our lives were at stake. “There’s a planet… Silvanus. It’s a wildlife reserve, for species from Terra. Breathable atmosphere. Uninhabited, but it’s our only chance. We can be there in a week, two at the most.”

Against Cay’s advice, I stand. Vertigo hits and I vomit, just a little, cling to a tree and manage to stay upright until it passes. Insects are buzzing all around, and the damaged shuttle is behind me. Just a few meters away the forest opens out into a clearing. The ground is covered with orange flowers, smelling of warmth, rising out of the soil to greet us.

“Marigold. Hematite. Elder. Rue. Tiger’s eye.” I list the unfamiliar ingredients, trying to picture, smell, taste such far away substances. “Tiger’s eye? Did they really use eyes from tigers?”

“It’s a type of rock.” Francie was thirteen and could make me feel small without even trying. “What are cloves?”

She wasn’t asking me. The device on her wrist responded near instantly. Terran spice, made from aromatic flower buds of a tree in the family Myrtaceae, Syzygium aromaticum. Native to the Maluku Islands in Indonesia.

Francie threw her arms down in despair. “We’re never going to be able to find any of this stuff.”

Mum had said I had to be patient with Francie when she got upset like this, that she was going through a confusing time, and that I’d understand soon enough.

I understand confusion, I had wanted to say. I want the androgen blockers and I want to wear dresses and I’m not a boy, but I don’t think I’m the girl I’ve always told you I am either. But I didn’t say anything like that. Not to Mum and not to Francie. Not for a long time.

I perched on an inflated cushion and looked at my sister. “You could just tell her you like her?” I suggested.

Francie wailed.

“I don’t think you could understand any less if you tried! I’m out of here!”

We used to dive into the water to escape, but now Francie barricaded herself in her upstairs room. I put away the book, because we had to be very careful with it, grabbed the largest mug I could find and hit the strawberry setting on the milkshake maker, hoping that despite all my own confusion, I at least had a few years before I needed to be worrying about love potions.

We all gather in the clearing. I allow the Ambassador to lean on my shoulder as she walks. She’s short, as those who grew up constrained by Terran gravity usually are, but she cuts an imposing presence. Perhaps that’s why I find it so hard so use her name. Still, I admire her much more than I fear her. If anyone can get us home, I feel, it’s her, but her face is pale with shock and she says little.

Aside from us, the group comprises two other diplomats, the pilots, a security guard and two guests flown by special arrangement between governments: Cay and an elderly human. Solomon, the pilot, his uniform crumpled and ripped on one sleeve, looks at the Ambassador, seeking her permission to lead this meeting. She accepts, gratefully, and he summarizes our current position. Our FTL drives are near completely destroyed—by what, he can’t tell, but there’s zero prospect of fixing them. Even if we could launch the shuttle, an unlikely prospect in itself, there are no stations or inhabited planets reachable on our support systems. He’s been trying to get a distress signal working, but no luck so far. He’ll keep trying.

The good news, he continues, trying to keep us optimistic, is the breathable air, the hospitable climate, that we have three day’s supply of food and with our databanks intact there is no doubt we can find food on this world.

We spend the day exploring the immediate area, administering medical treatment, working fruitlessly on sending a signal. The nine of us sleep, eventually, bunched together with spare clothes pulled over us like blankets. We try not to think about the future.

“What’s oregano?” Francie, now fifteen, had digitized the spellbook in response to Mum’s complaints about her getting her oily fingers all over it. Only I knew that at night she’d creep downstairs and pull it from the shelf, holding it in her arms as if it exuded some comfort. I’d mocked her, once, for being so attached to those archaic, impossible beliefs, and she’d cried and I’d never mentioned it again.

“It’s a herb…” said Dad.

“…for pizza,” said Mum, her eyes looking far away.

Dad squinted, looked at the screen. I propped myself up on my hands to see what he was looking at A Spell to Prevent the Conception of Child. This was going to be good.

Francie looked down and her skin, paler than mine, blushed bright red.

“Oh, no no no,” she stumbled, pointing desperately at the lower part of the screen as I enjoyed every second. “This one. A Spell to Aid Understanding of Numbers. I have an exam next week.”

“That’s kind of like cheating though, isn’t it?” I asked our parents. This day was getting even better.

“But of course, Ash, you don’t believe in spells so it can’t make any difference to your sister’s results, can it now?”

My mood deflated rapidly. It was fun while it lasted. Francie couldn’t be pregnant in any case though; she’d gotten her implant about the same time I got mine, though mine was larger—three circles under the skin of my upper arm, one releasing an androgen blocker, one for estrogen and one for progesterone.

“So where do I get oregano from?” Francie insisted impatiently.

“That’s not how spells work,” Dad replied. “There’s nothing special about oregano that helps you with maths. It’s about focusing your mind. You can use something else as long as it fits right for you. Why don’t you go for a swim and see if you feel drawn to something you could use instead?”

“So what now?” Mum said when Francie had left. “She’s going to drag in a load of seaweed because she thinks it bears some resemblance to oregano? Well I hope you’re going to be the one cleaning it up.”

Dad shrugged.

“Yeah, I’ll do that. I’ll do a lot more than a bit of cleaning to get her through the next few weeks. If she’s out there in the water and the fresh air, maybe she’ll relax a bit. Staring at those numbers a thousandth time isn’t going to help her half as much as a break. These spells work sometimes, you know, just not how you’d expect.”

“Who would do this?” I ask the Ambassador. Cay has cut a tree-branch into a cane of sorts, and we’re walking out through the clearing in search of running water. “I thought the days of war were behind us.”

She sighs. “I was running a list through my head all night. There are a few governments I think would like to kill us, a couple of separatist or nationalist factions that object to their governments’ treaties with us. But they didn’t just want to kill us. If they had they could have blown us up outright. But they drew us out and disabled our drives where they thought—because Silvanus is classified—there were no habitable planets. They didn’t just want us to die, they wanted us to die slowly.”

My chest feels tight at the thought, even though the air is clear and full of oxygen. I hear a long howl in the distance. I hold up my wrist and it senses, reports back: Howler monkey (genus Alouatta monotypic in subfamily Alouattinae).

It takes us more than an hour, with measurements and sheer instinct guiding us, to find water, but suddenly we’re beside a small but fast flowing stream, just narrow enough to jump. We smile at each other, perhaps our first smile on Silvanus. While the air is humid enough for us to condense sufficient drinking water, we still need to wash ourselves and clean our clothes. This find won’t solve all our problems, but it will help, and right now that counts for success.

There’s something moving on the other side of the river. Something large.

I’ve been trained on the use of arms, as everyone entering the diplomatic service is. I’ve never expected to use one outside a carefully controlled range. But before we set off, the guard handed me a stun gun, and now I draw it, awkwardly.

It all happens at once; a snarl, a lunge towards us, huge and fast, across the stream. I fall backwards as I fire, rolling over on the rocks, panicked. It takes some time before I realize I’m safe. The Ambassador helps me to my feet.

“Tigers,” she says, bitterly. “They seem so beautiful, don’t they? And yet…”

I nod, still shaking.

“Same with people. I don’t think whoever did this was after us, our government, our missions. I think they were after me.”

“Who?” I shouldn’t be asking such a question, but at the same time I was almost killed too and might be stranded on this planet with weird animals forever, so I think I deserve some answers.

“Someone I once loved.”

The tiger lies motionless by the river.

“You can’t trust everyone, Ash. Believe what you know.”

Francie left home to share a tiny apartment in New Venice with a friend, two hours away by boat. I took over her larger bedroom, packed everything she left behind into four small boxes. When I visited her she’d poured me wine and we’d eat fried rice from a little shop beneath her apartment. Afterwards I’d crash on an inflatable mattress in her kitchen and listen to the boats and the spray against the windows and the clinking of bottles.

When I woke one morning she was already studying, even though it was a Saturday. There were no universities on Volturna yet, but she was in an amalgamated program with video-conferenced lectures, a practical engineering placement and three block courses a year from visiting lecturers.

“Coffee?” she asked, considerate of my seventeen-year-old, early morning brain. I signaled yes, trying to unpick the disaster that was my hair. Dad called Volturnan coffee a hideous imitation and refused to touch it, but like most of our friends, Francie and I swilled it near constantly.

“What are you studying?” I asked, looking over at her screen, caffeine in my hands at last.

“Case study from Glar. You know that weird planet where the local life-forms change how everything operates, including all the buildings.”

I did, vaguely. She showed me a picture.

“Well it means that some things aren’t possible, but they can also do things like this…”

“How does that even stay up?” The giant structure seemed to be almost floating in the air, anchored to the ground at just one small corner.

Francie showed me a screen full of equations. I shrank in mock horror.

“Magic,” I said. “I’m just going to believe that it’s magic.”

I hold my wrist beside plant after plant. About half it recognizes automatically; for others I have to input data: color, size of leaves, flowers. I’m building a list, edibles and poisons.

This one is easy. Origanum vulgare, my device says. Colloquially known as oregano, a common species of Origanum, a genus of the mint family (Lamiaceae). Safe, edible herb for humans, although allergies are recorded.

And I remember something in my personal data files, something I haven’t looked at in a long time. I sit on a fallen tree, bring up the projection of pages many hundreds of years old.

A Spell to Send a Message Home

And on it, Francie’s childish hand over the calligraphy. When a traveller wants to signal home SHE OR he must do the following…

Snippets of Francie’s voice, so young, so far away: you have to call her “she”. She’s my SISTER!

Francie’s edits weren’t just about her, I realize. She was defending me.

When I was eighteen, I downed a half bottle of a terrible orange flavored liquor before I told her that maybe I wasn’t a woman and could she please say they, not she and then I cried on her balcony because I felt like I was backing down and like I’d been lying all my life, and she’d told me to come inside before I vomited on one of her neighbors’ heads as they walked out of their door and then I laughed and then I did vomit, bitter orange disgustingness over the balcony and into the water below. Francie threw me a towel and said that she loved me but not quite enough to clean up after me.

Another memory, two years later: my family seeing me off to my first internship. I would not see Volturna—or any of them—for three years. Francie checking, one last time, that I had a copy of the spellbook in my data files. You need to be connected.

It’s been nearly twenty years since I tried to cast a spell, but Francie once said it was in our blood, so perhaps that doesn’t matter. Here on Silvanus I find more than half of what I need. That which I cannot, which perhaps grows in cooler or warmer climes, I find alternatives for, following my father’s advice and looking up pictures, then letting myself be drawn to a flower or a rock.

I project up the image again, weightless pages before me with the writing of generations. I use my finger as a stylus. SHE OR HE OR THEY OR SIE OR CO OR E OR OR OR OR OR OR OR…

I finish my work. I close the book.

And from the distance, from beyond the black of space and its spinning stations, through traffic routes and past more planets than I could ever remember, from Volturna’s deep waters and floating towns, my sister signals me home.

END

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Thanks for listening, and I’ll be back soon with a reprint of “The Passing Bell” by Amy Griswold.

Episode #41 – “A Spell to Signal Home” by A.C. Buchanan was originally published on GlitterShip

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